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,\TV'  Oj?. 




New  Fiction  for  Autumn,  1921. 




**I  have  read  Owen  Johnson's  *The  Wasted  Generation'  with  the  greatest 
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How  Casey  Ryan*s  search  for  Injun  Jim*s  gold  mine  led  him  into  episodes  both  ama- 
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The  entertaining  exploits  of  a  young  girl  who  keeps  her  family  constantly  on  the  qui  'vi've, 

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A  stirring  romance  of  the  high  seas  in  the  pirate  days  of  the  Spanish  Main,  in  which  many 
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TttM.  BROWN  &  COMPANY,  PubBshen,  BOSTON 

I    — !■ 


A    REVIEW    OF 


September,  1921— February,  1922 

"/  am  a  Bookman." — ^Jambs  Russell  Lowell 




.  B72- 

/^  /-  'A 

i\  ^. 

Copfrighi,  1922,  bf  G9wr§9  H.  Doran  Companf 



September,  1921— February,  1922 


Abdnlkli,   Aehmed.     "Niffht   Drains."    490 

"Abraham  Lincoln."     John  Drinkwater.   ....     60 

"A  C6U  de  la  Gnerr*."    Gwrses  Virrte 498 

Adami.    Franklin    P 441 

AdamiL    Katharine.     "Midtummcr."    246 

Ade,  Gcorffc    Thomas  L.  Masson.  116 

"Adrisnnc     Toner."       Anne     Doofflas     Ssdff- 

wick.    452 

"Adventores   in   the   Arts."     Marsden    Hart- 
ley  S85 

"A.    E."     114 

"Ase  of  Innocence,  The."    Edith  Wharton.  . .     11 

Aikman,   Henry  G 444 

Akins,  Zoe.     "Daddy's  Gone  A-Huntins."    ..  280 

Alain.     "Mars  on  la  Guerre  Jaff4e."  601 

Alden,  Raymond  MacDonald.      "Poems  of  the 

English   Race."    178 

Alexandra    as    Princess    and    Queen.      Julius 

Moritsen 680 

"Alexandra,     Queen."     W.     R.     H.     Trow- 
bridge.      680 

"Alias      Jimmy      Valentine."        Paul     Arm- 

strong.     674 

^AUee  Adams."  Booth  Tarkington 11,894 

"Ambush."     Arthur   Richman.    874 

American  Epithetidan,  An.     Burton  Raseoe.  164 
American      Fiction      First,      Seel        Ernest 

Boyd 160 

"American  Football"     Charles  D.  Daly  268 

American    Language,   The.    861 

American    Library  in   Paris,   The.    602 

American    Literature    Abroad.    272 

"American  Novel,  The."     Carl  Van  Doren...     67 

American   Slang.      William    Archer.    186 

AmieU  Denys.     "The  Wife  with  a  Smile."..  672 
Andersen's     Fairy    Tales,     trans,     by    Signe 

Toksvig 469 

Anderson,     Sherwood.     187,  410 

Carl   Sandburg 860 

"The  Triumph  of  the  Egg"  878 

Andrews,    Kenneth.      Broadway,    Our    Liter- 
ary Signpost.   . .  .62,  144,  228.  878,  468,  670 
Andreyev.  Leonid.     "He  Who  Geto  Slapped."  606 
Anged.   Norman.     "The   Fraits  of   Victory."  492 

"Anna    Christie."     Eugene  O'NeilL    468 

Anthony,    Joseph 192 

^"The   Gang."    480 

Antiques.       (Story.)     Gene    Markey 666 

"Antonia."     Viola    MeyneU    67 

Archer,  William.     American  Slang 186 

"Areo  di  Ulisse.   L'."  Enrico  Thoves.    602 

Armstrong,     PauL       "Alias     Jimmy     Valen- 
tine."      674 

"Atheism  in  the  Occident.  History  of.".  Frits 

Mauthner 406 

Atherton,    Gertrude.    600 

"Au  Pays  des  PAtures."     A.  M.   Gosses.    ...  498 
Auslander,   Joseph.     Last  Song.      (Poem.)..  669 

^Words.      (Poem.)     476 

Austin.   Mary 601 

My    Fabian   Summer 861 

^Woman's  Song.      (Poem. )     64 

Austria,  In  Remnant.     Allen  Wilson  Porter^ 

Held.     84 

Authors'   Club,  Watch   Night  at  the.    600 

Authors*  League  Fellowship  Dinner,  The.  . .      60S 

"Autumn."      Robert    Nathan 897,     677 

Ayscough,    Fknrence.      "Fir-Flower    Tablets."  878 
^The   Lonely   Wife.      (Poem.)    66 

Babies  and  BssebalL  Alexander  WooUeott.  . .  889 
Back    Yard   of    Allah.    The.      Archie    Austin 

Coates 78 

Baker,  (George  P.  "The  Pilgrim  Spirit."  ..  166 
Baker,  Karle  Wilson.  Storm  Song.  (Poem.)  860 
"Ballad  Maker's   Pack.   A."     Arthur  Guiter- 

man.    491 

"Ballads     of     a     Bohemian."       Robert     W. 

Service.     488 

BaUot.    Achieving   the.      Alice    Rohe.    266 

Banning,     KendalL      The      Case     of      Lydia 

Bixby 616 

"Bar-20     Three,     The."      Clarence    B.     Mul- 

ford.     77 

Barker,    Granville.    61 

"The   Madras    House."    466 

Barney,     NaUlie     Clifford.       "Pens4es    d'une 

Amasone."     404 

"Barrte.    La   Vie  de   Maurice."     Albert   Thi- 

baudet.    276 

Bayes,    Nora 607 

Beach,   Lewis.     "Four   One-Act   Plays."    146 

"Beauty."      Rupert    Hughes.    172 

"Beauty— and  Mary  BUlr."     Ethel  M.  KeUey.  266 

Beebe,  William.     "Edge  of  the  Jungle."   879 

Beerbohm,   Max 168 

"Beggar's   Opera.   The."    68 

Beginning  of  Wisdom.  The.    (Serial.)  Stephen 

Vincent  Ben4t.   24,  186 

"Beginning  of  Wisdom.  The."     Stephen  Vin- 
cent   Ben4t.     894 

Belgium,   Books  from.     Allen  Wilson  Porter- 
field.     498 

Ben4t.  Laura.     Enemies.     (Poem.)    866 

"Fairy    Bread."     690 

Ben4t.   Stephen   Vincent.     The  Beginning   of 

Wisdom.      (Serial)    24.186 

"The  Beginning  of  Wisdom."    894 

Ben4t.  William  Rose   98 

Benington,     Arthur.       An     Introduction     to 

Dante    69 

Bennett.    Arnold.      "The    Title"    467 

BercovidL    Konrad.      "Ghitsa."    476 

Bercsford,  J.   D.    449 

Bergengren.   Ralph.     "The     Seven     Ages    of 

Man."     489 

Besant,   Annie    482 

Best  Seller.  The  Why  of  the.     William  Lyon 

Phelps     298 

Best  Sellers,  A  Browse  Among  the.    Archibald 

Marshall     8 

"Big  Town,  The."    Ring  W.  Lardner  687 

"Bill   of    Divorcement,    A."     Clemence   Dane. 

280.  876 

Bismarck's   "Reminiscences."    406 

Bixby,  The  Case  of  Lydia.    Kendall  Banning.  616 

Black,  Alexander.    What's  in  a  Place? 684 

"Black  Diamond,  The."  Francis  Brett  Young  897 
"Black     Velvet.    Tha."      Richard    Washburn 

Child 171 

Blackbird,  The.    (Poem.)      Robert  McAlmon.  687 

Blindman  Prise,  The    607 

"Blood  and  Sand."    Tom  Gushing  282 

"Bkx>d   of   the    Conquerors.     The."       Harvey 

Fergusson  896 

Blossom  Time.     (Poem.)      Hasel  Hall   96 

"Blue  Lagoon,  The."  H.  de  V«r«  Staepoole  288 
Blue  Laws,  Hurrah  for  tha.    Raymond  Hiteh- 


"BoeeuciDo.   IL"     B.    Bdnmo   Cri><iU * 

Bodimkr.   Artur    S 

Bwknhcim,  MaiwelL  Nc«td  GrlmlDBL  (Ponn.}  II 

BoEUi.   LouiM.     A  T>le    (Fonn.)    4' 

BotuBDDD.  Stell*.     Book*  I  Like 

>  Hootblr  Scon,  Tha. 

BO,   114,  tSS,  US,  4M.  I 

BmIs.  a  SlMlf  at  B«»Bt. 

•>.  lU,  US,  tSE,  4TS.  I 

Beoka  I  Like  to  RniL     Amoa  E.  Knrblll.  Jr.  I 
Edwin    H»U     I 

Ruth    fl'™nt    ../.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.  I 

—W.  Fnuenilui    . 

.    TT,   m.  CM,   4m,   tS8 

BowtT,  B.  U.   ."CaMr  Rnn." 

"Cow-Conntrr"     » 

Bord.    Ernot.      Sm  Amerleaa   FicUoD   FIntI  II 

"Borhood    af     AhrBbmn     Uocoln.    T1i«-"      J- 

Roim  Cort-   1 

Bnler.  Brrtun.     14dt1ti«  Forcn.      (Poem.)    ..  II 
Bnnt.  Butb.     Euar  on  Book*  I  Like  to  Read  K 

"Braae,"     Cbarlca  G.  Norrla  tl 

BrawlEj,  Benjamin,     "A  Short  HlatDrT  ot  tha 

BrnsiOE.  HarEtm. 

Briariy,  Hary   

BHUah    Spoon    Rlnr, 


Broadwajr,   Our 

D  Know  Char  lea". 

r  LIteratT  Blxneoat.      Kcnnath 

ODunwa tl.  144.  218,  17S.  4«1.  G^ 

Braekhans'a    "KoDnraaUoalleiiikon."     41 

"Bioktii    to   th*     Plow."       CbarlH     CaldmO 

Braaa*  Tnunpet  of  FaltTtand.  The.     Edmno 

—A  Grtnip  oF  Booka  Worth  B« 

—ttmmt   O'HInrinB    

—"Seeins    Thlnsa    at    Niaht." 
ro.  Alice.     "One  Act  Plan"  . . 

Bnmett.  Franca  Hod^aon  IM 

Rut  How  About  the  PaatnuiDl    Bntb  Hala.  ..  IM 

Butaova,  Hilda   (]■ 

Bynnw,   Witter    M 

- — — ChineiB  Lrriea.      (Pocmi.)    SM 

A  SanK  of  Tar-Cbarlota.      (PoMB.)...  US 

Byrne.  Donn   m 

^-McMer  Harco  Polo"   Ut  SM 

Ca**«.       (Poem.)      SUrUnc    Bowm.    in 

Cahlll,   Edsar  Holsar.     Tbe  Icelandic  Bniala- 

Catn«.'*H^U.  'W.'.W.W'.'.'.'.l^'.l'.l'i'.^'.W.'.l.'.'.  *« 

-MMter  of  Man"   ISJ.  171,  IM 

CanudLiin  Auihon"  Auoclatlon.  Tha   411 

Canndian  Author*'  Week   H6 

Canbr,  Henry  Seidei  441,  iOl 

^The  Sina  of  Book  Ravtawn  fl 

CanU^uiioe.   Princeaa.     ■'My   Life   Her*  and 

"CantileoB  PopWri."    '  siiMbrtti' Oddoiift ' '. '.  US 

Capa,  Jonathan    lis 

Caput    Uortuum.      (Poem.)      Edwin    Arllua- 

ton  Roblunn    4TS 

Carman,   Bii«    «l 

Carroll.  Earl   187,  S(W 

■■Carter."     Don  Marqnla  m 

Carter,    John    got 

Cartoona  of  tha  Frcneh  Barolntlan.     (Poama.) 

Stlrlin»   Bowen    U4 

Caruao   and  the   Newapaiter  Jba.     GranTiU* 

Car         B^"      *" 

Ca»cy,   Robert   J.     "Tbt  Land     of     Banntad 

Caatle..'-    4*1 

■Caiey  Ryan."     B.  H.  Bowar   4*1 

"Cnlrid    the    Foreatar.''      Barnaid    Harahall. .  t4« 

Oiuor  In  CennaDT,  Th*  S9t 

■■Ceianne."   Anbrolia  VolUrd    171 

Chaliapin    SU 

Chambera,  E.  K MS 

ChapIn,  Joaeph  H.    u 

Chaplin.   Cbarlea    m 

Chapman.  Kaltaarlne  Hopklna  ISI.  414 

"Charmed  CInla.  The"     Edward  Aldan  Jawall  SBI 

"Chaun-Sourla,  fiallefTa"    M 

■■ChekhoT,  Reralnlacencea  of  AntOD."     Uaxlm 

Gorky,    Aleiandar    Kaprin,    and    I.    A. 

Chpkhov'i  Letteti  '.'.'..'....'.'.'.'.'.",'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.  IIS 

Chcrryman,  'Hyrtic  Koon  ' ,' '         .'     .'      '         ' "  tSl 

Chester.  S  B.     "Life  of  Venlaaloa."  4M 

ChrralW,    AbeL      "Le     Roman     Anglata     da 

Notre  Temp*.  "  448 

ChicaEO     Critic.     TraoaplanUnB     the.       Percy 

Chieago  New.  .  .^^' "/,'".' "/.'.V/^ '/.'.'/ si,  401 
"Chick  Evani'  Golf  Book."   Charlei  Eiana,  Jr.     71 

Child.  Richard  Waahburn  SI 

——■•The  Black   VoWet"   HI 

Children.   Holiday  Booka  (or.     Annla  CMniD 

Moore SSI 

Children  R.-ad.  Wh«I  Do  American  I    J.  P.  ..  tlS 

Children'.  Book  CDTner,  Tbe  SOI 

Cbildren-a  Book  Week  Eaiay  Cooteat.   ..  411,  NW 
Chiidren'i   Booki,     High     Ll|hta    [n.      Annie 

"ChlldrL-n'B  Munch»UMn."'Thi.'""  John'Martio  471 

"i^bimncyanioke."      Chriitopber   Horley    477 

'■China."     Emile  Hovelacque.    I7S 

Chinese  Lyrlca.      (Poems.)      Tu   «u.     Trana- 
laied     by     Witter     Bynner    and     RUns 

"Chocolate  Soldier) '"hiV"' *.'.'.'!.'.".'.'.'.'.'.'.'.','.".'.'  B7S 
Cholmondeler,  Mary.      "Tbe  Romance  of   Bil 

Life"    SM 

ChristBiaa  Frcaenta,  Booka  ai  U7 

Chriatmaa  Story,  The  WotaL     (Slorr.)  Cihrla- 

-ler  Morley    MS 

he."     W.  Somerset  Hausbam..  SIO,  ISt 

Newa   IM 

rrert    H.      "RepreaentatlTe   One-Act 
Plavt  by  Brltlab  and  Irish  Author*"...  tit 

^laudel.  Paul    I»l 

■ClcrambauH."     ttomain  RoUand    M 



Clutton-Brock,  A  462 

"Essayi   on   Books."    267 

Cotttes,   Archie   Austin.     The   Back   Yard  of 

Allah    78 

Cobb,  A  Playlet  by  Elizabeth   608 

Cobb.  Irvin  8.     "A  Plea  for  Old  Cap  Collier"  172 

"Cobblestones."    David  Sentner  688 

Cobwebs.      (Poem.)     Jeannette  Marks 877 

"Cockpit.  The."     Israel  ZangwiU.    674 

Cohen,  Helen  Louise.     "One-Act    Plays    by 

Modem  Authors" 145 

Cohen,  Octavus  Roy.     "Highly  Colored" 492 

"Six  Seconds  of  Darkness"    266 

"Collapse  of  the  Central  Powers,  The."    Karl 

Priedrich    Nowak    277 

Colum,      Padraic        The      HumminK      Bird. 

(Poem.)    669 

In  a  Far  Land.     (Poem. )    669 

Irish  Poetry   109 

Columbia  University  Summer  School,  The. ...     91 

Colvin's  Reminiscences,  Sir  Sidney 226 

"Come  Back,  The."     Carolyn  Wells   78 

Connelly,  Marc.     "Dulcy."   144 

Consturicr,  Lucie.     "Dei  Inconnus  Ches  Moi"  601 
"Contemplative   Quarry,   The."    Anna   Wick- 
ham    888 

Contemporary    Alfreds.      I.     Alfred     Lambe. 

Donald   Osden   Stewart    621 

Coolbrith,    Ina     418 

Cooper,  Violet  Kemble   601 

Corelli,  Marie.     "The  Secret  Power"   224 

Corrinth,  Curt 699 

Oouperus,    Louis    69 

"The  Hidden  Force"    490 

"Cow-Country."    B.  M.  Bower  266 

Cox,  Palmer   407 

"Craft  of  Fiction.  The."    Percy  Lubbock....  462 

Craven,  Frank   281 

Creed.     (Poem.)     Jo  Felshin  881 

"Crimson  Blotter,  The."     Isabel  Ostrander..  267 

Crivelli,  R.  Balsamo.    "II  Boceaccino" 402 

Croee,  Benedetto   176 

"Crome  Yellow."    Aldous  Huxley  160 

Cross,  Wilbur  L 601 

"Cross-Currents."     Margaret  Widdemer 489 

"Cruise   of    the   Dream    Ship,    The."     Ralph 

Stock    684 

"Cruise  of  the  Kawa,  The."  Walter  E.  Trap- 
rock    184,  260 

Curry,  Henry  B.     New  York  and  the  English 

Visitor    292 

"Curtains."    Hazel  UaO  888 

Gushing,  Tom.    "Bk)od  and  Sand" 288 

"Cytherea."    Joseph  Hergcshelmer 676 

"Daddy's  Gone  A-Hunting."    Zoe  Akins 280 

Daly,  Charles  D.     "American  Football"    268 

Damon,  S.  Foster.     Epilogue.     (Poem.)    468 

Dane,  Clemence.     "A  Bill  of  Divorcement" 

280    876 

"Dangerous  Ages."     Rose  Macaulay 224,'  896 

Daniel  Quirk.  Jr.     Prise,  The   411 

Danish  Poetry  of  the  Last  Century.     Robert 

Hillyer     271 

D'Annunzio.  Gabriele.     "Notturno"   694 

"Dante."    John  T.  Slattery 69 

Dante— 1921.     (Poem.)     Charles  R.  Murphy. .     87 

Dante,  A  Book  on,  by  Carl  Federn 182 

Dante,  An  Introduction  to.     Arthur  Bening- 

ton     69 

Dante  Celebration  at  Ravenna,  The  407 

"Daughter  of  the  Middle  Border.  A."     Ham- 
lin   Garland    676 

"Dauphin      (Louis     XVU),     The."       (3eorge 

Lendtre   691 

Davey,  Norman.     "The  Pilgrim  of  a  Smile". .  266 

Davies,  Mary  Carolyn   288 

Pine  Song.     (Poem.)    627 

Davis,  F.  Hadland 604 

Davis,  Owen.     "The  Detour"   147 

Davis,  Robert  H.   512 

Davisson.  Oscar.     Laus  Stellarum.      (Poem.)   155 
Dawson.   Oiningsby.     "It   Might   Have   Hap- 
pened to  You"   172 

"The  Kingdom  Round  the  Corner" 79 

Day  As  a  Wage,  A.  (Poem.)  Keene  Wallis  182 
"Day  of  Faith,  The."     Arthur  Somers  Roche  691 

"Death  of  Society,  The."    Romer  Wilson 68 

Delafleld.  E.  M.     "The  Heel  of  Achilles" 264 

de  la  Mare.  Walter.     "Memoirs  of  a  Midget."  152 

Sunk  Lyonnesse.      (Poem.)    475 

"Demi- Virgin.  The."    Avery  Hopwood.   877 

"Democracy  and  the  Will  to  Power."     James 

N.   Wood    589 

Desmond.  Shaw    608 

"(Sods"    589 

"Detour.  The."     Owen  Davis  147 

Detroit   News    94 

"Dibbuk,  The"    281 

Dickens's  Visit  to  New  York  in  1842   292 

Dictionary  Experiment,  A   281 

Diver.  Maud.     "Far  to  Seek"  264 

Dobie,   Charles  Caldwell    418 

"Broken  to  the  Plow"   267 

Dobson.   Austin    192,  227 

Dodd.  Mead's  Purchase  of  John  Lane  Co 608 

"Don  Juan."    Lawrence  Langner 282 

Doran,  (jeorge  H 60 

Dorothy     Dances.       (Poem.)       Louis     Unter- 

meyer     278 

Dos  Passoe.  John    288 

— On  Poetic  Ck>mposition.     (Poem.)    ....     64 

"Three  Soldiers"   261,  898 

Vermilion    Towers.    ..(Poem.)    268 

Doetoevsky.  A  Life  of  566 

Doubleday,  Frank  N 60.  414 

Doubleday.   Russell    50 

Douglas,   Barbara.    "Favourite   French   Fairy 

Tales"     470 

Drachmann.  Holger    271 

Drama  Shelf,  The 146.  280,  876,  466,  574 

Drama.  Tabloid.     Sidney  Howard  264 

"Dream  Maker.  The"    678 

"Dreamers."    Knut  Hamsun  498 

"Dreams  Out  of  Darkness."    Jean  SUrr  Un- 

termeyer    888 

Dreiser,   Theodore.       Out   of   My   Newspaper 

Days.     (Serial)    208,  427,  542 

Drew,    John    281 

Drinkwater.  John.     "Abraham  Lincoln"    ....     60 

"OUver  Cromwell"    466 

Duclaux.  Madame.     "Victor  Hugo"   490 

Duffus.  Robert  L.    "Roads  Going  South" 480 

Duhamel,   Georges.     "Les  Hommes  Abandon- 

n4s."    696 

"Dulcy."      George    S.    Kaufman    and     Mare 

Connelly    144 

Dunan,  MarceL     "L'Autriche"   86 

"Dupleix  et  I'lnde  Francaise."     Alfred  Mar- 

tineau    601 

Earle.  Betty    288 

"Easiest  Way.  The"  281 

Eastman,  Max.  "The  Enjoyment  of  Poetry"  491 
Edge   of     Cobbler's     Wood,     The.       (Story.) 

John  Farrar   842 

"Edge  of  the  Jungle."     WiUiam  Beebe 879 

Editor  Recommends,  The.    J.  F. 

66.  157,  251,  878.  476.  576 
Egan.  Maurice  Francis.     The  Peace  Confer- 
ence     487 

The  Return  to  the  Quiet  Novel 17 

Eighteen-Nineties,   What's   Wrong   with   the? 

Richard  Le   Gallienne    1 

EUot.  Samuel  A..  Jr.     "Little  Theater  Clas- 
sics.  Vol.    III."    77 

"Elizabeth's"  "Vera"   226.  451.  489 

"Elogio  della  ViU."     Raniero  Nicolai   402 

Emery.  Gilbert     "The  Hero."   229 

"En   Rase    Campagne."      Jean    Galtier-Bois- 

siire.    598 

"Enchanted  Years.  The."     Metcalf  and   Wil- 
son  490 

Enemies.      (Poem.)     Laura  Ben^   856 

English  Visitor.  New  York  and  the. 292 

"Enjoyment    of    Poetry.    The."      Max    East- 
man  491 

Epilogue.     (Poem.)    S.  Foster  Damon   453 

"Erik  Dorn."     Ben  Hecht.    164 

Ml,  «C 


I   Boo**."     A.   ClDtloB-Braek. 

>  'fm^'  ot '  tb*'  Old 

"— -     4M 

E>a*tl.  Lum  B«iL  411 

EmnwioaiuL    Itt 

Pabiu  aaama,  Mr.     Mur  AwUb.    Ml 

Ffclua  Summn  School.  Th*.   M 

"Fur;    Liniti   of    tbe   Sooth    ScM."      JiHia 

Narnua     Ball     and     Gkarita     Bcnurd 

NonDuff     BM 

Purbankm.  DoocIak.    ........._..,..,,.,  S70 

"FkiiT   Bread."     l^nra  BndL    SM 

Faith   and    Jack    London.       (Stsrr.}      Bcary 

-Gmdmaa-      ......--.--.,-- It 

-Far  Seaa."  HI 

-■Far  to  S«k.-     Maud  tUnr.    M4 

ramnlll      (Poem.)    IM 

Wariton.    Elnnor.     "UanlB    PlpplB    Ib    tkt 

Apple  Orchard."    SU 

Farrar.      Jobo.        The      Edo     <<      ColiUnrM 

Wood.       (SCoit)     Ul 

-Faiouriu    Frroch    Fail?    Tdai."      BMfawa 

Douglaa 4T0 

redcTD.  A  Book  DB  Daat*  Jn  Carl  ISt 

Federn.    Etta.     IBl 

rOahlD,    Jo.      Creed.    (Pok.)     Ul 

FdDinine     Nuiaanu    RfpBca,    Tha.      rraaeea 

NOTo    Hart.     II 

Terber,    Edna.      "The    Otria."    MB,  Ml 

Verrtwin.    Samuel     lU 

FcTEUHoa.  Haney.     -m*  Blood  at  tha  Coii- 

-Few  Flea  rrom  TbiaOai,' A."     Edna  BLVIbI 

cent     UiUay M 

"PUtT  Conlemporary  One-Act  PlMta."    Fnuk 

Shay    and    Pierre    Lovins IH 

Fjnmore.    Parker.      "The    Lauhlna    PrlBea."  41* 
"Fir -FToirei  Tablets."    Floience  AyMAosh  and 

Amj    LowelL     118 

Knt   H[eht   Gou[|).     "Anna   Chriatle."    40* 

-TTie    Cirele."     tSI 

"DanBer." 6W 

"Dolej."   ISS 

-Uain    Btreet."    tSl 

The   Nsllonal   Winter   Gardtn.    1SB 

;;The    S.__S.    TeueHy."    (06 

Fiaiier.    Lola.     . .  .\'.'\l"l\\['i][]l\'.'.\\'.l\\"  tU 

Flak.  Earl   in 

FiUcerald.   F.  Seott.    414 

Poor   Old   Uarrlan    IS* 

FlBBiBu,  Ario.  "The  Haak  ot  Hanlef   ....  lU 

Flaubert.   Lelten  oC  Cuatan.    Ml 

Flctcfaer.  J.  S.     "The  Boroiwh  TreaaBref."  ..     I* 
FVoroB.  Bvcnd.     "Griai."    70 

"Football.  American."    '(n»riea'D!'i)aljl''!il  tU 
For  ■  Shy  Lanr.      (Poem.)     Onmiere  Tac> 

■ard    6«» 

Fotbw,  Roalta.     "The  Secret  of  the  Sahara: 

Kntara."  478 

Pord.   Harriet.      "Main   Street"    *TI 

Ford.   JaBKa    L.      "Fsrtr    Odd    Yean   la   lb* 

Literary  SboD."    484,  tM 

Poreisn   Notes  aod   Comment. 

az,  lie,  271,  <DD,  4H,  IM 
Foreat    Cover.       (Storr.)       Edna    Brrncr.     ..  4U 

Fonter.    E.    U.      "Howante-End,"    171 

"Fanr    odd    Yean    in    the    Literary    Shop." 

Jane.  U  Ford.   484,  «M 

Forward    Paiil      Jame*    Gould 118 

"Four  On»-AFl  Plan."     Lewla  Be«:h.    141 

"Fonr  Plan  for  Daoeera."     W.  B.  Yeat*  ...  4M 

France.   Analole  and  the  Nobel  Prlie.    BOD 

FraBck.    Harry    A.      "Worhins    North    from 

PataBonia.'     8*8 

Fraoh,    Glenn.    Ml 

Frank.  LeonbanL     "Drr  Meaatb  1) 
Franka-j.    Gilbert.      "Tbe   See^   ol 

ment."     m 

Frankhn.     DvlahL     4U 

Fraacr.   CUud   Lont.    S8,  1*1 

Frauenslaui.  W.  The  Book*  I  Uk*  to  Read.  t» 
Freeman,  John.     "Poeaia  New  and  Old."  ...  171 

Resnnion.       (Pwm.)     Ul 

French  NdIcm.     Pierre  de  Lanax. 

as.    177,  27S,  40S,  BOO,  BM 

Frey.  A.  M.     "Spuk  dea  AUtasa"    171 

Fridjonuon.    Cudmundur.    411 

"FriMon  llultiple.  Le."  Lton  Qr«coir«.  ....  tm 
FrothinKhom,  Capt.  Themaa  G.     "A  Gold*  to 

ibe     Military     Hlaton     oI     the     World 

War."    Ml 

"FruIIa  of  Victory,  nta."  Nomas  AnselL  . .  4M 
Fu.  Tu-     Veraea  on  a  PbIbUbc  at  Wans-TMl. 

(Poem.)    T M 

Fonale.    NewtoB.      ■'Gold   Bhod."    4M 

Cailher.    Francee   O,   J IM 

Galahait.  Joaeph  Andrew.    Trinmph.     (Poem.)  tit 

GaJf.    Zona 4il 

~"Mi»3    Lulu    Bi^lt."     178 

—The  Ne«v  Word  In  Play  ProdDelB(  ....  ■•) 

NfwB     Notea     ot    Portage,     WiaeoBihL 

II:  North  Star 1 

III:  Kllboom  Road.   IM 

Galaworthy,  John.     "Sil  Bbort  Phtm." IM 

"To  Let."  leo,  ni 

-CanK,   The."     JoKpb   Anthony 4M 

Gartani],  flamlln.     "A  Dauabter  of  tha  MidO* 

Border."     BT« 

Gamei(,  Louise  Ayr«.    Tbe  Slilera.    <Potn.)  IH 

GarriH>n,  Thiwloaia.    Bll 

"Caa."     GcorK   Kaiier 171 

"CHorae  Snnd — GuaUvB  Flaabnt  Utlcra,  "n*." 

Aimee  1.  UeKen^e. Ul 

Gnrae,  W.  L. M.  19 

"Ursula   Treat.-    ..'...  I!!!;!;;'!!'"!!  Ill 

Orrnuin   Book   SUtMka  fa*  1810.    171 

German  Notea.     Ktbal  Talbot  ScbsSBnar. 

181,  274.  4N,  n* 
Gerstenbcrt,  Alice.  "Ten  One-Act  Playa."  ..  141 
"Geipi.nsler  in  Sumpf."     Karl  Uana  SlrobL  ..  177 

"Ghiua."      KonraJ    B^rcovlel 478 

Gibbi,  Georse.     "Yoolh  Triunphaot."    411 

tiilTord.  Fannie  Stearns.    SonHtimei  W*  Har^ 

ly  Wanted  You.      (Poem.)    IM 

(.llbert.  W.  S.  "Th«  Story  oT  lb*  MtkadB."  IM 
Glroudoui.,  Jean.  "Suionno  et  ie  PaciOqiM,"  IM 
"Girl*.  The,"     Edna  Ferber.  ***.  Ul 

"Gods."   'SL,.. 

Goethe's    "Urirati." 

"Gold."      EiMiene   O'NelU.    1: 

"Gold   Shod."     Newton   FuchI*.    41 

"Golden     Days."       Sldaey      Tolsr     and     lUrli 

Short     41 

Golf   Champiao'a    Narratln,  A.     Bon.  Millar,     ' 

Goncourt    Prise.    The.     « 

"Good    MomlDs,    Dearie."     •' 

Goodloe,   A.   Carter 1! 

Goodman,   Henry.      Faith  and  Jack  LoBdoa. 


Gore,  J.  Roiera.     •"Tha  Boyhood  af  AbrafUM* 

Uncoln."     ' 

Gorky,     Ha^im.      "ReminlaeeBce*    of     Anbw 

Gorman,  Herbert  8.'  Tbe  Pwrnaof  the  Uoirtlk 

474,  B 
Gosaei,  A.  U.     "Au  Pays  dn  Pitnrta."  ....  4: 

Gossip  Shop.  The IJH,  ml.  ITI,  40T.  808,  B 

Gould,    James.      Forward   Pasil    t 

Goiirmont,  Remy  do. 4 

GrsuMIT.'  Eriia.' '  "Uta'  CurelW"  " !!!'!!  1 1 !!  I  1 
Green  Loks.  (Poen.)  Robnrt  J.  Roe.  ....  « 
Grcenbie,  Marlorie  Barstow.     "Id  tha  Ei«a  <d 

the    East."     E 

Greenhle.   Sydney,      Can   a    WU*   Wriu   Hey 

Rusband'a   BIoffraphyT    1 

■The  PaciflG  Trianita."   B 

.\  ••• 


^Whitc  Shadows  in  Mjitie  Ulet.  S69 

!^reenwieh    VUkgcr,   TIm."    94 

(Mgoire,  L4on.     "Le  PriaMn  Multipltt." 498 

Gribble,  Harry  Wagstoff.     "If arch  U«ret."  . .  147 

*«GrilU    Canterini."     Gina   PaffanL    245 

t'Grim."      Svend    Fleuron 79 

Growiiiff  Up.     (Poem.)     Binny  Koraa.   188 

Gadlauffaaon,  Jonas.  497 

Guett,    Edffar   A.    94 

.: "When  Day  it  Done."    482 

"Guide  Book  to  Women."    James  James 498 

"Guide  to  the  MiUUry  History  of  the  Worid 
■     War,  A."     Capt.  Thomas  G.  Prothins- 

ham.     261 

Guiterman.  Arthur.   "A  BaUad  Maker's  Paek."  491 

Gunnarsson,   Gunnar 496 

GurUtt.  Prits.   599 

Gyldendal    Novel    Prise,    The.    595 

Haardt,  Sara.  White  Violets.  (Poem.)  ....  489 
Hale.  Ruth.     But  How  About  tlie  Postman  T  560 

't Out  of  the  Mouth  of  Babes. 485 

BaU.    HazeL    95 

BkMsom  Time.     (Poem.)    95 

"Curtains."    888 

White  Branches.     (Poem.)    217 

Hall,  James  Norman.     "Psery  Lands  of  the 

South  Seas."  584 

Hallffrimsson,  Jonas.   . .  < 496 

Hamill,  Katherine  B 504 

Hamilton,  Cosmo.   188 

"The  SOver  Fojc"   281 

EbwuBond,  Percy.    Transplanting  the  QUeaso 

Critic    142 

Hamsun,  Knut.     "Dreamers."   498 

A "Shalk>w  Soil."    265 

''Harbours  of  Memory."    William  McPee.   ....879 

Hardy's   Barber.  604 

*«Harp  of  Life,  The."  J.  Hartley  Manners.  . .  466 
Hart,  Prances  Noyes.  The  Feminine  Nuisance 

Replies 81 

•Hartley,  Marsden.    "Adventures  in  the  Arts."  885 

^[asenclerer,  Walter.    "Jenscits."  277 

H.  D.  Hippolytos  Temporises.  (Poem.)  ...  128 
^He  Who  Gets  Slapped."     Leonid  Andreyer.  606 

•Hoeht,    Ben.    88.    288.410 

' "Brik  Dom."    164 

Hedrick,    Tubman    K.  '  Observations   of    Ho- 

Hen.      (Poem.)  ' 65 

"Heel  of  Aehines,  The."  E.  M.  Delafield.  . .  264 
"Helen  of  the  Old  House."  Harold  Bell  Writht.  800 
Henderson,  Helen  W.    "A  Loiterer  in  Paris."  585 

Henry,  Oscar.     "Le  Vofcan   Eteint."    498 

"Her    Father's    Danshter."      Gene    Stratton- 

Porter 802 

Herbert.   A.   P 414,   440.  508 

'  "The  House  by  the  River." 267 

Here  Are  Ladies  I   Marguerite  Wilkinson 888 

"Herford  Asop.  The."    Oliver  Herford. 158 

Herford,  Oliver.    The  Hundredth  Amendment.  289 

'  Thomas  L.  Masaon.   85 

.Bergesheimer  and  the  Feminine  Nuisance  in 

Literature,  Joseph 81 

Hervesheimer.  Joseph.     "(Mherea."    576 

"Hero.    The."      Gilbert    Emery 229 

HeyUffer.  William.  "High  Benton.  Worker."  246 
Hichens.  Robert.     "The  Spirit  of  the  Time."    75 

."HiHden  Force,  The."     Louis  (Souperus.    490 

"Hiffh   Benton.   Worker."     William   Heyliger.  246 

."Highly  O>lored."     OcUvus  Roy  Coh^ 492 

Hill,    Grace   Livingston.     "The   Tryst."    268 

.Hill.  Murray.  Murray  Hill  on  Little  Book- 
shops  528 

' Murray    Hill   Reports   Bookman    Week.  440 

^Murray  HiU  Views  Literary  Agents.   ..  284 

• Murray  HiD's  Gallery  of  Publishers.   . .     44 

Hillyer.   Robert.     Danish  Poetry  of  the  Last 

Century 271 

^Threnody.      (Poem.)     288 

"Hindenburg."    Gen.  Bust. 500 

Hippolytus  Temporises.     (Poem.)     H.  D 128 

Hitchcock.   Raymond.     Hurrah  for  the   Blue 

Laws 71 

'Hodgson.  Laurence  Cnrran.    92 

HolUday.  Robert  Cortes.  "Turns  About  Town."  578 

HoUiday  Strolls  About,  Mr.  Simeon  Strunsky.  578 
HoUoway.   Emory.     "The  Uncollected  Poetry 

and  Prose  of  Walt  Whitman."   ..   188.  685 

Holme,    Constance.     67 

Holt,   Elliot.    51 

Holt,    Henry 50 

"Homme  au  Gant,  L'."    Eveline  le  Maire.  . .  499 
"Hommes  Abandonn4s,  Les."     (Seorges  Duha- 

meL    596 

"Honors  Are  Even."    Roi  Cooper  Megrue.  ..  146 

Hbpwood.  Avery.     "The  Demi- Virgin."    877 

"HoHxons."     Viola   C.   White.    79 

"House  by  the  River,  The."     A.  P.  Herbert.  267 
House.  Edward  MandelL     "What  Really  Hap- 
pened at   Paris."    487 

Hovelacque.  Emile.     "China."    275 

"Japan."    275 

"Howard  Pyle's  Book  of  Pirates."  Merle  John- 

son 242 

Howard.  Sidney.     "Swords."    90.  288.  466 

^Tabloid  Drama.    254 

"Howards-End."    E.  M.  Forster.  172 

Hoyle,  Ren4  E.  De  R.     MiUUry  Strategy.   ..  261 
Hughes.  Glenn.     "University  of  Washington 

Plays."    574 

Hughes.  Rupert.  418.  600 

^"Beauty."  172 

"Human  Side  of  Retail  SeUing.  The."     Ruth 

Leigh.    498 

Humming    Bird.     The.       (Poem.)       Padraie 

Colum 569 

Humphrey,  Mary 95 

Hundredth  Amendment,  The.    Oliver  Herford.  289 
Hunter,    Rex.      SUtesman,     Financier.     Phi- 
losopher  168 

Husband's  Biography,  Can  a  Wife  Write  Her? 

Sydney   Greenbie.    891 

Husband's  Name  in  Vain.  On  Taking  Your. 

St  John   Ervine.    857 

Hutchinson.  A.   S.   M 92 

^"If  Winter  Comes."    167.  896 

Huxley.  Aldous.     "Crome  Yellow."  150 

Hyde.    Douglas.     114 

Hyde.  FiUmore.     In  Praise  of  Heroes.   257 

^Whitman   the   Apprentice.    585 

Icelandic    Renaissance,    The.      Edgar    Holger 

(^hilL    490 

"If  Winter  0>mes."     A.   S.   M.   Hutchinson. 

157  896 
nUnoto  Woman's  Press  Association.  The.  . .'  604 
f.?  •J^*'^  ^"**-  (Poem.)  Padraie  Colum.  ..  569 
"In  One  Man's  Life."    Albert  Bigetow  Paine.  590 

In  Praise  of  Heroes.     FiUmore  Hyde.    257 

In  Praise  of  Johnny  Appleseed.  Extracts  from. 

_         (Poem.)      Vachel  Lindsay.    249 

"In  the  Eyes  of  the  East."  Msrjorie  Barstow 

Greenbie.    5^ 

!!I'*f?"°°*-5**««  **«*•  ^«"    Lucie  Consturier.  501 
ll**!*^***  Strangers,  The."  Booth  Tarkington.  464 

Irish  Poetry.    Padraie  0>lum 109 

Irwin.  Ines  HaynM.    "The  Story  of  the  Wom- 

_  IL...  * srty. 255 

J.'Cr^Ji'.  ?"lv    "The  Next  War."   77 

"It  Might  Have  Happened  to  You."    Conings- 

by  Dawson.   17J 

Italian  Notes.     Grerolamo  Lasseri. 

Ivins,   Ftorence  Wyman.     "A  Visit  from  St. 

Nicholas."    47J 

Jacobsen,  J.  P ^7^ 

James,    Henry 151 

"Notes  and  Reviews." 17X 

James.  James.     "Guide  Book  to  Women."   ..  49t 

"Japan."     Emile   Hovelacque.    27S 

"Jenseito."    Walter  Hasenclever 277 

Jensen,   Johannes   V 27t 

Jeritsa.  Marie 5^ 

JeweU.  Edward  Alden 288.  607 

"The  Cniarmed  Circle." $81 

J.  F.     The  Editor  Recommends. 

«rv  .  ,v.    .        .•••   IS7'  ^^'  •''«•  *7«»  W* 
^What  Do  American  (^hUdren  ReadT   ..  51S 



ft  What  Amonf  th*  Pall  Books.  . .  128 

JoliiMon.  Gaylord.    'The  Star  People." 67 

Jolineon,  Owen. S86,  444 

"The  Wasted  Generatioii." 89« 

Johnston,   Mary 608 

Jones,  Henry  Arthur.  "My  Dear  WeDs."  ..  688 
Jost   Introdnoed.      (Poem.)      Generiere  Taff- 

sard.    820 

Kaiser,  Geors.     "Gas." 277 

"Kaleema."    Marion  MeCleUand.  77 

Kamban,  Gadmundur 497 

limmpfr     Karl   SchSnherr.    277 

Kari    Aasen    in    Heaven.       (Story.)      Johan 

Boier.    827 

Kanfnan,  (Seorse  8.    "Duley.** 144 

Keats,  Sir  Sidney  Colvin  on.   226 

KcUey.      Ethel     M.      "Beauty  — and      Mary 

BhOr."  268 

KeOs.  Marion.    91 

Kcyser,  Cassius  J.     What  Is  Man?  72 

KcytlniT.  Margaret  Lea.    604 

-    807.678 

r.  Aline.     Li^t  Lover.      (Poem.)    ....  101 

"Vigils."     884 

'TOag  Cole."    John  Masefleld.   611 

King,  Graee.   288 

King,  Hortense  Plezner.  190 

ICingdom  Bound  the  Comer,  The."    (Sonings- 

by  Dawion.   79 

Klstcomeker.  Henry.     "La  Passante." 499 

Koras,  Binny.     Growing  Up.   (Poem.)    188 

Konybski,  Alfred.  "Manhood  of  Humanity."  72 
KraybUU  Amoe  E.,  Jr.     The  Books  I  Like  to 

Bead."   610 

Kupritt,   Alexander.     "Beminiseenees   of   An- 
ton   (Siekhov."     688 

Kman,  Einar  EUorkif Mon.   496 

Lake   Song.      (Poem.)      Jean    Starr    Unter- 

meyer.     880 

Lamb.  A  Would-be  Charles.  621 

n<amp  and  the  Bell,  The."    Edna  St.  Vineent 

Millay    66 

"L«ad  of  Haunted  Castles,  The."    Bobert  J. 

Casey.     491 

Land  Turtle,  The.      (Poem.)      Hans  TrausiL  260 

Laad-Loeked  Ships.    Clement  Wood.  76 

LandBBsrk      Passes,      A.        Arthur      Bartlett 

Maurice.    866 

Langner.  Lawrenee.    "Don  Juan." 282 

Laanz,  Pierre  de.    French  Notes— 

82.  177.  276.  408.  600,  697 
*Xaramie     Holds     the     Bange."     Frank     H. 

Spearman 264 

Lardaer,  A  Parody  of  Bing 86 

Lardaer,  Bing  W.    "The  Big  Town."    ......  687 

^"Symptoms  of   Being  86."    687 

Lardner.     Bing    W.— Serious    Artist.       John 

V.  A.  Weaver.   ••.....  686 

'Oiark.  The."    Dana  Burnet.  480 

Last  Song.  (Poem.)  Joseph  Auslander.  ...  669 
''Laughing  Prince.  The."  Parker  Fillmore.  470 
Lans   Stellarum.      (Poem.)      Cscar   Davisson.  166 

Lawrenee.  D.  H.   162 

^"Sea  and  Sardinia."   677 

Lasaeri.  Gerolamo.    Italian  Notes — 

176.  402,  601.  694 

Lee,  Margery.    Bain  Songs.     (Poem.)    184 

Le    GalUenne,    Bichard.      Cscar    Wilde    and 

"Willie   Hughes."    162 

^What's     Wrong     with     the     Eighteen- 

NiaetlesT    1 

Ldgli,   Both.     "The   Human   Side  of   Betail 

SelUng."    498 

le  Maire,  Eveline.    "L'Homme  au  C^nt." 499 

Leman,  A  Biography  of  General,  by  Louise 

(kinshof  van  der  Meersch.  179 

Lea^m,  Marie.  The  Diary  of 179 

LeaAtre,     George.       "The     Dauphin     (Louis 

XVH)."    691 

Le  Verrier.  Marie-Louise,  A  Life  of  Elisabeth 

Cady  Stanton  by.   181 

Lewis,  Sinelair. 81.  91,  92.  602 

"Life  of  YenisekM."    S.  B.  Chester.  491 

"Lifted  Cup.  The."    Jeisie  B.  Bittenhouse.  . .  884 

Light  Lover.     (Poem.)     Aline  Kilmer. 101 

Lincoln  and  Mrs.  Bixt^r.  616 

"Lincoln.    The    Boyhood    of    Abrsham."      J. 

Boqirers  (Sore   78 

Lincoln.  lUliot  C 

Lincoln.  Joseph  C 

Lindsay.  YacheL    Extracts  from  In  Praise  of 

Johnny  Appleseed.     (Poem.)    249 

Literary  Agents.  Murray  Hill  Views.    Murray 

HilL    284 

Literary  Portraits — 
VI:    Oliver  Herford.     Thomas  L.  Masson.    86 
VII:     Harvey  G'Higgins.    Heywood  Broun.  166 
VIII:    Captain         Traprock.  Harrison 

Bhodes 241 

Literary  Questions  and  Answers — 

96.  189.  284.  412.  612 
Literary  Snapshots.  Arthur  Bartlett  Maurice.  484 
Literary  Spotlight.  The.     Anonjrmous. 

1 :   Louis  Untermeyer   124 

II :    Booth  Tarkington 218 

Ill :     Owen    Johnson.    886 

^IV :     Edna  Ferber.   484 

V :     H.  L.  Mencken 661 

"Little  Theater  Classics.   YoL   m."     Samuel 

A.  Eliot,  Jr.  77 

Lockley.  Fred. 288 

Lodge.   Henry   Cahot,     "The  Senate  of   the 

United  SUtes." 78 

"Loin    de    la    Bifllette."      Jean    Galtier-Bois- 

siftre.    698 

"Loiterer  in  Paris,  A."  Helen  W.  Henderson.  886 
London,   Faith  and   Jack.      (Story.)      Henry 

Cioodman 18 

"London  Mosaic.  A."    W.  L.  (Seorge 498 

"London.    The    Book    of    Jack."      (^karmlan 

London.  891 

Londoner.  The.    Simon  Pure — 

67.  160.  222.  867.  447.  662 
Lonely     Wife,      The.        (Poem.)        Ftorenee 

Ayecough  and  Amy  LoweU.  66 

Long.  Mrs.  J.  C 287 

Looking    East    at    Sunrise.      (Poem.)      Amy 

Murrsy 66 

Loti.  Pierre.     "The  Sahara."   690 

"Supr6mes  Visions  d'Orient." 600 

"Love  Dreams."   877 

Loving,    Pierre 409 

"Fifty    O>ntemporary   One-Act    Plays."  264 

"Low  Ceilings."     W.   Douglas  Newton.    266 

LoweU.  Amy.    "Fir-Ftower  Tablets." 878 

^The  Lonely  Wife.     (Poem. )    66 

Lowry.  Edward  G.  "Washington  (^loae-Ups."  897 
Lubbock.  Percy.  "The  Craft  of  Fiction."  ...  462 
"Ludendorif."     (Sen.  Bust.   600 

Macaulay.  Bose.     "Dangerous  Ages."  . . .  .224,  896 
MacDonald,  George.     "The  Princess  and  the 

(SobUn." 472 

MacDonald,  John  B 218 

MacDowell  Cofeny.  The.  187 

Macfall.  Haldane.    288 

Macgowan.  Kenneth 606 

MacGrath.   Harold.     "The  Pagan  Madonna."    79 

Mackenzie.  Compton.   161 

"Bich  Belatives."  224,  476 

MacPherson.  James 110 

MacQuarrie,  Hector.     Nothing  but  the  Truth.  260 

MacQuarrie's  Bookshop.  Hector 604 

"Madras  House.  The."    Granville  Barker.   ...  466 

Maeterlinck,  Maurice.    498 

"Magnificent  Farce.  A."    A.  Edward  Newton.  478 

Mail  Order  (}atalogues.   286 

"Main  Street."     Harvey  O'Higgins  and  Har- 
riet Ford.  878 

Sinclair  Lewis    9 

Man  Behind  the  Book.  The.    Sidney  Williams.  478 
"Man    in   the    Dark.    The."      Albert    Payson 

Terhune 268 

Man.  What  Is?    Cassius  J.  Kejrser 72 

Mangan.  James  (Harence.   112 

"Manhood  of  Humanity."     Alfred  KorsybskL    72 
Mann,   Charles 186 

Minnera,  J.  Hkrtler.     "Th*  Hkrp  of  Ul»."  . .  41 

"HiniUuEbter."    Alice  Ducr  Hiikr.  » 

"Hanr  Cbildren."     lln.  Schuyltr  Van  B«»- 

1,  Rwai. 

1,  J  on  DC 

■    Hmm  Wwni 

.ir  CrlbblB. 




(poem.)   .. 


mn"     Jonah     an 

=  "cip-n"johi 


•Itf.  Poor 
-A  Brow. 

Old.     F.  Scotl 



fi  amonE  the  Bnt  a«Il>ra.  . 
lI]  and  the  Onivc."  

HartlDeau,  AlCnd.     "Dupleiz  at  )'Ini 


Hasenold.  John.     "Kint  Cole."  

"Huk  of  Hamltt.  Tlie."    Ario  Ptama 

"Hum  Hciuch."     Ernat  ToUar.   

Uuaan,  Tbomai  L.     Ceorie  Ad*.  . , . 

u  CaiM  .  .let.  171.  tn 

"La  Urrldiana." 

Ld..     -rhe  Tcaaw."  . . . . 
-      "The  Circle." 

Arthur     Bartlett, 
ierarr  Snapahota.    ... 

A     Landmark 

MauUmcr.  PTlU.  ~ 

Oeddsnl."     4 

MeAhnon,  Rabat.     The  Blackbird.      (Po«n.)  i 

UePca.  WlUUm. 


HeRrana.  lUvliiald.   . 
MsKnitJe,    AiioM    L. 

"Th*    Gcorr 
IPoci^}  ■■ 


nahor  V 

pby  of  General  Lemaa  by.  --.--...... 

H«srue.  Ibii  Cooper.     "Honon  Ar>  Eren."  . 

Xrtea.  Cornelia.     "The  Windy  HIH."  

IlE)vll[>,  Hitman.  Rarmond  U.  Waavn.  . . . 
"Umoin  at  a  Hidsei."  Walter  de  la  liar 
Ilencken  and  Menken.     William  McF«.    . . . 

Ilenrken.   H.   L (S 

Ueneken'a      "In      DeTenae     of     Women"      I 

"Uenieb  iat  Got.  Dcr."     Lronharii  Frank.  .' ! 

"Heridlana.  La."     Pletro  Haitrl 

"UeiHr  Marco  Polo."     Donn  Byroe. 15: 

HMealf      and      WIIhio.         "Th*      Bnchanti 


"Salarday  llark«t."   




Katharine  Adam* r 

nk.  Eliaabrth  Palnec.   1 

irr  Slratesy.     Rent  B.  Dc  R.  Hoirle. K 

V,    Edna    Bt     Vineent      "A    Few    FHw 

(™m   Tbi>Ile«."    I 

-"The  Lamp  and  th*  BelL" I 

,.- pril." 

"Two  Stalterna 

Miltm-,  Alio  Du*r.   


HlUar.  Ben.     A  Oolf  Cbamploi 




Ulllerand.  Henry  C   1 

HiUa.  Emma  P 4 

Uilne.  A.  A.     "Not  That  It  Hattera."  Bl 

"The  Red  Home  Myaterr"  8 

Ullnca.   G.    Tunjuct.      "Some  Modern   French 

"Mtrrora  o(  Downing   sireet,  Tha."     A  Gen- 
tleman with  a  Duater.   H 

"Mlrrora  or  WaahinKlon.  The,"    IfiT.  ■! 

"Uiu  Lulu  B!:tt."     Zona  Cab ID.  I' 

Mlimurl  Cenieunla]  Eipoiitlon.  The El 

lliiter.   FlnreDce  Kllpatriek.     "Out  of  UiaU"  ■: 

A  Print  by  Hokusai,      (Poem.)    ■ 

"Moby  Dick,"  The  HlXory  of * 

"Modirn    American    Poetry."      Louia    Unter- 

mey«r II 

"Modern  Eaaaya."     ChriaUpher  Hoiley Bt 

Hooni.  Wles.     "De  Boodachap."  Bl 

Monroe,  Harriet,    I 

"Moon-Calf."     Floyd  Dell 

Moore.  Anni,?  Carroll.     Higb  Liihtl  In  Chil- 

. Holidai-  Book,  for'  Cbi'ldreii! '  Wl'^^lW".  41 

Moore,  Thomas 1 

"More  Tiah."     Mary  Roberta  Rlnehart.  4 

Moretti.  Marino.     "La  Voce  dl  Dio."  41 

Horitien.  Juliua.     Alexandra  ai  Prlnceaa  and 

Queen El 

Morley,  Cfarlatopber 

"Chlmneyimoke."     4' 

.^ —"Modern     Eilsya."     E' 

The  Wont  Chriatraaa  Story.      (Story.)  K 

Morton,  David.     "Shlpa  in  Maihour"  ' 

Uoi«.  Montrose  J.     "A  Tresinry  of  Plan  for 

Children."     4' 

MotloD    Picturi'n:  An   Induatry,    Not  an   Art, 

The.     Burton  Raacoe.   II 

Mollon    Pletum,    Wbat   About  T     Str    Gin>*rt 

Parker »: 

MoCt.  L**ri«  F^MBan.     ''Emeat  Aenan."   41 

Mounlaina    at   Sunatt,       (Poem.)      Robert    J. 

Hoe.      B' 

MoTina  FoTcea.     (Poem.)     Barton  Bralcy.  ...  II 
"Mr.    WaddinEton   of   Wyek."     Hay  Sinclair.  (I 

Mulder,  Arnold.    11 

Mulford.  Clorcnce  E.     "The  Bar-ID  Three."  . .     ' 

MUlIer,   Frederick  PaludalL    1' 

Murphy,  Chartea  R.     Dante  — ISll.     (Poem.)     I 
Murray,     Amy,      Looklni    Eaat     at    Bunrlae. 

(Poem.)      ( 

"My  Dear  Weill,"     Henry  Arthur  Jonea.   ....  El 
"My   Lite   Here  and  Th«*."      Prloceu  Can- 

tacuiine.   4! 

Myen.  Guatavui.     "Ye  Olden  Blue  Lava."  ... 

"Myateriou*  Japan."     Julian  Street.   G' 

"Myatic  lak*  ot  tbe  Boulb  Seaa."     Frederick 

O'Brien.    tl 

Nathan.  Georie  Jean.   81 

Nathan.   Robert.      ■'Aotumn."    t«,  G' 

Nesro   Criminal.      (Poem.)      UaxwcD   Boden- 

hclm II 

Nelhardl,  John   G ! 

"Neta  to  Catcb  the  Wind"    BHoor  WyHe.  . . .  t' 
"New      Playi     from     OM     Tales."       Harriet 

■New   Voieei>'    MuitocHte  Wlikinaon,'!!!!!  !i 

New   Ycar-i   Eve. tl 

New  York  and  th*  EoEllafa   Vlaftor.     Henry 

Newa        Nulea       of        Portas*.       Wlaconaln. 
(Pocmi.)     Zona  Gale— 

11:     North  Star 

in ;     Kilbourn  Road.   II 

Newton.  A.  Edwird.     "A  Magnificent  Farce."  4' 

Newton,  W.  Douglaj.     "Low  Ceiling."  tl 

"Neit  War.  The,"     Will  Irwin ' 

NIcoIal.  ft.nlero.     "EIokIo  della  Vita."   41 

Nicoll,  Sir  William  BoberUon I' 

NletiBche.  Eliubcth   Forsler. II 

"NiKhl  Drum.."     Achmed  Abdullah.    41 

Nlehl     of     Ihe     Tacil-Abiolvlnc.        (Poem.) 

Wlllard   Wattl**,    SI 

Ninon,  Boulic.    , II 

"Noah    sa'    Jonah    an'    Cap'n    John   Smltb." 

Don   Murauia «■ 

Mordhoff.     Charl»    BrroanL      "Facrf    Land* 

al  the  South  SfU."  SI 

»orria.  Charles  G.     "Brua."  11 

KorttulilT*.     Lord.     I 

"Noacra  Madre."     Hichrie  SapoBaro. *l 

"Not  That  It  Ualteri."     A.  A.  HIIiw. Gl 

"Nates  and  Reviewa."     Utart  Janca.    1' 

Nosfaing  but  the  Truth.  ^  Heiitor  MacQiuurie.  li 

Novel.    The    Return    to    the   Quietl      Mauiice 

Francis   Egan 

Nowak.    Karl    Priedrich.      "The    CoUapK    of 

tht  Central  Power.."   f 

O     Bappr     Bearti        (Poem.)       Jobn     Hal) 

Whectoek K 

Ob*T.  Andr«.  "The  Wife  with  a  Smile.-  ....  t' 
O'Brien,     Frederieli.       "Uyatle     lalea    ol    the 

South    Seaa."     21 

Round  and  About  Soulh  America >' 

ObKrialioru  of   Ho-llen.      (Poem.)     Tubman 

K.  Hodrick.    • 

O'Conor.    Norreyi    Jephion.      Thi?    Pirniouth 

PsEeanl II 

Oddonr.  Eliiabette.     "Cantilene  Popolari."    ..  i- 

Odda:  Three  to  One.     Barton  Raacoe i' 

OehlenachllEer.   Adam.    T 

O.  Hrorr  Celebration.  An II 

0-Hi«[in».    Barvey 1 

Heynrood    BnUB.     II 

"HafB   Street."    »' 

OliT.  A  B.ogTarhr  or  St..  by  Slsrld  Undaet.  1' 
Old  Tale.  An.  (Poem.)  Harya  Zaturenaky.  II 
-Old-Time     SU>ria,"     by     Charlea     Percautl, 

illu*.  by  W.  Heath  Robinson 4' 

"Olirer  CromwelL"     John  Drinkwatsr 41 

On  Poetic  Compodtion.      (Poem.)      John  Dos 

Pawn I 

-One  Act  Play.."     AHm  Bromn •' 

-X)n*-Aet  Play*  by  Modem  Anthora."     Helen 

LouUe  Cohen 1< 

O'Neill.    Eucene 41 

"Anna    Chriillc."    *l 

"Cold,"    » 

"The  Straw."   4i 

Oniona.  OHier.     "The  Town-  or  ObK*ion."   . .  II 

Ophelia.      ( Poem.  1      Elinor  WyUe 4' 

Opprnhrioi.    Bertha K 

-Orphan  Dinah"     Eden  Phlttpotta.    II 

Oatrander.  IiabeL  "The  Crinuon  Blotter."  . .  U 
Our  LiyinE  Laurealea.  Louis  Untermeyer.  .  .  41 
~OuI  of  Uist."  Florence  Kilpatrlck  Uiitcr.  » 
Out     of     My     Newgraper     Dayi.        (Serial.) 

Theodore  Dreiaer ZOB.  4ET,  E- 

Out  ot  the  Mouth  of  Babe*.     Ruth  Hale.  41 

Onuast.  The.  (Poem.)  Joaephine  PInekney.  II 
Outline  of  American  History,  An.      (S'^lal.) 

Donald  Oicden  Stewart.  K.  1I)Z.  U 

"Paeillc  TriaBile.  The."  Sydney  Greenble.  . .  II 
•7Bsan    Madonna.    The."      Harold  MaeGrath.     ■ 

Panni.  GIna.     "Crilli  Canterinl."    2- 

Faine,  Albert  BiE>k>w.     -qn  One  Han's  Life."  Gt 

Paint  and  Cin^uaea.     Paul  Roaenletd.  11 

fak»n,    drttar « 

Paplnl.  Giovanni.     "La  Storia  di  Crlato."— 

Far^  The  AmeHcan  Library  In. .'  S< 

Farker.  Sir  Gilbert.    tl 

What  About  Uotioii  PletorcaT  S 

Fitrton.    Lem E: 

"PaxiaBie.  La."     Henty  Kl*temack«r.   41 

■7auio«    of   the    Old    Wett,    Tha,"      Hal    G. 

Evarta 4' 

Paatonchi.  Francesco.     "H  Bandaslo.'   4i 

Parlowa.  Anna.    ( 

Peace     Conference.     The.       Maorle*     Prancla 

EBsn 4 

Pembenon.   Brock 8>,  Si 

■Tensen    d'une    Amaione.-      Natalia   CUfford 

Prodon  Vauquer.  "Tba  Paaalns  of  the.    t 








"Th*  PurlUB  Twins." 

hibald  MarthalL   

The  Why  ot  tha  Beat 


n.      "Orphan  Dinah." 

Smils.Jhe."      Norma 

phine!'    The  Outcast. 
Poem.)      Utnr  Carolyn 



Norreyi    Jephson 

r  White."     Sherwood  Anderaon.    ... 

■r.   ttrne  Stratton 

—  The  BJSrnsD 

,    Allen   Wilson. 


»  from  Beldun 

y  Brecd<  Distrust. 

nnd  Llewellyn.   . 

(Poem.)      Helen   Sant- 

MacDonald.     4T1 

"Producina     in     Little     Theaters." 
Promenade  Concerta,  'The  London. 

The  Londoner — 

GT,   Ite.  121,  IfiT,  447.  e< 
Lucy  Fitch  Parklna.  4' 

"Puritan  Twins,  The.' 
Putnam,  Geor(e  HaTi 
Pyla,     Howard.       "Howard     Pyla'j 

Quick.   Herbert. 

Quiller- Couch.   Sxr   Aruiur. 
"Qoin."  AUce  Hesan  Riei. 

W.  R.  H.  Trowbrlds*. 
Lytton  Straehey.   . . . 
'Vandcmark'a  FoUr." 

Rain  8on(s.      (Poem.)      MarEtry  Lee 114 

Baison.  Hilton.     Valparaiso.      (Poem.)    S41 

"RsndBEio.  IL"     Franeeaeo  Paatonehl 402 

Rascoe.   Burton.     An   Anviean   Epllhetleian.  164 

The  Motion  Pictures:  An  Industry.  Not 

an    Art IBS 

Odds :  Three  to  One.   47» 

Raymond.  E.  T,     "ForlrBita  of  the  Nlnetla."  EEl 

"Real  Life."     Henry  KitcheD  Wtbster nS 

"Red  Floweni"     PranelB  Haffhim-  Snow.   ...  2«S 
"R^d  Kouae  Untery.  The."     A.  A.  Miln*.  ...  121 

Recretalon.      (Poem.)     Joseph  Freeman 14* 

"Reiaen."     Arthur  Sehnltsler.    EBB 



''B«miniBcenccs  of  Anton  Chekhov."     Maxim 

Gorky,    Alexander    Kuprin,    and   L    A. 

Bunin.    688 

"Renan,  Ernest."     Lewis  Freeman  Mott.    ...  492 

"Renoir."     Ambroise  VoUard.    276 

"Representative    One-Act    Plays    by    British 

and  Irish  Authors."  BarreU  H.  Clark.  876 
Reviewers,  The  Sins  of  Book.     Henry  Seidel 

Canby 97 

"Rhodes,  Cecil"     Basil  Williams 168 

Rhodes,  Harrison.     Captain  Traprock 241 

Rice.  Alice  He^an.     "Quin." 266 

"Rich  Relatives."    Corapton  Mackenzie.  . .  224.  476 

Richards.  Mrs.  C.  E.   604 

Richards,  Mrs.  Waldo.     "SUr-Points."  498 

Richman.  Arthur.     "Ambush."    874 

Rinehart.  Mary  Roberts 189 

"More  Tish."    489 

"Sisht  Unseen  and  The  Confession."  ..  264 

Rinehart,  SUnley.  M..  Jr 190 

Rittenhouse,  Jessie  B.     "The  Lifted  Cup."   . .  884 

^The  Poems  of  the  Month.  247.  880 

Vision.      (Poem.)    12 

Rittner.  Thaddlus.  The  Death  of 86 

"Roads  Coins  South."  Robert  L.  Duifus.  ...  480 
Robinson.     Edwin    Arlington.      Caput    Mor- 

tuum.      (Poem.)    476 

Robinson,       Lennox.         "The       Whiteheaded 

Boy."    280.  281 

Robinson.  Thomas  P.     "The  Skylark."   147 

Robinson,  W.  Heath.  "Old-Time  Stories."  . .  470 
Roche.      Arthur      Somers.        "The     Day      of 

Faith."   418.  691 

Roe.  Robert  J.    Green  Logs.     (Poem.)    488 

—Mountains  at  Sunset.     (Poem.)    676 

Rogers.   WilL    604 

Rohe,  Alice.     Achieving  the  Ballot.    266 

Rolland.  Romain.     "Clerambault."    66 

Romains.  Jules 177 

"Roman  Anglais  de  Notre  Temps,  Le."    Abel 

(Hievalley 448 

"Romance  of  His  Life.  The."    Mary  Chofanon- 

deley.    690 

Rome's  American  Literary  Centre  602 

Rosenfeld.  PauL    Paint  and  Circuses.  886 

Rottveyre,  Andr4.  "Souvenirs  de  Mon  Com- 
merce."      406 

"Rub^"    G.  A.  Borgese.  408 

Rud.  Anthony  M 186 

Russell.  Bertrand.    664 

RuaseU.  George  W.     ("A.  E.")    114 

"Ruth    St     Denis:     Pioneer    and    Prophet." 

Ted  Shawn.    612 

Sabatini.  Rafael 869 

"Searamouche."     168 

Sadleir.  Michael     "Privilege."   896 

"Sahara.  The."     Pierre  LotL    690 

Saintsbury,  Professor 870 

Saltus,  Edgar 96 

Sand.  Letters  of  (Seorge.   691 

Sandburg.  Carl 88.  92.  410 

Poems  of  the  Month 62.  182 

Sherwood   Anderson 860 

Santa  Clans 289 

Santa  F4  News 410 

Santmyer.      Helen.        The      Prairie      Town. 

(Poem.)    866 

S«ponaro.  Michele.     "Nostra  Madre."   408 

Sarett,  Lew 287 

"Saturday  Market"    Charlotte  Mew 66 

"Searamouche."     Rafael  SabatinL    168 

Schaaf.   Myrtle 607 

Scheffauer.  Ethel  Talbot     German  News — 

181,  276.  406.  698 

Schnitzler.  Arthur.     "Reigen."  699 

SchCnheer,  Karl     "Kampf."   277 

"Scottish      Chiefs.      The."        Kate      Douglas 

Wiggin  and  Nora  Archibald  Smith.  . . .  469 

Scribner.  Charles 48 

"Sea  and  Sardinia."    D.  H.  Lawrence.  677 

Sea  Urge.     (Poem. )     Harold  Vinal  881 

"Second  April"  Edna  St  Vincent  MiOay.  . .  66 
"Secret  of  the  Sahara:  Kufara,  The."    RosiU 

Forbes.    476 

Sedgwick,  Anne  Douglas.  "Adrienne  Toner."  462 
"Seeds     of     Enchantment,     The."       Gilbert 

Frankau.     17t 

"Seeing  Things  at  Night"     Heywood  Broun.  889 

Seldes,    Gilbert 602 

"Senate  of  the  United  SUtes,  The."     Henry 

Cabot   Lodge 78 

Sentner.  David.     "Cobblestones."    688 

Serao.  Mme.     "Preghiere."   180 

Service.  Robert  W.  "Ballads  of  a  Bohemian."  488 
"Seven  Ages  of  Man.  The."     Ralph  Bergen- 

gren.    . . .  ^ 489 

Seymour.   Charles.     "What  Really   Happened 

at  Paris."    487 

"Shallow  Soil"    Knut  Hamsun 266 

Shaw.  Bernard.  192.  866 

Shawn.  Ted.     "Ruth  St  Denis:  Pioneer  and 

Prophet"    618 

Shay.  Frank 94 

"Fifty   Contemporary   One-Act    Ph«rs."  264 

Sheldon.   Rowland.    192 

"Ships  in  Harbour."    David  Morton.  76 

"Short   History   of  the    English   Drama.   A." 

Benjamin   Brawley 146 

Short,  Marion.    "Golden  Days." 466 

"Shuffle  Along."  68 

Sierra,  Martinez.   666 

''Sight   Unseen   and   The  Confession."     Mary 

Roberte  Rinehart   264 

Sigur jonsson,  Johann 497 

"Silver  Fox,  The."    Cosmo  Hamilton 281 

Sinclair.  May.  "Mr.  Waddington  of  Wyck."  896 
Sisters.  The.  (Poem.)  Louise  Ayres  Garnett  188 
Sitwells,  The.  "Who  KiUed  Cock  Robin?"  ..  666 
"Six    Seconds    of    Darkness."      OcUvus    Roy 

Cohen 266 

"Six  Short  Plays."     John  Galsworthy 280 

"Skylark,  The."    Thomas  P.  Robinson 147 

Slattery,  John  T.     "Dante,"  69 

Smith,  Constence  I.     "Ten  Hours."   261,  894 

Smith.      Nora      Archibald.        "The     Scottish 

Chiefs."  469 

"Snapshote  of  1921."   68 

Snow,  Francis  Haffkine.  "Red  Flowers."  . .  268 
"Some  Modern  French  Writers."    G.  Turquet- 

Milnes 490 

Sometimes  We  Hardly  Wanted  You.     (Poem.) 

Fannie  Steams  Gifford.    260 

Song.  *   (Poem. )     Elinor  Wylie.   474 

Song  of  War-Chariote,  A.      (Poem.)      Trans. 

from    Tu    Fu    by    Witter   Bynner    and 

Kiang  Kang-hu 668 

"Sonya."     Eugene  Thomas  Wyckoff.    149 

South  America,  Round  and  About     Frederick 

O'Brien 888 

South  Seas.  Again  the.   259 

"Souvenirs     de     Mon     (Commerce."       Andr4 

Rouveyre.    406 

Speare,  Dorothy 446 

Spearman.    Frank    H.      "Laramie    Holds    the 

Range."  264 

Speyer.  Leonora.   Measure  Me.  Sky  I    (Poem.)     68 

"Spiegel  Mensch."    Franx  Werfel 182 

Spinners     at     Willowsleigh.     The.       (Poem.) 

Majrra  Zaturensky.    881 

"Spirit  of  the  Time.  The."     Robert  Hlchens.     76 

"Splinters."     Keith  Preston 477 

Spratt,  Julia  F.     Books  I  Like  to  Read 416 

"Spuk  des  AUUgs."    A.  M.  Frey 277 

Squire,  J.  C 414.  440.  60S 

"Poems :  Second  Series."   691 

Stecpoole,   H.   de  Vere.     'The  Blue   Lagoon."  288 

SUnley.  Martha  M.     "The  Teaser."  147 

Stenton,  A  Life  of  Elizabeth  Cady,  by  Marie- 
Louise  Le  Verrier 181 

"Ster  People,  The."    Gaylord  Johnson.  67 

"Ster-Pointe."    Mrs.  Waldo  Richards.   498 

Starrett  Vincent     Picture.     (Poem. )    467 

Stetesman,      Financier.      Philosopher.       Rex 

Hunter 168 

"St  Denis,  Ruth :  Pioneer  and  Prophet."    Ted 

Shawn 612 

Steege,  Miss  K.  R 407 

Stefansson.   Vilhjahnur 282 

Steiner.  Rudolf 406 

Stephens,  James 607 



R.     "Hmm  Toov  Bflbdk**  Ul 

New  EditioBsof. M7 

445,  SM 



An     OntBBc     of     Ancrieaa     Histocy. 

(ScriaL)     S6.  lOt.  MO 

8toek.    Ralph.      ««TWe   CndM   of    the   Dtmh 

Ship."    ft84 

fltoac  Percy  N.    Tahiti  to  Paria.  S84 

"BtorU  dl  Gristo.  La.**    Giovaaai  Papiiil.  177.  4M 
Ions.     (Poem.)     Karie  WOkni  Baker.  S60 
of    Mankind.    The.**      Hcndrik    Van 


rstary  of  the  Mikado.  Hm."    W.  &  GUhcrt. 
rstary  of  the  Woman's  Party.  TIm." 

Hayacs  Irwin.    

8t  Paul  News.    

BtnAej,   Lytton.    

"Queen  Vietoria.*'  67 

BtnAej,  St.  Loe.  666 

Stratton.     Clarenee.       "Prodndnc     in     Little 

Theaters."    676 

Johann.   66 

r.  The."    Eocene  OTIeOL 466 

Street,  Julian.     "Mysterions  Japan." 677 

rstrcnsth  of  the  Pines.  TIm."     Edison  Mar- 

shalL     266 

Btrobl.  Karl  Hans.     "Gcspenstcr  in  Sompf."  277 
Btxnnoky.     Simeon.       Mr.     Hollidsy     StroUs 

Ahoot.    678 

Sullivan.  John  !«. 466 

Sunk    Lyonncsse.       (Poem.)       Walter    de    la 

Mare.   476 

"SaprCmcs    Visions    d'Orient."      Pierre    Loti 

and  Samuel  Viand.  600 

""SiiianBe  et  le  PadHgue."     Jean  Giraudooz.  697 

BwianatoB.  Frank 415 

'Swords."     Sidney  Howard.   90,  228.  466 

Ayhestcr.  Charles  H.   186 

"Symptoms      of      Being      66."        Ring      W. 

Lardner 687 

Tmard.     Geneviere.       For     a     Shy     Lover. 

(Poem. )     569 

Just  Introduced.     (Poem. )    620 

Tvore,   Rahindranath.    86 

^•TTie  Wreck." 492 

Tshiti  to  Paris.    Percy  N.  Stone.  584 

Tkle.  A.     (Poem.)     Louise  Bogan.   476 

Ttrkinston,  Booth 218 

"Alice  Adams."   894 

^"The  Intimate  Strangers."    464 

"The   Wren."    876 

Tsylor.  Dwight.    416 

Tcasdale.  Sara.  606 

Places.      (Poems.)    884 

^Those  Who  Love.     (Poem.)    260 

Teaser.      The."        AdehUde     Mathews     and 

Martha  M.  Stanley 147 

Ten  Hours."     Constance  I.  Smith.   261,  894 

Ten  One-Act  Plays."    Alice  Ckrstenberg.  ...  146 
Terhone,   Albert  Payson.     "The  Man  in  the 

Dark."   268 

Terrin.  Lucy  Stone.     "A  Tiling  Apart."   267 

Theatre  in  Austria.  The.   86 

These  Young  Rebels."     Frances  R.  Sterrett.  267 
TUbandet.    Albert.      "Les    Id4es    de    (Varies 

Maurras."     276 

"La  Vie  de  Maurice  Barrte."  276 

Thing  Apart.  A."    Lucy  Stone  TerrilL   267 

Thirteen  Travellers.   The."     Hugh   Walpole.  161 

Thorarensen,  BJami 496 

Thoroddsen.  Jon.  497 

Those  Who  Love.      (Poem.)     Sara  Teasdale.  260 
Thovca.  Enrico— 

"L'Arco   di    UUsse."    602 

"II  Vangek)  deUa  Pittnra  ed  altre  Prose 

d'Arte."     602 

Three-Dimension  Novel,  A.    Alexander  WooU- 

cott.    682 

Three  One-Act  Plays."     SUrk  Young 574 

Three  Soldiers."    John  Dos  Passos.   261,  898 

Three  Wishes.     (Poem.)     Elinor  Wylie. 668 

Threnody.     (Poem.)     Robert  HiUyer.   .. 

"Tluroagh   the   Rnsslsn    Rswohitioa.** 

Rhya  WUUams.  

Thurston.     E.     Temple.       The     Wandiring 


TInaa.  Jean  de.    "NoctambnUsmca."  178 

"Tired  Radicak."    Walter  WeyL  492 

'Title.  The."     Arnold  Bennett.   467 

"To  Let."  John  Galsworthy.   160.  671 

Tokens.     (Poem.)     Harold  VinaL   426 

Toksvlg.  Signs.    Andersen's  "Fairy  Tkka."  . .  469 

Toler.  Sidney.     "Goklsn  Days."   466 

TbUer.  Ernst.     "Masse  Mensch."  

"Tommy"  of  "Casuals  of  the  Sea." 

'Tdny  Sarg  Marionette  Book.  The."     F.   J. 


'Tower  of  ObUvion,  The."    Oliver  Onions.  .. 
Towns,    Charles    Hanson.      A    British    Spoon 

River 168 

Traprock.  Walter  E.   442 

"The  Cruise  of  the  Kawa." 184.  260 

Harrison   Rhodes. 241 

Trausil,  Hans.     The  Land  Turtle.      (Poen.) 

^The  Tr^e.      (Poem.)    

"Treasury  of  Plays  for  Children,  A."  Mont- 
rose J.  MiT^f*.    471 

Tree,  The.     (Poem.)     Hans  TrausIL  260 

Trine.  Ralph  Waklo.    418 

Triumph.      (Poem.)      Joseph    Andrew    (Sala- 

had.    817 

"Triumph  of  the  Egg,  The."     Sherwood  An- 
derson.      878 

"Triumph  of  X,  The."  Carlos  Wupperman.  148 
Trowbridge.  W.  R.  H.     "Queen  Alexandra."    680 

"Tryst.  The."     Grace  Livingston  HilL   268 

Turner.  Nancy  Byrd.     "Zodiac  Town."    472 

"Toms  About  Town."     Robert  Cortes  HolH- 

day '678 

Twachtman.  John  H.  46 

"Twenty  Four  Unusual  Short  Stories."    Anna 

Cogswell  Tyler 248 

'Two    SUtterns    and    a    King."      Edna    St. 

Vincent  Millay 466 

Two  Ways.     (Poem.)     John  V.  A.  Weaver.  ..  841 
Tyler.   Anna   0>gsweU.      'Twenty    Four    Un- 
usual Short  Stories."   248 

Ufarich,    Charles    Kenmore.      "The    Wolf    of 

Purple  Canyon."   268 

"Uncollected  Poetry  and  Prose  of  Walt  Whit- 
man. The."     Emory  Holloway 585 

Underwood,  John  Curtis.    410 

Underwood.  WiUiam  Lyman.  "Wild  Brother."  472 
Undset.  Sigrid.  A  Biography  of  St.  Olav.  179 
United      SUtes.      Discovering      the.        Allen 

Wilson  Porterfleld.    272 

"University    of    Washington    Plays."      Glenn 

Hughes.     674 

Untormeyer,    Jean    Starr.      "Dreams    Out   of 

Darkness."    888 

— ' Lake  Song.      (Poem. )    880 

Untermeyer.   Louis.    124 

Dorothy  Dances.     (Poem.)    278 

"Modern  American  Poetry."  168 

Our  Living  Laureates.  481 

"Ursula  Trent,"    W.  L.  George.   161 

"Uto  Curetis."     Erna  Grautoff.    182 

Utah   News.    604 

Vail.  A  Biography  of  Theodore  N 690 

Valdo,  Pat.   89 

Valparaiso.     (Poem.)     Milton  Ralson 641 

"Vandemark's  Folly."     Herbert  Quick 602 

Van  Doren,  CarL     "The  American  Novel"  ..     67 

Young  and  in  Paris !  882 

"Vangeto  della  Pittura  ed  aKre  Prose  d'Arte. 

n."     Enrico  Thoves.    602 

Van    Loon,    Hendrik.      "The   Story   of   Man- 
kind."     466 

Van     Rensselaer,     Mrs.     Schuyler.       "Many 

Children."     472 

VasoflP,   Ivan 400 

"VenisekM,  Life  of."    S.  B.  Chester.  491 

"Vera."     "Elizabeth."   225.  461,  489 

Verga,  Giovanni.    "Opere  Complete." 

Verbacren.    Emlle « 

Vermilion      TowcrB.        (Poem.)        John     Doa 

PUK*.     *l 

Vermont.  A  Visit  to.  W 

VornaD.    Crenrilte.      Carmo    and    tlw    M«w>> 

MCtr    Han.      41 

Venc*      on      «      Paintlnf      of      Wans-Tni. 

(PoMB.)     To  Fa,   I 

"Vietor  Huso."     llidam*  DDCton.    41 

Victorian  Asc  Th*.  

"Virili."     Aline  Kilmer II 

Vioal,  Harold.     Sea  Dree.     (PooB.)    U 

Token..      (Poem.)    41 

Virrfa,  Gwi-sn.  "A  Oat4  do  la  Caam."  ...  41 
Viirian.      (Poem.)      J<wle  B.  BittMiboaa*^   ... 

-Vo«  dl  Dlo,  La."    Marino  UorMU.  4< 

"Volean  Etrlnt,  La."     0*(!ur  Henrr.  41 

Vollard,  Ambroiae.     "CAunn*^"  t' 

■Renoir."    *' 

Waldo,    Harold.    II 

Walker.   Charle.    R.   Jr.      What   tbe  Worker 

Rad* 4: 

Wall.  Bemhirdt.     "Etched  Montlil;,"   I 

Wallla.  Khoe.     A  Day  ai  a  Wase.      (Poen.)   II 

Walpole,   Hush II 

"The  Thirteen  Tranllera."    II 

"The  Youn«  Enrhanted."   4»1,  11 

Watpole'a  "Sociotf  of  Bookmen."  Biurfa.   IH 

W.l»l,  0.kar  F HI 

"W■l«l<^^i^E  Jew.  The."  B.  Temple  ThnntSD.  41 
"Waihlngton  Clo»-Up*"  Edward  G.  Lowrr.  11 
"Waited    Gcnerilion.   The."     Owen    JofanaBB.  tl 

WaUon.  K.  B.   Harriott.    *> 

Wattcnon.    Htnry.    41 

Wattln.      Willard.        Nlihl     of     the     Tarit- 

AbH>MnE.      (Poem.)    Bl 

Weaver,  John  V.  A 4. 

RlRB  W.  Lardnei— Serloni  Arttot.   ....  61 

Two  Waj-a.      (Poem.)    ti 

Weaver.   Raymond  H 1 

Herman  Melville »1 

Webb,  Sidney  and  Bratrin  tl 

Webater.  Henrr  Kitchell.     "Keal  Life."   I' 

Welk.  (^roljn.     "The  Come  Back."  •■ 

Wclb.   H    G 4IS.  G04.  Ml.  « 

Wrrfel,  Frant     "8pl«ael  Heueh."   II 

Werl,  W.rter.     'Tired  Radleab."   41 

"What  Really  Happened  at   Paris."     Edward 

Hindell  HouH  and  Charles  Seymour.        41 

What's  in  a  PlaceT     Alexander  Black tl 

Wbeelock.     John     HalL       O     Happy     Heart! 

"When  Day  is  Doni."  Bdiar  A.' dii««^ "  1 ' ' !  41 
When  Novelty  Brccdt  IMitruat.     Alien  Wilton 

PortPrfleld Bl 

"Whirl  of  New  York.  The."  1 

"Whlitler     Journal.     The."       Mr.     and     Hts. 

P^nnell 21 

White  Branehes      (Poem.)     Haiel  HatI T 

Whit*    Shadows    in    Mntk    lib^      Srdnw 

Creenble.     tl 

While.  Viol.  C.     "HoHiona."   ' 

Whit?  Violet!.      (Poem  )     Sara  Hau^t.    41 

"Whlleheaded  Boy,  The."  Lennox  Robin- 
son  MO.  fl 

Whitman  the  ApTirentiee.  Flllmor*  Hyde.  ...  El 
"Whitman.  The  Uncollected  Poetry  and  Prose 

ot   Walt."     Emory   HollemiT IBS,  El 

"Who  Rilled  Cock  BoUnT'  The  Bitwetl*.  . . .  tl 
Wtckham,       Anna.  "The       Contemplative 

Quarry."     II 

Widdemer.  WsrasrcL     "CroM-Cnrrcnti." 41 

"The  Year  of  Delight."   tl 

"Wife  with  a  Srailc,  The."     Deny*  AmM  and 

Andr«  Obey I' 

Wiscin.      Kate      Douxlas.         "The      Scottish 

Chief.,"     41 

-Wild    Brotbnr."      WlUlan    Lman    Under- 

Wilde  snd   "Willie  Hughes."  Ow;sr.     ttichsrd 

I.e  Galllenne I*t 

Wilde.  Frank  Harris's  Lite  ot.  in  German.  ..  4<M 

Wilde,  Oscar.      'The  Portrait  of  Mr.  W.   H."  IBt 

Wilkinson.  MarEueTi'tc."'Hire"AT«  Ladies!  ..  IBS 

——■■New   Voice.."   ttl 

WiUlsm..   Albert    Bby..      "Through   the    Bus- 

Sim    RevolulloB."    tW 

Wllliama.  Bmil,     "CrtU  Rhode.."    IM 

William..     Sidney.       The     Man     Behind     tke 

Book 4T8 

"Wilkiw  Pollen.^'     Jesnnette  Mirks IM 

Wilson.    Edmund.    Jr.      The   Broniie   Trumpet    _ 

ot    Fairyland.    l" 

Wilson.  Harry  Leon.  "The  Wrt.n«  Twin."  . .  Ut 
Wilson.  Romer.     "The  Death  of  Society-^'   ...     BB 

"Windy  Hill.  The."     CorneUa  Heifi t48 

Winlher.   Christian Ml 

Wit.  AuEutta  de.   6»l 

"Wolf     of     Purple     Canyon,     The."      Charlea 

Kenmore  UlHch IBS 

Woman's  Nstional  Book  Asaoaiatlon,  The.  ...  tSt 
"Woman's   Psrty.   The  Story   of   the."      too 

H.ynes  Irwin tlB 

Woman's  Sons.     (Poem.)     Mary  AuMin »4 

Women  in  Poreisn  Literature.     Albn  Wilson 

Porterlleld 1« 

Wood,  Clement.     Land-Locked  Ships It 

Wood.  Sir  Henry  J tM 

Wood.   Jamei   N.     "Denocraey   and  the  Will 

lo   Power."    SBB 

Wtwllcotl.    Alei.nder.     Babies    and    Baseball  IBt 

A   Three-Dimension  NovaL    GSt 

Words.      (Poem.)     Joseph  Aullander.   47B 

Worker  Reads,  What  the.     Charlea  R.  Walker. 

Si 417 

"WorklBS  North  from  Pataconia."    Harry  A. 

P^nck.     .  B88 

"Wreck.  The.^'     Rabindranatb  Tattore.   4M 

'Wten.  The"     Booth  Tsrklncton MB 

WrlEht.  A  Parody  of  Harold  Bell.  tOO 

Wriihl,   Harold  BcU tM 

WrlKhl.     Harriet.       '■New     Plays     from     Old 

Talcs,"     «4« 

'■Wrons  Twin.  The."  Harry  Leon  Wilson.  ..  IBT 
Wurperman,    Carlos.     "The  Triomph  of    Z."  148 

W/ckofl.   Eucene  Thomsa.     "Sonya."    I4B 

Wylie.  Elinoi.     "Nets  to  Catch  the  Wind."   ..  ET* 

Ophelia.      (Poem.)    4TB 

Pretty  Word..      (Poem.)    141 

BoD(.     (Poem.)    4T4 

Three  WIdies.      (Poem.)    BBS 

WyoD,  Ed.     'The  Perfect  Foot"  4BT 

"Ye  Olden  Blue  Lsw>.^^  CaaUva.  Myers.  ...  Tl 
■Year  of  Deliiht.  The."    Marsaret  Widdemer.  Ml 

YcaU,  W.  B    Ill 

"Four  Play*  for  Dancer*."    4M 

■'Yellow  Book.  The."    B 

"You    Koow    Charles."      Mamtet   Bnunins.  t«B 

Younc  and  in  Paris      Carl  Van  Doren IBt 

"Youni  Enchanted.  The."   Hush  Walpola.  4E1.  CSS 
Yaunii,     Frani^lB     Brett.       "The     Black     Dia- 
mond."       IBT 

"YounE  Girl's  Diary.  A."  481 

Youna,  Stark.     "Three  One-Act  Pluta." ET4 

"Youth."     40* 

"Yoatb  Triumebant.''     Gaorve  GIbb*.   4B1 

Yoat.  Walter.    IBS 

ZanvwUI,  laraeL    "Tb*  Cockpit."  

Zaturenaky.  Marya.     An  Old  Tale.      (Poem.) 

The  Spinner,  at  Willow.leiEh.    (Poem.) 

"ZelL"     Henry  O.  Alkman 

ZievTeld  FolHt*  for  1121,  The.   

"Zodiac  Town."     Nancy  Byrd  Turner.   



Ade.  Gcorse.     Iran  Opifer.  117 

Alfonso  XIIL     Enrico  Caruso.  424 

Antiqaes.     Richard  Lahey.  666-659 

Bajcs.  Nora.     E.  T.  Middleditch.   607 

Beardslcy.  Aubrey.    Will  Coyne.   4 

Bmktt,  William  Rose.    WiUiam  Saphisr 98 

Bennett,  Richard.     Kenneth  Andi^ws.    2S1 

Bhim,  Jerry.    LoeiUe  8.  Blum. 606 

Bookplate.   Herbert  Becrbohm  Trse's.     Claud 

LoTat  Fraser 28S 

Borccaa,  Gelett.     Dwight  Taylor.   448 

Byriw,  Donn.     WUliani  Saphisr.  186 

Canhy,  Henry  SeideL     Dwight  Taylor.   601 

Csraso,  Caricatures  by  Enrico. 482-426 

GkriMO.  Enrico.     Sketched  by  Himsdf .  428 

GhapHn.  Charles.     William  Saphier.   270 

CUU.  Richard  Washburn.     William  Saphisr.    06 

Children,  Holiday  Books  for.  468-478 

ChOdrcn's  Books.  Hifh  Lights  in.  242-247 

Lyrics.       (Borders.)       Willard     T. 

Snlffln.    800-812 

Alfreds.      I:      Alfred    Lambs. 

Roth 621-627 

..  William.     Kenneth  Andrews.   ....  147 
Dwiffht  Taytor 407.446 

Daly.  Arnold.     Kenneth  Andrews.   678 

DiBMijiid.  Shaw.     William  Saphisr.   608 

Dowson.  Ernest.     Will  Coyne.   2 

Dmean,  Augustin.     Kenneth  Andrews.   146 

Edis    of    Cobblsr's     Wood.     The.       Gordon 


Flihian  Summer  Scho«»l  Announcement.  A.  . .  868 
Faith  and  Jack  London.    Joseph  Pranki.  ..18-16 

r.  Edna.     William  Cropper 486 

.,  Lew.     Kenneth  Andrews.    68 

Fldds.  WUHam  C    Kenneth  Andrews.  64 

Footanne.  Lynn.     Kenneth  Andrews.   144 

Forest  Cover.     Muriel  Hannah.   464-462 

Frank,  denn.     Dwight  Taylor.   601 

FraakUn.  Dwight.     Sketched  by  Himself.   ...  416 

GiOsCte.  WiUiam.     Kenneth  Andrews.   671 

Gssrd.  William  J.     Enrico  Caruso.   426 

Haadlton,  Cosmo.    William  Saphisr 188 

Bccht,  Ben.     William  Saphier 88 

Htibert,    A.    P..    and    J.    C    Squire.      Gene 

Markey 608 

Jtritsa.  Marie.     Dwight  Tayknr.   607 

Johnson.  Owen.     William  Cropper.   887 

Karl    Aasen    in    Heayen.      Florence    Howell 

Barkley.     827-888 

"Um  Cole.**  A  Sketch  from.     Judith  Mase- 

ftehL     611 

Kroger.  Otto.     Kenneth  Andrews.   466 

Lambe.  Alfred.     Herb  Roth 621-627 

Lincoln.  Joseph  C.    William  Saphier 440 

Lincoln's  Letter  to  Mrs.  Bixby,  A  Facsimile 

of 617 

Macgowan.  Kenneth.     William  Saphier 606 

Marion.  George.     Kenneth  Andrews.   464 

Markey.  Gene.     Sketched  by  Himself.  400 

Melville.  Herman.     L.  F.  Grant.  819 

Mencken.  H.  L.     William  Cropper.   668 

Monroe.  Harriet.     William  Saphier 89 

New  York  and  the  English  Visitor.     Frances 

Delehanty 292-297 

New  York  Views.    Esther  Brock  Bird.  ...684-641 

O'Brien.  Frederick.     WilUsm  Cropper.    441 

Outline    of    American    History.    An.      Herb 

Roth.    86-48.   102-106,  200-207 

Psrker.  Sir  Gilbert    William  Saphier.  

Pension   Vauquer.   The.    

Pirates.     Dwight   Franklin 416 

Preston.  Ksith.     William  Saphisr 89 

Rinshart.   Mary   Roberts.     William    Saphier.  189 

Roosevelt.  Thcqdore.     Enrico  Caruso.   424 

Ruben.  Jose.     Kenneth  Andrews 

Sharp.  William.     Will  Coyns.   6 

Squire.    J.    C.    and    A.    P.    Herbert.      Gene 

Markey 608 

Swinnerton.  Frank.     Dwight  Taylor.    416 

Tarkington.  Booth.     William  Cropper.    219 

Teasdale.  Sara.     William  Saphier.   606 

Thompson.  Francis.     Will  Coyne.   8 

Traprock,  Captain.     William  Saphier 441 

Trse's  Bookplate.  Herbert  Beerbohm.     Claud 
Lovat   Fraser 

Ulric.  lienor*.    Kenneth  Andrews.  672 

Untermeyer.  Jean  SUrr.     E.  T.  Middleditch.  444 
Untermeyer.  Louis.    William  Cropper.  126 

Ward.  Dorothy.     Kenneth  Andrews.    64 

Weaver.  John  V.  A.     E.  T.  Middleditch.   ....  446 

Wells.  H.  G.    William  Saphier 412 

What's  in  s  PtoceT    Esther  Brock  Bird.  ..684-641 
WheekMsk.  John  HalL     E.  T.  Middleditch.  . . . 
Whitman.  Caricatures  of  Walt  from  his  note- 
books.      188 

Wilde.  Oscar.     Will  Coyne.   6 

Wilson.  Woodrow.    Enrico  Caruso  424 

Yeats.  William  Butter.     William  Saphier. 







By  Richard  Le  Gallienne 

With  Sketches  by  WiU  Coyne 

THAT  each  generation  has  little 
"use"  for  the  generation  preced- 
ing it  has  gone  without  saying  since 
''the  sad  world  began",  though  so 
broad  a  statement  should  not,  of 
course,  be  made  without  recognition 
of  the  fact  that  the  pick  of  the  youth 
of  each  younger  generation  have 
proved  an  exception  to  this  rule. 
While  realizing  the  necessity  of  their 
doing  something  different  from  their 
fathers,  of  providing  the  "perpetual 
slight  novelty"  necessary  to  all  human 
growth,  they  have  not  always  felt  that 
their  own  contribution  was  of  more  im- 
portance, or  that  their  elders  were 
merely  "tedious  old  fools"  to  be  kicked 
out  of  the  way  with  ill-bred  derision. 
In  every  new  generation  there  have 
been  found  young  men  who  combined 
new  ideas  and  new  methods  with  a 
sensible  and  even  grateful  recognition 
of  the  old,  young  men  who  knew  the 
masters  when  they  saw  them,  and  were 

not  at  all  ashamed  to  sit  at  the  feet 
of  their  elders,  with  a  respect  that  was 
far  from  superstition.  Even  today 
there  are  such  young  men,  no  few  of 
them  indeed,  who  are  doing,  or  prepar- 
ing themselves  to  do,  the  really  con- 
structive work  in  literature  and  all  the 
arts ;  but  they  have  been  and  still  are, 
in  a  lessening  degree,  so  out-shouted 
by  a  host  of  vulgar  charlatans,  cranks, 
and  barbarians, — ^not  all  by  any  means 
"young", — mere  Bolshevists  of  the 
arts,  that  the  encouraging  fact  of  their 
vigorous  existence  is  not  sufficiently 

The  slogan  of  this  horde  of  tiresome 
"jazz"  megalomaniacs  is  "Down  with 
the  Past".  Like  Caliph  Omar,  they 
would  bum  all  the  books  published 
prior  to  the  twentieth  century,  pre- 
serving but  their  own  or  those  of  a 
few  friends;  like  that  Italian  fool 
Marinetti,  they  would  cast  the  beauty 
of  Venice  into  the  lagoons,  and  gen- 


Brnttt  DMOtan 

erally  introduce  a  campaign  of  "fright- 
fulness"  against  the  claasics,  and  all 
arts  whatsoever  tainted  with  tradition. 
This  general  madness,  which  seems 
to  have  overtaken  all  lands,  like  some 
medieeval  epidemic,  is  too  huge  and 
massive  an  idiocy  to  be  treated  within 
the  limits  of  a  brief  article.  Here  our 
concern  is  merely  with  a  minor  Anglo- 
Saxon  literary  manifestation  of  it, 
taking  the  form  of  a  modish  dilettante 
supercilioasnesB  toward  all  things  Vic- 
torian— except  perhaps  Victorian  fur- 
niture— and,  particularly,  a  quite  fem- 
inine ferocity  against  the  "eighteen- 
nineties".  No  really  "man-Bized" 
writer  has  come  out  strongly  to  head 
this  vague  revolt,  which,  indeed,  has 
found  no  authoritative  voice,  but  has, 
however,  managed  to  disseminate  it- 

self through  a  multiplicity  of  small 
coterie  magazines  which  few  can  un- 
derstand and  no  one  buys.  It  pos- 
sesses no  creative  or  critical  represen- 
tative person  of  any  Importance,  and 
it  has  proclaimed  no  new,  or  beau- 
tiful, or  even  novel  ugly  thing.  It  is 
made  up  of  the  protozoa  of  mutual  ad- 
miration, of  undersized,  poorly  vital- 
ized, and  underbred  creatures,  that 
strive  to  make  a  standard  of  their  own 
smallness,  and  achieve  whatever  ef- 
fects they  occasionally  achieve  by 
wearing  some  rag  or  tatter  of  the  robe 
of  a  dead  giant  which  they  have  di- 
vided among  them.  All  they  have, 
they  have  stolen  from  the  writers  they 
decry— even  their  affectations.  The 
creative  vitality  and  versatility  of  the 
Victorian  age  in  every  direction  admits 
of  no  discussion;  and  we  can  afford  to 
smile  at  some  of  the  absurdities  of  its 
great  ones  with  Lytton  Strachey,  real- 
izing that  the  point  of  view  of  the 
valet  has  seldom  failed  to  be  amusing, 
but  has  never  been  of  importance.  It 
ia  on  a  par  with  uncovering  one's  fa- 
ther's nakedness.  The  cleverness  of 
such  writers  as  Mr.  Strachey  amounts 
to  little  more.  The  misbehavior  of 
puppies  against  the  Pyramids — well, 
who  cares? 

