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diff --git a/old/66336-0.txt b/old/66336-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f247714..0000000 --- a/old/66336-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2948 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Review, August 1915 (Vol. -2, No. 5), 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, August 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 5) - -Author: Various - -Editor: Margaret C. Anderson - -Release Date: September 18, 2021 [eBook #66336] - -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. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, AUGUST -1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 5) *** - - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - _Literature_ _Drama_ _Music_ _Art_ - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - EDITOR - - AUGUST, 1915 - - The American Family Ben Hecht - Patterns Amy Lowell - The Piano and Imagism Margaret C. Anderson - War Impressions Florence Kiper Frank - Lawson, Caplan, Schmidt Alexander Berkman - Father and Daughter Edgar Lee Masters - Poems from the Greek Richard Aldington - Nudity and the Ideal Will Levington Comfort - “Rooming” Helen Hoyt - The Ugliest Man George Burman Foster - A Photograph of Edgar Lee Masters by Eugene Hutchinson - Emasculating Ibsen; Death “The Scavenger” - { Alice Oliver Henderson - Children’s Poems { Arvia Mackaye - { Robin Mackaye - Book Discussion - The Reader Critic - - 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. II - - AUGUST, 1915 - - No. 5 - - Copyright, 1915, by Margaret C. Anderson - - - - - The American Family - - - BEN HECHT - -The dead fingers of spent passions, spent dreams, spent youth clutch at -the throat of the rising generation and preserve the integrity of the -American family. Not that there is a typical American family. There is -only the typical struggle between the dead and the living, between the -inert and hideous virtue of decayed souls and the rebellious desires of -their doomed progeny. - -The ambitious and educated American mother is a forceful creature, a -strong, powerful woman. As an individual she is dead. Once she knew and -had the desire for beauty. Dead fingers reached into her heart and -killed it. The force of which she was doomed to become a part crushed -her. The conventions of the world are stronger than its natural -destinies. Those conventions—the conventions of the family—are not of -the man’s making. Woman attends to her own subjugation. She preserves -the spirit of the family, struggles and labors to keep it a unit, to -keep its members alike. Moaning with the tyrannical lust for possession -she enfolds her daughter in her arms. There are certain things in her -daughter which must be killed. There is a dawning of love for -“impossible” things in her daughter’s heart. There is an awakened mental -curiosity, a perceptible inclination to break from the oppressiveness of -the surrounding dead. In the night the daughter wonders and doubts. She -would like “to get away”—to go forth free of certain fiercely applied -restrictions and meet a different kind of folk, a different kind of -thought. She would like to be—to feel the things she is capable of. It -is all vague. Always revolt is vague and intangible for the daughters of -women. Revolt is for souls still living, and the living are weaker than -the dead. The living soul is a lone, individual force, its yearnings are -ephemeral and undefined. The mother knows what they are. The dead always -know what it is they have lost. And in this knowledge the mother is -strong. But the living cannot say to itself what it wishes to gain, what -it reaches to attain. Only in the stray geniuses of time has the -individual soul fought desperately and triumphantly for its -preservation. And there is no genius in the daughter. There is merely -the divine and natural instinct for self-realization. Once the mother -felt it and it was killed. Now the daughter has caught the dread -disease—the contamination which starts a cold sweat under the corset -stays of society; the thing which brings down upon it for its -destruction the phalanxes of fierce fatuities—the moribund mercenaries -employed by the home for its defense and preservation. - -Something happens to crystallize the revolt. It is a man outside the -pale, a good man, a bad man. It is a book. It is a friend. Often the -struggle is fought through little things too numerous to mention and the -struggle itself too casual to classify. Sometimes it wages without a -word; at other times there are blows. And at such times the enshrouding -veils are torn aside. One can see the dead rise up, their pasty limbs -dragging with the mould and slime of their couch. One can see them -reaching their dead arms out, with the bloodless flesh hanging from them -in shreds. One can watch them crawl on their bony feet and as they come -close—these dead—the foul odor that issues from their sightless, -twisted, rotted faces hangs like a grey smeared canopy above them. - -They come. They take their stand at the mother’s back. And the pitiful -struggle is on. - -It is the mother who strikes the blows. Her first weapon (she uses it -like a poison) is her love. She calls it that. “You are my only -happiness,” she cries. “I have given you everything, a part of me, all -you have needed. I have sacrificed everything for you. All my dreams -have been for you. O, how can you permit anything to come between us?” - -The daughter listens. There is a selfish ring to it. But love must be -forgiven for selfishness. In the schools and the churches the -preliminaries of the struggle have been insidiously fought. Children owe -duties to their parents and not to themselves. It was what the daughter -learned at school. It is what she read between the lines of her books -and heard from the lips of all around her. And now it is the murmur that -rolls into her ears. It is the odor of the dead. - -Day after day the mother strikes with this weapon. Her red, furious eyes -dripping tears, she moans it out. Her voice is like the yelp of a -frantic animal. Her voice is like the whine of a woebegone fice. Her -voice is cold and hard and hollow like the echo in a tomb. - -The beauty that has come to her daughter is a fragile thing. The -lovliness she visioned is the most delicately mortal of life’s -treasures. Fiercely the mother hurls herself against it, hurls the -reproaches of her dead soul, the recriminations of her entombed -spirit—the odors of the dead.... And her weapons are tangible things. -They are sentences. They are the moral perversions with which the family -unit always has fought for its preservation. They are tried things, -prophetic precedents. And the beauty in the normal being is an -indefinite force—a vagueness. It has no weapons with which to strike. -Triumphant revolt is only for martyrs and artists. It is the losing -force in normal existence. - -Gradually it becomes clouded in the daughter’s soul. She feels unclean. -She imagines it is the beauty which is unclean. She does not know that -it is the uncleanliness of the dead—the uncleanliness of her mother -revealed to her in her heart by the divine light that is dying within -herself. An agony comes into her. The struggle narrows to pain. Cold -things reach at her heart. It leaps and flutters. She stands, her face -white and a look of uncanny suffering about her eyes. The dead fingers -grip fast. - -The mother, moaning, shuddering, her eyes gleaming, enfolds her daughter -in her arms. “I dare you to take her from me,” she cries out to the man, -to the friend, to the book, to the world of beauty, whatever it is -toward which her daughter inclined for the divine instant of awakened -soul. “I dare you. I dare you.” - -“Nothing can ever take me from you,” the daughter weeps. Death. - -Tears, a form of decomposition now, roll from her cheeks. The struggle -is over. The unit has been preserved and now one may look at the unit -and see what it is. The rotted figures of the dead have dragged their -shredded flesh back to the graves. - -There are different kinds of families. Only in the struggle between the -dead and the living do they become the same even when the contestants -differ. I will describe only one type. Perhaps it is _the_ American -family; perhaps it is not. - -It is the family which considers culture a matter of polished -fingernails and emotional suppression and dinner table aphorisms, puns -and the classics in half morocco. It has bound volumes of _The -Philistine_ or some other mawkish philosophical twaddle on view in the -bookcase. It—the spirit of this family—knows the titles of books -memorized from literary reviews in current magazines and will discourse -bitingly on the malicious trend of these radical volumes from the -sweeping knowledge she has of their titles. In the matter of music the -spirit of this family “plays safe.” It will characterize as “tinkly” or -“syrupy” anything melodious which secretly pleases it. The rather -humorous falseness of its culture is inexhaustible. - -Introspection is an indecent as well as impossible thing to the spirit -of this family. To look into her soul and see the diseased and dead -things that fill it is naturally impossible and naturally indecent. -Dostoevsky calls man an animal who can get used to anything. And a man’s -adjustment to hideous things is not so final as a woman’s. - -For the spirit of this family to reveal an honest reaction when it is -contrary to the approved artificial demands of a situation is as heinous -an exhibition of bad taste as to uncover a thigh. But luckily, this -concealing of honest feeling is not often required. The spirit of this -family is incapable in the main of honest feeling. That is a part of the -beauty killed long ago in her, a part of the beauty she killed in the -daughter, a part of the beauty the daughter will strangle in her own -children. And one of the compensations for dead souls is that they -naturally feel dishonest feeling and do not have to suffer with a -realization of hypocrisy. - -This family thinks of virtue in terms of legs. This family regards art -and truth with a modulated leer. It is crudely cynical of everything -outside its range. It sneers and pooh-hoos, it ostracizes and condemns. -It is vulgarly contemptuous of the factors in life superior to it. The -spirit of this family would have shrieked in outrage at the presence of -Verlaine in its home—unless he could have reflected social distinction -on it. It would have closed the doors to Ibsen,—except for the social -distinction,—to every triumphant soul that had escaped the dead fingers -and realized itself. And by some inexplicable trick of self-adjustment -the spirit of this family looks upon thought as an undesirable -affectation. - -Social success means to this family a speaking acquaintance with any -wealthier unit which originally considered itself “above” this family. -Moral success means to this family an exemption from the prosecution of -the forces it has reared for its own protection—keeping out of jail, out -of scandal-mongering newspapers, out of the malicious after-dinner -gossip of its friends. - -Of an evening you will find this family in the living room. The husband -and father reads a newspaper. He has worked in his office all day and is -tired. Life long ago ceased to mean anything to him. He is an animal -husk in fine linen. He has his little prejudices and his little -conventions. Indeed, he is a part of the system of the unit but not much -interested in it. He never was possessed of the capacity for beauty -which his women folk once had and which they found it necessary to kill -in each other. Man is a more natural part of the world’s ugliness. He is -coarser stuff in general. For him it is not necessary to wage any -struggle. He accepted matrimony because of a concentrated physical -curiosity in one woman, and because it was the thing to do at his age. -Love suffered epileptic dissolution in the nuptial couch. Honor toward -his woman expired when the mysteries of her flesh paled. Obedience is -his natural state—that is, long ago he established a line of least -resistance and inoculated his women folk with the fable that adherence -to _this_ line was the obedience and respect he owed them. If a latent -instinct awakens suddenly in him he indulges himself. He finds it rather -difficult to be immoral, but as he hesitates a latent strength overcomes -his fear and thus he is able to be immoral and unfaithful to his own -convenient restrictions in a natural manner and with no great loss of -sleep. - -One man in ten thousand inherits the beauty of the woman who bore him -and he becomes an artist. It is not necessary for him to revolt. His -fathers have taken care of that. There is an assured place in the world -for him—not in the living room here in front of the fireplace but -elsewhere, in places of which poets sing. - -The family man keeps posted. He knows what is going on in the world but -does not understand it. He is not capable of understanding. But -sometimes understanding and reason coincide with his prejudices and he -is then as liable to hold minority views as not. He is dry, sometimes -clever. But always he jogs, jogs, jogs along. He can even sleep night -after night in the same bed with his wife without feeling annoyance. His -bluntedness is complete. Dostoevsky is right. - -His wife and the mother of his children is a part of the furniture of -existence for him. In his own way he is quite dead, but it was not -necessary to kill him. If his son revolts the instinct of his mother is -communicated to