The Little Review, March 1914 (Vol. 1, No. 1)

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Title: The Little Review, March 1914 (Vol. 1, No. 1)
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Language: English
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THE LITTLE REVIEW

Literature Drama Music Art

MARGARET C. ANDERSON
EDITOR

MARCH, 1914

A Letter John Galsworthy 3
Five Japanese Prints Arthur Davison Ficke 3
"The Dark Flower" and the "Moralists" Margaret C. Anderson 5
A Remarkable Nietzschean Drama DeWitt C. Wing 8
The Lost Joy Floyd Dell 10
Paderewski and the New Gods The Editor 11
The Major Symphony George Soule 13
The Prophet of a New Culture George Burman Foster 14
How a Little Girl Danced Nicholas Vachel Lindsay 18
The New Note Sherwood Anderson 23
Rahel Varnhagen: Feminist Margery Currey 25
Tagore as a Dynamic George Soule 32
The Meaning of Bergsonism Llewellyn Jones 38
Rupert Brooke's Poetry 29
Ethel Sidgwick's "Succession" 34
Letters of William Vaughn Moody 24
Emerson's Journals 42
The Critics' Critic 20
New York Letter 43

THE LITTLE REVIEW
Fine Arts Building
CHICAGO

Volume 1 Number 1

25 cents a copy $2.50 a year

THE LITTLE REVIEW

MARCH, 1914

Announcement

"The realm of art is prodigious; next to life itself the vastest
realm of man's experience."

Appreciation has its outlet in art; and art (to complete the circle and
the figure) has its source in--owes its whole current--to appreciation.
That is, the tides of art would cease to ebb and flow were it not for
the sun and moon of appreciation.

This function of the sun and moon is known as criticism. But criticism
as an art has not flourished in this country. We live too swiftly to
have time to be appreciative; and criticism, after all, has only one
synonym: appreciation. In a world whose high splendor is our chief
preoccupation the quality of our appreciation is the important thing.

Life is a glorious performance: quite apart from its setting, in spite
of the kind of "part" one gets, everybody is given at least his chance
to act. We may do our simple best with the roles we receive; we may
change our "lines" if we're inventive enough to think of something
better; we may alter our "business" to get our personalities across more
effectively; or we may boldly accost the stage manager, hand back the
part he'd cast us for, and prove our right to be starred. The player who
merely holds madame's cloak may do it with dignity and grace; and he who
changes his role, with a fine freedom and courage, discovers that he's
not acting but living his part! For this reason we feel that we needn't
be accused of an unthinking "all's-right-with-the-world" attitude when
we assert that life is glorious.

And close to Life--so close, from our point of view, that it keeps
treading on Life's heels--is this eager, panting Art who shows us the
wonder of the way as we rush along. We may as well acknowledge right
here that we've never had a friend (except in one or two rare instances)
who hasn't shaken his head at us paternally about this attitude toward
art. "It's purely transitional," he says, tolerantly; "life is so much
more interesting, you see, that you're bound to substitute people for
art, eventually. It really doesn't matter so much that Alice Meynell
wrote 'Renouncement' as that Mrs. Jones next door has left her husband."
Well, he's wrong; at least, he can't speak for us. Wells said to save
the kitten and let the Mona Lisa burn; who would consider anything else?
We think it's rather silly in our paternal friend to argue with us so
heatedly--beside the point! It's not a question as to which is more
important--"Renouncement" or Mrs. Jones. We're merely trying to say that
we're intensely interested in Mrs. Jones, but that Mrs. Meynell has made
our lives more wonderful--permanently.

THE LITTLE REVIEW means to reflect this attitude toward life and art.
Its ambitious aim is to produce criticism of books, music, art, drama,
and life that shall be fresh and constructive, and intelligent from the
artist's point of view. For the instinct of the artist to distrust
criticism is as well founded as the mother's toward the sterile woman.
More so, perhaps; for all women have some sort of instinct for
motherhood, and all critics haven't an instinct for art. Criticism that
is creative--that is our high goal. And criticism is never a merely
interpretative function; it _is_ creation: it gives birth! It's not
necessary to cite the time-worn illustration of Da Vinci and Pater to
prove it.

Books register the ideas of an age; this is perhaps their chief claim to
immortality. But much that passes for criticism ignores this aspect of
the case and deals merely with a question of literary values. To be
really interpretative--let alone creative--criticism must be a blend of
philosophy and poetry. We shall try very hard to achieve this difficult
combination.

Also, we mean to print articles, poems, stories that seem to us
definitely interesting, or--to use a much-abused adjective--vital. Our
point of view shall not be restrictive; we may present the several
judgments of our various enthusiastic contributors on one subject in the
same issue. The net effect we hope will be stimulating and what we like
to call releasing.

Feminism? A clear-thinking magazine can have only one attitude; the
degree of ours is ardent!

Finally, since THE LITTLE REVIEW, which is neither directly nor
indirectly connected in any way with any organization, society, company,
cult or movement, is the personal enterprise of the editor, it shall
enjoy that untrammelled liberty which is the life of Art.

And now that we've made our formal bow we may say confidentially that we
take a certain joyous pride in confessing our youth, our perfectly
inexpressible enthusiasm, and our courage in the face of a serious
undertaking; for those qualities mean freshness, reverence, and victory!
At least we have got to the age when we realize that all beautiful
things make a place for themselves sooner or later in the world. And we
_hope_ to be very beautiful!

If you've ever read poetry with a feeling that it was your religion,
your very life; if you've ever come suddenly upon the whiteness of a
Venus in a dim, deep room; if you've ever felt music replacing your
shabby soul with a new one of shining gold; if, in the early morning,
you've watched a bird with great white wings fly from the edge of the
sea straight up into the rose-colored sun--if these things have happened
to you and continue to happen till you're left quite speechless with the
wonder of it all, then you'll understand our hope to bring them nearer
to the common experience of the people who read us.

The more I see of academicism, the more I distrust it. If I had
approached painting as I have approached book-writing and music,
that is to say, by beginning at once to do what I wanted ... I
should have been all right.--_The Note-Books of Samuel Butler._

Poetry is in Nature just as much as carbon is.--Emerson's
_Journals_ (1856-1863).

Life is like music; it must be composed by ear, feeling and
instinct, not by rule.--_The Note-Books of Samuel Butler._

A Letter from Galsworthy

Written from Taormina, February 23, 1914.

MY DEAR MADAM:

You ask me to bid your magazine good speed; and so far as I have any
right, I do indeed. It seems you are setting out to watch the street of
Life from a high balcony, where at all events the air should be fresh
and sunrise sometimes visible. I hope you will decide to sleep out there
under the stars, for what kills most literary effort is the hothouse air
of temples, clubs, and coteries, that, never changed, breeds in us by
turn febrility and torpor. Enthusiasms are more convincing from those
who have not told their loves too often. And criticism more poignant
from one who has been up at dawn, seen for himself and put down his
impression before he goes on 'Change. There is a saying of de Maupassant
about a writer sitting down before an object until he has seen it in the
way that he alone can see it, seen it with the part of him which makes
him This man and not That. For the creative artist and the creative
critic there is no rule, I think, so golden. And I did seem to notice in
America that there was a good deal of space and not much time; and that
without too much danger of becoming "Yogis" people might perhaps sit
down a little longer in front of things than they seemed to do. But I
noticed too a great energy and hope. These will be your servants to
carry through what will not, surely, be just an exploit or adventure,
but a true and long comradeship with effort that is worth befriending.

So all good fortune!

Very faithfully yours,
JOHN GALSWORTHY.

Five Japanese Prints

ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE

I KIYONOBU SPEAKS

The actor on his little stage
Struts with a mimic rage.--
Across my page
My passion in his form shall tower from age to age.

What he so crudely dreams
In vague and fitful gleams,
The crowd esteems.--
Well! let the future judge, if his or mine this seems--

This calm Titanic mould
Stalking in colours bold
Fold upon fold--
This lord of dark, this dream I dreamed of old!

II FIGURE BY OKUMURA MASANOBU

Garbed in flowing folds of light,
Azure, emerald, rose, and white,
Watchest thou across the night.

Crowned with splendor is thine head:
All the princes great and dead
Round thy limbs their state have shed--

Calm, immutable to stand--
Gracious head and poisèd hand--
O'er the years that flow like sand.

III PILLAR-PRINT BY KIYOMITSU

A place for giant heads to take their rest
Seems her pale breast.

Her sweeping robe trails like the cloud and wind
Storms leave behind.

The ice of the year, and its Aprilian part,
Sleep in her heart.

Wherefore, small marvel that her footsteps be
Like strides of Destiny!

IV PILLAR-PRINT BY TOYONOBU

O lady of the long robes, the slow folds flowing--
Lady of the white breast, the dark and lofty head--
Dwells there any wonder, the way that thou art going--
Or goest thou toward the dead?

So calm thy solemn steps, so slow the long lines sweeping
Of garments pale and ghostly, of limbs as grave as sleep--
I know not if thou, spectre, hast love or death in keeping,
Or goest toward which deep.

Thou layest thy robes aside with gesture large and flowing--
Is it for love or sleep--is it for life or death?
I would my feet might follow the path that thou art going,
And thy breath be my breath.

V PILLAR-PRINT BY HARUNOBU

From an infinite distance, the ghostly music!
Few and slender the tones, of delicate silver,
As stars are broidered on the veil of evening....

He passes by, the flute and the dreaming player--
Slow are his steps, his eyes are gravely downcast;
His pale robes sway in long folds with his passing.

Out of the infinite distance, a ghostly music
Returns--in slender tones of delicate silver,
As stars are broidered on the veil of evening.

"The Dark Flower" and the "Moralists"

MARGARET C. ANDERSON

_The Dark Flower_, by John Galsworthy. (Charles Scribner's Sons, New
York.)

A book that has beauty as it's given to few books to achieve it has been
the innocent cause of more ignorant, naïve, and stupid condemnation than
anything published for a long time. Even the English critics--who
usually avoid these shallows--in several cases hit the rocks with awful
force. And all because a man with the soul of the old gods chose to
tell, quite simply and with inexpressible beauty, the truth about an
artist. _The Dark Flower_ was everybody's opportunity to deepen his
vision, but nearly everybody decided to look upon it as an emotional
redundancy. Perhaps this doesn't do some of them justice: I believe a
good many of them considered it positively dangerous!

My quite spontaneous tribute to Galsworthy's Mark Lennan--before I'd
heard anyone discuss him--was that here was a man a woman would be glad
to trust her soul to. And, in view of how silly it is for a woman to
trust her soul to anyone but herself, I still insisted that one could do
it with Mark Lennan: because he'd not take charge of anyone's soul!--his
wife's least of all. Of course, to love a man of his sort would mean
unhappiness; but women who face life with any show of bravery face
unhappiness as part of the day's work. It remains to decide whether one
will reach high and break a bone or two over something worth having, or
play safe and take a pale joy in one's unscarred condition. With Mark
Lennan a woman would have had--à la Browning--her perfect moment; and
such things are rare enough to pay well for, if necessary.

All of which is making a very personal issue of _The Dark Flower_; but
it's the kind of book you've got to be personal about; you revise your
list of friends on a basis of their attitude toward Galsworthy.

After I'd finished _The Dark Flower_--and it had never occurred to my
naïve mind that anyone would disagree with me about it--various persons
began to tell me how wrong I was. Mark Lennan was a cad and a
weakling--decidedly the kind of person to be kept out of a good novel.
The very beauty of the book made it insidious, someone said; such art
expended in defense of immorality would soon tend to confuse our
standards. Someone else remarked patronizingly: "Oh, _The Dark Flower_
may be well done and all that, but personally I've always had a passion
for the normal!" But, most maddening of all, I think, were those readers
of thrillers, of sweet, sentimental stories--those persons who patronize
comic opera exclusively because they "see enough tragedy in life to
avoid it in the theater"--who asked earnestly: "But, after all, what's
the use of such books? What possible _good do they do_?"

On another page of this review such questions are answered with a
poignancy I dare not compete with. I want to try, instead, to tell why
_The Dark Flower_ seems to me an altogether extraordinary piece of work.

In the first place, constructively. The story covers three episodes of a
man's love life: Spring, with its awakening; Summer, with its deep
passion; and Autumn, with its desperate longing for another Spring. But
the handling of the episodes is so unepisodic that you feel you've been
given the man's whole life, day by day, from Oxford to that final going
down the years--_sans_ youth, _sans_ spring, _sans_ beauty, _sans_
passion; _sans_ everything save that "faint, glimmering light--far out
there beyond...." This effect of completeness is achieved, I think, by
the remarkable intensity of the writing, by the clever (and by no means
easy) method of sometimes allowing the characters the author's
prerogative of addressing the audience directly. Highly subjective in
everything that he does, Galsworthy has reached a climax of subjectivity
here: _The Dark Flower_ is as personal in its medium as music.

In the second place--the great matter of style. Every page shows the
very poetry of prose writing; there's an inevitability about its choice
of beautiful and simple words that makes them seem a part of the nature
they describe. For instance, to choose at random from a multitude of
exquisite things: "... under the stars of this warm Southern night,
burning its incense of trees and flowers"; or, "And he sat for a long
time that evening under a large lime-tree on a knoll above the
Serpentine. There was very little breeze, just enough to keep alive a
kind of whispering. What if men and women, when they had lived their
gusty lives, became trees! What if someone who had burned and ached were
now spreading over him this leafy peace--this blue-black shadow against
the stars? Or were the stars, perhaps, the souls of men and women
escaped for ever from love and longing? ... If only for a moment he
could desert his own heart, and rest with the trees and stars!" With a
single clause like "for ever part of the stillness and the passion of a
summer night" Galsworthy gets effects that some poets need three or four
verses for. In one place he defines for all time a Chopin mazurka as "a
little dancing dirge of summer"; in another gives you with one stroke an
impression of his hero that it's impossible to forget: "He looks as if
he were seeing sands and lions."

In the third place, Galsworthy's psychology is profound--impregnable.
One simple characterization will serve to illustrate: he describes a
man's face as having the candour of one at heart a child--"that simple
candour of those who have never known how to seek adventures of the
mind, and have always sought adventures of the body."

As to the lesson of _The Dark Flower_--its philosophy, its "moral"--I
can only say that it hasn't any such thing; that is, while it's full to
the brim of philosophy, it doesn't attempt to force a philosophy upon
you. It offers you the truth about a human being and lets it go at
that--which seems to be the manner of not a few who have written
greatly. For the other sort of thing, go to any second-rate novelist you
happen to admire; he'll give you characters who have a hard time of it
and tell you just where they're right and where they're wrong. I can see
how you feel you're getting more for your money.

I can't help feeling that everything Galsworthy has done has had its
special function in making _The Dark Flower_ possible. The sociology of
_Fraternity_, the passionate pleading of _Justice_ and _Strife_, the
incomparable emotional experiments of _A Commentary_, the
intellectuality of _The Patrician_--all these have contributed to the
noble simplicities and the noble beauty of _The Dark Flower_.

The Garden

My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own,
Into thy garden; thine be happy hours
Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers,
From root to crowning petal thine alone.

Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown
Up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers.
But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowers
To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown.

For as these come and go, and quit our pine
To follow the sweet season, or, new-comers,
Sing one song only from our alder-trees,

My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine,
Flit to the silent world and other summers,
With wings that dip beyond the silver seas.

--_Alice Meynell's Poems._ (Charles Scribner's Sons.)

A Remarkable Nietzschean Drama

DEWITT C. WING

_Mr. Faust_, by Arthur Davison Ficke. (Mitchell Kennerley, New
York.)

Have you thought there could be but a single Supreme? There can
be any number of Supremes.--Whitman.

Mr. Faust is the embodiment of the Nietzschean attitude toward the
universe. This characterization consciously ignores the legendary Faust
of Goethe as having no vital kinship with his namesake. There is of
course a skeletal likeness one to the other, but the hero in Mr. Ficke's
drama is incarnated with modern flesh and endued with a supreme will.
His unconquerable spirit is not that of Goethe's _Faust_ but of
Friedrich Nietzsche. Incidentally and singularly it is the spirit of
Whitman. And these two men, more than any other two or twenty in the
realm of literature, represent the undying god Pan, or the spirit of
Youth. Nietzsche and Whitman are the understanding comrades of the
young-hearted and open-minded.