That  the  Victorian  age  was  very 
smug  and  very  proper,  that  it  was 
more  sentimental  than  we  are,  and 
that  its  economic  brutali^  was  more 
"camouflaged"  under  missionary  ef- 
fort than  ours — though  really  that  ia 
doubtful — or  that  it  had  many  faults 
of  hypocrisy,  self-righteousness,  and 
bad  taste,  from  which,  of  course,  we 
are  free,  may  be  readily  admitted. 
But  the  great  Victorian  was  the  first 
to  make  and  push  home  that  admission 
— and  an  era  that  produced  Words- 
worth, Tennyson,  Morris,  Rossetti, 
Swinburne,  Meredith,  Carlyle,  Brown- 
ing, Matthew  Arnold,  Darwin,  Huxley, 


Dickens,  Thackeray,  Hardy,  Tyndall, 
and  Newman,  not  to  speak  of  a  Ber- 
nard Shaw,  has  surely  no  need  to  de- 
fend itaelf  against  an  era  which  seems 
to  have  reached  its  apofree  in  tiie  pain- 
ful travail  of  G.  K.  Chesterton — whose 
wit  always  suggests  the  presence  of 
the  skilled  obstetrician,  and  trained 
nurses  in  the  wings.  My  feeling  for 
Mr.  Shaw  has  always  been  this  side 
of  idolatry,  but,  really,  when  I  think 
of  Mr.  Chesterton,  I  am  almost  pas- 
sionate to  kiss  the  hem  of  the  sacred 

But  the  quarrel  of  our  young 
"Georgians" — absurdly  so  called — is 
only  generally  with  the  Victorian  era, 
and  its  particular  animus  is  somewhat 
curiously  directed  against  "the  eight- 
een-nineties".  Curiously,  I  aay,  for 
several  reasons.  Leaving  out  so  old- 
fashioned  an  expression  as  ingrati- 
tude, is  it  not  strange  that  our 
"Georgians"  should  deny  recognition 
to  those  very  men  who  in  that  fright- 
fully remote  period,  thirty  years  ago, 
made  just  that  fight  against  -"Vic- 
torianism"  which  th^  talk  about,  and 
BO  completely  won  it  that  there  is  ab- 
tolutely  no  need  to  reopen  the  question. 
It  was  those  men  of  the  eighteen- 
nineties  who  sowed  the  seed  of  every 
kind  of  freedom  of  which  we  now  are 
reaping  the  whirlwind.  Personal  ir- 
responsibility, sexual  outspokenness 
and  indiscriminate  sexual  indulgence, 
Ikolitical  chaos,  parlor  anarchy,  defi- 
ance of  parents,  the  sentimental  up- 
bringing of  children,  mockery  of  au- 
thority and  all  forms  of  seriousness, 
the  denial  of  the  religious  instinct,  the 
flexibility  of  the  moral  law — and  the 
Veneral  absurdity  of  everything  that 
made  for  restraint  or  control,  not  to 
Bpeak  of  law  or  order:  this  glorious 
harvest  which  we  reap  In  a  general 
saturnalia  was  sown  seriously  enough 
by  some  well-meaning  men  of  the  eight- 

een-nineties,  and  by  some  perhaps  not 
so  well  meaning.  That  young  girls 
"check"  their  corsets  at  dances,  and 
generally  bedeck  or  bedrape  them- 
selves in  the  public  streets  after  the 
manner  of  courtesans,  is  due  to  the 
well-meaning  efforts  of  certain  writers 
and  artists  for  "The  Yellow  Book"; 
and  generally  speaking,  the  world  we 
live  in  at  the  moment  has  been  cre- 
ated by  three  men:  Aubrey  Beards- 
ley,  Oscar  Wilde,  and  Bernard  Shaw. 
That  this  should  be  so,  that  the  srt  of 
Beardsley  dominates  to  weariness  all 
contemporary  decoration,  and  that 
Wilde  and  Shaw,  through  the  medium 

Prondi  Thompton 

of  innumerable  editions,  aa  well  as  the 
theatre,  dictate  the  morals  of  the  very 
youngest  of  the  young  generation,  is 
hard  to  reconcile  with  the  contemptu- 


ous  attitude  of  certain  literary  youths 
toward  the  eighteen-nineties.  Here 
alone  is  a  debt  to  that  era  of  which  our 
modish  young  men  and  maidens  in 
their  gay  Ucentiouaneas  are  probably 

Apart  from  these  delightful  Master 
Demoralizers  of  the  eighteen-nineties, 
there  are  certain  poets  and  essayists 
whom  (considering  the  scorn  of  the 
period)  one  is  surprised  to  find  con- 
stantly in  the  bands  of  the  most  youth- 
ful readers.  Some  of  these  writers 
are  still  alive  and  prosperous — ^for  the 
legend  that  all  the  men  of  "the  Tellow 

Aubrty  Btardttev 

Book"  period"  died  of  drink  is  merely 
a  pretty  fancy.  If  any  figure  is  typi- 
cal of  "the  eighteen-nineties",  it  is 
certainly  Max  Beerbohm.    Yet  has  any 

book  been  so  taken  to  the  young 
bosoms  and  narrow  chests  of  our 
young  as  his  recent  "Seven  Men"? — 
vihile  it  will  not  be  denied  that  the 
gaie^  of  nations  still  hangs  upon  his 
cartoons.  Arthur  Symons  is  still  the 
critic  whose  word  is  law  to  the  youth 
of  1921,  as  it  was  to  some  of  the  youth 
of  1890,  while  his  master  Walter 
Pater — the  most  potent  influence  of 
the  period — is  still  the  Faultless 
Writer,  sharing  with  the  antediluvian 
yet  over-young  George  Moore  the 
laurels  of  prose.  A  writer  so  prehis- 
toric as  Thomas  Hardy  is  still  very 
much  the  fashion;  particularly  for 
his  poetry,  which  is,  indeed,  the  very 
latest  mode.  There  is,  I  believe,  felt 
to  be  a  certain  unholy  alliance  between 
his  muse  and  the  muse  that  knows  not 
Parnassus,  and  particularly  scorns  the 
Isle  of  Wight  I  suppose  no  one  reads 
William  Watson  any  more,  except  my 
faithful  self;  and  the  poet  of  "Mar- 
pessa"  and  "Herod",  "with  their 
glories",  is  momentarily  eclipsed  by 
men  whose  names  fame  will  never  have 
upon  her  lips.  Yet  Francis  Thomp- 
son and  Lionel  Johnson  and  John  Dav- 
idson are  so  alive  that  their  young 
English  successors,  although  they  lec- 
ture pontifically  to  the  innocence  of 
America,  and  amass  its  dollars,  seem 
dead  and  gone  beside  them.  And  W. 
B.  Yeats.  The  young  moon,  with  all 
her  magic,  is  not  younger  than  he,  nor 
nearer  to  the  hearts  of  the  dreaming 
young.  He  too,  it  must  not  be  for- 
gotten, is  a  remnant  from  "the 
eighteen-nineties".  And  what  poet 
since  his  day  has  written  a  lyric  so 
unforgettable  as  Dowson's  "Cynara"? 
Then  there  is  Joseph  Conrad.  Who  is 
there  to  compare  with  him  today — ex- 
cept his  imitators?  Mr,  Galsworthy 
too,  and  Mr.  Hewlett.  They  also  be- 
long to  the  same  "backward  and  abysm 


of  time"  and  yet  the  nineteen-twenties 
strive  in  vain  to  match  them. 

It  is  quite  possible,  and  should  be 
probable,  that  the  nineteen-twenties 
are  about  to  do  somethingr  different 
from,  and  greater  than,  the  eighteen- 
nineties.  How  grateful  one  would  be 
if  they  did!  So  far,  however,  they 
bring  us  for  the  most  part  nothing 
but  the  eighteen-nineties  run  to  seed. 
And  such  good  nirk  as  stands  to  their 
credit  is  minor  and  imitative.  You 
may  say  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  it. 
There  is,  indeed,  as  Major  Pond  used 
to  say,  "a  high  d  gree  of  low  ability" 
in  abundance.  There  is  plenty  of 
clever,  and  nice  and  "amusing"  work 
being  done.  Let  that  be  granted.  But 
little  of  it  ia  individual,  and  mostly  all 
the  "original"  work  being  done  ie  a 
combination  of  insanity  and  impu- 
dence. England  has  one  or  two  men 
one  respects,  such  as  John  Drink- 
water,  D.  H.  Lawrence,  and  Ralph 
Hodgson,  and  America  has  Amy  Low- 
ell  and  Edgar  Lee  Masters.  The 
"Spoon  River  Anthology"  is,  by  all 
odds,  the  one  really  original  book  that 
the  twentieth  century  has  produced  in 
the  English  language. 

That  there  is  a  revolt  against  the 
spirit  of  the  eighteen-nineties  deserv- 
ing of  respect  I  am  well  aware :  a  seri- 
ous spiritual  and  moral  reaction  such 
as  one  might  look  for,  with  the  pen- 
dulum swung  so  far  in  the  other  direc- 
tion. The  gospels  of  "paganism",  the 
joy  of  life,  and  the  worship  of  beauty, 
preached  by  the  men  of  the  eighteen- 
nineties,  provoked  a  needed  rebellion 
against  the  hypocrisy  and  prudery  of 
the  Victorian  era.  They  cleared  the 
air  of  an  immense  deal  of  cant,  laughed 
and  danced  out  of  existence  no  end  of 
smug  and  "respectable"  superstition, 
and  liberated  many  joyous  activities 
of  humanity  which  bad  long  been  en- 
slaved by  a  Puritanism  which,  thanks 

to  them,  whatever  momentary  recru- 
descence in  the  form  of  blue  laws  it 
may  enjoy,  can  never  lay  its  cold  and 
clammy  hand  on  the  heart  of  human 
life  again. 

How  that  revolt  had  been  prepared 
for  by  grave  destructive  thinkers,  and 
apocalyptic  men  of  science,  so  long  and 
thoroughly  prepared  for  as  to  be  in- 
evitable, might  well  occupy  a  more 
learned  pen,  and  more  space  than  I 
have  at  my  command.  But  I  suggest 
that  some  ingenious  and  endowed  pro- 
fessor demonstrate,  aa,  of  course,  he 
could  BO  easily  do,  by  way  of  a  diver- 
sion from  his  more  weighty  labors, 
how  Charles  Darwin  and  Herbert 
Spencer  were  directly  responsible  for 
the  gay  disintegrating  wit  of  Oscar 
Wilde.    Certain  beliefs  and  habits  of 


mind  insincerely  held  bad  to  go, 
that  other  beliefs  and  babita  of 
mind  sincerely  held  might  take  their 
place.  The  shell  of  what  we  call 
"faith"  had  to  be  destroyed,  that  a 
larger  and  deeper  faith  might  come 

WilUam  BItatf 

into  being;  and  insincere  morality 
bad  to  be  ridiculed  that  a  truer  moral- 
ity might  be  acknowledged  and  ad- 
hered to.  The  men  of  the  eighteen- 
nineties,  consciously  or  unconsciously, 
helped  us  to  shuffle  off  the  mortal  coil 
of  sham  faiUi  and  sham  morality. 
They  went,  of  course,  to  extremes,  aa 
must  always  be  the  case,  and  their 
young  disciples  today  have  gone  to 
further  extremes  they  did  not  antici- 
pate or  desire. 
We  all  remember  Pater's  solicitude 

lest  the  postscript  of  his  "Kenais- 
sance"  might  have  an  undue,  disas- 
trous influence  on  younger  minds,  not 
sufficiently  equipped  by  experience  to 
apply  his  doctrine  as  he  meant  it  to 
be  applied.  Hia  fears  were  justified 
in  some  tragic  careers,  while  the  basic 
truth  of  that  doctrine  remains  unim- 
peached.  The  time  has  now  come  to 
correct  the  errors  of  those  eighteen- 
ninety  gospels  of  freedom  and  pleas- 
ure. And  there  is,  as  I  said,  a  reaction 
in  progress  among  the  best  elements 
of  our  younger  thinkers  and  writers 
to  make  that  correction,  and  readjust 
our  attitude  between  liberty  on  the  one 
hand  and  license  on  the  other.  While 
not  abandoning  our  gains  for  a  more 
"human"  humanity,  it  has  become 
necessary  for  some  strong  reaffirma- 
tion of  certain  "Eternal  Verities",  for- 
gotten awhile,  to  be  made — some  such 
reaffirmation  as  Wordsworth  made  in 
his  "Ode  to  Duty" ;  and  the  really  new 
world  of  today,  as  opposed  to  the  mere 
old-fashioned  "modernists",  is  begin- 
ning to  cry  out  with  that  great  old 
poet  (whom  these  "modernists"  and 
"futurists"  declare  was  no  poet  at  all) : 

He  tbU  nnebartered  freedom  tlrea. 

Rupert  Brooke,  in  one  or  two  noble 
sonnets,  gave  expression  to  his  weari- 
ness with  the  gospel  of  pleasure  car- 
ried to  one  of  Its  conclusions.  Yet  a 
sound  philosophy  is  not  disproved  by 
its  unwise  devotees;  and  readers  of 
Pater's  "Marius  the  Epicurean"  will 
not  be  unmindful  of  the  solemn  ending 
of  the  chapter  which  tells  of  Marius 
reaching  Rome,  and  hearing  "as  the 
rich,  fresh  evening  came  on. .  .all  over 
Rome,  far  above  a  whisper,  the  whole 
town  seeming  hushed  to  catch  it  dis- 
tinctly, the  lively,  reckless  call  to 
'play',  from  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
foolishness,  to  those  in  whom  their  life 
was  still  green — Donee  virenti  canittas 


obestl — Donee  virenti  canities  abestr* 
"As  for  himseir',  says  Pater,  '"slight 
as  was  the  burden  of  positive  moral 
obligation  with  which  he  had  entered 
Some,  it  was  to  no  wasteful  and  va- 
grant affections,  such  as  these,  that 
his  Epicureanism  had  committed  him/' 
Whatever    writers    or    group    of 
writers  are  to  make  those  forcible  re- 
affirmations and  readjustments,  and 
inspire  and  inaugurate  that  new  Age 

of  Faith  which  is  surely  upon  us,  does 
not  yet  appear.  But  that  they  are  al- 
ready with  us,  though  yet  voiceless 
and  unseen,  we  need  not  doubt.  Cer^ 
tainly,  however,  it  is  not  those  shad- 
owy shapes  of  art  and  letters  who  so 
lamentably  mimic  the  men  of  the 
eighteen-nineties  whom  they  decry,  the 
decadents  of  the  third  and  fourth  gen- 
eration, the  mere  marionettes  of  the 


By  Zona  Gale 



HIS  boy  had  stolen  some  money  from  a  booth 
At  the  County  Fair.    I  found  the  father  in  his  kitchen. 
For  years  he  had  driven  a  dray  and  the  heavy  lifting 
Had  worn  him  down.    So  through  his  evenings 
He  slept  by  the  kitchen  stove  as  I  found  him. 
The  mother  was  crying  and  ironing. 
I  thought  about  the  mother 
For  she  brought  me  a  photograph 
Taken  at  a  street  fair  on  her  wedding  day. 
She  was  so  trim  and  white,  and  he  so  neat  and  alert 
In  the  picture,  with  their  friends  about  them — 
I  saw  that  she  wanted  me  to  know  their  dignity  from  the  first, 
And  so  she  brought  me  this  picture,  at  their  best. 
But  afterward  I  thought  more  about  the  father. 
For  as  he  came  to  the  door  with  me  I  could  not  forbear 
To  say  how  bright  and  near  the  stars  seemed. 
Then  he  leaned  and  peered  from  beneath  his  low  roof, 
And  he  said : 
There  used  to  be  a  star  called  the  Nord  Star. 


By  Archibald  Marshall 

I  HAVE  been  asked  to  write  about 
half  a  dozen  novels  said  to  repre- 
sent a  new  development  in  American 
fiction,  all  of  which  are  now  being 
widely  read.  I  do  so  from  my  own 
point  of  view,  as  representing,  how- 
ever inadequately,  the  Victorian  tradi- 
tion, which  seems  to  me  to  provide 
standards  by  which  all  fiction  can  be 
judged,  even  when  it  most  departs 
from  them — ^perhaps  the  more  easily 
when  it  does  most  depart  from  them. 
This  does  not  mean  that  one  does  not 
recognize  an  occasional  new  note  in 
fiction,  nor  that  one  is  in  any  way  hos- 
tile to  it  nor  even  that  the  note  of  the 
old  novelists  is  always  to  be  preferred 
to  that  of  the  new.  The  greatest  nov- 
elists have  always  sounded  a  new  note, 
and  wiU  always  continue  to  do  so ;  and 
the  lesser  novelists  will  always  follow 
in  their  wake.  Not  even  the  greatest 
would  write  quite  in  the  same  way  if 
they  could  be  transplanted  from  their 
time  to  this.  Their  excellences,  let  us 
hope,  would  be  the  same,  but  their  im- 
perfections would  be  less  ;  for  there  is 
not  one  of  them  without  some  imper- 
fections, which  experience  and  criti- 
cism have  made  apparent. 

I  think,  if  you  take  the  work  of  any 
novelist  of  established  reputation, 
whether  new  or  old,  you  will  find  that 
the  salt  in  which  his  books  are  pre- 
served is  their  narrative  interest. 
There  is  always  a  story  of  some  sort, 
a  recognizable  progression,  a  climax. 
I  can  think  of  no  novel  that  has  lasted 
of  which  this  is  not  true.  But  it  is 
equally  true  that  nobody  will  read  the 

same  novel  twice  only  for  its  story.  It 
must  have  other  qualities,  so  many  in 
variety  and  range  that  it  would  seem 
always  possible  to  use  one  or  more  of 
them  as  they  have  never  been  used  be- 
fore, and  thus  to  gain  an  impression 
of  doing  something  entirely  new.  It 
is  for  these  qualities,  whatever  they 
may  be,  that  we  reread  a  story;  and 
yet,  but  for  the  story,  they  would  lose 
half  their  purpose.  Kipling  has  used 
his  great  powers  of  observation  and 
presentation  in  his  travel  books,  but 
what  pictures  remain  in  the  memory 
from  them  compared  with  those  with 
which  he  has  painted  and  enlivened  his 
stories?  He  is  a  bom  storyteller,  and 
all  his  gifts  of  observation  are  used 
at  their  happiest  when  they  illustrate 
his  stories. 

Now  a  story  remains  a  story  all  the 
world  over  and  at  all  times,  and  every- 
body will  recognize  it  as  such.  Though 
everybody  may  not  like  the  same  kind 
of  story.  Probably,  at  this  time  of 
day  there  are  no  new  kinds  of  stories 
to  tell,  but  only  new  ways  of  telling 
them,  and  that  is  all  that  anybody 
looks  for  when  there  is  talk  of  a  new 
movement  in  fiction.  But  I  would  de- 
mand as  a  first  condition  in  estimating 
a  work  of  fiction,  that  it  contain  a 
recognizable  story.  It  seems,  from 
past  experience,  that  almost  any  kind 
of  story  will  ingerminate  a  great  work 
of  fiction,  but  that  some  kind  of  story 
is  necessary. 

As  I  understand  it,  the  new  move- 
ment in  American  fiction,  of  which 
these  half-dozen  books  are  offered  to 



examples,  lies  in  a  concentration 
be  actualities  of  the  life  of  to- 
ld chiefly  upon  life  aa  it  is  lived 
lerican  cities  or  small  towns 
ipart  from  the  great  centres  of 
for  want  of  a  better  word,  we 
itill  call  culture.  I  will  accept 
or  the  moment,  proceed  to  the 
lation  of  the  six  novels,  and  then 
come  to  some  conclusion  about 

But  I  can  only  use  the  stand- 
have  indicated  above,  by  which 
ve  all  novels  can  be  judged. 

criticisms  I  have  heard  passed 
Ifain  Street"  have  had  chiefly 
nth  its  credibility  or  otherwise 
Hcture  of  the  life  it  portrays. 
er  or  no  it  is  an  all-embracing 
i  of  life  in  a  small  prairie  town 
ot  capable  of  judging,  any  more 

can  judge  of  whether  "Huckle- 
Finn"  is  a  true  picture  of  Mis- 
li  life  a  generation  ago,  or  "La 
le  Bette"  a  true  picture  of  life 
reach  provincial  town  a  genera- 
tfore  that.  In  each  case,  I  should 
ined  to  trust  the  author,  who  is 
d  to  the  point  of  view  from 
he  sees  his  subject.  In  "Main 
"  the  question  ia  of  somewhat 
importance  than  usual,  because 
short  preface  the  author  seems 
fine  his  subject  to  an  exposure 

civilization  of  the  small  Ameri- 
wn.  But  the  Gopher  Prairies  of 
iperfect  civilization  are  to  be 

all  over  the  world,  even  in  the 
1  cities  of  the  Old  World,  where 

congregate  and  follow  strange 
if  progress  and  of  ethics  un- 
d  by  the  larger  life  that  lies  all 

them.  Carol  Eennlcott  might 
rell  have  been  absorbed  into  the 
'  half-baked  community  of  which 
sband  was  a  member  if  they  had 
id  lived  together  in  London.  The 
jfference  would  have  been  that 
told  have  escaped  from  it  by 

walking  round  the  comer  instead  of 
by  going  from  Gopher  Prairie  to  Cali- 
fornia or  Washington. 

This  would  have  been  the  larger,  the 
universal  subject — the  reactions  of  a 
woman  of  a  wider  experience  and  a 
keener  intelligence  to  the  narrow  self- 
satisfied  existence  to  which  she  was 
expected  to  conform.  Sometimes  the 
book  does  seem  to  be  about  that; 
sometimes  it  seems  to  be  about  the  by 
now  rather  tiresome  sexual  actions  and 
reactions  of  a  marriage  not  more  un- 
suitable than  the  ordinary.  Both  of 
these  would  have  made  a  story,  if  Mr. 
Lewis  had  had  them  before  him  as  his 
central  idea.  But  he  has  told  us  what 
his  central  idea  is,  and  the  weakness 
of  his  book  is  that  it  doesn't  make  a 
story,  but  only  creates  an  atmosphere. 

The  appreciation  with  which  I  read 
the  first  half  of  "Main  Street"  was  of 
the  keenest.  There  ia  observation,  wis- 
dom, humor,  great  skill  in  producing 
desired  effects — all  the  equipment,  as 
it  seemed,  of  a  gifted  and  experienced 
novelist.  The  skill,  indeed,  is  so  great 
that  it  carried  me  right  through  every 
word  of  the  book,  some  time  after  I 
had  given  up  hope  of  the  greater 
things  toward  which  such  gifts  seemed 
at  first  to  be  dedicated.  If  the  aim  is 
only,  or  chiefly,  to  portray  the  mean- 
ness of  life  in  a  particular  kind  of 
community,  known  to  many  but  not 
known  universally,  I  don't  see  how  it 
could  be  much  better  done;  and  at 
flrst  the  pleasure  of  exploring  a 
strange  form  of  civilization,  presented 
in  such  closely  observed  detail,  and 
with  such  art,  is  enough.  But  it  is 
not  enough,  if  nothing  is  to  come  of  it 
but  still  more  detail— not  enough,  that 
is,  for  a  novel.  There  is  no  progres- 
sion. Carol  Kennicott  remains  at  the 
end  much  as  she  was  at  the  beginning, 
and  her  successive  revolts  have  little 
dramatic  quality  in  them.     One  has 



lost  interest  in  her.  Her  husband  is  a 
finely  conceived  character,  but  just 
fails  of  the  accent  that  would  have 
made  him  stand  out  in  all  his  real 
strength  and  all  his  superficial  little- 
ness. One  of  the  very  best  things  in 
the  book  is  the  speech  of  Mr.  Blausser, 
at  the  banquet  inaugurating  the  "cam- 
paign of  boosting'\  I  don't  suppose  I 
shall  ever  read  "Main  Street"  through 
again,  but  I  shall  read  that  speech 
again.  It  represents  the  extraordi- 
narily agile  quality  of  Mr.  Lewis's 
great  talent,  which  is  always  in  evi- 
dence in  his  dialogue,  and  is  never 
quite  lost  at  any  time. 

I  ploughed  conscientiously  through 
half  of  "Moon-Calf,  and  then  gave  it 
up.  I  was  mildly  interested  in  the  ac- 
count of  Felix  Fay's  childhood,  boy- 
hood, and  adolescence,  as  long  as  I 
thought  that  it  was  leading  me  up  to 
something;  but  the  sudden  realization 
that  a  series  of  apparently  unrelated 
episodes,  with  no  deeper  meaning  to 
them  that  I  could  find  than  what  ap- 
peared on  the  surface,  was  all  that  was 
offered  to  me  as  a  work  of  fiction, 
made  it  no  longer  possible  to  continue 
with  them.  I  had  exactly  the  same  ex- 
perience with  "Zell",  which  was  the 
next  of  the  batch  that  I  took,  except 
that  the  characters  in  "Moon-Calf" 
were  not  unsympathetic,  and  those  in 
"Zell"  were  intolerably  so.  In  both 
these  books,  to  judge  by  the  informa- 
tive matter  printed  with  them,  there 
is  some  design,  but  in  neither  was 
there  any  trace  of  a  design  as  far  as  I 
went  with  them,  which,  as  I  have  said, 
was  rather  more  than  half  way.  There 
are  qualities  in  each  of  them  deserving 
of  respect,  and  I  do  not  quarrel  with 
their  popularity.  I  suppose  they  are 
true  to  the  life  they  depict,  and  that 
there  are  enough  people  in  this  coun- 
try who  would  get  their  pleasure  from 
them  by  recognition  of  their  surface 

truth.  But  in  either  case  the  scene  is 
essentially  unattractive,  and  insistence 
upon  its  details  is  not  enough  to  carry 
the  interest  of  a  stranger. 

In  "Miss  Lulu  Bett",  the  scene  is 
still  that  of  the  small  town  with  its 
confined  ideas  and  its  half -inarticulate 
speech,  but  the  depression  lifts;  for 
here  are  human  souls,  in  whose  work- 
ings one  can  find  something  to  which 
universal  experience  responds.  There 
is  nothing  new  in  the  main  idea  of  the 
story,  which  is  that  of  the  household 
drudge  who  finds  release  in  marriage 
when  she  is  past  her  youth.  But  there 
could  hardly  be  a  more  striking  exam- 
ple of  the  value  of  a  story  as  the 
string  upon  which  all  the  scattered 
pearls  of  sympathy  and  observation 
are  strung  to  make  them  a  coherent 
whole.  This  book  is  a  good  deal  less 
than  half  the  length  of  those  hitherto 
noticed,  but  it  is  all  there — ^the  little- 
ness, the  sterile  hopes  and  ambitions 
of  a  conmiunity  set  apart  from  the 
great  currents  of  life.  You  are  made 
to  see  them  because  the  author  stands 
aloof,  and  uses  her  gifts  of  irony  and 
humor  and  sympathy,  and  an  admir- 
able artistic  restraint  in  setting  her 
scene  and  presenting  her  characters. 
With  the  others  one  seems  to  be  forced 
into  participation  with  the  ugliness  of 
life,  even  a  little  to  be  soiled  by  it. 
But  nothing  is  common  or  unclean  if 
it  is  shot  through  with  the  qualities 
of  humanity.  Lulu  Bett,  washing  her 
dishes,  wearing  her  bedraggled  clothes, 
is  a  sympathetic  figure.  And  one  does 
want  to  know  what  is  going  to  happen 
to  her.  That  is  the  value  of  a  story : 
that  the  reader  should  be  carried  on 


i     Booth  Tarkington  is  past  master  in 

I  the  art  of  telling  a  story.  I  doubt  if 
there  is  any  living  novelist  to  excel 
him  in  the  manipulation  of  his  mate- 
rial so  as  to  get  the  height  of  narra- 



tive  interest  from  it.    The  point  of  in- 
terest in  "Alice  Adam8'^  for  the  pur- 
pose of  this  article^  is  that  he  has  for- 
saken the  path  of  romanticism  which 
he  has  followed  so  successfully  and  for 
so  long,  and  here  puts  himself  into  line 
with  modem  realism.    He  has  taken 
as  his  subject  the  manoeuvres  of  a 
very  pretty  girl  to  hold  her  own  in  a 
society  to  which  her  parents'  means 
are  not  adequate,  and  to  provide  her- 
self with  a  husband  of  superior  stand- 
ing.    It  is  not  an  inspiring  subject, 
and  the  author's  realism  has  made  it 
a  painful  one.    He  shows  us  no  respect 
for  his  heroine  until  the  very  last  page, 
when  we  see  her,  with  all  her  machina- 
tions frustrated,  plunging  courageous- 
ly into  a  new  life.    "Alice  Adams"  is 
a  far  more  damaging  indictment  of 
the  meanness  of  life  in  a  provincial 
town  than  any  of  the  others,  if  we  are 
to  take  the  heroine  and  her  unspeakable 
brother  as  representative  of  it.    But 
eacperience  forbids  us  to  do  so,  and 
Mr.  Tarkington  himself  has  provided 
one  or  two  characters  which,  if  equally 
emphasized,  would  have  created  ex- 
actly the  opposite  impression.   J 

Mrs.  Wharton's  "The  Agerdf  Inno- 
cence" seems  to  have  been  added  to 
the  list  as  an  afterthought.  It  has  lit- 
tle in  conmion  with  the  rest,  unless 
her  engaging  picture  of  life  in  New 
York  fifty  years  ago  is  to  be  considered 
as  typifying  the  narrowness  of  pro- 
vincialism. I  should  not  take  it  so.  It 
may  be  old-fashioned  compared  with 
the  life  of  today,  as  the  social  life  of 
fifty  years  ago  might  seem  old- 
fashioned  in  any  capital  city  of  the 
world,  or  not,  according  to  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  was  treated.  But  to 
read  this  novel  after  some  of  the  others 
is  like  coming  out  of  the  scullery  into 
the  drawing-room.  I  don't  mean  only 
that  its  characters  are  gentle  people 
instead  of  half-barbarians,  for  many 

novelists  can  make  the  society  of  os- 
tensible gentle-people  uncleanly,  and 
many  others  have  made  the  kitchen 
the  cleanest  and  most  attractive  room 
in  the  house.  It  is  not,  at  any  rate, 
the  fact  that  she  writes  about  people 
of  high  social  quality  that  makes  the 
charm  of  Mrs.  Wharton's  novel.  She 
writes  about  the  people  she  knows, 
which  is  the  best  thing  that  any  novel- 
ist can  do;  and  if  she  writes  about 
rather  a  narrow  circle,  so  did  Jane 
Austen,  and  made  immortal  stories 
about  it.  And  she  goes  deeper  into  es- 
sential humanity  than  any  of  the 
others,  who  are  engaged  chiefly  with 
the  surface  of  things. 

That  is  the  sum  of  my  criticism  of 
this  new  school,  if  it  is  a  new  school. 
"Main  Street"  seems  to  me  to  have 
far  more  excellences  than  any  of  the 
others,  but  it  is  engaged  chiefly  with 
the  surface  of  things,  and  designedly 
so.  It  sets  out  to  show  the  littleness 
of  a  certain  state  of  life,  and  it  suc- 
ceeds. It  is  an  indictment.  But  it  is 
not  a  very  powerful  indictment,  be- 
cause nearly  everything  is  left  out  that 
would  redeem  the  most  unattractive 
community  from  utter  meanness,  and 
the  very  people  who  are  held  up  to 
derision  would  feel  instinctively  that 
there  was  some  idealism  at  work 
among  them  of  which  account  should 
have  been  taken.  It  would  anger 
rather  than  set  them  toward  improv- 
ing themselves.  As  for  the  people  to 
whom  such  a  scene  is  quite  unfamiliar, 
it  may  be  said  that  a  little  of  it  goes  a 
long  way,  and  that  there  is  too  much 
of  it,  and  not  enough  of  what  lies  be- 
neath it. 

But  is  it  a  new  school?  If  it  is  to  be 
taken  as  merely  intent  upon  the  inci- 
dents and  accidents  of  daily  living  as 
they  exhibit  themselves  in  certain 
modern  communities  not  universally 



known,  it  may  be  called  so,  but  it  is  a 
school  with  no  future.  One  may  be  in- 
terested in  one  book,  if  it  is  well 
enough  written,  showing  how  very  un- 
pleasant certain  groups  of  people  can 
be  in  the  mass,  but  why  should  one 
want  to  go  on  reading  of  how  unpleas- 
ant they  are?  If  we  are  to  consider 
the  scene  in  which  most  of  these  novels 
is  laid  as  a  background  to  stories  of 
recognizable  human  character,  upon 
which  it  peculiarly  reacts,  then  we  can 
accept  it,  but  not  as  ansrthing  particu- 
larly new.  Hardy's  characters  react 
to  their  rural  English  surroundings, 
with  which  he  deals  in  the  most  care- 
ful detail,  and  there  are  innumerable 
novelists  to  whom  the  scene  seems 
more  important  than  the  life  set  forth 
upon  it.  But  in  a  novel  the  scene  can 
gain  importance  only  from  the  life. 

and  the  life  is  not  a  succession  of 
small  phenomena  without  any  deeper 
meaning,  but  the  great  stream  which 
flows  beneath  all  surface  happenings, 
wherever  they  may  be  placed. 

"Poor  White"  came  to  me  some  days 
after  I  had  written  the  above;  but, 
since  I  have  had  it  and  read  it,  I  can- 
not leave  it  altogether  out  of  account. 
Here  is  the  American  scene,  as  strik- 
ing and  as  vivid  as  that  of  any  of  the 
others,  but  kept  in  its  proper  place  as 
the  background  to  a  strong  and  mov- 
ing story  of  human  life,  and  so  gain- 
ing greatly  in  effect,  and  immeasur- 
ably in  meaning.  If  fiction  in  the 
suaver  Victorian  tradition  has  to  yield 
place  to  work  as  fine  and  direct  as  this, 
those  of  us  who  practise  the  difiicult 
art  need  have  no  fears  for  the  future. 

By  Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse 

I  CAME  to  the  mountains  for  beauty 
And  I  find  here  the  toiling  folk. 
On  sparse  little  farms  in  the  valleys. 
Wearing  their  days  like  a  yoke. 

White  clouds  fill  the  valleys  at  morning. 
They  are  round  as  great  billows  at  sea, 

And  roll  themselves  up  to  the  hill-tops 
Still  round  as  great  billows  can  be. 

The  mists  fill  the  valleys  at  evening. 
They  are  blue  as  the  smoke  in  the  fall. 

And  spread  all  the  hills  with  a  tenuous  scarf 
That  touches  the  hills  not  at  all. 

These  lone  folk  have  looked  on  them  daily. 
Yet  I  see  in  their  faces  no  light. 

Oh,  how  can  I  show  them  the  mountains 
That  are  round  them  by  day  and  by  night? 

By  Henry  Goodman 

With  Sketches  by  Joseph  Franki 

ri  HELL  with  those  damn  fools  up 
there!  They've  got  all  the  light 
the7  need.  That's  all  that's  necesaaiy 
for  them.  We're  a  bunch  of  dirty, 
loosy  dogs  as  far  as  they  care!" 

It  is  true  the  light  was  dim.  Fore- 
castles are  not  built  on  palatial  lines, 
nor  to  pander  or  indulge  the  occupants. 
Besides,  seamen  are  not  supposed  to 
be  playing  checkers  after  hours,  nor 
are  th^  ordered  to  read.  Naturally 
the  light  provided  in  the  forecastle 
was  not  designed  to  abet  either  of 
these  desires. 

So  that  Joe  Hodgins,  who  had  just 
quit  his  watch  as  lookout  and  who  was 
now  intent  on  the  game  he  was  play- 
ing, was  made  wroth  by  the  poor  light. 
His  sombre  eyes,  filled  usually  with  a 
deep  serioDsnesB.  were  shot  with  burn- 

ing anger.  He  appealed  to  Roman,  his 
opponent  at  the  game,  a  short,  heavy- 
set  young  man  in  the  late  twenties. 

"Roman,  my  boy,  keep  off  the  sea." 
With  an  impatient  move  Hodgins 
brushed  the  checkers  off  the  board. 
"I  can't  play,  boy.  My  eyes  get  queer 
when  I  look  at  those  splotches.  Christ, 
if  they'd  put  a  decent  light  in  here, 
you  might  read  for  a  change,  eh?  Got 
some  books  with  me — stole  'em  from  a 
library — Robert  Chambers,  Tolstoy." 

"Tolstoy,  hey?"  Roman  asked  in 
wonder.  But  then  Hodgins's  eyes  were 
those  of  a  mim  who  had  read  much 
and  who  had  gazed  knowing'ly  on 
beauty.  They  were  warm,  tempera- 
mental eyes,  even  though  the  white 
cataract  in  the  left  was  a  blind  stare 
in  your  face. 



Roman  was  curious  about  Hodgins, 
but  he  said  nothing:.  He  would  not  dis- 
turb the  wistf  ulness  that  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  fallen  upon  the  sailor  be- 
fore him,  shrouding  him  in  distance 
and  unwonted  moodiness.  Instead  he 
studied  Hodgins;  the  scarred,  sickly 
yellow  face;  the  eyes  that  had  lost  their 
angry  fires  and  were  now  dim  fanes  in 
which  walked  figures  he  could  not  see; 
the  nose  long  and  straight,  with  nos- 
trils delicately  modeled;  the  long  thin 
lips  that  were  flat  over  the  weak,  vacil- 
lating chin. 

Who  was  this  Hodgins,  this  able- 
seaman  who  had  surprised  him  early 
one  morning  by  his  graceful  and  deep- 
ly sincere  recitation  of  "Flanders 
Fields"?  What  manner  of  man  was 
this  who,  in  a  hasty  summing  up  of 
the  authors  he  liked,  ranged  in  one 
gallery  Robert  W.  Chambers  and  Tol- 
stoy; Service  and  Eapling  and  Brown- 
ing and  Rex  Beach,  Tennyson  and 
Longfellow  and  Bret  Harte,  and  to  cap 
the  climax,  included  "brother  Will 

Roman,  watching  Hodgins,  won- 
dered why  the  seaman  should  have 
warned  him,  so  earnestly,  to  stay  off 
the  sea.  Could  it  be  that  Hodgins  had 
suffered  some  cynical  experience  on 
shipboard  to  blind  him  to  all  the  stir- 
ring beauties  that  were  the  free  re- 
ward of  all  who  would  use  their  eyes 
and  hearts? 

Even  now,  thought  Roman,  even 
here,  the  fo'c's'le  stuffy  as  it  is;  the 
ship  slow  as  she  is,  all  are  part  of  the 
poignant  beauty  of  the  night.  As  he 
thought,  his  eyes  staring  out  of  the 
port  hole  at  sea  and  rounded,  deep  sky, 
Roman  listened  to  the  heavy,  even 
tread  of  the  lookout  on  the  forecastle 
head.  The  night,  dark  and  with  a 
heavy  mist  blurring  the  few  stars, 
made  the  lookout's  work  particularly 
exacting.    From  side  to  side  the  look- 

out walked,  his  feet  crashing  down  in 
heavy,  regular  succession  on  the  steel 
roof  over  the  heads  of  the  crew.  In 
his  mind's  eye  Roman  could  see  Tom, 
muflled  up  in  his  oilskins,  as  he  stopped 
for  a  moment  to  gaze  ahead  from  the 
port  and  then  from  the  starboard  side 
of  the  ship. 

High  on  the  bridge  the  bell  struck 
the  half  hour. 

There  came  the  stumbling  of  the 
lookout's  feet  as  he  hurried  to  the  bell 
on  the  forecastle-head.  The  forecastle 
bell  boomed  its  swinging,  echoing  call: 
"Dong,  dong."  Tom's  voice,  high- 
pitched  and  drawn-out,  called:  "All's 
well,  sir." 

Roman  was  quick  to  take  the  cue. 

"Hodgins,"  he  said,  'there's  the 
good  word  for  you.  'All's  well,  sir.' 
Man  alive  I  Just  think  of  it.  Here  we 
are — ^a  crew  of  thirty-two  souls, 
thirty-two  humans — ^with  hearts  and 
hopes  and  all  sorts  of  secret  desires 
and  plans  and  ambitions.  Here  we 
are,  in  the  night  on  the  open  sea.  If 
a  storm  should  come  up;  if  a  sudden 
pulse  should  quicken  its  course  in  the 
sea;  if  a  derelict  should  loom  up  in 
the  night — ^and  it's  a  dark  night,  too — 
we  are  as  good  as  done  for.  Yet  we 
put  one  pair  of  eyes  up  there  at  look- 
out and  we  get  into  our  bunks,  and 
some  of  us",  he  pointed  to  the  sleeping 
men  in  the  bunks,  "sleep  the  sleep  of 
the  righteous.  Faith,  man,  that's  what 
it  is.  Faith  in  the  feeling,  the  instinct, 
that  we  are  in  the  palm  of  Him,  or 
Someone,  who  sees  all  and  knows  all. 
He  will  look  after  us." 

"Hell  with  that  stuff.  Come  off  it, 
son,"  was  Hodgins's  rejoinder.  Hod- 
gins stood  up.  His  tall,  loose  frame 
towered  over  Roman.  He  stretched 
his  long  arms  out,  spat  on  the  fore- 
castle floor  with  an  angry  twist  of  his 
lips,  then  sat  down  again.  For  a  min- 
ute he  looked  in  silence  at  Roman, 



studying  the  sober  face,  the  dark  quiet 
eyes,  and  the  firm,  curving  lips. 

"Look  here,  Roman  Faith — ^that's 
damned  piffle.  The  reason  those  guys 
sleep  as  they  do  is  they  don't  give  a 
damn  whether  they  get  up  or  not.  I 
don't  give  a  hang  whether  I  live  or 

'Tou  talk  of  faith,  do  yuh?  Well, 
listen!  You  sound  like  a  man  that's 
read  and  heard  of  things.  I  don't 
know  why  you  are  here.  Like  as  not 
some  love  affair — eh? — girl  thrown 
yuh  over.  It  don't  matter:  stay  off 
the  sea's  what  I  got  to  tell  yuh.  Stay 
off!    Don't  make  another  voyage,  see! 

"Now  then,  since  we're  talking,  let 
me  tell  you  what  I'm  doing  here."  He 
stopped  to  look  at  Roman  with  a  close, 
penetrating  look.  The  cataract  eye 
was  white  in  the  dimness  of  the  fore- 

'•You've  read  Jack  London,  eh?" 

"Why,  of  course.  'The  Call  of  the 
Wild',  The  Sea  Wolf,  and",  Roman 
answered  until  interrupted  by  the 
swift,  excited,  vibrant  voice  of  Hod- 
gins.  Hodgins's  fingers  closed  tight 
on  Roman's  wrist. 

"Thaf s  it. .  /The  Sea  Wolf.  And 
for  reading  that  book  and  believin'  it 
and  trustin'  in  it,  I've  paid  with  ten 
years  of  my  life." 

Hodgrine's  voice,  resentful  and  pas- 
sionate, was  loud  because  of  the  cres- 
cendo of  intensity  which  carried  it. 

From  a  bunk  in  a  far  comer  came 
the  protesting,  angry  voice  of  Pete 
Frandsen  who  had  been  awakened 
from  sleep. 

"Hey  dere,  for  the  Loard's  sake, 
Hodyens,  caint  you  let  a  fallo  sleep?" 

"Shut  your  trap,  Swede,  or  just  go 
plumb  to.    Get  me !" 

And  disregarding  Frandsen's  pro- 
test, Hodgins  turned  back  to  Roman. 

"I've  been  ten  years  on  the  sea; — 
ten  yean  tryin'  to  get  away  from  it. 

I've  been  on  every  sort  of  dirty  hulk: 
British  limee,  freighter,  tank,  passen- 
ger. I've  been  ordinary  and  I've 
stoked;  I've  been  at  the  wheel  as  quar- 
termaster and  now  I'm  back  just  a 
plain  A.B.  I've  left  the  damned  ships 
at  Galveston  and  Genoa,  at  Singapore 
and  Havana  and  Liverpool  and  Havre 
and  London.  And  each  time  I'd  made 
up  my  mind  to  stay  off  and  each  time 
I  had  to  come  back." 

In  the  silence  of  Hodgins's  pause 
Roman  heard  the  snoring  of  the  sleep- 
ers in  the  bunks  and  a  soft  liquid  tap- 
ping, as  of  playful  fingers,  on  the 
plates  of  the  ships.  Out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eyes,  set  on  Hodgins,  he  could 
see  the  long  legs  of  Tony  overflowing 
the  cramped  space  of  his  bunk.  Mex- 
ico's round  body,  a  blurred,  yellow  hill 
underneath  the  blankets,  quivered  with 
the  dull  shaking  of  the  vessel.  The 
smoke  of  Hodgins's  cigarette  swayed 
and  spread  in  tenuous  fibres  close  to 
the  ceiling.  Now  the  throbbing  of  the 
engines  became  audible  and  mingled 
with  the  soft,  liquid  tapping  of  the 
calm  sea  on  the  other  side  of  the  steel 

"You  wonder  why?"  said  Hodgins 
looking  into  Roman's  questioning  eyes. 
"I've  a  kid  sister  to  support.  Had  to 
support  her  since  my  first  trip  in  quest 
of  Mr.  Jack  London's  heroic  'Sea 
Wolf.  When  I  got  back  I  found  my 
parents  had  died,  both  of  'em.  There 
was  the  kid  to  take  care  of  and  only 
me  to  do  it.  I'd  left  college — ^yes  sir, 
C.  C.  N.  Y.  to  be  exact — after  I  read 
about  the  Wolf. 

"I  just  couldn't  keep  going  to  class 
day  in,  day  out.  Nothing  happenin' — 
and  me  layin'  awake  nights  dreaming 
about  the  sea  and  Wolf  Larsen  and  all 
the  wild  adventures.  So  one  day  I 
went  down  to  the  docks  on  Water 
Street  and  signed  up  on  a  British 
lime-juicer.    Never  let  the  folks  know 



about  it.  No,  had  no  quarrel  with  'em. 
They  were  just  too  respectable  for  me. 
When  I  came  back  they  were  gone.  I 
had  no  trade;  I  couldn't  tackle  any 
job;  and  there  she  was,  needin'  some- 
one to  pay  for  her  keep. 

"I've  asked  myself  many  times," 
Hodgins  said,  half  in  soliloquy. 
"Maybe  I  didn't  try  hard  enough  on 
shore.  Maybe  I  coulda  found  a  job. 
But  you  know  a  sailor  ia  always  a  good- 
for-nothing  to  folks  aahore.  Soon  as 
they  found  I  was  a  seaman  they  just 
cut  me  loose.  All  you  got  to  do  is  tell 
a  guy  you're  a  sailor.  He  knows  you 
booze  and  you  go  in  for  women  and 
you're  too  damned  much  on  adventure 
to  be  worth  a  damn. 

"So  back  I  went  to  sea,  hoping  al- 
ways I'd  get  off  at  some  place.  And 
here  I  am  yet.  And  as  for  Jack  Lon- 
don— that  stuff  about  these  seamen 
being  great  guns — the  master-men 
dope  don't  go,  as  far  as  I  know.  The 
officers  are  mostly  just  damn  hard 
guys.  They  don't  know  a  hell  of  a  lot 
and  think  you're  a  fool  if  you  read  a 

"Many's  the  time  I'd've  given  some- 
thing if  I  could  get  killed.  That's  why 
I  went  to  war.  I  haven't  the  nerve  to 
do  it  myself.  There's  that  kid  and  she 
wants  to  go  to  high  school  now." 

Hodgins  laughed  in  a  queer  way. 
His  lips  rolled  back  and  the  cataract 
eye  swung  toward  Roman. 

"And  then,"  he  continued,  "the 
funny  thing  is  the  grip  of  the  sea.  I 
was  a  teamster  in  one  of  my  getaways. 
Spring  came  on.    The  air  was  kinda 

softening  and  sweet.  I  thought  of  the 
way  the  sea-wind  was  blowing.  I  had 
to  get  away  from  shore.  I  left  the 
team  and  wagon  on  the  street.  I  had 
my  seaman's  ticket  and  signed  up  once 
more.  Here  I  am  again,  a  lousy  dog 
in  this  hole.  Roman,  my  boy,  don't 
make  a  next  trip.  Just  get  off  and 
stay.  And  now,  a'il  voua  piail,  as  we'd 
say  at  college,  let's  turn  in." 

A  wave  of  sympathy  flooded  Roman ; 
sympathy  for  Hodgins  in  the  vortex 
of  his  chaotic  desires  and  failures,  in 
all  the  extremities  of  passion  which  he 
had  never  known  how  to  direct  in  one 
limpid  channel 

'Tl'ou've  been  through  a  pretty 
rough  mill,"  he  said  to  Hodgins,  who 
was  climbing  into  his  bunk. 

"Yes.  But  what  the  hell's  the  good 
of  it?"  Hodgins  was  silent  a  moment 
A  sudden  wind  was  blowing  the  sea 
against  the  ship's  sides  and  from  the 
rails  along  the  forecastle-head  came 
the  wail  of  the  flying  wind.  It  was  a 
clear  voice,  but  the  language  was  the 
impenetrable  secret  of  the  sea. 

"Just  listen  to  that;  just  listen. 
That  always  gets  me,"  Hodgins  said 
with  quiet  feeling.    Roman  was  silent. 

High  on  the  bridge  "four  bells" 

The  stumbling  steps  of  the  lookout 
broke  the  silence  in  the  forecastle. 
The  bell  on  the  forecastle-head  boomed 
in  answer. 

The  lookout  called  in  the  night: 
"All's  well,  sir",  and  a  distant  voice, 
curt  and  sudden  like  an  officer's  com* 
mand,  answered:    "All  is  well!" 


By  Maurice  Francis  Egan 

PUBLISHERS  probably  understand 
the  psychology  of  the  crowd,  as 
well  as  the  psychology  of  the  indi- 
vidual ;  theatrical  managers  are  notor- 
iously deficient  in  this  knowledge. 
Augustin  Daly  once  said  that  a  play 
might  be  of  absorbing  interest  in  the 
reading  and  at  the  rehearsal,  but  turn 
out  on  the  first  night  to  be  a  terrible 
bore,  even  to  those  who  believed  in  it 
."The  costume  drama",  said  a  distin- 
guished manager,  "is  done.  You  can- 
not get  up  a  particle  of  interest  in  ro- 
mance- when  it  wears  great  hoopskirts 
and  periwigs ;  and  as  for  the  drama  of 
southern  life,  it  is  dead."  This  was 
said  in  Mr.  Daly's  time  too;  but  how 
many  costume  dramas,  and  how  many 
southern  stories  have  been  out  on  the 
stage  successfully  since  1880?  There 
will  always  exist  lovers  of  the  histor- 
ical drama  and  the  historical  play  and, 
even  in  greater  numbers,  of  the  novel 
of  quiet  life;  the  more  exciting  the 
times  become,  the  more  a  certain  num- 
ber of  human  beings  turn  to  the  quiet 
novel  and  to  poetry.  Who  would  have 
said  five  years  ago  that  publishers 
would  welcome  verse  instead  of  treat- 
ing it  as  a  thing  beloved  by  the  elect 
but  despised  of  the  people? 

Wilkie  CoUins's  "Man  and  Wife" 
and  Charles  Reade's  "It  is  Never  Too 
Late  to  Mend"  and  Whyte-Melville's 
racing  stories,  and  "Elsie  Venner"  by 
the  great  Doctor  Holmes,  and  "all  the 
sensations  of  our  youth"  including 
"Ishmael"  or  "Out  of  the  Depths"  by 
the  good  Mrs.  E.  D.  N.  Southworth, 
are  forgotten.    Who  now  remembers 



a  delectable  romance  by  Pierce  Egan, 
Jr.— "Lady  Violet ;  or  The  Wonder  of 
Kingswood  Chase"?  Many  novels  of 
"contemporaneous  human  interest" 
and  tumultuous  violences  have  passed 
away;  but  Mrs.  Gaskell's  "Cranford 
and,  in  a  lesser  degree,  "The  Warden 
of  Anthony  Trollope,  will  never  pass! 

In  the  beginning  of  the  war,  when 
everybody  in  Europe  was  bewildered, 
amazed,  horribly  troubled,  I  took  ref- 
uge during  the  few  quiet  evenings  left 
to  me  in  the  novels  of  Anthony  Trol- 
lope and  Mrs.  Oliphant.  Now  Mrs. 
Oliphant  is  not  to  be  despised;  not 
even  Trollope  himself  has  done  better 
in  his  clerical  novels  of  English  life 
than  she,  in  the  "Chronicles  of  Car— 
lingford",  of  which  "Phoebe  Jr."  is 
one  of  the  best.  Mrs.  Oliphant's 
novels  are  unequal,  largely  because  she 
wrote  too  often  against  time — "Black- 
wood's Magazine"  seemed  to  be  a  great 
sponge  which  absorbed  everything  she 
produced.  Sometimes,  like  Trollope  in 
"Phineas  Redux",  she  makes  the  quiet 
greyness  of  her  atmosphere  lurid  with 
a  murder  or  two;  but  one  takes  this 
as  one  takes  the  melodrama  of  "The 
House  of  Merrilees"  by  Archibald 
Marshall,  as  an  excusable  affliction. 

It  was  astonishing  to  discover  how 
many  of  my  English-speaking  col- 
leagues, during  the  war,  took  to  Trol- 
lope. The  quiet  novel  seemed  to  have 
disappeared,  and  one  grew  weary  of 
Mr.  Wells  and  all  the  New  School  when 
they  began  to  preach.  It  seemed  to  the 
average  intellect  that  people  who  knew 
so  much  ought  to  have  prevented  the 




war,  and  one  became  terribly  bored  by 
sociological  problems,  even  when 
charmingly  considered  by  Viola  Mey- 
nell,  whose  devotion  to  the  New 
Thought  and  the  New  Method  could 
not  conceal  her  genius.  But  after  all, 
your  novel  reader  wants  what  he 
toanta;  sometimes  it  is  a  great  fat 
muffin,  like  "Alice-f or-Short'' ;  some- 
times a  really  strong  drink,  like  "The 
Prisoner  of  Zenda"  or  "The  Master  of 
Ballantrae".  There  is  no  use  arguing 
with  him;  and  when  he  wanted  some- 
thing quiet,  nothing  quiet  seemed  to 
be  forthcoming.  The  English  reader 
almost  seemed  inclined  to  return  in 
despair  to  Miss  Mitford's  "Our  Vil- 
lage", the  American  hauled  out  the 
books  of  Sarah  Ome  Jewett  and  Nora 
Perry;  but  he  did  not  want  short 
stories,  he  desired  above  all  things 
acres  of  comfortable  quietness. 

None  of  the  novelists  seemed  to  be 
quiet  enough.  Suddenly  came  J.  E. 
Buckrose  with  "The  Gossip  Shop"  and 
"The  Matchmakers"  and  "The  Silent 
Legion",  and  then,  just  as  suddenly, 
Archibald  Marshall  was  discovered. 
He  was  just  what  we  all,  hardened 
novel  readers,  wanted.  Here  were 
peaches  and  cream  —  Devonshire 
cream;  people  with  no  brains  to  speak 
of  (or,  at  least  if  they  had  brains,  they 
never  spoke  of  them)  ;  young  ladies  to 
whom  Bernard  Shaw  would  be  incom- 
prehensible. Wells  repellent,  and  Ar- 
nold Bennett  merely  an  educational 
study  in  modem  style ;  they  are  grand- 
daughters of  Trollope's  Lily  Dale, 
grandnieces  of  his  Duchess  of  Om- 
nium, and  near  relatives  to  all  those 
Squires  and  Squiresses  who  live  in  the 
very  comfortable  houses  which  Mrs. 
Oliphant  delighted  to  build. 

To  Dr.  William  Lyon  Phelps  we  owe 
an  authoritative  command  to  read 
Archibald  Marshall's  novels.  It  is  cu- 
rious how  interest  in  a  comparatively 

unknown  book  grows.  The  professional 
critic  does  not,  as  a  rule,  discover  it 
first;  it  is  read  by  somebody  of  sym- 
pathy and  taste,  who  recommends  it  to 
somebody  else,  and  the  interest  waxes. 
I  had  just  finished,  as  an  invalid,  my 
twenty-fifth  course  of  Jane  Austen's 
novels.  I  found  no  comfort  in  Mrs. 
Humphry  Ward ;  Arnold  Bennett,  after 
"Clayhanger",  gave  me  no  consolation ; 
I  had  finished  every  book  I  could  find 
of  the  soothing  Buckrose,  when  one  day 
a  very  interesting  lady  said,  "If  you 
want  to  understand  my  husband  you 
must  study  Squire  Clinton."  "Who  is 
Squire  Clinton?"  I  asked.  "Mar- 
shall's Squire  Clinton,  of  course,"  she 
said;  and  a  few  days  after  this  "The 
Squire's  Daughter",  "The  Eldest  Son", 
"The  Honour  of  the  Clintons",  and 
"The  Old  Order  Changeth"  arrived  by 
post.  After  this  I  was  not  compelled 
to  go,  as  a  last  resort,  back  to  Miss 
Mitford's  "Our  Village".  I  at  once 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  delect- 
able Squire  Clinton,  whom  every  dis- 
criminating person  ought  to  know. 
He  is  one  of  the  most  exasperating 
persons  in  literature,  yet  he  is  so  in- 
tensely human  and  so  true  to  life  that 
you  are  compelled  to  return  to  his  com- 
pany, and — ^this  is  a  very  great  com- 
pliment to  his  creator — ^you  find  your- 
self inventing  murderous  things  which 
his  wife,  being  a  good  Englishwoman 
of  the  old  school,  ought  to  say,  but 
never  does!  He  permeates  the  four 
novels  I  have  mentioned,  which  ought 
to  be  read  in  succession. 

As  I  always  read  everything  written 
by  Doctor  Phelps,  I  naturally  discov- 
ered his  brochure  on  Marshall.  It  was 
delightful  to  find  such  an  authorita- 
tive corroboration  of  a  reason  for  my 
own  pleasure  in  Marshall's  works, 
though  I  objected  at  once  to  his  as- 
sumption that  Mr.  Marshall  is  either 
the  successor,  the  reincarnation,  or  the 



SQccessful  imitator  of  Anthony  Trol- 
Jope.  One  mi^rht  as  weU  compare  roast 
beef  and  Yorkshire  pudding  with  a 
l^aas  of  Pontet  Canet  '93,  with  chicken 
k  la  Marengo  and  a  drop  of  Ch&teau 
Yquem !  It  cannot  be  done  I  Mr.  Mar- 
shall is  really  like  nobody  but  himself; 
but  one  of  the  first  conventions  of  the 
critic  is  the  tradition  of  comparison. 
When  Mr.  Marshall  tries  to  be  any- 
body else,  as  he  does  in  "The  House  of 
Merrilees'',  where  he  attempts  an  im- 
possible bit  of  melodrama,  or  in  "Up- 
8idonia'%  a  theme  which  Mr.  Howells 
alone  could  treat  with  success,  he  fails. 
It  has  occurred  to  me  that  in  the  quest 
for  the  quiet  novel  I  should  have  found 
The  Lady  of  the  Aroostook",  "Their 
Wedding  Journey",  'The  Rise  of  Silas 
Liqiham",  near  at  hand;  but  after  all, 
Mr.  Howells's  novels  are  not  quiet 
novels;  their  pictures  of  an  unquiet 
mental  life,  while  sure  to  be  ranked 
among  the  classics,  are  restlessly 
American.  In  moments  of  stress  and 
trouble  some  of  Mr.  Howells's  heroes 
nught  be  driven  to  whisky, — ^but  never 
to  tea;  and  a  quiet  life  without  the 
regular  relays  of  tea  is  impossible ! 

Mr.  Marshall  has  not  the  solidity  of 
Anthony  Trollope.  There  is  no  novel 
in  all  this  delightful  set  that  ranks 
with  "The  Warden"  or  "  Barchester 
Towers"  or  with  "Phineas  Finn",  until 
we  come  to  the  useless  murder  of  Mr. 
Bonteen — Trollope  was  not  good  at 
murders.  One  might  as  well  compare 
Marshall  with  Miss  Austen,  which 
would  be  absurd,  for  Mr.  Marshall  can- 
not avoid,  when  he  paints  a  bore,  mak- 
ing us  feel  the  boredom  of  the  bore, 
whereas  Miss  Austen  makes  us  enjoy 
bores.  If  one  must  make  comparisons, 
one  may  use  Mrs.  Oliphant  at  her  best; 
this,  however,  gives  no  real  light  on 
Marshall's  position  as  a  novelist.  In 
the  first  place,  he  is  true  to  the  life  he 
knows.    Intolerant  people,  filled  with 

the  New  Thought,  say  that  the  life 
he  presents  is  such  a  useless  life  that 
it  will  soon  be  as  extinct  as  the  Dodo. 
Fortunately,  Mr.  Marshall  does  not 
think  so;  and  in  "The  New  Order 
Changeth"  he  shows  us  that  beautiful 
and  well-ordered  lives  almost  free 
from  restlessness  though  not  free 
from  anxieties,  may  still  be  led  in 
England,  with  money,  and  not  land, 
as  a  basis.  This  is  a  view  which 
Anthony  Trollope  and  Mrs.  Oliphant 
and,  above  all,  the  master,  Thackeray, 
would  never  have  taken. 

Anyone  who  knows  English  country 
life,  who  has  had  the  pleasure  of  being 
with  intimate  friends  in  the  houses  of 
any  county  of  England,  cannot  fail  to 
be  delighted  with  the  truth  of  Mr. 
Marshall's  pictures.  He  is  never 
satirical;  he  is  never  hard,  or  glaci, 
as  Mrs.  Ward  frequently  is.  He  has 
few  touches  of  high  spirituality,  it  is 
true.  Even  Monsignor  Benson  of  "The 
Sentimentalist"  and  "The  Convention- 
alist", who  hated  the  unmystical  char- 
acter of  his  countrymen,  would  find 
great  difficulty  in  inducing  any  of  Mr. 
Marshall's  characters  to  accept  the 
ecstasies  of  Saint  Teresa  or  Francis 
Thompson.  Mr.  Marshall's  clerics 
have  forgotten  the  Oxford  movement; 
they  are  keen  for  the  retention  of  the 
Church  Establishment  because  it  pre- 
serves their  livings ;  they  have  no  the- 
ological ardor  except  in  the  case  of  the 
wonderfully  portrayed  Mrs.  Prentice, 
in  "Exton  Manor",  or  of  Mrs.  Merrow. 

Mr.  Marshall  has  none  of  Anthony 
TroUope's  rage  against  the  inequality 
of  the  poor  parson,  as  compared  with 
the  rich  one  (Trollope  had  been 
brought  up  among  poor  parsons)  ;  and 
Mr.  Marshall,  being  nothing  of  a 
preacher  himself,  does  not  idealize  the 
character  of  his  delightful  bishop,  or 
of  the  various  clergsrmen  who  orna- 
ment his  pages.    His  small  gallery  of 



clerical  portraits  is  carefully  studied. 
One  is  tempted  to  wish  that  he  had  in- 
troduced a  poignantly  spiritual  con- 
trast to  these  gentlemen  who  evidently 
feel  that  the  world  cannot  go  alto- 
gether wrong  so  long  as  the  Estab- 
lished Church  of  England  remains. 
This,  however,  might  be  asking  too 
much  of  an  author  whose  value  con- 
sists in  his  power  of  portraying  what 
he  sees  rather  than  what  he  feels.  And 
from  this  point  of  view  Mr.  Marshall 
is  eminently  satisfactory. 

Some  of  the  serious-minded  critics 
declare  that  Mr.  Marshall's  range  is 
too  limited,  that  he  knows  nothing  of 
real  life  outside  of  his  own  tight  little 
island  and  the  gentry  of  its  counties; 
that  he  must  have  an  idle  mind  because 
he  evidently  rather  likes  people  who 
are  credited  with  leisure  because  they 
do  not  spin.  This  is  said  by  the  ear- 
nest admirers  of  the  modem  intensely 
activist  movement — ^which,  however, 
will  pass  before  it  can  destroy  all  the 
beauty  in  the  world.  That  Mr.  Mar- 
shall does  understand  phases  of  char- 
acter which  are  not  purely  English  is 
shown  especially  in  his  treatment  of 
the  Frenchman,  the  Marquis  de  Las- 
signy  in  "Abington  Abbey".  Grafton, 
in  that  novel,  is  a  thoroughly  English 
father  of  a  very  different  type  from 
Squire  Clinton,  but  with  some  of  his 
idiosjmcrasies.  Lassigny  is  in  love 
with  Grafton's  daughter  Beatrix. 
Grafton  is  determined  to  break  off  the 
engagement,  for  Lassigny  is  every- 
thing which  Grafton  detests:  he  is 
French;  he  is  a  Catholic,  though  this 
seems  to  count  only  incidentally;  he 
is  not  so  virtuous  as  Grafton  assumes, 
with  some  conceit,  all  Englishmen  in 
the  social  position  of  the  Marquis  are ; 
— in  a  word,  Lassigny  is  not  English. 

Permit  me  to  give  the  interview — 
page  211 — ^between  Grafton  and  the 
Marquis.    Lassigny  says: 

"In  my  own  country — ^but  you  must  remem- 
ber that  I  am  only  half  French— one  makes 
love,  and  one  also  marries.  The  two  things 
don't  of  necessity  go  together.  But  I  have 
known  England  for  a  long  enough  time  to  pre- 
fer the  English  way." 

This  was  exactly  the  opening  that  Grafton 
wanted,  but  had  hardly  expected  to  be  given 
in  so  obvious  a  way. 

'^Exactly  so !"  he  said,  leaning  forward  a  lit- 
tle, with  his  arm  on  the  table  by  his  side.  "You 
marry  and  you  make  love,  and  the  two  things 
don't  go  together.  Well,  with  us  they  do  go 
together ;  and  that's  why  I  won't  let  my  daugh- 
ters marry  anybody  but  Englishmen,  if  I  can 
help  it." 

Lassigny  looked  merely  surprised.  '*But  what 
do  you  think  I  meant?"  he  asked.  *'I  love 
Beatrix.  I  love  her  with  the  utmost  respect. 
I  pay  her  all  the  honour  I  can  in  asking  her  to 
be  my  wife." 

"And  how  many  women  have  you  loved  be- 
fore?" asked  Grafton.  "And  how  many  are 
you  going  to  love  afterwards?" 

Lassigny  recoiled,  with  a  dark  flush  on  his 
face.  "But  do  you  want  to  insult  me?"  he 

"Look  here,  Lassigny,"  said  Grafton  again. 
**We  belong  to  two  different  nations.  I'm  not 
going  to  pick  my  words,  or  disguise  my  mean- 
ing, out  of  compliment  to  you.  It's  far  too 
serious.  You  must  take  me  as  an  Englishman. 
You  know  enough  about  us  to  be  able  to  do  it." 

"WeU !"  said  Lassigny,  grudgingly,  after  a 
pause.  "You  asked  me  a  question.  You  asked 
me  two  questions.  I  think  they  are  not  the 
questions  that  one  gentleman  ought  to  ask  of 
another.  It  should  be  enough  that  I  pay  honour 
to  the  one  I  love.  My  name  is  old,  and  has 
dignity.     I  have — " 

"Oh,  we  needn't  go  into  that,"  Grafton  in- 
terrupted him.  "We  treat  as  equals  there,  with 
the  advantage  on  your  side,  if  it's  anywhere." 

"But,  pardon  me;  we  must  go  into  it.  It 
is  essential.  What  more  can  I  do  than  to  offer 
my  honourable  name  to  your  daughter?  It 
means  much  to  me.  If  I  honour  it,  as  I  do,  I 
honour  her." 

"I  know  you  honour  her,  in  your  way.  It 
isn't  our  way.  I'll  ask  you  another  question  of 
the  sort  you  say  one  gentleman  ought  not  to 
ask  of  another.  Should  you  consider  it  dis- 
honouring your  name,  or  dishonouring  the 
woman  you've  given  it  to,  to  make  love  to  some- 
body else,  after  you've  been  married  a  year  or 
two,  if  the  fancy  takes  you?" 

Lassigny  rose  to  his  feet.  "Mr.  Grafton," 
he  said,  "I  don't  understand  you.  I  think  it  is 
you  who  are  dishonouring  your  own  daughter, 
whom  I  love,  and  shall  always  love." 

Grafton,  without  rising,  held  up  a  finger  at 
him.  "How  am  I  dishonouring  her?"  he  asked 
with  insistence.  "Tell  me  why  you  say  I'm 
dishonouring  her." 

Lassigny  looked  down  at  him.     '*To  me,"  he 



>wl7,  **8he  Is  the  most  beaatiful  and  the 
It  girl  on  earth.  Don't  you  think  so 
[  thought  yoo  did." 

too  rose.  "You've  said  it;  it's  her 
"  he  said  more  qnickly.  "If  she  loses 
as  she  will  lose  it  with  her  youth, — she 
ML  I*m  not  going  to  let  her  in  for  that 
'  dlsfflusionment." 

Igny  was  very  stiff  now,  and  entirely  un- 
I  in  manner,  and  even  in  appearance. 
D  me,  Mr.  Grafton,  for  having  misnn- 
d  your  point  of  view.  If  it  is  a  Puritan 
nt  for  your  daughter  I  fear  I  am  out  of 
suing.  I  withdraw  my  application  to 
her  hand." 

5  mother  of  the  discarded  Mar- 
makes  an  attempt  to  set  things 
She  fails;  and  most  English 
5,  but  very  few  who  are  French, 
ympathize  with  Grafton's  point 
jw.  The  conversation  occurs  in 
igton  Abbey",  page  263. 

un*t  brought  to  Europe  to  marry  a  title, 

e  of  our  girls  are.     It  was  a  chance  I 

I  was  in  love  with  my  husband,  and 

rrled  life  was  all  I  could  wish  for,  as 

It  lasted.  It  would  be  the  same,  I  feel 
1th  your  daughter.** 

ton  smiled  at  her.  "If  we  are  to  talk 
Irectly,'*  he  said,  ''and  it's  no  good  talk- 
ftU  if  we  don't — I  must  say  that,  as  far 
mn  judge,  American  women  are  more 
>Ie  than  English.  They  adapt  them- 
here  to  our  ideas,  when  they  marry 
imen,  and  they  adapt  themselves  to 
men,  whose  ways  are  different  from  ours. 

think  an  English  girl  could  adapt  her- 
certain  things  that  are  taken  for  grant* 
9*rance.  I  don't  think  that  a  girl  like 
hould  be  asked  to.  She  wouldn't  be 
d  for  it.  It  would  be  a  great  shock  to 
It  happened.     She  would  certainly  have 

to  blame  her  father  if  she  were  made 
y  by  it.  I  don't  want  my  daughters  to 
ne  for  anything." . . . 

I  have  said,  one  should  begin  the 
with  "The  Squire's  Daughter" ; 
t  one  begins  the  series,  one  will 
t>liged  to  go  on.  Take  the  begin- 
of  the  first  chapter  in  "The 
b's  Daughter".  Squire  Clinton 
s:  "I  recollect  the  time  when 
"omen  going  to  a  ball  were  a  big 
fa  load  for  any  carriage.  You 
ay  what  you  like  about  crinolines, 
have  seen  some  very  pretty 
a  in  them  in  my  time.' 


You  settle  down  for  a  contented 
hour,  after  that !  Callers  would  be  un- 
welcome ! 

"The  Greatest  of  These"  contains 
some  good  pictures — not  only  sketches. 
Mrs.  Merrow,  the  wife  of  the  evan- 
gelistic clergyman,  and  Mrs.  Prentice 
can  never  rank  near  to  Trollope's  peer- 
less Mrs.  Proudie;  but  they  have  a 
place  of  their  own.  Mrs.  Merrow  is 
not  the  socially  downtrodden  "dis- 
senter" of  the  Victorian  novels;  the 
non-conformist  is  a  different  person 
now.  She  is  rather  a  haughty  lady, 
not  at  all  awed  by  the  rank  of  the  wife 
of  the  rector.  Lady  Ruth,  who  is  alto- 
gether charming — she  was  a  daughter 
to  the  Earl  of  Hampshire,  and  a  tem- 
peramental inability  to  comport  her- 
self as  the  wife  of  a  busy  clergyman 
was  regarded  indulgently  for  the  sake 
of  the  title !  And  Gosset ! — the  sancti- 
monious, overbearing,  hopelessly  very 
low  middle-class  Gosset!  You  must 
know  him  if  you  want  to  appreciate 
the  character  of  his  opponent,  the  Rad- 
ical Morton,  whose  daughter  "goes 
wrong".  Now  Morton's  state  of  mind 
would  be  incomprehensible  in  a  Vic- 
torian novel;  Morton  would  have  been 
greedy  and  unscrupulous,  or  melo- 
dramatic and  pathetic.  It  is  an  un- 
charitable thing  to  say  of  any  man, 
but  since  Morton  evidently  believed 
that  his  daughter  would  "go  wrong" 
sometime,  it  seems  as  if  he  was  rather 
pleased  that  the  son  of  the  sanctimoni- 
ous Gosset  should  have  been  the  cause 
of  it.  Young  Gosset  behaves  well ;  he 
rushes  to  the  rescue  of  the  damsel  he 
has  compromised.  Morton  is  against 
him.  "  'e's  been  brought  up  in  a  reli- 
gious 'ome,  'e  'as,"  he  says  ironically. 

"I'U  make  her  a  good  husband,"  said  the  boy 
with  downcast  eyes.  "I  shan't  forget  what  she 
has  to  go  through  because  of  me.  I'll  look  after 
her.     I'U  make  her  a  good  husband." 

"And  my  girl's  the  girl  you'd  choose  to  marry* 



eTen  If  there  'adn't  been  this  little  mistake  be- 
tween yoaT" 

The  boy  was  silent. 

"Well,  yon  don't  seem  to  speak  np  very  ready. 
Looks  almost  as  if,  now  yon'd  'ad  your  fan, 
yon  was  wantin'  to  pay  for  it,  'cos  you  think 
you  ought,  not  because  you  want  to." 

There  was  no  answer. 

Morton  threw  his  cap  on  the  table,  and  stuck 
his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"Now  I'll  teU  you  what,"  be  said,  looking  at 
an  three  of  them  in  turn.  "There  ain't  going 
to  be  no  marriage  between  the  daughter  of 
Jim  Morton,  Bsquire,  tfuilder's  foreman,  and 
the  son  of  Mr.  Snivelling  Psalm-singing  Gosset. 
It's  me  that  don't  'ave  it,  not  you.  My  girl's 
made  a  slip,  and  she'll  'ave  to  pay  for  it ;  and 
what  she  can't  pay  for  I'll  pay  for  'er.  I  don't 
want  your  dirty  money,  you  Gosset!  You  can 
save  It  up  for  the  missionaries.  You're  a  cant- 
ing 'umbug ;   that's  what  you  are. 

"If  you'd  acted  as  I  knowed  quite  well  you 
wouldn't  act  when  I  come  in,  I'd  never  'ave  said 
another  word  against  you.  And  you'd  'a  come 
off  Just  as  well,  too,  for  I  never  wanted  no 
marriage,  and  never  meant  to  'ave  none 

"I'll  pay  for  the  girl's  confinement,"  said 
Gosset  doggedly,  "and  towards  the  upbringing 
of  the  chUd." 

"No,  you  won't.  You  won't  pay  nothing. 
You've  'ad  your  chance  of  be'aving  like  what 
you  pretend  to  be,  and  you've  chucked  it  away. 
You  ain't  going  to  set  yourself  right  by  paying 
money.  The  child's  going  to  be  bom  in  my 
'ouse,  and  it's  going  to  live  in  my  'ouse.  I 
dessay  I  shall  take  to  it.  I'm  fond  o'  kids, 
and  it  won't  make  no  difference  to  me  that  it 
wasn't  bom  in  'oly  wedlock.  You'd  like  to 
bury  it  out  of  sight;  but  it  won't  be  buried 
out  of  sight.  You'll  often  see  it  about,  when 
it  grows  a  bit ;  but  there's  one  place  you  won't 
see  it,  and  that  is  in  your  'umbuggin'  chapel!" 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Mercer  is  in 
strong  contrast  to  the  amiable  husband 
of  Lady  Ruth,  who  was  a  gentleman 
and  tried  to  be  a  gentlemanly  "priest" ; 
Mrs.  Prentice,  wife  of  the  other  vicar, 
the  Reverend  William  Prentice,  is  of 
the  species  of  the  obnoxious  Mr.  Mer- 
cer, with  whom  one  may  be  angry  and 
sin  not. 

"Bacon,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Prentice,  uncov- 
ering the  dish  in  front  of  him. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice,  in  a 
tone  that  meant  more  than  her  words.  It  was 
the  season  of  Lent,  and  Mrs.  Prentice  was  fast- 
ing on  a  principle  of  her  own,  and  liked  it  to 
be  known  that  she  was  doing  so. 

Mr.  Prentice  helped  himself  apologetically 
from  the  dish.     He,  also,  was  fasting  on   a 

principle  of  his  own,  which  did  not  involve  the 
loss  of  his  morning  bacon.  He  bad  to  keep  up 
his  strength. 

We  must  not  forget  Lady  Manserge, 
— a  lady  with  an  honest  heart,  a  ten- 
dency to  cockney  English,  and  a  past 
on  the  variety  stage,  which,  in  spite 
of  the  testimony  of  novelists  who  do 
not  know  their  subject,  hunting  so- 
ciety in  an  English  county  is  very  will- 
ing to  forget.  She  is  worthwhile.  But 
what  is  the  use  of  introducing  the 
readers  of  The  Bookman  to  this 
group  of  persons,  if  they  will  not  con- 
tinue the  acquaintance?  Such  a  per- 
functory introduction  is  like  the  mere 
crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot !  You 
must  know  Young  George  and  Jimmy 
and  the  Pemberton  girls  and  Virginia, 
the  American  (who  is  acceptable  to 
her  "in-laws"  because  she  is  not  too 
American),  and  Turner,  the  novel 
reader — the  enviable  novel  reader — 
and  Maximilian  Browne,  his  friend; 
and  you  must  love  the  goodness  of  the 
evangelical  Dr.  Merrow,  and  hear  the 
snubbing  of  the  Reverend  A.  Salisbury 
Mercer!  And  when  you  have  finished 
aU  Mr.  Marshall's  books — excepting 
"Upsidonia"  and  "The  House  of  Meril- 
lees" — ^you  will  object  to  any  new  sys- 
tem of  sociology,  whether  founded  on 
the  fourteen  propositions  or  not,  which 
is  to  deprive  the  world  of  an  atmos- 
phere in  which  the  most  strenuous 
ought  to  delight.  If  the  late  war  is  to 
bring  about  the  abolishing  of  the  Eng- 
lish country  family  and  of  the  well- 
kept  lawns  and  the  screens  that  keep 
the  breezes  from  blowing  out  the  alco- 
hol lamps  under  the  tea  kettles  on 
those  lawns  in  summer,  and  the  extir- 
pation of  the  foxes, — we  owe  the  Ger- 
mans even  a  more  deadly  grudge !  Let 
Shaw  and  Chesterton  and  the  rest  of 
the  uneasy  go,  and  even  Lloyd  George ! 
— provided  we  can  keep  our  Marshall 
and  the  life  he  depicts  I 



Of  Mr.  Marshall's  recent  books  'The 
Clintons  and  Others"  is  not  a  coDec- 
tion  of  short  stories,  but  a  notebook  of 
frairments  of  novels  that  might  be 
written.  ''Kencote**  approaches  more 
doedy  to  what  a  short  story  ought  to 
be;  ''In  that  State  of  Life*'  and  ''A 
Son  of  Service"  afford  happy  glimpses 
of  novels  that  would  have  charmed  us. 
As  it  is,  they  are  sorbets  de  surprise 
that  merely  whet  our  appetite  for  an- 
other noveL  And  Mr.  Marshall's  world 
is  full  of  people  we  should  like  to  know 
more  of.  As  somebody  said  of  Trol- 
lope,  "As  long  as  English  society  ex- 
ists, he  will  remain  inexhaustible". 

''Sir  Harry"  is  really  a  love  story, 
an  idyl  of  spring  and  innocent  youth 
and  purity.    It  is  as  thoroughly  Eng- 
lish as  all  the  other  novels  of  Mr.  Mkr- 
diall,  and  therefore  it  will  please  his 
inveterate  admirers  who  would  cease 
to  be  devoted  to  him  the  moment  he 
failed  to  grive  them  the  atmosphere 
which  they  like.    It  lacks  something  of 
the  humor  of  the  best  of  the  other 
novels;    at  times  it  touches  danger- 
ously near  romance,  which  we  do  not 
at  all  want  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Mar- 
shall.   It  is  good,  but  it  is  not  his  best ; 
however,  it  cannot  be  said  to  show  any 
real  lack  of  his  charming  qualities. 
With  the  stroke  of  a  pen  one  might  re- 
veal the  plot,  which  is  not  at  all  com- 
plicated but  is  determined,  as  it  should 
be  in  a  good  novel,  by  the  relations  of 
the  dramatis  persons  to  one  another. 
Mr.  Marshall  is  certainly  one  of  the 
first  of  the  "quiet"  novelists,  but  there 
is  no  very  modem  novel  which  has  a 
finer    scene,    pregnant    with    feeling 
which  is  anything  but  quiet,  than  that 
in   chapter   26,    when    "Lady    Brent 
Speaks".    The  constant  reader  of  Mr. 
Marshall's  novels  approaches  a  new 
one  from  his  pen  with  a  fear  that  it 
may  be  inferior  to  its  predecessors; 

"Sir  Harry"  is  not  inferior,  but  only 

"The  Hall  and  the  Grange",  Mr. 
Marshall's  very  latest  novel,  is  a  re- 
turn to  his  best  manner,  which  he 
seemed  to  have  lost  in  "Sir  Hariy" 
and  "Many  Junes".    It  is  satisfactory 
to  those  among  his  confirmed  admirers 
who  cannot  have  too  much  of  the  types 
he  has  made  his  own.    One  enjoys  the 
quietness  of  the  countryside  all  the 
better  because  the  war  is  over,  and  the 
petty  struggle  between  the  hall  and  the 
grange,  which  brings  out  the  charac- 
teristics of  some  very  real  English 
gentlefolk,  occupies  the  foreground  of 
the  story  without  being  dwarfed  by 
great  events.    It  is  the  novel  of  Mr. 
Marshall  which,  in  spite  of  an  entirely 
new    treatment,    reminds    one    most 
closely  of  Anthony  Trollope.    There  is 
a  flavor  of  "The  Vicar  of  Bullhampton" 
about  it;    but  there  is  no  character 
quite  so  good  in  it  as  TroUope's  Rev- 
erend Frank  Fenwick ;  all  the  English 
characteristics  which  Trollope  knew  so 
well  how  to  depict  are  in  evidence  here. 
Lady  Eldridge  and  her  sister-in-law 
are  better  done  than  any  of  TroUope's 
women.    To  the  leisurely  reader  they 
will    be    a   constant    pleasure;     and, 
though  one  may  look  on  the  assertion 
as  almost  sacrilegious,  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  recent  shocking  announce- 
ment of  a  modern  young  person  that 
she  finds  these  two  ladies  more  charm- 
ing than  any  woman  drawn  by  Miss 
Austen.      In    fact,    her   words   were 
these:   "Miss  Austen  has  nothing  on 
Mr.  Marshall  when  he  describes  quiet 
English  women!" 

This  is  going  too  far;  but  it  is  a 
very  modern  tribute  to  a  novelist 
whose  genre  pictures  are  delightful 
additions  to  our  gallery  of  English 

Extracts  From  the  Novel  by  Stephen  Vincent  Benet 

(Continued  from  the  July  Bookman) 


THE  skinny  minute-hand  of  the 
white-faced  clock  over  Major 
Stelly's  desk  in  the  big  assembly  room 
hitches  slowly  from  numeral  to  nu- 
meral. Philip  looks  up  at  it  again 
from  the  glare  of  naked  electric  light 
that  floods  over  his  cramped  little  desk. 
Fifteen  minutes  till  recall  from  study 
period  and  he  is  so  sleepy  already  that 
his  eyes  feel  as  if  they  had  been 
washed  with  sand.  He  turns  to  the 
back  of  the  geography  for  relaxation 
— ^what  other  lessons  he  has  had  to  pre- 
pare are  done.  Tangier — imports,  ma- 
chinery— exports,  silks,  gold-dust,  and 
cinnabar.  Cinnabar.  Golly,  what  a 
name!  He  whispers  it  roundly,  tast- 
ing it  over  his  tongue.  Morocco— im- 
ports, machinery— exports,  leather  and 
sackcloth.  Sackcloth  and  ashes  are  in 
the  Bible,  but  I  suppose  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter what  kind  of  ashes.  Siam — im- 
ports, machinery — exports — must  be 
white  elephants — ^white  elephants — 
big — whi-te— e-le-phants — 

Philip  pulls  up  his  head  just  as  it  is 
about  to  drop  to  the  desk  lid  and  tries 
to  shake  the  heavy  drowse  out  of  it  by 
one  quick  toss  as  a  swimmer  shakes  off 
water.  It's  no  good.  He  is  smother- 
ing under  sleep,  and  he  mustn't,  he 
mustn't  go  to  sleep.  Major  Stelly 
caught  Fat  Clark  sleeping  ten  minutes 
ago  and  gave  him  an  hour  and  a  half 
on  the  beat.  An  hour  and  a  half 
sentry-go  with  a  Civil  War  musket 
six  feet  high. 

Now  he's  sitting  up  there  at  his  desk 
— a  little  grey  wrath  of  a  retired  army 
officer  with  the  sour  eyes  of  a  biting 
horse.  Ten  years  of  teaching  at  Kit- 
chell  Military  Academy  have  left  him 
with  the  restraint  of  a  hanging  judge 
and  the  ingenuity  in  small  cruelties  of 
a  Jesuit  Inquisitor.  The  great,  hushed 
legend  of  the  school  is  of  "the  time 
when  Woozy  Fisher  knocked  him  out". 
. . .  Philip  catches  his  glance  for  a  mo- 
ment and  looks  away  quickly.  The 
clock  hand  jumps.  Four  minutes 

Madagascar — imports,  machinery — 
don't  they  ever  buy  anything  but  ma- 
chinery? A  picture  of  thousands  of 
brown,  sleek  natives  cavorting  with 
howls  of  joy  about  the  vast  bulk  of  a 
McCormick  reaper,  forms  fantastically 
in  Philip's  mind.  Too  hot  there  to 
want  other  things,  probably.  Too  hot 
even  to  handle  the  machinery.  As  hot 
as  this  room. 

The  air  is  breathless  and  weighty 
over  Philip — the  air  is  smoky  with 
heat  and  the  smell  of  pine  and  spilt 
ink  and  boys.  Philip  takes  a  long 
sucking  breath  and  his  will  surrenders 
suddenly,  without  any  warning.  He 
looks  stupidly  at  the  flagellating,  harsh 
light  on  Fat  Clark's  open  History  on 
the  next  desk.  He  feels  as  if  he  were 
being  pleasantly  suffocated  under  great 
pillows  and  bolsters  of  sleepy  warmth. 
And  then  he  doesn't  feel  or  think  at 




Vague  discomfort — swift  pain — he 
can't  breathe — ^he  can't  breathe  at  all 
— ^he  is  choking.  He  opens  his  mouth 
and  eyes  with  a  gasp — a  sharp  finger 
and  thumb  are  gripping  down  on  his 
nose.  Major  Stelly  swims  cloudily 
into  vision  as  he  forces  up  his  thick, 
drugged  eyelids.  Major  Stelly's  hand 
is  pinching  his  nose.  The  whole  room 
chirrups  and  swirls  with  muffled 
laughter.  Major  Selly's  voice  coughs 
dryly  above  him. 

"Three  hours  on  the  beat  tomorrow, 
Sellaby.  Report  from  me  to  the  Ser- 
geant of  the  Guard.'' 

He  lets  go  of  Philip's  nose  and  turns 
to  look  for  the  laughter.  It  stops  as 
if  it  were  blown  out  like  the  fiame  of  a 
candle.  Then  the  little  tin-godly  man 
is  satisfied  and  his  footsteps  crackle 
back  to  his  desk  again,  leaving  Philip 
to  tender  examination  of  his  nose. 

Out  of  the  cool  night  that  drifts  and 
whispers  like  snow  against  the  stuffy 
squares  of  hot  windows,  expected  and 
clear  and  sudden,  comes  the  brief  fall- 
ing caU  of  a  bugle.  For  an  instant  it 
fills  the  sterile  air,  drooping  wistfully, 
a  blown  flower  of  silver  spray. 

"'Tenshun!"  coughs  Major  Stelly. 
"Sergeants,  take  conmiand  of  your 
squads !" 

"Sellaby,"  says  Major  Stelly, 
bronchially,  "I  have  decided  to  make 
you  a  sergeant." 

**Yes,  sir."  Philip  stands  at  the 
ideal  Manual-of-Arms  position  of  at- 
tention, stomach  cramped  into  his 
back,  hands  flat  at  sides,  chest  out. 

"Ah— I'll  be  frank  with  you,  Sellaby. 
For  quite  a  time — in  fact,  for  the  first 
year  you  were  at  Kitchell — Dr.  Kitch- 
ell  and  myself  were  a  bit  anxious  about 
you.  You  didn't  seem  to  get  on  with 
the  other  boys." 

"No,  sir?"  The  query  is  surrepti- 
tiously acid. 

"No,  but  lately — ^you've  developed. 
You've  been  (tck!)  forgetting  all  that 
nonsense — doing  your  drill  smartly — 
like  a  soldier,  like  a  soldier,  sir.  So 
now,  we  have  decided  to  give  you  this 
chance — " 

Philip's  posture  holds  stiff  and  cor- 
rect, but  his  mind  drifts  off  from  the 
little  coughy  man  in  front  of  him.  He 
sees  himself  as  he  was  when  he  first 
came  to  Kitchell,  a  scared  atom  of  an 
"only  child",  to  be  kicked  around  and 
chucked  into  corners  like  Froggy  Still- 
man's  books.  Now  he  has  improved — 
he  has  the  age  and  the  muscles  and  the 
bag  of  dirty  stories  that  will  keep  him 
from  being  bullied  at  all,  that  may 
even  permit  him  to  bully  someone  else. 
A  fierce  cramped  hatred  runs  through 
him  at  the  bullies  and  his  new  chev- 
rons and  Major  Stelly  and  the  whole 
air  of  uniformed  stupidity  and  disci- 
plined nastiness  that  hangs  over  the 
school  like  gas  above  a  marsh.  Lord ! 
If  he  could  only  get  out  of  the  place ! 

"And  so,  Sellaby,  man  to  man,  we 
believe  in  you,"  ends  the  Major.  His 
hand  goes  out  tentatively.  Philip 
shakes  it  in  silence,  loathing  the  moist, 
froggy  palm.  Then  he  salutes  and 
makes  his  about-face  perfectly.  Major 
Stelly  believes  him  righteously  over- 
come with  emotion. 

In  his  room  alone  that  night,  Philip 
writes  letters. 

"Dear  Father  :— 

Major  Stelly  told  me  today  that  I 
am  to  be  made  a  sergeant  at  next  pro- 
motions. This  brings  up  a  thing 
(crossed  out)  a  matter  I  have  wished 
to  write  you  about  for  a  long  time. 
Father,  I  have  been  at  Kitchell  two 
years  and  I  hate  it  more  than  any  other 
place  in  the  world.  (Some  erasures  of 
false  starts  with  initial  Fs.)  This 
may  come  as  a  surprise  to  you,  but  I 
mean  it.  As  a  favor,  do  not  send  me 
back  after  this  year,  which  I  can  stick 



out  all  right.  I  think  I  have  a  right  to 
ask  this  now,  as  my  being  promoted 
shows  that  I  am  not  effeminate  (inked 
over)  that  I  have  been  able  to  get  some 
good  out  of  the  training,  but  not 
enough  to  warrant  my  staying  longer. 
Father,  the  place  is  a  dirty  hell,  that's 
all,  and  I—" 

But  here  the  page  is  torn  right 
across  its  face.  The  writer  rips  his 
pen  through  the  last  sentence,  crum- 
ples the  sheet  into  a  rag,  tries  a  fresh 

"Dear  Father  :— 

The  weather  so  far  has  been  fine.  I 
am  trying  out  for  track — ^the  sprints 
— ^but  am  pretty  rotten,  I'm  afraid. 
The  coach  says  I  should  have  come  out 
earlier.  We  play  Lick  tomorrow  in 
baseball  and,  believe  me,  I  certainly 
hope  we  'Lick*  (careful  qitotatian 
marks)  them  as  we  ought  to.  Tell 
Mother  the  cake  was  fine.  I  need  some 
socks.  I  have  lost  my  allowance  two 
weeks  running  now  for  minor  sins, 
nothing  to  worry  about.  (Sketch  of  a 
small  and  very  impudent  devil,  Uibeled 
'Sin,  Minor,  One'.)  I  am  having  a 
good  time.  Oh  yes,  I  meant  to  tell  you. 
Major  Stelly  said  today  that  they 
were  to  make  me  a  sergeant  next  pro- 
motions. Love  to  dearest  Mother  and 
Aunt  Agatha  and  everyone.  And  now 
I  must  close.  As  ever,  dear  Father, 
Your  affectionate  Son, 


Room  642  in  the  St.  Francis  is  grey 
with  evening.  Philip,  who  has  been 
taken  out  of  school  for  a  dentist's 
week-end  and  the  theatre  with  his 
mother  and  Sylvia,  tries  his  tongue 
over  the  new  filling  in  a  molar  and 
hopes  it  won't  fall  out,  this  time. 
Lucia  has  gone  off  shopping,  leaving 
Philip  with  some  new  dollar  bills  and 
the  instructions  to  tea  Sylvia  and  him- 
self to  any  extent,  when  the  former 

arrives  at  the  hotel.  So  Philip,  back 
early  from  the  blowpipes  and  pecking 
drills  of  dentistry,  has  devoted  the  last 
half  hour  or  so  to  rehearsing  his  fa^ 
ther's  lordly  indifference  with  waiters. 

"The  check,  please?"  he  says  to  him- 
self for  the  dozenth  time.  "Oh  yes — " 
then  the  hand  goes  carelessly  to  the 
pocket,  as  to  an  acknowledged  United 
States  Subtreasury  of  wealth.  But  the 
telephone  birrs  sharply  before  he  has 
completed  the  motion  of  extracting 
many  hundred-dollar  notes. 

"Miss  Persent  wishes  to  speak  to 
Mrs.  Sellaby,"  a  detached  voice  says 
in  his  ear. 

"Oh— Oh  yeah.  Well,  Mrs.  Sellaby's 
out.  This  is  Mr.  Sellaby,  Mr.  PhUip 
Sellaby,  Jr.  Please  send  Syl — send 
Miss  Persent  up  right  away,  please." 

"Very  well,  sir."  The  voice  is 
smoothly  amused. 

Philip  wishes  to  all  the  tuxedoed 
gods  of  books  of  etiquette,  that  Lucia 
had  not  left  him  here  alone.  Still, 
Sylvia  wasn't  so  bad  at  camp  last  sum- 
mer— for  a  girl,  and  a  girl  cousin  at 

But  when  Sylvia  arrives,  she  is  ut- 
terly startling.  He  is  used  to  her  in 
khaki  bloomers,  with  her  hair  done  up 
in  one  long  corn-husk  rope.  Now  she 
appears  in  pink  rufiies  that  spread  like 
rose  petals,  she  is  dressed  with  the 
superfluous  perfection  of  a  doll  in  a 
Fifth  Avenue  toy  store,  and  her  man- 
ners while  verging  on  the  simpering, 
overwhelm  him  with  a  sense  of  their 

"H'lo,  Syl,"  he  says  bluffly,  shooting 
his  hand  at  her.  "Glad  t'see  you. 
What  do  you  want  for  tea?" 

"How  do  you  do,  Cousin  Philip." 
She  takes  his  hand  high  up  in  shaking 
it,  making  it  feel  much  too  large  and 
too  carelessly  cleaned.  "It  is  very  nice 
indeed  of  you  to  think  of  tea.  But 
where  is  your  mother?" 




'Ah,  she  went  out  to  do  some  shop- 
ping. Shell  be  back  soon."  With  an 
effort,  ''Shall  we — shall  we  have  tea 

"I'm  not  sure  that  Mother  would 
like  me  to."  This  is  merely  a  prim 
pawn  of  conversational  chess,  played 
to  be  taken,  but  Philip  knows  nothing 
of  gambits  and  hastily  takes  her  at  her 

"AU  right,"  he  says  with  extreme 
relief.  'We'll  have  it  up  here."  He 
turns  to  the  phone.  "This  is  room  642, 
Mr.  Sellaby,"  he  begins.    "WiU  you—" 

A  precise  little  titter  from  Sylvia 
reddens  him  up  to  his  ears.  "Haven't 
you  forgotten  to  take  the  receiver  off. 
Cousin  Philip?"  she  says  in  an  edgy 
giggle. . . . 

Half  an  hour  later,  things  are  bet- 
ter. Sylvia  has  spilled  marmalade  on 
her  sleeve,  said  "dam!",  and  shattered 
her  pose  of  young  propriety.  Philip 
is  emerging  out  of  his  mist  of  hot  em- 
barrassment. His  voice  is  full  of  ex- 
citement and  English  muffin. 

"Just  wait  till  we  get  up  there  next 
year,  Syl,"  he  rattles,  jabbing  the 
points  home  with  a  sticky  fork.  "Fa- 
ther says  we're  going  to  Freel's  Peak, 
sure.  Gosh,  and  it's  a  two  week  pack 
trip  there  and  back  and  we'll  take 
three  burros  for  the  lot  of  us.  Won't 
that  be  swell?" 

Sylvia  nods  frantically. 

"Great!"  she  murmurs,  examining 
the  empty  cream  jug.  "I  hope  they  let 
me  come,  Phil.  But  they  think  they 
want  to  ship  me  to  a  girls'  camp. 
Girls'  camp!"  She  forgets  herself  ut- 
terly and  makes  sounds  as  unrefined  as 
they  are  expressive.  "Can't  you  see  it, 
Phil?    A  bunch  of  talky  flfirls?" 

Philip  rises,  nearly  upsetting  the 
tea  table.  He  is  hearing  of  a  delib- 
erate atrocity. 

"Oh,  gee,  you  mustn't  let  them  do 
that,  Syl!    Why  if  they  want  to  do 

that —  Why  it's  a  crime,  that's  what 
it  is,  it's  a  dirty  crime !" 

He  waves  his  arms  with  the  clumsi- 
ness of  great  feeling. 

"Say  Syl,  if  /  can  do  anything  about 
it — *'  he  starts  harshly.  Her  hand  lies 
in  front  of  him  on  the  chair  arm,  help- 
less, soft,  a  bit  jammy.  He  takes  hold 
of  it  without  in  the  least  knowing  why. 
"If  I  can,  you — ^you  tell  me,"  he  ends 
weakly.  The  whole  pulse  of  his  heart 
seems  to  beat  for  a  second  in  the  hand 
over  Sylvia's  hand.  She  is  trembling 
faintly,  but  in  control  of  herself — ^this 
has  almost  happened  before,  several 
times,  but  not  with  people  known  like 
Phil.  She  looks  up  at  him  swiftly, 
being  conscious  of  the  fact  that  her 
eyes  are  beautifully  full  of  tears. 
Their  lips  meet  once,  almost  casually, 
gulls  calling  to  each  other  across  white 
spray,  then  settle  to  a  very  definite 
kiss  with  the  swift  determination  of 
thirst.  It  only  takes  about  thirty  sec- 
onds till  Sylvia  cries. 

Philip  feels  as  if  the  room  were  fall- 
ing to  pieces  about  him,  like  broken 

"Syl,  Syl,  I  didn't — I  never  meant — 
I  never  will  again — Oh  Syl,  for  God's 
sake  stop  crying!"  he  stutters,  uncon- 
scious he  is  repeating  one  of  the  fav- 
orite lines  of  all  emotional  actors,  he 
is  so  desperately  scared  and  in  earnest. 

"What  did  you  do  it  for  then,  you, 
you  boy?  What  did  you  do  it  for?  I 
didn't  mean  you  to  kiss  me!  I  just 
wanted  you  to  be  nice!"  through  Syl- 
via's tears.  She,  too,  doesn't  know 
that  she  has  picked  up  the  cue  in 
Philip's  speech  as  neatly  as  a  star  in 
a  demonstrative  second  act. 

"I  don't  know!  It's  all  your  fault, 
you  made  me!"  An  outburst  of  furi- 
ous sobs.  "Oh  no,  no,  darn  it,  damn 
it,  you  didn't  make  me!  Quit  crying! 
1  wanted  to — I — " 

Again  the  noise  of  the  telephone. 



Philip  shakes  Sylvia  violently,  kisses 
her  again,  tries  to  express  rage,  shame, 
sin,  unutterable  feeling  and  despair  in 
one  great  flopping  gesture  that  merely 
gives  the  impression  that  he  is  trying 
to  dislocate  his  arms,  and  rushes  to 
answer  it.  It  is  Lucia  this  time,  and 
a  voice  as  pleasant  and  sane  as  brook 

"Is  Sylvia  there?" 

"No,  yes.    Yes,  mother,  she's  here." 

"What's  the  matter,  Philip?"  A  lit- 
tle laughter.  "Have  you  and  she  been 
fighting  again?  She's  your  guest,  you 

"Oh,  yes — oh  yes,  yes,  yes,"  with 
extreme  emotion. 

"It  must  have  been  a  fight.  Never 
mind.  I'll  be  right  up.  Have  you 
children  left  me  any  tea?' 


She  rings  off  before  he  can  answer. 
He  turns  back  ferociously  to  Sylvia. 

"Now  for  Pete's  sake,  Syl— "  he 

But  her  weeping  has  been  turned 
off  like  a  tap.  She  is  sitting  up.  She 
is  rubbing  her  cheeks  with  her  hand- 

"I  am  quite  all  right,  thank  you,*' 
she  answers  with  icy  repose.  "Quite 
all  right.  Please  speak  to  me  as  little 
as  possible." 