him and he fights. He borrows the mother’s weapons and -he blasphemes in a half-hearted way about the duty to parents. But the -beauty which the mother found easy to kill in the daughter usually -discovers a hardier citadel in the son and usually he carries it safely -into the world. - -The room—this living room—is dimly and “artistically” lighted. The fire -in the grate glows. The daughter sits in a corner speaking to a friend. -At the other side sits the father—reading blankly. The wife enters. She -surveys the scene from the doorway with a feeling of warm satisfaction. -She comes in and sits down. They talk about nothing, they think about -nothing. The daughter and the young man, beneath the smooth surface of -the artificial moments, are playing at the eternal indecency. The mother -leads the conversation. Neighbors are discussed. Friends are derided. -Social inferiors are laughed to scorn. Social superiors are spoken of -with adulation and veneration. At last the father climbs to his bed like -an ox. He is tired, poor fellow. The mother follows him into the -bedroom. A victor, utterly triumphant, she hugs her dead soul to herself -and smiles. The daughter retires after being desperately kissed by the -physically curious young man, and she lies awake a while wishing in -moments of provoked sex that she too was married and meditating in -calmer spaces upon the advantages of the family unit, the fireplace, the -party calls. O, this daughter! She is the one who had the vision of -beauty. She is the one whose soul sang for a day with the capacity for -all the world’s lovliness. Honesty, purity, fineness burned in her with -their divine radiance. The lights are turned out. Death reigns supreme. - - - - - Patterns - - - AMY LOWELL - - I walk down the garden paths, - And all the daffodils - Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. - I walk down the patterned garden paths - In my stiff, brocaded gown. - With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, - I too am a rare - Pattern. As I wander down - The garden paths. - - My dress is richly figured, - And the train - Makes a pink and silver stain - On the gravel, and the thrift - Of the borders. - Just a plate of current fashion, - Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. - Not a softness anywhere about me, - Only whale-bone and brocade. - And I sink on a seat in the shade - Of a lime tree. For my passion - Wars against the stiff brocade. - The daffodils and squills - Flutter in the breeze - As they please. - And I weep; - For the lime tree is in blossom - And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. - - And the splashing of waterdrops - In the marble fountain - Comes down the garden paths. - The dripping never stops. - Underneath my stiffened gown - Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, - A basin in the midst of hedges grown - So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, - But she guesses he is near, - And the sliding of the water - Seems the stroking of a dear - Hand upon her. - What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! - I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. - All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. - - I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, - And he would stumble after, - Bewildered by my laughter. - I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his - shoes. - I would choose - To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, - A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, - Till he caught me in the shade, - And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, - Aching, melting, unafraid. - With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, - And the plopping of the waterdrops, - All about us in the open afternoon— - I am very like to swoon - With the weight of this brocade, - For the sun sifts through the shade. - - Underneath the fallen blossom - In my bosom, - Is a letter I have hid. - It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. - “Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell - Died in action Thursday sen’night.” - As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, - The letters squirmed like snakes. - “Any answer, Madam,” said my footman. - “No,” I told him. - “See that the messenger takes some refreshment. - No, no answer.” - And I walked into the garden, - Up and down the patterned paths, - In my stiff, correct brocade. - The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, - Each one. - I stood upright too, - Held rigid to the pattern - By the stiffness of my gown. - Up and down I walked, - Up and down. - - In a month he would have been my husband. - In a month, here, underneath this lime, - We would have broke the pattern; - He for me, and I for him, - He as Colonel, I as Lady, - On this shady seat. - He had a whim - That sunlight carried blessing. - And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.” - Now he is dead. - - In Summer and in Winter I shall walk - Up and down - The patterned garden paths - In my stiff, brocaded gown. - The squills and daffodils - Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. - I shall go - Up and down, - In my gown. - Gorgeously arrayed, - Boned and stayed. - And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace - By each button, hook, and lace. - For the man who should loose me is dead, - Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, - In a pattern called a war. - Christ! What are patterns for? - - - - - The Piano and Imagism - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - -Once I said something vague about the piano music of the future. There -is something very definite to be said about it. I think the next music -written for the piano will have in it a high concentration of clear -color-sound and that the new pianist will focus his technique to just -one end: to the clearest expression of this color-sound identity. Sea -mist, for instance, has certain colors and certain smells; if you are -keen-sensed it has certain sounds. You may say it has been the aim of -all composers and musicians to put nature into music. Well, it has been -the aim of most poets to put nature into poetry, but the Imagists _have -done it_: their medium is not only a more direct one: the point is that -they seem to have dispensed with a medium. Their words don’t merely -convey color to you; they _are_ the color. The new musician can do -this—and I believe he can do it on the piano better than on any other -instrument. His music will be all these things:[1] - -Sea orchards, and lilac on the water, and color dragged up from the -sand; drenched grasses, and early roses, and wind-harps in the cedar -trees; flame-flowers, and the sliding rain; frail sea-birds, and blue -still rocks, and bright winds treading the sunlight; silver hail stones, -and the scattering of gold crocus petals; blackbirds in the grass, and -fountains in the rain; lily shadows, and green cold waves, and the -rose-fingered moon; pine cones, and yellow grasses, and a restless green -rout of stars; cloud whirls, and the pace of winds; trees on the hill, -and the far ecstasy of burning noons; lotus pools, and the gold petal of -the moon; night-born poppies, and the silence of beauty, and the perfume -of invisible roses; white winds and cold sea ripples; blossom spray, and -narcissus petals on the black earth; little silver birds, and blue and -gold-veined hyacinths; river pools of sky, and grains of sand as clear -as wine.... - -It will be made of dream-colored wings, and whispers among the flowering -rushes; of moonlit tree-tops, and the gaiety of flowers; brown fading -hills, and the moving mist; sea rose, and the light upon the poplars; -shaken dew, and the haunts of the sun, and white sea-gulls above the -waves; bright butterflies in the corn, and a dust of emerald and gold; -broken leaves, and the rose and white flag-stones; sea iris with petals -like shells, and the scent of lilacs heavy with stillness; scarlet -nasturtiums, and dry reeds that shiver in the grasses; slim colorless -poppies, and the sweet salt camphor flowers; gold and blue and mauve, -and a white rose of flame; pointed pines, and orange-colored rose -leaves; sunshine slipping through young green, and the flaring moon -through the oak leaves; wet dawns, and a blue flower of the evening; -butterflies over green meadows, and deep blue seas of air, and hyacinths -hidden in a far valley.... - -It will be of harsh rose and iris-flowers painted blue; white waters, -and the winds of the upper air; green wine held up in the sun, and rigid -myrrh-buds scented and stinging; the lisp of reeds, and the loose -ripples of meadow grasses; mists on the mountains, and clear frost on -the grass blade; frail-headed poppies, and sea-grass tangled with shore -grass; the humming brightness of the air, and the sky darting through -like blue rain; strewn petals on restless water, and pale green -glacier-rivers; somber pools, and sun-drenched slopes; autumn’s gold and -spring’s green; red pine-trunks, and bird cries in hollow trees; cool -spaces filled with shadow, and white hammocks in the sun; green glimmer -of apples in an orchard, and hawthorn odorous with blossom; lamps in a -wash of rain, and the desperate sun that struggles through sea mist; -lavender water, and faded stars; many-foamed ways, and the blue and -buoyant air; grey-green fastnesses of the great deeps; a cream moon on -bare black trees; wet leaves, and the dust that drifts over the -court-yard; moon-paint on a colorless house.... - -It will be pagan temples and old blue Chinese gardens; old pagodas -glittering across green trees, and the ivory of silence; vast dark trees -that flow like blue veils of tears into the water; little almond trees -that the frost has hurt, and bitter purple willows; fruit dropping -through the thick air, and wine in heavy craters painted black and red; -purple and gold and sable, and a gauze of misted silver; blue -death-mountains, and yellow pulse-beats in the darkness; naked -lightnings, and boats in the gloom; strange fish, and golden sorceries; -red-purple grapes, and Assyrian wine; fruits from Arcadia, and incense -to Poseidon; swallow-blue halls, and a chamber under Lycia’s coast; -stars swimming like goldfish, and the sword of the moonlight; torn -lanterns that flutter, and an endless procession of lamps; sleepy -temples, and strange skies, and pilgrims of autumn; tired shepherds with -lanterns, and the fire of the great moon; the lowest pine branch drawn -across the disk of the sun; Phoenecian stuffs and silks that are -outspread; the gods garlanded in wisteria; white grave goddesses, and -loves in Phrygia; wounds of light, and terrible rituals, and temples -soothed by the sun to ruin; the valleys of Ætna, and the Doric -singing.... - -... The moon dragging the flood tide, and an old sorrow that has put out -the sun; whirling laughter, and the thunder of horses plunging; old -tumults, and the gloom of dreams; strong loneliness, and the hollow -where pain was; the rich laughter of the forest, and the bitter sea; the -earth that receives the slanting rain; lost treasure, and the violent -gloom of night; all proud things, and the light of thy beauty.... Souls -of blood, and hearts aching with wonder; the kindness of people—country -folk and sailors and fishermen; all the roots of the earth, and a -perpetual sea.... - - [1] _I have omitted quotation marks for the sake of appearance, - but every phrase in the next five paragraphs is taken from the - Imagists._ - - - - - War Impressions - - - FLORENCE KIPER FRANK - - - The Moving-Picture Show - -We sat at a moving-picture show. Over a little bridge streamed the -Belgian refugees, women, children, boys, dogs, horses, carts, household -goods—an incongruous procession. The faces were stolid, the feet plodded -on—plodded on! - -“See!” said my friend, “sometimes a woman turns to look at a bursting -shell.” - -I murmured, “How interesting!” - -And my soul shuddered. It shuddered at sophistication. - -The man who had taken the pictures told us about them. He had been not -more than three weeks ago in Belgium.... - -“Huzza!” sang my ancestor of five thousand years back. He led a band of -marauders into an enemy’s village. They ripped things up and tore about -the place singing and looting. There was nothing much left to that -village by the time they got through with it. - -But the people many miles away did not behold his exploits. Alas, there -were no moving-picture shows in those days! - - - The Modern Woman With a Sense of Humor - -There was a Modern Woman with a sense of humor. - -“I shall,” she said, “teach to women the absurdity of bearing children -to be killed by cannon.” - -“The absurdity!” exclaimed the men of the State, aghast at levity. - -“Yes,” answered she, “it isn’t worth the trouble!” And she lifted her -eyebrows and smiled, but in her eyes there was Knowledge. - -And the men of the State were more terrified by the phenomenon of The -Modern Woman with a Sense of Humor than by any phenomenon that had -before confronted them. - - - The Incredible Adventure of Spring - -The year was again a-foot on the incredible adventure of Spring. The -earth broke into blossoming, and the nights were moon-drenched and astir -with the whisperings of wet winds. It was a really thrilling time of the -year to be alive—and therefore, besides all these breathless and -miraculous adventures of the grass and flowers, many innocent and -unsuspecting souls had started out on the incredible adventure of being -born. - -But the war-writers kept on writing that for man to reach true -exaltation