_Mr. Faust's_ creator may have no conscious knowledge of Whitman's
poetry, which is a matter of no moment, but he has read Nietzsche, and
that is momentous--indispensable--in relation to this splendid result of
white-heat intellection. I say intellection because _Mr. Faust_ is not
so much a work of art as a remarkable example of reproduction. I know
that, although the thought and feeling of the work rise in places to the
power of an inspiration wholly personal to the author, never "Thus Spake
Zarathustra." For that is an original, authentic voice which, like
everything else in nature, has no substitute or duplicate.

I can fancy a strong, healthy, organically cultured young man, just
beginning to feel his way into the realities that lie outside the
American cornbelt, by chance taking a peep into one of Nietzsche's great
books, and, fascinated and quickened by that marvelously contagious god,
leaping to new heights of his own manhood. I should guess that in this
instance the young man, who happens to be a lawyer, thirty-one years
old, living at Davenport, Ia., was temporarily Christianized by bad
luck, illness or something of the sort, and in this extremity, kicked by
Nietzsche, experienced the feeling of personal adequacy to which Mr.
Faust gives utterance. Recovering himself, he avowed his own godhood,
even to the last ditch! And that is the triumphant Youth--the
Nietzsche--of the thing.

A day or two subsequent to the appearance of Mr. Ficke's book upon the
market I had the pleasure of hearing it read, with well-nigh perfect
sympathy and appreciation, by the foremost Nietzschean expositor in this
country. Like other listeners I was amazed, charmed and aroused. Were
these results referable to the play alone or in part to the reader, or
to both? To what extent, I was compelled to ask, was the effect illusory
or hypnotic? I had read some of Ficke's verse, which had given no
intimation of anything in its author so heroically Nietzschean as _Mr.
Faust_. I had consequently tabbed Ficke as probably a poetic
possibility, provided he lived a dozen years in an involuntary hell,
undergoing a new birth. Entertaining the doubts indicated by my
questions, I read _Mr. Faust_ to myself, trying it in my fashion by the
trees, the stars and the lake. Subjected to this test the play did not
have the ring and lift which I had heard and felt when it was
read--perhaps I should say given an added vitality--by a Nietzschean
philosopher. It now impressed me as an extraordinary _tour de force_,
reaching in some of its passages a species of accidental
trans-Nietzscheanism.

Written in blank verse, the superior quality of which is admirably
sustained, the style of the drama is undeniably poetical, as Edwin
Björkman, the editor of Mr. Kennerley's Modern Drama Series, states in
an interesting biographical sketch; but where there is so much
consciousness of workmanship--so much preoccupation with an imported
idea instead of sweeping control by an inner, personal urge like that,
for example, which produced _Thus Spake Zarathustra_--poetry is not to
be expected. What surprises me is that, despite this restriction, Mr.
Ficke strides upward in many lines to the borderland of the gods. In the
first three acts he writes as one possessed--as an intellectualist
furiously interested in Americanizing, if you please, the racial
implications of the philosophy of a superhumanity which will always be
associated with the name of his temporary master, Nietzsche. In these
acts there is a deal of amazing revealment of insight; of aspiration for
transcendent goals; of the spiritual insatiability of man. And there is
a cold humor. Underneath the whole thing lies its own by-product: social
dynamite!

I think that Mr. Ficke finished his play in three acts, but he added two
more--to make it five, I was about to say, but in the fifth he achieves
a measurable justification, for the last sentence, "Touch me across the
dusk," is poetry--the wonderful words of the dying Faust, addressed to
Midge, the only person who understood him.

Near the middle of the opening act, Faust, roused by an inquiring mind
to an analytical protest against things as they are, says,

... I would go
Out to some golden sun-lighted land
Of silence.

That is poetical; it is cosmic in its feeling. Looking at a bust of
Washington, he enviously--no, compassionately--remarks,

... Not a star
In all the vaults of heaven could trouble you
With whisperings of more transcendent goals.

At this juncture Satan appears, gains recognition by recalling an
incident involving Faust with a blackmailing woman in a college during
his youth, and thereafter tempts him into empty, unsatisfying paradises.
In his wandering and winding pilgrimage through the world Faust makes
the footprints that we recognize as those of our own humanity, seeking
its way--somewhither. He is offered but rejects peace, happiness,
salvation and all the rest of their related consolations, knowing that
none of them could satisfy his restless heart. To his uncomprehending
friends he is lost, and Satan himself, to whom in such circumstances he
is obviously resigned by society, fails to claim him. But Midge, the
heroine, knew him; she could touch him across the dusk, which was his
kind of immortality. And so Faust, with a vague consciousness of his own
godhood, a sense of his own supremacy, an unshakable faith in one
thing--himself--passed from the earthly freedom of his will into the
great release.

It is altogether too early in the morning of humanity to expect to see
this play or one like it on the stage. That it should be written by a
young American and published by a young Englishman is enough to satisfy
those who would enjoy its presentation, and those to whom it would be
Greek or "unpleasant," whether they saw it or read it, must wait for its
truth through their children--across the dusk!

The Lost Joy

FLOYD DELL

There was once a lady (I forget her name) who said that love was for
women one of the most important things in the world. She made the remark
and let it go at that. She did not write a book about it. If she had
considered it necessary she would doubtless have written such a book.

Consider the possibility--a book entitled _Woman and Love_, a book
proving with logic and eloquence that woman ought to love, and that,
unless she loved, the highest self-development was impossible to her and
to the race!

It is not entirely absurd. Such a book might have been necessary. If
half of all womankind, through some change in our social and ethical
arrangements, refrained from love as something at once disagreeable and
ungenteel, and if the other half loved under conditions disastrous to
health and spirit, then there might have been need for a book preaching
to women the gospel of love. It would have been time to urge that,
hateful as the conditions might be, love was for women, nevertheless, a
good thing, a fine thing, a wonderful and necessary thing. It would have
been time to break down the prejudice which made one-half of womankind
lead incomplete and futile lives, and to raise love itself to its proper
dignity.

Well, we are in a condition like that today, only it is not love, it is
work that has lost its dignity in the lives of women. It is not love, it
is work from which one-half of womankind refrains as from something at
once disagreeable and ungenteel, while the other half of womankind
performs it under conditions disastrous to health and spirit.

There is need today for a book preaching to women the gospel of work. It
is time to break down the prejudice which makes one-half of womankind
lead incomplete and futile, because idle, lives. We need a book to show
women what work should mean to them.

And, curiously enough, the book exists. It is Olive Schreiner's _Woman
and Labor_. It is a wise book and a beautiful book. There are statistics
in it, but there is eloquence flaming on every page. It is a book of the
joy and the significance of work for women.

When Olive Schreiner says "work," she means it. She does not refer to
the makeshifts which masquerade under the term of "social usefulness."
She means work done with the hands and the brain, work done for money,
work that sets the individual free from dependence on any other
individual. It is a theme worth all her eloquence. For work and love,
and not either of them alone, are the most important things in the
world--the supremest expressions of individual life.

H. G. Wells on America

I came to America balancing between hope and skepticism. The
European world is full of the criticism of America; and, for the
matter of that, America, too, is full of it; hostility and
depreciation prevail--overmuch; for, in spite of rawness and
vehemence and a scum of blatant, oh! quite asinine, folly, the
United States of America remains the greatest country in the
world and the living hope of mankind. It is the supreme break
with the old tradition; it is the freshest and most valiant
beginning that has ever been made in human life.--_The Passionate
Friends._

Paderewski and the New Gods

MARGARET C. ANDERSON

I shall keep always, as my most unforgettable memory, the thought of a
certain afternoon during Paderewski's tour this year when he walked
quietly back across the stage, in response to an encore, and played
Schumann's _Warum_. It was somehow heart-breaking. It was a more
poignant questioning to me, than Arnold's

"unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain--
Say, will it never heal?"

Nothing that I have ever heard or seen has given me so vivid a sense of
being in the presence of an art that is immortal.

It seems to have become hideously "popular" to love Paderewski. The
critics will tell you that it's only done in America; that Europeans
have any number of idols they put before him; and that we who persist in
calling him "the greatest" are simply under the spell of an old
hypnotism. There was a time, they'll concede, when he came like a
conqueror, royally deserving the flowers we strewed. But now--there's
Bauer, there's Godowsky, and Hofman, and Gans, and Busoni! One local
critic has even gone to the length of saying that since the American
public has sat at the feet of these men and learned sanity in piano
playing it has no enthusiasm for Paderewski's "neurotic, disordered,
incoherent" music--"his woeful exaggerations of sentiment and hysterical
rhapsody." I should say some unpublishable things to that critic if we
should ever discuss the subject.

The three most interesting human faces I know are Forbes-Robertson's,
Kreisler's, and Paderewski's. In the English actor's there is a meeting
of strength and spirituality (not the anæmic "spirituality" of certain
new cults, but a quality of soul that makes him "a prince, a
philosopher, a lover, a soldier, a sad humorist," all in the limits of
one personality) that means utter nobility. It can be as cold as a
graven image, or as hot with feeling as a poet's. Depth upon depth of
subtlety plays across it--not the hypnotic subtlety of the Orientalist,
but the austere subtlety of an English scholar and a great gentleman. In
Kreisler's there is a meeting of strength and sensuousness that means
utter fascination to the artist who would paint him--utter revealment to
the musician who would analyze his art. For the secret of Kreisler's
personality and his music lies in that finely balanced combination of
qualities: a sensuousness that would be a little overpowering, a little
drugging, without the gigantic strength that seems to hold it in leash.
That balance makes possible his little air of military jauntiness, of
sad Vienna gayety; it gives him that huge effect of power that always
makes me feel I'm watching the king of the forest stride through his
kingdom. You need never expect emotionalism from this musician; he's too
strong to give you anything but passion. In Paderewski's face there is a
meeting of strength and two other predominant qualities: sentience, I
think, and suffering. It's difficult to express his great, interesting
head in a series of nouns; but there are some that come near to it:
mystery, melancholy, weariness, a sort of shattering sorrow; always the
sense of struggle and pain, and always the final releasement--in music.
For while you can conceive a Forbes-Robertson away from the stage, and a
Kreisler apart from his violin, you can never for a moment think of
Paderewski without his piano. Not that he's less of a man, but that he's
the most sensitized human instrument that ever dedicated itself to an
art.

To resort to the most overworked phrase in the language, Paderewski has
a temperament. Somebody has said that no fat person ever possessed one;
and after you've speculated about this till you begin to wonder what
temperament really is, you can come back to Paderewski as the most
adequate illustration. Ysaye is the best example I know of the opposite.
When strength turns to fat ... well, we'll not go into that; but to make
my point--and there's certainly nothing of personal maliciousness in
it--it's necessary to reflect that obesity has some insidious influence
upon artistic utterance. (Schumann-Heink is an artist in the best
meaning of the word; but no one ever talked of her and temperament in
the same breath, so she doesn't negate the issue.) But Ysaye's tepid,
wingless, uninspired music--his utterly sweet but _fat_ music--that
appears to attract thousands of people, is as lazily inadequate as its
creator would be in a marathon. It's as though his vision had dropped
slowly away with every added pound of avoirdupois. Or perhaps it's
because vision has a fashion of dropping away with age....

Ah!--but Paderewski has the years, too, now, and his playing is
as virile, as flaming, as it ever was. An artist--with a
temperament--doesn't get old, any more than Peter Pan does. Paderewski's
furrowed face shows the artist's eternal striving; his music shows his
eternal youth, his faithfulness to the vision that furnishes his answer
to the eternal "Warum?"

This is the secret of Paderewski's white magic. He's still the supreme
god! Bauer plays perfectly within the rules--exquisitely and
powerfully--and misses the top height by the mere fraction of a mood,
the simple lack of a temperament; or, as O. Henry might have explained
it, by the unfortunate encumbrance of a forty-two-inch belt. Hofman has
an impatience with his medium, apparently, that leaves his hearer
unsatisfied with the piano; while Paderewski, though he transcends the
instrument, does so because of his love for the piano as a medium, and
forces his hearer to agree with him that it's the supreme one. Godowsky
forces things into the piano--pushes them in and makes them stay there;
Paderewski draws things out, always, and fills the world with them.

I can think of no comparison from which he doesn't emerge unscathed. If
I were a musical reactionary, this judgment would have no value here;
but I'm not. Classical perfection is no longer interesting; Beethoven
seems no longer to comprehend all music--in fact, the people who have no
rebellions about the sterility of the old symphonies are quite beyond my
range of understanding. But Paderewski plays the old music in a new way,
gives it such vitality of meaning that you feel it's just been born--or,
better, perhaps, that its composers have been triumphantly revalued,
rejustified in their claim for eternal life. His Beethoven is as full of
color as his Chopin; and who, by the way, ever started the popular
nonsense about De Pachmann or anyone else being the supreme Chopin
exponent? No one has ever played Chopin like Paderewski; no one has ever
made such simple, haunting melodies of the nocturnes; no one has ever
struck such ringing Polish music out of the polonaises, or such
wind-swept cadences from the Berceuse; no one has ever played the
Funeral March so like a cosmic procession--the mighty moving of humanity
from birth to death and new life; no one has ever so visualized those
"orchestras of butterflies that played to Chopin in the sun."

I have still one great wish in the world: that some time I may hear
Paderewski play on a Mason and Hamlin--that piano of unutterable depth
and richness. The fact that he's never used it is the one flaw in his
performances, for no other instrument that I've heard gives you the same
sense of drowning in great waves of warm sound. The combination would
convince even the followers of the new gods. But, old or new, and even
on his cold Steinway, no one has ever drawn from the piano the same
quality of golden tone or dared such simplicity of singing as
Paderewski. To put his genius into a sentence: no one has ever built so
strong a bridge across the gulf that yawns between vision and
accomplishment.

The Major Symphony

GEORGE SOULE

Round splendor of the harp's entonéd gold
Throbbing beneath the pleading violins--
That hundred-choiring voice that wins and wins
To over-filling song; the bright and bold
Clamor of trumpets; 'cellos that enfold
Richly the flutes; and basses that like djinns
Thunder their clumsy threatening, as begins
The oboe's mystic plaint of sorrows old:--

Are these the symphony? No, it is will
In passion striving to surmount the world,
Growing in sensuous dalliance, sudden whirled
To ecstasies of shivering joy, and still
Marching and mastering, singing mightily,
Consummate when the silence makes it free.

The Prophet of a New Culture

GEORGE BURMAN FOSTER

A profound unrest tortures the heart of the modern man. The world,
slaughtering the innocents, is meaningless; life, bruised and
bewildered, is worthless--such is the melancholy mood of modernity.
Today life is a burden to many to whom it was once a joy. Decadents,
they call themselves, who rediscover the elements of their most personal
life in everything that is weary and ailing. We are all more or less
infected with this weariness and ennui. The blows which the spirit
experiences from opposing sides today are so powerful that no one is in
a position to endure them with equanimity. The forces resident within
the soul no longer suffice to give support and stability to life. Hence
our culture has lost faith in itself. Our civilization is played out.
What the Germans call _Weltschmerz_ has come over us. Philosophers have
fashioned it into systems; singers, into song--the sad but not sweet
music of humanity; sufferers all, into a sharp cry for redemption.
Deniers of the malady must have their eyes opened by physicians,
scurrying around curatively in this humanity.

First of all, there are those who borrow their panacea from religion.
They demand a reform of the ecclesiastical life according to the sense
and spirit of primitive Christianity. They propose to recover the
religion of Jesus, and to find in it healing for all the diseases of the
times. But this remedy is so complicated that it reveals rather than
heals the whole disunity and distraction of our present life. It was
Tolstoi, in garb of desert prophet, who would restore original
Christianity. He preached a radical reversal of our cultural life--a
monastic asceticism, a warfare against all life's impulses, on whose
development our culture is founded. And ecclesiastical liberals would do
virtually the same thing when they try to extract from the religion of
Jesus a food that shall be palatable to modern taste, and then call
their _ragout_, compounded according to their own recipe, "original"
Christianity.