When  Lucia  finds  them,  Philip  is  as 
blasphemously  and  completely  puzzled 
by  the  whole  affair  as  Adam  was  after 
his  first  sharp  taste  of  Eden  greening. 
Sylvia  gives  her  aunt-by-courtesy  a 
little-girl  kiss  with  entire  composure, 
a  small,  correct,  and  figgily  supercili- 
ous Eve. 


Graduation  —  continual  dress-uni- 
forms— polished  swords — ^white  gloves, 
soft  as  well-soaped  skin,  your  thumb 
kept  over  the  spot  in  one  of  them — 
the  long  echoing  floor  of  Assembly 
Room  waxed  to  velvety  slipperiness 
for  the  Senior  Dance — girls — Sylvia  in 
faint  blue  and  shrouded  silver,  the  deli- 
cate eager  throb  of  her  feet  retreating 
before  yours — music,  now  nervously 
barbaric,  now  young  and  full  of  ex- 
quisite, useless  tears,  slow  long  spoon- 
fuls of  honey-on-ivory.  "Pinky" 
Kitchen— "Handing  On  The  Torch"— 
"now  quit  yourselves  like  men!" — all 
the  throaty  emotion  of  Graduation 
Sermon,  as  sham  and  evident  as  false 
hair  on  a  dressing  table.  Everything 
with  a  certain  hurried  unreality  about 
it,  like  a  movie  run  too  fast  over  its 

A  sense  that  something  is  ended, 
something    definite,    though    nobody 

seems  to  know  exactly  what.  A  des- 
perate sense  that  hereafter  things  will 
be  different,  ordered  and  consecutive, 
clear  and  purposeful  and  efficient,  like 
the  autobiographies  of  bank  presidents 
in  twenty  cent  magazines.  Old  ha- 
treds, old  violences,  old  ardors  washed 
away  in  twenty-four  hours  by  a  tide  of 
kindly,  sentimental  "good  feeling" — 
hard,  emotional  handshakes  with  old 
enemies  instantaneously  reconciled  be- 
cause both  of  you  are  leaving  "the  old 
school".  Major  Stelly,  "Sellaby,  you 
are  one  of  the  boys  we  are  proud  of 
..."  Parents,  little  and  big,  obtrusive 
and  meek,  full  of  secret  comparisons 
of  their  own  sons  with  other  people's 
sons,  and  that  not  to  the  disadvantage 
of  the  former.  It  all  ends — it  is  as 
suddenly  gone  as  foam  down  a  freshet 
— and  Philip's  neat,  strapped  trunks 
come  home  with  the  shards  and  rag- 
bag remnants  of  six  years  of  life  in- 



side  them,  done  op  in  labeled,  brown- 
pa:per  parcels,  heaped  away  in  a  dis- 
ordeiiy  muddle  of  letters  and  reports 
and  serawled-over  dance  cards  and  old 
copies  of  the  "Kitchell  Weekly  Bay- 
onets*. Life  is  closing  in  on  Philip, 
overtakincr  him  with  the  sprint  of  a 
crafty  miler  in  the  stretch.  Well, 
that^s  over! 

A  month  later — and  Tahoe  and  a 
sense  of  expanding,  delicious  freedom, 
tangible  as  honey  on  pancakes,  con- 
nected somehow  with  a  new  equality 

in  his  father's  talk  and  not  having  to 
account  either  to  him  or  a  first  ser- 
geant for  any  long  idle  minute  of  the 
enchanted  day.  The  happiest  summer 
he  has  had,  a  summer  as  clear  and 
glowing  as  light  through  a  piece  of  un- 
fiawed  amber.  Money  in  the  pockets 
of  loose  comfortable  clothes  and  a 
whole  great  fifteen  months  to  chuck 
away  as  he  likes,  like  pennies  to  a 
crowd  of  small  boys — for  Lucia  is  a 
little  anxious  about  his  eyes,  and  he 
is  not  to  enter  Yale  till  fall  after  this. 


Winter  on  the  white  South  Califor- 
nia beaches.  The  shells  of  abalones, 
murky  purple,  the  white  shells  of  sea 
snails,  so  pure,  so  sculptured,  they 
might  have  been  cut  for  an  altar 
screen.  Philip  riding  surf  with  Phil, 
both  so  shakingly  weak  in  laughter  at 
their  own  half-drownings  that  they 
can  hardly  stay  on  their  shooting,  slip- 
pery planks  in  smooth  water.  Lucia 
untroubled  as  the  sea  or  the  sun,  a 
second  youth  of  the  sea  come  upon  her, 
combing  her  heavy  hair  as  she  sits  on 
a  sunny,  beast-like  rock,  a  strayed  ma- 
temid  immortal  seeming  to  share  in 
the  vagrant  peace  and  calm  incertitude 
of  the  whole  fluctuating  world  of  green 
avirells  and  dripping  foam.  Sylvia  in 
a  sun-bitten,  short  bathing  suit,  the 
brown  swimming  child  of  sea-sound 
and  a  mermaid,  as  beautiful  and  sex- 
less a  thing  as  the  flight  of  a  gull  over 
waves.  And  in  the  crystalline  hours 
before  nighf  s  large  stars,  when  eve- 
ning departs  with  the  languid  mag- 
nificence of  an  argosy  and  the  sky 
seems  made  of  clear  colors  and  dreams 
and  the  single  cries  of  birds,  Philip, 
lying  beside  the  brimstone  sparks  of 
a  driftwood  fire,  drinks  in  with  every 

breath  of  his  body,  this  saturating  and 
exhaustless  life.  Yes,  and  curled  so 
beneath  a  wrecked  and  flying  twilight 
once,  he  half-sleeps  and  imagines  an 
insolent  vision. . . . 

The  neat  door  of  a  very  modem  of- 
fice. Three  names  on  the  frosted  glass 
in  gold,  "Clotho,  Lachesis,  Atropos"; 
and  below  in  large  capitals,  "PRI- 
VATE". Philip  nevertheless  turns  the 
knob  and  goes  in.  The  chamber 
within  is  tremendous,  labyrinthine,  cut 
up  like  some  vast  bagatelle  board  into 
a  crisscrossing  series  of  small  stone 
covered  and  open  mazes  with  green 
plants  growing  oddly  in  some  of  them. 
From  the  mothy  vagueness  at  the  far 
end  of  the  room — if  indeed  it  has  an 
end,  for  Philip  can  see  no  wall  there — 
comes  the  slumbering  dark  sound  of 
continuously  falling  water,  water  that 
chuckles  and  chokes  over  worn  out 
stones.  Three  women  are  seated  at 
desk  chairs — their  backs  are  to  Philip 
and  they  do  not  turn  as  he  enters — 
each  one  has  the  mouth  of  a  maze  be- 
fore her  and  they  are  intent  on  some 
sort  of  game  with  little  colored  balls. 
At  the  side,  a  small,  inhuman  creature 



keeps  score  with  figures  that  Philip 
cannot  read. 

One  of  the  Fates  will  take  a  ball  up 
in  her  palm — all  the  balls  have  some 
faint  individuality  of  tint  or  pattern 
and  are  heaped  in  huge  baskets  beside 
the  chairs — examine  it  and  pass  it  to 
her  sisters.  They  may  mark  it  with 
tools  that  they  have  by  them,  blow 
upon  it,  rub  it  on  their  sleeves,  in  the 
end  return  it.  Sometimes  the  Fate 
inserts  it  in  her  maze  alone,  sometimes 
with  others ;  after  each  has  been  swal- 
lowed up,  all  the  Fates  listen  and 
watch  together  unmovingly.  Philip 
can  hear  the  click  and  slither  of  the 
balls  as  they  rush  down  the  roofed  pas- 
sages, can  see  them  spot  the  maze  with 
color  for  an  instant,  collide  with  other 
rushing  balls  perhaps,  then  vanish 
again  into  the  gaping  rambles  of  the 
board.  Some  fall  through  sudden 
holes  without  a  sound,  there  are  others 
that  circle  and  circle  and  do  not  get 
free.  But  the  Fates  watch  steadily 
with  eyes  that  never  blink,  till  a  faint 
plopping  sound,  the  sound  of  a  light 
thing  dropping  into  water,  ends  their 
fixity.  Then  they  all  start  slightly, 
and  the  creature  makes  his  tally,  and 
the  game  begins  all  over  again  as  be- 

Philip  does  not  like  the  quietude  of 
the  Fates.  At  first  they  seemed  mere- 
ly aunt-like,  they  and  their  faces  grey 
as  ice,  but  their  unwearying  absorp- 
tion in  the  clueless  game  and  the  re- 

current tiny  splashes  of  the  colored 
balls  as  they  fall  and  are  swept  away 
by  darkling  water,  wears  at  his  mind 
like  the  scraping  of  chalk  on  a  black- 
board. There  is  a  continual  icy  fin- 
gering on  his  spine.  He  grows  stiff 
with  the  terror  of  nightmare.  The 
Fates  continue  their  sport,  the  balls 
roll  softly. . . . 

The  Fate  in  the  middle  has  passed 
a  ball  to  the  others.  They  have  sent 
it  back,  one  has  scratched  at  it  with  a 
needle.  Now  the  middle  Fate  holds  it 
up,  dubiously,  poised  between  finger 
and  thumb.  It  is  veined  with  purple 
like  a  chintz,  it  is  a  pretty  ball.  Philip 
looks  at  the  Fate  and  finds  he  cannot 
move.    It  is  his  ball  she  is  holding. 

Philip  fights  the  air  with  his  hands, 
he  rushes  forward. 

"Stop !"  he  says  through  the  fog  of 
dream  that  weights  him  like  mail. 
"Stop!  Stop!  Give  me  it!  Give  me 
back  my  ball!" 

The  calm  Fate  stirs  and  opens  her 
thumb  and  finger.  The  ball  clicks  into 
the  maze,  Philip  can  hear  it  slurring 
over  little  bridges,  down  polished 
shafts  of  marble,  racing  and  gathering 
speed. . . . 

He  is  awakened  by  Sylvia  kneeling 
beside,  tickling  his  ear  with  a  long 
feather  of  dry  seaweed. 

"Supper!"  bawls  Phil  from  the 
porch.  "Come  and  get  it,  Philip! 
Gome  and  get  it!" 


MY  dear  Mr.  Hergesheimer: 
Your  article  in  'The  Yale  Re- 
view^ for  July  on  **The  Feminine  Nui- 
sance  in   American   Literature",    in 
which  yon  claim  that  all  that  is  cheap, 
meretricious,     and     flamboyant     in 
American  literature  is  the  direct  re- 
sult of  the  fact  that  our  writers  cater 
almost  exclusively  to  a  feminine  public 
which  battens  on  this  unhealthy  diet, 
has  stirred  me  to  unwonted  action; 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  am 
moved  to  lift  up  my  voice  in  clamorous 
protest  against  a  magazine  article.    I 
myself  am  a  peculiarly  flagrant  exam- 
ple of  the  Feminine  Nuisance,  cast  for 
the  double  r61e  of  great  reader  and 
small  writer,  and  in  both  capacities  I 
send  up  a  stricken  and  outraged  cry. 
Ungrateful  Mr.  Hergesheimer!     Do 
you  in  candor  believe  that  your  own 
royalties  are  derived  from  the  mascu- 
line portion  of  these  United  States? 
Do  you  in  truth  visualize  all  the  read- 
ers of  those  official  dispensers  of  sun- 
light and  virility,  whom  you  pillory  so 
blithely  and  cruelly,  as  golden  ring- 
letted  and  snowy  fingered,  hammock 
swung  and  chocolate  fed?    Do  you  sin- 
cerely maintain  that  the  tired  business 
man,  the  tired  professional  man — ^well, 
the  tired  average  man — turns  scorn- 
fully from   these  to  James   Branch 
Cabell  and  your  own  pages  of  gold  and 
iron  and  ivory?    In  truth,  and  in  good 
truth,  you  have  turned  traitor  to  a 
more  loyal  constituency  than  you  de- 

You  say  that  ten  thousand  women 
read  a  novel  to  one  man.  I  cannot  guess 
from  what  mysterious  source  you  pro- 
cure these  figures  that  at  once  accuse 
and  acquit  your  sex,  but  do  you  plead 

that  that  solitary  masculine  figure  in- 
variably draws  a  copy  of  Conrad  or 
Hardy  from  his  pocket?  Look  closer 
at  the  title — doesn't  it  say  something 
about  "The  Girl  from  Forked  Rivers*' 
or  "The  Man  in  the  Closed  Room"? 

But  let  us  abandon  the  "average 
reader*',  male  or  female.  Here  are 
two  reasonably  well-educated  citizens, 
sophisticated  and  intelligent.  Not  lit- 
erati, but  distinctly  literate.  Your 
well-bred  woman  of  thirty  or  so,  her 
highly  successful  husband  of  thirty- 
five.  Which  of  these  will  have  read 
James  Stephens's  "The  Crock  of 
Gold",  Conrad's  "Lord  Jim",  Tur- 
genev's  "Smoke"?  The  man  with  his 
shrewd  and  highly-trained  mind,  or 
the  pretty  lady  with  idle  hands  and 
long-lashed  eyes?  It  is  not  vastly  to 
our  credit,  I  admit.  Your  sex  has  pur- 
chased leisure  for  us,  in  which  we  are 
at  liberty  to  turn  what  brains  we  have 
to  pleasant  ways,  leaving  our  libera- 
tors chained  to  heavy  tasks,  skilfully 
and  honorably  discharged.  But  they 
— our  fathers  and  our  husbands — they 
have  given  us  twelve  hours  a  day  in 
which  to  play,  and  we  have  found 
flowers  and  fruit  in  many  gardens 
where  their  feet  are  too  tired  to  fol- 
low, and  somewhat  ungraciously  and 
ungenerously  we  have  wailed  to  all 
who  would  listen  that  these  kind  bar- 
barians have  scant  love  of  flowers  and 
fruit.  Given  the  grace  of  the  unbur- 
dened hours  that  they  have  bestowed 
on  us,  they  might  have  used  them  to 
far  better  purpose;  but  as  it  stands, 
they  turn  a  somewhat  lacklustre  eye 
on  our  pseans  to  the  threaded  grace  of 
Henry  James,  the  dark  splendor  of  D. 




H.  Lawrence,  the  tonic  stir  and  swing 
of  William  McFee. 

There  is  a  third  class  of  feminine 
novel  readers,  and  I  have  yet  to  en- 
counter its  exact  masculine  equiva- 
lent. Its  members  are  highly  trained 
in  a  very  specialized  field — the  field 
that  we  intolerably  refer  to  as  cul- 
ture. Professionally,  they  are  neither 
writers  nor  critics,  but  they  come  per- 
ilously near  to  being  professionals  on 
one  score.  Reading  with  them  has 
ceased  to  be  a  diversion— ceased  to  be 
an  occupation — it  has  become,  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes,  a  vocation.  Some 
of  them  are  college  bred;  many  have 
trained  their  minds  in  French  gardens 
and  Italian  courtyards — all  of  them 
could  pass  an  examination  on  any 
writer  of  distinction,  past,  present,  or, 
in  some  cases,  future!  Some  of  them 
write  papers  for  clubs;  most  of  them 
don't.  I  have  met  hundreds  of  them 
— thousands  undoubtedly  exist.  They 
can  chatter  lightly  and  convincingly  of 
"La  R6volte  des  Anges"  and  Chekhov's 
letters  and  Max  Beerbohm's  "Zuleika 
Dobson".  I  know  of  at  least  one  who 
had  William  Hudson  on  her  book 
shelves  before  Mr.  Galsworthy  told  her 
about  him — to  whom  Samuel  Butler 
was  an  old  story  when  he  was  a  new 
one  to  Mr.  Shaw's  reading  public; 
who  had  a  bright  blue  copy  of  Mr.  Mc- 
Fee's  "Aliens"  when  "Casuals  of  the 
Sea"  was  an  unknown  quantity;  who 
had  three  or  four  plays  of  Sem  Benel- 
li's  well  thumbed  before  the  voices  of 
the  Barrymores  or  Lucrezia  Bori  were 
heard  in  the  land.  I  honestly  believe 
that  the  average  well-wrought  and 
well-conceived  novel  of  the  present  day 
would  die  unwept,  unhonored,  and  un- 
sung if  it  were  not  for  the  unwearied 
fervor  of  these  same  maligned  ladies. 
Mr.  Mencken  and  Mr.  Nathan  would 
in  all  likelihood  turn  their  faces  from 
them,  shuddering — but  they  are  the 

ones  who  read  Mr.  Nathan  and  Mr. 

Men  of  the  same  intellectual  calibre, 
leisured  or  harnessed  to  work,  do  not 
read  the  modern  novel  of  the  better 
class.  They  are  fearful  of  experi- 
menting with  strange  food  and 
strange  drink;  they  turn  eagerly  to 
the  dishes  in  which  they  are  sure  of 
finding  good  sturdy  meat,  to  build  and 
sustain  their  mental  fibre.  You  will 
find  them  bending  over  Bryce's  "Mod- 
em Democracies"  and  Wells's  "The 
Outline  of  History" — stirred  and  en- 
chanted by  O'Brien's  "South  Seas" 
and  Strachey's  "Queen  Victoria".  If 
they  are  genuinely  bookish  (and  how 
many  under  sixty  will  you  discover 
who  are  that?)  they  will  read  any- 
thing from  Pater  to  Pepys,  from 
iSschylus  to  Addison,  rather  than  risk 
a  modern  novel.  They  are  never  sure 
whether  those  strange  viands  will 
taste  sweet  or  bitter  on  the  tongue — 
they  have  no  heart  to  experiment  with 
them,  and  if  you  catch  one  investigat- 
ing, ninety-nine  times  out  of  a  hun- 
dred he  will  protest  that  a  woman 
gave  him  the  book.  I  do  not  think  that  I 
am  overestimating  the  case  when  I  say 
that  the  only  class  of  men  who  consist- 
ently read  modem  novels  of  the  better 
sort,  are  those  who  write  them,  or 
write  about  them,  or  market  thenu 
They  are  an  infinitesimal  number,^^ 
after  all — and  they  are  matched  by  at\^ 
least  one  woman  for  every  man.  Do 
you  think  that  that  handful  of  men 
could  keep  any  novel  afloat  if  it  were 
not  for  the  support  of  thousands  and 
tens  of  thousands  of  women?  Do  you 
think  that  it  is  men  who  pay  two  dol- 
lars for  the  privilege  of  reading  "Tono 
Bungay"  or  "Java  Head"  or  "The 
Dark  Forest"  or  "Lord  Jim"?  I'll 
warrant  that  the  booksellers  could  tell 
a  different  tale. 

As  for  the  writers,  I  know  of  no 



srroup  of  nuusculine  authors  who  deal 
less  in  manufactured  sunshine  or  spe- 
cious sweetness  and  light  than  the 
large  group  of  women  who  are  now  at 
the  head  of  their  profession  in  Eng- 
land and  America — Ethel  Sidgwick, 
Willa  Sihert  Gather,  Rebecca  West, 
May  Sinclair,  Edith  Wharton,  Katha- 
rine FuUerton  Gerould,  Dorothy  Rich- 
ardson, Anne  Douglas  Sedgwick, 
Sheila  Kaye-Smith,  Clemence  Dane — 
I  take  the  names  at  random;  there  are 
at  least  a  score  more.  They  face  life 
in  varied  ways — some  nerveracked  and 
tense,  some  graceful  and  ironic,  some 
lusty  and  rutiiless,  some  shadowed  and 
mysterious,  some  bitter  and  defiant — 
but  unquestionably  they  all  face  it, 
with  scant  truckling  to  any  public 
thirsting  for  spurious  joy  and  the  con- 
ventional happy  ending.  When  some- 
one once  remonstrated  with  Billy  Sun- 
day that  in  bullying  his  public  as  he 
did  he  was  rubbing  the  cat  the  wrong 
way,  he  retorted,  unimpressed,  "Well, 
then,  let  the  cat  turn  round!"  And 
nearly  all  of  these  women  have  cer- 
tainly bade  the  cat  turn  round ! 

You  say  that  you  are  speaking 
largely  of  our  devastating  effects  on 
the  **best  sellers",  which  you  condemn 
as  a  class  unsparingly,  and  us  for  hav- 
ing called  them  into  existence.  I  in- 
vite you  to  cast  an  eye  on  page  463  of 
the  July  Bookman — "Fiction  in  De- 
mand at  the  Public  Libraries".  We 
women,  ten  thousand  of  us  to  one  man, 
are  presumably  the  guilty  wretches 
who  do  the  demanding;  let  us  see  on 
what  cloying  sweets  we  clamor  to  be 
fed.  Ten  books  are  listed,  "Main 
Street"  leading.  Parlous  little  sweet- 
ness and  light  there.  Ethel  DelFs 
•The  Top  of  the  World"  would  un- 
doubted fall  under  your  strictures; 
that  and  Locke's  "The  Mountebank" 
are  British  products,  however.  So  is 
Rose  Macaulay's  "Potterism",  which 

one  would  scarcely  think  designed  for 
a  public  aching  for  more  Pollyannas. 
Zane  Grey's  "The  Mysterious  Rider" 
I  have  not  read,  but  surrender.  Doro- 
thy Canfield's  "The  Brimming  Cup" 
we  might  find  debatable  ground.  But 
the  remaining  four  are  not  open  to 
criticism  on  the  grounds  of  swagger- 
ing virility  or  insipid  cheerfulness.  I 
present  "Miss  Lulu  Bett",  "The  Age 
of  Innocence",  "The  Sisters-in-Law", 
and  "Moon-Cidf '.  Three  of  these  are 
by  American  women.  Out  of  these  ten 
"best  sellers",  six  are  unquestionably 
remote  from  your  strictures.  If  this 
is  the  worst  monster  that  we  female 
Frankensteins  are  capable  of  creating, 
I  contemplate  the  result  with  a  resig- 
nation that  borders  on  satisfaction. 

You  hold  that  editorial  policy  and 
literary  output  is  controlled  and  cor- 
rupted by  the  fact  that  our  writers 
write  for  women — that  that  fact  ne- 
cessitates bad  writing,  false  values, 
unsound  and  meretricious  conclusions. 
Well,  I  have  good  cause  to  doubt  it.  I 
know  of  one  magazine — a  "woman's 
magazine" — ^with  a  really  enormous 
circulation  throughout  the  middle 
classes  of  America.  If  these  women 
can  be  nourished  on  the  kind  of  litera- 
ture that  they  find  between  its  covers, 
then  I  contend  that  intellectually  they 
constitute  no  ailing  or  diseased  body. 
They  are  fed  sound  stuff — and  they 
have  not  turned  from  it.  It  has  given 
them  in  the  last  year  two  novels,  one 
by  Booth  Tarkington  and  one  by  Mrs. 
Wharton,  which,  though  they  are  "best 
sellers",  have  not  compromised  with 
the  irony  and  pathos  of  life  in  their 
conclusions.  One  deals  with  the  aris- 
tocracy of  a  past  day,  the  other  with 
the  democracy  of  the  present;  they 
show  us  a  world  seen  from  vastly  dif- 
ferent angles,  but  they  both  show  it 
to  us  sufficiently  unsparingly,  for  all 
their  untimely  reticence  on  the  subject 



of  Freud.  They  do  not  assure  us  that 
we  will  live  happily  ever  after;  but 
they  assure  us  that  one  may  preserve 
decent  manners  over  a  mess  of  veiy 
bitter  pottacre,  and  that  unwilling 
compromise  may  be  high  tragedy,  and 
unwilling  courage,  high  romance. 

This  magazine  has  no  policy.  Its 
stories  may  be  long  or  short,  gay  or 
tragic,  simple  or  sophisticated.  I  am 
not  speaking  from  hearsay;  it  has  ac- 
cepted three  of  my  own  that  are  wide- 
ly different  in  conception  and  execu- 
tion. They  have  only  one  feature  in 
conmion — ^a  so-called  unhappy  ending. 
In  its  pages  you  will  find  t^es  by  Max- 
well Struthers  Burt,  Hugh  Walpole, 
Wilbur  Daniel  Steele,  May  Sinclair, 
and  innumerable  others  who  are  most 
assuredly  not  writing  down  to  any 
public  The  back  of  it  is  filled  with 
fashion  drawings,  but  I  think  that  any 
writing  that  you  could  do  would  not 
seem  out  of  place  in  its  first  pages. 
Yet  this  is  undeniably  a  "woman's 

Here  are  a  great  many  words,  and 
the  pen  is  slipping  from  what  you  so 
aptly  characterize  as  my  ''nimble, 
white,  and  predacious"  fingers.  I  was 
galvanized  into  action  by  the  sheer  ar- 
rogance of  your  title — it  was  intended 
to  galvanize,  wasn't  it?  I  am  not 
holding  any  brief  for  the  feminine  in- 
tellect, though  I  had  thought  that  that 
was  safely  clear  of  debatable  ground; 
but  I  hold,  unrepentant,  a  brief  of 
many  pages  when  you  so  flatly  con- 
demn feminine  taste  in  novels. 
Through  no  virtue  of  our  own,  we 

women  have  had  the  leisure  to  batten 
on  novels  from  our  childhood;    they 
have  been  our  daily  bread,  and  we  are 
amply  able  to  sift  out  the  chaff  from 
the  wheat  that  goes  to  form  our  nour- 
ishment.   A  large  portion  of  the  femi- 
nine   novel-reading    public    leans    to 
western  stories,  to  detective  stories,  to 
love  stories,  pure  and  simple — ^possibly 
you  find  them  too  pure  and  too  simple. 
But  the  entire  masculine  novel-read- 
ing public,  with  the  exception  of  the 
writing  class,   leans   there  too,   and 
leans  there  heavily.    The  salvation  of 
you  and  your  fellows,  who  strive  to 
make  books  compact  of  beauty  and 
truth   and   strangeness,   lies   in   the 
hands  Of  a  large  and  discriminating 
group  of  women  who  both  buy  and 
read  novels.    Once  having  read  your 
article,  it  is  vastly  to  our  credit  that 
we  do  not  open  those  ''nimble"  fingers, 
and  let  you  slip  through  forever.    But 
being  women,  we  won't.    We'll  laugh 
a  little,  not  very  happily,  and  slip  out 
and  buy  your  next  book  and  read  it 
and  love  it,  lingering  over  the  pages — 
though  sometimes  we'll  forget  to  turn 
a    page,    remembering    those    other 
pages  in  which  you  wrote  us  down  as 
cheap  and  dangerous  nuisances.    But 
we'll  read  you  to  the  last  word,  never 
fear;     and    perhaps,    when    we    are 
through,  if  we're  simply  fantastically 
lucky,  we  may  be  able  to  pass  you  on 
to  a  man — ^and  perhaps — oh,  perhaps, 
perhaps — ^we  may  be  able  to  persuade 
him  to  read  you. 

Very  sincerely, 




/^UVER  HERFORD'S  principal  recreation  is  avoiding  pub- 
^^^  lie  banquets  and  dull  people  generally,  and  associating, 
quite  impersonally,  with  himself.  To  this  diversion — an  occupa- 
tion that  appears  to  be  a  continuous  performance  in  tranquil 
hilarity — he  has  devoted  a  lifetime,  sharing  it  in  common  with  a 
select  body  of  more  or  less  intelligent  beings,  who  derive  comfort 
from  the  contact.  The  last  administration  is  now  remembered 
only  on  account  of  one  of  Mr.  Herford's  stories,  which  a  Mr. 
Wilson  became  habituated  to  repeating  in  public.  A  proper 
form  of  prayer,  for  the  use  of  Bishops  and  other  clergy,  and  all 
persons  devoutly  and  spiritually  inclined,  would  be :  "O  Lord, 
while  we  deprecate  the  hideous  immoralities  of  Prohibition,  we 
still  thank  thee  that  Oliver  Herford  has  not  gone  dry." 


An  outline  of  American  history 

By  Donald  Ogden  Stewart 

With  Sketches  by  Herb  Roth 



In  the  Manner  of  Ring  Eardner 

FRIEND  Ethen— 
Well  Ethen  you  will  be  surprised 
0.  K.  to  hear  I  &  the  wife  took  a  little 
trip  down  to  Boston  last  wk.  to  a  T. 
party  &  I  guess  you  are  thinking  we 
will  be  getting  the  swelt  hed  over  be- 
ing ast  to  a  T.  party.    In  Boston. 

Well  Ethen  if  you  think  that  why 
you  will  be  a  100  mi.  offen  the  track 
because  Ethen  I  and  Prudence  aint  the 
kind  that  gets  a  swelt  hed  over  being 
ast  any  wares  like  some  of  are  naybers 
up  here  when  they  are  ast  any  wares 
so  you  see  Ethen  even  if  we  had  been 
ast  any  wares  we  wouldnt  of  had  no 
swelt  hed.  On  acct  of  being  ast  any 

Well  last  Thurs.  I  and  Prudence 
drove  old  Bessy  down  to  Boston  Bessy 
is  are  horse  see  Ethen  which  is  about 
13  mi.  from  here  Boston  I  mean  Ethen 
as  the  crow  flys  only  no  crow  would 
ever  fly  to  Boston  if  he  could  help  it 
because  all  the  crows  what  ever  flew  to 
Boston  was  shot  by  them  lousie  tav- 
erin  keepers  to  make  meals  out  of 
Ethen  I  never  tast  it  nothing  so  rotten 
in  my  life  as  the  meals  they  give  us 
there  &  the  priceis  would  knock  your 
I  out.    3  shillings  for  a  peace  of  stake 

about  as  big  as  your  I,  and  4  pence  for 
a  cup  of  coffy.  The  streets  aint  the 
only  thing  about  Boston  thats  crook 
it.  Them  taverin  keepers  is  crook  it 
to  I  mean  see  Ethen. 

After  supper  I  &  her  was  walking 
a  round  giving  the  town  the  double  O 
when  we  seen  that  Fanny  Ewell  Hall 
was  all  lit  up  like  Charley  Davis  on 
Sat.  night  &  I  says  to  Prudence  lets 
go  inside  I  think  its  free  and  she  says 
I  bet  you  knowed  it  was  free  al  right 
before  you  ast  me  &  sure  enough  it 
was  free  only  I  hadnt  knowed  it  be- 
fore only  I  guess  that  Prudence  knows 
that  when  I  say  a  thing  it  is  generally 
0.  K.  Well  Fanny  Ewell  Hall  was 
pack  jam  full  of  people  &  we  couldnt 
see  nothing  because  there  was  a 
cockide  stiff  standing  right  in  front  of 
us  &  jumping  up  &  down  &  yelling 
No  T.  No  T.  at  the  top  of  his  lunges 
&  Prudence  says  well  why  dont  you 
take  coffy  or  milk  &  for  Gods  sake 
stay  offen  my  foot  &  he  turns  to  her 
&  says  maddam  do  you  want  T.  &  slav- 
ery &  she  says  no  coffy  &  a  hot  dog 
just  kidding  him  see  Ethen  &  he  says 
maddam  no  T.  shall  ever  land  &  she 
says  no  but  my  husbend  will  in  a  bout 




1  nin,  &  I  was  jost  going  to  plank  him 
1  when  the  door  behint  us  bust  open 
&  a  lot  of  indrans  come  in  yelling 
CTttj  body  down  to  Grifins  worf  there 

ton  swelt  heds  nothing  &  I  guess  if 
they  had  ever  seen  a  real  indyan  they 
would  of  known  better  than  to  laif. 
Well    I    and    Prudence    follered    the 

"PaKny  Bwell  Mall  U 

■  pack  Jam  JulV 

U  going  to  be  a  T.  party  only  Ethen 
tfaey  wunt  indyans  at  all  but  Jest  wite 
men  drest  up  to  look  like  indyans  &  I 
B«ys  to  a  fello  those  aint  indyans  &  he 
says  no  how  did  you  guess  it  &  I  says 
because  I  have  seen  real  indyans  many 
a  time  A  he  oays  to  a  nother  f  ello  say 
Bin  here  is  a  man  who  says  them  aint 
i«al  indyans  &  the  other  fello  says 
gosh  I  dont  believe  it  A  they  laffed  only 
the  laff  was  on  them  Ethen  because 
they  waant  real  indyans  &  that  is  only 
tipical  of  how  you  cant  tell  these  Bos- 

crowd  down  to  Grifins  worf  &  them 
indyans  which  was  only  wite  men 
dreat  up  dumb  onto  a  ship  there  & 
begun  throwing  the  cargo  into  Boston 
barber  &  I  says  to  a  fello  what  is  In 
them  boxes  &  he  says  T.  &  I  says  well 
why  are  they  throwing  it  away  &  he 
says  because  they  do  not  want  to  pay 
the  tacks  which  is  about  aa  sensable 
Ethen  if  I  was  to  rite  a  lot  of  letters 
&  then  as  fast  as  I  rote  1  I  would  tare 
it  up  because  I  did  not  want  to  pay 
for  a  stamp.     Well  I  says  somebody 



ought  to  catch  h-11  for  this  &  he  says 
are  you  a  torie  &  I  seen  he  was  trying 
to  kid  me  &  I  says  no  I  am  a  congre- 
gationalis  &  a  loyal  subject  of  king 
Geo.  Rex  &  he  says  o  I  thought  you 
was  a  torie  &  a  lot  of  fellos  who  was 
with  him  give  him  the  laff  because  he 
hadnt  been  abel  to  kid  me.  Well  after 
a  whiles  he  says  the  indyans  seem  to 
be  about  threw  &  I  says  yes  only  they 
aint  indyans  &  the  laff  was  on  him 
again  &  he  seen  it  wasnt  no  use  to  try 
&  kid  me  &  Prudence  says  come  on 
lets  beat  it  &  on  the  way  home  I  says 
I  bet  them  Boston  birds  will  feel  small 
when  they  find  out  that  those  wasnt 
indyans  at  all  &  she  act  it  like  she  was 
mad  about  something  &  says  well  they 
cant  blame  you  for  not  trying  to  tell 
them  &  its  a  wonder  you  didnt  hire 
Fanny  Ewell  Hall  while  you  was  about 
it  &  I  says  o  is  it  &  I  might  know  youd 
get  sore  because  I  was  the  1st  to  find 
out  about  the  indyans  being  wite  men 
in  disgised.  &  she  says  yes  I  suppose 
if  somebody  was  to  paint  stripes  on  a 
cow  you  would  make  a  speach  about  it 
&  say  that  you  had  discovered  that  it 
wasnt  no  tiger  &  I  wish  I  had  been  1 
of  them  indyans  tonight  because  I 
would  of  loved  to  of  beened  you  with  a 
Tommy  Hawk  &  I  says  o  you  would 
would  you  &  she  seen  it  wasnt  no  use 
to  argue  with  me  &  anyway  Ethen  no- 
body would  be  fool  enough  to  paint 
stripes  on  a  cow  unless  maybe  they 
was  bom  in  Boston.  Well  Ethen  thats 
the  way  it  goes  &  when  you  do  put  one 
over  on  the  wife  they  want  to  hit  you 
with  a  Tommy  Hawk  with  best  rgds. 


Friend  Ethen— 

No  matter  what  a  married  man  does 
in  this  world  he  gets  in  wrong  &  I 
suppose  if  I  was  to  die  tonight  Pru- 
dence would  bawl  me  out  for  not  hav- 
ing let  her  know  I  was  going  to  do  it 

&  just  because  I  joined  the  minit  men 
the  other  eve.  she  has  been  acting 
like  as  if  I  had  joined  the  Baptis 
Church  &  I  bet  you  are  saying  what  in 
the  h — ^11  is  a  minit  man.  Well  Ethen 
I  will  tell  you.  The  other  night  I 
says  to  Prudence  I  think  I  will  drive 
over  to  Lexington  to  get  Bessy  shodd. 
Bessy  is  are  horse  see  Ethen.  Well 
she  says  you  will  do  nothing  of  the 
kind  because  all  you  want  to  do  in 
Lexington  is  get  a  snoot  f ul  &  if  you 
think  I  am  going  to  wate  up  all  night 
while  you  get  boiled  well  you  have  got 
another  guess  coming.  She  says  the 
last  time  you  had  Bessy  shodd  the 
naybers  are  talking  about  it  yet  A  I 
says  do  you  mean  because  I  &  Charley 
Davis  was  singing  &  having  a  little 
fun  &  she  says  no  because  nobody 
wouldnt  call  that  singing  &  do  you 
call  it  a  little  fun  when  you  brought 
Bessy  up  stares  with  you  to  show  me 
how  well  she  had  been  shodd  at  8  A.  M. 
in  the  morning  answer  me  that  which 
is  only  her  way  of  exagerating  things 
Ethen  because  we  didnt  bring  Bessy 
only  as  far  as  the  stares  &  I  only  did 
it  because  Charley  had  been  drinking 
a  little  to  much  &  I  didnt  want  to  iri- 
tate  him  because  the  way  to  handel 
drunks  is  to  not  iritate  them  they  are 
only  worse  only  you  cant  tell  a  woman 
that  &  they  think  the  way  to  handel 
drunks  is  to  look  him  in  the  eye  &  say 
arent  you  ashamed  of  yourselves 
which  only  iritates  him  the  moar. 
Well  I  says  I  am  not  going  to  half  no 
horse  of  mine  going  a  round  %  shodd 
al  the  time  &  Prudence  says  well  I  am 
not  going  to  half  no  husband  of  mine 
going  a  round  %  shot  al  the  time  A  I 
says  I  will  not  go  near  Charley  Davis 
this  time  because  I  have  lernt  my  les- 
son &  she  says  al  right  if  you  will 
promise  to  not  go  near  Charley  Davis 
you  can  go  &  when  I  got  to  Lexington 
I  thought  I  would  stop  in  the  taverin 


The  "Boilon  T.  Parlii" 

s  mtn.  joBt  to  Bf^  hulloh  to  the  boys 
because  if  a  fello  doesnt  stop  in  the 
taverin  to  say  hulloh  to  the  boys  who 
are  just  as  good  as  he  is  they  are  li- 
ble  to  say  be  has  a  swelt  hed  &  is  to 
proud  to  stop  in  the  taverin  to  say 
huDofa  to  the  boys.  Who  are  just  as 
Sood  as  he  is.  Well  I  didnt  have  any 
i  dear  that  Chatiey  Davis  would  be 
then  because  I  had  told  Prudence  I 
wiBRt  going  to  go  near  him  &  just  be- 

cause I  said  that  I  cant  be  expect  it 
to  sneek  into  toun  like  as  if  I  was  a 
convick  can  I  Ethen.  Well  the  taverin 
was  crowd  it  &  they  had  all  got  a  good 
stort  &  the  long  &  the  short  of  it  was 
that  the  Ist  person  I  seen  was  Charley 
Davis  &  he  says  hulloh  there  pink 
whiskers  you  are  just  in  time  to  join 
the  minit  men  which  is  only  a  nicked 
name  he  has  for  me  because  my 
whiekere  are  red  brown.    No  I  says  I 



cannot  join  anything  tonight  fellos  be- 
cause I  must  go  right  back  home  & 
he  says  if  you  dont  join  the  minit  men 
now  some  day  you  wont  have  no  home 
to  go  home  to  &  I  says  what  do  you 
mean  I  wont  have  no  home  to  go  home 
to  &  he  says  because  the  Brittish  are 
going  to  bum  down  all  the  homes  of 
we  farmers  because  we  will  not  sell 
them  any  food  but  first  you  had  better 
have  a  drink.  Well  Ethen  a  f  ello  dont 
like  to  be  a  sissey  about  taking  1 
drink  does  he  &  then  I  says  now  fellos 
I  must  go  home  &  then  a  couple  of 
more  fellos  come  in  &  they  said  Ed 
you  wont  go  home  till  we  have  brought 
you  a  drink  &  elect  it  you  to  the  minit 
men  will  you  &  I  said  no  but  I  must 
go  home  right  after  that.  Well  then 
we  got  to  singing  &  we  was  going 
pretty  good  &  after  a  while  I  said  now 
fellos  I  must  go  home  &  Charley  Davis 
says  to  me  Ed  before  you  go  I  want  to 
have  you  shake  hands  with  my  friend 
Tom  Duffy  who  is  here  from  Boston 
&  he  will  tell  you  all  about  the  minit 
men  &  you  can  join  tonight  but  look 
out  or  he  will  drink  you  under  the 
tabel  because  he  is  the  worst  fish  in 
Boston  &  I  says  sure  only  I  have  got 
to  be  going  home  soon  because  you 
remember  what  hapend  last  time  &  I 
would  like  to  see  any  body  from  Bos- 
ton drink  me  under  the  tabel  &  bet. 
you  &  I  Ethen  if  that  fellow  is  a  fish 
then  my  grandmother  is  the  prince  of 
whales  &  let  me  tell  you  what  hapend. 
After  we  had  drank  about  4  or  5  I 
seen  he  was  getting  sort  of  wite  &  I 
says  well  Boston  lets  settle  down  now 
to  some  good  steddy  drinking  &  he 
says  listen  &  I  says  what  &  he  says 
listen  &  I  says  what  &  he  says  do  you 
know  my  wife  &  I  says  no  &  he  says 
listen  &  I  says  what  &  he  says  shes 
the  best  little  woman  in  the  world  &  I 
says  sure  &  he  says  what  did  you  say 
&  I  says  when  &  he  says  you  have 

insult  it  my  wife  the  best  little  woman 
in  the  world  &  he  begun  to  cry  &  we 
had  only  had  a  bout  4  qt  &  wouldnt 
that  knock  you  for  aNf ockide  firool 
Ethen,  only  I  guess  you  arent  surprised 
knowing  how  much  I  can  holt  without 
feeling  any  affects.  Well  I  was  feel- 
ing pretty  good  on  acct.  of  drinking 
the  pride  of  Boston  under  the  tabel  & 
not  feeling  any  affects  only  I  was  feel- 
ing good  like  a  fello  naturely  feels  & 
the  fellos  kind  of  made  a  lot  of  fuss 
on  acct.  me  drinking  him  under  the 
tabel  so  I  couldnt  very  well  of  gone 
home  then  &  after  a  while  Charley 
Davis  made  a  speach  &  well  comed  me 
into  the  minit  men  &  so  I  am  a  minit 
man  Ethen  but  I  cant  exackly  explain 
it  to  you  until  I  see  Charley  again  be- 
cause he  didnt  make  it  very  clear  that 
night.  Well  after  a  while  we  woke  the 
Boston  fish  up  &  we  all  went  home  & 
I  was  feeling  pretty  good  on  acct.  it 
being  such  a  nice  night  &  all  the  stars 
being  out  &  etc.  &  when  I  got  home  I 
said  Prudence  guess  what  hapend  & 
she  says  I  can  guess  &  I  says  Prudence 
I  have  been  elect  it  a  minit  man  &  she 
says  well  go  on  up  stares  &  sleep  it  off 
&  I  says  sleep  what  off  &  she  says  stop 
talking  so  loud  do  you  want  the  nay- 
bers  to  wake  up  &  I  says  whos  talking 
loud  &  she  says  o  go  to  bed  &  I  says  I 
am  talking  in  conversational  tones  & 
she  says  well  you  must  be  conversing 
with  somebody  in  Boston  &  I  says  o 
you  mean  that  little  blond  on  Beecon 
St.  &  Ethen  she  went  a  1,000,000  mi. 
up  in  the  air  &  I  seen  it  wasnt  no  use 
to  try  &  tell  her  that  the  reason  I  was 
feeling  good  was  on  acct.  having 
drank  a  Boston  swelt  hed  to  sleep  with 
out  feeling  any  affects  &  I  bet  the  next 
time  I  get  a  chanct  I  am  going  to  get 
snooted  right  because  a  fello  gets 
blamed  just  as  much  if  he  doesnt  feel 
the  affects  as  if  he  was  brought  home 
in  a  stuper  &  I  was  just  kidding  her 



about  that  blond  on  Beecon  St  Some 
wtMDen  dont  know  when  they  are  well 
off  Ethen  &  I  bet  that  gay  from  Bos- 
tons Tom  Duffy  I  mean  wife  wishes 
she  was  in  Prudences  shoes  instead  of 

bell  Collins  who  has  owed  me  2  lbs. 
for  a  yr.  &  ^  well  Ethen  it  never 
ranes  but  it  pores  &  you  can  be  stad 
you  are  Uveing  in  a  nice  quiet  place 
like  Philly. 

/  jolMed  the  minlt 

ber  having  married  a  man  what  cant 
holt  no  more  than  a  qt  without  being 
brought  home  in  a  stuper     Best  rgds. 

Friend  Ethen — 

WeQ  Ethen  this  is  a  funny  world  & 
^en  I  joined  the  minit  men  last  mo. 
how  was  I  to  know  that  they  called 
them  minit  men  because  they  was  lible 
to  get  shot  any  minit.  &  here  I  am 
riteicg  to  you  in  a  teitt  outside  Bos- 
ton A  any  minit  a  canon  ball  is  lible 
to  knock  me  for  a  continental  loop  & 
my  honse  has  been  burnt  &  Prudence 
is  up  in  Conk  Cord  with  her  sister  the 
one  vho  married  that  short  skate  dum 

Well  the  other  night  I  and  Prudence 
was  sound  asleep  when  1  heard  some 
body  banging  at  the  frt.  door  &  I  stuck 
my  head  out  the  up  stares  window  & 
I  says  who  are  you  &  he  says  I  am 
Paul  Revear  &  I  says  well  this  is  a 
h — 11  of  a  time  to  be  wakeing  a  peacei- 
ful  man  out  of  their  bed  what  do  you 
want  &  he  says  the  Brittish  are  come- 
ing  &  I  says  o  are  they  well  this  is  the 
19  of  April  not  the  lat  &  I  was  going 
down  stares  to  plank  him  1  but  he  had 
rode  away  tow  wards  Lexington  be- 
fore I  had  a  chanct  &  as  it  turned  out 
after  words  the  joke  was  on  me  0.  K. 
Well  who  is  it  says  Prudence  Charley 
Davis  again  because  you  might  as  well 


"Ht  (oiM  I  am  Pool  Rtvtar" 

come  back  to  bed  if  it  is  &  I  K«yi  no  it 
was  some  Boston  smart  alick  trying  to 
be  funny  &  I  guess  they  are  soar  down 
there  on  acct.  what  hapend  to  thier 
prize  fish  up  here  last  mo.  &  are  try- 
ing to  get  even  do  you  know  a  Paul 
Revear  &  she  says  yes  there  was  a  boy 
at  school  named  Paul  Revear  who  was 
crazy  about  me  was  he  dark  well 
Ethen  if  all  the  felloe  she  se^b  has 
been  crazy  about  her  was  layed  end  to 
end  they  would  circum  navygate  the 
globe  twicet  &  I  says  no  he  was  yello 
&  that  had  her  stopt  so  we  went  back 
to  sleep  only  I  couldnt  help  tailing 
over  the  way  I  bad  slipt  it  across. 
About  Revear  being  yello.  WeU  along 
a  bout  A.  M.  there  was  a  lot  of  gun 
firing  tow  wards  Lexington  &  Pru- 
dence grsbed  me  &,  says  whats  the 

shooting  for  &  I  says  probably  that 
fello  Revear  who  was  so  crazy  a  bout 
you  has  got  funny  oncet  to  oft  ten  Sl 
it  will  teach  them  Boston  doodes  a 
lesson.  Well  Ethen  I  was  wrong  for 
oncet  &  the  firing  kept  getting  worse 
&  I  hitcht  up  old  Bessy  &  drove  over 
to  Lexington  Bessy  is  are  horse  & 
Ethen  there  was  the  h — ^11  to  pay  there 
because  the  g — d  d — m  Brittish  red- 
cotes  had  marcbt  up  from  Boston  & 
had  fired  on  the  Lexington  fellos  & 
Charley  Davis  had  been  shot  dead  ft 
a  lot  of  the  other  fellos  was  wooned  it 
&  they  said  you  had  better  get  your 
wife  to  the  h — 11  out  of  your  house  be- 
cause the  g — d  d — m  Brittish  redcotes 
are  coming  back   &  they  will   bum 

everything  along  the  rode  the 

I  guess  you  know  what  word  goes 



there  Ethen  &  I  was  so  d — m  mad  at 
those  R— d  d — ^m  Brittish  redcotes  on 
acct.  shooting  Charley  Davis  dead  that 
I  said  give  me  a  gun  &  show  me  the 

who  done  it  &  they  says  no 

you  had  better  get  your  wife  to  a  safe 
place  to  go  to  &  then  you  can  come 

back  because  the will  be  along 

this  way  again  the  .    Well  I 

drove  as  fast  as  I  could  back  to  the 
farm  &  somebody  had  already  told 
Prudence  what  had  hapend  &  as  soon 
as  I  drove  into  the  yd.  she  come  out 
with  my  muskit  &  hand  it  it  to  me  & 
says  dont  you  worry  about  me  but  you 
kill  every  d — ^m  redcote  you  can  see  & 

I  says  the s  has  killed  Charley 

Davis  &  she  says  I  know  it  &  here  is 
all  the  bullits  I  could  find.  Well  when 
I  got  back  to  Lexington  the  redcotes 
was  just  coming  along  &  Ethen  I 
guess  they  wont  forget  that  march 
back  to  Boston  for  a  little  whiles  &  I 
guess  I  wont  either  because  the 
B  burnt  down  my  house  &  bam 

&  Prudence  is  gone  to  stay  with  her 
sister  in  Conk  Cord  &  here  I  am  camp- 
ing in  a  tent  with  a  lot  of  other  minit 
men  on  the  out  skirts  of  Boston  & 
there  is  a  roomer  a  round  camp  that 
to  morrow  we  are  going  to  move  over 
to  Bunker  Hill  which  is  a  good  name 
for  a  Boston  Hill  111  say  &  Ethen  if 
you  was  to  of  told  me  a  mo.  ago  that  I 
would  be  fighting  to  get  Boston  away 
from  the  Brittish  I  would  of  planked 
you  1  because  they  could  of  had  Bos- 
ton for  all  I  cared.  Well  Ethen  I  must 
go  out  &  drill  some  more  now  &  proba- 
bly we  will  half  to  listen  to  some  Bos- 
ton bird  makeing  a  speach  they  are 
great  fellos  for  speaches  about  down 
with  Brittish  tirrany  &  give  me  lib- 
berty  or  give  me  death  but  if  you  was 
to  ast  me  Ethen  I  would  say  give  me 
back  that  house  &  bam  what  those 
lousie  redcotes  burnt  &  when  this  ex- 
citement is  all  over  what  I  want  to 
know  is  where  do  I  get  off  at. 



By  Florence  Kilpatrick  Mixter 

OF  what  avail 
The  tiny  winds  that  call 
To  the  indifferent  sea?    To  ships  a-sail 
The  twilight's  silver  pall 
Whispers  of  night 
Without  one  ripple  stirred. 
But  on  the  shoals  three  fishermen  in  white 
Are  watching. .  .They  have  heard. . . . 
How  still  the  ships! — 
So  soon  to  feel  the  breath 
Of  winds  that  rush  to  meet  the  sea's  cold  lips 
And  fill  the  night  with  death  I 


New  York,  August,  1921. 

MY  mother  did  not  raise  me  to  be 
a  publisher.  I  was  thinking  the 
other  day  how  the  devil  it  came  about 
that  what  George  Moore  (or  is  it  Stev- 
enson?) calls  "the  romance  of  destiny" 
cast  me  into  the  publishing  business, 
where  I  have  knocked  about  these 
many  years.  And,  musing  on,  I  sur- 
veyed in  retrospect  the  several  famous 
publishers  I  have  had  the  opportunity 
of  knowing.  It  had  not,  somehow,  oc- 
curred to  me  before  what  an  exceed- 
ingly piquant  contrast  they  are  one  to 
another,  these  gentlemen,  leading  fig- 
ures in  the  business  in  this  country, 
personages  who  shape  the  character  of 
the  nation's  reading.  I  found  that  I 
entertained  myself  very  well  with  re- 
viewing in  my  mind  divers  matters 
related  to  my  connection  with,  in  suc- 
cession, four  great  American  publish- 
ing houses. 

When  the  world  was  young  Bren- 
tano's  was  on  Union  Square,  at  the 
comer  of  Broadway  and  Fourteenth 
Street.  Scribner's  was  just  below 
Twenty-second  Street  on  Fifth  Ave- 
nue. Dodd,  Mead  just  below  Scrib- 
ner's. Putnam's  and  Button's  next 
door  to  each  other  half  a  block  west  of 
the  Avenue  on  the  uptown  side  of 
Twenty-third  Street — a  rich  pageant 
of  fashionable  shopping  then.  The 
Flatiron  building  was  among  the  won- 
ders of  the  world.  It  was  the  thing  to 
dine  at  Martin's,  on  Broadway  at 
Twenty-sixth  Street  And  a  youth 
could  raise  a  thirst. 

That  was  the  piping  time  when  I 
struck  the  "town".  I  wore  a  heavy 
black  tape  to  my  glasses  and  the  best 
suit  of  clothes  I  had  been  able  to  get 

in  Indiana.  I  had  a  good  deal  of  extra 
heavy  underwear  in  my  trunk,  as  my 
family  expected  it  would  be  pretty 
cold  in  the  winter  along  the  Atlantic 
seaboard.  I  had  never  seen  anything 
of  the  kind  that  approached  in  lavish 
magnificence  the  "free  lunch"  of  the 
metropolis.  Nor  had  I  ever  conceived 
of  such  a  paradise  of  periodicals  as 
the  magazine  department  of  Bren- 

I  was  an  "art  student".    The  kernel 
of  life  was  the  classes  at  "the  League" 
(the  Art  Students'  League  of  New 
York),  in  the  Fine  Arts  Building  on 
west  Fifty-seventh  Street.    The  most 
illustrious  man  in  the  world  was,  of 
course,  James  McNeil  Whistler.    The 
most  glamourous  figure  in  America 
was  certainly   John   H.   Twachtman. 
The  most  enviable  young  man  in  the 
country  perhaps  was  Walter  Appleton 
Clark.     The   uppermost  tip  of  **the 
Great   White   Way"   was   the   Pabst 
building,  on  the  site  of  the  Times 
building  of  today.     One  never  went 
out  from  one's  boarding  house  after 
six  o'clock  in  the  evening  in  those  days 
without  being  "dressed".     It  simply 
wasn't  done,  one  understood,  in  New 
York.    The  quintessence  of  feminine 
charm,   also   an   art   student,    (from 
Ohio),  lived  in  the  winters  on  Thirty- 
third  Street  a  few  steps  from  the  Wal- 
dorf.   James  J.  Corbett  had  a  "place" 
on  Herald  Square.     When  the  world 
was  young. 

The  art  student  business  was  a  very 
pleasant  and  not  at  all  an  onerous  oc- 
cupation. And  a  very  superior  and 
very  jolly  place  indeed  to  be  of  an  af- 
ternoon was  the  Hotel  Grenoble,  on 
Seventh  Avenue  across  from  Carnegie 




HaU.  You  always  mentioned,  in 
referrinsr  to  it  to  the  uninitiated, 
that  that  was  the  place  where 
Kiplinfi:  stopped.  The  part  of  the 
hotel  of  course  where  one  so  frequent- 
ly was  of  an  afternoon  was  the  room 
called  the  caf  &  It  was  there  that  the 
"3  Club"  held  its  meetings,  on  the 
days  (Tuesday  and  Friday  of  each 
week)  that  Mr.  Twachtman  came  up 
from  his  quarters  in  town  at  The 
Players  to  give  a  criticism  to  his  class 
at  the  League. 

The  place  of  Twachtman  in  Ameri- 
can painting  is  now  quite  secure.    He 
is,  in  the  literary  term,  a  classic.    His 
works,  none  disputes,  do  honor  to  our 
best  museums.    In  the  auction  rooms 
his  canvases,  when  they  appear,  now 
claim  a  golden  price.    Not  uncommon 
is  it  today  to  hear  him  spoken  of  in 
quarters   of  authority  as   the  finest 
landscape  painter  we  have  had.     In- 
deed, in  all  reference  to  him  in  critical 
writing,  increasing  deference  is  paid 
to  his  name.    His  career  has  become 
a  legend.    And,  with  poetic  truth  it 
may  be  said,  snow  is  more  beautiful 
now  upon  the  bosom  of  the  earth  than 
before  he  lived  and  painted  it.    And 
more  beautiful  to  many  must  be  the 
sight  of  fair  New  England  hills,  white 
houses  in  a  cluster,  small  boats  upon 
the  water,  and  frozen  pools. 

A  little  man  of  about  fifty,  sharply 
pointed  Van  Dyke  beard,  greying  hair 
worn  in  a  bang,  always  a  white  cravat, 
a  bit  brusk  in  movement,  somewhat 
(gleefully  I  suspect)  Mephistophelian 
in  general  effect.  A  paragraph  pur- 
porting to  be  an  advertisement  printed 
in  the  "cart-a-log"  of  the  1899  exhibi- 
tion of  the  Society  of  American 
Fakirs  "takes  off"  very  well  the  hu- 
morous savagery  of  the  most  animat- 
ing instructor  ever  (it  may  fairly  be 
held)  at  the  League.    This  reads : 

FOR  SALE.  The  entire  outfit  of  a  very 
young  art  student.  Includes  1  portfolio  (near- 
ly new),  seyeral  sheets  of  clean  Michelet  paper, 
clothes  pins,  kneaded  rubber,  plumb  bob,  12  in. 
ruler,  piece  of  clean  chamois  and  a  box  of  char- 
coal (only  one  sticlc  used).  Can  have  entire  lot 
very  cheap.  Good  reasons  for  selling  (see  J. 
H.  Twachtman).  Inquire  at  office  of  League 
or  Plumber  Shop  on  Ninth  Are.  near  812  St., 
between  12  and  12,  on  any  day  but  Saturday. 

AdT.  12  t. 

"First  student  stand  up,"  was  the 
way  Mr.  Twachtman  was  wont  to  be- 
gin his  criticism.  **Very  bad!"  most 
likely  was  his  opinion  of  that  palpi- 
tating student's  drawing.  "Second 
student  stand  up/'  he  would  say. 
"Worse,"  probably  his  comment. 
"Third  student.  Still  worse  I  No  im- 
provement whatever!  Everybody  go 
back  to  a  block  hand."  ("Block  hand", 
a  plaster  cast  of  a  human  hand  with 
all  detail  eliminated;  the  simplest 
subject  for  beginners  to  draw.)  Then 
Mr.  Twachtman  would  quickly  pass 
into  the  tobacco  smoke  of  the  next  al- 
cove. Sometimes  young  ladies  of  deli- 
cate sensibility  would  be  left  in  tears. 
There  was,  in  truth  I  remember,  one 
very  pretty  young  person  who  was 
kept  at  a  block  hand  for  so  long  a  time, 
and  who  wept  so  much,  that  at  length 
in  despair  she  married  an  automobile 
manufacturer  and  divorced  art  for- 

He  was  known  (behind  his  back)  as 
"Johnnie"  to  the  3  Club.  We  called 
ourselves  that,  we  three  bosom  cronies, 
one  J.  Flagler  MacRae  (whither  has 
the  wind  blown  him  away?),  Walter 
Jack  Duncan,  and  I.  We  decorated 
(by  hand)  our  stationery  with  a  let- 
ter-head design,  a  sort  of  coat  of  arms, 
a  red  stein  beside  the  figure  three — 
such  rollicking  lads  were  we.  Some- 
how the  group  of  us  had  found  singu- 
lar favor  with  the  master.  In  due 
form  and  by  unanimous  vote  we 
elected  him  honorary  member  of  the 



From  quarters  of  distinction  has 
come  abundant  testimony  of  the 
quaint,  human  qualities  of  this  Ameri- 
can master.  But  in  the  memoir  of 
John  Twachtman  that  ought  to  be 
written  a  page  should  be  the  story  of 
the  obscure  and  humble  Club  which 
he  honored  and  charmed,  rapturously 
inspired,  and  in  dark  hours  sustained 
in  spirit,  and  which  has  found  no  way 
to  place  in  reverence  and  affection  a 
little  wreath  to  his  memory.  Had  this 
little  conceit,  the  idea  of  such  a  page, 
been  introduced  at  one  of  the  meetings 
of  the  Club,  our  honorary  member,  I 
think,  would  have  pointed  upward  his 
Mephistophelian  beard  and  over  it 
have  twinkled  down  with  glee  at  the 
Club.  And  than  this  little  jest  in  his 
life,  his  honorary  membership  in  the 
8  Club,  perhaps  nothing  better  could 
be  adduced  to  illustrate  the  simple, 
boyish  character  of  his  nature.  In 
order  for  a  member  to  buy  a  drink  at 
a  meeting  of  the  Club,  when  the  hon- 
orary member  was  present,  it  was  nec- 
essary that  a  motion  to  that  effect  be 
formally  proposed,  seconded,  and 
unanimously  carried.  He  would  not 
countenance  any  offhand  procedure  in 
the  matter.  Such  a  motion,  however, 
invariably  was  unanimously  carried. 

Some  people  do  not  remember  this. 
Where  the  big  Brunswick  building 
now  is,  with  Brentano's  in  one  comer 
of  it,  extending  the  length  of  the 
block  on  the  east  side  of  Fifth  Avenue 
between  Twenty-sixth  and  Twenty- 
seventh  Streets,  was  in  the  days  of 
which  I  write  a  row  of  brick  struc- 
tures of  three  stories  or  so,  containing 
on  the  ground  floor  tiny  shops.  One 
of  these  was  a  bookshop,  in  which  fre- 
quently exhibitions  of  drawings  were 
held.  I  found  in  one  of  my  scrap- 
books  the  other  day  a  card  issued  by 
this  little  place,  which  read : 

Yoa  are  Inyited  to  an  exhibition  of  poster 
drawings  by  Walter  Jack  Duncan  and  Murray 
HUl,  pupils  of  the  late  John  H.  Twachtman. 

The  Book  Shop  of 

Doubleday,  Page  it  Co. 

219  Fifth  Are. 

New  York. 

TUl  AprU  80,  1903. 

Where  are  the  literary  journals  of 
yesteryear?  Out  of  the  number  of 
monthly  periodicals  that  used  to  be, 
devoted  wholly  to  the  field  of  books, 
only  The  Bookman  has  survived. 
There,  among  others,  was  the  Putnam 
magazine  "The  Critic",  edited  for  long 
by  Jeanette  Gilder.  And  "The  Read- 
er", published  by  Bobbs-MerriU. 
Scribner's  had  "The  Book  Buyer", 
which  later  became  "The  Lamp".  It 
was  by  way  of  "The  Lamp"  that  an 
"artist"  became  a  bookseller. 

Joseph  H.  Chapin  was  then,  as  now, 
art  editor  of  "Scribner's  Magazine". 
He  had  done  a  number  of  very  dis- 
cerning things  in  the  service  of  Ameri- 
can periodical  illustration.  He  it  was 
who  first  "discovered"  Walter  Apple- 
ton  Clark,  one  of  the  most  gifted  and 
technically  accomplished  of  American 
illustrators.  Walter  Jack  Duncan  and 
Murray  Hill  were  thinking  it  was 
about  time  that  so  perspicacious  an  art 
editor  discovered  them — J.  Flagler 
MacRae  was  a  painter,  and  thus  above 
magazines.  And  so  one  day  I  dropped 
in  on  Mr.  Chapin  with  a  portfolio  of 
our  wares.  The  upshot  of  the  inter- 
view was  that  a  set  of  our  drawings 
was  selected  for  reproduction  in  "The 
Lamp".  That  evening  two  young  men 
went  forth  arm  in  arm  to  patronizing- 
ly look  over  the  great  city  they  had 

The  blow  was  terrible.  We  nearly 
sank  down  upon  the  floor  of  the  Scrib- 
ner  store.  We  had  counted  all  the 
minutes  of  all  the  days  up  to  the  date 
of  publication  of  that  issue  of  the 
magazine,  the  epochal  number  of  "The 
Lamp".     We  had  made  a  triumphal 



march  to  Scribner^s  to  buy  a  number 
of  copies,  copies  for  ourselves  and 
copies  to  send  "home".  Trembling: 
with  exultation  we  opened  the  pages. 
...Under  Duncan's  drawings  it  was 
stated  that  I  had  drawn  them;  under 
mine  that  they  had  been  drawn  by 
him.  Someone  in  Mr.  Chapin's  de- 
partment, in  making  up  the  magazine, 
had  made  an  awful  slip.  Life  was 

Well,  time  went  by.  I  saw  Mr. 
Chapin  occasionally,  and  he  seemed 
like  a  man  who  suffered  deeply  from  a 
consciousness  that  he  had  done  me  a 
criminal  wrong.  But  I  had  far  other 
worries  now.  I  no  longer  "dressed" 
for  the  evening.  Indeed,  those  eve- 
ning clothes  were  in  the  keeping  of  a 
gentleman  who  conducted  an  estab- 
Ushment  on  lower  Eighth  Avenue  and 
who  described  himself  on  his  sign- 
board as  "Unde  Ben".  I  refreshed 
myself  not  at  Martin's  nor  the  Gren- 
oble but  from  a  domestic  tin  bucket. 
A  philanthropist  invited  me  for  a 
wedc-end  in  the  country;  upon  my  re- 
turn to  my  lodgings  I  found  my  things 
in  thehaU. 

And  so  one  day  I  dropped  in  on  Mr. 
Chapin  again.  The  upshot  of  this  in- 
terview was  that  I  obtained  a  position 
as  retail  salesman  in  the  Scribner 
store.  I  had,  you  see,  been  bred  to  no 
business;  I  certainly  could  not  say 
that  I  had  cultivated  "business 
habits" ;  but  I  knew  a  good  deal  about 
books — I  thought.  I  knew  Lamb,  and 
Hazlitt,  and  Sterne,  and  Thackeray 
and — ^that  sort '  of  thing.  The  first 
book  I  dealt  with  in  the  way  of  busi- 
ness was  a  copy  of  "The  Care  and 
Feeding  of  Children".  It  was  to  be  a 
stop-gap  job  I  had  thought,  a  thing  of 
perhaps  a  few  months ;  I  remained  a 
book  derk  for  about  six  years.  And  I 
unlearned  a  great  deal  about  books. 
The  life  of  a  book  clerk  is  not  what 

it  was  in  my  day.    Pretty  soft  now,  it 
seems  to  me.    Stores,  the  fashionable 
stores,  at  any  rate,  dose  on  Saturdays 
throughout  the  summer,  not  merdy 
half  a  day  but  all  day.    Five  o'clock 
closing  all  the  year  round.    And  where 
is  the  "Christmas  rush",  so  cdebrated 
in  my  time?    It  used  to  begin  toward 
the  end  of  November,  and  steadily  in-> 
crease  in  volume  and  violence  until  the 
evening  of  December  twenty-fourth. 
During  the  last  week  another  customer 
could  hardly  have  been  fitted  into  the 
store  with  a  shoehorn,  until  one  in- 
side had  got  out.    "Can't  you  wait  on 
me  next,  please?" — ^for  weeks  after- 
ward the  sound  of  this  would  ring  in 
my  ears  like  a  species  of  ddirium  tre- 
mens.   You  were  "open"  until  nine  at 
night;     you    got    a    dollar    "supper 
money";    and  then  you  stayed  until 
eleven  or  so  laboring  at  a  reconstruc- 
tion of  the  stock  laid  in  devastation. 
I  was  reminded  at  a  recent  convention 
of  booksellers  of  a  highly  entertaining 
incident   (as  the  raconteur  says)   of 
the  last  night  of  my  last  "Christmas 
rush".    When  it  was  over  I  invited  an 
exhausted  fellow  worker  around  the 
comer  to  have  some  refreshment.    He 
was  an  estimable  young  man  whose 
life  happily  had  not  much  acquainted 
him  with  the   etiquette  of  the  bar 
room,  but  he  had  evidently  picked  up 
some  knowledge  of  this  from  hearsay 
and  reading.    Doubtless  amid  the  din 
of  the  place  he  did  not  hear  me  dis- 
tinctly.   I  raised  my  glass.    "To  hell", 
I  said,  "with  Christmas!"    He  bowed 
gravely  and  in  a  very  polite  voice  re- 
plied: "The  same  to  you."    All  in  all, 
however,  it  was  a  pleasant  life  enough. 
I  am  glad  I  was  a  bookseller  then.   The 
old  booksellers  are  like  the  old  actors : 
they  learned  their  trade  in  a  hard 

I  had  a  very  interesting  view  from 
the  side  lines  of  the  literary  world. 



Mr.  Burlingame,  who  had  been  editor 
of  the  magazine  since  its  beginning, 
was  editor  of  "Scribner's"  then. 
Portly,  ruddy,  a  rich  blue-black  beard, 
gracious,  immaculate  in  attire — I  do 
not  think  I  have  ever  seen  a  more 
highly  polished  figure  of  a  gentleman. 
I  viewed  him  with  deep  admiration  as 
a  spectacle  of  consummate  "finish". 
One  day,  having  come  down  from  his 
office  above  for  only  a  moment,  he  was 
crossing  the  store  on  his  way  back  to 
the  elevator.  He  moved  magnificently. 
His  wearing  no  hat  doubtless  it  was, 
which  gave  rise  to  the  idea  in  the 
mind  of  the  shabby  figure  that  reeled 
in  just  then  that  he  "belonged"  in  the 
retail  department.  The  scarecrow 
that  had  entered  certainly  didn't  be- 
long there.  He  swayed  about  on  his 
feet  for  an  instant  and  then  staggered 
across  the  floor  and  confronted  Mr. 
Burlingame.  "You,"  he  quavered; 
"you  th'  floorwalker  here?" 

The  first  literary  adviser  to  a  pub- 
lishing house  I  ever  beheld  was  W.  G. 
Brownell.  I  regarded  him  as  omnis- 
cient. The  calm,  unconscious  nobility 
of  his  presence,  the  classic  sculpture 
of  his  head  and  greying  beard,  the 
philosophic  detachment  of  his  bearing, 
suggested  to  my  mind  a  somewhat 
confused  blend  of  Socrates  and  Marcus 
Aurelius.  His  volumes  "Victorian 
Prose  Masters"  and  "American  Prose 
Masters"  I  read  as  the  stone  tablets 
of  the  law.  And  I  have  not  ceased  to 
read  them  now  as  the  very  wise  com- 
mentary of  a  full,  disciplined,  and 
beautiful  mind  on  human  life.  In- 
numerable times  a  day  he  would  stroll 
in  and  out.  He  would  move  up  and 
down  the  sidewalk  to  smoke — ^smoking 
being  outlawed  in  the  building.  Or 
stand  for  long  periods  of  time  gazing 
in  at  the  window  display.  But  I  do 
not  believe  that  at  the  end  of  the  day 
he  could  have  told  you  a  thing  that 

was  in  the  window.  I  felt  the  distance 
between  us  to  be  so  vast  that  it  would 
be  something  almost  blasphemous  for 
me  to  attempt  to  speak  to  him.  Until 
one  sultry  afternoon  when  he  was  sit- 
ting on  the  elevator  man's  stool  wait- 
ing for  the  car  to  descend.  A  small 
messenger  boy  came  along  en  route 
for  upstairs  with  a  telegram.  "Hot 
day,"  remarked  Mr.  Brownell  to  him 
very  pleasantly.  So  a  bit  later  I  ven- 
tured to  ask  him  if  he  had  read  a  new 
book  which  had  interested  me  greatly. 
"No,  is  it  good?"  he  asked  with  as 
much  simplicity  as  a  stenographer. 
And  the  friendly  relationship  which 
developed  between  us  has  been  to  me 
something  like  always  having  the 
spiritual  support  of  access  to  a  set, 
let's  say,  of  Montaigne. 

Coming  down  the  flight  of  marble 
steps  at  the  rear  of  the  store  leading 
from  the  august  sanctums  above  I  see 
(in  memory)  a  group  of  figures. 
Charles  Scribner,  Arthur  Scribner, 
Mr.  Brownell,  Mr.  Burlingame,  and 
Robert  Bridges,  then  associate  editor, 
now  editor  of  the  magazine.  On  their 
way  out  to  luncheon.  At  the  Century 
Club,  usually.  As  a  rule,  back  me- 
thodically at  the  end  of  an  hour  ex- 
actly. A  noble  avenue  between  neat 
book-laden  tables  stretches  to  the  front 
door  of  the  store.  Down  this  wide 
aisle  they  come  very  slowly,  rather  sol- 
emnly. Suggests  somewhat  to  the 
impish  fancy,  this  spectacle,  some  sort 
of  ceremonial  procession.  Uniform 
expression  on  their  countenances  of 
contemplative  detachment  from  their 
surroundings.  Very  quietly,  very 
neatly  dressed,  all.  Charles  Scribner, 
head  of  the  house,  a  man  (then)  of 
about — well,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
fifty,  I  should  say.  Of  medium  size, 
grey  mustache  cropped  short,  fine 
aquiline  nose  drooping  slightly  over 
it.     The  face  of  a  finely  bred  New 



Yorker  and  man  of  the  world.  Man- 
ner decidedly  reserved.  General  effect 
that  of  a  cultivated,  traveled,  conserva- 
tive, substantial,  effective  (perhaps 
shrewd)  man  of  affairs  who  might 
have  something  to  do  in  a  directing 
way  with  banks  or  railroads.  The  five 
gentlemen  before  me  are  all  men  of 
middle  age  or  a  bit  more.  If  I  were 
held  to  three  words  in  an  attempt  at 
rendering  a  succinct  impression  of  the 
group,  I  should  say  that  the  effect  in 
general  was  that  of  very  high  re- 

Mr.  Scribner  pauses  at  the  end  of 
one  of  the  tables  and  asks  a  nearby 
clerk,  who  immediately  springs  to  im- 
mensely respectful  attention,  for  a  copy 
of  a  recent  book  which  he  names.  The 
clerk  returns,  with  somewhat  the  man- 
ner of  a  culprit  about  to  be  sentenced, 
and  reports  that  that  book  is  at  pres- 
ent out  of  stock.  Again,  and  still  a 
third  time,  Mr.  Scribner  asks  for  a 
book — a  book  which  by  some  chance 
happens  at  the  moment  not  to  be  in 
hand.  (Though  don't  I  know  how 
large  that  stock  is!)  Greorge  Whit- 
worth,  the  buyer,  appears  looking  very 
distraught.  Mr.  Scribner  says  noth- 
ing for  a  moment.  Is  an  Olympian 
whirlwind  about  to  burst  with  de- 
struction upon  the  staff?  Then,  with 
a  flicker  of  amiable  cynicism  playing 
across  his  features,  Mr.  Scribner  re- 
marks: 'This  is  a  deuce  of  a  book 

Then,  on  a  day,  I  went  out  from  that 
book  store  and  did  a  little  of  this  and 
a  little  of  that.  Librarian,  profes- 
sional philanthropist  (with  the  Rus- 
sell Sage  Foundation),  trade  journal- 
ist, book  reviewer,  literary  editor, 
traveler  in  foreign  parts  by  turns  I 
was.  And  at  length  found  myself  ask- 
ing Harry  E.  Maule  how  was  the  book 
publishing  business  out  at  the  Coun- 
try Life  Press  at  Garden  City.     It 

happened  that  at  the  moment  they 
were  rather  in  need  of  somebody  to  do 
a  little  publicity  and  other  editorial 

At  the  desk  in  front  of  mine  was  a 
very  large,  very  round,  barrel-like 
young  man,  of  ruddy  hue  and  with  the 
instantly  friendly  manner  of  a  New- 
foundland dog.  His  jovial  bulk  was 
further  emphasized  by  pronounced 
bagginess  of  his  English-cut  clothes. 
He  sometimes  arose  while  dictating  to 
his  stenographer  and  stood  with  one 
foot  planted  upon  the  seat  of  his  chair. 
In  this  position  it  was  observable  that 
his  trousers  had  been  repaired.  I  felt  it 
a  very  amiable  service  when  this  burly 
and  rather  humorous-looking  young 
character  took  me  in  charge  at  half- 
past  twelve  and  guided  me  to  the  lunch 
room  for  employees,  over  a  garage  a 
short  distance  away  on  the  Doubleday 
grounds.  He  said  his  name  was  Mor- 
ley.  He  had  been  a  Rhodes  scholar. 
This  was  his  first  job.  He  was  very 
much  excited  over  a  novel  that  in  the 
form  of  English  sheets  had  just  been 
submitted  to  the  house  for  American 
publication.  Its  title  was  "Casuals  of 
the  Sea",  and  the  author  one  William 
McFee.  He,  this  Morley,  smoked  a 
pipe  continually.  He  had  the  whole- 
some and  stimulating  quality  of  a  clean 
strong  breeze.  We  quickly  got  into 
the  way  of  walking  over  together 
after  the  day  to  the  neighboring  town 
of  Hempstead,  where  we  both  lived. 
And  of  stopping  in  for  an  evening 
glass  at  the  place  of  George  D.  Smith, 
whose  front  room  was  lined  with  noble 
barrels  and  casks,  on  the  main  street 
of  the  village;  quarters  given  over 
now,  alas!  to  dealing  in  agriculture 
implements.  It  was  a  romantic,  and 
somehow  altogether  fitting  thing  that 
George  D.  Smith  was  the  name  also  of 
the  champion  dealer  in  rare  books.  I 
became  a  member  of  another  very  ex- 



dusive  dub,  a  veiy  exclusive  dub  in- 
deed, the  Porrier'B  Comer  Club.  We 
two  were  the  only  members.  Porrier's 
Comer  was  a  public  house  opposite 
one  comer  of  the  Doubleday  property. 
Chris  sold  a  poem  now  and  then  to  a 
magazine.  He  also  had  a  slender 
manuscript  story  about  a  book  cara- 
van, written  sometime  before.  He 
submitted  it  to  his  employers.  The 
house  felt,  I  understood,  that  it  need 
not  lose  very  much  on  a  small  edition 
of  the  book,  and  published  it.  The 
bagatelle  was  called  'Tarnassus  on 

Who  is  that  tall,  loosdy  swinging 
figure,  wearing  a  large  black  slouch 
hat,  I  see  coming  in  in  the  morning? 
There  are  some  rings,  or  something 
like  that,  swinging  by  cords  from  the 
ceiling  (for  what  purpose  I  do  not 
know).  As  he  comes  along  this  mus- 
tached  gentleman  boyishly  punches  at 
them  with  the  tip  of  his  rolled  um- 
brella. It  is  Russell  Doubleday,  head 
of  the  editorial  department.  In  the 
course  of  the  day  I  see  two  gentlemen 
apparently  skipping  and  romping 
across  the  floor.  One  is  "F.  N.  D.", 
otherwise  Frank  N.  Doubleday,  found- 
er and  head  of  the  firm.  Large, 
hearty,  jovial,  very  broad  shoulders, 
darkish  drooping  mustache,  complex- 
ion much  sun-tanned.  Somewhere 
around  fifty,  but  in  outstanding  effect 
suggesting  an  overgrown,  bouncing 
boy.  Having  more  fun  than  anybody. 
Laughing  much,  and  as  a  man  laughs 
who  is  accustomed  to  laugh  in  the  open 
air.  Has  his  arm  around  the  other 
figure — Ernest  Thompson  Seton.  Ra- 
diating an  air  of  jestf ul  enjoyment,  of 
oldtime  countryside  sociability  kind 
of  thing.  And  a  spirit  such  as  this,  of 
democratic  youthf ulness,  seems  to  per- 
vade the  atmosphere  of  Doubleday, 
Page  and  Company. 

A  thunder  storm,  I  remember,  was 
coming  up  that  afternoon.     Morley 

and  I  had  parted  at  the  door  of 
Browne's  Chop  House.  He  had  fared 
from  Garden  City  to  become  an  editor 
of  "The  Ladies'  Home  Journal".  I 
had  fared  to  Indiana  and  back  and  was 
for  the  present  on  my  own.  He  had 
told  me  I  ought  to  go  around  to  see 
Mr.  Doran.  I  stepped  into  a  hallway 
to  avoid  the  torrent  of  rain.  Should  I 
go  round  there  and  see  about  that  job? 
I  wasn't  particularly  impelled  to.  But 
I  had  said  I  would;  and  if  I  didn't, 
then  Chris  would  be  nagging  me  as  to 
why  I  hadn't.  Mr.  Doran  was  in  but 
seemed  to  be  exceedingly  busy.  After 
three  years'  association  with  him  I 
should  now  be  astounded  to  hear  any- 
body say  that  Mr.  Doran  was  in  but 
did  not  seem  to  be  exceedingly  busy. 
Finally  the  door  of  the  comer  office 
was  flung  open  and  a  very  striking 
gentleman  swept  toward  me.  I  was 
somewhat  startled  to  be  received  with 
so  much  dash.  He  looked  at  me  with 
such  a  beaming  brightness  of  eye  that 
he  appeared  to  be  all  lighted  up  inside 
like  a  cathedral,  and  invited  me  in. 
Tall,  straight  as  a  rod,  athletic  in  ef- 
fect, every  line  of  his  face  and  figure 
speaking  a  most  pronounced  electric 
vigor,  dapper,  Norfolk  suit  sharply 
pressed,  spats,  neatly  barbered  shock 
of  greyish  (rather  than  grey)  hair, 
grey  mustache  cropped  almost  fiat 
with  his  lip,  a  bit  of  an  imperial.  A 
sport  hat  hung  on  his  hat  rack  and 
several  sticks  stood  beneath.  He  was 
smoking  a  gold-tipped  cigarette.  I 
stated  my  business.  He  sat  for  a  time 
looking  straight  at  me  without  speak- 
ing. For  such  a  length  of  time  indeed 
that  I  began  to  feel  that  there  was  lit- 
tle danger  of  my  obtaining  a  job  here, 
and  I  shouldn't  have  to  go  to  work 
right  away  after  all.  Then  very  sud- 
denly he  said:  "When  can  you  begin? 
Let's  begin!  Let's  begin!"  I  turned 
up  in  the  morning  rather  ahead  of  of- 
fice hours.     But  two  persons  I  ob- 



served  were  before  me;  one  a  colored 
gentleman  who  was  doing  a  little  dust- 
ing, the  other,  Mr.  Doran.  I  stayed 
somewhat  late  that  evening  attempt- 
ing to  get  hold  of  things.  As  I  passed 
out  through  the  deserted  and  darkened 
floor  I  saw  through  the  frosted  glass 
in  his  door  a  light  going  full  tilt  in 
the  office  of  Mr.  Doran.  Well,  he  re- 
marked one  day  when  I  had  spoken 
apologetically  of  my  being  a  little  late 
that  morning,  of  course  he  did  not  ex- 
pect me  to  keep  the  hours  that  he  did. 
Por  a  time  he  did  not  look  to  be  as 
well  as  ordinarily.  No,  he  observed, 
for  several  days  he  had  not  been  "tak- 
ing the  hurdles  of  life"  as  well  as 
usuaL  Certainly  a  man,  to  use  an  ex- 
pression of  his  own,  to  "train  with'M 

I  had  been  going  every  once  in  a 
while  with  Joyce  Kilmer  up  to  dinner 
at  the  Authors'  Club.  I  enjoyed  par- 
ticularly there  the  ceremony  of  Watch 
Night,  held  on  New  Year's  Eve.  And 
the  meeting  which  opened  with  a  pro- 
gram of  reminiscent  talks.  And  the 
charming  spirit  of  boyish  larkishness 
which  prevailed  among  the  oldtime 
members  of  the  Club.  Among  the  no- 
table figures  of  literary  history  which 
gathered  at  these  meetings  none  took 
my  fancy  so  much  as  the  veteran  pub- 
lisher Henry  Holt.  Always  among  the 
first  to  arrive.  Always  beautiful  in 
evening  dress.  Always  smoking  an 
excellent  cigar.  Always  the  centre  of 
sociability.  And,  as  the  morning  crept 
on,  the  throng  thinned  to  a  half-dozen 
or  so  incorrigible  Authors'-Glubians, 
and  the  number  of  lights  began  to  be 
reduced,  among  the  last  to  go  home. 
Delightful  indeed  were  the  pleasant- 
ries of  his  speeches.  I  remember  his 
pausing  in  one  of  his  talks  to  ask  the 
gentleman  who  had  preceded  him  if  he 
remembered  when  he  was  sixty  years 
old.     "No,"  Mr.  Holt  remarked,   "I 

don't  suppose  you  c«n  remember  that 
far  back." 

I  had  played  again  the  rolling  stone. 
A  friend  of  mine  invited  me  to  the 
Harvard  Club  for  lunch,  where  I  met 
a  very  tall  and  aristocratic-looking 
young  man  who  appeared  to  know  all 
there  was  to  know  about  smart  boats, 
horse  racing,  boxing  contests,  and 
duck  shooting,  and  who  seemed  to  be 
very  active  as  best  man  at  weddings: 
Elliot  Holt,  referred  to  by  his  father 
in  the  "Garrulities  of  an  Octogenarian 
Editor"  as  his  "sporting  son".  And  it 
fell  out  that  shortly  after  this  I  joined 
the  staff  of  Henry  Holt  and  Company. 

Here  in  the  heart  of  New  York's 
theatrical  district,  at  the  centre  of  the 
smartest-dressed  swirl  of  life  in  town, 
a  gentleman  of  eighty-two,  the  most 
scholarly  of  our  publishers,  mounts 
every  day  or  so  to  his  offices  on  Porty- 
f ourth  Street  Tall  and  erect,  a  figure 
of  charming  dignity,  his  highly  dis- 
tinguished countenance  bearing  the 
impress  of  long,  long  years  of  intel- 
lectual thought  and  association  with 
the  very  best  of  society,  his  silver  hair 
parted  in  the  back  in  the  fashion  of  a 
vanished  day,  crowned  by  a  large, 
quaint  derby  hat  with  a  flat  top,  comes 
Mr.  Holt.  Editor  for  the  last  seven 
years  of  the  "Unpopular",  later  "The 
Unpartizan  Review",  and  (in  all  that 
that  mellow  term  used  at  its  best,  im- 
plies) a  man  of  letters.  The  founder 
of  this  venerable,  sterling  house. 
Now  only  lightly  active  in  the  busi- 
ness of  his  firm,  which  is  vigorously 
carried  on  into  the  spirit  of  a  new 
time  by  younger  men.  Roland  Holt, 
the  elder  son,  goes  forth  happily  to 
greet  him,  saying:  "There  is  my  dear 
old  gentleman."  It  is  thus  every  day 
that  he  comes.  And  he  pauses  at  the 
door  of  his  office  to  receive  an  affec- 
tionate salute  on  the  cheek  from  his 
younger  son,  Elliot.     MURRAY  HILL 


By  Kenneth  Andrews 

With  Sketches  by  the  Author 

THERE  is  always  an  atmosphere  of 
reverence  as  the  faithful  gather 
at  a  "Follies"  show.  There  is  the  af- 
fable spirit  of  kinship  which  one  finds 
at  big  football  games  and  other  pleas- 
ant annual  rites  where  everyone's  an- 
ticipation is  sharpened  by  the  reflec- 
tion that  there  are  hundreds  of  dismal 
souls  outside  who  would  like  to  be 
present.  When  the  curtain  goes  up 
there  is,  on  the  stage,  an  air  of  seren- 
ity and  dignity  as  befits  a  National  In- 
stitution. There  is  no  noisy  striving 
to  whip  up  enthusiasm,  no  reaching 
out  over  the  footlights.  A  "Follies" 
show  is  like  a  Follies  girl,  a  bit  dis- 
dainfully conscious  of  her  charm,  ac- 
cepting your  admiration  as  a  matter 
of  course.  We  have  the  feeling,  as  the 
numbers  follow  one  after  the  other, 
that  what  we  see  has  been  selected  and 
arranged  to  express  one  man's  idea  of 
what  is  beautiful  and  what  is  funny. 
Everything  has  been  toned  to  meet  a 
distinctly  personal  taste.  This,  we  are 
sure,  is  one  secret  of  Mr.  Ziegfeld's 
success.  He  merely  pleases  himself. 
He  hopes  you  may  also  be  pleased,  as 
a  connoisseur,  taking  you  about  among 
his  treasures,  hopes  hospitably  that 
you  may  care  for  the  things  he  likes. 
Mr.  Ziegfeld  has  ridden  his  hobby 
for  a  number  of  years,  and  his  sense 
of  the  beautiful  is  fully  conceived. 
It  is  a  voluptuous  beauty  that  he 
fancies — ^the  beauty  of  bold,  rich  color 
and  lovely  bodies.  In  his  current  ex- 
hibit he  illustrates  "The  Legend  of  the 

Cyclamen  Tree"  with  two  pictures. 
The  first,  done  in  pale  gold  and  blue, 
gives  his  idea  of  what  Persia  should 
have  been  like  in  the  twelfth  century. 
The  second  is  a  desert  scene  with  vivid 
sky  and  a  huge  splash  of  scarlet  tapes- 
try. Ben  Ali  Haggin  contributes  two 
of  his  exotic  tableaux.  There  is  a  pic- 
ture called  "The  Bridge  on  the  Seine", 
in  heavy  shades  of  blue.  And  so  on. 
Some  of  the  pictures  are  interpreted 
in  song,  some  are  not;  but  in  every 
case  the  appeal  is  to  the  eye.  Mr.  Zieg- 
feld prefers  to  appeal  to  the  eye  .also 
when  he  wants  you  to  laugh.  So  this 
year  we  encounter  Charles  O'Donnell, 
the  silent  piano  tuner,  who  becomes 
hopelessly  entangled  with  a  stepladder 
without  saying  a  word.  William  C. 
Fields  (who  does  funny  things  much 
better  than  he  says  them)  finds  him- 
self in  a  characteristic  predicament. 
This  time  he  tries  to  get  off  to  the 
country,  by  subway,  with  his  wife 
(Fanny  Brice),  his  two  infants  (Ray* 
mond  Hitchcock  and  Ray  Dooley),  his 
victrola,  his  guitar,  his  bird  cage,  his 
fishing  outfit,  and  the  other  things 
people  take  with  them  when  they  go  to 
the  country  on  the  subway. 

Other  "Follies"  have  been  more 
tuneful,  others  have  been  much  fun- 
nier, but  none  has  quite  achieved  the 
beauty  of  the  present  one.  And  it  is 
beauty — ^beauty  for  its  own  sake — ^that 
Mr.  Ziegfeld  seems  to  care  most  about 
in  his  chef  d'oeuvre.  When  we  con- 
sider that  he  makes  his  sleek,  overfed 



public  care  about  it  slao,  he  almost  as-     waUcin'  round  cats?"     They  ponder 

sumes  the  dignity  of  a  Force. 

"Shuffle  Along"  is  not  quite  like  any 
musical  show  anyone  ever  saw  before. 
The  difference  does  not  entirely  arise 
from  the  fact  that  every  member  of 
the  company  is  a  lady 
or  gentleman  of  color. 
It  lies  deeper  than 
that.  It  has  some- 
Qiing  to  do  with  the 
abandon  of  the  lithe 
dances,  the  quite  art- 
lesfl  effervescence  of 
the  jazz.  At  first  it 
Beems  to  be  the  melo- 
dy of  cotton  fields  and 
levees  in  the  moon- 
light; but,  as  the 
show  goes  on,  it 
seems,  in  some  way. 
to  grow  more  primi- 
tive. Without  being  at  SS  kV,T, 

all  aware  of  it,  these  Ji///;;  hi,v,^„-,j  fci,;^V3w«.f. 
performers,  most  of 
whom  are  amateurs,  create  an  atmos- 
phere that  is  curiously  indefinable. 
They  try  to  be  professional;  but  when 
the  jazz  is  going  and  they  are  shuffling 
along  they  cannot  be  anything  but 
themselves,  full  of  a  spontaneous  sun- 
niness  that  ia  alien  to  Broadway. 

It  is  true  the  book  of  the  show  is 
pretty  bad,  much  worse  than  it  has 
any  right  to  be.  It  might  well  have 
had  something  of  the  flavor  of  a  negro 
yam  by  Octavus  Roy  Cohen  or  Hugh 
Wiley,  bat  it  hasn't  It  does  not  seri- 
ously hamper  Miller  and  I^les,  how- 
for    these    two    are    naturally 

over   it  and  worry   it  along  as   two 
darkies  could — as  two  darkies  would. 
"Seems  to  me  like  anyone  oughta  could 
spell  cat,"  says  the  Mayor.    "Yeah,  ef 
they  could  spell  anything  they  could 
spell  cat."    The  boxing  match  which 
they    stage    later    in 
jazztime  is  one  of  the 
funniest  things  of  its 
kind  since  George  M. 
Cohan's    jazzed    ver- 
sion of  the  trial  scene 
from  "Common  Cl^', 
It    is   launched    with 
another  bit  of  typical 
negro  repartee.  "Why 
I's  the  boy  dat  was 
bom  wif  boxin'  gloves 
on,"  says  I^les.   "An' 
it  looks  to  me  like  you 
was  gwine  to  die  dat 
same    way,"    replies 
out  $mne  le  ■•snopl^o(^  ™'"«r,  auQ  ine  ngni 

thai  thE  tear  U  offlBlaUii    jg  g||_ 

It  was  a  brave  at- 
tempt on  the  part  of  these  negroes  to 
take  the  little  things  they  care  about 
and  make  an  entertainment  for  white 
folks.  It  is  remarkable  that  they  suc- 
ceeded so  thoroughly — and  in  an  out- 
of-the-way  concert  hall  that  nobody 
ever  heard  of,  with  scenery  that  might 
have  been  discarded  by  the  last  travel- 
ing troupe  to  appear  in  the  place,  with 
costumes  that  might  have  been  made 
by  the  ladies  of  the  chorus  bteween 
rehearsals.  If  you  are  at  all  worried 
about  the  negro  problem  you  should 
see  "Shuffle  Along",  and  hear  them 
croon  "Bandana  Days".     It  will  tell 

funny  men,  and  theirs  is  the  mellow     you  as  much  about  the  negro's  soul  as 

humor  that  comes  only  from  the  heart 
of  Darkyland.  Miller,  the  Mayor  of 
Jimtown,  asks  Lyies,  his  Chief  of  Po- 
lice, how  to  spell  cat.  After  a  moment 
of  labored  Uiought  the  Chief  asks, 
"YoQ  mean  one  o'  these  yere  everyday. 

any  tract  ever  issued  by  Tuskegee. 

There  ia  a  surprisingly  well-sus- 
tained point  of  view  in  "Snapshots  of 
1921".  It  is  the  point  of  view  of  the 
clown  who,  in  the  medicine  show  days. 


trhots   eaiter   fn   tfM   "7oU(M"   hot   Be«»   Ons 
hopsIeN  prcdloament  after  another.    ThU  year 
ho  trtei  to  toJts  JU«  iMrtier  famtiti  to  the  nxitt- 
trv  DM  (Afl  Mftt^oy,  but  doctn't  get  vtry  tar. 

ased  to  follow  the  nmgician  sayiag, 
"Here,  I'll  show  you  how  he  did  that." 
The  laudable  purpose  of  the  evening'B 
discuBBion  Ib  to  expose  a  number  of 
the  simple  shell  games  practised  by 
light-fingered  playwrights,  Bong  writ- 
ers, and  others  on  the  too  willing  pub- 
lic The  same  public  that  pays  to  see 
the  demonstration  will  sit  enraptured 
this  winter  before  the  same  little  shell 
games ;  but  that  is  not  the  fault  of  De- 
Wolf  Hopper,  Lew  Fields,  Lulu  Mc- 
Connell,  and  the  others  who  toil  con- 
scientiously through  the  hot  summer 
nights  to  show  ub  how  we  are  fooled. 
The  cycle  of  murder  plays  which 
seared  our  emotions  last  season  are, 
for  convenience,  grouped  under  the 
adequate  title,  "Who  Done  ItT"  In  a 
short  sketch  the  process  by  which  the 
thrills  in  these  plays  are  concocted  ib 
demonstrated.  It  seems  an  absurdly 
easy  way  to  earn  one's  living.  The 
sketch  is  excellent  burlesque ;  but  we 
suspect  that  the  real  joke  of  it  is  that 
it  was  lifted  bodily  out  of  one  or  an- 
other of  the  plays  we  took  seriously 
last  winter.    A  few  problems  of  life 

outside  the  theatre,  such  as  the  bous- 
ing shortage,  are  taken  up  and  treated 
in  the  gentle  spirit  of  raillery  made 
familiar  by  Mack  Sennett  The  men- 
ace of  "convulsionist  art"  is  touched 
upon  by  DeWolf  Hopper;  and,  while 
the  topic  has  been  ovcodone,  it  provides 
Mr.  Hopper  with  a  thought-provoking 
line.  He  is  reminded,  after  the  con- 
vulsionist artist  has  displayed  some  of 
his  work,  that  everyone  must  live. 
'Tes,"  he  replies,  'Taut  in  his  case  do 
you  think  it's  necessary?" 

The  burloBque  of  "Clair  de  Lune"  is 
almost  as  bad  as  the  play  itself;  and 
the  song  number  which  purported  to 
tell  what  had  become  of  the  chorus 
men  who  played  opposite  the  original 
"Florodora"  sextet  seemed  a  waste  of 
time,  although  there  may  be  people  in 
this  big  world  who  are  interested  in 
what  becomes  of  chorus  men.  Per- 
haps the  beat  that  can  be  said  of  the 
music  is  that  it  is  easy  to  forget  On 
the  whole,  however,  "Snapshots  of 
1921"  is  amusing,  though  a  bit  boister- 
ous about  it;    and  it  makes  some  of 




Broadway's  hallowed  traditions  seem 
as  inconsequential  as  they  really  are. 

We  may  imagine  the  solons  of  the 
Winter  Garden,  while  making  their 
plans  for  the  summer,  taking  council 
together  and  asking  themselves  if  they 
were  not,  perhaps,  overdoing  the 
extravaganza  sort  of  thing.  They 
may  have  reminded  each  other  that 
the  public  has  grown  to  like  some  sort 
of  story  in  its  musical  comedies.  Such 
**plays  with  music**  as  "Ma3rtime'*, 
''Buddies**,  ''Apple  Blossoms**,  and 
others  had  proved  very  popular.  The 
Winter  Garden,  as  always,  wished  to 
give  the  greatest  possible  pleasure  to 
ihe  greatest  possible  number.  It 
might  be  well  to  add  a  story  to  the 
lavish  spectacle  which  would  consti- 
tute the  next  Winter  Garden  show.  It 
might  be  better  to  take  some  story 
which  had  already  proved  appealing 
to  musical  comedy  audiences.  Indeed, 
why  not  revive  some  old  favorite,  the 
very  name  of  which  would  awake  sen- 
timental memories?  "Florodora**,  at 
the  Century,  had  done  well.  These 
fine  old  masterpieces  should  not  be 
neglected.  The  Winter  Garden  had  a 
duty  to  perform  in  helping  to  preserve 
the  splendid  traditions  of  the  Ameri- 
can stage.. .  .We  say,  some  such  con- 
versation may  have  taken  place  in  the 
Shubert  offices. 

Then,  we  may  fancy,  the  manuscript 

of  "The  Belle  of  New  York**  was 
turned  over  to  several  Winter  Garden 
librettists  for  a  bit  of  refurbishing. 
Some  reliable  song  writers  were  com- 
missioned to  put  a  little  more  snap 
into  the  music.  A  company  well 
grounded  in  Winter  Garden  traditions 
was  assembled;  and  the  "entire  pro- 
duction was  staged  under  the  personal 
supervision  of  Mr.  J.  J.  Shubert**.  As 
rehearsals  went  along  it  was  deemed 
wise  to  omit  a  portion  of  the  original 
here  to  make  room  for  a  song  about 
the  blue  law  crusade.  Here  the  spirit 
of  the  old  classic  might  be  brought  out 
by  the  singing  of  Kipling*s  "Manda^ 
lay'*.  This  would  provide  an  oppor- 
tunity for  a  magnificent  special  drop, 
and  the  sort  of  oriental  costumes 
which  Winter  Garden  patrons  had 
been  taught  to  expect.  Here  a  bit 
more  of  the  text  might  be  sacrificed  to 
enable  Al  and  Harry  Klein  to  intro- 
duce some  up-to-the-minute  gags. 
And,  by  all  means,  the  girls  must  walk 
up  and  down  the  runway  a  few  times 
with  baskets  on  their  arms.  That  tra^ 
dition,  of  course,  must  be  respected  at 
all  costs.  Finidly  it  was  suggested 
that  the  title  did  not  have  quite  the 
ginger  that  Broadway  of  today  re- 
quires, so  it  was  changed  to  "The 
Whirl  of  New  York*'.  Thus  it  came 
about  that  when  the  old  favorite 
reached  the  stage  at  last  it  was  just 
another  Winter  Garden  show. 

^»  »  wmrmmwwmwvwm     #  w  www     »r^w 

English  Version  by  Amy  Lowell 

THE  mist  is  thick.    On  the  wide  river,  the  water-plants  float  smoothly. 
No  letters  come;  none  go. 
There  is  only  the  moon,  shining  through  the  clouds  of  a  hard,  jade-green  sky. 
Looking  down  at  us  so  far  divided,  so  anxiously  apart. 
All  day,  going  about  my  affairs,  I  suffer  and  grievie,  and  press  the  thought  of 

you  closely  to  my  heart. 
My  eyebrows  are  locked  in  sorrow,  I  cannot  separate  them. 
Nightly,  nightly,  I  keep  ready  half  the  quilt. 
And  wait  for  the  return  of  that  divine  dream  which  is  my  Lord. 

