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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..78107d2 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65740 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65740) diff --git a/old/65740-0.txt b/old/65740-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c23e826..0000000 --- a/old/65740-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5308 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Review, December 1914 (Vol. -1, No. 9), by Margaret C. Anderson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Little Review, December 1914 (Vol. 1, No. 9) - -Editor: Margaret C. Anderson - -Release Date: July 2, 2021 [eBook #65740] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at http://www.pgdp.net. This book was produced from images - made available by the Modernist Journal Project, Brown and - Tulsa Universities, modjourn.org. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, DECEMBER -1914 (VOL. 1, NO. 9) *** - - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - _Literature_ _Drama_ _Music_ _Art_ - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - EDITOR - - DECEMBER, 1914 - - Poems Richard Aldington - A Great Pilgrim-Pagan George Soule - My Friend, the Incurable: Ibn Gabirol - On Germanophobia; on the perils of - Monomania; on Raskolinkov and Alexander - Berkman; on surrogates and sundry - subtleties. - On Poetry: - Aesthetics and Common-Sense Llewellyn Jones - In Defense of Vers Libre Arthur Davison Ficke - The Decorative Straight-Jacket Maxwell Bodenheim - Harriet Monroe’s Poetry Eunice Tietjens - Scharmel Iris Milo Winter - The Poetry of T. Sturge Moore Llewellyn Jones - Amy Lowell’s Contribution M. C. A. - Star Trouble Helen Hoyt - Parasite Conrad Aiken - Personality George Burman Foster - The Prophecy of Gwic’hlan Edward Ramos - Editorials and Announcements - Winter Rain Eunice Tietjens - Home as an Emotional Adventure The Editor - A Miracle Charles Ashleigh - London Letter E. Buxton Shanks - New York Letter George Soule - The Theatre, Music, Art - Book Discussion - Sentence Reviews - - Published Monthly - - 15 cents a copy - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher - Fine Arts Building - CHICAGO - - $1.50 a year - - Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago. - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - Vol. I - - DECEMBER, 1914 - - No. 9 - - - - - Poems - - - RICHARD ALDINGTON - - - On a Motor-Bus at Night - - (Oxford Street) - - The hard rain-drops beat like wet pellets - On my nose and right cheek - As we jerk and slither through the traffic. - - There is a great beating of wheels - And a rumble of ugly machines. - - The west-bound buses are full of men - In grey clothes and hard hats, - Holding up umbrellas - Over their sallow faces - As they return to the suburban rabbit-holes. - The women-clerks - Try to be brightly dressed; - Now the wind makes their five-shilling-hats jump - And the hat-pins pull their hair. - - When one is quite free, and curious, - They are fascinating to look at— - Poor devils of a sober hell. - - The shop-lamps and the street-lamps - Send steady rayed floods of yellow and red light - So that Oxford street is paved with copper and chalcedony. - - - Church Walk, Kensington - - (Sunday Morning) - - The cripples are going to church. - Their crutches beat upon the stones, - And they have clumsy iron boots. - - Their clothes are black, their faces peaked and mean; - Their legs are withered - Like dried bean-pods. - - Their eyes are as stupid as frogs’. - - And the god, September, - Has paused for a moment here - Garlanded with crimson leaves. - He held a branch of fruited oak. - He smiled like Hermes the beautiful - Cut in marble. - - - - - A Great Pilgrim-Pagan - - - GEORGE SOULE - -Shakespeare in red morocco seems always wan and pathetic. I see him -looking gloomily out of his unread respectability, bored with his -scholarly canonization and his unromantic owners. How he longs for the -irresponsible days when he was loved or ignored for his own sake! Now he -is forever imprisoned in marble busts and tortured in Histories of -English Literature. There is no more tragic fate in the annals of -imagination. Terrible is the vengeance taken by institutional culture on -those who are great enough to command its admiration. - -Therefore, a genius who has not been tagged unduly by the pundits -inspires me with a profound delicacy, in a sense akin to the reverence -for a beautiful child. Here is a virtue which the world needs. One would -like to proclaim it from the housetops. Yet there are the rabble, ready -with their election-night enthusiasm, and the scholars, with their -pompous niches. If one could only find all those whom the man himself -would have selected as friends and whisper the right word in their ears! -But, after all, we must speak in public, remembering that even -misunderstanding is the birthright of the genius. It is better that -power should be expressed in devious and unforeseen channels than not at -all. - -A flippant friend once told me that he had never had the courage to read -William Vaughn Moody because the poet had such a dark brown name. That -is important because of its triviality. I have no doubt that if the -gospel hymns had never been written, and if we had never on gloomy -Sunday evenings seen those pale books with the scroll-work -Moody-and-Sankey covers, bringing all their dismal train of musical and -religious doggerel, we should have been spared many misgivings about the -evangelist’s vicarious name-sake. Let it be firmly understood, -therefore, that there is nothing dark brown, or evangelistic, or -stupidly sober-serious about the new poet of the Fire-Bringer. May he -never go into a household-classics edition! - -But there is a tinge of New England about him, just the same. Only one -who has in his blood the solemn possibilities of religious emotion can -react against orthodox narrowness without becoming trivial. It is the -fashion to blame all modern ills on puritan traditions. We should be -wise if in order to fight our evils we should invoke a little of the -Pilgrim Fathers’ heroism. Too many of us take up the patter of -radicalism with as little genuine sincerity as a spearmint ribbon-clerk -repeats the latest Sunday-comic slang. If you have ever walked over a -New England countryside the endless miles of stone walls may have set -you thinking. Every one of those millions of stones has been laboriously -picked out of the fields—and there are still many there. Before that the -trees had to be cleared away, and the Indians fought, and the ocean -crossed without chart or government buoy. For over two centuries our -ancestors grimly created our country for us, with an incessant summer- -and winter-courage that seems the attribute of giants. What wonder if -they were hard and narrow? We scoff at their terminal morraine; but we -should be more deserving of their gift if we should emulate their stout -hearts in clearing away the remaining debris from the economical and -spiritual fields. In spite of injurious puritan traditions there is -something inalienably American and truly great about old New England. It -is the same unafraid stoutness of heart that is at the bottom of Moody’s -personality. It gives him power; it gives him unconscious dignity. - -Yet Moody was indeed a rebel against the religious and social muddle in -which he found himself. Something red and pagan poured into his veins -the instinct of defiance to a jealous god and to pale customs. The best -of the Greek was his; instinctively he turned at last to Greek drama for -his form and to Greek mythology for his figures. There was in him that -σπονδη which Aristotle believed essential for the poet—a quality so rare -among us that the literal translation, “high seriousness,” conveys -little hint of its warmth, its nobility and splendor. He believed in the -body as in the soul; and his conception of the godly was rounded and not -inhuman. Dionysus was every bit as real to him as the man of sorrows. Is -not this the new spirit of America which we wish to nourish? And is -there not a peculiar virtue in the poet who with the strong arm of the -pilgrim and the consecration of the puritan fought for the kingdom of -joy among us? In _The Masque of Judgment_ he pictures a group of heroic -unrepentant rebels against divine grace who have not yet fallen under -the sword of the destroying angel. Of them one, a youth, sings: - - Better with captives in the slaver’s pen - Hear women sob, and sit with cursing men, - Yea, better here among these writhen lips, - Than pluck out from the blood its old companionships. - If God had set me for one hour alone, - Apart from clash of sword - And trumpet pealéd word, - I think I should have fled unto his throne. - But always ere the dayspring shook the sky, - Somewhere the silver trumpets were acry,— - Sweet, high, oh, high and sweet! - What voice could summon so but the soul’s paraclete? - Whom should such voices call but me, to dare and die? - O ye asleep here in the eyrie town, - Ye mothers, babes, and maids, and aged men, - The plain is full of foemen! Turn again— - Sleep sound, or waken half - Only to hear our happy bugles laugh - Lovely defiance down, - As through the steep - Grey streets we sweep, - Each horse and man a ribbéd fan to scatter all that chaff! - - How from the lance-shock and the griding sword - Untwine the still small accents of the Lord? - How hear the Prince of Peace and Lord of Hosts - Speak from the zenith ’mid his marshalled ghosts, - “Vengeance is mine, I will repay; - Cease thou and come away!” - Or having seen and hearkened, how refrain - From crying, heart and brain, - “So, Lord, Thou sayest it, Thine— - But also mine, ah, surely also mine! - Else why and for what good - The strength of arm my father got for me - By perfect chastity, - This glorious anger poured into my blood - Out of my mother’s depths of ardency?” - -So the sanctity of the warrior. And the sanctity of other passions is -there, too. A woman says: - - O sisters, brothers, help me to arise! - Of God’s two-hornéd throne I will lay hold - And let him see my eyes; - That he may understand what love can be, - And raise his curse, and set his children free. - -But quotations crowd upon me. Most of Moody’s best work bears witness to -his glorification of man’s possible personality in rebellion against -man’s restrictive conception of society and god. We have had many such -rebels; the peculiar significance of Moody lies in the fact that he -lacks utterly the triviality of the little radical, and that his is a -power which springs from the most heroic in American quality. - -Of course all this would be worth nothing unless Moody had the authentic -utterance of the poet. His fulness of inspiration, combined with his -sensitive editing, has left us scarcely a line which should have gone to -oblivion. As an example of his magic take three lines from _I Am the -Woman_, in which the woman is walking with her lover: - - But I was mute with passionate prophecies; - My heart went veiled and faint in the golden weather, - While universe drifted by after still universe. - -Or the woman’s response to Pandora’s singing in _The Fire-Bringer_: - - Hark, hark, the pouring music! Never yet - The pools below the waterfalls, thy pools, - Thy dark pools, O my heart—! - -Fragmentary, mystic, unrelated with the context; yet who that has heard -perfect music can fail to understand that cry? It is indeed this mystic -richness, these depths below depths, that make a large part of Moody’s -individual fascination. He rarely has the limpid clarity or the soaring -simplicity which make the popular lyricist such as Shelley. There is too -much grasp of the mind in his work for the large public; only those who -have in some degree discovered the beauty of the wide ranges can feel at -home in him. One breathes with the strength of great virility,—an able -and demanding body, a mind which conquers the heights, and those -infinitely subtle and vibrating reaches of spirit which belong -especially to the poet. - -To me the thought of Moody is satisfying not only because he typifies -those qualities which I like to think we ought to find in American -literature, but because he exemplifies my ideal of a poet. There have -been many insane geniuses; men whose glory has shone sometimes fitfully -through bodily or mental infirmity. Some of us are accustomed to the -idea that genius is in fact insanity or is akin to it. Certainly the -words “wholesome” and “healthy” have been applied so many times to -mediocre productions that we are wary of them. But is not the insanity -of genius after all merely the abnormal greatness and preponderance of a -single quality in a man? If by some miracle his other qualities could -have been equally great, would he not have been a still nobler artist? -To me the Greek impulse of proportionate development has an irresistible -appeal. To be sane, not by the denial of a disproportionate inspiration, -but by the lifting of all the faculties to its level: that is a dream -worthy of the god in man. To be an artist not by the denial of competing -faculties, but by the fullest development of all faculties under an -inexorable will which unites them in a common purpose: that is a rich -conception of personality. The perfect poet should be the perfect man. -He should be not insane, but saner than the rest of us. Moody not only -expressed this ideal in his life, but in his work. He was strong and -sound, physically, mentally, spiritually. No one who has read his -letters can miss the golden roundness of his humor, his humanity, his -manliness. Yet never for a moment did he make a comfortable denial of -the will to soar. In his poem _The Death of Eve_ he has burningly -expressed the development of personality. Eve, an aged woman, has not -succumbed to the view that she committed an unforgivable sin in -disobeying God to taste the apple. Taking old Cain with her, she -fearlessly enters the garden again to show herself to God before she -dies. In her mystic song she sings: - - Behold, against thy will, against thy word, - Against the wrath and warning of thy sword, - Eve has been Eve, O Lord! - A pitcher filled, she comes back from the brook, - A wain she comes, laden with mellow ears; - She is a roll inscribed, a prophet’s book - Writ strong with characters. - Behold, Eve willed it so; look, if it be so, look! - -And after singing of her life and of how she had been sensitive to the -love of her husband and children, she goes on: - - Still, still with prayer and ecstasy she strove - To be the woman they did well approve, - That, narrowed to their love, - She might have done with bitterness and blame; - But still along the yonder edge of prayer - A spirit in a fiery whirlwind came— - Eve’s spirit, wild and fair— - Crying with Eve’s own voice the number of her name. - - Yea, turning in the whirlwind and the fire, - Eve saw her own proud being all entire - Made perfect by desire; - And from the rounded gladness of that sphere - Came bridal songs and harpings and fresh laughter; - “Glory unto the faithful,” sounded clear, - And then, a little after, - “Whoso denyeth aught, let him depart from here!” - -And only thus does Eve find god—in her perfect self— - - Ready and boon to be fulfilled of Thee, - Thine ample, tameless creature,— - Against thy will and word, behold, Lord, this is She! - -Here, indeed, is the religion of our time. A faithfulness that is deeper -than the old faithfulness; and that challenge which of all modern -inspiration is the most flaming: - - Whoso denyeth aught, let him depart from here! - -This is not the balance of a personality that denies itself! Like -Nietzsche, Moody is shaken with the conviction that the most deadly sin -is not disobedience, but smallness. - -There is a striking similarity between the religious attitude of Moody -and that of Nietzsche. Moody mentions Zarathustra only once in his -published letters. Certainly he was not obsessed by the German, or a -confessed follower. Nor did Moody elaborate any social philosophy, -beyond a general radicalism quite different from Nietzsche’s -condemnation of socialism. But, like Nietzsche, Moody was in reaction -against a false and narrow culture. And like him, Moody found in -Hellenic ideals a blood-stirring inspiration. He found not the external -grace of the Greek which Keats celebrated, not the static classical -perfection which has furnished an anodyne for scholars. It was the -deeper, cloudy spirit of Aeschylus, the heaven-scaling challenge of -Euripides, the Dionysiac worship of joy and passion. Take, for instance, -the chorus of young men in _The Fire-Bringer_ which Professor Manly has -called “insolent”—though it seems to me of a divine insolence: - - Eros, how sweet - Is the cup of thy drunkenness! - Dionysus, how our feet - Hasten to the burning cup - Thou liftest up! - But O how sweet and how most burning it is - To drink the wine of thy lightsome chalices, - Apollo! Apollo! To-day - We say we will follow thee and put all others away - For thou alone, O thou alone art he - Who settest the prisoned spirit free, - And sometimes leadest the rapt soul on - Where never mortal thought has gone; - Till by the ultimate stream - Of vision and of dream - She stands - With startled eyes and outstretched hands, - Looking where other suns rise over other lands, - And rends the lonely skies with her prophetic scream. - -Moody, too, transvaluates values everywhere. _The Death of Eve_ is an -example of it. It is to “The Brute” that he looks for the regeneration -of society. Prometheus is a heroic saviour of mankind; rebellion is his -virtue, not his sin. Pandora is not a mischievous person who through her -curiosity lets out all the troubles on the world, but a divine, -wind-like inquirer, the inspiration of Prometheus. The God of -judgment-day is himself swept away by the destruction of mankind for the -sins of commission. And the insignificance of man compared with what he -might be is satirically shown in _The Menagerie_. - -But let me not create the impression that Moody cannot be delicate. From -_Heart’s Wild Flower_: - - But where she strays, through blight or blooth, one fadeless - flower she wears, - A little gift God gave my youth,—whose petals dim were fears, - Awes, adorations, songs of ruth, hesitancies, and tears. - -From the gentle poem of motherhood, _The Daguerreotype_: - - And all is well, for I have seen them plain, - The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes! - Across the blinding gush of these good tears - They shine as in the sweet and heavy years - When by her bed and chair - We children gathered jealously to share - The sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme, - Where the sore-stricken body made a clime - Gentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme, - Holier and more mystical than prayer. - -Or from _The Moon-Moth_: - - Mountains and seas, cities and isles and capes, - All frail as in a dream and painted like a dream, - All swimming with the fairy light that drapes - A bubble, when the colors curl and stream - And meet and flee asunder. I could deem - This earth, this air, my dizzy soul, the sky, - Time, knowledge, and the gods - Were lapsing, curling, streaming lazily - Down a great bubble’s rondure, dye on dye, - To swell that perilous clinging drop that nods, - Gathers, and nods, and clings, through all eternity. - -Here, surely, is an American poet who speaks in eternal terms of the new -inspiration; one who was sane and blazing at the same time; one who in -order to be modern did not need to use a poor imitation of Whitman, -screech of boiler factories and exalt a somewhat doubtful brand of -democracy; one who was uncompromisingly radical without being feverish; -above all, one who succeeded in writing the most beautiful verse without -going to London to do it. When one is oppressed with the doubt of -American possibilities it is a renewal of faith to turn to him. If -Whitman is of our soil, Moody is no less so; through these two the best -in us has thus far found its individual expression. - -The temptation to quote is one that should not be resisted. And I can -think of no better way to send readers to Moody in the present world -crisis than to quote the song of Pandora: - - Of wounds and sore defeat - I made my battle stay; - Wingéd sandals for my feet - I wove of my delay; - Of weariness and fear - I made my shouting spear; - Of loss, and doubt, and dread, - And swift oncoming doom - I made a helmet for my head - And a floating plume. - From the shutting mist of death, - From the failure of the breath, - I made a battle-horn to blow - Across the vales of overthrow. - O hearken, love, the battle-horn! - The triumph clear, the silver scorn! - O hearken where the echoes bring, - Down the grey disastrous morn, - Laughter and rallying! - - - If they (men) were books, I would not read them.—_Goethe._ - - - - - My Friend, the Incurable - - - II. - - On Germanophobia; on the perils of Monomania; on Raskolnikov and - Alexander Berkman; on surrogates and sundry subtleties - -Ἑυρηκα!—shouted the Incurable, when I came on my monthly call. I have -solved the mystery that has baffled your idealists since the outbreak of -the War. The puerile effusions of Hardy, Galsworthy, and other Olympians -who in the mist of international hostilities confused Nietzsche with -Bernhardi, are quite explainable. It is well known that our successful -writers have no time or inclination to read other fellows’ books: they -leave this task to journalists and book-reviewers. Hence their splendid -ignorance of Nietzsche. The advent of great events showered upon the -innocent laymen problems, names, and terms that have been a _terra -incognita_ to most of them, and justly so: for what has the artist to do -with facts and theories,—what is Hecuba to him? But of late it has -become “stylish” for men of letters to declare their opinions on all -sorts of questions, regardless of the fact that they have as much right -to judge those problems as the cobbler has the right to judge pastry. To -the aid of the English novelists who wanted to say “something about the -war,” but whose information on the subject was zero, came the dear -professor Cramb. A quick perusal of his short work[1] supplied the -students with an outlook and a view-point, and out came the patriotic -cookies to the astonishment of the world. Such, at least, is my -interpretation of the mystery. - - [1] _Germany and England_, by J. A. Cramb. [E. P. Dutton and - Company, New York.] - -Professor Cramb’s lectures are not an answer to Bernhardi, as the -publisher wants us to believe, but rather a supplement to the work of -the barrack-philosopher whose theory of the biological necessity of war -is beautifully corroborated with numerous quotations from the most -ancient to the most modern philosophers, historians, statesmen, and -poets. The general splendidly demonstrates the efficiency of German -mind, the ability to utilize the world culture for the Fatherland, to -make all thinkers serve the holy idea of war, from Heraclitus’s πὸλεμος -πατήρ πάντων to Schiller’s Bride from Messina. Yet I, in my great love -for Germany, should advise the Kaiser’s government to appropriate a -generous sum for the purpose of spreading far and wide Cramb’s “Answer,” -as the highest glorification of Teutonia. No German has expressed more -humble respect and admiration for Treitschke, Bernhardi, and other -eulogists of the Prussian mailed fist than this English dreamer of a -professor. For what but a fantastic dream is his picture of modern -Germany as that of a land permeated with heroic aspirations, a mélange -of Napoleonism and Nietzscheanism? Nay! it is the burgher, the -“culture-philistine” that dominates the land of Wilhelm and Eucken, the -petty Prussian, the parvenu who since 1870 has been cherishing the idea -of _Weltmacht_ and of the Germanization of the universe. - -Pardon me, friend, I cannot speak _sina ira_ on this question; out of -respect for Mr. Wilson’s request, let us “change the subject.” Come out -where we can observe in silence the symphony of autumnal sunset. The -Slavs call this month “Listopad,” the fall of leaves; do you recall -Tschaikovsky’s _Farewell Ye Forests_? Sing it in silence, in that -eloquent silence of which Maeterlinck had so beautifully spoken. I say -_had_, for my heart is full of anxiety for that Belgian with the face of -an obstinate coachman. His last works reveal symptoms of Monomania, that -sword of Damocles that hangs over many a profound thinker, particularly -so if the thinker is inclined towards mysticism. Maeterlinck, as no one -else, has felt the mystery of our world; his works echoed his awe before -the unknown, the impenetrable, but also his love for the mysterious, his -rejoicing at the fact that there are in our life things unexplainable -and incomprehensible. His latest essays[2] show signs of dizziness, as -of a man who stands on the brink of an abyss. I fear for him; I fear -that the artist has lost his equilibrium and is obsessed with phantasms, -psychometry, and other nonsense. The veil of mystery irritates him, he -craves to rend it asunder, to answer all riddles, to clarify all -obscurities, to interpret the unknowable; as a result he falls into the -pit of charlatanism and credulity. - - [2] _The Unknown Guest_, by Maurice Maeterlinck. [Dodd, Mead and - Company, New York.] - - If there were no more insoluble questions nor impenetrable - riddles, infinity would not be infinite; and we should have - forever to curse the fate that placed us in a universe - proportionate to our intelligence. All that exists would be but a - gateless prison, an irreparable evil and mistake. The unknown and - unknowable are necessary to our happiness. In any case I would - not wish my worst enemy, were his understanding a thousand times - loftier and a thousandfold mightier than mine, to be condemned - eternally to inhabit a world of which he had surprised an - essential secret and of which, as a man, he had begun to grasp - the least atom. - -These words were written by Maeterlinck a few years ago in his essay, -_Our Eternity_. He has surely gone astray since. The last book is -written in a dull pale style, in a tone of a professional table-rapper, -enumerating legions of “facts” to prove the theory of psychometry or -whatever it may be, forgetting his own words of some time ago: “Facts -are nothing but the laggards, the spies, and camp followers of the great -forces we cannot see.” What a tragedy! - -Was Dostoevsky a mystic? Undoubtedly so, but not exclusively so. Far -from being a monomaniac, he applied his genius to various aspects of -life and wistfully absorbed the realistic manifestations of his -fellow-beings as well as the inner struggles of their souls. Dostoevsky -is the Cézanne of the novel. With the same eagerness that Cézanne puts -into his endeavor to produce the “treeness” of a tree, brushing aside -irrelevant details, does Dostoevsky strive to present the “soulness” of -a soul, stripping it of its veils and demonstrating its throbbing -nudeness before our terrified eyes. We fear him, for he is cruel and -takes great pleasure in torturing us, in bringing us to the verge of -hysteria; we fear him, for we feel uneasy when we are shown a nude soul. -Perhaps he owed his wonderful clairvoyancy to his ill health, a feature -that reminds us of his great disciple, Nietzsche. I do not know which is -more awesome in Raskolnikov[3]: his physical, realistic tortures, or his -mysterious dreams and hallucinations. In all his heroes: the winged -murderer who wished to kill a principle; the harlot, Sonya, who sells -her body for the sake of her drunkard father and her stepmother; the -father, Marmeladov, whose monologues in the tavern present the most -heart-gripping rhapsody of sorrow and despair; the perversed nobleman, -Svidrigailov, broad-hearted and cynical, who jokingly blows out his -brains—in the whole gallery of his morbid types Dostoevsky mingles the -real with the fantastic, makes us wander in the labyrinth of illusionary -facts and preternatural dreams, brings us in dizzily-close touch with -the nuances of palpitating souls, and leaves us mentally maimed and -stupefied. I think of Dostoevsky as of a Demon, a Russian Demon, the -sorrowful Demon of the poet Lermontov, the graceful humane -Mephistopheles of the sculptor Antokolsky. - - [3] _Crime and Punishment_, by Fyodor Dostoevsky. [The Macmillan - Company, New York.] - -The tragedy of Raskolnikov is twofold: he is a Russian and an -intellectual. The craving, religious soul of the child of the endless -melancholy plains, keened by a profound, analytic intellect seeks in -vain an outlet for its strivings and doubtings in the land where -interrogation marks are officially forbidden. The young man should have -plunged into the Revolution, the broad-breasted river that has welcomed -thousands of Russian youth; but Dostoevsky willed not his hero to take -the logical road. The epileptic Demon hated the “Possessed” -revolutionists; he saw the Russian ideal in Christian suffering. “He is -a great poet, but an abominable creature, quite Christian in his -emotions and at the same time quite _sadique_. His whole morality is -what you have baptised slave-morality”—this from Dr. Brandes’s letter to -Nietzsche,—a specimen of professorial nomenclature. - -I am thinking of a threefold—nay, of a manifold—tragedy of a young man, -who, besides being a Russian and an intellectual, is a revolutionist and -is a son of the eternal Ahasver, the people that have borne for -centuries the double cross of being persecuted and of teaching their -persecutors. What makes this tragedy still more tragic is the element of -grim irony that enters it as in those of Attic Greece: the -Russian-Jewish-Anarchist is hurled by Fate into the country of -Matter-of-Fact, your United States. The boy is poetic, sentimental, -idealistic; imbued with the lofty traditions of the Narodovoltzy, the -Russian saints-revolutionists, he craves for a heroic deed, for an act -of self-sacrifice for the “people.” “Ah, the People! The grand, -mysterious, yet so near and real, People....”[4] He attempts to shoot an -oppressor of the people, is delivered to the Justice, and is sentenced -to twenty-two years of prison confinement. The curtain falls, but does -the tragedy end here? No, it only begins. - - [4] _Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist_, by Alexander Berkman. - [Mother Earth Company, New York.] - - For he who lives more lives than one - More deaths than one must die. - -Raskolnikov wanted to kill a principle; he wanted to rid the world of a -useless old pawnbroker, in order to enable himself to _live_ a useful -life. He failed; the principle remained deadly alive in the form of a -gnawing conscience. “I am an aesthetic louse,” he bitterly denounces -himself. Alexander Berkman wanted to _die_ for a principle, to render -the people a service through his death. He has failed. At least he has -thought so. The Attentat produced neither the material nor the moral -effect that the idealist had expected. Society condemned him, of course; -the strikers, for whose benefit he eagerly gave his life, looked upon -his act as on a grave misfortune that would augment their misery; even -his comrades, except a very few, disapproved of his heroic deed. The icy -reality sobered the naïve Russian. Was it worth while? For the “people?” - -The _Memoirs_ have stirred me more profoundly than Dostoevsky’s _Memoirs -from a House of the Dead_, far more than Wilde’s _De Profundis_: the -tragedy here is so much more complex, more appalling in its utter -illogicality. On the other hand the book is written so sincerely, so -heartedly, so ingenuously, that you feel the wings of the martyr’s soul -flapping upon yours. Berkman becomes so near, so dear, that it pains to -think of him. You are with him throughout his vicissitudes; you share -his anguish, loneliness, suicidal moods; your spirit and your body -undergo the same inhuman tortures, the same unnecessary cruelties, that -he describes so simply, so modestly; you rejoice in his pale prison -joys, your heart goes out to the gentle boy, Johnny, who whispers -through the dungeon wall his love for Sashenka; you weep over the death -of Dick, the friendly sparrow whose chirping sounded like heavenly music -to the prisoner; you are filled with admiration and love for the Girl -who hovers somewhere outside like a goddess, “immutable,” devoted, -noble, reserved; you are, lastly, out in the free, and how deeply you -sympathize with the sufferer when he flees human beings and solicitous -friends.... When I read through the bleeding pages, I felt like falling -on my knees and kissing the feet of the unknown, yet so dear, martyr. -Surely, thou hast known suffering.... - -Don’t sneer at my incurable sentimentality, you happy normal. The -tragedy of Alexander Berkman is common to all of us, transplanted wild -flowers. It is the tragedy of getting the surrogate for the real thing. -Berkman and the Girl passionately kissing the allegorical figure of the -Social Revolution—isn’t this the symbol of the empty grey life in this -normal land? What do you offer the seeking, striving, courageous souls -but surrogates, substitutes? Your radicals—they are nauseating! They -chatter about Nietzsche and Stirner and Whitman, wave the red flag and -scream about individual freedom; but let one of them transgress the -seventh commandment or commit any thing that is not _comme il faut_ -according to their code, and lo, the radicalism has evaporated, and the -atavistic mouldy morality has come to demonstrate its wrinkled face. Has -not John Most repudiated the act of his disciple, Berkman, because it -was a _real_ act and not a paper allegory? Of course, Most was -German.... - -Hush! Were we not going to observe in silence the purple-crimson -crucifixion of autumnal Phoebus? I have been as silent as the Barber of -Scheherezade. Woe me, the Incurable! - - IBN GABIROL. - - - - - - Sufficience - - - HELEN HOYT - - I wish no guardian angel: - I do not seek fairies in the trees: - The trees are enough in themselves. - - - - - On Poetry - - - Aesthetics and Common-Sense - - LLEWELLYN JONES - -Poetry, we are often told, cannot be defined but—by way of -consolation—can always be recognized. Unfortunately the latter half of -that statement seems no longer true, especially of latter-day poetry. -Fratricidal strife between makers of _vers libre_ and formalists goes on -merrily, while the people whose contribution to poetry is their -appreciation of it—and purchase of it—are not unnaturally playing safe -and buying Longfellow in padded ooze. - -I always thought I could recognize authentic poetry on most themes and -even flattered myself that I had some little understanding of the -psychology of its production. Latterly two voices have come to me, one -affirming that I was right in my prejudice that all durable verse should -have content as well as form, should have meaning as well as -sound—though in closest union with the sound,—that, in short, the poet -should be a thinker as well as a craftsman; an emotional thinker, of -course, if that term be permitted, but not a mere clairaudient wielder -of words. And then I heard a voice which bid me forget all that and list -to - - Long breaths, in a green and yellow din. - -Hastening to give credit where it is due, let me remind the readers of -THE LITTLE REVIEW that this is the last line of a poem by Maxwell -Bodenheim in the last number of that periodical. I trust that Mr. -Bodenheim will forgive me for using him to point a moral and adorn a -critical article, especially as I shall have to compare him with -Wordsworth before I get through, and shall have to ask him whether he is -not carrying the Wordsworthian tradition just a little too far into the -region of the individual and subjective, into the unknown territory of -the most isolated thing in the world: the human mind in those regions of -it which have not been socially disciplined into the categories which -make communication possible between mind and mind. - -The other voice which I have mentioned is that of Professor S. B. Gass, -of the University of Nebraska, who writes on Literature as a Fine Art in -_The Mid-West Quarterly_ for July. - -Professor Gass takes the very sane position that words are the -socially-created tools—arbitrary symbols, he calls them—to give us “not -the thing itself, but something about the thing—some relationship, some -classification, some generalization, some cause, some effect, some -attribute, something that goes on wholly in the mind and is not -sensuously present in the thing itself.” And that work, he continues, is -thought, and it proceeds by statement. But undoubtedly words have -sensuous sounds and sensuous denotations and connotations. Professor -Gass admits this, but regards their sensuous properties—and especially, -I imagine he would insist, their sensuous sounds based on physiological -accident—as secondary. Hence, to him, Imagism would be a use of words -for purely secondary results. And that is decadence: “Decadence arises -out of the primary pursuit of secondary functions.” Now Wordsworth and -the romantic school generally used words in this way, and so, logically -enough, Professor Gass classifies Wordsworth as a decadent. In doing so -we fear he exhibits an intellect too prone to dichotomize. He cuts human -psychology up into too many and too water-tight compartments. When he -quotes Wordsworth’s - - ... I saw a crowd, - A host of golden daffodils; - Beside the lake, beneath the trees, - Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. - -he seems to forget that there is more in that poem than its imagism—as -we would call it now; that it is record of a personal experience, that -is not only a trespass on the domain of the painter (to speak as if we -agreed with our critic) but that it is a personal reaction to the -picture painted in those words, that it tells us something that no mere -picture could do. The poem, in fact, is a picture plus a story of the -effect of the picture upon a human soul. - -But the point in which I agree with Professor Gass is that—whatever the -ultimate purpose of literature, including the lyric; whether, as he -says, it is “a reflection of human nature, intellectual in its mode, -critical in its spirit, and moral in its function”; or whether it is -legitimate to regard its rhythms in words and “secondary” connotations -and associations of words as materials for an art rather than for a -criticism of life—the point beyond all this that I think fundamental is -that literature does what it does—inform, enlighten, or transport—by -understandable statement. - -Certainly all appreciation of literature that dares to voice itself—that -is all criticism—must proceed on this supposition, and it is just this -supposition that is flouted by some of Mr. Bodenheim’s poems. - -Take the following, for instance: - - - TO —— - - You are a broad, growing sieve. - Men and women come to you to loosen your supple frame, - And weave another slim square into you— - Or perhaps a blue oblong, a saffron circle. - People fling their powdered souls at you: - You seem to lose them, but retain - The shifting shadow of a stain on your rigid lines. - -Now obviously there is no sense in this in the ordinary -intellectualistic meaning of the word sense. Unlike most poetry, it -cannot be analyzed into a content which we might say was expressed -suitably or unsuitably in a form. If, then, it be a good poem, we must -look elsewhere for its excellence. I would hesitate to find that -excellence in the mere sound of the words. Is it then in their -associations? Arthur Ransome, the English critic, accounts for the -peculiar effect of poetry by its use of what he calls potential -language—of words which by long association have come to mean more than -they say, that have not only a denotation like scientific words, but a -sometimes definite, sometimes hazy, connotation, an emotional content -over and above what is intellectually given in their purely etymological -content. Does this help us here? I am afraid not. Personally I have -always associated sieves with ashes and garden-earth (there is also a -little triangular sieve that fits into kitchen sinks). Blue oblongs and -saffron circles remind me of advertising posters and futurist pictures; -while—I admit a certain poetic quality of a sort here—powdered souls -remind me of Aubrey Beardsley. - -But, perhaps, the ultimate objection to this poem as it stands is the -fact that I have an uneasy suspicion that some printer may have -transposed some of these expressions. For would it not really have made -better sense if the poem had spoken of a saffron oblong and a blue -square? Certainly if I choose to think that that is what it must have -been originally no other reader, on the face of the matter, could -convince me otherwise. While, if another reader told me that Mr. -Bodenheim had once studied geometry and therefore could not possibly -have written about a “slim square”, I would be quite unable to convince -him otherwise. - -But—it will be objected—it is quite unfair to any poem to analyze it -word by word. It spoils its beauty. I challenge the assertion, and even -assert the opposite. As a matter of fact, it is only by analysis that we -can tell good poetry from bad poetry. For instance: - - Crown him with many crowns - The lamb upon his throne. - -Analyze that and it straightway appears the nonsense that it really is. -But, on the other hand, take this poem of Francis Thompson’s (I quote -only a part): - - Does the fish soar to find the ocean, - The eagle plunge to find the air— - That we ask of the stars in motion - If they have rumour of thee there? - - Not where the wheeling systems darken, - And our benumbed conceiving soars!— - The drift of pinions, would we hearken, - Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. - - The angels keep their ancient places;— - Turn but a stone, and start a wing! - ’Tis ye, ’tis your estrangèd faces, - That miss the many-splendored thing. - -Now that poem, it will be observed, is not unrelated in subject to the -two lines quoted just above it. And yet, how it defies any effort to -analyze it out into anything else than itself. Rhythm, cosmic -picturings, the homely metaphors of the dusty road, all combine to place -us in an attitude toward, to give us a feeling for, reality, which is -different from, and nobler than, those of the man who has either never -read this poem, never read the same message in other poetic language, -or—what is more to the point—never managed to get for himself the same -experience which dictated that poem. - -For, after all, if I were to agree with Professor Gass that poetry (as a -part of literature) is not a fine art, it would be because I think it -more than a fine art. Because I think the function of poetry is not -merely to be a verbal picture art or a verbal music art, but to be an -organon of reconciliation between art and life. The best poems, I think, -will be found to be those which alter our consciousness in such a way -that our inward, and even our outward, lives are altered. The poet sees -the world as we do not see it. Consequently, he can put a new complexion -on it for us. The world is pluralistic, and so are we. Intellectually we -may be of the twentieth century, but emotionally we may be born out of -our due season. Then let the poet of that due season mediate to us the -emotional life that we need. Living in America, we may, through him, -reach Greece or India. By his aid we may conquer the real world; by his -aid we may flee from it if it threatens to conquer us. By his aid alone -we may get outside of our own skins and into the very heart of the -world. - -What, then, shall we say, when poetry offers to conduct us into a world -of growing sieves, slim squares, powdered souls, cool, colorless -struggles, the obstetrical adventures of white throats, and green and -yellow dins? - -I have heard of a book which explains the fourth dimension. If I ever -get a chance to read that book, and if I find that I can understand the -fourth dimension, I shall have another shot at the appreciation of this -poetry. For I have a slumbering shadow of a pale-gray idea (if I, too, -may wax poetic) that in the sphere of the fourth dimension a slim square -would be a perfectly possible conception. - -I shall arise and go home now and read some poems by the late Mr. -Meredith who is popularly supposed to be obscure. - - - In Defense of Vers Libre - - ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE - - (_A reply to “Spiritual Dangers of Writing Vers Libre” by Eunice - Tietjens in the November issue of The Little Review_) - -The properly qualified judge of poetry can have no doubts about _vers -libre_; if he doubts it, he is no judge. He belongs to that class of -hide-bound conservatives who are unwilling to discard the old merely -because it is old. He does not yet understand that the newest is always -the best. Worst of all, he does not appreciate the value of Freedom. - -Freedom is the greatest of boons to the artist. The soul of the artist -must not be hampered by unnecessary constraints. The old fixed -verse-forms—such as the sonnet, blank verse, and all the other familiar -metres—were exactly as cramping to the free creating spirit of the poet -as the peculiar spaces and arches of the Sistine Chapel were to the -designing instinct of Michael Angelo. Lamentable misfortune! that his -Sibyls had to occupy those awkward corners. How much would they not have -gained in grandeur could they have had all outdoors to expand in! - -All outdoors is just what _vers libre_ affords the poet of today. He is -no longer under the necessity of moulding his thought into an artificial -pattern, compressing it to a predetermined form; it can remain fluent, -unsubjugated, formless, like a spontaneous emotional cry. No longer need -he accept such fatal and stereotyped bondage as that under which Milton -labored when the iron mechanics of blank verse forced him to -standardize, to conventionalize, his emotion in such lines as— - - O dark dark dark amid the blaze of noon, - Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse - Without all hope of day!... - -To be honest, we must admit that there was something sickly and -soul-destroying about the earlier verse-forms. The too-honeyed sweetness -and metrical constraint of _Paradise Lost_ has always secretly repelled -the true judge of poetry; and Shakespeare’s Sonnets have never been -thoroughly satisfactory just because of the fatal necessity under which -the author worked, of rhyming his lines in conformity with a fixed -order. How could spiritual originality survive such an ordeal? - -It would be unwise, however, to condemn the whole body of past poets; -for certain of the earlier practitioners did, in their rudimentary way, -see the light. Milton in _Sampson Agonistes_, in the midst of passages -of the old-fashioned regular blank verse, introduced several choruses in -_vers libre_; and these could perhaps hardly be surpassed by any English -or American poet now living. As everyone knows, Walt Whitman (see _The -Poets of Barbarism_ by George Santayana) used _vers libre_ profusely. In -fact, there extends backward from us an unbroken chain of distinguished -_vers libre_ tradition, through Whitman, Matthew Arnold, Southey, -Shelley, Milton, and many others; the chain ends only with that first -“probably arboreal” singer just antedating the first discoverer of -regular rhythm. _Vers libre_ is as old as the hills, and we shall always -have it with us. - -The one defect of the earlier practitioners of _vers libre_ was that -they did not have the wit to erect it into a cult. They used the free -form only when it seemed to them essentially appropriate to the -matter:—that is to say, they used it sporadically, desultorily. Today we -know better. Today we know that the free form must be used ever and -always. _In hoc signo vinces!_ - -As a modern poet admirably says— - - Those envious outworn souls - Whose flaccid academic pulses - Beat to no rythms of more Dionysiac scope - Than metronomes,— - Or dollar-twenty-five alarm-clocks,— - They will forever - Cavail at novelty, at beauty, at freshness; - But, hell!— - But, a thousand devils!— - But, _Henri Quatre_ and the _Pont Neuf_!