There are other voices, noisier and more numerous. These hold
Christianity in all its forms to be the hereditary evil of humanity, and
see the salvation of the world only in a purification of life from every
Christian memory. Owing to the brisk international interchange of ideas
today, Buddhism has awakened a momentary hope, as if from the religion
of far-off India a purer spiritual atmosphere might be wafted to us, in
which we could convalesce from the Christian malady.

Now, what shall we say of all these strivings to heal the hurt of the
modern mind?

All of them have one adverse thing in common: They would tear up an old
tree by its roots, and put in its place another tree equally as old and
equally as rotten. There is something reactionary in all of them. They
want to cure the present by the past. It is precisely this that cannot
be done. If Christianity was once original, spontaneous, creative, it is
so no more. We cannot lead an age back to Jesus, which has grown out
beyond him. And the Buddha-religion is no more youthful and life-giving
than the Jesus-religion. It is indicative of the depth of the disgust
and the extent of the confusion on the part of the man of today that
such a hoary thing as Buddhism can make so great an impression upon him.
A revived, renascent heathenism, even as compared with Christianity,
would mean a reactionary and outlived form of life. That men of moral
endeavor and scientific vision could hope for a substitute for
Christianity, a conquest over Christianity, in a rebirth of paganism, is
a new riddle of the Sphinx.

One way only remains out of the aberration and dividedness of our
present life: not _backward_, but _forward_! No winning of a religious
view of the world in any other way! No pursuit of the tasks of the moral
life by those who seek a real part and place in the modern world, in any
other way!

Hence, a man is coming to be leader--a man who, as no other, embodies in
himself all the pain and all the pleasure, all the sickness and all the
convalescence, all the age and all the youth, of our tumultuous and
tortured times: _Friedrich Nietzsche_!

I do not know how many of you know the poet of _Zarathustra_. But if you
do not know him, if you have never even heard his name, yet you do know
him, for a part of him is in your own heart and hope. If you have ever
thought seriously about yourself, if you have even tried to think
seriously about yourself, you have taken up into yourself a part of
Nietzsche as you have so thought. Even without your knowledge or
intention, you have passed into the world of thought for which the name
of Nietzsche stands. It has been only now and then, in quite significant
turning points in human history, and only in the case of the rarest of
men, that such an influence has gone forth as from this man. Once in the
horizon of his power, and you are held there as by magic. And yet not in
centuries has a name been so reviled and blasphemed as his.
Anathematized from the pulpit, ridiculed from the stage, demolished by
any champion of blatant and blind _bourgeoisie_, refuted regularly by
pedants, he is still Friedrich Nietzsche, and, unlike most preachers,
his congregation grows from year to year. Newspapers, always sensitive
to the pulse-beat of mediocrity, tell us that "the man is dead"; that he
belongs to the past; that he is already forgotten. But he is more alive,
now that he is dead, than he was when he was living. Dead in the flesh,
he is alive in the spirit, as is so often the case. Superficial
misunderstandings, transient externals, regrettable excrescences--these
were interred with his bones. The real and true Nietzsche lives, and has
the keys of death and of hell. Who has the youth has the future--and
this is why the future belongs to Nietzsche; for no contemporary so
gathers the youth under his shining banner. And it is because the moral
seething of our time, our struggle with questions of the moral life, are
recapitulated and epitomized in Nietzsche, that he stands out, like an
Alpine apocalypse, as the new prophet of our new day. The mysterious
need of a man to find himself in another, another in himself, as deep
calls unto deep or star shines unto star, is met in the resources of the
great personality of Nietzsche.

The new day whose billows bear us afar began with doubt. First, a doubt
of the Church and its divine authority. A violent, devastating storm
swept over popular life. The storm was speedily exorcised. Again--

"The sea of faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled."

A new faith emerged from the old doubt, like sweet waters in a bitter
sea, and kept man a living soul.

"The sea is calm tonight;
The tide is full."

But the calm proves to be treacherous. The tide of the new faith now in
the bible, and in the doctrine derived from the bible, went back to sea,
and now I only hear

"Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating to the breath
Of the night-wind down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world."

The human spirit urged a new, mightier protest against the "It is
written," which was said to put an end to all doubt. The new doubt, as
free inquiry, as protestant science, flung down the gauntlet to the
bible faith. No page of the sacred book remained untouched. Only one
certainty sprang from this new doubt--the certainty that the sacred book
was a human book. Therefore it had no right to rule over man. Man was
its judge; it was not man's judge. It must be measured by man's truth,
man's conscience.

How, now, should the timorous heart of man be quieted in the presence of
this new doubt? At once new props were offered him--truth and the state.
What science recognized as "true," what morals and _bourgeoise_ customs
and civil law sanctioned as "good"--these were now proffered man, that
he might brace up his tottering life thereby. "Trust the light of
science, and you shall indeed have the light of life; do what is 'good,'
and you shall be crowned with the crown of life." This was the
watchword. Then there stirred in the womb of present-day humanity the
last, ultimate, uncanniest doubt. If we doubt the Church, why not doubt
the state, too? If we doubt faith, why not doubt science, too? If we
doubt the bible, why not doubt reason, doubt knowledge, doubt morality?
Even if what we call "true" be really true, can it make us happy? Can
the men who have all the knowledge of our time at their disposal, can
the scholars, can the cultivated, really become fit leaders of humanity
through life's little day? Is not that which is called "good" grievous
impediment in our pilgrimage? Law, morals--are not these perhaps a
blunder of history, an old hereditary woe with which humanity is
weighted down?

This doubt--long and ominously maturing throughout the spiritual
evolution of our new time--finds its most radical, most conscious, and
most eloquent expression in Friedrich Nietzsche. He launches this doubt
not only against all that has been believed and thought and done, but
against all that men believe and think and do today. He shakes every
position which men have held to be unshakable. An irresistible,
diabolical curiosity impels him to transvalue all values with which men
have reckoned, and to inquire whether they are values at all; whether
"good" must not be called evil, "truth" error. As Nietzsche ventures
upon this experiment of his curiosity, as he advances farther and
farther with it, suddenly he laughs with an ironic, uproarious laughter.
The experiment is a success! In the new illumination all the colors of
life change. Light is dark, dark is light. What men had appraised as
food, as medicine, evinced itself to be dangerous poison, miserably
encompassing their doom. And since men believed that all the forces
present, dying, poisoned culture, were resident in their "morals" and
their "Christianity," it was necessary to smash the tables of these old
values. In full consciousness of his calling as destroyer of these old
tables, Nietzsche called himself the immoralist, the anti-Christ. Morals
and Christianity signified to him the most dangerous maladies with which
men were suffering. He considered it to be his high calling as savior to
heal men of these maladies. He sprang into the breach as
anti-Christ. Like Voltaire, he was the apostle and genius of
disrespect--respectability was the only disgrace, popularity the only
perdition.

Nietzsche the Immoralist, Nietzsche the Antichrist! Dare we write his
name and name his writings without calling down upon our much-pelted
heads the wrath of the gods? Does he not blaspheme what is sacred, and
must we not, then, give him a wide berth? There are the familiar words
concerning false prophets in sheep's clothing, but ravening wolves
within. Such wolves there are--smooth, sleek men, paragons of "virtue,"
and "morals," and "faith," but revolting enough in their inner rawness
as soon as you get a glimpse of their true disposition. Conversely,
might there not be men who come to us in wolves' clothing, but whose
hearts are tender and rich and intimate with a pure and noble humanity?
We know such men. Friedrich Nietzsche was one of them. He was a true
prophet. All his transvaluations dealt deadly blows at the old, false,
man-poisoning prophetism. What if more morals matured in this
immoralist, more Christianity in this anti-Christ, more divinity in this
atheist, than in all the pronouncements of all those who today still are
so swift to despise and damn what they do not understand?

Even Christianity, at its origin, in its young and heroic militancy, was
not so amiable and harmless as we are wont to think. It, too, was born
of the doubt of that whole old culture; of the most radical protest
again _status quo_. It, too, leagued with all the revolutionary spirits
of humanity. And it, too, revalued all the values of "faith" and
"morals." What if this new Nietzschean spirit of life's universal
reform, this creative, forward-striving genius of humanity, be once yet
again embodiment and representative of life's essential element of
rejuvenescence and growth? What if true prophets are always men of
_Sturm und Drang_, men of divine discontent, fellow-conspirators with
the Future? Anti-Christs? These are they who blaspheme the holy spirit
of humanity. Immoralists? These are they who say that life is good as it
is, and therefore should stay as it "is" forever. Faith? This is
directed, not to the past, but to the future; not to the certain, but to
the uncertain. Faith is the venturesomeness of moral knighthood.
Nietzsche was a Knight of the Future.

Why, then, should not a magazine of the Future interpret Nietzsche the
prophet of a new culture? Man as the goal, beauty as the form, life as
the law, eternity as the content of our new day--this is Nietzsche's
message to the modern man. In such an interpretation, Man and Superman
should be the subject of the next article.

How a Little Girl Danced

NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY

_Being a Reminiscence of Certain Private Theatricals_

(Dedicated to Lucy Bates)

Oh, cabaret dancer,
_I_ know a dancer
Whose eyes have not looked
On the feasts that are vain.
_I_ know a dancer,
_I_ know a dancer,
Whose soul has no bond
With the beasts of the plain:
Judith the dancer,
Judith the dancer,
With foot like the snow
And with step like the rain.

Oh, thrice-painted dancer,
Vaudeville dancer,
Sad in your spangles,
With soul all astrain:
_I_ know a dancer,
_I_ know a dancer,
Whose laughter and weeping
Are spiritual gain;
A pure-hearted, high-hearted
Maiden evangel
With strength the dark cynical
Earth to disdain.

Flowers of bright Broadway!
You of the chorus
Who sing in the hope
Of forgetting your pain:
I turn to a sister
Of sainted Cecelia,
A white bird escaping
The earth's tangled skein!--
The music of God
In her innermost brooding!
The whispering angels
Her footsteps sustain!

Oh, proud Russian dancer:
Praise for your dancing!
No clean human passion
My rhyme would arraign.
You dance for Apollo
With noble devotion:
A high-cleansing revel
To make the heart sane.
But Judith the dancer
Prays to a spirit
More white than Apollo
And all of his train.

_I_ know a dancer
Who finds the true God-head;
Who bends o'er a brazier
In Heaven's clear plain.
_I_ know a dancer,
_I_ know a dancer,
Who lifts us toward peace
From this Earth that is vain:--
Judith the dancer,
Judith the dancer,
With foot like the snow,
And with step like the rain.

The Dream of the Children

The children awoke in their dreaming
While earth lay dewy and still:
They followed the rill in its gleaming
To the heart-light of the hill.

From their feet as they strayed in the meadow
It led through caverned aisles,
Filled with purple and green light and shadow
For mystic miles on miles.

--_From A. E.'s Collected Poems._

The Critics' Critic

GALSWORTHY AS A GREEK

Do you read Arthur Guiterman's rhymed reviews? They are not to be taken
too seriously, of course, though they are generally sane; but in the one
on _The Dark Flower_ he asks if such things don't tend to weaken our
moral fiber! Wow! Probably Homer might be said to do the same thing;
we'd better take it out of the schools, hadn't we? There's an episode I
recall about a female person named Helen, who was torn from her adoring
husband, etc., etc. You know I don't believe in weakening moral fiber,
but beauty _is_ beauty. All I could think of, in reading _The Dark
Flower_, was Greek classics. Do you remember that exquisite thing (is it
Euripides?)--

"This Cyprian
She is a million, million changing things;
She brings more joy than any god,
She brings
More pain. I cannot judge her; may it be
An hour of mercy when she looks on me."

Galsworthy's hero was just a Greek, swayed by Aphrodite. There's no
question of morals. And besides, he behaved pretty well--for a man!

THE CASE OF RUPERT BROOKE

I can't share THE LITTLE REVIEW'S estimate of Rupert Brooke. I'm
reminded immediately of something I found not long ago by Herbert
Trench:

"Come, let us make love deathless, thou and I,
Seeing that our footing on the earth is brief,
Seeing that her multitudes sweep out to die
Mocking at all that passes their belief.
For standard of our love not theirs we take
If we go hence today
Fill the high cup that is so soon to break
With richer wine than they.

Ay, since beyond these walls no heavens there be,
Joy to revive or wasted youth repair,
I'll not bedim the lovely flame in thee
Nor sully the sad splendor that we wear.
Great be the love, if with the lover dies
Our greatness past recall;
And nobler for the fading of those eyes
The world seen once for all."

Swinburne's

"From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free"

I like better so far as the music of it is concerned; and fully as well,
perhaps, as far as ideas go. There is something rather conscious and
posing in Mr. Trench's effort. And you see why I think of him when I
read Rupert Brooke. There is the same _memento mori_, the same
hopelessness of outlook. It seems a pity to me, when a man can write as
well as Brooke does in _The Hill_ and in that exquisite sonnet beginning
"Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire of watching you," that he
should waste his time on stupid, unpleasant cynicisms like _Wagner_ and
that _Channel Passage_, in which he doesn't know which pain to
choose--nausea or memory. I believe an Englishman can't achieve just the
right degree of mockery and brutality necessary for such an effort. Take
Heine, if you will--(I'm a Heine enthusiast); _he_ could do it with
supreme artistry. Do you remember the sea poems--especially the one
where he looks into the depths of the sea, catches sight of buried
cities and sees his lost love ("ein armes, vergessenes Kind")? It
finishes with the captain pulling him in by the heels, crying, "Doktor,
sind Sie des Teufels?" Heine can touch filth and offer it to you, and
you are rather amused--as at a child. But Englishmen are too
self-conscious for anything of that sort. You are shocked and ashamed
when they try it, feeling in a way defiled yourself by reading. It
irritates me, and I wish Mr. Brooke would stop it, right away. He's too
worth while to waste himself.

THE FEMINIST DISCUSSIONS

Do you know the story of the man, elected by some political pull to a
judgeship in Indiana, who, after listening to the argument for the
plaintiff, refused to hear anything further. "That feller wins," he said
decisively. On being told that it was customary and necessary to hear
the defendant's side also, he duly listened, with growing amazement.
"Don't it beat all?" he said, pathetically, at the close; "now the other
feller wins."

In much the same frame of mind I read the articles that are appearing in
the current magazines on the subject of feminism and militancy. Edna
Kenton's in _The Century_ is the only one that is content to give one
side of the case. Decidedly, you will say on reading it, "That feller
wins." _The Atlantic_ prints an admirable article by W. L. George on
Feminist Intentions, and follows it hastily with a rebuttal by E. S.
Martin (_Much Ado About Women_), fearing, I imagine, lest it would seem
to be bowing its venerable head before new, profane altars. _Life_ gets
out a really excellent suffrage number, sane and logical and reasonable,
and has followed it up ever since with all the flings it can collect
against suffrage, militancy, or feminism in any form. A recent amusing
instance of this is a letter by one Thomas H. Lipscomb, who signs
himself, alack! A Modern Man, and adds that his name is legion. Judging
by the terror in the communication Mr. Lipscomb's modernity goes back as
far as the Old Testament Proverbs, and the womanly ideal he so
passionately upholds is in all respects the one the writer of this
particular proverb acclaims. I have heard it used as a text so often,
and have had it grounded into the very framework of my being so
consistently, that it seems almost strange and irreverent to regard it
with an alien and critical eye. And yet--just see what is expected of
the poor thing: She

Seeketh wool and flax and worketh willingly with her hands.
Bringeth her food from afar.
Riseth while it is yet night and giveth meat to her household;
Considereth a field, and buyeth it; with the fruit of her hands
planteth a vineyard.
Her candle goeth not out by night.

She

Layeth her hands to the spindle; and her hands hold the
distaff.
Maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and delivereth girdles unto the
merchant....

together with a few other airy trifles such as bearing and rearing
children, I suppose. But most significant of all--

Her husband is known in the gates where he sitteth among the
elders of the land.

I should think so indeed! There seems to be little else left for him to
do.