Beneath  the  quilt  of  the  Fire  Bird,  on  the  bed  of  the  silver-crested  Love 

Nightly,  nightly  I  drowse  alone. 

The  red  candles  in  the  silver  candlesticks  melt,  and  the  wax  runs  from  them. 
As  the  tears  of  your  so  unworthy  one  escape  and  continue  constantly  to  flow. 
A  flower  face  endures  but  a  short  season. 
Yet  still  he  drifts  along  the  river  Hsiao  and  the  river  Hsiang. 
As  I  toss  on  my  pillow,  I  hear  the  cold,  nostalgic  sound  of  the  water-clock: 
Sheng!  Sheng!  it  drips,  cutting  my  heart  in  two. 

I  rise  at  dawn.    In  the  Hall  of  Pictures 

They  come  and  tell  me  that  the  snow-flowers  are  falling. 

The  reed-blind  is  rolled  high,  and  I  gaze  at  the  beautiful,  glittering,  primeval 

Whitening  the  distance,  confusing  the  stone  steps  and  the  courtyard. 
The  air  is  filled  with  its  shining,  it  blows  far  out  like  the  smoke  of  a  furnace. 
The  grass-blades  are  cold  and  white,  white,  like  jade  girdle  pendants. 
Surely  the  Immortals  in  Heaven  must  be  crazy  with  wine  to  cause  such  dif 


"-  -^niids,  crumpling  them  up,  destroying  them. 


Constance  Holme  and  the  "Vie  Heuretia^'  Prize — Viola  MeyneWs  New 
Novel — Are  Englishmen  Unromanticf — Romer  Wilson — Claud  Lovat  Eraser's 
Contribution  to  Art — A  Luncheon  to  Couperus — Theatre  Notes — Sinclair  Letois 
in  England — A  New  Hall  Caine  Novel — Summer  Reading. 

London,  July  1, 1921. 

1SEE  paragraphs  everywhere,  even 
in  the  American  press,  to  the  effect 
that  Lytton  Strachey  is  writing  a 
biography  upon  the  subject  of  Dis- 
raeli. There  is  absolutely  no  truth  in 
this  statement.  No  doubt  the  notion 
has  arisen  as  the  result  of  Strachey's 
brilliant  treatment  of  Disraeli  in  the 
recent  life  of  Queen  Victoria.  The 
subject  of  his  next  book  is  still  unde- 
cided; and  some  quite  other  themes 
have  been  suggested.  Meanwhile, 
"Queen  Victoria"  remains  the  most 
talked  of  book  of  the  day,  in  both 
countries.  It  is  being  translated  into 
various  languages,  and  promises  to 

achieve  an  international  reputation. 

«  «  «  « 

The  recent  award  of  the  '*Vie 
Heureuse"  prize  to  a  book  by  Con- 
stance Holme  has  drawn  attention  to 
a  writer  who  has  long  had  a  sincere 
following  among  those  who  can  dis- 
cern merit  before  it  is  generally  ac- 
claimed. Miss  Holme  is  the  wife  of  a 
factor  upon  a  northern  estate.  She  is 
a  cousin  of  Ralph  Straus,  a  well-known 
figure  in  London  literary  circles,  and 
her  experience  in  the  north  of  Eng- 
land has  no  doubt  been  of  incalculable 
assistance  to  her  in  the  extremely  able 
novels  which  she  has  been  writing 
steadily,  with  increasing  success,  dur- 
ing the  last  few  years.  It  is  pleasant 
to  see  recognition  coming  to  a  writer 
who  among  all  others  at  this  time  owes 
less  to  the  "booming"  of  friends  than 

any  other.    What  success  she  has  had 
is  due  entirely  to  the  quality  of  her 


^   ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦ 

Viola  Meynell  has  finished  a  new 
novel,  bearing  the  title  "Antonia".  It 
breaks  new  ground,  and  is  reported  to 
me  as  being  a  book  of  considerable 
quality.  Miss  Meynell  lives  very 
quietly  in  Sussex,  with  her  parents, 
and  her  work  is  written  amid  all  the 
stress  of  ordinary  daily  employments. 
The  home,  her  garden,  and  the  quiet 
round  of  country  engagements  would 
not,  one  would  think,  stimulate  a  nov- 
elist in  these  days  to  works  of  a  ro- 
mantic character,  and  yet  these  are 
precisely  the  occupations  which  gave 
the  greatest  of  English  women  novel- 
ists her  emotional  background.  Not 
for  nothing,  therefore,  has  Miss  Mey- 
nell been  compared  to  Jane  Austen. 
The  new  book  finds  material  in  the 
love  of  a  girl  for  a  foreigner  of  excep- 
tional character,  and  the  triangle  upon 
which  it  is  built  is  a  rather  unfamiliar 
one  in  its  details. 

«  «  «  « 

That  which  is  foreign  has  always 
had  a  fascination  for  women  novelists. 
It  seems  as  though  they  found  Eng- 
lishmen too  ordinary  for  romance.  I 
wonder  if  this  is  really  the  case.  Are 
Englishmen  so  unromantic?  Is  it  not 
rather  that  they  supply  less  of  that 
easy  dramatic  interest  than  the  super- 
ficially more  demonstrative  European? 
It  is  true  that  the  Englishman  has 




made  for  many  years  a  fetish  of  cool- 
ness in  face  of  danger  and  the  calls  of 
his  emotions;  but  there  seems  to  be 
something  unsatisfying  about  him  as 
a  figure  in  the  newer  romantic  novel. 
On  the  one  side  we  have  the  greatly 
travestied  "strong  silent  man",  who 
remains  the  idol  of  several  sections  of 
the  novel-reading  public ;  on  the  other 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  foreign 
blood  "gingers  up"  a  conventional  fig- 
ure more  than  ansrthing  else.  Of  old 
the  romantic  hero  was  a  Russian,  as 
Russians  were  supposed  to  be  so  pas- 
sionate. Then  the  Russian  gave  way 
to  the  Hungarian  or  the  Italian.  Now, 
apparently,  we  must  learn  to  adore  the 

It  is  to  Scandinavia  that  Romer 
Wilson  hurries  us  in  her  new  romance, 
"The  Death  of  Society".  This  book 
has  been  given  the  Hawthomden  Prize 
for  the  best  work  of  imaginative  lit- 
erature published  during  the  preced- 
ing twelve  months.  I  imagine  that  the 
award  has  this  year  been  received 
with  more  general  acceptance  than  be- 
fore. Miss  Wilson's  book,  although  I 
do  not  think  it  the  work  of  genius 
which  it  has  been  styled  by  a  section 
of  the  press,  has  this  to  recommend  it. 
It  is  definitely  rebellious  against  a 
particular  convention  of  novel  writing. 
All  that  breaks  new  ground  with  sin- 
cerity is  to  be  welcomed,  and  Miss 
Wilson  has  a  genuine  gift  of  pure  im- 
agination which  one  must  eagerly  wel- 
come. When  she  has  found  a  subject 
free  from  absurdity  she  will  do  fine 
work,  and  there  are  passages  in  "The 
Death  of  Societjr"  which  make  it  in  my 
opinion  the  most  deserving  book  is- 
sued during  the  period  with  which  the 
prize  committee  had  to  deal.  But  it 
has  absurdities,  to  which  one  must  not 
blind  one's  eyes,  and  what  I  fear  most 
is  that  the  section  of  the  press  to 
which  Miss  Wilson  owes  her  recogni- 

tion may  confirm  her  in  precisely  that 
defect  in  her  work  which  should  be 
guarded  against.  It  is  the  choice  of 
material  for  explanation. 

Let  me  explain  what  I  mean.  Miss 
Wilson  had  a  great  reclame  over  "Mar- 
tin Schuler"  because  it  described  Ger- 
many, a  country  which  she  had  never 
seen.  "The  Death  of  Societjr"  deals 
with  a  part  of  Scandinavia,  which  she 
has  never  seen.  It  is  considered  re- 
markable that  she  should  describe 
countries  which  she  has  not  seen.  It 
is  in  fact  remarkable.  It  is  also  much 
more  remarkable  that  she  should  de- 
pict characters  belonging  to  other  na- 
tionalities. But  what  is  this,  com- 
pared with  her  great  gift  of  describ- 
ing beauties  which  she  is  not  cleverly 
faking?  Her  talent  lies  in  the  gift  of 
pure  imagination,  and  whatever  she 
writes  must  have  value  for  that  rea- 
son. I  do  not  care,  personally,  where 
her  characters  live;  but  if  she  has,  as 
I  believe,  a  real  gift,  she  can  make  an 
English  villager  as  romantic  as  any 
foreigner.  She  has  no  need  to  employ 
the  extravagant. 

Miss  Wilson  lives  in  a  little  village 
in  Wiltshire,  right  on  the  Wiltshire 
downs.  I  have  been  to  that  village, 
and  I  know  its  beautiful  surroundings. 
They  are  enough  to  inspire  any  writer, 
and  are  remote  from  trains  and  tour- 
ists. What  could  be  more  delightful 
than  a  novel  from  Miss  Wilson  about 
a  Wiltshire  village?    Nothing  in  the 


«  «  «  « 

The  death  of  Claud  Lovat  Eraser 
is  a  distinct  loss  to  the  world  of  the 
artistic  theatre.  Americans  had  an 
opportunity  of  glimpsing  his  work 
when  "The  Beggar's  Opera"  was  re- 
cently brought  across  by  Nigel  Play- 
fair.  I  do  not  know,  of  course,  what 
impression  it  made;  but  I  believe 
"The  Beggar's  Opera"  did  not  please 



the  American  public  as  much  as  it 
lias  done  the  English.  Lovat  Fraser 
was  doing  this  for  the  London  stage : 
he  was  getting  pore  color  into  it,  and 
was  doing  so  without  that  preciosity 
which  has  spoiled  so  much  sesthetic 
work  of  a  comparable  kind.  He  must 
have  loved  color.  It  is  true  that  his 
cotors  were  those  of  the  Noah's  Ark, 
but  what  of  that?  He  had»  before  his 
death,  completed  the  drawings  for  an 
illustrated  edition  of  ''The  Beggar's 
Opera",  which  is  to  be  published  by 
Heinemann.  They  will  show  how 
dean  and  straight  his  work  was,  but 
they  cannot  make  clear  how  active  and 
fun  of  vitality  Lovat  Fraser  was.  For 
that  we  shall  no  doubt  have  to  wait 
until  later,  when  some  further  collec- 
tion is  made  of  his  drawings  for  the 
theatre  and  for  books. 

The  last  glimpse  I  had  of  Lovat 
Fraser's  work  was  on  board  Arnold 
Bennett's  new  yacht.  When  one  sights 
this  yacht  one  sees  only  its  chaste 
lines  and  the  rich  blue  of  its  external 
coloring.  But  step  on  board!  The 
breath  is  taken  away.  Here  are  bril- 
liant reds  and  yellows  and  greens  and 
blues  all  in  daring  juxtaposition! 
And  very  fine  they  are,  when  one  is 
used  to  them.  At  the  first  glance  they 
are  staggering.  I  insist  that  it  is 
staggering  to  go  to  sleep  in  a  cabin 
that  is  painted  brilliant  red  and  yel- 
low, and  to  eat  in  a  saloon  that  is  a 
bold  mixture  of  blue  and  apple  green. 
But  wait!  After  a  short  time  the 
colors  begin  to  satisfy.  They  compel 
one  to  admit  their  rightness.  In  re- 
membering Bennett's  yacht  one  re- 
members a  rich  feast  of  color,  and  the 
fact  that  it  is  pure  color  prevents  it 
from  ever  being  objectionable.  Now 
a  man  who  could  rediscover  pure  color 
was  of  use  to  the  world,  too  long  de- 
vitalized with  Liberty  shades.    There 

is  nothing  like  the  paroquet  for  satis- 
fying one  in  the  world  of  birds. 

While  Lovat  Fraser  designed,  his 
wife,  who  I  believe  is  an  American  by 
birth,  executed.  To  see  Mrs.  Lovat 
Fraser,  tall  and  beautiful,  in  a  dress 
of  her  husband's  designing,  is  a  sight 
for  sair  eyes.  And  it  was  she  who 
made  many  of  the  dresses  for  "The 
Beggar's  Opera".  They  worked  on  the 
costumes  together,  and  I  can  imagine 
no  happier  work  than  the  common  en- 
joyment of  beauty  and  distinction  in 
design  can  bring.  I  must  repeat  that 
the  death  of  Lovat  Fraser  is  a  real 
loss.  It  is  a  loss  not  only  to  the  thea- 
tre but  to  life,  for  these  pure  colors 
were  just  what  we  wanted.  We  still 
want  them.  They  are  essential  to 
what  H.  G.  Wells  calls  the  salvaging  of 


«  «  «  « 

A  luncheon  was  given  in  the  middle 
of  last  month  to  Couperus,  the  Dutch 
novelist.  Although  several  people 
were  prevented  from  attending  owing 
to  their  illness  or  absence  from  Lon- 
don, it  seemed  to  be  a  very  distin- 
guished gathering.  The  Dutch  Am- 
bassador was  present,  and  Stephen 
McKenna  was  in  the  chair.  Other 
guests  included  some  veterans — ^T.  P. 
O'Connor,  Dr.  Robertson  Nicoll, 
Henry  Arthur  Jones,  Sir  Arthur 
Pinero,  etc.  W.  B.  Maxwell,  among 
novelists,  and  Alfred  Noyes,  among 
poets,  were  also  there.  Louis  Cou- 
perus made  a  short  speech  in  English, 
in  which  he  proposed  the  toast  of  Eng- 
lish Literature.  There  seemed  some 
hesitation  upon  the  part  of  several 
present  to  rise  and  drink  this  toast. 
I  suppose  they  thought  they  were  too 
directly  involved  I  It  was  a  comical 
hesitation.  Fortunately,  the  rules  of 
the  club  at  which  the  gathering  was 
held  forbade  the  publication  of  any 
report  of  the  proceedings,  and  so  there 



were  no  speeches  other  than  those  of 

the  chairman  and  the  guest.    It  was 

thus  a  quiet  and  decorous  affair,  which 

gave  pleasure  to  all  who  participated. 

Teixeira  de  Mattos  and  Thornton  But- 

terworth,  the  translator  and  publisher 

of  Couperus's  latest  work,  were  among 

the  persons  bidden  to  do  him  honor, 

and  the  tone  of  the  proceedings  was 

such  as  to  assure  him  that  we  had  a 

real  appreciation  of  a  genuine  talent. 

On  the  previous  evening  a  dinner  had 

been  given  to  Couperus  at  the  House 

of  Commons. 

«  «  «  « 

With  the  production  of  "Abraham 
Lincoln"  at  the  I^yceum  Theatre,  the 
largest  and  most  "popular"  of  all  West 
End  theatres,  it  seems  as  though  we 
were  determined  at  last  to  show  John 
Drinkwater  that  we  value  him.  The 
truth  is  that  the  Melvilles,  who  run 
this  house,  are  real  sports,  and  that 
they  have  not  been  insensible  to  the 
possibilities  of  good  plays  for  popular 
audiences.  It  is  an  excellent  step,  for 
the  popular  audience  is  the  final  test, 
and  the  taste  of  the  people  in  England 
is  better,  as  a  whole,  than  that  of  the 
better-educated  class.  I  foresee  a 
good  run  for  this  play  at  the  Lyceum, 
and  if  the  experiment  succeeds  we 
may  see  other  plays,  unjustly  excluded 
from  the  fashionable  theatres,  having 
their  popular  successes.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  we  are  very  snobbish,  and 
a  success  for  Drinkwater,  following, 
of  course,  upon  the  great  success 
whi6h  "Lincoln"  enjoyed  at  the  Lyric, 
Hammersmith,  would  be  a  welcome 
sign  of  reform. 

Another  dramatist  who  has  great 
vogue  in  the  United  States — St.  John 
Ervine — is  at  present  at  work  upon  a 
new  play.  Ervine,  wise  in  his  genera- 
tion, is  by  the  sea,  enjoying  the  waves 
and  the  sunshine,  and  working  when 
he  has  the  right  degree  of  inclination. 

He  is  down  in  Devonshire,  where 
there  is  plenty  of  sun  and  breeze,  and 
I  hear  that  he  is  bathing  and  sailing 
as  though  these  things  were  not  en- 
viable by  all  less  fortunate  than  him- 

«  «  «  « 

The  other  day  a  friend  of  mine  was 
told  by  an  American  that  American 
authors  worked  harder  than  English 
authors.  This  is  an  illusion.  The 
real  English  authors  work  very  hard 
indeed;  but  they  have  some  sort  of 
curious  pride  which  makes  them  pre- 
tend not  to  do  so.  They  sport  and 
they  talk,  as  though  nothing  were  far- 
ther from  their  thoughts  than  work. 
But  when  it  comes  to  the  point  there 
are  few  people  who  work  harder.  It 
must  be  borne  in  mind  that  writing  is 
extremely  hard  work,  and  it  is  work 
which  cannot  be  done  continuously 
without  consequent  decline  in  quality 
and  without  actual  physical  exhaus- 
tion. When  I  look  round  at  those  of 
my  friends  who  do  not  write,  and 
those — I  admit  a  much  smaller  num- 
ber— who  do,  I  know  which  of  them 
are  the  workers.  An  ordinary  man 
works  from  sun  to  sun  (perhaps) ; 
but  a  writer's  work  is  never  done. 
This  is  an  adaptation  of  an  older  say- 
ing, of  less  truth  at  the  present  time 
in  its  original  application.  And  there 
is  no  harder  worker  than  Ervine.  The 
appearance  of  ease  is  deceptive. 
Moreover,  ease  of  composition  means 
very  little.  It  means,  at  most,  that  a 
good  deal  of  work  is  done  before  ever 
the  writer  sits  down  to  his  paper  and 
pen.  All  the  time  Ervine  is  bathing 
he  is  really  preparing  for  the  later 
literary  effort.  And  what  a  tonic 
bathing  is !  I  know  of  nothing  to  com- 
pare with  it. 

«  «  «  « 

Near  the  place  in  Devonshire  where 
Ervine    is    staying    lives    Granville 



r,  still  occupied  with  the  gen- 
Bdecoration  and  rearrangement 
delightful  old  house  which  he 
t  some  time  ago.  Still  the  ham- 
of  workmen  may  be  heard  from 
ng  till  night,  still  the  lawns  are 
fecty  and  still  is  this  whole  "pro- 
n**  a  matter  of  as  strenuous  con- 
0  Barker  as  that  of  any  play  he 
resented  in  the  theatre.  But  in 
>f  this,  he  is  engaged  upon  a  new 
and  he  is  also  working  upon  a 
ook  dealing  with  the  art  of  the 
«.  This  may  be  called  "The 
Possible  Theatre" ;  and  I  should 
i  surprised  to  find  that  in  Bar- 
>pinion  the  only  possible  theatre 
fational  Theatre,  supported  by  a 
subsidy.  If  one  glances  at  the 
es  which  are  closed  at  the  pres- 
ne,  or  which  are  offering  for  our 
ainment  curious  medleys  which 
ily  be  regarded  as  stop-gaps,  one 
»  that  something  has  got  to  be 
mless  the  theatre  is  to  become  a 
Frost  Some  plays  are  still  mak- 
loney;  but  the  majority  are 
losing  it  or  are  just  paying 
way.  The  chances  for  a  good 
supposing  a  good  one  to  be  sud- 
written  by  an  unknown  author, 
rery  remote.  That  is  why  I  feel 
delight  at  the  several  items  of 
tic  news  which   I  have  given 

:lair  Lewis,  who  is  over  here 
ow,  has  made  the  discovery  that 
08  make  sooner  or  later:  that  it 
ossible  to  work  in  London.  He 
en  enjoying  the  sight  of  literary 
Beudo-literary  London  at  play, 
)  has  taken  a  house  in  the  coun- 
'  work.  It  is  in  Kent,  where  the 
ome  from,  and  he  has  been  told 
be  real  hop-pickers  have  gone, 
lat  only  duchesses  in  disguise 
ock  at  his  door  for  water  to  boil 

in  their  tea  kettles.  I  hope  he  will  be 
disappointed,  and  that  a  few  of  the 
genuine  article  will  come  along,  for 
they  are  a  much  more  interesting  class 
than  the  duchesses.  And  I  hope  he 
will  be  able  to  keep  the  exact  locality 
of  his  residence  a  secret  from  most 
people,  for  in  these  days  of  motor  cars 
there  are  few  homes  so  remote  as  to 
permit  of  uninterrupted  work.  It  is  a 
rare  sight  for  us,  this  of  a  writer  who 
has  sold  two  hundred  and  fifty  or  sixty 
thousand  copies  of  a  good  book,  and 
we  are  making  the  most  of  Lewis. 

«  «  «  « 

The  new  Hall  Caine  novel  is  shortly 
to  be  published,  and  Hall  Caine  is  still 
among  our  biggest  sellers.  When  a 
new  novel  of  his  is  on  the  point  of 
being  published  he  takes  a  more  than 
usually  active  interest  in  its  produc- 
tion. Where  most  English  authors 
sedulously  pretend  that  they  know 
nothing  of  such  matters.  Hall  Caine 
actually  adds  to  the  life  and  energy  of 
the  publishers  who  have  the  honor  of 
presenting  him  to  an  eager  public. 
He  goes  to  their  office,  and  really  lends 
a  hand.  For  his  age  he  is  among  the 
most  active  men  I  have  ever  seen,  and 
his  aid  cannot  fail  to  be  of  the  great- 
est utility.  It  is  so  long  since  Hall 
Caine  had  out  a  new  novel  that  this 
one  will  be  something  of  an  event.  It 
is  a  remarkable  thing  that  he  and 
Miss  Corelli  were  the  first  to  prove  the 
wrongness  of  a  belief  hitherto  power- 
ful, that  publication  of  a  novel  in  a 
summer  month  spelt  failure.  The 
truth  is  quite  otherwise,  although  for 
ordinary  purposes  publishers  still  be- 
lieve that  there  is  no  time  like  the  late 
autumn.  It  is  supposed  that  people 
spend  the  long  evenings  by  the  fireside, 
reading.  I  have  never  seen  them  do- 
ing this,  but  perhaps  publishers  them- 
selves  are   in   the  habit  of  holding 



books  over  the  fire  and  spoiling  the 
bindings  in  this  way. 

However,  we  have  got  so  far  as  to 
make  August  quite  a  busy  month,  and 
one  day  it  may  be  possible  here,  as  it 
is  in  America,  to  make  publication  in 
May  or  June  or  July  without  setting 
our  fathers'  teeth  on  edge.  I  have 
certainly  seen  more  reading  in  the 
sununer  months,  at  the  seaside,  than 
at  any  other  time.  But  that  is  sup- 
posed here  to  be  a  matter  of  cheap 
books  only.  I  don't  believe  it  for  a 
moment.  I  know  that  a  few  years 
ago,  at  Bournemouth,  I  realized  that  a 

new  novel  by  Ethel  M.  Dell  had  been 
published  simply  because  every  woman 
I  saw  was  carrying  a  copy  in  her 
hand.  You  could  have  no  better  argu- 
ment. But  of  course,  Bournemouth  is 
a  bookish  place — or  rather  it  has  been 
made  so  by  the  possession  of  a  book- 
seller who  knows  his  business  and  who 
thus  knows  how  many  copies  of  a  book 
he  can  hope  to  sell.  I  refer  to  Mr. 
Cooper,  who  some  years  ago  left  Lon- 
don to  buy  the  shop  of  Conunin,  in  the 
Christchurch  Road.  If  American  visi- 
tors are  in  Bournemouth,  they  will  do 
well  to  visit  this  shop. 


Selected  by  Carl  Sandburg 

PUBLISHED  between  a  picture  of  a 
caravan  of  mules  going  to  Kur- 
distan on  one  page  and  an  article  on 
rice  growing  and  the  rainy  season  in 
the  Philippine  Islands  on  the  next 
page,  one  finds  in  ''Asia"  for  July  the 
poem  '*Verses  on  a  Painting  of  Wang- 
Tsai".  The  verses  are  by  the  Chinese 
poet  Tu  Fu,  translated  from  the 
French  of  Marquis  d'Hervey-Saint 
Denys  by  Elizabeth  Titzel.  This  is  a 
roundabout  process  wherein  the  origi- 
nal usually  loses  all  its  square  comers 
and  has  its  ears  knocked  off.  Yet  in 
this  instance  the  translators  should  be 
handed  a  bun  each  because  they  either 
kept  the  breath  of  poetry  in  the  origi- 
nal or  they  blew  their  own  breaths  of 
poetry  into  the  translations.  "The 
Fisherman"  from  the  Chinese  of  Shi- 

Tsen  Tsu  of  the  Sung  djmasty  trans- 
lated by  Sophia  H.  Chen  and  Francis 
de  Lacy  Hyde  is  a  second,  and  ''Berber 
Songs"  translated  by  C.  E.  Andrews 
are  still  other  specimens  in  the  prac- 
tice of  poetry,  appearing  in  the  maga- 
zine called  "Asia",  worth  several  read- 

"Being  an  Armenian — ^an  Armenian 
anywhere — gives  one  strange  feel- 
ings," writes  Aghavnie  Yeghenian  in 
"The  New  Republic".  And  he  pens  a 
paragraph  in  a  prose  article  having 
passwords  of  poetry  hidden  in  its 
pockets.    The  paragraph  reads : 

I  go  to  a  concert  and  the  singer  begini 
Mignon*!  passionate  love  song  for  her  country, 
"Connais-tn  le  pays  od  flearlt  Toranger — 7 
C'est  lA,  c*est  Ift,  que  je  Tondrais  Tlvre,  aimer, 
aimer  et  mourlr."  A  desire  to  sob  seises  my 
whole  being.     I  want  to  run  away  from  the 



audience  dttiiig  there  politely  and  smiling 
while  they  listen,  they  who  cannot  understand. 
I  cry  silently  once  again,  '*Is  it  nothing  to  yon 
who  haTe  a  country  that  I  have  none?*' 

Then  we  find  Edmund  Wilson,  Jr. 
in  'The  New  Republic*'  asking,  "Is  not 
Mencken's  gloomy  catalogue  as  much 
the  poetry  of  modem  America  as  Walt 
Whitman's  ¥^a8  of  the  early  Repub* 
lie?"  with  the  following  block  set  in 
contrast  to  a  catalogue  passage  from 

Pale  druggists  in  remote  towns  of  the  hog 
and  cotton  helt,  endlessly  wrapping  up  Peruna. 
...Women  hidden  away  in  the  damp  kitchens 
of  unpainted  houses  along  the  railroad  tracks, 
frying  tough  beefsteaks...  .Lime  and  cement 
dealers  being  initiated  into  the  E^nights  of 
Pythias,  the  Redmen  or  the  Woodmen  of  the 
World. . . .  Watchmen  at  lonely  railroad  cross- 
ings in  Iowa,  hoping  that  they'U  be  able  to  get 
off  to  hear  the  United  Brethren  evangelist 
preach...  .Ticket -choppers  in  the  Subway, 
breathing  sweat  in  its  gaseous  form. . . .  Family 
doctors  in  poor  neighborhoods,  faithfully  rely- 
ing upon  the  therapeutics  taught  in  their  Eclec- 
tic Medical  College  in  1884. ...  Farmers  plow- 
ing sterUe  fields  behind  sad  meditative  horses, 
both  suffering  from  the  bites  of  insects. . . . 
Gre^s  tending  aU-night  coffee-joints  in  the 
•uburban  wildernesses  where  the  trolley-cars 
■top. . . .  Grocery  clerks  stealing  prunes  and  gin- 
geranaps  and  trying  to  make  assignations  with 
loapy  servant-girls. . . .  Women  confined  for  the 
ninth  or  tenth  time,  wondering  hopelessly  what 
it  is  aU  about...  .Methodist  preachers  retired 
tfter  forty  years  of  service  in  the  trenches  of 
Ood,  upon  pensions  of  |600  a  year. . . .  Wives 
and  daughters  of  Middle  Western  country  bank- 
ers, marooned  in  Los  Angeles,  going  trembling- 
ly to  swami  seances  in  dark  smelly  rooms. . . . 
Chauffeurs  in  huge  fur  coats  waiting  outside 
theatres  flUed  with  folks  applauding  Robert 
Edeson  and  Jane  CowL . . .  Decaped  and  hopeless 
men  writing  editorials  at  midnight  for  leading 
papers  in  Bfisslssippi,  Arkansas  and  Ala- 
bama.. .. 

Among  the  "Twenty-Four  Hokku  on 
a  Modem  Theme"  by  Amy  Lowell,  in 
"Poetrjr",  are  such  pieces  of  wrought 
work  as  these: 


This  then  is  morning. 
Have  you  no  comfort  for  me 
Cold-colored  fiowers? 


As  a  river-wind 

Hurling  clouds  at  a  bright  moon, 

So  am  I  to  you. 


Down  a  red  river 

I  drift  in  a  broken  skiff. 

Are  you  then  so  brave? 

When  the  aster  fades 

The  creeper  fiaunts  in  crimson. 

Always  another! 


Turning  from  the  page. 
Blind  with  a  night  of  labor, 
I  hear  morning  crows. 


Sweet  smeU  of  wet  fiowers 
Over  an  evening  garden. 
Your  portrait,  perhaps? 


Staying  in  my  room, 

I  thought  of  the  new  spring  leaves. 

That  day  was  happy. 

John  Dos  Passos  has  in  "The  Dial" 
a  piece,  "On  Poetic  Composition".  As 
a  title  it  has  little  invitation  if  not  for 
its  faint  whiff  of  the  ironic  on  second 
reading.  In  "The  Grinnell  Review"  is 
a  story  translated  from  the  Spanish, 
"The  Scorpion  of  Brother  Gomez".  It 
appeared  originally  in  "Casa  Editorial 
Maucci",  Barcelona.  The  aloof  play 
spirit  of  it,  the  tossing  of  the  colors  of 
life,  would  almost  place  this  brief  tale 
among  the  best  poems  of  the  month. 
In  "The  Nation",  Clement  Wood  has 
"Canopus",  having  to  do  with  a  man 
and  a  woman  who  fare  forth  into 
woodland  by  evening  starlight.  Just 
how  "The  Nation"  should  have  taken 
this  verse  away  from  other  editors  on 
the  lookout  for  it  is  a  speculative  mat- 

Editob's  Notb. — Baeh  month  The  Bookman  will  telect  a  group  of  poems  from  the  American 
periodical.  Theee  wiU  he  tuhmitted  to  a  prominent  poet  or  critio  who  will  ohoote  from  them 
**Th€  Poeme  of  the  Month'*,  though  he  will  oe  free  to  add  any  othere  he  may  prefer.  Oarl  Sand- 
hwg  wiU  act  ae  arbiter  for  Oetoher,  The  complete  Uet  of  poeme  selected  will  he  found  in  the 
Ooeeip  Shop, 



ter.  "Canopus''  is  a  compressed  Rob- 
ert Chambers  novel  with  a  high  per- 
centage of  what  Norma  Tahnadge 
says  is  correctly  designated  "the  love 
interest"  rather  than  "the  sex  mo- 
tive". The  poem  fitted  into  the  col- 
umns of  "The  Nation"  like  a  woman 
in  a  lavender  hat  at  a  Quaker  meeting. 
Ck)ncluding  item:  there  were  many 
other  \cst  poems  in  American  maga- 
zines, periodicals,  and  newspapers 
within  our  allotted  time — ^and  our  eyes 
missed  a  few — and  this  must  be  so 
from  moon  to  moon. 



I     Ten  dayt  to  paint  a  mountain  I 

I    Five  day  to  maUt  a  rook  I 

yet  I    Your  true  ariiet  doeen't  Uke  to  he 
hurried  and  tormented. 
What  doee  time  matter  to  Wang-tBoi,  eo  long  aa 
never  a  picture  leavee  his  hands  imper- 
fect t 

fine  view  of  Mount  Kuen-lun  and  Mount 
Fang-hu — 

well  it  would  go  in  a  great  room  in  the 
middle  of  a  plain  wall  I 


Here  ie  the  city  of  Porling  and  Lake  Tung-ting^ 
which  emptiee  ite  watere  into  the  Japan 

Their  eilvered  course  goes  into  the  distance  as 
far  as  eye  can  travel,  until  it  mingles 
with  the  empurpled  line  of  the  horison. 

Clouds  wander  through  space  like  flying  drag- 

A  man  is  there,  in  a  boat;  he  is  a  fisherman, 
in  haste  to  gain  the  bay  you  see  on  the 
shore — 

The  mountain  torrents  tell  me  so,  and  these 
foamy  waves  and  that  wild  wind. 

What    marvelous    craftsmanship  I     Never   has 

any  one  carried  so  far  the  science  of 

Ten  inches  of  paper  are  ample  to  enclose  ten 

thousand  leagues  of  land. 
Who  will  give  me  sharp  scissors  that  I  may 

snip  off  a  piece  of  itt 
I  wiU  content  myself  with  the  Kingdom  of  Ou, 

with  the  land  of  Sung  and  half  the  great 

river  thrown  int 

Tu  Fu 
Tnxulftted  from  die  French  of  Mtrquii 
D'Hervey-Sftint  Dcnyi  by  Elizabeth  Ticsel 

— Asia 


These  are  the  first  horn 
Of  the  first  people : 
Topal,  the  grinding  stone, 
Kenhnt,  the  wampnm  string, 
PaTiut,  the  knife. 

When  the  Empty  Quietness  begot  the  Bngendei 

Then  came  the  Sky  man. 
Came  the  Earth  mother. 
Who  made  the  Grinding  Stone, 
Who  made  the  Hunting  E^nife, 
Who  made  the  Wampum  String. 

Thus  runs  the  song  around ; 

Under  what  tribal  change  soe'er  yon  find  then 

Where  there  are  women, 

There  sits  the  Grinding  Stone ; 

Where  there  are  men. 

There  glints  the  Hunting  E^nife ; 

Where  there  are  people. 

There  runs  the  Wampum  String. 

Thus  runs  the  song  around. 

From  **Songt  of  the  American  Indian'*  t»- 
expreeaed  hoot  die  original  by  Mary  Aiitdn 

— Harper's  Magasi- 

There  was  a  king  in  China. 

He  sat  in  a  garden  under  a  moon  of  gold 

while  a  black  slaTe  scratched  his  back 

with  a  backscratcher  of  emerald. 

Before  him  beyond  the  tulipbed 

where  the  tulips  were  stiff  goblets  of  fiery  "^ 

stood  the  poets  in  a  row. 

One  sang  of  the  intricate  patterns  of  sooi 

One  sang  of  the  hennatipped  breasts  of  gbi 

and  of  yellow  limbs  rubbed  with  attar. 

One  sang  of  the  red  bows  of  Tartar  horsemfli 

and  the  whine  of  arrows,  and  bloodclotf  on 
new  spearshafts. 

Others  sang  of  wine  and  dragons  coiled  in  pur- 
ple bowls, 

and  one,  in  a  droning  yoice 

recited  the  maxims  of  Lao  T'se. 

(Far  off  at  the  walls  of  the  city 
a  groaning  of  drums  and  a  clank 

Gongs  in  the  temples.) 


The  king  sat  under  a  moon  of  gold 
while  a  black  slave  scratched  his  back 
with  a  backscratcher  of  emerald. 



The  long  gold  nails  of  his  left  hand 

twined  abont  a  red  tulip  blotched  with  black, 

t  tulip  shaped  like  a  dragon's  month 

or  the  flames  bellying  abont  a  pagoda  of  sandals 

The  long  gold  nails  of  his  right  hand 

were  held  together  at  the  tips 

in  an  attitude  of  discernment : — 

to  award  the  tnlip  to  the  poet 

of  the  poets  that  stood  in  a  row. 

(GoDgs  in  the  temples. 

Mm  with  hairy  arms 

climbing  on  the  wails  of  the  city. 

They  hare  red  bows  slnng  on  their  backs, 

their  hands  grip  new  spearshafts.) 

The   guard   of  the  tomb  of  the  king's   great 

stood  with  two  swords  nnder  the  moon  of  gold. 
With  one  sword  he  yery  carefully 
slit  the  base  of  his  large  belly 
and  inserted  the  other  and  fell  npon  it 
and  sprawled  beside  the  Icing's  footstool ; 
his  blood  sprinlded  the  tnlips 
and  the  poets  in  a  row. 

(The  gongs  are  qnlet  in  the  temples. 
Men  with  hairy  arms 
scatter  with  tant  bows  through  the  dty. 
There  is  blood  on  new  spearshafts.) 

The  long  gold  nails  of  the  king's  right  hand 

were  held  together  at  the  tips 

in  an  attitude  of  discernment : 

the  geometric  glitter  of  snowflakes, 

the  pointed  breasts  of  yellow  girls 

crimson  with  henna, 

the  swirl  of  rirer-eddies  about  a  barge 

where  men  sit  drinking, 

the  eternal  dragon  of  magnificence. . . 

Beyond  the  tullpbed 

stood  the  poets  in  a  row. 

The  garden  full  of  spearshafts  and  shouting 

and  the  whine  of  arrows  and  the  red  bows  of 

and  trampling  of  the  sharp  hoofs  of  warhorses. 

Under  the  golden  moon 

the  men  with  hairy  arms 

struck  off  the  heads  of  the  tulips  in  the  tulip- 

and  of  the  poets  in  a  row. 

The  king  lifted  the  hand  that  held  the  flaming 
dragonflower : 

To  him  of  the  snowflakes,  he  said. 

On  a  new  white  spearshaft 
the  men  with  hairy  arms 
spitted  the  king  and  the  black  slare 
who  scratched  his  back  with  a  backscratcher 
of  emerald. 


Spend  two  weeks,  two  years  or  two  centuries 

"away  from  the  world,"  and,  returning, 

you  will  find  it  much  the  same. 
There  is  always  a  murder,  a  robbery, 

a  flre  and  a  man  who  proposes  to  be 

The  DellTcrer  of  the  People. 
There  are  new  names, 

but  the  facts  are  old  and  familiar. 

•  •  • 

When  the  water  fails  and  the  young  rice 

dies  fruitless  in  the  paddies, 

there  is  famine  in  the  land — 

because  the  i>eople  have  become 

dependent  upon  the  rice  crop. 
But  the  forest  folk,  who  cultivate  nothing, 

nerer  know  famine, 

because  there  is  always 

another  nut,  another  berry,  another  animal — 

and  no  civilisation  to  consume  the  waters. 

Tubman  K.  Hedrklc 
— Hit  or  MiBB  Column,  The  Chicago  Daily  Nei09 


In  the  half-light  of  the  early  morning,  who's 
this  still  abroad  ? 
Plainly,  one  who  should  be  well  upon  his 
road  by  now. . . 
Beet  give  him  warning. . . . 

Hurry  you,  hurry! — you  who  have  not  heeded 
cockcrow.  You  who  dally  overboldly 
where  the  twilight  leaves  unwillingly, 
who  linger  in  the  valley  where  the  frosty 
grass  greets  daybreak  coldly, — ^why  so 
loth  to  pass? 

Don't  be  cheated,  yon  who  shun  the  sunlight, 
by  the  wan  light  on  the  cheek  of  High 
Tor;  for  his  back  is  to  the  Bast,  and 
his  face  is  to  the  moon  that's  going 
down  now  in  the  West. . . . 

Day  is  toward.  See!  the  brook  pours  glassy- 
yellow,  and  the  sun  is  reddening  the  top 
twigs  of  the>  wood.  Look  on  him  and 
you  are  done. . . . 

You  who  haunt  the  world  that's  gray-lit,  don't 
you  know  that  we  poor  souls  who  wear 
our  bodies  still,  do  ever  what  we  may  to 
keep  the  two  together?  In  the  world 
that's  daylit,  there  is  no  place  for  the 
bodUesB. . . . 

Then  back  into  the  Underworld,  back  into  the 
Otherworld,  while  still  the  gates  of 
Heaven  and  Hell  stand  ajar :  get  you 
gone,  get  you  gone. . . . 

Belated  ghost,  111  Spirit,  pixy,  nixie,  elf,  lepre- 
chaun— whatso  you  are. 

There  was  a  king  in  China. 

Day's  upon  you — save  yourself  I 

John  Dos  Pistoe 
^The  Diai 

Amy  Murray 
— The  Measure 


TvH>  Women  Poets 

THERE  is  a  lyric  beauty  in  some  of 
Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay's  stanzas 
that  seems  to  me  almost  unequaled  in 
American  poetry.  "Second  April" 
(Kennerley),  her  latest  volume,  is 
filled  with  it.  She  uses  the  simplest 
language,  yet  the  cadences  are  so  odd 
and  she  employs  so  curious  a  mysti- 
cism and  so  daring  and  impudent  a 
philosophy,  that  she  practically  always 
succeeds  in  being  original.  Of  her 
new  books,  I  like  "Second  April"  best, 
though  the  sameness  of  mood  through- 
out all  the  poems  in  the  volume  be- 
comes a  trifle  monotonous.  "A  Few 
Figs  from  Thistles"  (Shay)  is  as  gay 
as  a  giant  purple  thistle  and  as  prick- 
ly. "The  Lamp  and  the  Bell"  (Shay), 
recently  produced  at  Vassar,  is  a  re- 
markable study  of  feminine  friend- 
ship. But  I  like  Miss  Millay  when  she 
is  wilful  and  gay,  when  she  pouts  and 
races  and  riots.  She  is  never  more 
attractive  than  when  she  plays  the 
hoyden,  as  in  "Daphne"  (from  "A 
Few  Pigs  from  Thistles"). 

Why  do  yoa  foUow  me? — 
Any  moment  I  can -be 
Nothing  bat  a  laurel  tree. 

Any  moment  of  the  chase 
I  can  leave  you  in  my  place 
A  pink  bongh  for  yonr  embrace. 

Yet  if  over  hiU  and  hoUow 
Stm  it  U  your  wiU  to  foUow, 
I  am  off ; — ^to  heel,  Apollo  I 

The  English  poetess,  Charlotte  Mew, 
is  as  restrained  as  Miss  Millay  is 
buoyant.  In  "Saturday  Market" 
(Macmillan)  we  have  tightly  packed 
stanzas  in  slow-moving  rhsrthms,  grim 
little  dramatic  studies,  stories  that  are 
Hardyesque  in  their  homely  bitter- 

ness. In  her  longer  poems  Miss 
is  most  impressive.  "Madelei; 
Church"  is  poignant  and  stirri; 
great  psychological  study.  "In 
head  Cemetery"  is  a  stark  and  te 
lament.  Always  she  is  grave  ai 
poseful.  Practically  never  doe 
allow  a  lilting  beat  or  a  swift  ini 
of  color  to  disturb  the  pounding 
of  her  rather  ugly  lines.  This 
grey  poetry  of  a  reflective  mind 
pered  by  strong  passion.  It  shi 
large  understanding  of  the  psyd: 
of  womankind  with  a  rare  stren^ 
thought  and  technique  that  is  s 
masculine.  Miss  Mew  is  not  an 
poet  to  read  or  to  understand,  bi 
is  probably  great.  The  foll< 
stanza,  while  not  tjrpical,  seems 
to  be  fine  indeed: 

Oh  I  quiet  Christ  who  never  knen 
The  poisonous  fangs  that  bite  us  t 

And  make  us  do  the  things  we  do 
See  how  we  suffer  and  fight  and  die 

How  helpless  and  how  low  we  lie, 
Ood  holds  You,  and  You  hang  so  hij 
Though  no  one  looking  long  at  You 

Can  think  You  do  not  suffer  too, 

But,  up  there,  from  your  still,  star-light 
What  can  You  know,  what  can  You  rei 
Of  this  dark  ditch,  the  soul  of  me  I 

The  Sold  of  a  Pacifist 

CLERAMBAULT"  (Holt)  ii 
story  of  a  man  fighting  a^ 
his  country.  He  is  the  "one  a£ 
all".  Remain  Rolland  has  creates 
figure  of  a  French  poet,  convinc 
spite  of  friends  and  the  State  thi 
war  is  evil,  with  dramatic  and 
sionally  almost  lyric  intensity, 
a  difficult  book,  more  portrait 
story,  with  many  pages  of  dis 




tion.  To  anyone  who  felt  the  war 
keenly,  however,  the  old  man  mourn- 
ing the  death  of  his  son,  and  persist- 
ing in  his  views  even  after  family  and 
friends  have  deserted  him,  will  be 
worth  knowing.  Clerambault  may 
cause  much  speculation.  It  would  be 
interesting  to  know  whether  you  and 
I  would  have  been  one  of  the  many  to 
throw  stones  and  to  jeer.  Whatever  we 
might  have  felt  in  the  parade  moments 
of  war  emotion,  surely  now  we  can 
find  in  Gerambault  only  a  rather  lone- 
ly, rather  appealing,  almost  magnifi- 
cent figure — ^the  determined  interna- 
tionalist— ^painted  masterfully,  with 
strokes  that  are  defiant,  grim,  and  yet 
withal  gentle. 

quette"  (17OT)  tempt  you?  It  would 
be  interesting  to  compare  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne's  "Main  Street"  with  a 
more  recent  product  Yes,  it  is  a  sug- 
gestive book,  and  a  rather  stimulating 
one,  a  book  worth  studying  because  it 
will  undoubtedly  show  that  you  really 
know  very  little  of  your  native  litera- 
ture. There  is  a  good  bibliography 
and  an  index.  If  it  were  not  so  enter- 
tainingly prepared,  one  would  be  in- 
clined to  name  it  a  superlative  text- 
book. I  can  think  of  no  way  to  become 
so  quickly  informed  in  regard  to  our 
fictional  background  as  to  read  this 
study  of  Mr.  Van  Doren's. 

Informative  and  Readable 

WHAT  shall  we  use  as  an  outline 
for  studying  literature  next 
winter  at  our  dub?"  is  a  question  that 
is  often  asked  and  has  all  too  few  re- 
plies. "The  American  Novel"  (Mac- 
millan)  is  one  of  the  best  answers. 
Carl  Van  Doren  is  an  able  critic,  and 
a  careful  student.  Incidentally,  he 
writes  well.  This  study  of  American 
fiction  from  before  the  Revolution  to 
the  present,  is  for  most  of  its  length 
excellent  reading,  and  it  is  terse  and 
compact.  He  gives  us,  not  only  the 
development  of  various  periods,  but 
biographical  and  critical  studies  of 
their  more  important  figures.  I  like 
particularly  the  sketch  on  Herman 
Melville,  and  the  more  extended  analy- 
sis of  Henry  James.  It  would  be 
amusing  to  be  blessed  with  enough 
leisure  to  sit  down  with  this  book  and 
indulge  in  an  orgy  of  collateral  read- 
ing. I  should  like  to  skim  over  "Green 
Mountain  Boys"  again,  and  doesn't 
Hannah  Webster  Foster's  "The  Co- 



MOST  books  for  children  that  at- 
tempt to  establish  pleasant 
methods  of  instruction  or  to  devise 
elaborate  nmemonics  are  hopelessly 
dull.  In  "The  Star  People"  (Macmil- 
lan)  Gaylord  Johnson  has  succeeded,  I 
think,  in  making  the  study  of  the  sky 
entertaining,  in  spite  of  the  fact,  or 
partly  because  of  the  fact,  that  he 
makes  a  game  of  the  whole  matter. 
His  drawings  in  the  sand,  his  stories 
of  the  ways  of  the  celestial  folk,  his 
exceedingly  plain  diagrams,  should  de- 
light the  parent  or  teacher  who  appre- 
ciates what  a  joy  it  is  to  a  child  to  be 
able  to  find  and  name  the  more  impor- 
tant of  the  heavenly  bodies.  Is  there 
an3rthing  more  entrancing  than  to 
hunt  through  the  summer  sky  for  a 
Dipper  or  a  Bear?  I've  never  yet 
been  able  to  see  the  "Lady  in  the 
Moon",  though  her  stupid  mate  is 
quite  plain.  Mr.  Johnson's  book  is  at- 
tractive and  useful,  and  since  it  in- 
cludes schemes  for  both  sununer  and 
winter  lessons,  its  value  does  not  de- 
pend on  the  season. 



Picnic  Reading! 

THE  latest  J.  8.  Fletcher  novel  is 
less  a  thriller  than  a  puzzle.  It  is 
one  of  those  cold  analsrtical  detective 
stories  that  can  boast  a  couple  of  mur- 
ders and  never  upset  the  reader's 
mood  of  contemplation.  ''The  Bor- 
ough Treasurer^'  (Knopf)  is  a  clever 
portrayal  of  crime  and  character.  The 
mystery  of  how  Cotherstone  and  Mai- 

lalieu,  ex-convicts  disguised,  become 
treasurer  and  mayor  of  the  town  of 
Highmarkety  requires  careful  watch- 
ing to  unravel.  Mr.  Fletcher  has 
adopted  a  dry  and  unusual  method  of 
unfolding  his  plot  that,  together  with 
an  amusingly  faithful  picture  of  the 
small  town  fluttering  in  the  face  of 
murder,  accusation,  and  trial,  makes 
this  a  fascinating  book  of  its  kind. 


By  Leonora  Speyer 

MEASURE  me,  sky  I 
Tell  me  I  reach  by  a  song 
Nearer  the  stars; 
I  have  been  little  so  long  I 

Weigh  me,  high  wind  I 

What  will  your  wild  scales  record? 

Profit  of  pain, 

Joy  by  the  weight  of  a  word  I 

Horizon,  reach  out  I 

Catch  at  my  hands,  stretch  me  taut. 

Rim  of  the  world ; 

Widen  my  eyes  by  a  thought! 

Sky,  be  my  depth. 
Wind,  be  my  width  and  my  height. 
World,  my  heart's  span ; 
Loneliness,  wings  for  my  flight ! 


By  Arthur  Benington 

W7RITING  of  Dante  sevend  years 
iV  ago  in  "America",  I  asserted 
that  no  one  not  a  Roman  Catholic 
could  really  love  the  great  poet; 
others  may  admire  him  with  their 
minds,  but  it  takes  one  soaked  in 
Catholic  doctrine  and  tradition  to  feel 
him  with  the  heart  and  to  make  the 
constant  reading  of  him  an  act  of 
worship.  Since  then  I  have  perused 
many  recent  books  on  Dante,  some  of 
them  very  good,  but  in  all  there  was 
lacking  just  that  spirit  which  means 
profound  sympathy.  The  very  latest 
study  of  Dante,  however,  comes  from 
the  hands  of  a  Roman  Catholic  priest 
—the  Very  Reverend  Monsignor  John 
T.  Slattery,  rector  of  St  Patrick's 
Church,  Watervliet,  New  York.  A 
careful  reading  of  it  confirms  that  old 
opinion  of  mine. 

And  yet  the  book  is  not  written  for 
Catholics.  It  is  the  publication  of  a 
course  of  lectures  delivered  before  the 
students  of  the  New  York  State  Col- 
lege for  Teachers,  Albany,  in  1919  and 
1920  and  it  bears  a  preface  by  Dr. 
John  H.  Finley — evidently  written  be- 
fore he  had  read  it — in  which  he  says : 

I  Invite  others,  and  I  hope  they  may  be 
many,  to  make  this  brief  journey  [through  the 
Inferno  and  Pnrgatorlo  into  Paradise]  with  us, 
not  because  I  know  specifically  what  Dr.  Slat- 
tery win  say  along  the  way,  but  because  what- 
erer  he  says  out  of  his  deep  and  rererent  ac- 
quaintance with  the  Diyine  Comedy  wiU  help 
as  aU  who  foUow  him,  whether  we  are  of  his 
particular  faith  or  not,  to  an  appreciation  of 
the  meaning  of  this  immortal  poem,  and  make 
us  desire  to  go  again  and  again  in  our  reading 
through  these  spaces  of  the  struggles  of  human 

This  is  ''Dante  Year",  the  six  hun- 

dredth anniversary  of  Dante's  death. 
Great  preparations  have  been  made  in 
all  civilized  countries  to  celebrate  the 
anniversary  in  a  way  that  shall  be 
worthy  of  the  greatest  of  all  poets. 
Here  in  America  a  National  Dante 
Committee  was  formed,  with  Dr.  Fin- 
ley  as  its  head,  for  the  purpose  of  pro- 
moting and,  so  far  as  possible,  coordi- 
nating all  celebrations.  Dr.  Slattery 
is  a  member  of  that  committee,  and  is 
also  the  active  head  of  the  Dante  Me- 
morial Association,  of  which  the  late 
Cardinal  Gibbons  and  Dr.  Finley  were 
chosen  as  honorary  presidents.  The 
chief  object  of  the  association  is  to 
raise  funds  for  the  restoration  of  the 
Church  of  St.  Francis,  at  Ravenna, 
where  Dante  prayed  and  worshiped  in 
the  evening  of  his  life,  from  which  he 
was  buried,  and  where  in  a  mausoleum 
adjoining  the  church  his  mortal  re- 
mains have  rested  for  six  hundred 

Dr.  Slattery's  book  comes  then  at  an 
opportune  moment.  Doubtless  this 
year  will  see  many  more,  for  there  re- 
mains still  so  much  to  be  said  about 
Dante,  so  much  gold  to  be  dug  from 
that  inexhaustible  mine,  that  scarce  a 
year  passes  without  the  appearance  of 
some  new  study,  and  this  anniversary 
year  is  a  temptation  to  both  writers 
and  publishers.  But  I  venture  to  pre- 
dict that  no  better  introduction  to 
Dante  than  Dr.  Slattery's  will  appear. 
In  fact  I  have  never  seen  another  that 
is  quite  its  equal. 

Dr.  Slattery  begins  with  an  outline 
sketch  of  the  world  as  it  was  in 
Dante's  day.  Without  at  least  a  gen- 
eral idea  of  the  life,  the  politics,  the 
beliefs,  the  manners,  the  religion,  the 




learning,  the  literature  of  that  thir- 
teenth century — ^which  James  J.  Walsh 
has  called  the  "Greatest  of  All  Cen- 
turies"— one  would  read  Dante  with- 
out understanding  him.  To  have 
given  a  clear  picture  of  that  rich  and 
crowded  century  in  a  little  more  than 
forty  very  readable  pages,  as  Dr.  Slat- 
tery  has  done,  is  a  triumph  in  itself. 
In  it,  however,  is  one  error — ^perhaps 
typographical — ^that  ought  to  be  cor- 
rected in  a  later  edition;  he  writes  of 
the  defeat  of  the  Ghibellines  under 
Manfred  (which  took  place  in  1266) 
as  "a  few  months  before  Dante's 
death",  when,  of  course,  he  means  be- 
fore his  birth.  This  introductory 
chapter  is  rich  in  quotations  from  the 
most  illustrious  historians  and  com- 
mentators, not  all  of  whom,  unfortu- 
nately, are  cited  by  name. 

Then  follows  a  chapter  on  Dante, 
the  man.  It  is  concisely  done — ^per- 
haps too  concisely,  for  it  presents  the 
extraordinarily  few  facts  that  are  cer- 
tainly known  about  his  life,  unwin- 
nowed  from  the  mass  of  more  or  less 
dubious  information  given  by  Dante's 
earlier  biographers.  It  might  have 
been  better  had  the  author  at  least  in- 
formed his  readers  that  these  biogra- 
phers are  not  always  to  be  trusted: 
Boccaccio,  who  is  really  the  best  of 
them,  was  a  romancer  before  he  was  a 
biographer!  For  instance,  it  is  not 
altogether  certain  that  the  Beatrice  of 
Dante's  poems  was  the  daughter  of 
Folco  Portinari  and  wife  of  Simone 
dei  Bardi;  many  critics  hold  that  she 
was  only  an  ideal  woman  invented  by 
Dante  to  express  a  great  allegory. 
They  are  probably  wrong,  but  the  fact 
that  there  is  doubt  as  to  the  actuality 
of  Beatrice  should  be  mentioned  in 
even  the  briefest  of  biographies.  And 
the  embassy  to  Rome?  And  the  mis- 
sion to  Venice?. . . 

The  rest  of  the  book  is  devoted  to 

the  "Divine  Comedy",  a  chapter  each 
to  the  "Inferno",  "Purgatorio",  and 
"Paradiso".  The  author's  method  is 
excellent;  in  each  case  he  begins  by 
presenting  the  general  outline,  its 
architecture,  its  meaning,  the  alle- 
gories embraced  in  it,  the  doctrines 
taught  by  it.  Then  he  conducts  the 
reader  rapidly  in  the  steps  of  Dante 
through  the  region:  with  Virgil 
through  hell  and  purgatory  to  the 
point  at  which  Beatrice  takes  the  Ro- 
man poet's  place;  with  Beatrice 
through  heaven  to  the  throne  of  God; 
and  with  St.  Bernard  on  the  last  steps 
of  the  voyage;  i)ointing  out  the  sali- 
ent spots  and  the  most  interesting 
characters,  citing  the  most  beautiful 
passages  in  the  translations  of  Norton, 
Grandgent,  and  Longfellow,  like  the 
guide  of  a  party  of  Cook's  tourists 
visiting  a  foreign  city  for  the  first 

Scholars  may  scorn  such  a  way  of 
studying  the  greatest  poem  ever  writ- 
ten, just  as  we  who  have  lived  in 
Rome  and  speak  Italian  smile  pitying- 
ly at  the  little  flocks  of  American  and 
English  tourists  being  hurriedly  shep- 
herded through  the  Eternal  City;  but 
this  book  is  not  for  scholars,  just  as 
personally  conducted  tours  are  not  for 
those  who  know  the  language  and  have 
plenty  of  leisure;  it  is  a  necessary  in- 
troduction to  an  eternal  poem,  so  stu- 
pendous, so  beautiful,  so  profound, 
that  a  lifetime  does  not  suffice  for  its 
study,  a  poem  which  can  be  studied 
only  in  the  language  in  which  it  was 
written.  As  such  Dr.  Slattery's  work 
is  the  best  I  know.  May  it  lead  many 
to  delve  more  deeply  into  the  enchant- 
ing mysteries  of  the  epic,  to  thrill 
with  the  music  of  its  words,  to  enter 
into  its  spirit  and  see  with  Dante  the 
hideous  horror  of  sin,  experience  with 
him  the  peace  that  comes  of  contrition, 
and  at  last  be  rapt  with  him  into  the 



glory   of   the   Divine   Presence   and 
stand  face  to  face  with  God  I 

Dante.    By  John  T.  Slattery.    P.  J.  Kenedy 
and  Sons. 

By  Raymond  Hitchcock 

"//  Plpmauth  Bach  had  landed  on  the  Pilgrimej 
Ineiead    of    the    Pilgrime    landing    on    the 

— Snng  by  Mr.  Hitchcock  in  the  1921  **Fomes" 

GUSTAVUS  MYERS'S  beautifully 
written  book  ''Ye  Olden  Blue 
Laws"  has  won  me  over  completely, 
and  in  my  small  way  I  am  going  to  do 
all  I  can  to  bring  the  Blue  Laws  back 
again.  I  am  on  the  side  of  Mr.  Cooper 
—from  Nashville — ^who,  with  twenty- 
five  others  and  myself,  is  going  to  im- 
plore Congress  to  bring  back  the  Blue 
Laws  and  dam  quick.  For  that  is  the 
only  way  to  save  our  nation  from  the 
unseen  wrath  of  an  unknown  force 
that  gets  mad  at  the  way  things  are 
going  and  kills  millions  of  people, 
bringing  misery,  pestilence,  and  hate 
to  crush  the  living  until  it  is  satisfied. 
But  with  the  passing  of  a  full  set  of 
improved  1921  up-to-date  Blue  Laws, 
we  wiU  bring  peace  and  happiness,  and 
the  crowning  thing  of  bU,  love  for 
each  other.  Of  course  we  will  have  to 
have  a  new  set  of  political  jobs.  We 
must  have  the  "Witch  Finder"— I 
have  a  list  of  names  of  persons  I  want 
burned — and  the  tender  or  keeper  of 
the  pillory  and  stocks.  I  can  keep 
them  busy  for  months  with  people  I 
know,  and  it  would  go  far  to  create  a 
spirit  of  love  in  them.  We  must  beat 
the  hell  out  of  them  till  they  come  to 
us.  When  I  say  ua,  I  mean  us  Blue 
Law  insisters. 

At  the  top  of  page  6  in  Myers's 
book,  there  is  the  suggestion  of  a  law 
to  protect  ministers  against  caustic 

criticism.  I'm  for  that  strong  I  but  I 
intend  to  have  the  bill  read,  when  it 
reaches  President  Harding  for  sign- 
ing, "ministers  and  actors",  and  no 
one  will  be  allowed  to  throw  ansrthing, 
such  as  eggs  or  vegetables,  at  actors 
or  ministers.  That  will  be  neatly  put 
in  the  bill — ^joker-like.  The  new  and 
improved  Sunday  laws  will  be  some- 
thing pretty!  I  will  give  in  advance 
a  few  inserts  of  interest:  "No  Sunday 
travel.  No  Fords  allowed  on  the  roads 
Sunday.  Parents  with  large  families 
may  wheel  the  Ford  into  the  dining 
room  and  pretend  they  are  out  annoy- 
ing people  who  are  really  going  some 
place.  Nothing  but  Rolls-Royces, 
Marmons,  Packards,  and  their  like  will 
be  allowed  to  run  on  Sundays." 

This  is  a  slight  departure  from  the 
original  Blue  Laws,  but  not  from  the 
spirit  that  caused  the  laws  to  be 
passed.  On  page  38  Myers  clearly 
points  out  that  the  Lord  had  blessed 
one  class  only.  These  chosen  ones  re- 
sented the  fact  that  men  and  women 
of  mean  condition  should  garb  them- 
selves as  gentlemen  and  ladies,  so  they 
passed  a  law  prohibiting  the  wearing 
of  gold  or  silver  lace  or  buttons,  points 
at  the  knees,  great  boots,  and  (in  the 
case  of  women)  silk  or  tiffany  hoods 
or  scarfs: — such  things  were  only  al- 
lowable to  persons  of  greater  estates. 
As  we  have  no  gold  or  silver  laces  to 
denote  rich  blessings,  we  substitute 
the  automobile.  No  more  will  we  pass 
the  truck-load  of  happy  children,  and 
of  tired  mothers  who  have  been 
penned  up  all  the  week  in  hot  build- 
ings or  have  spent  nights  watching 
over  their  brood  of  children  sleeping 
on  the  sidewalks  to  escape  the  smoth- 
ering heat  of  the  tenement.  Those 
people  must  stay  in  their  places  and 
never  see  the  woods  or  feel  the  fresh 
air  created  by  the  Great  Unknown. 
But  oh!    tired  mothers  and  uncom- 



fortable  children,  this 'is  for  the  glory 
of  the  Lord  and  your  happiness,  be- 
cause instead  of  going  to  the  woods  on 
Sunday,  Jews,  Mohametists,  Catholics, 
Christian  Scientists,  etc.  will  be  much 
better  off  going  to  the  Blue  Law 
church.  What  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
Hester  Street  being  marched  off  to  at- 
tend the  Blue  Law  church.  This  is 
going  to  create  a  lot  of  love  and  avoid 
a  revolution  which  we  Blue  Law  folks 
feel  is  coming.  Be  it  understood  that 
we  who  make  the  Blue  Laws  and  own 
Marmons,  Packards,  Pierce  Arrows, 
and  suchlike  blessings,  will  be  immune 
from  the  laws,  thus  carrying  out  the 
true  spirit  of  "Ye  Olden  Blue  Laws" 
so  delightfully  brought  forward  by 
Mr.  Myers. 

Ye  Olden  Blue  Laws.     By  Gastavui  Myers. 
Tbe  Century  Co. 

By  Cassius  J.  Keyset 

THIS  book,  by  Count  Korzybski,  a 
Polish  engineer,  is  a  work  of  the 
gravest  importance.  In  a  fundamen- 
tal way  its  scope  embraces  all  of  the 
cardinal  concerns  of  mankind.  Its  ap- 
peal is,  therefore,  universal,  which 
cannot  be  said  of  many  books.  Not  to 
read  it  and  to  meditate  upon  the  sig- 
nificance of  its  central  thesis  is  to 
miss  the  best  thought  of  our  troubled 

Of  books  that  discourse  about  hu- 
man nature  there  are  many,  new  and 
old.  Such,  for  example,  is  the 
"Pens^es"  of  Blaise  Pascal  or  the 
•Why  Men  Fight"  of  Bertrand  Rus- 
sell.  Korzybski's  book  does  not  belong 
to  that  class  of  disquisitions.  It  is  far 
more  fundamental;  or,  as  I  ought  in 
truth  to  say,  it  is  fundamental  and  the 
others  are  not.    Why  do  I  say  that? 

Because  in  entering  upon  Korz: 
book  the  reader  must  be  prepa 
grapple  with  a  fundamental  a 
and  the  concept  is  not  only  new, 
ly  new,  but  it  is  immeasurably 
tant,  for  it  is  a  concept  defini; 
greatest  of  known  realities — ^th< 
acteristic  nature  of  man. 

What  is  that  concept?  W 
man?  Of  all  the  questions  we  c 
that  question  is  supreme.  F 
character  of  human  history,  th< 
ent  status  of  the  world,  the 
destiny  of  our  human  kind,  all  * 
both  upon  what  man  really  ; 
especially  upon  what  man  thin) 
is.  If  for  an  answer  to  the  si 
question  you  go  to  the  thought 
gone  times  or  to  the  regnant  f 
phy  of  our  own  day,  the  answ 
will  get  will  be  one  or  the  other 
two  kinds.  One  answer  is  zoc 
— ^man  is  a  kind  or  species  of  i 
the  bSte  humaine;  the  age-old  i 
the  zoological  answer  is  mythi 
— man  is  a  mysterious  compo 
animal  (a  natural  thing)  with 
thing  "supernatural". 

Korzybski  denounces  both  o: 
conceptions  as  being  not  only  f  s 
vicious,  for  they  are,  he  contenc 
great  force,  mainly  responsible 
dismal  things  of  human  histo 
for  all  that  is  woeful  in  the  ] 
condition  of  the  world.  What,  1 
the  true  conception  of  man? 
says  our  author,  is  to  be  defi 
terms  of  time.  Man  is  a 
binder" — ^humanity  is  the  tira 
ing  class  of  life.  Of  the  concc 
meaning,  which  is  not  only  no 
truly  momentous,  there  is  roo: 
for  only  the  barest  hint.  Man 
urally  endowed  with  a  certain  p 
a  certain  kind  of  energy  let  ui 
that  is  peculiar  to  him.  Whal 
It  is  the  energy  by  which  humj 
in  its  infancy  (a  quarter  or 



million  years   ago),  though   it  had 
neither  knowledge  nor  tools  nor  prec- 
edents nor  history  nor  traditions  nor 
even  speech,  was  yet  enabled  to  do  the 
most  wonderful  of  all  things — ^to  ini- 
tiate, I  mean,  and  then  to  carry  for- 
ward,   the    creative    movement    now 
called  civilization;    it  is  the  energy 
that   in   thus   producing   civilization 
makes  the  achievements  of  the  dead 
survive  as  living  capital  for  perpetual 
increase  and  transmission  to  all  pos- 
terity, so  that,  in  the  distinctive  life 
of  man,  past  and  future  are  bound  to- 
arether  in  one  single  living  growing 
reality — ^the  eternal  Now.     Man   is, 
tiien,  a  time-binder  because  time-bind- 
ing capacity  is  not  only  peculiar  to 
liim — ^for  animals  have  it  not — ^but  is, 
among  man's  distinctive  marks,  be- 
yond all  comparison  the  most  signifi- 
cant one.    It  is  thus  clear  that  the  life 
cf  man  as  man  is  life-ivrtime.    The 
life  of  animals  belongs  to  a  lower  di- 
mension.   Their  most  significant  mark 
is  their  autonomous  power  to  move 
about  in  space,  enabling  them  to  ap- 
propriate the  natural  fruits  of  many 
localities.     Animals   are   accordingly 
defined  to  be  ''space-binders".     And 
the  plants  are  the  "chemistry-binders" 
of  the  basic  energies  of  the  world.    To 
say  that  humans  are  animals  because 
they  have  some  animal  propensities  is 
precisely  like  saying  that  a  solid  is  a 
surface  because  it  has  some  surface 
properties,  and  the  blunder  is  funda- 
mental; in  the  life  of  man  it  has  been 
truly  tragic. 

The  time-binding  energies  of  man 
have  been  operating  for  perhaps  500,- 
000  years  but  throughout  the  vast 
period  their  activities  have  been  ham- 
pered and  are  hampered  today  in  a 
thousand  subtle  ways  by  false  concep- 
tions of  what  man  is,  and  so  civiliza- 
tion has  never  been  permitted  to  ad- 
vance in  accord  with  its  natural  law, 

which  is  the  amazing  law  of  a  swiftly 
increasing  function  of  time.  The  na- 
ture of  this  law  and  a  score  of  other 
momentous  matters  plead  for  consid- 
eration, but  space  is  lacking  and  the 
reader  must  be  referred  to  Korzybski's 
great  book. 

Manbood  of  Humanity,  The  Science  and  Art 
of  Human  Engineering.  By  Alfred  Korsybaki. 
B.  P.  Dutton  and  Co. 

By  Archie  Austin  Coates 

WHEN  an  author  has  produced  a 
widely  read  and  lauded  work, 
he  sets  himself  a  task  which  he  must 
subsequently  strain  every  capacity  to 
perform,  namely  to  equal  or  surpass 
past  performances.  With  lamentable 
frequency  he  fails.  Although  Robert 
Hichens  has  proved  himself  by  no 
means  a  one-book  man,  yet  it  is  a  far 
cry  from  the  clean-cut  strong  work- 
manship of  his  "Garden  of  Allah''  to 
his  latest  production,  "The  Spirit  of 
the  Times".  He  has,  as  it  were,  moved 
from  the  garden  into  the  back  yard 
and  poked  about  with  his  pen  in  the 
debris  he  found  there. 

He  has  aimed  to  portray  the  present 
condition  of  the  world  since  the  war, 
but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  he  has  only 
partially  succeeded.  What  is  really  only 
plot  enough  for  a  short  story  has  been 
taken  and  expanded  at  some  pains  to 
novel  length  by  the  laborious  inclusion 
of  inconsequential  minutiae.  His 
theme  is  great  enough — ^the  aimless- 
ness  and  hopelessness  of  Europe  since 
the  conflict,  its  lack  of  moral  fibre  and 
stability.  All  Europe  seems  to  be  say- 
ing, "What's  the  use?",  and  we  are  in- 
vited to  inspect  in  detail  the  acts  and 
attitudes    of    some    who    have    been 



parted  from  their  former  grandeur  by 
the  war,  to  the  end  that  we  form  some 
conclusion  about  the  results  of  the  late 
holocaust.  It  is  difficult  to  sympa- 
thize, as  Mr.  Hichens  apparently 
would  have  us  do,  with  Russian  no- 
bility who,  deprived  of  unearned  and 
generally  unmerited  resources,  are 
forced  upon  their  own  by  Bolshevism. 
Here  is  a  theme  for  a  great  book;  Mr. 
Hichens  has  written  it  into  a  paltry 
incident  of  pseudo-romantic  intrigue. 

The  noblewoman  in  the  case,  the 
Princess  Anna  Aranensky,  instead  of 
emulating  her  more  admirable  clans- 
men, who  according  to  the  press  are 
seeking  honest  livelihoods  in  the  Near 
East  as  waiters,  chambermaids,  mani- 
curists, etc,  has  contented  herself 
with  living  in  a  kind  of  sham  luxury 
as  a  gilded  derelict,  in  a  smart  Swiss 
hotel.  She  is  "broke",  but  bluff  and 
slowly  accruing  unpaid  bills  enable 
her  to  maintain  life  on  the  scale  to 
which  she  has  always  been  accus- 
tomed. Naturally  a  break  must  come 
sometimes,  and  the  deus  ex  machina 
appears  in  the  form  of  a  sweetly  opti- 
mistic British  gentleman  of  middle 
age,  who  is  successfully  "vamped"  by 
the  lady  to  the  tune  of  about  thirty 
thousand  dollars.  The  more  heartless 
reader  can  only  grin  at  this,  when  he 
reads  that  Derrick  Merton  left  London 
for  the  Continent  because  he  was 
bored  and  wanted  something  to  kill 
his  ennui.  No  doubt  this  swindle 
proved  to  impart  the  very  thrill  he 

Mr.  Merton,  whose  character  is 
linmed  in  a  shadowy  way  by  the  au- 
thor, manages  to  fall  in  love  with  the 
myBterious  princess  and  is  easily  ma- 
noeuvred into  purchasing  her  rope  of 
pearls,  which  naturally  turn  out  to  be 
false.  The  lady  cashes  his  check  and 
disappears  into  the  Far  East,  bound 
for  India  in  the  company  of  a  hazy 

red-bearded  cave  man,  who  we  conjec- 
ture is  either  her  husband  or  a  re- 
ligious fakir  who  has  gained  a  hold  on 
her  Slavic  mind.  That  is  the  tale, 
typical  enough.  0.  Henry  would  have 
done  it  in  2,400  words;  Mr.  Hichens 
expands  it  to  book  length  and  takes 
the  first  five  chapters  to  move  the  plot 
to  the  point  where  He  and  She  meet 
and  have  a  casual  luncheon  at  the  same 
table  in  a  mountain  inn. 

If  the  spirit  of  the  times  is  mainly 
lack  of  directness,  decision,  purpose, 
and  efficiency,  we  wonder  whether  Mr. 
Hichens  has  not  helped  produce  such 
an  effect  as  much  by  shabby  and  hasty 
writing  as  by  the  presentation  of  de- 
tail. His  prose  is  choppy  and  twisted 
in  places;  cumbersome  phraseology 
and  turbid  thinking  mark  the  first 
hundred  pages  especially.  When  he 
finally  gets  into  his  stride  and  reaches 
the  big  scenes,  however,  his  old  mas- 
tery comes  forward  again  and  he  pro- 
duces his  effects  swiftly  and  clearly. 
We  grow  really  interested  there,  for 
his  analysis  of  Merton's  psychology 
when  at  length  he  confronts  the  prin- 
cess and  fails  to  denounce  her,  is 
worthy  of  a  better  novel. 

A  sharp  bit  of  characterization, 
though  in  somewhat  too  high  relief,  is 
that  of  the  Baroness  Hansen,  a  Teuto- 
Russian  companion  of  the  princess. 
The  baroness  is  flinty — cut-steel,  em- 
bittered, and  unnatured  by  her  war 
experiences.  We  are  not  told  just 
what  these  are,  though  various  people 
in  the  tale  hint  at  them  darkly,  so  that 
we  must  assume  that  they  were  of  the 
direst  sort,  to  justify  the  adamantine 
baroness.  As  it  is,  she  runs  through 
the  story  like  a  dark  thread,  alwayB  in 
the  background,  tainting  the  atmos- 
phere with  her  presence. 

Most  of  the  minor  characters  are 
mere  devices  to  carry  along  the  plot, 
mere    manikins    of    necessity.      The 



reception  to  this  is  the  gentle- 
down  as  George  Cockayne,  deft- 
ribed  as  "a  very  shrewd  man  of 
>rld'%  and  friend  to  Merton.  In 
brief  scenes  he  lives  before  us 
idly  as  in  a  cinema.  We  may 
m  his  reputation  for  shrewd- 
tiowever,  when  we  reflect  that 
incipal  evidence  of  that  quality 
belief  that  one  best  avoids  buy- 
wels  from  strangers — a  caution 
of  us  consider  wisdom.  That, 
[lis  uncanny  knowledge  that 
»rland  is  full  of  parasites  and 
iSf  appear  to  constitute  his  dev- 

jplrit  of  the  Times.    By  Robert  Hichens. 
H.  Doran  Company. 

By  Clement  Wood 

d  not  need  this  volume  to  make 
rid  Morton  one  of  the  old  f  amil- 
ices  in  the  poetic  chorus.  The 
lished  collection  won  one  of  the 
1919  Lyric  Society  prizes;  in- 
lal  poems  have  received  the  an- 
twards  of  the  Poetry  Society  of 
ica  and  of  '^Contemporary 
'%  have  starred  the  anthologies, 
tirred  the  lovers  of  poetry  to 
i  admiration.  Mr.  Morton  is 
'  one  of  the  leading  sonnetteers 
ig  today.  He  steers  dear  be- 
the  stagnant  sargasso  sea  of 
verbiage,  precious  to  the  amar 
-asphodel  tribe  of  poetlings,  and 
reacherous  breakers  of  rough- 
[  modernisms,  painful  in  more 
turous  lyric  sufferers, 
fault  is  an  innate  limitation  in 
attitude.  His  work  is  fragile, 
>tional,  dehumanized:  life  seen 
sk  through  a  rose-window.  Ex- 
e  placidity  of  phrasing  is  always 

his,  until  it  becomes  a  trademark,  a 
monotony,  a  hurt.  We  gasp  at  the 
twilight  loveliness  of  lines  like: 

There  li  a  memory  itayi  upon  old  iblpi, 
A  welgbtless  cargo  In  the  musty  hold, 

Of  bright  lagooni  and  prow-caresBlng  lips. 
Of  stormy  midnights, — and  a  tale  untold. 

They  have  remembered  islands  in  the  dawn, 
And   windy   capes  that   tried   their  slender 
The  tortuous  channels  where  their  keels  haye 
And  calm,  blue  nights  of  stillness  and  the 

He  is  most  at  home  in  his  imagina- 
tive voyagings  with  land-locked  ships; 
few  of  the  other  lyrics  attain  the 
dreamy  splendor  of  these  vistas  of  sea- 
voyagers  in  haven.  "Transfiguration*' 
and  too  many  of  its  brothers  are  ex- 
quisite retellings  of  ideas  and  atti- 
tudes ancient  as  man's  wonder  at  the 
Pleiades.  There  is  no  imitation;  the 
old  voices  have  been  heard  reverently, 
and  their  message  altered.  Only 
once  or  twice  the  rude  jostle,  the  sud- 
den darkness  of  the  squall,  the  crash 
of  the  snapping  spars,  the  horrid  keen 
stab  of  unglossed  reality  tears  through 
the  delicate  fabric,  and  we  have : 

But   here :     ''Reported   missing" . . .  the   type 
The  column  breaks  for  white  and  angry  seas, 
The  jagged  spars  thrust  through,  and  flap- 
ping sails. 
Flagging  farewells  to  wind  and  sky  and  shore, 
Arrive  at  silent  ports,  and  leave  no  more/ 

There  is  fresh  human  vision  in  "The 
Schoolboy  Reads  His  Iliad"  and  "In  a 
Girls'  School",  but  the  Olympic  seren- 
ity is  still  here.  The  poet,  to  put  it 
another  way,  thinks  best  of  life  today 
when  it  seems  to  him  to  be  kin  to  what 
he  thinks  life  was  in  ancient  Troy, — 
the  illusion  of  the  "golden  past".  The 
reality  of  ancient  cities  was  a  blend  of 
adulteries,  meannesses,  filth;  today 
has  bettered  this.  Mr.  Morton's  rank 
as  a  lyricist  is  high  indeed;  but  too 
much  unsuffering  is  insufferable.    If 



only  his  soul  could  meet  a  discourteous 
tornado  I  He  looks  through  magic 
casements ;  but  they  open  on  the  foam 
of  seas  more  placid  than  life  grants. 

Shipi  in  Harbour.    By  David  Morton.    G.  P. 
Putnam'!  Sons. 


By  Ben  Miller 

THE  wide  world  that  follows  the 
royal  and  ancient  pastime,  knows 
Chick  Evans  the  golfer;  only  his 
friends  know  the  man. 

All  golf  dom  should  read  this  chroni- 
cle by  one  of  its  brightest  stars.  Here 
is  no  stale  and  unprofitable  book  on 
how  to  play  golf,  though  a  few  pages 
at  the  end  of  the  book  are  given  to  de- 
scribing his  golf  shots.  The  main 
part  of  the  book  is  autobiography.  In 
simple  phrase,  with  candor  almost  pa- 
thetic, it  sets  forth  the  childhood, 
youth,  and  early  manhood  of  a  lovable 
personality.  The  early  environment, 
boyhood  days,  and  first  contact  with 
golf  are  dwelt  upon — ^the  frankness 
and  naivete  here  are  charming.  There 
is  no  attempt  at  style  but  one  catches 
something  of  the  flavor  of  "Tom  Saw- 
yer" or  "Huckleberry  Finn"  in  these 

Evans  was  only  eight  years  old 
when  he  first  saw  the  game  played  and 
began  caddying  at  the  old  Edgewater 
Club  in  Chicago.  At  sixteen  years  of 
age  he  gave  up  caddying  to  preserve 
his  standing  as  an  amateur.  The  lure 
of  the  links  was  strong  upon  this  boy 
from  the  beginning,  and  his  passion 
for  the  game  and  natural  gift  soon 
won  him  success.  He  came  into  na- 
tional prominence  at  the  age  of  nine- 
teen by  winning  the  western  cham- 
pionship in  1909;  since  this  event  he 
has  been  in  the  forefront  of  American 
golf.  His  greatest  success  was 
achieved  in  1916,  when  he  won  both 
the  national  amateur  and  the  open 
championships  of  the  United  States. 

Two  chapters  of  his  book  deal  with 
the  golf  matches  for  the  Red  Gross 
fund  during  the  war,  in  which  events 
he  was  the  drawing  card.  He  gave  his 
time  unsparingly,  traveling  many 
thousands  of  miles  to  engage  in  these 
exhibition  matches,  by  which  three 
hundred  thousand  dollars  were  raised 
for  the  Red  Cross  work. 

Few  other  men  in  the  public  view 
have  such  a  host  of  friends  as  has 
Chick  Evans.  And  their  friendship  is 
founded  on  solid  worth,  so  uncon- 
sciously revealed  in  this  modest  narra- 
tive. Our  golf  hero  is  of  refined  and 
cultured  parentage,  and  right  well  has 
he  kept  the  faith. 

Chick  Byans'  Golf  Book.    By  Cbarlea  (Chick) 
Evans,  Jr.    ReiUy  and  Lee. 


n'^OSE  who  wish  to  maintain  resi- 
1    dence  on  this  planet  should  learn 
by  heart  the  facts  presented  by  Will 
Irwin  in  'The  Next  War*'  (Button) 
and  should  never  weary  in  stating 
them  to  those  who  will  or  who  will  not 
listen.    Others  had  better  emigrate  to 
Mars  or  some  such   peaceful   place 
straightway,  because  the  ''next  war'', 
when  it  occurs,  wiU  be  one  practically 
of  extermination.     For  Mr.  Irwin's 
facts  are  true— quite  true.    No  one  is 
more  at  home  with  his  facts  than  he. 
Logically,  rdentlessly,  entirely  with- 
out sentiment  or  moralizing,  he  pre- 
sents that  picture  until  you  are  ready 
to  agree  that  the  next  war  really 
wouldn't  pay.    It  will  begin,  not  where 
the  world  war  left  off,  but  with  the  ad- 
dition of  intervening  years  crammed 
with  intensive  research  in  the  busi- 
ness of  killing.    Mr.  Irwin  considers 
the  subject  of  war  in  general  from  an 
economic  standpoint,  its  effect  on  the 
race    and    on    its    participants,    and 
proves  that  it  has  no  possible  value. 
His  is  a  powerful  book  because  it 
crushes  every  militaristic  argument 
and  finally,  in  spite  of  those  who  say 
that  war  cannot  be  eradicated,  pro- 
poses a  practical  way  to  eliminate  it. 

Hopalong  Gassidy  and  his  two  con- 
freres shoot  accurately;  all  Mexicans 
are  bad,  and  virtue  always  triumphs. 
The  Bar-20  Three"  (McClurg)  in 
these  respects  is  a  tsrpical  wild  west 
story.  But  the  marriageable  heroes 
having  found  their  mates  in  earlier 
books  of  the  series,  a  love  plot  is  miss- 
ing. By  this  and  by  a  palpably  west- 
em  dialogue  the  book  is  better  than 
the  average  of  the  species.    Despite 

the  inevitableness  of  its  triumphal 
ending  Clarence  E.  Mulford's  tale  is 
always  interesting. 

The  third  volume  of  "Little  Theater 
Classics"  edited  by  Samuel  A.  Eliot, 
Jr.  (Little,  Brown)  contains  four 
plays,  all  adaptations  from  well-known 
classics  of  the  stage.  The  first, 
"Bushido",  is  merely  an  episode  lifted 
from  a  great  feudal  drama  by  the 
Japanese  playwright,  Takeda.  It  is 
tragically  dramatic  and  has  been  acted 
with  success  by  the  Washington 
Square  Players.  The  second  is  a  fairy 
tale  from  Peele's  "Old  Wife's  Tale", 
while  the  third  is  made  up  from  parts 
of  Shakespeare's  "Pericles".  The  last, 
"The  Duchess  of  Pavy",  is  an  adapta- 
tion from  Ford's  "Love's  Sacrifice". 
All  of  them  have  been  tested  by  ama- 
teur performers  and  found  adequate 
to  their  rather  special  requirements. 
There  are  full  stage  directions  and  ex- 

In  "Kaleema",  Marion  McClelland's 
first  novel  (Century),  the  author  deals 
with  a  section  of  life  which  is  always 
colorful  and  interesting  to  the  mass  of 
people  fated  to  follow  the  drab  occu- 
pations of  butcher,  baker,  doctor,  un- 
dertaker. Kaleema  (who  is  the  hero- 
ine, and  not  a  patent  medicine  or  a 
river  in  Darkest  Africa)  is  the  star  of 
a  cheap  theatrical  company  playing 
"one  night  stands"  in  the  blizzardy 
towns  of  North  Dakota.  The  author 
knows  the  life  she  is  portraying,  and 
paints  it  as  she  has  found  it :  the  soot 
and  slowness  of  local  trains;  the  dis- 
comfort and  chill  of  the  small-town 
hotels ;  the  tarnished  tinsel  of  the  the- 




atrical  life;  the  expiring  Gamille  get- 
ting into  her  shabby  street  clothes  and 
haggling  about  her  overdue  salary 
with  the  harassed  manager.  Nor  has 
she  neglected  to  complete  the  picture. 
For  she  has  sketched  in  the  humor  and 
the  innate  kindliness  of  the  "just 
folks"  beneath  the  tawdry  finery. 

During  the  recent  critical  years  of 
our  national  history,  few  Americans 
in  public  life  have  been  subjected  to 
more  vigorous  verbal  assaults  than 
Henry  Cabot  Lodge.  That  the  venera^ 
ble  senator  has  not  hesitated  to  return 
the  blows  is  matter  of  common  knowl- 
edge. In  view  of  this  wordy  battle, 
his  essay  "The  Senate  of  the  United 
States" — ^the  first  in  the  volume  of 
that  title  (Scribner) — is  piquantly  in- 
teresting. Illuminating  is  Mr.  Lodge's 
clean-cut  review  of  the  Senate's  origin 
and  rights.  Jealous  of  its  preroga- 
tives, he  clarifies  many  things,  notably 
the  League  of  Nations  issue  between 
Mr.  Wilson  and  the  upper  legislative 

The  other  outstanding  features  of 
the  collection  are  Senator  Lodge's 
splendid  tribute  to  Theodore  Roosevelt 
delivered  before  Ck>ngress  on  the  oc- 
casion of  the  death  of  the  ex-president 
and  the  Pilgrim  Tercentenary  address 
given  at  Plymouth  last  year.  The 
purely  literary  essays  are  in  Mr. 
Lodge's  customary  graceful  style. 
They  constitute  the  plea  of  an  ardent 
champion  of  the  classics  for  true  cul- 
ture and  breadth  of  vision  as  opposed 
to  mere  utilitarian  knowledge. 

Carolyn  Wells  makes  excellent  use 
of  spiritism  and  the  ouija  board  in 
creating  an  atmosphere  of  tense  mys- 
tery, yet  she  does  not  allow  her  story 
to  leave,  even  for  a  moment,  the  realm 
of  things  explicable  by  the  most  mor- 
tal of  us.    "The  Come  Back"  (Doran) 

is  the  story  of  a  man  who  disappears 
in  the  Labrador  wilds.  In  his  youth  a 
gypsy  fortune  teller  had  prophesied 
that  he  would  some  day  go  on  a  long 
journey  and  die  a  terrible  death  but 
would,  in  due  course  of  time,  return  to 
his  family.  Of  course,  just  as  soon  as 
you  perceive  that  one  of  the  first  chap- 
ters is  headed  "The  Prophecjr",  you 
know  that  the  remaining  chapters  will 
be  devoted  to  the  fulfilment  of  that 
prophecy.  But  the  explanation  of  that 
fulfilment  will  keep  you  guessing  all 
the  way  through.  Miss  Wells  is  fa- 
mous for  her  skilful  manipulation  of 
the  mystery  story  and  she  certainly 
lives  up  to  her  reputation  in  "The 
Come  Back". 

Have  you  ever  tried  to  wash  a  bil^- 
goat  witii  lye  soap  in  a  brook;  or  set 
a  trap  for  crows  in  the  com;  or  got- 
ten "turned  around"  half  a  mile  from 
home,  when  it  seemed  in  the  middle  of 
the  forest  ?  These  are  things  that  have 
not  changed  since  Abraham  Lincoln 
was  a  boy  in  Hodgensville  one  hun- 
dred years  ago.  "The  Boyhood  of 
Abraham  Lincoln"  (Bobbs-MerriU), 
the  story  of  Lincoln's  early  life  in 
Larue  county,  was  handed  down  by 
word  of  mouth  from  Lincoln's  onetime 
playfellow,  Austin  GoUaher,  to  J. 
Rogers  Gore,  then  (twenty-five  years 
ago)  a  reporter  on  the  Larue  County 
"Herald",  and  by  him  preserved  until 
the  present  day.  Told  in  the  matter- 
of-fact  words  of  the  old  man,  with  di- 
rect conversation  and  with  photo- 
graphs, it  nevertheless  reads  like  a 
fairy  tale  in  its  remoteness  from  daily 
life  in  New  York.  Precious,  new-dis- 
covered bits  of  information  abound. 
As  a  text  for  historical  research  the 
GoUaher-Gore  manuscript  would  per- 
haps be  of  doubtful  value ;  as  a  treas- 
ury of  knowledge  about  the  silent 
years  between  Lincoln's  birth  and  his 



appearance  in  the  Springfield  law  of- 
fice, its  importance  is  profound,  and 
the  enchantment  of  it  lingers. 

"The  Kingdom  Roand  the  Comer" 
l^  Coningsby  Dawson  (Cosmopolitan) 
is  really  not  so  bad  as  the  publisher's 
notices  would  lead  you  to  expect, 
ttiough  it  is  concerned  with  a  search 
for  happiness  which  you  fear  must  in- 
evitably arrive.  The  author  evidences 
considerable  restraint  and  insight  and 
accomplishes  some  bits  of  great  charm 
until  he  muddles  things  at  the  end. 
There  is  no  moral  law  to  prevent  an 
author's  marrying  three  heroines  to 
three  worthy  men.  Contrariwise. 
But  it  makes  the  cheery  note  of  the 
bluebird  sound  somewhat  shrill. 

Viola  C.  White's  first  volume  of 
poems,  "Horizons"  (Yale),  has  in  it 
something  which  many  first  volumes 
lack:  thoughtful  work  boldly  done, 
lacking  finish  at  times,  but  strong 
enough  to  assure  the  reader  that  Miss 
White  is  a  poet — ^no  mere  dabbler  in 
verse  forms.  She  has  learned  much 
from  the  Greeks,  and  from  Keats, 
Blake,  and  Browning,  who  have  taught 
her  a  certain  daring  and  the  ability  to 
use  fine  phrases  in  memorable  ways; 
but  she  has  her  own  originality,  and 
her  own  philosophical  flavor.  She  is 
not  a  poet  of  passing  moods  and  emo- 
tions, and  her  success  lies  not  in  lyrics 
but  rather  in  the  longer  and  more  re- 
flective poems  that  give  space  for  her 
thoughts  and  the  opportunity  to  use 
her  excellent  descriptive  phrases.  Her 
work  suggests  that  she  has  much  to 
say,  and  that  it  will  become  clearer 
and  more  focused  as  her  style  de- 
velops. In  this  book  she  makes  a 
worthy  and  pleasing  beginning. 

A  New  York  millionaire's  pursuit  of 
an  historic  diamond  necklace,  the  love 

affair  of  a  Red  Cross  nurse  who  was 
thirsting  for  adventure,  and  the  ex- 
periment in  piracy  of  a  handsome  art 
dealer  who  wanted  to  hunt  pearls,  are 
matters  which  Harold  MacGrath  jug- 
gles with  practised  skill  in  *'The  Pagan 
Madonna"  (Doubleday,  Page).  The 
story  is  frankly  intended  for  those 
readers  who  love  the  romantic  lure  of 
south  seas,  Spanish  galleons,  and  the 
ends  of  rainbows.  Fate,  the  Blind 
Madonna  of  the  Pagan,  aids  the  au- 
thor in  assembling  his  characters  on 
the  millionaire's  yacht  anchored  off 
the  coast  of  China.  Perhaps  the  dia- 
mond necklace  is  there,  also.  Only 
time  vnll  tell.  With  the  Byronic  art 
dealer  in  charge  of  the  "planted" 
crew,  the  owner  of  the  yacht,  his 
estranged  son,  and  the  nurse  as  pris- 
oners, the  craft  sails  forth  into  the 
oily  calm  of  tropic  seas,  and  romance 
and  mystery  walk  the  deck  under  the 
low-hung  stars. 

A  pike  does  not  sound  like  an  allur- 
ing heroine  for  a  book.  But  in  "Grim : 
The  Story  of  a  Pike",  translated  from 
the  Danish  of  Svend  Fleuron  by  Jessie 
Muir  and  W.  Emm6  (Knopf),  we  find 
a  great  deal  of  personality  and  indi- 
viduality in  that  cold-blooded  lady  fish. 
This  simple  yet  dramatic  tale  of  her 
life  makes  us  smile  over  her  vices  and 
rejoice  over  her  victories  and  her 
clever  escapes.  "Her  scales  gleamed 
with  the  rays  of  the  sun  and  moon; 
and  when,  vnth  the  rapidity  of  light- 
ning, she  made  a  dart,  it  seemed  like 
the  twinkling  of  stars  in  the  dark 
night  of  the  deep  waters."  To  be  sure, 
"many  a  happy  bridegroom  had  slipped 
down  her  throat";  but  does  anyone 
quite  frown  on  Cleopatra?  Dorothy 
P.  Lathrop  has  drawn  excellent  illus- 
trations for  a  book  far  out  of  the  ordi- 






The  following  JUU  of  hookt  In  demand  in  July  in  the  puhlio  librariet  in  the  United 
Btatea  have  been  compiled  from  reports  made  by  two  hundred  repreaente^tive  Uhrariee  in  every 
eection  of  the  country  and  in  cities  of  oU  Haea  down  to  ten  thouaand  populatUm,  The  order  of 
choice  ia  aa  atated  by  the  librariana. 


1.  Main  Street 

2.  The  Brimming  Gup 

3.  The  Sisters-in-Law 

4.  Galusha  the  Magnificent 

5.  The  Kingdom  Round  the  Comer 

6.  The  Shield  of  Silence 

Sinclair  Lewis 
Dorothy  Canfield 
Gertrude  Atherton 
Joseph  C.  Lincoln 
Coningsby  Dawson 
Margaret  E.  H.  Ruffin 


1.  Main  Street 

2.  The  Age  of  Innocence 

3.  The  Brimming  Cup 

4.  The  Sisters-in-Law 

5.  Alice  Adams 

6.  The  Kingdom  Round  the  Corner 

Sinclair  Lewis 
Edith  Wharton 
Dorothy  Canfield 
Gertrude  Atherton 
Booth  Tarkington 
Coningsby  Dawson 


1.  Main  Street 

2.  The  Brimming  Cup 

3.  The  Mysterious  Rider 

4.  The  Sisters-in-Law 

5.  Moon-Calf 

6.  The  Age  of  Innocence 

Sinclair  Levns 
Dorothy  Canfield 
Zane  Grey 
Gertrude  Atherton 
Floyd  DeU 
Edith  Wharton 


1.  Main  Street 

2.  The  Age  of  Innocence 

3.  Moon-Calf 

4.  The  Brimming  Cup 

5.  The  Mysterious  Rider 

6.  Miss  Lulu  Rett 

1.  Main  Street 

2.  The  Rose  Dawn 

3.  The  Enchanted  Canyon 

4.  Growth  of  the  Soil 

5.  Sister  Sue 

6.  Moon-Calf 

Sinclair  Lewis 
Edith  Wharton 
Floyd  DeU 
Dorothy  Canfield 
Zane  Grey 
Zona  Gale 


Sinclair  Levns 
Stewart  Edvxvrd  White 
Honore  WiUsie 
Knut  Hamsun 
Eleanor  H.  Porter 
Floyd  DeU 


1.  Main  Street 

2.  The  Brimming  Cup 

3.  The  Age  of  Innocence 

4.  The  Sisters-in-Law 

5.  The  Mysterious  Rider 

6.  Moon-Calf 

Sinclair  Levns 
Dorothy  Canfield 
Edith  Wharton 
Gertrude  Atherton 
Zane  Grey 
Floyd  DeU 






































The  tiUet  Kave  heen  $eore4  hy  the  eimple  prooeaa  of  giving  each  a  eredit  of  eiw  for  each  time 
it  appeore  oe  first  choice,  and  »o  down  to  a  ecore  of  one  for  each  time  it  appears  in  siwth  place. 
The  total  eoore  for  each  section  and  for  the  whole  country  determines  the  order  of  choice  in  the 
table  herewith, 


1.  The  Outline  of  History  H.  G.  WeUs 

2.  MargotAsquith:  An  Autobiography  Margot  Aaquith 

3.  The  Americanization  of  Edward  Bok  Edward  Boh 

4.  Mystic  Isles  of  the  South  Seas  Frederick  O'Brien 

5.  The  Peace  Negotiations  Robert  Lansing 

6.  White  Shadows  in  the  South  Seas      Frederick  O'Brien 


1.  The  Outline  of  History  H.  G.  WeUs 

2.  Mystic  Isles  of  the  South  Seas  Frederick  O'Brien 

3.  Wliite  Shadows  in  the  South  Seas     Frederick  O'Brien 

4.  Margot  Asquith :  An  Autobiography  Margot  Asquith 

5.  The  Peace  Negotiations  Robert  Lansing 

6.  The  Americanization  of  Edward  Bok  Edtoard  Bok 


1.  The  Outline  of  History 

2.  The  Americanization  of  Edward  Bok 

3.  Mystic  Isles  of  the  South  Seas 

4.  Margot  Asquith :  An  Autobiography 

5.  Mirrors  of  Downing  Street 

6.  Now  It  Can  Be  Told 

H.  G.  WeUa 
Edward  Bok 
Frederick  O'Brien 
Margot  Asquith 
PhUip  Gibbs 


1.  The  Outline  of  History  H.  G.  WeUs 

2.  Margot  Asquith :  An  Autobiography  Margot  Asquith 

3.  Mystic  Isles  of  the  South  Seas 

4.  White  Shadows  in  the  South  Seas 

5.  Mirrors  of  Downing  Street 

6.  What  Really  Happened  at  Paris 


Frederick  O'Brien 
Frederick  O'Brien 
Edward  Mandefl  House 

1.  The  Outline  of  History 

2.  White  Shadows  in  the  South  Seas 

3.  Mystic  Isles  of  the  South  Seas 

4.  MargotAsquith:  An  Autobiography 

5.  The  Days  Before  Yesterday 

6.  The  Americanization  of  Edward  Bok 

U.  G.  Wells 
Frederick  O'Brien 
Frederick  O'Brien 
Margot  Asquith 
Frederic  Hamilton 
Edward  Bok 


1.  The  Outline  of  History  H.  G.  WeUs 

2.  Margpt  Asquith :  An  Autobiography  Margot  Asquith 

3.  Mystic  Isles  of  the  South  Seas  Frederick  O'Brien 
4«  White  Shadows  in  the  South  Seas      Frederick  O'Brien 

5.  The  Americanization  of  Edward  Bok  Edward  Bok 

6.  Mirrors  of  Downing  Street  Anonymous 




























Posttpar  Tendencies  in  French 

ONE  day,  during  the  Paris  Com- 
mune of  1871,  G£sar  Franck  was 
writing  music  in  his  room  when  a  sud- 
den shooting  made  the  air  tremble. 
The  regular  troops  were  overpowering 
the  communists  and  storming  the  city. 
C£sar  Franck  went  to  the  window, 
shut  it  with  a  gesture  of  impatience, 
and  murmured,  "It's  too  bad  that  a 
man  cannot  do  his  work  in  peace. ..." 
Then  he  went  back  to  his  table.  That 
a  battle  might  affect  the  inspiration  of 
a  prelude,  a  choral,  or  a  fugue,  did  not 
occur  to  him. 