and vibrancy of spirit, he must blow out the brains of as -many people as possible. - - - Man and His Machines - -He has builded him machines—man the Maker—using great cunning of hand -and of brain. And has not Bergson told us that thus has he evolved that -tool, the Intellect—through the dim ages of his making! - -He has builded him states, politics, all the intricate architecture of -institutions. - -Now who would think that what he himself has builded—builded through the -thousands of years of endeavor—should thus turn about, ungrateful, to -destroy and to rend him? - - - The Annual Banquet - -“We shall not, this year,” said my rich friend—a Lady—“while the people -of Europe are starving and fighting—we shall not this year have our -large annual banquet.” - -But had she walked not a mile from her home, she would have seen in her -own city men starving, and fighting because of the terrible dread of -starving. And not this year alone had they been doing it, but for many -years of large banquets. - -However, if all Ladies and Gentlemen felt acutely all these matters, -what would become of our institution of Large Banquets—or, indeed, of -the Divine Privileges of Monarchs! - - - What a Veneer Is Civilization - -“War,” wrote the journalists, “reveals what a veneer is civilization. -Man’s real emotions, instinctive, primitive, brutal, leap to -ascendency.” - -But I did not believe the journalists, because I knew better men’s -emotions. Indeed, what tore asunder my heart was the depth and beauty of -the emotions of men and women. There was nothing—at least very -little—the matter with their emotions. - -But with their thinking apparatus—ah, that is a different story! - - - - - Lawson, Caplan, Schmidt - - - ALEXANDER BERKMAN - -I don’t know of anything more tragic and pitiful than the superstition -that “Justice will triumph.” What this metaphysical conception of -“justice” really signifies, how it is to be expressed in applicable -terms, is impossible to determine in view of the multiplicity of -individual antagonisms and class interests. - -But somehow we all believe in “justice”; yet the criterion of each is -the degree of the attainment of his own purpose. - -From time immemorial we humans have been clamoring for “justice,” divine -and earthly. Hence our slavery. And Kaiser and Czar both claim justice -on their side, and millions are slaughtering each other to attain the -particular justice of their respective masters. - -In this blessed land of ours, justice is ranked high, and labor is -constantly basing its appeals and demands on justice. But perhaps—let us -hope—the John Lawson case has somewhat jolted the popular faith in the -metaphysical conception, at least so far as it manifests itself in the -Colorado courts. It is safe to say that there is no intelligent man in -that state who does not know that the stage for Lawson’s conviction had -been set long before his trial. He was an intelligent, active agitator. -He sought to crystallize the rebellious dissatisfaction of the miners -into effective action:—sufficient reason for the Rockefeller-controlled -state to eliminate, most emphatically, such an undesirable element. - -In Colorado, as well as throughout the rest of the country, most people -know that a great “injustice was done Lawson.” What are the people of -Colorado doing about it? Not a thing. The cheerful idiot, otherwise -known as the good citizen, cares for justice only in the degree in which -it affects his own pocket. And the masses of labor who do feel -themselves and their cause injured by the railroading of Lawson to -prison—they call the verdict a “miscarriage of justice”—applaud -Professor Brewster who wired Lawson: “Unbelievable. Counsel friends keep -cool. Justice will be done.” - -And the people of Colorado remain inactive, in the belief that the -Supreme Court, the Governor, or maybe the Holy Ghost will see to it that -justice is done. - -Yet the Lawson lesson has not been entirely lost. It is possible that it -has shed a light that will reflect itself on coming fights between labor -and capital. It is more than probable that the lesson has already borne -fruit in the more aggressive attitude of labor in some parts of the -country. It has helped ever-growing numbers to realize that to expect -“justice” in the struggle between labor and capital means to doom the -toilers to defeat. - -It will be highly interesting to watch the effect of the Lawson outrage -upon the approaching trial of David Caplan and Mathew Schmidt, the -aftermath of the McNamara case, in Los Angeles, California. The history -of this case is illuminating of our legal and social “justice”: - -The labor unions in California have for the last nine years fought a -bitter fight against the Merchants and Manufacturers’ Association, the -Western branch of the Steel Trust. Every means, legal and illegal, has -been used by the employers to exterminate the unions and paralyze the -workers. And they have practically succeeded in breaking every labor -organization in the Steel Industry from New York to San Francisco. - -Where twenty years ago we had a powerful union—for instance, in -Pennsylvania: the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel -Workers—today nothing but a pitiful remnant is left. Only _one_ union in -the steel industry has survived: the Structural Iron Workers. They -survived because they contested every inch of ground against the -Merchants and Manufacturers’ Association. The result of that fight was a -long war between capital and labor on the Coast. Every form of -persecution and violence was used against labor, and labor was forced to -defend itself. In consequence the Structural Iron Workers increased -their wages from $2.40 a day to $4.40, and reduced their hours from ten -to eight. Organized capital resorted to every trick to strangle the -workers, and in Los Angeles a special law was passed prohibiting -picketing. But the union defied the law, and five hundred men went to -prison during the general strike of the metal trades in Southern -California in 1910. During this fight the Los Angeles _Times_, the most -relentless enemy of labor and of humanity, was destroyed. The brothers -McNamara were arrested, as a result, and then the masters made the -solemn promise that the war would be stopped and that all further -prosecutions of labor men would cease if the McNamaras would plead -guilty. It was only on the strength of this promise that the McNamaras -were finally induced to plead guilty. - -Hardly ten days passed, when the Merchants and Manufacturers’ -Association broke every promise they made. They began the prosecution of -labor men in Los Angeles and Indianapolis, and did everything in their -power to railroad to prison the most effective members of the unions. -And now, four and a half years later, they have arrested David Caplan in -Seattle and Mathew Schmidt in New York, and brought them across the -country to Los Angeles to put them on trial for complicity with the -McNamaras. - -This perfidious activity of organized capital has made labor in -California realize that the courts are controlled by the employers, and -that labor cannot expect justice. They now understand what a fatal -mistake was made in the case of John Lawson. The workers depended on the -innocence of Lawson for his acquittal. They failed to act, expecting -justice to be done. - -At least some of the labor elements on the Coast are awakening to the -situation. They feel that they cannot expect justice from the courts of -the exploiters. They have now determined that more aggressive and -militant action is necessary, if labor is not to be submerged by the -oppression of capital. They are beginning to see that throughout the -country the masters are picking out the most effective and intelligent -fighters from the ranks of the workers and railroading them to prison, -to terrorize labor and stifle the spirit of liberty and independence. -The Lawson case, the case of Ford and Suhr, of Rangel and Cline, of Joe -Hill, and the many other cases now pending in the courts of New York and -elsewhere, all show what capital intends to do to labor. - -Is labor really going to keep quiet and submit to this persecution and -slavery? The unions on the Coast have determined that they will not. -They are calling upon every one in sympathy with labor to join the great -movement to stop the aggression of capital. They have decided on strong -militant tactics to defend the workingman, his family and his union -against the tyranny of the bosses. - -They have issued the call to every central body, affiliated unions and -radical organizations, to join hands at this most critical moment. This -is not a question of theory or of philosophic ism. It is the great war -of labor against capital, a struggle of life and death. In this struggle -all local and theoretic differences may be safely forgotten, and all -friends of labor make common cause. - -I have been sent as a special delegate by some of the California unions -to help organize the solidaric and militant forces of labor throughout -the country. It is evident how significant this case is for the workers -in general. It is imperative that they combine in solidaric unity in -this vital matter, to register in mighty accents the sentiments and -determination of the oppressed. Thus were Haywood, Moyer, and Pettibone -torn from the clutches of the jungle beast. Thus were returned to -liberty Ettor and Giovannitti, Carlo Tresca, and other fighters for the -better day. But whenever the workers failed to sound the tocsin of -solidarity and make their gesture of protest, their prisoners of war -have invariably remained the hostages of the enemy. - -Organizations and individuals who are willing to give us their moral and -financial assistance, should immediately send resolutions and funds to -Tom Barker, Secretary Building Trades Council of Los Angeles, and -Treasurer of the Caplan-Schmidt Defense Fund. Address, 201 Labor Temple, -Los Angeles, California. My own address for the present is 917 Fine Arts -Building. - - - - - Father and Daughter - - - EDGAR LEE MASTERS - - The church is a hulk of shadow, - And dark is the church’s spire. - But the cross is as black as iron - Against the sunset’s fire. - - The shops and sheds and hovels - Are massed with the church’s shade; - And a girl with a face like a lily - Is plying her wretched trade. - - And a drunken man reels homeward - With a sullen leer in his eye. - And the street is filled with children, - That play and wrestle and cry. - - A broken hurdy-gurdy - Rattles a hollow tune, - And a light as yellow as fever - Shines from the vile saloon. - - Two men are talking together, - They pass where the children are; - And one wears a robe of sable, - The other a silver star. - - And one of them goes to vespers - And one of them makes a search, - And one of them enters the groggery, - And one of them enters the church. - - And a shot is fired by the drunkard, - And the girl falls dead in the street; - And God is peaceful in heaven, - And all in the world is sweet. - - [Illustration: EDGAR LEE MASTERS - _Copyright, 1915, by Eugene Hutchinson._] - - - - - Poems - - - (_from the Greek of Myrrhine of Mitulene, and Konallis; translated - by Richard Aldington_) - - - I - - Hierocleia, bring hither my silver vine-leaf-carved armlet and the - mirror graven with two Maenads, - For my heart is burned to dust with longing for Konallis; - And this is the silver armlet which pressed into her side when I held - her, - And before this mirror she bound up her golden-hyacinth-curled hair, - sitting in the noon sunlight. - - - II - - I, Konallis, am but a goat-girl dwelling on the violet hills of - Korinthos, - But going down to the city a marvellous thing befell me; - For the beautiful-silver-fingered hetaira, Myrrhine, held me nightlong - in her couch, - Teaching me to stretch wide my arms to receive her strange burning - caresses. - - - III - - Fair young men have brought me presents of silver caskets and white - mirrors, - Gold for my hair and long lemon-colored chitons and dew-soft perfumes of - sweet herbs. - Their bodies are whiter than Leucadian foam and delicate are their - flute-girls, - But the wild sleepless nightingales cry in the darkness even as I for - Konallis. - - - IV - - We, Konallis and Myrrhine, dedicate to thee, Proserpine, two white - torches of wax, - For thou didst watch over our purple-embroidered couch all night; - Was it thou who gavest us the sweetness of sharp caresses? - For at midday when we awoke we laughed to see black poppies blooming - beneath our eyes. - - - V - - The doves sleep beside the slow-murmuring cool fountain, - red-five-petalled roses of Paestum strew the chequered marble; - A flute-girl whispers the dear white ode of Sappho, and Hierocleia by - the pool - Smiles to see the smooth blue-sky-reflecting water mirror her shining - body; - But my eyelids are shunned by sleep that is whiter than beautiful - morning, for Konallis is not here. - - - VI - - O reeds, move softly and make keen bewildering music, - For I fear lest Arkadian Pan should seize Myrrhine as she comes from the - city; - O Artemis, shed thy light across the peaks to hasten her coming, - But do thou, Eos, hold back thy white radiance till love be content. - - - VII - - Last night Zeus sent swift rain upon the blue-grey rocks, - But Konallis held me close to her pear-pointed breasts. - - - VIII - - Sappho, Sappho, long ago the dust of earth mingled with the dust of - thy dear limbs, - And only little clay figures, painted with Tyrian red, with crocus, and - with Lydian gold, - Remain to show thy beauty; but