— - We of the new age, who leap upon the mountains like goats upon the - heaps of tin cans in the vacant lots, and butt the stars,— - We know they are liars, - And that we are what we are. - -Could that be expressed in a sonnet? I think not. At least, it could not -be expressed so vigorously, so wisely, so well. - -There is, however, one obvious peril against which the enthusiast must -guard himself. _Vers libre_ is not of itself a complete warranty of -success; because a poem is in this form, it is not necessarily fine -poetry. “Love is enough,” says William Morris; he would not have said -the same about _vers libre_. A certain power of conception, beyond the -brilliant and original idea involved in the very employing of the free -verse-form, is requisite for real importance in the finished product. - -Nor is the statement of the poet’s own unique and terrifying importance -a sufficient theme to constitute the burden of all his work. Several of -our most immortal living _vers librists_ have fallen into such an error. -This “ego über alles” concept, though profound and of a startling -originality, lacks variety if it be indefinitely repeated. Should the -poet, however, feel deep in his soul that there is nothing else worth -saying except this, let him at least take care to beautify his idea by -the use of every artifice. After saying “I am I, and great,” let him not -forget to add variety and contrast to the picture by means of the -complementary idea: “You, O world, are you, and contemptible.” In such -minglings of light and shade lies poetry’s special and proper beauty. - -_Vers libre_ has one incontestable advantage over all those more -artificial vehicles in which the poets of the past have essayed to ride -into immortality. This newly popular verse-form can be used perfectly -well when the poet is drunk. Let no one of temperate habits -underestimate this advantage; let him think of others. Byron was drunk -most of the time; had he been able to employ a form like this, how many -volumes could he perhaps have added to the mere seventeen that now -constitute his work! Shelley,—seldom alcoholicly affected, I -believe,—was always intoxicated with ideas; he, equipped solely with the -new instrument, could have written many more epics like _Queen Mab_, and -would probably have felt less need of concentrating his work into the -narrow limits of such formalistic poems as _The West Wind_. - -Let it be understood that all the principles suggested in this monograph -are intended only for the true devotee of _vers libre_. One can have -nothing but contempt for the poet who, using generally the old-fashioned -metres, turns sometimes to _vers libre_ as a medium, and carries over -into it all those faults of restrained expression and patterned thought -which were the curse of the old forms. Such a writer is beyond hope, -beyond counsel. We can forgive Matthew Arnold, but not a contemporary. - -Certain devoted American friends of poetry have been trying for some -time to encourage poetry in this country; and I think they are on the -right track when they go about it by way of encouraging _vers libre_. No -other method could so swiftly and surely multiply the number of our -verse-writers. For the new medium presents no difficulties to anyone; -even the tired business-man will find himself tempted to record his -evening woes in singless song. True, not everyone will be able at first -trial to produce _vers libre_ of the quality that appears in the -choruses of _Sampson Agonistes_: - - This, this is he; softly a while; - Let us not break in upon him. - O change beyond report, thought, or belief! - See how he lies at random, carelessly diffused, - With languished head unpropt, - As one past hope, abandoned, - And by himself given over, - In slavish habit, ill-fitted weeds - O’er-worn and soiled. - Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be he, - That heroic, that renowned, - Irresistible Sampson? whom, unarmed, - No strength of man, or fiercest wild beast, could withstand?... - Which first shall I bewail, - Thy bondage or lost sight, - Prison within prison - Inseparably dark? - -That is indeed admirable, and not so easy to write as it looks. But some -kind of _vers libre_ can be turned out by anyone; and to encourage the -use of this medium will be to encourage and vastly increase that -multitudinous body of humble and industrious versifyers who are at -present the most conspicuous ornament of American literature. - - - The Decorative Straight-Jacket: Rhymed Verse - - MAXWELL BODENHEIM - -The clamping of the inevitable strait-jacket, rhymed verse, upon the -shrinking form of poetry has been the pastime of centuries. Those who -would free poetry from the outworn metal bands and let her stretch her -cramped limbs are labeled decadent, slothful, and futile. How easy it is -to paste disagreeable labels upon the things one happens to dislike. - -I admit that poetry freed from the bonds she has so long worn may become -vulgar and over-demonstrative. A convict who has just been released from -a penitentiary is perhaps inclined to caper down the road, and split the -air with good red shouts. But after his first excesses he walks slowly, -thinking of the way before him. With some poets free verse is still the -boisterous convict; with others it is already the sober, determined -individual. But I rather like even the laughing convict, looking back -and flinging huge shouts at his imposing but petty prison. - -Suppose I were a Bluebeard who had enticed a young girl into my dim -chamber of poetic-thought. Suppose I took the little knife of rhyme and -coolly sliced off one of her ears, two or three of her fingers, and -finished by clawing out a generous handful of her shimmering, -myriad-tinted hair, with the hands of meter. I might afterwards display -her to the world, saying: “Look! Is she not still beautiful, still -almost perfect?” But would that excuse my butchery? The lesson is -perhaps fairly clear. Rhymed verse mutilates and cramps poetry. It is -impossible for even the greatest poet completely to rise above its -limitations. He may succeed in a measure, but that is due to his -strength and not to the useless fetters he wears. But, say the defenders -of the fetters, rhyme and meter are excellent disciplines. Does Poetry -or does the Poet need to be disciplined? Are they cringing slaves who -cannot be trusted to walk alone and unbound? These are obvious things, -but one must sometimes be obvious when speaking to those who still -possess a childish belief. Poetry is not determined by the monotonous -form in which it is usually clothed, but by the strength or weakness of -its voice. Because men have foolishly placed this voice in the mouth of -a child, wearing a dress with so many checks on it, and a hat the -blackness of which matches the ebony of its ugly shoes, it does not -necessarily follow that the voice becomes miraculously changed when -placed in some other mouth, whose owner wears a different garb. Then -there is the rhythm difficulty. If the little child, Rhyme and Meter, -does not swing his foot in time to what he is saying, adding rhythm, his -words, according to some, change from poetry to prose. What delightful -superstitions! - -Poets can undoubtedly rise to great heights, in spite of the fact that -they must replace stronger words with weaker ones, because “passion” -does not rhyme with “above,” but “love” does. But how much higher could -they rise if they were free? I do not say that to eliminate rhyme, -meter, and rhythm is to make the way absolutely clear. The Poet must -still be a Poet to climb. Nor do I say that if the Poet finds that -rhyme, rhythm, and meter happen almost to fit his poetic thoughts, he -must not use them. I only say that the poet who finds that the usual -forms of poetry confine and mar his poetic thoughts should be able to -discard them without receiving the usual chorus of sneers, and that if -he does he is not miraculously changed from a poet to a writer of prose. - - - Harriet Monroe’s Poetry - - EUNICE TIETJENS - - _You and I_, by Harriet Monroe. [The Macmillan Company, New York.] - -Right here in Chicago, under our very noses, there is dwelling -personified a Real Force. It is done up in a neat and compact little -package, as most real forces are that are not of the Krupp variety, and -it works with so little fuss and fury that it takes some discernment to -recognize it for a force at all. Nevertheless it is a power which is -felt throughout the length and breadth of the country, in California, in -Florida, in Canada, and in England. And wherever it is felt it is a -liberating force, a force that ruthlessly shatters the outworn -conventions of the art in which it operates, that tears away the tinsel -trappings and bids art and beauty spring forth clean and untrammeled, to -forge for themselves new forms that shall be fitting for the urge of -today. - -The name by which this force is known in every day parlance is Miss -Harriet Monroe, and its manifestations are twofold—as poet and as -editor. As editor she has created and kept alive the courageous little -magazine _Poetry: A Magazine of Verse_, which might almost, so far as -Chicago is concerned, be called the spiritual older sister of THE LITTLE -REVIEW. It, too, in its own field, stands for the revolt of today -against the hide-bound spirit of yesterday, and it, too, is a thorn in -the side of the Philistines. - -The most recent manifestation of Miss Monroe’s influence is, however, in -her character as poet. She has collected together a large number of -poems, most of which have already appeared in the leading magazines and -have been widely copied, and has brought them out under the title _You -and I_. Seeing them so collected, one is much better able to get a -perspective on the poems themselves, and on the very interesting -personality behind them. And they bulk large. Unquestionably this is one -of the most important of the recent books of poetry. - -_You and I_ is essentially modern in spirit and in treatment. Miss -Monroe has the power of looking with the eyes of the imagination at many -of our modern institutions. _The Hotel_, _The Turbine_, _The Panama -Canal_, _The Ocean Liner_—these are some of the subjects she treats with -a real understanding and a sweep of vision that quite transfigures these -work-a-day objects. And she is equally at home when writing of the great -emotional complexity of _State Street at Night_ or the simpler but more -profound poignancy of the _Elegy for a Child_. Indeed, one of the -noticeable things about the book is the unusually large range of themes -treated. - -There is also in this book the primal, but unfortunately rare, gift of -wonder. This is one of the essential qualities of true poetry, and it -furnishes Miss Monroe with the key-note of the book, an open-eyed, -courageous facing of fate, and an unshakable belief in the redeeming -power of beauty. - -This little lyric may serve as an introduction to the spirit of the -book: - - - THE WONDER OF IT - - How wild, how witch-like weird that life should be! - That the insensate rock dared dream of me, - And take to bursting out and burgeoning— - Oh, long ago——yo ho!—— - And wearing green! How stark and strange a thing - That life should be! - - Oh mystic mad, a rigadoon of glee, - That dust should rise, and leap alive, and flee - Afoot, awing, and shake the deep with cries— - Oh, far away—yo hay! - What moony mask, what arrogant disguise - That life should be! - - - Scharmel Iris: Italian Poet - - MILO WINTER - -Scharmel Iris, the first of the Italians in America to write poetry in -English is a Florentine who was brought to Chicago when but an infant. -Before his tenth year his poems attracted attention and were warmly -praised by such men as Ruskin, Swinburne and Gosse. Later Francis -Thompson and Richard Le Gallienne expressed appreciation. These poems -which originally appeared in leading publications of England and America -are gathered together for the first time and printed by the Ralph -Fletcher Seymour Company (Fine Arts Building, Chicago; $1.00 net). The -volume, entitled _Lyrics of a Lad_, contains his most desirable and -characteristic lyrics and is a serious contribution to our poetic -literature. These poems came to be respected as art through their -freshness and originality—there are no trite, worn-out, meaningless -phrases, or words of an abstract, generalized significance. Immortal -beauty is a vision in his eyes and a passion in his heart, and he has -labored to reveal it to the world. Art is a creation of men’s minds, and -because Mr. Iris’s creation is direct and spontaneous it becomes greater -art. This volume is not post-Miltonic or post-Swinburnian or -post-Kiplonian. This young poet has the good sense to speak naturally -and to paint things as he sees them. Because this book is Scharmel Iris -it is distinctive. It is without sham and without affectation. The -announcement of its publication and his poems in THE LITTLE REVIEW -brought the publisher three-hundred orders. The book, slender and -well-printed, has more real poetry than any volume of modern verse it -has been our good fortune to read. - -It is difficult to do an important book justice in a short article. -Perhaps a miscellaneous quotation of lines will help: - - The thrush spills golden radiance - From boughs of dusk; - - The day was a chameleon; - - In sweat and pangs the pregnant, Night - Brings forth the wondrous infant, Light; - - Within the sunset-press, incarnadine, - The sun, a peasant, tramples out his wine; - - You are the body-house of lust; - - Where twilight-peacocks lord the place - Spendthrifts of pride and grace; - - And lo, at Heaven’s blue-windowed house - God sets the moon for lamp; - - The sunbeams sought her hair, - And rested there; - - These mute white Christs—the daily crucified; - - Lucretia Borgia fair - The poppy is. - - The sunbeams dance in dawn’s ballet; - - While sunset-panthers past her run - To caverns of the Sun; - - When from the husk of dusk I shake the stars; - - O dusk, you brown cocoon, - Release your moth, the moon, - - Ah, since that night - When to her window, she came forth as light, - Have I been Beauty’s acolyte; - -and there are many other striking lines. In _The Visionary_ a poet -steals the pennies on a dead man’s eyes to buy himself bread, and, after -his death, the money denied him in life is in turn placed on his -sightless eyes. It is irony of the bitterest sort. _Late January_ is an -excellent landscape—interpretive rather than descriptive. -_Scarlet—White_ is struck at the double standard, and is a strong and -powerful utterance. _April_, _Canzonette_, _Lady of the Titian Hair_ are -exquisite and charming lyrics. Three graceful compositions are _The -Heart-Cry of the Celtic Maid_, _Tarantella_ and _Song for a Rose_. _The -Ugly Woman_ will cause discussion, but it is good art. The trio of -_Spring Songs_ and _Her Room_ are well nigh perfect. _Mary’s Quest_ is -very tender, as is also the _Twilight Lullaby_. _The Leopard_, _Fantasy -of Dusk and Dawn_, _The Forest of the Sky_ are wonderfully imaginative, -and were written in Chicago,—in the grime and barrenness of Halsted -Street. There is a poignant thing of five lines, a mother who is going -blind over the death of a son. Her despair is hopeless and tragic—she -makes a true and awful picture of realism in her grief. _Heroes_ treats -of the nameless heroes, daily met and overlooked. The love poems are -sincere as all love poems must be. In _Foreboding_ the note of sadness -is emphatic—almost dominant; but there is more than mere sadness in it; -it is not a minor note. It is tragedy, really, that speaks in such -poetry: - - Her cold and rigid hands - Will be as iron bands - Around her lover’s heart; - -and - - O’er thee will winter through the sky’s gray sieve - Sift down his charity of snow. - -_The Mad Woman_ (printed in _Poetry_) is as excellent as it is unusual, -and few finer things have been done in any literature. - -There is a fine flowing harmony about the poetry of Scharmel Iris that -denotes a power far beyond that revealed by many of today’s singers. The -poems are colorful and certainly musical and they display an adequate -technique. Such a gift as his, revealed in a number of very fine -achievements, gives promise of genuine greatness. After many years of -discouragement and the hardest work, he has at last found a publisher -who bears the cost of the edition, purely on the merit of the work. It -contains a preface by Dr. Egan, American minister in Copenhagen, an -attractive title-page decoration by Michele Greco, and a photogravure -portrait of the author. By advancing the work of living poets like Mr. -Iris one can repay the debt he owes to the old poets. This poetry (as -THE LITTLE REVIEW remarked) is not merely the sort which interests or -attracts; it remains in your mind as part of that art treasure-house -which is your religion and your life. - - - The Poetry of T. Sturge Moore - -In an early number of THE LITTLE REVIEW a correspondent remarked that an -article I had the honor of contributing sounded a rather curious note -inasmuch as it was a piece of pure criticism in a magazine deliberately -given over to exuberance. - -Well, it is now my turn to stand up for exuberance as against a -contributor, A. M., who gives the poetry of T. Sturge Moore criticism -only, and, in my humble opinion, criticism as unfair as would be a -description of Notre Dame rendered altogether in terms of gargoyles and -their relative positions. - -Would it not be more in the spirit of THE LITTLE REVIEW to point out in -the title poem of Mr. Moore’s book, _The Sea is Kind_, such passages as -the two following: - - _Eucritos_— - - Thou knowest, Menalcas, - I built my hut not sheltered but exposed, - Round not right-angled. - A separate window like a mouth to breathe, - No matter whence the breeze might blow,— - A separate window like an eye to watch - From off the headland lawn that prompting wink - Of Ocean musing “Why,” wherever he - May glimpse me at some pitiable task. - Long sea arms reach behind me, and small hills - Have waded half across the bay in front, - Dividing my horizon many times - But leaving every wind an open gate. - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - There is a sorcery in well loved words: - But unintelligible music still - Probes to the buried Titan in the heart - Whose strength, the vastness of forgotten life, - Suffers but is not dead; - Tune stirs him as no thought of ours nor aught - Mere comprehension grasps, can him disquiet. - -And these are parts of a dramatic poem full of fresh figures, colorful -glimpses of the romance of ancient life, and what a school-boy would -describe as a “perfectly corking” description of a sea fight with dead -men slowly dropping through the green water— - - As dead bird leaf-resisted - Shot on tall plane tree’s top, - Down, never truly stopping, - Through green translucence dropping, - They often seemed to stop. - -And how, again could any thorough searcher of this book fail to mention -that delightful recipe for wine “Sent From Egypt with a Fair Robe of -Tissue to a Sicilian Vine-dresser, 276 B. C.” And surely no obscurity -nor any uncouthness of figure—such as your critic objects to, as if -poets did not have the faults of their virtues—mar those beautiful child -poems: - - That man who wishes not for wings, - Must be the slave of care; - For birds that have them move so well - And softly through the air: - They venture far into the sky, - If not so far as thoughts or angels fly. - -Were William Cory making a prediction rather than “An Invocation” when -he ended his poem of that title with the line: - - Two minds shall flow together, the English and the Greek. - -I would feel like nominating Mr. T. Sturge Moore as its fulfillment. - - LLEWELLYN JONES. - - - Amy Lowell’s Contribution - - _Sword Blades and Poppy Seed_, by Amy Lowell. [The Macmillan - Company, New York.] - -... And Amy Lowell’s new volume of verse refutes all the critical -disparagement of _vers libre_, imagism, or “unrhymed cadence,” as Miss -Lowell herself chooses to call her work. For she demonstrates that it is -something new—that it is a clear-eyed workmanship which belongs -distinctly to this keener age of ours. Miss Lowell’s technical debt to -the French—to the so-called Parnassian school—has been paid in a -poetical production that will put to shame our hackneyed and slovenly -“accepted” poets. Most of the poems in her book are written in _vers -libre_, and this is the way Miss Lowell analyzes them: “They are built -upon ‘organic rhythm,’ or the rhythm of the speaking voice with its -necessity for breathing, rather than upon a strict metrical system. They -differ from ordinary prose rhythms by being more curved and containing -more stress. The stress, and exceedingly marked curve, of any regular -metre is easily perceived. These poems, built upon cadence, are more -subtle, but the laws they follow are not less fixed. Merely chopping -prose lines into lengths does not produce cadence; it is constructed -upon mathematical and absolute laws of balance and time. In the preface -to his Poems, Henley speaks of ‘those unrhyming rythms in which I had -tried to quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do in rhyme.’ -The desire to ‘quintessentialize,’ to head-up an emotion until it burns -white-hot, seems to be an integral part of the modern temper, and -certainly ‘unrhymed cadence’ is unique in its power of expressing this.” - -Take Miss Lowell’s _White and Green_, for example: - - Hey! My daffodil-crowned, - Slim and without sandals! - As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness - So my eyeballs are startled with you, - Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees, - Light runner through tasselled orchards. - You are an almond flower unsheathed - Leaping and flickering between the budded branches. - -Or _Absence_: - - My cup is empty tonight, - Cold and dry are its sides, - Chilled by the wind from the open window. - Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight. - The room is filled with the strange scent - Of wistaria blossoms. - They sway in the moon’s radiance - And tap against the wall. - But the cup of my heart is still, - And cold, and empty. - - When you come, it brims - Red and trembling with blood, - Heart’s blood for your drinking; - To fill your mouth with love - And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul. - - —M. C. A. - - - - - Star Trouble - - - HELEN HOYT - - A little star - Came into the heaven - At the close of even. - It seemed not very far, - And it was young and soft. - But the gray - Got in its way, - So that I longed to reach my hand aloft - And push the clouds by - From its little eye, - From its little soft ray. - - - - - Parasite - - - CONRAD AIKEN - - Nine days he suffered. It was in this wise.— - He, being scion to Homer in our time, - Must needs be telling tales, in prose or rhyme; - He was a pair of large blue hungry eyes. - Money he had, enough to live in ease;— - Drank wine occasionally; would often sit— - Child and critic alternate—in the Pit: - Cheap at a half-crown he thought feasts like these. - Plays held him by the throat—and cinemas too— - They blanched his face and made him grip his seat; - And oh, fine music to his soul was sweet— - He said, “His ears towards that music _grew_!” - And he kept watch with stars night after night, - Spinning tales from the little of life he knew.— - Of modern life he was the parasite. - - Subtle his senses were—yea, like a child, - Sudden his spirit was to cry or laugh; - Strange modern blending of the tame and wild; - As sensitive to life as seismograph. - His sympathies were keen and sweet and quick, - He could play music subtly in your mood; - Raw life, to him, was often strange and rude— - Slight accidents could make him white and sick. - Unreasoning, but lovable was he;— - Men liked him, he was brave; and yet withal - When brute truth stunned him, he could cringe and crawl; - When most he loved the world, he least could see. - Now let him speak himself, as he well can, - In his queer modern style of poesy.— - Then judge him, you, as poet and as man. - - * * * * * - - There was a woman lived by Bloomsbury Square,— - She was not all that womankind can be,— - Yet she was good to me, I thought her fair,— - I loved her, she was all the world to me; - O, I was adoration, she divine, - And star or moon could not so sweetly shine. - - I will say little—it was neither’s fault— - Yet to a bitter time my loving came, - A time of doubt, of faltering, of halt, - A time of passionate begging and of shame, - When I threw all life’s purpose at her feet, - And she stood strange to me, and cold and sweet— - - Child that I was! for when it came, that hour, - It was in no wise as my heart had thought— - For comic devils had me in their power, - She laughed at me, we wrangled, and I fought, - And there was hot breath gasped in murderous words.... - It was at dusk, when sweetly sang the birds.... - - Then there was silence—oh, how still and cold! - Without good-bye I went; for she had said— - “Young fool!”—that was a rapier-turn that told; - I could have killed her, for she knew I bled— - And smiled a little, as I turned away; - We have not known each other since that day. - - I had expected, if my love went wrong, - The world in sympathy; I suffered pain - That evening when I heard the birds in song, - And stars swam out, and there was no hope for rain, - And the air was dense with lilac-sweet.... I walked - In sullen way; fierce with my soul I talked—; - - And knew what knave I was; yet I devised, - Being still too angry for sincerer grief, - Some pain,—appropriate for a soul despised,— - In simulated venom crushed a leaf,— - And glared at strangers, thinking I would kill - Any that dared to thwart my casual will. - - So, passing through dark streets, with heedless eyes, - I came upon a beggar, who had drawn - Pictures, upon the stones, of ships, and skies; - The moonlight lay upon them, grey and wan— - And they seemed beautiful, alive they seemed; - Beside them, cap in hand, their maker dreamed. - - Above him there a long, long while I stood, - Striving to go, like dream-stuff, to his heart; - Striving to pierce his infinite solitude, - To be of him, and of his world, a part; - I stood beside his seas, beneath his skies, - I felt his ships beneath me dip and rise; - - I heard his winds go roaring through tall trees, - Thunder his sails, and drive the lifted spray; - I heard the sullen beating of his seas; - In a deep valley, at the end of day, - I walked through darkness green along with him, - And saw the little stars, by moon made dim, - - Peer softly through the dusk, the clouds between, - And dance their dance inviolable and bright; - Aloft on barren mountains I have seen - With him the slow recession of the night, - The morning dusk, the broad and swimming sun, - And all the tree-tops burn, and valleys run - - With wine of daybreak; he and I had kept - Vigil with stars on bitter frosty nights: - The stars and frost so burned, we never slept, - But cursed the cold, and talked, and watched the lights - Down in the valleys, passing to and fro, - Like large and luminous stars that wandered slow.... - - Rising at dawn, those times, we had no fire,— - And we were cold,—O bitter times were those,— - And we were rained on, and we walked through mire, - Or found a haystack, there to lie and doze; - Until at evening, with a let of rain, - We shivered awake, and limped, with crying pain, - - To farms, and begged a meal.... if they were kind - We warmed ourselves, and maybe were allowed - The barn to sleep in.... I was nearly blind, - Sometimes, with need to sleep—sometimes so cowed - By pain and hunger that for weeks on end - I’d work in the fields,—and maybe lose my friend: - - Live steady for a while and flesh my bones, - And reap or plough, or drive the cattle home, - And weed the kitchen patch, and pile up stones; - But always it must end, and I must roam; - One night, as still as stars, I rose, was gone, - They had no trace of me at come of dawn, - - And I was out once more in wind and weather, - Brother of larks and leaves and dewy ferns, - Friends of the road I had, we begged together, - And slept together, and tended fire by turns: - O, they were rare times, bitter times were they, - Winding the open road day after day! - - And then I came to London.... Sick, half dead, - Crossing a street I shocked with dizzy pain, - With fury of sound, and darkness ... then in bed - I woke; there was a long white counterpane; - I heard, impassively, the doctors talk. - From that day, without crutch, I could not walk. - - O, the sick-hearted times that took me then! - The days, like vultures, sat to watch me dying. - It seemed as if they lived to feed on men. - I found no work, it seemed so useless trying. - And I got sick of hearing doorbells ring: - Begging in London was a hopeless thing. - - Once I had driven: I tried to get a job - At driving ’busses, but there wasn’t any; - Sometimes, by washing wheels, I earned a bob; - Sometimes held horses for a stingy penny; - And it was hard to choose between the bed - That penny paid for, and a bite of bread. - - Often I hid in parks, and slept on benches, - After the criers had wailed and passed me by; - And it was cold, but better than the stenches - Of ten men packed in one room like a sty. - Twice, I was caught and jailed. It wasn’t bad, - Come to think of the cot and bread I had. - - But O the weariness, day in, day out, - Watching the people walking on so cold, - So full of purpose, deaf to even a shout,— - It was their utter heedlessness that told; - It made me white at heart and sick with hate. - Some guiltily looked away; some walked so straight - - They never knew I lived, but trod my shadow, - Brushed at the laces that I tried to sell.... - O God, could I but then have seen a meadow, - Or walked erect in woods, it had been well, - These wretched things I might have then forgiven, - Nor spread my shadow betwixt them and heaven.... - - I failed at hawking.... somehow, I never sold.... - I wasn’t shaped for it by Him that makes. - I tried with matches, toys, sham studs of gold,— - I failed; it needs a fakir to sell fakes. - The bitter pennies that I saved for buying - Were going to hell, and my whole soul was dying. - - I tried to steal a sleep, without my penny, - One night at John’s. I hadn’t fed all day. - It was a shrewish winter night, and rainy. - John found me out and swore. I said I’d pay - Next afternoon, or die—he said I’d die.... - O, I was longing for a place to lie!... - - He pushed me to the door and opened it, - His stinking arm was smothered round my face, - And then I raged and swung my crutch and hit, - He only laughed and knocked me into space. - When I came to, Joe Cluer bathed my head, - And he had paid my penny, so he said. - - Joe Cluer was a man—God help him now, - Pneumonia got him down last year and took him. - But he had colored chalks, and taught me how - To draw on stones; sometimes the d.t.’s shook him - So hard he couldn’t draw, himself, but show - The way it’s done.... That’s how I made a go. - - And we’d steal out together, he and I, - And draw before the crowds began to come. - At first he helped me. But as time went by - Drink made him worse, and I would help him some: - I drew him six on paper, in the end, - And he would take them out, and just pretend - - To draw a little on the dewy stones.... - But it was useless, for the stones were wet, - And he just wasted chalk, and chilled his bones, - His hand shook ... O, I can see him yet ... - Cramping his fingers down with hellish pain - To write out “My Own Talent,” large and plain. - - Sometimes, to go out early, it was fun, - When it was not too cold, on autumn days - When leaves were rustling downward, and the sun - Came rising red and paley through the haze.... - The streets were fairly quiet, the people few, - There was a smell of dead leaves damp with dew.... - - And I’d draw, singing, places I had seen, - The places that I walked when I was free, - And of my colors best I loved the green,— - O, it would break my heart to draw a tree - Growing in fields, and shaking off the sun, - With cattle standing under, one and one.... - - And roads I loved to draw,—the white roads winding - Away up, beautifully, through blue hills; - Queer, when I drew them I was always minding - The happy things, forgetting all the ills, - And I’d think I was young again, and strong, - Rising at smell of dawn to walk along.... - - To walk along in the cool breath of dawn, - Through dusk mysterious with faint song of birds.... - Out of the valleys, mist was not yet gone,— - Like sleeping rivers; it were hard for words - To say that quiet wonder, and that sleep, - And I alone, walking along the steep, - - To see and love it, like the God who made!... - And I would draw the sea—when I was young - I lived by sea. Its long slow cannonade - Sullen against the cliffs, as the waves swung, - I heard now, and the hollow guttural roar - Of desolate shingle muttering down the shore.... - - And the long swift waves unfurled in smother of white, - Snow, streaked with green, and sea-gulls shining high,— - And their keen wings,—I minded how, in flight, - They made a whimpering sound; and the clean sky, - Swept blue by winds—O what would I have given - To change this London pall for that sweet heaven! - - And I kept thinking of a Devon village - That snuggled in a sea-side deep ravine, - With the tall trees above, and the red tillage, - And little houses smothered soft in green, - And the fishers talking, biding for the tides, - And mackerel boats all beached upon their sides. - - And it was pleasure edged with lightning pain - To draw these things again in colored chalk, - And I would sometimes think they lived again, - And I would think “O God, if I could walk, - It’s little while I’d linger in this street - Giving my heart to bitterly wounding feet....” - - And shame would gnaw me that I had to do it. - O there were moments when I could have cried - To draw the thing I loved—and yet, I drew it; - But how I longed to say I hadn’t lied, - That I had been and seen it, that I wanted - To go again, that through my dreams it haunted, - - That it was lovely here, but lovelier far - Under its own sky, sweet as God had made. - It hurt me keenly that I had to mar - With gritty chalk, and smutchy light and shade, - On grimy pavings, in a public square, - What shone so purely yonder in soft air! - - And yet I drew—year after year I drew; - Until the pictures, that I once so loved, - Though better drawn, seemed not of things I knew, - But dreamed perhaps; my heart no longer moved; - And it no longer mattered if the rain - Wiped out what I had drawn with so much pain. - - I only care to find the best-paid places, - To get there first and get my pictures done, - And then sit back and hate the pallid faces, - And shut my eyes to warm them, if there’s sun, - And get the pennies saved for harder times,— - Winter in London is no joke, by crimes. - - It’s hellish cold. Your hands turn blue at drawing. - You’re cramped; and frost goes cutting to your bones. - O you would pray to God for sun and thawing - If you had sat and dithered on these stones, - And wanted shoes and not known how to get them, - With these few clothes and winter rains to wet them. - - You come and try it, you just come and try! - O for one day if you would take my place! - If we could only change once, you and I, - You, with your soft white wrists and delicate face! - One day of it, my man, and like Joe Cluer, - Pneumonia’d get you and you’d die, that’s sure. - - O God, if on dark days you yet remember - So small and base a thing as I, who pray, - Though of myself I am but now the ember— - For my great sorrows grant me this, that they - Who look upon me may be shaken deep - By sufferings; O let me curse their sleep, - - A devil’s dance, a demon’s wicked laughter,— - To haunt them for a space; so they may know - How sleek and fat their spirits are; and after, - When they have prospered of me, I will go; - Grant me but this, and I am well content. - Then strike me quickly, God, for I am spent. - - Yet,—lift me from these streets before I die. - For the old hunger takes me, and I yearn - To go where swelling hills are, and blue sky, - And slowly walk in woods, and sleep in fern; - To wake in fern, and see the larks go winging, - Vanish in sunlight, and still hear them singing! - - So die; and leave behind me no more trace - Than stays of chalkings after night of rain; - Even myself, I hardly know their place - When I go back next day to draw again; - Only the withered leaves, which the rain beat, - And the grey gentle stones, with rain still sweet. - - * * * * * - - So for nine days I suffered this man’s curse, - And lived with him, and lived his life, and ached; - And this vicarious suffering was far worse - Than my own pain had been.... But when I waked, - His pain, my sorrow, were together flown; - My grief had lived and died; and the sun shone. - - There was a woman lived by Bloomsbury Square— - She is no more to me; I could not sorrow - To think, I loved this woman, she was fair; - All grief I had was grief that I could borrow— - A beggar’s grief. With him, all these long years, - I lived his life of wretchedness and tears. - - - - - Personality - - - GEORGE BURMAN FOSTER - -A powerful appeal to peoples, especially to the German peoples, it was -with this that the nineteenth century began. Still in the eighteenth -century there were no peoples, only dynasties, courts. All life revolved -around these courts. On the crumbs that fell from royal tables, peoples -lived. For the sake of these crumbs, peoples crawled and crouched and -cringed. Then came the Corsican! He trod under foot all these gracious -sovereigns. The greater selfishness of the giant swallowed up the -selfishness of the pygmies. Germany was still but an historical memory. -Europe seemed to have but one will: the will of Napoleon. In the -collapse of dynasties, peoples began to consider themselves. Preachers -of repentance arose who interpreted the sufferings of the people in a -way that could be understood. The Napoleonic thunder awoke them from the -sleep of centuries. There came the prophet Fichte with his -ever-memorable _Reden an die deutsche Nation_. A living divine breath -blew over the dead bones of the Fatherland until they became alive -again. And as the people considered and reflected upon themselves, and -showed the astonished world that they were still there, the judgment -that was executed against the royal courts was turned against their -executor. The German phoenix arose from its ashes, the people revealed -their unwithering power, their eternal life. A rebirth of the people’s -life, this was the program of the major prophet Fichte. Folk culture, -folk education, this was to create a new self within the folk, a free -self, dependent upon a life of its own, instead of a self that was -unfree, dismembered, unsettled. And all the best, freest, noblest -spirits went about the work with a will to renew the folk life in head -and heart and hand. - -Did this work succeed? Was even an auspicious beginning made? Or, was a -false path taken from the very start? Confessedly opinions deviate most -widely as to all this. But among those who consider this work as -abortive and bungling, no one has aired his displeasure—if not, indeed, -his disgust and distemper—so energetically as _Friedrich Nietzsche_. The -Germans grew proud of their folk schools, where every one could learn to -read and write, if nothing more. But Nietzsche raged: “Everybody can -learn to read and write today, which in the long run ruins not only the -writing, but the thinking as well!” The Germans founded libraries, built -reading halls, and art institutes, that the spiritual treasures of -humanity might be as widely available as possible. But Nietzsche -scoffed: “Once there was the Spirit of God, now—through its introduction -into the masses it has become _Pöbel_, the vulgar plebeian mob!” He even -called the whole German culture _pöbelhaft_, vulgar, coarse, plebeian; -German manners, unlike French, inelegant and unrefined; ochlocracy or -mobocracy, the democratic instinct of modern civilization—to Nietzsche, -the grave of all genuine human life. - -In the tendency of the times there is undoubtedly the danger of leveling -men, of uniformizing their culture, consequently of externalizing their -culture. Nietzsche’s aversion to this tendency is understandable, and is -well worth laying to heart. For example, religion ecclesiasticized is -disspiritualized; morals conventionalized are degraded; so is art; so is -even science, as is seen in the “science made easy” cults and courses. -Nietzsche made it the special business of his life to dam back this -current in the affairs of our modern world. To him, the preaching of the -equality of all men was the most dangerous lie of the last century. -Therefore, he preached the inequality of all men; required of men that -they should not be ironed out to the same smoothness, that they should -not all be hand and glove with each other, but on the contrary, that -they should be aware of their manifold inequalities, keep their -distances, and that thus great and small might be clear as to their real -differences. _Not_ liberty, equality, fraternity, but the _Eigenheit_, -the peculiarity, the uniqueness, the _own-ness_ of the human -personality, the right of man to his _Eigenheit_, the pleasure in its -unfolding and formation—this was to be the watchword of the new culture. - -This was what Nietzsche required. He based his requirement upon the fact -that every man is an unrepeatable miracle. He never was before, he never -will be again, except in his own self. This fact is almost self-evident. -It must be kept in mind especially when we place a man into relation -with his surroundings. A man cannot possibly be explained merely as a -result of his environment. No man can be so explained, least of all a -superior individual who has awakened to a self-conscious life, of -distinctive personality, and who is inwardly aware of the mystery of his -own person. Here scientific inquiry, with its descriptions and -explanations, halts. At this point science ceases and we must resort to -intuition and interpretation of life’s deepest mysteries. - -Nietzsche was right in his requirement. Man is an unrepeatable miracle. -But may we not go even further than Nietzsche did? All life is peculiar -and singular and unique. Behold the billowy field of grain! Countless -stalks bend to the breeze. The whole seems to be but a great homogeneous -mass. But take any two of these stalks and consider them more minutely, -compare them with each other. Each is something special, something with -an individual life of its own. Pluck an ear from the stalk. One grain is -side by side with another, one looks for all the world just like -another. But, in fact, no one is just like another. And from each grain -a special stalk grows, so special that the like of it was never in the -world before. Or, you wander along the beach. Innumerable are the grains -of sand on the shore of the sea. The multitude of grains form indeed a -uniform mass, so uniform that its very uniformity wearies and pains the -eye, if it is looked at for long. But look sharply, consider any two of -these grains of sand. Each is something for itself. In the whole -illimitable mass, you find no second grain just like the first. What is -true of the little grains of sand is true of every drop in the wide and -deep sea; true of every mote in the air, of every least particle in vast -shoreless cosmic spaces. Then, too, there are the stars—one star differs -from another star in glory, as Paul saw and said long ago. - -All this I call the wealth of nature, the wealth, if you will, of God. -In this eternal life, nothing is ever repeated or duplicated. This I -call infinite creative power. Never and nowhere does the weaving and -waxing world deal with copies. Everywhere and everywhen the world -creates an original fontal life of its very own. - -Then should not man be awakened to such a life—man in whose eyes and -soul all this singular and peculiar life is mirrored? Should it be man’s -lot alone to be excluded from all this superabounding fulness of -original life? Should he be offended at what is a blessing to all other -creatures, fear their fulness, find the true task of his life in the -renunciation of this fulness? To be sure, the centripetal, solidaric -forces of life do indeed awaken in man. With the breadth of his spirit -man spans the greatest and the least, compares the likest and the -unlikest, combines the nearest and the farthest. But, for all that, he -would sin against life, he would commit spiritual suicide, were he to -use this systematic power of thought to overpaint gray in gray the -variegated world with its colorful magnificence, to make everything in -his own world so similar, so uniform and so unicolored, everything that -was divinely destined and created for an existence of its own. From -everything that was repeated or duplicated in the world would ascend an -accusation to God in whose life all human life was rooted. We who would -thus be only a repetition of another would have the feeling that we were -so much too much, that we were superfluous in the world! For the proof -that we are not superfluous in life is to be found in the fact that no -one else can be put into our place, can be confounded with us, that -there is a gap in life, in the heart, into which no one else can fit, -and that if ever another does occupy our place in life, the gap abides, -surviving as the only trace of our existence in the human heart, -corresponding to our image and our nature. To be superfluous in the -world, to fill therein no place of one’s own, to drift and drag about -with this feeling—the feeling of all this is alone the real damnation of -life, the worst hell that there is in this or in any other world. But -the feeling, even with the minimum capital of life, which yet we may -call our own—the feeling that one makes a necessary, organic, -irreplaceable contribution to the possessions of humanity, this is life -indeed; who has this life, and keeps it alive, knows more joy and bliss -than any other heaven can guarantee. - -A life of one’s own that shall yet serve the life of all—there is the -consummation devoutly to be wished! In these days we hear much about -decadence and the decadent. What does that mean? At bottom, the decadent -seeks to escape the diremption of the modern man between the individual -and the social, by affirming the former and negating the latter. The -individual, the social cell, detaches itself from the whole -organization, from the social body, without considering that he thereby -dooms himself to death. The cell can just as little exist without the -organism, as the organism without the cell. Decadence is the last word -which anti-social individualism has to say to our time. The history of -this individualism is the judgment of this individualism. The man who -fundamentally detaches himself from society cuts the arteries of life. -Still the man must be his own man, and not another, even that he may -give a service of his own to society, as a cell must be its own cell and -not another if it is to construct and constitute the organism of which -it is so small a part. Besides, man is not entirely like a cell. He is -in an important sense a supersocial being, as the cell is not -super-organic. So we may as well go on with our discussion of the -Nietzschean uniqueness and _own-ness_ of personality. Personality is -both super-individual and supersocial. We have its truth in -value-judgment and not simply in existence-judgment. - -Somewhere in the old forgotten gospels there is a grim stirring word: -Enter by the narrow gate, for the gate is broad and the road is wide -that leads to destruction, and many enter that way. But the road that -leads to life is both narrow and close, and there are few who find it. - -Yes, indeed! It is a narrow, a very narrow gate through which men enter -into life; a small, a very small path that leads to this narrow gate. -There is room for only one man at a time—only one! There is one -precaution with which man must sharpen all his wits, if he is to have -regard for the way, so that he may at no moment lose sight of the way; -or if his feet are not to lose their hold and slip, if he is not to grow -dizzy and plunge into the abyss. This is not every man’s thing; it costs -stress and strain and tension; it needs sharp eyes, cool head, firm and -brave heart. It is much easier to stroll along the broad way, where one -keeps step with another, where many wander along together; and if there -but be one that is the guide of all, then of course all follow that one -step by step. On this broad way no one need take upon himself any -responsibility for the right way. Should the leader mislead his blind -followers, the latter would disbelieve their own eyes rather than their -leader, would “confess” that the false broad way was nevertheless the -right way, rather than condemn their own blindness and indolence. These -are the _Herdenmenschen_, the herd men who cannot understand that there -is a strength which only the man feels who stands alone. These are the -men who have no stay in themselves and seek their stay, therefore, in -dependence upon others; possess no supplies of their own, and ever -therefore only consume the capital which others amass. - -Friedrich Nietzsche summoned men out and away from this herd. Friedrich -Nietzsche warned men of the broad way and guided their minds to the -solitary paths which are difficult and perilous indeed, but along which -the true life is to be lived. These small paths, these are the paths of -the creative: “Where man becomes a new force, and a new law, a wheel -rolling of itself, and a first mover!” There every force of his being -becomes a living creative force. No thought is repeated, no feeling, no -decision, is a copy of something which was before. This is a new faith -in man. He does not need to live by borrowing. There is a stratum in his -own soul, in whose hidden depths veins of gold are concealed, gold that -he needs but to mine in order to have a worth of his own, a wealth of -his own. This is a new love to the man who conceals undreamt of riches -underneath his poor shell, divine living seedcorn preserved with -germinating power underneath all the burden of the dead that overlay -him. Here Nietzsche, the godless one, chimes with the godly Gallet who -values the error which man of himself finds more highly than the truth -he learns by rote. To be sure, man possesses this that is his very own, -this power of the creator, in his soul, not in his coat, not in his -manners, not in life’s forms of social intercourse. The man is still far -from having everything his very own, if he be only different from -others, if he only says “no” to what others say “yes.” There are people -enough whom one might call reverse _Herdenmenschen_. They esteem -themselves original because they act, think, speak differently from what -they see everybody else doing, and yet they are only the counterpart of -others, they receive the impulse of their life, not from what is living -in their ownselves, but from opposition to what they themselves are not. -What they call beautiful is not beautiful to them because it grips their -souls, fills their hearts with the free joy of vision, but because -others cannot endure it, and call it ugly. The good for which they -strive is not good because they have themselves thereby become stronger, -greater, better, and will always become stronger, greater, better -thereby, but a caprice which they follow, making it a law to themselves, -because others may not do so. As if anyone could live on negation, or -create by digging mole tracks in the fields and meadows of men! Even the -small path is path, and every path has a goal, and the goal of every -path is a “yes” and not a “no!” Therefore, Friedrich Nietzsche, -Contemner of _Pöbel_, of the plebeian mass, would count all as _Pöbel_ -who held themselves aloof from the broad way purely because they saw how -many there were that trod it. He would also call the most select and -sought-after exclusivists _Herdenmenschen_ were they to derive the -reason of their action and passion merely from the mania and disease to -be different from the herd. - -Plain, indeed, then, is Nietzsche’s great requirement. Let every man -honor and safeguard his unrepeatable miracle, and be something on his -own account. This cultural requirement is supplementation and -development of the moral ideal of the great German prophet at the -beginning of the nineteenth century, speaking as he did out of the -blackest night of a people’s life. Fichte, too, would create a folk, no -_Pöbel_. To be folk, all that is _Pöbel_ must be overcome. _Pöbel_, that -is all that lives herd-like, and borrows the impulse of its action and -passion from others, not from itself; or, more accurately, _Pöbel_, to -speak with Nietzsche, is wherever man is not himself, but his neighbor! -_Pöbel_ signifies, therefore, not a human class, not a social layer of -the population, but a _disposition_. Everywhere there are aristocratic -_Pöbel_, wherever men pride themselves on reciprocally surpassing each -other in flunkey-like ways of thinking. There is a political, a partisan -_Pöbel_ which counts it human duty to help increase the great pride that -runs after a leader on the broad way of the herd. There are _Pöbel_ in -science and in art, wherever men do not dare to ally themselves with a -cause, a principle, a work, until some “authority” has pronounced -judgment in the matter. There are pious _Pöbel_ who cock their ears for -what their neighbor believes, who, even in questions of conscience and -of heart, are impressed by large numbers and determined by vast herds. -_Pöbel_ shouts its “hosanna” and its “Crucify him” without knowing what -it does, and blasphemes every body who does not shout with it. To what -shall I compare this generation? It is like children sitting in the -marketplace, who call to their playmates, “We piped to you and you would -not dance, we lamented and you would not beat your breasts.” - -We are all influenced by what the medicinal psychologist is wont to call -“suggestion”—influenced, that is, by alien thoughts, alien expressions -of will. What we repeatedly hear comes to lose its strangeness; we come -to think that we have understood it and appropriated it. Our taste, our -moral judgment, our religious faith, these and such as these are -probably far more alien than domestic, far more the life of others than -our own,—in a word, suggestion. We have not tested the alien, elaborated -it, made it our own. We have let these uncritically empty themselves -into the vessel of our spirit where they coalesce, motley enough at -times, with the rest of the content. There is, therefore, something of -_Pöbel_ in all of us, whether we control others or are controlled by -others. To form out of _Pöbel_ strong and free personalities of our very -own,—as a cell is formed from the precellular stuff of life, as the -flowers and fruit of a tree are elaborated from the sap and substance at -their disposal,—this is the first and best service we can render -society. To form out of _Pöbel_ a folk, not a distinctionless mass that -wanders along the broad way to damnation,—a community of men, where each -walks the narrow path of life, no herd in which the individual only has -his number and answers when it is called,—a body with many members, each -member having its own life and its own soul,—_also sprach -Jesu-Fichte-Nietzsche_! - - - - - The Prophecy of Gwic’hlan - - - (_Translated by Edward Ramos from the French of Hersart de la - Villemarque_) - - - I - - When the sun sets, when the sea snores, I sing upon the sill of my - door. - When I was young, I used to sing; and I still sing who am grown old. - I sing of the night, of the day, and none the less I am discontent. - If my head is low, if I am discontented, it is not without cause. - It is not that I am afraid; I am not afraid to be killed. - It is not that I am afraid; I have lived long enough. - When one does not look for me, I am found; and when one looks for me, he - finds me not. - Little import that which advenes: that which ought to be will be. - And one must die three times, before he come to repose. - - - II - - I see the wild-boar that comes out of the wood; he drinks very much, - and he has a wounded foot. - His jaws are drooping, blood-covered, and his bristles are whitened with - age. - He is followed by his tribe, grunting from hunger.