I can almost hear the writer smacking his lips over this description,
which no doubt tallies closely with Mr. Lipscomb's own notions.

For all this she is to

Receive of the fruit of her own hands, and her own works shall
praise her.

Possibly women have tired a little of letting their own works praise
them--and nothing else! But I am taking the letter too seriously.

To go back to _The Atlantic_, I find Mr. George, who is in full sympathy
with the movement of which he writes, classifying the demands of the
feminists as follows: Economically, they intend to open every occupation
to women; they intend to level the wages of women; in general, they wish
to change the attitude of those who regard women's present inferiority
to men (they frankly admit that there is inferiority in many respects)
as inherent and insuperable, by demonstrating that it is due merely to
long lack of thorough training--(an old friend, apparently, in a new
dress!) They wish also gradually to modify and change existing marriage
laws so that they will be equally fair to both sexes.

A careful re-reading of Mr. Martin's article fails to reveal much in the
way of counter argument to Mr. George's forcible appeal. There's a great
deal of courteous agreement and some rather good satire, but against the
specific counts of the feminists' intentions Mr. Martin raises no
telling argument. We hear that whereas fathers wish all earthly
blessings for their daughters, mothers do not, as women are jealous of
women; also that mothers fear the modern woman on account of their sons,
for whom they in turn wish all possible good: the modern woman will not
make a good wife! Angels and ministers of grace defend us! In a double
quality as daughter to a devoted and loving mother, and as a devoted and
loving mother to a most precious daughter, I throw down my glove.

I am sure Mr. Martin has never acted in either of these capacities, so
precious little he knows about it! Besides, I do want my son to have
everything that the world provides in the way of blessings and
happiness, so I want him to have as a wife a thoroughly modern woman
with an awakened soul and a high ideal, to finish the good work in him
which I have at least endeavored to begin.

As I read further, however, the cat begins to poke a cautious head out
of the bag. Women, Mr. Martin argues, are not responsible for the
blessings the feminist movement is trying to bring them. It is men! That
is why he is so particular to tell us of the careful solicitude of a
father for his daughters. Men, right along, have procured all happiness
for women; or, if not men exactly, at least a sort of _Zeit Geist_--I
believe he calls it "necessity." And the poor deluded feminists are
simply the little boys running along by the side of the procession and
hollering. The procession is made up of vague forces, "working nowadays
for the enlargement and betterment of life for women"--forces, he
quaintly complains, that are "making things go too fast their way
already."

So we must take all credit from Luther and Knox and Calvin and the
reformers of all times and give it to the _Zeit Geist_. They, too, are
little boys, I suppose, who ran along and hollered. At least they
hollered lustily and well, and the feminists are in good company.

And the peroration--every true woman will appreciate this: "What a
husband sees in forty years, maybe, of the good and bad of life for a
woman; what a father sees in his daughters and the conditions of modern
life as they affect girls--those are the things which count in forming
or changing the convictions of men about woman's errand in this current
world."

Well! However far the _Zeit Geist_ has progressed in other directions,
it is plain that it has not made inroads on Mr. Martin's consciousness
of the present state of affairs. Who has given men the power and right
to decide about woman's errand in the world? For lo! these many years we
have been letting husbands, fathers, and brothers decide for us just
what it were best for us to do; and if the new idea has any significance
at all it is just this: that we feel able to decide for ourselves what
we most want and need.

M. H. P.

The New Note

SHERWOOD ANDERSON

The new note in the craft of writing is in danger, as are all new and
beautiful things born into the world, of being talked to death in the
cradle. Already a cult of the new has sprung up, and doddering old
fellows, yellow with their sins, run here and there crying out that they
are true prophets of the new, just as, following last year's exhibit,
every age-sick American painter began hastily to inject into his own
work something clutched out of the seething mass of new forms and new
effects scrawled upon the canvases by the living young cubists and
futurists. Confused by the voices, they raised also their voices,
multiplying the din. Forgetting the soul of the workman, they grasped at
lines and solids, getting nothing.

In the trade of writing the so-called new note is as old as the world.
Simply stated, it is a cry for the reinjection of truth and honesty into
the craft; it is an appeal from the standards set up by money-making
magazine and book publishers in Europe and America to the older, sweeter
standards of the craft itself; it is the voice of the new man, come into
a new world, proclaiming his right to speak out of the body and soul of
youth, rather than through the bodies and souls of the master craftsmen
who are gone.

In all the world there is no such thing as an old sunrise, an old wind
upon the cheeks, or an old kiss from the lips of your beloved; and in
the craft of writing there can be no such thing as age in the souls of
the young poets and novelists who demand for themselves the right to
stand up and be counted among the soldiers of the new. That there are
such youths is brother to the fact that there are ardent young cubists
and futurists, anarchists, socialists, and feminists; it is the promise
of a perpetual sweet new birth of the world; it is as a strong wind come
out of the virgin west.

One does not talk of his beloved even among the friends of his beloved;
and so the talk of the new note in writing will be heard coming from the
mouths of the aged and from the lips of oily ones who do not know of
what they talk, but run about in circles, making noise and clamor. Do
not be confused by them. They but follow the customs of their kind. They
are the stript priests of the falling temples, piling stone on stone to
build a new temple, that they may exact tribute as before.

Something has happened in the world of men. Old standards and old ideas
tumble about our heads. In the dust and confusion of the falling of the
timbers of the temple many voices are raised. Among the voices of the
old priests who weep are raised also the voices of the many who cry,
"Look at us! We are the new! We are the prophets; follow us!"

Something has happened in the world of men. Temples have been wrecked
before only to be rebuilt, and destroying youth has danced only to
become in turn a builder and in time a priest, muttering old words.
Nothing in all of this new is new except this--that beside the youth
dancing in the dust of the falling timbers is a maiden also dancing and
proclaiming herself. "We will have a world not half new but all new!"
cry the youth and the maiden, dancing together.

Do not be led aside by the many voices crying of the new. Be ready to
accept hardship for the sake of your craft in America--that is craft
love.

Some Letters of William Vaughn Moody

Edited, with introduction, by Daniel Gregory Mason. (Houghton
Mifflin Company, Boston.)

I shall never forget how, at sixteen, I read Stevenson's letters and
thought them the most beautiful things in the world. I shall never
forget similar experiences with Keats and Browning, and finally with
Meredith; and now comes another volume of letters by the man who might
be called the American Henley (though that only does him half justice)
to keep one up at night and teach him unforgettable things. People have
been saying that this collection doesn't represent the best letters
Moody wrote. Certainly if he wrote more interesting ones the world ought
to be allowed to see them, for these are valuable enough to become an
American tradition.

The following is typical:

_To Daniel Gregory Mason._

DEAR DAN:

I have just heard from your sister-in-law of your enforced
furlough. I am not going to help you curse your luck, knowing
your native capabilities in that direction to be perfectly
adequate, but my Methodist training urges me to give you an
epistolary hand-shake, the purport of which is "_Keep your
sand._" I could say other things, not utterly pharisaical. I
could say what I have often said to myself, with a rather reedy
tremolo perhaps, but swelling sometimes into a respectable
diapason. "The dark cellar ripens the wine." And meanwhile, after
one's eyes get used to the dirty light, and one's feet to the
mildew, a cellar has its compensations. I have found beetles of
the most interesting proclivities, mice altogether comradely and
persuadable, and forgotten potatoes that sprouted toward the
crack of sunshine with a wan maiden grace not seen above. I don't
want to pose as resourceful, but I have seen what I have seen.

The metaphor is however happily inexact in your case, with Milton
to retire to and Cambridge humming melodiously on the horizon. If
you can only throttle your Daemon, or make him forgoe his leonine
admonition "Accomplish," and roar you as any sucking dove the
sweet vocable "Be"--you ought to live. I have got mine trained to
that, pardee! and his voice grows not untunable. I pick up shreds
of comfort out of this or that one of God's ashbarrels. Yesterday
I was skating on a patch of ice in the park, under a poverty
stricken sky flying a pitiful rag of sunset. Some little muckers
were guying a slim raw-boned Irish girl of fifteen, who circled
and darted under their banter with complete unconcern. She was in
the fledgling stage, all legs and arms, tall and adorably
awkward, with a huge hat full of rusty feathers, thin skirts
tucked up above spindling ankles, and a gay aplomb and swing in
the body that was ravishing. We caught hands in midflight, and
skated for an hour, almost alone and quite silent, while the rag
of sunset rotted to pieces. I have had few sensations in life
that I would exchange for the warmth of her hand through the
ragged glove, and the pathetic curve of the half-formed breast
where the back of my wrist touched her body. I came away
mystically shaken and elate. It is thus the angels converse. She
was something absolutely authentic, new, and inexpressible,
something which only nature could mix for the heart's
intoxication, a compound of ragamuffin, pal, mistress, nun,
sister, harlequin, outcast, and bird of God,--with something else
bafflingly suffused, something ridiculous and frail and savage
and tender. With a world offering such rencontres, such aery
strifes and adventures, who would not live a thousand years stone
dumb? I would, for one--until my mood changes and I come to think
on the shut lid and granite lip of him who has had done with
sunsets and skating, and has turned away his face from all manner
of Irish. I am supported by a conviction that at an auction on
the steps of the great white throne, I should bring more in the
first mood than the second--by several harps and a stray
dulcimer.

I thoroughly envy you your stay at Milton--wrist, Daemon, and
all. You must send me a lengthy account of the state of things at
Cambridge.... If the wrist forbids writing, employ a typewriter
of the most fashionable tint--I will pay all expenses and stand
the breakage. I stipulate that you shall avoid blonds, however,
they are fragile.

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY.

There are over a hundred letters here, written to Mr. Mason, Percy
MacKaye, Richard Watson Gilder, Josephine Preston Peabody, Edmund
Clarence Stedman, Henry Miller, Robert Morss Lovett, Ferdinand Schevill,
and others; and every one of them shows Moody's remarkable gift of
metaphor, his constant striving to "win for language some new swiftness,
some rare compression," his belief in the positive acceptance of life,
his paganism, "deeply spiritual, and as far as possible removed from the
sensualism the thoughtless have found in it." Mr. Mason furnishes an
introduction that is masterly; and the first and final drafts of
_Heart's Wild Flower_ are included, proving vividly how this poet
disciplined his rich imaginative gifts, training away from a native
tendency to the rococo to the high, pure dignity that marks his finished
verse. This volume is invaluable. Certainly with two such authentic
voices to boast of as Whitman's and Moody's this young country of ours
has reason to be proud.

M. C. A.

A Feminist of a Hundred Years Ago

MARGERY CURREY

_Rahel Varnhagen_: A Portrait, by Ellen Key. Translated from the
Swedish by Arthur G. Chater; with an introduction by Havelock
Ellis. (G. P. Putman's Sons, New York.)

For certain distinctive women Rahel Varnhagen lived; for the same women
Ellen Key has written this appreciation of Rahel. By the woman to whom
fine freedom of living and fearlessness and directness of thought are
the only possible terms on which she may deal with the social situation
in which she finds herself this book will be read and re-read, and
pencil-marked along the margins of its pages.

The rare woman, here and there, who worships simple, direct thinking
(which, after all, takes the most courage) will know how to value Rahel.
Always she thought truthfully. The woman who has been filled with joyful
new amazement on finding that her only reliance is on herself--that she
may not depend upon this person or that convention to preserve her
happiness--will know how to value her. Just so far as any woman of today
has become interested in her own thoughts and work, is the originator of
ideas, and knows the joy of making or doing something that more than all
else in the world she wants to make or do, so far she is nearer to
becoming of the size of this great woman.

Such a woman will share with Rahel Varnhagen the certainty that higher
morality is reached only through higher liberty; such a woman must
demand, as did Rahel, periods of that recuperative and strengthening
solitude, both of thought and mode of living, which only the
self-reliant and fearless can endure. She knows that she herself, not
convention, must furnish the answer to questions of right and wrong by
earnest, free inquiry and by testing every experience. The acceptance of
no convention was inevitable to Rahel, as she thought of it. She put it
to the best of scrutiny. What value was there in it? It was not
violating conventions which she set out to do, but meeting them with a
quiet, sincere inquiry of the reason and truth they contained.

Rahel Varnhagen lived in Berlin a hundred years ago and was probably the
most beloved and much-visited woman of those whose salons attracted the
notable men of the day--Fichte, Hegel, Prince Louis Ferdinand, Fouqué,
the Humboldts, the Schlegels, Schleiermacher, and other giants of the
time. Rahel was a woman--the lamentable rarity of them!--whose influence
was not through her literary work (her letters to friends are all that
we have of her writing), not through brilliancy of speech alone, nor
through her munificent patronage of the artists and literary men of her
day (she was not rich, and we read of the garret in which she
entertained her friends), but through the richness of her personality,
the glowing warmth of her sympathy, her understanding, and the wisdom of
her heart.

And the value of Rahel to us lies in the calm directness, the
"innocence," as she herself calls it, of her thinking. To her went the
acclaimed wise men of the day for the comfort of her fearlessness and
simplicity of thought upon their questions. She was said to be
brilliant. She was not brilliant in the sense of being learned, or of
being capable of mere intellectual jugglery and fantastic adroitness of
thinking; she was brilliant in the crystal clearness and the sure
rapidity of her thinking. The unexpectedness and strangeness of the
simple truth she spoke bewildered people. For this reason she could say,
"I am as much alone of my kind as the greatest manifestation here on
earth. The greatest artist, philosopher, or poet is not above me."

This passion for truth in her own thinking was the origin of her social
value. Its stimulus to others was immediate, and her recognition through
it of the important things in life made her detect at once those people
and things that were original and valuable in themselves.

"Rahel's most comprehensive significance," writes Ellen Key, "lay in
augmenting the productiveness, humanity and culture of her time by
herself everywhere seeking and teaching others to seek the truth; by
everywhere encouraging them to manifest their own culture; by imparting
to others her profound way of looking at religion, men and women,
literature and art; by judging everything according to its intrinsic
value, not according to its deficiencies; by everywhere understanding,
because she loved, and giving life, because she believed in liberty."

Think always, ceaselessly!--this was Rahel's cry. This, she said, is the
only duty, the only happiness. To a young friend she wrote, begging that
he keep ploughing through things afresh, telling him that he "must
always have the courage to hurt himself with questioning and doubts; to
destroy the most comfortable and beautiful edifice of thought--one that
might have stood for life--if honesty demands it." And so, having
thought out things in the most utter freedom, unhampered by old
preconceptions, and finally unafraid of the starkness of the truths
which she faced, she let nothing prescribed be her unchallenged guide or
stand as a substitute for her own vigor and hardness of thinking. This
is why she said that she was revived by downright brutality, after being
wearied by insincerity.

A virtue, so called, had to give a very good accounting of itself to
Rahel. She demanded that it answer a certain test before it could be
called a piece of goodness. For instance, in many cases she recognized
in "performance of duty" mere acquiescence--a laziness of mind which
does not bestir itself to ask what right this duty has to impose itself.
Patience to her was often lack of courage to seize upon a situation and
change it to suit the imperative demand to express oneself. "The more I
see and meditate upon the strivings of this world," wrote Rahel, "the
more insane it appears to me day by day not to live according to one's
inmost heart. To do so has such a bad name, because simulacra of it are
in circulation." Of these "simulacra" we are familiar in every age--the
amazing antics of certain self-styled "radicals," the unaccountable
manifestations of those who, while professing liberality of view, seem
to have no standards of values in their extravagances of living. Rahel
could understand every nature except the insincere and unnatural.

While we mourn or exult over the eager efforts of women in our day to
evolve completely human personalities, it is interesting to read Rahel's
summing-up of the feminist movement: "Has it been proved by her
organization that a woman cannot think and express her ideas? If such
were the case, it would nevertheless be her duty to renew the attempt
continually." "And how," exclaims Ellen Key, "would Rahel have abhorred
the tyrannical treatment of each other's opinions, the cramping
narrow-mindedness, the envious jostling, the petty importance of
nobodies, which the woman's cause now exhibits everywhere, since, from
being a movement for liberty in great women's souls, like Rahel's own,
it has become a movement of leagues and unions, in which the small souls
take the lead."