thy wild lovely songs shall last for - ever. - Soon we too shall join Anaktoria and Kudno and kiss thy pale shadowy - fingers. - - - IX - - When Myrrhine departed I, weeping passionately, kissed her - golden-wrought knees, saying: - “O, Myrrhine, by what god shall I keep the memory of thy caresses?” - But she, bending down like golden, smiling Aphrodite, whispered to me; - And lying here in the sunlight among the reeds I remember her words. - - - X - - Hierocleia, do thou weave white-violet-crowns and spread - mountain-haunting lilies upon my couch, - For Konallis comes! and shut the door against the young men for this is - a sharper love. - - - XI - - This is the feast of Iacchus; open wide the gates, O Hierocleia; - Fill the kraters and kuathoi with sweet unmixed wine and snow; bring - thyrsus-wands, - And crowns of pale ivy and violets; let the flute-players begin the - phallic hymn - While the ten girl-slaves, drunken with the god, dance to the young men. - - - XII - - Hedulia now lies with Myrrhine who aforetime was my lover, - But seeing Hedulia she forgot me, and I lie on the threshold weeping. - O marble threshold, thou are not so white nor so hard as her breasts, - receive my tears - While the mute stars turn overhead and the owls cry from the cypresses. - - - XIII - - Wandering in tears about the city I came to the dark temple of - Priapus; - The tall, naked, scented-tressed priestesses taught me the mysteries, - And I lay between Guathina and Leuke and afterwards Chrusea and Anthea; - But now I worship the god on the mountain slopes, yet not unforgetful of - Myrrhine. - - - XIV - - This is the tomb of Konallis; Korinthos was her city and Kleobulina - bore her, - Having lain in sweet love with Sesocrates, the son of Menophiles. - I lived three and twenty years, and then sudden sickness bore me to Dis - So they laid me here with my silver armlets, my gold comb, my chain and - with little painted figures. - In my life I was happy, knowing many sorts of love and none evil. - If you are a lover, scatter dust, and call me “dear one” and speak one - last “Hail.” - - Telos. - - - - - Nudity and the Ideal - - - WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT - -One of the young men here loved the sunlight on his shoulders so -well—had such a natural love for the feel of light and air upon his bare -flesh—that he almost attained that high charm of forgetting himself -half-dressed.... The country people occasionally come down to the water -on the Sabbath or to sell (from their homes back on the automobile -routes and the interurban lines) and for what they do not get of the -natural beauty of shore and bluff, I have a fine respect. However they -didn’t miss the Temporary Mr. Pan. - -They complained that he was exposing himself, even that he was -shameless. - -Now, I am no worshiper of nudity. I’d like to be, but it disappoints in -most cases. There is always a strain about an object that is conscious -of itself—and that nudity which is unconscious of itself is either -shameless, an inevitable point of its imperfection anatomically for the -trained eye; or else it is touched with divinity and does not frequent -these shores. - -The human body has suffered the fate of all flesh and plant-fiber that -is denied light. A certain vision must direct all growth—and vision -requires light. The covered things are white-lidded and abortive, -scrawny from struggle or bulbous from the feeding dream into which they -are prone to sink. - -It will require centuries for the human race to outgrow the shames which -have come to adhere to our character-structure from recent generations. -We have brutalized our bodies with these thoughts. We associate women -with veils and secrecy, but the trouble is not with them, has not come -from women, but from the male-ordering of women’s affairs to satisfy his -own ideas of possession and conservation. The whole cycle of human -production is a man-arrangement according to present standards, and -every process is destructively bungled. However, that’s a life-work, -that subject. - -The thoughts of our ancestors have debased our bodies in color and -texture and contour organically and to be seen. Nudity is not beautiful, -and does not play sweetly upon our minds because of this heritage. The -human body is associated with darkness, and the place of this -association in our minds is of corresponding darkness. - -The young man and I talked it over. We decided that it would be a -thankless task for him to spend the summers in ardent endeavor to -educate the Countryside by browning his back in public. _That_ did not -appeal to us as a fitting life task; moreover, his project would be -frequently interrupted by the town-marshal. As a matter of truth, one -may draw most of the values of the actinic rays of the sun through thin -white clothing; and if one has not crushed his feet into a revolting -mess in pursuit of the tradesmen, he may go barefooted a little while -each day on his own grassplot without shocking the natives or losing his -credit at the bank. The real reason for opening this subject is to -express, without hatred, certain facts in the case of the Countryside -which complained. - -They are villagers and farm-people who live with Mother Nature without -knowing her. They look into the body of Nature, but never see her face -to face. The play of light and the drive of intelligence in her eyes is -above the level of their gaze or too bright. Potentially they have all -the living lights—the flame immortal, but it is turned low. It does not -glorify them as men or parents or workmen. It does not inspire them to -questing—man’s real and most significant business. They do not know that -which is good and evil in food, in music, in color, fabric, books, in -houses, lands or faith. They live in a low lazy rhythm and attract unto -themselves inevitably objects of corresponding vibration. One observes -this in their children, in their schools, and most pathetically in their -churches. They abide dimly in the midst of their imperfections, but with -tragic peace. When their children revolt, they meet on every hand the -hideous weight of matter, the pressure of low vibrations, and only the -more splendid of them have the integrity of spirit to rise above the -resistance. - -As for the clothing they wear, they would do better if left suddenly -naked as a people and without preconceptions were commanded to find some -covering for themselves. As herds, they have fallen into a descending -arc of usage, under the inevitable down-pull of trade. Where the -vibrations of matter are low, its responsive movement is gregarian, -rather than individual. The year around, these people wear clothing, -woolen pants and skirts, which if touched with an iron, touched with -sunlight, rain or any medium that arouses the slumbering quantities, the -adjacent nostril is offended. - -They are heavy eaters of meat the year round. They slay their pets with -as little concern as they gather strawberries. Their ideas of virtue and -legitimacy have to do with an ecclesiastical form, as ancient as Nineveh -and as effaced in meaning. They accept their children, as one pays a -price for pleasure; and those children which come from their stolen -pleasures are either murdered or marked with shame. Their idea of love -is indefinite with desire, and their love of children has to do with the -sense of possession. - -They are not significant men in their own fields; rarely a good mason, a -good carpenter, a good farmer; the many have not even found the secret -of order and unfolding from the simplest task. The primary meaning of -the day’s task in its relation to life and blessedness is not to be -conceived by them. They are taught from childhood that first of all work -is for bread; that bread perishes; therefore one must pile up as he may -the wherewith to purchase the passing bread; that bread is bread and the -rest a gamble.... They answer to the slow loop waves which enfold the -many in amusement and opinion, in suspicion and cruelty and half-truth. -To all above, they are as if they were not; mediocre men, static in -spiritual affairs, a little pilot-burner of vision flickering from -childhood, but never igniting their true being, nor opening to them the -one true way which each man must go alone, before he begins to be erect -in other than bone and sinew. - -They cover their bodies—but they do not cover their faces nor their -minds nor their souls; and this is the marvel, _they are not ashamed_! -They reveal the emptiness of their faces and the darkness of their minds -without complaining to each other or the police. - -From any standpoint of reality, the points of view of the many need only -to be expressed to reveal their abandonment.... You see, I have left the -Countryside and am lost in the crowd now, any crowd, the world-crowd, -whose gods today are trade, patriotism and a certain limp-legged -tumbler. - -... Yet we are told by every authoritative voice out of the past, and we -know it from the urge of our own souls, that we must love the many -before we can serve them. It is fatuous to love blindly, therefore we -must understand what we are about. I have touched here some small things -of the crowd, which are well enough to know; otherwise we are apt to -stand apart from the many crying: “How noble are the simple-minded! How -sweet the people of the Countryside! How inevitable and unerring is the -voice of the people!” As a matter of truth, unless directed by some -strong man’s vision, the voice of the people has never yet given -utterance to constructive truth; and the same may be said of those who -cater to the public taste in politics or the so-called arts. The man who -undertakes to give the people what the people want is not an artist or a -true leader of any dimension. He is a tradesman and finds his place in -his generation. - -The brave workman who dares be himself and go hungry for the honor finds -sooner or later a brilliant little fact rising in his consciousness—one -that comes to stay, and which future thinking must be built around: that -while the people are all that is low and bad in their change and rush of -personality, they are also the soil of the future, a splendid potential -mass that contains every heroism and masterpiece to be; that all great -things must come from the people, because great leaders of the people -turn their passionate impregnation of idealism upon them; that first the -dreamer dreams—and then the people make it action.... - -That which we see that hurts us so as workmen, is but the unfinished -picture, the back of the tapestry. - -To be worth his spiritual salt, the artist, any artist, must turn every -force of his conceiving into that great restless Abstraction, the many; -he must plunge whole-heartedly in the doing, but cut himself loose from -the thing done; at least, he must realize that what he is willing to -give could not be bought.... When he is quite ready, there shall rise -for him, out of the Abstraction, something finished; something as -absolutely his own as the other half of his circle. - - - - - “Rooming” - - - HELEN HOYT - - - I - - O, I can tell when I get to my corner, - Where to turn in going to my house. - On the other corners along the avenue, - Northward and southward where the cars grind, - Are saloons and drug stores, - Glaring with signals and bright glass. - On both sides of the street the same, - One block like the next. - - But on my corner is a florist’s shop - With ferns in the window - And sweet-peas and roses, - Glowing with red and pink and yellow. - - And sometimes pansies - And moss. - - Each night as I step down from the car - There the flowers are waiting - To say I have got home. - And I linger - Seeing gardens. - - - II - - The room I have now is narrow, - Narrow - Like a coffin. - As plain and as straight - And as tight as a coffin. - Two corners at the end of it, - Are rounded off where the head lies. - Ugh! - - In the bed, you stiffen - And look down at your feet - As if buried. - - On the right side is the high bureau, - On the left side is the high desk— - How high and stiff and black they are! - How high and stiff and black they are - And what is “I” dwells in the cañon between,— - Where at any moment the narrowness may tumble and fall in upon me! - How far off the ceiling appears over my eyes! - At the coffin’s head one window; - At the coffin’s foot, one chair. - - - III - - My room is narrow, - But wide enough. - My desk and pencils are wide as the world - And my books are like palaces and far journeys. - - What have I need of space? - There is always room enough for thinking, - Or for dreaming or desiring. - There is always room enough to smile - And sing - And cry out. - If the feet are happy they can always dance - Even in narrowness. - - (And a small room can be cold for a large one - When the mornings are gray.) - - - IV - - Closing the door I close out the world. - I am alone, - Free. - At home. - Castled. - - After the mastery of the day - Now I am the master. - I expand and aspire: - I exult and strut and feel aware of myself. - - The walls await me. - The mirror, - The chair. - Everything that is here is mine, - Familiar only to me; - Dependent upon my hands for use; - Dependent upon my heart for beauty. - - The books on the shelf call to me, - They send out glances to me. - We have an understanding together. - They know I will come and touch them with my fingers. - - But first I must get loosened from the day; - From people— - People crowding upon my shoulders. - I must loosen them from me. - - How good to us doors are! - They make the whole universe