[5] - The sea-horse[6] comes to meet him; he makes the river banks tremble in - horror. - He is as white as the brilliant snow; he has silver horns on his - forehead. - The water boils under him from the thunder-fire of his nostrils. - Other sea-horses surround him, close packed as herbs by a swamp. - “Hold fast! hold fast! sea-horse; hit him on the head; hit hard, hit! - The bare feet slip in the blood! harder! have at them! harder! - I see blood flowing like a river! hit hard! hit them! strike harder! - I see the blood rise to his knees! I see blood like a lake! - Harder! have at them! harder! Thou may’st rest thyself tomorrow. - Hit hard! Hit hard, sea-horse! Hit him on the head! Hit hard! Hit!” - - [5] Wild-boar and his brood—the men of Bretagne and their leader. - - [6] Sea-horse—the Norsemen. - - - III - - As I lay soft wrapt in sleep in my cold tomb, I heard the eagle call - in the midst of the night. - He summoned his brood and all the birds of the heavens. - He said to them in calling: - “Rise you quickly upon your two wings! - It is not of the rotten flesh of dogs or of sheep; it is of the flesh of - Christians that we will be eating!” - “Old sea-crow, listen; tell me—what do you hold there?” - “I hold the head of the Chief of the Army; I wish to have his two red - eyes. - I tear out his two eyes, because he has torn out thine own.” - “And you, fox, tell me—what do you hold there?” - “I hold his heart, which was false as mine is; - The heart which desired your death, and long ago plotted your death.” - “And you, tell me, Toad, what do you there, at the corner of his mouth?” - “I, I am put here to await his soul in passage: - It will remain in me as long as I shall live in punishment for the crime - he has committed against the Bard who no longer lives between - Roc’allaz and Porzguenn.” - - - - - Editorials and Announcements - - - _Rupert Brooke on the War_ - -In her Letter from London two months ago Miss Amy Lowell made a -reference to Harold Munro’s Poetry Book Shop in London which may have -seemed a little unfair to people who know the high aim of Mr. Munro in -that undertaking of his. Miss Lowell did not intend it to be so; in fact -she plans for an early number of THE LITTLE REVIEW an article which -shall set forth the interesting work that is being done there. In the -meantime we have been shown a letter from Robert Brooke, one of the -Poetry Book Shop group, which is certainly not open to the charge of -“preciousness”. Mr. Brooke is in the War; he is a Naval Sub-Lieutenant -for service on land, attached to the Second Naval Battalion and was sent -with the relief force to Antwerp “just too late”. The letter reads: -“There I saw a city bombarded and a hundred thousand refugees, sat in -the trenches, marched all night, and did other typical and interesting -things. Now we’re back for more training. I will probably get out again -by Christmas.... There’s nothing to say, except that the tragedy of -Belgium is the greatest and worst of any country for centuries. It’s -ghastly for anyone who liked Germany as well as I did.... I’m afraid -fifty years won’t give them the continuity and loveliness of life back -again! Most people are enlisting. —— and his brother have gone into -cavalry; I’m here: among my fellow officers being Denis Brown, one of -the best musicians in England; Kelly, the pianist who won the Diamond -Sculls; one of the Asquiths; a man who has been mining in the Soudan; a -New Zealander—an Olympic swimmer; an infinitely pleasant American youth, -called ——, who was hurriedly naturalized “to fight for justice” ... and -a thousand more oddities. In the end, those of us who come back will -start writing great new plays.” Our London correspondent, Mr. E. Buxton -Shanks, sends a note with infinite pathos in it. “I enclose a letter for -December,” he writes. “Unfortunately it may be my last. The greater part -of my regiment went to France last Monday and I expect to follow it -before long, so that this may be not only my last Letter to THE LITTLE -REVIEW, but also my last piece of literature for ever and ever.” - - - _Russia in Storm_ - -From Russian newspapers and private letters that have been smuggled -through into this country we learn about the great resurrection that is -taking place in the land of extremes. The war has shaken the dormant -giant, and life is pulsating with tremendous vigor. The abolition of -liquor-trade has had an unbelievable effect on the population; the fact -that this reform was promulgated by the government which has thereby -lost nearly a billion yearly revenue, is of inestimable significance. -The Czar and his counsellors have finally awakened to recognize the -impossibility of reigning over a country without citizens, and liberal -reforms on a wide scope are being announced. Nationalities and parties -are united under a new slogan: “Down with Nationalism! Long live -Patriotism!” Even the reactionary organs have abandoned their -chauvinistic tone, and they preach equality and freedom and the -abolition of the bureaucratic régime which they ascribe to Germanistic -influences. The revolutionary parties, however, are not intoxicated with -the momentary upheaval; they have had too many bitter experiences to be -lulled by promises from the throne. Of all the warring nations the -Russian socialists were the only party to take an openly antagonistic -attitude towards their government. They were demonstratively absent from -the Douma when the war manifesto was announced, and later they gave out -a declaration in which they expressed their condemnation of the -government and its policy. Recently an official communication stated a -discovered conspiracy among the radical members of the Douma. It is -clear that the revolutionists intend to forge the iron while it is hot; -this time affords them a rare opportunity for forcing the Autocrat to -yield to the demands of the people and in defiance of popular sentiments -and drummed up patriotism, the uncompromising fighters brave their way -forward to the ultimate goal. It is great life in Russia! - - - _Alexander Berkman on the Crime of Prisons_ - -Mr. Alexander Berkman, author of _Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist_, which -is reviewed in this issue, will deliver two lectures in Chicago, Sunday, -December 6, in Room 512 of the Masonic Temple. His subject in the -afternoon will be _War and Culture_; in the evening _The Psychology of -Crime and Prisons_. - - - - - Winter Rain - - - EUNICE TIETJENS - - Winter now has come again; - All the gentle summer rain - Has grown chill, and stings like pain, - And it whispers of things slain, - Love of mine. - - I had thought to bury love, - All the ways and wiles thereof - Buried deep and buried rough— - But it has not been enough, - Heart of mine. - - Though I buried him so deep,— - Tramped his grave and piled it steep, - Strewed with flowers the aching heap,— - Yet it seems he cannot sleep, - Soul of mine. - - And the drops of winter rain, - In the grave where he is lain - Drip and drip, and sting like pain, - Till my love grows live again, - Life of mine! - - - - - Home as an Emotional Adventure - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - -I was going Home! - -It was seven o’clock on a clear, cold, snowless night in December—the -ideal night for a journey. Behind me, Chicago:—noise, jangle, rush, and -dirt; great crowds of people; a hall room of agonizing ugliness, with -walks of a green tone that produces a sort of savage mental biliousness -and furniture of striped oak that makes you pray for destruction by -fire; frayed rugs the color of cold dishwater and painted woodwork that -peels off like a healing sore; smells of impromptu laundry work, and -dust that sticks like a hopeful creditor; an outlook of bare brick -walls, and air through the window that should have been put through a -sieve before entering. All these—and one thing more which makes them as -nothing: the huge glory of accomplishment. - -Before me?... It was snowing hard as we steamed in. There came a -clanging of brakes, a cold blast of snowy air through the opened doors, -a rush of expectant people; and then, shining in the glow of a -flickering station light, one of the loveliest faces I’ve ever seen—my -sister’s,—and one of the noblest—my “Dad’s.” Then a whirring taxi, a -luxurious adjustment to comfort in its dark depths, a confusion of “So -_glad_ you’re here,” and “Mother’s waiting at home”; a surging of all my -appreciation at the beauty of young Betty, with her rich furs and -stunningly simple hat and exquisitely untouched face; a long dash -through familiar streets until we reached the more open spaces—the -Country Club district where there are only a few homes and a great -expanse of park and trees; and finally a snorting and jerking as we drew -up before a white house from which lights were shining. - -Now this little house is all white, with green shutters and shingles, -with a small formal entrance porch, like a Wallace Nutting print, in -front, and a large white-pillared, glass-enclosed living-porch on one -side. A red brick walk of the New England type leads up to it, and great -trees stand like sentinels at the back. On a winter night, when the red -walk and the terrace are covered with soft snow, when the little cedar -trees massed around the entrance sparkle with icy frost, when the warm -light from the windows touches the whiteness with an amethyst -radiance—well, it’s the kind of house that all good dreamers sometimes -have the reward of dreaming about. And when Mother opened the door, -letting out another stream of light and showing her there against the -warm red background of the hall, I was convinced that getting home was -like being invited to paradise. - -Of course we talked and laughed for an hour; and underneath it all I was -conscious, above everything, of the red and white room in which we sat; -of the roaring, singing fire; of the shadows it threw on the luxurious -rugs and old mahogany; of the book-lined walls; of the scattered -magazines on the long table; of the chiming grandfather’s clock; of the -soft lights; and—more than all—of the vase of white roses against the -red wall. - -“But you must hear the new Victrola records!” Mother cried. And so I lay -back in a deep chair with my face to the fire, and listened—listened -with my soul, I think, to some of the world’s great music: Sembrich and -Melba and Homer and Gluck; Paderewski and Pachmann, orchestras, operas, -and old, old songs; and finally my favorites—the violin ones. There was -Kreisler, with his perfect art, playing old Vienna waltzes, haunting -Provence folk songs, quaint seventeenth-century gavottes and dances; -Maud Powell putting new beauty into the Schubert _Ave Maria_, and that -exquisite tone-picture of Saint-Saëns called _The Swan_; and last of all -Mischa Elman, with his deep, passionate singing of Bach’s _Air for the G -String_ and Tschaikovsky’s _Ye Who Have Yearned Alone_. There’s a beauty -about those last ones that is almost terrible, so close is it to the -heart of human sorrow. - -“Well,” said Dad, a little later, “I don’t know about the rest of you, -but _I’m_ going to bed. And first I mean to have some milk and a piece -of pumpkin pie. Does that attract a city girl?” - -It did—to the extent of three glasses of milk, besides the pie. “You’ll -not sleep,” warned Mother; but I retorted that I didn’t care; I was too -happy to sleep, anyhow. And, besides, the kitchen, in its immaculate -gray and whiteness, was so refreshing that I wanted to stay there -awhile. Large baskets of grape fruits and oranges and red apples stood -on the pantry shelves; the stove was polished until it looked like a -Sapolio advertisement; and a clock, ticking loudly, gave the room that -curious sense of loneliness that a kitchen needs. I can conceive of a -library without books, or a fireplace without a fire, but never of a -kitchen without a loud-ticking clock. - -After a while we all trooped up to bed—up the white staircase with the -mahogany rail, and into fresh white bedrooms in such perfect harmony -with the snow outside. - -“This house is positively sensuous!” I told Mother. “It’s an emotional -adventure just to come into it....” - -I climbed into a big mahogany four-poster; but not to sleep—oh no! I sat -bolt upright with the silk comfortlet (oh luxury of luxuries!) around my -knees, and gazed out the windows: for from both of them I saw a -fairyland. It was all white—all except the amethyst shimmerings of -boulevard lights; and white flakes dropped one by one through the -amethyst. Away in the distance on both sides were faint outlines of -woods—bare, brown woods now covered warmly with snow. And over it all a -complete and absolute stillness. Just as in spring I used to feel -fairies leaping from every separate violet and tulip and hyacinth for -their twilight dance on the wet grass, so now I felt a great company of -snow fairies dancing in the faint rays of amethyst that darted into the -woods—dancing and singing and glittering in their silver frostiness. And -then a slow quiet wind would sound far off in the branches of the oak -trees; and gradually the fairy carnival ceased and I went ecstatically -to sleep. - -The next morning, after breakfast in a dining-room of old blue and white -and mahogany, I stated my ideas of what one ought to do in such a house. -“I don’t want to go anyplace or see anyone or do anything. Don’t plan -luncheons or teas or other things. It will take a week to store up all -the impressions I want to. So please just let me stay here quietly and -absorb the atmosphere.” - -And so my precious week began. In the mornings I’d put on boots—for the -snow was deep by this time—and take long tramps through the woods. Then -each afternoon had its distinct adventure: sometimes it would be a mere -wandering about from room to room standing before a specially-loved -picture or buried in a favorite old book. And what an enchanting thing -it is to read in such a setting: to look up from your book knowing that -wherever your eyes fall they will be rested; to feel your imagination -sinking into the soft depths of a reality that is almost dream stuff! - -Sometimes the afternoon would have its hard-fought game of cards between -Dad and me—with the table drawn close to the fire, and Bertha running in -from the kitchen with a hearty offering of cider and hot doughnuts. -(Bertha always seemed to sense the exact moment when we declared, with -groans, that to wait another hour for dinner would be a physical -impossibility.) Sometimes at four o’clock I’d conceal myself in a mass -of cushions in the big swing on the porch, and wait for the darkness to -come on, loving every change of tone in the grayness until the boulevard -lights blossomed like flowers and made another fairyland. And always -we’d have tea by candle-light—on the porch in deep wicker chairs, or -before the leaping fire. - -Sometimes after tea I’d take a two-mile tramp down town, stopping at the -post-office (because a post-office in a small town is a place worth -seeing at five o’clock in the evening) and trying deliberately to get -cold and tired before reaching home again, so that the warmth and -comfort would come as a fresh shock and joy. And then a quite wonderful -thing would happen: namely, the miracle of a superlatively good dinner. -I shall never forget those dinners! Not the mere physical pleasure of -them, but their setting: Mother feeling a little gossipy, and talking -cozily of the day’s small happenings; Dad in a mood of tolerant -amusement at our chatter; and Betty, usually in white, looking so -adorable that even the roses on the table couldn’t rival her. - -But most perfect of all were the long evenings! First we’d read aloud a -little Pater, just for the ravishing music of his language, and then -Betty would sing. I don’t know any lovelier singing than Betty’s; it’s -so young and fresh and wistful. And when she’d finish with the Brahms -_Lullaby_ I could have cried with the beauty of it all. Later, when -everyone had gone to bed, I would creep downstairs again to lie by the -fire and have the obliging Mr. Mischa Elman play me another concert. _Ye -Who Have Yearned Alone_ was the thing he’d play most often, for it has a -surging sadness that keeps one humble in the midst of happiness. -Everything of yearning is in it: the agonies of countless tragic loves; -the sad, sad strivings for joy and comprehension; the world-old miseries -of “buried lives”; hopes and fears and faiths—and crucifixions; -ecstacies dying out like flames; utter weariness of living—and utter -striving to live. - - * * * * * - -Oh, you people who have homes! Why _don’t_ you realize what they might -yield you! When you find yourself uneager, stupefied with contentment, -ashamed of your vicious comfort—why not share your homes?... Back in -Chicago, I have a vision strong and soothing, like a poppy seed that -brings sleep. I close my eyes at night; and suddenly my bare walls are -lined with books; soft lights are lighted; in a great fireplace burns a -crackling fire that has in it sometimes soft sounds like bird-singing; -and out of the rumble of elevated trains, drowning the roar of traffic -and bringing a deep stillness, come the singing tones of a violin, -rising and falling over an immortal melody—_Ye Who Have Yearned Alone_. - - - - - A Miracle - - - CHARLES ASHLEIGH - - If the gods of Greece walked abroad, - The sun blazing their splendor to all eyes, - It would not amaze me. - - If the court of Solomon, the king, - In clashing storm of color, - Were to descend into the murk of the city, - I should not be surprised. - - For I have conversed with a stripped soul - And its grandeur and wonder have filled me. - - - - - London Letter - - - E. BUXTON SHANKS - - _London, September 29th._ - -Enough of war poetry. An industrious statistician has calculated that -three thousand pieces have been printed since the beginning of August. -When our poets are unanimous in the choice of a subject, their unanimity -is horrible. We have had lyrical outrages from railway porters, -dairymen, postmen, road scavengers, and what not, with their names and -professions duly appended, in the delectable fashion set some time ago -by _The English Review_. Meanwhile, in France, young poets are killing -one another. We must arrange a balance-sheet of gains and losses when -the war is done. M. Charles Péguy is gone already; that is a loss which -makes one fear for Jules Romains and the rest who must be at the front -in one army or the other. The French and German casualty lists are not -published in the English papers: when the smoke clears off again the -arts of the continent will show a different complexion. - -Meanwhile we are beginning to ask, prematurely of course, what effect -the war will have indirectly on our own arts. The war of ’70 caused an -epoch of literary ferment in Germany and was at the back of much good -poetry. To that war we owe Detter von Liliencron, Richard Dehmel, and -Gerhart Hauptmann, who is, I freely admit, a great dramatist, though I -cannot abide him. In France it produced the tired subtleties of Kahn, -Régnier, and the other Symbolists. In Austria, a century of humiliation, -which has become almost a national habit, has evolved the tired elegance -of Hofmannsthal and the weary tenderness of Schnitzler who is so -obviously so sorry for all his characters as almost to make the reader -weep with him. If we win this war, what may we expect? We can be certain -that the English arts will react to the strain: the reaction will not -necessarily be a good one, unless the efforts of those who sit about at -home and vulgarize war are neutralized or ignored. The tone of our -newspapers—and these mould our minds, whether we like it or not—is now -most insufferably ugly. And as a result of victory, I fear a blatant -hollow tone of exultation in our poetry that—from a literary and social -standpoint—is almost worse than the languors of defeat. It will be well -if we achieve victory when every person in the country has been made to -feel the cost of it. Three days knee-deep in flooded trenches—our arts -must draw strength from that dreadful experience. - -It is true perhaps that we do wish to feel the cost. We are supposed to -live in fear of a Zeppelin raid. In my opinion, half the inhabitants of -London constantly though secretly hope it. We feel that with a bomb or -two tumbling about our heads we shall be “in it.” To read the newspapers -is like having a surfeit of the kind of book which is called “The Great -War of 19—.” I have read dozens of them and they move my imagination -almost as much as the reports—some of them, such as are well-written, -like Mr. Wells’s _War in the Air_, even more. - -The result that we must pray for is a greater concreteness and reality -in our writing. We have developed an inhuman literary point of view -which is fundamentally insincere and which is never more ugly or less -convincing than when our poets try to be “modern.” Such poets as Emile -Verhaeren—now a refugee in London—treat factories and so forth, the -typical products, they think, of modern life, purely as romantic -apparitions, much as the romantic writers treated mountains and deserts, -excuses for rhetoric and flamboyant description. They have never felt -the reality of them, because modern life in its rapidity has -outdistanced the poet’s mind in his attempt to conceive it. - -I hold no brief for “modern poetry” in that sort of sense: I do not hold -it necessary to write about these things. But if you will compose upon a -factory or a railway-station, you must feel what factories and -railway-stations really are; you must not take refuge in a romantic -description of lights and roaring machinery. The perpetually breaking -high note of the Futurists is merely a rather useless attempt to deal -with a difficulty that we all know. Perhaps the war will bring us rather -suddenly and jarringly in touch with reality. It is certain that the -young men of the class from which literature chiefly comes, have now in -their minds a fixed and permanent thought which from time to time comes -up onto the surface of consciousness. This thought is the thought of -violent death. We have grown physically and morally soft in security; -but, as I write, affairs are reaching a crisis in France, fresh -regiments are being sent abroad. We each of us wonder which may be the -next to go. - -This honest and undisguised fear—a man is wonderfully insensitive if he -does not feel it and a braggart if he will not admit it—has a powerful -and purifying effect on the spirit. Its spiritual action is comparable -to that of violent and maintained physical exercise. The flabby weight -of our emotions is being reduced and hardened: we have sweated away a -great many sick fancies and superfluous notions. The severe pressure of -training for war induces in us a love of reason, a taste for hard -thinking and exactitude and a capacity for discipline. - -The art of war is fortunately an art that allows itself to be definitely -judged. Either you win your battles or you lose them. It is of no use to -say that Warmser was a great general whose subtle and esoteric methods -of making war have never been appreciated by a numskulled public. -Napoleon thrashed him and there is an end of argument. A soldier cannot -resignedly appeal from the fortunes of the field to the arbitrament of -the future. - -The consideration of these facts leads us to wish that poetry were in -the same case; and we are beginning to feel both that poetry may become -a more active factor in normal life than hitherto and that a careful -criticism may remove it from the desert space of assertion and -undefended preference which it now inhabits. Possibly the war may help -to cure us of our ancient English muddle-headedness. We have awakened -with surprise to find our army an admirable and workmanlike machine. The -South African war rid us, in military affairs, of the incompetent -amateur and the obstructive official. Vague rumors of what the army had -learnt there even reached other departments of activity: possibly this -war will infect us all with a new energy and a new sense of reality. We -may learn how to reach our ends by taking thought and by cherishing -ideas instead of plunging on in a sublimely obstinate and indisciplined -muddle. As for our war-poetry—I must end where I began—it is merely a -sloughing of the old skin, a last discharge of the old disease. - - - - - New York Letter - - - GEORGE SOULE - -Nature flowers in the spring, man in the fall. With the first of -November comes a bewilderment of elections, concerts, books, plays, new -magazines, bombs, exhibitions, and all the other things that seem to -have blossomed so futilely year after year. To set about the task of -discovering the significant in it all is more confusing than to attempt -to trace the origin of new species in a single May countryside. - -Take the theatres, for instance. There is the usual increase in plays -which are so bad that even visiting travelling salesmen begin to suspect -their artistic integrity. There is Shaw’s _Pygmalion_, which some think -is second-rate Shavism well acted by Mrs. Campbell, and others believe -is a good play badly acted. There is Molnar’s _The Phantom Rival_, an -amusing and slender satire which is understood by one-quarter of the -audience, and applauded for its faults by the other three-quarters. -MacDonald Hastings, who aroused hopes with _The New Sin_, has descended -to a very bad second-rate in a vehicle for Nazimova called _That Sort_. -Elsie Ferguson has made a hit in _Outcasts_, written by Hubert Henry -Davies,—the author of the fascinating _Cousin Kate_,—as a vehicle for -Ethel Levey, the former star of unspeakable musical comedy in America -who has become a great actress in London. It is a play of sordid -“realism,” whose principal function seems to be to raise an almost -academic question of morals and then disclaim any moral intent by a -solution which in the opinion of most of the audience is either grossly -immoral or disgustingly moral. Everything is topsy-turvy. - -Early in the season the Schubert organ created some amusement by -demanding the abolition of dramatic critics. Here are the managers, ran -the argument, responsible business men who put large sums of money into -new productions. Along comes your newspaper critic to the first night, -with a somewhat exalted standard of taste, a jaded appetite, and a -reputation for wit. Before the play is over he leaves, hastily writes a -column in which he exploits his own cleverness at the expense of the -play, and turns away many possible customers. This is not good business -ethics. If the play really is bad, let the public find it out gradually. -They may never find it out at all. If it is good, we really don’t need -the critics for publicity. The article was ingenuous and engaging. Most -of our critics are so undiscerning that we were glad to see them baited. -Perhaps as a result of this, Alan Dale and Acton Davies both left their -respective papers. But as if to heap coals of fire, the critics united -in a roar of praise for _The Beautiful Adventure_, a play so truly awful -that the most ingenious and expensive pushing could not even bluff the -public into liking it. It failed after a few precarious weeks. - -Just now The Catholic Theatre Movement has created a diversion by -issuing their “White List” of plays and threatening to prosecute by law -the producers of “unclean” drama. They take occasion to compliment the -newspaper critics for abandoning to some extent artistic standards of -criticism and substituting moral standards. The movement will -undoubtedly tell against much undesirable filth, but it is needless to -say that it would be used with equal effectiveness against most works of -genius which might by some strange chance be produced. - -Little Theatres are sprouting up by the handful. The Punch and Judy -Theatre is a clever imitation of the theatrical prototype, with benches -for seats, wall boxes for two only, and boy ushers. It is the personal -enterprize of Charles Hopkins, a Yale graduate who shows his enthusiasm -by combining not only the rôles of actor, manager, and producer, but -owner and playwright as well. He has not yet, however, put on any of his -own plays. Mrs. Hopkins, a really talented graduate of Ben Greet’s -company, plays the feminine leads. The Neighborhood Theatre is a -quasi-philanthropic undertaking with enough money behind it to aspire to -the new stage art in all its magnificence of the concrete dome and more -expensive settings. Perhaps the most interesting of all will be a new -theatre planned by the Washington Square villagers under the leadership -of a committee among whose members are Mr. and Mrs. Max Eastman and -Charles and Albert Boni. It will be supported principally by its own -subscribers at a very moderate expense, and will be as far as possible -from a philanthropic attempt to “elevate the stage.” It is the result -merely of a belief that here is a group of people who want to see more -intelligent drama than is ordinarily supplied, and that the dramatic -material and acting and producing ability are available. Plays by -American authors will be used as far as possible, but the standards will -not be lowered for the sake of encouraging either authors or propaganda. -Such a thing cannot avoid being at least a healthy experiment. - -Pavlowa opened in the Metropolitan a week after Genée had given a -Red-Cross benefit in a vaudeville theatre. The conjunction was a -striking example of the marked inferiority of a romantic form to a -classic unless the romantic vehicle is done honestly and supremely well. -Genée gave in ten minutes more genuine æsthetic pleasure by her -perfection of line than Pavlowa in a whole evening of half-done work. -Pavlowa has proved often enough that she can be one of the goddesses of -the dance. Last year she had with her Cecceti, her ballet master, and -practiced with him constantly. Only by such external vigilance can -perfection be maintained. This year, presumably for reasons of economy, -Cecceti is not present. The company is much weakened by the absence of -the principal character dancers. The opening ballet was a second-rate -concoction with almost no real dancing in it. And to top off the insult, -a third of the program was devoted to ordinary ball-room dances, which -any number of cabaret performers in the United States can do better than -trained ballet people. It was the usual tragedy of the artist who tries -to popularize his work. An enthusiast sitting next me said: “We are now -seeing the funeral of good dancing in America. Those who want this sort -of thing will go to the restaurants. And the others will say, ‘If this -is ballet, give me baseball.’” But there is still hope. The original -Diaghilew company which plays yearly in London and Paris is coming next -season. Then we shall see romantic ballet at its highest. - -Only one other event must be mentioned now. While various discontented -persons, perhaps anarchists, have been leaving bombs about public -buildings, the socialists have elected Meyer London to Congress. In -itself this is not of great significance. It is interesting to see, -however, that twelve thousand people went to the public reception to him -in Madison Square Garden. It is still more interesting to compare what -was said there with ordinary political buncombe. Mr. London began by -calling President Wilson one of the ablest men this country has -produced. He went on to say “The business of socialism is to give -intelligence to discontent.... When I take my seat in Congress I do not -expect to accomplish wonders. What I expect to do is to take to -Washington the message of the people, to give expression there to the -philosophy of socialism. I want to show them what the East side of New -York is and what the East side Jew is. I am confident that I will get -fair play. I will be given my opportunity, and I do not intend to abuse -it. Do not let yourselves be deceived by this victory. You are good -noise-makers, but you are poor organizers. Organize now for the next -campaign. Organize for victory, not by violence, but by the greatest of -all forces, the force of the human intellect. Give the people your -message clearly and make them think about it.” - -If the ballot fails because of lack of intelligence, is it reasonable to -suppose that violence will succeed with the same material? Or that any -arrangement under the sun for the welfare of human beings can take the -place of individual human quality? “My friends, mankind is something to -be surpassed!” - - - - - The Theatre - - - “The Philanderer” - - (_Chicago Little Theater_) - -The most interesting thing about Shaw’s _Philanderer_ as it was put on -at The Little Theater the latter part of November, was the new treatment -it received at the hands of the scenic artists of that precious -institution. One is tempted to use the trite but pretty figure and say -that it was an instance of an old gem in a new setting, only modifying -it by the statement that _The Philanderer_ is merely a fake gem. The -luster it may have had in the eighteen-nineties is now almost entirely -worn away. In short, its fun is pointless. Ibsen, thanks largely to Mr. -Shaw’s active propaganda, is a household pet. Ibsen clubs are as -obsolete as Browning clubs; while the “new” woman as embodied in her -present-day sister, the feminist, is too familiar and too permanent a -figure to be the subject of effective satire. That the play still has -appeal for a modern audience is due wholly to its characters, and yet -these stage people are not real. They are no more than caricatures, each -effectively distorted and exaggerated in the drawing, each effectively -touched off in monochrome. To use another overworked phrase, they are -typically Shavian in that they are not characters but traits of -character. They are not real people; they are perambulating states of -mind, as are almost all of Shaw’s creations, and the more emotional, -rather than intellectual, the state of mind, the wider its appeal. - -But neither Shaw nor the play is the thing in this discussion. The -setting of the play, subordinate, no doubt, in intention, but -predominating because of its novelty, is what interested most the eyes -of the layman brought up for years on the familiar conventions of the -ordinary-sized theater. The action demands interior settings, but -instead of the realistically-painted canvas walls and wooden doors, The -Little Theater gives us tinted backgrounds with rectangular openings for -entrances and exits. The first act is done in gray, the second and third -in blue, and the fourth in a soft green. The effect of people, -particularly of women, moving against such plain unrelieved tints is -pictorial in the extreme. Each successive movement, each new position is -a new picture. The curtains parting on the last act, showing the copper -tint of a samovar, a vase of delicate pink flowers, a white tablecloth, -a handsome dark woman pouring tea, all against a soft glowing green, -gave one the feeling of seeing an artfully-composed, skillfully-colored -canvas at a picture gallery. And it suggested, more successfully than -any other setting I have ever seen, the home of a person of refinement -and restraint. Less successful was the setting for the second and third -acts. The use of indigo in representing an Ibsen club may be satirical -and it may be subtle, but its effect on the spectator after an hour or -so is depressing, and in the general atmospheric gloom that increases as -the act goes on the sparkle of some of the brightest dialogue is lost. - -On the whole, the workings out of this new idea in scenery is suggestive -in its effect and lovely in its pictorial quality, but until the novelty -wears off it obtrudes itself upon the interest that belongs rightly to -the play. Its cheapness should ingratiate it to the professional -producer. Naturally, the effect of one unrelieved tint in the settings -of a theater of ordinary size would be deadly in its monotony, but the -idea suggests of itself endless variation and improvements. After -leaving _The Philanderer_, with its obvious limitations, with its -uneven, at times amateurish acting, one cannot help wishing that our -every night plays had half the thought, half the taste, half the -imagination in their production that The Little Theater plays seem to -have. - - SAMUEL KAPLAN. - - - - - Music - - - The Kneisel Quartet and Hofmannized Chopin - -... And in the meantime war went on beyond the ocean. Strange, but this -absurd thought accompanied me as a shrill dissonance throughout the -concert. I could not help conjecturing what would be the result, if all -the warriors were brought together to listen to the Kneisel Quartet: -Would they not become ennobled, harmonized, pacified, humanized? Could -they go on with their dull work—for modern war gives no thrills for the -individual fighter—after Mozart’s Quartet in E Flat Major, which has the -soothing effect of a transparent vase? They might have found Brahms’s -Quintet suffering from this artist’s usual weakness—lack of sense of -_measure_,—but the Scherzo would certainly have elated the most avowed -anti-German. The four instruments performed their work so artistically -that one forgot their existence and heard “just music.” The only number -that could have aroused international complications was the insincere -grotesque of Zoltan Kodaly, who succeeded in misusing an excellent -source, Danuvian motives. “But this is Modern”, I was shrapnelled. Well, -call me a conservative, but if this is modern music, then, in the name -of Mozart and Beethoven, _Pereat!_ - -Still imagining a Marsian audience I was not dismayed even by the -appearance of the effeminate Chopin. For Josef Hofmann took the artistic -liberty of interpreting the gentle Pole in his own way, and the Scherzo -in B Flat Minor sounded as a virile volcanic charge. The pianist refuses -to take Chopin sentimentally, and he puts charming vigor even into the -moon-beamed, tear-strewn D Flat Nocturne, even into the frail ephemeral -E Minor Valse. - - K. - - - Hofmann’s Concert - -The spoiled child of the world’s pianism—Josef Hofmann—played Schumann’s -A Minor piano concerto with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra at two -concerts during the first week in November. Both performances were -masterly and splendid in musical values. - -Since he left his cradle, Hofmann has had the world sitting at his -pianistic feet and fingers so that he has come to take the most vigorous -and sincere homage as a matter of fact; and, perhaps for this reason, he -occasionally fails to merit it. He is insolent to his worshippers and -furious with his critics. Long and copious praise has gone to his head. -His insolence is less poetic and far less handsome than Paderewski’s, -and Hofmann’s playing needs to reach magnificent proportions before one -is able to forget his bad-boyish disposition. - -But one does forget. For his musicianship and key-wizardry are things of -great beauty. Despite the fact that his scorn sometimes leads him to -abuse the piano, in the way of crude smashing blows, there is (in the -Schumann work, for instance, which displays him at his best) never a -moment in which he loses a rythmic grasp that is deeply satisfying. And -when he chooses, and doesn’t lose his temper, he can bring forth -remarkable tonal beauties from the box of wood and wire. There is an -admirable drive in his art. It is vital and powerful. One’s regrets are -swallowed and quite forgotten in listening to his artistic qualities of -tone, rhythm, piano-color, and, in fact, of genuine music. - - HERMAN SCHUCHERT. - - - - - Art - - - Rose Madder or Red? - - WILLIAM SAPHIER - -Physical usefulness predominates in the make-up of every real piece of -craftsmanship. Its lines and the beauty of its decoration make up its -value. - -Art does not rely on physical usefulness, form, or decoration. It is its -suggestiveness, its appeal to the imagination, its drawing out of -sympathy or hatred, its arousing of new and deep emotion—this is what -gives the fine arts their importance in life. Art should act as a screen -for fine tragic acts, for great emotions. Nature should be the pigment -for the painter’s brush, but not his aim. He should dilute it with his -blood and marrow and fling it on the canvas with determination. - -Thus I pondered as I entered the twenty-seventh exhibition of American -Oil Paintings and Sculpture at the Chicago Art Institute. Wandering from -canvas to canvas, from one prize-winner to another, I felt all my hope -for a miracle vanish. They are so real, so true to life, so bereft of -imagination, that one wonders why anybody ever took the trouble to paint -them. - -Just look at these flowers, trees, cows, and nudes. I have seen them -many, many times exactly the same way and under the same circumstances -in life. They are “pretty” and will undoubtedly make a good decoration -in a middle-class home. This may be a worthy thing to do, but why should -it be called art? I think this is our punishment for great achievements -in the industrial field. No nation can go on building the fastest -railroads, the tallest skyscrapers, the largest factories, the fastest -automobiles, without paying for it by a loss of its finer æsthetic -senses. - -But I am getting away from the exhibition. It has become the fashion to -be disappointed with exhibitions both here and abroad—and with good -reason. As there are few good artists, the chances of getting them on a -jury is slight. The result is apparent: good pieces of craftsmanship are -hung along with fine pieces of art, and the prizes intended for fine art -go to good craftsmanship. In saying this I do not wish to join the -popular sport of hitting the jury and getting a round of applause. But -how can one escape these conclusions if he compares the prize-winner, _A -Nude_, by Richard E. Miller, with “_Under the Bough_,” by Arthur B. -Davis, whose rhythmically-moving figures and beautiful colors transport -one to fairyland? The figures remind me of Hodler, the foremost painter -today in Switzerland, who is sixty years old and younger than the -youngest. Or compare the prize with _Thomas and his Red Coat_, by Robert -Henri. What simple forms and colors—what a thorough understanding of a -child and his world! Or _The Widow_, by Charles W. Hawthorne. These are -works of great simplicity, understanding, imagination, and -individuality; they are monuments to some fine feeling, dream, thought, -or incident in the life of their creators. - -As for the other prize winners—the disjointed color spots serving as -garden flowers and the chocolate box cover-design—I shall not discuss -them. The meaning of such stuff and the reason for awarding is too -obscure. - -Outside the pictures mentioned above the following are worth seeing: -_The Venetian Blind_, by Frederic C. Frieseke; _Dance of the Hours_, by -Louis F. Berneker; _Winter Logging_, by George Elmer Brown; _Through the -Trees_, by Frank T. Hutchins; _The Harbor_, by Jonas Lie; _The Garden_, -by Jerome S. Blum; _Procession of the Redentore Venice_, by Grace -Ravlin; _The Ox Team_, by Chauncey F. Ryder; _Smeaton’s Quay, St. -Ive’s_, by Hayley Lever; _The Fledgling_, by Grace H. Turnbull. _A -Hudson River Holiday_, by Gifford Beal, looks much like a department -store. In fact you may find everything in this exhibition from a flag to -a mountain—and all the popular colors. The only thing that is missing is -a “For Sale” sign, with a “marked-down” price. - -Seven pieces of sculpture by Stanislaw Szukalski, whose work the readers -of THE LITTLE REVIEW had a chance to see reproduced in the last number, -make up the most interesting part of the exhibition. - -The original obscuring of the works of Grace Ravlin, Grace H. Turnbull, -Johansen, and Blum by the hanging committee deserves praise. But I think -if they really wanted to do something unusual they might have thought of -something better. For instance, hang all the rejected ones in separate -rooms, marked “rejected,” and let the visitors see and judge for -themselves. This would give the exhibition a bigger meaning. As it is, -it means confusion; and confusion asks persistently in this case: are -the fine arts anything in particular or just a mixture of craftsmanship, -cleverness (the usual companion of emptiness) and some undigested ideas? - - - Life is a learning to die.—_Plato._ - - - Man grows used to everything, the scoundrel!—_Dostoevsky._ - - - - - Book Discussion - - - A Watteauesque Enthusiast - - _The Enchantment of Art_, by Duncan Phillips. [John Lane Company, - New York.] - -To Mr. Phillips life is a _Fête Galante_ in Watteau’s style. He sees -nothing but the elegant, the poetic, the joyous, the enchanting. I -picture him in a powdered wig, clad in a gorgeous costume of the Louis -XV. period, playfully lorgnetting life and art, and raving ecstatically -over everybody and everything. I confess, an all-loving person looks -suspicious to me; but Mr. Phillips’ book is so sincere, he adores things -so pathetically, that I cannot help enjoying him. He becomes irritating -only at such moments when he tries to be very much in earnest and breaks -into absurd generalization. His credo is Impressionism—in life and in -art—but what an elastic term is Impressionism to our dear enthusiast. -Giotto, Titian, Da Vinci, Velasquez, Corot, and Dégas were -impressionists, and so were Shakespeare, and Browning, and Keats, and -Yeats, and Robert Bridges and who not! He loves them all, loves -beautifully, touchingly, but he fails pitifully to define his beliefs. -Why should he define? Why not be happy in enjoying good things without -giving reasons, without strained endeavors to form classifications and -definitions? Oh, those definitions! But we easily forgive the author his -absurd statements, we can even sympathize with the pain he gets when -contemplating the Futurists, whom he terms “lawless.” We forgive a lover -everything, for we feel grateful to him for the moments of bliss that he -generously shares with us. Truly, it is a book of religious joy. - - K. - - - Old Virtues in New Forms - - _The Age of Mother-Power_, by C. Gasquoine Hartley (Mrs. Walter M. - Gallichan). [Dodd, Mead and Company, New York.] - -One is compelled to take Mrs. Gallichan seriously in her visioning of -the future social status of men and of women in the world of sex; for -the results of close observation, research, and computation strengthen -the most reasonable prophecies. She is modest enough to state her big -idea in simple terms. She points out that, since society had in its -primitive days a long and up-tending period of mother-power, or female -dominance; and, following that, a protracted season of masculine rule, -which is only now awakening to feminine rebellion; it is clearly -apparent that a new era is commencing, in which all the old virtues of -mother-right will be re-established in new forms, with the -distinctly modern addition of that solitary virtue of male -despotism—father-protection. This is a theory—only a theory, if one -wishes to preen one’s own prejudice—which the writer approaches and -develops from various angles. She has fruitfully studied history, -legend, folk-lore, savages, and other departments of human life. Her -deductions are carefully and lucidly thought out, strongly original, and -entirely worthy of attention. - - HERMAN SCHUCHERT. - - - A Handbook of the War - - _The Great War_, by Frank H. Simonds. [Mitchell Kennerley, New - York.] - -The European war threatens to become a prolonged phenomenon. To the -Trans-Atlantic public it is a keenly-felt tragedy; to us here it is an -interesting spectacle, the audience being requested to remain neutral, -to refrain from applause and disapproval. Even so, we are in need of a -libretto. Frank H. Simonds supplies us with a comprehensive account of -the first act of the drama. The lay reader is getting acquainted with -the complexities of the pre-war events and with the further developments -of the conflict down to the fall of Antwerp. The simple maps and the -lucid comments make the book not only instructive, but also readable. -You must read the book if you do not want to play the ignoramus in -present-day floating, cinematographic history. - - - The New Reporting - - _Insurgent Mexico_, by John Reed. [D. Appleton and Company, New - York.] - -“Who is John Reed?”, asked the newspapers when, forgetting for the -moment their name-worshipping arrogance, they discovered that the best -reports from Mexico were coming, not from the veteran correspondents, -but from an unknown. The answer is that John Reed is the only -“correspondent” that the Mexican mix-up or the present European struggle -has yet brought to light, who has a really new and individual method of -reporting. These are not dogmatic, cock-sure, crisis-solving “articles” -from the front, but simple, vivid reporting of scenes and actions that -have some reason for being reported. And John Reed is about the only -reporter who has shown us that the Mexican people have visions of a -future. The newspapers and those whose duty it seems to be to uphold the -old idea are now crying that Reed’s simple realism is too slight to be -of value as history, and that he does not “get beneath the surface”—but -these people have still to see which kind of reporting can endure as -history. - - - Incorrect Values - - _Life and Law_, by Maude Glasgow. [G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.] - -A secondary title—“The Development of the Exercise of the Sex Function -Together with a Study of the Effect of Certain Natural and Human Laws -and a Consideration of the Hygiene of Sex”—is evidence _per se_ that the -book is inadequate and superficial. In less than two hundred pages no -writer can more than hint at all these topics, and in trying to cover so -much ground the author really covers nothing. She tells over old facts -and frequently gives them what are now accepted as incorrect values. Her -statements are as sweeping as the scare heads of the old quack medicine -almanacs. She describes men as ignorant, intolerable, immoral monsters; -and women as being universally down-trodden and the sexual victims of -man’s unbridled appetite. The book is as full of “musts” and “shoulds” -as the rules of an old-fashioned school master. The author tells nothing -new; veers from science to sentimentality in a most disconcerting way; -and adds nothing to the constantly-increasing library of valuable sex -books. - - MARY ADAMS STEARNS. - - - - - Sentence Reviews - - -_Abroad at Home_, by Julian Street. [The Century Company, New York.] So -far as what he will write is concerned we don’t give a rap whether Shaw -visits America or not. Yes, we don’t believe even _he_ could lay out the -statisticians as Street does when he advises us on the purchase of pig -iron; or display such fiendish glee at the chance of hurting the -feelings of a professional Fair booster: or—well, every paragraph of -every chapter is worth reading. - -_Reminiscences of Tolstoy_, by Count Ilya Tolstoy. [The Century Company, -New York.] The book is richly illustrated; this is its main value. -Nothing is added to what we have known about Tolstoy’s personality; we -have had numerous, perhaps too many, works on his intimate life; -Sergeyenko nearly exhausted the subject. True, we gain considerable -information about the great man’s son, Count Ilya, but, pray, who is -interested in it? - -_American Public Opinion_, by James Davenport Whelpley. [E. P. Dutton -and Company, New York.] The name is misleading: the book presents a -series of articles on American internal and foreign problems, written -from the point of view of a conservative. Why call Mr. Whelpley’s -personal opinion “American Public Opinion”? The articles on our foreign -diplomacy are valuable; they reveal our infancy in this peculiarly -European art. - -_Jael_, by Florence Kiper Frank. [Chicago Little Theater.] The -production of this play was treated subjectively in the last issue of -this magazine. In the reading of it the verse impresses one in much the -same manner as the viewing of the production. The two effects are so -similar as to impress one with the coherence and wonderful worth of the -Chicago Little Theatre in harmonizing the value of the play as -literature with the importance of the production. - -_The House of Deceit._ Anonymous. [Henry Holt and Company, New York.] -Maurice Sangster had a “conviction in his heart that he was born to make -a conflagration of the Thames”. He came to London and proceeded to -attack the religious, political, and social institutions of the present -day. He serves merely as a blind for the author, who, attacking almost -everything under the sun, is not courageous enough to reveal his -identity. - -_The Mystery of the Oriental Rug_, by Dr. G. Griffin Lewis. [J. B. -Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.] To the lover of Persian and Caucasian -rugs the book will surely bring moments of exquisite joy. The author -possesses both knowledge and taste, and he tells us curious things about -the history of the oriental rug. - - (_A number of reviews of important books are held over until next - month because of lack of space._) - - _You will receive_ - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - _with heartiest Christmas Greetings_ - - _From_ ................................ - - A card like the above will be mailed, on receipt of your check of - $1.50, to the person to whom you wish to send THE LITTLE REVIEW - for one year. - - We will also mail them the December number, to be delivered on - Christmas Day. - - - - - _FOR THE HOLIDAYS_ - - VAUDEVILLE - - By Caroline Caffin and Marius de Zayas - - _8vo. Cloth, richly illustrated in tint and in black and - white. $3.50 net_ - - Lovers of vaudeville—and they are legion—will find this a book of - rare fascination. - - Caroline Caffin knows vaudeville from the inside; she loves it - too, and she writes with understanding of the men and women who, - season after season, bring joy to so many people in all of the - larger cities. Mr. De Zayas, one of the cleverest of living - cartoonists, furnishes almost two score of his inimitable - caricatures of our most popular vaudeville stars. - - Among those who flit through these pages are: - - Nora Bayes - Eva Tanguay - Harry Lauder - Yvette Guilbert - Fay Templeton - - Ruth St. Denis - Gertrude Hoffman - The Castles - Bernhardt - Elsie Janis - - Marie Lloyd - Annette Kellerman - Frank Tinney - McIntyre & Heath - Al Jolson - - THE NEW MOVEMENT IN THE THEATRE - - By Sheldon Cheney - - _8vo. Cloth, with sixteen plates and explanatory tissues. - $2.00 net_ - - A most comprehensive book. There is not an aspect of the - tremendously interesting new movement in the theatre upon which - Mr. Cheney does not touch. And to every chapter he brings a - wealth of knowledge gathered from a great variety of sources—most - of it at first hand. Furthermore, he writes with charm and - distinction: his book never fails, before all else, to interest. - Gordon Craig, Max Reinhardt, Bakst, and the Russian Ballet; Shaw, - Galsworthy, the German, French and American contemporary drama; - David Belasco, the influence of the Greek theatre, the newest - mechanical and architectural developments in the theatre—all - these and others are in Mr. Cheney’s dozen brilliant chapters. - Numerous interesting illustrations add to the value of his book - and make it one that no lover of the theatre can afford to be - without. - - _Order from Your Bookseller_ - - MITCHELL KENNERLEY, PUBLISHER, NEW YORK - - - - - “THE RAFT” - - BY CONINGSBY DAWSON - - Author of “The Garden Without Walls,” “Florence on a - Certain Night,” etc. - - “Life at its beginning and its end is bounded by a haunted wood. - When no one is watching, children creep back to it to play with - the fairies and to listen to the angels’ footsteps. 