Thought  and  violence  do  not  develop 
on  the  same  plane.  So  we  must  not  be 
surprised  if  those  men  who  had  some- 
thing to  say  in  1914,  and  were  brutally 
torn  away  from  their  work  by  an 
armed  invasion,  have  very  much  the 
same  things  to  say  today.  The  styles 
of  Claudel,  of  Vildrac,  or  of  Giraudoux 
have  evolved  probably  less  than  they 
would  have  in  six  years  of  peace  and 
literary  concentration.  War  alone  has 
not  announced  one  great  artist.  A 
scientist,  prominent  in  medical  re- 
search, tells  me  that  war  has  not  even 
led  to  one  great  step  in  surgery.  How 
could  it  fertilize  literature?  Our 
major  artists  have  generally  written 
their  minor  works  about  it.  The  only 
major  work  was  accomplished  by  our 
soldiers — and  as  yet  no  commentary 
has  been  adequate. 

Peace,  and  the  new  problems  which 
are  crowding  today  before  French  in- 
dependent minds,  will  determine  a 
vivid  production  of  political,  sociologi- 
cal, and  ethical  writings,  peculiarly 

significant  because  of  the  complex  ex- 
periences of  the  French  in  the  present 
years.  Indirectly,  this  will  react  upon 
art  and  literature.  But  I  shall  not 
commit  myself  to  prophecies.  What 
we  can  examine  today  is  the  literary 
activity  of  these  two  years  which  have 
elapsed  since  the  last  gun  was  fired  on 
French  soil. 

Living  within  French  literary  cir- 
cles, it  is  not  always  easy  to  discern 
the  leading  and  lasting  tendencies. 
Every  individual  pretends  to  follow  a 
direction  of  his  own,  and  there  is  noth- 
ing to  be  compared  to  the  nation-wide 
crystallizations  of  taste  which  regu- 
larly occur  in  America.  The  French 
are  incoercibly  different  from  each 
other,  and  that  difference  is  their  com- 
mon characteristic.  But  viewed  from 
a  few  thousand  miles  away,  the  princi- 
pal modem  tendencies  can  be  brought 
down  to  three.  First,  the  traditional- 
ist and  conservative,  which  is  embod- 
ied in  the  French  Academy,  and  has 
as  its  aim  the  preserving  and  cultivat- 
ing of  the  classical  qualities  of  the 
past  national  literature.  Then  the 
super-intelligent,  refining,  ambitious, 
musical,  and  esoteric  art  of  the  sym- 
bolists, with  all  those  who  proceed 
from  Rimbaud,  Laforgue,  and  Mal- 
larm6.  Finally  the  wide,  social,  hu- 
man trend  of  inspiration,  exemplified 
in  poetry  by  the  followers  of  Ver- 
haeren  and  indirect  disciples  of  Walt 

Before  the  war,  these  three  ten- 
dencies were  decidedly,  angrily  ex- 
cluding each  other.  What  may  be  the 
characteristic  in  postwar  French  lit- 
erature is  their  reconciliation  and  in- 




terwesiiniT^  f <nr  the  prodactioii  of  new 

Ten  yean  aso»  the  poet-«ymbolist 
caUed  the  traditionaliat  an  oncompre- 
faendiniT  flchoofanaater,  the  unanimist 
called  the  oymboliflt  a  hair-splitter,  the 
academician  regarded  them  both  as 
dangerous  maniars  who  were  jec^Murd- 
izing  the  pore  treasure  of  tradition. 
After  hearing  them  all,  one  felt  litera- 
ture was  divided  among  politicians, 
alchemists,  and  ttie  dead. 

Today,  ttiose  ipAo  lead  realize  the 
limitations  of  academism,  of  verbal 
refinement,  and  of  mass-inspiration. 
They  try  to  combine  the  resources  of 
these  various  orders,  to  sum  up  their 
possibilities,  and  as  a  reward,  a  new 
territory  appears  before  them. 

That  new  alliance  of  virtues  hither- 
to unrelated  and  supposed  to  be  con- 
tradictory, needs  one  quality  above  all 
— ^it  needs  intelligence.  And  French 
writers  of  the  younger  generation 
seem  to  consider  intelligence  as  pre- 
eminent, before  technique  or  sensibil- 
ity (these  two,  of  course,  are  taken 
for  granted). 

Andr6  Gide,  who  is  responsible  for 
the  formulation  of  a  good  part  of  the 
young  men's  credo,  wrote  a  few  weeks 
ago  that  "in  France,  and  in  France 
only,  intelligence  always  tends  to  get 
the  best  of  sentiment  or  instinct".  It 
also  gets  the  best  of  the  very  rules  it 
has  imposed  upon  itself.  No  people 
are  more  critical  of  their  ovm  creeds, 
whether  in  literature  or  in  politics. 

This  leads  us  to  an  hypothesis.  The 
twentieth  century,  in  France,  may 
resemble  her  eighteenth  and  sixteenth 
(in  England  the  seventeenth,  in  Italy 
tte  fifteenth)  when  intelligence  was 
80  high,  so  universal,  and  so  free, 
rather  than  the  French  seventeenth, 
when  our  genius  was  brilliantly  shut 
in  upon  itself  and  crystallized  in  but 
one  of  its  aspects.    I  have  always  pre- 

ferred the  age  of  the  French  Renais- 
sance and  ttie  religious  wars,  of  Mon- 
taigne and  Rabelaisi  to  ttie  Ommd 
SiMe  itself,  and  perhaps  I  am  taking 
my  wishes  for  reality  in  seeing  in  this 
new  period  the  same  qualities  as  in 
that  feverish,  many-sidcMl,  violent,  lux- 
urious, mystical,  and  above  all  dear- 
minded  epoch. 

Within  each  literaiy  group,  the 
leading  writer  of  today  is  no  longer 
the  strongest  exponent  of  the  group 
doctrine.  He  is  the  one  who  most 
powerfully  or  cleverly  joins  that  doc- 
trine to  some  deeper  and  wider  cur- 
rent, giving  the  group  a  more  uni- 
versal justification.  Thus  unanimists 
are  turning  to  Luc  Durtain\  The 
lovers  of  classical  perfection,  of  word 
magic  and  such  forgotten  lore,  to  Paul 

A  young  prophet  of  the  new  times, 
Henri  Franck*,  died  too  soon  to  have 
his  clear  and  passionate  visions  ful- 
filled. But  VaI6ry  Larbaud\  Andr6 
Salmon',  men  of  manifold  forces  domi- 
nated by  intelligence,  have  developed 
fertile  relations  between  formerly  un- 
connected resources. 

It  is  not  the  men  who  too  easily  real- 
ized some  kind  of  unity  in  themselves, 
who  are  the  leaders  in  literary  art  to- 
day. It  is,  strangely  enough,  the  men 
who  could  not  bring  themselves  to 
unity,  who  seem  to  express  better  a 
period  in  which  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  unity.  Drieu  la  Rochelle*,  Blaise 
Cendrars,  Paul  Morand,  at  different 
depths,  are  exploiting  the  whole  world 
as  their  mine,  and  bringing  the  new 
ore  to  the  surface.  They  are  not  sat- 
isfied with  a  fulfilment  that  would  be 
only  "subjective",  or  "collective",  or 

^Le  Retour  des  Hommes,  Face  k  Fac«,  etc. 

*Introdnctlon  k  la  Mdtbode  de  Ltenard  de 
Vinci,  Odes,  etc. 

*La  Danse  devant  I'Arche. 

*Bamabootb,  Bnfantinea. 

"Prikas,  Manascrit  Trouvd  dana  un  Chapean, 

interrogation.  Fond  de  Cantine. 



just  verbaL  They  grapple  with  every- 
thing coming  within  their  reach. 
Their  senses  of  logic,  of  taste,  of 
power,  of  love  are  wideawake  at  the 
same  time.  And  no  longer  can  a 
writer  be  recognized  who  obtains 
greatness  by  sacrificing  eversrthing  in 
every  direction  save  one.  That  type 
of  genius  is  now  extinct. 

France  has  had  a  revival  of  the  ad- 
venture novel,  of  which  Pierre  Mac 
Orlan^  is  perhaps  the  most  successful 
exponent,  being  an  unusual  product  of 
irony,  sensuality,  and  erudition.  But 
the  demand  for  adventure  is  not  an 
outcome  of  the  war,  as  is  generally  be- 
lieved. (Jacques  Riviere  announced 
that  revii^  in  two  remarkable  articles 
in  the  "Nouvelle  Revue  Frangaise"  in 
1914.)  It  is,  rather,  a  desire  for 
escape  from  narrow  and  self-centred 
formulse,  a  desire  to  see  all  resources 
of  literature  at  play  in  the  same  work. 
It  is  the  wish  for  a  field  wide  enough 
for  every  experiment,  and  the  meeting 
in  one  and  the  same  book  of  qualities 
which  had  always  been  cultivated  sep- 
arately, as  if  they  implied  a  contradic- 
tion to  each  other — for  action  with 
analysis,  geographic  precision,  with 
the  quaintness  of  the  unexplained. 

I  have  said  that  war  did  not  affect 
literary  art,  except  in  suspending  lit- 
erary work — or  in  ending  the  life  of 
the  writer.  If  that  is  influence,  then 
of  course  war  had  a  very  great  influ- 
ence on  literature.  Still,  I  feel  that  I 
am  not  doing  justice  to  those  who 
tried,  in  some  grave,  quasi-religious 
manner,  to  voice  the  teaching  that  war 
had  brought.  A  teaching  which  is 
contained  in  so  few  words  I  I  think  of 
Jules  Romains  in  "Europe",  of  Dur- 
tain's  invocation  to  the  American  dead 
on  the  battlefields,  transcending  the 
meaning  of  their  now  everlasting  pres- 
ence in  French  earth — 

*Le  Chant  de  I'Bqiilpage,  etc. 

. .  .O  dead  men  firom  the  worlds,  wUl  70a  not 

meet  each  other  under  the  ground? 

Too  many  orlglna  and  spacee  have  met  In  our 

for  it  to  atay  Umlted  and  dosed 
belonging  only  to  itself. 

O  dead  men  from  the  worlds,  in  this  Barops 
Yon  have  not  finished  yoor  task. . . 

There  is  a  form  of  postwar  inspira- 
tion which  gave  existence  to  frag- 
ments that  are  bitter  and  short  as 
prayers  for  the  unredeemed. 

But  are  they  'literature"? 


In  Remnant  Austria 

IT  is  peculiar  about  Austria.  She 
has  produced  some  of  the  most  il- 
lustrious writers  in  German  litera- 
ture. A  country  that  can  boast  of 
Walther  von  der  Vogelweide,  Franz 
Grillparzer,  and  Hugo  von  Hofmanns- 
thal  has  no  reason  to  fear  comparison 
with  the  best.  Yet  there  is  no  history 
of  Austrian  literature  that  is  even  re- 
motely adequate.  The  subjects  of  the 
Dual  Monarchy  have  allowed  their 
more  grasping  brothers  farther  north 
to  gobble  up  their  creative  writers  and 
set  them  down  in  their  histories  of 
"German"  literature  irrespective  of 
where  they  were  bom  and  solely  be- 
cause they  wrote  in  German.  But  Ar- 
thur Schnitzler  is  as  unthinkable  in 
Berlin  as  Frank  Wedeldnd  would  have 
been  in  Vienna.  We  appreciate  the 
fact  that  ''The  Gentleman  from  In- 
diana" was  written  by  a  native  of  In- 
dianapolis and  that  the  author  of 
"Beau  Brummel"  was  bom  in  Elmira. 
Tell  me  where  you  come  from  and  I 
will  have  got  a  line  on  your  literature. 
The  Austrians  have  of  course  known 
this  without  taking  full  advantage  of 
it.  There  is  evidence  now  that,  hav- 
ing been  reduced  from  a  mighty  mon- 
archy of  sixty  million  souls  to  a  real- 



istie  r^MiUk  of  six  millioii,  iliey  are 
besfinning  to  realiie  that  it  pays  to 
honor  native  talent.  For  on  Sunday, 
June  26,  they  onveiled  in  the  City 
Park  of  Vienna  a  nxmoment  to  Johann 
Stranaa  the  ''Watts  King^,  campOBsr 
of  ''On  the  Beantifol  Blue  Danube" 
and  aiyroTimately  five  hundred  other 
pieces  of  dance  music  to  which  more 
peojde  have  danced  than  to  the  worics 
of  any  other  composer. 

Let  us  clear  the  decks  then  for  rem- 
nant Austria  despite  the  fact  that 
other  seemingly  more  important  events 
have  recently  taken  place  in  Europe. 
Let  us  forget,  for  the  time  being,  that 
Mascagni  and  D'Annunzio  have  joined 
forces  in  the  writing  of  a  gigantic 
opera  after  the  fashion  of  Richard 
Wagner's  "Ring  des  Nibelungen"  and 
based  on  Tasso's  "Jerusalem  Deliv- 
ered", that  Oswald  Spengler  has 
brought  out  the  second  volume  of  his 
"Downfall  of  the  Occident"  under  the 
title  of  "Cosmo-Historical  Perspec- 
tives", that  Gabriele  Router  has  writ- 
ten a  charming  account  of  how  she 
first  became  acquainted  with  Nietz- 
sche, that  Jean  Domis  has  just  pub- 
lished a  volume  on  the  great  poets  of 
the  war  under  the  title  of  "Hommes 
d' Action  et  de  R6ve",  that  Hermann 
Sudermann's  new  dramatic  trilogy  en- 
titled "Das  deutsche  Schicksal"  and 
dealing  with  Germany  during  the  war 
has  been  vigorously  endorsed  by  the 
unprejudiced,  that  Maurice  Maeter- 
linck has  finished  his  "Le  grand  Se- 
cret"— let  us  forget  all  these  bookish 
events  in  favor  of  Johann  Strauss 
iHiom  Richard  Wagner  himself  dubbed 
the  "WaUz  King"  and  at  the  perform- 
ance of  vrtiose  works  no  less  an  artist 
than  Johannes  Brahms — whom  Wag- 
ner loathed — ^never  failed  to  be  pres- 
ent if  humanly  possible. 

But  Johann  Strauss  (1825-1899) 
did  not  write  books.    Why  give  him 

space  then  in  a  magazine  devoted  to 
books?  He  did  not  dance,  either,  in- 
credible as  it  may  sound.  But  his 
whole  life  was  an  Auffarderung  turn 
Tanz  and  millions  of  couples  have  re- 
sponded. Consequently,  he  has  been 
more  written  about  in  the  Austrian 
press  this  summer  than  any  other  one 
man.  He  has  become  a  literary  sub- 
ject just  as  he  did  in  1895  vrtien  the 
world  celebrated  his  seventieth  birth- 
day. His  life  is  the  best  of  proof  that 
if  you  wish  to  attain  immortality  you 
have  to  appeal  directly  to  the  masses 
or  shoot  clear  over  their  heads,  after 
the  fashion  of  Dante. 

As  to  the  monument  itself,  we  may 
be  quite  brief.  The  work  of  Edmund 
Hellmer,  it  represents  Strauss  stand- 
ing, his  violin  under  his  chin,  his  body 
leaning  slightly  forward,  his  right 
shoulder  raised,  his  left  leg  to  the  fore 
— ^you  know  that  dance  music  is  in  the 
air.  At  the  unveiling  numerous  ad- 
dresses were  made  until  the  time  came 
to  lower  the  curtain.  While  this  was 
being  done,  the  great  ssrmphony  or- 
chestra of  Vienna,  under  the  direc- 
tion of  Arthur  Nikisch,  played  the 
"Blue  Danube"  waltz  and  Austria, 
represented  by  thousands  of  her  chil- 
dren, wept  or  rejoiced  depending  upon 
individual  temperament. 

As  to  the  waltz,  pagan  Goethe  tells 
in  his  "Sufferings  of  Werther"  (1774) 
how  he  took  an  oath  the  first  time  he 
danced  one.  Victor  Hugo,  certainly 
not  a  prude,  derided  it  (1880)  as  in- 
imical alike  to  health  and  morals.  Al- 
fred de  Musset  could  not  see  how  a 
man  could  take  a  woman  in  his  arms, 
swing  around,  and  remain  demure. 
Even  Lord  Byron  wrote  his  "The 
Waltz''  in  which  he  made  some  rather 
strong  remarks  concerning  this  form 
of  social  amusement.  When,  in  short, 
the  waltz  first  became  fashionable,  and 
Vienna  was  the  place,  it  evoked  such 



exclamations  as  ''Shocking",  ''Quelle 
Horreur",  "Unerhort",  depending  upon 
the  mother-tongue  of  the  indignant 
speaker.    And  today —  I 

Vienna  has  had  still  another  spirit- 
ual rebirth:  Rabindranath  Tagore 
has  been  there  and  delivered  an  ad- 
dress. He  himself  said  that  no 
other  country  had  given  him  such  a 
reception.  Whether  he  spoke  English 
or  Bengalese,  but  few  understood  his 
words  while  all  seemed  to  grasp  his 
message.  The  Austrians  have  made 
the  following  comment:  we  thought 
until  the  war  ended  that  we  were  the 
chosen  people  of  Europe.  Now  we  see 
our  fatal  error.  Here  comes  a  man 
from  hitherto  unesteemed  India  with 
a  message  that  contains  no  really  new 
truth  and  yet  we  bow  before  him  and 
adore  him  for  what  he  said.  He  spoke 
of  love  and  justice.  It  reminds  us  of 
the  Holy  Grail  from  which  radiated 
both  love  and  justice,  and  Parsifal's 
connection  with  it.  And  the  legend 
says  that  it  was  eventually  translated 
from  arrogant  and  unbelieving  Europe 
to  India  by  the  angels.  Tagore  was 
translated  from  Prague  to  Paris  by  an 

It  is  an  ingenious  interpretation  of 
Tagore's  visit.  The  Austrians  have 
long  been  noted  for  their  ability  to 
sense  the  finer  spiritual  meaning  of 
things.  In  a  book  just  published  in 
Paris,  by  Marcel  Dunan,  entitled  quite 
simply  "UAutriche",  the  author  gives 
an  account  of  Austria  as  only  a 
Frenchman  can.  After  commenting 
on  her  history,  conmierce,  natural  re- 
sources, and  present  political  status, 
he  goes  over  to  her  art,  science,  and 
literature.  Monsieur  Dunan  is 
neither  a  chauvinist  after  the  fashion 
of  Maurice  Barrte  nor  a  world  spirit 
to  the  liking  of  Remain  Rolland.  He 
is  just  a  Frenchman.  And  after 
studying  Austria  old  and  new  he  con- 

cludes with  a  plea  for  Austrian  as  con- 
trasted with  German  literature.  It  is 
a  great  plea  and  highly  suggestive.  A 
good  history  of  Austrian  literature 
would  be  beneficial  today  even  to  the 
inter-Allied  politicians. 

And  Austria,  that  is,  Vienna,  has 
just  gone  through  a  great  grief. 
ThaddMus  Rittner,  novelist  and  dram- 
atist, forty-eight  years  old  on  May 
21,  is  dead.  Though  a  Pole  by  birth, 
he  came  to  Vienna  when  quite  young 
and,  like  Bauemfeld  and  Grillpanser, 
secured  a  position  as  government 
clerk.  We  have  heard  very  little  about 
him  in  this  country  for  the  reason, 
possibly,  that  he  belonged  to  the  school 
of  Hofmannsthal  and  Schnitzler  and 
was  outshadowed  by  them.  But  his 
dramas,  now  realistic  now  romantic, 
have  for  years  constituted  an  impor- 
tant part  of  the  German-speaking 
stage  and  his  novels  have  been  widely 
read.  He  is  said  to  have  been  one  of 
the  "finest  men"  that  ever  lived  in  the 
Austrian  capital,  reminding  somewhat 
of  Chopin  in  his  personality  and  of 
Hans  Christian  Andersen  in  his  feel- 
ing for  the  purely  spiritual.  His  "Lit- 
tle Home",  "Garden  of  Youth",  and 
"Tragedy  of  Eumenes"  are  three  of 
his  best-known  works.  The  man  bore 
a  certain  resemblance  to  Clyde  Fitch. 

Vienna  is  a  city  of  theatres  the  chief 
of  which  is  the  Burgtheater  with  a 
long  and  illustrious  history,  attended 
in  its  time  by  thousands  of  Americans 
who  have  come  away  edified  and  grate- 
ful. About  a  year  ago  a  change  in  the 
management  was  made  necessary  and 
for  a  while  it  seemed  that  Max  Rein- 
hardt  would  be  given  the  post.  The 
government  however  wisely  decided 
that  Maestro  Reinhardt  was  not  the 
man  for  the  place  and  Anton  Wildgans 
was  appointed.  Herr  Wildgans  called 
the  reporters  around  him  the  other 
day  and  told  them  of  his  plans  for  the 

DANTE— 1921 


coining  season.  Aside  from  the  old 
standbys  without  which  a  great  Euro- 
pean theatre  is  unthinkable,  here  are 
the  novelties  that  will  be  played  for 
the  first  time  at  the  Burg:  "Der 
Schneesturm'*,  a  tragedy  by  Otto  Zoff ; 
'Tlatz",  a  drama  by  Fritz  von  Unruh 
written  during  the  war  but  impossible 
then  because  of  its  political  teachings ; 
''Himmel  und  H511e'',  a  tragedy  by 
Paul  Komf  eld  that  has  been  a  sensa- 
tion in  Germany;  ''Spiegelmensch",  a 
trilogy  by  Franz  Werfel  who  is  re- 
garded as  one  of  the  most  conspicuous 
figures  in  modem  European  literature 
(this  drama  is  to  be  reviewed  shortly 
in  a  New  York  magazine) ;  ''Kain"»  a 
mythical  poem  by  Director  Wildgans, 
and  von  Hofmannsthal's  ''Elektra". 

Among  classical  works  that  will  be 
performed  for  the  first  time  at  the 
Burg,  however  frequently  they  may 
have  been  given  elsewhere,  are:  Hein- 
rich  von  Eleisfs  "Penthesilea" ; 
Goethe's  "Stella";    "Coriolanus"  and 

"The  Winter's  Tale"  by  Shakespeare; 
"Don  Carlos",  "Die  Rauber",  and 
"Maria  Stuart"  by  Schiller;  Lessing's 
"Nathan  der  Weise",  Grillparzer's 
"Jiidin  von  Toledo",  and  Rostand's 
"Cyrano  de  Bergerac". 

And  finally  there  are  five  plays  that 
will  be  given  in  new  setting:  Thad- 
dSus  Rittner's  "Tragodie  des  Eume- 
nes"  and  "Garten  der  Jugend", 
Shakespeare's  "Julius  Csesar", 
Goethe's  "Die  natfirliche  Tochter", 
and  Schnitzler's  "Der  einsame  Weg". 

These  are  a  few  of  the  plays  that 
will  be  given  in  Austria's  greatest 
theatre  during  the  first  half  of  the 
coming  season.  Never  in  her  history 
did  New  York  have  such  a  program  to 
anticipate.  Europe  has  dubbed  Aus- 
tria "the  impossible  state".  Political- 
ly the  soubriquet  may  be  correct.  But 
to  compete  even  with  remnant  Austria 
on  an  aesthetic  basis  is  a  gigantic  un- 


DANTE— 1921 

By  Charles  R.  Murphy 

OVER  the  vaults  of  pain  and  ice  of  our  despair, 
In  the  green  high  forest  where  our  hopes  are  new. 
In  our  place  of  prayer  and  dreaming  where  an  angel 
Might  still  its  wings  before  the  face  of  beauty. 
There  sings  a  voice  of  victory  and  battle; 
It  is  the  voice  of  one  who  from  deep  earth  emerging 
Through  darkness  became  the  lover  of  light; 
A  pilgrim  who  found  the  light  of  faces  in  a  star 
Because  he,  living,  loved  a  woman,  dead — 
And,  from  her  lapsing,  placed  her  with  God 
For  the  sureness  of  her  keeping — 
And  who  made  the  journey  thither 
And  almost  remembered  what  he  saw. 


Ben  Heoht 

Chicago  seems  to  us  so 
cordial  a  town  that  even 
the  iMiIicemen's  whistles 
have  a  coquettish  tone  I  We 
found  that  we  remembered 
very  little  from  our  seven- 
year-old  residence  but  the 
general  aspect  of  Lake 
Shore  Drive  and  the  green 
beauty  of  Lincoln  Park. 
It's  a  good  town,  and  so  are 
the  folk  in  it,  particularly  the  literary 
folk.  We  were  astonished  to  find  John 
V.  A.  Weaver  at  Lake  Forest,  in  a 
light  grey  golf  suit,  collecting  the  bon 
mots  of  debutantes  at  a  beach  party. 
By  the  way — an  amazing  thing — ^the 
Chicago  flapper  has  given  up  the 
painting  of  batik  and  ornamental 
lampshades,  and  has  taken  to  the  writ- 
ing of  novels.  One  young  lady  who 
wore  long  pendant  earrings  and  short 
green  dresses  is  said  to  have  at- 
tempted to  rival  the  wisdom  of  a  Shaw 
or  a  Wilde.  Her  conversation  was  ap- 
pallingly difiJcult.  This  is  a  new  va- 
riety of  dancing  partner.  But  it 
doesn't  seem  to  make  any  difference 
how  brilliant  she  may  be;  we  step 
gaily  on  her  feet  just  the  same.  The 
Chicago  "Daily  News"  is  even  a  more 
remarkable  spot  to  spend  an  afternoon 
than  Lake  Forest.  Think  of  it  I  Keith 
Preston,  Henry  J.  Smith,  Harry  Han- 
sen, Tubman  K  Hedrick,  Ben  Hecht, 
Carl  Sandburg — and  more  geniuses 
probably  kept  hid  in  some  waste 
basket.  Harry  Hansen  is  as  quiet  in 
regard  to  his  own  exploits  as  ever.  I 
always  have  a  suspicion  that  there  is 
a  novel  somewhere  in  the  back  of 
Harry's  desk — ^but  he  doesn't  tell  you 
about  it.    Henry  J.  Smith  is  that  al- 

most impossible  combination,  a  city 
editor  who  writes  and  is  interested  in 
literature.  A  book  of  Hedrick's  verses 
is  to  appear  this  fall,  as  is  also  Keith's 
"Splinters".  Keith  still  springs  a 
new  joke  with  a  sly  and  not  always 
repeatable  twist  every  half  second. 
Llewellyn  Jones  of  the  "Post",  Gene- 
vieve Forbes  of  the  "Tribune",  joUy 
all  of  them.  J.  B.  McEvoy  of  Vol- 
land's,  the  Reillys  of  Reilly  and  Lee, 
Quin  A.  Ryan  (short,  round,  and  most 
sociable) — ^they're  jolly  too.  In  fact, 
we  are  inclined  to  think  that  Chicago 
is  the  most  jovial  city  in  the  world, 
and  the  warmest.  But  they  have  ice- 
cooled  air  in  the  moving  pictures. 
The  most  distinguished  of  motion  pic- 
ture critics — ^none  other  than  Carl 
Sandburg — ^took  us  to  see  the  screen 
version  of  Donn  Byrne's  "Foolish  Ma- 
trons". We  humbly  watched  the  pic- 
ture with  one  eye,  and  the  poet  with 
the  other,  as  he  made  careful  notes  on 
just  why  he  liked  or  didn't  like  spots 
in  this  rather  unusual  performance. 
We  liked  Sandburg  even  better  in  his 
native  surroundings — ^we  found  him 
more  fascinating  when  he  stopped  us 
in  mid-street,  his  coat  off  and  flung 
over  one  shoulder,  and  explained  the 
history  of  some  great  dark  building 
which  seemed,  like  Chicago  and  like 
himself,  homely  and  yet  eloquent  of 
what  growth  and  toil  and  progress. 
At  last,  we  met  Ben  Hecht — met  him 
in  his  armchair,  trying  to  persuade  a 
golden-haired  daughter  to  sleep  in 
spite  of  the  heat,  listened  captivated  to 
his  stories  and  his  analysis  of  people 
and  things,  while  the  most  nice  Mrs. 
Hecht  played  Russian  music  on  the 
piano,  which  we  weren't  supposed  to 




hear  but  did — and  enjoyed  hugely. 
Hecht  is  agile,  dark»  slightly  foreign 
in  appearance.  At  times  he  is  almost 
vitriolic  in  his  conversation.  After 
you've  heard  an  hour  of  his  talk, 
dramatized,  vivid,  planned  probably 
and  oh!  so  well  planned,  you  can  have 
little  doubt  as  to  whether  or  not  you 
will  read  his  first  novel,  "Erik  Dom''. 
He's  now  working  on  another,  "Gar- 
goyles", which  is  to  be  filled,  he  tells 
us,  with  the  sort  of  analysis  that  is 
usually  done  with  the  surgeon's  scal- 
pel. We  found  ourselves  dizzy  after 
an  evening  of  this,  but  Gene  Markey, 
rejoicing  that  his  musical  comedy 
written  with  Harrison  Rhodes  is  to 
feature  Charlotte  Greenwood  next  sea- 
son, drove  us  back  to  town.  We  rode 
along  the  drive  (and  were  little  short 
of  arrested  by  a  jovial  policeman  who 
entertained  us,  instead,  with  salacious 
stories)  where  only  the  day  before  we 
had  strolled  with  Harriet  Monroe  while 

she  told  us  of 
the  habits  of  the 
beach  bathers  in 
a  most  entertain- 
ing manner.  We 
had  always  been 
afraid  of  Miss 
Monroe — and  we 
aren't  any  more. 
«m«i.  We  saw  her  play- 
ing mother  to  a 
flock  of  nice  young 
poets  and  we  ap- 
preciate more  than  ever  what  she  has 
done  and  is  trying  to  do  for  American 
poetry.  The  assistant  editor  of 
"Poetry"  is  said  to  be  coming  to  New 
York  City.  It  is  too  good  to  believe, 
even  though  she  told  us  so  herself. 
She  has  sold  several  short  stories  of 
which  she  is  apparently  not  proud,  and 
is  quite  as  charming  as  ever,  though 
she  didn't  favor  us  by  wearing  an 
orange  hat     We  were  disappointed 

Harriet  Monroe 

not  to  meet  Henry 
Kitchell  Webster,  about 
whom  we  have  heard 
so  much  but  whose 
works  we  have  yet  the 
pleasure  to  read.  How- 
ever, we  hear  that  he 
spent  two  weeks  last 
summer  with  the  cir- 
cus, gathering  material,  Jf  «<«*  Preeton 
so  we  know  that  we'd  like  him.  He's  a 
man  after  our  own  heart.  By  the  way, 
we  hear  from  Roscoe  Peacock,  the 
magazine  man,  that  Pat  Valdo,  the 
great  clown,  still  remembers  us.  We 
are  deeply  honored.  Few  men  in  the 
world  do  we  respect  more  than  Valdo, 
the  boomerang  thrower,  the  bookish 
clown.  The  literary  consciousness  and 
pride  of  Chicago  is  an  inspiration.  It 
seems  to  us  that  it  is  by  just  such  a 
worship  of  local  literary  figures  that 
the  best  writing  can  come  from  our 
many  communities  and  centres.  This 
is  the  sort  of  statement  that  H.  L. 
Mencken  would  probably  drop  on  with 
both  feet,  perhaps  rightly  so,  yet  as 
long  as  the  various  communities  don't 
worship  the  torong  heroes,  Mr. 
Mencken,  why  not?  We  had  a  good 
ramble  among  the  Chicago  bookshops 
and  we  want  to  talk  about  them  later 
— of  Mrs.  Hahner  and  Miss  Rice,  of 
Will  Solle,  Mr.  Kroch,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Cooper,  of  Fanny  Butcher  whom 
we  didn't  see,  and  of  Katherine 
Sproehnle  whom  we  did.  However, 
the  Gossip  overreaches  himself,  and 
must  desist. 

Brock  Pemberton  has  just  come 
back  from  London  and  Paris  with 
many  amusing  comments  on  the  the- 
atrical conditions  there.  He  tells  us 
that  he  didn't  buy  any  plays ;  but  he 
collected  a  lot  of  atmosphere.  We 
think  that  Mr.  Pemberton,  who  still 
looks  like  a  good  newspaper  man  even 



though  he  has  become  a  successful 
theatrical  manager,  is  just  about  the 
most  promising  thing  in  our  theatre. 
He  claims  that  he'll  never  produce  a 
play  unless  it  amounts  to  something 
as  a  play» — and  we  hope  that  he'll  live 
up  to  his  resolve.  The  most  interest- 
ing thing  he  saw  while  abroad,  it 
seems,  was  the  oddly  grotesque  and 
fanciful  Chauve-Souris,  a  Russian 
vaiideville-dance-pantomime  combina- 
tion, with  a  sort  of  Russian  Irvin  Cobb 
named  Nikita  Batriff ,  as  the  interlocu- 
tor It  la  Hitchcock  of  the  show.  This 
is  colorful  and  original.  It  is  rumored 
that  Morris  Gest  will  bring  it  to 
America.  Personally,  however,  we 
were  so  interested  to  hear  news  of 
Sidney  Howard's  play  "Swords",  that 
we  didn't  half  take  in  what  Mr.  Pem- 
berton  had  to  say  of  English  plays 
and  the  outlandish  Swedish  ballet. 
"Swords"  is  a  mediseval  melodrama  in 
which  Mr.  Pemberton  is  presenting 
Glare  Eames  shortly.  Bobby  Jones 
has  done  the  scenery.  Sid  Howard  is 
already  well  known  to  Bookman  read- 
ers and  we  are  very  happy,  because 
we've  read  this  play  and  we  can't  wait 
to  see  the  third  act.  It's  great  stuff, 
we  think.  It  outjests  "The  Jest". 
When  we  saw  Mr.  Pemberton  he  was 
filled  with  anecdotes  of  Howard  in 
London,  Howard  in  Venice,  Howard, 
the  carefree  young  globe-trotter;  but, 
where  is  Howard?  His  play  going 
into  rehearsal,  and  no  author!  On  our 
desk  is  a  letter.  The  stamps  are  Span- 
ish. "Having  one  last  fling  in  Ma- 
drid," it  reads.  "But  I'll  be  back 
when  you  get  this!" — only  he  isn't. 
However — ^the  combination  of  Pem- 
berton, Howard,  Clare  Eames,  and  an 
Italian  melodrama  that  shivers  the 
timbers  seems  unbeatable.  We're  will- 
ing to  bet  on  "Swords",  as  much  as 
anyone  can  ever  bet  on  a  play  before 
if  s  put  on,  and  we  wish  Mr.  Howard 

Godspeed  for  his  first  New  York  pro- 
duction, and  Mr.  Pemberton  success 
for  his  second  season  in  the  theatre. 

One  of  the  most  unusual  magazines 
issued  in  America  is  Bernhardt  Wall's 
"Etched  Monthly".  Some  idea  of  its 
sumptuousness  can  be  gathered  from 
the  price  of  one  subscription,  which  is 
fifty  dollars  a  year.  Both  the  subject 
matter  and  the  illustrations  are  etched 
by  Mr.  Wall  on  rich  paper,  with  a 
touch  that  is  delightfully  individual. 
In  the  May  number  we  liked  particu* 
larly  his  portrait  of  Joyce  Kilmer,  his 
picture  of  the  Poe  Cottage,  and  a  most 
engaging  and  informal  bit  of  a  han- 
som cab.  Scarcely  a  page  of  this  mag- 
azine but  tempts  framing,  save  for  the 
fact  that  as  a  whole  it  is  so  distinctive 
and  rare.  It  is  issued  from  James  F. 
Drake's  rare  book  shop. 

It  is  interesting  to  find  in  the  an- 
nouncement of  lectures  at  the  Fabian 
Summer  School,  Godalming,  Surrey, 
England,  that  along  with  J.  D.  Beres- 
f  ord,  Robert  Lynd,  H.  W.  Nevinson,  A. 
Clutton-Brock,  and  Gerald  Gould, 
Mary  Austin  delivered  a  lecture,  on 
August  fourth,  on  "Social  Life  and  the 
Community  Theatre  in  America".  We 
should  have  liked  to  step  into  the  audi- 
torium at  Prior's  Field  to  hear  what 
she  had  to  say,  and  what  the  Fabian 
audience  thought  of  it.  However, 
when  all  America  seems  to  be  running 
to  Europe,  someone  must  stay  at  home. 
Guess  we're  elected. 

If  Sinclair  Lewis  stays  in  Europe 
long  enough,  what  legends  will  not 
grow  up  about  him?  How  quickly  we 
make  and  break  our  heroes  I  We  saw 
Jack  Johnson  in  a  box  at  the  theatre 
the  other  evening,  and  the  crowd 
neither  cheered  him  nor  mobbed  him* 



However,  here's  a  rather  delightful 
letter  from  Marion  Eells;  only  it  re- 
minds us  of  when  we  were  red-headed» 
too,  and  were  called  ''red-head  ginger 
brc»d''  and  chased  home  from  school 
because  a  thoughtless  family  had  pro- 
vided us  with  a  too  elaborate  "dicer". 
Still,  knowing  "Bed''  Lewis  now,  it's  a 
bit  hard  to  believe  that  he  never 
played  baseball  I  "Going  out  from 
Seattle  to  the  coal-sooted  town  of  Is- 
saquah".  Miss  Kells  writes,  "the  con- 
versation of  the  mine  doctor  and  his 
wife,  crowded  next  to  us  in  the  stage, 
was  overheard"    Thus : 

*'Got  a  new  book  today.  Dad, — written  by  a 
man  from  yoor  home  town." 

"What  book's  that?'* 

*"Maln  Street',  by  Sinclair  Lewis.  Bvery- 
body's  talking  about  it" 

''What!  Doc  Lewis's  son  from  Sauk  Centre 
— Doodle  Lewis?" 

"Tes,  do  you  remember  him?" 

"Do  I?  He  was  in  my  class — sat  in  the  next 
seat  from  me." 

"What  sort  of  feUow  was  he?  Would  you 
erer  think  he'd  do  anything  famous?" 

"I  should  say  not — ^red-headed,  lanky  feUow 
— always  slumped  down  in  his  seat — didn't  seem 
to  see  what  was  going  on  about  him.  Every- 
body knew  him,  but  you  couldn't  say  he  had 
any  friends— didn't  seem  to  care  for  any.  Kids 
shouted,  'Here  comes  Doodles !  HeUo,  Doodles  I' 
whenever  he  appeared.  He  never  took  any  in- 
terest in  marbles  or  ball,  or  any  of  the  things 
we  other  fellows  did." 

The  doctor  laughed — "One  funny  thing  about 
him — ^nsed  to  go  around  repeating  parts  of 
Greek  plays  and  old  myths  to  himself,  in  an 
heroic  tone.  Let's  see  that  book.  I  bet  Doo- 
dles put  the  old  town  on  the  map.' 


Lord  Northcliffe  has  been  among  us, 
or  rather  has  flitted  past  us,  delight- 
ing in  travel,  hustling  from  London  to 
the  Pacific  to  study  Japan  and  Aus- 
tralia "at  first  hand",  as  he  puts  it. 
He  left  London  on  July  16  and  by 
August  6  he  was  steaming  out  of  Bur- 
rard  Inlet  on  his  way  to  Honolulu. 
From  the  moment  the  liner  in  which 
he  crossed  the  Atlantic  hove  in  sight 
he  was  besieged  by  interviewers,  in 
true    American    fashion,    and    bom- 

barded with  the  most  inconsequent 
queries  on  topics  ranging  from  Ire- 
land through  women's  dress  to  Zion- 
ism. It  was  natural  for  newspaper 
men  to  pay  much  attention  to  a  prince 
of  their  kind,  and  Lord  Northcliffe  is 
certainly  that.  Moreover,  he  appeared 
to  enjoy  it  all,  as  M.  Perrichon  would 
have  done.  But  there  was  little  time 
for  anything  else  but  interviews,  so 
that  his  passage  resembled  in  state 
somewhat  that  of  the  prince  of  Wales, 
for  example,  without  the  genuine 
glamour.  He  played  golf  at  New 
Rochelle  with  his  New  York  corre- 
spondent; Melville  Stone  gave  a  din- 
ner for  him;  and  for  most  of  one  day 
he  stood  in  a  suite  in  the  Hotel  Gotham 
to  receive,  chiefly,  "young  writers". 
Among  these  proved  to  be  Clinton  Ty- 
ler Brainard,  Joseph  Medill  Patterson, 
James  Watson  Gerard,  William  Waller 
Hawkins,  a  deputation  of  women  from 
the  Columbia  School  of  Journalism, 
and  a  man  desirous  of  parting  with 
150,000  acres  of  timber  for  paper 
pulp.  And  then  he  was  off  to  Toronto 
and  the  west,  via  Washington,  a  small 
hat  perched  as  ever  on  his  large  head 
(without  a  grey  hair  at  fifty-six), 
something  aquiline  in  his  large- 
cheeked  face  and  leonine  in  his  big 
body,  trailing  behind  him  H.  Wickham 
Steed,  editor  of  the  London  "Times", 
who  looked  with  imperial  beard  like 
the  villain  of  an  Oppenheim  romance, 
pleased  to  be  dragged  abruptly  from 
his  desk  to  go  a-globe-trotting,  that 
most  agreeable  if  exhausting  of  study- 

There  was  an  excellent  series  of  lec- 
tures at  Columbia  University  this 
summer  on  the  aspects  of  modem  lit- 
erature. The  novel  was  represented 
by  Zona  Gale,  very  bored  but  with  the 
efficient  air  one  recognizes  in  the  re- 
porter.   Robert  Frost  was  supposed  to 


t  poetry  but  spent  an  hour  in 
his  subject  gracefully  (John 
looking  very   much   like  a 
rum-runner  with  a  rakish  mop 
^-piaster  on  his  chin»  introduced 
.'ost).     Augustus  Thomas  was 
x>  see  that  the  drama  was  not 
ted — ^vexy   august   was   he   in- 
(he  said  he  read  the  reviews  and 
amily  liked  "Liiliom")*     Samuel 
lord  Crothers  came  in  a  new  suit, 
proud  to  be  the  preacher  in  the 
a    church    where    Emerson    held 
;h.    Edwin  Lefevre  spoke  on  the 
rt  story  and  convinced  everybody 
was  a  stock  broker.    John  L.  Lowes 
oke  on  medisevalism,  and  couldn't 
xsape  looking  and  talking  like  Eames 
f  "South  Wind''  fame.    Brander  Mat- 
hews— ^but  you   all  know  him:    he 
ooks  like  what  John  Farrar  will  look 
like  when  John  Farrar  looks  like  what 
Dr.   Matthews   is.     Ellery  Sedgwick 
came  to  tell  us  how  good  *'The  At- 
lantic" is»  and  all  the  girls  thought  he 
was  a  dear.    There  were  many  others, 
but  ye  dear  ed.  says  we've  said  too 
much  already. 

Thomas  A.  Boyd  imparts  the  follow- 
ing news  (delightful  to  all  versifiers) : 
i.e.,  that  St  Paul  is  the  mecca  for 
poets.  It  eats  'em  up,  apparently. 
When  we  visit  St.  Paul,  we  must  turn 
poet,  and  wear  a  flowing  tie  or  two, 
though  Johnny  Weaver  has  recently 
afiirmed  in  his  famous  column  that 
poets  no  longer  look  like  poets  and  are 
simply  human  beings,  and  that  we  per- 
sonally (God  save  the  mark)  look  like 
"an  undergraduate  on  a  lark",  what- 
ever that  may  mean!  However,  it's 
fine  to  hear  from  St.  Paul.  If  it's  all 
true — it  sounds  pretty  good. 

A  few  days  ago  I  was  splashing  around  in 
the  yellowish  water  (the  same  water  that  often 
becomes  deep  bine  in  the  magaiines)  of  one  of 
the  smaU  lakes  that  have  made  Minnesota 
famoas,  when  the  fact  struck  me  that  St.  Paul 

prefof  poets  and  poetry  to  noTeUits  and 
novels.  I  should  feel  guilty  indeed  If  I  kept 
such  a  revolutionary  bit  of  news  from  the  mtrnf 
inteUigeiit  people  who  read  your  exeeUent  m^g- 
aiine.  I  shall  strive  to  prove  my  contentloii  In 
this  manner : 

Laurence  Cunrnn  Hodgson,  our  present  mayor 
(Qod  rist  his  sowl),  was  elected  to  the  high  of- 
fice he  now  occupies  by  virtue  of  the  poetry  he 
has  written.  WhUe  '*I  write  better  poetry  than 
my  opponent"  was  not  one  of  hia  rampalgn 
slogans,  it  might  as  weU  have  been  beeauae  It 
was  through  his  verse  that  he  so  securely  faa- 
tened  himself  in  the  hearts  of  his  eonatitaenta. 

Then  there  is  Bob  Gary,  who  haa  |«at  re- 
turned from  New  York  where  he  baa  been 
marketing  his  poems  in  the  newspapera,  **T1m 
Century",  and  Frank  Harris's  magaalnea.  I 
believe  he  is  better  known  in  St.  Paul  than  Is 
Scott  Fitagerald,  and  yet  Bob  has  never  pub- 
lished a  book  in  his  Ufe. 

When  Carl  Sandburg  was  here  last  winter 
the  Auditorium  was  packed  to  hear  him.  The 
press  liberally  devoted  a  half -column  to  hia  ar- 
rival and  equal  space  to  a  report  of  bia  guitar- 
strumming  and  his  folk  songs.  He  was  enter- 
tained fulsomely  by  '*the  rii^t  people",  who 
thought  his  steel-rimmed  spectacles  and  his 
queer  motoring  cap— though  he  never  motoia— 
"just  the  quaintest  things  imaginable". 

But  W.  L.  George  came  to  St.  Paul  un- 
heralded. After  he  had  stopped  at  The  Hotd 
for  a  few  days  without  anyone  apparently 
knowing  it,  he  departed  for  our  sister  dty,  his 
dignified  exit  being  singularly  free  from  any 
newspaper  oaf*s  questioning.  To  get  even,  ne 
other  reason  Is  discernible,  he  praised  Min* 
neapolis*s  gawky  fiour  bams  as  **remindlng  him 
of  the  mosques  of  Sancta  Sofia". 

Sinclair  Lewis  is  sneered  at  or  spoken  of 
with  bare  tolerance  by  at  least  half  of  St 
Paul's  populace  conversant  with  Uterature. 
though  his  delightful  camaraderie  has  won  him 
many  friends. 

Books  of  poetry  that  keep  the  shelves  In  ov 
public    library    from    looking    lonely,    are   a 
marked  *'two  week"  or  "seven  day  books", 
not  that  overwhelming  enough? 

Witter  Bynner  writes  that  he  is  coming 
St.  Paul  in  the  fall.  I  predict  there  wiU  * 
even  be  standing  room,  so  eager  wiU  St.  F 
be  to  hear  him ! 

"If  Winter  Comes"  is  the  first  r 
that  A.  S.  M.  Hutchinson  has  wr 
since  1914.    Now,  however,  his 
lishers  tell  us,  he  is  already  tu 
out  another  one.   Well,  if  it's  anj 
like  "The  Happy  Warrior",  w 
glad  to  see  it!    Hutchinson  ws 
serving  as  an  ofilcer  in  France 
the  war.  Before  that  his  exp^ 



had  been  varied.  He  was  bom  in  In- 
dia, the  son  of  a  British  general,  was 
a  medical  student,  magazine  editor, 
joomalist,  and  novelist  Apparently, 
now  that  the  war  interval  is  over,  he 
has  settled  down  again  to  the  serious 
business  of  story  writing.  We  shall 
read  the  latest  with  much  interest! 

Bull  Buffalo''.    Think  of  being  called 
anything  so  splendid  by  anyone  I 

The  Nebraska  state  legislature  re- 
cently made  John  6.  Neihardt  state 
poet  laureate.     ''This  western  poet'', 
writes    Elizabeth    Palmer    Milbank, 
^^was  bom  near  Sharpsburg»  Illinois, 
in  1881  and  was  reared  in  Missouri; 
but  he  was  graduated  from  the  Ne- 
braska Normal  School  and  in  1917  he 
bad  conferred  upon  him  the  Litt.D. 
degree    by   the    University    of    Ne- 

Neihardt,  though  the  poet  laureate 
of  Nebraska,  is  at  present  living  in 
ViB  Ozark  Hills  of  Missouri,  getting 
atmosphere  for  a  new  book  of  poems. 
For  seven  years  now  he  has  been  pa- 
tiently and  steadily  working  on  his 
J^erican  Epic  Osrde.    This  is  to  deal 
^wholly  with  aspects  of  our  western 
bistory  during  the  first  four  decades 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  all  the 
scenes  will  be  laid  in  the  region  be- 
tween the  Missouri  River  and  the 
Bocky    Mountains.      Neihardt    once 
went  the  length  of  the  Mississippi 
Biver  in  an  open  boat,  and  many  of 
the  experiences  of  this  trip  are  pic- 
tured in  his  poetry.    It  will  take  this 
western  poet  more  than  a  decade  to 
complete   his   task.     But   there   are 
many  compensations  for  what  seems  to 
a  very  minor  bard,  an  almost  heroic 
dedication  to  the  muse.    One  of  them 
is  that  the  Omaha  Indians,   among 
whom  Neihardt  has  lived  for  years  in 
order  that  he  might  learn  their  lan- 
guage and  customs,  have  given  him 
the  affectionate  name  of  'The  Little 

This  summer,  the 
fashion  in  writer's 
workshops  seems  to  be 
garages.  We  under- 
stand that  William 
Rose  Ben^t  is  putting 
the  finishing  touches 
on  his  novel  in  a  gal- 
vanized iron  heat-box 
at  Scarsdale.     This  is 

because    he's    so    pop^-^W^f^  Roae  Benit 

lar  with  his  three  delightful  chil- 
dren, whenever  he  is  seen  about  the 
house.  A  nice  domestic  novelist. 
Then,  just  before  he  left  town,  Ray- 
mond Weaver  told  us  that  he  was  go- 
ing to  spend  the  summer  in  a  garage 
— or  was  it  a  bungalow? — or  is  there 
much  difference,  anyway? — ^working 
on  the  last  chapters  of  his  biography 
of  Herman  Melville.  We  found  Mr. 
Weaver  in  his  room  at  Columbia  Uni- 
versity, surrounded  by  cards  and  card 
catalogues,  busily  writing.  He  told  us 
that  all  his  days  had  become  just 
stretches  of  pen-wielding,  broken  only 
by  the  meal  hour.  The  biography 
should  be  a  delightful  one,  for  it  not 
only  offers  great  possibilities  for  en- 
tertainment in  the  thrilling  adven- 
tures of  the  wild  author  of  "Moby 
Dick"  but  it  gives  a  chance  for  a  study 
of  a  remarkably  rich  and  unusual  per- 
sonality. Weaver  tells  us  that  he  has 
been  poring  over  a  considerable  body 
of  material,  access  to  which  has  been 
granted  by  the  Melville  family:  let- 
ters, journals,  legal  documents,  a  bulk 
of  unpublished  manuscripts.  Of  this 
last,  there  is  a  sea  novel,  finished  in 
1891,  the  year  Melville  died,  a  dozen 
sketches  and  sea  stories,  and  two  vol- 
umes of  poetry.  It  should  be  a  curi- 
ous and  fascinating  addition  to  the 
growing  literature  of  the  South  Seas. 



"The  Greenwich  Villager"  is  a  new 
weekly  newspaper  issued  from  Frank 
Shay's  Bookshop.  It's  a  vivid  little 
sheet — ^at  least  the  first  three  numbers 
have  been  so.  We  called  on  the  sandy- 
haired  friend  of  Masefleld  and  McFee 
last  night,  to  find  him,  as  usual,  ex- 
cited over  the  works  of  Edna  St.  Vin- 
cent Millay.  He  is  to  publish  a  book 
a  month  this  year — ^at  least  a  book  a 
month !  And  his  window  displays  con- 
tinue to  be  original  and  entertaining. 

We're  not  sure  that  we  always  agree 
with  the  editorial  expositions  of 
Frank's  paper ;  but  there's  a  lot  to  be 
said  for  Greenwich  Village  as  a  place 
of  residence,  in  spite  of  Paul  Elmer 
More  and  bobbed  hair.  Here's  part  of 
a  comment  Frank  published  in  his 
first  number  defending  the  environs 
of  Fourth  Street  against  a  bitter 

It  !■  tme  that  Greenwich  VUlage  Is  an  anom- 
aly. To  the  pseudo-artist  it  is  a  Sargassan 
Sea,  a  cess-pool  of  lost  effort  and  alluring  bnt 
unkept  promises.  To  the  sincere  student  of 
art  or  literature  it  is  America's  greatest  prov- 
ing ground,  a  place  where  Ideas  can  be  dis- 
cussed and,  if  worth  while,  elaborated,  and,  if 
not  worth  while,  jettisoned. 

Let  us  get  to  the  root  of  the  lure  of  the  VU- 
lage. In  aU  this  great  United  States  it  is  the 
only  place  a  person  can  sport  a  stocking  with 
a  hole  in  the  heel,  and  an  idea.  Elsewhere 
both  are  taboo. 

The  home  town  of  Eddie  Guest, 
Henry  Aikman,  Harold  Waldo  and 
others,  is  more  than  the  centre  of  the 
automobile  industry.  True,  it  cannot 
yet  be  called  a  literary  centre;  but 
Kenneth  Laub  of  the  Detroit  *'News" 
has  one  of  the  best  newspaper  book 
sections  in  the  country,  and  Mary 
Humphrey  a  very  lively  sheet  in  her 
Sunday  Magazine  of  the  'Tree  Press". 
Delightful  oflSces  they  both  have,  with 
interesting  people  in  them.  Some  of 
them  more  than  interesting,  in  fact. 
Such  splendid  homes  as  Detroit  news- 
papers have:    mural  panels,  art  de- 

partments fashioned  after  the  manner 
of  ancient  print  shops  in  Antwerp, 
and,  will  you  believe  it,  the  "News"  is 
so  extremely  gorgeous  and  proper  in 
what  is  said  to  be  the  finest  newspaper 
building  in  the  country,  that  the  file 
room  known  by  honest  newspaper  men 
as  ''The  Morgue"  has  the  new  name 
of  "Scraparium"  I  However,  the  con- 
viviality of  the  force  itself  more  than 
makes  up  for  the  formality  of  the 
housing.  Eddie  Guest  is  even  jollier 
and  more  human  than  his  very  homely 
and  fireside-like  verse.  He  is  short, 
gay,  and  bubbling  over  with  cordiality. 
He  took  me  down  to  meet  the  Reverend 
William  L.  Stidger  in  a  Ford  limousine 
that  Mr.  Ford  gave  him,  and  radiated 
energy  and  enthusiasm  every  inch  of 
the  way.  It  would  be  worth  being  a 
"popular"  poet  and  selling  a  quarter 
of  a  million  copies  (thereby  being 
sure  that,  like  Martin  F.  Tupper,  you 
will  not  go  down  to  posterity),  to  be 
so  genuine  and  honest  and  happy  an 
individual  as  Eddie  Guest.  We  like 
the  Detroit  Boat  Club — ^but  we  can't 
tell  stories  of  parties  given  for  our- 
selves. However,  we  understand  that 
the  nice  newspaper  people  of  Detroit 
(and  they  certainly  are  nice),  having 
met  each  other  for  the  first  time  the 
other  evening  at  a  certain  dinner,  are 
now  going  to  form  a  press  club.  If 
they  do,  we'll  consider  that  there's 
some  reason  for  our  living  even  in 
this  impossible  hot  weather.  In  De- 
troit, too,  was  Jessie  Bonstel  with  her 
stock  company.  We  saw  a  perform- 
ance of  "Adam  and  Eva",  with  our 
own  dramatic  collaborator  in  the  cast, 
and  the  thoroughly  charming  Sylvia 
Field  as  Eva.  Why  doesn't  Miss  Bon- 
stel try  a  stock  company  in  New  York 
City?  She  always  has  wanted  to  do 
so,  she  tells  us,  and  she  thinks  it  would 
pay.  Why  doesn't  someone  find  her  a 
theatre?    Everyone  tells  us  that  stock 



in  New  York  is  impossible.  Why? 
When  Detroit,  Buffalo,  Indianapolis 
jam  their  respective  stock  theatres  in 
the  warmest  weather,  why  can't  we 
have  stock  on  Broadway?  Well,  we 
expect  an  inflooding  of  manuscripts 
from  Detroit  and  if  we  don't  get  them 
well  be  seriously  disappointed.  Oh 
yes  I  We  like  the  Institute  of  Fine 
Arts  in  Detroit,  too— its  French  paint- 
ings particularly,  and  its  cordial  and 
youthful  curator,  Mr.  Poland.  De- 
troit book  stores? — ^well,  more  later; 
but,  here's  many  maxif  tiianks  to  that 
exceedingly  gay  lady,  Mary  Humphrey. 
Also,  in  passing,  Detroit  is  justly 
proud  of  "Zell"  and  looking  for  more 
things  from  Henry  Aikman.  While 
the  town  of  Birmingham  claims  Har- 
old Waldo  with  a  display  window  of 
""Stash"  and  a  blurb  about  the  home- 
town author. 

Hazel  Hall  of  Portland,  Oregon,  au- 
thor of  "Curtains",  a  book  of  poems, 
is  a  shut-in.  But  from  her  wheelchair 
she  probably  has  a  wider  outlook  on 
life  than  many  a  person  who  is  able  to 
get  about  During  the  past  two  or 
three  years  her  poems  have  appeared 
in  "The  Century",  "Harper's",  "The 
Dial",  "The  Nation",  "Poet  Lore", 
"The  Yale  Review",  and  other  maga- 
zines. And  the  first  number  of  "The 
Measure"  contained  a  contribution 
from  her.  William  Stanley  Braith- 
waite  selected  three  of  Miss  Hall's 
poems  for  his  anthology  of  magazine 
verse  for  1920.  We  quote  "Blossom 
Time",  which  gives  a  good  idea  of  the 
beauty  of  conception  and  the  light  and 
airy  quality  of  her  verse : 

So  long  as  there  li  AprO 

My  beart  U  high 
Lifting  up  its  white  dreamt 

To  the  sky. 

At  trees  hold  up  their  bloMomi 

In  a  blowing  cloud 
My  hands  are  reaching 

My  hands  are  proud. 

AU  the  crumbled  splendors 
Of  autumn  and  the  cries 

Of  winds  that  I  remember 
Cannot  make  me  wise. 

Like  the  trees  of  AprO 

Fearless  and  fair 
My  heart  swings  Its  censors 

Through  the  golden  air. 

Wtuhhum  Child 

Richard  Washburn 
Child  bears  the  title. 
Honorable,  and  is  even 
now  in  Italy  where  he 
is  the  new  American 
Ambassador.  We  have 
seldom  seen  (or  felt)  a 
warmer  evening  than 
that  which  John  O'Hara 
Cosgrave  provided  for 
the  dinner  given  by 
writers  and  editors  to 
Mr.  Child  a  few  nights 
before  he  sailed.  However,  the  re- 
freshments were  excellent,  and  Mr. 
Child  urbane,  pleased,  and  apparently 
looking  forward  with  zest  to  undertak- 
ing the  charming  of  Italy.  We  saw 
Harvey  O'Higgins  for  the  first  time 
and  admired  him  for  his  courage  in 
wearing  a  palm  beach  suit,  or  was  it 
black  and  white  checked?  He  is  a  gay 
person,  with  a  nice  laugh.  Edgar  Sis- 
son  of  "McClure's  Magazine"  talked 
about  Child  as  a  fiction  writer ;  Mar- 
tin Egan  of  J.  P.  Morgan  and  Com- 
pany described  him  as  a  traveler; 
Porter  Emerson  Browne  (who  is,  by 
the  way,  a  jovial  rotund  person  who 
might  easily  step  into  the  bandit  part 
in  his  own  "Bad  Man")  told  of  Child 
as  a  would-be  playwright  and  colla- 
borator; C.  J.  Rosebault  told  of  his 
work  during  the  war;  Arthur  Ben- 
ington  talked  of  the  Italy  Mr.  Child 
should  expect  to  see;  and  Heywood 
Broun  sketched  him  as  editor  of  "Col- 
lier's". Everyone,  with  the  exception 
of  Mr.  Broun,  was  extremely  dignified, 
and  no  one  stuck  to  the  subject.    Mr. 


Broun,  in  spite  of  the  heat,  was,  as 
usual,  clever.  It  was  a  warm  banquet, 
but  a  good  one,  and  it  closed  fittingly 
with  a  telegram  from  the  President 

Answers  for  our  literaty  questions 
must  be  submitted  by  September  twen- 
tieth. State  whether  or  not  it  was 
necessaty  to  look  up  the  answer.  The 
best  three  replies  will  receive  a  book 
prize.  (Any  book  in  "The  Editor 
Recommends".)  The  questions  were 
submitted  by  Marion  M.  Swan  of  Up- 
per Montclair,  New  Jersey,  and  Miss 
Swan  also  wins  tfae  only  prize  that  we 
can  with  any  justice  award  for  the 
contest  in  the  July  number.  Appar- 
ently the  questions  were  most  ab- 
struse. We  apologize.  After  this 
we^  make  'em  easier. 

1.  Wlut  Sngllah  dlTloe  had  tbree  ilxigbteis 
dittlasulibed  In  UteratnreT 

2.  Wbat  Ii  tbe  torn  of  ■  modern  American 
muterplece  centring  abont  tbe  ramanee  of  two 
famona  SncUab  blatorlcal  etaatactera,  and  wbo 
are  tbeae  cbaraeteraT 

S.  What  now  famona  bit  of  writing  called 
forth  b7  tbe  Span  lab-American  war  wonld  be  s 
bracer  for  •  boy  falllDK  throngh  lack  of  re- 
•onrcefnlneaa  to  aeeompllah  a  glren  mlaalonT 

4.  In  what  tweattetb  centurj  blograpby  hag 
A  nineteenth  wntnrr  spotheoala  antfered  a  col- 

B.  From  whom  came  tbe  famana  bon  mot, 
"Wbat  baa  pnaterltr  done  for  na  tbat  we  abonld 
conaidei   poaterltr",    and    under  wbat    dranm- 

In  tbe  roUow- 

6.  8nppl7  the  mtaelng 
Ing  llat  of  great  lov«r«  ; 

and  Mra.  Danlop 

Abelard  and 

and  Madam  Ilanaka 

Nclaon  and 

ud  Ladr  Uarjr  Honlagn 

BottlcelU  and 

and  KMhcT  Johnion 

Cbopln  and , 

t.  Place  the  following :  Mra.  Proodle ;  Mlaa 
Hatt7:  LII7  Bart;  Clem  8n>ber,  "the  friend 
ot  bamanltj"  ;  Coanteaa  Omff-a-nnlf ;  "BmllT" 
— a  bml:  Hr.  Saltecna;  NelUe  mj;  Mr. 
Puff :  Clara  Hlddleton ;  Prince  Hlorcatan ; 
"The  Uldge". 

Here  are  the  answers  to  the  ques- 
tions in  the  August  number! 

1.  Winiani  Blake  wrote  Irrlca  on  tbe  tiger 
and  the  lamb, -Ttgerl  Tiger  I  burning  bright" , 
■nd  "Little  I.amb,  wbo  made  tbMT'. 

"Ore«t  S 

8.  Hannab  More  wrote  "The  Baa  Blaa". 
Some  ot  tbe  members  of  Mra.  Montafn'a  dzde 
were  Lord  Littleton,  Bnrke.  Oarrick,  Sir 
Joabna  Bernolda,   Bannab  More,  and   TaiiDy 

4.  Conan  Dojle'a  Sberlock  Bolmea  waa  tha 
famona  detective  atorr  bero  wbo  waa  anppoaad 
to  bare  ended  bla  career  by  being  thrown  tram 
a  cliff.    He  bobbed  np  again,  aerenelr,  bowvnr. 

B.  Richard  Adam  Locke'a  "Hoon  Hoax"  and 
Edgar  Allan  Poe'a  "Balloon  Hoax"  ware  twn 
famona  American  newapapei  boazea.  Potfu 
name  waa  really  connected  wltb  both ;  for  ha 
at  tirat  believed  tbat  Locke  bad  atoleu  tbe  Idea 
tor  the  Hoon  etory  from  tbe  poet's  own  "Hana 
PfaaU",  tbe  drat  Inatalment  of  whlcb  had  al- 
ready appeared  In  "The  Soatbem  Literary  Km- 
aenger"  when  Locke'a  yeralon  atarted  In  tlut 
New  York  "San", 

fl.  Tbe  qaotatlan  on  the  art  ot  rt.nrfnj  ia 
from  "The  Spectator"  of  Angnat  2S,  1713,  and 
waa  written  by  Etcbard  Steele. 

Among  the  June  magazines  the 
poems  which  we  found  seemed  to  be 
mostly  by  well-known  persons:  "A 
Letter",  Robert  Hillyer  (Harper's), 
"Twenty-Four  Hokku  on  a  Modem 
Theme",  Amy  Lowell  (Poetry),  "The 
Figurehead",  Conrad  Aiken  (Cen- 
tury), "Looking  East  at  Sunrise", 
Amy  Murray  (Measure),  "The  Four 
Kings",  Karle  Wilson  Baker  (Contem- 
porary Verse),  "Child  Dancers",  Loafs 
Untermeyer  (New  Republic),  "Tba 
Fugitive",  William  Rose  Ben6t  (New 

The  name  of  Edgar  Saltus  is  asso- 
ciated in  our  mind  with  a  series  of  let- 
ters in  8  picturesque  hand,  written 
t«rs  in  a  picturesque  hand,  couched  in 
the  courtly  manner  of  a  bygone  day. 
"The  writer  has  the  honor  to  be  your 
obedient  servant,"  —  such  phrasee 
transported  us  back  in  imagination  a 
hundredyears.  Yet  Mr.  Saltus's  deatti, 
on  July  81,  took  place  little  more  than 
a  month  after  his  sixty-third  birthday. 
His  last  book,  "The  Imperial  Orgy", 
was  published  during  the  fall  of  1^. 




New  Nooel  by  the  author  of  "Atme  of  Green  GtMu 




f      Of  the  many  popular  novels  to  appear  this  Fall,  this  new  "Anne"  book  (the  ro- 

;niance  of  "Anne  of  Green  Gables' "  daughter)  is  the  one  for  young  girls  of  fif- 
teen to  twenty.  Their  elders  will  welcome  it,  too— it  is  a  thoroughly  wholesome, 
"nice"  (without  being  namby-pamby)  book  in  which  people  of  Si  ages  will  find 
real  satisfaction.     Never  published  serially,  it  is  especially  suitable  for  gift 

making.  $2.00 

Another  novel,  which  in  its  rare  understanding  of  women's  true  selves  clarifies  for 
other  women  their  own  experiences,  is 



Life  is  something  more  than  falling  in  love  with  its  attendant  complications.  Friendships, 
ambitions,  work — all  subtly  influencing  character  and  events — have  to  be  taken  into  ac- 
count. The  heroine  of  this  novel  (whose  joyous  personality  draws  to  her  men  and  women 
alike)  has  a  tender,  satisfying  romance,  but  her  life  is  full  to  overflow  with  more  than 
that  $1,90 



The  dauffhter  of  the  famous  historian  and 
critic,  John  Addington  Symonds,  writes 
this  fascinating  romance  of  the  Alps  and 
of  Italy,  She  pictures  skillfully  the  in- 
tense power  of  environment  over  certain 
natures,  centering  the  interest  in  a  beauti- 
ful and  beauty-loving  heroine.  SI,90 

By  W.  L.  GEOROB 



A  notable  novel  from  the  French,  winner 
of  the  Grand  Prtx  du  Roman  for  29^. 
Simply,  eloquently,  we  are  given  a  reve- 
lation of  married  experience  by  a  young 
wife  who  tremblingly  awaits  her  hus- 
band's confession  that  he  has  killed  a 
man  and  yet  fears  still  more  to  learn  that 
he  lacked  the  courage  for  the  deed.    SI. 90 


"I  will  not  cut  up  and  pickle  London .The  secret  of  a  city's  explorations  does  not 

lie  in  a  dutiful  following  of  itineraries,  but  rather  in  a  lover-like  submission  to  its 

moods "  says  the  popular  novelist  in  his  Prelude  to  these  brilliant,  satirical  sketches 

of  London  places  and  London  people.  Not  a  book,  you  see,  for  those  who  haunt  Lon- 
don's museums,  Baedeker  in  hand,  but  rather  for  careless  wandering  through  London's 
less  formal  haunts.  %4M} 


In  Nature  and  In  Art 

Lovers  of  art  generally,  but  particularly  students  and  collectors  of  Oriental  Art,  will 
covet  this  scholarly,  careful  work.  Its  author  has  made  the  study  of  local  canine  races 
his  hobby  during  fifteen  years'  residence  in  the  Far  East  and  his  findings  are  of  incal- 
culable importance  to  art  lovers.  Eight  color  plates  and  abundant  illustrations  in  half*- 
tone  combine  with  the  text  to  make  a  beautiful  volume.  $12,30 

By  V.  W.  F.  COLLIER 



If  you  share  a  true  Southerner's  love  for  his  home  land,  these  tales  will  give  you  utter 
satisfaction.  They  are  stories  you  might  hear  over  the  glowing  embers  of  a  camp  fire; 
adventures  of  the  game  trails  of  the  South  Carolina  pinelands  and  the  Santee  delta 
swamps;    delightfully  human  stories  of  leisurely,  hospitable  Southern  life. 

Illustrated,  $2,so 

THE  FALL  OF  FEUDALISM  IN  FRANCE      By  sydney  herbbrt 

Research  has  proved  that  the  French  Revolution — usually  considered  purely  from  a  politi- 
cal standpoint — also  effected  a  great  economic  change.  This  book  deals  with  the  pleasant 
risings,  which  finally  produced  a  complete  agrarian  reconstruction.  Any  one  at  all  inter- 
ested in  economics,  especially  students  wanting  a  supplement  to  college  texts,  will  find 
the  volume  of  great  value.  t2.^s 

^4B  Fourth  Avo.     FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


Plemae  mention  Tea  Bookman  in  wrlttnc  to  advertlMn. 

OCTOBER,  1921 




By  Henry  Seidel  Canby 

Editor,  The  Literary  Review 

I  HAVE  known  thousands  of  review- 
ers and  liked  most  of  them,  except 
when  they  sneered  at  my  friends  or  at 
me.  Their  prof  ession,  in  which  I  have 
taken  a  humble  share,  has  always 
seemed  to  me  a  useful,  and  sometimes 
a  noble  one;  and  their  contribution  to 
the  civilizing:  of  reading:  man,  much 
greater  than  the  credit  they  are  given 
for  it.  We  divide  them  invidiously 
into  hack  reviewers  and  critics,  for- 
getting that  a  hack  is  just  a  reviewer 
overworked,  and  a  critic  a  reviewer 
with  leisure  to  perform  real  criticism. 
A  good  hack  is  more  useful  than  a 
poor  critic,  and  both  belong  to  the 
same  profession  as  surely  as  William 
Shakespeare  and  the  author  of  a 
Broadway  "show**. 

The  trouble  is  that  the  business  of 
reviewing  has  not  been  suflSciently  rec- 
ognized as  a  profession.  Trades  gain 
in  power  and  recognition  in  propor- 
tion as  their  members  sink  individual- 
ity in  the  mass  and  form  a  union 
which  stands  as  one  man  against  the 
world.      Professions    are    different 

They  rise  by  decentralization,  and  by 
specializing  within  the  group.  They 
gain  distinction  not  only  by  the 
achievements  of  their  individual  mem- 
bers but  by  a  curious  splitting  into 
sub-t3rpes  of  the  species.  Law  and 
medicine  are  admirable  examples. 
Every  time  they  develop  a  new  kind  of 
specialist  they  gain  in  prestige  and 

A  reviewer,  however  (unless  he 
publishes  a  collected  edition  and  be- 
comes a  critic),  has  so  far  remained 
in  the  eyes  of  the  public  just  a  re- 
viewer. In  fiction  we  have  been  told 
(by  the  reviewers)  of  romancers  and 
realists,  sociologists  and  ethicists, 
naturalists  and  symbolists,  objectivists 
and  psychologists.  Are  there  no  ad- 
jectives, no  brevet  titles  of  literary 
distinction  for  the  men  and  women 
who  have  made  it  possible  to  talk  in- 
telligently about  modem  fiction  with- 
out reading  it? 

My  experience  with  reviewers  has 
led  me  to  classify  them  by  tempera- 
ment rather  than  by  the  theories  they 




possess;  and  this  is  not  so  unscientific 
as  it  sounds,  for  theories  usually 
spring  from  temperaments.  No  man 
whose  eliminatory  processes  function 
perfectly  ever  is  a  pessimist,  except 
under  the  compulsion  of  hard  facts. 
No  sluggish  liver  ever  believes  that 
joy  of  living  is  the  prime  quality  to  be 
sought  in  literary  art.  And  by  the 
same  eternal  principle,  moody  tem- 
peraments embrace  one  theory  of  crit- 
icism; cold,  logical  minds  another.  I 
identify  my  classes  of  reviewers  by 
their  habits,  not  their  dogmas. 

But  in  order  to  clear  the  ground  let 
me  make  first  a  larger  distinction,  into 
mythical  reviewers,  bad  but  useful  re- 
viewers, bad  and  not  useful  reviewers, 
and  good  reviewers.  Like  the  nine- 
teenth century  preacher  I  will  dispose 
of  the  false,  dwell  upon  the  wicked, 
and  end  (briefly)  with  that  heaven  of 
literary  criticism  where  all  the  au- 
thors are  happy  and  all  the  reviewers 

The  reviewer  I  know  best  never,  I 
profoundly  believe,  has  existed,  and  I 
fear  never  will  exist.  He  is  the  fa- 
miliar figure  of  English  novels — ^mod- 
erately young,  a  bachelor,  with  a  just 
insufilcient  income  in  stocks.  Oxford 
or  Cambridge  is  his  background,  and 
his  future  is  the  death  of  a  rich  aunt 
or  a  handsome  marriage.  In  the 
meantime,  there  is  always  a  pile  of 
books  waiting  in  his  chambers  to  be 
reviewed  at  "a  guinea  a  page",  when 
he  has  leisure,  which  is  apparently 
only  once  or  twice  a  week.  The  urban 
pastoral  thus  presented  is  one  which 
Americans  may  well  be  envious  of — 
otium  cum  dignitate.  But  I  have 
never  encountered  this  reviewer  in 
London.  I  fear  he  exists  only  for  the 
novelists,  who  created  him  in  order  to 
have  a  literary  person  with  enough 
time  on  his  hands  to  pursue  the  ad- 
ventures required  by  the  plot.    Yet  in 

so  far  as  he  is  intended  as  a  portrait 
of  a  critic,  he  stands  as  an  ideal  of  the 
leisured  view  of  books.  There  has 
been  no  leisured  view  of  books  in 
America  since  Thoreau,  or  Washing- 
ton Irving.  Even  Poe  was  feverish. 
Our  books  are  read  on  the  subway,  or 
after  the  theatre,  and  so  I  fear  it  is  in 
London — in  London  as  it  is. 

Coldly,  palpably  real  is  the  next 
critic  of  my  acquaintance,  the  aca- 
demic reviewer.  He  does  not  write 
for  the  newspapers,  for  he  despises 
them,  and  they  are  rather  scornful  of 
his  style,  which  is  usually  lumbering, 
and  his  idea  that  1921  is  the  proper 
time  in  which  to  review  the  books  of 
1920.  But  you  will  find  him  in  the 
weeklies,  and  rampant  in  the  technical 

The  academic  reviewer  is  besotted 
by  facts,  or  their  absence.  The  most 
precious  part  of  the  review  to  him  is 
the  last  paragraph  in  which  he  points 
out  misspellings,  bad  punctuation,  and 
inaccuracies  generally.  Like  a  hound 
dog  in  a  com  field,  he  never  sees  his 
books  as  a  whole,  but  snouts  and  bur- 
rows along  the  trail  he  is  following. 
If  he  knows  the  psychology  of  primi- 
tive man,  primitive  psychology  he  will 
find  and  criticize,  even  in  a  book  on 
the  making  of  gardens.  If  his  spe- 
cialty is  French  drama,  French  drama 
he  will  find,  even  in  a  footnote,  and 
root  it  out  and  nuzzle  it.  I  remember 
when  a  famous  scholar  devoted  the 
whole  of  his  review  of  a  two  volume 
magnum  opus  upon  a  great  historical 
period,  to  the  criticism  of  the  text  of 
a  Latin  hymn  cited  in  a  footnote! 
The  academic  reviewer  (by  which  I  do 
not  mean  the  university  reviewer, 
since  many  such  are  not  academic  in 
the  bad  sense  which  I  am  giving  to 
the  word)  demands  an  index.  His  re- 
views usually  end  with,  "There  is  no 
index'',  or,  "There  is  an  excellent  in- 




dex".  The  reason  is  plain.  The  index 
is  his  sole  guide  to  reviewing.  If  he 
finds  his  pet  topics  there  he  can  hunt 
them  down  remorselessly.  But  if 
there  is  no  index,  he  is  cast  adrift 
helpless,  knowing  neither  where  to 
begin  nor  where  to  end  his  review.  I 
call  him  a  bad  reviewer,  but  useful, 
because,  though  incapable  of  estimat- 
ing philosophies  or  creations  of  the 
imagination,  he  is  our  best  guarantee 
that  writers'  facts  are  facts. 

My  acquaintance  with  the  next  bad, 
but  occasionally  useful,  reviewer  is 
less  extensive,  but,  by  the  circum- 
stances of  the  case,  more  intimate.  I 
shall  call  him  the  ego-frisky  reviewer. 
The  term  (which  I  am  quite  aware  is 
a  barbarous  compound)  I  am  led  to  in- 
vent in  order  to  describe  the  phenome- 
non of  a  critic  whose  ego  frisks 
merrily  over  the  corpus  of  his  book. 
He  is  not  so  modern  a  product  as  he 
himself  believes.  The  vituperative 
critics  of  the  Quarterlies  and,  earlier 
still,  of  Grub  Street,  used  their  ene- 
mies' books  as  a  means  of  indulging 
their  needs  for  self-expression.  But 
it  was  wrath,  jealousy,  vindictiveness, 
or  political  enmity  which  they  dis- 
charged while  seated  on  the  body  of 
the  foe;  whereas  the  ego-friskish 
critic  has  no  such  bile  in  him. 

He  is  in  fact  a  product  of  the  new 
advertising  psychology,  which  says, 
"Be  human''  (by  which  is  meant  "be 
personal")  **first  of  all."  He  regards 
his  book  (I  know  this,  because  he  has 
often  told  me  so)  as  a  text  merely,  for 
a  discourse  which  must  entertain  the 
reader.  And  his  idea  of  entertain- 
ment is  to  write  about  himself,  his 
tastes,  his  moods,  his  reactions. 
Either  he  praises  the  book  for  what  it 
does  to  his  ego,  or  damns  it  for  what 
it  did  to  his  ego.  You  will  never  catch 
him  between  these  extremes,  for  mod- 
eration is  not  his  vice. 

The  ego-frisky  reviewer  is  not  what 
the  biologist  would  call  a  pure  form. 
He  (or  she)  is  usually  a  yellow  jour- 
nalist, adopting  criticism  as  a  kind  of 
protective  coloration.  The  highly  per- 
sonal critic,  adventuring,  or  even  frol- 
icking among  masterpieces,  and  re- 
cording his  experiences,  is  the  true 
type,  and  it  is  he  that  the  ego-friskish 
imitate.  Such  a  critic  in  the  jovial 
person  of  Mr.  Chesterton,  or  Professor 
Phelps,  or  Heywood  Broun,  contrib- 
utes much  to  the  vividness  of  our 
sense  for  books.  But  their  imitators, 
although  they  sometimes  enliven,  more 
often  devastate  reviewing. 

Alas,  I  am  best  acquainted  among 
them  all  with  the  dull  reviewer,  who 
is  neither  good  nor  useful.  The  excel- 
lent books  he  has  poisoned  as  though 
by  opiates!  The  dull  books  he  has 
made  duller!  No  one  has  cause  to 
love  him  unless  it  be  the  authors  of 
weak  books,  who  thank  their  dull 
critics  for  exposing  them  in  reviews 
so  tedious  that  no  one  discovers  what 
the  criticism  is  about. 

The  dull  reviewer  has  two  varieties: 
the  stupid  and  the  merely  dull.  It  is 
the  stupid  reviewer  who  exasperates 
beyond  patience  the  lover  of  good 
books.  He  is  the  man  who  gets  a  book 
wrong  from  the  start,  and  then  plods 
on  after  his  own  conception,  which  has 
no  reference  whatsoever  to  the  au- 
thor's. He  is  the  man  who  takes  irony 
seriously,  misses  the  symbolism  when 
there  is  any,  and  invariably  guesses 
wrong  as  to  the  sources  of  the  charac- 
ters and  the  plot. 

There  are  not  many  really  stupid  re- 
viewers, for  the  most  indolent  editor 
cleans  house  occasionally,  and  the 
stupid  are  the  first  to  go  out  the  back 
door.  But  merely  dull  reviewers  are 
as  plentiful  as  fountain  pens.  The 
dull  reviewer,  like  Chaucer's  drunken 
man,  knows  where  he  wants  to  go  but 



doesn't  know  how  to  get  there.    He 
(or  she)  has  three  favorite  paths  that 


lead  nowhere,  all  equally  devious. 

The  first  is  by  interminable  narra- 
tive. "When  Hilda  was  blown  into  the 
arms  of  Harold  Garth  at  the  windy 
comer  of  the  Woolworth  building, 
neither  guessed  at  what  was  to  follow. 
Beginning  with  this  amusing  situa- 
tion, the  author  of  The  Yellow  Moon' 
develops  a  very  interesting  plot. 
Garth  was  the  nephew  of  Miles  Har- 
rison, Mayor  of  New  York.  After 
graduating  from  Williams,  etc.  etc. 
etc.''  This  is  what  he  calls  sununariz- 
ing  the  plot. 

Unfortunately,  the  art  of  summary 
is  seldom  mastered,  and  a  bad  sum- 
mary is  the  dullest  thing  in  the  world. 
Yet  even  a  bad  summary  of  a  novel  or 
a  book  of  essays  is  hard  to  do;  so  that 
when  the  dull  reviewer  has  finished, 
his  sweaty  brow  and  numbed  fingers 
persuade  him  that  he  has  written  a  re- 
view. There  is  time  for  just  a  word 
of  quasi-criticism:  'This  book  would 
have  been  better  if  it  had  been  shorter, 
and  the  plot  is  not  always  logical. 
Nevertheless,  The  Yellow  Moon'  holds 
interest  throughout."  And  then,  finis. 
This  is  botchery  and  sometimes  butch- 
ery, not  reviewing. 

The  dullest  reviewers  I  have  known, 
however,  have  been  the  long-winded 
ones.  A  book  is  talk  about  life,  and 
therefore  talk  about  a  book  is  one  re- 
move more  from  the  reality  of  ex- 
perience. Talk  about  talk  must  be 
good  talk,  and  it  must  be  sparing  of 
words.  A  concise  style  is  nearly  al- 
ways an  interesting  style:  even 
though  it  repel  by  crudity  it  will  never 
be  dull.  But  conciseness  is  not  the 
quality  I  most  often  detect  in  review- 
ing. It  is  luxurious  to  be  concise 
when  one  is  writing  at  space  rates; 
and  it  is  always  harder  to  say  a  thing 
.briefly  than  at  length,  just  as  it  is 

easier  for  a  woman  to  hit  a  nail  at  the 
third  stroke  than  at  the  first. 

I  once  proposed  a  competition  in  a 
college  class  in  English  composition. 
Each  student  was  to  clip  a  colunm 
newspaper  article  of  comment  (not 
facts)  and  condense  it  to  the  limit  of 
safety.  Then  editorials  gave  up  their 
gaseous  matter  in  clouds,  chatty  news 
stories  boiled  away  to  paragraphs,  and 
articles  shrank  up  to  their  headlines. 

But  the  reviews  suffered  most.  One, 
I  remember,  came  down  to  "It  is  a  bad 
book",  or  to  express  it  algebraically, 
(It  is  a  bad  book)^.  Another  disap- 
peared entirely.  On  strict  analysis  it 
was  discovered  that  the  reviewer  had 
said  nothing  not  canceled  out  by  some- 
thing else.  But  most  remained  as  a 
weak  liquor  of  comment  upon  which 
floated  a  hard  cake  of  undigested  nar- 
rative. One  student  found  a  bit  of 
closely  reasoned  criticism  that  argued 
from  definite  evidences  to  a  concrete 
conclusion.  It  was  irreducible;  but 
this  was  a  unique  experience. 

The  long-winded  are  the  dullest  of 
dull  reviewers,  but  the  most  pernicious 
are  the  wielders  of  cliches  and  plati- 
tudes. Is  there  somewhere  a  review- 
er's manual,  like  the  manual  of  correct 
social  phrases  which  someone  has  re- 
cently published?  I  would  believe  it 
from  the  evidence  of  a  hundred  re- 
views in  which  the  same  phrases,  dif- 
ferently arranged,  are  applied  to  fifty 
different  books.  I  would  believe  it, 
except  for  the  known  capacity  of  man 
to  borrow  most  of  his  thoughts  and  all 
of  his  phrases  from  his  neighbor.  I 
know  too  well  that  writers  may  oper- 
ate like  the  Federal  Reserve  banks,  ex- 
cept that  in  literature  there  is  no  limit 
to  inflation.  A  thousand  thousand 
may  use  "a  novel  of  daring  adven- 
ture", "a  poem  full  of  grace  and 
beauty",  or  "shows  the  reaction  of  a 



thoughtful  mind  to  the  facts  of  the 
universe'',  without  exhausting  the  sup- 
ply. It  is  like  the  manufacture  of 
paper  money,  and  the  effect  on  credit 
is  precisely  the  same. 

So  much  for  the  various  types  of 
reviewers  who,  however  interesting 
they  may  be  critically,  cannot  be  called 
good.  The  good  reviewers,  let  an  un- 
charitable world  say  what  it  will,  are, 
thank  heaven !  more  numerous.  Their 
divisions,  temperamental  and  intel- 
lectual, present  a  curious  picture  of 
the  difficulties  and  the  rewards  of  this 
profession.  Yet  I  cannot  enter  upon 
them  here,  and  for  good  reasons. 

The  good  reviewer  is  like  the  good 

teacher  and  the  good  preacher.  He  is 
not  rare,  but  he  is  precious.  He  has 
qualities  that  almost  escape  analysis 
and  therefore  deserve  more  than  a 
complimentary  discussion.  He  must 
hold  his  book  like  a  crystal  ball  in 
which  he  sees  not  only  its  proper  es- 
sence in  perfect  clarity,  but  also  his 
own  mind  mirrored.  He  must — . . . 
In  other  words,  the  good  reviewer  de- 
serves an  essay  of  his  own.  He  is  a 
genius  in  a  minor  art,  which  some- 
times becomes  major;  a  craftsman 
whose  skill  is  often  exceptional.  I  will 
not  put  him  in  the  same  apartment 
with  reviewers  who  are  arid,  egoistic, 
or  dull. 


By  Aline  Kilmer 

WHY  don't  you  go  back  to  the  sea,  my  dear? 
I  am  not  one  who  would  hold  you ; 
The  sea  is  the  woman  you  really  love, 

So  let  hers  be  the  arms  that  fold  you. 
Your  bright  blue  eyes  are  a  sailor's  eyes. 
Your  hungry  heart  is  a  sailor's,  too. 
And  I  know  each  port  that  you  pass  through 
Will  give  one  lass  both  bonny  and  wise 
Who  has  learned  light  love  from  a  sailor's  eyes. 

If  you  ever  go  back  to  the  sea,  my  dear, 

I  shall  miss  you — ^yes,  can  you  doubt  it? 
But  women  have  lived  through  worse  than  that 

So  why  should  we  worry  about  it? 
Take  your  restless  heart  to  the  restless  sea — 

Your  light,  light  love  to  a  lighter  lass 

Who  will  smile  when  you  come  and  smile  when  you  pass. 
Here  you  can  only  trouble  me. 
Oh,  I  think  you  had  better  go  back  to  sea! 

By  Donald  Ogden  Stewart 

With  Sketches  by  Herb  Roth 

In  the  Bedtime  Story  Manner  of  Thornton  W.  Burgess 

JUST  the  day  for  a  Whisky  Rebel- 
lion," said  Aunt  Polly  and  off  she 
ran,  lipperty-Iipperfy-lip,  to  get  a  few 
shooting  riSes. 

"Oh  goody  goody,"  cried  little 
Emily.  "Now  we  can  all  shoot  at 
those  horrid  Revenue  Officers."  For 
the  collectors  of  internal  revenue  were 
far  from  popular  with  these  kindly 
Pennsylvania  folk.  And  Aunt  Polly 
Pinkwood  had  often  promised  the  chil- 

dren that  if  they  were  good  some  day 
they  would  be  allowed  to  take  a  shot  at 
a  Rev^ue  Officer. 

Soon  she  returned,  bearing  in  her 
arms  a  number  of  bright  shiny  new 
guns.  The  children  crowded  around 
in  glee  and  soon  all  were  supplied  with 
weapons  except  little  Frank  who  of 
course  was  too  young  to  use  a  gun  and 
was  given  a  two  gallon  jug  of  nice,  old 
whisky  to  cany.  Jed  hitched  up  old 
Taylor,  the  faithful 
farm  horse,  and  as 
quick  as  you  could 
say  Jack  Robinson 
the  little  ones  had 
piled  into  the  old 
carryall.  Round 
Mr.  Sun  was  just 
peeping  over  the 
Purple  Hills  when 
the  merry  little 
party  started  on  its 
way,  singing  and  laughing  at  the  pros- 
pect of  the  day's  sport. 

"I  bet  I  kill  five  Revenue  Officers," 
said  little  Edgar. 

"Ha  Ha  Ha — ^yoo  boaster,  yon," 
laughed  Aunt  Polly.  "You  will  be 
lucky  if  you  kill  two,  for  I  fear  they 
will  be  hard  to  find  today." 


"'Aaiv'  wml  llttt«  Slim'*  pun" 

"Oh  do  you  think  so.  Aunt  Polly?" 
said  little  Elinor  and  she  beean  to  cry, 
for  Elinor  dearly  loved  to  shoot. 

"Hash  dear,"  said  Miss  Pinkwood 
with  a  kindly  pat,  for  ahe  loved  her 
.  little  charges  and  it  hurt  her  to  see 
them  unhappy.  "I  was  only  joking. 
And  now  chUdren  I  will  tell  you  a 

"Oh  goody  goody,"  cried  they  all. 
"^ell  U8  a  true  story." 

"All  right,"  said  Aunt  Polly.  "I 
shall  ten  you  a  true  story,"  and  she 

"Once  there  was  a  brave  handsome 
man — " 

"We.  Welsbach,"  cried  the  children 
with  one  voice,  for  it  waa  well  known 
in  the  neighborhood  that  Aunt  Polly 
had  long  been  sweet  on  Julius  Wels- 
bach,  the  popular  superintendent  of 
the  Sabbatti  School  and  the  best 
whisky  maker  for  miles  around. 

"Hash  children,"  said  Aunt  Polly 
blnshing  in  vexation.  "Of  course  not. 
And  if  you  in&rropt  me  I  shall  not 
tell  my  story  at  all."  But  she  was  not 
really  angry. 

"And  one  day  this  brave  handsome 
man  was  out  making  whisky  and  he 
had  jnst  sampled  some  when  he  looked 

up  and  what  do  you  suppose  he  saw?" 

"Snakes,"  cried  little  Elmer  whose 
father  had  often  had  delirium  tremens, 
greatly  to  the  delight  of  his  children. 

"No,  Elmer,"  said  Hiss  Pinkwood, 
"not  snakes." 

"Pink  lizards,"  cried  little  Esther, 
Elmer's  sister. 

"No,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  with  a  hearty 
laugh,  "he  saw  a — stranger.  And 
what  do  you  suppose  the  stranger 

"A  snoot  full,"  chorused  the  Schultz 
twins.    "He  was  pie-eyed." 

"No,"  replied  Mias  Pinkwood  laugh- 
ing merrily.  "It  was  before  noon. 
Guess  again  children.  What  did  the 
stranger  have?" 

"Blind  staggers,"  suggested  little 
Faith  whose  mother  had  recently  been 
adjudged  insane. 

"Come  children,"  replied  Aunt  Polly. 
"You  are  not  very  wide  awake  this 
morning.  The  stranger  had  a  gun. 
And  when  the  brave  handsome  man 
offered  the  stranger  a  drink  what  do 
you  suppose  the  stranger  said?" 

"I  know,"  cried  little  Prudence 
eagerly.  "He  said,  "Why  yes  I  don't 
care  if  I  do.'    That's  what  they  all 




'No,  Prudence/'  replied  Miss  Pink- 
wood.  "The  stranger  refused  a 

"Oh  come  now,  Aunt  Polly,"  cho- 
rused the  boys  and  girls.  "You  said 
you  were  going  to  tell  us  a  true  story." 
And  their  little  faces  fell. 

"Children,"  said  Miss  PoUy,  "the 
stranger  refused  the  drink  because  he 
was  a  Revenue  Officer.  And  he  pointed 
his  gun  at  the  brave  handsome  man 
and  said  he  would  have  to  go  to  jail 
because  he  had  not  paid  the  tax  on  his 
whisky.  And  the  brave  handsome 
man  would  have  had  to  have  gone  to 
jail,  too;  but  fortunately  his  brother 
came  up  just  at  the  right  time  and — " 

"Shot  the  Revenuer  dead,"  cried  the 
children  in  glee. 

"Yes  children,"  said  Miss  Polly. 
"He  shot  the  Revenue  Officer  dead." 

"Oh  goody  goody,"  cried  all.  "Now 
tell  us  another  story.  Tell  us  about 
the  time  your  father  killed  a  Revenue 
Officer  with  an  ax." 

"Oh  you  don't  want  to  hear  that 
again,  do  you  children?"  said  Aunt 

"Oh  yes — ^yes — ^please,"  they  cried, 
and  Aunt  Polly  was  just  going  to 
begin  when  Jed  the  driver  stopped  his 
horses  and  said : 

"This  hilltop  is  as  good  a  place  to 
shoot  from  as  I  know  of.  Miss  Pink- 
wood.  You  can  see  both  roads,  and 
nobody  can  see  you." 

•Thank  you,  Jed,"  said  Aunt  Polly 
giving  him  a  kindly  smile,  and  with- 
out more  ado  the  children  clambered 
out  of  the  carryall  and  filled  their  guns 
with  powder  and  bullets. 

"I  get  first  shot,"  proudly  announced 
Robert,  the  oldest  boy,  and  somewhat 
of  a  bully. 

"Robert !"  said  Aunt  Polly  severely, 
and  she  looked  almost  ready  to  cry, 
for  Aunt  Polly  had  tried  hard  to  teach 
the  boys  to  be  true  knights  of  chivalry 

and  it  hurt  her  to  have  Robert  wish  to 
shoot  a  Revenue  Officer  before  the 
girls  had  had  a  chance.  Robert  had 
not  meant  to  hurt  Aunt  Polly's  feel- 
ings but  had  only  been  thoughtless, 
and  soon  all  was  sunshine  again  as  lit- 
tle Ellen  the  youngest  made  ready  to 
fire  the  first  shot. 

The  children  waited  patiently  and 
soon  they  were  rewarded  by  the  sight 
of  a  Revenue  Officer  riding  on  horse- 
back in  the  distant  valley,  as  pretty  a 
target  as  one  could  wish. 

"Now  do  be  careful,  dear,"  whis- 
pered Miss  Pinkwood,  "for  if  you 
miss,  he  may  take  alarm  and  be  off." 
But  little  Ellen  did  not  miss.  "Bang" 
went  her  gun  and  the  little  merry 
Breezes  echoed  back  and  forth,  "She 
got  hinu  She  got  him",  and  old 
Mother  West  Wind  smiled  down  at  the 
happy  sport  Sure  enough,  when  old 
Mr.  Smoke  had  cleared  away  there  was 
a  nice  dead  Revenue  Officer  lying  in 
the  road.  "Well  done,  Ellen,"  said 
Miss  Pinkwood,  patting  her  little 
charge  affectionately  which  caused  the 
happy  girl  to  fairly  coo  with  childish 

Mary  had  next  shot  and  soon  all 
were  popping  away  in  great  glee.  All 
the  merry  wood  folk  gathered  near  to 
watch  the  children  at  their  sport. 
There  was  Johnny  Chuck  and  Reddy 
Fox  and  Jimmy  Skunk  and  Bobby 
Coon  and  oh  everybody. 

Soon  round  Mr.  Sun  was  high  in  the 
Blue  Sky  and  the  children  began  to 
tire  somewhat  of  their  sport.  "I'm  as 
hungry  as  a  bear,"  said  little  Dick. 
"I'm  as  hungry  as  two  bears,"  said 
Emily.  "Ha  Ha  Ha,"  laughed  Miss 
Pinkwood.  "I  know  what  will  fix 
that",  and  soon  she  had  spread  out  a 
delicious  repast. 

"Now  children,"  said  Miss  Pink- 
wood when  all  had  washed  their  faces 
and   hands,   "while   you   were   busy 


washing;  I  prepared  a  aurprise  for 
yoa",  and  from  a  large  jug,  before 
tbeir  ddighted  gaze,  she  poured  out — 

"No  dear,"  said  Miss  Pinkwood, 
pleased  by  the  compliment,  but  firm 
withal.    "Not  now.    Perhaps  on  the 

"iiMt  Petty  hod  preparei  dcUolos* 

what  do  you  think?  "Bronzes,"  cried 
little  Harriet.  "Oh  ffoody  goody." 
And  sure  enough  Aunt  Polly  had  pre- 
pared a  jug  of  delicious  Bronx  cock- 
tails which  all  pronounced  excellent. 

And  after  that  there  were  sand- 
wiches and  olives  and  pie  and  good 
three  year  old  whisky,  too. 

"That's  awfully  smootti  rye,  Aunt 
Polly,"  said  little  Pmdence  smacking 
her  two  red  lips.  "I  think  I'll  have 
another  shot" 

way  home,  if  there  is  any  left",  for 
Aunt  Polly  knew  that  too  much  alcohol 
in  the  middle  of  the  day  is  bad  for 
growing  children,  and  ^e  had  seen 
many  a  promising  child  spoiled  by 
over-indulgent  parents. 

After  lunch  those  children  who 
could  stand  helped  Aunt  Polly  to  clear 
away  the  dishes  and  then  all  went 
sound  asleep,  as  is  the  custom  in  Penn- 

When  they  awoke  round  Mr.  Sun 



was  just  sinking  behind  the  Purple 
Hills  and  so,  after  taking  a  few  more 
scattered  shots  at  Revenue  Officers, 
they  piled  once  more  into  the  carryall 
and  drove  back  to  town.  And  as  they 
passed  Mrs.  Oliphant's  house  (Aunt 
Polly's  sister)  Auntie  Flo  Oliphant 
came  out  on  the  porch  and  waved  her 
handkerchief  at  the  merry  party. 
'Lefs  give  her  a  cheer/'  said  Fred. 



'Agreed/'  cried  they  all,  and  so 
twelve  little  throats  united  in  three 
lusty  ^liuzzahs"  which  made  Auntie 
Flo  very  happy  you  may  be  sure. 

And  as  they  drove  up  before  the 
Pinkwood's  modest  home  twelve  tired 
but  happy  children  with  one  accord 
voted  the  Whisky  Rebellion  capital  fun 
and  Aunt  Polly  a  brick. 


By  Zona  Gale 


IN  June  the  road  to  Kilboum  is  a  long  green  hall, 
A  corridor  of  leafage,  pillared  white 
By  birches  and  with  wild-rose  patterns  on  the  wall 
^d  all  melodious  with  the  fluid  fall 
Or  lift  of  red-winged  blackbirds  fluting  mating  cries. 
The  very  air 

Is  visible,  not  by  the  light, 
Not  by  the  shades  that  drift 
And  dip,  but  by  an  essence  rhythmic  with  the  flood 
That  flows 

Not  in  the  sap,  not  in  the  blood. 
But  otherwhere. 
And  of  that  essence  grows 
All  men  see  in  the  air  of  Paradise. 

He  lay  upon  a  little  upland  slope 

Deep,  deep  with  grass. 

And  when  I  saw  his  head  above  the  green 

Where  I  must  pass. 

The  battered  hat,  tiie  squinting  eyes 

Blinking  the  westering  sun,  I  felt  a  sting  of  fear — 

Alas,  that  in  June's  delicate  demesne 


A  watching  human  face  can  teach  one  fear. 

So  then  I  spoke  to  him,  gave  him  good  day, 

And  seeing  his  gun  said  what  I  always  say 

Meeting  a  huntsman:  Friend,  I  hope 

You  have  killed  nothing  here. 

He  stared  and  grinned.    And  with  his  grin 

I  felt  his  trustiness.    So,  when 

He  scrambled  down  the  bank  and  followed  me, 

\  waited  for  him  as  my  kind  and  kin. 

He  was  a  thing  of  seventeen.    And  men 

Compounded  in  his  blood  had  set  him  here 

Wizened  and  humpbacked.    But  his  little  face 

Held  something  of  the  one  he  was  to  be 

In  some  eternity. 