not be except this room. - - The curtain folds are full of quietness - And I have a great contentment with undressing. - My bed reaches out kind arms to me - And folds me in, - Awake with many thoughts. - - - V - - How pleasant are sheets! - Smooth and fine with cool creases, - Laying comfort to your cheek, - Laying soft cleanness of touch to your throat; - Delicious with sun - And blown air - And lavender. - - And then the kind wool of the blanket - Spreading out wide; - Dropping away plentifully, - Luxuriously over the edge of the bed; - Woven and spun out of living warmth, - Lightly; - Rich to possess against the proud cold. - - - VI - - How generously into its soft yielding lap - The bed receives us now, - And its strong arms - Fold us about as a mother folds her children,— - Comforting, and long-accustomed, and secure. - - Unquestioning our deserts; - Unfailing; never denying; - Never refusing our weariness; - Taking our weariness from us like a burden. - - To petulance, to discomfort, - Answering with soft answers; - Smoothing away with silence our sorrows, - Till in those faithful friendly arms - We are enwrapped with quietness and content; - With old well-being of sleep. - - - - - The Ugliest Man - - - GEORGE BURMAN FOSTER - -Good and evil, these are time-old opposites. So are beautiful and ugly. -But these two opposites are seldom entirely coincident. No doubt there -are good and high-class men who are commonly judged to be fundamentally -ugly. And there are blinding beauties who are on a war-footing against -all that we call good. The good satisfies our moral judgment; the -beautiful, our judgment of taste. The one has to do with the content of -human life; the other, with the form. But, at bottom, the moral judgment -and the judgment of taste cannot remain entirely and materially -dissociated. It was a more nearly correct feeling on the part of the -Greeks when they let the beautiful and the good inter-grow. According to -the Greek, the good and the beautiful, intimately united, constitute the -ideal of virtue, however. We are reconciled after a fashion to the -ugliness of a man if we find a great and noble soul in the repellant -shell. - -But if permanent beauty is to be preserved to human nature, efficient -and high endeavor, free self-concentrated formation of character is the -only means to this end. When the “outer man” mirrors goodness and beauty -of heart, firmness and bravery of will, seriousness and depth of -thought, his countenance glows under all circumstances with a radiance -of happy beauty, and it would be a barbarian and pitiable eye indeed -that could not apprehend such radiance or feel itself smitten with its -glory. For the man of fine feeling, therefore, all that is ugly affects -him morally at the same time. Indeed, the reproach of having behaved in -an ugly manner he feels as keenly, frequently more keenly in fact, than -the reproach of having behaved immorally. - -In the case of _Friedrich Nietzsche_, the moral criterion of human worth -was totally transformed into an aesthetic criterion! This man who had -subdued all “morality” and left it behind him, who took his stand -“beyond good and evil,” submitted to a new evaluation, was measured -according to his greatness. Greatness was nobility, supremacy, beauty. -Smallness was vulgarity, baseness, ugliness. Not the wickedest, and not -the wretchedest, but the ugliest man—_der hässlichste Mensch_—represents -the power which the new culture has to struggle with—to overcome, -indeed—if man is to mount to a higher plane of being. - -Who is this ugliest man? Of all the Zarathustrian enigmas, this is -perhaps the most enigmatic. It must have been a frightful ugliness which -haunted and harried the poet-philosopher when he narrates that, amid his -wanderings over men’s disappointing earth, he had met the ugliest man. -Many and many were the types of human beings that Zarathustra had met in -his lonely pilgrimages. Most of them he disposed of with high scorn or -honest contempt,—thus did he dispatch the good and reputable, the -custodians of the old tables of morals and order; then, the preachers of -the doctrine of equality, who swarmed around like flies in market -places, shunning all solitudes, able to exist only in masses; next the -poisonous tarantulas who, with envious revenge, devised punishments, in -cold blood dragged their victims to justice; finally, the wise and -upright, the schoolmasters, whose duress converted all depths into -shallows, managed to obliterate all men’s peculiarities, till nothing -distinctive was left. - -But the ugliest man was uglier than any of these! These types did not so -infuriate Zarathustra as did the ugliest man. At all these Nietzsche -shook his head, but they did not floor him. He had been able to look -upon them, to scold them, to laugh at them. “And again did Zarathustra’s -feet run through mountains and forests.... When the path curved round a -rock, all at once the landscape changed, and Zarathustra entered into a -realm of death. Here bristled aloft black and red cliffs, without any -grass, tree, or bird’s voice. For it was a valley which all animals -avoided, even the beasts of prey, except that a species of ugly, thick, -green serpent came here to die when they became old. Therefore the -shepherds called this valley ‘Serpent-death.’” Here Zarathustra found -the ugliest man something sitting by the wayside shaped like a man, and -yet hardly like a man, something nondescript. And all at once there came -over Zarathustra a great shame, he blushed up to the roots of his white -hair, he would flee this ill-starred place—the worst that there was in -the whole world! But the Great Despiser, the Hater of all pity was -himself so unstrung and overpowered by pity that he sank down all at -once, like a giant oak that had weathered many a storm, or withstood -many a stroke of the woodman’s axe. - -Who was this ugliest man? What was this ugliest thing which -Nietzsche—the great man-spy and life-appraiser—had ever discovered in a -human being? Before Nietzsche wrote, _thus spake Zarathustra_, he -expresses himself in another work as follows: “Nothing is ugly save the -degenerate man.... From the physical standpoint everything ugly weakens -and depresses man. It reminds of decay, danger, impotence; he literally -loses strength in its presence. The effect of ugliness may be gauged by -the dynamometer. Whenever man’s spirits are downcast, it is a sign that -he scents the proximity of something ‘ugly.’ His feeling of power, his -will to power, his courage and his pride—these things collapse at the -sight of what is ugly, and rise at the sight of what is beautiful.... -Ugliness is understood to signify a hint or a symptom of degeneration; -that which reminds us, however, remotely of degeneracy, impels us to the -judgment ‘ugly.’ Every sign of exhaustion, of gravity, of age, of -fatigue; every kind of constraint, such as cramp, or paralysis; and -above all the smells, colors and forms associated with decomposition and -putrefaction, however much they may have been attenuated into -symbols,—all these things provoke the same reaction, which is the -judgment ‘ugly.’ A certain hatred expresses itself here: who is it that -man hates? Without a doubt it is _the decline of his type_. In this -regard his hatred springs from the deepest instinct of the race. There -is horror, caution, profundity, and far-reaching vision in this -hatred,—it is the most profound hatred that exists.” - -Nowhere has Nietzsche told us of the zenith, who his superman is. But he -here tells us of the nadir, who the ugliest man is—and the superman is -the exact and august opposite. Thus we could ourselves construct his -superman. - -But the ugliest man—we recognize this strange figure of the Zarathustra -poesy in the sharp cry of distress which all representatives of -degenerate (_de-genera_) humanity groan out where the yearning toward a -higher humanity overpowers them. The ugliest man then appears accoutered -with a crown with which he has crowned his own head, and with two purple -girdles which encircle him. In a later profound observation, Nietzsche -informs us that the ugliest man is called _der historische Sinn_, the -historical mind, or sense, which needs decoration, accoutrement, like -all ugly things that would make themselves tolerable, at least for -surface people. The degenerate man,—this is the ugly man, and the -saddest degeneration is _the surrender of life to the past_—for the past -is the big grave which swallows up all that lives. Whoever makes the -past the goal of his longing walks among corpses which make him shiver. -He becomes himself a corpse, whose society is freezing for living men. -And because this man, assimilated to the past, living in the past, is -nothing himself, he needs all kinds of fiddle-faddle to give himself the -semblance of being something. He needs pomp which makes a world-stirring -phenomenon out of a coronation; he scrambles and scratches after titles -and orders—which long ago Frederick the Great, the philosopher-king on -the Prussian throne, called the insignia of fools; he has himself -accredited by father and grandfather, so that their merit may adorn the -shield of son and grandson; in a word, he reverses the counsel of an -apostle: “Forgetting the things that are behind,” for he forgets the -things that are before and reaches back for the things that are behind. -And because there is for this backward-bent man an inconvenient monitor -and witness of all life—because there is God, the omnipresent God, who -ever sees all, even sees man through and through, this ugliest man -became the murderer of God, he took revenge on the living God for being -witness of the hiddenest life of man! “I know thee well,” said -Zarathustra, with a brazen voice, “_thou art the murderer of God_!... -Thou couldst not _endure_ him who beheld thee through and through, thou -ugliest man. Thou tookest revenge on this witness!” - -We have here, I think, with all that is enigmatic and obscure, a -sharply-outlined picture of the ugliest man. Earlier Nietzsche wrote a -book on the blessing and the bane of history for life. In that book he -accorded right to historical culture and to man’s knowledge of the past -_only in so far_ as the life of the man of the present and of the future -would be advanced thereby. But the historians in the schools, in chair -and pulpit, did not so think. They acknowledged life only when it was -dead! A zealous teacher of history was a meandering mummy from out the -past, who had no blood more in his veins, no flesh more on his bones. -Therefore was he so ugly. Therefore did he create such a frosty -temperature round about him. Under the pressure of these historical -forces, all life became a _cultus_ of the past. The older a thing was, -the better it was. It was the long past, the outlived, that was noble. -The more remote that past, the prouder men were of it, and the brighter -shone its glory-beaming star to the eyes of men. - -From this malady of the ugliest man, from this _de-genera-tion_, we are -by no means free. Instead of ascent to a higher _genus_ than present -man, to superman, there is descent to a lower _genus_. This antiquarian, -hoary spirit pervades our whole social life, this _re-spect_ for what -has become old and rotten, for what can show no other merit than that it -once—was! It is a sign of our own decay, this living on the dead, this -ability only to resuscitate and copy past centuries—past poetry, past -art, past philosophy, past morality, past religion!—this knowing in -consequence no life of our very own. We build “whitewashed sepulchers” -in our lives, because we have no courage of heart to create anything -that belongs to life. At all events, that the putridity and the dead -bones may be concealed, we use whitewash, much whitewash! We use -decorations, brilliant, finely-painted decorations so that men may not -observe that life has become a theatrical play, making an impression -indeed under clever management, but inspiring no living human heart. All -the splendor of this pomp, which we of today employ on the stage of -life, cannot conceal the chilly vacuity of this whole business; and the -man who peers behind the curtains and sees how people look shorn of -their decorations, without powder and paint, without the artificial -cunning luminosity of the day’s puffery, has Zarathustra’s feeling in -the valley forsaken to the old green thick snake on its way to -die,—Zarathustra’s feeling when he met the ugliest man, where much -heaviness settled on his mind, because he did not think that anything so -ugly and horrible could exist among men. - -Yes, there are traces and traits of this ugliest man among us. If we but -imagine all that is decoration, flummery, stripped off from us, think -how much degenerate life would be disclosed! How much love for the dead -_that no longer lives_, how much bitter strife and war over _reliques_, -over some sacred cloak, or sacred bone, of which history narrates, -telling us that they once belonged to life. How much slavish obedience -to thoughts that once were; to institutions that once served the living. -To be sure, men call this _piety_, and have thus designed a beautiful -robe behind which they hide their moribund lives. For the sake of this -piety, they exact consideration for all ancient dust which burden the -homes and hearts of men, they arm themselves against him who, with -mighty hand, would undertake a huge house-cleaning of life and for life. -Piety,—it is this that they call admiration and veneration of every idol -which for long has been played out, but still