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BROWNELL - - This suggestive essay is a systematic exposition and defense of - criticism by one of the foremost American critics. It considers - philosophically the field, function, equipment, criterion and - method of criticism in a way that will equally delight readers, - authors, and critics. - - _75 cents net; postage extra._ - - _The gift of a good book implies a compliment to the intelligence - of the recipient. Instead of giving books which you would resent - having on your shelves, why not present these books which you - would like to own?_ - - TALES OF TWO COUNTRIES - - By MAXIM GORKY - - $1.25 net; weight about 18 oz. - - After a number of years, the potency of the great Russian’s pen - is again exercised. This commanding volume of stories discloses - varied aspects of the foremost living writer among those who - attracted universal attention to modern Russian literature. The - folk and psychology of Italy, to which country he retired in - exile, supply the themes of thirteen of the twenty-two tales, the - others are of Russian life. Gorky’s admirers will find in the - collection a reaffirmation of the art which secured his high - place among interpreters of life through fiction. - - DRAMATIC WORKS: Volume V - - By GERHART HAUPTMANN - - $1.50 net; weight 22 oz. - - CONTAINS: “SCHLUCK AND JAU;” “AND PIPPA DANCES;” - “CHARLEMAGNE’S HOSTAGE.” - - The second group of Hauptmann’s Symbolic and Legendary Dramas - gains unity by a recognizable oneness of inspiration. The poet - has become a seeker; he questions the nature and quality of - various ultimate values; he abandons the field of the personal - and individual life and “sends his soul into the infinite.” [A - special circular, with contents of the preceding volumes, will be - mailed upon request to the publisher.] - - WISCONSIN PLAYS - - $1.25 net; weight about 18 oz. - - CONTAINS: “THE NEIGHBORS,” by Zona Gale; “IN HOSPITAL,” by - Thomas H. Dickinson; “GLORY OF THE MORNING,” by William - Ellery Leonard. - - A noteworthy manifestation of the interest in the stage and its - literature is the work, both in writing of plays and their - performance, of the gifted band organized as the Wisconsin - Dramatic Society. The three one-act plays in this volume are - fruits of the movement. Having met with success in the theatre, - they are now offered to the creative reader to whose imagination - dramatic literature is a stimulus. - - SELF-CULTURE THROUGH THE VOCATION - - By EDWARD HOWARD GRIGGS - - 50 cents net; weight about 8 oz. - - This new book in the Art of Life Series deals with work as a way - to culture and service. When the cry everywhere is vocational - education, it is worth while to stop and ask, What of the - education that is possible through the vocation itself? This - question is studied in six chapters, with a lightness of touch - that saves the teaching from didacticism and gives it universal - human appeal. The book is a companion study to the author’s - popular “The Use of the Margin.” Dr. Griggs is particularly - satisfying in such brief, trenchant studies of deep problems of - life, and the new book should be of special value to young people - and to men and women longing to make each day yield its full - return in culture and wisdom. - - THE DEATH OF A NOBODY - - By JULES ROMAINS - - $1.25 net; weight about 18 oz. - - An amazingly perfect production of incomparable restraint and - power; it reveals with a quality enchaining the attention, the - interwoven web of human revelations, romantic from their very - prosaicness. The life of one in other’s minds—the “social - consciousness” about which the sociologists have developed - abstruse theories, is here portrayed explicitly, with a - fascination no theory can have. The uniqueness of the book is - suggested by the fact that the “Nobody” about whom the action - revolves dies in the second chapter. Though fiction, it will - supply convincing arguments to believers in life after death. It - is not only a masterpiece of literary art, but might well be used - as the concrete text of the mind of the crowd. Translated from - the French by Desmond MacCarthy and Sydney Waterlow. - - All of these may be obtained from booksellers or from the - publisher. Upon application to the latter, a list of interesting - publications of 1914 may be obtained. - - B. W. HUEBSCH, 225 Fifth avenue, New York - - - - - “BOOK CHRISTMAS” SUGGESTIONS - - The Pastor’s Wife - - By the Author of “Elizabeth and Her German Garden” - - A delicious and timely piece of satire on German and English ways - by the Author of “Elizabeth and Her German Garden.” A story of an - English girl who marries a German pastor, and of her laughable - attempts to Germanize herself and Anglicize her children. - - _Illustrated by Arthur Litle. Net $1.35._ - - Bambi - - By Marjorie Benton Cooke. Bubbling over with good cheer and fun, - with little side-glimpses into New York Literary and Theatrical - circles. Fourth Large Printing. Illustrated. _Net $1.25._ - - A Soldier of the Legion - - By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. A romance of Algiers and the - famous Foreign Legion, now fighting at the front. _Net $1.35._ - - The Grand Assize - - By Hugh Carton - - If you were judged today what would the verdict be? In this - volume, Lawyer, Minister, Actor, Author, Plutocrat and - Derelict—all stand before the Judgment Bar. It is a book of - extraordinary character which you will not forget in a long time. - _Net $1.35._ - - - The Drama League - Series of Plays - - Already Issued. - - I. Kindling. - - _By Charles Kenyon_ - - II. A Thousand Years Ago. - - _By Percy MacKaye_ - - III. The Great Galeoto. - - _By José Echegaray._ - - IV. The Sunken Bell. - - _By Gerhart Hauptmann._ - - V. Mary Goes First. - - _By Henry Arthur Jones_ - - VI. Her Husband’s Wife. - - _By A. E. 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Against the multitudinous array of daily verse - our times produce ... this volume utters itself with a range and - brilliancy wholly remarkable.... A wealth of subtleties and - sympathies, gorgeously wrought, full of macabre effects (as many - of the poems are) and brilliantly worked out ... personally I - cannot see that Miss Lowell’s use of unrhymed vers libre has been - surpassed in English. This breadth and ardor run through the - whole fabric of the subject matter.... Here is the fairly - Dionysiac revelry of a tireless workman. With an honesty as whole - as anything in literature she hails any and all experience as - stuff for poetry. The things of splendor she has made she will - hardly outdo in their kind.” - - - _Price $1.25 net. 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The book should - be in every library and newspaper office, and in the hands of - every thorough going student of the war. $1.50 net. - - For full description of the above and other books send for our - FREE Holiday Bulletin - - Address Houghton Mifflin Co., 4 Park St., Boston - - - - - Transcriber’s Notes - - -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. - -The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect -correctly the headings in this issue of THE LITTLE REVIEW. - -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical -errors were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here -(before/after): - - [p. 16]: - ... In doing so we fear he exhibits an intellect too prone to - dichrotomize. He ... - ... In doing so we fear he exhibits an intellect too prone to - dichotomize. He ... - - [p. 20]: - ... they used is sporadically, desultorily. Today we know better. - Today we ... - ... they used it sporadically, desultorily. Today we know better. - Today we ... - - [p. 20]: - ... Whose flaccid accademic pulses ... - ... Whose flaccid academic pulses ... - - [p. 20]: - ... Then metronomes,— ... - ... Than metronomes,— ... - - [p. 22]: - ... things, but one must sometimes he obvious when speaking to - those who still ... - ... things, but one must sometimes be obvious when speaking to - those who still ... - - [p. 41]: - ... worth laying to heart. For example, religion ecclesiasticized - is dispiritualized; ... - ... worth laying to heart. For example, religion ecclesiasticized - is disspiritualized; ... - - [p. 46]: - ... Hit hard! Hit hard, sea-horse! Hit him on the head! Hit hard! - Hit! ... - ... Hit hard! Hit hard, sea-horse! Hit him on the head! Hit hard! - Hit!” ... - - [p. 47]: - ... It is not of the rotten flesh of dogs or of sheep; it is of - the flesh of Christians that we will be eating! ... - ... It is not of the rotten flesh of dogs or of sheep; it is of - the flesh of Christians that we will be eating!” ... - - [p. 52]: - ... After while we all trooped up to bed—up the white staircase - with ... - ... After a while we all trooped up to bed—up the white - staircase with ... - - [p. 57]: - ... in London. It is a play of sordid “realism,” whose - principle function seems ... - ... in London. It is a play of sordid “realism,” whose - principal function seems ... - - [p. 59]: - ... confident that I will get fair play. I will be given my - opportunity, and I ... - ... confident that I will get fair play. I will be given my - opportunity, and I do ... - - [p. 63]: - ... hung along with fine pieces of art, and the prizes intended - for fine art goes ... - ... hung along with fine pieces of art, and the prizes intended - for fine art go ... - - [p. 65]: - ... and definitions. Oh, those definitions! But we easily forgive - the author his ... - ... and definitions? Oh, those definitions! But we easily forgive - the author his ... - - [p. 67]: - ... those whose duty it seems to uphold the old idea are now - crying that Reed’s ... - ... those whose duty it seems to be to uphold the old idea are - now crying that Reed’s ... - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, DECEMBER -1914 (VOL. 1, NO. 9) *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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} -.hidden { display:none; } - -/* poetry */ -div.poem-container { text-align:center; } -div.poem-container div.poem { display:inline-block; } -div.stanza { text-align:left; text-indent:0; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; } -.stanza .verse { text-align:left; text-indent:-2em; margin-left:2em; } -.stanza .verse2 { text-align:left; text-indent:-2em; margin-left:4em; } -.stanza.c .verse { text-align:left; text-indent:-4em; margin-left:2em; } - -a:link { text-decoration: none; color: rgb(10%,30%,60%); } -a:visited { text-decoration: none; color: rgb(10%,30%,60%); } -a:hover { text-decoration: underline; } -a:active { text-decoration: underline; } - -/* Transcriber's note */ -.trnote { font-size:0.8em; line-height:1.2em; background-color: #ccc; - color: #000; border: black 1px dotted; margin: 2em; padding: 1em; - page-break-before:always; margin-top:3em; } -.trnote p { text-indent:0; margin-bottom:1em; } -.trnote ul { margin-left: 0; padding-left: 0; } -.trnote li { text-align: left; margin-bottom: 0.5em; 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} - -@media handheld { - body { margin-left:0; margin-right:0; } - div.frontmatter { max-width:inherit; } - - div.poem-container div.poem { display:block; margin-left:2em; } - div.editorials { border:0; padding:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; } - div.excerpt { font-size:1em; margin-left:2em; } - - div.ads { max-width:inherit; border:0; border-top:1px solid black; padding:0; - padding-top:0.5em; } - - a.pagenum { display:none; } - a.pagenum:after { display:none; } - - .trnote { margin:0; } - - span.firstchar { clear:left; float:left; } - div.ads .fl { float:left; } - div.ads .fr { float:right; } -} - -</style> -</head> - -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Review, December 1914 (Vol. 1, No. 9), by Margaret C. Anderson</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Little Review, December 1914 (Vol. 1, No. 9)</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Editor: Margaret C. Anderson</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 2, 2021 [eBook #65740]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. This book was produced from images made available by the Modernist Journal Project, Brown and Tulsa Universities, modjourn.org.</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, DECEMBER 1914 (VOL. 1, NO. 9) ***</div> - -<div class="frontmatter chapter"> -<h1 class="title"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> -</h1> - -<p class="subt"> -<em>Literature</em> <em>Drama</em> <em>Music</em> <em>Art</em> -</p> - -<p class="ed"> -<span class="line1">MARGARET C. ANDERSON</span><br /> -<span class="line2">EDITOR</span> -</p> - -<p class="issue"> -DECEMBER, 1914 -</p> - - <div class="table"> -<table class="tocn" summary="TOC"> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#POEMS">Poems</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Richard Aldington</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#A_GREAT_PILGRIMPAGAN">A Great Pilgrim-Pagan</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>George Soule</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#MY_FRIEND_THE_INCURABLE">My Friend, the Incurable:</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Ibn Gabirol</em></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#GERMANOPHOBIA">On Germanophobia; on the perils of Monomania; on Raskolinkov and Alexander Berkman; on surrogates and sundry subtleties.</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#ON_POETRY">On Poetry:</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#AESTHETICS_AND_COMMONSENSE">Aesthetics and Common-Sense</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Llewellyn Jones</em></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#IN_DEFENSE_OF_VERS_LIBRE">In Defense of Vers Libre</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Arthur Davison Ficke</em></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THE_DECORATIVE_STRAIGHTJACKET">The Decorative Straight-Jacket</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Maxwell Bodenheim</em></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#HARRIET_MONROES_POETRY">Harriet Monroe’s Poetry</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Eunice Tietjens</em></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#SCHARMEL_IRIS">Scharmel Iris</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Milo Winter</em></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THE_POETRY_OF_T_STURGE_MOORE">The Poetry of T. Sturge Moore</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Llewellyn Jones</em></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#AMY_LOWELLS_CONTRIBUTION">Amy Lowell’s Contribution</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>M. C. A.</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#STAR_TROUBLE">Star Trouble</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Helen Hoyt</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#PARASITE">Parasite</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Conrad Aiken</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#PERSONALITY">Personality</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>George Burman Foster</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THE_PROPHECY_OF_GWICHLAN">The Prophecy of Gwic’hlan</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Edward Ramos</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#EDITORIALS_AND_ANNOUNCEMENTS">Editorials and Announcements</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#WINTER_RAIN">Winter Rain</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Eunice Tietjens</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#HOME_AS_AN_EMOTIONAL_ADVENTURE">Home as an Emotional Adventure</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>The Editor</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#A_MIRACLE">A Miracle</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Charles Ashleigh</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#LONDON_LETTER">London Letter</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>E. Buxton Shanks</em></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="#THEATRE">The Theatre</a>, <a href="#MUSIC">Music</a>, <a href="#ART">Art</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> - <td class="col1"><a href="#SENTENCE_REVIEWS">Sentence Reviews</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> -</tbody> -</table> - </div> -<p class="monthly"> -Published Monthly -</p> - - <div class="table"> - <div class="footer"> -<p class="pricel"> -15 cents a copy -</p> - -<p class="pub"> -MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher<br /> -Fine Arts Building<br /> -CHICAGO -</p> - -<p class="pricer"> -$1.50 a year -</p> - - </div> - </div> -<p class="postoffice"> -Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="frontmatter chapter"> -<a id="page-1" class="pagenum" title="1"></a> -<p class="tit"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> -</p> - - <div class="table"> - <div class="issue"> -<p class="vol"> -Vol. I -</p> - -<p class="issue"> -DECEMBER, 1914 -</p> - -<p class="number"> -No. 9 -</p> - - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h2 class="article1" id="POEMS"> -Poems -</h2> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Richard Aldington</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="ON_A_MOTORBUS_AT_NIGHT"> -On a Motor-Bus at Night -</h3> - -<p class="subt"> -(Oxford Street) -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The hard rain-drops beat like wet pellets</p> - <p class="verse">On my nose and right cheek</p> - <p class="verse">As we jerk and slither through the traffic.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">There is a great beating of wheels</p> - <p class="verse">And a rumble of ugly machines.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The west-bound buses are full of men</p> - <p class="verse">In grey clothes and hard hats,</p> - <p class="verse">Holding up umbrellas</p> - <p class="verse">Over their sallow faces</p> - <p class="verse">As they return to the suburban rabbit-holes.</p> - <p class="verse">The women-clerks</p> - <p class="verse">Try to be brightly dressed;</p> - <p class="verse">Now the wind makes their five-shilling-hats jump</p> - <p class="verse">And the hat-pins pull their hair.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">When one is quite free, and curious,</p> - <p class="verse">They are fascinating to look at—</p> - <p class="verse">Poor devils of a sober hell.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The shop-lamps and the street-lamps</p> - <p class="verse">Send steady rayed floods of yellow and red light</p> - <p class="verse">So that Oxford street is paved with copper and chalcedony.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="CHURCH_WALK_KENSINGTON"> -<a id="page-2" class="pagenum" title="2"></a> -Church Walk, Kensington -</h3> - -<p class="subt"> -(Sunday Morning) -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The cripples are going to church.</p> - <p class="verse">Their crutches beat upon the stones,</p> - <p class="verse">And they have clumsy iron boots.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Their clothes are black, their faces peaked and mean;</p> - <p class="verse">Their legs are withered</p> - <p class="verse">Like dried bean-pods.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Their eyes are as stupid as frogs’.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And the god, September,</p> - <p class="verse">Has paused for a moment here</p> - <p class="verse">Garlanded with crimson leaves.</p> - <p class="verse">He held a branch of fruited oak.</p> - <p class="verse">He smiled like Hermes the beautiful</p> - <p class="verse">Cut in marble.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="A_GREAT_PILGRIMPAGAN"> -A Great Pilgrim-Pagan -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">George Soule</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">S</span><span class="postfirstchar">hakespeare</span> in red morocco seems always wan and pathetic. I see -him looking gloomily out of his unread respectability, bored with his -scholarly canonization and his unromantic owners. How he longs for the -irresponsible days when he was loved or ignored for his own sake! Now he is -forever imprisoned in marble busts and tortured in Histories of English Literature. -There is no more tragic fate in the annals of imagination. Terrible -is the vengeance taken by institutional culture on those who are great -enough to command its admiration. -</p> - -<p> -Therefore, a genius who has not been tagged unduly by the pundits -inspires me with a profound delicacy, in a sense akin to the reverence for a -beautiful child. Here is a virtue which the world needs. One would like to -proclaim it from the housetops. Yet there are the rabble, ready with their -election-night enthusiasm, and the scholars, with their pompous niches. If -one could only find all those whom the man himself would have selected as -friends and whisper the right word in their ears! But, after all, we must -speak in public, remembering that even misunderstanding is the birthright of -the genius. It is better that power should be expressed in devious and unforeseen -channels than not at all. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a> -A flippant friend once told me that he had never had the courage to -read William Vaughn Moody because the poet had such a dark brown name. -That is important because of its triviality. I have no doubt that if the gospel -hymns had never been written, and if we had never on gloomy Sunday evenings -seen those pale books with the scroll-work Moody-and-Sankey covers, -bringing all their dismal train of musical and religious doggerel, we should -have been spared many misgivings about the evangelist’s vicarious name-sake. -Let it be firmly understood, therefore, that there is nothing dark -brown, or evangelistic, or stupidly sober-serious about the new poet of the -Fire-Bringer. May he never go into a household-classics edition! -</p> - -<p> -But there is a tinge of New England about him, just the same. Only one -who has in his blood the solemn possibilities of religious emotion can react -against orthodox narrowness without becoming trivial. It is the fashion to -blame all modern ills on puritan traditions. We should be wise if in order -to fight our evils we should invoke a little of the Pilgrim Fathers’ heroism. -Too many of us take up the patter of radicalism with as little genuine sincerity -as a spearmint ribbon-clerk repeats the latest Sunday-comic slang. -If you have ever walked over a New England countryside the endless miles -of stone walls may have set you thinking. Every one of those millions of -stones has been laboriously picked out of the fields—and there are still many -there. Before that the trees had to be cleared away, and the Indians fought, -and the ocean crossed without chart or government buoy. For over two -centuries our ancestors grimly created our country for us, with an incessant -summer- and winter-courage that seems the attribute of giants. What -wonder if they were hard and narrow? We scoff at their terminal morraine; -but we should be more deserving of their gift if we should emulate -their stout hearts in clearing away the remaining debris from the economical -and spiritual fields. In spite of injurious puritan traditions there is something -inalienably American and truly great about old New England. It is -the same unafraid stoutness of heart that is at the bottom of Moody’s personality. -It gives him power; it gives him unconscious dignity. -</p> - -<p> -Yet Moody was indeed a rebel against the religious and social muddle -in which he found himself. Something red and pagan poured into his veins -the instinct of defiance to a jealous god and to pale customs. The best -of the Greek was his; instinctively he turned at last to Greek drama for -his form and to Greek mythology for his figures. There was in him -that σπονδη which Aristotle believed essential for the poet—a quality -so rare among us that the literal translation, “high seriousness,” conveys -little hint of its warmth, its nobility and splendor. He believed in -the body as in the soul; and his conception of the godly was rounded -and not inhuman. Dionysus was every bit as real to him as the man -of sorrows. Is not this the new spirit of America which we wish to -nourish? And is there not a peculiar virtue in the poet who with the -<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a> -strong arm of the pilgrim and the consecration of the puritan fought -for the kingdom of joy among us? In <em>The Masque of Judgment</em> he pictures -a group of heroic unrepentant rebels against divine grace who -have not yet fallen under the sword of the destroying angel. Of them -one, a youth, sings: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Better with captives in the slaver’s pen</p> - <p class="verse">Hear women sob, and sit with cursing men,</p> - <p class="verse">Yea, better here among these writhen lips,</p> - <p class="verse">Than pluck out from the blood its old companionships.</p> - <p class="verse">If God had set me for one hour alone,</p> - <p class="verse">Apart from clash of sword</p> - <p class="verse">And trumpet pealéd word,</p> - <p class="verse">I think I should have fled unto his throne.</p> - <p class="verse">But always ere the dayspring shook the sky,</p> - <p class="verse">Somewhere the silver trumpets were acry,—</p> - <p class="verse">Sweet, high, oh, high and sweet!</p> - <p class="verse">What voice could summon so but the soul’s paraclete?</p> - <p class="verse">Whom should such voices call but me, to dare and die?</p> - <p class="verse">O ye asleep here in the eyrie town,</p> - <p class="verse">Ye mothers, babes, and maids, and aged men,</p> - <p class="verse">The plain is full of foemen! Turn again—</p> - <p class="verse">Sleep sound, or waken half</p> - <p class="verse">Only to hear our happy bugles laugh</p> - <p class="verse">Lovely defiance down,</p> - <p class="verse">As through the steep</p> - <p class="verse">Grey streets we sweep,</p> - <p class="verse">Each horse and man a ribbéd fan to scatter all that chaff!</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">How from the lance-shock and the griding sword</p> - <p class="verse">Untwine the still small accents of the Lord?</p> - <p class="verse">How hear the Prince of Peace and Lord of Hosts</p> - <p class="verse">Speak from the zenith ’mid his marshalled ghosts,</p> - <p class="verse">“Vengeance is mine, I will repay;</p> - <p class="verse">Cease thou and come away!”</p> - <p class="verse">Or having seen and hearkened, how refrain</p> - <p class="verse">From crying, heart and brain,</p> - <p class="verse">“So, Lord, Thou sayest it, Thine—</p> - <p class="verse">But also mine, ah, surely also mine!</p> - <p class="verse">Else why and for what good</p> - <p class="verse">The strength of arm my father got for me</p> - <p class="verse">By perfect chastity,</p> - <p class="verse">This glorious anger poured into my blood</p> - <p class="verse">Out of my mother’s depths of ardency?”</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -So the sanctity of the warrior. And the sanctity of other passions is -there, too. A woman says: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">O sisters, brothers, help me to arise!</p> - <p class="verse">Of God’s two-hornéd throne I will lay hold</p> - <p class="verse">And let him see my eyes;</p> - <p class="verse">That he may understand what love can be,</p> - <p class="verse">And raise his curse, and set his children free.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a> -But quotations crowd upon me. Most of Moody’s best work bears -witness to his glorification of man’s possible personality in rebellion -against man’s restrictive conception of society and god. We have had -many such rebels; the peculiar significance of Moody lies in the fact -that he lacks utterly the triviality of the little radical, and that his is -a power which springs from the most heroic in American quality. -</p> - -<p> -Of course all this would be worth nothing unless Moody had the -authentic utterance of the poet. His fulness of inspiration, combined -with his sensitive editing, has left us scarcely a line which should have -gone to oblivion. As an example of his magic take three lines from <em>I Am -the Woman</em>, in which the woman is walking with her lover: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">But I was mute with passionate prophecies;</p> - <p class="verse">My heart went veiled and faint in the golden weather,</p> - <p class="verse">While universe drifted by after still universe.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Or the woman’s response to Pandora’s singing in <em>The Fire-Bringer</em>: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Hark, hark, the pouring music! Never yet</p> - <p class="verse">The pools below the waterfalls, thy pools,</p> - <p class="verse">Thy dark pools, O my heart—!</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Fragmentary, mystic, unrelated with the context; yet who that has -heard perfect music can fail to understand that cry? It is indeed this -mystic richness, these depths below depths, that make a large part of -Moody’s individual fascination. He rarely has the limpid clarity or the -soaring simplicity which make the popular lyricist such as Shelley. There -is too much grasp of the mind in his work for the large public; only -those who have in some degree discovered the beauty of the wide ranges -can feel at home in him. One breathes with the strength of great virility,—an -able and demanding body, a mind which conquers the heights, -and those infinitely subtle and vibrating reaches of spirit which belong -especially to the poet. -</p> - -<p> -To me the thought of Moody is satisfying not only because he typifies -those qualities which I like to think we ought to find in American -literature, but because he exemplifies my ideal of a poet. There have -been many insane geniuses; men whose glory has shone sometimes -fitfully through bodily or mental infirmity. Some of us are accustomed -to the idea that genius is in fact insanity or is akin to it. Certainly -the words “wholesome” and “healthy” have been applied so many -times to mediocre productions that we are wary of them. But is not -the insanity of genius after all merely the abnormal greatness and preponderance -of a single quality in a man? If by some miracle his other -qualities could have been equally great, would he not have been a -still nobler artist? To me the Greek impulse of proportionate development -has an irresistible appeal. To be sane, not by the denial of a -disproportionate inspiration, but by the lifting of all the faculties to its -<a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a> -level: that is a dream worthy of the god in man. To be an artist not -by the denial of competing faculties, but by the fullest development -of all faculties under an inexorable will which unites them in a common -purpose: that is a rich conception of personality. The perfect -poet should be the perfect man. He should be not insane, but saner -than the rest of us. Moody not only expressed this ideal in his life, -but in his work. He was strong and sound, physically, mentally, spiritually. -No one who has read his letters can miss the golden roundness -of his humor, his humanity, his manliness. Yet never for a moment -did he make a comfortable denial of the will to soar. In his poem <em>The -Death of Eve</em> he has burningly expressed the development of personality. -Eve, an aged woman, has not succumbed to the view that she committed -an unforgivable sin in disobeying God to taste the apple. Taking old -Cain with her, she fearlessly enters the garden again to show herself to God -before she dies. In her mystic song she sings: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Behold, against thy will, against thy word,</p> - <p class="verse">Against the wrath and warning of thy sword,</p> - <p class="verse">Eve has been Eve, O Lord!</p> - <p class="verse">A pitcher filled, she comes back from the brook,</p> - <p class="verse">A wain she comes, laden with mellow ears;</p> - <p class="verse">She is a roll inscribed, a prophet’s book</p> - <p class="verse">Writ strong with characters.</p> - <p class="verse">Behold, Eve willed it so; look, if it be so, look!</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -And after singing of her life and of how she had been sensitive to the -love of her husband and children, she goes on: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Still, still with prayer and ecstasy she strove</p> - <p class="verse">To be the woman they did well approve,</p> - <p class="verse">That, narrowed to their love,</p> - <p class="verse">She might have done with bitterness and blame;</p> - <p class="verse">But still along the yonder edge of prayer</p> - <p class="verse">A spirit in a fiery whirlwind came—</p> - <p class="verse">Eve’s spirit, wild and fair—</p> - <p class="verse">Crying with Eve’s own voice the number of her name.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Yea, turning in the whirlwind and the fire,</p> - <p class="verse">Eve saw her own proud being all entire</p> - <p class="verse">Made perfect by desire;</p> - <p class="verse">And from the rounded gladness of that sphere</p> - <p class="verse">Came bridal songs and harpings and fresh laughter;</p> - <p class="verse">“Glory unto the faithful,” sounded clear,</p> - <p class="verse">And then, a little after,</p> - <p class="verse">“Whoso denyeth aught, let him depart from here!”</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -And only thus does Eve find god—in her perfect self— -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Ready and boon to be fulfilled of Thee,</p> - <p class="verse">Thine ample, tameless creature,—</p> - <p class="verse">Against thy will and word, behold, Lord, this is She!</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a> -Here, indeed, is the religion of our time. A faithfulness that is deeper -than the old faithfulness; and that challenge which of all modern inspiration -is the most flaming: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Whoso denyeth aught, let him depart from here!</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -This is not the balance of a personality that denies itself! Like Nietzsche, -Moody is shaken with the conviction that the most deadly sin is not disobedience, -but smallness. -</p> - -<p> -There is a striking similarity between the religious attitude of Moody -and that of Nietzsche. Moody mentions Zarathustra only once in his -published letters. Certainly he was not obsessed by the German, or a confessed -follower. Nor did Moody elaborate any social philosophy, beyond a -general radicalism quite different from Nietzsche’s condemnation of socialism. -But, like Nietzsche, Moody was in reaction against a false and narrow -culture. And like him, Moody found in Hellenic ideals a blood-stirring -inspiration. He found not the external grace of the Greek which Keats -celebrated, not the static classical perfection which has furnished an anodyne -for scholars. It was the deeper, cloudy spirit of Aeschylus, the heaven-scaling -challenge of Euripides, the Dionysiac worship of joy and passion. -Take, for instance, the chorus of young men in <em>The Fire-Bringer</em> -which Professor Manly has called “insolent”—though it seems to me of a -divine insolence: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Eros, how sweet</p> - <p class="verse">Is the cup of thy drunkenness!</p> - <p class="verse">Dionysus, how our feet</p> - <p class="verse">Hasten to the burning cup</p> - <p class="verse">Thou liftest up!</p> - <p class="verse">But O how sweet and how most burning it is</p> - <p class="verse">To drink the wine of thy lightsome chalices,</p> - <p class="verse">Apollo! Apollo! To-day</p> - <p class="verse">We say we will follow thee and put all others away</p> - <p class="verse">For thou alone, O thou alone art he</p> - <p class="verse">Who settest the prisoned spirit free,</p> - <p class="verse">And sometimes leadest the rapt soul on</p> - <p class="verse">Where never mortal thought has gone;</p> - <p class="verse">Till by the ultimate stream</p> - <p class="verse">Of vision and of dream</p> - <p class="verse">She stands</p> - <p class="verse">With startled eyes and outstretched hands,</p> - <p class="verse">Looking where other suns rise over other lands,</p> - <p class="verse">And rends the lonely skies with her prophetic scream.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Moody, too, transvaluates values everywhere. <em>The Death of Eve</em> is an example -of it. It is to “The Brute” that he looks for the regeneration of -society. Prometheus is a heroic saviour of mankind; rebellion is his virtue, -<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a> -not his sin. Pandora is not a mischievous person who through her curiosity -lets out all the troubles on the world, but a divine, wind-like inquirer, -the inspiration of Prometheus. The God of judgment-day is himself swept -away by the destruction of mankind for the sins of commission. And the -insignificance of man compared with what he might be is satirically shown -in <em>The Menagerie</em>. -</p> - -<p> -But let me not create the impression that Moody cannot be delicate. -From <em>Heart’s Wild Flower</em>: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">But where she strays, through blight or blooth, one fadeless flower she wears,</p> - <p class="verse">A little gift God gave my youth,—whose petals dim were fears,</p> - <p class="verse">Awes, adorations, songs of ruth, hesitancies, and tears.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -From the gentle poem of motherhood, <em>The Daguerreotype</em>: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And all is well, for I have seen them plain,</p> - <p class="verse">The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes!</p> - <p class="verse">Across the blinding gush of these good tears</p> - <p class="verse">They shine as in the sweet and heavy years</p> - <p class="verse">When by her bed and chair</p> - <p class="verse">We children gathered jealously to share</p> - <p class="verse">The sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme,</p> - <p class="verse">Where the sore-stricken body made a clime</p> - <p class="verse">Gentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme,</p> - <p class="verse">Holier and more mystical than prayer.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Or from <em>The Moon-Moth</em>: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Mountains and seas, cities and isles and capes,</p> - <p class="verse">All frail as in a dream and painted like a dream,</p> - <p class="verse">All swimming with the fairy light that drapes</p> - <p class="verse">A bubble, when the colors curl and stream</p> - <p class="verse">And meet and flee asunder. I could deem</p> - <p class="verse">This earth, this air, my dizzy soul, the sky,</p> - <p class="verse">Time, knowledge, and the gods</p> - <p class="verse">Were lapsing, curling, streaming lazily</p> - <p class="verse">Down a great bubble’s rondure, dye on dye,</p> - <p class="verse">To swell that perilous clinging drop that nods,</p> - <p class="verse">Gathers, and nods, and clings, through all eternity.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Here, surely, is an American poet who speaks in eternal terms of the -new inspiration; one who was sane and blazing at the same time; one who -in order to be modern did not need to use a poor imitation of Whitman, -screech of boiler factories and exalt a somewhat doubtful brand of democracy; -one who was uncompromisingly radical without being feverish; above -all, one who succeeded in writing the most beautiful verse without going to -London to do it. When one is oppressed with the doubt of American possibilities -it is a renewal of faith to turn to him. If Whitman is of our -soil, Moody is no less so; through these two the best in us has thus far -found its individual expression. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a> -The temptation to quote is one that should not be resisted. And I can -think of no better way to send readers to Moody in the present world crisis -than to quote the song of Pandora: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Of wounds and sore defeat</p> - <p class="verse">I made my battle stay;</p> - <p class="verse">Wingéd sandals for my feet</p> - <p class="verse">I wove of my delay;</p> - <p class="verse">Of weariness and fear</p> - <p class="verse">I made my shouting spear;</p> - <p class="verse">Of loss, and doubt, and dread,</p> - <p class="verse">And swift oncoming doom</p> - <p class="verse">I made a helmet for my head</p> - <p class="verse">And a floating plume.</p> - <p class="verse">From the shutting mist of death,</p> - <p class="verse">From the failure of the breath,</p> - <p class="verse">I made a battle-horn to blow</p> - <p class="verse">Across the vales of overthrow.</p> - <p class="verse">O hearken, love, the battle-horn!</p> - <p class="verse">The triumph clear, the silver scorn!</p> - <p class="verse">O hearken where the echoes bring,</p> - <p class="verse">Down the grey disastrous morn,</p> - <p class="verse">Laughter and rallying!</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -If they (men) were books, I would not read them.—<em>Goethe.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="MY_FRIEND_THE_INCURABLE"> -<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a> -My Friend, the Incurable -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section firstline" id="GERMANOPHOBIA"> -<span class="firstline">II.</span><br /> -On Germanophobia; on the perils of Monomania; on Raskolnikov -and Alexander Berkman; on surrogates -and sundry subtleties -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">Ἑ</span><span class="postfirstchar">υρηκα!—shouted</span> the Incurable, when I came on my monthly call. I -have solved the mystery that has baffled your idealists since the outbreak -of the War. The puerile effusions of Hardy, Galsworthy, and other -Olympians who in the mist of international hostilities confused Nietzsche -with Bernhardi, are quite explainable. It is well known that our successful -writers have no time or inclination to read other fellows’ books: they -leave this task to journalists and book-reviewers. Hence their splendid -ignorance of Nietzsche. The advent of great events showered upon the -innocent laymen problems, names, and terms that have been a <em>terra incognita</em> -to most of them, and justly so: for what has the artist to do with -facts and theories,—what is Hecuba to him? But of late it has become -“stylish” for men of letters to declare their opinions on all sorts of questions, -regardless of the fact that they have as much right to judge those -problems as the cobbler has the right to judge pastry. To the aid of the -English novelists who wanted to say “something about the war,” but whose -information on the subject was zero, came the dear professor Cramb. A -quick perusal of his short work<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-1" id="fnote-1">[1]</a> supplied the students with an outlook -and a view-point, and out came the patriotic cookies to the astonishment -of the world. Such, at least, is my interpretation of the mystery. -</p> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-1" id="footnote-1">[1]</a> <em>Germany and England</em>, by J. A. Cramb. [E. P. Dutton and Company, -New York.] -</p> - -<p> -Professor Cramb’s lectures are not an answer to Bernhardi, as the -publisher wants us to believe, but rather a supplement to the work of the -barrack-philosopher whose theory of the biological necessity of war is beautifully -corroborated with numerous quotations from the most ancient to -the most modern philosophers, historians, statesmen, and poets. The -general splendidly demonstrates the efficiency of German mind, the ability -to utilize the world culture for the Fatherland, to make all thinkers serve -the holy idea of war, from Heraclitus’s πὸλεμος πατήρ πάντων to Schiller’s Bride -from Messina. Yet I, in my great love for Germany, should advise the -Kaiser’s government to appropriate a generous sum for the purpose of -spreading far and wide Cramb’s “Answer,” as the highest glorification of -Teutonia. No German has expressed more humble respect and admiration -<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a> -for Treitschke, Bernhardi, and other eulogists of the Prussian mailed -fist than this English dreamer of a professor. For what but a fantastic -dream is his picture of modern Germany as that of a land permeated with -heroic aspirations, a mélange of Napoleonism and Nietzscheanism? Nay! -it is the burgher, the “culture-philistine” that dominates the land of Wilhelm -and Eucken, the petty Prussian, the parvenu who since 1870 has been -cherishing the idea of <em>Weltmacht</em> and of the Germanization of the universe. -</p> - -<p> -Pardon me, friend, I cannot speak <em>sina ira</em> on this question; out of -respect for Mr. Wilson’s request, let us “change the subject.” Come out -where we can observe in silence the symphony of autumnal sunset. The -Slavs call this month “Listopad,” the fall of leaves; do you recall -Tschaikovsky’s <em>Farewell Ye Forests</em>? Sing it in silence, in that eloquent -silence of which Maeterlinck had so beautifully spoken. I say <em>had</em>, for my -heart is full of anxiety for that Belgian with the face of an obstinate -coachman. His last works reveal symptoms of Monomania, that sword -of Damocles that hangs over many a profound thinker, particularly so if -the thinker is inclined towards mysticism. Maeterlinck, as no one else, -has felt the mystery of our world; his works echoed his awe before the unknown, -the impenetrable, but also his love for the mysterious, his rejoicing -at the fact that there are in our life things unexplainable and incomprehensible. -His latest essays<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-2" id="fnote-2">[2]</a> show signs of dizziness, as of a man who -stands on the brink of an abyss. I fear for him; I fear that the artist has -lost his equilibrium and is obsessed with phantasms, psychometry, and other -nonsense. The veil of mystery irritates him, he craves to rend it asunder, -to answer all riddles, to clarify all obscurities, to interpret the unknowable; -as a result he falls into the pit of charlatanism and credulity. -</p> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-2" id="footnote-2">[2]</a> <em>The Unknown Guest</em>, by Maurice Maeterlinck. [Dodd, Mead and Company, -New York.] -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -If there were no more insoluble questions nor impenetrable riddles, infinity would -not be infinite; and we should have forever to curse the fate that placed us in a universe -proportionate to our intelligence. All that exists would be but a gateless prison, -an irreparable evil and mistake. The unknown and unknowable are necessary to our -happiness. In any case I would not wish my worst enemy, were his understanding a -thousand times loftier and a thousandfold mightier than mine, to be condemned eternally -to inhabit a world of which he had surprised an essential secret and of which, -as a man, he had begun to grasp the least atom. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -These words were written by Maeterlinck a few years ago in his essay, -<em>Our Eternity</em>. He has surely gone astray since. The last book is written -in a dull pale style, in a tone of a professional table-rapper, enumerating -legions of “facts” to prove the theory of psychometry or whatever it may -be, forgetting his own words of some time ago: “Facts are nothing but -the laggards, the spies, and camp followers of the great forces we cannot -see.” What a tragedy! -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a> -Was Dostoevsky a mystic? Undoubtedly so, but not exclusively so. -Far from being a monomaniac, he applied his genius to various aspects -of life and wistfully absorbed the realistic manifestations of his fellow-beings -as well as the inner struggles of their souls. Dostoevsky is the -Cézanne of the novel. With the same eagerness that Cézanne puts into -his endeavor to produce the “treeness” of a tree, brushing aside irrelevant -details, does Dostoevsky strive to present the “soulness” of a soul, stripping -it of its veils and demonstrating its throbbing nudeness before our -terrified eyes. We fear him, for he is cruel and takes great pleasure in -torturing us, in bringing us to the verge of hysteria; we fear him, for we -feel uneasy when we are shown a nude soul. Perhaps he owed his wonderful -clairvoyancy to his ill health, a feature that reminds us of his great -disciple, Nietzsche. I do not know which is more awesome in Raskolnikov<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-3" id="fnote-3">[3]</a>: -his physical, realistic tortures, or his mysterious dreams and hallucinations. -In all his heroes: the winged murderer who wished to kill a -principle; the harlot, Sonya, who sells her body for the sake of her drunkard -father and her stepmother; the father, Marmeladov, whose monologues -in the tavern present the most heart-gripping rhapsody of sorrow and despair; -the perversed nobleman, Svidrigailov, broad-hearted and cynical, who -jokingly blows out his brains—in the whole gallery of his morbid types -Dostoevsky mingles the real with the fantastic, makes us wander in the -labyrinth of illusionary facts and preternatural dreams, brings us in dizzily-close -touch with the nuances of palpitating souls, and leaves us mentally -maimed and stupefied. I think of Dostoevsky as of a Demon, a Russian -Demon, the sorrowful Demon of the poet Lermontov, the graceful humane -Mephistopheles of the sculptor Antokolsky. -</p> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-3" id="footnote-3">[3]</a> <em>Crime and Punishment</em>, by Fyodor Dostoevsky. [The Macmillan Company, -New York.] -</p> - -<p> -The tragedy of Raskolnikov is twofold: he is a Russian and an intellectual. -The craving, religious soul of the child of the endless melancholy -plains, keened by a profound, analytic intellect seeks in vain an outlet -for its strivings and doubtings in the land where interrogation marks -are officially forbidden. The young man should have plunged into the -Revolution, the broad-breasted river that has welcomed thousands of Russian -youth; but Dostoevsky willed not his hero to take the logical road. -The epileptic Demon hated the “Possessed” revolutionists; he saw the -Russian ideal in Christian suffering. “He is a great poet, but an abominable -creature, quite Christian in his emotions and at the same time quite -<em>sadique</em>. His whole morality is what you have baptised slave-morality”—this -from Dr. Brandes’s letter to Nietzsche,—a specimen of professorial -nomenclature. -</p> - -<p> -I am thinking of a threefold—nay, of a manifold—tragedy of a young -<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a> -man, who, besides being a Russian and an intellectual, is a revolutionist -and is a son of the eternal Ahasver, the people that have borne for centuries -the double cross of being persecuted and of teaching their persecutors. -What makes this tragedy still more tragic is the element of grim -irony that enters it as in those of Attic Greece: the Russian-Jewish-Anarchist -is hurled by Fate into the country of Matter-of-Fact, your United -States. The boy is poetic, sentimental, idealistic; imbued with the lofty -traditions of the Narodovoltzy, the Russian saints-revolutionists, he craves -for a heroic deed, for an act of self-sacrifice for the “people.” “Ah, the -People! The grand, mysterious, yet so near and real, People....”<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-4" id="fnote-4">[4]</a> He -attempts to shoot an oppressor of the people, is delivered to the Justice, -and is sentenced to twenty-two years of prison confinement. The curtain -falls, but does the tragedy end here? No, it only begins. -</p> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-4" id="footnote-4">[4]</a> <em>Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist</em>, by Alexander Berkman. [Mother Earth -Company, New York.] -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">For he who lives more lives than one</p> - <p class="verse">More deaths than one must die.