He  talked  as  freely  as  a  child.    He'd  shot,  he  said. 

At  a  young  woodchuck.    Now  his  gun  was  broke. 

I  spoke 

About  a  little  kerchief  made  of  lace 

Lost  on  the  road  that  day.    He  turned  his  head — 

Did  it  have  money  in  it.  Lady? — ^with  quick  grace 

Caught  from  some  knightlier  place. 

And  when  I  asked  him  what  he  read 
He  tried  to  rise  to  all  my  speech  awoke : 
A  person  give  me  a  book  a  while  ago. 

0  I  donno 

The  name — ^the  cover's  off.    I  got,  I  guess, 
Six  pages  done.    Time  the  stock's  fed 

1  get  so  sleepy  I  jump  into  bed. 

. .  .And  with  this  for  defense  a  rueful  laugh. 

I  named  the  town,  not  two  miles  distant.    No, 

He  hardly  ever  went  there.    Motion  picture  show? 

His  eyes  lit.    Several  times  he'd  been. 

War  pictures  was  the  best.    He  liked  to  kill? 

He  hung  his  head:  No,  but  I  never  will 

Shoot  pups  or  kittens  when  they  want  me  to. 

War's  different    ...School?    He'd  seen 

Four  years  of  that — ^well,  four  years,  more  or  less. 

Dad  needed  hinn-dad  had  so  much  to  do. 

So  then  I  faced  him  and  his  need  to  live. 

I  put  it  plain :  But  you? 

What  do  you  want  to  do? 

His  answer  lay  within  him  ready-made. 

He  met  my  eyes  with  all  he  had  to  give : 

I'd  like,  he  said,  to  learn  the  artist  trade. 


Questioned,  he  told  me  bit  by  little  bit. 

He'd  had  a  horse  that  died — ^he'd  painted  her. 

He'd  painted  Tige,  the  dog.    The  pigeon  house. 

The  fence  that  crossed  the  slough.    The  willow  tree. 

Would  he  let  me  see? 

Oh  well — ^they  wasn't  much.    He  couldn't  stir 

The  paint  right  and  he  didn't  have  enough. 

All  that  he'd  done  was  rough. 

I  tried  to  spell  his  dream,  to  see  if  his  face  lit 

At  flame  of  it. 

He  only  said :  Mebbe  I  couldn't  learn. 

And  his  eyes  did  not  burn. 

(Perhaps,  I  thought,  there's  nothing  here  at  all.) 

Dad's  going  to  have  me  paint  the  house,  he  said. 

I  questioned  where  he  led. 

Yellow  and  brown,  he  answered.    And  my  fancy's  fall 

He  must  have  fathomed  in  my  face,  for  a  slow  red 

Mounted  and  swept  his  cheek.    His  eyes  sought  mine. 

His  look  was  piteous  with  a  kind  of  light: 

I  don't  like  that.    They  picked  it  out,  he  said.    I  wanted  white. 

. .  .And  all  his  tone  was  shame. 

The  craftsman  wounded  in  his  craftsman's  right 

In  ways  he  could  not  name. 

He  took  the  crossroad.    Where  I  saw  him  go 

Wild  feverfew  made  narrow  paths  of  snow 

Through  the  flat  fields  of  dying  afternoon. 

Bravely  in  tune 

With  every  little  part  as  with  some  whole 

A  redwing  answered  to  an  oriole 

And  met  a  catbird's  call. 

The  sun  I    The  sun  I    The  road  to  Kilbourn  like  a  long  green  hall ! 

The  very  air  a  spirit  like  our  own 

So  nearly  shown 

That  one  could  almost  see. 

The  veil  so  thin  that  presence  was  outrayed. 

But  all  the  great  blue  day  came  facing  me. 

And  crying  from  the  vault  and  from  the  sod: 


I'd  like,  he  said,  to  learn  the  artist  trade. 

By  Padraic  Colum 

With  a  Sketch  by  William  Saphier 

ONE  of  the  characteristics  of  Irish 
poetry  according  to  Thomas  Mac- 
Donagh  is  a  certain  naivete.  "An 
Irish  poet/'  he  wrote,  "if  he  be  indi- 
vidual, if  he  be  original,  if  he  be  na- 
tional, speaks,  almost  stammers,  in  one 
of  the  two  fresh  languages  of  this 
country ;  in  Irish  (modem  Irish,  new- 
ly schooled  by  Europe),  or  in  Anglo- 
Irish,  English  as  we  speak  it  in  Ire- 
land  Such  an  Irish  poet  can  still 

express  himself  in  the  simplest  terms 
of  life  and  of  the  conmion  furniture 
of  life.'" 

Thomas  MacDonagh  is  speaking 
here  of  the  poetry  that  is  being  writ- 
ten today;  of  the  poetry  that  comes 
out  of  a  community  still  mainly  agri- 
cultural, close  to  the  soil,  and  with  but 
few  possessions.  And  yet  with  this 
naivete  there  must  go  a  great  deal  of 
subtility.  "Like  the  Japanese,"  said 
Kuno  Meyer,  "the  Celts  were  always 
quick  to  take  an  artistic  hint;  they 
avoid  the  obvious  and  the  common- 
place; the  half  said  thing  to  them  is 
dearest."*  This  is  said  of  the  poetry 
written  in  Ireland  many  hundred  years 
ago,  but  the  subtility  that  the  critic 
credits  the  Celts  with  is  still  a  racial 

Irish  poetry  begins  with  a  dedica- 
tion— ^a  dedication  of  the  race  to  the 
land.  The  myth  of  the  invasion  tells 
that  the  first  act  of  the  invaders  was 

^Literatiire  tn  Ireland.  Frederick  A.  Stokes 

'Qel^ctUmM  from  Ancient  Iriih  Poetry.  B.  P. 
Dattoo  and  Co. 

the  invoking  of  the  land  of  Ireland — 
its  hills,  its  rivers,  its  forests,  its  cat- 
aracts. Amergin,  the  first  poet,  pro- 
nounced the  dedication  from  one  of 
their  ships,  thereby  dedicating  the 
Milesian  race  to  the  mysterious  land. 
Many  poems  since  Amergin's  time  are 
dedications— dedications  of  the  poet  to 
the  land,  of  the  race  to  the  land. 

When  the  Milesian  Celts  drew  in 
their  ships  they  found,  peopling  the 
island,  not  a  folk  to  be  destroyed  or 
mingled  with,  but  a  remote  and  ever- 
living  race,  the  Tuatha  De  Danaan. 
Between  the  Milesians  and  the  Tuatha 
De  Danaan  a  truce  was  made  with  a 
partitioning  of  the  country.  To  the 
Milesians  went  the  upper  surfaces  and 
the  accessible  places,  and  to  the  De 
Danaan  went  the  subterranean  and  the 
inaccessible  places  of  the  country. 
Thus,  in  Ireland,  the  Golden  Race  did 
not  go  down  before  the  men  of  the 
Iron  Race.  They  stayed  to  give 
glimpses  of  more  lovely  countries, 
more  beautiful  lovers,  more  passionate 
and  adventurous  lives  to  princes  and 
peasants  for  more  than  a  thousand 
years.  And  so  an  enchantment  stayed 
in  the  furthest  of  European  lands — an 
enchantment  that  gleams  through  the 
poems  and  stories  of  the  ancient  lit- 
erature, and  that  has  filtered  into 
European  literature  through  the  lays 
of  Marie  de  France ;  through  the  most 
memorable  incidents  in  the  Tristan 
and  Iseult  story;  through  the  mar- 
velous legend  of  the  Grail,  the  germ 




of  which  came  to  French  and  German 
story-tellers  from  Ireland. 


Anglo-Irish  literature  begins,  as  an 
English  critic  has  observed,  with  Gold- 
smith and  Sheridan  humming  some 
urban  song  as  they  stroll  down  an 
English  laneway.  That  is,  it  begins 
chronologically  that  way.  At  the  time 
when  Goldsmith  and  Sheridan  might 
be  supposed  to  be  strolling  down  Eng- 
lish laneways,  Ireland,  for  all  but  a 
fraction  of  the  people,  was  an  Irish- 
speaking  country  with  a  poetry  that 
had  had  many  centuries  of  cultivation. 
Afterward  English  speech  began  to 
make  its  way  through  the  country,  and 
an  English-speaking  audience  became 
important  for  Ireland.  At  the  end  of 
the  eighteenth  century  came  Thomas 
Moore,  a  singer  who  Imew  little  of  the 
depth  and  intensity  of  the  Gaelic  con- 
sciousness, but  who,  through  a  fortu- 
nate association,  was  able  to  get  into 
his  songs  a  racial  distinctiveness. 

He  was  bom  in  Dublin,  the  English- 
speaking  capital,  at  a  time  whep  the 
Irish-speaking  south  of  Ireland  had 
still  bards  with  academic  training  and 
tradition — the  poets  of  Munster  who 
were  to  write  the  last  chapter  of  the 
unbroken  literary  history  of  Ireland. 
From  the  poets  with  the  tradition, 
from  the  scholars  bred  in  the  native 
schools,  Moore  was  not  able  to  receive 
anything.  But  from  those  who  con- 
served another  part  of  the  racial  heri- 
tage, from  the  musicians,  he  was  able 
to  receive  a  good  deal. 

At  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury the  harpers  who  had  been  wan- 
dering through  the  country,  playing 
the  beautiful  traditional  music,  had 
been  gathered  together  in  Belfast 
The  music  that  they  were  the  custo- 
dians of  had  been  noted  down  and 
published  by  Bunting.     With  Bunt- 

ing's collection  before  them  the  Irish 
who  had  been  educated  in  English 
ways  and  English  thought  were  made 
to  realize  that  they  had  a  national 
heritage.  Thomas  Moore,  a  born  song 
writer,  began  to  write  English  words 
to  this  music.  Again  and  again  the 
distinctive  rhythms  of  the  music 
forced  a  distinctive  rhythm  upon  his 
verse.  Through  using  the  mold  of  the 
music,  Moore,  without  being  conscious 
of  what  he  was  doing,  reproduced 
again  and  again  the  rhythms  and 
sometimes  the  structure  of  Gaelic 
verse.  When  Edgar  Allan  Poe  read 
the  lyric  of  Moore's  that  begins,  "At 
the  mid  hour  of  night",  he  perceived 
a  distinctive  metrical  achievement. 
The  poem  was  written  to  an  ancient 
Irish  air,  and  its  rhsrthm,  like  the 
rhythm  of  the  song  that  begins, 
'Through  grief  and  through  danger", 
wavering  and  unemphatic,  is  distinc- 
tively Irish.  Moore  not  only  repro- 
duced the  rhythm  of  Gaelic  poetry,  but 
sometimes  he  reproduced  even  its  met- 
rical structure: 

BUent,  O  Moyle,  be  the  roar  of  thj  water, 
Break  not,  ye  breexes,  your  chain  of  repose, 
While    murmuring    mournfully,     Lir't    lonely 

Tells  to  the  night  star  her  tale  of  woes. 

Back  in  1760  MacPherson's  "Frag- 
ments of  Ancient  Poetry  Collected  in 
the  Highlands  of  Scotland"  was  pub- 
lished. That  medley,  unreadable  by 
us  today,  affected  the  literatures  of 
England,  France,  Germany,  and  Italy. 
In  the  British  Islands  eager  search 
was  made  for  the  Gaelic  originals. 
There  were  no  originals.  MacPher- 
son's  compositions  which  he  attributed 
to  the  Gaelic  bard  Ossian  were  in 
every  sense  of  the  word  original.  And 
yet,  as  the  historian  of  Scottish  Gaelic 
literature.  Dr.  Magnus  MacLean,  has 
said,  the  arrival  of  James  MacPherson 
marked  a  great  moment  in  the  history 



William  Butlbr  Ybatb 

of  all  Celtic  literatures.  "It  would 
seem  as  if  he  sounded  the  trumpet^ 
and  the  graves  of  ancient  manuscripts 
were  opened,  the  books  were  read,  and 
the  dead  were  judged  out  of  the  things 
that  were  written  in  thenu"  Those 
who  knew  anjrthing  of  Gaelic  literary 
tradition  could  not  fail  to  respond  to 
the  universal  curiosity  aroused  by  the 
publication  of  MacPherson's  composi- 
tions. In  Ireland  this  led  to  the  reve- 
lation of  a  fragment  of  the  ancient 
poetry  and  romance.  And  now  names 
out  of  the  heroic  cycles  begin  to  come 
into  Anglo-Irish  poetry.  "The  words 
of  this  song  were  suggested  by  a  very 
ancient  Irish  story  called  'Deirdri,  or 
the  lamentable  fate  of  the  Sons  of 
Usneach'  which  has  been  translated 

BJcetched  by  William  Baphier 

literally  from  the  Gaelic  by  Mr. 
OTlanagan,  and  upon  which  it  ap- 
pears that  the  'Darthula'  of  MacPher- 
son  is  founded/'  Thomas  Moore  writes 
in  a  note  to  the  song  "Avenging  and 
bright  fell  the  swift  sword  of  Erin". 
Slowly  fragments  of  this  ancient  lit- 
erature were  revealed  and  were  taken 
as  material  for  the  new  Irish  poetry." 
After   Moore  there   came   another 

*The  Osflian  of  MacPherson  (in  Ireland  Oisin, 
pronounced  Usheen)  was  supposed  to  be  the 
poet  who  had  celebrated  the  lives  and  actions 
of  the  heroic  companionship  known  as  the 
Fianna.  The  Irish  term  for  this  class  of  poetry 
is  *'Fianaidheacht".  At  the  time  when  *'08Sian'* 
was   appealing   to   Goethe   and    Napoleon,    the 

Seat  mass  of  the  poetry  that  was  the  canon  of 
acPherson's  apocrypha  was  lying  unnoted  in 
the  University  of  Louvaln,  brought  over  there 
by  Irish  students  and  scholars.  Recently  this 
poetry  has  been  published  by  the  Irish  Texts 
Society  (Dunaire  Finn,  the  Booli  of  the  Poems 
of  Finn,  Bdited  and  translated  by  Boin  Mac- 



poet  who  reached  a  distinctive  metri- 
cal achievement  through  his  study  of 
the  music  that  Bunting  had  published. 
This  poet  was  Samuel  Ferguson.  He 
took  the  trouble  to  learn  Irish,  and 
when  he  translated  the  words  of  Irish 
folk  songs  to  the  music  that  they  were 
sung  to,  he  created,  in  half  a  dozen  in- 
stances, poems  that  have  a  racial  dis- 
tinctiveness. Ferguson  had  what 
Moore  had  not — ^the  ability  to  convey 
the  Gaelic  spirit.  Take  his  ''Cashel  of 
Munster*' : 

I'd  wed  you  without  herds,  without  money  or 

rich  array. 
And  I'd  wed  you  on  a  dewy  mom  at  day-dawn 

My  bitter  woe  it  is,  love,  that  we  are  not  far 

In  Cashel  town,  though  the  bare  deal  board 

were  our  marriage  bed  this  day. 

Here  is  the  wavering  rhythm,  the 
unemphatic  word-arrangement,  that  is 
characteristic  of  Irish  song.  Callinan, 
too,  gets  the  same  effects  in  his  trans- 
lation of  "The  Outlaw  of  Loch  Lene" : 

O  many's  the  day  I  made  good  ale  in  the  glen. 
That  came  not  from  stream  nor  from  malt  like 

the  brewing  of  men ; 
My  bed  was  the  ground,  my  roof  the  green 

wood  above. 
And  aU  the  wealth  that  I  sought,  one  fair,  kind 

glance  from  my  love. 

Ferguson's  translation  of  "Gean 
Dubh  Dills''  (Dear  Dark  Head)  makes 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  Irish  love 
songs;  it  is  a  poem  that  carries  into 
English  the  Gaelic  music  and  the 
Gaelic  feeling;  the  translation,  more- 
over, is  more  of  a  poem  than  is  the 

Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  was  the  first 
Irish  poet  to  attempt  a  retelling  of  any 
of  the  ancient  sagas.  He  aimed  at 
doing  for  "The  Tain  Bo  Cuiligne",  the 
Irish  epic  cycle,  what  Tennyson  at  the 
time  was  doing  for  the  Arthurian 
cycle,  presenting  it,  not  as  a  continu- 
ous narrative,  but  as  a  series  of  poetic 
studies.  The  figures  of  the  heroic 
cycle,  however,  were  too  primitive,  too 

elemental,  too  full  of  their  own  sort  of 
humor  for  Ferguson  to  take  them  on 
their  own  terms.  He  made  them  con- 
form to  Victorian  rectitudes.  And  yet 
it  has  to  be  said  that  he  blazed  a  trail 
in  the  trackless  region  of  Celtic  ro- 
mance; the  prelude  to  his  studies, 
*The  Tain  Quest",  written  in  a  heady 
ballad  metre,  is  quite  a  stirring  poem, 
and  his  "Conairy"  manages  to  convey 
a  sense  of  vast  and  mysterious  action. 
It  was  to  Ferguson  that  W.  B.  Yeats 
turned  when  he  began  his  deliberate 
task  of  creating  a  national  literature 
for  Ireland. 

With  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  there  is 
associated  a  poet  whom  he  long  out- 
lived, James  Clarence  Mangan.  Man- 
gan  was  a  great  rhapsodist  if  not  a 
great  poet.  He  was  an  original  metri- 
cal artist,  and  it  is  possible  that  Edgar 
Allan  Poe  learned  some  metrical  de- 
vices from  him.*  The  themes  that  this 
poet  seized  on  were  not  from  Irish  ro- 
mance, but  were  from  the  history  of 
the  Irish  overthrow.  And  what  moved 
him  to  his  greatest  expression  were 
the  themes  that  had  a  terrible  desola- 
tion or  an  unbounded  exultation — 
Brian's  palace  overthrown  and  his 
dynasty  cut  off;  the  princes  of  the 
line  of  Conn  dying  unnoted  in  their 
exile;  the  heroic  chief  of  the  Clann 
Maguire  fleeing  unfriended  through 
the  storm;  or  else  Dark  Rosaleen  with 
her  'Tioly,  delicate  white  hands"  to 
whom  all  is  offered  in  a  rapture  of 
dedication.  Mangan  incarnated  in 
Anglo-Irish  poetry  the  bardic  spirit  of 
the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, and  the  sigh  that  Egan  O'Rahilly 
breathed  "A  mo  Thir,  A  mo  Ghradh" 
(0  my  Land,  0  my  love),  is  breathed 
through  all  his  memorable  poetry.  He 
had  the  privilege  of  creating  the  most 

*Mangan  published  in  the  Dublin  Uniyersity 
Magasine,  a  publication  which  Poe  could  have 
seen  in  various  places.  Compare  Mangan's  use 
of  repetitions  and  internal  rhymes  with  Poe*s. 



lovely  of  all  the  feminine  representa- 
tions of  Ireland,  and  in  "Dark  Rosa- 
leen"  he  has  made  the  gresite&t,  be- 
cause the  most  spiritual,  patriotic 
poem  in  the  world's  literature.  One 
has  to  describe  the  best  of  Mangan's 
poems  as  translations,  although  in 
doing  so  one  is  conscious  of  having  to 
extend  unduly  the  meaning  of  the 
word.  For  the  impulse  and  the  theme 
came  to  him  through  the  work  of  an- 
other, and  this  not  only  in  the  case  of 
the  poetry  that  he  took  from  Irish 
sources,  but  in  the  poetry  that  he  drew 
from  Grerman  and  Arabic  origins. 

Mangan's  poems  were  published  in 
the  'forties.  There  was  then  a  con- 
scious literary  movement  in  Ireland. 
It  went  with  the  European  democratic 
movement,  with  the  coming  to  con- 
sciousness of  many  of  the  European 
nationalities.  At  the  time  the  Finns 
were  collecting  their  Magic  Songs  that 
were  to  be  woven  into  the  enchanting 
epic  of  the  Kalevala,  and  the  Bohe- 
mians were  making  their  first  efforts 
to  revive  their  distinctive  culture. 
Among  the  minor  European  nationali- 
ties Ireland  might  have  been  thought 
to  be  in  the  best  position  to  create  a 
literature  that  would  be  at  once  na- 
tional and  modern,  heroic  and  intel- 
lectual, for  there  was  behind  her  an 
ancient  cultivation  and  a  varied  lit- 
erary production.  Under  the  leader- 
ship of  Thomas  Davis  a  movement  of 
criticism  and  scholarship  was  inaugu- 
rated— ^a  movement  that  might  have 
been  expected  to  have  fruit  in  a  gen- 

Then  came  the  disaster  of  the  fam- 
ine— the  double  famine,  for  the  famine 
of  *47  followed  on  that  of  '46.  The  ef- 
fect of  this  disaster  (until  1914  no 
European  people  in  two  hundred  years 
had  suffered  such  a  calamity)  was  a 
great  rent  in  social  life.  How  it  af- 
fected eversrthing  that  belonged  to  the 

imagination  can  be  guessed  at  from  a 
sentence  written  by  George  Petrie. 
He  made  a  great  collection  of  Irish 
music,  but  in  the  preface  to  his  collec- 
tion he  laments  that  he  entered  the 
field  too  late.  What  impressed  him 
most  about  the  Ireland  after  the  fam- 
ine was,  as  he  says,  "the  sudden  si- 
lence of  the  fields".  Before,  no  one 
could  have  walked  a  roadway  without 
hearing  music  and  song;  now  there 
was  cessation,  and  this  meant  a  break 
in  the  whole  tradition.  What  Petrie 
noted  with  regard  to  music  was  true 
for  poetry  and  saga.  The  song  per- 
ished with  the  tune.  The  older  gen- 
eration who  were  the  custodians  of  the 
tradition,  were  the  first  to  go  down  to 
the  famine  graves.  And  in  the  years 
that  followed  the  collapse  the  people 
had  little  heart  for  the  remembering 
of  "old,  unhappy,  far-off  things,  and 
battles  long  ago".  The  history  of  Ire- 
land since  is  a  record  of  recovery  and 
relapse  from  an  attack  that  almost 
meant  the  death  of  the  race. 


That  Ireland  stirs  so  powerfully 
today  means  that  a  recovery  has  been 
made.  There  is  a  national  resurgence, 
and  as  part  of  that  resurgence  there 
has  come  that  literary  movement,  be- 
ginning in  the  'eighties,  which  is  gen- 
erally termed  the  Irish  Literary  Re- 
naissance. There  are  three  writers 
who  have  each  contributed  a  distinctive 
idea  to  this  literary  movement — ^W.  B. 
Yeats,  George  W.  Russell  ("A.  E."), 
and  Douglas  Hyde.  The  idea  that  Mr. 
Yeats  has  contributed  is  that  of  a  cul- 
ture that  would  be  personal  and  aris- 
tocratic. Irish  poetry,  when  he  began 
his  work,  was  in  close  alliance  with 
political  journalism.  The  Irish  po- 
litical movement  had  become  parlia- 
mentary and  argumentative,  and  this 
spirit  had  influenced  the  work  of  the 



poets.  Irish  poetry,  with  some  nota- 
ble exceptions,  was  poor  in  form  and 
impersonal  in  mood.  Mr.  Yeats,  by 
devoting  his  artistic  energy  to  the 
creation  of  subtle  and  beautiful  forms, 
brought  a  creative  idea  to  the  younger 
writers.  He  preached  to  them  con- 
tinuously on  the  discipline  of  form. 
In  his  early  volume  "The  Wanderings 
of  Oisin"  he  opened  up  a  fresh  world 
for  the  poets  of  the  new  time.  And 
soon  he  was  able  to  convince  them  that 
they  were  most  racial,  most  Gaelic, 
when  they  were  disciplining  them- 
selves for  the  creation  of  exact  forms. 
Gaelic  poetry,  as  it  was  easy  to  show, 
had  ever  for  its  ideal  the  creation  of 
highly  wrought  forms. 

He  insisted  that  personality  was  the 
root  of  poetry,  and  that  the  expression 
of  opinion  and  of  collective  feeling 
was  for  the  journalists  and  the  po- 
litical orators.  Mr.  Yeats  is  regarded 
as  a  mystical  poet :  he  is  not  mystical, 
however,  but  intellectual,  and  the 
poems  in  "The  Wind  Among  the 
Reeds"  that  have  given  him  a  reputa- 
tion for  being  a  mystic,  are  esoteric 
rather  than  mystical;  they  belong  to 
the  same  movement  that  produced  the 
French  symbolists.  The  Irish  mind  is 
intellectual  rather  than  mystical,  but 
it  is  very  prone  to  take  an  interest  in 
what  is  remote,  esoteric,  and  cryptic. 
Mr.  Yeats,  in  Irish  letters,  has  dis- 
tinctly stood  for  the  intellectual  atti- 

But  the  poet  who  had  been  his  com- 
rade in  the  Art  School  in  Dublin  was 
really  a  mystic.  This  was  George  W. 
Russell  who  was  to  publish  his  poems 
under  the  initials  "A.  E."  Like  all 
mystics  "A.  E."  is  content  to  express 
a  single  idea,  and  when  one  has  en- 
tered into  the  mood  of  one  of  his 
poems  one  can  understand  the  whole 
of  his  poetry.  In  his  three  books  of 
verse,  and  in  his  book  on  national  eco- 

nomics, "A.  E."  has  stated  his  single, 
all-sufficing  thought.  Men  are  the 
strayed  Heaven-dwellers.  They  are 
involved  in  matter  now,  but  in  matter 
they  are  creating  a  new  empire  for  the 
spirit.  This  doctrine,  which  might 
form  the  basis  for  a  universal  religion, 
has  been  put  into  an  Irish  frame  by 
the  poet.  "A.  E."  too  has  been  drawn 
to  the  study  of  the  remains  of  Celtic 
civilization.  He  sees  in  Celtic  mythol- 
ogy a  fragment  of  the  cosmology  once 
held  by  the  Indians,  the  Egyptians, 
and  the  Greeks.  And  he  alludes  to 
Celtic  divinities  as  if  Lugh,  Angus, 
Manannan,  Dagda,  Dana  were  as  well 
known  as  Apollo,  Eros,  Oceanus,  Zeus, 

"A.  E.V  vision  is  not  for  all  Irish 
writers  who  have  come  under  his  in- 
fluence. But  he  has  taught  every  one 
of  them  to  look  to  the  spiritual  sig- 
nificance of  the  fact  or  the  event  that 
he  writes  about.  Like  the  other  two 
representative  writers,  W.  B.  Yeats 
and  Douglas  Hyde,  "A.  E."  takes  a 
large  part  in  the  public  life  of  Ireland. 
He  deals  with  the  most  practical  of  all 
affairs — agriculture,  and  he  is  one  of 
the  leaders  of  the  movement  for  agri- 
cultural cooperation.  He  edits  an 
agricultural  journal,  and  he  writes 
every  week  on  economics  and  agricul- 

Dr.  Douglas  Hyde  has  written  in 
Gaelic  and  in  English ;  he  has  written 
poems,  plays,  and  essays,  but  it  is  by 
his  collections  of  folk  poetry  that  he 
has  most  influenced  contemporary 
Irish  poetry.  He  came  into  contact 
with  the  Gaelic  tradition  by  living 
with  the  farmers  and  fishers  of  the 
west  of  Ireland.  The  Gaelic-speaking 
population  of  Ireland  had  now  shrunk 
to  some  remote  and  poverty-stricken 
districts  along  the  Atlantic  Ocean. 
But  in  them  this  poet-scholar  was  able 
to  make  a  considerable  gleaning.    He 



has  published  "The  Love  Songs  of 
Connacht"  and  "The  Religious  Songs 
of  Gonnacht",  two  sections  of  a  great 
collection  he  has  made,  and  the  publi- 
cation of  these  songs  has  been  one  of 
the  greatest  influences  on  the  new 
Irish  literature.* 

Dr.  Hyde,  in  translating  these 
Gaelic  folk  songs  into  English,  repro- 
duced in  many  instances  the  distinc- 
tive metrical  effects  of  Gaelic  poetry, 
and  showed  how  various  interesting 
forms  might  be  adopted  by  Irish  poets 
in  using  the  English  language.  But 
the  collections  were  to  have  an  influ- 
ence over  more  than  language  and 
metrical  form.  The  young  Irish  poets 
who  had  been  brought  up  in  a  culture 
remote  from  their  racial  inheritance, 
were  to  find  in  these  poems  not  only 
the  racial  spirit,  but  the  character  of 
their  people  and  the  distinctive  fea^ 
tures  of  their  country;  they  were  to 
find  in  them  too  an  intensity  and  a 
moving  simplicity — "The  Love  Songs 
of  Connacht"  became  the  breviary  of 
many  of  the  younger  poets. 

The  attempt  at  the  re-Gaelicizing  of 
Ireland  by  the  Gaelic  League  has  had 
a  powerful  effect  on  Irish  poetry. 
Padraic  Pearse,  one  of  the  truest  poets 
that  Ireland  has  ever  produced,  wrote 
his  poems  in  Gaelic,  bringing  a  new 
material  into  Gaelic  poetry.  And  the 
kernel  of  Thomas  MacDonagh's  book 
of  creative  criticism,  "Literature  in 
Ireland",  is  in  this  declaration : 

"The  Influence  has  been  exerted  not  only  on 
poetry,  but  on  the  dlaloj^e  of  the  Irish  drama 
Eft  well.  In  making  literal  prose  renderings  of 
some  of  the  songs  he  used  the  idiom  and 
rhythm  of  the  Irish  peasant  speaking  English. 
Lady  Gregory  made  use  of  the  idiom  In  her 
versions  of  the  old  romances.  Mr.  Teats 
praised  Dr.  Hyde's  discovery  and  spoke  of  It  to 
.John  M.  Synge.  Sjmge's  rhythmic  and  colored 
Idiom  is  very  close  to  Dr.  Hyde's  prose  versions 
of  the  Connacht  songs.  Here  Is  a  verse  from 
one  of  them  :  "If  you  were  to  see  the  Star  of 
Knowledge  and  she  coming  In  the  mouth  of  the 
road,  you  would  say  that  it  wns  a  Jewel  at  a 
distance  from  you,  who  would  disperse  fog  and 
enchantment ;  her  countenance  red  like  the 
roses,  and  her  eye  like  the  dew  of  the  harvest : 
her  thin  little  mouth  very  pretty,  and  her  neck 
of  the  color  of  lime." 

The  Gaelic  revival  has  given  to  some  of  us 
a  new  arrogance.  I  am  a  Gael  and  I  know  no 
cause  but  of  pride  In  that.  Oaedhai  me  agua 
no  h-eol  dotn  gur  nair  dom  e.  My  race  has  sur- 
vived the  wiles  of  the  foreigner  here.  It  has 
refused  to  yield  even  to  defeat,  and  emerges 
strong  to-day,  full  of  hope  and  of  love,  with 
new  strength  in  its  arms  to  work  its  new 
destiny,  with  a  new  song  on  its  lips  and  the 
word  of  the  new  language,  which  is  the  ancient 
language,  stUl  calling  from  age  to  age. 


Whether  it  has  or  has  not  to  do  with 
the  prosaic  issue  of  self-determination, 
it  is  certain  that  Irish  poetry  in  these 
latter  days  is  becoming  more  and  not 
less  national.  But  it  is  no  longer  na- 
tional in  the  deliberate  way  that 
Thomas  Davis  would  have  it  national, 
as  "condensed  and  gem-like  history".* 

No,  Irish  poetry  is  no  longer  national 
in  the  deliberate  or  in  the  claimant 
way.  But  it  is  becoming  national  as 
the  Irish  landscape  is  national,  as  the 
tone  and  gesture  of  the  Irish  peasant 
is  national.  It  is  national  in  "A.  E.V 
poetry — if  not  in  those  mystical  rev- 
eries that  transcend  race  and  nation- 
ality, then  in  those  impassioned  state- 
ments in  which  he  celebrates  or  re- 
bukes the  actions  of  some  group  or 
some  individual;  it  is  national  in  W. 
B,  Yeats's  poetry,  in  his  range  from 
invective  to  the  poetry  of  ideal  love; 
it  is  national  in  the  landscape  that 
Joseph  Campbell  evokes ;  in  the  bardic 
exuberance  of  language  that  James 
Stephens  turns  into  poetry;  in  the 
delicate  rhythms  of  Seumas  O'Sulli- 
van's  lyrics  and  in  the  remoteness  that 
they  hold;  in  the  hedgerows  and  the 
little  fields  that  Francis  Ledwidge's 
poetry  images;  in  the  dedication  that 
is  in  Joseph  Plunkett's,  and  in  the 
high  and  happy  adventurousness  that 
is  in  Thomas  MacDonagh's  poetry. 

•"National  poetry . . .  binds  us  to  the  land  by 
its  condensed  and  gem-like  history.  It...flres 
us  in  action,  prompts  our  Invention,  sheds  a 
grace  beyond  the  power  of  luxury  round  our 
homes,  it  is  the  recognized  envoy  of  our  minds 
among  all  mankind,  and  to  all  time." 

By  Thomas  L  Masson 

With  a  Sketch  by  Ivan  Opffer 

IN  the  introduction  to  "Ivanhoe"  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  with  the  genial  candor 
that  was  one  of  his  most  charming 
traits,  laments  that  hitherto  he  has 
been  unable  to  break  away  from  the 
uninterrupted  course  of  the  Waverley 
novels.  "It  was  plain,  however,"  says 
Sir  Walter,  "that  the  frequent  publi- 
cation must  finally  wear  out  the  public 
favor,  unless  some  mode  could  be  de- 
vised to  give  an  appearance  of  novelty 
to  subsequent  productions.  Scottish 
manners,  Scottish  dialect,  and  Scottish 
characters  of  note,  being  those  with 
which  the  author  was  most  intimately 
and  familiarly  acquainted,  were  the 
groundwork  upon  which  he  had  hither- 
to relied  for  giving  effect  to  his  narra- 
tive." He  then  adds:  "Nothing  can 
be  more  dangerous  for  the  fame  of  a 
professor  of  the  fine  arts  than  to  per- 
mit (if  he  can  possibly  prevent  it)  the 
character  of  a  mannerist  to  be  at- 
tached to  him,  or  that  he  should  be 
supposed  capable  of  success  only  in  a 
particular  and  limited  style."  Indeed, 
Sir  Walter  was  so  much  impressed  by 
the  truth  of  his  observation,  that  he 
insisted  upon  publishing  "Ivanhoe" 
anonymously,  and  it  was  only  upon  the 
assurance  of  its  success  from  his  pub- 
lishers that  he  consented  to  the  use  of 
his  name. 

This  danger  has  long  been  recog- 
nized by  authors,  and  during  the  last 
half  century — inspired  quite  possibly 
by  the  example  of  Sir  Walter — ^British 
writers  have  quite  largely  succeeded 

in  overcoming  the  handicap.  We  have 
Mr.  Kipling  starting  out  as  a  writer 
of  short  sketches  from  India,  creating 
a  new  vein  of  Anglo-Indian  literature ; 
but  shortly  breaking  away  from  his 
environment  and  becoming  a  short 
story  writer  of  universal  appeal,  a 
first-rank  novelist,  and  the  only  poet 
who  has  voiced  in  rugged  song  the 
heart  and  soul  of  Imperial  England. 
We  have  Jerome  K  Jerome  whose 
"Three  Men  in  a  Boat"  and  whose 
housemaid's  knee  fastened  upon  him 
the  reputation  of  a  professional  hu- 
morist, suddenly  turning  into  a  drama- 
tist of  high  order.  There  was  Thack- 
eray of  "Punch",  likewise  a  profes- 
sional humorist  and  satirist,  breaking 
bounds  and  becoming  the  author  of 
"Vanity  Fair";  and  after  him  Du 
Maurier,  who  used  to  write  his  own 
jokes  to  his  own  drawings  and  who, 
leaving  the  conference  table  (they 
say  in  a  fit  of  pique)  built  forthwith 
his  "Trilby",  surely  a  work  of  real 
literary  art.  Still  more  recently  we 
have  A.  A.  Milne,  in  the  beginning 
a  chance  contributor  to  "Punch", 
rapidly  achieving  a  reputation  not 
only  as  a  humorist  and  dramatist 
of  the  first  rank,  but  as  a  writer 
whose  breadth  of  vision  is  constantly 
increasing.  There  are  numerous  other 
examples  in  Great  Britain  of  authors 
who  have  risen  above  their  first  repu- 
tations. Mr.  Wells  is  a  notable  in- 
stance, for  it  would  be  difficult  to  say 
whether  he  is  most  preeminent  as  a 


Bkttchrd  bg  Ivan  Opfer 



novelist,  an  historian,  or  a  sociological 
psychologist;  and  whether  Thomas 
Hardy  is  greater  as  a  poet  or  a  novel- 
ist is  a  question  upon  which  his 
staunchest  adherents  are  divided. 

The  literature  of  this  country  is, 
quite  inevitably,  built  upon  smaller 
lines  than  that  of  Great  Britain;  but 
the  same  struggle  of  our  authors  to 
rise  above  their  first  limitations  has 
been  going  on  here,  as  there.  With 
less  success.  Mark  Twain  made  the 
attempt  in  "Joan  of  Arc"  which  he 
published  anonymously  because  he 
feared  that  his  reputation  as  a  humor- 
ist would  detract  from  the  dignity  of 
his  effort.  The  problem  appears  to  be 
more  difficult  in  America  than  else- 

All  things  considered,  by  right  of 
achievement  and  what  one  may  term 
"intrinsic  merit",  our  two  leading  hu- 
morists are  George  Ade  and  Finley 
Peter  Dunne ;  yet  neither  of  them  has 
fully  succeeded  in  breaking  away  from 
his  single  reputation.  Mr.  Dunne  be- 
came widely  known  as  the  author  of 
the  inimitable  Mr.  Dooley:  and  hence- 
forth nothing  but  the  observations  of 
Mr.  Dooley  would  satisfy  an  eager 
public.  Mr.  Ade  became  known  as  the 
author  of  "Fables  in  Slang",  and  Mr. 
Ade  is  still  known  as  the  author  of 
"Fables  in  Slang",  although  it  must  be 
said  that  as  the  creator  of  the  comic 
opera  "The  Sultan  of  Sulu",  "The  Col- 
lege Widow",  and  other  productions 
almost  equally  meritorious,  his  fame 
as  a  dramatist  is  closely  allied  to  his 
fame  as  a  fablist.  Yet  here  the  ob- 
servation may  be  made,  let  me  hope 
without  offense,  that  if  ^sop  had  not 
written  his  fables,  it  is  probable  that 
George  Ade's  reputation  as  an  Ameri- 
can humorist  would  have  been  none 
the  less;  but  his  reputation  as  a 
dramatist  might  easily  have  been  less 

if  Gilbert  and  Sullivan's  operas  had 
not  been  written. 

Greorge  Ade's  fables  are  American 
fables.  The  form,  granted,  is  very 
old,  like  hexameter  verse  or  the  ballade 
or  the  sonnet.  But  the  form  in  this 
instance  does  not  particularly  matter. 
The  point  is  that  Ade  is  an  American, 
which — in  an  American — gives  one  a 
great  advantage.  Ade  was  born  in  the 
middle  of  America:  not  exactly  in  the 
middle  but  enough  to  insure  his  being 
an  American.  He  wasn't  born  near 
enough  to  the  Atlantic  coast  to  become 
an  Anglomaniac,  nor  to  take  on  too 
much  eastern  education  to  obscure  his 
racial  traits.  It  is  probable  that  the 
mud  of  Indiana  stuck  to  him  long 
enough  to  charm  him  against  foreign 
influences.  Along  somewhere  in  the 
middle  of  his  life,  after  he  had 
achieved  fame,  he  traveled  abroad :  he 
went  to  Egypt.  But  it  was  then  too 
late  to  spoil  the  quality  of  his  jokes; 
their  tang  had  become  fixed. 

George  Ade,  born  in  Kentland,  In- 
diana, February  9,  1866,  was  educated 
at  Purdue  University.  It  probably  did 
him  less  harm  than  anywhere  else  he 
might  have  gone.  He  succeeded  in 
preserving  his  Americanism :  he  stuck 
to  Indiana  more  or  less,  and  learned  to 
write  at  first  in  a  very  practical  school 
— a  Lafayette,  Indiana  newspaper  of- 
fice. Then,  still  an  American,  he  flew 
to  Chicago,  and  doubtless  consorted 
with  low  spirits  and  plied  his  trade  as 
a  reporter  and  writer  and  served  his 
apprenticeship.  This  leads  me  to  ob- 
serve that  there  would  be  nothing  the 
matter  with  American  literature  if  it 
were  only  permitted  to  grow  up.  If  a 
man  has  native  talent — a  gift — ^he 
needs  to  have  it  protected  from  for- 
eign influences  long  enough  for  it  to 
stand  upon  its  own  legs!  Otherwise 
it  is  crowded  out  and  becomes  merely 



an  echo.  That  is  so  often  the  trouble 
with  our  most  energetic  writers. 

Greorge  Ade  practised  on  his  slang 
for  a  long  time.  It  was  something 
that  came  out  of  the  American  middle 
west  soil,  and  to  which  he  gave  his 
genius,  molding  it  to  his  purpose  and 
producing  things  that  as  finished 
products  could  scarcely  have  been  pro- 
duced anywhere  else.  That  is  what 
constitutes  his  merit,  his  claim  to  be 
an  American  humorist  of  the  first 

Of  course,  no  writer  can  produce 
things  like  that  without  having  quali- 
ties. Theodore  Dreiser,  for  example, 
is  in  my  opinion  a  great  novelist — 
another  American — ^but  when  Mr. 
Dreiser  writes  essays  slamming  his 
own  country  (its  vulgarity,  its  crude- 
ness,  its  banality,  etc.),  he  charms  me 
not  nearly — ^no,  not  fractionally  so 
much  as  Mr.  Ade,  who  arrives  at  the 
same  result  (and  so  much  more  effec- 
tively) in  his  fables.  Sinclair  Lewis 
in  "Main  Street"  has  written  a  long 
novel  to  prove  that  the  people  who  live 
on  Main  Street  are  drab  and  uninter- 
esting— at  least  so  I  am  told  by  those 
who  have  read  it.  Personally  I  do  not 
care  for  Mr.  Lewis's  opinion  of  the 
people  who  live  on  Main  Street,  be- 
cause I  sense  his  book  as  an  echo ;  and 
besides,  George  Ade  supplies  me  with 
what  I  wish  to  know  about  these  Main 
Streets.  He  has  them  all  down:  he 
hits  them  off:  and  he  doesn't  waste  a 
lot  of  time  over  them  either. 

At  this  point  it  is  perhaps  as  well 
to  make  a  pertinent  observation  about 
humor.  You  may  put  it  down  here,  as 
a  mental  note,  that  the  right  kind  of 
humor  is  always  in  sympathy  with  the 
people  it  **takes  off*'.  George  Ade  does 
not  hate  the  people  he  writes  his  fables 
about.  He  doesn't  stand  off  and  fire 
poisoned  arrows  into  them  and  snarl 
af  them,  and  hold  them  up  to  ridicule 

by  showing  you  how  much  he  resents 
them.  He  doesn't  resent  them.  He 
doesn't  even  go  so  far  as  to  tolerate 
them.  He  likes  them.  He  is  one  of 
them  himself.  They  are  his  crowd. 
George  Ade,  born  in  Indiana,  went  to 
Chicago  and  learned  the  mechanics  of 
his  art.  He  went  to  Egypt,  and  looked 
it  over,  and  left  it  where  it  was ;  came 
back  to  Indiana,  bought  a  farm  there, 
and  lives  there.  In  other  words, 
Greorge  Ade  is  a  plain  American,  a 
man  of  genius,  living  among  his  own 
people,  putting  on  no  frills.  If  you 
wish  information  about  what  has 
really  been  going  on  in  America  since, 
say  1900,  get  his  fables  and  read 
them;  you  will  come  nearer  to  the 
truth  there  than  in  all  the  books  on 
sociology  and  history  that  have  been 
written  during  this  period. 

Personally,  I  haven't  read  Ade's 
fable  of  the  two  Mandolin  Players  for 
some  years:  but  I  know  precisely 
what  kind  of  bird  the  Players  are, 
and  I  like  to  think  about  them.  He 
did  not  make  me  hate  or  despise  them 
— ^he  only  made  me  laugh  at  them. 
There  are  certain  things  inside  of  me 
that  are  just  like  the  things  inside  of 
those  two  Mandolin  Players  of  Ade's. 
I  know  they  are  there  because  I  have 
been  reminded  of  them:  and  I  know 
there  are  also  other  things  in  various 
people  of  Ade's  fables  that  are  like 
the  other  things  I  have  inside  of  me. 
Somehow  I  am  not  so  ashamed  of  them 
as  I  was  before  I  read  the  fables,  be- 
cause they  have  made  me  feel  that  we 
are  all  of  us,  east  and  west  and  north 
and  south,  a  great  deal  alike :  made  up 
of  about  the  same  parts,  in  various 
combinations.     ^ 

George  Ade's  reputation  as  a  first- 
class  American  humorist  (admitted  it 
is  along  a  certain  narrow  line)  is 
firmly  established,  not  essentially  be- 
cause he  is  a  member  of  the  National 



Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters,  but 
because  he  has  sounded  a  genuine 
American  note  in  a  manner  of  his  own. 
The  real  trouble  with  the  majority  of 
people  who  read  him  is  that  they  don't 
take  him  seriously  enough:  that  is, 
they  don't  study  him;  they  don't  real- 
ize, as  I  have  already  hinted,  that  if 
you  want  real  information  about 
America,  real  insight  into  American 
character,  snapshots  at  the  American 
animal  in  his  haunts,  so  to  speak,  here 
is  where  to  get  it. 

You  are  doubtless  fooled  because  the 
fable  is  short,  because  it  is  offhand 
and  slangy,  and  because  it  isn't  always 
so  funny  as  it  might  be.  All  that 
comes  from  a  mistaken  idea  about  the 
nature  and  quality  of  humor.  Some 
people  should  never  attempt  to  read 
anything  humorous.  It  cannot  possi- 
bly do  tibem  any  good:  it  only  makes 
them  worse.  It  is  amazing  indeed  to 
see  how  little  attention  is  paid  to  un- 
derstanding the  reading  of  humor  in 
our  public  schools.  I  venture  the  as- 
sertion that  a  really  good  piece  of  lit- 
erary prose  humor  or  humorous  verse 
— ^a  classic  if  you  will — ^would  meet 
with  scarcely  any  appreciation  by  an 
average  class  of  high  school  students. 
I  know  this  because  I  have  tried  it. 

It  has  been  my  experience  that 
George  Ade's  fables  are  hard  to  read 
aloud  to  a  group  of  average  people  (if 
there  be  such  a  thing) .  The  reason  is 
perfectly  plain.  These  fables  are 
high  literary  art,  but  not  dramatic 
art,  because  the  impact  of  the  slang 
word  is  often  just  too  late  to  produce 
the  instantaneous  effect  necessary  to 
the  listener.  This  of  course  is  not  al- 
ways so;  but  it  is  so  often  enough  to 
make  the  reading  of  these  fables  any- 
thing but  a  certainty.  Occasionally  a 
clear-cut  phrase  will  go  home  with 
telling  effect,  but  generally  speaking 
Ade's  fables  need  to  be  lingered  over 

in  silence:  they  are  concentrated  food, 
to  be  taken  as  a  tonic,  say  one  or  two 
after  a  meal.  It  is  quite  natural  also 
that  they  should  not  all  be  good  or 
that  some  of  them  should  be  better 
than  others.  But  in  this  respect,  be 
not  deceived.  Your  personal  exi)eri- 
ence  means  much :  you  are  sure  to  re- 
spond more  to  those  things  which 
reveal  your  own  experience:  so  that  if 
a  certain  fable  appears  to  fall  flat,  it 
may  easily  be  because  that  part  of  life 
has  not  particularly  touched  you. 

They  are  in  quite  a  large  sense  al- 
legorical. You  have  to  rise  to  the  bait 
yourself.  This  is  the  beginning  of 
one  of  Ade's  fables : 

Once  there  wa8  an  Indian  who  had 
a  Way  of  potting  on  all  hia  Feathers 
and  breaking  out  of  the  Reaerration. 

Think  of  reading  that  aloud  to  a 
committee  of  eight  or  ten — say  a 
Board  of  Education  or  a  Board  of 
Health.  You  would  have  to  explain  at 
once  that  Ade  in  reality  was  not  talk- 
ing about  an  Indian  at  all:  that  he 
might  indeed  be  talking  about  the 
chairman  of  the  committee  himself. 
You  would  then  have  to  make  a  per- 
sonal appeal  to  the  chairman,  and  ask 
him  if  he  ever  felt  like  an  Indian,  felt 
like  putting  on  his  store  clothes,  and 
sneaking  out  of  the  side  door  for  the 
purpose  of  raising  cain.  By  this  time 
you  would  be  engaged  in  a  controversy 
— ^which  proves  certain  things  which 
those  who  understand  will  already 
know,  and  those  who  do  not  under- 
stand can  never  be  taught. 

George  Ade  unites  with  the  late 
Henry  James  the  distinction  of  having 
achieved  literary  fame  without  beneflt 
of  clergy:  that  is  to  say  without  mat- 
rimonial aid.  This  is  the  only  respect 
however  in  which  they  appear  to  have 
anything  in  common.  Henry  James 
scorned  his  native  land — Greorge  Ade 
revels  in  his  Indiana  farm.     Henry 




James  took  himself  seriously  and 
wrote  in  a  language  that  few  under- 
stand. George  Ade  snapped  his  coun- 
trymen, living  among  them,  doing 
them  good  by  his  presence.  His  slang 
is  almost  wholly  his  own:  you  see 
plainly  where  he  gets  it  from:  but  he 
rolls  it  a  little  and  fits  it  in  and 
changes  it  to  suit  his  plan.  It  is  im- 
possible to  overestimate  the  uncon- 
scious effect  of  a  George  Ade  upon  a 
generation :  a  combination  of  natural- 
ness, conmion  sense,  sympathy,  rail- 
lery, tolerance.  This  word  caricature, 
which  gives  us  flashes  of  ourselves,  as 
a  corrective,  is  an  asset  for  genuine 
democracy  much  more  powerful  than 
we  have  any  idea  of.  The  kind  of 
humor  which  reflects  American  traits, 
which  is  rough  in  spots,  dull  in  spots, 
but  true  in  its  essence  and  untainted 
by  foreign  influences — that  is  ex- 
tremely valuable  to  us  as  a  people: 
highly  sanitary  and  educational.  This 
kind  of  raillery,  of  frankness,  dis- 
played in  our  train  of  humorists — 
Josh  Billings,  Artemus  Ward,  Mark 
Twain,  George  Ade,  and  other  natives 
—came  out  of  the  original  town  meet- 
ing, a  by-product  of  the  process  of 
self-government.  It  has  helped  to 
make  of  the  American  people — climat- 
ically nervous  and  daring — one  of  the 
most  patient  and  tolerant  peoples  in 
the  world.  Our  characteristic  bluster 
and  brag,  the  aftermath  of  the  con- 
quering of  a  new  continent,  plus  the 
rawness  and  vulgarity  that  jar  upon 
Dreiser  so  much — ^all  this  in  its  full 
uninterrupted  swing  doubtless  is  of- 
fensive; but  a  rough  sense  of  humor 
— ^the  capacity,  so  to  speak,  to  "josh" 
oneself — ^has  given  us  something  as  a 
corrective  which  will  be  a  large  help 
as  we  grow  up  into  more  "cultured" 
ways.  Besides,  I  am  not  so  sure  that 
this  America  of  ours  is  so  crude  a 
thing  as  the  critics  would  have.    Art 

is  not  confined  to  any  medium.  In  new 
forms  it  is  misunderstood  in  the  be- 
ginning, and  it  is  quite  possible  that 
in  a  larger  sense  there  is  an  art  to  the 
living  of  a  national  life  by  a  whole 
people  far  beyond  any  particular  form 
of  art.  The  Greeks  developed  the 
highest  sense  of  art  in  architecture, 
sculpture,  philosophy,  drama,  but  they 
broke  down  in  the  art  of  preserving 
themselves.  It  is  possible  that  Ameri- 
ca is  developing  a  soul — something 
hitherto  thought  superfluous  in  a 
Christian  people. 

It  remains  only  to  answer  the  ques- 
tion, why  is  it  that  American  writers, 
and  particularly  American  humorists, 
move  along  such  restricted  lines — 
never  get  beyond  a  certain  point — in 
contrast  with  their  British  proto- 
types? Alexis  de  Tocqueville,  a  most 
acute  observer,  who  wrote  when  this 
country  was  flrst  forming,  has  de- 
clared that  in  a  democracy  the  same 
attention  cannot  be  paid  to  letters  as 
in  an  aristocracy : 

Most  of  those  who  have  some  tinge  of  beUes- 
lettres  are  either  engaged  in  politics  or  in  a 
profession  which  only  allows  them  to  taste  oc- 
casionally and  by  stealth  the  pleasures  of  the 
mind. . . .  They  prefer  books  which  may  be  easily 
procured,  quickly  read,  and  which  require  no 
learned  researches  to  be  understood. .  .above 
all,  they  must  have  what  is  new  and  unex- 

In  short,  the  American  audience  is 
too  heterogeneous,  too  mixed  and  scat- 
tered, too  much  occupied  with  material 
excitements.  St.  John  Ervine,  a  more 
recent  observer,  attributes  our  lack  of 
literature  to  the  so-called  process  of 
standardization : 

standardization  means  the  destruction  of  in- 
dividual preferences ...  it  is  not  difficult  to 
prophesy  that  the  outcome  of  it  will  be  sterility 
of  the  soul ...  a  great  literature  cannot  flourish 
in  an  atmosphere  of  imitation  and  suppressed 
personality,  and  unless  America  can  somehow 
solve  this  problem  of  making  a  man*s  indi- 
viduality grow  and  become  vivid,  there  is  slight 



likelihood  of  her  making  credit  for  herself  with 
an  art  or  a  literature  to  which  the  world  will 
yield  respect. 

From  this  standpoint,  if  you  will, 
the  fault  lies  not  with  the  individual 
himself,  but  in  the  nature  of  things. 
In  the  case  of  George  Ade,  it  is  not  his 
fault,  but  that  of  the  audience,  and 
the  audience  is  the  country.  Here  is 
a  writer  of  undoubted  native  genius, 
a  national  humorist  who  achieves  ce- 
lebrity as  the  author  of  "Fables  in 
Slang"  and  there  stops.    In  the  midst 

of  a  world  upheaval,  and  a  silent  revo- 
lution in  our  own  country  that  is  pro- 
ducing astonishing  changes  in  our 
body  politic,  we  ask  ourselves  why  no 
great  writer  arises,  why  no  great  sati- 
rist holds  over  us  the  whip  of  scorn, 
why  it  is  that  with  so  much  material 
for  the  universal  humorists,  there  is 
no  universal  humorist.  The  answer  is 
that  we  don't  want  him.  We  have  no 
time  to  listen  to  him.  And  unless  we 
cultivate  ourselves  to  feel  the  need  of 
him,  he  will  not  grow  up  out  of  us. 

Gborob  Adb  Biblxoobapht 


Artie  (1896*).    Dnffleld  and  Co.:   1906. 

Pink  Marsh  (1897*).     Duffleld  and  Co.:   1906. 

Doc  Home.    H.  S.  Stone :   1899. 

Fables  in  Slang  (1899*).    DnlDeld  and  Co.:  1906. 

More  Fables.    Dnffleld  and  Co. :  1900. 

Forty  Modem  Fables.     Harper  and  Brothers :  1901. 

The  Girl  Proposition.     R.  H.  RusseU :  1908.      Since  taken  over  by  Harper  and  Bros. 

People  Yon  Know.     R.  H.  Rnssell:    1903.     Since  published  by  Harper  and  Bros. 

Breaking  into  Society.     Harper  and  Brothers :   1904. 

True  Bills.    Harper  and  Brothers :  1904. 

In  Pastures  New.     McClore,  PhiUips  and  Co. :   1906. 

The  Slim  Princess.    The  Bobbs-Merrm  Co. :  1907. 

Knocking  the  Neighbors.    Donbleday,  Page  and  Co. :   1912. 

Ade*s  Fables.     Donbleday,  Page  and  Co. :   1914. 

Hand-Made  Fables.    Donbleday,  Page  and  Co. :   1920. 

Date  of  original  publication. 


The  Sultan  of  Sulu  (1902).     R.  H.  RusseU:  1903  and  Harper  and  Brothers:   1911. 
Marse  Covington  (1905).     Commission  of  Training  Camp  Activities,  Washington:    1918. 
Nettie  (1914).     Commission  of  Training  Camp  Activities,  Washington  :   1918. 

VnpubliBhed  Ptaifa 

Peggy  from  Paris.     1908. 
The  County  Chairman.     1903. 
The  Sho-Oun.     1904. 
The  College  Widow.     1904. 
The  Bad  Samaritan.     1905. 
Just  Out  of  College.    1905. 
Mrs.  Peckham's  Carouse.     1906. 
Father  and  the  Boys.    1907. 
The  Fair  Co-ed.     1908. 
The  Old  Town.     1909. 


By  H.  D. 

I  WORSHIP  the  grreatest  first— 
(it  were  sweet,  the  couch, 
the  brighter  ripple  of  cloth 
over  the  dipped  fieece; 
the  thought :  her  bones 
under  the  flesh  are  white 
as  when  sand  along  a  beach 
covers  but  keeps  the  print 
of  the  crescent  shapes  beneath. 
I  thought :  so  her  body  lies 
between  cloth  and  fleece.) 

I  worship  first,  the  great — 

(ah  sweet,  your  eyes — 

what  God,  invoked  in  Crete, 

gave  them  the  gift  to  part 

as  the  Sidonian  myrtle-flower, 

suddenly  wide  and  swart; 

then  swiftly, 

the  eyelids  having  provoked  our  hearts — 

as  suddenly  beat  and  close.) 

I  worship  the  feet,  flawless, 
that  haunt  the  hills — 
(ah  sweet,  dare  I  think, 
beneath  fetter  of  golden  clasp, 
of  the  rhythm,  the  fall  and  rise 
of  yours,  carven,  slight 
beneath  straps  of  gold  that  keep 
their  slender  beauty  caught, 
like  wings  and  bodies 
of  trapped  birds.) 

I  worship  the  greatest  first — 
(suddenly  into  my  brain — 
the  flash  of  sun  on  the  snow, 
the  edge  of  light  and  the  drift, 
the  crest  and  the  hill-shadow — 
ah,  surely  now  I  forget, 
ah  splendour,  my  goddess  turns : 
or  was  it  the  sudden  heat — 
on  the  wrist — of  the  molten  flesh 
and  veins'  quivering  violet?) 



The  anonymous  dlacuBsion  of  personalities  is  sometimes  ilUbrcd.  On  occasion  it  is  even  dan- 
ffcrous.  Nevertheless,  we  are  undertaking  this  series  of  discussions  of  American  literary  figures 
with  a  light  heart  and  high  hopes  that  we  shall  not  be  driven  to  stiffer  weapons  than  words,  and 
that  we  shall  always,  however  piercing  the  criticism,  remain  good-tempered. 

The  author  of  "The  Literary  Spotlight'*  who  hides  so  decorously  behind  our  person  is  not  one 
but  many.  We  find  ourselves  a  screen  for  practically  every  critic  of  note  in  the  country;  for, 
with  something  like  glee,  they  have  undertaken  the  analysis  of  contemporaries  who  are  in  many 
cases  personal  friends.  It  will  be  interesting  to  escape,  for  a  moment,  from  the  curse  of  log- 
rolling, to  see  what  those  who  write  actually  think  of  each  other.  If  you  would  speculate  as  to 
the  source  of  any  one  article,  we  warn  you  that  there  has  been  a  definite  attempt  at  concealment 
of  style.  In  some  cases,  indeed,  there  has  been  an  effort  to  parody  another  man*s  manner.  The 
spirit  of  the  entire  performance,  while  it  has  the  essence  of  foolery,  is  yet  a  conscientious  effort 
to  present  an  honest  judgment  on  the  state  of  American  letters  by  means  of  a  somewhat  close 
observation  of  its  principal  figures.  — J.  F. 


With  a  Sketch  by  William  Gropper 

HE  was  bom  in  New  York  City, 
October  1,  1885,  and  is  probably 
the  least  educated  poet  in  America. 
His  Alma  Mater  is  the  De  Witt  Clin- 
ton High  School,  from  which,  having 
flunked  twice  in  geometry,  he  failed 
to  graduate.  He  has  been  successful 
in  concealing  (1)  his  mathematical 
shortcomings  from  his  business  asso- 
ciates, (2)  his  middle  name  from  the 
public.  It  was  first  intended  to  give 
him  his  mother's  family  name  (Mi- 
chael) but,  yielding  to  a  repressed  ro- 
manticism, only  the  initial  was  kept. 
It  was  finally  used  for  his  middle 
name,  which  is  Milton.  He  has  never 
allowed  it  to  appear  in  print. 

He  is  five  feet  seven  inches  in 
height,  stocky,  inclined  to  take  on 
weight  because  of  an  uncontrollable 
lust  for  sweets;  is  equally  worried 
about  the  state  of  the  world  and  the 
thinning  of  his  hair;  puns  as  often 
(and  as  atrociously)  as  Christopher 
Morley,  and  is  as  fussy  about  his  neck- 

ties as  a  Wall  Street  stockbroker.  The 
absurd  smallness  of  his  ears  is  over- 
compensated  by  the  prominence  of  his 
nose.  He  has  a  long  slanting  fore- 
head, wears  eye-glasses,  and  affects 
racy  colloquialisms  that  are  not  suited 
to  his  temperament.  The  shape  of  his 
head  is  dolichocephalic. 

Although  he  prefers  Virginia  mix- 
tures, he  smokes  any  and  every  brand 
of  cigarette.  However  he  cannot 
stand  tobacco  in  any  other  form. 
Once  a  year  B.  W.  Huebsch  persuades 
him  to  finish  a  cigar,  which  he  does 
with  unhappy  consequences.  He  has 
a  collection  of  fourteen  pipes  which 
he  has  tried  to  ''break  in"  without  suc- 

He  originally  expected  to  be  a  pro- 
fessional musician;  he  wrote  a  few 
sentimental  songs  in  the  styles  of  Mac- 
Dowell  and  Schumann  at  eighteen,  and 
at  nineteen  his  first  printed  poem  (a 
fulsome  sonnet  to  Nazimova)  appeared 
in   "The  Theatre  Magazine".     Since 



Sketched  by  WUUam  Oroppcr 

U>i-ia  rxTasiiiTn 




then  he  has  not  composed  a  note.  But 
he  continually  deplores  the  fact  (to 
anyone  who  will  listen)  that  his  crea- 
tive gift  is  not  musical,  and  he  still 
plays  the  piano  creditably.  His  fav- 
orite method  of  entertaining  guests  is 
to  play  the  accompaniments  while  his 
wife  sings  the  less  well-known  songs 
of  Brahms  and  Hugo  Wolf,  and  he 
never  tires  of  saying  that  he  would 
rather  have  written  the  "little"  Eighth 
Symphony  of  Beethoven  than  all  the 
tragedies  of  Shakespeare. 

He  married  a  girl  from  the  incredi- 
ble town  of  Zanesville  in  1907.  His 
wife  is  Jean  Starr  Untermeyer,  also  a 
poet.  They  have  one  child,  a  boy, 
Richard,  thirteen  years  old,  who  wor- 
ships only  two  gods:  Babe  Ruth  and 
Nikolai  Lenin. 

His  work  is  full  of  absurd  self-con- 
tradictions. He  bangs  the  drum  for 
all  the  modern  tendencies,  scorning 
anything  that  is  even  faintly  "aca- 
demic"; yet  his  own  poetry  is  as  or- 
thodox in  form  as  the  most  conven- 
tional of  his  betes  noires.  Similarly, 
as  a  critic,  he  occupies  almost  opposite 
positions.  He  exposed  the  "Others" 
group  to  derisive  laughter  both  in  his 
parodies  and  his  articles  in  "The  New 
Republic".  Yet  he  wrote  a  more  than 
friendly  introduction  to  Maxwell  Bo- 
denheim's  first  book  of  fanti^ies.  His 
chapter  in  "The  New  Era  in  American 
Poetry"  on  the  intraverted  music  and 
morbidity  of  Aiken's  verse  was  vitri- 
olic and  almost  libelous;  yet  on  this 
vehement  critique  was  founded  a  close 
friendship,  and  he  will  rush  to  Aiken's 
defense  if  anyone  on  the  "other"  side 
attacks  the  blond  hermit  of  South  Yar- 

This  grotesque  inconsistency  needs 
no  psychoanalyzer.  His  exaggerated 
pugnacity  is  a  shield;  his  belligerent 
attitude  is  what  the  Freudians  would 
call  a  defense  mechanism,  a  protection 
Bgralnst  an  Inherent  sentimentality  to 

which  he  is  always  in  danger  of  yield- 
ing. He  is,  like  many  of  his  race, 
highly  sensitized,  extremely  adaptable, 
and  hence  open  to  any  strong  influ- 
ence, subject  to  a  succession  of  sudden 
attachments.  Thus  one  finds  him  ab- 
solutely uncritical,  even  as  a  critic,  of 
the  work  of  intimate  friends  like  Rob- 
ert Frost  and  Carl  Sandburg.  Thus, 
also,  one  finds  him,  in  spite  of  the 
abandon  and  more-than-suggested  in- 
fidelities in  "The  New  Adam",  a 
fiercely  monogamous  husband,  a  pos- 
sessive householder,  a  traditionally 
Hebraic  parent. 

His  critical  attitude  leans  heavily  on 
the  following  terms :  banal,  glib,  tech- 
niqvs,  derivative,  racy,  indubitably, 
authentic,  illuminating,  acerbid,  exal- 
tation (usually  as  opposed  to  exvlta- 
tion),  physical  (often  accompanied  by 
as  well  as  metaphysical),  fulgent,  in- 
hibited, and  neurotic.  His  poetry, 
when  it  is  most  his  own,  seems  to  be 
ringing  the  changes  on  such  favorite 
words  as:  urge,  flesh,  red,  triumph, 
fuse,  wave,  surge,  fires,  stark,  rushing, 
energy,  and  abandon. 

He  suffered  from  catarrh  for  several 
years,  but  after  an  incision  of  the 
nasal  septum,  now  breathes  without 
difficulty.  He  has  never  had  a  day's 
illness  since  he  contracted  chicken-pox 
at  the  age  of  five,  hence  his  "Chal- 
lenge" poetry,  obviously  influenced  by 
Henley,  is  insufferably  bouncing  and 
muscular.  However,  he  complains  oc- 
casionally of  seborrhea. 

In  the  business  world,  which  he  en- 
tered at  seventeen,  he  is  known  both 
as  a  designer  and  a  manufacturing 
jeweler  with  radical  tendencies.  This 
is  because  he  has  espoused  the  cause 
of  labor,  is  one  of  the  contributing 
editors  of  "The  Liberator",  was  con- 
nected with  the  trial  of  "The  Masses" 
in  1918,  and  was  one  of  the  first  manu- 
facturers to  come  out  for  the  forty- 
four  hour  week, .  closing  his  factory 



(in  Newark,  New  Jersey)  all  day  on 
Saturdays.  What  puzzles  his  fellow 
manufacturers  is  the  fact  that  his  "so- 
cialistic ideas"  seem  to  have  been 
not  only  pleasurable  to  him  but  profit- 
able to  his  partners. 

He  takes  a  perverse  pleasure  in  pos- 
ing, especially  when  he  is  among  lit- 
erary persons,  as  a  satisfied  merchant, 
a  member  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  a 
capitalist,  a  lowbrow.  Yet  he  regards 
the  manufacturing  of  jewelry  as  a 
parasitic  and  essentially  immoral 
trade,  and,  I  have  it  on  fair  authority, 
is  making  plans  to  resign  from  his 
firm  within  a  year.  He  hopes,  he  says, 
to  retire  to  some  farm  in  Connecticut, 
study  for  two  years,  travel  for  three 
more,  and  then  settle  down  as — God 
save  the  mark! — a  lecturer  in  some 
lesser  university. 

He  has  a  sprawling,  hodgepodge  li- 
brary of  thirty-five  hundred  books  con- 
taining most  of  the  dramas  and  prac- 
tically all  the  representative  poetry 
since  1890.  It  also  contains  two 
shelves  which  he  calls  his  Chamber  of 
Horrors.  Some  day  he  intends  to  use 
this  material  in  an  anthology  to  be  en- 
titled 'The  World's  Worst  Poetry". 
He  expects  to  insert,  among  verbal 
atrocities  by  James  Byron  Elmore 
(''the  Bard  of  the  Alamo"),  Julia 
Moore  (Mark  Twain's  "Sweet  Singer 
of  Michigan"),  J.  Gordon  Coogler,  and 
other  queer  fowl,  some  of  the  gaudiest 
banalities  of  Cale  Young  Rice,  Robert 
W.  Service,  and  George  Edward  Wood- 

He  is  fond  of  books  as  books,  but  he 
is  no  bibliophile.  The  only  first  edi- 
tions he  ever  collected  were  those  of 
H.  G.  Wells,  D.  H.  Lawrence,  and  (at 
twenty-one)  Richard  Le  Gallienne. 
He  will  sell  the  last  at  less  than  cost. 
His  only  prized  possessions  are  a  first 
edition  of  "The  Tinker's  Wedding" 

sent  to  him  and  autographed  by  J.  M. 
Synge  (he  claims  to  have  written  the 
first  American  review  of  Synge's 
work),  a  manuscript  notebook  of  un- 
published poems  by  Siegfried  Sassoon, 
and  a  Bible  sent  to  him  by  H.  L. 
Mencken  which  bears  the  legend 
"Property  of  the  Hotel  Astor"  on  the 
cover  and  is  inscribed  on  the  title- 
page:  "To  Louis  Untermeyer,  with 
the  compliments  of  The  Author". 

He  always  eats  too  much  and  never 
has  indigestion. 

He  is  continually  harping  on  "indi- 
viduality", he  derides  "influences"; 
yet  he  is  vastly  tickled  when  anyone 
compares  him  to  Heine. 

He  is  a  Jew  by  birth  and  by  prefer- 
ence, yet  some  of  his  best  friends  are 

He  has  published  a  dozen  assorted 
volumes  of  prose  and  verse.  Yet  one 
of  them  has  never  been  offered  for  sale 
in  any  book  store.  It  appeared  in 
1917,  a  pamphlet  of  forty  pages  with 
illustrations,  and  was  distributed 
anonymously.  It  was  called  "The 
Wedding  Ring".  It  does  not  appear  in 
any  list  of  his  works. 

He  likes  to  think  of  himself  as  a 
sardonic  and  even  silent  person;  and 
yet  he  is  effervescent  to  the  point  of 
continually  bubbling  over  nothing. 
Once  started  on  an  enthusiasm,  he  will 
talk  at  any  opportunity  to  any  audi- 
ence for  any  length  of  time. 

A  most  aggravating  and  unreasona* 
ble  combination.  A  poet,  yet  a  prac^ 
tical  business  man;  a  passionate 
propagandist,  yet  a  critic  without  any 
axes  to  grind;  a  reviewer  who  has 
made  dozens  of  enemies,  yet  an  anthol- 
ogist with  little  prejudice  or  partisan- 
ship.... A  creature  mythical,  fantas- 
tic, incredible — ^but  nevertheless  very 
much  alive. 


There  i»  no  pleature  in  hard  namea  for  flowera. 

Nor  in  acquaintance  with  their  inner  shape. 

To  raviah  Beauty  uHth  dividing  powers 

It  to  let  ewquisite  eatencet  eaoape. 

At  feaata  vHthin  a  flowery  paradiae 

Parvenu  Wit  muat  yield  hia  precedence, 

Honoura  therein  are  for  the  noae  and  epea. 

For  that  old  Exquiaite,  diaceming  Senae. 

— from  "The  Contemplative  Quarry  and  The  Man  with  a  Hammer"  by 
Anna  Wickham 

ACCORDING  to  Miss  Wickham's  en- 
^  tertaining  verses,  we  should  be 
able  to  smell  the  quality  of  a  book. 
One  whiff  of  the  binding,  and  the  un- 
erring nostrils  of  the  good  critic  will 
have  sensed  its  worth,  its  mediocrity, 
or  its  failure.  What,  then,  of  pub- 
lishers' catalogues  ?  What  superhuman 
intuition  can  penetrate  the  weighty 
enthusiasm  of  the  hired  blurb-writer? 
Can  one  tell,  for  example,  that  a  cer- 
tain book  announced  for  the  fall  by  a 
reputable  publisher  as  a  serious  and 
penetrating  study  of  the  war  genera- 
tion, is  no  more  than  a  weakly  written 
collection  of  melodramatic  claptrap? 
Doubtless  to  be  enjoyed  by  a  certain 
public  as  8v>ch.  Perhaps  it  is  this  book 
that  has  made  me  ill-tempered  today. 
I  shouldn't  have  minded  reading  ad- 
vance proofs  of  it,  if  it  had  been  called 
by  its  proper  name;  but  whose  nos- 
trils would  not  resent,  when  a  rose  has 
been  promised,  the  substitution  of  a 
skunk  cabbage? 

However,  there  is  a  long  winter  be- 
fore us,  and  open  fires  in  front  of 
which  to  read,  or  even  hall  bedrooms 
and  ruinous  gasbumers  under  which 
to  strain  our  eyes.  We  must  have 
books,  and  the  fall  gives  us  an  un- 
usually ripe  list  from  which  to  chose ; 
for  difficulties  with  the  binders  in  the 
spring  brought  many  titles  to  a  mid- 
summer or  early  autumn  publication 

and  multiplied  the  influx  of  volumes 
to  the  reviewer's  desk  by  a  generous 
percentage.  Which  shall  they  be,  then, 
these  volumes  to  give  our  friends  or  to 
tuck  away  on  our  own  shelves?  I  can 
mention  only  a  title  here  and  there; 
for  everyone  is  publishing  a  book  this 
fall.  Everyone  from  the  spread-adver- 
tised Dells,  Stratton-Porters,  Harold 
Bell  Wrights,  Curwoods,  Norrises, 
Kynes,  and  Connors,  to  the  collected 
Edward  Arlington  Robinson.  Ever  so 
lightly,  then,  must  I  touch,  with  an 
eye  to  the  spots  that  seem  high  to  me. 
What  novels  to  read  first?  Perhaps 
for  an  evening  of  romance,  that  gay 
and  colorful  yam  of  Donn  Byrne's, 
"Messer  Marco  Polo".  For  amuse- 
ment. May  Sinclair  in  a  mood  of  fool- 
ing, with  her  "Mr.  Waddington  of 
Wyck",  and  Ring  Lardner's  "The  Big 
Town".  I've  read  advance  proofs  of 
"Ten  Hours",  an  exquisitely  written 
short  novel  by  Constance  I.  Smith,  a 
newcomer  from  England.  It  is  a  com- 
bination of  the  best  in  "Nocturne"  and 
"Miss  Lulu  Bett",  with  a  new  twist 
that  is  distinctly  Miss  Smith's.  Then 
there  is  "Beggar's  Gold",  because  Er- 
nest Poole  is  still  strong  in  our  affec- 
tions for  "The  Harbor",  and  Sher- 
wood Anderson's  "The  Triumph  of  the 
Egg".  For  youth  and  impudence  we'll 
choose  what  they  say  is  a  most  un- 
usual first  novel  by  an  American  young 




man  writing  with  a  Paris  background, 
Edward  Alden  Jewell's  "The  Charmed 
Circle".  Ben  Hecht's  brilliant  per- 
formance, "Erik  Dom",  John  Dos 
Passos's  superb  "Three  Soldiers",  and 
Joseph  Anthony's  "The  Gang":  three 
powerful,  if  provocative  novels  by 
young  Americans  that  will  cause  much 
discussion  and,  any  one  of  them,  may 
be  seen  on  the  important  lists  of  the 
coming  year. 

These,  perhaps,  I  should  choose 
first,  but  there  are  many  others !  Rose 
Macaulay  gives  us  a  better  book  than 
"Potterism"  in  "Dangerous  Ages". 
Women,  particularly,  will  like  it,  and 
discuss  it.  A  satire  on  psychoanalysis, 
more  amusing  than  penetrating;  but 
extremely  good  reading.  There  is 
"Privilege"  by  an  Englishman,  Michael 
Sadleir,  which  is  a  leisurely  story  of 
the  decadence  of  a  powerful  English 
family.  There  are  two  Walpoles,  two 
Cabells,  and  two  Maughams  (due  to 
the  crowding  of  spring  lists  on  fall), 
a  Snaith,  a  D.  H.  Lawrence,  a  Bojer,  a 
Galsworthy,  a  W.  L.  George,  a  Sheila 
Kaye-Smith,  de  la  Mare's  prose  "Me- 
moirs of  a  Midget",  and  "The  Briary- 
Bush",  sequel  to  Floyd  Dell's  "Moon- 

Both  Henry  Sydnor  Harrison  and 
Jeffery  Famol  are  among  us  again 
after  fairly  long  silences,  Famol  with 
a  swinging  romance  of  the  high  seas, 
"Martin  Conisby's  Vengeance".  A 
young  editor  of  the  New  York 
"Globe",  Robert  L.  Duffus,  has  a  first 
novel,  the  title  of  which  we  once  an- 
nounced incorrectly.  It  is  now  called 
"Roads  Going  South",  and  is  said  to 
be  of  a  very  unusual  character. 

The  Ben^t  brothers  both  have  novels 
appearing.  Stephen  Vincent  Ben^t's 
"The  Beginning  of  Wisdom"  is  proba- 
bly obtainable  by  now  and  William 
Rose  Ben^t's  'The  First  Person  Singu- 
lar" follows  later  in  the  season.  Their 
sister  Laura,  by  the  way,  is  appearing 

simultaneously,  with  "Fairy  Bread",  a 
volume  of  lyrics.  An  astonishing  fam- 
ily. Almost  as  astonishing  as  the  Ter- 
hunes.  I  can  see  that  I've  failed  to 
mention  many  of  the  most  important 
names,  such  as  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs 
and  Magdeleine  Marx  (how  I  wish 
that  the  authors  of  the  Tarzan  books 
and  of  "Woman"  would  do  a  combinar 
tion  story),  Edna  Ferber,  Samuel 
Hopkins  Adams,  Hamlin  Garland, 
Phyllis  Bottome,  Dorothy  Richardson, 
Dana  Burnet,  the  Burts  (husband  and 
wife),  the  Norrises  (husband  and 
wife),  Archibald  Marshall,  Nex5,  Mrs. 
Rinehart,  and  Alice  Duer  Miller. 

How  valuable  it  may  prove  from  a 
literary  standpoint  one  might  hesitate 
to  say,  but  John  Addington  Symonds's 
daughter  Margaret  has  written  a 
story,  "A  Child  of  the  Alps";  the  wife 
of  Senator  Keyes  of  New  Hampshire 
gives  us  "The  Career  of  David  Noble"; 
and  Margot  Asquith's  extremely  bril- 
liant daughter,  the  Princess  Bibesco, 
is  to  publish  a  collection  of  short 

Christopher  Morley  has  collected 
and  introduced  a  group  of  modem  es- 
says. There  will  be,  too,  his  own 
"Plum  Pudding"  and,  incidentally,  a 
collected  edition  of  his  poems.  But  of 
all  the  essays,  the  three  that  most 
appeal  to  me  are  Logan  Pearsall 
Smith's  "More  Trivia",  H.  M.  Tomlin- 
son's  "London  River",  and  William 
McFee's  "Harbours  of  Memory". 
Among  the  American  more-or-less  fol- 
lowers in  the  path  of  Elia,  there  are 
HoUiday,  Benchley,  and  Broun,  while 
for  broader  humor  you  can  choose 
from  Clarence  Day,  Jr.,  Irvin  Cobb, 
Margaret  Breuning,  or  Donald  Ogden 
Stewart.  "A  Magnificent  Farce,  and 
Other  Diversions  of  a  Book-Collector" 
by  A.  Edward  Newton,  and  "Silhou- 
ettes of  My  Contemporaries"  by  Ly- 
man Abbott  are  two  volumes  that 
should  be  valuable  and  companionable. 



Milne,  Hudson,  Beerbohm,  and  Lucas 
are  all  present  with  books  of  varying 
slimness,  while  H.  W.  Nevinson  de- 
parts from  usual  paths  to  discuss 
''Life,  War  and  the  Muses''.  For  the 
younger  generation  in  America,  Bur- 
ton Rascoe  and  Harold  Steams  speak 
plainly,  and  'Tanfare"  and  ''America 
and  the  Young  Intellectual"  will  prob- 
ably be  much  discussed. 

Harry  Franck's  "Working  North 
from  Patagonia",  and  "Fairy  Lands  of 
the  South  Seas",  the  Hall-Nordhoff  es- 
says that  have  been  appearing  in  "The 
Atlantic  Monthly",  and  William 
Beebe's  "Edge  of  the  Jungle"  are  per- 
haps the  outstanding  travel  books, 
though  "Fountains  in  the  Sand"  and 
"Old  Calabria",  if  they  have  even  half 
the  charm  of  Norman  Douglas's 
novels,  should  be  read.  Then  Ralph 
Stock's  "The  Dream  Ship"  sounds  fas- 
cinating: a  cruise  over  the  globe  in  a 
small  boat  with  adventures  by  the 
way.  Sydney  Greenbie  and  his  wife 
Marjorie  Barstow  have  written  inde- 
pendently: the  husband,  "The  Pacific 
Triangle",  the  lady,  "In  the  Eyes  of 
the  East".  One  notes  that  they  have 
different  publishers.  Curious  or  natu- 
ral? William  L.  Stidger,  Lewis  R. 
Freeman,  Julian  Street,  known  in 
other  fields,  are  represented  this  fall 
by  travel:  then,  of  course,  we  should 
not  forget  the  burlesque  Captain 
Traprock  book  interpreted  by  George 
S.  Chappell.  For  literary  fooling  few 
performances  have  equaled  "The 
Cruise  of  the  Kawa". 

In  picking  from  among  the  general 
titles,  there  are  so  many  varying  in- 
terests to  remember  that  I'm  forced  to 
rely  on  my  own.  Perhaps  the  most  in- 
teresting title  is  "Civilization  in  the 
United  States.  An  Inquiry  by  Thirty 
Americans".  This  is  to  be  an  attempt 
at  a  broad  criticism  of  America  in  the 
manner  of  the  eighteenth  century  en- 
cyclopsedists.    Among  the  contributors 

are  such  persons  as  H.  L.  Mencken, 
Van  Wyck  Brooks,  Katharine  An- 
thony, Robert  Morss  Lovett,  and  Har- 
old Stearns.  Another  collection  of 
opinion  is  to  be  "American  Indian 
Life"  edited  by  Elsie  Clews  Parsons. 
H.  T.  Parker's  musical  reminiscences 
and  portraits  are  to  be  called  "Eighth 
Notes".  For  music  lovers,  too,  is  Rol- 
land's  "Musical  Journey  to  the  Coun- 
try of  the  Past". 

Most  of  us  know  Wallace  Nutting's 
delightful  colored  photographs  with 
their  old  colonial  atmosphere.  His 
"Furniture  of  the  Pilgrim  Century" 
should  be  interesting.  Every  chess 
fan  (and  how  many  there  are!)  will 
want  Capablanca's  "Chess  Fundamen- 
tals" and  every  aspiring  writer  will 
think  that  he  wants  Jean  Wick's  com- 
pilation of  opinion  from  various  edi- 
tors called,  "The  Stories  Editors  Buy 
and  Why".  For  those  who  are  inter- 
ested in  the  intimacies  of  great  lives 
there  are  the  Nietzsche-Wagner  cor- 
respondence introduced  by  Mr. 
Mencken  and  the  George  Sand-Flau- 
bert correspondence  introduced  by 
Mr.  Sherman.  The  ambitious  pub- 
lisher apparently  believes  in  the  op- 
posite poles  of  literary  criticism. 

If  the  season  brings  forth  as  many 
poor  plays  in  book  form  as  it  already 
has  on  Broadway,  we  shall  have  a  sad 
lot  indeed;  but  there  are  some  inter- 
esting promises.  A  third  volume  of 
adaptations  from  Stuart  Walker's 
"Portmanteau  Theatre",  edited  by  Ed- 
ward Hale  Bierstadt,  is  forthcoming. 
James  Branch  Cabell's  first  play,  given 
a  production  last  winter  in  Richmond, 
is  called  "The  Jewel  Merchants". 
Montrose  J.  Moses  has  made  a  collec- 
tion which  has  long  been  wanted  and 
should  prove  most  useful,  i.e.  "A 
Treasury  of  Plays  for  Children". 
There  will  be  Sidney  Howard's  free 
verse  play  "Swords",  Zona  Gale's  prize 
play  "Miss  Lulu  Bett",  with  both  her 



ori^rinal  and  her  "Broadway"  endings, 
John  Drinkwater's  "Oliver  Cromwell", 
and  Kenneth  MacGowan's  elaborate 
volume  on  the  drama,  to  be  known  as 
"The  Theatre  of  To-Morrow*'. 

It  is  a  courageous  season  for  poetry. 
Why  is  it  that  more  people  do  not  buy 
verse?  If  everyone  who  talked  about 
verses  bought  them,  we  would  have  a 
public  for  our  poets.  As  it  is,  I  can 
think  of  no  adequate  praise  for  what 
is  comparatively  a  handful  of  folk  who 
support  the  publication  of  verse.  If 
two  thousand  people  were  to  buy  six 
volumes  of  good  poetry  a  year,  the 
publishers  of  those  six  volumes  would 
think  that  a  millennium  had  arrived. 
What  a  state  of  poetic  affairs!  Per- 
haps it  is  because  poets  are  meek  and 
do  not  know  how  to  assert  themselves. 
However,  this  fall,  we  are  to  have,  ap- 
parently, many  volumes  from  well- 
known  poets:  Margaret  Widdemer's 
"Cross  Currents"  (she  has  published 
also  a  novel,  "The  Year  of  Delight"), 
John  Masefield's  "King  Cole",  a  legend 
of  old  England  with  plenty  of  plum 
pudding  atmosphere.  Masters,  and 
Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse,  Robert  Graves, 
and  Padraic  Colum.  There  will  be  the 
Chinese  translations  by  Mrs.  Ays- 
cough  and  Miss  Lowell,  Elinor  Wylie's 
first  volume,  "Nets  to  Catch  the 
Wind",  a  new  volume  by  Walter  de  la 
Mare,  one  by  the  imagist  "H.  D.",  and 
"The  Fifth  Book  of  Horace",  an  amus- 
ing satire  by  Rudyard  Kipling  and — 
Graves.  Zona  Gale  ventures  into  this 
field  with  "The  Secret  Way".  Mrs. 
Untermeyer  and  her  husband  both 
have  volumes  in  "Dreams  Out  of  Dark- 
ness" and  the  new  edition  of  "Modem 
American  Poetry^'.  From  the  recruits 
of  the  Chicago  "Daily  News"  come 
two  volumes — Keith  Preston's  "Splin- 
ters" and  Tubman  K.  Hedrick's  "Ori- 
entations of  Ho-Hen".  We  very  nearly 
forgot  Don  Marquis,  who  has  two  and 

perhaps  more  volumes  (one  of  short 
stories)  included  in  the  lists. 

Children's  Book  Week  is  approach- 
ing. The  spring  lists  were  woefully 
lacking  in  titles  for  the  young  people. 
The  fall  brings  forth  many.  I  can 
mention  only  a  few,  and  those  from  a 
sense  of  titles  rather  than  from  a 
knowledge  of  the  books.  Annie  Car- 
roll Moore,  however,  will  discuss  the 
complete  juvenile  list  in  our  Novem- 
ber number.  For  illustrated  books 
there  is  Grordon  Ross's  "Baron  Mun- 
chausen" and  Wyeth's  "Rip  Van 
Winkle"  and  "The  Andersen  Fairy 
Book"  and  a  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin 
abridgment  of  "Scottish  Chiefs".  Jes- 
sie Willcox  Smith  has  illustrated 
George  MacDonald's  "The  Princess 
and  Curdie".  Padraic  Colum  is  al- 
ways delightful,  and  "The  Children 
Who  Followed  the  Piper"  sounds  en- 
tertaining. "The  Royal  Book  of  Oz" 
is  edited  from  material  left  by  Mr. 
Baum.  For  boys  there  are  "Daring 
Deeds  of  Polar  Explorers"  and  "The 
Book  of  Cowboys",  "The  Boys'  Book 
of  Model  Aeroplanes"  and  wild  animal 
tales  by  Mortimer  H.  Batten.  For  girls 
there  are  Abbie  Farwell  Brown's 
"Round  Robin",  Eliza  Ome  White's 
"Peggy  in  Her  Blue  Frock",  and  sev- 
eral titles  by  Olive  Roberts  Barton.  I 
always  like  titles  like  "An  Argosy  of 
Fables"  or  "A  Treasury  of  Indian 
Tales",  and  if  it  hasn't  too  much  of 
the  moral  tone,  "Good  Stories  for 
Great  Birthdays"  might  be  entertain- 

There  seems  to  be  no  autobiography 
about  to  appear  that  is  likely  to  sup- 
plant Asquith  and  Bok  in  popularity. 
Perhaps  that  is  why  a  new  and  cheaper 
edition  of  the  latter  has  just  been  is- 
sued. Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt's  Diaries 
are  announced.  These  should  be  fas- 
cinating reading  but  may  not  reach 
a  wide  audience.  James  L.  Ford's 
"Forty   Odd  Years   in  the   Literary 



Shop"  will  contain  a  rich  store  of 
reminiscence  from  the  former  critic  of 
the  New  York  "Herald".  A  nice  con- 
trast is  that  between  Moltke's  auto- 
biography and  that  of  young  Stephen 
McKenna  whose  memoirs,  while  doubt- 
less colored  with  action,  do  not  cover 
a  full  period  of  years.  Then,  too,  we 
will  have  "The  Notebook  of  Anton 
Chekhov".  For  biography,  James 
Monroe,  Roosevelt  (by  his  sister), 
John  Burroughs,  Jack  London  (by  his 
wife),  Herman  Melville,  Whistler,  Ro- 
main  Rolland,  Louise  Imogen  Guiney. 
These  are  only  a  few,  and  possibly 
Gamaliel  Bradford's  "American  Por- 

traits" should  come  under  this  head- 

For  those  who  are  entering  on  the 
state  of  matrimony  is  "The  Small 
House"  by  Ernest  Flagg;  for  those 
already  married  and  others,  Frederick 
Pahner's  "Can  We  Stop  War?".  But 
as  I  look  at  this  huge  pile  of  catalogues 
before  me,  and  the  growing  pile  of 
books  on  my  desk  carefully  marked, 
"To  be  read  by  J.  F.",  I  sigh  and  wish 
you  a  most  pleasant  round  of  winter 
reading  and  turn,  with  a  feeling  of  ap- 
proaching insanity,  to  study  Dr.  Brill's 
new  book  on  psychoanalysis. 

Selected  by  Carl  Sandburg 

(July,  1921) 


Jatt  the  clanking  of  awitcli  engines  down  by 
the  station. 
Just  the  qnivering  hnm  of  a  truck  far  away, 
Jnst  the  murmnr  of  faU  and  the  soft  respira- 
Of  the  breezes  this  Sunday,  this  indolent  day, 

Jnst  the  branches  above  me  caressing  and  kiss- 
(And  a  lad  out  in  front  of  me  batting  up  flies 
While  two  others  are  running  to  catch  them 
and  missing. 
Then  are  smoothing  their  hair  and  arranging 
their  ties) 

Jnst  a  cloud  or  a  twist  of  white  smoke  that  is 
Past  the  squares  of  brick  houses  mapped  on 
the  hills, 
Jnst  the  lid  of  black  smoke  hanging  low,  never 
From  that  Talley  of  tracks  and  disconsolate 

Just  the  blue  cigarette  smoke  perfuming  my 
That  is  gray  when  it  floats  from  my  nostrils 
or  lips, 
Jnst  a  fancy  or  longing  or  something  that 
In  my  thoughts  into  which  a  regretfulness 



Nothing  else;    nothing  busy;    no  people  come 
One  who  loyes  to  stretch  ont  with  the  sun 
on  his  cheek 
In  a  world  all  his  own  on   his  own   Sunday 
Which  Is  his  in  return  for  the  rest  of  his 

Keene  Wallis 
— The  Liberator 


Gee !   But  I  wanted  to  grow  up. 

I  wanted  to  put  on  longies 

And  smoke  cigars 

And  be  a  man. 

With  a  pay-day  on  Saturday. 

I  wanted  to  grow  up 

And  have  somebody  to  buy  sodas  for, 

And  take  to  the  circus 

Once  in  a  while. 


The  Martha-in-me  filled  her  days 
With  tasks  devoid  of  joy  and  praise : 
She  polished  well  the  furniture ; 
She  made  the  locks  and  bolts  secure; 
She  trimmed  the  lamps  with  barren  ease; 
She  rubbed  the  ivory  of  the  keys ; 
She  made  the  windows  shine  and  glow ; 
She  washed  the  linen  fair  as  snow. 

The  Mary-in-me  did  not  stay 

At  home,  as  Martha  did,  each  day : 

She  held  aloof  like  some  wild  bird 

Whose  music  is  but  seidom  heard. 

My  Martha  felt  a  litUe  shy 

Of  Mary  as  she  passed  her  by, 

And  one  day  hid  the  cloth  and  broom 

With  which  she  garnishes  my  room. 

When  Mary  saw,  she  paused  and  pressed 

A  hand  of  Martha  to  her  breast. 

And  whispered,  "We  must  learn  to  do 

Our  labors  side  by  side,  we  two." 

So  have  the  sisters  found  delight 

In  doing  fireside  tasks  aright : 

Together  they  have  come  to  see 

The  meaning  in  mahogany. 

Which  now  they  rub  that  there  may  pass 

A  pageant  in  its  looking-glass ; 

They  shine  the  windows  that  the  bloom 

Of  earth  be  brought  within  my  room ; 

The  lamps  are  gladly  filled  and  trimmed. 

And  virgin  wisdom  goes  undimmed ; 

They  polish  the  piano  keys 

In  readiness  for  harmonies ; 

In  bolting  doors  they've  learned  as  well 

To  throw  them  wide  for  heaven  and  hell, 

That  all  who  will  may  enter  there 

To  be  the  guests  of  grace  and  prayer. 

Mary  and  Martha  in  sisterhood 

Dwell  in  me  as  sisters  should ; 

They  fashion  a  garment  and  kiss  its  hem, 

And  my  house  is  in  order  because  of  them. 

Louise  Ayres  Oamett 
— The  Outlook 

We  all  did,  then  : 

Pat,  who  could  throw  any  kid  in  town, 

And  Don,  who  went  to  the  Advent  church, 

And  said  the  world  was  coming  to  an  end 

In  Nineteen  hundred. 

And  Brick  Top  and  Eppie  and  Skin  and  Spider. 

We  all  wanted  to  grow  up 

And  become  pirates  and  millionaires  and 

Soldiers  and  Presidents  and 

Owners  of  candy  stores. 

And  all  the  time  we  were  eating  home-cooking 

And  wearing  holes  in  our  pants. 

And  talking  Hog-Latin 

And  doing  what  two  fingers  in  the  air 

Stood  for ; 

And  saving  stamps 

And  making  things  we  read  about 

In  The  Boys'  World. 

Do  you  know  how  to  play  mumble-de-peg. 

And  skim  rocks 

And  tread  water. 

And  skin  the  cat? 

Do  you  know  what  a  stick  on  the  shoulder 

stands  for 
And     what     "Comggerry     wiggery     meggery*' 

means  ? 

Skin  is  running  a  wheat  farm,  now, 

Up  in  North  Dakota. 

Pat's  on  the  road 

Selling  something  or  other. 

Brick  Top  never  grew  up,  quite. 

And  was  making  darts  for  a  kid  of  his  own 

When  I  saw  him  last. 

And  Spider  is  yelling  his  head  off 

About  Socialism  and  the  class  struggle 

On  street  corners. 

Don  was  with  the  Rainbow  Division  when  the 
world  ended. 

Yesterday  I  heard  a  little  freckle-face 

Whistle  through  his  fingers 

And  tell  a  feller  called  Curley 

What  he  was  going  to  do  when  he  grew  up. 

— Boeh  liland  (lU.)  Argu§ 

Editor's  Note. — Bach  month  Thi  Bookuan  will  select  a  group  of  poeme  from  the  American 
periodicals.  These  will  he  submitted  to  a  prominent  poet  or  oritio  who  wiU  choose  from  them 
**The  Poems  of  the  Month",  though  he  wUl  he  free  to  add  any  others  he  may  prefer.  Jessie  B. 
Rittenhouse  win  act  <m  arbiter  for  November  and  December.  The  complete  list  of  poems  selected 
will  be  found  in  the  €H>ssip  Shop. 





You  must  have  shocked  your  father  when  you 

Club-footed,  pimpled.     Twas  for  him  as  when 
A  gardener  finds  a  crooked  root  to  tend ; 
He  feared  the  flower  would  stink  and  bring  him 

He  did  not  want  your  morals  to  be  lame 
At  least.     It  was  the  same  old  thing  again . . . 
Revolt  has  always  claimed  the  best  in  men 
And    so    you    cried,    **God    damn    the    family 


And  yet  how  sad  a  thing  it  was  for  France. . . 
Yon   spent  Just  half  your   strength   to   make 

France  free 
And  half  in  Jail  through  women  and  the  dance. 
And  at  the  cry,  'To  arms  !*'  yon  did  but  see 
A  dearer  challenge  In  a  haughty  glance, 
Behind  the  throne  the  lips  of  Queen  Marie. 


Tou  taught  more  economics  than  a  tome 
Contains,  you  women  marching  on  Versailles. 
Tou  were  not  there  to  save  a  world,  or  try. 
Tour  theory  was  the  simple  monochrome 
Of  hunger,  black  as  crusts  you  ate  at  home. 
And  either  you  or  Louis  had  to  die. 
That  simpler  thinker  only  blinked  his  eye 
Like  Nero  fiddling  in  the  fiames  of  Rome. 

And   you,   Theroigne,    there   where   none   had 

Led  forth  a  Reason  :    Women  crying,  "Bread,'* 
Plain  women  in  the  rain  before  a  throne. 
Assemblies  talked;    you  knew  not  what  they 

Tou  taught  us  there  that  hunger  is  the  stone 
We  bear  or  hurl  till  we  or  kings  fall  dead. 


Immortal  madcap  of  those  thronging  days, 
We'll  say  with  Mirabeau,  "Dear  boy  CamiUe." 
Tou  wrote  Touth's  name  on  Paris ;   bitter  steel 
Tou  slashed  with,  laughing  suicidal  praise. 
Inconstant  heart,  so  many  feared  your  gaze ! 
Although  sometimes  across  your  page  a  peal 
Of  bells  rang  out,  their  terror  did  not  heal ; 
They  thought  Medusa  sang  the  Marseillaise. 

Revolt  is  endless ;   children  press  the  strife. 
And  I,  here,  hold  the  pen  you  threw  away. 
Success,  Camllle,  is  measured  life  by  life ; 
A  man,  but  not  the  race,  may  fail  his  day. 
May  I  succeed  as  you,  that  loved  a  wife 
And  rang  the  tocsin  of  the  Cordeliers ! 

Stirling  Bowen 
— The  Measure 


Did  you  ever  notice 
How  many  songs 
The  rain  knows? 

One  night 

It  sang  on  our  umbrella 
Like  the  kisses 
Soon  to  be  born  : 
"Honey -dear, 
/  did  this  for  you 
So  you  could  press  close  to  him. 
Look  in  his  eyes. 
If  you  dare. 
Honey-dear !" 
Oh,  I  loved  its  song  that  night! 

But  now  it  tantalizes  me 

With  sharp-glinting  words. 
"Ah",  it  sparkles, 
"A  little  sUk  umbrella 

Is  the  bitter  symbol 

Of  women  who  know 

No  big  black  cotton  ones 

To  snuggle  under." 

Did  yon  ever  notice 
That  the  rain 
Can  be  merciless? 

Margery  Lee 
— Live  Storica 


Into  the  valleys  I  flee,  into  the  shadows ; 

But  there  is  no  peace,  no  sanctuary. 

The  hills,  like  elephants. 

Shoulder  noiseless  through  the  clouds 

And  close  in  on  me. 

Where  shall  I  hide  from  the  tread  of  their  feet  ? 

I  have  overset  the  gods  in  the  temples,  and 
there  is  none  to  protect  me — 

The  little  gods  of  Jade  with  staring  eyes. 

The  great  gold  and  black  gods  with  foolish 

Tell  me,  little  gods  of  the  North  and  East,  and 

of  the  South  and  West. 
How  long  shall  my  bones  wait,  lying  on  these 

To  become  as  white  as  the  broken  plaster 
Of  the  images  in  the  temple? 
Tell  me,  true  gods. 
Speak  a  swift  word ! — 
For  the  clouds  descend  In  a  hot  white  mist  of 

And  through  them  stamp  the  elephants. . . 
The  terrible  elephants. . . 
Trumpeting. . . 