Since it is reality and not appearance that alone could stand before
Rahel's devastating scrutiny of human things, and since to her the
highest personal morality consisted in being true, coercive marriage
seemed to her the great social lie. How could one of her simple clarity
of thinking be anything but outraged by the vulgarities of an average
marriage? "Is not an intimacy without charm or transport more indecent
than ecstasy of what kind so ever?" she demands. "Is not a state of
things in which truth, amenity, and innocence are impossible, to be
rejected for these reasons alone?" Of the evils in Europe she cries,
"Slavery, war, marriage--and they go on wondering and patching and
mending!" Rahel believed that in the existing institution of marriage it
was almost impossible to find a union in which full, clear truth and
mutual love prevailed.

Of Rahel's nature, warm, richly exuberant with a healthy sensuousness
and desire for sunlight, Jean Paul's letter to her gives us the essence.
"Wingéd one--in every sense--" he wrote, "you treat life poetically and
consequently life treats you in the same way. You bring the lofty
freedom of poetry into the sphere of reality, and expect to find again
the same beauties here as there."

Biographical facts are negligible here. Even comment on the interpretive
insight of Ellen Key seems not to be essential, though without it this
book could not be. It is the personality of Rahel Varnhagen that
matters, and the influence of that personality on the men of her day.

Rahel is distinctive as a challenger of the worn-out social and ethical
baggage that somehow, in all its shabbiness, has been reverently, with
ritual and with authority, given into our keeping by those who were as
oppressed by it as we in turn are expected to be. With the simplicity of
her questioning the honesty of these conventions, Rahel has made worship
of some of them less inevitable.

Some Contemporary Opinions of Rahel Varnhagen

CORNELIA L. ANDERSON

Heine said: "I should wear a dog collar inscribed: 'I belong to Frau
Varnhagen.'"

Rahel's power over the brilliant minds of her day lay in her own
wonderful personality. She was unique, knew it and gloried in it. She
wrote to Varnhagen, her husband and lover: "You will not soon see my
like again." She understood thoroughly the limitations of her sex. "They
are so surprisingly feeble," she says; "almost imbecile from lack of
coherence. They lie, too, since they are often obliged to, and since the
truth demands intelligence." ... "I know women: what is noble in their
composition keeps together stupidity or madness." ... And she speaks of
their "clumsy, terrible stupidity in lying." But, despite Rahel's
opinion of women, or because of her understanding of their needs, she
was a true feminist and looked toward their liberation through
development and self-expression.

Ellen Key writes: "How Rahel, with her lucidity of thought, would have
exposed the modern superstition that it is in _outward_ departments of
work that woman gives expression to her human 'individuality.' She says
by true economy 'nature keeps woman nearer to the plant'! This 'economy'
is easily understood; it is because the tender life is woman's creation
and because that life requires tranquillity for its genesis and growth;
because a woman taken up by the problems of external life ... no longer
possesses the psychological qualifications which are indispensable in
order that a child's soul may grow in peace and joy; because, in other
words, _children_ need _mothers_, not only for their physical birth but
for their human bringing-up. Rahel hits the very center of the spiritual
task of motherhood when she says that if she had a child she would help
it to learn to listen to its own inmost ego; everything else she would
sacrifice to this.... The progress or ruin of humanity depends, in
Rahel's prophetic view, upon the capacity of the mothers for performing
their task."

How Rahel had listened to her own inmost ego is shown by the following
characterization by Ellen Key. "Rahel probably did not know a single
date in the history of Greece, but she read Homer in Voss's translation;
it made her declare that 'the Odyssey seems to me so beautiful that it
is positively painful,' and she discovered that Homer is always great
when he speaks of water, as Goethe is when he speaks of the stars.
Probably she could not enumerate the rivers of Spain, but she knew _Don
Quixote_. In a word, she was the very opposite of the kind of talent
that passes brilliant examinations and is capable of carrying
'completely undigested sentences in its head.' What Rahel could not
transform into blood of her blood did not concern her at all. There was
such an indestructible 'connection between her abilities,' such an
intimate 'co-operation between her temperament and her intelligence,'
that there was no room in her for all the unoriginal ballast of which
the views and opinions of most other people are made up: she could only
keep and only give what was her own."

What Rahel's power over her contemporaries was we may gather from what
they say of her who was "Rahel and nothing more:"

Heine describes her as "the most inspired woman in the universe." T.
Mundt calls her "the sympathetic nerve of the time." The Austrian
dramatist, Grillparzer, relates: "Varnhagen went home with me. As we
passed his house, it occurred to him to introduce me to his wife, the
afterwards so celebrated Rahel, of whom I then knew nothing. I had been
strolling about all day and felt tired to death, and was, therefore,
heartily glad when we were told that Frau Varnhagen was not at home. But
as we came down the stairs, she met us and I submitted to my fate. But
now the lady,--elderly, perhaps never handsomer, shriveled by illness,
reminding me rather of a fairy, not to say a witch,--began to talk, and
I was altogether enchanted. My weariness disappeared, or perhaps,
rather, gave way to intoxication. She talked and talked till nearly
midnight, and I don't know whether they turned me out or whether I went
away of my own accord. Never in my life have I heard anyone talk more
interestingly. Unfortunately it was near the end of my stay, and I could
not repeat the visit."

The Poetry of Rupert Brooke

MARGARET C. ANDERSON

_Poems_, by Rupert Brooke. (Sidgwick and Jackson, London.)

The unusual thing about Rupert Brooke--the young Oxford don whose poetry
is just finding its way in this country--is that he has graduated from
the French school without having taken a course in decadence. The result
is a type of English poetry minus those qualities we think of as typical
of "the British mind" and plus those that stand as the highest
expression of the French spirit. There is nothing of self-conscious
reserve about Mr. Brooke; and yet it is not so obvious a quality as his
frank, unashamed revealment that places him definitely with the French
type. It is rather a matter of form--that quality of saying a thing in
the most economic way it can be said, of finding the simple and the
inevitable word. Mr. Brooke stands very happily between a poet like
Alfred Noyes, in whom one rarely finds that careful selection, and the
esthetes whose agony in that direction becomes monotonous. For example,
in the first sonnet of this collection:

Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire
Of watching you; and swing me suddenly
Into the shade and loneliness and mire
Of the last land! There, waiting patiently,

One day, I think, I'll feel a cool wind blowing,
See a slow light across the Stygian tide,
And hear the Dead about me stir, unknowing,
And tremble. And I shall know that you have died,

And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream,
Pass, light as ever, through the lightless host,
Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam--
Most individual and bewildering ghost!--

And turn, and toss your brown delightful head
Amusedly, among the ancient Dead.

There are about eighteen words in this one sonnet chosen with infinite
pains; and yet the effect of the whole is quite unlabored--an effect of
spontaneity reduced to its simplest terms.

Perhaps the point can be made more emphatically by a miscellaneous
quotation of single lines, because the poignancy of Rupert Brooke's
phrasing leaves me in a torment of inexpressiveness, forced to quote him
rather than talk about him. Here are a few: "Like hills at noon or
sunlight on a tree"; "And dumb and mad and eyeless like the sky"; "The
soft moan of any grey-eyed lute-player"; "Some gaunt eventual limit of
our light"; "Red darkness of the heart of roses"; "And long noon in the
hot calm places"; "My wild sick blasphemous prayer"; "Further than
laughter goes, or tears, further than dreaming"; "Against the black and
muttering trees"; "And quietness crept up the hill"; "When your swift
hair is quiet in death"; "Savage forgotten drowsy hymns"; "And dance as
dust before the sun"; "The swift whir of terrible wings"; "Like flies on
the cold flesh"; "Clear against the unheeding sky"; "So high a beauty in
the air"; "Amazed with sorrow"; "Haggard with virtue"; "Frozen smoke";
"Mist-garlanded," and a thousand other things that somehow have a
fashion of striking twelve. There's a long poem about a fish, beginning

In a cool curving world he lies
And ripples with dark ecstasies.

that flashes through every tone of the stream's "drowned colour" from
"blue brilliant from dead starless skies" to "the myriad hues that lie
between darkness and darkness." And there's one about Menelaus and Helen
containing this description:

High sat white Helen, lonely and serene.
He had not remembered that she was so fair,
And that her neck curved down in such a way;

The simplicity of that last line--but what a picture it is!

The important things about Mr. Brooke, however--and of course this
should have been said in the first paragraph--are his sense of life and
his feeling for nature. Of the first it might be said that he is strong
and radiant and sure--and at the same time reverently impotent. _The
Hill_, which I like better than anything in this collection, will
illustrate:

Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old...." "And when we die
All's over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips," said I,
--"Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!"

"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said;
"We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!" ... Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
--And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.

Everything in it--with the exception of "kissed the lovely grass," which
might easily be spared--is fine; "with unreluctant tread Rose-crowned
into the darkness!" is vivid with beauty; and when the simple dignity of
"such brave true things to say" has swung you to its great height, the
drop in that sudden last line comes with the most moving wistfulness.
There are several poems, too long to quote here, which show Mr. Brooke's
affinity with the outdoors; but perhaps even five lines from one of them
will suggest it:

Then from the sad west turning wearily,
I saw the pines against the white north sky,
Very beautiful, and still, and bending over
Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky
And there was peace in them....

Not long ago I asked a poet in whose judgment I have a profound belief,
to read these poems of Rupert Brooke's and give me his opinion. After
looking at two or three he said he was afraid he wasn't going to like
them, but the next day he reported that he wished to retract, making the
magnificent concession that "_some_ of Brooke's moods are healthy!" Of
course there are a number of things in this volume that can easily be
interpreted as unhealthy or repulsive, like the _Wagner_:

Creeps in half wanton, half asleep,
One with a fat wide hairless face.
He likes love music that is cheap;
Likes women in a crowded place;
And wants to hear the noise they're making.

His heavy eyelids droop half-over,
Great pouches swing beneath his eyes.
He listens, thinks himself the lover,
Heaves from his stomach wheezy sighs;
He likes to feel his heart's a-breaking.

The music swells. His gross legs quiver.
His little lips are bright with slime.
The music swells. The women shiver,
And all the while, in perfect time
His pendulous stomach hangs a-shaking.

But it seems something more than that to me. As an attack on German
emotionalism--however unjustly, from my point of view, through
Wagner--the poem struck me as an exercise of extraordinary cleverness. I
don't know that anyone has ever said so effectively the things that
ought be said about that type of emotion which feeds not upon life but,
inversely, upon emotion.

Mr. Brooke's pictures have much of the quality of Böcklin's. That first
sonnet can be imagined in the same tone values as Böcklin's wonderful
_Isle of the Dead_, and the closing lines of _Victory_ need the same
medium:

Down the supernal roads,
With plumes a-tossing, purple flags far flung,
Rank upon rank, unbridled, unforgiving,
Thundered the black battalions of the Gods.

_Seaside_ needs an artist like Leon Dabo:

Swiftly out from the friendly lilt of the band,
The crowd's good laughter, the loved eyes of men,
I am drawn nightward; I must turn again
Where, down beyond the low untrodden strand,
There curves and glimmers outward to the unknown
The old unquiet ocean. All the shade
Is rife with magic and movement. I stray alone
Here on the edge of silence, half afraid,

Waiting a sign. In the deep heart of me
The sullen waters swell towards the moon,
And all my tides set seaward.
From inland
Leaps a gay fragment of some mocking tune,
That tinkles and laughs and fades along the sand,
And dies between the seawall and the sea.

How perfect those last three lines are! How skilful, in painting the
sea, to concentrate upon something from inland, making the ocean twice
as old and vast and unquiet because of that little tinkling tune.

One will find in Rupert Brooke various kinds of things, but never
attitudinizing and never insincerity. He is one of the most important of
those young Englishmen who are doing so much for modern poetry. He is
essentially a poet's poet, and yet his feet are deep in the common soil.
Swinburne would have liked him, but the significant thing is that
Whitman would, too. There are several poems I have not mentioned that
Whitman would have loved.

Tagore As a Dynamic

GEORGE SOULE

[We do not agree that _Tagore_ is a dynamic; we find him a poet
whose music is more important than his thinking. But we are glad
to print this interesting analysis.]

In _The Crescent Moon_, with its ravishing beauty of childhood, in _The
Gardener_, with its passion of love, and especially in _Gitanjali_ and
_Sadhana_ (Macmillan), with their life universal and all-permeating, we
have found the poet Tagore and been grateful. It remains to ask: What
has Tagore done to us? What is he likely to do for the future? What has
been his answer to the promise and the challenge of the world?

Religions have provided one answer. In his zeal of affirmation the
prophet has declared that the individual lives after death; that in some
unseen world completion shall be attained. Yet increasing millions find
this explanation fading into unreality. If one living organism is
perpetuated after its physical dissolution, why not another? We can
account for every particle of life which the blossom loses by its death.
Some has passed to the seed; the rest finds its chemical reaction, which
in turn produces other forms of life--in entirely new individuals. To
assert that the original blossom lives in an unseen form outside the
realm of thought is preposterous. Why should it? Its function has been
accomplished. The sentimentality behind this thinking is a weak prop for
a vigorous mind. And exactly the same reasoning applies to all living
organisms, including man.

The more intelligent part of mankind has also outgrown the conception of
a definite heaven. It is impossible to imagine a satisfactory heaven for
the individual. A place where there is no strife, where everything is
perfection and completion--what joy is to be found there? The essence of
life as we know it is growth and survival; its happiness comes from the
exercise of a function. Growth and survival postulate extinction; in
heaven an individual would evaporate.

Some thinkers have made a substitute "religion of humanity." They find
solace in action tending to make the world a better place; they have
been gratified by an imaginative conception of a future heaven on earth.
As a religion of morality and action this is magnificent. Yet its dogma
does not satisfy. A heaven on earth is no more conceivable than a heaven
anywhere else. If we find our happiness in action, how shall our
descendants find happiness when there are no more evils to conquer?
Though a static condition of blessedness be the goal of humanitarian
endeavor, it is the progress toward it which furnishes the joy.

The Oriental thinker has looked for his answer in a different direction.
Though the individual is partial and unsuccessful, life as a whole is
always triumphant. Cannot the individual by contemplation identify
himself with the world-soul? Can he not tack himself on to this
all-inclusive life by denial and forgetfulness of himself? Brahmin
saints have done so imaginatively. But such an answer is no answer. We
are individuals, after all, and thinking of Nirvana will not rob us of
our separate bodies and minds. Contemplation is not a substitute for
living.

The doctrine of transmigration is equally unsatisfying. If an individual
never succeeds in any single life, innumerable chances will be mere
repetitions of tragedy. The only hope of such a process would be a final
"heaven on earth," which is just as inconceivable as that of the
humanitarians.

We cannot now be satisfied with theological answers. Nor will the world
ever find an answer permanently satisfactory. Is not this as it should
be? A fixed system of thought which answers every spiritual craving must
be a shell around the individual, preventing growth. It finally ceases
to be a dynamic and becomes a wall in the way of the feelers which
mankind is constantly sending into his spiritual environment. It forces
him to rest. It eventually turns all his expansion into the lower planes
of life. It is deadening, suffocating, as soon as he reaches its limits.

Of what nature, then, must be the religion of the modern man and woman?
First of all, it must not be imposed from without; it must grow through
the personality and find its being there. It must not only square with
every known fact of science and thought; it must stimulate to a fervent
desire for new understanding. It must not deny or destroy life; it must
be life's essence. It must ring with a call to the individual to assume
his proper dignity of life. It must harmonize with the laughter of
children and with the bitter beauty of a winter sea. It must flame with
emotion, yet be keen and hard as a sword. And it must be not a
self-constituted standard with which every other thing is arbitrarily
compared, but a principle of growth making necessary in us vision,
strength, freedom, and fearlessness.