counts us of today among -its devotees. Men must even deal God a mortal blow, the _Living_ God of -the living, and, with the ferocious hatred of their folly, pursue the -God who sees their innermost heart as a living witness of what they -would like to hide from themselves and all the world. “But he—_had to_ -die: he looked with eyes which beheld _everything_,—he beheld men’s -depths and dregs, all his hidden ignominy and ugliness ... he crept into -my dirtiest corners. This most prying, over-intrusive, over-pitiful one -had to die. He even beheld me: on such a witness I would have revenge—or -not live myself. The God who beheld everything, _and also man_: that God -had to die! Man cannot _endure_ it that such a witness should live.” - -Thus spake the ugliest man. Zarathustra started off, feeling frozen to -the very bowels. - -The God who told men that altogether they served death, not life, that -they worked deterioration, not rejuvenation—had to die! Life is a -dying—and yet there shoots through the heart of man such a nameless -anxiety in the presence of this dying that he paints up and pencils all -death till it looks like life. And indeed many are deceived, many see -only men’s rouge and mark not the great lie which it hides. This is the -ugliest thing in the world, and it made the prophet of a new culture -shudder and freeze—_this_, that we live and walk among corpses which yet -look as if they were alive! - -To fight and conquer this hindrance to a new culture, this is to fight -and conquer death; and since death is death only through man, through -his yearning or fear, the triumph of a new culture begins with the -triumphal song of life, which knows how to make a festival out of even -death. To be sure, Nietzsche did not set his most beautiful man over -against his most ugly, but we can yet read between the lines what he -conceived the most beautiful man to be. He is the man who has pushed far -from him the last vestige and survival of fear and slave-service. He is -the man who has learned dying as the great Consummator, victorious, -surrounded by men who hope and vow that there shall ever be festival -where a man who so dies dedicates himself to the living. Here -Zarathustra-Nietzsche intimates a kinship with that other Dying Man Who -proclaimed his life’s victorious career in His: “It is finished!” and -created on Christianity’s Good Friday a festival of death. Nietzsche -speaks of the Hebrew, too early dead, who would have confessed -Zarathustra’s doctrine, if he had attained to Zarathustra’s years. It -did not occur to Nietzsche that such a confession was not at all needed, -because the world had perceived the glad message already which would -make a festival out of death and teach men how the most beautiful -festival was consecrated. Christian art had opposed to the ugliest man -the most beautiful human picture: the head full of wounds and blood, the -King in the thorn-crown, who understood dying because he understood -living. With this victorious song of death began a new culture, a new -heroism of humanity, to which death ceased to be a pale ghost, but which -confessed even in death: “as dying, and behold, we live!” Then men -ceased to learn dying, and because they made no preaching of life out of -dying and no vow to life, death became to them a torturing anxiety and -care again; they did not dare name his name; they did not dare frankly -look him in the eye. And this cowardice and lie disfigure all their -action and passion; they would give to death at least the semblance of -life; they would believe in ghostly existence still allotted to all the -dead, rather than say to death: “Thou are a messenger of God, a -revelation, a witness of life; since thou art good, I will greet thee -and bless thee!” - -So Zarathustra demanded of his disciples: “Let your dying be no -blasphemy of men and earth; my friends, your spirit and your virtue -shall still glow in your dying, like the evening red over the earth, or -else death has miserably betrayed you.” - -Death our will even, our freedom—this is life’s highest meaning! Who but -Nietzsche could have thought that? Of course, this is not to throw life -away, when it has become hard and heavy to bear. Such a death would be -of all the most unfree. It would be a flight, not a deed; it would be a -lamentation and a feebleness, not a festival of the soul! But it means -that we take up death from the start into the order of our life, as the -night which, no less than the day, belongs to man’s full day. It means -that we give to life a worth which no death can destroy, which first in -death reveals its eternal power. I must die—so laments the slave, who -has lived only non-entities even in his life, and has never learned that -life is work, creation, consummation. I _will_ die—so speaks the hero, -to whom every fight brings the prize of a victory well worth death!—the -hero who hazards his life every moment for the highest human good, who -knows that he and his life have become a sacrifice from which a better, -higher, freer humanity shall gain its life and its strength. - -Who is ugly? Who is beautiful? Who is ashamed of his death and falsifies -his deadness that it may look like life—who does this, bears death -within himself as a power that drags him down, disfigures him in the -fullness of that which he would be able to live. But who, in his power -to die, proves that he has learned to live, has overcome the ugliest -thing in man, cast it out; namely, the fear of death which creates all -the lies of life, and all the servility and unfreedom of men—which -creates men over whom _das Gewesen_! the dead past, possesses power, so -that they can never breathe a joyous breath, can never commit themselves -to the living and the growing. But a _beautiful_ culture will also -become a _good_ culture because one that is living is at once good and -beautiful; the eternal life of God, of whom it is said: There is none -good but God alone. - - - - - Emasculating Ibsen[2] - - -Dear Mr. Ibsen: I hope this letter finds you well as it leeves us the -same. The reason why I write you is that I seen your play called -_Ghosts_ at the Bijou Movie Theater last night and I thought it was so -grand that I had to tell you. I thought it was awful the way poor Mr. -Alving is always seeing that hand which was pulling his hair out of the -past. And it was awful too the way poor Mr. Alving crawled across the -floor on his stomich and pulled the poison offn the icebox before he -killed himself. The way his poor, dear mother suffered, that was -terrible. She was such a strong, brave woman that I cried for her all -the time. And The Rev. Manders he was such a real swell minister that my -heart was all torn watching him. It ain’t natural for everybody to be so -good as ministers because they ain’t got so much time and don’t read the -Bible so often. But he was certainly all there when it came to pureness -and kindness. But even if the play was awful it was just grand the -lesson that it taught. I sent my friend to see it and he thought it was -swell. He said the kissing scenes where the terrible Cap. Alving hugs -the different ladies was real stuff and that the lesson against the -evils of drink was good for the young. This is what I want to write you -about, Mr. Ibsen. We’re going to organize a West Side Ibsen Prohibition -Club and make you honary president. I wish therefor you will write the -club a letter or better if you will write a sequil to the movie play -_Ghosts_ we will put it on at the club. I know how hard it is to have -movie plays accepted because I have done some myself but if you don’t -write the sequil I will write it and send it to the Mutual people who -put the first part on. I am certain they will take it because I will -make it just so strong and powerful a sermon against the evils of drink -as what you did. With best regards and hopes for your future success, I -am your friend, - - Mobbie Mag. - - [2] P.S. For the reader: The wet nurses who minister to the mob - have put our old friend Ibsen into diapers and give him to their - patients to play with. The cherubic little fellow is kicking up - his dimpled heels and thriving well in all the movie houses. - - - - - Death - - -I have always wished to know of death. I have always wondered what -became of me when I went back to earth. Today I know. - -I have watched a soul die and have heard its pain. Beside it I have -stood and listened to its cries. I have watched it sicken and have noted -how it struggled. - -Life was beautiful to it. There never was so exquisite a soul. It -leaped, and burned and danced when it was born. It was so radiant the -dark world into which it came grew light. - -I have always wished to know of death. Today I know. - -It was raining softly and we sat within a room with pictures all about—a -woman, fresh and young, and I—and trembled. The beauty and the -loveliness of her were dawning in me. And something of myself that had -not been took being. I loved. There was nothing as beautiful as her -lips. There was nothing as beautiful as her eyes. There was nothing then -in all the world as beautiful as she I loved. It was my soul. Restless -as a song it reached from day to day to light new moments with its -melody. Ever and forever it went singing, “I will live beyond the stars. -I will live beyond the mystery of flesh. When the woman who awakened me -is turned to dust I will live as now and sing as now.” - -I have always wondered what became of me when I went back to earth. -Today I know. - -It was so precious and so fierce. I loved so. I had but to look on her -and taste of immortality. - -Beside it I have stood and listened to its cries. I have noted how it -struggled. In the night I have repeated its brave words, “Ever and -forever.” I have nursed it from her lips. I have given it to feed upon -her breast. - -It would not live. I loved so, I loved so—and yet I ceased to love. - -There is one thing in the world that will not live. There is one thing -mortal more than life. It is the beauty of which poets sing. Beauty dies -in every moment. It is mortal with the hours. It flashes and it dies. It -leaps and dies. It sings and dies. - -I loved so and yet I ceased to love. - -Her eyes became as nothing. Her lips became as nothing. Her voice became -as nothing. Her laughter and her tears, the movement of her body when -she walked, the strangeness of her face, the mysteries that made her one -apart and glorified her and the radiance that burned in me at her -approach—all became as nothing. - -Miserable God. False Promiser. I have wished to know of death. I have -wondered what became of me when I went back to earth. Today I know. - - “The Scavenger.” - - - - - Children’s Poems - - -Alice Oliver Henderson, eight-year-old poet, wrote the following five -poems when she was only seven. Her method is to chant them to her -mother, Alice Corbin Henderson, who takes them down exactly as they are -dictated. Mrs. Henderson thinks their interest lies in the fact that -they are the expression of a child’s mind, and so she refuses to change -or “improve” them. Besides, it might be difficult to “improve” such -lines as “The moon shines against my heart”.... The other poems in the -group were written by Percy Mackaye’s children—Arvia’s at the age of -ten, and Robin’s at twelve. Mr. Mackaye says that his daughter’s were -done while it was still difficult for her to read or write, but that she -has always been read aloud to and has learned considerable poetry by -heart. - - - A Mountain of Fire - - There was a mountain made of fire, - Far in the sea— - It was very nice to everybody that lived in that world. - Right over in Japan, it was. - Where there are very good fighters and painters, - And very good little children, - And very good minders in that world. - - - Kathleen - - (after seeing _Kathleen ni Houlihan_) - - She looked very, very old when she came in. - The mother and the father that were in the house. - Had one brother in the house, - The other one had gone out - And got all the England people away - For Kathleen, - For Kathleen, - And then said, _He shall be remembered forever_. - She was a young woman when she went out, - And she sang when she went out the door. - - The moon shines at night - When all are in bed, - And the dear little birdies sing for you - In the morning time to wake you sure. - - How lovely the day is— - The moon shines against my heart— - I love the sweetness of the sky. - The beautiful day comes every morning true. - - - Miss Ungerich’s Japanese Play - - Eyes all blackened, lips made beautiful, - Lavender under, then red over for the costume, - Acted wonderfully with her hands fixed all the time, - Bare feet, then on to the floor, - She made a thing that was beautiful. - - Next was a man with a sword, - He acted the same way with her face. - Brown—gold costume, then a hat she wore, - Then a sort of stick-sword; - Then she did moving of hands and killing. - She was pretending, but there was only one actor, - Miss Ungerich. - - - The Snow Flakes - - In the winter I saw the loveliest sky that you ever saw. - It was blue and pink and yellow and orange and white and black and grey. - That was the colors of the sky. - It pleased me so that I went and sat down. - You must think of life and the poor that war makes. - - _Done by Alice Oliver Henderson, Miss._ - - - Fire Castles - - Fast falling rain and every hill in mist - Make even my very saddest thoughts grow sadder, - And every sad thought lengthens my long list, - As, moaning over old things that make me madder, - I sit and sulk over some unkind word - And weep as if I had not wept before, - And think of words about me I have heard, - And with old thoughts grieve over them some more. - But soon, if I get up, or sit and gaze, - Telling myself stories of joyous thought - Before the warm and cheery, singing blaze, - Now all my bad thoughts in a trap are caught; - And if I gaze at castles in the fire, - Then all the while to gladness I grow nigher. - - - The Unknown Race - - O dream, what are you?