Jofcphine  Pinclcncy 
— Poetry 

Extracts  from  the  Novel  by  Stephen  Vincent  Ben6t 




r[E  big  blue  scrapbook  with  the 
staring  white  F,  large  as  a  foot- 
ball letter,  glued  on  to  the  cover  that 
Philip  bought  with  such  innocence  and 
pride  his  third  day  at  Yale  and  care- 
fully left  behind  under  a  dead  straw 
hat  as  a  pitiful  sop  for  his  untipped 
janitor  at  the  end  of  his  freshman 
year,  contained  only  two  clippings  at 
its  fattest.  One  was  the  ''News''  ac- 
count of  the  Freshman  Rush  and  the 
other  a  thickly  underlined  Schedule  of 
Courses.  And  Philip  was  not  of  the 
species  that  snapshots  hangdog  and 
consciously  affectionate  groups  on  the 
Senior  Fence  or  treasures  lightstruck 
films  of  forgotten  baseball  games  and 
the  stone-ax  jests  of  fraternity  ''run- 
ning*'  to  delight  the  hearts  of  Class 
Book  editors  and  mortify  the  friends 
thus  permanently  satirized  past  all 
swearing.  So  to  him  the  recollection 
of  the  rapid,  rich  four  years  was  like 
runmiaging  a  sea-chest  stowed  away 
in  an  old  attic — everything  higgledy- 
piggledy,  anyhow,  and  comfortable — 
ivory  monkeys  jostling  worn  brass 
sword-hilts,  yellow  love  letters  stuck 
away  in  a  sprigged  silk  waistcoat,  a 
white  beaver  hat  full  of  rose-shells  and 
elephant-chessmen  and  Chinese  cash. 
And  the  attic  smells  of  tar  and  old 
leather  and  honeysuckle — May  morn- 
ing drifts  through  the  windows — ^the 

air  is  as  light  and  heady  as  white 
French  wine — 

So  dancingly,  so  careless  of  order, 
the  memories  crowd  on  him — ^little 
square  living  colored  pictures,  dimin- 
ished but  burning-clear,  take  form  and 
glow  on  the  white  blank  screen  of  the 

. . .  First  classes  in  Lampson  and 
Phelps ;  Al  Osborn,  a  steep  hill  of  un- 
comfortable chairs;  the  bone  in  his 
throat  when  he  is  called  on  to  rise  and 
recite.  The  Rush — ^the  sweaty  pink 
wrestlers  fighting  in  torchlight — ^the 
weave  and  swing  of  the  snake  dance — 
rowdy  sophomores,  amused  juniors, 
cool  seniors,  hatless  and  statuesque 
like  wandering  marble  gods — all  a 
m§l£e  of  breaking  song,  processional 
lights,  and  cheers.  Early  mornings  of 
Battell  Chapel  and  its  dim  irreligious 
light  with  the  whole  sleepy  college 
congregated  together — ^his  own  class 
in  the  gallery  observing  that  strange 
new  entity,  itself,  with  drowsy  sur- 
prise and  wonderment — ^two  familiar 
faces  in  five  hundred — ^the  Jiiss  of  the 
8*8  in  the  Lord's  Prayer  as  it  Funs 
through  the  kneeling  crowd  like  wind 
through  corn — ^the  indecorous  stam- 
pede toward  the  doors  after  the  flee- 
ing President  when  the  seniors  have 
bowed  him  out,  that  the  "Record"  ir- 
reverently caricatured  as  "The  Pass* 
ing  of  Arthur". 




Then  there  were  preliminary  foot- 
ball games  watched  from  the  cramped 
hard  benches  of  Yale  Field  under  the 
cider-apple  air  and  swept  gold  sunsets 
of  October  and  early  November — ^the 
sfhiash  of  the  two  caterpillar-legged 
lines  together  like  the  impact  of  shock- 
ing pod  balls  on  green,  white-grid- 
ironed  baize,  with  the  little  live  blue 
dolls  always  breaking  through,  always 
gaining — ^lonely  backs  crouching  taut 
before  a  trick  play  with  the  single  will 
and  hard  eyes  looking  ahead  of  weath- 
ered knights  in  a  tournament  or  sea- 
men holding  on  to  a  bucking  wheel — 
Bob  Sailer,  captain  and  ail-American 
half,  the  yellow  egg  of  the  ball  cud- 
dled up  in  his  arms  like  a  baby,  in  a 
fox-footed  thirty  yard  run  through  the 
whole  Amherst  team — the  wrenched 
fierce  face  of  a  fullback,  running  back 
to  his  position  after  a  javelin-thrust 
through  tackle — ^yelped  signals, 
strangely  distinct  in  the  clear  breeze 
that  came  with  the  burnt-sienna  de- 
cline of  evening,  and  the  stilt-like 
black  H's  of  the  goalposts  flinging 
taller,  dark  shadow-capitals,  on  the 
ending  battle  that  tore  the  careful  sod 
to  dirt  and  torn  grass. 

Philip  took  long  walks  in  the  weep- 
ing month  before  Easter  when  he 
dared  consider  leaving  off  fur  gloves. 
He  splashed  about  in  unbuttoned  ga- 
loshes through  streets  and  under  skies 
that  were  glutted  with  grey  heavy 
glistening  rain.  The  sopping  walk 
crosswise  across  the  campus  from 

"Osbom,  that  weird  fantastic  dream 
in  stone 

Crouched  like  a  squatting  toad  with 
open  lip 

Or  like  a  ferry-boat,  banged,  bat- 
tered, blown 

Bumping  a  beaten  nose  into  its  slip", 
past  Connecticut,  under  the  draggled, 
brown-sugar  tower  of  Phelps  with  its 
four   green-rusty  turrets   that  clear 

night  and  a  moon  made  shine  like  sil- 
ver helms,  was  on  uneven  flags,  glint- 
ing dead-leaf  color  with  the  wet.  On 
Philip's  left  was  the  brown  New  Li- 
brary, a  square  tall  block,  flanked  on 
the  Art  School  side  by  the  squat  Chi- 
nese-parasol top  ef  Chittenden  Read- 
ing Room,  on  the  right  by  the  four 
fretted  spires  of  the  Old  Library  that 
rose  so  blackly  satisfying  against  the 
colored  dome  of  spring  sunset.  In 
May  and  early  June  the  Library  ivies 
talked;  musical  over  and  over  with 
the  soft  continual  curring  and  whistle 
of  birds.  Mushroom-shaped,  mush- 
room-colored Dwight  Hall  on  the  left 
again,  on  the  right  the  red  high  honey- 
comb line  of  Lawrence  and  Farnam, 
slantingly  ahead  the  grey  hulk  of  Bat- 
tell  Chapel  with  its  chiming,  gold- 
handed  clock — ^Miller  Gateway  and  the 
great  rocky  mass  of  Durfee.  All 
around  the  little  patch  of  soaking 
earth  and  its  trees  and  its  statues  ran 
the  Fence,  sacrosanct,  covered  with 
generations  of  initials.  At  the  end  of 
the  path  Wright  Hall  with  its  paved 
and  hollow  court  and  its  two  prim 
lions.  Young  melancholy  in  all  its 
poignant  satisfaction  Philip  had  al- 
ways from  that  three  minute  walk, 
when  the  ground  was  covered  with 
rotten  snow  or  bare,  and  the  elms 
sighing  and  leafless.  But  when  spring 
came — Connecticut  spring  as  frail  and 
intoxicatingly  green-and-gold  as  the 
limbs  of  a  Puritan  girl  turned  oread 
— or  rich  autumn  wandered  the  round 
calm  hills  and  brown  fields,  shaking 
multitudes  of  scarlet  and  tawny  leaves 
from  the  profusion  of  his  wine-stained 
reeling  cup — Philip  found  such  happi- 
ness as  is  not  given  twice.  He  tried 
to  put  it  down  in  rhymes  often  enough 
but  knew  each  word  that  came  to  him 
fainter  than  the  thing.  But  the  map 
of  the  campus  stayed  in  his  mind — 
bitten  there  as  an  etching  is  bitten 
into  a  plate.   He  could  remember  it  al- 



ways,  later,  under  every  trick  and  pul- 
sation of  shade  or  weather,  and  it  al- 
ways brought  with  it  peace  and  that 
sense  of  fed  accomplishment  that 
comes  like  sleep  after  hours  of  anni- 
hilating toil. 

Other  snapshots  were  his  to  remem- 
ber too — Book  and  Snake  tomb  under 
April  moonlight,  serene  as  the  face  of 
Pallas,  the  Greek  temple  of  a  dream — 
the  statue  of  Nathan  Hale  on  the  grass 
in  front  of  Connecticut  with  red  win- 
try sun  like  a  libation  on  bronze  shoul- 
ders, bronze  throat,  bronze  eyes — ^the 
clamor  of  Mory's  at  mealtime,  only 
needing  the  brassy  flutter  of  a  horn  or 
a  call  for  grilled  bones  to  make  it  a 
coaching  inn  like  Mr.  Weller's  where 
all  the  characters  of  Dickens  could  be 
at  home  and  drink  ale  out  of  toby- 
jugs.  Philip  had  the  romantic  eye  and 
the  wandering  mind.  They  are  price- 
less exhausting  burdens  in  a  practical 

One  more  picture — Philip  alone  in 
his  room  on  an  idling  May  afternoon. 
He  starts  to  read,  but  the  letters  stay 
letters.  Starts  to  draw,  produces 
three  witless  caricatures  in  five  min- 
utes and  scratches  them  out  disgusted- 
ly. Looks  at  his  watch,  decides  it  is 
too  early  for  the  movies  and  marches 
aimlessly  for  a  while  between  bed  and 
desk.  All  day  something  intense, 
something  nameless  has  been  working 
and  fretting  at  his  spirit  like  brewer's 
yeast.  He  wants  something,  some- 
thing tremendous  and  unnamed,  some- 
thing outside  of  himself  and  bright 
and  entire  and  huge.  The  want  has 
grown  fiercely  painful  now,  it  has 
taken  possession  of  him  completely; 
but  the  thing  desired  is  so  great  and 
so  external,  it  is  as  if  he  wished  for 
the  properties  of  the  lens  of  a  camera 
or  an  eye  to  be  able  to  shrink  the 
whole  vast  face  of  the  moon  into  a  lit- 
tle black-and-white  pitted  scene  that 
vision  and  brain  can  understand.    He 

sits  down  at  the  desk,  takes  paper  and 
pencil,  stares  at  the  wall.  It  dissolves, 
so  intently  does  he  gaze  at  it — ^wreath- 
ing bodies  and  eggs  of  smoke  appear, 
grow  clearer — out  of  the  nebulous  roll- 
ing world  in  front  of  his  thought  ap^^L 
pears  a  lit,  hard,  definite  form,  a 
woman  walking.  It  is  Isis,  queen  of 
blue  Heaven  and  the  two  Egypts ;  she 
is  hooded  in  silver  silk.  Bells  tinkle 
and  jar  as  she  walks,  a  multitude  of 
throaty  small  golden  bells.  She  stands 
before  him  motionless,  the  burning 
gems  of  her  eyes  lift  to  his  gaze,  she 
begins  to  sing.  Behind  her  the  Sphinx 
lies  down  like  a  lion  asleep  and  there 
rise  against  the  sky  the  three  stiff 
horns  of  the  Pyramids. 

Philip  drops  his  head  on  his  left 
arm,  his  hand  begins  to  make  shud- 
dering progress  across  the  paper. 
"Isis"  it  writes  and  erases,  then  "Isis 
of  the  Sands",  draws  a  line  under  it, 
hesitates  doubtfully,  but  lets  it  stand. 

"Measureless  sand . . .  interminable 
sand. . ." 

The  pencil  shakes  and  crawls,  the 
hand  moves  spiderwise,  the  letters 
form  more  carelessly. ...  If  he  can  only 
grip  and  paint  clear  what  he  sees  with 
his  eyes ! . . . 


the  Sphinx  alone 

Couched   on    her   forepaws,    like   a 

sleepy  hound 
Under  the  weight  of  a  caress  of  rock 
And  smiled  her  woman's  and  chi- 
mera's smile 
Inexorably,  drowned  with  the  savage 

The  black  tide  filled  the  heavens  up 

and  ceased. 
A  little  tonguing  flame  ran  on  the 

sand. . ." 

Isis  is  speaking  now — she  has  loosed 
the  first  of  her  veils  and  her  voice 
sways  and  floats  like  a  pennon  of 
clouded  red.    The  words  swing  into 



lines,  the  lines  inch  down  the  page, 
slow  and  cautious  at  first,  with  many 
scratched  out  or  written  over,  then 
swifter  and  more  swift,  untroubled,  an 
effortless  dancing,  a  streaming  cur- 
rent. The  daze  of  creation  makes  all 
Philip's  body  hot  while  its  passion 
lasts.  After  an  amount  of  indefinite 
time  that  has  no  division  into  min- 
utes, the  tide  crests  and  turns  to  its 
ebb,  the  writing  runs  down,  the  shapes 
disintegrate,  thin  into  wraiths,  are 
nothing.  Philip  wrestles  them  back 
before  him  with  a  rasping  effort  of 
will,  writes  four  quick  lines  in  a  strain 
like  the  last  spurt  of  a  sprinter,  re- 
laxes utterly  and  throws  the  pencil  up 
to  the  ceiling.  He  then  looks  at  his 
watch;  it  is  six  o'clock  and  he  has 
been  writing  five  hours  without  a 
break.  He  chuckles  and  shakes  him- 
self all  over  like  a  dog  coming  out  of 

water.  After  a  while  he  starts  to  re- 
read his  poem. 

Tom  Whitter,  coming  in  about 
seven,  finds  him  typing  and  cursing 
softly  as  he  types. 

"Hi,  Tom  r 

"Hi,  Phil!    Had  dinner?" 


"Why  not,  you  silly  idiot?  Do  you 
know  what  time  it  is?" 

"Sure,"  with  conscious  pride.  "I've 
been  writing." 

"Well,  you  look  pepped-out  enough. 
Come  over  and  get  a  shredded  or  some- 

"Wait  a  minute.  I've  got  one  more 
page  to  go.  Oh,  just  wait  till  I  show 
you  this,  Tom !  It's  good — I  know  if  s 
good — I  know  it's  damn  good— <lanm 
good  for  me,  any  way — oh  Tommy,  if  s 
the  best  thing  I've  ever  done  in  my 



OF  ...  "   (1913—1914) 

When  Philip  and  Tom  had  ex- 
changed the  reformatory  walls  of  Pier- 
son  for  the  stuffy  comfort  of  Durfee 
and  discovered  that  all  prints  and  pic- 
tures, however  framed  or  hung,  har- 
monized just  as  badly  with  the  weak 
arsenic-green  of  their  present  quar- 
ters as  they  had  with  the  tomato- 
bisque  plaster  of  their  former  ones, 
the  five  junior  fraternities  started  call- 
ing on  sophomores. 

The  "calling"  was  a  singular  busi- 
ness— ^much  heavy  tramping  up  and 
down  the  entry  stairs — appearance  of 
a  group  of  four  or  five  tongue-tied  or 
professionally  affable  strangers,  each 
giving  a  mumbled  name  and  a  set 
firm  handshake  as  he  entered — ghastly 
spurts  of  forced  talk  of  the  "You  fel- 
lows certainly  live  a  long  way  up!"  or 
"Pretty  nice  lot  of  pictures  you've  got 

here"  order — ^an  obviously  relieved  de- 
parture after  two  minutes  of  such  un- 
easy badinage  and  long  stares,  with 
consultations,  sometimes  cruelly  audi- 
ble, on  the  part  of  the  calling  conmiit- 
tee  as  soon  as  their  last  man  shut  the 
door,  and  a  general  sinking  feeling  on 
Philip's  part  that  he  had  ruined  his 
chances  with  tfiat  bunch  forever  and 
ever  as  he  and  Tom  dashed  for  a  hid- 
den Pot-Pourri  to  find  out,  by  looking 
up  as  much  as  they  could  recall  of 
their  visitors'  grumbled  appelations, 
just  what  fraternity  it  was  that  had 

"Hey  Phil,  that  guy's  name  was 
Keating,  wasn't  it?" 

"Keator,  I  think." 

"Well,  there's  a  Keating  in  Zete  and 
a  Keator  in  Psi  U.  Remember  any 
more  of  them?" 





'Smith/'  doubtfully, 
'Oh  Lord,  there  are  four  Smiths 
and  they're  all  different  places.  Gall 
'em  Zete — if  they  are  that  makes  three 
calls  from  them.  Could  you  see  their 

"Not  a  chance.  Now  who  were  the 
crowd  that  skinny  fellow  named 
Wilkes  ran  with?" 

Tom  flutters  the  leaves  obediently, 
another  committee  knocks  and  instant- 
ly enters — a  Campaign  Committee  this 
time  by  their  funeral  derbies  and  the 
grim  fixed  grin  on  their  mouths.  Tom 
and  Philip  are  caught  red-handed  but 
the  former's  kangaroo  leap  to  sit  on 
the  incriminating  book  brings  a  roar 
of  laughter  that  saves  the  situation. 
And  so  it  goes. 

After  three  such  evenings  Psi  U, 
which  Chubby  Post  has  nicknamed 
"The  Holy  Ice  House"  since  it  runs  to 
the  pious  athlete,  prominent  Christian, 
and  impeccable  parlor-snake,  and  has 
more  fanatic  internecine  feuds  and  a 
larger  proportion  of  men  in  senior  so- 
cieties than  any  of  the  others,  decides 
that  Philip  is  a  good  deal  too  queer 
for  even  its  carefully  preserved  repu- 
tation for  impersonal  selection  and  it 
doesn't  want  the  trouble  of  educating 
him  up  to  Brooks,  Frank's,  and  the 
Lawn  Club  Dances.  Philip's  senior 
friends  in  Deke  have  done  their  best, 
but  the  class  has  such  a  large  number 
of  pleasant  liquorers  and  friendly 
muscular  mammoths  that  it  is  like  try- 
ing to  gain  for  a  singing-mouse  the 
friendship  and  trust  of  a  herd  of  re- 
spectable bull-elephants.  Bete  and 
Zete,  Religion's  Serious  Call  and  the 
Sporting  Life,  the  sacred  and  profane 
twins  of  college  politics,  trail  on  to 
the  end  but  only  to  shake  their  heads. 

Hold-off  night,  and  the  sophomore 
dormitories  tense  and  sweltering  as 
air  before  a  thunderstorm.  The  silent 
or  nervously  chattering  fraternity 
men  with  their  carnations,  blossoms 

colored  with  fate,  making  bright  spots 
up  and  down  the  entries  and  under  the 
yellow  lamplight  by  the  Fence.  The 
strain  of  the  last  ten  minutes  before 
seven,  like  the  strain  before  the  start 
of  a  crew  race  that  makes  graduates 
drum  on  their  knees  with  white- 
knuckled  fingers.  The  breathless 
jokes  between  men  who  are  "sure", 
the  executioner's  quiet  of  the  doubt- 
ful. Clustered  chairs  and  a  dumb 
small  anxious  crowd  in  front  of  the 
room  across  the  hall  where  Deke,  Psi 
U,  and  Zete  are  to  fight  it  out  over  the 
modest  and  undecided  body  of  the 
first-string  quarterback.  Then  Battell 
clock  starts  its  clanging,  casual  chime 
— and  Famam  and  Durfee  and  Law- 
rence burst  on  the  instant  into  a  mad- 
house of  shouts  and  cheers  and  run- 
ning shapes.  Philip  waits  in  his  room, 
no  one  has  come  for  him,  three  min- 
utes past,  he  is  sweaty  at  the  hands. 
Steps  trample  up — and  past — a  dark, 
straining  figure  bolts  the  stairs  out- 
side his  open  door — ^there  is  a  shriek 
"Yeah!  we  got  Bunny  Vick!" — and 
two  men  with  Zete  carnations  come 
rocketing  down  like  a  charge  of  horse, 
the  dazed  Vick  between  them,  his  hat 
crammed  over  his  eyes. 

Tom  clears  a  dry  throat.  "You'll 
get  it,  feUah!"  he  says.  "You'll  get 

"Hope  so.  Listen — Deke's  starting 
to  go  off,  I  think—" 

He  pokes  his  head  out  of  the  win- 
dow. A  broken,  gasping  snatch  of 
song  begins,  breaks,  rises  to  a  roaring 
chant  with  the  crash  of  rollicking  feet 
beating  out  the  tune. 

"The  joUy  brothers  of  D.  K.  E.  we 
march  along. . ." 

"Phil!"  screams  Tom  in  his  ear. 

He  turns.  A  panting  classmate 
rushes  in  followed  by  two  pink-cama- 
tioned  A.  D.  juniors  and  jams  a  square 
of  paper  under  his  eyes. 

'Will  you  accept  a  hold-off  to  Alpha 




Delta  Phi  if  it  is  offered  youf"  is 
written  on  the  paper. 

Philip  nods.    "Yes,"  he  says  thickly. 

His  hand  is  shaken  violently  three 
times,  nearly  wrung  off. 

"You  come  with  us  Friday  night," 
yells  the  classmate  and  he  and  the 
juniors  ramp  away  like  the  close  of  a 
waking  dream. 

The  fraternities,  singing  loud,  rock 
off  the  campus. . . .  Noise  dies,  against 
Philip's  eyes  night  is  cool  and  dark. 
Through  the  tatter  of  elm  leaves  he 
can  see  three  silver  pricking  points 
that  must  be  stars.. . . 

Tom  congratulates  him  gravely. 
Philip  feels  happy,  enormously  re- 
lieved and — let  down,  like  a  man  after 
a  strenuous  ten  minutes  in  the  hot 
room  of  a  Turkish  Bath. 

"Come  on  and  go  to  the  movies,  you 
old  tin-pirate,"  he  suggests,  and  tJiey 
wander  over  the  peace  of  the  campus 
down  Chapel  Street  to  the  Globe,  to 
sit  dopily  through  two  hours  of  Bessie 
Barriscale  and  other  people's  breath. 

And  then  there  was  spring  hold-off 
night,  when  Philip,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  got  thoroughly  drunk.  He 
had  been  out  with  Skinny  Singleton 
in  the  hour  between  six  and  seven, 
discussing  the  Grand  Style  in  Writing 
over  double  Bronxes  in  the  cool 
leather-lined  cavern  of  the  Taft  bar, 
and  the  discussion  had  reached  the 
"What  I  mean  is  gra-grand — grand, 
y'understand?"  stage  when  it  was 
time  for  both  to  return  to  the  rooms 
they  were  guarding.  Both  watched 
the  proceedings  through  a  jocund  fog 
and  adjourned  to  Mory's  and  as  much 
as  they  were  able  to  poach  of  the  vari- 
ous fraternity  green-cups  later.  Steve 
Brackett  has  gone  Deke,  and  they 
congratulate  him  with  reservations. 
Mory's  is  packed  and  turbulent  with 
the  warring  crowds  and  songs  of  three 
fraternities.     Philip  drinks   steadily 

and  of  anything  that  comes  handy,  and 
begins  to  feel  his  mind  expand  like  a 
blown-out  paper  snake — expand  and  at 
the  same  time  grow  uncannily,  un- 
earthly clear. 

Physically,  he  is  seventeen  yards 
tall,  he  could  break  a  varsity  tackle 
between  finger  and  thumb.  A  vast 
pity — ^the  pity  of  the  broken-hearted 
ancient  gods — ^falls  on  him  like  a  sil- 
ver mist,  for  all  this  shufiling  riot  of 
humanity  that  swarms  about  hinL  He 
treads  like  a  god  on  shoes  covered 
with  wings  over  the  crystal  wreckage 
and  crumbling  jeweled  shards  of  dis- 
integrated worlds.  Stafford  Vane, 
king  of  Deke  and  his  pet  abhorrence, 
puts  affectionate  arms  and  a  weeping 
face  on  his  shoulder.  He  is  filled  on 
the  instant  with  immense  and  name- 
less pride.  "Staff'd's  not  all  right,  but 
I'm  all  Tight^Staff'd'8  not  all  right 
BUT  I'm  all  right!"  juggles  through 
his  head  like  the  ring  of  "The  Mar- 
seillaise". "/'U  give  you  speech!"  he 
shouts,  clambering  a  table,  "good 
speech.  Fine  speech.  All  'bout  how 
A.  D.  cleaned  up  on  Deke! . . ." 

Suddenly,  he  is  out  on  the  street,  re- 
clined on  the  steps  of  the  Zete  tomb . . . 

That  passes  in  a  phantasmagoric 
flicker.  He  is  ascending  stairs,  intol- 
erable, unending  stairs. 

They  are  the  stairs  inside  the  U- 
Club.  A  boiling  crowd  of  Zetes,  Psi 
U's,  and  Dekes  greet  him  with  affec- 
tionate whoops.  Somebody  gives  him 
an  open  quart  bottle  of  champagne. 
Somebody  else  pulls  his  chair  out  from 
under  him.  He  gets  up  with  a  vague 
lust  for  indefinite  blood  but  everyone 
has  started  to  march  around  the  bil- 
liard table  singing,  "We'U  drink, 
drink,  drink,  drink,  drink,  drink,  drink 
to  the  Eta"  and  he  joins  the  distorted 
procession  with  eyes  that  make  every 
color  screamingly  bright  and  hands 
and   feet   that   seem    six   miles    off 




from  his  body,  "'s  this  a  merry- 
firo-round?"  he  asks  uncertainly. 
"Where's  the  horses?  Where's  brass 

-Somebody    starts     throwing    pool 
balls.. . . 

There  is  a  great  ocean  of  voices 
talking  somewhere  far  outside  of  him. 
He  listens,  bends  his  will  like  a  spring, 
and  reduces  the  voices  into  words. 

One,  faint  as  a  gnat's,  is  shouting, 
"Hey  Steve!  Hey  Billy!  Come  out 
here!     There's  a  man  outside  your 

door  that  can't  speak  and  doesn't  know 
his  own  name !" 

"'s  absurd!  Name's  Alg'non  Swin 
Swinburne.  Grea'  poet!"  murmurs 

The  last  memory  is  that  of  being  in- 
serted pajamaless  into  a  bed. 

"Put  p'jamas  over  me,"  he  explains. 
"On  top.  Useful.  Warm.  Ant'septic. 

Steve's  face  rises  over  him  like  a 

"So  drunk,"  it  says.  "So  drunk. 
And  such  a  good  time!' 



By  Elinor  Wylie 


I3OETS  make  pets  of  pretty,  docile  words : 
IT  I  love  smooth  words,  like  gold-enameled  fish 
Which  circle  slowly  with  a  silken  swish. 
And  tender  ones,  like  downy-feathered  birds : 
Words  shy  and  dappled,  deep-eyed  deer  in  herds. 
Come  to  my  hand,  and  playful  if  I  wish. 
Or  purring  softly  at  a  silver  dish, 
Blue  Persian  kittens,  fed  on  cream  and  curds. 

I  love  bright  words,  words  up  and  singing  early ; 

Words  that  are  luminous  in  the  dark,  and  sing; 

Warm  lazy  words,  white  cattle  under  trees; 

I  love  words  opalescent,  cool,  and  pearly. 

Like  midsummer  moths,  and  honied  words  like  bees, 

Gilded  and  sticky,  with  a  little  sting. 


By  Percy  Hammond 

A  PROVINCIAL  reviewer  of  the 
theatres,  nearing  the  Great  Ad- 
venture of  promotion  to  the  drama's 
capital,  pauses  for  a  tremulous  moment 
to  take  stock  of  his  emotions.  For 
many  seasons  he  has  brooded  in  his 
garret  in  the  outlands,  and  looked 
wistfully  toward  Broadway,  the  in- 
spiration and  pregnant  source  of  dra- 
matic masterpieces.  A  gloomy  fate, 
making  second-hand  estimations  of  the 
chefs-d'oeuvre  of  the  American  stage, 
months  after  they  have  been  investi- 
gated by  Mr.  WooUcott,  Mr.  Rathbun, 
and  other  occupants  of  the  urban  judg- 
ment seat!  It  will  be  1922,  he  reflects 
sullenly,  before  the  arrival  in  Chicago 
of  "Snapshots  of  1921";  and  the 
works  of  Eugene  O'Neill  and  Owen 
Davis,  of  Willard  Mack  and  Barrie, 
will  alike  be  spilt  milk  when  they  reach 
the  doorstep  of  the  Union  Loop.  He 
reads  of  the  experiences  of  Bums 
Mantle's  soul  at  ''Ladies'  Night"  and 
"The  Whirl  of  New  York",  and  he 
ponders  how  much  sounder  would  have 
been  his  own  reflections  upon  and  re- 
ports of  those  occasions.  What  does 
Louis  De  Foe  know  of  art,  he  finds 
himself  demanding;  and  Lawrence 
Reamer's  critiques  of  the  "Scandals" 
and  "Jim  Jam  Jems"  he  regards  as 
shallow  and  not  felicitous. 

Thus,  a  malignant  envy  withers  his 
arteries.  He  writes  in  derision  of 
New  York  City,  compiling  columns  of 
scorn  and  sneers  to  prove  that  it  is 
ignoble  both  as  a  place  of  residence 
and  as  a  headquarters  of  the  theatre. 
He  ransacks  the  glossary  of  anathema 

for  new  terms  of  sly  opprobrium  with 
which  to  express  his  contempt  for  the 
metropolis.  The  footnote,  habitual  to 
the  play-bills,  "Time,  the  Present; 
Place,  New  York",  engenders  within 
him  a  dull  choler;  and  he  sees  red 
when  the  advertisements  in  Chicago 
announce  "The  Original  New  York 
Cast",  and  republish  the  obnoxious 
opinions  of  Heywood  Broun  of  New 
York  instead  of  his  own  compliment- 
ing decrees.  In  his  heart  he  knows 
that  his  feelings  are  but  the  bitter 
fruit  of  jealousy;  and  he  explains 
that  were  it  not  for  his  books,  his 
rostrum  engagements,  his  pet  chari- 
ties, and  the  difficulty  of  making  new 
enemies  at  his  time  of  life,  he  would 
abandon  Chicago's  arid  theatre  plains 
and  set  out  for  the  fertile  gardens  and 
billowy  fields  of  Broadway. 

But  now  that  the  anabasis  is  ar- 
ranged, and  the  zero  hour  impends,  he 
finds  his  valor  truant  and  replaced 
with  perturbing  doubts  and  fears.  No 
longer  does  he  view  himself  as  the 
Titan,  stirring  from  his  crag  en  route 
to  Olympus,  but  rather  as  a  weak  and 
frightened  upstart  who  might  swoon 
at  the  sight  of  a  Shubert.  His  ac- 
quaintances aid  him  in  the  accumula- 
tion of  his  anxieties.  The  scores  of 
actors  who  have  said,  "Broadway  needs 
you,  my  boy!"  now  put  the  dread 
lump  of  terror  in  his  throat  with  sad 
owl-songs,  portentous  of  disaster. 
Friendly  managers  who  many  times 
have  proved  to  him  that  he  "belongs 
in  New  York",  now  suspect  him  to  be 
unripe  for  the  exploits  and  mighty  en- 




terprises  of  a  critic's  career  in  a  great 


He  learns  of  the  pronouncement  by 
a  thrall  of  one  of  the  great  producing 
houses,  that  if  he  is  as  unfair  to  their 
product  in  New  York  as  he  was  in 
Chicago,  banishment  from  their  thea- 
tres will  ensue.  Standing  propitiatory 
and  unknown  in  the  foyer  of  an  At- 
lantic City  playhouse,  he  overhears 
odds  offered  by  one  showman  to  an- 
other that  muffled  drums  will  beat  for 
him  before  he  has  learned  the  via 
dolorosa  from  the  theatre  district  to 
Park  Row.  Fellow  journalists  warn 
him  that  the  readers  of  the  New  York 
'Tribune"  are  smart  and  urbane,  the 
deep  purple  of  the  playgoers,  and  that 
he  must  amend  the  gauche  practices 
indigenous  to  prairie  criticism,  to  con- 
form to  their  exacting  requirements. 
They  will  not  endure  his  egregious 
shortcomings,  he  is  warned,  with  the 
forbearance  that  distinguished  the  at- 
titude of  his  Chicago  clientele — ^the 
most  patient  and  sympathetic  of  their 
species ;  and  he  will  miss  the  paternal 
compassion  with  which  the  great, 
wounded  journal  he  has  abandoned 
forgave  his  frequent  infractions  of  its 
dignity  and  reticence. 

This  long,  detailed,  and  truthful  as- 
sembling of  the  embarrassments  at- 
tendant upon  a  summons  to  court,  is 
by  no  means  complete.  The  timid  ad- 
venturer on  the  rim  of  foreign  regions 
now  compares  the  ease  with  which 
dramatic  criticism  is  composed  in  the 
outskirts,  to  the  rigors  of  a  first-night 
review  in  New  York.  The  Chicago 
critic  appraising  "Lightnin"',  for  in- 
stance, has  only  to  decide  on  its  value 
as  art,  its  worth  as  amusement  having 
been  established  for  him  by  its  years 
of  popularity  in  the  east.  The  New 
York  critic,  while  being  faithful  to  his 
aesthetic  standards,  must  also  think  of 

the  comfort  of  his  readers,  and  be  able 
to  tell  them  whether  they  will  like 
a  play  though  it  is  bad,  or  disdain  it 
though  it  is  good. 

What  shall  the  new  boy  wear  at  a 
Winter  Garden  premiere?  Must  he 
desert  the  dressy  Tux  of  the  Great 
Lakes  for  the  faultless  evening  at- 
tire of  the  Atlantic  littoral?  He 
remembers  the  predicament  of  Tom 
Mix,  the  movie  man,  who  at  a  ban- 
quet in  New  York,  "et  for  three  hours 
and  didn't  recognize  a  single  victual 
except  a  reddish".  With  only  forty 
minutes  after  the  final  curtain  in 
which  to  congregate  and  express  his 
judgments,  will  the  neophyte  get  lost 
in  l^e  subway?  And  if  he  does  will 
anybody  care? 

In  case  the  foregoing  index  of  pro- 
posed miseries  seems  at  times  to  have 
been  formulated  in  a  mood  somewhat 
antic,  let  me  whose  agues  it  suggests, 
tell  The  Bookman  that  it  is  but  a 
whistling  to  keep  from  being  afraid. 
Gone  are  the  brave  dreams  picturing 
Broadway  as  a  chafed  lion,  cowering 
beneath  my  jaunty  huntsman's  gaze; 
and  in  their  place  come  visions  of  an 
affrighted  mongrel  pursuing  a  fieet 
but  reluctant  course  down  the  Rialto. 
Tin  can  to  tail,  he  is  uttering  piteous 
yelps  of  discomfort,  while  Morris  Gest, 
the  Selwyns,  Louis  Mann,  Samuel 
Shipman,  Sophie  Tucker,  Van  and 
Schenck,  A.  H.  Woods,  and  the  Dolly 
Sisters  humiliate  his  haggard  shanks 
with  bruising  missiles.  To  such  ac- 
tors, managers,  and  playwrights  who 
may  hopefully  anticipate  a  realization 
of  this  dream,  I  desire  to  recall  the 
familiar  admonishment  contained  in 
"The  Honeymoon",  an  ancient  and  a 
sterling  drama,  which,  a  bit  para- 
phrased, runs  thus : 

He  that  lays  bis  hand  on  a  new  critic 
Save  in  the  way  of  kindness,  is  a  wretch 
Whom  'twere  gross  flattery  to  call  a  coward ! 

By  Kenneth  Andrews 

With  Sketches  by  the  Author 

DULCY"  by  George  S.  Kaufman 
and  Marc  Connelly  is  written 
with  a  bow  of  acknowledgment  to 
Franklin  P.  Adama  for  the  loan  of  the 
principal  charac- 
ter.  This  might 
provide  a  text  for 
some  popular 
scientiflt  or  writer 
of  syndicated  up- 
lift, tt  would  be 
interesting  to  know 
what  effect  column 
conductors,  oa  a 
class,  have  upon 
the  country.  For 
thoosands  the  hu- 
morous column  in 
the  morning  news- 
paper is  a  break- 
fast staple   as   in- 


Saetlltnt  oi  the  hMV  young  hoMtcn  In  "Dutev" 

native  orthodoxy  slightly  tarnished  by 
the  impiety  of  their  favorite  column 
It  is  just  possible  that  this  may 
have  something  to 
do  with  the  general 
decline  of  hero 
worship  among  us, 
and  the  growing 
disposition  to  call 
attention  to  the 
flat  feet  of  our  na- 
tional idols.  It 
may  have  nothing 
whatever  to  do 
with  it;  but  there 
can  be  no  doubt 
that  we  live  in  a 
skeptical  time. 
Broadway,  ever 
sensitive     to     the 

dispensable  as  the  *'*°  ^"  ^  "*  ^omt  every  itaM  ai  her  loum  changing 

"  hontt     fuMt     ««(     */     BnadtBoy,    /or     moaa  *      " 

poached  egg  or  mantis 
coffee.  It  is  the 
mental  pick-me-up  of  the  nation.  It  is 
really  more  than  that.  The  average 
American  reads  practically  nothing 
but  his  newspaper,  and  he  does  not 
read  much  of  that.  He  glances  over 
the  first  i>age,  skips  to  the  sporting 
page  to  see  what  the  home  team  did 
the  di^  before,  then  turns  to  the  col- 
umn and  reads  it  with  absorption 
from  top  to  bottom.  And  the  spirit 
of  the  column  is  one  of  mockery. 
Thus  thousands  of  good  citizens  go  to 
their  daily  toil  every  morning,  their 

fleets  this  skepti- 
cism most  vividly 
in  the  plays  of  the  early  season.  No 
less  than  five  of  them  are  definitely 
satirical  in  spirit,  and  of  these  three 
devote  themselves  to  the  native  cul- 
ture. That  is  quite  astonishing.  Sat- 
ire has  long  been  considered  a  lost  art 
among  our  plf^wrights  and  among 
our  novelists  as  well.  George  Ade  has 
had  a  lonely  time  trying  to  keep  it 
alive.  If  Broadway's  receiving  ap- 
paratus is  as  well  attuned  as  it  has 
usually  been,  he  is  to  have  com- 





'Dulcy*'  18  a 
breezy  comment 
on  the  here  and 
now,  as  up  to  the 
minute  as  the 
column  in  this 
morning's  news- 
paper, and  in 
general  content  it 
covers  much  the 
same  ground.  It 
is  a  haphazard 
sort  of  play  into 
which  the  au- 
thors have  tossed 
a  glittering  array 
of  bright  odds 
and  ends,  plucked 
at  random  from 
the  life  about  us. 
This  lack  of  co- 
herent dramatic 
plan  at  least  has 
the  virtue  of  leav- 
ing    the     play- 

Wrights    free    to 

take  a  fling  at  whatever  occurs  to 
thenL  A  number  of  things  occur 
to  thenL  As  the  evening  goes  on  their 
fancy  moves  in  wider  and  wider  cir- 
cles until  the  play  really  becomes  a 
robust  and  rather  sweeping  satire  of 
manners — one  of  the  first  and  one  of 
the  best  to  reach  our  stage  in  many 

Dulcy  is  the  effervescent  young  ma- 
tron who  goes  in  for  all  the  Move- 
ments, and  who  has  a  ready  bromide 
for  every  human  need.  Fresh  from 
her  Friday  Afternoon  Club,  she  comes 
in  with  her  arms  full  of  flowers. 

DuLCT.  HeUo,  everybody !  Mm  !  It's  cool  in 
here,  Itn*t  it?  You  know,  if  there's 
any  breese  going  at  all,  we  get  it  in 
this  room.  WeU,  WiUle  (to  her 
hrother)  whom  have  you  been  do- 
ing? (She  laughs  a$  her  aum 

Of  course  after  that  we  can  all  im- 
agine Dulcy.    She  naturaUy  insists  on 


"A  Short  HiBtory  oS  the  Bngliah  Drama" 
hy  Benjamin  Brawley  (Hareourt,  Brace). 
A  conoUe  outline  of  the  heyinninge  of  Eng- 
liBh  drama  and  a  Who's  Who  of  British 
dramatists  from  the  time  of  John  Heywood 
(remember  himt)  to  Bernard  Shaw,  uHth  a 
thumbnail  biography  of  each. 

"One-Act  Plays  by  Modem  Authors" 
edited  by  Helen  Louise  Cohen  (Harcourt, 
Brace).  Sixteen  more  or  less  standard 
plays,  with  a  general  introduction  telling 
what  a  one  act  play  is  not,  and  discussing 
the  decline  and  fall  of  the  Little  Theatre 
movement.  Also  a  special  introduction  for 
each  play  and,  for  the  insatiable,  the  in- 
numerable footnotes  supply  a  full  bibliog' 

"Ten  One-Act  Plays"  by  Alice  Oersten- 
berg  (Brentano).  Including,  of  course, 
"Overtones"  which  goes  in  the  Ubrary  as 
well  as  it  does  in  the  theatre. 

"Four  One-Act  Plays"  by  Lewis  Beach 
(Brentano).  This  author's  twenty  minute 
Civil  War  tragedy,  "The  Clod"  (familiar  to 
communicants  of  the  Keith  circuit),  and 
three  later  plays. 

helping  Gordie, 
her  husband,  in 
his  extremely 
ticklish  business 
deal  with  C. 
Roger  Forbes. 
Gordie  makes  pa- 
thetic attempts  to 
avoid  being 
helped;  but 
Dulcy  knows  her 
duty:  she  is  his 
wife  and  help- 
meet, and  her 
place  is  at  his 
side  fighting  the 
battle  of  life 
shoulder  to  shoul- 
der. She  has  in- 
vited Forbes  and 
his  wife  and 
daughter  for  the 
week-end,  and  has 
captured  two 
tame  tea  lions 
from  the  culture 
club  to  help  entertain  them« 

Gordon.  But,  Dulcy,  Forbes  isn't  the  kind  of 
man  that  wants  to  be  enter- 

DuLCT.  Leave  Mr.  Forbes  to  me,  darling. 
Just  wait.  I've  got  a  real  surprise 
for  you. 

Gk)RDON  (in  alarm).    Another  surprise? 

Her  surprise  is  that  she  is  going  to 
arrange  a  match  between  Angle, 
Forbes's  daughter,  and  Vincent  Leach, 
the  famous  scenario  writer.  'If  I  fix 
it,"  she  explains,  ''Mr.  Forbes  would 
be  so  grateful  he'd  have  to  give  you 
more  than  16-2/8  per  cent  of  the  com- 
bination." This  is  only  one  of  the  lit- 
tle helps  she  has  thought  of.  For  an- 
other she  is  going  to  see  that  Forbes 

has  not  one  dull  moment  while  he  is 
a  guest  under  her  roof.  He  does  not 
have  a  dull  moment.  Dulcy  entertains 
him  intensively.  By  morning  he  is  a 
desperate,   trapped   soul.     His  little 


AconoTiH  Duncan 

A*  tht  Jarmtr,  In  "The  Detour",  who  doem'r 
know  wiything  aBMit  art  or  care  a  iaag  about 

it,  he  itbttter  tkon  he  «d-  --   '-'--   " 

mat  wtniane  tnow*  what 

■  John  FerQuton, 

Angie  has  eloped.  His  wife  has  lied 
to  him.  He  washeB  his  hands  of  both 
of  them,  and  of  Dulc/s  auppressed 
husband  as  well.  But  happily,  during 
the  night,  Angie  has  married  Dulcy's 
brother  Willie,  instead  of  the  movie 
person  as  she  had  intended.  This  ar- 
ranges everything;  and  Dulcy  grace- 
fully accepts  credit  for  it,  reminding 
Forbes  that  captains  of  industry  never 
understand  women. 

"Honors  are  Even"  is  also  satire, 
but  in  a  different  mood.  It  would 
probably  be  a  better  play  if  Ro!  Cooper 
Megrue  did  not  know  so  much  about 
play  writing.  He  has  had  a  busy  ca- 
reer as  a  play  doctor;  and  when,  as  in 
this  case,  he  wants  to  speak  naturally 
and  sincerely,  the  professional  bedside 
manner  clings  to  him.  Behind  the 
play  one  senses  an  alert  and  sophisti- 
cated mind  which  seeks  to  unburden 
itself.  Frequently  the  leisurely  move- 
ment of  the  story  is  halted  entirely 
while  this  blaai  Broadway  author  in- 
dulges himself  in  some  irrelevant  and 
lengthy  observation  on  the  general  fu- 
tili^  of  the  human  comedy.  He  has 
the  power  of  making  these  moods  in- 

fectious on  the  stage  by  means  of  cas- 
ual, natural  talk,  and  to  blend  oda 
mood  into  the  other,  allowing  the  story 
to  shape  itself  through  them.  That  is 
a  rare  gift  in  a  dramatist,  but  Mr. 
Megrue  is  not  quite  able  to  surrender 
himself  to  it.  As  he  approaches  the 
end  of  an  act  habit  overcomes  him. 

Thus,  after  a  first  act  which  is 
keyed  down  to  the  persuasive  natural- 
ness of  everyday,  which  sets  on  the 
stage  the  loosely  knit  episodes  in  the 
love  life  of  Belinda  Carter,  he,  quite 
unnecessarily,  makes  one  of  her  suit- 
ors a  diamond  thief.  It  would  have 
been  no  more  incongruous  if  the  cor- 
rect William  Coartenay  had  taken  off 
his  coat  and  livened  things  up  with  a 
soft  shoe  dance.  In  the  next  act  Be- 
linda goes  to  John  Leighton's  room, 
and  again  life  is  the  model.  They 
have  an  unhiurried  evening  of  chatter 
over  their  wine,  exploring  each  other's 
minds,  discovering  that  they  speak  the 
same  language.  But  as  curtain  time 
approaches  the  author  is  again  seized 
with  stage  fright.  The  villainous 
rival  discovers  the  lovers;  the  scene  is 
twisted  out  of  all  semblance  of  reality, 
and  ends  with  Leighton  locked  in  his 
own  rooms  with  the  faithful  old  serv- 
ant who  had  come  to  chaperone  Be- 
linda. And  it  happens  that  on  this 
very  night  the  superintendent  has 
mislaid  his  keys,  and  the  elevator  boys 
are  all  off  duty,  or  something  of  the 

The  story  is  the  one  about  the  bach- 
elor who  poses  as  a  woman  hater  and 
is  finally  brought  low  by  the  girl  he 
had  declared  he  would  never  marry. 
The  antiquity  of  the  fable  matters  not, 
however,  for  the  people  are  human  and 
the  kind  you  like  to  know,  except  when 
they  are  being  hustled  about  to  pro- 
vide a  wallop  for  the  curtain. 

The  notion  exploited  by  Thomas  P. 



Robinson  in  "The  Skylark''  is  that 
when  two  i>eople  are  unhappily  mar- 
ried they  should  get  a  divorce,  but 
continue  to  live  in  the  same  house 
with  the  understanding  that  each  shall 
enjoy  complete  freedom  of  action*  At 
first  glance  the  conceit  seems  to  be  a 
promising  start  for  a  satire  on  mar- 
ried life ;  but  the  curious  thing  is  that 
the  more  you  examine  it  the  less  you 
find  in  it.  Just  how  such  a  sham  di- 
vorce could  affect  the  lives  of  the  un- 
happy pair  in  the  slightest  is  a  mys- 
tery. Why  not  pretend  to  be  divorced 
and  save  the  lawyer's  fees  for  a  possi- 
ble second  honeymoon?  There  is  no 
need  of  pointing  out  the  absurdity  of 
the  idea  here,  of  course,  for  that  is 
exactly  what  the  plasrwright  has  writ- 
ten three  long  acts  to  show.  Ridicul- 
ing an  arbitrarily  selected  premise, 
which  is  patently  false,  is  a  mistake 
made  by  nine  out  of  ten  home-talent 
satirists,  and  Mr.  Robinson,  a  new 
writer  for  the  stage,  should  not  be  too 
harshly  punished  for  it.  He  tried  to 
write  a  fantastical  satire  on  American 
married  life,  and — as  in  the  case  of 
the  dog  who  walked  on  his  hind  legs 
— ^while  he  didn't  do  it  very  well  it  was 
something  to  have  done  it  at  all. 

"March  Hares"  by  Harry  Wagstaff 
Gribble  purports  to  treat  of  the  exces- 
sively temperamental,  but  seems  more 
like  a  gay  picture  of  a  ward  for  the  in- 
curably neurasthenic.  Every  person 
in  the  play  is  strange  in  one  way  or 
another,  which  is  a  fatal  error,  since 
it  makes  impossible  the  contrast  with 
the  normal  which  alone  could  give 
point  and  clarity  to  such  giddy  satire. 
As  it  is,  one  confidently  awaits  the  ar- 
rival of  the  keepers  who  will  coax 
everybody  back  to  the  asylum.  This 
scene  is  not  included,  and  the  play 
merely  gives  the  impression  of  being 
astoundingly  naive. 

The  flapper  is  one  of  the  after-war 
problems  about  which  everyone  has  a 
theory.  As  the  American  woman  of 
the  future  she  is  either  amusing  or 
alarming,  depending  on  one's  relation- 
ship to  her.  Many  plays  will  no  doubt 
be  written  about  her.  This  season  she 
may  take  the  place  on  our  stage  left 
vacant  by  the  little  oriental  innocent 
who  swore  in  broken  English;  which 
would  be  progress  of  a  sort.  In  "The 
Teaser"  by  Adelaide  Mathews  and 
Martha  M.  Stanley  an  attempt  is  made 
to  do  her  in  terms  of  the  old  formula 
about  the  little  country  girl  who  comes 
to  live  in  the  big  house  in  the  city,  and 
makes  everyone  love  her.  This  graft- 
ing of  a  new  flower  on  an  old  vine  is 
clumsily  done;  and  the  authors  turn 
out  a  pale  farce  which  includes  one  of 
the  most  unprovoked  seductions  in  re- 
cent stage  history. 

William  Couetinat 

Who  i9  living  down  hia  reputation  (u  a  matinee 
idol  by  hie  performance  ae  the  free  lance 
woman  hater  in  "Honore  are  Even**. 

Odd  as  it  may  seem,  the  first  play  of 
genuinely  thoughtful  intent  comes 
from  the  tireless  typewriter  of  Owen 
Davis.  Some  years  ago — ^five  or  six 
at  least — we  remember  reading  a  mag- 



azine  article  by  Mr.  Davis  in  which  he 
gave  testimony  as  to  his  conversion  to 
the  higher  drama.  He  confessed  that 
he  had  been  writing  tawdry  thrillers 
about  cloak  models  and  sawmills  for 
years,  and  that  he  was  tired  of  it.  He 
was  ready  to  settle  down  to  the  reali- 
zation of  his  long  thwarted  desire  to 
write  an  honest  play  about  real  peo- 
ple. He  has  just  got  around  to  that 

It  is  called  "The  Detour",  and  is  a 
simple  story  of  a  simple  woman  who, 
for  twenty  years,  has  been  the  law- 
ful drudge  of  a  Long  Island  rustic. 
Throughout  this  long  period  of  servi- 
tude, quiescent  rebellion  against  the 
conmionplace  and  monotony  of  her 
bleak  life  has  burned  in  her  breast. 
With  the  approach  of  middle  age  her 
own  hope  for  the  finer  things  fades, 
and  she  seeks  to  find  a  vicarious  ful- 
filment of  her  dreams  in  the  life  of 
her  daughter.  Where  the  play  touches 
on  this  pathetic  solace  of  the  middle 
years  it  passes  irony  and  skirts,  by 
implication  at  least,  the  depths  of 
genuine  tragedy.  It  seems  that  Mr. 
Davis  stumbles  on  this  admirable 
tragic  theme  almost  inadvertently.  It 
is  as  though  his  i>eople,  whom  he  has 
drawn  with  simple  fidelity,  may  have 
led  him  to  it.  These  people  are,  in  the 
beginning,  drawn  without  haste,  and 
with  a  thrif  tiness  of  detail  bom  of  ac- 
curate, facile  technique.  Thereafter 
the  story  grows  inevitably  from  them; 
and  it  is  told  with  the  same  firm,  sure 
strokes.  It  is  true  that  after  letting 
the  tragic  little  tale  have  its  head  for 
two  acts,  the  author  summons  all  his 
cunning  to  soften  its  cruelty  and  leave 
a  glinuner  of  uplift  for  the  more  sus- 
ceptible of  his  audience.  But  even  in 
this  overly  dexterous  act  he  does  not 
seem  insincere.  Eugene  O'Neill  or  St. 
John  Ervine  would  have  taken  Helen 
Hardy  to  her  Gethsemane  and  left  her 
there;  Mr.  Davis  suggests  a  way  out 

for  her.  And  the  Helen  Hardys  on 
the  dreary  farms  and  in  the  drearier 
small  towns  do  go  on  living  somehow. 
The  play  is  honest  and  thoughtful  in 
purpose,  and  expert  in  craftsmanship. 

Two  plays  even  more  thoughtful  in 
purpose  are  "The  Mask  of  Hamlet"  by 
Ario  Flamma,  and  "The  Triumph  of 
X"  by  Carlos  Wupperman.  The  for- 
mer is  a  bungling  attempt  to  drama- 
tize the  Wall  Street  bomb  disaster  and 
the  red  menace  in  general,  and  has  the 
fault  of  most  propaganda  plays.  To 
prove  his  theories  the  author  cites  a 
most  exceptional  and  special  case,  and 
succeeds  in  proving  nothing  except 
that,  before  you  blow  up  a  bank,  you 
should  make  sure  your  father  is  not 
in  it. 

"The  Triumph  of  X"  deals  with  the 
familiar  undergraduate  question  of 
the  relative  importance  of  heredity 
and  environment  in  the  shaping  of  our 
destiny.  It  postulates  the  theory  that 
there  is  another  force  in  life,  which 
we  may  call  X,  which  has  more  to  do 
with  it  than  either.  It  sounds  rather 
cosmic  for  a  Broadway  play;  but, 
though  no  people  ever  talked  as  these 
people  talk,  the  piece  has  its  moments 
of  power.  Heredity,  in  the  shape  of  a 
taste  for  strong  drink,  fights  with  the 
scholarly  environment  of  her  foster- 
father's  home  for  the  soul  of  Phillis. 
When  Phillis  takes  her  first  glass  of 
champagne,  heredity  claims  her  for 
his  own.  He  makes  off  with  her  into 
the  night,  and  together  they  are 
"laughing  their  way  to  Hell",  when 
love,  under  the  alias  of  X,  comes  to 
the  rescue.  In  spite  of  stilted  writing 
and  faulty  construction  the  play  never 
becomes  entirely  ridiculous.  Helen 
Menken  does  all  that  any  human  could 
to  endow  Phillis  with  life;  and  be- 
hind the  play  is  a  burning  intellec- 
tual earnestness  which,  while  it  fails 



to  create  illusion,  at  least  arrests  the 
attention  by  its  very  intensity. 


Bonya"  by  Eu£rene  Thomas  Wyckoff 
is  an  old-fashioned  comic  opera 
without  music,  and  without  much 
comedy.  From  the  moment  Prince 
Paid  and  his  aide  de  camp  swagger  in 
with  their  sabres  and  flapping  black 
boots,  one  apprehensively  watches  the 
doors  for  the  appearance  of  the  merry 
villagers.  The  play  takes  place  in  the 
chamber  of  a  royal  prince  somewhere 
in  the  Balkans — in  the  good  old  days 
before  they  became  a  situation.  The 
walls  of  the  chamber  are  of  smoky 
stone ;  through  the  lofty  lattice  at  the 

rear  the  sky  glows  in  the  sunset  and 
pales  in  the  moonlight.  Off  stage  the 
male  members  of  the  cast  give  an  imi- 
tation of  Russian  gardeners  singing, 
while  the  peasant  girl  says  to  the 
prince,  "Tell  me  you  love  me  again!'' 
The  prince  fights  for  his  love  against 
the  intrigues  of  his  courtiers,  and  of 
course  it  would  be  unfair  to  tell  who 
comes  out  ahead.  One  is  a  little  dis- 
appointed that  there  isn't  more  dirty 
work  on  the  part  of  the  prince's  rela- 
tives; but  Sonya  and  her  prince  have 
much  love  making  to  do  and  many  cos- 
tumes to  wear,  and  the  play  is  pretty 
long  as  it  is.  It  is  ''Graustark"  on  the 
stage,  and  will  probably  live  long  and 
screen  well. 


By  Joseph  Freeman 

I  HAVE  grown  tired  of  wise  men  and  their  ways, 
Who  find  the  music  of  the  heart  too  old. 
Wonder  a  platitude  too  often  told, 
Love  a  cliche,  and  tears  a  banal  phrase : 

I  have  grown  tired  of  them,  and  dream  of  days 
When,  moving  through  a  fragrant  mist  of  gold, 
I  watched  the  passions  of  the  world  unfold 
Like  crimson  shadows  over  wide  blue  bays. 

And,  dreaming  of  this  heaven,  I  retrace 
The  bright  and  certain  ways  of  innocence : 
Proclaim  my  joy  and  sorrow  on  my  face, 

Open  the  doorways  of  my  mind  to  men. 
Love  women  quickly  and  without  pretenc 
And  learn  my  bitter  wisdom  over  again. . 


Vacation  News — The  Seriousness  of  Modem  Writers — Compton  Mackenzie 
and  D.  H.  Lawrence — New  Books  hy  Walter  de  la  Mare  and  HaU  Caine — 
"Maa^s"  Vogue — American  Books  in  England — The  Need  for  a  Chekhov, 

London,  August  1,  1921. 

THIS  is  more  markedly  the  summer 
season  than  any  I  have  known, 
and  all  the  writers  are  away  sitting  in 
the  sea  or  traveling  upon  the  continent 
of  Europe.  To  a  person  like  myself, 
who  rarely  gets  any  holiday  worth 
speaking  about,  this  activity  of  rest  is 
a  delightful  spectacle;  but  I  must  ad- 
mit that  it  is  tantalizing.  To  receive 
a  letter  every  few  days  from  some  one 
of  the  confraternity  dated  from  Wales 
or  Switzerland  or  Italy  or  the  High 
Seas,  is  all  very  well.  It  is  not  a  true 
substitute  for  the  enjoyment  of  those 
same  climatic  conditions  in  the  flesh. 
My  spirit  is,  of  course,  with  the  trav- 
elers. And  what  a  band  they  are! 
The  last  news  I  had  of  Hugh  Walpole, 
for  instance,  was  that  he  was  pausing 
in  Switzerland  on  the  verge  of  a  spin 
into  northern  Italy.  He  had  finished 
and  even  read  the  proofs  of  a  new 
novel  called  "The  Young  Enchanted". 
That  in  itself  is  good  news,  and  gives 
the  author  the  right  to  take  such  a 
holiday  as  he  plans.  I  hope  very  much 
that  this  lively  book,  which  will  show 
Walpole  in  a  new  light  to  his  readers 
(though  not  to  his  friends),  will  meet 
with  great  success.  Walpole  is  one  of 
the  most  indefatigable  writers  I  know, 

and  he  deserves  all  his  success. 

»  »  »  « 

Another  piece  of  news,  this  time 
from  Italy,  is  that  Aldous  Huxley  has 
finished  a  new  novel,  in  the  Peacockian 
manner,  called  "Crome  Yellow".  The 
spelling  of  Grome  is  deliberate,  for 

this  is  the  name  of  the  house  at  which 
many  of  the  incidents  occur.  The 
book  is  quite  short,  but  it  is  bound  to 
give  glimpses  of  that  humor  which 
Amy  Lowell  rightly  says  is  too  often 
absent  from  the  printed  works  of  our 
young  writers.  The  book  will  be  pub- 
lished this  autumn,  no  doubt,  and  it 
will  be  interesting  to  see  what  our 
generation  will  make  of  a  kind  of 
novel  to  which  they  turn  with  piquant 
delight  when  it  appears  as  a  classic. 
I  am  told  that  "Crome  Yellow"  repre- 
sents a  marked  expansion  of  Huxley's 
peculiar  gifts  of  bizarre  and  nonsensi- 
cal humor. 

This  question  of  humor  in  modem 
works  has  been  giving  me  some  sleep- 
less nights.  For  it  may  be  said  at 
once  that  most  of  the  modem  writers 
are  more  serious  in  their  work  than 
their  ordinary  conversation  would  lead 
one  to  expect.  I  cannot  assert  that  all 
are  humorists;  but  at  least  there  are 
very  few  prigs  among  the  total  num- 
ber. Yet  give  our  young  men  pens, 
and  they  succeed  in  taking  themselves 
with  a  seriousness  so  exemplary  that 
all  trace  of  native  humor  disappears. 
It  is  true  that  when  a  man  talks  with 
some  charm  a  good  deal  of  what  passes 
for  amusing  stuff  is  in  reality  mere 
facetiousness,  but  there  is  something 
more  definite  at  the  bottom  of  the 
problem.  Is  it  that  when  they  are 
alone  authors  think  of  deep  things? 
Hardly.  More  likely  it  is  that  in  com- 
pany they  are  stimulated  to  a  certain 
liveliness  of  manner  and  anecdote,  and 




that  paper  gives  off  no  such  stimulus. 
Paper  is  cold  stuff.  It  does  not  really 
do  anything  toward  the  making  of 
masterpieces.  It  even  opposes  itself 
to  the  spontaneous  act  of  creation. 
How  many  of  us  like  the  act  of  writ- 
ing? Very  few,  except  the  very 
young.  It  is  a  bore.  If  we  could  give 
off  the  notions  that  occur  to  us  (sup- 
posing any  notions  at  aU  occur)  we 
should  be  happy.  But  we  are  not  all 
like  Sterne,  who  caught  inspirations 
as  they  fell,  and  supposed  that  he  must 
in  resJity  secure  by  his  agility  many 
of  those  intended  for  other  men.  Dic- 
tation is  no  good  at  all,  for  it  inter- 
poses a  still  further  barrier  between 
the  author  and  his  work,  and  it  is  not 
from  dictation  that  we  must  expect  re- 

If  proof  of  this  were  needed  we  have 
only  to  regard  the  work  of  Henry 
James.  It  is  well  known  that  the  later 
James  novels  were  all  dictated ;  and  I 
have  heard  the  suggestion  made  that 
much  of  the  rambling  and  repetition 
of  these  books  was  due  to  the  fact  that 
the  shorthand  typist  excusably  re- 
corded all  the  variations  which  fell 
from  the  lips  of  the  master  and  incor- 
porated them  in  the  vast  inextricable 
skein  which  we  know  as  a  later  James 
novel.    No,  the  cure  does  not  lie  here. 

Where,  then?  I  have  not  solved  the 
problem.  Yet  I  can  assure  those 
American  readers  who  are  curious 
that  many  of  the  young  English 
writers  of  the  day  are  quite  human 
and  amusing  beings.  I  have  heard  as 
much  good  talk  from  them  as  from 
any  other  body  of  people  known  to  me. 
Perhaps  a  reaction  will  set  in,  and 
they  will  all  follow  the  lead  of  Macken- 
zie, and  write  as  they  talk.  That 
would  be  excellent.  Mackenzie's  novels 
will  never,  in  my  opinion,  be  the  equal 
of  his  talk,  which  is  marvelously 
amusing;   but  at  least  they  approxi- 

mate more  nearly  to  it  than  do  the 
novels  of  any  other  present-day  writer 
to  the  sort  of  thing  that  makes  him 
personal  friends.  It  must  be  borne  in 
mind  that  few  novelists  make  friends 
by  their  work.  Friendship  and  appre- 
ciation are  distinct  things,  as  I  have 
discovered  to  my  cost.  I  must  confess 
that  those  who  do  not  know  me  are 
more  complimentary  than  those  who 
do.  But  this  is  a  common  experience. 
Friends  are  captious,  and  admirers 
are  intolerable  in  the  domestic  circle, 
unless  a  writer's  egotism  is  super- 
normal, which,  of  course,  it  is  ex- 
tremely liable  to  be. 

I  throw  out  these  remarks  to  show 
the  state  of  dubiety  in  which  I  am  left 
by  all  the  wakeful  hours  which  the 
problem  has  produced.  All  the  same, 
Walpole's  new  book  is  an  essay  in  a 
rather  less  subdued  vein  than  that  of 
"The  Captives",  and  with  Huxley  giv- 
ing us  a  very  unaffected  work  which 
resembles  his  normal  conversation, 
and  with  various  other  efforts  in  the 
offing,  I  think  we  may  have  seen  the 
last  of  the  very  serious  young  English 
novel.  I  saw  recently  in  that  excellent 
paper  "The  Freeman"  a  caustic  article 
by  Ernest  Boyd,  in  which  he  an- 
nounced that  American  fiction  was 
progressing  backward  to  the  days  of 
"Les  Soirees  de  Medan",  and  it  is 
therefore  not  untimely  for  me  to  throw 
out  a  hint  that  English  fiction  is  get- 
ting tired  of  progressing  backward 
and  may  now  be  expected  to  skip  nim- 
bly in  the  air.  Let  my  remarks  not  be 
forgotten.  I  am  not  a  prophet,  but  I 
know  what  goes  on  in  the  minds  of  a 
few  people,  and  it  seems  likely  that 
the  seriousness  created  by  the  redis- 
covery of  English  fiction  before  the 
war  and  its  virtual  extinction  as  the 
result  of  the  war,  will  give  way  to  a 
burst  of  something  as  nearly  ap- 
proaching animal  spirits  as  we  can 



reasonably  expect  from  men  who  are 
devoting  so  much  of  their  time  to  a 
very  exhausting  pursuit,  and  who 
therefore,  although  not  in  every  case, 
are  at  times  to  be  suspected  of  a  loss 
of  vital  energy. 

»  »  »  » 

Compton  Mackenzie,  now  perma- 
nently resident  on  the  island  of  Herm, 
is  at  work  upon  two  books,  one  of 
them  a  light  comedy  and  the  other  a 
novel  of  a  more  serious  type.  He  is 
extensively  engaged  in  farming,  and 
has  seriously  attacked  a  problem 
which  would  discourage  a  man  of  less 
energy.  To  spend  a  great  part  of  each 
day  in  cultivating  the  resources  of  the 
island,  in  breeding  cattle,  and  in 
studying  modem  farming;  and  at  the 
same  time  to  keep  in  touch  with  life 
and  to  write  about  it,  requires  ab- 
normal powers  of  concentration.  Yet 
that  is  what  Mackenzie  is  doing,  and 
doing  very  well.  He  is  a  perfect  laird 
of  the  estate,  and  those  who  have  been 
to  Herm  tell  me  that  he  is  the  life  and 
soul  of  the  almost  numerous  party 
which  is  gathered  upon  the  island.  It 
is  a  strange  and  fascinating  life. 
•  »  »  • 

Meanwhile  D.  H.  Lawrence,  as  to 
the  nature  of  whose  last  book  an  ex- 
traordinary letter  from  Lord  Russell 
has  just  been  published  in  the  ''New 
Statesman'^  is  also  writing  two  novels. 
One  of  these  is  nearly  finished,  and 
will  be  published  in  the  autumn  under 
the  title  of  "Aaron's  Rod".  Lawrence 
is  still,  I  understand,  in  Sicily,  so  that 
his  health  is  considerably  improved. 
This  fact  is  shown  by  a  recrudescence 
of  energy  in  the  matter  of  novel  writ- 
ing, for  it  is  not  so  long  since  I  was 
bewailing  in  these  very  pages  a  lack 
of  information  as  to  Lawrence's  work. 
To  have  published  three  novels  in 
eighteen  months  suggests  admirable 
fertility,  for  in  the  case  of  Lawrence 

there  can  be  no  question  of  writing 
for  a  market  as  many  novelists  are  ac- 
cused of  doing.  It  must  be  borne  in 
mind  that  the  writing  of  these  three 
books  has  been  less  rapid  than  the  rate 
of  publication  would  suggest.  One  of 
them  has  certainly  been  written,  in 
great  part,  for  some  time,  while  "The 
Lost  Girl"  was  of  course  begun  nearly 
two  years  ago. 

»  »  »  » 

I  have  been  reading  the  curious  new 
work  of  Walter  de  la  Mare  which  has 
just  been  issued  under  the  title  of 
"Memoirs  of  a  Midget".  This  is  the 
book  which  I  mentioned  some  months 
ago  as  of  rumored  greatness.  Much 
has  been  heard  about  it  for  some  time 
before  its  publication.  Well,  in  many 
respects  it  is  not  a  disappointment,  for 
it  is  crammed  with  beauties,  and  it 
has  had  as  favorable  a  reception  as 
could  be  expected.  If  it  falls  short  of 
greatness,  the  fault  may  lie  in  the 
reader,  for  if  ever  there  was  a  book 
which  demanded  sensitiveness  as  great 
in  the  reader  as  in  the  author,  it  is 
"Memoirs  of  a  Midget".  One  might 
miss  a  thousand  delicious  turns  of  ob- 
servation and  feeling  if  one  were  not 
alert  to  receive  the  full  bouquet  of  Mr. 
de  la  Mare's  literary  manner.  This  is 
exquisite.  It  contains  all  the  scents 
and  sounds  of  the  woodland,  both  by 
day  and  by  night;  it  tells  in  all  sorts 
of  charming  passages  many  secrets  of 
thought  and  understanding.  There  is 
a  quaint  and  dry  humor  in  all  sorts  of 
unexpected  comers;  and  little  turns 
of  phrase  reveal  often  more  than  many 
analjrtical  statements  could  possibly 
do.  It  is  the  work  of  a  poet,  and  a 
poet  who,  if  not  in  the  most  robust 
tradition  of  our  tongue,  is  in  the  most 
delicate  and  fragrant. 

So  much  for  the  manner  of  the  book, 
and  for  its  essential  qualities.  But 
what  a  pity  the  story,  as  a  story,  is  not 



better.  I  mean,  that  it  is  not  in  true 
harmony  with  the  beauty  of  the  ren- 
dering. Perhaps  one  may  say  in  many 
cases  that  here  the  question  of  story  is 
of  no  account;  and  yet  one  cannot 
dismiss  the  dreary  story  told  by  Mr. 
de  la  Mare  as  of  no  account.  It  is 
there,  embedded  in  the  pages  of 
charming  prose,  giving  rise  to  all 
kinds  of  delicious  apostrophes,  and 
leading  to  natural  descriptions  which 
are  unsurpassed  in  any  author's  work. 
It  is  as  though  fragrant  flowers  grew 
from  an  unsavory  bed.  The  story  is 
frankly  unpleasant  and  unhuman. 
And  ttiat  leads  me  to  ask  why  poets 
so  often,  when  they  essay  the  form  of 
fiction,  produce  matter  so  little  beau- 
tiful at  heart.  Is  it  that  they  are  not 
primarily  interested  in  human  beings, 
and  that  their  interest  has  to  be  stim- 
ulated by  something  outside  normal 
experience?  Is  it,  perhaps,  that  we  do 
not  understand  the  world  of  the  poet, 
and  so  find  it  horrible  and  unreal? 
Either  alternative  may  be  the  right 
one.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  able  to 
judge.  My  objection  in  the  present 
case  is  that  I  found  myself  bored  by 
the  events  of  Miss  M.'s  narrative, 
turning  from  her  characters  as  unin- 
teresting and  unlovely,  and  enjoying 
with  happiness  that  was  like  a  dream 
aU  those  parts  of  the  book  which  are 
the  record  of  natural  things.  Miss  M. 
is  a  perfect  painter  of  the  beauties  of 
the  night,  of  all  the  beauties  hidden 
in  a  wood,  of  those  secret  thoughts 
which  very  sensitive  people  store  so 
jealously  against  the  cruder  laughter 
of  the  world.  But  she  did  know  a 
most  unpleasant  set  of  friends. 
»  »  »  • 

The  new  Hall  Caine  book  is  a  mar- 
vel. The  characters  live  in  a  world  of 
their  own,  a  world  in  which  the  sense 
of  sin  and  the  need  for  its  expiation 
is  an  obsession.    What  a  strange  old- 

fashioned  world !  I  was  told  the  other 
day  of  a  tramway  conductor  who  saw 
a  passenger  carrying  a  copy  of  the 
book  on  the  day  of  publication.  Bend- 
ing enthusiastically,  he  became  amaz- 
ingly personal.  ''Is  it,"  he  begged,  ''is 
it  a  good  one  this  time?"  I  doubt 
whether  any  other  novelist  now  alive 
could  have  provoked  such  a  question 
in  similar  circumstances. 

•  »  »  • 

There  is  to  be  a  new  and  complete 
edition  of  the  works  of  Max  Beer- 
bohm.  This  is  an  additional  proof 
that  the  ''Max"  vogue  is  a  real  and 
potent  thing.  The  books  are  all  to  be 
bound  in  boards,  I  am  given  to  under- 
stand, and  the  color  of  each  book  will 
be  different.  Each  will  have  a  charm- 
ing paper  label.  A  new  collection  of 
drawings  will  be  issued  this  autumn, 
made  up  to  a  large  extent  from  the 
pictures  exhibited  recently  at  the 
Leicester  Galleries.  I  am  not  sure 
whether  "Max's"  cartoons  will  have 
the  same  interest  for  Americans  as  his 
books  obviously  have.  In  London,  as 
they  are  of  people  whose  appearance 
is  pretty  well  known  and  whose  foibles 
are  revealed  with  agreeable  malice, 
they  are  recognized  with  ease  as  deli- 
cate and  desirable  works :  in  America, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  people  carica- 
tured may  not  be  known  by  sight  or 
even  by  habit,  and  the  drawings  might 
lose  point.  •  Yet  one  cannot  wholly  rec- 
ognize the  hold  which  "Max"  has  upon 
the  polite  public  here  without  getting 
a  grip  upon  the  part  his  cartoons  play 
in  the  general  estimate  of  his  work. 
He  is  a  charming  "figure",  not  a  man 
of  his  works  and  nothing  else;  his 
drawings,  his  essays,  his  stories,  are 
only  parts  of  the  ensemble,  as  it  were, 
and  the  whole  is  a  personality  quite, 
I  should  say,  unique  in  our  time.  It 
would  be  a  good  t^ing  if,  say,  a  hun- 
dred or  a  couple  of  hundred  of  his 



least  parochial  cartoons  could  be  ex- 
hibited in  New  York,  They  lose  in  re- 
duction and  reproduction,  and  so  the 
full  quality  of  them  is  impaired  in 
book  form. 

"Max"  is  one  of  those  who  find  Italy 
more  congenial  than  England  as  a 
place  of  residence,  and  the  number  is 
increasing.  Half  Cambridge  Univer- 
sity and  its  environs  was  in  Italy  in 
the  spring,  and  now  there  seems  to 
be  a  recrudescence  of  travel  to  the 
warmth,  though  why  one  should  leave 
England  for  any  place  but  Iceland  or 
Australia  in  these  days,  I  cannot  im- 
agine. For  those  in  delicate  health, 
who  need  to  be  able  to  live  in  a  tran- 
quil and  basking  climate,  the  case  is 
different.  Nobody  could  call  the  Eng- 
lish climate  stable.  All  the  same,  I 
miss  my  friends,  and  am  rather  re- 
sentful of  Italy  at  the  moment.  I  have 
never  been  there  myself,  and  the  whole 
of  my  peevishness  may  be  the  result 
of  envy.  The  country  seems  good 
breeding  ground  for  creative  work, 
and  that  is  in  its  favor.  But  after  all, 
any  place  but  one's  own  home  seems 
to  be  the  best  place  for  work.  Take 
the  case  of  Sinclair  Lewis,  who  is  busy 
writing  another  "Main  Street"  down 
at  Maidstone,  in  Kent. 

•  •  »  » 

Speaking  of  Sinclair  Lewis  reminds 
me  that  one  English  publisher  is  mak- 
ing a  determined  attempt  to  popular- 
ize in  England  certain  American  books 
of  good  quality.  Nearly  all  the  books 
he  advertises  are  American.  I  refer 
to  Jonathan  Cape,  who  has  published, 
to  an  accompaniment  of  praise  from 
the  London  papers,  "The  Brimming 
Cup",  and  who  announces  "Zell"  and 
others.  Personally  I  am  afraid  that 
the  English  public  for  such  books  will 
be  small.  But  we  come  back  to  the 
very  singular  point  about  American 
books  in  England,  that  we  seem  to 

read  Gene  Stratton-Porter  in  huge 
numbers,  that  we  coquet  feebly  with 
Mrs.  Wharton,  and  that  we  remain 
shamefully  ignorant  of  what  is  being 
done  across  the  ocean.  Good  luck  to 
Mr.  Cape's  enterprise.  If  it  succeeds, 
another  publishing  superstition  will 
disappear.  I  learn  that  in  the  picture 
houses  the  taste  for  American  films  is 
declining,  but  one  always  hears  such 
statements  with  some  reserve,  because 
so  many  of  them  have  a  curious  way 
of  reflecting  one  person's  view  rather 
than  the  view  of  the  majority.  Never- 
theless there  are  difficulties  in  the  way 
of  making  books  descriptive  of  Ameri- 
can domestic  life  intelligible  to  Eng- 
lish readers,  and  my  own  opinion  is 
that  we  shall  not  for  a  long  time  care 
for  ansrthing  but  the  "twopence  col- 
ored" variety  of  American  fiction — ^the 
story  of  adventure.  This  is  largely 
because  English  writers  have  no  Far 
West  to  write  about.  We  have  our 
own  provinces,  and  they  are  on  the 
whole  a  drug  in  the  fiction  market. 

The  liking  for  a  "story"  is  uni- 
versal. It  seems  to  override  all  diffi- 
culties of  scene  and  setting.  It  is  the 
novel  of  character  which  is  so  difficult 
to  transplant.  Take  the  Russian  nov- 
elists-^the  numbers  sold  in  England 
would  probably  turn  out  to  be  very 
small  per  head  of  the  population.  Ad- 
mirers are  everywhere;  but  they  are 
few  and  far  between.  I  know  a  man 
who  seems  to  be  reading  the  novels  of 
Dostoyevsky  unobtrusively  and  thor- 
oughly. I  have  actually  heard  of  a 
man  who  has  just  discovered  Chekhov 
for  himself,  and  who  thinks  and 
dreams  of  no  author  but  Chekhov. 
But  these  two  men  are  remarkable  be- 
cause they  are  "sports".  The  taste 
for  these  great  Russians  is  not  easily 
cultivated.  The  greatest  bar  to  com- 
prehension is  the  nomenclature.  In 
American  books  it  is  the  milieu,  in 



which  English  people  do  not  seem  able 
to  be  interested.  English  people  dis- 
like novels  in  dialect  quite  as  much. 
It  is  a  trouble  to  them.  American 
readers  are  far  more  generous  of  time 
and  patience  and  understanding  with 

regard  to  English  books. 

»  »  »  • 

A  book  in  which  I  am  just  now  tak- 
ing great  interest  is  the  translation  of 
Chekhov's  Letters.  I  have  read  it  be- 
fore»  of  course,  but  it  improves  on 
acquaintance.  There  is  such  a  sanity 
about  Chekhov,  such  an  absence  of 
humbug,  that  his  letters,  however  dry 
and  satiric,  never  fail  to  come  off  the 
page  with  a  real  fiick  of  vitality.  If 
we  had  a  Chekhov  writing  now  in 
English  we  should  be  worth  studying 
as  a  literary  nation.    Take  away  the 

Russian  setting,  and  one  is  up  against 
a  natural  materialism  in  the  English 
character  which  seems  to  be  absent 
from  the  Russians;  but  even  so  there 
is  no  reason  why  an  English  author 
should  not  penetrate  that  materialism 
and  come  upon  what  is  really  there  at 
the  heart,  which  is  a  humor  and  char- 
acter only  too  rich  in  material  for  the 
novelist's  taking.  Will  not  somebody 
oblige?  We  do  not  want  an  imitation 
Chekhov.  What  we  need  is  a  sober 
and  delicate-minded  intellect  to  go 
straight  to  human  nature.  Most  of  us 
are  too  dexterous  to  be  delicate,  too 
competent  to  be  profound  in  our  un- 
derstandings. Yet  that  seems  to  me 
to  be  the  only  hope  for  real  creative 
work  in  this  country. 



By  Oscar  Davisson 

SEPTEMBER  night!    And  morning  coming  and  thin  rain 
Drifting  it  down  and  down  upon  the  deck, 
And  dew,  pearled  drop  on  drop  within  your  hair,  and  pain 
Between  us — ^and  through  the  water  like  slow  flame 

Old  Sirius  the  Dog  Star,  fleck  on  fleck 
Of  scatt'ring  scarlet!    Then  the  Silence,  then  the  same 


Reverberate  still  runneling  of  the  water. 
The  splash  of  schools  of  bluefish  and  the  grim 

Dark  chariot  movement  of  the  storm  clouds !    0,  Daughter 

Of  the  Stars,  lover  of  the  night's  bright  moonless  weather. 
What  secrets  were  you  whispering  when  that  slim 

September  dawn  slew  us  and  all  the  stars  together? 



HARVEY  O'HIGGINS  has  achieved  a  style  which  is  durable 
as  well  as  decorative.  He  has  never  been  afraid  to  expose 
it  to  the  most  rough  and  tumble  battles.  Even  when  writ* 
ing  propaganda  designed  for  a  news^reading  public  no  more  than 
two  stars  ahead  of  him,  posterity  has  remained  in  the  tail  of  his 
mind.  During  the  war,  for  instance,  he  was  summoned  to  the 
assistance  of  George  Creel  and  though  carried  along  like  a  racing 
wheelman  paced  by  a  motorcycle,  O'Higgins  managed  to  keep 
his  style  still  firmly  set  upon  his  head.  But  there  were  rhythms 
other  than  those  of  writing  which  fared  worse  and  several  sur* 
geons  expressed  a  desire  to  look  into  the  patient.  Once  more 
style  was  a  savior.  Firmly  committed  to  the  objective  method, 
O'Higgins  declined  the  offers  of  the  medical  men  and  went  to 
Dr.  Edward  Hiram  Reede,  a  psychoanalyst.  A  cure  and  a  volume 
called  "The  Secret  Springs'*  were  the  immediate  result.  O'Higgins 
is  the  literary  pioneer  of  America  in  adopting  the  teachings  of 
Freud  and  his  modifiers  for  the  purpose  of  the  study  of  human 
character.  And  yet  despite  this  revolution  in  the  viewpoint  of 
the  writer,  one  characteristic  of  his  mental  processes  remains 
unchanged.  He  still  writes  objectively.  Even  his  passion  for  a 
persuasive  hypothesis  has  not  altered  his  style.  None  of  his 
many  hatreds  or  even  more  numerous  enthusiasms  ever  has. 
Up  to  and  including  the  boiling  point,  Harvey  O'Higgins  remains 
the  great  precisian. 

'\^\jSXS^SV^    \^ 



la  Marriage  Like  This? 

It  was  at  if  he  liad  said,  "You  can't  under- 
■tand  a  letter  like  thit.  There's  nothing  in  it 
to  understand.  And  that's  Just  what  you  can't 
understand.  Look  here,  you  see  my  head.  I'm 
in  there.  Tou  can't  come  in.  You  don't  know 
how  to.  I  can't  tell  you  how  to.  Nobody 
could  tell  you.  And  you  wouldn't  know  what 
to  make  of  it  if  you  did  get  in." 

Bzasperating.     Insuiferable.     Insupportable. 

MARKO,  the  whimsical  dreamer, 
finds  himself  swept  into  a  tor- 
rential clash  of  temperaments.  He 
has  married  Mabel.  She  is  practical. 
He  is  not.  Incidentally,  he  had  loved 
Nona,  who  understood  him.  Mabel 
does  not.  I  wonder  whether  ''If  Win- 
ter Comes''  (Little,  Brown)  is  as  bril- 
liant a  study  of  a  decent  but  mistaken 
marriage  as  I  think  it  is.  Not  having: 
sufficient  data,  let  me  ask  those  of  you 
who  have.  Warn  me,  if  you  like.  It 
is  penetrating,  bubbling  with  humor, 
pathos,  and  genuine  excitement.  The 
home  background  of  the  war,  touched 
only  slightly,  was  never  more  skilfully 
done  even  in  ''Mr.  Britling".  A.  S.  M. 
Hutchinson's  dialogue  sparkles,  hits, 
jumps,  races — does  practically  every- 
thing that  human  talk  should.  This 
fact,  and  the  way  he  sets  down  the 
processes  of  a  man's  mind,  are  the 
things  that  make  this  book,  give  it  a 
rare,  almost  intoxicating  speed.  It  is 
nervous  and  puzzled,  without  being 
neurotic  It  has  some  scenes  that, 
minus  so  crisp  a  method  as  Mr.  Hutch- 
inson's, might  be  mere  pathos,  and 
others,  as  when  Marko  is  accused  of 
murder,  that  would  be  blatant  melo- 
drama. But  because  it  is  the  novel  of 
an  expert  craftsman  it  is  vivid  and 
real  If  you  think  that  it  is  a  bit  slow 
in  getting  under  way,  don't  be  discour- 

aged; for  it  will  soon  carry  you  by 
leaps  and  bounds  to  a  somewhat 
breathless  conclusion.  A  psychological 
novel  with  a  visible  plot. 

Funny  Faces! 

SEE  the  funny  fa-aces  I  Cummon 
intuh  the  Cr-rystal  Pa-alacel  See 
yuhrself  as  others  see  yuhl  Fat  an' 
slim,  one  an'  all  cummon  in!  Hear 
the  scureams  of  laughter  from  the 
great  Ha-all  of  Mirrors !" 

Thus  the  barker  at  the  county  fair 
lures  us  to  the  spectacle  of  our  dis- 
torted selves.  The  quiet  mirrors  seize 
upon  our  dominant  characteristic,  em- 
phasize it,  twist  it,  until  we  see  our- 
selves as  ridiculous  dwarfs  or  giants, 
yet  indubitably  ourselves.  "The  Mir- 
rors of  Washington"  (Putnam),  with 
their  critical  portraits  of  our  great 
(an  ill-chosen  word,  perhaps)  political 
leaders,  are  occasionaUy  like  this.  The 
gentle  affability  of  Colonel  House,  the 
demagoguery  of  Hiram  Johnson,  the 
publicity  genius  of  Hoover:  these  are 
seized  on  and  magnified  by  the  mir- 
rors, until  the  images  become  stimu- 
lating to  the  eye,  yet  scarcely  faithful. 
Nevertheless,  this  anonymous  book  is 
an  interesting,  spicy,  and  provocative 
attempt  to  analyze  frankly  American 
politics.  It  is  not  so  good  as  the 
Downing  Street  variety.  We  are  not 
so  skiUed  through  the  ages  at  poking 
sophisticated  fun  at  ourselves.  There 
is  some  adroit  writing,  though.  Not 
enough,  I  think,  to  make  us  over-curi- 
ous to  learn  the  name  of  the  author 
who  would  court  curiosity  by  his  dis- 
creet veil.  The  sketch  of  Wilson,  how- 
ever true  it  may  be,  seems  to  me 




rather  masterful.  A  fascinating 
analysis  in  the  tragic  mood.  The  book 
is  already  being  widely  read  and  dis- 
cussed, and  that  is  simply  another 
sign  of  our  growing  desire  to  under- 
stand ourselves,  to  turn  on  the  merci- 
less glare  of  the  spotlight. 

Messrs,  Herford  and  ^sop 

A  NEAT  book,  a  gay  book,  an  ar- 
tistic book,  and  yet  a  text-book! 
"The  Herford  -ffisop"  (Ginn)  should 
be  as  amusing  to  parents  as  to  their 
children.  Herford  has  given  the  old 
fables  a  new  tang  without  detracting 
from  their  simplicity.  What  an  inter- 
esting old  gentleman  ^sop's  lion  must 
have  been.  Some  day  I  must  get  Mr. 
Herford  to  introduce  me  to  him — and 
to  the  mouse,  too— only  not  at  the 
same  time.  Of  the  fifty  fables  (each 
with  at  least  one  illustration)  I  like 
best  "The  Fox  and  the  Lion" : 

A  fox  who  never,  strange  to  Bay, 

Had  Been  the  King  of  BeaatB,  one  day 

Beheld  a  Lion.    At  the  aight 

He  very  nearly  died  of  fright. 

The  second  time  he  met  the  King 

He  felt  a  sort  of  shivering 

Sensation  up  and  down  his  spine. 

But  outwardly  betrayed  no  sign. 

The  third  time  they  met  face  to  face 

The  fox  showed  not  the  slightest  trace 

Of  fear,  but  bold  as  anything 

Walked  up  and  said,  "Good  morning.   King!'* 

Rapier  and  Btiskin 

IF  a  man  can  spin  a  romantic  narra- 
tive with  color  and  abandon,  why 
require  him  to  write  well?  That  is,  if 
he  doesn't  try  to  write  well  and  fail. 
I  don't  think  that  style,  as  such,  makes 
much  difference  to  Rafael  Sabatini. 
He  creates  his  characters  with  dash 
and  gayety.  Let  him  write  as  badly  as 
he  likes,  then ;  for  books  like  "Scara- 
mouche"  (Houghton  Mifflin),  in  spite 
of  what  we  are  told  in  this  case  of  the 
accuracy  of  the  historical  background, 
are  written  only  to  entertain.    Scara- 

mouche,  the  young  adventurer,  the 
actor,  the  playwright,  the  revolution- 
ist, the  lover,  is  so  modem  in  his 
moods  and  so  picturesque  in  his  set- 
ting of  traveling  players,  fencing- 
masters,  duelers,  kings,  and  court  in- 
trigues, that  the  achievement  of  keep- 
ing us  entertained  through  what  is 
really  a  very  long  book,  is  more  his 
than  his  creator's!  I  think  that  we 
are  going  to  read  costume  novels  this 
winter.  We  are,  certainly,  if  the  pub- 
lic turns  from  a  drab  realistic  effort 
to  a  shivering  melodrama  like  this, 
with  as  much  pleasure  as  I  did.  This 
is  a  book  to  be  easily  read  and  easily 
forgotten.  That  is — ^all  but  Scara- 
mouche  himself!  Scaramouche  is  a 
person  indeed;  and  he'll  stay  in  the 
mind  for— oh  well ! — ^three  months,  or 
perhaps  longer. 

Understanding  Our  Poets 

THE  new  edition  of  Louis  Unter- 
meyer's  "Modem  American  Poet- 
ry" (Harcourt)  is  as  well  selected  and 
arranged  as  his  British  one,  and  that's 
saying  a  good  deal.  In  one  compact 
volume  he  gives  us  biographical 
sketches,  critical  estimates,  and  excel- 
lent selections  of  American  poets  from 
Emily  Dickinson  to  the  child  Hilda 
Conkling.  Also  a  preface  discussing 
the  whole  range.  It  is  neat  informa- 
tion, too,  and  concise.  I  know  of  no 
other  way  to  gain  a  fairly  complete 
understanding  of  the  subject  so  frank- 
ly and  pleasantly.  The  sketches,  in 
smaller  print,  are  telling,  even  some- 
times amusing.  The  selected  poems 
are  not  too  usual  as  to  be  always  fa- 
miliar. The  poets  chosen  are  ade- 
quate. There  seem  to  be  no  glaring 
omissions,  except  the  names  of  Wil- 
liam Alexander  Percy  and  Leonora 
Speyer.  I  should  like  to  have  more 
of  Louise  Guiney,  and  of  William 
Vaughn  Moody;  but  I  would  not  sub- 



tract  from  the  others.  I  was  reading 
the  other  day  an  anthology  compiled 
in  England  and  called  ''An  Anthology 
of  Modem  Verse".  Well,  after  read- 
ing this  surprisingly  good  collection 
of  Louis  Untermeyer's  I  am  more  sure 
than  ever  that  the  title  of  that  an- 
thology was  a  gross,  if  unintentional 
insult.  Not  one  American  was  in- 
cluded!   Mr.  Untermeyer's  book  is  a 

particularly  good  work  for  women's 
clubs,  schools,  and  universities.  Like 
Mr.  Van  Doren's  'The  American 
NoveF'  (Macmillan),  it  furnishes  a 
thoroughly  readable  and  entertaining 
background  for  a  study  course  in  so- 
cial group  or  classrooHL  If  the  ladies 
of  Gopher  Prairie  had  followed  these 
two  books  they  could  not  have  merited 
Carol's  scorn. 



By  Maxwell  Bodenheim. 

FROM  the  pensive  treachery  of  my  cell 
I  can  hear  your  mournful  yell. 
Centuries  of  pain  are  pressed 
Into  one  unconscious  jest 
As  your  scream  disrobes  your  soul. 
The  silence  of  your  iron  hole 
Is  hot  and  stolid,  like  a  guest 
Weary  of  seeing  men  undressed. 
The  silence  holds  an  unused  bell 
That  will  answer  your  lunging  yell 
When  your  flesh  has  curled  away 
Into  the  burning  threshold  of  a  day. 
Like  the  silence,  I  listen 
Because  I  seek  the  glisten 
Of  a  hidden  humour  that  strains 
Underneath  the  stumble  of  all  pains. 
Brown  and  wildly  clownish  shape 
Thrown  into  a  cell  for  rape. 
You  contain  the  tortured  laugh 
Of  a  pilgrim-imbecile  whose  staff 
Taps  against  a  massive  comedy. 
Mdodrama  burlesques  itself  with  free 
And  stony  voice,  and  wears  a  row  of  masks 
To  hide  the  strident  humour  of  its  tasks. 
Melodrama,  you,  and  I, 
We  are  merely  tongues  that  try 
To  loosen  an  elusive  dream 
Into  whisper,  laugh,  and  scream. 



By  Ernest  Boyd 

AMERICAN  critics  have  said,  some 
^  with  complacency,  others  more  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger,  that  a  third- 
class  English  writer  is  better  than  a 
first-class  American,  or  words  to  that 
effect,  and  the  whole  theory  of  Ameri- 
can provincialism  in  letters  has  rested 
upon  that  theory.  Whatever  element 
of  truth  it  may  have  contained  years 
ago,  when  my  ignorance  of  the  intel- 
lectual life  of  this  country  was  as  pro- 
found as  that  of  most  Europeans,  in 
the  span  of  my  own  first-hand  experi- 
ence of  American  literature,  the  theory 
has  been  disproved.  By  some  law  of 
compensation  America  has  been  pro- 
ductive and  progressive  in  the  arts 
during  these  last  six  years  of  Euro- 
pean sterility,  and  on  every  side  are 
signs  of  a  genuine  flowering  of  the 
national  spirit.  Within  less  than  a 
decade  novelists,  poets,  and  dramatists 
have  sprung  into  existence  to  such  ef- 
fect that  even  in  England  people  are 
aware  of  them,  and  stories  of  roaring 
trails  or  slick  business  men  no  longer 
sum  up  American  literature  since 

The  changed  situation  of  America 
in  relation  to  England  is  strikingly  il- 
lustrated by  the  three  new  volumes  of 
John  Galsworthy,  Hugh  Walpole,  and 
W.  L.  George,  who  certainly  cannot  be 
dismissed  as  unimportant  or  unrepre- 
sentative writers  of  English  fiction. 
Not  one  of  them  has  anything  to  say, 
or  perhaps  it  would  be  more  accurate 
to  suggest  that  all  three  want  to  say 
the  same  thing,  and  each  of  them  says 
nothing.     It  would  be  easy  to  name 

more  than  three  books  of  American 
fiction  during  the  past  season  by  new 
authors  which  have  a  real  significance 
and  a  quality  of  originality  lacking  in 
the  work  of  these  practised  writers. 
If  the  comparison  be  extended  to  in- 
clude American  novelists  of  approxi- 
mately the  same  standing  in  this  coun- 
try as  the  Englishmen  in  theirs,  then 
the  balance  in  favor  of  the  former  is 
overwhelming.  It  was  the  war  in 
Europe  which  gave  the  traveling  pub- 
lic the  slogan:  See  America  First! 
The  peace  in  Europe  should  induce  the 
reading  public  to  see  American  litera- 
ture first. 

It  is  precisely  the  disintegration  of 
the  old  order  after  the  war  which  is 
the  theme  common  to  these  otherwise 
entirely  dissimilar  books.  In  Mr. 
Galsworthy's  "To  Let''  the  theme  is 
rather  incidental,  in  contrast  to  its  di- 
rect treatment  by  Mr.  Walpole  and  Mr. 
George.  The  breaking  up  of  an  an- 
cient and  apparently  impregnable  so- 
cial system  forms  the  background  of 
what  is  nothing  more  than  a  retelling 
of  the  story  of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  The 
author  once  more  introduces  us  into 
the  lives  of  those  peculiarly  English 
families  of  the  wealthy,  conservative 
class,  whose  virtues  and  idiosyncrasies 
he  knows  so  well,  but  in  the  present 
case  their  security  and  privileges  are 
overshadowed  by  the  threat  of  a  new 
age.  There  is  a  hint  of  ssrmbolism  in 
the  presence  of  a  flighty  Frenchwoman 
in  the  staid  clan  of  the  Forsytes,  and 
the  romance  of  Fleur  Forssrte  (that 
hybrid  name  is  significant)  with  her 
cousin  Jon  (not  John,  be  it  noted!) 
represents  the  rise  of  a  generation 
which  can  never  share  the  viewpoint 




of  its  elders,  whose  f eud»  nevertheless, 
keeps  them  apart.  Mr.  Galsworthy's 
narrative  is  carried  along  by  the 
charm  of  his  style,  which  has  all  the 
ease  and  mellowness  of  the  old  Eng- 
land whose  malady  he  has  diagnosed 
with  the  affection  of  intelligent  dis^ 
cemment.  Yet,  in  the  last  analysis 
one  feels  that  this  superb  instrument 
has  merely  been  plowing  the  sands, 
that  the  seed  of  life  has  not  been  cast 
into  the  exhausted,  arid  soil.  The 
roughest  labor  of  some  pioneering  be- 
ginner over  here  has  more  promise  of 
vitality  than  this  literary  landscape 

In  "The  Thirteen  TraveUers"  Hugh 
Walpole  specifically  invites  his  readers 
to  face  with  him  the  problems  of  a 
group  of  typical  London  figures  con- 
fronted with  a  world  irrevocably  al- 
tered by  the  war.  They  are  all  con- 
nected in  one  way  or  another  with  a 
fashionable  apartment  house  in  the 
West  End.  One  is  an  old  gentleman 
of  leisure  with  limited  means,  of  the 
sort  that  flourished  in  Europe  in  the 
days  before  democratization  and  de- 
preciated currency.  Another  is  the 
woman  servant  who  takes  the  place  of 
a  man  during  the  war,  and  who  sees 
in  the  peace  a  return  to  domestic 
drudgery.  Another  is  the  spoiled  son 
and  heir,  whose  days  and  nights  are 
given  up  to  compensations  for  the 
hardships  of  the  trenches  and  the  loss 
of  an  arm,  until  the  pressure  of  taxes 
on  unearned  increment  and  the  high 
cost  of  living  bring  the  bewildered 
squire,  his  father,  to  town  with  the 
dreadful  news  that  his  boy  must  work. 
In  accordance  with  the  traditions  of 
the  popular  fictioneers  Mr.  Walpole 
solves  these  problems.  The  elderly 
parasite  dies  to  soft  music;  the  dis- 
tressed servant  refuses  to  keep  a  re- 
turned hero  out  of  his  job  and  is  mar- 
ried to  him  providentially,  so  that  no 

man  can  oust  her  from  thfU  position; 
the  young  man-about-town  turns 
round,  with  movie-like  rapidity,  and 
gladdens  the  eye  as  an  honest  painter 
in  overalls,  decorating  the  front  of  a 
house  near  the  scene  of  his  former  so- 
cial triumphs.  Needless  to  say,  it  was 
not  for  such  inventions  that  Henry 
James  singled  out  Hugh  Walpole  in  a 
famous  essay  on  the  younger  English 

W.  L.  George's  Ursula  Trent  is  pre- 
sented as  the  young  Englishwoman 
whom  four  years  of  war  work  have 
cast  loose  from  her  family  moorings, 
and  who  proceeds  to  "live  her  life'',  as 
the  phrase  used  to  go  in  the  defunct 
era  of  class-conscious  feminism.  Here 
the  author  is  also  aware  of  an  impor- 
tant and  vital  phenomenon  in  the  his- 
tory of  England  since  1914,  but  all 
that  he  does  with  it  is  to  rehash  the 
story  of  his  first  novel,  "A  Bed  of 
Roses".  In  so  doing  his  commercial 
judgment  is  as  sound  as  Mr.  Walpole's 
in  deciding  to  be  as  "glad"  as  the 
sweetest  contributor  to  the  American 
fiction  magazines.  But  a  foreigner  of 
the  prestige  of  either  Mr.  Walpole  or 
Mr.  George  is  expected  to  display  some 
subtler  quality  more  nearly  related  to 
literature.  Possibly  there  are  radical 
experts  in  advanced  thought  who  will 
be  impressed  by  the  manner  in  which 
Ursula  Trent  emerges  from  promiscu- 
ous amours  into  eminently  bourgeois 
matrimony.  But  America  can  do  this 
sort  of  stuff  just  as  well,  and  is  doing 
a  great  deal  more  that  is  better  than 
all  three  of  these  volumes.  So  it  is 
safe,  in  any  case,  to  suggest  that  all 
classes  of  readers  would  do  well  to  see 
American  fiction  first. 