It is my feeling that Tagore will suggest to the modern man such a
religion. He gives expression, though not, of course, perfect
expression, to a synthesis of many latent instincts of the modern mind.
He glories in understanding, not only facts and truth, but emotions and
all manifestations of life. He calls us to see vivid beauty wherever it
is found. He acclaims the aid of science in extending man's personality
throughout the universe. He sees the oneness of all life, and bids man
stand erect on account of this eternal and timeless force coursing
through him. He sees the oneness of humanity, and the necessity of
perfecting human relations. He depicts purity without asceticism, vigor
without brutality. He emphasizes joy and action. He does not blink the
fact of death, but robs it of horror by showing it as the natural end of
a victorious life. While he encourages by the idea of an ultimate goal,
he inspires by the conception of a real connection with infinity here
and now. Revering the universal life, he sees that it finds expression
only in individuals, and that the law of our being must be to live as
completely as possible.

Many before Tagore have said these things partially. But it remained for
a poet who combines the intelligence of the Orient with that of the
Occident to say them all, and to say them with such beauty and
simplicity that a large part of the world listens. If he succeeds in
making us conscious of such a religion, he will have quickened life and
made it potent as few artists can.

Ethel Sidgwick's "Succession"

MARGARET C. ANDERSON

_Succession_: A Comedy of the Generations, by Ethel Sidgwick.
(Small, Maynard and Company, Boston.)

Ethel Sidgwick is the world's next great woman novelist. Though I
confess eagerly that I enjoy her novels more than any novels I've ever
read--I mean it literally--it isn't on so personal a basis that I offer
the judgment. But I'm confident that within ten years the critical
perspective will show her on this pinnacle. Since George Eliot and the
Brontës, I can think of no woman who has focused art and life so
intensely into novel writing--though even as I say this _Ethan Frome_
looms up and leaves me a little uncomfortable. But the important thing
is that Ethel Sidgwick is going to count--enormously.

People who aren't yet aware of her (and there seem to be a lot of them)
can be easily explained as that body of the public that neglects a
masterpiece until it has become the fashion to acclaim it. But Ethel
Sidgwick has written a novel that's more important than any number of
our traditional masterpieces. For instance, it's a much more important
story than _Vanity Fair_; just as _Jean Christophe_ is more valuable
than _Ivanhoe_. The novel of manners has its delightful place, and so
has the historical romance; but the novel that chronicles with subtlety
the intellectual or artistic temper of an age is as much more important
than these as Greek drama is than the moving picture show.

I know there are people who'll read _Succession_ and continue to prefer
Thackeray's geniality to Miss Sidgwick's brilliant seriousness and her
humor that's not at all genial--but rapid, sophisticated, impatient of
comedy in the accepted sense. Ethel Sidgwick might write a radiant
tragedy, or a wistful satire, or a sad comedy; I can never imagine her
being anything so obvious as merely comic--or genial! She doesn't laugh;
she _couldn't_ chuckle; she has just the flash of a smile, and then she
hurries on dazzlingly, as though things were too important to be
anything but passionate about. She doesn't "warm the cockles of your
heart"--or whatever that silly phrase is; and she doesn't do crude, raw
things to show you that she "knows life." She goes down into the
darkness rose-crowned, in Rupert Brooke's gorgeous phrase; when she goes
into the sunlight it is always with something of remembered agony.
That's the fine quality of her vitalism. She's too strong to be hard,
too steel-like to be robust. She's like fire and keen air--to borrow
another poet's phrase. She reflects life through the mirror of a vivid
personality--which is one way of being an important artist. She assumes
that you're also vivid, and quick, and subtle, and this gives her
writing the most beautiful quality of nervousness--the kind you mean
when you're not talking about nerves. In short, Ethel Sidgwick is the
most definitely magnetic personality I've ever felt through a book's
pages.

_Succession_, though complete in itself, is really a sequel to
_Promise_, published a year ago. The sub-title presents the idea, and
can be concretely expanded in a sentence: Antoine, child-wonder
violinist, and the youngest of the celebrated Lemaures, revolts against
the musical ideas of his grandfather. Here it is again--the battle of
youth and age, made particularly interesting because it's a purely
intellectual warfare, and particularly charming because its participants
are such delightful people.

The first glimpse of Antoine is irresistible. After a series of concerts
in England, he is being taken by his uncle to their home in France. M.
Lucien Lemaure has chosen the long route because his nephew has an odd
habit of sleeping better on the water than in any house or hotel on
shore; and while he doesn't understand this nephew, he has vital reasons
for considering him: for upon Antoine's delicate shoulders rests the
musical honor of the family.

"Sleep well, mon petit," he said, in the tiny cabin. "We are
going home."

Antoine, who had no immediate intention of sleeping, was staring
out of the dim porthole of a fascinating space of the unknown.
"That is home to you?" he asked vaguely.

"To be sure. My first youth was passed there, like thine."

After an interval passed spent in a vain effort to imagine his
uncle with no hair on his face, Antoine gave it up and recurred
to the window. "I wish I lived on the sea," he murmured.

In the train, flying toward Paris, Lucien refers to the last London
recital, when Antoine had made both his uncle's and his conductor's
lives a burden by his indifferent rehearsal of his grandfather's latest
composition. Antoine's outburst had outraged Lucien, to whom faith in
his father's character and genius had, all his life, amounted to a
religion.

"What will you tell him then?" said Antoine, turning his dark
eyes without deranging his languid attitude along the seat. "Just
that I said some 'sottises,' the same as always?"

"He is not a child," thought Lucien instantly. "He is clever,
maddening. Of course, my action will have to be explained. I
shall say," he said aloud, with deliberation, "that we differed
about the concerto. That you were difficult and headstrong over
that, which is certainly true. You have admitted since that it
was too much for you, eh?"

"Yes," said the boy. "It is an awful thing, but I played it. I
had to have something real that night."

"You imply my father's composition is not real?"

"Oh, do not," said the boy, under his breath. "I have remembered
he is your father now."

"To be sure," said M. Lucien, with stateliness. "And have you no
duty to him as well?"

"I shall see him soon. I shall remember then." Antoine diverted
his eyes, to his uncle's private relief. "Do you think I do not
want to remember, after that?"

"I should think you would be ashamed," said Lucien, by way of the
last word in argument, and retired to his paper.

"You like me to be ashamed," said Antoine, snatching the last
word from him, though still with a manner of extreme languor.
"Good, then, I have been. It is not"--he watched the trees of
Normandy sleepily--"a very nice feeling."

"I am glad you know what it is like, at least," growled his uncle
into the paper.

"Don't you?" said his nephew. "What it is like, is to make you
feel rather sick--all the time--especially while you are playing
it."

"What?"

"The thing you are ashamed of."

How I wanted to hug him!

"Antoine," said Lucien, rising and discarding the paper, "do not
be absurd. Here, look at me. You suffered that night at the
concert, eh? You excited yourself so much, little imbecile. Are
you tired now?"

"No, thank you--this is France," replied Antoine. "That is a
French cow," he murmured, "not so fat. That is a French tree, not
so thick. The sky is different, and the sun. The concerts will be
easier, I expect."

But the first glimpse of M. Lemaure, the grandfather, is reassuring. In
fact, he's almost as irresistible as Antoine, making you realize
immediately that the battle is going to be a subtle one, and that it may
be difficult to know which side to take, after all.

The old musician asks about the last recital.

"I was not at the last orchestral," Lucien answers. "I left him
in Wurst's charge, and went to the country, ... I should not
easily desert my post, as you know; but the boy made it clear
enough he had no use for me. He clung to that sacré concerto of
Tschedin, which he knows you detest, and which I never thought in
a condition to perform. He mocked himself of my objections,
contradicted me, eluded me, and twisted Wurst round his finger at
rehearsals."

"And Wurst?"

"Wurst found him charming. He has Russian blood himself, and had
known the composer. He has encouraged Antoine's revolutionary
tendencies from the first. The pair of them took the last concert
so completely out of my hands that it seemed fruitless to
remain."

"Bébé forgot himself," pronounced M. Lemaure, still quite at
ease. Indeed the situation so reminded him of Antoine's childhood
that he longed to laugh. "What did he say, and when?"

"We will not revive it," said Lucien. "When he came to his
senses, he apologized sufficiently. Perhaps he was not well ...
when is the first engagement--Sunday?"

"Let him be for a time. There is no harm."

Lucien grunted. "I shall not disturb him while he is seasick, if
that is what you mean. It would do him no harm to play scales all
the week."

"Scales--as you will, but not persons. Not Dmitri Tschedin, I
mean, nor even me. It is intrusive personality, always, that
disturbs the current of Antoine's philosophy."

"Father! How absurd."

"But I have long remarked it. His own individuality fights the
alien matter, and it is not till he has either rejected it or
absorbed that he is steady again. Wurst and his Russians have
excited him--nothing more natural. For me," said M. Lemaure,
plunging into memory, as he stood by his son's side at the
window, "at his age, the realm of music did not hold such
petulant passions, any more than it held flat heresy, like that
of Sorbier and Duchâtel."

"Antoine adores Duchâtel," remarked Lucien. "There is no fighting
there."

"Bon!" The old man laughed. "Heresy on the hearth then, if it
must be so. So long as he does not play the stuff in my hearing."

There are over six hundred pages in the story, and they cover just a
year and a half of Antoine's life. This appears to be an impossible
literary feat; any orthodox novelist will tell you that you can't hold a
reader through six hundred pages with the story of a fourteen-year-old
boy. But Miss Sidgwick's holding power is--well, I read _Succession_
during a brief trip to Boston, and much as I longed to absorb Concord
and all its charms, I found I only had half my capacity with me; the
rest was with Antoine, and it stayed there till in desperation I shut
myself up in a hotel room and saw him safely off to America with his
nice, wholesome, inartistic father. Then came the awful realization that
I'd have to wait a whole year for the next volume--for surely Miss
Sidgwick intends to make a trilogy.

The explanation of this absorption is simply that Antoine is so
interesting. His professional life is dramatic; but even in the
commonest experiences of every day his world is as vivid as it can only
be to a dramatic nature. For instance, in this little scene with his
brother:

"There was a little thing on legs," he announced, "that went
under the carpet just now. It was rather horrible, and I have not
looked for it."

"A blackbeetle, I presume," said Philip.

"It was not black," said Antoine. "It was pink--a not-clean pink,
you understand. I found it"--a pause--"disagreeable."

"How could you find it when you had not looked for it?" said
Philip. Another pause, Antoine considering the point, which was
an old one.

"You will catch it," he suggested, shooting a soft glance at his
brother.

"Why should I?" said Philip. "They're perfectly harmless."

"I shall dream of it," said Antoine, shutting his eyes. "It was
too long, do you see, and pink as well." His brow contracted, and
he finished with gentle conviction. "If it comes upon my bed in
the night, I shall be sick."

Of course, most interesting of all is his musical development, in which
are involved several personalities of striking character: Duchâtel, the
revolutionary, more a son, after the French fashion, than a man or a
musician; Savigny, the celebrated alienist, who treats the child
hypnotically in his severe illnesses; Lemonski, a rival child wonder,
who is like a pig, and vulgar--which it is silly to say, because he is a
beautiful artist, according to Antoine; Reuss, the great German
conductor, and the boy's staunch friend, who hates "the cursed French
training" of making life weigh so heavily on its youth; Jacques
Charretteur, the vagabond violinist, "a man to play French music in
France"; Cécile, the aunt, who has the perception to understand the
little genius with the dark eyes, whose "expression was so beautiful
that she could hardly bear it"; and Ribiera, the famous Spanish pianist,
who "warms" the piano, in Antoine's words, and calls the boy an
intelligent ape, by way of expressing his admiration. All these people
are drawn with consummate skill.

I think one of the most poignant passages in the book, to me, is
Antoine's description of how he had _raté_ the solo at a London concert.
It was at the end of the season, and he had been harassed by a thousand
needless frictions:

"The first part had gone pretty well, though I did not like how
the Duchâtel sounded. I thought that was the violin, perhaps--and
a new room. It was a bad room, pretty, but stupid for the sound.
I heard much too much, so I was sure _they_ were not hearing
properly. _They_ were extremely still, and made a little clapping
at the end. I did not find it a good concert, but Wurst in the
interval said it was very well, and I should not excite myself.
So when I did not, then I was tired, and it seemed stupider than
before. And at last that thing came, the Mirski 'Caprice,' which
you know how detestable. The passages are hard in that thing, but
I know them. Every morning I played them to Moricz, so now I do
not trouble.... And then, in the middle of it, I heard Peter Axel
playing wrong.... And I was frightened horribly.... And I made
him an awful frown for forgetting it, and Peter was looking at
me. His face was not happy like it generally is. It was like one
of those worst dreams. And, of course, I stopped playing, because
it cannot be like that. And Peter said 'Go back,' very quietly,
making a lot of little passages and returning for me to find, do
you see?"

"He gave you a chance to pick up, eh?" said Philip. "And you
couldn't."

"Couldn't! I _would_ not. I was furious--awful.... I said a rude
thing to Axel in passing, and went off the estrade. And _they_
all clapped together down there, bah!--though they knew it was
not finished. They were sorry I had stopped--because they were
people who like a difficult Caprice, to be amused by it. But I
was not amused. Nor Peter, very much." He laughed sharply.

"Don't, I say," said Philip. "It's all over now. It doesn't
matter, really. Everybody forgets, now and then" ...

"I do not," said Antoine. "I do not know how it is to forget. I
know that thing--I know all the little notes, long ago, before
Moricz--since years. It is not possible to _forget_ a little
concert piece that you _know_...."

"Did you go on again?"

"Yes. After Wurst had finished talking, I had to. I should not
have for my uncle, but I had to for him. He was violent, Wurst.
He said it was indigne and lôche if I stopped, and a lot of other
words. He was like a little dog barking. A man like Wurst does
not 'rater.' He does not know how that is done. His head has all
the big scores inside.... He did not see how it was for me to
stand up on the estrade again, with quantities of beautiful
people looking kind. It would have been so better if they had
siffli, like here in Paris."

The book closes on an unexpected and suggestive note. Antoine, who had
always realized that his grandfather couldn't bear his being "different"
in music, had taken quietly to composing the kind of things he loved. He
"made" a quintet in which Ribiera was given a brilliant piano part, and
which he thought beautiful--extremely. But when they played it for him,
though he was moved to cry, he found its "ideas" not so good as he had
thought. Whereupon he plans to produce better ones in his new overture.

_Succession_ is a masterpiece of art, and Antoine is the most lovable
and interesting character in new fiction.

The Meaning of Bergsonism

LLEWELLYN JONES

Bergson's philosophy is the antithesis of the natural-science view of
the universe as mechanism. In that view the laws of nature are fixed
sequences controlling matter, or energy, and the more complicated and
faultless the mechanism the higher the life. Just how this mechanism
became conscious of the fact that it was a mechanism--caught itself at
itself, so to speak, and announced the laws of its own being--is a
question as puzzling as the old theological one of the aseity of
God--which is simply a Latinized way of asking how the deity could,
being infinite, turn himself inside out in such a manner as to become
aware of his own existence and attributes. In fact, the two questions
are one and the same. According to Bergson, mechanism not only cannot
explain consciousness, but it is the very antithesis of conscious life.
Behind mechanism he places an inextinguishable but not uncheckable vital
urge with endless potentialities and with no fixed goal. The progress of
this "elan vital" is through resistance to matter, which is simply the
reversal of its own movement. The onward urge is what Bergson calls
"pure duration" or motion, and its collision with its own reverse
movement is what appears to us as space. The actual situation of life at
any given time is simply a _modus vivendi_ between this spiritual
activity striving to be free, and the reverse movement.

We know, of course, that the physical universe is simply energy running
down. Just as a glass of water cools off, so the sun dissipates its
heat, and so, we are learning, the elements break up into simpler forms,
giving off their contained energy in the forms of heat and electricity
as they do so. But on the other hand the plant takes unto itself that
energy of the sun, and with it builds up again the inorganic salts from
its soil into higher forms with a greater content of stored energy. What
the plant does, says Bergson, is typical and symbolical of what all life
does at all times: sets up a reverse current to the running-down
tendency of the universe of matter.