— - A fairy or a sprite, - A goddess in the air, - Or just a flash of light? - - A sudden flash of joy - That brightens up my mind, - Till wonders I see now - Where first I was so blind. - - - Zephyr - - Zephyr—Zephyr—Zephyr! Blow on, blow hard - Over hill and over dale! - O play in the green trees, leave nothing marred: - O blow—O blow—O blow a gale! - - Zephyr—Zephyr—Zephyr! Play on, play long! - Play and sing in tops of trees, - And brush the valley’s airy green hair strong; - Dip your head, diving down the leas! - - Zephyr—Zephyr—Zephyr, - Like a little heifer, - Frolic and lie - In the field of the sky! - - Good-bye, good-bye! - Frolic and turn and lie! - - _Arvia Mackaye._ - - - The Swimming Pool - - O! crystal-clear, transparent water, - The cool wind is thy joyous daughter. - As I glide through thee, quick and sleek— - Oh thou so quiet and so meek!— - I feel thy ripples lapping free, - And thou dost lie so near to me - I see my figure on thy face, - Entwined in shadows, linked like lace. - - Oh! what art thou? what canst thou be, - That dost reflect my visage unto me? - I know not what thou seemest to another, - But thou to me art as a brother. - - - To a Turtle - - O gallant knight in armour black - Blotched with grey and yellow squares, - A horny motto’s on thy breast: - _Bravery_ it bears. - - O turtle, paddling through the grass - That skirts the cobwebbed shining lawn! - Come tell me true: where journey you - This dewy dawn? - - I smell a pond, and in it are - Young tadpoles, newly hatched and fresh, - And larvas of mosquitoes plump - And sweet of flesh; - - And whirligigs, that streak and dart - Like water-lightning underneath - The greenish cat-tail spears, that shade - The frogspit heath. - - And there is oozy, deep, soft mud - For me to lie and bask upon, - And dine on lizards fat, and sleek - Chameleon. - - And there the bright-green, freckled frog - My only friend will always be. - To him I haste:—To you I bend - My jointless knee. - - _Robin Mackaye._ - - - - - Book Discussion - - - The Books of Poetry - - _Irradiations: Sand and Spray, by John Gould Fletcher. Boston: - Houghton Mifflin Company._ - -There is considerable diversity in Mr. Fletcher’s _Irradiations_, but -one soon discovers that he has not encrimsoned himself with the standard -passions of poetry. He does not display the usual contortions of love, -hate, grief, and fear. Some persons have, therefore, found him aloof, -oversubtle, and lacking in emotional force. This intimation that Mr. -Fletcher’s art is etiolated is an admission of the reader’s -incompleteness. Vitality does not depend on subject; nor is subtlety -necessarily weakness. But the notion strangely persists that a poet must -clothe his emotions in samite and dance with them around a blood-red -fire to the plangent accompaniment of drums and trumpets. - -To say that Mr. Fletcher has entwined himself with nature would unfairly -give an impression of Wordsworthian insipidity. Yet Mr. Fletcher in many -of his poems is a part of the rain, of the sand and wind, of the clouds -and sky. But he is never merely descriptive. He has the power of -conveying a mood in the terms of nature without intruding himself upon -the reader. Let me illustrate with one of the best of his poems which -has been much quoted elsewhere: - - Flickering of incessant rain - On flashing pavements; - Sudden scurry of umbrellas; - Bending recurved blossoms of the storm. - - The winds came clanging and clattering - From long white highroads whipping in ribbons up summits; - They strew upon the city gusty wafts of apple-blossom, - And the rustling of innumerable translucent leaves. - - Uneven tinkling, the lazy rain - Dripping from the eaves. - -Our tread-mill versifiers will shrink and mumble in the presence of Mr. -Fletcher’s clean new poetry. They who have inherited the dead mottled -skin of old poetic form with its incrustation of ancient allusions, -symbols, and yellowed figures, will not feel the alluring freshness of a -poem such as this: - - It is evening, and the earth - Wraps her shoulders in an old blue shawl. - Afar there clink the polychrome points of the stars, - Indefatigable after all these years! - Here upon earth there is life, and then death, - Dawn, and later nightfall, - Fire, and the quenching of embers: - But why should I not remember that my night is dawn in another part - of the world, - If the idea fits my fancy? - Dawns of marvellous light, wakeful, sleepy, weary, dancing dawns; - You are rose petals settling through the blue of my evening; - I light my pipe to salute you, - And sit puffing smoke in the air and never say a word. - -In his preface Mr. Fletcher says the use of rhyme is in its essence -barbarous; yet he himself uses it not infrequently together with such -devices as assonance, onomatopoeia, and alliteration. He is not -inconsistent, however, for he admits that rhyme used intelligently will -add to the richness of effect. It does: - - The wind that drives the fine dry sand - Across the strand: - The sad wind spinning arabesques - With a wrinkled hand. - - Labyrinths of shifting sand, - The dancing dunes! - - I will arise and run with the sand, - And gather it greedily in my hand: - I will wriggle like a long yellow snake over the beaches. - I will lie curled up, sleeping, - And the wind shall chase me - Far inland. - - My breath is the music of the mad wind; - Shrill piping, stamping of drunken feet, - The fluttering, tattered broidery flung - Over the dunes’ steep escarpments. - - The fine dry sand that whistles - Down the long low beaches. - -_Sand and Spray: A Sea-Symphony_ comprises the second part of Mr. -Fletcher’s volume. This symphony has much of the movement and variety of -music. In manner it resembles many of the “Irradiations,” and it is just -as well worth reading. - -Certainly there will be many who will not like Mr. Fletcher’s work. Dogs -will always bark at a new fragrance. - - _Japanese Lyrics, translated by Lafcadio Hearn. Boston: Houghton - Mifflin Company._ - -Readers of Lafcadio Hearn will recall the many translations of Japanese -_haikai_ poetry which are scattered through his writings. Those -translations have been collected in the present volume. They are -delicate whisps of thought, tantalizingly suggestive, most of them -confined to a sentence. Here are some of them: - - If with my sleeve I hide the faint fair color of the dawning - sun,— - then, perhaps, in the morning, my lord will remain. - - Perched upon the temple-bell, the butterfly sleeps: - Even while sleeping, its dream is of play—ah, the butterfly of the - grass! - - Many insects there are that call from the dawn to evening, - Crying “I love! I love!”—but the Firefly’s silent passion, - Making its body burn, is deeper than all their longing. - Even such is my love .... - -The following poem, says the editor, was written more than eleven -hundred years ago on the death of the poet’s little son: - - As he is so young, he cannot know the way. - .... To the messenger of the Underworld I will give a bribe, - and entreat him, saying: “Do thou kindly take the little one upon thy - back along the road.” - -Some discerning persons have asserted that “Imagism” is derived from -_haikai_ or _hokku_ poetry. We shall leave to them the pleasant futility -of discussing that theory. They may eventually discover that they are -building on the shaky premise that “Imagism” exists other than as a -clever word. - - _The Winnowing Fan, by Laurance Binyon. Boston: Houghton Mifflin - Company._ - -My dears, we will tie _vers libre_ in the garden. Then let us go into -the parlor where Mr. Laurence Binyon will pour tea; it will have sugar -in it. Mr. Binyon will read to you from his latest book _The Winnowing -Fan_. He is a gentleman of taste and culture who is vexed at the -Germans. He is meticulously metrical and counts his syllables. He will -say nothing unexpected.... If _vers libre_ howls in the garden, you may -throw rhymes at him. - - _Mitchell Dawson._ - - - - - Have You Read—? - - - (_In this column will be given each month a list of current - magazine articles which, as an intelligent being, you will not - want to miss._) - -Shadows of Revolt, by Inez Haynes Gilmore. _The Masses_, July. - -Redemption and Dostoevsky, by Rebecca West. _The New Republic_, July 12. - -The State of the War, by Arthur Bullard. _The Masses_, August. - -Serbia Between Battles, by John Reed. _The Metropolitan_, August. - -Richard Aldington’s lucid account of the Imagists and their history in -_Greenwich Village_, July 15. - -Almost any of the editorials in _Harper’s Weekly_. - - - - - Can You Read—? - - - (_In this column will be given each month a resume of current - cant which, as an intelligent being, you will go far to avoid._) - -The reactions of the two Chestertons in _The New Witness_. - -Midsummer fiction issues of _The Century_ or _Scribner’s_ or _Harper’s_. - -_The Continent_ on Edgar Lee Masters’ _Spoon River Anthology_: “Each -poem is in the nature of a confession, philosophical or satirical, -telling secrets of human nature, good or bad—mostly bad. Because of its -novelty and originality the book has attracted attention far and -wide.... His attitude toward religious believers is a wrong one, and -readers may well wonder at the scarcity of sincere, sensible Christians -in Spoon River.” - - - - - The Reader Critic - - -_Lee J. Smits, Detroit_: - -We are disgusted and impatient with “peo-pul” just to the extent that -our realization of superiority fails us. That impatient attitude reminds -me of the ordinary attitude of the white toward the black. The white man -is not sure of himself; history and biology do not give him sufficient -support. So he bullies negroes at every opportunity. Some men even are -impelled to contend for their superiority by abusing dogs. - -The sense of superiority abides in all living things of necessity, else -no form of life would stand out against any other. Wild creatures never -need argue, each with himself, as to his place in the world. His right -to exist and to express himself is paramount in the animal’s soul. Only -man ever doubts. - -Really “peo-pul” do not doubt. They with the artist’s mark on them do -the doubting. When it is very faint, their doubting asserts itself in -strange ways and the crude egoism thereof revolts us. “Peo-pul” crawl -along self-satisfied. - -And why do you ask so much of artists? Why is it so important that they -should use their strength in vain strivings to make butterflies of worms -never destined to be butterflies or to amuse other artists who should be -able to amuse themselves? If they get joy out of creating and preaching, -let them preach and create—let them soar. If they get joy out of being, -out of exultant living and watching, let them live, and do not scold. - -The most beautiful butterfly I ever saw (some kind of “Emperor”) merely -rested on a lump of mud in the forest shade and very languidly moved his -wings. That is all he did while I looked at him. He knew that he could -fly, I knew that he could fly, and he either knew that I knew or else he -didn’t care. - -We all know what impatience with “peo-pul” is. In the hush of a great -flash of dramatic power from the stage, they giggle, and it would be -good to fasten your fingers in the pulpy throat of one. They applaud -idiotic vaudeville, and it would be glorious to arise, automatic in -hand, and slay and slay. - -That is your distrust of yourself—we all have it as much as we deserve -it. - -“So I belong to this species!” you say. - -I do not hate my dog when he seeks out carrion. I wash him with strong -soap and try to explain him. I feel quite sure—most of the time—that I -have come a little further than he has. - -“Peo-pul” are even more interesting than dogs, when taken individually. -We even have more in common with them than with other animals. - -Some of them are beautiful in their simplicity, like children—unspoiled -in their loves and hates, and it is entertainment to behold them; to be -with them, yet not of them; to be the arch-snob, of such perfect -snobbishness that it is indistinguishable from perfect humility, perfect -democracy. - -All the mighty ones have been artists in life; like unto children they -have walked their ways, so everlastingly sure of themselves that rarely -have they been betrayed into petulance by the wobbling of their sense of -superiority. - -_Susan Quackenbush, Portage, Wisconsin_: - -May one who has read your every issue with joy and enthusiasm be -permitted to enter protest against that gross libel on the human race -labeled _The Artist in Life_, in your June number? - -Please—oh please—_be_ an artist-in-life, in human life, as well as in -sunsets and Paderewskis and Imagism, and see for one creative moment, in -“terms of truth and beauty,” the wonderful, aspiring, suffering, loving, -smouldering, flaming beautiful souls of that great living, growing, -winged group of creations you have called—may the great human God -forgive the phrase—a “mass of caterpillars!” Come and see how its soul, -and the souls of its separate creations “spring from the rock” just as -truly as the brook’s or your own. If they can not _yet_ spring as far, -it is because the weight above them is as yet