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Raskolnikov wanted to kill a principle; he wanted to rid the world of -a useless old pawnbroker, in order to enable himself to <em>live</em> a useful life. -He failed; the principle remained deadly alive in the form of a gnawing -conscience. “I am an aesthetic louse,” he bitterly denounces himself. -Alexander Berkman wanted to <em>die</em> for a principle, to render the people a -service through his death. He has failed. At least he has thought so. The -Attentat produced neither the material nor the moral effect that the idealist -had expected. Society condemned him, of course; the strikers, for whose -benefit he eagerly gave his life, looked upon his act as on a grave misfortune -that would augment their misery; even his comrades, except a very few, -disapproved of his heroic deed. The icy reality sobered the naïve Russian. -Was it worth while? For the “people?” -</p> - -<p> -The <em>Memoirs</em> have stirred me more profoundly than Dostoevsky’s -<em>Memoirs from a House of the Dead</em>, far more than Wilde’s <em>De Profundis</em>: -the tragedy here is so much more complex, more appalling in its utter illogicality. -On the other hand the book is written so sincerely, so heartedly, -so ingenuously, that you feel the wings of the martyr’s soul flapping -upon yours. Berkman becomes so near, so dear, that it pains to think of -him. You are with him throughout his vicissitudes; you share his anguish, -loneliness, suicidal moods; your spirit and your body undergo the same -inhuman tortures, the same unnecessary cruelties, that he describes so -simply, so modestly; you rejoice in his pale prison joys, your heart goes -out to the gentle boy, Johnny, who whispers through the dungeon wall his -love for Sashenka; you weep over the death of Dick, the friendly sparrow -<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a> -whose chirping sounded like heavenly music to the prisoner; you are filled -with admiration and love for the Girl who hovers somewhere outside like -a goddess, “immutable,” devoted, noble, reserved; you are, lastly, out in -the free, and how deeply you sympathize with the sufferer when he flees -human beings and solicitous friends.... When I read through the bleeding -pages, I felt like falling on my knees and kissing the feet of the unknown, -yet so dear, martyr. Surely, thou hast known suffering.... -</p> - -<p> -Don’t sneer at my incurable sentimentality, you happy normal. The -tragedy of Alexander Berkman is common to all of us, transplanted wild -flowers. It is the tragedy of getting the surrogate for the real thing. -Berkman and the Girl passionately kissing the allegorical figure of the Social -Revolution—isn’t this the symbol of the empty grey life in this normal -land? What do you offer the seeking, striving, courageous souls but -surrogates, substitutes? Your radicals—they are nauseating! They chatter -about Nietzsche and Stirner and Whitman, wave the red flag and scream -about individual freedom; but let one of them transgress the seventh commandment -or commit any thing that is not <em>comme il faut</em> according to their -code, and lo, the radicalism has evaporated, and the atavistic mouldy morality -has come to demonstrate its wrinkled face. Has not John Most repudiated -the act of his disciple, Berkman, because it was a <em>real</em> act and not -a paper allegory? Of course, Most was German.... -</p> - -<p> -Hush! Were we not going to observe in silence the purple-crimson -crucifixion of autumnal Phoebus? I have been as silent as the Barber of -Scheherezade. Woe me, the Incurable! -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Ibn Gabirol.</span> -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<h2 class="filler" id="SUFFICIENCE"> -Sufficience -</h2> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Helen Hoyt</span> -</p> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I wish no guardian angel:</p> - <p class="verse">I do not seek fairies in the trees:</p> - <p class="verse">The trees are enough in themselves.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="ON_POETRY"> -<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a> -On Poetry -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="AESTHETICS_AND_COMMONSENSE"> -Aesthetics and Common-Sense -</h3> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Llewellyn Jones</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">P</span><span class="postfirstchar">oetry,</span> we are often told, cannot be defined but—by way of consolation—can -always be recognized. Unfortunately the latter half of that -statement seems no longer true, especially of latter-day poetry. Fratricidal -strife between makers of <em>vers libre</em> and formalists goes on merrily, while -the people whose contribution to poetry is their appreciation of it—and -purchase of it—are not unnaturally playing safe and buying Longfellow in -padded ooze. -</p> - -<p> -I always thought I could recognize authentic poetry on most themes -and even flattered myself that I had some little understanding of the psychology -of its production. Latterly two voices have come to me, one affirming -that I was right in my prejudice that all durable verse should have content -as well as form, should have meaning as well as sound—though in closest -union with the sound,—that, in short, the poet should be a thinker as well -as a craftsman; an emotional thinker, of course, if that term be permitted, -but not a mere clairaudient wielder of words. And then I heard a voice -which bid me forget all that and list to -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Long breaths, in a green and yellow din.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Hastening to give credit where it is due, let me remind the readers of -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> that this is the last line of a poem by Maxwell Bodenheim -in the last number of that periodical. I trust that Mr. Bodenheim -will forgive me for using him to point a moral and adorn a critical article, -especially as I shall have to compare him with Wordsworth before I get -through, and shall have to ask him whether he is not carrying the Wordsworthian -tradition just a little too far into the region of the individual and -subjective, into the unknown territory of the most isolated thing in the -world: the human mind in those regions of it which have not been socially -disciplined into the categories which make communication possible between -mind and mind. -</p> - -<p> -The other voice which I have mentioned is that of Professor S. B. -Gass, of the University of Nebraska, who writes on Literature as a Fine -Art in <em>The Mid-West Quarterly</em> for July. -</p> - -<p> -Professor Gass takes the very sane position that words are the socially-created -tools—arbitrary symbols, he calls them—to give us “not the thing -itself, but something about the thing—some relationship, some classification, -some generalization, some cause, some effect, some attribute, something -that goes on wholly in the mind and is not sensuously present in the thing -<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a> -itself.” And that work, he continues, is thought, and it proceeds by statement. -But undoubtedly words have sensuous sounds and sensuous denotations and -connotations. Professor Gass admits this, but regards their sensuous properties—and -especially, I imagine he would insist, their sensuous sounds based -on physiological accident—as secondary. Hence, to him, Imagism would be a -use of words for purely secondary results. And that is decadence: “Decadence -arises out of the primary pursuit of secondary functions.” Now -Wordsworth and the romantic school generally used words in this way, and -so, logically enough, Professor Gass classifies Wordsworth as a decadent. -In doing so we fear he exhibits an intellect too prone to <a id="corr-5"></a>dichotomize. He -cuts human psychology up into too many and too water-tight compartments. -When he quotes Wordsworth’s -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">... I saw a crowd,</p> - <p class="verse">A host of golden daffodils;</p> - <p class="verse">Beside the lake, beneath the trees,</p> - <p class="verse">Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -he seems to forget that there is more in that poem than its imagism—as -we would call it now; that it is record of a personal experience, that is not -only a trespass on the domain of the painter (to speak as if we agreed with -our critic) but that it is a personal reaction to the picture painted in those -words, that it tells us something that no mere picture could do. The poem, -in fact, is a picture plus a story of the effect of the picture upon a human -soul. -</p> - -<p> -But the point in which I agree with Professor Gass is that—whatever -the ultimate purpose of literature, including the lyric; whether, as he says, -it is “a reflection of human nature, intellectual in its mode, critical in its -spirit, and moral in its function”; or whether it is legitimate to regard its -rhythms in words and “secondary” connotations and associations of words -as materials for an art rather than for a criticism of life—the point beyond -all this that I think fundamental is that literature does what it does—inform, -enlighten, or transport—by understandable statement. -</p> - -<p> -Certainly all appreciation of literature that dares to voice itself—that -is all criticism—must proceed on this supposition, and it is just this supposition -that is flouted by some of Mr. Bodenheim’s poems. -</p> - -<p> -Take the following, for instance: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<h4 class="excerpt" id="TO_"> -TO —— -</h4> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">You are a broad, growing sieve.</p> - <p class="verse">Men and women come to you to loosen your supple frame,</p> - <p class="verse">And weave another slim square into you—</p> - <p class="verse">Or perhaps a blue oblong, a saffron circle.</p> - <p class="verse">People fling their powdered souls at you:</p> - <p class="verse">You seem to lose them, but retain</p> - <p class="verse">The shifting shadow of a stain on your rigid lines.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a> -Now obviously there is no sense in this in the ordinary intellectualistic -meaning of the word sense. Unlike most poetry, it cannot be analyzed into -a content which we might say was expressed suitably or unsuitably in a -form. If, then, it be a good poem, we must look elsewhere for its excellence. -I would hesitate to find that excellence in the mere sound of the -words. Is it then in their associations? Arthur Ransome, the English critic, -accounts for the peculiar effect of poetry by its use of what he calls potential -language—of words which by long association have come to mean more -than they say, that have not only a denotation like scientific words, but a -sometimes definite, sometimes hazy, connotation, an emotional content over -and above what is intellectually given in their purely etymological content. -Does this help us here? I am afraid not. Personally I have always associated -sieves with ashes and garden-earth (there is also a little triangular -sieve that fits into kitchen sinks). Blue oblongs and saffron circles remind -me of advertising posters and futurist pictures; while—I admit a certain -poetic quality of a sort here—powdered souls remind me of Aubrey Beardsley. -</p> - -<p> -But, perhaps, the ultimate objection to this poem as it stands is the fact -that I have an uneasy suspicion that some printer may have transposed some -of these expressions. For would it not really have made better sense if the -poem had spoken of a saffron oblong and a blue square? Certainly if I -choose to think that that is what it must have been originally no other reader, -on the face of the matter, could convince me otherwise. While, if another -reader told me that Mr. Bodenheim had once studied geometry and therefore -could not possibly have written about a “slim square”, I would be quite -unable to convince him otherwise. -</p> - -<p> -But—it will be objected—it is quite unfair to any poem to analyze it -word by word. It spoils its beauty. I challenge the assertion, and even -assert the opposite. As a matter of fact, it is only by analysis that we can -tell good poetry from bad poetry. For instance: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Crown him with many crowns</p> - <p class="verse">The lamb upon his throne.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Analyze that and it straightway appears the nonsense that it really is. But, -on the other hand, take this poem of Francis Thompson’s (I quote only a -part): -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Does the fish soar to find the ocean,</p> - <p class="verse">The eagle plunge to find the air—</p> - <p class="verse">That we ask of the stars in motion</p> - <p class="verse">If they have rumour of thee there?</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Not where the wheeling systems darken,</p> - <p class="verse">And our benumbed conceiving soars!—</p> - <p class="verse">The drift of pinions, would we hearken,</p> - <p class="verse">Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a> - <p class="verse">The angels keep their ancient places;—</p> - <p class="verse">Turn but a stone, and start a wing!</p> - <p class="verse">’Tis ye, ’tis your estrangèd faces,</p> - <p class="verse">That miss the many-splendored thing.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Now that poem, it will be observed, is not unrelated in subject to -the two lines quoted just above it. And yet, how it defies any effort to -analyze it out into anything else than itself. Rhythm, cosmic picturings, -the homely metaphors of the dusty road, all combine to place us in an -attitude toward, to give us a feeling for, reality, which is different from, -and nobler than, those of the man who has either never read this poem, -never read the same message in other poetic language, or—what is more -to the point—never managed to get for himself the same experience which -dictated that poem. -</p> - -<p> -For, after all, if I were to agree with Professor Gass that poetry (as -a part of literature) is not a fine art, it would be because I think it more -than a fine art. Because I think the function of poetry is not merely to be -a verbal picture art or a verbal music art, but to be an organon of reconciliation -between art and life. The best poems, I think, will be found to be those -which alter our consciousness in such a way that our inward, and even our -outward, lives are altered. The poet sees the world as we do not see it. -Consequently, he can put a new complexion on it for us. The world is -pluralistic, and so are we. Intellectually we may be of the twentieth century, -but emotionally we may be born out of our due season. Then let the -poet of that due season mediate to us the emotional life that we need. -Living in America, we may, through him, reach Greece or India. By his -aid we may conquer the real world; by his aid we may flee from it if it -threatens to conquer us. By his aid alone we may get outside of our own -skins and into the very heart of the world. -</p> - -<p> -What, then, shall we say, when poetry offers to conduct us into a world -of growing sieves, slim squares, powdered souls, cool, colorless struggles, -the obstetrical adventures of white throats, and green and yellow dins? -</p> - -<p> -I have heard of a book which explains the fourth dimension. If I ever -get a chance to read that book, and if I find that I can understand the fourth -dimension, I shall have another shot at the appreciation of this poetry. For -I have a slumbering shadow of a pale-gray idea (if I, too, may wax poetic) -that in the sphere of the fourth dimension a slim square would be a perfectly -possible conception. -</p> - -<p> -I shall arise and go home now and read some poems by the late Mr. -Meredith who is popularly supposed to be obscure. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="IN_DEFENSE_OF_VERS_LIBRE"> -<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a> -In Defense of Vers Libre -</h3> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Arthur Davison Ficke</span> -</p> - -<p class="note"> -(<em>A reply to “Spiritual Dangers of Writing Vers Libre” by Eunice Tietjens -in the November issue of The Little Review</em>) -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -The properly qualified judge of poetry can have no doubts about <em>vers -libre</em>; if he doubts it, he is no judge. He belongs to that class of -hide-bound conservatives who are unwilling to discard the old merely because -it is old. He does not yet understand that the newest is always the -best. Worst of all, he does not appreciate the value of Freedom. -</p> - -<p> -Freedom is the greatest of boons to the artist. The soul of the artist -must not be hampered by unnecessary constraints. The old fixed verse-forms—such -as the sonnet, blank verse, and all the other familiar metres—were -exactly as cramping to the free creating spirit of the poet as the -peculiar spaces and arches of the Sistine Chapel were to the designing instinct -of Michael Angelo. Lamentable misfortune! that his Sibyls had to -occupy those awkward corners. How much would they not have gained in -grandeur could they have had all outdoors to expand in! -</p> - -<p> -All outdoors is just what <em>vers libre</em> affords the poet of today. He is -no longer under the necessity of moulding his thought into an artificial pattern, -compressing it to a predetermined form; it can remain fluent, unsubjugated, -formless, like a spontaneous emotional cry. No longer need he -accept such fatal and stereotyped bondage as that under which Milton -labored when the iron mechanics of blank verse forced him to standardize, -to conventionalize, his emotion in such lines as— -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">O dark dark dark amid the blaze of noon,</p> - <p class="verse">Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse</p> - <p class="verse">Without all hope of day!...</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -To be honest, we must admit that there was something sickly and -soul-destroying about the earlier verse-forms. The too-honeyed sweetness -and metrical constraint of <em>Paradise Lost</em> has always secretly repelled the -true judge of poetry; and Shakespeare’s Sonnets have never been thoroughly -satisfactory just because of the fatal necessity under which the author -worked, of rhyming his lines in conformity with a fixed order. How could -spiritual originality survive such an ordeal? -</p> - -<p> -It would be unwise, however, to condemn the whole body of past poets; -for certain of the earlier practitioners did, in their rudimentary way, see -the light. Milton in <em>Sampson Agonistes</em>, in the midst of passages of the -old-fashioned regular blank verse, introduced several choruses in <em>vers libre</em>; -and these could perhaps hardly be surpassed by any English or American -poet now living. As everyone knows, Walt Whitman (see <em>The Poets of -<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a> -Barbarism</em> by George Santayana) used <em>vers libre</em> profusely. In fact, there -extends backward from us an unbroken chain of distinguished <em>vers libre</em> -tradition, through Whitman, Matthew Arnold, Southey, Shelley, Milton, and -many others; the chain ends only with that first “probably arboreal” singer -just antedating the first discoverer of regular rhythm. <em>Vers libre</em> is as old -as the hills, and we shall always have it with us. -</p> - -<p> -The one defect of the earlier practitioners of <em>vers libre</em> was that they -did not have the wit to erect it into a cult. They used the free form only -when it seemed to them essentially appropriate to the matter:—that is to say, -they used <a id="corr-6"></a>it sporadically, desultorily. Today we know better. Today we -know that the free form must be used ever and always. <em>In hoc signo vinces!</em> -</p> - -<p> -As a modern poet admirably says— -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Those envious outworn souls</p> - <p class="verse">Whose flaccid <a id="corr-7"></a>academic pulses</p> - <p class="verse">Beat to no rythms of more Dionysiac scope</p> - <p class="verse"><a id="corr-9"></a>Than metronomes,—</p> - <p class="verse">Or dollar-twenty-five alarm-clocks,—</p> - <p class="verse">They will forever</p> - <p class="verse">Cavail at novelty, at beauty, at freshness;</p> - <p class="verse">But, hell!—</p> - <p class="verse">But, a thousand devils!—</p> - <p class="verse">But, <em>Henri Quatre</em> and the <em>Pont Neuf</em>!—</p> - <p class="verse">We of the new age, who leap upon the mountains like goats upon the heaps of tin cans in the vacant lots, and butt the stars,—</p> - <p class="verse">We know they are liars,</p> - <p class="verse">And that we are what we are.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Could that be expressed in a sonnet? I think not. At least, it could -not be expressed so vigorously, so wisely, so well. -</p> - -<p> -There is, however, one obvious peril against which the enthusiast must -guard himself. <em>Vers libre</em> is not of itself a complete warranty of success; -because a poem is in this form, it is not necessarily fine poetry. “Love is -enough,” says William Morris; he would not have said the same about -<em>vers libre</em>. A certain power of conception, beyond the brilliant and original -idea involved in the very employing of the free verse-form, is requisite for -real importance in the finished product. -</p> - -<p> -Nor is the statement of the poet’s own unique and terrifying importance -a sufficient theme to constitute the burden of all his work. Several of our -most immortal living <em>vers librists</em> have fallen into such an error. This -“ego über alles” concept, though profound and of a startling originality, -lacks variety if it be indefinitely repeated. Should the poet, however, feel -deep in his soul that there is nothing else worth saying except this, let him -at least take care to beautify his idea by the use of every artifice. After -saying “I am I, and great,” let him not forget to add variety and contrast -to the picture by means of the complementary idea: “You, O world, are you, -<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a> -and contemptible.” In such minglings of light and shade lies poetry’s special -and proper beauty. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Vers libre</em> has one incontestable advantage over all those more artificial -vehicles in which the poets of the past have essayed to ride into immortality. -This newly popular verse-form can be used perfectly well when -the poet is drunk. Let no one of temperate habits underestimate this advantage; -let him think of others. Byron was drunk most of the time; had -he been able to employ a form like this, how many volumes could he perhaps -have added to the mere seventeen that now constitute his work! Shelley,—seldom -alcoholicly affected, I believe,—was always intoxicated with ideas; -he, equipped solely with the new instrument, could have written many more -epics like <em>Queen Mab</em>, and would probably have felt less need of concentrating -his work into the narrow limits of such formalistic poems as <em>The West -Wind</em>. -</p> - -<p> -Let it be understood that all the principles suggested in this monograph -are intended only for the true devotee of <em>vers libre</em>. One can have nothing -but contempt for the poet who, using generally the old-fashioned metres, -turns sometimes to <em>vers libre</em> as a medium, and carries over into it all those -faults of restrained expression and patterned thought which were the curse -of the old forms. Such a writer is beyond hope, beyond counsel. We can -forgive Matthew Arnold, but not a contemporary. -</p> - -<p> -Certain devoted American friends of poetry have been trying for some -time to encourage poetry in this country; and I think they are on the right -track when they go about it by way of encouraging <em>vers libre</em>. No other -method could so swiftly and surely multiply the number of our verse-writers. -For the new medium presents no difficulties to anyone; even the tired -business-man will find himself tempted to record his evening woes in singless -song. True, not everyone will be able at first trial to produce <em>vers libre</em> -of the quality that appears in the choruses of <em>Sampson Agonistes</em>: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">This, this is he; softly a while;</p> - <p class="verse">Let us not break in upon him.</p> - <p class="verse">O change beyond report, thought, or belief!</p> - <p class="verse">See how he lies at random, carelessly diffused,</p> - <p class="verse">With languished head unpropt,</p> - <p class="verse">As one past hope, abandoned,</p> - <p class="verse">And by himself given over,</p> - <p class="verse">In slavish habit, ill-fitted weeds</p> - <p class="verse">O’er-worn and soiled.</p> - <p class="verse">Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be he,</p> - <p class="verse">That heroic, that renowned,</p> - <p class="verse">Irresistible Sampson? whom, unarmed,</p> - <p class="verse">No strength of man, or fiercest wild beast, could withstand?...</p> - <p class="verse">Which first shall I bewail,</p> - <p class="verse">Thy bondage or lost sight,</p> - <p class="verse">Prison within prison</p> - <p class="verse">Inseparably dark?</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a> -That is indeed admirable, and not so easy to write as it looks. But -some kind of <em>vers libre</em> can be turned out by anyone; and to encourage -the use of this medium will be to encourage and vastly increase that multitudinous -body of humble and industrious versifyers who are at present -the most conspicuous ornament of American literature. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THE_DECORATIVE_STRAIGHTJACKET"> -The Decorative Straight-Jacket: Rhymed Verse -</h3> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Maxwell Bodenheim</span> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -The clamping of the inevitable strait-jacket, rhymed verse, upon the -shrinking form of poetry has been the pastime of centuries. Those who -would free poetry from the outworn metal bands and let her stretch her -cramped limbs are labeled decadent, slothful, and futile. How easy it is to -paste disagreeable labels upon the things one happens to dislike. -</p> - -<p> -I admit that poetry freed from the bonds she has so long worn may -become vulgar and over-demonstrative. A convict who has just been released -from a penitentiary is perhaps inclined to caper down the road, and -split the air with good red shouts. But after his first excesses he walks -slowly, thinking of the way before him. With some poets free verse is still -the boisterous convict; with others it is already the sober, determined individual. -But I rather like even the laughing convict, looking back and flinging -huge shouts at his imposing but petty prison. -</p> - -<p> -Suppose I were a Bluebeard who had enticed a young girl into my dim -chamber of poetic-thought. Suppose I took the little knife of rhyme and -coolly sliced off one of her ears, two or three of her fingers, and finished by -clawing out a generous handful of her shimmering, myriad-tinted hair, with -the hands of meter. I might afterwards display her to the world, saying: -“Look! Is she not still beautiful, still almost perfect?” But would that excuse -my butchery? The lesson is perhaps fairly clear. Rhymed verse mutilates -and cramps poetry. It is impossible for even the greatest poet completely -to rise above its limitations. He may succeed in a measure, but that -is due to his strength and not to the useless fetters he wears. But, say the -defenders of the fetters, rhyme and meter are excellent disciplines. Does -Poetry or does the Poet need to be disciplined? Are they cringing slaves -who cannot be trusted to walk alone and unbound? These are obvious -things, but one must sometimes <a id="corr-11"></a>be obvious when speaking to those who still -possess a childish belief. Poetry is not determined by the monotonous form -in which it is usually clothed, but by the strength or weakness of its voice. -<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a> -Because men have foolishly placed this voice in the mouth of a child, wearing -a dress with so many checks on it, and a hat the blackness of which matches -the ebony of its ugly shoes, it does not necessarily follow that the voice becomes -miraculously changed when placed in some other mouth, whose owner -wears a different garb. Then there is the rhythm difficulty. If the little -child, Rhyme and Meter, does not swing his foot in time to what he is saying, -adding rhythm, his words, according to some, change from poetry to -prose. What delightful superstitions! -</p> - -<p> -Poets can undoubtedly rise to great heights, in spite of the fact that they -must replace stronger words with weaker ones, because “passion” does not -rhyme with “above,” but “love” does. But how much higher could they -rise if they were free? I do not say that to eliminate rhyme, meter, and -rhythm is to make the way absolutely clear. The Poet must still be a Poet -to climb. Nor do I say that if the Poet finds that rhyme, rhythm, and meter -happen almost to fit his poetic thoughts, he must not use them. I only say -that the poet who finds that the usual forms of poetry confine and mar his -poetic thoughts should be able to discard them without receiving the usual -chorus of sneers, and that if he does he is not miraculously changed from a -poet to a writer of prose. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="HARRIET_MONROES_POETRY"> -Harriet Monroe’s Poetry -</h3> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Eunice Tietjens</span> -</p> - -<p class="book"> -<em>You and I</em>, by Harriet Monroe. [The Macmillan Company, New York.] -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Right here in Chicago, under our very noses, there is dwelling personified -a Real Force. It is done up in a neat and compact little package, as -most real forces are that are not of the Krupp variety, and it works with -so little fuss and fury that it takes some discernment to recognize it for a -force at all. Nevertheless it is a power which is felt throughout the length -and breadth of the country, in California, in Florida, in Canada, and in -England. And wherever it is felt it is a liberating force, a force that -ruthlessly shatters the outworn conventions of the art in which it operates, -that tears away the tinsel trappings and bids art and beauty spring forth -clean and untrammeled, to forge for themselves new forms that shall be -fitting for the urge of today. -</p> - -<p> -The name by which this force is known in every day parlance is Miss -Harriet Monroe, and its manifestations are twofold—as poet and as editor. -<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a> -As editor she has created and kept alive the courageous little magazine -<em>Poetry: A Magazine of Verse</em>, which might almost, so far as Chicago is -concerned, be called the spiritual older sister of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. It, -too, in its own field, stands for the revolt of today against the hide-bound -spirit of yesterday, and it, too, is a thorn in the side of the Philistines. -</p> - -<p> -The most recent manifestation of Miss Monroe’s influence is, however, -in her character as poet. She has collected together a large number of -poems, most of which have already appeared in the leading magazines and -have been widely copied, and has brought them out under the title <em>You and I</em>. -Seeing them so collected, one is much better able to get a perspective on the -poems themselves, and on the very interesting personality behind them. -And they bulk large. Unquestionably this is one of the most important of -the recent books of poetry. -</p> - -<p> -<em>You and I</em> is essentially modern in spirit and in treatment. Miss Monroe -has the power of looking with the eyes of the imagination at many of -our modern institutions. <em>The Hotel</em>, <em>The Turbine</em>, <em>The Panama Canal</em>, <em>The -Ocean Liner</em>—these are some of the subjects she treats with a real understanding -and a sweep of vision that quite transfigures these work-a-day -objects. And she is equally at home when writing of the great emotional -complexity of <em>State Street at Night</em> or the simpler but more profound -poignancy of the <em>Elegy for a Child</em>. Indeed, one of the noticeable things -about the book is the unusually large range of themes treated. -</p> - -<p> -There is also in this book the primal, but unfortunately rare, gift of -wonder. This is one of the essential qualities of true poetry, and it furnishes -Miss Monroe with the key-note of the book, an open-eyed, courageous facing -of fate, and an unshakable belief in the redeeming power of beauty. -</p> - -<p> -This little lyric may serve as an introduction to the spirit of the book: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<h4 class="excerpt" id="THE_WONDER_OF_IT"> -THE WONDER OF IT -</h4> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">How wild, how witch-like weird that life should be!</p> - <p class="verse">That the insensate rock dared dream of me,</p> - <p class="verse">And take to bursting out and burgeoning—</p> - <p class="verse">Oh, long ago——yo ho!——</p> - <p class="verse">And wearing green! How stark and strange a thing</p> - <p class="verse">That life should be!</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Oh mystic mad, a rigadoon of glee,</p> - <p class="verse">That dust should rise, and leap alive, and flee</p> - <p class="verse">Afoot, awing, and shake the deep with cries—</p> - <p class="verse">Oh, far away—yo hay!</p> - <p class="verse">What moony mask, what arrogant disguise</p> - <p class="verse">That life should be!</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="SCHARMEL_IRIS"> -<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a> -Scharmel Iris: Italian Poet -</h3> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Milo Winter</span> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Scharmel Iris, the first of the Italians in America to write poetry -in English is a Florentine who was brought to Chicago when but an -infant. Before his tenth year his poems attracted attention and were warmly -praised by such men as Ruskin, Swinburne and Gosse. Later Francis Thompson -and Richard Le Gallienne expressed appreciation. These poems which -originally appeared in leading publications of England and America are -gathered together for the first time and printed by the Ralph Fletcher Seymour -Company (Fine Arts Building, Chicago; $1.00 net). The volume, entitled -<em>Lyrics of a Lad</em>, contains his most desirable and characteristic lyrics and -is a serious contribution to our poetic literature. These poems came to be -respected as art through their freshness and originality—there are no trite, -worn-out, meaningless phrases, or words of an abstract, generalized significance. -Immortal beauty is a vision in his eyes and a passion in his heart, -and he has labored to reveal it to the world. Art is a creation of men’s -minds, and because Mr. Iris’s creation is direct and spontaneous it becomes -greater art. This volume is not post-Miltonic or post-Swinburnian or post-Kiplonian. -This young poet has the good sense to speak naturally and to -paint things as he sees them. Because this book is Scharmel Iris it is distinctive. -It is without sham and without affectation. The announcement of its -publication and his poems in <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> brought the publisher -three-hundred orders. The book, slender and well-printed, has more real -poetry than any volume of modern verse it has been our good fortune to read. -</p> - -<p> -It is difficult to do an important book justice in a short article. Perhaps -a miscellaneous quotation of lines will help: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The thrush spills golden radiance</p> - <p class="verse">From boughs of dusk;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The day was a chameleon;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">In sweat and pangs the pregnant, Night</p> - <p class="verse">Brings forth the wondrous infant, Light;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Within the sunset-press, incarnadine,</p> - <p class="verse">The sun, a peasant, tramples out his wine;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">You are the body-house of lust;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Where twilight-peacocks lord the place</p> - <p class="verse">Spendthrifts of pride and grace;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And lo, at Heaven’s blue-windowed house</p> - <p class="verse">God sets the moon for lamp;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a> - <p class="verse">The sunbeams sought her hair,</p> - <p class="verse">And rested there;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">These mute white Christs—the daily crucified;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Lucretia Borgia fair</p> - <p class="verse">The poppy is.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The sunbeams dance in dawn’s ballet;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">While sunset-panthers past her run</p> - <p class="verse">To caverns of the Sun;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">When from the husk of dusk I shake the stars;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">O dusk, you brown cocoon,</p> - <p class="verse">Release your moth, the moon,</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Ah, since that night</p> - <p class="verse">When to her window, she came forth as light,</p> - <p class="verse">Have I been Beauty’s acolyte;</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -and there are many other striking lines. In <em>The Visionary</em> a poet steals the -pennies on a dead man’s eyes to buy himself bread, and, after his death, the -money denied him in life is in turn placed on his sightless eyes. It is irony -of the bitterest sort. <em>Late January</em> is an excellent landscape—interpretive -rather than descriptive. <em>Scarlet—White</em> is struck at the double standard, and -is a strong and powerful utterance. <em>April</em>, <em>Canzonette</em>, <em>Lady of the Titian -Hair</em> are exquisite and charming lyrics. Three graceful compositions are -<em>The Heart-Cry of the Celtic Maid</em>, <em>Tarantella</em> and <em>Song for a Rose</em>. <em>The -Ugly Woman</em> will cause discussion, but it is good art. The trio of <em>Spring -Songs</em> and <em>Her Room</em> are well nigh perfect. <em>Mary’s Quest</em> is very tender, as -is also the <em>Twilight Lullaby</em>. <em>The Leopard</em>, <em>Fantasy of Dusk and Dawn</em>, <em>The -Forest of the Sky</em> are wonderfully imaginative, and were written in Chicago,—in -the grime and barrenness of Halsted Street. There is a poignant thing of -five lines, a mother who is going blind over the death of a son. Her despair -is hopeless and tragic—she makes a true and awful picture of realism in her -grief. <em>Heroes</em> treats of the nameless heroes, daily met and overlooked. The -love poems are sincere as all love poems must be. In <em>Foreboding</em> the note of -sadness is emphatic—almost dominant; but there is more than mere sadness -in it; it is not a minor note. It is tragedy, really, that speaks in such poetry: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Her cold and rigid hands</p> - <p class="verse">Will be as iron bands</p> - <p class="verse">Around her lover’s heart;</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -and -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">O’er thee will winter through the sky’s gray sieve</p> - <p class="verse">Sift down his charity of snow.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a> -<em>The Mad Woman</em> (printed in <em>Poetry</em>) is as excellent as it is unusual, and -few finer things have been done in any literature. -</p> - -<p> -There is a fine flowing harmony about the poetry of Scharmel Iris that -denotes a power far beyond that revealed by many of today’s singers. The -poems are colorful and certainly musical and they display an adequate technique. -Such a gift as his, revealed in a number of very fine achievements, -gives promise of genuine greatness. After many years of discouragement -and the hardest work, he has at last found a publisher who bears the cost of -the edition, purely on the merit of the work. It contains a preface by Dr. -Egan, American minister in Copenhagen, an attractive title-page decoration -by Michele Greco, and a photogravure portrait of the author. By advancing -the work of living poets like Mr. Iris one can repay the debt he owes to the -old poets. This poetry (as <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> remarked) is not merely -the sort which interests or attracts; it remains in your mind as part of that -art treasure-house which is your religion and your life. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THE_POETRY_OF_T_STURGE_MOORE"> -The Poetry of T. Sturge Moore -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -In an early number of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> a correspondent remarked that -an article I had the honor of contributing sounded a rather curious note -inasmuch as it was a piece of pure criticism in a magazine deliberately given -over to exuberance. -</p> - -<p> -Well, it is now my turn to stand up for exuberance as against a contributor, -A. M., who gives the poetry of T. Sturge Moore criticism only, and, in -my humble opinion, criticism as unfair as would be a description of Notre -Dame rendered altogether in terms of gargoyles and their relative positions. -</p> - -<p> -Would it not be more in the spirit of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> to point out -in the title poem of Mr. Moore’s book, <em>The Sea is Kind</em>, such passages as the -two following: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza c"> - <p class="verse"><em>Eucritos</em>—</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Thou knowest, Menalcas,</p> - <p class="verse">I built my hut not sheltered but exposed,</p> - <p class="verse">Round not right-angled.</p> - <p class="verse">A separate window like a mouth to breathe,</p> - <p class="verse">No matter whence the breeze might blow,—</p> - <p class="verse">A separate window like an eye to watch</p> - <p class="verse">From off the headland lawn that prompting wink</p> - <p class="verse">Of Ocean musing “Why,” wherever he</p> - <p class="verse">May glimpse me at some pitiable task.</p> - <p class="verse">Long sea arms reach behind me, and small hills</p> - <p class="verse">Have waded half across the bay in front,</p> - <p class="verse">Dividing my horizon many times</p> - <p class="verse">But leaving every wind an open gate.</p> - <p class="verse">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a> - <p class="verse">There is a sorcery in well loved words:</p> - <p class="verse">But unintelligible music still</p> - <p class="verse">Probes to the buried Titan in the heart</p> - <p class="verse">Whose strength, the vastness of forgotten life,</p> - <p class="verse">Suffers but is not dead;</p> - <p class="verse">Tune stirs him as no thought of ours nor aught</p> - <p class="verse">Mere comprehension grasps, can him disquiet.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -And these are parts of a dramatic poem full of fresh figures, colorful -glimpses of the romance of ancient life, and what a school-boy would -describe as a “perfectly corking” description of a sea fight with dead men -slowly dropping through the green water— -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">As dead bird leaf-resisted</p> - <p class="verse">Shot on tall plane tree’s top,</p> - <p class="verse">Down, never truly stopping,</p> - <p class="verse">Through green translucence dropping,</p> - <p class="verse">They often seemed to stop.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -And how, again could any thorough searcher of this book fail to mention -that delightful recipe for wine “Sent From Egypt with a Fair Robe of Tissue -to a Sicilian Vine-dresser, 276 B. C.” And surely no obscurity nor any -uncouthness of figure—such as your critic objects to, as if poets did not -have the faults of their virtues—mar those beautiful child poems: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">That man who wishes not for wings,</p> - <p class="verse">Must be the slave of care;</p> - <p class="verse">For birds that have them move so well</p> - <p class="verse">And softly through the air:</p> - <p class="verse">They venture far into the sky,</p> - <p class="verse">If not so far as thoughts or angels fly.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Were William Cory making a prediction rather than “An Invocation” -when he ended his poem of that title with the line: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Two minds shall flow together, the English and the Greek.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -I would feel like nominating Mr. T. Sturge Moore as its fulfillment. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Llewellyn Jones.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="AMY_LOWELLS_CONTRIBUTION"> -<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a> -Amy Lowell’s Contribution -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Sword Blades and Poppy Seed</em>, by Amy Lowell. [The Macmillan -Company, New York.] -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -... And Amy Lowell’s new volume of verse refutes all the critical -disparagement of <em>vers libre</em>, imagism, or “unrhymed cadence,” as Miss -Lowell herself chooses to call her work. For she demonstrates that it is -something new—that it is a clear-eyed workmanship which belongs distinctly -to this keener age of ours. Miss Lowell’s technical debt to the French—to -the so-called Parnassian school—has been paid in a poetical production -that will put to shame our hackneyed and slovenly “accepted” poets. Most -of the poems in her book are written in <em>vers libre</em>, and this is the way Miss -Lowell analyzes them: “They are built upon ‘organic rhythm,’ or the rhythm -of the speaking voice with its necessity for breathing, rather than upon a -strict metrical system. They differ from ordinary prose rhythms by being -more curved and containing more stress. The stress, and exceedingly -marked curve, of any regular metre is easily perceived. These poems, built -upon cadence, are more subtle, but the laws they follow are not less fixed. -Merely chopping prose lines into lengths does not produce cadence; it is -constructed upon mathematical and absolute laws of balance and time. In -the preface to his Poems, Henley speaks of ‘those unrhyming rythms in -which I had tried to quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do in -rhyme.’ The desire to ‘quintessentialize,’ to head-up an emotion until it burns -white-hot, seems to be an integral part of the modern temper, and certainly -‘unrhymed cadence’ is unique in its power of expressing this.” -</p> - -<p> -Take Miss Lowell’s <em>White and Green</em>, for example: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Hey! My daffodil-crowned,</p> - <p class="verse">Slim and without sandals!</p> - <p class="verse">As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness</p> - <p class="verse">So my eyeballs are startled with you,</p> - <p class="verse">Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees,</p> - <p class="verse">Light runner through tasselled orchards.</p> - <p class="verse">You are an almond flower unsheathed</p> - <p class="verse">Leaping and flickering between the budded branches.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Or <em>Absence</em>: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">My cup is empty tonight,</p> - <p class="verse">Cold and dry are its sides,</p> - <p class="verse">Chilled by the wind from the open window.</p> - <p class="verse">Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight.</p> - <p class="verse">The room is filled with the strange scent</p> - <p class="verse">Of wistaria blossoms.</p> - <p class="verse">They sway in the moon’s radiance</p> - <p class="verse">And tap against the wall.</p> -<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a> - <p class="verse">But the cup of my heart is still,</p> - <p class="verse">And cold, and empty.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">When you come, it brims</p> - <p class="verse">Red and trembling with blood,</p> - <p class="verse">Heart’s blood for your drinking;</p> - <p class="verse">To fill your mouth with love</p> - <p class="verse">And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="sign"> -—<span class="smallcaps">M. C. A.</span> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="STAR_TROUBLE"> -Star Trouble -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Helen Hoyt</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">A little star</p> - <p class="verse">Came into the heaven</p> - <p class="verse">At the close of even.</p> - <p class="verse">It seemed not very far,</p> - <p class="verse">And it was young and soft.</p> - <p class="verse">But the gray</p> - <p class="verse">Got in its way,</p> - <p class="verse">So that I longed to reach my hand aloft</p> - <p class="verse">And push the clouds by</p> - <p class="verse">From its little eye,</p> - <p class="verse">From its little soft ray.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="PARASITE"> -<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a> -Parasite -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Conrad Aiken</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Nine days he suffered. It was in this wise.—</p> - <p class="verse">He, being scion to Homer in our time,</p> - <p class="verse">Must needs be telling tales, in prose or rhyme;</p> - <p class="verse">He was a pair of large blue hungry eyes.</p> - <p class="verse">Money he had, enough to live in ease;—</p> - <p class="verse">Drank wine occasionally; would often sit—</p> - <p class="verse">Child and critic alternate—in the Pit:</p> - <p class="verse">Cheap at a half-crown he thought feasts like these.</p> - <p class="verse">Plays held him by the throat—and cinemas too—</p> - <p class="verse">They blanched his face and made him grip his seat;</p> - <p class="verse">And oh, fine music to his soul was sweet—</p> - <p class="verse">He said, “His ears towards that music <em>grew</em>!”</p> - <p class="verse">And he kept watch with stars night after night,</p> - <p class="verse">Spinning tales from the little of life he knew.—</p> - <p class="verse">Of modern life he was the parasite.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Subtle his senses were—yea, like a child,</p> - <p class="verse">Sudden his spirit was to cry or laugh;</p> - <p class="verse">Strange modern blending of the tame and wild;</p> - <p class="verse">As sensitive to life as seismograph.</p> - <p class="verse">His sympathies were keen and sweet and quick,</p> - <p class="verse">He could play music subtly in your mood;</p> - <p class="verse">Raw life, to him, was often strange and rude—</p> - <p class="verse">Slight accidents could make him white and sick.</p> - <p class="verse">Unreasoning, but lovable was he;—</p> - <p class="verse">Men liked him, he was brave; and yet withal</p> - <p class="verse">When brute truth stunned him, he could cringe and crawl;</p> - <p class="verse">When most he loved the world, he least could see.</p> - <p class="verse">Now let him speak himself, as he well can,</p> - <p class="verse">In his queer modern style of poesy.—</p> - <p class="verse">Then judge him, you, as poet and as man.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza tb"> - <p class="tb">. . . . . . . . .</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">There was a woman lived by Bloomsbury Square,—</p> - <p class="verse">She was not all that womankind can be,—</p> - <p class="verse">Yet she was good to me, I thought her fair,—</p> - <p class="verse">I loved her, she was all the world to me;</p> - <p class="verse">O, I was adoration, she divine,</p> - <p class="verse">And star or moon could not so sweetly shine.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a> - <p class="verse">I will say little—it was neither’s fault—</p> - <p class="verse">Yet to a bitter time my loving came,</p> - <p class="verse">A time of doubt, of faltering, of halt,</p> - <p class="verse">A time of passionate begging and of shame,</p> - <p class="verse">When I threw all life’s purpose at her feet,</p> - <p class="verse">And she stood strange to me, and cold and sweet—</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Child that I was! for when it came, that hour,</p> - <p class="verse">It was in no wise as my heart had thought—</p> - <p class="verse">For comic devils had me in their power,</p> - <p class="verse">She laughed at me, we wrangled, and I fought,</p> - <p class="verse">And there was hot breath gasped in murderous words....</p> - <p class="verse">It was at dusk, when sweetly sang the birds....</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Then there was silence—oh, how still and cold!</p> - <p class="verse">Without good-bye I went; for she had said—</p> - <p class="verse">“Young fool!”—that was a rapier-turn that told;</p> - <p class="verse">I could have killed her, for she knew I bled—</p> - <p class="verse">And smiled a little, as I turned away;</p> - <p class="verse">We have not known each other since that day.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I had expected, if my love went wrong,</p> - <p class="verse">The world in sympathy; I suffered pain</p> - <p class="verse">That evening when I heard the birds in song,</p> - <p class="verse">And stars swam out, and there was no hope for rain,</p> - <p class="verse">And the air was dense with lilac-sweet.... I walked</p> - <p class="verse">In sullen way; fierce with my soul I talked—;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And knew what knave I was; yet I devised,</p> - <p class="verse">Being still too angry for sincerer grief,</p> - <p class="verse">Some pain,—appropriate for a soul despised,—</p> - <p class="verse">In simulated venom crushed a leaf,—</p> - <p class="verse">And glared at strangers, thinking I would kill</p> - <p class="verse">Any that dared to thwart my casual will.