Life cannot do this easily, but has to adapt itself to the resistance of
the downward flow. It does this through its motor reactions, its sense
organs, and above all through its intelligence when that is evolved. The
evolution of these things gives us our ideas of space. The insect cuts
up its environment into spatial forms easy for it to deal with. Man with
different sense organs probably lives in a different space world. As "a
thing is where it acts," it is obvious that the boundaries of things in
the material realm would be quite different if we had, for example, some
sort of sense organ adapted to identify things by their electrical
properties. But this identifying of things by spatial and material
concepts--the mathematical order--is instrumental to the ends of action,
and the original consciousness of life, while it included the
potentialities of intellectual knowledge, was instinctive. Instinct,
according to Bergson, is first-hand knowledge, but knowledge incapable
of conceptual extension. It is therefore no use in the practical affairs
of life, but certain and immediate in its apprehension of the actual
flow of life itself. In its broadened form of intuition it is
responsible for all the valid and original insights of the philosophers
and poets. The structural and dialectic forms in which philosophies have
been given to the world are simply the intellectualizing process which
philosophers have used to buttress--and which they have often thought
produced--the insight which was prior to and independent of the system.

Bergson's doctrine has been seized upon by apologists for every creed
and for every iconoclasm. Bergson has been accused of every intellectual
crime, from being the intellectual father of syndicalism to being the
last rich relative of struggling obscurantism. The protestant
theologians talk glibly of Bergson's idea of God, and use him as a stick
with which to beat the hated materialist. Bergson himself would never
apply his philosophy to the uses of the syndicalists. The argument of
the syndicalists themselves is simply an ingenious parody of the
Bergsonian philosophy, as it is so far developed. As mechanism and the
mathematical order, they say, do not represent life, we cannot by the
means of natural and sociological sciences predict in advance what life
will do, and what forms it will take. We cannot base revolutionary
action, for instance, along Marxian lines, because the whole Marxist
philosophy rests upon the assumption that life is the slave of material
forces--chemical firstly, and economical in the human drama--and that it
will therefore follow along predetermined lines. If life is an "elan
vital," breaking its path as it goes, and only able to think in terms of
the past, then revolutionary activity must cut loose from the
reactionary intellect, and trust itself to its instincts; fight its way
to that freedom which is impossible in the mathematically determined
intellectual realm, and which is equally impossible of achievement by
mere intellectual foresight. So the syndicalist in the name of Bergson
cuts loose from all theories of the future he wishes to bring in,
preaches the "general strike" for its stimulating effect on the emotions
of the proletarian constituents of his social "elan vital"--quite
careless of whether it would ever be a practical success or not--and
deliberately cuts loose from all forms of "bourgeoise culture."

But the anti-revolutionists point out that Bergson does believe in the
intellect as a guide to the practical affairs of life; and industry and
production--the field of the syndicalist--are far more mechanical than
they are vital. In man's industrial relations he has to approximate
himself as much to the machine as possible, and for Bergson's
anti-intellectualism to be applied to this particular realm of life is
as great a calamity as could happen to the doctrine. And then these
conservatives proceed, less justifiably perhaps, to train the captured
gun of intuition upon the syndicalists. The racial intuitions, they say,
are older than the race's newly-found intellectual conceptions. For
generations the race has lived by certain instinctive rules of conduct.
Religion, custom, and patriotism, these are all sacred because they are
extra-intellectual, and they dare us to disturb these sacred things. It
is a strange sight--this most revolutionary philosophical doctrine being
used to support all the prejudices that the ages have handed down--but
we cannot deny that it is a plausible use of intuitionism, and a more
legitimate use than that to which Sorel and his followers have put the
teachings emanating from the College of France.

Perhaps the most detailed application that Bergson has yet made of his
philosophy to the affairs of life is his application of its principles
to the puzzling æsthetic problem of laughter and the comic. His theory
is that laughter is a social corrective directed against the man who
allows the dogging steps of mechanism to overtake him and imprison his
spirit in a web of meaningless action. The man who is walking along the
street should be going in a determinate direction with a determinate end
in view, and with the ability to get there in spite of reasonable
obstacles. So says society. When he becomes abstracted, walks
mechanically, and in consequence falls over a brick, we laugh at him. He
has permitted himself to become a machine for the nonce instead of a
self-conscious spirit, and society cannot afford to have its interests
jeopardized in that way.

_The International Journal of Ethics_ for January, 1914, contains an
article by J. W. Scott, who accuses Bergson of ethical pessimism on the
grounds of his view of the comic. He points out that the psychology of
comic action, as Bergson works it out, is precisely that of moral
action. For in moral action, too, a man does what is habitual, what is
against his own self-conscious impulse, what is mechanical in that it is
a fixed course of conduct pursued without reference to the favor or
disfavor of the environment. The life impulse must be, he convicts
Bergson of saying, adaptable to its circumstances; it must insert itself
between the determinisms of matter; it must pursue the crooked path
where the straight path is too difficult. It cannot follow its moral
ideal without making itself ridiculous, as indeed in real life moral
people are always doing.

This criticism hangs on the acceptance of a moral ideal, and if we must
have an ideal in the sense of a goal beckoning us from the future, then
the criticism is well founded and Bergson is an ethical pessimist. But
systematic ethics have been denied by other philosophers before Bergson,
and most people of modern temperament are quite willing to let the whole
question of _a priori_ ethics drop. They might not be willing to
exchange it for the very unpoetic utilitarianism which has so often been
offered in its place, but Bergson offers something more than that. If he
be an ethical pessimist, he is not a religious pessimist. Of religion he
has not yet spoken, except incidentally. Obviously so long as he uses
the scientific method in his philosophy, proceeding from facts to their
subordination in a picture whose values are given by intuitions, he
cannot present a systematic philosophy. But in spite of the fact that
pessimism--not only in ethics but in his view of the content of
personality and its relations with the universe--is charged against him,
Bergson means to be decidedly optimistic in his treatment of
personality. In his article in _The Hibbert Journal_ for October, 1911,
occur these remarkable words:

If then, in every province, the triumph of life is expressed by
creation, ought we not to think that the ultimate reason of human
life is a creation which, in distinction from that of the artist
or man of science, can be pursued at every moment and by all men
alike? I mean the creation of self by self, the continual
enrichment of personality by elements which it does not draw from
outside but causes to spring forth from itself.... If we admit
that with man consciousness has finally left the tunnel; that
everywhere else consciousness has remained imprisoned; that every
other species corresponds to the arrest of something which in man
succeeded in overcoming resistance and in expanding almost
freely, thus displaying itself in true personalities capable of
remembering all and willing all and controlling their past and
their future, we shall have no repugnance in admitting that in
man, though perhaps in man alone, consciousness pursues its path
beyond this earthly life.

On the other suppositions of Bergson's philosophy this is by no means so
far-fetched as are most theories of immortality. For the consciousness
which cuts out the patterns of our spatial life here could easily cut
out others in the beyond, like enough to our present ones to carry on
the continuity of our active existence. The idea of survival, or an idea
that may be applied to transmundane survival, is suggested by Laurence
Binyon in a recent volume of poems entitled "Auguries." He writes:

And because in my heart is a flowing no hour can bind
Because through the wrongs of the world looking forth and behind
I find for my thoughts not a close, not an end,
With you will I follow, nor crave the strength of the strong
Nor a fortress of time to enshield me from storms that rend.
This is life, this is home, to be poured as a stream as a song.

This is quoted not only because it represents the poetical realization
of Bergson's message, but because it points to one reason why the charge
of pessimism has been brought against Bergson even in this connection.

If only progress is our home, if there be no stability, how is that
permanence of values to be achieved which Höffding declares to be the
essential axiom of religion? We may love our faithful dog, but according
to Bergson it represents an evolutionary blind alley. We may create as
we will, but we shall survive our creations. Here, after all, is at the
best a tempered optimism. No reunions are promised in the Bergsonian
paradise. Only a perpetual streaming that does not, so far as Bergson
has yet told us (and that is an important point) ever wind safely home
to sea.

Instinct and Intelligence

Clarence Darrow recently echoed that high estimate of instinct at
the expense of intelligence which has been the fashion since
Bergson. Some of these days, when that case has been overstated
often enough, there will be a return swing of that pendulum. The
instinctive wasp who, in order to paralyze it, knows how to sting
a caterpillar "as though she knew its anatomy" may not always
seem in all respects superior to the human surgeon who does
actually know anatomy and can apply that knowledge in a thousand
ways--versus the wasp's one. Some day it will strike some one
that no creature has an instinct against poison comparable in
delicacy, subtlety, and fullness with a chemist's noninstinctive,
intelligent knowledge of poisons--and nonpoisons. So with a
number of things. The pragmatic objection to our present
glorification of instinct is that it tends to become a
glorification of intellectual whim.--George Cram Cook in _The
Chicago Evening Post_.

The Jewels of a Lapidary

_Emerson's Journals_, Volume IX, 1856-1863. (Houghton Mifflin
Company, Boston.)

At least nine events of permanent historic interest have occurred in
American literature within the past few years: they are represented by
the publication of nine volumes of Emerson's _Journals_. Those who are
trying to achieve a personal religion, which acknowledges God as an
immanence instead of a proposition, hail with a quiet joy every
extraction from the great mine in which Emerson stored the jewels of his
life. If we do not recognize them as lapidarious we must perceive them
as the better metals of ourselves, for this "friend and aider of those
who would live in the spirit" inhumed those spiritual values which all
men at some time or another seek as their own. Emerson buoys us up for
our common struggles and makes us conscious of that aid which is the
awakening of latent power. He composed the bricks which thousands of
builders have used in fashioning beautiful personal temples. "I dot
evermore in my endless journal," he wrote to Carlyle; "... the
arrangement loiters long, and I get a brick-kiln instead of a house."
Speaking of his philosophical work he confesses a "formidable tendency
to the lapidary style," and adds, "I build my house of boulders."

Emerson's published journals are kilns and quarries from which the
foundation materials for the edifice of character have been obtained by
countless builders. If he could not construct a system of philosophy, as
Arnold alleges, he could and did provide the "boulders" and indicate the
pattern which others have used. He is a part of every well-read
American, and, chiefly through Carlyle, still lives in the land of his
forefathers. He was an inspiration to Whitman, one of whose "specimen
days" closed with "a long and blessed evening with Emerson." Such
evenings are as real now as in Whitman's time, and are more commonly
experienced, for Emerson is westward-bound. He has traveled slowly in
this direction: "boulders" are not carried by exploiters and pioneers
who build and live in a world not of "the spirit" but of the senses.
With the establishing of easier communication between centers of thought
and fields of action in America, New England "boulders" were brought
hither, to chink the crude walls of western life; and it is a token of
Emerson's vitality and spiritual universality that his "bricks" and
"boulders" are discoverable in all sorts of shacks which men are trying
to improve. Lumber decays, but "boulders" remain, and some of them
become talismanic.

In reading and re-reading Emerson's _Journals_ one is impressed with
their remarkable quotability, and in this mechanical handiness of his
work we have a partial explanation of the slowness with which it has
been assimilated. "Boulders" are fated to be knocked about before they
are appreciated. We throw them at one another with a sort of physical
dexterity until, burnished and transformed, they are recognized as
adapted to higher uses. We do not flippantly quote or mention the
authors who have become personal to us; I quote Emerson's _Journal_ as a
blessed soliloquy.

D. C. W.

New York Letter

GEORGE SOULE

The most interesting hours of the last week I have spent in listening to
discussions of the futurists. Someone told of a superb incident recently
reported of a speech by Marinetti, the enunciator of the futurist
philosophy. Marinetti, after denouncing the past in his usual method,
proceeded to eliminate women from his world. "But," said someone, "how
will you continue the human race?" "We will _not_ continue the human
race," rejoined Marinetti, with superb _éclat_. Daring and magnificent
utterance! But, after all, perhaps he is the only sane one, and the norm
of human intelligence quite insane. That fits in well with the recently
reported discovery of a Paris scientist, that all variations in the
course of evolution are the result of disease, and that there would have
been no man had not some ape had a parasite in his thyroid gland. All of
which goes to show that I was right in my statement (which Chesterton
probably has said before me) that all logical extremes are illogical,
since the world is based on an eternal paradox.

Really it is quite simple to follow the futurist line of thought once
you get the hang of it. For instance--two developments of painting
predicted at the Troubetzkoys. In the first, each plane in the cubist
picture, instead of being colored, is to be numbered, and the numbers
printed in a catalogue opposite the names of the colors for which they
stand. Thus any approach to the vulgar intrusion of realism would be
avoided, and abstract beauty furthered. What chances for the
imagination! And think of the subtle possibilities in the mathematics of
color! One could surely express by some abstruse quadratic a color quite
beyond the realm of visual possibility, and thus man by one gigantic tug
at his bootstraps would pull his soul out of its finite limitations.

The second school was aptly named the auto-symbolists. In this school
Nietzschean individualism attains its sublime extreme. The artist,
instead of expressing his spirit in the vulgar symbols understood by
everybody, arbitrarily chooses a symbol known only to himself. If he
wishes to depict a determined man going up a mountain on a mule's back
he may paint a mouse-trap. To him the mouse-trap perfectly expresses the
particular feeling he has when viewing his own mental image of the
picture he has decided to paint. What matter about anybody else? If you
ask him _cui bono_?--he will reply: why any _bono_ at all? And, of
course, he is perfectly logical. And the satisfying aristocratic
aloofness of his position! If people--as they surely will--study his
mouse-trap and discuss in vain what it portends, if they pay vast sums
for his pictures and start a literature of criticisms to guess his
unguessable riddles, so much the better. He can laugh at them with
diabolical glee. Everybody is a fool but himself, and he can go on
creating in the seventh circle of his own soul undisturbed by the
barnyard cackle of the world.

Has the cubist literature of Gertrude Stein awakened echoes in Chicago?
I have read it without understanding before this. But one night my
host--a great, strong, humorous, intelligent hulk of a man, himself a
scoffer at cubism--read part of her essay on Matisse so that it was
almost intelligible. His inflection and punctuation did it. Her chief
characteristics seem to be an aversion to personal pronouns and a strict
adherence to simple declarative statements, untroubled by subordinate
clauses or phrases of any kind. Her thought, therefore, resolves itself
awkwardly in a four-square way. The multiplicity of her planes becomes
confusing after a page, but each plane stands alone. Thus--(I quote
inaccurately)--"Some ones knew this one to be expressing something being
struggling. Some ones knew this one not to be expressing something being
struggling. This one expressed something being struggling. This one did
not express something being struggling." Which, of course, is the cubist
way of saying that "Some thought he was trying to express struggle in an
object, others thought the contrary. As a matter of fact, he sometimes
did express struggle; sometimes he did not."

But it seems her early work is now getting too obvious, so she is in the
throes of a later phase. In her "Portrait of Miss Dodge" she has
eliminated verbs and sentence structure entirely, flinging a succession
of image-nouns at the reader. One can surely not accuse her of
"prettiness."

The craze for colored wigs is, of course, an outgrowth of futurism. Why
should a man be any color except that which his will dictates? This has
long (a few months) been the cry of the painter, and the smart set has
echoed: Why should he? Women in green and blue wigs have been seen in
New York already. But, of course, it would be senseless to stop there;
if one has an orange toupé he should surely have a mauve face. Yellow
complexions are worn with indigo hair. We have long been accustomed to
blue powdered noses on Fifth Avenue, and the setting of diamonds in the
teeth is an old story. The only trouble with this epoch-making idea is
that it is old. Phoenician women did it! And wasn't it Edward Lear who
wrote of _The Jumblies_:

"Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a sieve"?

Of course, if one doesn't believe in this new development of art, but is
naturalistic, he should be brave enough to chase his idea to its lair
and act upon it, like Lady Constance Stewart Richardson, who is now
tripping about the homes of the rich in New York with nothing at all
on--or worse than nothing.

Forgive my preposterosities! But the ridiculous seriousness with which
everything unfamiliar is taken by a sensation-sated _haute monde_ is
such a brilliant target for satire. I think with immense relief of a
wonderful bit of sky, and a long stretch of beach, and of all things
tangible and--yes, though it may be bourgeois--_healthy_.

To a Lost Friend

EUNICE TIETJENS

Across the tide of years you come to me,
You whom I knew so long ago.
A poignant letter kept half carelessly,
A faded likeness, dull and gray to see....
And now I know.