too heavy. - -When all the humans look like caterpillars to any one human, the trouble -is with that one’s viewpoint. From an aeroplane, even the Himalayas look -like anthills. Come down from your remote altitude and lose yourself in -the beautiful, glorious psychic of the crowd—be one of them, and see -what you will find! - -THE LITTLE REVIEW proclaims itself bent on the adventure of beauty. Is -there any beauty like that of the “sad, sweet music of humanity?” What -is the glow of the most gorgeous sunset ever splashed against the -western skies beside the glow of the divine in the human which hurls -itself upon you—and _into_ you if you will let it—in a thousand -beseeching, inviting, intoxicating flames from the midst of any crowd? - -But only, of course, if you are _in_ the midst. - -Is there any adventure like the “adventure of being human”—and _with_ -humans? and _of_ them? Go with Whitman into the heart of -humanity—struggle _with_ them—not from far above them—to lift from off -their backs the crushing weight of wealth and masters and idle snobs and -false gods so that they may get _room_ to spread their wings—for they -_have_ wings, and then you will know them as they are, and yourself but -as one of them. - -If some of them still try to clip the wings of those who have struggled -free from the crushing pressure, it is because of the maddening agony of -their own atrophying wings. If a few seem even to be unaware of the need -for wings, it is because the clamor of more insistent needs—the cries of -hungry children, of bruised and broken and unsatisfied men and of -suffering and degraded women—has silenced for every shame their own -soul’s wing-cry. - -But I think that you will find that those who perform the wing-clipping -are the other butterflies whom money or position or callousness has set -above the people—not those who are really of the crowd. They of the -crowd _love_ wings, and those who truly use them. - -I am not daring to attempt reply to the statement which inflames me -most, lest I become profane and entirely incoherent. I mean, of course, -the statement that the estimate of four or five thousand living artists -would be too optimistic because that would mean four or five thousand -who “have nothing in common with caterpillars.” That’s a worse libel on -artists than the rest of it is on people. But I’ll try to stop with one -remark and one question. The estimate is entirely too pessimistic; I -positively refuse to believe there are four thousand persons alive who -have or even who think they have “nothing in common” with the great -splendid mass of folks; if there are, the gods have pity on them! -And—has there ever been one single real and great artist, whether of -brush or pen or tone, whose art and whose very greatness was not -absolutely dependent upon and because of the fact that he had, and knew -he had, _everything_ in common with, and indeed included in his being, -the beings of these whom you term “caterpillars”?—these whose life and -living are and always have been and through ages will continue to be the -most worth while content of all art? Of course you reply: _Nietzsche_; -but he was an intellectual and spiritual Rockefeller—not an -artist-in-life. - -And Individualism? When _all_ have been set free to use their wings, -then the few may feel free to strive toward the super-butterfly. And -when they arrive, perhaps,—oh, just perhaps—they will find all the other -“caterpillars” there too, and with quite wonderful wings. There are -wings, and wings, and if they but serve to bear us free of the disaster -of meanness and cruelty and snobbishness and injustice, who shall say -they are not super-wings? - -_Witter Bynner, Windsor, Vermont_: - -I wish I could honor the Imagists as you do. Hueffer wrote _On Heaven_ -(not imagistic); and Pound wrote well before he affected a school ... -Pound has a rhythm he can’t kill. But none of them, except Hueffer, says -anything worth mentioning. They build poems around phrases, usually -around adjectives. George Meredith has thousands of imagist poems -incidental to each of his novels. But he knows their use and their -beauty. These people wring tiny beauties dry. I can imagine a good poet -using their methods on occasion, but he wouldn’t be so damn conscious -about it. On the whole, the Imagists strike me as being purveyors of -more or less potent cosmetics, their whole interest being in the -cosmetic itself, not even in its application. Poetry gave signs of -becoming poetry again and of touching life—when these fellows showed up, -to make us all ridiculous. - - - SOLD ONLY TO - - PHYSICIANS, LAWYERS, EDUCATORS, CLERGYMEN, SOCIAL WORKERS AND - WRITERS. Price heretofore $5.50. Identically same work, in less - expensive binding, now $1.60. - - This is the revised and enlarged MARSHALL ENGLISH TRANSLATION of - - - - - THE - SEXUAL - QUESTION - - By August Forel, M. D., Ph. D., L. L. D., of Zurich. Every - Professional man or woman, dealing with social, criminal, medical - and religious matters will find this book of immediate value. - Without doubt the most complete and authoritative as well as the - most amazing book ever written on sexual matters. Subject treated - from every point of view by this celebrated scientist in terms of - the average reader. - - The chapter on “Love and Other Irradiations of the Sexual - Appetite” is in itself a profound revelation of human sex - emotions. Complete exposition of degeneracy and treatment. - Discussions of contraceptive means. Should be in the hands of - everyone dealing with domestic relations. - - Send $1.60, check, money order, or stamps, to - - GOTHAM BOOK SOCIETY, DEPT. 564., - “Any book on any subject, by mail,” - 142 West 23rd St., New York, N. Y. - - In answering this advertisement mention THE LITTLE REVIEW. - - Direction - Alfred Hamburger - - - Fine Arts - - - Coolest Theatre in the City - - - - - Now Playing - - Celebrated Players Film Co. Presents - - - An Amazing Film Spectacle - - Pronounced by All a Masterpiece in Motography - - - WALKER WHITESIDE - - In - Israel Zangwill’s Internationally Famous Drama - - - - - THE MELTING POT - - Never has the American flag closed a more appropriate picture - than in this play.—News. - - “The Melting Pot” is a real masterpiece—the theme of the story - and love of America is depicted for you and you go away - satisfied.—Examiner. - - “The Melting Pot” is alight with patriotism of the frank sort - that will find echo in American hearts.—Tribune. - - The glory of America inspired by “The Melting Pot” should - recommend the play to every one.—American. - - “The Melting Pot” is a gripping story told in a masterly - way.—Post. - - _AN AMERICAN DRAMA FOR THE PATRIOTIC AMERICAN._ - - Continuous 10 a. m. to 11 p. m. Admission 25 cents. - - - Poetry - - - A Magazine of Verse - - 543 Cass Street - Chicago - - Padraic Colum, the distinguished Irish poet and lecturer, says: - “POETRY is the best magazine, by far, in the English language. We - have nothing in England or Ireland to compare with it.” - - William Marion Reedy, Editor of the St. Louis _Mirror_, says: - “POETRY has been responsible for the Renaissance in that art. You - have done a great service to the children of light in this - country.” - - CAN YOU AFFORD TO DO WITHOUT SO IMPORTANT A MAGAZINE? - - POETRY publishes the best verse now being written in English, and - its prose section contains brief articles on subjects connected - with the art, also reviews of the new verse. - - POETRY has introduced more new poets of importance than all the - other American magazines combined, besides publishing the work of - poets already distinguished. - - THE ONLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED EXCLUSIVELY TO THIS ART. - - SUBSCRIBE AT ONCE. A subscription to POETRY is the best way of - paying interest on your huge debt to the great poets of the past. - It encourages living poets to do for the future what dead poets - have done for modern civilization, for you. - - One year—12 numbers—U. S. A., $1.50; Canada, $1.65; foreign, - $1.75 (7 shillings). - - POETRY - 543 Cass Street, Chicago. - - Send POETRY for one year ($1.50 enclosed) beginning ......... - .......................................................... to - Name ........................................................ - Address ..................................................... - - - - - Have You Read—? - - - (_In this column will be given each month a list of current - magazine articles which, as an intelligent being, you will - not want to miss._) - - The Unbroken Chain, by Romain Rolland. _The New Republic._ - - Dostoievsky and Tolstoy, by James Huneker. _The Forum_, August. - - Nietzsche, by Anna Strunsky Walling. _The New Review_, August 1. - - The Uninteresting War, by Max Eastman. _The Masses_, September. - - Our Friend, the Enemy, by Alice Corbin Henderson. _Poetry_, - August. - - Books and Things, by Walter Lippman. _The New Republic_, August - 7. - - Morality and the Movies, by Floyd Dell. _The New Review_, August - 15. - - Nearly everything in _The Egoist_, August 1. - - - - - Can You Read—? - - - (_In this column will be given each month a resumé of - current cant which, as an intelligent being, you will go - far to avoid._) - - The Meaning of It, by H. C. _The New Republic_, August 7. - - Bryant and “The New Poetry,” by John L. Hervey. _The Dial_, Aug. - 15. - - The “Free” Poets, by Michael Monahan. _The Phoenix_, September. - - Pearls from _The Outlook_ for August 11, in regard to the Becker - trial: - - What can we learn from this story of trust betrayed, of dishonor - in high places, and of a three years’ legal battle over a crime - which demanded immediate retribution? Certainly the law did not - come out unscathed from this controversy. It is a familiar story, - but it will bear repetition until it is remedied—we are very much - behind England in our administration of criminal law. The - efficiency of punishment as a deterrent to crime is largely based - upon the swiftness and sureness of justice rather than the - severity of the penalty inflicted. Becker is dead; but who can - deny that whatever social effect may result from his execution - would have been trebled had his death come within a reasonable - interval after the commission of his crime? The case is - significant, not because it is an exception, but because it is - typical of the process of American law. - - - Statement of Ownership, Management, - Circulation, Etc., required by the Act of - August 24, 1912 - - of _THE LITTLE REVIEW_ published monthly at - _Chicago, Ill._ for _April 1st, 1914_. - - Editor, _Margaret C. Anderson, 834 Fine Arts - Building, Chicago_ - - Managing Editor, _Same_ - - Business Manager, _Same_ - - Publisher, _Same_ - - Owners: (If a corporation, give its name and - the names and addresses of stockholders holding - 1 per cent or more of total amount of stock. If - not a corporation, give names and addresses of - individual owners.) - - _Margaret C. Anderson - 834 Fine Arts Building, Chicago_ - - Known bondholders, mortgagees, and other - security holders, holding 1 per cent or more of - total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other - securities: _None_ - - _MARGARET C. ANDERSON_, - - Sworn to and subscribed before me this _10th_ - day of _April, 1915_. - - _MITCHELL DAWSON, Notary Public._ - (My commission expires _December 20, 1917_.) - - - - - THE EGOIST - - - An Individualist Review - - Subscribe to THE EGOIST and hear what you will get: - - Editorials containing the most notable creative and critical - philosophic matter appearing in England today. - - Some of the newest and best experimental English and American - poetry. - - A page of current French poetry. - - Reviews of only those books which are worth praise. - - News of modern music, of new painting, of French literary and - artistic life. - - A series of impartial studies in modern German poetry (began June - 1st). - - Translations and parodies. - - A serial novel by James Joyce, a young Irishman of great talent—a - novel no one else would print—it was too good. - - PUBLISHED MONTHLY - - Price—Fifteen cents a number - Yearly subscription, One Dollar Sixty Cents - - Buy some of the back numbers. They are literature, not - journalism. - - OAKLEY HOUSE, BLOOMSBURY STREET, LONDON, W. C. - - - - - Transcriber’s Notes - - -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. Duplicate -advertisements were removed. - -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. 4]: - ... scandal-monging newspapers, out of the malicious after-dinner - gossip of ... - ... scandal-mongering newspapers, out of the malicious - after-dinner gossip of ... - - [p. 7]: - ... For the sun shifts through the shade. ... - ... For the sun sifts through the shade. ... - - [p. 13]: - ... affects his own pocket. And the masses of labor who do feel - themselve and ... - ... affects his own pocket. And the masses of labor who do feel - themselves and ... - - [p. 20]: - ... Sappho, Sappho, long ago the dust of earth mingled with the - dust of they dear limbs, ... - ... Sappho, Sappho, long ago the dust of earth mingled with the - dust of thy dear limbs, ... - - [p. 29]: - ... Unquestioning our desserts; ... - ... Unquestioning our deserts; ... - - [p. 32]: - ... said Zarathustra, with a brazen voice, “thou are the - murderer of God!... ... - ... said Zarathustra, with a brazen voice, “thou art the - murderer of God!... ... - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, AUGUST 1915 -(VOL. 2, NO. 5) *** - -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. 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