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">So, passing through dark streets, with heedless eyes,</p> - <p class="verse">I came upon a beggar, who had drawn</p> - <p class="verse">Pictures, upon the stones, of ships, and skies;</p> - <p class="verse">The moonlight lay upon them, grey and wan—</p> - <p class="verse">And they seemed beautiful, alive they seemed;</p> - <p class="verse">Beside them, cap in hand, their maker dreamed.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a> - <p class="verse">Above him there a long, long while I stood,</p> - <p class="verse">Striving to go, like dream-stuff, to his heart;</p> - <p class="verse">Striving to pierce his infinite solitude,</p> - <p class="verse">To be of him, and of his world, a part;</p> - <p class="verse">I stood beside his seas, beneath his skies,</p> - <p class="verse">I felt his ships beneath me dip and rise;</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I heard his winds go roaring through tall trees,</p> - <p class="verse">Thunder his sails, and drive the lifted spray;</p> - <p class="verse">I heard the sullen beating of his seas;</p> - <p class="verse">In a deep valley, at the end of day,</p> - <p class="verse">I walked through darkness green along with him,</p> - <p class="verse">And saw the little stars, by moon made dim,</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Peer softly through the dusk, the clouds between,</p> - <p class="verse">And dance their dance inviolable and bright;</p> - <p class="verse">Aloft on barren mountains I have seen</p> - <p class="verse">With him the slow recession of the night,</p> - <p class="verse">The morning dusk, the broad and swimming sun,</p> - <p class="verse">And all the tree-tops burn, and valleys run</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">With wine of daybreak; he and I had kept</p> - <p class="verse">Vigil with stars on bitter frosty nights:</p> - <p class="verse">The stars and frost so burned, we never slept,</p> - <p class="verse">But cursed the cold, and talked, and watched the lights</p> - <p class="verse">Down in the valleys, passing to and fro,</p> - <p class="verse">Like large and luminous stars that wandered slow....</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Rising at dawn, those times, we had no fire,—</p> - <p class="verse">And we were cold,—O bitter times were those,—</p> - <p class="verse">And we were rained on, and we walked through mire,</p> - <p class="verse">Or found a haystack, there to lie and doze;</p> - <p class="verse">Until at evening, with a let of rain,</p> - <p class="verse">We shivered awake, and limped, with crying pain,</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">To farms, and begged a meal.... if they were kind</p> - <p class="verse">We warmed ourselves, and maybe were allowed</p> - <p class="verse">The barn to sleep in.... I was nearly blind,</p> - <p class="verse">Sometimes, with need to sleep—sometimes so cowed</p> - <p class="verse">By pain and hunger that for weeks on end</p> - <p class="verse">I’d work in the fields,—and maybe lose my friend:</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a> - <p class="verse">Live steady for a while and flesh my bones,</p> - <p class="verse">And reap or plough, or drive the cattle home,</p> - <p class="verse">And weed the kitchen patch, and pile up stones;</p> - <p class="verse">But always it must end, and I must roam;</p> - <p class="verse">One night, as still as stars, I rose, was gone,</p> - <p class="verse">They had no trace of me at come of dawn,</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And I was out once more in wind and weather,</p> - <p class="verse">Brother of larks and leaves and dewy ferns,</p> - <p class="verse">Friends of the road I had, we begged together,</p> - <p class="verse">And slept together, and tended fire by turns:</p> - <p class="verse">O, they were rare times, bitter times were they,</p> - <p class="verse">Winding the open road day after day!</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And then I came to London.... Sick, half dead,</p> - <p class="verse">Crossing a street I shocked with dizzy pain,</p> - <p class="verse">With fury of sound, and darkness ... then in bed</p> - <p class="verse">I woke; there was a long white counterpane;</p> - <p class="verse">I heard, impassively, the doctors talk.</p> - <p class="verse">From that day, without crutch, I could not walk.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">O, the sick-hearted times that took me then!</p> - <p class="verse">The days, like vultures, sat to watch me dying.</p> - <p class="verse">It seemed as if they lived to feed on men.</p> - <p class="verse">I found no work, it seemed so useless trying.</p> - <p class="verse">And I got sick of hearing doorbells ring:</p> - <p class="verse">Begging in London was a hopeless thing.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Once I had driven: I tried to get a job</p> - <p class="verse">At driving ’busses, but there wasn’t any;</p> - <p class="verse">Sometimes, by washing wheels, I earned a bob;</p> - <p class="verse">Sometimes held horses for a stingy penny;</p> - <p class="verse">And it was hard to choose between the bed</p> - <p class="verse">That penny paid for, and a bite of bread.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Often I hid in parks, and slept on benches,</p> - <p class="verse">After the criers had wailed and passed me by;</p> - <p class="verse">And it was cold, but better than the stenches</p> - <p class="verse">Of ten men packed in one room like a sty.</p> - <p class="verse">Twice, I was caught and jailed. It wasn’t bad,</p> - <p class="verse">Come to think of the cot and bread I had.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a> - <p class="verse">But O the weariness, day in, day out,</p> - <p class="verse">Watching the people walking on so cold,</p> - <p class="verse">So full of purpose, deaf to even a shout,—</p> - <p class="verse">It was their utter heedlessness that told;</p> - <p class="verse">It made me white at heart and sick with hate.</p> - <p class="verse">Some guiltily looked away; some walked so straight</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">They never knew I lived, but trod my shadow,</p> - <p class="verse">Brushed at the laces that I tried to sell....</p> - <p class="verse">O God, could I but then have seen a meadow,</p> - <p class="verse">Or walked erect in woods, it had been well,</p> - <p class="verse">These wretched things I might have then forgiven,</p> - <p class="verse">Nor spread my shadow betwixt them and heaven....</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I failed at hawking.... somehow, I never sold....</p> - <p class="verse">I wasn’t shaped for it by Him that makes.</p> - <p class="verse">I tried with matches, toys, sham studs of gold,—</p> - <p class="verse">I failed; it needs a fakir to sell fakes.</p> - <p class="verse">The bitter pennies that I saved for buying</p> - <p class="verse">Were going to hell, and my whole soul was dying.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I tried to steal a sleep, without my penny,</p> - <p class="verse">One night at John’s. I hadn’t fed all day.</p> - <p class="verse">It was a shrewish winter night, and rainy.</p> - <p class="verse">John found me out and swore. I said I’d pay</p> - <p class="verse">Next afternoon, or die—he said I’d die....</p> - <p class="verse">O, I was longing for a place to lie!...</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">He pushed me to the door and opened it,</p> - <p class="verse">His stinking arm was smothered round my face,</p> - <p class="verse">And then I raged and swung my crutch and hit,</p> - <p class="verse">He only laughed and knocked me into space.</p> - <p class="verse">When I came to, Joe Cluer bathed my head,</p> - <p class="verse">And he had paid my penny, so he said.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Joe Cluer was a man—God help him now,</p> - <p class="verse">Pneumonia got him down last year and took him.</p> - <p class="verse">But he had colored chalks, and taught me how</p> - <p class="verse">To draw on stones; sometimes the d.t.’s shook him</p> - <p class="verse">So hard he couldn’t draw, himself, but show</p> - <p class="verse">The way it’s done.... That’s how I made a go.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-36" class="pagenum" title="36"></a> - <p class="verse">And we’d steal out together, he and I,</p> - <p class="verse">And draw before the crowds began to come.</p> - <p class="verse">At first he helped me. But as time went by</p> - <p class="verse">Drink made him worse, and I would help him some:</p> - <p class="verse">I drew him six on paper, in the end,</p> - <p class="verse">And he would take them out, and just pretend</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">To draw a little on the dewy stones....</p> - <p class="verse">But it was useless, for the stones were wet,</p> - <p class="verse">And he just wasted chalk, and chilled his bones,</p> - <p class="verse">His hand shook ... O, I can see him yet ...</p> - <p class="verse">Cramping his fingers down with hellish pain</p> - <p class="verse">To write out “My Own Talent,” large and plain.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Sometimes, to go out early, it was fun,</p> - <p class="verse">When it was not too cold, on autumn days</p> - <p class="verse">When leaves were rustling downward, and the sun</p> - <p class="verse">Came rising red and paley through the haze....</p> - <p class="verse">The streets were fairly quiet, the people few,</p> - <p class="verse">There was a smell of dead leaves damp with dew....</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And I’d draw, singing, places I had seen,</p> - <p class="verse">The places that I walked when I was free,</p> - <p class="verse">And of my colors best I loved the green,—</p> - <p class="verse">O, it would break my heart to draw a tree</p> - <p class="verse">Growing in fields, and shaking off the sun,</p> - <p class="verse">With cattle standing under, one and one....</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And roads I loved to draw,—the white roads winding</p> - <p class="verse">Away up, beautifully, through blue hills;</p> - <p class="verse">Queer, when I drew them I was always minding</p> - <p class="verse">The happy things, forgetting all the ills,</p> - <p class="verse">And I’d think I was young again, and strong,</p> - <p class="verse">Rising at smell of dawn to walk along....</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">To walk along in the cool breath of dawn,</p> - <p class="verse">Through dusk mysterious with faint song of birds....</p> - <p class="verse">Out of the valleys, mist was not yet gone,—</p> - <p class="verse">Like sleeping rivers; it were hard for words</p> - <p class="verse">To say that quiet wonder, and that sleep,</p> - <p class="verse">And I alone, walking along the steep,</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-37" class="pagenum" title="37"></a> - <p class="verse">To see and love it, like the God who made!...</p> - <p class="verse">And I would draw the sea—when I was young</p> - <p class="verse">I lived by sea. Its long slow cannonade</p> - <p class="verse">Sullen against the cliffs, as the waves swung,</p> - <p class="verse">I heard now, and the hollow guttural roar</p> - <p class="verse">Of desolate shingle muttering down the shore....</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And the long swift waves unfurled in smother of white,</p> - <p class="verse">Snow, streaked with green, and sea-gulls shining high,—</p> - <p class="verse">And their keen wings,—I minded how, in flight,</p> - <p class="verse">They made a whimpering sound; and the clean sky,</p> - <p class="verse">Swept blue by winds—O what would I have given</p> - <p class="verse">To change this London pall for that sweet heaven!</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And I kept thinking of a Devon village</p> - <p class="verse">That snuggled in a sea-side deep ravine,</p> - <p class="verse">With the tall trees above, and the red tillage,</p> - <p class="verse">And little houses smothered soft in green,</p> - <p class="verse">And the fishers talking, biding for the tides,</p> - <p class="verse">And mackerel boats all beached upon their sides.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And it was pleasure edged with lightning pain</p> - <p class="verse">To draw these things again in colored chalk,</p> - <p class="verse">And I would sometimes think they lived again,</p> - <p class="verse">And I would think “O God, if I could walk,</p> - <p class="verse">It’s little while I’d linger in this street</p> - <p class="verse">Giving my heart to bitterly wounding feet....”</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And shame would gnaw me that I had to do it.</p> - <p class="verse">O there were moments when I could have cried</p> - <p class="verse">To draw the thing I loved—and yet, I drew it;</p> - <p class="verse">But how I longed to say I hadn’t lied,</p> - <p class="verse">That I had been and seen it, that I wanted</p> - <p class="verse">To go again, that through my dreams it haunted,</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">That it was lovely here, but lovelier far</p> - <p class="verse">Under its own sky, sweet as God had made.</p> - <p class="verse">It hurt me keenly that I had to mar</p> - <p class="verse">With gritty chalk, and smutchy light and shade,</p> - <p class="verse">On grimy pavings, in a public square,</p> - <p class="verse">What shone so purely yonder in soft air!</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-38" class="pagenum" title="38"></a> - <p class="verse">And yet I drew—year after year I drew;</p> - <p class="verse">Until the pictures, that I once so loved,</p> - <p class="verse">Though better drawn, seemed not of things I knew,</p> - <p class="verse">But dreamed perhaps; my heart no longer moved;</p> - <p class="verse">And it no longer mattered if the rain</p> - <p class="verse">Wiped out what I had drawn with so much pain.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I only care to find the best-paid places,</p> - <p class="verse">To get there first and get my pictures done,</p> - <p class="verse">And then sit back and hate the pallid faces,</p> - <p class="verse">And shut my eyes to warm them, if there’s sun,</p> - <p class="verse">And get the pennies saved for harder times,—</p> - <p class="verse">Winter in London is no joke, by crimes.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">It’s hellish cold. Your hands turn blue at drawing.</p> - <p class="verse">You’re cramped; and frost goes cutting to your bones.</p> - <p class="verse">O you would pray to God for sun and thawing</p> - <p class="verse">If you had sat and dithered on these stones,</p> - <p class="verse">And wanted shoes and not known how to get them,</p> - <p class="verse">With these few clothes and winter rains to wet them.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">You come and try it, you just come and try!</p> - <p class="verse">O for one day if you would take my place!</p> - <p class="verse">If we could only change once, you and I,</p> - <p class="verse">You, with your soft white wrists and delicate face!</p> - <p class="verse">One day of it, my man, and like Joe Cluer,</p> - <p class="verse">Pneumonia’d get you and you’d die, that’s sure.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">O God, if on dark days you yet remember</p> - <p class="verse">So small and base a thing as I, who pray,</p> - <p class="verse">Though of myself I am but now the ember—</p> - <p class="verse">For my great sorrows grant me this, that they</p> - <p class="verse">Who look upon me may be shaken deep</p> - <p class="verse">By sufferings; O let me curse their sleep,</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">A devil’s dance, a demon’s wicked laughter,—</p> - <p class="verse">To haunt them for a space; so they may know</p> - <p class="verse">How sleek and fat their spirits are; and after,</p> - <p class="verse">When they have prospered of me, I will go;</p> - <p class="verse">Grant me but this, and I am well content.</p> - <p class="verse">Then strike me quickly, God, for I am spent.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-39" class="pagenum" title="39"></a> - <p class="verse">Yet,—lift me from these streets before I die.</p> - <p class="verse">For the old hunger takes me, and I yearn</p> - <p class="verse">To go where swelling hills are, and blue sky,</p> - <p class="verse">And slowly walk in woods, and sleep in fern;</p> - <p class="verse">To wake in fern, and see the larks go winging,</p> - <p class="verse">Vanish in sunlight, and still hear them singing!</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">So die; and leave behind me no more trace</p> - <p class="verse">Than stays of chalkings after night of rain;</p> - <p class="verse">Even myself, I hardly know their place</p> - <p class="verse">When I go back next day to draw again;</p> - <p class="verse">Only the withered leaves, which the rain beat,</p> - <p class="verse">And the grey gentle stones, with rain still sweet.</p> - </div> -<hr class="tb" /> - - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">So for nine days I suffered this man’s curse,</p> - <p class="verse">And lived with him, and lived his life, and ached;</p> - <p class="verse">And this vicarious suffering was far worse</p> - <p class="verse">Than my own pain had been.... But when I waked,</p> - <p class="verse">His pain, my sorrow, were together flown;</p> - <p class="verse">My grief had lived and died; and the sun shone.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">There was a woman lived by Bloomsbury Square—</p> - <p class="verse">She is no more to me; I could not sorrow</p> - <p class="verse">To think, I loved this woman, she was fair;</p> - <p class="verse">All grief I had was grief that I could borrow—</p> - <p class="verse">A beggar’s grief. With him, all these long years,</p> - <p class="verse">I lived his life of wretchedness and tears.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="PERSONALITY"> -<a id="page-40" class="pagenum" title="40"></a> -Personality -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">George Burman Foster</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">A</span> powerful appeal to peoples, especially to the German peoples, it -was with this that the nineteenth century began. Still in the eighteenth -century there were no peoples, only dynasties, courts. All life revolved -around these courts. On the crumbs that fell from royal tables, peoples -lived. For the sake of these crumbs, peoples crawled and crouched and -cringed. Then came the Corsican! He trod under foot all these gracious -sovereigns. The greater selfishness of the giant swallowed up the selfishness -of the pygmies. Germany was still but an historical memory. Europe -seemed to have but one will: the will of Napoleon. In the collapse of -dynasties, peoples began to consider themselves. Preachers of repentance -arose who interpreted the sufferings of the people in a way that could be -understood. The Napoleonic thunder awoke them from the sleep of centuries. -There came the prophet Fichte with his ever-memorable <em>Reden an -die deutsche Nation</em>. A living divine breath blew over the dead bones of -the Fatherland until they became alive again. And as the people considered -and reflected upon themselves, and showed the astonished world that -they were still there, the judgment that was executed against the royal -courts was turned against their executor. The German phoenix arose from -its ashes, the people revealed their unwithering power, their eternal life. A -rebirth of the people’s life, this was the program of the major prophet -Fichte. Folk culture, folk education, this was to create a new self within -the folk, a free self, dependent upon a life of its own, instead of a self -that was unfree, dismembered, unsettled. And all the best, freest, noblest -spirits went about the work with a will to renew the folk life in head and -heart and hand. -</p> - -<p> -Did this work succeed? Was even an auspicious beginning made? -Or, was a false path taken from the very start? Confessedly opinions -deviate most widely as to all this. But among those who consider this -work as abortive and bungling, no one has aired his displeasure—if not, -indeed, his disgust and distemper—so energetically as <em>Friedrich Nietzsche</em>. -The Germans grew proud of their folk schools, where every one could learn -to read and write, if nothing more. But Nietzsche raged: “Everybody can -learn to read and write today, which in the long run ruins not only the -writing, but the thinking as well!” The Germans founded libraries, built -reading halls, and art institutes, that the spiritual treasures of humanity -might be as widely available as possible. But Nietzsche scoffed: “Once -there was the Spirit of God, now—through its introduction into the masses -it has become <em>Pöbel</em>, the vulgar plebeian mob!” He even called the whole -German culture <em>pöbelhaft</em>, vulgar, coarse, plebeian; German manners, unlike -<a id="page-41" class="pagenum" title="41"></a> -French, inelegant and unrefined; ochlocracy or mobocracy, the democratic -instinct of modern civilization—to Nietzsche, the grave of all genuine -human life. -</p> - -<p> -In the tendency of the times there is undoubtedly the danger of leveling -men, of uniformizing their culture, consequently of externalizing their culture. -Nietzsche’s aversion to this tendency is understandable, and is well -worth laying to heart. For example, religion ecclesiasticized is <a id="corr-15"></a>disspiritualized; -morals conventionalized are degraded; so is art; so is even science, as -is seen in the “science made easy” cults and courses. Nietzsche made it -the special business of his life to dam back this current in the affairs of -our modern world. To him, the preaching of the equality of all men was -the most dangerous lie of the last century. Therefore, he preached the -inequality of all men; required of men that they should not be ironed out -to the same smoothness, that they should not all be hand and glove with -each other, but on the contrary, that they should be aware of their manifold -inequalities, keep their distances, and that thus great and small might be -clear as to their real differences. <em>Not</em> liberty, equality, fraternity, but the -<em>Eigenheit</em>, the peculiarity, the uniqueness, the <em>own-ness</em> of the human personality, -the right of man to his <em>Eigenheit</em>, the pleasure in its unfolding -and formation—this was to be the watchword of the new culture. -</p> - -<p> -This was what Nietzsche required. He based his requirement upon -the fact that every man is an unrepeatable miracle. He never was before, -he never will be again, except in his own self. This fact is almost self-evident. -It must be kept in mind especially when we place a man into -relation with his surroundings. A man cannot possibly be explained merely -as a result of his environment. No man can be so explained, least of all -a superior individual who has awakened to a self-conscious life, of distinctive -personality, and who is inwardly aware of the mystery of his own -person. Here scientific inquiry, with its descriptions and explanations, -halts. At this point science ceases and we must resort to intuition and -interpretation of life’s deepest mysteries. -</p> - -<p> -Nietzsche was right in his requirement. Man is an unrepeatable -miracle. But may we not go even further than Nietzsche did? All life is -peculiar and singular and unique. Behold the billowy field of grain! -Countless stalks bend to the breeze. The whole seems to be but a great -homogeneous mass. But take any two of these stalks and consider them -more minutely, compare them with each other. Each is something special, -something with an individual life of its own. Pluck an ear from the stalk. -One grain is side by side with another, one looks for all the world just like -another. But, in fact, no one is just like another. And from each grain -a special stalk grows, so special that the like of it was never in the world -before. Or, you wander along the beach. Innumerable are the grains of -sand on the shore of the sea. The multitude of grains form indeed a uniform -mass, so uniform that its very uniformity wearies and pains the eye, -<a id="page-42" class="pagenum" title="42"></a> -if it is looked at for long. But look sharply, consider any two of these -grains of sand. Each is something for itself. In the whole illimitable mass, -you find no second grain just like the first. What is true of the little grains -of sand is true of every drop in the wide and deep sea; true of every mote in -the air, of every least particle in vast shoreless cosmic spaces. Then, too, -there are the stars—one star differs from another star in glory, as Paul saw -and said long ago. -</p> - -<p> -All this I call the wealth of nature, the wealth, if you will, of God. -In this eternal life, nothing is ever repeated or duplicated. This I call -infinite creative power. Never and nowhere does the weaving and waxing -world deal with copies. Everywhere and everywhen the world creates -an original fontal life of its very own. -</p> - -<p> -Then should not man be awakened to such a life—man in whose eyes -and soul all this singular and peculiar life is mirrored? Should it be man’s -lot alone to be excluded from all this superabounding fulness of original -life? Should he be offended at what is a blessing to all other creatures, -fear their fulness, find the true task of his life in the renunciation of this -fulness? To be sure, the centripetal, solidaric forces of life do indeed -awaken in man. With the breadth of his spirit man spans the greatest and -the least, compares the likest and the unlikest, combines the nearest and the -farthest. But, for all that, he would sin against life, he would commit -spiritual suicide, were he to use this systematic power of thought to overpaint -gray in gray the variegated world with its colorful magnificence, to -make everything in his own world so similar, so uniform and so unicolored, -everything that was divinely destined and created for an existence of its -own. From everything that was repeated or duplicated in the world would -ascend an accusation to God in whose life all human life was rooted. We -who would thus be only a repetition of another would have the feeling -that we were so much too much, that we were superfluous in the world! -For the proof that we are not superfluous in life is to be found in the fact -that no one else can be put into our place, can be confounded with us, that -there is a gap in life, in the heart, into which no one else can fit, and -that if ever another does occupy our place in life, the gap abides, surviving -as the only trace of our existence in the human heart, corresponding to -our image and our nature. To be superfluous in the world, to fill therein no -place of one’s own, to drift and drag about with this feeling—the feeling -of all this is alone the real damnation of life, the worst hell that there is -in this or in any other world. But the feeling, even with the minimum -capital of life, which yet we may call our own—the feeling that one makes -a necessary, organic, irreplaceable contribution to the possessions of humanity, -this is life indeed; who has this life, and keeps it alive, knows -more joy and bliss than any other heaven can guarantee. -</p> - -<p> -A life of one’s own that shall yet serve the life of all—there is the -consummation devoutly to be wished! In these days we hear much about -<a id="page-43" class="pagenum" title="43"></a> -decadence and the decadent. What does that mean? At bottom, the -decadent seeks to escape the diremption of the modern man between the -individual and the social, by affirming the former and negating the latter. -The individual, the social cell, detaches itself from the whole organization, -from the social body, without considering that he thereby dooms himself to -death. The cell can just as little exist without the organism, as the organism -without the cell. Decadence is the last word which anti-social individualism -has to say to our time. The history of this individualism is the -judgment of this individualism. The man who fundamentally detaches -himself from society cuts the arteries of life. Still the man must be his -own man, and not another, even that he may give a service of his own to -society, as a cell must be its own cell and not another if it is to construct -and constitute the organism of which it is so small a part. Besides, man -is not entirely like a cell. He is in an important sense a supersocial being, -as the cell is not super-organic. So we may as well go on with our discussion -of the Nietzschean uniqueness and <em>own-ness</em> of personality. Personality -is both super-individual and supersocial. We have its truth in value-judgment -and not simply in existence-judgment. -</p> - -<p> -Somewhere in the old forgotten gospels there is a grim stirring word: -Enter by the narrow gate, for the gate is broad and the road is wide that -leads to destruction, and many enter that way. But the road that leads -to life is both narrow and close, and there are few who find it. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, indeed! It is a narrow, a very narrow gate through which men -enter into life; a small, a very small path that leads to this narrow gate. -There is room for only one man at a time—only one! There is one precaution -with which man must sharpen all his wits, if he is to have regard -for the way, so that he may at no moment lose sight of the way; or if his -feet are not to lose their hold and slip, if he is not to grow dizzy and -plunge into the abyss. This is not every man’s thing; it costs stress and -strain and tension; it needs sharp eyes, cool head, firm and brave heart. -It is much easier to stroll along the broad way, where one keeps step with -another, where many wander along together; and if there but be one that -is the guide of all, then of course all follow that one step by step. On -this broad way no one need take upon himself any responsibility for the -right way. Should the leader mislead his blind followers, the latter would -disbelieve their own eyes rather than their leader, would “confess” that the -false broad way was nevertheless the right way, rather than condemn their -own blindness and indolence. These are the <em>Herdenmenschen</em>, the herd men -who cannot understand that there is a strength which only the man feels -who stands alone. These are the men who have no stay in themselves and -seek their stay, therefore, in dependence upon others; possess no supplies -of their own, and ever therefore only consume the capital which others -amass. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-44" class="pagenum" title="44"></a> -Friedrich Nietzsche summoned men out and away from this herd. -Friedrich Nietzsche warned men of the broad way and guided their minds -to the solitary paths which are difficult and perilous indeed, but along which -the true life is to be lived. These small paths, these are the paths of the -creative: “Where man becomes a new force, and a new law, a wheel rolling -of itself, and a first mover!” There every force of his being becomes a -living creative force. No thought is repeated, no feeling, no decision, is -a copy of something which was before. This is a new faith in man. He -does not need to live by borrowing. There is a stratum in his own soul, in -whose hidden depths veins of gold are concealed, gold that he needs but to -mine in order to have a worth of his own, a wealth of his own. This is a -new love to the man who conceals undreamt of riches underneath his poor -shell, divine living seedcorn preserved with germinating power underneath -all the burden of the dead that overlay him. Here Nietzsche, the godless -one, chimes with the godly Gallet who values the error which man of himself -finds more highly than the truth he learns by rote. To be sure, man possesses -this that is his very own, this power of the creator, in his soul, not -in his coat, not in his manners, not in life’s forms of social intercourse. -The man is still far from having everything his very own, if he be only -different from others, if he only says “no” to what others say “yes.” There -are people enough whom one might call reverse <em>Herdenmenschen</em>. They -esteem themselves original because they act, think, speak differently from -what they see everybody else doing, and yet they are only the counterpart -of others, they receive the impulse of their life, not from what is living in -their ownselves, but from opposition to what they themselves are not. -What they call beautiful is not beautiful to them because it grips their -souls, fills their hearts with the free joy of vision, but because others cannot -endure it, and call it ugly. The good for which they strive is not good -because they have themselves thereby become stronger, greater, better, and -will always become stronger, greater, better thereby, but a caprice which -they follow, making it a law to themselves, because others may not do so. -As if anyone could live on negation, or create by digging mole tracks in -the fields and meadows of men! Even the small path is path, and every -path has a goal, and the goal of every path is a “yes” and not a “no!” Therefore, -Friedrich Nietzsche, Contemner of <em>Pöbel</em>, of the plebeian mass, would -count all as <em>Pöbel</em> who held themselves aloof from the broad way purely because -they saw how many there were that trod it. He would also call the -most select and sought-after exclusivists <em>Herdenmenschen</em> were they to -derive the reason of their action and passion merely from the mania and -disease to be different from the herd. -</p> - -<p> -Plain, indeed, then, is Nietzsche’s great requirement. Let every man -honor and safeguard his unrepeatable miracle, and be something on his -own account. This cultural requirement is supplementation and development -of the moral ideal of the great German prophet at the beginning of -<a id="page-45" class="pagenum" title="45"></a> -the nineteenth century, speaking as he did out of the blackest night of a -people’s life. Fichte, too, would create a folk, no <em>Pöbel</em>. To be folk, all -that is <em>Pöbel</em> must be overcome. <em>Pöbel</em>, that is all that lives herd-like, -and borrows the impulse of its action and passion from others, not from -itself; or, more accurately, <em>Pöbel</em>, to speak with Nietzsche, is wherever -man is not himself, but his neighbor! <em>Pöbel</em> signifies, therefore, not a -human class, not a social layer of the population, but a <em>disposition</em>. Everywhere -there are aristocratic <em>Pöbel</em>, wherever men pride themselves on -reciprocally surpassing each other in flunkey-like ways of thinking. There -is a political, a partisan <em>Pöbel</em> which counts it human duty to help increase -the great pride that runs after a leader on the broad way of the herd. -There are <em>Pöbel</em> in science and in art, wherever men do not dare to ally -themselves with a cause, a principle, a work, until some “authority” has -pronounced judgment in the matter. There are pious <em>Pöbel</em> who cock their -ears for what their neighbor believes, who, even in questions of conscience -and of heart, are impressed by large numbers and determined by vast herds. -<em>Pöbel</em> shouts its “hosanna” and its “Crucify him” without knowing what -it does, and blasphemes every body who does not shout with it. To what -shall I compare this generation? It is like children sitting in the marketplace, -who call to their playmates, “We piped to you and you would not -dance, we lamented and you would not beat your breasts.” -</p> - -<p> -We are all influenced by what the medicinal psychologist is wont to -call “suggestion”—influenced, that is, by alien thoughts, alien expressions -of will. What we repeatedly hear comes to lose its strangeness; we come -to think that we have understood it and appropriated it. Our taste, our -moral judgment, our religious faith, these and such as these are probably -far more alien than domestic, far more the life of others than our own,—in -a word, suggestion. We have not tested the alien, elaborated it, made -it our own. We have let these uncritically empty themselves into the vessel -of our spirit where they coalesce, motley enough at times, with the -rest of the content. There is, therefore, something of <em>Pöbel</em> in all of us, -whether we control others or are controlled by others. To form out of -<em>Pöbel</em> strong and free personalities of our very own,—as a cell is formed -from the precellular stuff of life, as the flowers and fruit of a tree are -elaborated from the sap and substance at their disposal,—this is the first -and best service we can render society. To form out of <em>Pöbel</em> a folk, -not a distinctionless mass that wanders along the broad way to damnation,—a -community of men, where each walks the narrow path of life, no -herd in which the individual only has his number and answers when it -is called,—a body with many members, each member having its own life -and its own soul,—<em>also sprach Jesu-Fichte-Nietzsche</em>! -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THE_PROPHECY_OF_GWICHLAN"> -<a id="page-46" class="pagenum" title="46"></a> -The Prophecy of Gwic’hlan -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="note"> -(<em>Translated by Edward Ramos from the French of Hersart de la -Villemarque</em>) -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="I"> -I -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">When the sun sets, when the sea snores, I sing upon the sill of my door.</p> - <p class="verse">When I was young, I used to sing; and I still sing who am grown old.</p> - <p class="verse">I sing of the night, of the day, and none the less I am discontent.</p> - <p class="verse">If my head is low, if I am discontented, it is not without cause.</p> - <p class="verse">It is not that I am afraid; I am not afraid to be killed.</p> - <p class="verse">It is not that I am afraid; I have lived long enough.</p> - <p class="verse">When one does not look for me, I am found; and when one looks for me, he finds me not.</p> - <p class="verse">Little import that which advenes: that which ought to be will be.</p> - <p class="verse">And one must die three times, before he come to repose.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="II"> -II -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I see the wild-boar that comes out of the wood; he drinks very much, and he has a wounded foot.</p> - <p class="verse">His jaws are drooping, blood-covered, and his bristles are whitened with age.</p> - <p class="verse">He is followed by his tribe, grunting from hunger.<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-5" id="fnote-5">[5]</a></p> - <p class="verse">The sea-horse<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-6" id="fnote-6">[6]</a> comes to meet him; he makes the river banks tremble in horror.</p> - <p class="verse">He is as white as the brilliant snow; he has silver horns on his forehead.</p> - <p class="verse">The water boils under him from the thunder-fire of his nostrils.</p> - <p class="verse">Other sea-horses surround him, close packed as herbs by a swamp.</p> - <p class="verse">“Hold fast! hold fast! sea-horse; hit him on the head; hit hard, hit!</p> - <p class="verse">The bare feet slip in the blood! harder! have at them! harder!</p> - <p class="verse">I see blood flowing like a river! hit hard! hit them! strike harder!</p> - <p class="verse">I see the blood rise to his knees! I see blood like a lake!</p> - <p class="verse">Harder! have at them! harder! Thou may’st rest thyself tomorrow.</p> - <p class="verse">Hit hard! Hit hard, sea-horse! Hit him on the head! Hit hard! Hit!<a id="corr-17"></a>”</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-5" id="footnote-5">[5]</a> Wild-boar and his brood—the men of Bretagne and their leader. -</p> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-6" id="footnote-6">[6]</a> Sea-horse—the Norsemen. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="III"> -III -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">As I lay soft wrapt in sleep in my cold tomb, I heard the eagle call in the midst of the night.</p> - <p class="verse">He summoned his brood and all the birds of the heavens.</p> -<a id="page-47" class="pagenum" title="47"></a> - <p class="verse">He said to them in calling:</p> - <p class="verse">“Rise you quickly upon your two wings!</p> - <p class="verse">It is not of the rotten flesh of dogs or of sheep; it is of the flesh of Christians that we will be eating!<a id="corr-18"></a>”</p> - <p class="verse">“Old sea-crow, listen; tell me—what do you hold there?”</p> - <p class="verse">“I hold the head of the Chief of the Army; I wish to have his two red eyes.</p> - <p class="verse">I tear out his two eyes, because he has torn out thine own.”</p> - <p class="verse">“And you, fox, tell me—what do you hold there?”</p> - <p class="verse">“I hold his heart, which was false as mine is;</p> - <p class="verse">The heart which desired your death, and long ago plotted your death.”</p> - <p class="verse">“And you, tell me, Toad, what do you there, at the corner of his mouth?”</p> - <p class="verse">“I, I am put here to await his soul in passage:</p> - <p class="verse">It will remain in me as long as I shall live in punishment for the crime he has committed against the Bard who no longer lives between Roc’allaz and Porzguenn.”</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="editorials chapter"> -<a id="page-48" class="pagenum" title="48"></a> -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="editorials" id="EDITORIALS_AND_ANNOUNCEMENTS"> -Editorials and Announcements -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="RUPERT_BROOKE_ON_THE_WAR"> -<em>Rupert Brooke on the War</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">n</span> her Letter from London two months ago Miss Amy Lowell -made a reference to Harold Munro’s Poetry Book Shop in London -which may have seemed a little unfair to people who know -the high aim of Mr. Munro in that undertaking of his. Miss -Lowell did not intend it to be so; in fact she plans for an early -number of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> an article which shall set forth -the interesting work that is being done there. In the meantime -we have been shown a letter from Robert Brooke, one of the -Poetry Book Shop group, which is certainly not open to the charge -of “preciousness”. Mr. Brooke is in the War; he is a Naval Sub-Lieutenant -for service on land, attached to the Second Naval Battalion -and was sent with the relief force to Antwerp “just too -late”. The letter reads: “There I saw a city bombarded and a -hundred thousand refugees, sat in the trenches, marched all night, -and did other typical and interesting things. Now we’re back for -more training. I will probably get out again by Christmas.... -There’s nothing to say, except that the tragedy of Belgium is the -greatest and worst of any country for centuries. It’s ghastly for -anyone who liked Germany as well as I did.... I’m afraid -fifty years won’t give them the continuity and loveliness of life -back again! Most people are enlisting. —— and his brother -have gone into cavalry; I’m here: among my fellow officers being -Denis Brown, one of the best musicians in England; Kelly, the -pianist who won the Diamond Sculls; one of the Asquiths; a man -who has been mining in the Soudan; a New Zealander—an Olympic -swimmer; an infinitely pleasant American youth, called ——, -who was hurriedly naturalized “to fight for justice” ... -and a thousand more oddities. In the end, those of us who come -back will start writing great new plays.” Our London correspondent, -Mr. E. Buxton Shanks, sends a note with infinite pathos -in it. “I enclose a letter for December,” he writes. “Unfortunately -it may be my last. The greater part of my regiment went to -France last Monday and I expect to follow it before long, so that -this may be not only my last Letter to <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>, but -also my last piece of literature for ever and ever.” -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="RUSSIA_IN_STORM"> -<a id="page-49" class="pagenum" title="49"></a> -<em>Russia in Storm</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">F</span><span class="postfirstchar">rom</span> Russian newspapers and private letters that have been -smuggled through into this country we learn about the great -resurrection that is taking place in the land of extremes. The war -has shaken the dormant giant, and life is pulsating with tremendous -vigor. The abolition of liquor-trade has had an unbelievable effect -on the population; the fact that this reform was promulgated by -the government which has thereby lost nearly a billion yearly revenue, -is of inestimable significance. The Czar and his counsellors -have finally awakened to recognize the impossibility of reigning -over a country without citizens, and liberal reforms on a wide -scope are being announced. Nationalities and parties are united -under a new slogan: “Down with Nationalism! Long live Patriotism!” -Even the reactionary organs have abandoned their -chauvinistic tone, and they preach equality and freedom and the -abolition of the bureaucratic régime which they ascribe to Germanistic -influences. The revolutionary parties, however, are not intoxicated -with the momentary upheaval; they have had too many bitter -experiences to be lulled by promises from the throne. Of all the -warring nations the Russian socialists were the only party to take -an openly antagonistic attitude towards their government. They -were demonstratively absent from the Douma when the war manifesto -was announced, and later they gave out a declaration in which -they expressed their condemnation of the government and its policy. -Recently an official communication stated a discovered conspiracy -among the radical members of the Douma. It is clear that the -revolutionists intend to forge the iron while it is hot; this time -affords them a rare opportunity for forcing the Autocrat to yield -to the demands of the people and in defiance of popular sentiments -and drummed up patriotism, the uncompromising fighters -brave their way forward to the ultimate goal. It is great life in -Russia! -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="ALEXANDER_BERKMAN_ON_THE_CRIME_OF_PRISONS"> -<em>Alexander Berkman on the Crime of Prisons</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">M</span><span class="postfirstchar">r.</span> Alexander Berkman, author of <em>Prison Memoirs of -an Anarchist</em>, which is reviewed in this issue, will deliver -two lectures in Chicago, Sunday, December 6, in Room 512 of the -Masonic Temple. His subject in the afternoon will be <em>War and -Culture</em>; in the evening <em>The Psychology of Crime and Prisons</em>. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="WINTER_RAIN"> -<a id="page-50" class="pagenum" title="50"></a> -Winter Rain -</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">Winter now has come again;</p> - <p class="verse">All the gentle summer rain</p> - <p class="verse">Has grown chill, and stings like pain,</p> - <p class="verse">And it whispers of things slain,</p> - <p class="verse">Love of mine.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I had thought to bury love,</p> - <p class="verse">All the ways and wiles thereof</p> - <p class="verse">Buried deep and buried rough—</p> - <p class="verse">But it has not been enough,</p> - <p class="verse">Heart of mine.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Though I buried him so deep,—</p> - <p class="verse">Tramped his grave and piled it steep,</p> - <p class="verse">Strewed with flowers the aching heap,—</p> - <p class="verse">Yet it seems he cannot sleep,</p> - <p class="verse">Soul of mine.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And the drops of winter rain,</p> - <p class="verse">In the grave where he is lain</p> - <p class="verse">Drip and drip, and sting like pain,</p> - <p class="verse">Till my love grows live again,</p> - <p class="verse">Life of mine!</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="HOME_AS_AN_EMOTIONAL_ADVENTURE"> -<a id="page-51" class="pagenum" title="51"></a> -Home as an Emotional Adventure -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span> was going Home! -</p> - -<p> -It was seven o’clock on a clear, cold, snowless night in December—the -ideal night for a journey. Behind me, Chicago:—noise, jangle, rush, -and dirt; great crowds of people; a hall room of agonizing ugliness, with -walks of a green tone that produces a sort of savage mental biliousness and -furniture of striped oak that makes you pray for destruction by fire; frayed -rugs the color of cold dishwater and painted woodwork that peels off like -a healing sore; smells of impromptu laundry work, and dust that sticks like -a hopeful creditor; an outlook of bare brick walls, and air through the -window that should have been put through a sieve before entering. All -these—and one thing more which makes them as nothing: the huge glory of -accomplishment. -</p> - -<p> -Before me?... It was snowing hard as we steamed in. There -came a clanging of brakes, a cold blast of snowy air through the opened -doors, a rush of expectant people; and then, shining in the glow of a flickering -station light, one of the loveliest faces I’ve ever seen—my sister’s,—and -one of the noblest—my “Dad’s.” Then a whirring taxi, a luxurious adjustment -to comfort in its dark depths, a confusion of “So <em>glad</em> you’re here,” -and “Mother’s waiting at home”; a surging of all my appreciation at the -beauty of young Betty, with her rich furs and stunningly simple hat and -exquisitely untouched face; a long dash through familiar streets until we -reached the more open spaces—the Country Club district where there are -only a few homes and a great expanse of park and trees; and finally a -snorting and jerking as we drew up before a white house from which lights -were shining. -</p> - -<p> -Now this little house is all white, with green shutters and shingles, -with a small formal entrance porch, like a Wallace Nutting print, in front, -and a large white-pillared, glass-enclosed living-porch on one side. A red -brick walk of the New England type leads up to it, and great trees stand like -sentinels at the back. On a winter night, when the red walk and the terrace -are covered with soft snow, when the little cedar trees massed around the -entrance sparkle with icy frost, when the warm light from the windows -touches the whiteness with an amethyst radiance—well, it’s the kind of -house that all good dreamers sometimes have the reward of dreaming about. -And when Mother opened the door, letting out another stream of light and -showing her there against the warm red background of the hall, I was convinced -that getting home was like being invited to paradise. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-52" class="pagenum" title="52"></a> -Of course we talked and laughed for an hour; and underneath it all -I was conscious, above everything, of the red and white room in which we -sat; of the roaring, singing fire; of the shadows it threw on the luxurious -rugs and old mahogany; of the book-lined walls; of the scattered magazines -on the long table; of the chiming grandfather’s clock; of the soft lights; -and—more than all—of the vase of white roses against the red wall. -</p> - -<p> -“But you must hear the new Victrola records!” Mother cried. And so -I lay back in a deep chair with my face to the fire, and listened—listened -with my soul, I think, to some of the world’s great music: Sembrich and -Melba and Homer and Gluck; Paderewski and Pachmann, orchestras, operas, -and old, old songs; and finally my favorites—the violin ones. There was -Kreisler, with his perfect art, playing old Vienna waltzes, haunting Provence -folk songs, quaint seventeenth-century gavottes and dances; Maud -Powell putting new beauty into the Schubert <em>Ave Maria</em>, and that exquisite -tone-picture of Saint-Saëns called <em>The Swan</em>; and last of all Mischa Elman, -with his deep, passionate singing of Bach’s <em>Air for the G String</em> and -Tschaikovsky’s <em>Ye Who Have Yearned Alone</em>. There’s a beauty about -those last ones that is almost terrible, so close is it to the heart of human -sorrow. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” said Dad, a little later, “I don’t know about the rest of you, -but <em>I’m</em> going to bed. And first I mean to have some milk and a piece of -pumpkin pie. Does that attract a city girl?” -</p> - -<p> -It did—to the extent of three glasses of milk, besides the pie. “You’ll -not sleep,” warned Mother; but I retorted that I didn’t care; I was too -happy to sleep, anyhow. And, besides, the kitchen, in its immaculate gray -and whiteness, was so refreshing that I wanted to stay there awhile. Large -baskets of grape fruits and oranges and red apples stood on the pantry -shelves; the stove was polished until it looked like a Sapolio advertisement; -and a clock, ticking loudly, gave the room that curious sense of loneliness -that a kitchen needs. I can conceive of a library without books, or a fireplace -without a fire, but never of a kitchen without a loud-ticking clock. -</p> - -<p> -After <a id="corr-20"></a>a while we all trooped up to bed—up the white staircase with -the mahogany rail, and into fresh white bedrooms in such perfect harmony -with the snow outside. -</p> - -<p> -“This house is positively sensuous!” I told Mother. “It’s an emotional -adventure just to come into it....” -</p> - -<p> -I climbed into a big mahogany four-poster; but not to sleep—oh no! -I sat bolt upright with the silk comfortlet (oh luxury of luxuries!) around -my knees, and gazed out the windows: for from both of them I saw a fairyland. -It was all white—all except the amethyst shimmerings of boulevard -lights; and white flakes dropped one by one through the amethyst. Away -in the distance on both sides were faint outlines of woods—bare, brown -woods now covered warmly with snow. And over it all a complete and absolute -<a id="page-53" class="pagenum" title="53"></a> -stillness. Just as in spring I used to feel fairies leaping from every -separate violet and tulip and hyacinth for their twilight dance on the wet -grass, so now I felt a great company of snow fairies dancing in the faint -rays of amethyst that darted into the woods—dancing and singing and glittering -in their silver frostiness. And then a slow quiet wind would sound -far off in the branches of the oak trees; and gradually the fairy carnival -ceased and I went ecstatically to sleep. -</p> - -<p> -The next morning, after breakfast in a dining-room of old blue and -white and mahogany, I stated my ideas of what one ought to do in such a -house. “I don’t want to go anyplace or see anyone or do anything. Don’t -plan luncheons or teas or other things. It will take a week to store up all -the impressions I want to. So please just let me stay here quietly and absorb -the atmosphere.” -</p> - -<p> -And so my precious week began. In the mornings I’d put on boots—for -the snow was deep by this time—and take long tramps through the -woods. Then each afternoon had its distinct adventure: sometimes it would -be a mere wandering about from room to room standing before a specially-loved -picture or buried in a favorite old book. And what an enchanting -thing it is to read in such a setting: to look up from your book knowing that -wherever your eyes fall they will be rested; to feel your imagination sinking -into the soft depths of a reality that is almost dream stuff! -</p> - -<p> -Sometimes the afternoon would have its hard-fought game of cards -between Dad and me—with the table drawn close to the fire, and Bertha -running in from the kitchen with a hearty offering of cider and hot doughnuts. -(Bertha always seemed to sense the exact moment when we declared, -with groans, that to wait another hour for dinner would be a physical impossibility.) -Sometimes at four o’clock I’d conceal myself in a mass of -cushions in the big swing on the porch, and wait for the darkness to come on, -loving every change of tone in the grayness until the boulevard lights blossomed -like flowers and made another fairyland. And always we’d have tea -by candle-light—on the porch in deep wicker chairs, or before the leaping -fire. -</p> - -<p> -Sometimes after tea I’d take a two-mile tramp down town, stopping -at the post-office (because a post-office in a small town is a place worth seeing -at five o’clock in the evening) and trying deliberately to get cold and -tired before reaching home again, so that the warmth and comfort would -come as a fresh shock and joy. And then a quite wonderful thing would -happen: namely, the miracle of a superlatively good dinner. I shall never -forget those dinners! Not the mere physical pleasure of them, but their -setting: Mother feeling a little gossipy, and talking cozily of the day’s small -happenings; Dad in a mood of tolerant amusement at our chatter; and Betty, -usually in white, looking so adorable that even the roses on the table couldn’t -rival her. -</p> - -<p> -But most perfect of all were the long evenings! First we’d read aloud -<a id="page-54" class="pagenum" title="54"></a> -a little Pater, just for the ravishing music of his language, and then Betty -would sing. I don’t know any lovelier singing than Betty’s; it’s so young -and fresh and wistful. And when she’d finish with the Brahms <em>Lullaby</em> -I could have cried with the beauty of it all. Later, when everyone had gone -to bed, I would creep downstairs again to lie by the fire and have the obliging -Mr. Mischa Elman play me another concert. <em>Ye Who Have Yearned -Alone</em> was the thing he’d play most often, for it has a surging sadness that -keeps one humble in the midst of happiness. Everything of yearning is in -it: the agonies of countless tragic loves; the sad, sad strivings for joy -and comprehension; the world-old miseries of “buried lives”; hopes and -fears and faiths—and crucifixions; ecstacies dying out like flames; utter -weariness of living—and utter striving to live. -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -Oh, you people who have homes! Why <em>don’t</em> you realize what they -might yield you! When you find yourself uneager, stupefied with contentment, -ashamed of your vicious comfort—why not share your homes?... -Back in Chicago, I have a vision strong and soothing, like a poppy seed -that brings sleep. I close my eyes at night; and suddenly my bare walls are -lined with books; soft lights are lighted; in a great fireplace burns a crackling -fire that has in it sometimes soft sounds like bird-singing; and out of -the rumble of elevated trains, drowning the roar of traffic and bringing a -deep stillness, come the singing tones of a violin, rising and falling over an -immortal melody—<em>Ye Who Have Yearned Alone</em>. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="A_MIRACLE"> -A Miracle -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Charles Ashleigh</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">If the gods of Greece walked abroad,</p> - <p class="verse">The sun blazing their splendor to all eyes,</p> - <p class="verse">It would not amaze me.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">If the court of Solomon, the king,</p> - <p class="verse">In clashing storm of color,</p> - <p class="verse">Were to descend into the murk of the city,</p> - <p class="verse">I should not be surprised.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">For I have conversed with a stripped soul</p> - <p class="verse">And its grandeur and wonder have filled me.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="LONDON_LETTER"> -<a id="page-55" class="pagenum" title="55"></a> -London Letter -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">E. Buxton Shanks</span> -</p> - -<p class="date"> -<em>London, September 29th.</em> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">E</span><span class="postfirstchar">nough</span> of war poetry. An industrious statistician has calculated that -three thousand pieces have been printed since the beginning of August. -When our poets are unanimous in the choice of a subject, their unanimity is -horrible. We have had lyrical outrages from railway porters, dairymen, -postmen, road scavengers, and what not, with their names and professions -duly appended, in the delectable fashion set some time ago by <em>The English -Review</em>. Meanwhile, in France, young poets are killing one another. We -must arrange a balance-sheet of gains and losses when the war is done. M. -Charles Péguy is gone already; that is a loss which makes one fear for -Jules Romains and the rest who must be at the front in one army or the -other. The French and German casualty lists are not published in the English -papers: when the smoke clears off again the arts of the continent will -show a different complexion. -</p> - -<p> -Meanwhile we are beginning to ask, prematurely of course, what effect -the war will have indirectly on our own arts. The war of ’70 caused an -epoch of literary ferment in Germany and was at the back of much good -poetry. To that war we owe Detter von Liliencron, Richard Dehmel, and -Gerhart Hauptmann, who is, I freely admit, a great dramatist, though I -cannot abide him. In France it produced the tired subtleties of Kahn, -Régnier, and the other Symbolists. In Austria, a century of humiliation, -which has become almost a national habit, has evolved the tired elegance of -Hofmannsthal and the weary tenderness of Schnitzler who is so obviously so -sorry for all his characters as almost to make the reader weep with him. -If we win this war, what may we expect? We can be certain that the -English arts will react to the strain: the reaction will not necessarily be a -good one, unless the efforts of those who sit about at home and vulgarize -war are neutralized or ignored. The tone of our newspapers—and these -mould our minds, whether we like it or not—is now most insufferably ugly. -And as a result of victory, I fear a blatant hollow tone of exultation in our -poetry that—from a literary and social standpoint—is almost worse than -the languors of defeat. It will be well if we achieve victory when every -person in the country has been made to feel the cost of it. Three days knee-deep -in flooded trenches—our arts must draw strength from that dreadful -experience. -</p> - -<p> -It is true perhaps that we do wish to feel the cost. We are supposed -to live in fear of a Zeppelin raid. In my opinion, half the inhabitants of -London constantly though secretly hope it. We feel that with a bomb or two -tumbling about our heads we shall be “in it.” To read the newspapers is -<a id="page-56" class="pagenum" title="56"></a> -like having a surfeit of the kind of book which is called “The Great War -of 19—.” I have read dozens of them and they move my imagination almost -as much as the reports—some of them, such as are well-written, like Mr. -Wells’s <em>War in the Air</em>, even more. -</p> - -<p> -The result that we must pray for is a greater concreteness and reality -in our writing. We have developed an inhuman literary point of view which -is fundamentally insincere and which is never more ugly or less convincing -than when our poets try to be “modern.” Such poets as Emile Verhaeren—now -a refugee in London—treat factories and so forth, the typical products, -they think, of modern life, purely as romantic apparitions, much as the -romantic writers treated mountains and deserts, excuses for rhetoric and -flamboyant description. They have never felt the reality of them, because -modern life in its rapidity has outdistanced the poet’s mind in his attempt -to conceive it. -</p> - -<p> -I hold no brief for “modern poetry” in that sort of sense: I do not -hold it necessary to write about these things. But if you will compose upon -a factory or a railway-station, you must feel what factories and railway-stations -really are; you must not take refuge in a romantic description of -lights and roaring machinery. The perpetually breaking high note of the -Futurists is merely a rather useless attempt to deal with a difficulty that we -all know. Perhaps the war will bring us rather suddenly and jarringly in -touch with reality. It is certain that the young men of the class from which -literature chiefly comes, have now in their minds a fixed and permanent -thought which from time to time comes up onto the surface of consciousness. -This thought is the thought of violent death. We have grown physically -and morally soft in security; but, as I write, affairs are reaching a -crisis in France, fresh regiments are being sent abroad. We each of us -wonder which may be the next to go. -</p> - -<p> -This honest and undisguised fear—a man is wonderfully insensitive if -he does not feel it and a braggart if he will not admit it—has a powerful -and purifying effect on the spirit. Its spiritual action is comparable to that -of violent and maintained physical exercise. The flabby weight of our emotions -is being reduced and hardened: we have sweated away a great many -sick fancies and superfluous notions. The severe pressure of training for -war induces in us a love of reason, a taste for hard thinking and exactitude -and a capacity for discipline. -</p> - -<p> -The art of war is fortunately an art that allows itself to be definitely -judged. Either you win your battles or you lose them. It is of no use to say -that Warmser was a great general whose subtle and esoteric methods of -making war have never been appreciated by a numskulled public. Napoleon -thrashed him and there is an end of argument. A soldier cannot resignedly -appeal from the fortunes of the field to the arbitrament of the future. -</p> - -<p> -The consideration of these facts leads us to wish that poetry were in the -<a id="page-57" class="pagenum" title="57"></a> -same case; and we are beginning to feel both that poetry may become a more -active factor in normal life than hitherto and that a careful criticism may -remove it from the desert space of assertion and undefended preference -which it now inhabits. Possibly the war may help to cure us of our ancient -English muddle-headedness. We have awakened with surprise to find our -army an admirable and workmanlike machine. The South African war rid -us, in military affairs, of the incompetent amateur and the obstructive official. -Vague rumors of what the army had learnt there even reached other -departments of activity: possibly this war will infect us all with a new energy -and a new sense of reality. We may learn how to reach our ends by -taking thought and by cherishing ideas instead of plunging on in a sublimely -obstinate and indisciplined muddle. As for our war-poetry—I must -end where I began—it is merely a sloughing of the old skin, a last discharge -of the old disease. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="NEW_YORK_LETTER"> -New York Letter -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">George Soule</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">N</span><span class="postfirstchar">ature</span> flowers in the spring, man in the fall. With the first of -November comes a bewilderment of elections, concerts, books, plays, -new magazines, bombs, exhibitions, and all the other things that seem to -have blossomed so futilely year after year. To set about the task of discovering -the significant in it all is more confusing than to attempt to trace -the origin of new species in a single May countryside. -</p> - -<p> -Take the theatres, for instance. There is the usual increase in plays -which are so bad that even visiting travelling salesmen begin to suspect -their artistic integrity. There is Shaw’s <em>Pygmalion</em>, which some think is -second-rate Shavism well acted by Mrs. Campbell, and others believe is a -good play badly acted. There is Molnar’s <em>The Phantom Rival</em>, an amusing -and slender satire which is understood by one-quarter of the audience, and -applauded for its faults by the other three-quarters. MacDonald Hastings, -who aroused hopes with <em>The New Sin</em>, has descended to a very bad second-rate -in a vehicle for Nazimova called <em>That Sort</em>. Elsie Ferguson has -made a hit in <em>Outcasts</em>, written by Hubert Henry Davies,—the author of -the fascinating <em>Cousin Kate</em>,—as a vehicle for Ethel Levey, the former star -of unspeakable musical comedy in America who has become a great actress -in London. It is a play of sordid “realism,” whose <a id="corr-24"></a>principal function seems -to be to raise an almost academic question of morals and then disclaim -any moral intent by a solution which in the opinion of most of the audience -is either grossly immoral or disgustingly moral. Everything is topsy-turvy. -</p> - -<p> -Early in the season the Schubert organ created some amusement by -<a id="page-58" class="pagenum" title="58"></a> -demanding the abolition of dramatic critics. Here are the managers, ran -the argument, responsible business men who put large sums of money -into new productions. Along comes your newspaper critic to the first night, -with a somewhat exalted standard of taste, a jaded appetite, and a reputation -for wit. Before the play is over he leaves, hastily writes a column -in which he exploits his own cleverness at the expense of the play, and -turns away many possible customers. This is not good business ethics. -If the play really is bad, let the public find it out gradually. They may -never find it out at all. If it is good, we really don’t need the critics for -publicity. The article was ingenuous and engaging. Most of our critics -are so undiscerning that we were glad to see them baited. Perhaps as a -result of this, Alan Dale and Acton Davies both left their respective papers. -But as if to heap coals of fire, the critics united in a roar of praise -for <em>The Beautiful Adventure</em>, a play so truly awful that the most ingenious -and expensive pushing could not even bluff the public into liking it. It -failed after a few precarious weeks. -</p> - -<p> -Just now The Catholic Theatre Movement has created a diversion by -issuing their “White List” of plays and threatening to prosecute by law -the producers of “unclean” drama. They take occasion to compliment the -newspaper critics for abandoning to some extent artistic standards of criticism -and substituting moral standards. The movement will undoubtedly -tell against much undesirable filth, but it is needless to say that it would -be used with equal effectiveness against most works of genius which might -by some strange chance be produced. -</p> - -<p> -Little Theatres are sprouting up by the handful. The Punch and -Judy Theatre is a clever imitation of the theatrical prototype, with benches -for seats, wall boxes for two only, and boy ushers. It is the personal -enterprize of Charles Hopkins, a Yale graduate who shows his enthusiasm -by combining not only the rôles of actor, manager, and producer, but -owner and playwright as well. He has not yet, however, put on any of -his own plays. Mrs. Hopkins, a really talented graduate of Ben Greet’s -company, plays the feminine leads. The Neighborhood Theatre is a quasi-philanthropic -undertaking with enough money behind it to aspire to the -new stage art in all its magnificence of the concrete dome and more expensive -settings. Perhaps the most interesting of all will be a new theatre -planned by the Washington Square villagers under the leadership of a -committee among whose members are Mr. and Mrs. Max Eastman and -Charles and Albert Boni. It will be supported principally by its own subscribers -at a very moderate expense, and will be as far as possible from -a philanthropic attempt to “elevate the stage.” It is the result merely -of a belief that here is a group of people who want to see more intelligent -drama than is ordinarily supplied, and that the dramatic material and acting -and producing ability are available. Plays by American authors will be -<a id="page-59" class="pagenum" title="59"></a> -used as far as possible, but the standards will not be lowered for the sake -of encouraging either authors or propaganda. Such a thing cannot avoid -being at least a healthy experiment. -</p> - -<p> -Pavlowa opened in the Metropolitan a week after Genée had given a -Red-Cross benefit in a vaudeville theatre. The conjunction was a striking -example of the marked inferiority of a romantic form to a classic unless -the romantic vehicle is done honestly and supremely well. Genée gave -in ten minutes more genuine æsthetic pleasure by her perfection of line -than Pavlowa in a whole evening of half-done work. Pavlowa has proved -often enough that she can be one of the goddesses of the dance. Last -year she had with her Cecceti, her ballet master, and practiced with him -constantly. Only by such external vigilance can perfection be maintained. -This year, presumably for reasons of economy, Cecceti is not present. The -company is much weakened by the absence of the principal character dancers. -The opening ballet was a second-rate concoction with almost no real -dancing in it. And to top off the insult, a third of the program was devoted -to ordinary ball-room dances, which any number of cabaret performers -in the United States can do better than trained ballet people. It -was the usual tragedy of the artist who tries to popularize his work. An -enthusiast sitting next me said: “We are now seeing the funeral of good -dancing in America. Those who want this sort of thing will go to the -restaurants. And the others will say, ‘If this is ballet, give me baseball.’” -But there is still hope. The original Diaghilew company which plays yearly -in London and Paris is coming next season. Then we shall see romantic -ballet at its highest. -</p> - -<p> -Only one other event must be mentioned now. While various discontented -persons, perhaps anarchists, have been leaving bombs about public -buildings, the socialists have elected Meyer London to Congress. In itself -this is not of great significance. It is interesting to see, however, that -twelve thousand people went to the public reception to him in Madison -Square Garden. It is still more interesting to compare what was said there -with ordinary political buncombe. Mr. London began by calling President -Wilson one of the ablest men this country has produced. He went on to -say “The business of socialism is to give intelligence to discontent.... When -I take my seat in Congress I do not expect to accomplish wonders. What -I expect to do is to take to Washington the message of the people, to -give expression there to the philosophy of socialism. I want to show them -what the East side of New York is and what the East side Jew is. I am -confident that I will get fair play. I will be given my opportunity, and I <a id="corr-26"></a>do -not intend to abuse it. Do not let yourselves be deceived by this victory. -You are good noise-makers, but you are poor organizers. Organize now -for the next campaign. Organize for victory, not by violence, but by the -greatest of all forces, the force of the human intellect. Give the people your -message clearly and make them think about it.” -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-60" class="pagenum" title="60"></a> -If the ballot fails because of lack of intelligence, is it reasonable to -suppose that violence will succeed with the same material? Or that any -arrangement under the sun for the welfare of human beings can take the -place of individual human quality? “My friends, mankind is something -to be surpassed!” -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEATRE"> -The Theatre -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="THE_PHILANDERER"> -“The Philanderer” -</h3> - -<p class="note"> -(<em>Chicago Little Theater</em>) -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> most interesting thing about Shaw’s <em>Philanderer</em> as it was put on at -The Little Theater the latter part of November, was the new treatment -it received at the hands of the scenic artists of that precious institution. One -is tempted to use the trite but pretty figure and say that it was an instance of -an old gem in a new setting, only modifying it by the statement that <em>The -Philanderer</em> is merely a fake gem. The luster it may have had in the -eighteen-nineties is now almost entirely worn away. In short, its fun is -pointless. Ibsen, thanks largely to Mr. Shaw’s active propaganda, is a household -pet. Ibsen clubs are as obsolete as Browning clubs; while the “new” -woman as embodied in her present-day sister, the feminist, is too familiar and -too permanent a figure to be the subject of effective satire. That the play still -has appeal for a modern audience is due wholly to its characters, and yet these -stage people are not real. They are no more than caricatures, each effectively -distorted and exaggerated in the drawing, each effectively touched off -in monochrome. To use another overworked phrase, they are typically -Shavian in that they are not characters but traits of character. They are not -real people; they are perambulating states of mind, as are almost all of -Shaw’s creations, and the more emotional, rather than intellectual, the state -of mind, the wider its appeal. -</p> - -<p> -But neither Shaw nor the play is the thing in this discussion. The -setting of the play, subordinate, no doubt, in intention, but predominating -because of its novelty, is what interested most the eyes of the layman -brought up for years on the familiar conventions of the ordinary-sized -theater. The action demands interior settings, but instead of the realistically-painted -canvas walls and wooden doors, The Little Theater gives -us tinted backgrounds with rectangular openings for entrances and exits. -The first act is done in gray, the second and third in blue, and the fourth -<a id="page-61" class="pagenum" title="61"></a> -in a soft green. The effect of people, particularly of women, moving against -such plain unrelieved tints is pictorial in the extreme. Each successive -movement, each new position is a new picture. The curtains parting on -the last act, showing the copper tint of a samovar, a vase of delicate pink -flowers, a white tablecloth, a handsome dark woman pouring tea, all against a -soft glowing green, gave one the feeling of seeing an artfully-composed, -skillfully-colored canvas at a picture gallery. And it suggested, more successfully -than any other setting I have ever seen, the home of a person of -refinement and restraint. Less successful was the setting for the second -and third acts. The use of indigo in representing an Ibsen club may be -satirical and it may be subtle, but its effect on the spectator after an hour -or so is depressing, and in the general atmospheric gloom that increases as -the act goes on the sparkle of some of the brightest dialogue is lost. -</p> - -<p> -On the whole, the workings out of this new idea in scenery is suggestive -in its effect and lovely in its pictorial quality, but until the novelty wears off -it obtrudes itself upon the interest that belongs rightly to the play. Its cheapness -should ingratiate it to the professional producer. Naturally, the effect of -one unrelieved tint in the settings of a theater of ordinary size would be deadly -in its monotony, but the idea suggests of itself endless variation and improvements. -After leaving <em>The Philanderer</em>, with its obvious limitations, -with its uneven, at times amateurish acting, one cannot help wishing that our -every night plays had half the thought, half the taste, half the imagination -in their production that The Little Theater plays seem to have. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Samuel Kaplan.</span> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="MUSIC"> -Music -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="THE_KNEISEL_QUARTET_AND_HOFMANNIZED_CHOPIN"> -The Kneisel Quartet and Hofmannized Chopin -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -... And in the meantime war went on beyond the ocean. Strange, but -this absurd thought accompanied me as a shrill dissonance throughout the -concert. I could not help conjecturing what would be the result, if all the -warriors were brought together to listen to the Kneisel Quartet: Would -they not become ennobled, harmonized, pacified, humanized? Could they go -on with their dull work—for modern war gives no thrills for the individual -fighter—after Mozart’s Quartet in E Flat Major, which has the soothing -effect of a transparent vase? They might have found Brahms’s Quintet suffering -from this artist’s usual weakness—lack of sense of <em>measure</em>,—but the -Scherzo would certainly have elated the most avowed anti-German. The -four instruments performed their work so artistically that one forgot their -existence and heard “just music.” The only number that could have aroused -<a id="page-62" class="pagenum" title="62"></a> -international complications was the insincere grotesque of Zoltan Kodaly, -who succeeded in misusing an excellent source, Danuvian motives. “But -this is Modern”, I was shrapnelled. Well, call me a conservative, but if this -is modern music, then, in the name of Mozart and Beethoven, <em>Pereat!</em> -</p> - -<p> -Still imagining a Marsian audience I was not dismayed even by the -appearance of the effeminate Chopin. For Josef Hofmann took the artistic -liberty of interpreting the gentle Pole in his own way, and the Scherzo in -B Flat Minor sounded as a virile volcanic charge. The pianist refuses to -take Chopin sentimentally, and he puts charming vigor even into the moon-beamed, -tear-strewn D Flat Nocturne, even into the frail ephemeral E Minor -Valse. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">K.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="HOFMANSS_CONCERT"> -Hofmann’s Concert -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -The spoiled child of the world’s pianism—Josef Hofmann—played Schumann’s -A Minor piano concerto with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra at -two concerts during the first week in November. Both performances were -masterly and splendid in musical values. -</p> - -<p> -Since he left his cradle, Hofmann has had the world sitting at his pianistic -feet and fingers so that he has come to take the most vigorous and sincere -homage as a matter of fact; and, perhaps for this reason, he occasionally -fails to merit it. He is insolent to his worshippers and furious with his critics. -Long and copious praise has gone to his head. His insolence is less poetic -and far less handsome than Paderewski’s, and Hofmann’s playing needs to -reach magnificent proportions before one is able to forget his bad-boyish -disposition. -</p> - -<p> -But one does forget. For his musicianship and key-wizardry are things -of great beauty. Despite the fact that his scorn sometimes leads him to -abuse the piano, in the way of crude smashing blows, there is (in the -Schumann work, for instance, which displays him at his best) never a moment -in which he loses a rythmic grasp that is deeply satisfying. And when -he chooses, and doesn’t lose his temper, he can bring forth remarkable tonal -beauties from the box of wood and wire. There is an admirable drive in his -art. It is vital and powerful. One’s regrets are swallowed and quite forgotten -in listening to his artistic qualities of tone, rhythm, piano-color, and, -in fact, of genuine music. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Herman Schuchert.</span> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="ART"> -<a id="page-63" class="pagenum" title="63"></a> -Art -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="ROSE_MADDER_OR_RED"> -Rose Madder or Red? -</h3> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">William Saphier</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">P</span><span class="postfirstchar">hysical</span> usefulness predominates in the make-up of every real piece -of craftsmanship. Its lines and the beauty of its decoration make up -its value. -</p> - -<p> -Art does not rely on physical usefulness, form, or decoration. It is -its suggestiveness, its appeal to the imagination, its drawing out of sympathy -or hatred, its arousing of new and deep emotion—this is what gives the -fine arts their importance in life. Art should act as a screen for fine tragic -acts, for great emotions. Nature should be the pigment for the painter’s -brush, but not his aim. He should dilute it with his blood and marrow and -fling it on the canvas with determination. -</p> - -<p> -Thus I pondered as I entered the twenty-seventh exhibition of American -Oil Paintings and Sculpture at the Chicago Art Institute. Wandering -from canvas to canvas, from one prize-winner to another, I felt all my hope -for a miracle vanish. They are so real, so true to life, so bereft of imagination, -that one wonders why anybody ever took the trouble to paint them. -</p> - -<p> -Just look at these flowers, trees, cows, and nudes. I have seen them -many, many times exactly the same way and under the same circumstances -in life. They are “pretty” and will undoubtedly make a good decoration -in a middle-class home. This may be a worthy thing to do, but why should -it be called art? I think this is our punishment for great achievements -in the industrial field. No nation can go on building the fastest railroads, -the tallest skyscrapers, the largest factories, the fastest automobiles, without -paying for it by a loss of its finer æsthetic senses. -</p> - -<p> -But I am getting away from the exhibition. It has become the fashion -to be disappointed with exhibitions both here and abroad—and with good -reason. As there are few good artists, the chances of getting them on a -jury is slight. The result is apparent: good pieces of craftsmanship are -hung along with fine pieces of art, and the prizes intended for fine art <a id="corr-29"></a>go -to good craftsmanship. In saying this I do not wish to join the popular -sport of hitting the jury and getting a round of applause. But how can -one escape these conclusions if he compares the prize-winner, <em>A Nude</em>, by -Richard E. Miller, with “<em>Under the Bough</em>,” by Arthur B. Davis, whose -rhythmically-moving figures and beautiful colors transport one to fairyland? -The figures remind me of Hodler, the foremost painter today in Switzerland, -who is sixty years old and younger than the youngest. Or compare the -prize with <em>Thomas and his Red Coat</em>, by Robert Henri. What simple forms -and colors—what a thorough understanding of a child and his world! Or -<em>The Widow</em>, by Charles W. Hawthorne. These are works of great simplicity, -<a id="page-64" class="pagenum" title="64"></a> -understanding, imagination, and individuality; they are monuments to -some fine feeling, dream, thought, or incident in the life of their creators. -</p> - -<p> -As for the other prize winners—the disjointed color spots serving as -garden flowers and the chocolate box cover-design—I shall not discuss -them. The meaning of such stuff and the reason for awarding is too -obscure. -</p> - -<p> -Outside the pictures mentioned above the following are worth seeing: -<em>The Venetian Blind</em>, by Frederic C. Frieseke; <em>Dance of the Hours</em>, by Louis -F. Berneker; <em>Winter Logging</em>, by George Elmer Brown; <em>Through the Trees</em>, -by Frank T. Hutchins; <em>The Harbor</em>, by Jonas Lie; <em>The Garden</em>, by Jerome -S. Blum; <em>Procession of the Redentore Venice</em>, by Grace Ravlin; <em>The Ox -Team</em>, by Chauncey F. Ryder; <em>Smeaton’s Quay, St. Ive’s</em>, by Hayley Lever; -<em>The Fledgling</em>, by Grace H. Turnbull. <em>A Hudson River Holiday</em>, by Gifford -Beal, looks much like a department store. In fact you may find everything -in this exhibition from a flag to a mountain—and all the popular -colors. The only thing that is missing is a “For Sale” sign, with a “marked-down” -price. -</p> - -<p> -Seven pieces of sculpture by Stanislaw Szukalski, whose work the readers -of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> had a chance to see reproduced in the last number, -make up the most interesting part of the exhibition. -</p> - -<p> -The original obscuring of the works of Grace Ravlin, Grace H. Turnbull, -Johansen, and Blum by the hanging committee deserves praise. But -I think if they really wanted to do something unusual they might have -thought of something better. For instance, hang all the rejected ones in -separate rooms, marked “rejected,” and let the visitors see and judge for -themselves. This would give the exhibition a bigger meaning. As it is, -it means confusion; and confusion asks persistently in this case: are the -fine arts anything in particular or just a mixture of craftsmanship, cleverness -(the usual companion of emptiness) and some undigested ideas? -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -Life is a learning to die.—<em>Plato.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -Man grows used to everything, the scoundrel!—<em>Dostoevsky.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="BOOK_DISCUSSION"> -<a id="page-65" class="pagenum" title="65"></a> -Book Discussion -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="A_WATTEAUESQUE_ENTHUSIAST"> -A Watteauesque Enthusiast -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>The Enchantment of Art</em>, by Duncan Phillips. [John Lane Company, New -York.] -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">o</span> Mr. Phillips life is a <em>Fête Galante</em> in Watteau’s style. He sees -nothing but the elegant, the poetic, the joyous, the enchanting. I picture -him in a powdered wig, clad in a gorgeous costume of the Louis XV. period, -playfully lorgnetting life and art, and raving ecstatically over everybody and -everything. I confess, an all-loving person looks suspicious to me; but Mr. -Phillips’ book is so sincere, he adores things so pathetically, that I cannot -help enjoying him. He becomes irritating only at such moments when he -tries to be very much in earnest and breaks into absurd generalization. His -credo is Impressionism—in life and in art—but what an elastic term is Impressionism -to our dear enthusiast. Giotto, Titian, Da Vinci, Velasquez, -Corot, and Dégas were impressionists, and so were Shakespeare, and -Browning, and Keats, and Yeats, and Robert Bridges and who not! -He loves them all, loves beautifully, touchingly, but he fails pitifully to define -his beliefs. Why should he define? Why not be happy in enjoying good things -without giving reasons, without strained endeavors to form classifications -and definitions<a id="corr-32"></a>? Oh, those definitions! But we easily forgive the author his -absurd statements, we can even sympathize with the pain he gets when -contemplating the Futurists, whom he terms “lawless.” We forgive a -lover everything, for we feel grateful to him for the moments of bliss that -he generously shares with us. Truly, it is a book of religious joy. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">K.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="OLD_VIRTUES_IN_NEW_FORMS"> -Old Virtues in New Forms -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>The Age of Mother-Power</em>, by C. Gasquoine Hartley (Mrs. Walter M. -Gallichan). [Dodd, Mead and Company, New York.] -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -One is compelled to take Mrs. Gallichan seriously in her visioning of -the future social status of men and of women in the world of sex; for the -results of close observation, research, and computation strengthen the most -reasonable prophecies. She is modest enough to state her big idea in simple -terms. She points out that, since society had in its primitive days a long -and up-tending period of mother-power, or female dominance; and, following -that, a protracted season of masculine rule, which is only now awakening -to feminine rebellion; it is clearly apparent that a new era is commencing, -in which all the old virtues of mother-right will be re-established in new -<a id="page-66" class="pagenum" title="66"></a> -forms, with the distinctly modern addition of that solitary virtue of male -despotism—father-protection. This is a theory—only a theory, if one -wishes to preen one’s own prejudice—which the writer approaches and -develops from various angles. She has fruitfully studied history, legend, -folk-lore, savages, and other departments of human life. Her deductions -are carefully and lucidly thought out, strongly original, and entirely worthy -of attention. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Herman Schuchert.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="A_HANDBOOK_OF_THE_WAR"> -A Handbook of the War -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>The Great War</em>, by Frank H. Simonds. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -The European war threatens to become a prolonged phenomenon. To -the Trans-Atlantic public it is a keenly-felt tragedy; to us here it is an interesting -spectacle, the audience being requested to remain neutral, to refrain -from applause and disapproval. Even so, we are in need of a libretto. -Frank H. Simonds supplies us with a comprehensive account of the first act -of the drama. The lay reader is getting acquainted with the complexities of -the pre-war events and with the further developments of the conflict down -to the fall of Antwerp. The simple maps and the lucid comments make the -book not only instructive, but also readable. You must read the book if -you do not want to play the ignoramus in present-day floating, cinematographic -history. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THE_NEW_REPORTING"> -The New Reporting -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Insurgent Mexico</em>, by John Reed. [D. Appleton and Company, New -York.] -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -“Who is John Reed?”, asked the newspapers when, forgetting for the -moment their name-worshipping arrogance, they discovered that the best -reports from Mexico were coming, not from the veteran correspondents, but -from an unknown. The answer is that John Reed is the only “correspondent” -that the Mexican mix-up or the present European struggle has yet -brought to light, who has a really new and individual method of reporting. -These are not dogmatic, cock-sure, crisis-solving “articles” from the front, -but simple, vivid reporting of scenes and actions that have some reason for -being reported. And John Reed is about the only reporter who has shown -us that the Mexican people have visions of a future. The newspapers and -<a id="page-67" class="pagenum" title="67"></a> -those whose duty it seems <a id="corr-33"></a>to be to uphold the old idea are now crying that Reed’s -simple realism is too slight to be of value as history, and that he does not -“get beneath the surface”—but these people have still to see which kind of -reporting can endure as history. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="INCORRECT_VALUES"> -Incorrect Values -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Life and Law</em>, by Maude Glasgow. [G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.] -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -A secondary title—“The Development of the Exercise of the Sex Function -Together with a Study of the Effect of Certain Natural and Human -Laws and a Consideration of the Hygiene of Sex”—is evidence <em>per se</em> that -the book is inadequate and superficial. In less than two hundred pages no -writer can more than hint at all these topics, and in trying to cover so much -ground the author really covers nothing. She tells over old facts and frequently -gives them what are now accepted as incorrect values. Her statements -are as sweeping as the scare heads of the old quack medicine almanacs. -She describes men as ignorant, intolerable, immoral monsters; and -women as being universally down-trodden and the sexual victims of man’s -unbridled appetite. The book is as full of “musts” and “shoulds” as the -rules of an old-fashioned school master. The author tells nothing new; -veers from science to sentimentality in a most disconcerting way; and adds -nothing to the constantly-increasing library of valuable sex books. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Mary Adams Stearns.</span> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="editorials" id="SENTENCE_REVIEWS"> -Sentence Reviews -</h2> - -</div> - -<div class="sentrev"> -<p class="noindent"> -<em>Abroad at Home</em>, by Julian Street. [The Century Company, New -York.] So far as what he will write is concerned we don’t give a rap whether -Shaw visits America or not. Yes, we don’t believe even <em>he</em> could lay out -the statisticians as Street does when he advises us on the purchase of pig iron; -or display such fiendish glee at the chance of hurting the feelings of a professional -Fair booster: or—well, every paragraph of every chapter is worth -reading. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Reminiscences of Tolstoy</em>, by Count Ilya Tolstoy. [The Century Company, -New York.] The book is richly illustrated; this is its main value. -Nothing is added to what we have known about Tolstoy’s personality; we -have had numerous, perhaps too many, works on his intimate life; Sergeyenko -nearly exhausted the subject. True, we gain considerable information -about the great man’s son, Count Ilya, but, pray, who is interested in it? -</p> - -<p> -<em>American Public Opinion</em>, by James Davenport Whelpley. [E. P. Dutton -and Company, New York.] The name is misleading: the book presents -a series of articles on American internal and foreign problems, written from -the point of view of a conservative. Why call Mr. Whelpley’s personal -opinion “American Public Opinion”? The articles on our foreign diplomacy -are valuable; they reveal our infancy in this peculiarly European art. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-68" class="pagenum" title="68"></a> -<em>Jael</em>, by Florence Kiper Frank. [Chicago Little Theater.] The production -of this play was treated subjectively in the last issue of this magazine. -In the reading of it the verse impresses one in much the same manner -as the viewing of the production. The two effects are so similar as to impress -one with the coherence and wonderful worth of the Chicago Little -Theatre in harmonizing the value of the play as literature with the importance -of the production. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The House of Deceit.</em> Anonymous. [Henry Holt and Company, New -York.] Maurice Sangster had a “conviction in his heart that he was born -to make a conflagration of the Thames”. He came to London and proceeded -to attack the religious, political, and social institutions of the present day. -He serves merely as a blind for the author, who, attacking almost everything -under the sun, is not courageous enough to reveal his identity. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Mystery of the Oriental Rug</em>, by Dr. G. Griffin Lewis. [J. B. Lippincott -Company, Philadelphia.] To the lover of Persian and Caucasian -rugs the book will surely bring moments of exquisite joy. The author possesses -both knowledge and taste, and he tells us curious things about the -history of the oriental rug. -</p> - -<p class="note"> -(<em>A number of reviews of important books are held over until next -month because of lack of space.</em>) -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> - <div class="box narrow"> -<p> -<em>You will receive</em> -</p> - -<p class="h1 adh"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> -</p> - -<p class="c"> -<em>with heartiest Christmas Greetings</em> -</p> - -<p> -<em>From</em> ................................ -</p> - - </div> - <div class="s"> -<p> -A card like the above will be mailed, on receipt of your check of -$1.50, to the person to whom you wish to send THE LITTLE REVIEW -for one year. -</p> - -<p> -We will also mail them the December number, to be delivered on -Christmas Day. -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="h1 adh"> -<em>FOR THE HOLIDAYS</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -VAUDEVILLE -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Caroline Caffin and Marius de Zayas -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>8vo. Cloth, richly illustrated in tint and in black and white. $3.50 net</em> -</p> - -<p> -Lovers of vaudeville—and they are legion—will find this a book of rare -fascination. -</p> - -<p> -Caroline Caffin knows vaudeville from the inside; she loves it too, and she -writes with understanding of the men and women who, season after season, bring -joy to so many people in all of the larger cities. Mr. De Zayas, one of the cleverest -of living cartoonists, furnishes almost two score of his inimitable caricatures of our -most popular vaudeville stars. -</p> - -<p> -Among those who flit through these pages are: -</p> - - <div class="table"> - <div class="tr"> -<p class="tc u"> -Nora Bayes<br /> -Eva Tanguay<br /> -Harry Lauder<br /> -Yvette Guilbert<br /> -Fay Templeton -</p> - -<p class="tc u"> -Ruth St. Denis<br /> -Gertrude Hoffman<br /> -The Castles<br /> -Bernhardt<br /> -Elsie Janis -</p> - -<p class="tc u"> -Marie Lloyd<br /> -Annette Kellerman<br /> -Frank Tinney<br /> -McIntyre & Heath<br /> -Al Jolson -</p> - - </div> - </div> -<p class="adb"> -THE NEW MOVEMENT IN -THE THEATRE -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Sheldon Cheney -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>8vo. Cloth, with sixteen plates and explanatory tissues. $2.00 net</em> -</p> - -<p> -A most comprehensive book. There is not an aspect of the tremendously -interesting new movement in the theatre upon which Mr. Cheney does not touch. -And to every chapter he brings a wealth of knowledge gathered from a great variety -of sources—most of it at first hand. Furthermore, he writes with charm and -distinction: his book never fails, before all else, to interest. Gordon Craig, Max -Reinhardt, Bakst, and the Russian Ballet; Shaw, Galsworthy, the German, French -and American contemporary drama; David Belasco, the influence of the Greek -theatre, the newest mechanical and architectural developments in the theatre—all -these and others are in Mr. Cheney’s dozen brilliant chapters. Numerous -interesting illustrations add to the value of his book and make it one that no -lover of the theatre can afford to be without. -</p> - -<p class="c"> -<em>Order from Your Bookseller</em> -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -MITCHELL KENNERLEY, PUBLISHER, NEW YORK -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-69" class="pagenum" title="69"></a> -<div class="centerpic holt"> -<img src="images/holt.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="h1 adb"> -“THE RAFT” -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -BY -CONINGSBY DAWSON -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -Author of “The Garden Without Walls,” -“Florence on a Certain Night,” etc. -</p> - - <div class="narrow"> -<div class="centerpic dawson fl"> -<img src="images/dawson.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p> -“Life at its beginning and its end -is bounded by a haunted wood. -When no one is watching, children -creep back to it to play with the -fairies and to listen to the angels’ -footsteps. As the road of their -journey lengthens, they return more -rarely. Remembering less and less, -they build themselves cities of imperative -endeavor. But at night the -wood comes marching to their walls, -tall trees moving silently as clouds -and little trees treading softly. The -green host halts and calls—in the -voice of memory, poetry, religion, -legend, or, as the Greeks put it, in -the faint pipes and stampeding feet -of Pan.” -</p> - - </div> -<p class="u ade"> -<span class="larger">HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY</span><br /> -34 West Thirty-third Street<br /> -NEW YORK -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-70" class="pagenum" title="70"></a> -<p class="h1 adh"> -IMPORTANT NEW SCRIBNER BOOKS -</p> - -<p class="h1 adb"> -Through the Brazilian Wilderness -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By THEODORE ROOSEVELT -</p> - -<p> -Here is Colonel Roosevelt’s own vivid narrative of his explorations in South America; his -adventures on the famous “River of Doubt,” his visits to remote tribes of naked and wholly -barbarous Indians, his 500-mile journey on mule-back across the height of the land between -the river systems of Paraguay and the Amazon, his observations on the most brilliant and -varied bird life of the South American tropics; hunting of the jaguar, the tapir, the peccary, -the giant ant-eater, and other unusual animals of the jungle; all of this varied panorama is -depicted in the author’s most graphic and picturesque style, full of the joy of new adventures. -The book is a permanent addition to the literature of exploration. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Profusely illustrated. $3.50 net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - - <div class="box narrow"> -<p class="adb"> -Half Hours -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -<em>By</em> J. M. BARRIE -</p> - -<p> -From the delightful, romantic -fantasy of “Pantaloon” to the present-day -realism of “The Twelve -Pound Look,” represents the wide -scope of Mr. Barrie’s dramatic work. -All four of the plays in this volume, -though their subjects are quite diverse, -are beautifully suggestive of -Barrie at his best with all his keenest -humor, brightest spontaneity, and -deepest insight. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>“Pantaloon,” “The Twelve Pound -Look,” “Rosalind” and “The -Will.” $1.25 net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - - </div> -<p class="b ada"> -HENRY VAN DYKE -</p> - -<p class="c"> -has written a new volume -of poems: -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Grand -Canyon -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -And Other Poems -</p> - -<p> -This collection of Dr. van -Dyke’s recent verse takes its title -from that impressive description -of the Grand Canyon of Arizona -at daybreak, which stands among -the most beautiful of Dr. van -Dyke’s poems. The rest of the -collection is characterized by -those rare qualities that, as <em>The -Outlook</em> has said, have enabled -the author “to win the suffrage -of the few as well as the applause -of the many.” -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>$1.25 net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Robert Frank -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Sigurd Ibsen</span> -</p> - -<p> -Henry Ibsen’s only son is the author of this drama, -which William Archer, the distinguished English critic, -considers convincing proof that he possesses “dramatic -faculty in abundance.” Mr. Archer defines it as “a -powerful and interesting play which claims attention -on its own merits,” “eminently a play of today, or, -rather, perhaps, of tomorrow.” -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>$1.25 net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Artist and Public -And Other Essays on Art Subjects -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Kenyon Cox</span> -</p> - -<p> -There is no one writing of art today with the vitality -that fills every paragraph of Mr. Cox’s work. Its freedom -from what has become almost a conventional jargon -in much art criticism, and the essential interest of -every comment and suggestion, account for an altogether -exceptional success that his book on The Classic -Spirit has had within the last few years, and that will -be repeated with this volume. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Illustrated. $1.50 net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -In Dickens’ -London -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">F. Hopkinson Smith</span> -</p> - -<p> -The rare versatility of an author -who can transfer to paper -his impressions of atmosphere as -well in charcoal sketch as in -charmingly told description has -made this book an inspiration to -the lover of Dickens and to the -lover of London. The dusty old -haunts of dusty old people, hid -forever but for Dickens, are visited -again and found little -changed. Where modern things -have crept in they are noticed -with quick observation, keen -humor, and that sympathy with -the human which the author -shares with the great Dickens -himself. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Illustrated with 24 full-page illustrations -from the author’s -drawings in charcoal. $3.50 -net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Path-Flower and Other Verses -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Olive T. Dargan</span> -</p> - -<p> -“Her vocabulary is varied, glowing, expressive. Indubitably -a poet of great charm and power has appeared -in the person of Olive Tilford Dargan.”—<span class="smallcaps">James -Huneker</span>, <em>in the North American Review</em>. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>$1.25 net.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Poems of Edgar Allan Poe -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -With an Introduction by <span class="smallcaps">E. C. Stedman</span> and Notes by -<span class="smallcaps">Professor G. E. Woodberry</span> -</p> - -<p> -Nearly half a century passed after the death of Poe -before the appearance of the Stedman-Woodberry -Edition of his works, which embodies in its editorial -departments critical scholarship of the highest class. In -this volume of Poe’s “Poems” the introduction and the -notes treat not only of the more significant aspects of -Poe’s genius as a poet, but his technical methods, and -of scores of bibliographical and personal matters suggested -by his verses. Entirely reset in larger type. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Half morocco, $4.00 net; half calf, $3.50 net; cloth, -with portrait, $2.00 net.</em> -</p> - -<p class="h1 adb"> -<a id="page-71" class="pagenum" title="71"></a> -The Diary of Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -The Cruise of the “JANET NICHOL” Among the South Sea Islands -</p> - -<p> -There can be no greater inspiration and pleasure for lovers of Stevenson and his work than in the diary -of his wife, written during their cruise in 1890, with no thought of publication, but, as she says, “to help her -husband’s memory where his own diary had fallen in arrears.” It is full of vivid descriptions of strange -characters, both native and white, and also gives most fascinating glimpses of Stevenson himself which are a -delightful addition to our knowledge of Stevenson, as they have never before been given to the public in -any way. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Fully illustrated from photographs taken during the trip. $1.75 net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - - <div class="box narrow"> -<p class="adb"> -Memories -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">John Galsworthy</span> -</p> - -<p> -This is a charmingly sympathetic -biographical sketch of a dog—a cocker -spaniel that came into the author’s -possession almost at birth and remained -with him through life. It has none -of the imaginative exaggeration common -in modern animal stories—records -nothing improbable at all. But -the author’s insight and his power of -interpretation individualize the little -spaniel and bring him into the reader’s -intimate sympathy. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Illustrated with four full-page colored -illustrations and a large number -in black and white by</em> <span class="smallcaps">Maud Earl</span>. -<em>$1.50 net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - - </div> -<p class="adb"> -The End of the -Trail -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">E. Alexander Powell</span>, -F.R.G.S. -</p> - -<p> -A narrative of the most remarkable -journey ever made by -automobile on this continent—a -narrative upon which are strung -descriptions of the climate, customs, -characteristics, resources, -problems, and prospects of every -State and province between -Texas and Alaska in such a manner -as to form the only comprehensive -and recent volume on -the Far West. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>With 45 full-page illustrations -and map. $3.00 net; postage -extra.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The British Empire and the United States -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -A Review of Their Relations During the Century of -Peace Following the Treaty of Ghent, by <span class="smallcaps">William -Archibald Dunning</span>. With an Introduction -by the <span class="smallcaps">Right Honorable Viscount Bryce</span> -and a Preface by <span class="smallcaps">Nicholas Murray -Butler</span> -</p> - -<p> -This is the psychological moment for the appearance -of a book which explains the century of peace between -Great Britain and the United States. When nearly -every world power except the United States is at war, -the history of our relations with a country, one of -whose dominions borders ours for a distance of 3,000 -miles, cannot help being intensely interesting and helpful -to an understanding of war and peace and their -underlying causes. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>$2.00 net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Diplomatic History of the War -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -Edited by <span class="smallcaps">M. P. Price</span>, M.A. -</p> - -<p> -This volume is the first complete record of the events -preceding the war. It includes a Diary of Negotiations -and Events in the Different Capitals, the Texts of the -Official Documents of the Various Governments, full -report of the public speeches in all the European Parliaments -by the leaders of the different parties concerning -the War, an account of the military preparations, -of the countries concerned, and much original matter. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>$2.25 net.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Una Mary -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Una A. Hunt</span> -</p> - -<p> -Here is child idealism beautifully described in personal -reminiscences. A sensitive and imaginative child -creates in her fancy a second self embodying her dearest -ideals. The two selves grow up together and eventually -become one. The book is intensely interesting, -not only from a human point of view, but also from -that of a scientific psychologist. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>$1.25 net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Notes on Novelists -With Some Other Notes -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Henry James</span> -</p> - -<p> -Here is a book which describes -with penetrating analysis and in -a thoroughly entertaining manner -of telling the work not only -of the great modern novelists of -the last century, Stevenson, Zola, -Balzac, Flaubert, and Thackeray, -but also takes up in a chapter -entitled “The New Novel” the -work of Galsworthy, Mrs. Wharton, -Conrad, Wells, Walpole, -Bennett and the other more important -contemporary novelists. -This chapter gives in a short -space as keen and authoritative -a criticism of present-day fiction -as can be found. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>$2.50 net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Man Behind the Bars -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Winifred Louise Taylor</span> -</p> - -<p> -To gain the confidence of convicts, to know their -inner lives, and through this knowledge to attempt to -better prison conditions and methods of punishment -throughout the country is Miss Taylor’s life aim. In -this book, composed of a series of anecdotes, amusing, -pathetic, and all intensely interesting, she has embodied -the experience of many years of concentrated work -in this field. In its sympathy, an essentially human -quality, the book is thoroughly fascinating and gives -the point of view of a class too little known to most -of us. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>$1.50 net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Fables -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Robert Louis Stevenson</span> -</p> - -<p> -“I am very much struck with Mr. Hermann’s drawings -to the Stevenson ‘Fables.’ They seem to me to -show remarkable power, both of invention and hand.”—<span class="smallcaps">Sydney -Colvin.</span> -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Illustrated with 20 full-page illustrations, 20 initials, -and 20 tail-pieces, by</em> <span class="smallcaps">E. R. Hermann</span>. <em>$3.00 net.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -One Woman to Another -And Other Poems -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Corinne Roosevelt Robinson</span> -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Robinson has a gift of poetic thought and -expression and an ear for the music of poetry which -rarely permits a discordant line, but it is this constant -impression of deep sincerity which is her most appealing -and distinguishing quality.”—<em>Springfield Republican.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>$1.25 net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Criticism -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">W. C. Brownell</span> -</p> - -<p> -This suggestive essay is a systematic exposition and -defense of criticism by one of the foremost American -critics. It considers philosophically the field, function, -equipment, criterion and method of criticism in a way -that will equally delight readers, authors, and critics. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>75 cents net; postage extra.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-72" class="pagenum" title="72"></a> - <div class="box w20 fl"> -<div class="centerpic huebsch"> -<img src="images/huebsch.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p> -<span class="larger"><em>The gift of -a good book -implies a -compliment -to the -intelligence -of the -recipient. -Instead of -giving books -which you -would resent -having -on your -shelves, why -not present -these books -which <span class="underline">you</span> -would like -to own?</em></span> -</p> - - </div> -<p class="adb"> -TALES OF TWO COUNTRIES -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By MAXIM GORKY -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -$1.25 net; weight about 18 oz. -</p> - -<p> -After a number of years, the potency of the great Russian’s pen is again exercised. -This commanding volume of stories discloses varied aspects of the foremost -living writer among those who attracted universal attention to modern Russian literature. -The folk and psychology of Italy, to which country he retired in exile, supply the themes -of thirteen of the twenty-two tales, the others are of Russian life. Gorky’s admirers will -find in the collection a reaffirmation of the art which secured his high place among interpreters -of life through fiction. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -DRAMATIC WORKS: Volume V -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By GERHART HAUPTMANN -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -$1.50 net; weight 22 oz. -</p> - -<p class="narrow ads"> -CONTAINS: “<span class="smallcaps">Schluck and Jau</span>;” “<span class="smallcaps">And Pippa Dances</span>;” -“<span class="smallcaps">Charlemagne’s Hostage</span>.” -</p> - -<p> -The second group of Hauptmann’s Symbolic and Legendary Dramas gains unity by a -recognizable oneness of inspiration. The poet has become a seeker; he questions the -nature and quality of various ultimate values; he abandons the field of the personal and -individual life and “sends his soul into the infinite.” [A special circular, with contents -of the preceding volumes, will be mailed upon request to the publisher.] -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -WISCONSIN PLAYS -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -$1.25 net; weight about 18 oz. -</p> - -<p class="narrow ads"> -CONTAINS: “<span class="smallcaps">The Neighbors</span>,” by Zona Gale; “<span class="smallcaps">In Hospital</span>,” -by Thomas H. Dickinson; “<span class="smallcaps">Glory of the Morning</span>,” -by William Ellery Leonard. -</p> - -<p> -A noteworthy manifestation of the interest in the stage and its literature is the -work, both in writing of plays and their performance, of the gifted band organized as -the Wisconsin Dramatic Society. The three one-act plays in this volume are fruits of -the movement. Having met with success in the theatre, they are now offered to the -creative reader to whose imagination dramatic literature is a stimulus. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -SELF-CULTURE THROUGH -THE VOCATION -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By EDWARD HOWARD GRIGGS -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -50 cents net; weight about 8 oz. -</p> - -<p> -This new book in the Art of Life Series deals with work as a way to culture -and service. When the cry everywhere is vocational education, it is worth while to stop -and ask, What of the education that is possible through the vocation itself? This question -is studied in six chapters, with a lightness of touch that saves the teaching from -didacticism and gives it universal human appeal. The book is a companion study to the -author’s popular “The Use of the Margin.” Dr. Griggs is particularly satisfying in such -brief, trenchant studies of deep problems of life, and the new book should be of special -value to young people and to men and women longing to make each day yield its full -return in culture and wisdom. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE DEATH OF A NOBODY -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By JULES ROMAINS -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -$1.25 net; weight about 18 oz. -</p> - -<p> -An amazingly perfect production of incomparable restraint and power; it reveals with -a quality enchaining the attention, the interwoven web of human revelations, romantic -from their very prosaicness. The life of one in other’s minds—the “social consciousness” -about which the sociologists have developed abstruse theories, is here portrayed explicitly, -with a fascination no theory can have. The uniqueness of the book is suggested by the -fact that the “Nobody” about whom the action revolves dies in the second chapter. -Though fiction, it will supply convincing arguments to believers in life after death. It is -not only a masterpiece of literary art, but might well be used as the concrete text of -the mind of the crowd. Translated from the French by Desmond MacCarthy and Sydney -Waterlow. -</p> - -<hr class="hr10" /> - -<p> -All of these may be obtained from booksellers or from the publisher. Upon application -to the latter, a list of interesting publications of 1914 may be obtained. -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -B. W. HUEBSCH, 225 Fifth avenue, New York -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-73" class="pagenum" title="73"></a> -<p class="h1 adh"> -<span class="underline">“BOOK CHRISTMAS” SUGGESTIONS</span> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Pastor’s Wife -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By the Author of “Elizabeth and Her German Garden” -</p> - -<p> -A delicious and timely piece of satire on German and English ways by the Author of “Elizabeth and -Her German Garden.” A story of an English girl who marries a German pastor, and of her laughable -attempts to Germanize herself and Anglicize her children. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Illustrated by Arthur Litle. Net $1.35.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Bambi -</p> - -<p> -<b>By Marjorie Benton Cooke.</b> Bubbling over with -good cheer and fun, with little side-glimpses into -New York Literary and Theatrical circles. Fourth -Large Printing. Illustrated. <em>Net $1.25.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -A Soldier of the Legion -</p> - -<p> -<b>By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.</b> A romance -of Algiers and the famous Foreign Legion, now -fighting at the front. <em>Net $1.35.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Grand Assize -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Hugh Carton -</p> - -<p> -If you were judged today what would the verdict be? In this volume, Lawyer, Minister, Actor, -Author, Plutocrat and Derelict—all stand before the Judgment Bar. It is a book of extraordinary -character which you will not forget in a long time. <em>Net $1.35.</em> -</p> - - <div class="box narrow"> -<p class="h3 adh"> -The Drama League<br /> -Series of Plays -</p> - -<p class="c"> -Already Issued. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -I. Kindling. -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -<em>By Charles Kenyon</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -II. A Thousand Years -Ago. -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -<em>By Percy MacKaye</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -III. The Great Galeoto. -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -<em>By José Echegaray.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -IV. The Sunken Bell. -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -<em>By Gerhart Hauptmann.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -V. Mary Goes First. -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -<em>By Henry Arthur Jones</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -VI. Her Husband’s Wife. -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -<em>By A. E. Thomas.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -VII. Change. A Welsh Play. -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -<em>By J. O. Francis.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -VIII. Marta of the Lowlands. -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -<em>By Angel Guimerá</em> -</p> - -<p class="c"> -COMING -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -IX. The Thief. -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -<em>By Henry Bernstein</em> -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Bound in Brown -Boards. Each, net, 75c.</em> -</p> - - </div> -<p class="h3 adh"> -<em>Art and Literature</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Art of the Low Countries -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Wilhelm R. 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Single -Volumes, net, $1.50.</em> -</p> - - </div> -<p class="adb"> -A Handbook to the Poetry of Rudyard Kipling -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By RALPH DURAND -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Kipling has personally helped prepare this book, which clears up the many obscure allusions and -unfamiliar expressions in his verses. 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It pictures -with almost prophetic exactness -scenes which may now -be taking place in the field of -conflict. <em>Cloth. 12mo. 60 cents -net.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -WOMAN and WAR -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By OLIVE SCHREINER -</p> - -<p> -This part of that classic, “Woman -and Labor,” written after -the author’s personal experience -of warfare, is the best and most -eloquent statement of what war -means to women and what their -relation is and should be to war. -<em>Boards. 12mo. 50 cents net.</em> -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -Publishers—FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY—New York -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-75" class="pagenum" title="75"></a> -<p class="h1 adh"> -<em>Appleton’s Newest Publications</em> -</p> - - <div class="box w30 fl bd"> -<div class="centerpic washington"> -<img src="images/washington.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="adb"> -Washington, The Man of Action -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -Text by Frederick Trevor Hill -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -Pictures in Color by JOB (J. O. -de Breville) -</p> - -<p> -A splendid holiday biography -of George Washington, by the -well known American historian, -superbly illustrated by the -famous French artist, Comte -J. Onfroy de Breville, known -to art lovers the world over as -JOB. There are forty-eight -full page pictures (including -several double-page pictures), -each covering the entire page, -printed in the French style -without margins, and reproduced -in five colors. 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APPLETON & COMPANY :: PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-76" class="pagenum" title="76"></a> - <div class="box w30 fr"> -<div class="centerpic grant"> -<img src="images/grant.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="adb"> -THE TRUE -ULYSSES S. GRANT -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By GENERAL CHARLES KING -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>24 illustrations. Octavo. Buckram. -$2.00 net. Half levant. -$5.00 net. Postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p> -This new volume in the True -Biography and History Series is -the work of a writer peculiarly -fitted to deal with Grant. Not -only Grant, the general, but Grant -the man, and Grant, the president, -are treated with the same regard -for truth that characterizes all the -volumes in the series. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -ESSAYS, POLITICAL -AND HISTORICAL -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By CHARLEMAGNE TOWER, LL.D. -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -<em>Former Minister of the United States to -Austria-Hungary. Ambassador to -Russia and to Germany.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>$1.50 net. Postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p> -Essays upon vital subjects by -one of our greatest figures in the -diplomatic world will demand instant -attention. Mr. Tower knows -whereof he speaks when he treats -such subjects as “The European -Attitude Towards the Monroe -Doctrine,” etc. The book will be -widely read for its important -revelations in the light of the -present disturbed conditions. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE MYSTERY OF -THE ORIENTAL RUG -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Dr. G. GRIFFIN LEWIS. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Frontis in color and 30 full-page -plates. $1.50 net. Postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p> -This charming book is compact -with information and no one should -buy rugs without its aid. -</p> - - </div> -<p class="h1 adh"> -Books for the Holidays -</p> - -<p class="u ade"> -<span class="larger">J. B. 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Mr. Pennell’s illustrations, made especially for -this volume, are the greatest he has yet accomplished. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -HEROES AND HEROINES OF FICTION -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By WILLIAM S. WALSH. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Half morocco. $3.00 net. Postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Walsh has compiled the famous characters and famous names in -modern novels, romances, poems, and dramas. These are classified, -analyzed, and criticised and supplemented with citations from the best -authorities. A valuable, interesting reference book. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -COLONIAL MANSIONS OF MARYLAND -AND DELAWARE -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By JOHN MARTIN HAMMOND. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Limited edition, printed from type, which has been distributed. With 65 -illustrations. Octavo. In a box, $5.00 net. Postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p> -Uniform in style and price with others in the Limited Edition Series—“Colonial -Homes of Philadelphia,” “Manors of Virginia,” etc., all of -which are now out of print and at a premium. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE AMERICAN BEAVER -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By A. RADCLYFFE DUGMORE -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Illustrated with photographs. $2.50 net. Postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p> -Few people possibly realize that the American Beaver is one of our -most interesting native animals. Mr. Dugmore tells everything worth -knowing about them, and this new work will delight the stay-at-home as -well as the out-of-doors man. -</p> - -<p class="fr s u ade"> -PUBLISHERS<br /> -PHILADELPHIA -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -<span class="larger">J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY</span> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-77" class="pagenum" title="77"></a> - <div class="box w30 fl"> -<p class="h2 adh"> -THE STORIES ALL<br /> -CHILDREN LOVE SERIES -</p> - -<p> -This set of books for children -comprises some of the most famous -stories ever written. They are -beautifully illustrated in color. -Be sure to ask for this series. Each -$1.25 net. <b>The 1914 Volume is</b> -</p> - -<div class="centerpic cuckoo"> -<img src="images/cuckoo.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>8 illustrations in color. $1.25 net.</em> -</p> - -<p> -This is one of the most delightful -children’s stories ever written. -</p> - -<p> -In the same series: “THE SWISS -FAMILY ROBINSON,” “THE -PRINCESS AND THE GOBLIN,” -“AT THE BACK OF THE -NORTH WIND,” “THE PRINCESS -AND CURDIE,” “THE CHRONICLES -OF FAIRYLAND,” “HANS -ANDERSEN’S FAIRY TALES,” “A -DOG OF FLANDERS,” “BIMBI,” -“MOPSA, THE FAIRY.” -</p> - -<p class="h2 adh"> -Boys! Girls! -</p> - -<p> -Send 14 cents for this Beautiful -Twelve Page Calendar in color. -</p> - -<div class="centerpic calendar"> -<img src="images/calendar.jpg" alt="" /></div> - - </div> -<p class="h1 adh"> -Books for the Holidays -</p> - -<p class="u ade"> -<span class="larger">J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY</span><br /> -PUBLISHERS PHILADELPHIA -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -<em>ILLUSTRATED HOLIDAY CATALOGUE MAILED ON REQUEST</em> -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -<em>TWO CHARMING CHRISTMAS BOOKS</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -BETTY’S VIRGINIA CHRISTMAS -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Four illustrations in color by Henry J. Soulen. Page Decorations. 12mo. -Cloth, decorated in green and gold, $1.50 net. Postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p> -A Southern story that carries the true spirit of Christmas to the hearts -of young and old. To the tune of Dixie fiddles there is a rout of festive -dances, early morning fox-hunts, and spirited feasts of turkey, egg-nog -and the other delicious dishes for which Virginia cooks and Virginia -farms are rightly famous. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Illustrated in color by Charles Robinson. Head and tail pieces and decorative -lining papers. Octavo. Cloth. $1.75 net. Postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p> -This book is a sheer delight, filled with the whims and fancies of garden-lovers. -The authors have caught the note of family life in a picturesque -old English dwelling, where grown-ups and children live largely out of -doors, and where birds and animals and bees and flowers become of a -most human comradeship. If one cannot own such a sentimental garden -the next best thing is to know all about one. -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -<em>GIVE A BOY ONE OF THE TRAIL BLAZERS SERIES</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -BUFFALO BILL AND THE OVERLAND TRAIL -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By EDWIN L. SABIN. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Illustrated. $1.25 net. Postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p> -An inspiring, wonderful story of the adventures of a boy during those -perilous and exciting times when Buffalo Bill began the adventurous -career that has indissolubly linked his picturesque figure with the opening -of the west to civilization. They were the romantic days of the Overland -Trail, the Pony Express, and the Deadwood Coach. In the same series, -“WITH CARSON AND FREMONT,” “ON THE PLAINS WITH -CUSTER,” “DAVID CROCKETT; SCOUT,” “DANIEL BOONE; -BACKWOODSMAN,” “CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH.” -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -<em>GOOD FICTION FOR THE CHRISTMAS FIRESIDE</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE WARD OF TECUMSEH -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By CRITTENDEN MARRIOTT. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Illus. $1.25 net. Postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p> -<em>PHILADELPHIA PRESS</em>: -</p> - -<p> -“Historical romance will never lose its fascination as long as such -vivid, picturesque, and wholly entertaining tales as this are forthcoming. -For ‘The Ward of Tecumseh’ combines the thrill and excitement -of a red-blooded Western story with the compelling interest of -historic narrative.” -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE THREE FURLONGERS -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By SHEILA KAYE-SMITH. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Frontispiece. $1.25 net. Postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p> -<em>NEW YORK TIMES</em>: -</p> - -<p> -“Her story is written with such sincerity of feeling and appreciation -of moral beauty and contains so much human truth that the author -deserves warm commendation. An achievement worth while.” -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE DUKE OF OBLIVION -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By JOHN REED SCOTT. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Frontispiece. $1.25 net. Postage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p> -<em>NEW YORK TIMES</em>: -</p> - -<p> -“There are plots and counter-plots, hand-to-hand fights, and many -thrilling adventures ... until the end the reader is kept in a -high state of doubt as to whether or not they will all escape in safety.” -</p> - -<p class="u fr s ade"> -PUBLISHERS<br /> -PHILADELPHIA -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -<span class="larger">J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY</span> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-78" class="pagenum" title="78"></a> -<p class="h1 adh"> -WORTH WHILE BOOKS -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -RECOLLECTIONS AND REFLECTIONS OF A JAPANESE ARTIST -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By YOSHIO MARKINO, Author of “A Japanese Artist in London.” -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -8vo. Cloth. Fifteen -illustrations in color and monochrome. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -$2.00 net -</p> - -<p> -The charming intimacies which were given in the author’s previous book are here continued. -Mr. Markino’s style is indescribable; frankness, originality of expression and spontaneity -are the chief characteristics. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE WAY OF THE STRONG -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By RIDGWELL CULLUM, Author of “The -Night Riders,” etc. 12mo. Cloth. Wrapper -in color and four illustrations by Douglas -Duer. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -$1.35 net -</p> - -<p> -It tells the story of a MAN—of powerful -build and powerful spirit. In his clash as a -capitalist with labor; in his frenzied love for -his wife; in his every undertaking, this man -is a character of force and power. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -A MANUAL OF PLAY -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By WILLIAM BYRON FORBUSH, Ph. D, -Author of “The Boy Problem,” etc. 12mo. -Cloth. Illustrated. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -$1.50 net -</p> - -<p> -Designed for parents and all having the -care of children. It deals with play with -dolls, play with balls, imaginative play, constructive -play, laughter plays, play for girls, -Sunday play and neighborhood play, etc. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -DANIEL WEBSTER -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -(American Crisis Biographies) -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By FREDERIC A. OGG, Ph. D., Professor -of History in the University of Wisconsin, -and author of “The Governments of Europe.” -12mo. Cloth. With portrait. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -$1.25 net -</p> - -<p> -The <em>man</em> Webster is brought out in strong -contrast to the statesman and publicist. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -HOW TO WIN AT AUCTION -BRIDGE -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By EDWIN ANTHONY. 16mo. Limp cloth. -With rules and specimen hands. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -75 cts. net -</p> - -<p> -An up-to-date work dealing with the game -in its most interesting form, “Royal Spades,” -and giving a brief exposition of the nullo -count. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -REDUCING the COST of LIVING -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By SCOTT NEARING, Ph. D., Wharton -School, University of Pennsylvania. Author -of “Wages in the United States,” -“Social Adjustment,” etc. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -12mo. Cloth. -With numerous tables. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -$1.25 net -</p> - -<p> -A comprehensive discussion of the problems -that enter into the ever-increasing cost -of living. The book is clear, concise and -logical. The author’s conclusions are based -upon facts. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -SHEAR NONSENSE -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -A book for the after-dinner speaker. 16mo. -Cloth. 75 cents net. Limp leather, boxed. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -$1.25 net -</p> - -<p> -The best humor that has appeared in the -last two years. The same discrimination and -refinement that have been responsible for the -success of “That Reminds Me” and “That -Reminds Me Again” are features of this volume. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -ULYSSES S. GRANT -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -(American Crisis Biographies) -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By FRANKLIN S. EDMONDS, Author of -“A Century’s Progress in Education.” -12mo. Cloth. With portrait. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -$1.25 net -</p> - -<p> -A careful study of the great general, furnishing -some interesting information heretofore -unknown. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -MORE ABOUT COLLECTING -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By JAMES YOXALL, Author of “The A B -C About Collecting.” 8vo. Cloth. One -hundred and nine illustrations. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -$2.00 net -</p> - -<p> -Gives detailed information for the amateur -and semi-amateur collector of furniture, -earthenware, glassware, porcelain, pictures, -books, autographs, etc. -</p> - -<p class="s c"> -<em>For sale by all booksellers or by the publishers</em> -</p> - -<p class="s ade"> -<span class="larger">GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.,</span> Philadelphia -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-79" class="pagenum" title="79"></a> - <div class="box bd"> -<p class="h3 u adh"> -<em>Many possibilities for gift<br /> -selecting offered in</em> -</p> - -<p class="h1 adh"> -The Rare Book Department -</p> - -<p> -In a room set quite apart from our general stocks are housed the precious -jewels of bookdom—thousands of rare volumes, finely bound and extra-illustrated, -beautiful books such as collectors love to possess. -</p> - -<p> -Continuously new book treasures are coming in to take the places of those -which are going out into private hands. Knowing that the books in this -little corner of the book world are usually but one of a kind, book-lovers -make a point of dropping in often to assure themselves that nothing -desirable slips by them. -</p> - -<p> -We invite you to be our guest at your early convenience—to make use -of not only the Rare Book Department, but the whole McClurg store, -whether you have any purchase in mind or not. -</p> - -<p> -McClurg’s is more than a book store, it is a public institution. -</p> - -<p class="h3 u ade"> -<span class="larger"><b>at McClurg’s</b></span><br /> -on Wabash Avenue, between Adams and Jackson -</p> - - </div> - <div class="box"> -<p class="h3 adh"> -<em>The New Poetry</em> -</p> - -<p class="h1 adb"> -SWORD BLADES <em>and</em> POPPY SEED -</p> - - </div> -<p class="h3 ada"> -<em>By</em> AMY LOWELL -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -Author of “A DOME OF MANY-COLOURED GLASS,” Etc. -</p> - - <div class="box"> -<p class="c b"> -<em>In “The Boston Herald” Josephine Preston Peabody writes of this unusual book</em>: -</p> - -<p> -“First, last and all inclusive in Miss Amy Lowell’s poetic equipment is vitality -enough to float the work of half a score of minor poets.... Against the multitudinous -array of daily verse our times produce ... this volume utters itself -with a range and brilliancy wholly remarkable.... A wealth of subtleties and -sympathies, gorgeously wrought, full of macabre effects (as many of the poems -are) and brilliantly worked out ... personally I cannot see that Miss Lowell’s -use of unrhymed vers libre has been surpassed in English. This breadth and ardor -run through the whole fabric of the subject matter.... Here is the fairly -Dionysiac revelry of a tireless workman. With an honesty as whole as anything in -literature she hails any and all experience as stuff for poetry. The things of splendor -she has made she will hardly outdo in their kind.” -</p> - - </div> -<p class="h3 adp"> -<em>Price $1.25 net. At all bookstores.</em> -</p> - - <div class="box"> -<p class="s u fl ade"> -PUBLISHED<br /> -BY -</p> - -<p class="s u fr ade"> -64-66 5th Avenue<br /> -NEW YORK -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -<span class="larger">THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</span> -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-80" class="pagenum" title="80"></a> -<div class="centerpic melba fl"> -<img src="images/melba.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="h1 u adh"> -<em>Madame<br /> -Melba’s<br /> -Pretty<br /> -Compliment</em> -</p> - -<p class="cb first"> -<span class="firstchar">B</span><span class="postfirstchar">efore</span> Madame Melba went abroad last -June, her concert tour being over, she stepped -into the factory warerooms to select a <b>Mason -& Hamlin</b> piano for her own personal use. -</p> - -<p> -She tested them herself, for she plays as well as -sings. Rising from before a beautiful parlor grand, she -said with all of an artist’s enthusiasm: “This is the piano -for me—it’s just like my voice!” Then and there she -bought one of those beautifully toned -</p> - -<p class="h1 adh"> -Mason & Hamlin Pianos -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -ordering it sent to her home in Melbourne, Australia. -</p> - -<p> -What a pretty compliment: “It’s just like my voice”—and -you can easily forgive the little conceit in it, -for singing tone was exactly what she was looking for, -and it is exactly what <b>Mason & Hamlin</b> makers continually -strive for—and get. If you feel that the best -is none too good for you, then by all means call and -hear the <b>Mason & Hamlin</b>, the Stradivarius of pianos. -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -<span class="underline"><em><b>Cable Piano Company</b></em></span> -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -<em>Wabash and Jackson</em> <em>CHICAGO</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-81" class="pagenum" title="81"></a> -<div class="centerpic xmas"> -<img src="images/xmas.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="h1 hidden adh"> -CHRISTMAS BOOKS -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -<em>For the Little Folk</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -TIK-TOK OF OZ -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -<b>By L. Frank Baum</b> -</p> - -<p> -The “Children’s Favorite Author” has here a jolly story in his best vein of humor and invention. -All the old favorites whose reappearance children demand, and many new ones of droll -interest. A story to keep the youngsters guessing and to bring them back again and again. -Illustrations in great number by John R. Neill. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -<b>$1.25</b> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE MOTHER GOOSE PARADE -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -<b>By Anita de Campi</b> -</p> - -<p> -A great big book, 11×17½ inches, giving the ever-popular Mother Goose jingles new settings and new -utility. Humorous interpretations in gay colors. A combination painting-in and cut-out book -for child entertainment and for practical nursery decoration. Illuminated boards. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -<b>$1.50</b> -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -<em>For Girls</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -AZALEA AT SUNSET GAP -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -<b>By Elia W. Peattie</b> -</p> - -<p> -Charm and vigor and wholesome girl interests, in a story of the Blue Ridge. Mrs. Peattie -thoroughly understands the American girl and what she likes in the way of reading. “Azalea” -has made many friends. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -<b>75c net</b> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT PINE-TREE CAMP -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -<b>By Margaret Love Sanderson</b> -</p> - -<p> -A new narrative interest for girls. An outdoor story bright with things “doing.” A Camp -Fire Girls story of more than ordinary merit and interest. For any girl who likes reading. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -<b>75c net</b> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -AUNT JANE’S NIECES OUT WEST -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -<b>By Edith Van Dyne</b> -</p> - -<p> -The ninth title of one of the most successful series of girls’ stories in recent years. Distinguished -by more than usual plot, brisk action, cheery, vivacious girl characters. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -<b>60c</b> -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -<em>For Boys</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE PIRATE SHARK -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -<b>By Elliott Whitney</b> -</p> - -<p> -The thrill of big game hunting and capital adventure, with plenty of action and suspense. Not -sensational, but decidedly diverting. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -<b>60c</b> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE BOY SCOUTS OF THE AIR ON THE GREAT LAKES -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -<b>By Gordon Stuart</b> -</p> - -<p> -The outdoor boy will read this Boy Scout story with eager attention—so will his “booky” -brother. A Great Lake cruise with a treasure hunt at the end of it, carries promise of adventure -well fulfilled in this story. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -<b>60c</b> -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -<em>For Grown-Ups</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -NANCY THE JOYOUS -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -<b>By Edith Stow</b> -</p> - -<p> -The charm of simplicity and naturalness, and the infectious good cheer of a heroine of a whimsical -humor and hopefulness, make this novel more than merely entertaining. You will recommend -it to your friends. 12mo; illustrated. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -<b>$1.00 net</b> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -DIANE OF THE GREEN VAN -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -<b>By Leona Dalrymple</b> -</p> - -<p> -The $10,000 Prize Novel—an outdoor love story, refreshing in atmosphere and sentiment, bright -with conversation and originality. A surprising plot—a captivating heroine—a satisfying story -of love, laughter, adventure, mystery. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -<b>$1.35 net</b> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -MISS MINERVA AND WILLIAM GREEN HILL -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -<b>By Frances Boyd Calhoun</b> -</p> - -<p> -Each copy sold averages at least half a dozen readers, and as many friends. Well over 160,000 -copies in circulation. Strong in the humor of childhood and the love of a good laugh. -The pure gold of innocent fun, presented with remarkable insight and sympathy. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -<b>$1.00</b> -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -<em>At All Bookstores</em> -</p> - -<p class="s ade"> -<em>Publishers</em> <span class="larger"><em>Reilly & Britton</em></span> <em>Chicago</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-82" class="pagenum" title="82"></a> -<div class="centerpic houghton fl"> -<img src="images/houghtonl.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<div class="centerpic houghton fr"> -<img src="images/houghtonr.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="h1 adh"> -Houghton Mifflin Company’s -</p> - -<p class="h2 adh"> -Books of Varied Interest -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -MEDITATIONS ON VOTES FOR WOMEN -</p> - -<p> -By <b>SAMUEL M. CROTHERS</b>. A quiet consideration of the subject, showing that the granting of -the suffrage to women at the present time is a conservative measure. $1.00 net. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -IMPRESSIONS AND COMMENTS -</p> - -<p> -By <b>HAVELOCK ELLIS</b>. Observations on life, books, art, etc., by a scientist with a sense of -humor. $1.60 net. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -ON THE COSMIC RELATIONS -</p> - -<p> -By <b>HENRY HOLT</b>. This study covers with extraordinary completeness, enlightenment, and authority -the whole ground of psychic phenomena, so-called, as a basis for the belief in the immortality -of the soul. 2 vols. $5.00 net. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE COLLEGE COURSE AND THE PREPARATION FOR LIFE -</p> - -<p> -By <b>ALBERT PARKER FITCH</b>. Eight sympathetic and straightforward talks on students’ problems. -The author is president of Andover Theological Seminary. $1.25 net. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE LIFE OF A LITTLE COLLEGE -</p> - -<p> -By <b>ARCHIBALD MacMECHAN</b>. 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The book should be in every library and newspaper office, and in the -hands of every thorough going student of the war. $1.50 net. -</p> - - <div class="box narrow"> -<p> -For full description of the above and other books -send for our FREE Holiday Bulletin -</p> - -<p> -Address Houghton Mifflin Co., 4 Park St., Boston -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="trnote chapter"> -<p class="transnote"> -Transcriber’s Notes -</p> - -<p> -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. -</p> - -<p> -The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect correctly the -headings in this issue of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. -</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> -... In doing so we fear he exhibits an intellect too prone to <span class="underline">dichrotomize</span>. He ...<br /> -... In doing so we fear he exhibits an intellect too prone to <a href="#corr-5"><span class="underline">dichotomize</span></a>. He ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... they used <span class="underline">is</span> sporadically, desultorily. Today we know better. Today we ...<br /> -... they used <a href="#corr-6"><span class="underline">it</span></a> sporadically, desultorily. Today we know better. Today we ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... Whose flaccid <span class="underline">accademic</span> pulses ...<br /> -... Whose flaccid <a href="#corr-7"><span class="underline">academic</span></a> pulses ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... <span class="underline">Then</span> metronomes,— ...<br /> -... <a href="#corr-9"><span class="underline">Than</span></a> metronomes,— ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... things, but one must sometimes <span class="underline">he</span> obvious when speaking to those who still ...<br /> -... things, but one must sometimes <a href="#corr-11"><span class="underline">be</span></a> obvious when speaking to those who still ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... worth laying to heart. For example, religion ecclesiasticized is <span class="underline">dispiritualized</span>; ...<br /> -... worth laying to heart. For example, religion ecclesiasticized is <a href="#corr-15"><span class="underline">disspiritualized</span></a>; ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... Hit hard! Hit hard, sea-horse! Hit him on the head! Hit hard! Hit! ...<br /> -... Hit hard! Hit hard, sea-horse! Hit him on the head! Hit hard! Hit!<a href="#corr-17"><span class="underline">”</span></a> ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... It is not of the rotten flesh of dogs or of sheep; it is of the flesh of Christians that we will be eating! ...<br /> -... It is not of the rotten flesh of dogs or of sheep; it is of the flesh of Christians that we will be eating!<a href="#corr-18"><span class="underline">”</span></a> ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... After while we all trooped up to bed—up the white staircase with ...<br /> -... After <a href="#corr-20"><span class="underline">a</span></a> while we all trooped up to bed—up the white staircase with ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... in London. It is a play of sordid “realism,” whose <span class="underline">principle</span> function seems ...<br /> -... in London. It is a play of sordid “realism,” whose <a href="#corr-24"><span class="underline">principal</span></a> function seems ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... confident that I will get fair play. I will be given my opportunity, and I ...<br /> -... confident that I will get fair play. I will be given my opportunity, and I <a href="#corr-26"><span class="underline">do</span></a> ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... hung along with fine pieces of art, and the prizes intended for fine art <span class="underline">goes</span> ...<br /> -... hung along with fine pieces of art, and the prizes intended for fine art <a href="#corr-29"><span class="underline">go</span></a> ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... and definitions<span class="underline">.</span> Oh, those definitions! But we easily forgive the author his ...<br /> -... and definitions<a href="#corr-32"><span class="underline">?</span></a> Oh, those definitions! But we easily forgive the author his ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... those whose duty it seems to uphold the old idea are now crying that Reed’s ...<br /> -... those whose duty it seems <a href="#corr-33"><span class="underline">to be</span></a> to uphold the old idea are now crying that Reed’s ...<br /> -</li> -</ul> -</div> - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, DECEMBER 1914 (VOL. 1, NO. 9) ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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