. . . . . .

Strange that I knew not then,--that when you stood
In warm, sweet flesh beneath my hand,
Your soul tumultuous as a spring-time flood
And life's new wonder pulsing in your blood,
I could not understand.

I could not see your soul like thin red fire
Flash downward to my gaze,
Nor guess the strange, half-understood desire,
The tumult and the question and the ire
Of those far days.

I saw your soul stretch longing arms to love
In adolescent shyness bound,
And passionately storm the gods above.
Yet, since my own young heart knew naught thereof,
You never found.

It is too late now. You have dropped away
In formless silence from my ken,
And youth's high hopes turn backward to decay.
Yet, oh, my heart were very fain to-day
To love you then!

Culture has one great passion--the passion for sweetness and
light. It has one even yet greater!--the passion for making them
_prevail_.--Matthew Arnold in _Culture and Anarchy_.

The Irish Players: An Impression

A small, low room with walls of cool green-grey; in the center an
old brown fire-place with a great black chimney; on the hearth a
light like a deep raspberry; at each end a chair of smudgy brown;
near the front a table toned with the walls; on it two black mugs
and a stein; in one corner at the back, piled against the
green-grey, flour sacks the color of dirty straw; and standing in
the foreground, balanced as Whistler would have done it, a miller
in a suit of brown, a thin widow in rusty black, a fat widow with
bustles in rusty black and dirty white.--Somehow one planned
beauty in that place.

The Novel of Manners

... And yet, even into Mrs. Wharton's work is creeping slowly a
part of the tremendous socializing spirit of today--the
realization that group backgrounds, unlighted by a sense of their
relativity to other groups, and to life, do not amount to much
more than painted scenery. Over in England, Wells, with all his
tremendous burden of national background and customs, manages,
often with a desperate wrenching of impedimenta, but always with
a great resolve that commands admiration, to inject into his
massive English settings a humanized world atmosphere as well.
Wells writes not of Englishmen and England, but of Englishmen and
the world. And Galsworthy, his soul permeated by this new social
sense, writes down, in his English men and women, all humanity,
with all the tragedy and plaintive joys of human life, with the
desires and hampered fruition of the desires of all living
things, as his background. Not the world alone, but life, is the
stage.--Edna Kenton in _The Bookman_.

A man should always obey the law with his body and always disobey
it with his mind.--James Stephens in _The Crock of Gold_.

There are two great rules of life, the one general and the other
particular. The first is that everyone can, in the end, get what
he wants if he only tries. This is the general rule. The
particular rule is that every individual is, more or less, an
exception to the general rule.--_The Note-Books of Samuel
Butler._

Forbes-Robertson's Hamlet

All my life I seem to have been asking my friends, those I loved
best, those who valued the dearest, the kindest, the greatest,
and the strongest, in our strange human life, to come with me and
see Forbes-Robertson die in _Hamlet_. I asked them because, as
that strange young dead king sat upon his throne, there was
something, whatever it meant--death, life, immortality, what you
will--of a surpassing loneliness, something transfiguring the
poor passing moment of trivial, brutal murder into a beauty to
which it was quite natural that that stern Northern warrior, with
his winged helmet, should bend the knee. I would not exchange
anything I have ever read or seen for Forbes-Robertson as he sits
there so still and starlit upon the throne of Denmark.--Richard
Le Gallienne in _The Century_.

To feel, to do, to stride forward in elation, chanting a poem of
triumphant life!--James Stephens in _The Crock of Gold_.

Why is it that in some places there is such a feeling of life
being all one; not merely a long picture-show for human eyes, but
a single breathing, glowing, growing thing, of which we are no
more important a part than the swallows and magpies, the foals
and sheep in the meadows, the sycamores and ash trees and flowers
in the fields, the rocks and little bright streams, or even than
the long fleecy clouds and their soft-shouting drivers, the
winds?--John Galsworthy in _The Atlantic Monthly_.

The Dying Pantheist to the Priest

Henry A. Beers, the author of this dynamic poem from which we
quote only a part, is a professor of literature at Yale--a man
supposedly conventional and soft spoken!

Take your ivory Christ away:
No dying god shall have my knee,
While live gods breathe in this wild wind
And shout from yonder dashing sea.

O no, the old gods are not dead:
I think that they will never die;
But I, who lie upon this bed
In mortal anguish--what am I?

A wave that rises with a breath
Above the infinite watery plain,
To foam and sparkle in the sun
A moment ere it sink again.

The eternal undulation runs:
A man, I die; perchance to be,
Next life, a white-throat on the wind,
A daffodil on Tempe's lea.

They lied who said that Pan was dead:
Life was, life is, and life shall be.
So take away your crucifix--
The ever-living gods for me!

--_The Yale Review._

Interesting New or Forthcoming Books

[Classification in this list implies a review in an early issue.]

_Notes of a Son and Brother_, by Henry James.

_Collected Essays of Rudolph Eucken._

_The Fugitive_, by John Galsworthy.

_Plays_, by Tchekoff and Andreyeff.

_Stories of Russian Life_, by Tchekoff.

_Selected Essays of Alice Meynell._

_Second Nights_, by Arthur Ruhl.

--Scribner.

_Stories of Red Hanrahan_, by William Butler Yeats.

_The Tragedy of Pompey_, by John Masefield.

_Chitra_, by Rabindranath Tagore.

_The Possessed_, by Dostoevsky.

_The Flight and Other Poems_, by George E. Woodberry.

--Macmillan.

_When Ghost Meets Ghost_, by William De Morgan.

_Nowadays_, by George Middleton.

_Angel Island_, by Inez Haynes Gillmore.

_Euripides and His Age_, by Gilbert Murray.

_Social Insurance_, by I. M. Rubinow.

--Holt.

_The World Set Free_, by H. G. Wells.

_The Way of All Flesh_, by Samuel Butler (new edition).

_Wagner as Man and Artist_, by Ernest Newman.

_The Philosophy of Ruskin_, by Andre Chevrillon.

--Dutton.

_Little Essays in Literature and Life_, by Richard Burton.

_Beaumont, the Dramatist_, by Charles M. Gayley.

_Arthur Rackham's Book of Pictures._

_Prostitution in Europe_, by Abraham Flexner.

--Century.

_The Poems of Francois Villon._

_Knave of Hearts_, by Arthur Symons.

_Essays of Francis Grierson_ (new editions).

_The Fortunate Youth_, by William J. Locke.

--Lane.

_The Making of an Englishman_, by W. L. George.

_The Truth About Women_, by C. Gasquoine Hartley.

--Dodd, Mead.

_Our Friend, John Burroughs_, by Clara Barrus.

_Paul Verlaine_, by Wilfred Thorley.

_The Japanese Empire_, by T. Philip Terry.

--Houghton Mifflin.

_Knowledge and Life_, by Rudolf Eucken.

_The Science of Happiness_, by Jean Finot.

--Putnam.

_Florian Mayr_, by Baron von Wolzogen.

_Socialism and Motherhood_, by John Spargo.

--Huebsch.

_Richard Wagner_, by Oliver Huckel.

_The Education of Karl Witte_, translated by Leo Wiener.

--Crowell.

_Crowds, Jr._, by Gerald Stanley Lee.

_A Thousand Years Ago_, by Percy MacKaye.

--Doubleday.

_The Masque of Saint Louis_, by Percy MacKaye.

--Stokes.

_Old Mole_, by Gilbert Cannan.

--Appleton.

_Poems_, by Brian Hooker.

--Yale University.

_The Clean Heart_, by M. A. Hutchinson.

--Little, Brown.

Some Scribner Spring Books

Notes of a Son and Brother

By HENRY JAMES

_Illustrated, $2.50 net; postage extra_

This is the continuation of the account, in "A Small Boy and
Others," of the early years of William and Henry James and their
brothers, with much about their father and their friends. The
story of the life in Switzerland and Geneva, and later on in
Newport and Cambridge, tells not only their own experiences but a
great deal about such men as John LaFarge, Hunt, Professor
Norton, Professor Childs, and Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was a
close friend of Henry James, Senior. The description of the Civil
War time and of Wilkinson James's experiences with Colonel Shaw's
colored regiment are particularly interesting. The illustrations
are from drawings made by William James in the early part of his
career when he was studying to be a painter.

Shallow Soil

By KNUT HAMSUN

_Translated from the Norwegian by Carl Chr. Hyllested.
$1.35 net; postage extra_

Introduces to the English-speaking world a writer already a
classic not only in his own country but throughout continental
Europe.

The publication of "Shallow Soil" is accordingly a literary event
of the first magnitude in the sphere of fiction. Hamsun is the
greatest living Scandinavian novelist and this work alone
justifies his fame. It is a social picture of Christiania, and
indeed of generally modern life.

A Village Romeo and Juliet

By GOTTFRIED KELLER

_With a Biographical and Critical Introduction by Edith
Wharton. Translated by A. C. Bahlmann, $1.00 net;
postage extra_

This love story of Swiss peasant life--whose title conveys the
character of its plot--is generally regarded as the finest and
most representative production of the great Swiss novelist. But
it has a still further element of interest beyond that which
necessarily attaches to so fine a piece of writing--the
singularly modern spirit which actuates the characters and
inspires the writer.

Plays by Björnstjerne Björnson

_Translated from the Norwegian, with Introductions, by
Edwin Björkman. Each with Frontispiece. $1.50 net; postage
extra_

Second Series

"Love and Geography"
"Beyond Human Might"
"Laboremus"

Plays by Björnstjerne Björnson

_First Series_

"The New System"
"The Gauntlet"
"Beyond Our Power"

_Translated from the Norwegian, with an Introduction, by
Edwin Björkman. Frontispiece. $1.50 net; by mail $1.65_

Second Nights

By ARTHUR RUHL, author of "The Other Americans," etc.
_$1.50 net; by mail, $1.64_

A perfectly charming chronicle of the chief features and phases
of the metropolitan theater within the past few years. The point
of view is wholly unprofessional, and the text, unweighted by the
responsibilities of the first-night critic, is intimate and
familiar.

The Fugitive: A Play in Four Acts

By JOHN GALSWORTHY

_60 cents net; postage extra_

This is the tragic story of a woman who tries to escape from the
bondage of social conventions. Clare, the heroine, strikes the
key-note of the whole play when, in the last act, she says to the
young man she has never seen before:

"You see: I'm too fine, and not fine enough! My best friend said
that. Too fine, and not fine enough. I couldn't be a saint and
martyr, and I wouldn't be a soulless doll. Neither one thing nor
the other--that's the tragedy."

It has a deep significance when taken in connection with the
feminist movement of today.

Mural Painting in America

By EDWIN H. BLASHFIELD

_Illustrated, $2.00 net; postage extra_

"The entire volume shows clearness of thought, careful analysis
of the topics discussed, and a facility of expression that is
seldom found in books written by men of action rather than words.
Its perusal will repay any one of culture."

--_The American Architect._

Charles Scribner's Sons
Fifth Avenue, New York

Two Important Biographies

Published by Houghton Mifflin Company

_Two Americans, great in the world of politics and illustrious
in their citizenship, have lately come into their full
stature of fame through the lives of LYMAN TRUMBULL and
HARRISON GRAY OTIS._

"THE LIFE OF LYMAN TRUMBULL" is the work of Horace White,
ex-editor of the _New York Evening Post_. Whoever reads it will
lay it down not merely with new knowledge concerning Lyman
Trumbull but with a broader and surer grasp of the essential
facts and philosophy of the war and the reconstruction period.
Mr. White was an intimate friend of Trumbull, and it is evidence
of his conscientious work that, in the preface, he admits that
the careful study forced upon him by the composition of the book
convinced him that his views upon one important point had been
wrong from the beginning. Such open-mindedness could result only
in what the book is--a fair and clean-cut presentation of the
subject and, aside from its intrinsic interest, a valuable
addition to American history and literature.

HARRISON GRAY OTIS was a conscientious public servant, but so
deep and instinctive was his devotion to Massachusetts that his
loyalty to the national government was more than once seriously
questioned. His biography disproves conclusively the accusation
that he was ever concerned in any attempt to secede from the
Union, and gives, for the first time, a full account of the
famous Hartford convention, with illuminating paragraphs on the
psychology of its leaders. The book is, in fact, an inside
history of the Federalist party from 1796 to 1823. The author,
Samuel Eliot Morison, is a descendant of Mr. Otis, and through
his unusual opportunities of access to private correspondence has
produced a work that is not only valuable as history, but
fascinating in the gossip and personalities of the time.

THE LIFE OF LYMAN TRUMBULL, by Horace White

_Illustrated. $3.00 net. Postage extra_

HARRISON GRAY OTIS; His Life and Correspondence, 1765-1848

_Illustrated. 2 Vols. $6.00 net. Postage extra_

Our Bulletins, issued several times each year, will be sent
FREE on request

Houghton Mifflin Company, 4 Park St., Boston

The Novels of Ethel Sidgwick

"Ethel Sidgwick is one of the half-dozen women writers who are
contributing work of real value to modern English
fiction."--_Sunday Times._

PROMISE

_$1.35 net, carriage extra_

"She appears to us to possess that true imaginative gift, as
distinguished from the mere power of vivid reporting, which is
the necessary qualification for continuing to produce work of
permanent value in fiction."--_Times._

"For a first novel 'Promise' is exceptionally able--one that
should have notable successors."--_Nation._

"We are left to hope that the life of this English Jean
Christophe will continue through at least another volume, filled
with people as variegated and attractive as those to whom we are
introduced in this."--_Spectator._

"It is difficult to imagine anything being better in its kind
than 'Promise.' It is the account of a human life from infancy up
to the early beginning of a public career--one only wishes it
were to be continued in another volume!"--_Chicago Evening Post._

LE GENTLEMAN:

An Idyll of the Quarter

_$1.25 net, carriage extra_

"'Promise' was a work which lived up to its name. Its successor
fulfills it."--_Morning Leader._

"The scene of the final parting of Ferguson and Gilberte Morny is
as fine as anything we know of in recent fiction. This is that
most desirable thing--a novel that is different."--_New York
Press._

HERSELF

_$1.35 net, carriage extra_

"The hardly and ill-used word 'charm' must be given its original
lustre for the sake of Miss Ethel Sidgwick's new novel 'Herself.'
It has the power to bewitch and fascinate; odd smiles and warm
tears lurk in it, and a melody played on the strings of the
heart."--_Morning Post._

SUCCESSION

(A Continuation of "Promise")

_$1.50 net, carriage extra_

"It places Miss Sidgwick unmistakably among the leading novelists
of the day."--_Morning Post._

"A novel that leaves one remembering a chain of scenes vividly
impressed, and a good dozen of characters profoundly imagined and
beautifully drawn."--_Manchester Guardian._

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Personal, Biographical, and Critical Reminiscence of The
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THE DRAMATIC WORKS OF GERHART HAUPTMANN

¶ Four volumes of this edition, epoch-making in dramatic
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VOLUME I

BEFORE DAWN
THE WEAVERS
THE BEAVER COAT
THE CONFLAGRATION

VOLUME II

DRAYMAN HENSCHEL
ROSE BERND
THE RATS

VOLUME III

THE RECONCILIATION
LONELY LIVES
COLLEAGUE CRAMPTON
MICHAEL KRAMER

VOLUME IV

HANNELE
THE SUNKEN BELL
HENRY OF AUE

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ROBERT FULTON: ENGINEER AND ARTIST

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Transcriber's Notes

Advertisements were collected at the end of the text.

The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical
errors were silently corrected. Further corrections are listed here
(before/after):

[p. 28]:
... and intimate 'co-operation between her ...
... an intimate 'co-operation between her ...

[p. 31]:
... healthy!" Of course there is a number ...
... healthy!" Of course there are a number ...

[p. 32]:
... definite heaven. It is impossible to imaging ...
... definite heaven. It is impossible to imagine ...

[p. 34]:
... (and there seems to be a lot of them) can ...
... (and there seem to be a lot of them) can ...

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Little Review, March 1914 (Vol. 1, No. 1)" ***

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