To  Let.  By  John  Galsworthy.  Charlet 
Scribner'B  Sons. 

The  Thirteen  Travellers.  By  Hngh  Walpole. 
George  H.  Doran  Company. 

Ursulft  Trent.  By  W.  L.  George.  Harper 
and  Bros. 




By  Richard  Le  Gallienne 

rl  the  lover  of  books  a  literary  mys- 
tery has  an  exciting  charm  almost 
as  great  as  that  of  buried  treasure.  A 
'lost  manuscript"  or  the  piquantly 
kept  secret  of  the  authorship  of  some 
provocative  masterpiece  is  as  thrilling 
as  an  ironbound  sea-chest  heavy  with 
Spanish  doubloons.  The  lost  poems  of 
Sappho,  for  instance.  What  an  oppor- 
tunity is  still  there  for  the  literary  ad- 
venturer. What  a  quest  for  someone 
sufficiently  learned  and  leisured  to 
hunt  among  old  Greek  and  Egjrptian 
temples  and  tombs  for  the  precious 
scroll,  delicate  tablets,  or  fragile  pa- 
pyrus, which  would  give  us  whole 
poems  where  now  we  have  but  a  hand- 
ful of  broken  lines,  a  petal  here  and 
there  out  of  that  lost  old  rose  garden. 
Doubtless,  the  Bacon-Shakespeare 
madness  has  found  so  many  adherents 
because  of  such  appeal  to  the  imagina- 
tion. The  mere  word  cipher  stirs 
one's  blood — ^a  truly  haunted  word. 
Had  Bacon  himself  been  a  less  mean 
and  prosaic  figure,  and  had  his  adher- 
ents been  less  obviously  negligible 
minds,  scant  alike  in  literary  breeding 
and  the  sense  of  humor,  their  rather 
humdrum  delusion  might  be  wel- 
comed as  a  mystery  worth  cherishing. 
As  it  is,  it  is  about  as  attractive,  say, 
as  Mormonism,  the  class  of  heresy,  in- 
deed, to  which  it  belongs. 

However,  there  is  happily  no  need 
to  manufacture  a  Shakespearian  mys- 
tery, for  the  mystery  of  the  Sonnets 
is  sufficiently  romantic,  combining  as 
it  does  all  the  elements  of  a  beautiful 
as  well  as  a  complex  literary  adven- 
ture, involving  the  romance  of  person- 
ality with  that  of  romantic  conditions. 
"With  this  key  Shakespeare  unlocked 
jbJs  heart  V*   Was  a  picturesque  phrase 

ever  further  from  the  truth? — ^the 
fact,  of  course,  being  that  Shakespeare 
did  the  precise  opposite,  indicating 
that  his  heart  was  indeed  in  the  Son- 
nets, that  in  them  as  in  a  casket  he 
had  placed  it,  but  that  far  from  leav- 
ing the  casket  unlocked,  or  with  the 
key  attached,  he  had  on  the  contrary 
double  and  treble  locked  it — and 
thrown  the  key  away;  leaving  us  to 
amuse  ourselves  by  vain  endeavors  to 
pick  the  lock.  Some,  of  course,  have 
believed  that  they  have  picked  it,  but 
so  far  they  have  convinced  no  one  but 
themselves,  and  a  few  disciples;  and 
the  mystery  of  the  Sonnets  still  re- 
mains anyone's  adventure. 

By  far  the  most  entertaining  "ad- 
venture" yet  recorded  is  that  of  Oscar 
WUde  in  "The  Portrait  of  Mr.  W.  H.", 
and,  as  it  now  comes  to  us  in  its  com- 
pleted form,  it  brings  with  it  not  only 
the  fuller  expansion  of  its  theory,  but 
accidental  attractions  romantically  ap- 
propriate. Not  only  have  we  the  mys- 
terious theory  of  the  Sonnets  mystery 
itself,  but,  in  the  interval  since  that 
theory  was  first  sketched  in  "Black- 
wood's Magazine",  the  very  manu- 
script from  which  the  present  volume 
has  been  printed  has  become  the  sub- 
ject of  a  dark  and  thrilling  conspiracy. 
Here  is  an  extract  from  Mr.  Kenner- 
ley's  announcement : 

The  essay  entitled  *'The  Portrait  of  Mr.  W. 
H."  was  published  in  Blackwood's  Magrasine  tor 
July,  1889,  and  caused  a  great  deal  of  discus- 
sion. Shortly  afterwards  it  became  known  that 
Oscar  WUde  was  working  on  a  larger  study  of 
the  same  subject,  and  in  1893  it  was  announced 
for  publication.  On  the  day  of  Oscar  WUde's 
arrest,  AprU  fifth,  1896,  his  books  were  with- 
drawn from  the  publishers*  shelves  and  cata- 
logues, and  the  manuscript  of  **The  Portrait  of 
Mr.  W.  H.'*  is  said  to  have  been  returned  to 
Wilde*s  house,  Tite  Street,  Chelsea,  since  which 
date  no  trace  of  it  had  been  discoyered.  It  can 
now  be  said  that  since  Oscar  Wilde  completed 
this  manuscript  for  the  printer,  it  had  not 
been  seen  by  a  llTing  person  untU  it  was  found 
in  July,  1920,  and  sent  to  MitcheU  Kennerley, 
who  recognised  it  as  indisputably  **the  lost 
manuscript",  in  Wilde's  own  handwriting. 




AU  this  is  deliflrhtfully  as  it  should 
be,  most  artistically  in  keeping  with 
the  framework  of  rather  unhallowed 
mystification  with  which  Wilde,  in  the 
story  itself,  whimsically  surrounds  the 
transmission  of  his  sinister  theory, 
fatal  to  all  intrusted  with  it.  And 
still,  it  will  be  observed,  even  after 
Mr.  Eennerley's  publication,  the  mys- 
tery of  the  ''Lost  MS."  still  remains. 
Yes,  where  has  the  manuscript  been 
all  these  intervening  years?  Who 
stole  it  from  Wilde's  rooms,  while  the 
auction  was  going  on,  that  fatal  April 
day  in  1895?  or  has  it  been  all  this 
time  respectably  reposing  in  the  per- 
fectly proper  keeping  of  Wilde's  legal 
representatives?  Who— but  Mr.  Ken- 
nerley — shall  say?  He,  doubtless,  is 
the  happy  possessor  of  the  secret ;  but, 
I  suppose,  "wild  horses" . . .  etc . . . 
So  let  us  turn  to  "The  Portrait  of  Mr. 
W.  H."  itself. 

There  have  been  few  such  brilliant 
jeux  d'esprit,  combining  as  it  does  in 
little  the  wit  and  whimsicality  of 
Wilde's  plays, — ^notably  the  nonsense 
streak  of  "The  Importance  of  Being 
Earnest", — ^his  gift  of  story-telling, 
the  atmosphere  of  the  romance  of 
beauty,  and  of  the  romance  of  learn- 
ing, which  pervaded  his  prose,  as  it 
pervaded  his  conversation, — of  which, 
indeed,  his  prose  was  the  echo, — and, 
added  also,  his  keen  intellectual  relish 
in  devising,  supporting,  and  decorat- 
ing the  theory  itself  from  his  gay  mul- 
tifarious reading. 

As  to  how  far  he  has  made  out  his 
case  for  "Willie  Hughes",  each  stu- 
dent of  the  Sonnets  must  decide  for 
himself.  Holders  of  rival  theories 
wiU,  of  course,  remain  unconvinced, 
and  go  on  believing  still  that  William 
Herbert,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  or  Henry 
Wriothesley,  Earl  of  Southampton, 
was  the  "onlie  begetter" ;  or,  with  Sir 
Sidney  Lee,  hdd  that  ttie  much  dis- 

cussed dedication  was  merely  a  com- 
plimentary acknowledgment  made  by 
the  publisher  "T.  T."— Thomas  Thorpe 
— ^to  a  certain  Mr.  William  Hall,  who 
had  procured  the  manuscript  of  "these 
insuing  Sonnets"  for  him,  and  so 
might  be  called  their  "begetter",  in 
the  sense  of  having  been  their  "getter" 
— and  that  the  poet  himself  had  noth- 
ing whatsoever  to  do  with  the  dedica- 

Sir  Sidney  Lee  is  "a  sore  decayer" 
of  cherished  Shakespearian  illusions, 
and  he  does  his  best  to  strip  the  Son- 
nets of  all  romantic  and  even  personal 
significance.  However,  that  is  not 
quite  within  the  power  even  of  his 
erudition.  The  great  passionate  lines 
remain,  with  their  poignant,  tragic, 
haunted  music,  as  of  reverberating 
deep-sea  caves  of  the  spirit.  They 
meant  something  more  than  "litera- 
ture", mere  experimental  sonneteer- 
ing; and  Wilde's  guess  at  what  they 
mean  is  as  likely  as  another's.  That 
the  Sonnets  celebrate  Shakespeare's 
passionate  friendship  for  a  beautiful 
young  man,  an  attachment  complicated 
with  his  love  for  a  beautiful  woman — 
"the  dark  lady" — cannot  be  questioned. 
So  much  is  clear,  so  much  "unlocked". 
Therefore,  why  may  not  that  young 
friend  have  been  one  of  those  hand- 
some boy-actors  who  played  women's 
parts  at  Shakespeare's  theatre,  and 
wonderfully  embodied  for  him  his 
Rosalind  or  his  Juliet?  What  more 
natural  than  that  Shakespeare  had 
him  in  mind  as  he  wrote  the  parts  he 
was  intended  to  play.  This  need  not 
seem  so  strange  to  us  when  we  recall 
the  Eltinge  theatre.  And,  though  no 
"Willie  Hughes"  appears  among  the 
recorded  names  of  the  boy-actors  of 
the  time,  that  is  no  proof  that  an  actor 
so  named  did  not  exist.  There  is  much 
punning  on  toiU  and  hews,  also  huea^ 
in  the  Sonnets: 



A  man  in  hew,  all  Hewa  in  his  controwling — 

Wboeyer  hath  her  wish,  thou  hast  thy  Will, 
And  will  to  boot,  and  will  in  over-plus, 

and  so  on.  It  is  hardly  likely  that  the 
printer  printed  that  Hewa  so  capital- 
ized and  italicized,  by  accident.  All 
that  must  have  meant  something,  and 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  reader 
of  "The  Portrait  of  Mr.  W.  H."  will  be 
more  than  half  persuaded  to  believe 
that  it  meant — ^Willie  Hughes. 

The  Portrait  of  Mr.  W.  H.    By  Oscar  Wilde. 
Mitchell  Kennerley. 

By  Burton  Rascoe 

IF  I  were  disposed  to  credit  the 
theory  of  reincarnation  (and  I  am, 
at  this  moment,  so  disposed)  I  should 
say  that  Ben  Hecht  has  inherited  the 
soul  which  Joris-Karl  Huysmans  relin- 
quished when  he  commended  himself 
to  the  Trappists  and  to  God.  This  no- 
tion gains  a  chimerical  credence  by  a 
comparison  of  the  physiognomy  of  the 
Chicago  novelist  with  any  portrait  of 
the  great  French  chronicler  of  the  de- 

I  remember  remarking  when  I  first 
met  Hecht  a  salient  resemblance  to  the 
familiar  Vallotton  masque  of  Huys- 
mans. Hecht  has  the  same  brachy- 
cephalic  head,  the  same  narrow,  aqui- 
line and  spatulate  nose,  the  same  scant 
upper  lip  spanned  by  a  ramiform  mus- 
tache, the  same  arched  eyebrows,  the 
same  serrated  forehead,  the  same 
quaint  look  of  whimsical  malice. 
There  is  in  both  countenances  an  as- 
pect at  once  satyric  and  spiritual,  like 
that  of  a  faun  who  has  lived  indoors. 
Only  in  their  eyes  do  they  differ:  the 
eyes  of  Huysmans  are  fatigued  and 
strained;  the  eyes  of  Hecht  are  alert 
and  gay. 

When  Hecht  talks  the  hallucination 
deepens.  From  his  mocking  lips  comes 
that  swift,  deft  poniarding  of  rivals 
and  contemporaries  we  associate  with 
Huysmans.  One  hears  him  say  of 
Hugh  Walpole,  "an  amiable  medioc- 
rity"; of  Sir  Oliver  Lodge,  "a  befud- 
dled old  man  capitalizing  his  dotage" ; 
of  Carl  Sandburg,  "an  untrained  pres- 
tidigitator surprised  at  the  rabbits  he 
pulls  out  of  a  plug  hat".  One  recalls 
the  crisp  Huysmansian  conversational 
dicta :  of  Lemonnier,  "le  dem^nageur" ; 
of  Bourget,  "le  r^tameur";  of  a 
woman  novelist,  "la  cardeuse  de  mate- 
las";  "les  explosibles  fariboles  des 
romantiques" ;  "les  pastilles  mi-sel, 
mi-sucre  de  la  litterature  de  Vichy". 
The  epithetical  cleverness  of  Huys- 
mans is  legendary.  I  may  be  par- 
doned the  eccentricity  of  preferring 
that  of  the  American.  I  seem  to  de- 
tect in  Hecht  a  greater  imagistic  re- 
sourcefulness, a  more  sprightly  ca- 
price of  adjectives  and  some  justice. 

Finally,  to  play  with  my  notion  be- 
fore dismissing  it,  let  me  observe  that 
there  is  in  Hecht  the  Huysmansian 
contempt  for  the  stupid  and  mediocre, 
the  Huysmansian  passion  for  setting 
off  explosives  under  dead  syntax  and 
desuete  word-groupings,  the  French- 
man's delight  in  the  exotic,  fantastic, 
and  bizarre.  There  are  these  differ- 
ences :  Huysmans  had  the  benefit  of  a 
richer  cultural  tradition  and  a  more 
varied  critical  equipment;  Hecht  has 
a  keener  sense  of  form,  a  better  docu- 
mented disillusion,  and  a  more  corror 
sive  cynicism.  In  Huysmans  there  is 
always  a  suggestion  of  faith ;  in  Hecht 
there  is  no  faith  save  in  himself,  and 
even  in  this  there  are  elements  and 
times  of  doubt.  Hecht  is  a  Huysmans 
who  has  seen  the  parade  of  petty  hu- 
man passions  in  the  police  court  and 
these  same  petty  human  passions 
decked  out  as  ideals  in  war.    He  is 



amused  by  it  and  yet  his  amusement 
is  a  wry  jocularity,  tinged  with  a 
healthy  regret  that  it  is  not  otherwise 
that  men  should  live.  He  sees  life  as 
an  amusing  spectacle  simply  for  the 
reason  that  for  so  long  he  has  failed 
to  find  it  an  edifying  one. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  his  superb 
novel  "Erik  Dorn",  while  it  challenges 
consideration,  will  not  generally  be  re- 
viewed, I  suspect,  on  its  esthetic 
merits.  So  patent  is  the  personality 
behind  the  work  that  the  man  will 
eclipse,  for  some,  the  literary  projec- 
tion of  himself.  Thus  we  find  Francis 
Hackett  nodding  in  the  course  of  a 
well- written  review:  "A  style  like  Mr. 
Hecht's I  find  its  novelty  as  tire- 
some as  too  many  fuchsia  growths.  It 
is  effective,  but  409  pages  is  like  a 

month  of  bismuth  breakfasts It  is, 

I  believe,  an  actual  straining  for  im- 
pressiveness,  for  accent,  for  effect.'' 
This  last  is  a  curious  statement,  for  it 
records  as  an  idiosyncratic  belief  sub- 
ject to  doubt,  something  which  is  pa- 
tently obvious  and  implies  that  this 
something  is  reprehensible.  Of  course 
Hecht  is  straining  for  impressiveness, 
for  accent,  for  effect,  but  what  is 
wrong  about  that?  Is  not  Mr.  Hackett 
straining  for  effect  when  he  speaks  of 
fuchsia  growths  and  bismuth  break- 
fasts f  All  writing,  considered  as  an 
art,  is  an  actual  straining  for  impres- 
siveness, for  accent,  for  effect.  The 
means  may  be  simplicity  aild  direct- 
ness, but  it  may  also  be  involution, 
antithesis,  paradox,  any  of  the  numer- 
ous media  appropriate  to  the  idea  ex- 
pressed. I  shall  later  reveal  that 
Hecht's  style  in  this  particular  novel 
is  splendidly  in  keeping  with  the 
theme  of  the  book.  Meanwhile  it  is 
well  to  point  out  that  the  novelty  Mr. 
Hackett  finds  tiresome  does  not  ex- 
tend, as  he  says,  throughout  the  409 
pages  of  the  novel.     There  are  pas- 

sages of  poise  and  tranquillity,  of  sim- 
plicity, ease,  and  directness.  To  char- 
acterize as  an  uninterrupted  stridency, 
as  does  Mr.  Hackett,  a  novel  wherein 
passages  dealing  with  war  and  revolu- 
tion are  depicted  with  words  appro- 
priate to  the  theme,  is  to  deride  the 
Brahms  Third  Symphony  as  a  noisy 
and  strident  piece  because  of  a  remem- 
bered crescendo. 

So,  too,  does  Mr.  Mencken,  by  an  un- 
wonted dereliction,  describe  as  disor- 
derly a  book  wherein  disorder  in  bril- 
liant passages  is  expressed  in  language 
that  is  inevitable  if  the  impression  is 
to  be  conveyed.  Nor  is  it  the  critic's 
function  to  regret,  as  Mr.  Hackett  re- 
grets with  some  animus,  that  Erik 
Dom  is  an  egoist,  or  to  regret,  as  Mr. 
Macy  regrets  with  tentative  distaste, 
that  Dom  is  hard  and  brittle.  For 
the  unescapable  fact  is  that  Mr.  Hecht 
set  himself  to  the  task  of  depicting  an 
egoist,  and  not  an  altruist,  a  passion- 
ate young  egoist,  moreover,  who  has 
not  lost  his  hardness  and  brittleness 
through  wisdom  and  experience. 

The  novel  is  as  carefully  planned  as 
an  orchestral  suite.  Its  opening  is 
quiet  and  peaceful,  an  adagio  of  prose 
until  the  stormy  Dom  is  introduced. 
The  development  is  into  aspiration, 
adventure,  disillusion,  and  defeat,  with 
a  recapitulation  and  coda  softening 
into  the  tranquil  mood  with  which  the 
book  began.  It  has  the  rhjrthmic 
variation  of  life  itself,  the  cyclic  pro- 
gression from  desire  to  satiety,  from 
storm  to  quiet,  with  a  thirst  for 
beauty  which  remains  insatiate.  The 
irony  is  implicit  in  the  suavely  con- 
trived recurrence  to  the  identical  set- 
ting of  the  original  scene,  with  an 
indication  that  summer  is  gone  and 
winter  is  come,  wars  and  passion  have 
died — "Outside  the  window  the  snow- 
covered  buildings  stood  in  the  dark 



like  a  skeleton  world,  like  patterns  in 
black  and  white." 

''Erik  Dom"  is  conventional  enough 
in  theme,  and  in  character  motivation. 
It  has  its  prototsrpe  in  'Trometheus 
Bound"  and  in  "Peer  Gynt",  in  "Sa- 
nine",  "The  'Genius' ",  "The  Cords  of 
Vanity",  "The  Man  of  Promise", 
"Martin  Schfiler",  "Maurice  Guest", 
and  a  host  of  others.  It  is  the  familiar 
theme  of  the  artist  type  aspiring  for 
something  beyond  the  petty  demands 
of  a  biological  existence. 

But  Dom  is,  in  the  jargon  of  the 
psychopathologists,  a  victim  of  demen- 
tia prsecox  katatonia;  he  is  incapable 
of  reacting  with  the  normal  human 
emotion  to  any  conunon  stimulus.  He 
lives  with  a  curious  detachment  from 
life,  functioning  brilliantly  as  a  jour- 
nalist in  a  purely  mechanical  way.  He 
is  an  absolute  skeptic,  utterly  without 
convictions  of  any  sort,  a  complete 
sophist,  interested  in  ideas  as  play- 
things, fascinated  by  words,  and  in 
love  with  phrases.  Each  new  experi- 
ence means  to  him  only  a  readjust- 
ment of  adjectives;  life  is  a  series  of 
essays  in  literary  composition;  doc- 
trines, creeds,  and  ideals  are  futile  at- 
tempts to  foist  wall-mottoes  upon  life, 
the  essence  of  which  is  novelty  and 

It  is  to  be  questioned  whether  Hecht 
has  sustained  Dom  throughout  as  he 
has  postulated  ^  him  in  the  begin- 
ning. There  is  a  dubious  cast  to  the 
explanation  of  Dom's  deception  as 
arising  from  his  disinclination  to 
cause  his  wife  sorrow;  for  had  he 
been  as  emotionally  unresponsive  as  he 
is  elsewhere  depicted,  it  is  difficult  to 
believe  that  consideration  for  Anna 
would  have  balked  his  will.  It  is  a 
duality  in  Hechfs  own  makeup  which 
is  responsible  for  this  failure  to  real- 
ize Dom  perfectly.  It  is  the  same 
duality  which  makes  his  account  of  the 

German  revolution  a  brilliant  but  con- 
tradictory and  meaningless  thing.  He 
is  divided  between  an  intellectual  con- 
tempt for  the  shibboleths  and  activi- 
ties of  the  revolutionists  and  an  in- 
stinctive sympathy  with  the  plight  of 
the  proletarian. 

Few  novelists  now  writing  have  the 
eyes  to  see  the  strings  behind  life's 
marionettes  that  Hecht  has,  and  few 
have  his  ability  to  picture  those 
strings  in  a  paragraph.  Anna  and 
Von  Stinnes,  Lockwood  (in  a  few 
pages)  and  Hazlitt  are  realized  with 
dexterous  strokes.  The  portrait  of 
Hazlitt  may  very  well  hang  in  that 
same  gallery  wherein  Homais  is  the 
masterpiece.  And  again  one  will  not 
easily  forget  the  courtroom  scene  and 
its  aftermath,  the  newspaper  office,  the 
pages  devoted  to  the  outbreak  of  the 
war,  the  running  conmientaries  on 
the  catastrophe  and  peace.  For  Hecht 
among  all  the  young  men  of  the  post- 
war generation  of  American  novelists 
has,  it  seems  to  me,  the  most  opulent 
equipment  in  the  matter  of  intelli- 
gence, experience,  and  imaginative 
power.  The  verbal  patterns,  the  pun- 
gently  evocative  word-combinations, 
the  strange  richness  of  metaphor  in 
"Erik  Dom"  cause  it,  if  for  no  other 
reason,  to  stand  out  as  a  distinct  new 
model  in  the  mechanics  of  expression. 
Hecht  is  our  first  great  epithetician. 

Brik  Dorn.    By  Ben  Hecht.     O.  P.  Putnam's 


By  Norreys  Jephson  O'  Conor 

THE  writer  of  a  pageant  is  con- 
fronted by  the  most  difficult  prob- 
lem of  dramatic  technique:  he  must 
tell  a  story,  usually  covering  a  period 
of  years,  through  a  form  wherein  the 
pictorial  element  is  uppermost,  yet  if 



the  pictorial  effects  are  overempha- 
sized the  result  is  but  a  series  of  tab- 
leaux. Moreover,  lacking  the  acoustics 
of  the  theatre,  since  most  pageants  are 
given  out  of  doors,  he  cannot  rely  upon 
dialogue.  By  skilful  invention  of  pan- 
tomime, through  illustrative  action,  he 
must  develop  his  theme. 

In  a  foreword,  printed  in  the  pro- 
gram of  the  Pilgrim  Tercentenary 
Pageant,  "The  Pilgrim  Spirit",  the  au- 
thor and  producer,  Professor  George 
Pierce  Baker  of  Harvard,  expresses 
his  realization  of  the  limitations  of 
pageantry  and  of  his  subject  in  par- 

At  first  Bight  the  size  of  the  Pageant  Field 
would  seem  to  forbid  the  spoken  word,  and  to 
caU  only  for  pantomime,  processionlngs,  and 
briUiant  color  from  masses  of  people.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  story  of  the  Pilgrims  is  inti- 
mate, needing  to  be  told  close  at  hand,  and,  as 
far  as  possible,  in  their  own  words. . . .  Many 
people  know  what  the  Pilgrims  did  in  Bngland, 
in  Holland,  at  Plymouth  in  its  earlier  days,  but 
why  they  did  it,  guided  by  what,  unified  as  a 
group  by  what,  these  matters  have  not  been  so 

To  solve  these  difficulties  of  subject- 
matter  and  place,  which  to  many  would 
have  been  insurmountable,  the  Pil- 
grim Tercentenary  Commission  could 
have  chosen  no  Pageant  Master  of 
more  learning,  taste,  experience,  and 
skill,  than  Professor  Baker.  Through 
his  experimental  theatre  in  Cam- 
bridge, he  has  grown  familiar  with 
every  art  of  the  stage,  and  in  Ply- 
mouth he  gathered  round  him  a  group 
of  workers  whose  cooperation  was  of 
unusual  excellence. 

Foremost  among  these  was  Munroe 
Pevear,  whose  lighting  was  the  out- 
standing feature  of  the  production. 
When  the  opening  scene  broke  from 
the  night,  there  was  no  effect  of  the- 
atrical lighting;  sand  glowed  and 
water  sparkled,  seemingly,  in  warm 
sunlight,  as  the  Norse  galley,  with  its 
brilliant  wall  of  locked  shields,  sailed 
toward   the   cowering,   terrified   Red 

Men  on  the  shore.  The  scene  of  the 
Pestilence  of  1618,  suggested  in  part 
by  Mr.  Gilbert's  incidental  music,  was 
made  unforgetable  by  the  unearthly 
green  light  that  blasted  the  deserted 

The  actors,  1,200  of  them,  all  from 
Plymouth  and  the  neighboring  towns 
of  Duxbury,  Kingston,  Marshfield, 
in  many  instances  bore  names  that 
would  have  been  strange  in  Old  Eng- 
land, but  they  showed  how  pageant- 
giving  makes  for  community  spirit  in 
New  England.  Their  zeal  and  ear- 
nestness gave  the  performance  great 
dignity,  almost  solemnity.  '  One  heard 
often  the  comment,  "It  is  like  Oberam- 
mergau".  So  careful  had  been  the 
training  of  tone  and  diction  that  in 
spite  of  the  enormous  size  of  the  field 
—400  feet  wide  and  450  deep — ^the 
words  were  clearly  audible  to  an  audi- 
ence of  5,000.  Unusually  impressive 
was  the  Voice  from  the  Rock.  The 
band  of  eighty  pieces  and  chorus  of  as 
many  voices  also  represented  ''local 
talent"  exclusively,  as  well  as  sincere 
effort.  No  account  of  the  pageant 
could  fail  to  record  the  devotion  of  the 
designers  and  makers  of  costumes, 
whose  labors  must  have  been  sugges- 
tive of  the  old-time  sewing  bee. 

But  skilful  production  could  not 
compensate  for  absence  of  drama  in 
the  book;  as  in  other  pageants,  the 
spectacular  scenes  were  the  only  ones 
that  really  carried;  the  pictoriid  over- 
shadowed the  dramatic.  When  James 
the  First  made  his  royal  progress  and 
thwarted  or  put  off  petitioning  Puri- 
tans; when  the  Dutch  cities  of  Char- 
ity united  in  gay  and  triumphal 
march;  when,  in  conventionally  aym- 
bolic  finale,  the  nations  of  the  earth 
pranced  proudly  together  with  much 
waving  of  flags,  the  spectators  were 
enthusiastic.  The  small  scenes  evoked 
little  emotion. 



The  text  shows  the  central  idea  of 
"The  PUfirrim  Spirit"  to  be  the  Pil- 
grims'  determination  to  preserve  re- 
ligious liberty  and  popular  govern- 
ment. But  though  there  is  unity  of 
idea,  dramatic  unity  is  absent.  Save 
in  a  few  scenes,  notably  that  of  the 
Opposition,  in  the  Second  Episode,  the 
pageant  lacks  that  suspense  which 
seizes  and  keeps  attention.  There  is 
no  central  figure,  as  in  Mr.  Drink- 
water's  "Abraham  Lincoln",  to  bind 
together  loosely  connected  incidents. 
The  dialogue  has  the  defect  of  its  vir- 
tue in  being  a  literal  or  slightly  al- 
tered transcription  of  the  Pilgrims' 
own  words.  Professor  Baker  has 
leaned  too  heavily  upon  his  familiarity 
with  the  history  and  writings  of  the 
Pilgrims,  has  allowed  his  historical 
knowledge  to  overbalance  his  feeling 
for  the  theatre,  and  has  kept  much 
that  is  undramatic.  This  is  particu- 
larly true  in  the  scene  of  the  Signing 
of  ttie  Compact.  The  best  portions  of 
the  book  are  the  free  verse  Prologue 
and  a  corresponding  passage  at  the 
close  of  the  Third  Episode. 

The  verse  contributed  by  Josephine 
Preston  Peabody,  Hermann  Hagedom, 
Edwin  Arlington  Robinson,  and  Rob- 
ert Frost  adds  little  to  the  reputation 
of  these  already  distinguished  poets. 

What  would  an  Elizabethan  drama^ 
tist  have  done  with  so  unpromising  a 
subject  as  the  Pilgrims?  He  would 
undoubtedly  have  used  facts  freely, 
possibly  have  contrived  a  story  with 
suspense,  perhaps  have  given  unity  to 
his  pageant  by  creating,  or  selecting 
from  a  monotonous  group,  one  charac- 
ter whose  fortunes  the  spectators 
could  follow  with  interest,  and  in 
doing  this  he  might  have  given  as  ac- 
curate a  conception  of  the  Pilgrim 
Spirit  as  that  so  elaborately  fashioned 
by  Professor  Baker. 

The    reaction    of    a    spectator    is 

summed  up  in  the  conclusion  of  a  let- 
ter: "One  admired  technique  and  ear- 
nest purpose,  but  was  left  unmoved, 
like  Barrie's  unfortunate  princess, 
whose  disconsolate  physician,  after 
testing  her  heart,  had  always  to  re- 
port, 'Cold,  quite  cold  I'  And  that  may 
quite  as  well  have  been  the  fault  of  the 
princess  as  of  the  physician." 

One  feature  of  the  pageant  may  be 
especially  commended  in  these  days  of 
international  friction  and  unrest — ^the 
emphasis  placed  upon  the  interdepend- 
ence of  the  two  great  English-speak- 
ing peoples.  "The  path  of  the  'May- 
flower* must  forever  be  kept  free." 

The  Pilgrim  Spirit.  Written  and  produced 
by  Qeoige  P.  Baiter  for  the  Pilgrim  Tercen- 
tenary Commlsaion  of  MaBsachusetti.  Mar- 
8haU  Jonet  Co. 


By  Rex  Hunter 

WHEN  I  played  footbaU  for  Can- 
terbury College  in  New  Zealand 
a  dark,  wiry  student  played  on  the 
three-quarter  line  with  me.  One  day 
I  missed  him  from  his  accustomed 
place  and  made  inquiries.  ''Oh/'  said 
the  undergraduate  to  whom  I  spoke» 
"didn't  you  know?  He's  gone  to  Ox- 
ford as  a  Rhodes  scholar." 

Years  passed.  I  was  in  Chicago,  re- 
porting ttie  trial  of  a  group  of  Social- 
ists charged  with  obstructing  the 
draft.  A  name  was  called  and  a  young 
red-headed  man  rose  from  the  back  of 
the  courtroom  and  took  the  witness 
chair.  He  had  been  brought  from  a 
cell  at  Leavenworth  as  a  witness  for 
the  defense.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
khaki  shirt,  incredibly  shapeless  trou- 
sers, and  grotesque  shoes.  With  this 
garb  his  delicate  face  and  hands  made 
a  strange  contrast.    After  a  few  pre- 



liminary  questions  the  attorney  for 
the  defense  went  on :  'Tou  were  edu- 
cated at  Oxford?"  "I  was."  "You 
went  there  as  a  Rhodes  scholar?" 

Soon  afterward  I  heard  that  the 
former  three-quarter  back  had  become 
an  eminent  K  G.  in  England.  Cecil 
Rhodes  meanwhile  was  sleeping  peace- 
f  uUy  on  the  hill  called  the  View  of  the 
World  in  Africa.  Yet  his  shadow  cast 
itself  across  the  lives  of  these  two 
young  men  who  went  such  different 

Rhodes  was  wildly  hated  and  wildly 
loved.  To  old  President  Kruger  he 
was  "Apollyon,  a  financier,  and  the 
foul  fiend  himself.  Yet  Alfred  Beit, 
a  Jew  from  Hamburg  and  the  shrewd- 
est financier  of  his  time  in  South 
Africa,  spent  himself  in  the  service  of 
the  British  imperialist.  Those  who 
hated  Rhodes  could  not  stop  him  any 
more  than  they  could  stop  a  charging 
'  elephant.  Everything  about  the  man 
was  large,  as  his  biographer  points 
out.  He  had  enormous  virtues  and 
enormous  faults.  He  was  one  of  those 
forceful  men  who  must  find  outlet  for 
their  energy  in  great  projects.  With 
aU  his  material  success  he  was  often 
pathetic.  Material  success  alone  could 
not  satisfy  him.  He  brooded  on  the 
universe  and  sought  a  meaning.  In 
the  silence  of  African  nights  he  probed 
for  some  satisfying  philosophy.  There 
were  moments  when  what  he  saw  in- 
clined him  to  believe  that  there  was  no 
meaning  in  things ;  the  rain  fell  alike 
upon  the  just  and  the  unjust,  and  per- 
haps man's  birth  was  as  insignificant 
as  his  death. 

From  this  conclusion,  however, 
Rhodes  turned  aside  shudderingly. 
He  could  not  stomach  it.  It  is  inter- 
esting to  note  that  he  was  influenced 
by  Winwood  Reade's  book  "The  Mar- 
t3rrdom  of  Man",  in  which  the  briUiant 

author,  after  examining  into  man's 
history  and  the  history  of  all  religions, 
counseled  his  readers  to  forget  their 
dreams  of  immortality  as  vain. 
Rhodes  seized  on  the  positive  side  of 
this  philosophy.  He  deduced  from  it 
the  necessity  of  improving  conditions 
on  this  planet.  He  had  to  believe  in 
something,  and  he  took  for  his  gods 
the  British  Empire,  Queen  Victoria, 
and  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  The  pro- 
gram which  he  drew  up  for  the  exten- 
sion of  British  rule  throughout  the 
world  has  been  practically  all  accom- 
plished with  one  important  exception, 
"the  ultimate  recovery  of  the  United 
States  as  an  integral  part  of  the  Brit- 
ish Empire". 

Mr.  Williams,  by  painting  in  shad- 
ows as  well  as  high  lights,  has  pro- 
duced a  good  biography. 

Cecil   Rhodes.     By   BasU  WiUloms.     Henry 
Holt  and  Co. 

By  Charles  Hanson  Towne 

IF  a  young  journalist  were  starting 
out  on  his  career,  his  managing 
editor  could  do  him  no  greater  service 
than  to  put  this  volume  into  his  hands 
and  say,  "When  you  can  write  like 
this,  you  will  know  you  have  arrived." 
For  succinctness,  a  stripping-to-the- 
bone  effect,  a  naked,  stark  style,  the 
book  has  few  equals.  I  can  think  of 
only  one  writer  who  achieves  such  in- 
stant pictures,  who  so  fearlessly  shows 
up  the  foibles  and  weaknesses  of  poor 
human  beings.  I  mean  Edgar  Lee 
Masters.  This  is  a  veritable  "Spoon 
River"  of  living  dead  men — a  sharp, 
incisive,  truth-compelling  set  of  por- 
traits that  bare  men's  souls,  and  cause 
the  reader  to  suffer  vicariously  at  the 
pitiless  revelations. 



Who  wrote  it?  That  is  what  every- 
one has  been  asking  these  many 
weeks;  and  the  answer  is  yet  to  come. 
''A  Gentleman  with  a  Duster"  has 
simply  tried  to  rub  off  some  of  the 
grime  from  those  mirrors  of  Downing 
Street;  and  in  these  days  of  labor 
troubles  he  has  done  a  fine  job.  I 
should  call  him  a  servant  of  the  public 
who  had  the  welfare  of  his  master  at 
heart  He  has  not  glossed  things  over. 
One  gets  a  close-up  of  every  man,  from 
Lloyd  George  to  Lord  Leverhulme; 
and  just  as  in  the  movies  the  veins  of 
the  most  beautiful  eyes  are  so  magni- 
fied that  they  look  like  maps  of  the 
Himalayas,  so  here  the  faults  and 
frailties  of  these  men,  however  they 
may  have  tried  to  conceal  them  by 
clever  make-up,  are  revealed  for  all  to 

It  has  been  the  present  reviewer's 
fortune  to  see  and  talk  to  four  of  the 
baker's  dozen  thus  analyzed  and  dis- 
sected. He  knows,  therefore,  how 
vivid  is  the  pen  picture  of  Lloyd 
George — ^that  massive  lion's  head  on 
the  dwarfish  body,  tapering  down  to 
legs  that  are  hardly  legs  at  all;  that 
light  in  the  eyes,  that  twinkle  which 
means  so  much— or  so  little — as  the 
Prime  Minister  desires.  And  he 
knows  the  Peter  Pan  appearance  of 
Northcliffe,  the  stateliness  of  Balfour 
(the  coldness,  too)  and  the  ruddy, 
sound-apple  face  of  the  late  Lord 

Has  Lloyd  George  read  what  is  said 
of  him  in  this  book?  Let  him  do  so, 
and  be  a  changed  man  ever  after.  He 
is  literally  torn  to  bits  by  the  claws  of 
a  few  hundred  words ;  yet  the  anony- 
mous writer  is  just  when  he  wishes  to 
be.  He  sums  George  up  scathingly  in 
this  Slashing  sentence:    "His  conduct 

in  the  last  months  of  the  war  and  dur- 
ing the  election  of  1918  was  not  only 
unworthy  of  his  position  but  marked 
him  definitely  as  a  small  man.  He 
won  the  election,  but  he  lost  the 

Of  Lord  Fisher,  for  whom  he  had 
an  easily  discerned  admiration,  he 
writes  of  those  perilous  days  when 
Mr.  Churchill  hesitated  in  a  crisis. 
"What  does  it  matter,"  he  reports 
Lord  Fisher  as  saying,  "whom  you  of- 
fend?— ^the  fate  of  England  depends 
on  you.  Does  it  matter  if  they  shoot 
you,  or  hang  you,  or  send  you  to  the 
Tower,  so  long  as  England  is  saved?" 
And  one  inevitably  thinks  of  Kipling's 
noble  line,  written  in  the  early  days  of 
the  war,  "Who  dies,  if  England  live?" 

For  Lord  Haldane  the  author  has  a 
deep  S3rmpathy;  and  those  difficult 
hours  when  he  was  accused  of  pro- 
Germanism  are  spoken  of  with  tender- 
ness, and  the  story  of  the  sure  vindi- 
cation of  a  truly  great  man  is  told 
with  fire  and  fervor.  He  wishes  that 
Haldane  had  not  accepted  his  martyr- 
dom with  such  unearthly  poise.  To 
the  younger  men  of  his  time,  he 
seemed  lacking  in  the  humanities — a 
man  who  could  thus  brush  away  his 
bitterest  accusers.  But  now,  with 
some  perspective,  the  world  can  see 
how  wise  Haldane  was  to  keep  his 
temper,  and  not  allow  his  vilifiers,  in 
colloquial  English,  to  "get  his  goat". 

No  more  amazing  volume  has  come 
to  my  desk  in  many  months.  It  will 
rest  on  the  shelves  of  our  public  li- 
braries, and  in  our  homes,  when  other 
books  of  our  time  are  discarded  and 
forgotten.  A  memorable  piece  of 
work;  a  daring  exposd  of  men  who 
are  worth  exposing. 

The  Mirrors  of  Downing  Street    By  A  Oen- 
tleman  with  a  Duster.    Q.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 


HALL  CAINE  has  done  it  again. 
His  latest  novel  'The  Master  of 
Man''  (Lippincott)  still  deals  with 
(we  have  the  publisher's  word  for  it) 
"the  eternal  forces  of  life".  The  scene 
is  laid  in  the  Isle  of  Man  and  the  story 
concerns  the  temporary  ignoble  pas- 
sion of  the  son  of  the  great  man  of 
the  island,  its  tragic  consequences, 
and  true  love  faithful  in  disaster. 
The  plot  is  complicated  and  worked 
out  with  considerable  skill.  The  char- 
acters are  all  puppets  and  there  is 
nauseating  talk  of  sin-stained  men  and 
pure  women.  The  logic  and  morality 
is  puerile,  while  crude  instincts  are 
patently  pandered  to.  In  fact  the 
whole  book  is  all  the  more  to  be  re- 
gretted for  being  so  readably  written. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-one  Henry 
James  began  his  career  as  a  book  re- 
viewer, and  some  of  his  anonymous 
book  reviews,  never  heretofore  printed 
in  book  form,  are  now  collected  in 
''Notes  and  Reviews"  (Dunster 
House).  A  good  deal  of  the  subject- 
matter  has  proved  hopelessly  ephem- 
eral, though  some  good  material  fell 
to  his  hand:  novels  by  Hugo,  George 
Eliot,  TroUope,  and  Mrs.  Gaskell. 
TroUope,  despite  the  author's  sneaking 
fancy  for  him,  irritates  him,  and  in  a 
review  of  much  humor  Hugo's  "Les 
TravaUleurs  de  la  Mer"  is  frankly 
laughed  at.  The  chief  defect  of  the 
articles  as  criticisni  is  that  the  writer, 
forecasting  his  later  obsession,  inter- 
ests himself  more  in  technical  literary 
faults  and  virtues,  particularly  the 
former,  than  in  the  books  as  a  whole. 
But  aside  from  this  defect,  consider- 

ing the  writer's  youth,  the  reviews 
are  amazingly  good  reading.  They 
show  ability  to  reason  from  the  gen- 
eral to  the  particular — ^the  mark  of  a 
first-rate  critic. 

M.  la  Rose  in  a  sympathetic  preface 
writes,  "James. .  .was  never  a  popular 
author  and  even  the  most  devout 
Jacobite  must  admit... that  he  was 
not  a  'great'  one."  We  admit  no  such 
thing.  If  humor  and  imagination 
(immortal  pair!)  and  sympathy  in 
conjunction  with  a  style  of  infinite 
subtlety  and  taste  do  not,  in  their  di- 
vine infusion,  as  in  "The  Portrait  of  a 
Lady",  make  for  a  "greatness",  if  not 
a  grandeur,  we  can  name  no  "great" 
novel.  And  these  reviews  give  more 
than  a  hint  of  the  novelist's  future — 
the  same  elevation  of  thought,  the  im- 
patience at  shabby  personalities,  the 
recognition  of  the  beauty  of  the  inno- 
cent and  the  bad  taste,  not  to  say 
downright  wickedness,  of  the  senti- 

The  dramatic  skill  to  create  a  swift 
climax  and  a  setting  to  emphasize  the 
suspense,  marks  the  eleven  stories  of 
the  underworld  which  Richard  Wash- 
bum  Child  has  coUected  in  "The  Black 
Velvet"  (Button).  There  is  a  good 
deal  of  similarity  in  the  tales,  espe- 
cially in  regard  to  structure — ^most  of 
them  reveal  some  arresting  quality  of 
character  upon  which  the  situation  is 
made  to  turn.  The  author  under- 
stands the  value  of  unity  and  has  the 
knack  of  giving  verity  to  a  unique 
circumstance  by  convincing  portrayal 
of  attending  commonplaceness.  The 
stories  seem  to  reflect  an   intimate 




knowledge  of  the  ways  of  crooks  and 
will  satisfy  readers  who  enjoy  a 
thriller  of  the  better  sort. 

His  usual  average  in  chuckles  to  the 
page  is  maintained  by  Irvin  S.  Cobb 
in  "A  Plea  for  Old  Cap  Collier" 
(Doran).  But,  for  all  the  humor» 
Cobb  pleads  a  case  seriously.  To 
those  who  may  some  day  prescribe  lit- 
erary tonic  for  adolescent  minds,  he 
addresses  a  defense  of  the  dime  novel. 
Such  a  mind,  he  says,  should  be  coun- 
seled thus :  ''Read  these  volumes  open- 
ly. Never  mind  the  crude  style  in 
which  most  of  them  are  written.  It 
can't  be  any  worse  than  the  stilted 
and  artificial  style  in  which  your 
school  reader  is  written."  That  is  the 
argument  of  Cobb's  plea;  the  humor 
resists  summarization. 

In  a  brief  and  graphic  account  of 
the  horrors  of  starvation  in  Central 
Europe,  ''It  Might  Have  Happened  to 
You"  (Lane),  Coningsby  Dawson  em- 
phasizes the  fact  that  the  greatest 
sufferers  have  not  been  responsible 
for  their  condition.  The  tragedy 
might  have  happened  to  you  or  me 
and  will  reach  us  eventually  unless  re- 
lief is  given  to  the  victims  of  the  war. 
Thousands  of  people  dying  slowly 
amid  the  most  revolting  surroundings 
provide  a  miasma  of  despair,  disease, 
and  crime  which  must  infect  the  whole 

Why  does  Central  Europe  starve? 
The  author  finds  a  fundamental  cause 
in  the  rearrangement  of  the  political 
map  by  the  Peace  terms.  These,  he 
declares,  have  built  walls  across  most 
of  the  old  travel  routes,  have  given 
ancient  hostilities  a  new  means  of 
venting  their  animosities,  have  de- 
stroyed confidence  and  dislocated  the 
entire  system  of  transport  The  peo- 
ple want  work  and  prefer  employment 

to  charity,  but  they  are  helpless  until 
new  economic  development  has  put 
them  on  their  feet.  They  are  without 
tools,  clothing,  or  food,  yet  the  author 
sees  a  spirit  of  courage  in  peasants 
and  aristocrats  alike  which  will  even- 
tually triumph  if  the  present  crisis 
can  be  weathered.  The  organization 
of  the  Free  Youth  of  Germany  into  an 
idealistic  society  to  oppose  war  and 
autocracy  seems  to  Mr.  Dawson  a 
promising  omen.  The  humane  reader 
can  hardly  fail  to  be  moved  by  the 
challenging  appeal  of  this  little  vol- 

When,  early  in  the  book,  the  hero- 
ine's body  is  found  frozen  in  a  lake, 
her  friends  cut  it  out  and  lean  it 
against  the  side  of  a  house  where  all 
may — ^and  do-— look  through  ice  and 
silk  nightgown  to  worship.  The  qual- 
ities of  this  figure  evidently  gave 
Rupert  Hughes  the  title  for  his  latest 
book,  "Beauty"  (Harper) .  The  reader 
may  suffer  vicarious  shocks  at  the  ex- 
posure until  he  reads  later  that  it  was 
customary  for  the  girl  to  appear  be- 
fore a  less  select  public  in  costume  no 
more  concealing.  In  fact,  much  of  the 
book  is  devoted  to  asserting  that  scant 
clothing  on  dance  floor  and  beach  is  in 
no  way  a  contributing  factor  to  un- 
conventional behavior.  The  story  is 
another  Hughes  magazine  serial  pub- 
lished in  book  form. 


Before  reading  ten  pages  of  "How- 
ards-End" by  E.  M.  Forster  (Knopf) 
we  had  unconditionally  surrendered 
to  its  charm  of  diction,  its  in- 
imitable humor,  and  its  generous  hu- 
manity. Amid  authors  overwhelmed 
by  the  dust  of  Main  Streets,  the  stench 
of  stock  yards,  and  the  noise  of  ma- 
chine shops— dust  and  stench  and 
noise  seemingly  too  much  for  style  or 
temper — ^we  suddenly  find  gracious- 



ness»  untypified  human  beings,  and 
faith  in  personality  whether  of  houses 
or  people.  Indeed,  the  personality  of 
a  house  dominates  the  book.  How- 
ards-End, a  converted  farm  house, 
loved  by  a  dying  woman,  gradually 
envelopes  the  story  until  finally  all  the 
strident  materialists  and  muddle- 
headed  idealists  with  the  by-products 
of  their  elbow-rubbing  are  gathered  to 
its  breast 

The  book  follows  the  fortunes  of  the 
Wilcox  family,  successful,  visionless, 
save  for  Mrs.  Wilcox  who  dies  early 
and  without  much  stir  but  who,  in  her 
love  for  Howards-End,  achieves  im- 
mortality. Into  the  Wilcox  lives  come 
two  sisters,  Helen  and  Margaret 
Schlegel,  each  believing  in  personality 
"because  personal  relations  are  the 
important  things  for  ever  and  ever, 
and  not  this  outer  life  of  telegrams 
and  anger".  Between  the  Wilcoxes  of 
this  world  and  the  Schlegels  there 
must  always  be  warfare;  here  the  vic- 
tory of  the  latter  is  beautiful  because 
it  has  not  annihilated,  but  absorbed, 
the  former. 

John  Freeman  undoubtedly  has  his 
audience,  else  there  would  seem  to  be 
no  reason  in  the  publication  of  a  col- 
lected edition  of  his  poems  under  the 
title  "Poems  New  and  Old"  (Har- 
court.  Brace).  But  this  particular  re- 
viewer is  not  one  of  Mr.  Freeman's 
admirers.  The  poet  has  a  sense  of 
beauty  and  feeling,  and  a  very  evident 
brilliance  of  thought  and  suggestion, 
but  the  final  impression  gained  of  him 
is  well  summarized  in  one  of  Mr. 
Freeman's  poems,  "Perversities": 

Now  come, 

And  I  that  moment  wUl  forget  yon. 

Sit  here 

And  In  yonr  eyei  I  shall  not  see  yon. 

Speak,  tpeak 

That  I  no  more  may  hear  your  music. 

Into  my  arms. 

Tin  I've  forgotten  I  erer  met  yon. 

"Real  Life"  by  Henry  KitcheU  Web- 
ster (Bobbs-Merrill)  is  consciously 
misnamed.  The  book  is  a  roaring 
farce  of  the  scenario  type  with  the 
heroine  a  screen  star  and  what, 
through  most  of  the  story,  passes  for 
the  hero,  "the  greatest  violinist  in  the 
world".  Easy  and  amusing  reading  it 
is,  but  its  humor  is  pretty  obvious  and 
at  times  lacking  in  spontaneity. 
Rather  patently  a  hammock-in-the- 
shade  and  lemonade  piece  of  work. 

As  its  preface  states,  "Poems  of  the 
English  Race"  edited  by  Raymond 
MacDonald  Alden  (Scribner)  is  for 
readers  of  about  eighteen  years  of 
age.  And  it  suits  its  purpose  well. 
Here  are  old  favorites,  poems  with 
which  we  have  mere  nodding  acquaint- 
ance, and  ones  totally  unfamiliar,  all 
more  or  less  chronologically  arranged 
in  two  sections:  Narrative  Poetry, 
and  Lyrical  or  Reflective  Poetry. 
Concise  notes  at  the  head  of  each  poem 
(when  necessary)  point  out  its  un- 
usual significance  or  metrical  intrica- 
cies. Excellent  footnotes  explain  de- 
partures from  modem  grammatical  or 
etymological  usage.  The  general 
"get-up"  and  appearance  of  the  vol- 
ume lends  grace  to  an  artistic  ar- 
rangement of  material. 

"The  Seeds  of  Enchantment"  (Dou- 
bleday.  Page)  is  very  disappointing. 
At  the  outset  the  tale,  supposedly 
founded  on  the  lore  of  Indo  China, 
promises  to  be  a  thriller.  If  Gilbert 
Frankau  had  kept  it  strictly  within 
the  bounds  of  an  adventure  story  it 
might  have  been,  but  he  so  often  re- 
tards the  progress  of  the  mystery  to 
acclaim  the  virtues  of  militarism,  cap- 
italism, (which  surely  are  out  of  place 
in  a  Chinese  mystery  story),  and  vi- 
rility generally,  that  the  reader  grows 




1.  MsinStnet 

2.  Galuha  the  Magnificent 
8.  The  BriminioK  Cup 

4.  Alice  Adan» 

B.  Growth  of  the  SoO 

«.  Moon-Calf 

Sinclair  Levrit 
Jotepk  C.  Lincoln 
Dorothy  Canfietd 
Booth  Tarkingtoti 
Knut  HarnauH 


1.  Alice  Adaou 

2.  Mmin  Street 

S.  Galasha  the  Magniflcetit 

4.  The  Age  of  Innocence 

5.  The  Sister«-fn-Law 
t.  The  Brimming  Cop 

Booth  Tarkingtrm 
SincUiir  Lewis 
Joseph  C.  Lincoln 
Edith  Wharton 
Gertrude  Atkerton 
Dorothy  Canfield 


1.  Main  Street 

2.  The  Brimming  Cup 
8.  The  Age  of  Innocence 

4.  Growth  of  the  Soil 

5,  Alice  Adama 
«.  Moon-Calf 

Sindeir  Lewis 

Dorothy  Canfield 
Edith  Wharton 
Knut  Hamsun 
Booth  Tarktnffbm 


1.  Main  Street 

2.  The  Age  of  Innocence 
8.  Hisfl  Lulu  Bett 

4.  Moon-Calf 

B.  The  Brimming  Cup 

6.  Alice  Adams 

1.  Main  Street 

2.  The  Brimming  Cup 
8.  Moon-Calf 

4.  Growth  of  the  Soil 

6.  Alice  Adama 

6.  The  Age  of  Innocence 

SineJair  Lewis 
Edith  Wharton 
Zona  Gale 

Dorothy  Canfield 
Booth  Tarkington 


Sinclair  Lewis 
Dorothy  Canfield 
Floyd  Dell 
Knut  Hamsun 
Booth  Tarkinffton 
Edith  Wharton 


1.  Main  Street 

2.  The  Brimming  Cup 
8.  Alice  Adams 

4.  The  Age  of  Innocence 

6.  Growth  of  the  Soil 

6.  Gslusha  the  Magni&ceot 

Sinclair  Lewis 
Dorothy  Cmtfield 
Booth  Tarkington 
Edith  Wharton 
Knut  Hamsun 
Joseph  C.  Lincoln 

































The  title$  have  heen  scored  hy  the  HmpU  prooe99  of  giving  each  a  credit  of  $iw  for  each  time 
it  appeare  ae  firtt  choice,  and  $o  down  to  a  ecore  of  one  for  each  time  it  appeare  in  Hmth  plaee. 
The  total  eeore  for  each  eeetion  and  for  the  whole  country  determinee  the  order  of  choice  m  the 
table  herewith. 


1.  The  Outline  of  History  H.  G.  WeUs 

2.  The  Americanization  of  Edward  Bok  Edward  Bok 

8.  Margot  Asquith :  An  Autobiography  Margot  Asquith 

4.  White  Shadows  in  the  South  Seas      Frederick  O'Brien 

5.  Queen  Victoria  Lytton  Strachey 

6.  The  Mirrors  of  Washington  Anonymous 


1.  Margot  Asquith :  An  Autobiography  Margot  Asquith 

2.  The  Outline  of  History 

8.  Mystic  Isles  of  the  South  Seas 

4.  Queen  Victoria 

5.  The  Mirrors  of  Downing  Street 

6.  The  Next  War 

H.  G.  WeUs 
Frederick  O'Brien 
Lytton  Strachey 
Will  Irwin 


1.  The  Outline  of  History  H.  G.  WeUs 

2.  Margot  Asquith :  An  Autobiography  Margot  Asquith 
8.  The  Americanization  of  Edward  Bok  Edward  Bok 

4.  Queen  Victoria  Lytton  Strachey 

5.  Mystic  Isles  of  the  South  Seas  Frederick  O'Brien 

6.  The  Peace  Negotiations  Robert  Lansing 


1.  The  Outline  of  History  H.  G.  WeUs 

2.  Queen  Victoria  Lytton  Strachey 
8.  Mystic  Isles  of  the  South  Seas  Frederick  O'Brien 
4.  Margot  Asquith :  An  Autobiography  Margot  Asquith 

6.  White  Shadows  in  the  South  Seas      Frederick  O'Brien 
6.  The  Mirrors  of  Washington  Anonymous 


1.  The  Outline  of  History  H.  G.  WeUs 

2.  Queen  Victoria  Lytton  Strachey 

3.  Mystic  Isles  of  the  South  Seas  Frederick  O'Brien 

4.  The  Americanization  of  Edward  Bok  Edward  Bok 

5.  Margot  Asquith :  An  Autobiography  Margot  Asquith 

6.  Back  to  Methuselah  Bernard  Shaw 


1.  The  Outline  of  History  H.  G.  WeUs 

2.  Margot  Asquith :  An  Autobiography  Margot  Asquith 

3.  Queen  Victoria  Lytton  Strachey 

4.  'Die  Americanization  of  Edward  Bok  Edward  Bok 

6.  Mystic  Isles  of  the  South  Seas  Frederick  O'Brien 

6.  White  Shadows  in  the  South  Seas      Frederick  O'Brien 































An  Italian  Letter 

THERE  is  no  use  denying  the  decay 
of  Italian  literature,  and  it  can 
safely  be  stated  that  this  period  began 
with  the  present  century.  Upon  Car- 
ducci's  death  only  D'Annunzio  and 
Pascoli  were  left  to  deal  with  a  situa- 
tion which,  during  and  after  the  Great 
War,  went  rapidly  from  bad  to  worse. 
D'Annunzio,  in  several  ways,  and  more 
80  Pascoli,  had  been  declining  for  some 
time;  both  were  quite  incapable  of 
creating  a  new  tradition.  Italian  fic- 
tion was  degenerating  into  honest 
commercialism,  Giuseppe  Verga  hav- 
ing left  off  writing  for  some  little 
time,  and  Alfredo  Oriani  fallen  a  vic- 
tim to  his  own  troubled  unequal,  how- 
ever lavish,  style.  And  the  reactions 
of  the  literary  group  of  the  "Voce"  of 
Florence  and  the  clamorous  move- 
ment of  the  futurists  passed  so  rapid- 
ly into  eclipse  as  to  become  a  typical 
phenomenon.  On  the  other  hand 
Benedetto  Croce's  esthetic  theories 
concerning  the  absence  of  any  human 
feeling  in  a  work  of  art,  resulted  nat- 
urally in  a  lack  of  true  artistic  value 
in  mere  literature.  Today  this  decay 
has  reached  its  highest  pitch.  Poetry 
is  belittled  by  impressionist  sensations 
and  has  become  prim  and  formal; 
fiction  has  become  commonplace  or 

Undoubtedly  the  Great  War,  having 
changed  a  very  small  reading  public 
into  a  huge  one,  is  mainly  responsible 
for  this  lack  of  good  taste.  People 
eagerly  sought  the  latest  book  as  they 
had  formerly  sought  the  latest  fashion 
from  abroad.  The  selling  of  books 
became  a  trade;  publishing  houses  be- 
came anonymous  companies  who  of- 

fered high  prices,  not  to  the  more  seri- 
ous writers  but  to  the  "quick-selling" 
ones.  Writers  themselves  were  writ- 
ing trash  to  cater  to  the  popular  taste. 
Time  was  when  one  "created"— or 
tried  to  create — ^a  book  of  some  lit- 
erary value;  nowadays  the  book  or 
novel  is  patched  together  anyhow,  the 
author  even  reworking  some  old  manu- 
script in  order  to  bring  his  book  up 
to  the  required  two  hundred  and  fifty 
or  three  hundred  pages.  And  if  the 
publishers  used  to  be  cautious,  they 
are  now,  as  a  rule,  quite  satisfied  with 
a  "big-hit"  title,  a  flashy  or  alluring 
cover  which  catches  the  public  eye.  In 
other  words,  the  term  huainesa — in  its 
most  despicable  sense— exactly  applies 
to  the  present  situation:  a  dishonest 
business  in  which  one  does  not  admit 
one's  own  mediocrity  and  in  which 
every  essence  of  humanity  is  lacking, 
and  every  true  touch  with  life. 

There  is  no  want  of  reactions  to  this 
lack  of  taste  by  men  who  were  influ- 
enced more  or  less — and  often  in  a 
negative  manner — ^by  Croce's  theories 
which  tend  to  isolate  a  work  of  art 
from  any  true  human  feeling  on  the 
artist's  part  and  from  surrounding  hu- 
manity; but  these  men  too  often  fail 
to  touch  vital  feelings.  And  just  as 
the  reaction  which  set  in  fifteen  years 
ago  against  D'Annunzio's  ineffable 
style,  turned  into  a  quest  after  simple 
terms  of  expression,  opposing  decline 
to  decline,  thus  nowadays  to  this  im- 
moral and  slouchy  style  is  opposed  a 
cold  and  moral  manner  of  writing 
which  is  solely  literary.  On  one  side 
we  have  the  classical  reactions  of  the 
Roman  group  of  the  "Ronda"  who  seek 
after  Leopardi's  and  Manzoni's  purity 




of  style  and  terms  of  expression,  a 
movement  which  is  solely  literary  and 
represents  the  aping  of  Shakespearian 
masterpieces.  What  this  group  is 
driving  at,  at  least  up  to  the  present, 
I  cannot  possibly  say.  The  writers  of 
the  "Ronda"  are  not  in  touch  in  any 
way  with  humanity;  and  although 
they  are  the  most  typical  outcome  of 
Groce's  theories  in  a  lyrical  or  literary 
field,  yet  through  prejudice  they  are 
against  him,  "anticrocian".  They  live 
aloof  from  life,  attempting  a  double 
personality  in  which  the  human  side 
cannot  be  discerned,  and  only  the  lit- 
erary side  is  in  evidence. 

On  the  other  hand  men  working 
against  this  present  immorality — 
which  is  triumphant — are  making  an 
attempt  toward  returning  to  Chris- 
tianity. It  was  enough  for  Giovanni 
Papini  to  announce  that  he  was  writ- 
ing a  "Storia  di  Cristo"  (now  issued 
by  the  publisher  Vallecchi  of  Flor- 
ence) and  that  he  had  returned  to 
faith ;  a  chorus  of  voices  was  at  once 
raised  throughout  the  peninsula,  to- 
ward Christianity.  Those  who  had 
been  writing  God's  name  with  a  small 
letter  began  to  write  it  with  a  capital 
letter,  and  so  on.  I  have  no  right  to 
doubt  Papini's  conversion;  but  his 
state  of  mind  reflected  in  the  spiritual 
unrest  of  his  books  for  fifteen  years 
leads  one  to  believe  that  this  also  is  a 
mere  literary  venture.  At  any  rate  it 
is  nothing  but  a  literary  venture  on 
the  part  of  most  of  these  new  Chris- 
tians lately  revealed,  because  no  crisis 
has  up  to  this  been  given  to  a  critic  to 
deal  with,  however  much  he  may  try. 
Christianity  has  become  in  this  in- 
stance nothing  but  a  form  of  cant,  an 
unreal  literary  reaction  against  that 
immorality  which  was  also  solely  a  lit- 
erary venture.  Too  much  fuss  has 
been  made,  too  much  noise;  there  is 
too  much  superficialness  about  it  all. 

for  one  to  be  able  to  take  it  seriously. 
Above  all  there  is  lacking  what  our 
elders  called  humility.  Which  leads 
me  to  believe  that  instead  of  a  reac- 
tion against  the  decay  of  morality, 
this  return  to  Christianity  is  nothing 
but  the  latest  craze  of  the  very  same 
decay.  In  my  next  letter  we  will  in- 
quire into  this  crisis  and  into  the  re- 
action it  is  producing. 


French  Notes 

EQUIVALENTS  to  the  monthly 
meetings  of  the  American  Poetry 
Society  do  not  exist  in  Paris.  Poets 
are  too  individualistic,  and  people  are 
less  trained  in  peaceful  public  debates. 
Poetic  manifestations  before  large 
audiences  are  either  academic,  or 
youthfully  aggressive  and  purposely 
riotous.  There  is  ''Les  Annales"  and 
there  is  "Dada".  And  then,  of  course, 
the  reading  of  unpublished  works  by 
their  authors  before  such  chosen  audi- 
ences as  gather  in  "La  Maison  des 
Amis  des  Livres",  where  so  much  of 
the  actual  vitality  of  French  letters  of 
today  has  concentrated.  But  no  vote 
is  taken. . . 

Just  now  we  hear  of  an  initiative 
which  might  interest  our  friends  of 
Gramercy  Park,  and  perhaps  suggest 
a  following  in  this  country.  The  poet 
Jules  Remains  and  his  friend  Georges 
Chennevi^re  announce  their  purpose  of 
giving,  next  winter,  a  regular  course 
in  poetic  technique.  According  to  M. 
Romains : 

Wherever  there  is  a  definite  trade  or  art, 
there  is  a  system  of  technical  means  and  proc- 
esses which  can  surrive  and  improve  only  if 

transmitted  through  teaching One  of  us  wiU 

give  a  theoretical  course,  that  is,  wiU  explain 
in  detail  the  resources  and  rules  of  modem 
versification.  The  other  will  direct  the  prac- 
tice,   that    is,    he    wiU    propose    exercises    of 



prosody,  showing  bow  the  rules  are  applied, 
how  a  line,  a  stanza,  a  poem  is  built. . . .  We 
shall  not  allude  to  what  makes  the  rery  sub- 
stance of  poetry,  to  the  problems  of  inspiration, 
of  esthetic  tendency,  of  literary  doctrine,  nor 
of  style,  properly  speaking.  That  is  an  en- 
tirely different  field.  Our  audience  will  be  free 
to  poetize  on  the  life  of  Confucius  or  on  the 
art  of  growing  lettnce. . . .  We  have  no  idea  how 
onr  enterprise  will  be  received,  but  I  dare  to  be 
affirmative  on  one  point:  when  the  year  will 
be  over,  not  one  who  has  been  with  us  will 
leave  us  convinced  of  having  learned  nothing. 

The  attempt  seems  to  be  the  first  of 
its  kind»  at  least  in  France.  It  could 
not  start  under  better  auspices,  as 
Romains  is  not  only  a  poet  ("Le  Voy- 
age  des  Amants",  his  last  book,  is 
worthy  of  "La  Vie  Unanime"  and  of 
"Europe"),  but  also  a  thorough  con- 
noisseur of  the  technical  resources, 
both  classical  and  modem,  of  his  art. 

Why  shouldn't  Witter  Bynner  follow 
the  example? 

Several  reprints  of  Jean  de  Tinan's 
books  have  appeared.  Tinan  died 
young  and  left  great  promises  unful- 
filled. He  had  caught  and  fixed  the 
spirit  of  a  very  peculiar  period — ^the 
"Fin-de-Sifecle"  epoch —  and  the  nerv- 
ous, sentimental,  and  blase  feelings  of 
the  youths  who  "dissipated"  their 
twenty-fifth  year  around  1896.  It  was 
the  time  of  Symbolism  at  its  decay,  of 
the  Wagner  influence  at  its  height, 
and  it  preceded  the  revival  of  athleti- 
cism, outdoor  life,  travel,  and  the  wave 
of  Anglo-Saxon  principles  which 
marked  the  opening  of  the  twentieth 
century  in  France. 

The  author  of  "Aimienne"  and 
"Penses-tu  Reussir"  had  given  chron- 
icles to  the  "Mercure  de  France", 
which  are  now  gathered  under  the 
title  of  "Noctambulismes".  Jean  de 
Tinan  is  a  subtle  guide  to  a  Paris  life 
that  has  since  been  very  much  trans- 
formed. He  stands  now  as  a  precursor 
of  the  recent  craze  for  circus-play, 
electric  flashes,  the  rows  of  translucid 
bottles  containing  exotic  alcohols,  the 

jazzing  negro  and  the  pale  down.  He 
is  a  link  between  Jules  Laforgue  and 
Jean  Cocteau. 



EVE  was  the  contemporary  of  Adam. 
Beginning  with  Eve,  women  have 
been  reputed  to  be  loquacious,  imagi- 
native, emotional,  endowed  with  the 
keenest  of  instincts,  veritable  sages  at 
times  by  sheer  intuition  and  most  am- 
bitious withal.  In  his  essay  on  women 
and  language,  written  twenty  years 
ago,  Remy  de  Gourmont  contended 
that  it  is  not  lexicographers,  teachers, 
and  grammarians  who  make  languages 
but  women.  And  women,  de  Gourmont 
said,  not  merely  make  the  languages, 
they  preserve  and  conserve  them  and 
pass  them  on  to  succeeding  genera- 
tions. The  same  authority  argued, 
with  a  rare  display  of  Gallic  audacity, 
that  all  art  is  a  lie,  and  that  women  lie 
more  than  men. 

How  is  it  then  that  women  were 
slow  about  acquiring  citizenship  in  the 
republic  of  letters?  Concerning  the 
part  played  in  this  by  an  ill-adjusted 
socie^,  let  the  sociologist  speak.  Con- 
cerning women's  actual  ability,  we  may 
well  fall  back  on  Remy  de  Gourmont 
again.    He  wrote: 

Among  80  many  exceUent  women  writen 
none  has  ever  created  a  language  in  the  aenae 
of  which  thia  is  said  of  Ronurd,  of  Montaigne^ 
of  Chateaubriand,  or  of  Victor  Hugo.  Woman 
repeats  well,  often  better  than  man,  what  waa 
■aid  before.  But  ahe  haa  little  capacity  for 
verbal  innovation. 

De  Gourmont  never  read  Gertrude 
Atherton  at  her  wordiest.  His  theo- 
ries, however,  are  in  the  main  tenable. 

With  the  exception  of  Sappho  in 
Greece,  who  lived  2,500  years  ago,  it 
was  not  until  the  eighteenth  century 
that  women  began  to  write.   Hrotsvith 



von  Gandersheim  did  to  be  sure  pen, 
quill,  or  stencil  a  half  dozen  Latin 
comedies  in  the  tenth  century,  but  her 
creations  fall  under  the  head  of  letters 
rather  than  literature.  Marie  de 
France  wrote  on  the  purgatory  of  St. 
Patrick  in  the  thirteenth  century  and 
thereby  gave  graduate  students  in 
comparative  literature  an  unremunera- 
tive  job. 

Then  came  Fanny  Bumey*s  "Eve- 
lina" (1778),  the  pre-Defoe  romances 
of  Mrs.  Behn  and  Mrs.  Manley,  the  let- 
ters and  critiques  of  the  two  irrepres- 
sible Madames,  de  S£vign6  and  de 
Stael,  and  the  then  worshiped  lyrics 
of  Anna  Luise  Karsch  (1772-91)  in 
Grermany.  In  fine,  women  were  slow 
about  getting  a  start.  But  they  are 
making  up  for  it  today  wherever 
paper,  publishers,  and  people  can  be 
found.  Let  us  pass  a  few  of  their 
most  recent  creations  in  review. 

At  the  battle  of  Li£ge,  the  Belgians 
were  conunanded  by  Monsieur  le 
General  Leman,  the  Germans  by  Herr 
Greneral  Lenunich.  Both  are  now  dead. 
And,  as  was  quite  fitting  under  the 
circumstances,  Louise  Ganshof  van  der 
Meersch  has  written  the  life  of  Gen- 
eral Leman. 

The  biography  is  manifestly  a  diffi- 
cult literary  genre.  To  make  the  hero 
stand  out  in  correct  and  adequate  pro- 
portions requires  imagination  and  the 
creative  as  well  as  the  critical  instinct. 
General  Leman  was  first  of  all  a  man 
and  a  student;  he  was  a  soldier  only 
when  the  occasion  arose.  To  depict  a 
contemporary  of  this  t3rpe  with  so- 
briety, in  an  artistic  manner,  and  yet 
with  due  regard  for  historical  accu- 
racy, was  a  hard  task — which  Mme. 
van  der  Meersch  seems  to  have  done 
with  ease.  A  man  would  have  dwelt 
too  long  on  military  strategy.  This 
woman  was  more  interested  in  human 
ingenuity.    But  until  only  recently,  as 

time  flies,  society  would  have  detected 
an  element  of  absuenlity  in  the  as- 
sumption on  the  part  of  a  woman  that 
she  was  fitted  to  write  the  life  of  a 
general  in  the  armies. 

Moreover,  in  our  solicitude  lest  we 
fail  to  do  justice  to  the  memory  of 
Dante  in  this  the  six  hundredth  anni- 
versary of  his  death,  we  have  forgot- 
ten that  it  is  the  nine  hundredth  anni- 
versary for  St.  Olav,  contemporary 
and  rival  of  Canute,  King  of  England, 
and  himself  once  King  of  all  the  Nor- 
ways.  Sigrid  Undset  is  writing  a 
series  of  articles  for  ''Aftenposten"  of 
Christiania  on  St  Olav  with  the  idea 
of  eventually  expanding  them  into  a 

It  is  a  colossal  step,  a  far  cry,  from 
"Jenny'*  to  Olav.  But  Sigrid  Undset 
approaches  her  pensum  unintimidated. 
It  is  a  delicious  story  she  is  telling. 
Here  is  one  digressive  paragraph : 

Medisval  philosopliy  was  transcendentaL  It 
freqaently  happens  with  transcendentalism  that 
abstract  conceptions  become  concrete.  The 
greatest  world  event  during  the  Middle  Ages 
was  that  the  word  became  flesh  and  dwelt 
among  ns.  In  the  medinral  way  of  thinking 
words  and  ideas  became  flesh  and  realities — 
Jost  as  in  this  day  of  materialism  meat  and 
realities  become  words  and  concepts.  The  aver- 
age man  today  for  example,  regards  "society** 
as  a  sort  of  mystic  aflTair,  far  more  mystical  in 
truth  than  the  "society  of  the  saints**  stnick 
people  as  being  a  thousand  years  ago.  There 
is  more  mysticism  today  in  deflated  currency 
and  bacteriology  than  there  was  in  demonology 
in  the  days  of  St.  Olar. 

A  woman  who  would  have  written 
this  a  short  while  ago  would  have 
brought  down  upon  herself  the  charge 
of  being  a  red-stocking. 

The  opposite  in  many  ways  of  Sigrid 
Undset  is  Marie  Len£ru,  whose  diary 
is  now  being  published  in  the  'Hevue 
de  France".  Any  day's  note  is  inter- 
esting, though  like  the  average  of 
diaries,  there  were  some  days  on  which 
apparently  nothing  happened  to  Marie 
Len£ru.  Here  is  the  entry  of  May  17, 



How  could  I  write  a  novel,  never  having 
dreamed  of  one  for  myself?  The  heroine  of  an 
idyl  will  always  be  a  stranger  to  me.  I  cannot 
get  down  to  work,  and  I  have  a  scniple  about 
getting  outside  of  myself.  I  always  have  the 
feeling  that  the  more  serious,  absorbing  and 
interesting  things  are  taking  place  within  me. 

That  explains  why  her  quite  inti- 
mate diary  is  now  of  sufficient  merit 
to  be  published  serially  in  a  great 

Going  down  to  Italy,  it  would  be  ad- 
vantageous, if  only  for  the  sake  of  va- 
riety, for  this  country  to  become  bet- 
ter acquainted  with  the  works  of  Mme. 
Serao  (Signora  Eduardo  Scarfoglio). 
Bom  in  Greece  in  1866,  her  father  a 
political  refugee  and  her  mother  a 
Greek,  she  came  to  Rome  where  she 
founded,  with  her  husband,  a  daily 
paper  called  the  "Corriere  di  Roma". 
It  was  short-lived,  but  it  gave  her  an 
introduction  to  journalism  that  has 
manifestly  stood  her  in  good  stead 
ever  since.  In  1881,  she  took  up  crea- 
tive writing;  book  after  book  has  fol- 
lowed, a  few  of  which  have  been  trans- 

She  published  recently  a  work  en- 
titled "Preghiere"  (Prayers).  Unlike 
her  work  of  more  remote  date  on 
savoir^ivre,  this  is  a  aavoir-prier. 
When  in  school,  Mme.  Serao  was  noted 
for  her  rhetorical  ability.  Chamfort 
said  once  to  Mirabeau :  ''Facility  is  a 
good  thing,  unless  you  abuse  it.'' 
Mme.  Serao  has  made  too  great  use,  if 
she  has  not  actually  abused,  her  rhe- 
torical facility  in  this  volume  of 
"prayers",  written  at  St.  Moritz  in 
Svdtzerland  in  the  summer  of  1920, 
and  now  brought  out  at  Milan.  But 
even  so,  it  is  a  type  of  literature  to 
which  the  American  public  is  unaccus- 

The  volume  consists  of  a  series  of 
orations  or  ''talks"  loosely  knit  to- 
gether and  spoken  by  the  most  varie- 
gated ensemble  of  characters  brought 
together,  in  this  story,  from  all  walks 

of  life.  And  yet,  despite  the  thread 
of  piety  that  runs  through  what  she 
has  done,  Mme.  Serao  did  her  best,  or 
earliest  work,  when  skeptical  natural- 
ism was  triumphant,  when  a  novel  by 
Zola  was  awaited  with  the  regularity 
of  the  seasons.  But  she  has  always 
respected  the  Catholic  religion.  In 
her  "CJonquest  of  Rome"  (1885),  she 
had  Donna  Angelica  say:  "It  is  so 
vulgar  to  be  an  atheist.  Religion  is 
beautiful  and  good  and  worth  much 
more  than  the  things  of  which  the 
world  approves."  Mme.  Serao's  is  an 
isolated  voice  in  European  literature. 
It  is  in  Germany  however  that 
women  have  made  the  greatest  prog- 
ress as  writers.  Since  the  founding 
of  the  Empire  fifty  years  ago,  they 
have  been  conquering  one  field  after 
another  until  at  present  it  can  be  said 
without  hesitation  that,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  drama,  they  are  the 
equal  of  the  men.  What  this  means  to 
the  civilization  of  a  country  is  not 
easy  to  state  in  a  few  words. 

On  July  10  the  University  of  Jena, 
in  one  of  the  most  impressive  cere- 
monies ever  held,  conferred  the  degree 
of  Doctor  of  Philosophy,  honoris 
causa,  on  Frau  Elisabeth  Forster- 
Nietzsche.  The  date  was  chosen  be- 
cause it  was  her  seventy-fifth  birth- 
day; the  degree  was  given  her  because 
without  her  efforts,  indefatigable  and 
reaching  back  to  1890,  the  world  would 
have  today  only  the  haziest  sort  of 
idea  as  to  the  genesis  of  Nietzsche's 
works,  while  many  of  them  would  have 
been  lost  forever.  Nietzsche's  writ- 
ings fill  at  present  eighteen  volumes, 
aside  from  a  half  dozen  volumes  of  let- 
ters. But  he  never  wrote  a  book ;  he 
wrote  paragraphs.  It  was  his  sister 
who  gathered  up  this  loose  material 
and  gave  it  coherency. 

Her  life  has  been  all  the  more  heroic 
because  of  her  sorrows.    She  married 



Dr.  Bernhard  Forster  and  they  went 
to  Paraguay,  where  they  became  influ- 
ential members  of  South  American 
society.  Forster  died  in  1889,  the 
same  year  in  which  Nietzsche  suffered 
his  mental  breakdown.  His  widow 
found  herself  the  sole  dependable  rela- 
tive of  her  mindless  brother.  He  died 
in  1900.  She  has  since  edited  four 
editions  of  his  works,  collected  his  let- 
ters, and  is  at  present  engaged  on  the 
fifth  and  probably  definitive  Nietzsche 
edition.  As  to  the  family  itself,  it  be- 
comes extinct  with  her  death.  If  the 
world  ever  has  another  Nietzsche  it 
will  be  because  the  courts  grant  some- 
one the  privilege  of  rechristening  him- 
self with  that  outstanding  patronymic. 
Some  time  ago,  Etta  Federn  began 
bringing  out  a  series  of  historical 
novels.  I  call  attention  especially  to 
her  "Elise  Lensing".  The  titular 
heroine  was  the  poor  but  not  wholly 
uncultivated  woman  of  Hamburg  who 
gave  Hebbel  her  all;  she  worked  for 
him  after  the  fashion  of  a  duly  ap- 
pointed maid,  loved  him,  "presented" 
him  with  a  child,  and  stood  by  him 
even  after  he  had  married  the  rich  and 
gifted  actress,  Christine  Enghaus. 
There  are  more  historical  novels, 
dramas,  and  poems  in  German  than  in 
any  other  literature. 

Etta  Federn  has  now  come  out  with 
an  article  in  which  she  recommends 
that  the  Germans  read  historical  fic- 
tion. She  emphasizes  the  value  of  the 
works  of  Luise  von  Francois,  contends 
that  Marie  von  Ebner-Eschenbach's 
"Der  Kreisphysikus"  (it  treats  of  the 
Polish  uprising  of  1846)  is  more  ap- 
posite today  than  ever,  feels  that  "Der 
Werwolf"  by  Herman  Lons  (Ldns  was 
killed  in  action  early  in  the  war)  has  a 
special  message  for  the  German  people 
at  present,  calls  attention  to  the  ex- 
treme value  of  Charles  de  Coster's 
"Flemish  Legends",  and  says  every 

German  should  now  read  Flaubert's 
"Salfimmbo".  She  mentions,  too,  a 
great  many  other  works  of  historical 
fiction  of  merit  and  meaning.  Her 
argument  is  not  to  be  despised;  for  it 
is  in  historical  fiction  that  women 
writers  can  do  their  best  work:  they 
are  so  patient  when  it  comes  to  look- 
ing something  up ;  and  to  tell  a  story 
with  embellishments  is  second  nature 
to  thenu 

But  there  stands  France.  The  trou- 
ble is,  she  stands  now  about  where 
other  countries  stood  at  the  beginning 
of  the  century.  With  all  her  ideals  of 
beauty  and  theories  of  art,  France  has 
done  very  little  for  her  women.  And 
what  French  women  are  doing  today 
in  letters  is  negligible.  Encouraged 
they  have  not  been.  The  academies 
have  frowned  on  them,  individuals 
have  written  books  to  prove  that  th^ir 
sphere  of  influence  is  not  literature. 
But  probably  there  is  light  ahead. 
For  Marie-Louise  Le  Verrier  is  just 
finishing  an  excellent  life  of  Elizabeth 
Cady  Stanton — in  whose  home  the  first 
American  woman's  rights  convention 
was  held.  That  was  in  1848.  France 
has  her  first  convention  yet  to  hold. 

News  from  Germany 

AS  the  froth  and  fury  of  the  revolu- 
.  tionary  youth  of  Germany  begin 
to  subside  into  calmer  channels,  we 
are  able  to  discern  the  kind  of  stream 
that  is  flowing  beneath.  There  is  no 
denying  that  on  the  whole  the  effer- 
vescence in  the  revolutionary  brew 
was  short-lived.  Some  of  the  earnest- 
minded  enthusiasts  are  now  making 
desperate  efforts  to  free  themselves  of 
the  tag,  rag,  and  bobtail  which  merely 
pretended  to  revolutionary  Sturm  und 
Drang  because   it  was  the  fashion. 



Walter  Hasendever,  we  saw,  was  one 
of  the  first  to  make  fun  of  the  intel- 
lectual revolutionary  profiteers  and 
democrats  of  a  day.  He  is  now  fol- 
lowed by  the  brilliant  young  Austrian 
poet,  Franz  Werf el. 

Among  Werfel's  earlier  lyrical  and 
semi-dramatic  productions,  perhaps 
his  most  important  work  was  a  ren- 
dering into  German  of  the  'Trojan 
Women"  of  Euripides.  In  this  som- 
brely beautiful  version  of  the  grim 
old  tragedy  (produced  in  Berlin, 
strangely  enough,  during  the  most 
tragic  days  of  war)  Franz  Werfel  per- 
formed a  service  to  German  literature 
similar  to  that  rendered  to  English 
literature  by  Gilbert  Murray.  Wer- 
fel's  new  work,  however,  has  little  of 
the  old  Greek  spirit.  It  is  a  fantastic 
drama  with  a  Faust-like  hero,  owing 
much  to  Strindberg's  influence,  rest- 
less, somewhat  obscure,  and  charged 
with  today.  Its  production  on  the 
stage,  which  has  not  yet  happened 
even  here,  would  be  an  interesting  and 
probably  successful  experiment.  The 
**magic  trilogy",  called  "Spiegel 
Mensch"  (The  Man  of  the  Mirror),  is 
published  by  Kurt  Wolff  in  Munich. 

The  cruder  idea  of  Mephistopheles, 
the  personal  devil,  which  Goethe  took 
over  from  the  original  medieval 
Faust-legend,  is  replaced  by  Werfel 
with  the  original  inspiration  of  creat- 
ing a  baser  self  out  of  the  hero's  re- 
flection in  the  mirror.  Thamal  shoots 
into  the  glass  and  his  tempter  is  re- 
leased. The  Jekyll  and  Hyde  drama 
introduces  within  a  frame  of  magical 
happenings  many  a  savagely  ironical 
or  bitterly  satirical  fling  at  contem- 
porary fads  and  follies.  In  style  and 
expression,  Werfel's  new  book  of  ring- 
ing couplets  is  fully  up  to  the  level  of 
his  former  work.  Its  dramatic  quality 
and  the  wit  of  its  philosophic  mockery 

make  it  a  work  of  great  importance. 
Ema  Grautoff,  the  talented  wife  of 
the  well-known  art  critic.  Dr.  Otto 
Grautoff,  has  just  published  a  novel 
which  promises  to  be  the  woman's 
book  of  the  year.  She  has  burdened  it 
with  the  alarming  title  "Uta  Curetis", 
which  sounds  like  a  Latin  motto  but  is 
really  the  name  of  the  heroine.  The 
novel  is  a  woman's  book  in  the  best 
sense.  We  see  the  soul  development 
of  Uta  and  half  a  dozen  of  her  com- 
panions from  innocent,  speculative 
schoolgirls  to  women  whom  life  has 
broken  or  rounded  into  fulfilment. 
The  book  is  long,  but  this  gradual 
psychological  development,  not  lacking 
in  exciting  crises,  holds  the  reader's 
interest  on  every  page.  Much  wise 
philosophy  of  life  and  many  clever 
sayings  are  packed  into  this  finely 
feminine  book.  It  is  very  plain  that 
Ema  Grautoff  loves  and  admires  her 
Uta.  Yet  she  succeeds  in  making  her 
human  and  winning  our  hearts  for  her 
creation.  Uta  Guretis  in  spite  of  all 
temptations  and  trials  remains — ^a 
rather  rare  thing  in  continental  fiction 
— a  pure,  noble,  and  happy  woman. 

Literary  Germany  is  full  of  prepa^ 
rations  for  the  Dante  Festival,  to  be 
celebrated  by  a  ceremonial  in  the  Na- 
tional Opera  House.  The  best-known 
Dante  expert  in  Germany,  which  is 
practically  to  say,  in  the  world.  Dr. 
Carl  Fedem,  is  bringing  out  a  new 
edition  de  luxe  of  his  book  on  Dante, 
which  enjoys  the  honor  of  being  a 
standard  work  in  Italy  on  the  subject. 
Dr.  Fedem  has  just  published  a  small 
popular  book  on  Dante,  and  has  the 
art,  not  common  to  many  experts,  of 
seizing  the  essential  and  the  humanly 
necessary  out  of  his  vast  store  of 
Dante  lore  and  compressing  into 
thirty-eight  pages  a  brilliant  little 
survey  of  Dante  and  his  age. 



EMORY  Hafloway's  "Uncollected 
Poetry  and  Prose  of  Walt  Whit- 
man", to  be  published  thia  fall,  has 
many  entertaining  incidents  of  the 
poet's  life,  as  well  as  much  hitherto 
scarcely  available  material.  The  first 
poem  in  the  book  is  highly  amusing. 
It  gives  one  a  feeling  of  courage  when 
confronted  by  some  young  man  who 
aays,  "After  reading  my  poem  do  you 
think  that  I  should  go  on  writing?" 
Now  we  can  say,  "Ifs  a  miserable 
poem;  but  look  at  Whitman  1"  "Our 
Future  Lot",  Mr.  Halloway  says,  was 

from  tbe  Long  iiUuit  Dgmaerat  (Jamalo,  !•. 
I.),  October  81,  1888,  Into  which  It  had  beui 
copied.  In  «faol«  or  in  port,  "from  the  Long 
Iilanier."  Thli  Utter  paper  wai  the  lint  that 
Whitman  edited.  It  was  ■  werklr  limed  at  the 
little  town  of  Hnntlnston  near  Whitman'* 
hltthplace.  beglnnlnK  In  Inne,  ISSS.  On  thli 
■beet   Whitman  did   practlcaU?  aU  the   work, 

being  editor,  reporter,  printer,  poblliher,  and 
newi-carrler  all  In  one.  Thli  (act,  taken  with 
tbe  obTlOD*  Whitman  manner  ot  treatment  botb 
ai  to  theme  and  aa  to  it;le,  eeema  to  estabUib 
hii  anthorablp,  althouBb  the  poem  was  not 
ilgned  in  the  Dtmoerat. 

The  poem  is  of  eight  verses.  We 
quote  four  only : 

ThIa  breaat  wbtcb  now  alternate  bnrna 
With  Baiblng  bope,  and  gloomr  tear, 

Where  beat*  a  beart  that  knowi  tba  boe 
Wblcb  acblng  boaoma  wear; 

Tbli  eorloni  (rame  of  bnman  mold, 

Wbere  craTlag  waate  nnceailng  plaj — 

Tbe  troubled  beart  and  wondconi  form 
Hut  both  alike  deca;. 

Tbe  cold  wet  earth  will  cloie  aroond 
Doll  eenaeleea  llmba.  and  aahj  face, 

Bnt  wbere,  O  Nature !  wbera  wUl  be 
Hj  mlnd'i  abiding  place? 

Will  It  eVn  Uve  !  ror  thougb  Its  llgbt 
Muit  ablne  till  from  the  bodr  torn ; 

Then,  when  the  oil  of  life  la  ipent, 
8tUl  ahaU  the  taper  burn? 

Among  the  prose  fragments,  we  find 
the  following,  which  is  the  first  para- 
graph from  a  newspaper  story  called, 
"The  Habitants  of  Hotels",  published 



in    "The    Daily    Crescent"    in    1848. 
Times  change. 

There  is  no  actual  need  of  a  man's  travelling 
around  the  globe  in  order  to  find  out  a  few  of 
the  principles  of  human  nature.  The  observer 
needn't  even  go  to  a  college  or  a  primary 
school,  but  if  he  is  determined  to  supply  him- 
self with  knowledge,  let  him  visit  the  pre- 
cincts of  some  of  our  first-rate,  tip  [-top]  bar- 
rooms on  Saturday  or  Sunday  night. 

The  drawings  are  from  a  Whitman 
notebook,  of  the  Pfaffian  days»  proba- 
bly from  his  own  pencil,  and,  undoubt- 
edly, caricatures  of  himself. 

Imagine  the  joy  of  encountering  the 
now  famous  Dr.  Traprock,  discoverer 
of  the  exotic  Filbert  Islands,  in  his 
hunting  costume,  with  his  fascinating 
South  Sea  Island  bride  upon  his  arm. 
She  had  but  just  put  by  her  flowing 
seaweed  garments  for  something  more 
chaste  in  the  form  of  a  silk  skilfully 
painted  with  a  design  of  scarlet  pas- 
sion flowers  intertwined  with  the  leafy 
vines  of  that  terrible  and  sensuous 
nabiacus  plant  of  which  the  brilliant 
Traprock  writes  so  feelingly. 

"Ha!"  said  Traprock,  giving  that 
gesture  so  peculiar  to  sailor  men,  and 
known  as  a  hitch,  "You  would  inter- 
view me?" 

We  nodded,  modestly  enough;  for 
it  was  unnerving,  this  mere  fact  of 
finding  ourselves  in  the  presence  of  a 
man  who  had  actually  visited  the  home 
of  hooch,  had  touched  the  tender 
wings  of  the  fattUiva  bird,  and  had 
stridden  up  and  down  the  deck  of  the 
"Kawa",  dreaming  what  dreams  of 
new  lands  of  liquid  delights  to  con- 
quer. Now  that  we  have  seen  him, 
seen  the  curious  twist  of  his  beard, 
heard  the  rumble  of  his  splendid  deep 
bass  voice,  and  melted  under  the  gaze 
of  his  fair  bride's  eyes,  we  cannot 
wait  to  pierce  beneath  the  brilliant 
orange  covers  of  his  book,  "The  Cruise 
of  the  Kawa".  What  other  South  Sea 
adventurer  can  compare  with  this  gal- 

lant gentleman,  a  courtier  of  the  old 
school  as  was  demonstrated  by  his 
staid  way  of  bowing  from  the  waist; 
and  yet,  be  it  known,  broad  enough  to 
find  happiness  in  the  peculiarly  new 
pleasures  of  the  mysterious  Filberts. 

"Were  the  Filbert  Islands  much  dif- 
ferent from  Connecticut?"  we  asked, 
knowing  that  there  was  a  little  white- 
walled  cottage  in  New  England  which 
the  sunburned,  red-nosed  captain 
called  HOME. 

"Ah",  said  he,  "ah !  one  cannot  col- 
lect dew  fish  in  the  dawn  on  my  dear 
home  coast ;  but  oh !  you  have  no  idea 
how  great  a  joy  it  was  to  teach  my 
new  little  helpmate  the  good  old  smell 
of  a  good  old  clam !" 

"And  have  they  no  clams  in  the  Fil- 
berts?" we  asked. 

"Clams?"  said  he,  and  his  reddish 
countenance  paled  with  disdain. 
"Clams?  No  clam  could  exist  in  the 
same  temperature  as  the  terrible  wak* 
wok,  that  super  sea  monster,  one  of 
which  my  gallant  Captain  Triplett  ac- 
tually rode  through  the  seas,  until  the 
poor  beast,  wearied  by  such  unaccus- 
tomed weight,  turned  his  expansive 
side  to  receive  the  welcome  point  of 
my  own  weapon,  especially  sharpened 
for  the  purpose." 

Space  will  not  allow  us  to  relate  the 
many  stories  told  us  by  the  great  dis- 
coverer :  of  the  storm  that  blew  them 
from  the  tourist-infested  regions  of 
Polynesia  to  the  gentle  air  of  the 
beautiful  Filberts,  of  the  compass 
plant,  and  the  flowing  hoopa  bowl,  of 
tantalizing  tattooing  and  decimating 
dancing.  But,  above  all,  it  is  the  per- 
sonality of  the  man  Traprock  that 
gleams  through  his  conversation  and 
through  the  pages  of  his  book — ^a  lit- 
tle man  in  stature,  but  what  of  that? 
Was  not  Napoleon  of  such  build?  It 
takes  real  ability  to  conquer  so  strange 
a  people  as  the  Filbertines — ^and  with 



what? — even  as  he  conquered  the  Goe- 
sip  Shop,  by  the  swift  gleam  of  an  eye 
that  compels  obeisance  to  a  charm 
that  is  at  once  infections  and  intoxi- 

The  English  stiU  ahow  a  cormsity 
concerning  this  American  Language 
of  ours.  I  wonder  if  they  ha^e  read 
Johnny  Weaver's  book.  John,  by  the 
way»  has  come  back  to  town,  after  a 
hurried  trip  to  visit  Rockwell  Kent  in 
Vermont.  We  wonder  just  what  book 
he  is  going  to  pick  to  demolish  with 
his  criticism  in  the  Brooklyn  ''Eagle". 
Well,  at  any  rate,  here  is  a  letter 
which  appeared  recently  in  the  Lit- 
erary Supplement  of  the  London 
"Times" : 



Sir, — DlMUMlng  ''American  Slang"  in  last 
week'8  Uterory  Supplement,  Miss  Katherine 
Metcalf  Roof  tella  ua  that  **a  'hick'  is  Western 
slang  for  a  rustic/'  and  indicates  that  it  is  of 
recent  introduction.  As  has  been  proved  in  so 
many  other  instances,  this  new  American  slang 
is  in  fact  a  surrival  of  Old  English.  In  Steele's 
comedy.  The  Funeral;  or  QrieJ-n-Xa-Mode  (Act. 
IV.,  Scene  8),  Lord  Hardy  says  to  one  of  his 
ragged  regiment :  "Richard  Bumpkin !  Ha  I 
A  perfect  country  hick.  How  came  you,  friend, 
to  be  a  soldier?"  The  Oxford  Dictionary  gives 
two  other  quotations  which  show  the  word  to 
have  been  in  common  use  about  1700.  It  is  al- 
ways wise  to  consult  the  "N.B.D."  before  as- 
suming any  word  or  phrase  to  be  an  American- 
ism. Yours  faithfuUy, 


First  nights  in  warm  weather  do 
not  always  appeal  to  the  imagination. 
At  "Dulcy"  we  saw  everyone  in  the 
world  and  his  wife»  except  the  one 
man  we  wanted  to  see,  and  that  was 
F.P.A.  Alexander  WooUcott  back  in 
town  again.  Neysa  McMein  there — 
was  she  with  Mr.  Woollcott  or  Arthur 
Samuels?  We  forget,  or  perhaps  we 
didn't  know.  People  change  seats  so 
rapidly.  At  ''Swords",  Zoe  Akins  was 
in  a  box,  and  we  saw  her  talking  to  at 
least  one  of  her  five  leading  ladies  of 
the  season;  for  Ethel  Barrymore  will 

start  on  the  road  with  ''Dfclasate'* 
presently.  Mary  Nash,  of  course,  to 
see  her  husband  act.  FJ^^  back 
from  his  vacation.  Herbert  Swq[>e  of 
the  '^orld",  looking  pleased  and  com- 
fortable, having  acquired  Messrs. 
Adams,  Broun,  and  Lippmann  for  his 
sheet— quite  a  journalistic  coup,  we 
think.  Mr.  Pulitzer's  paper  won't 
know  itself.  Burton  Rascoe,  the 
critic,  and  Tom  Powers,  complaining 
that  he  finds  himself  rehearsing  for 
musical  comedy;  Donn  Byrne,  with 
the  first  copy  of  "Messer  Marco  Polo" 
tucked  under  his  arm,  and  his  wife, 
more  charming  than  ever;  Charles 
Hanson  Towne,  just  back  from  Eng- 
land ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Louis  Untermeyer 
returned  from  Maine;  Meade  Minni- 
gerode,  author  of  'The  Big  Year",  in 
the  same  rich  lobby  of  the  new  Na- 
tional Theatre  with  Heywood  Broun 
who  recently  took  so  much  space  to 
criticize  his  book,  Mrs.  Brock  Pem- 
berton  in  an  orange  cape,  etc.,  etc.  It 
was  not  like  this  at  the  opening  of  the 
National  Winter  Garden  on  Houston 
Street.  Here  is  the  true  home  of  the 
burlesque  queen,  and  programs  which 
bear  the  advertisement,  "The  Beauti- 
ful Ladies  of  the  Chorus  eat  at  So  and 
So's  caf6".  One  watches  the  audience 
even  more  closely  than  the  antics  of 
the  Yiddish  comedians.  A  motley 
crowd,  heavy-jawed  and  loose-lipped. 
Every  chorus  lady  has  her  bouquet. 
There  are  even  large  set  pieces  for 
the  principals.  This  is  almost  as  pic- 
turesque as  the  Italian  light  opera  to 
which  we  once  went,  in  the  Bowery 
Theatre  where  Modjeska  once  played. 
There  are,  too,  we  understand,  Italian 
puppet  shows  in  New  York  City, 
though  we've  never  discovered  one. 

Not  long  ago,  between  hours  spent 
on  his  new  novel,  "Fiddler's  Green", 
we  took  a  sail   with   Donn   Byrne. 



Much  impressed  by  the  seamanship  of 
Mr.  Byrne  and  his  charming  secre- 
taiTi  whose  middle  name  is  Bruce,  and 
who  is  indubitably  descended  from 
Robert  (every- 
thing about  the 
Byrnes  is  either 
Scotch  or  Irish 
except  the  twins, 
who  are  simply 
a  leaf  from  Ml- 
.  chelangelo's  note 
•  book).  We  sat 
with  Mrs.  Byrne 
and  went  hum- 
bly where  told,  enjoying  the  Sound,  and 
thinking  it  a  great  tragedy  that  the 
lady  had  destroyed  the  first  draft  of  a 
new  play.  We  told  her,  however,  that 
we  would  buy  her  a  new  pen,  which  we 
didn't,  and  we  saw  her  buy  a  quire  of 
masuBcript  paper,  so  thai  we  know 
there  loiU  be  a  new  play,  a  quiet  little 
comedy  of  Irish  life.  Donn  Byrne  is 
writing  his  best  now,  we  think. 
"Messer  Marco  Polo"  is  delif^tful,  as 
much  as  we  have  read  of  it  in  "The 
Centuty",  and  he  is  putting  the  same 
effort  into  "Fiddler's  Green".  Under, 
or  just  thirty,  he  has  a  chance  to  do 
fine  things;  for  he  has  been  success- 
ful along  popular  lines,  and  now  can 
turn  to  other  things,  still  young 
enough  to  escape  what  popular  style 
be  may  have  adopted,  and  with  so 
much  vitality  that  it  is  impossible  to 
visualise  him  as  doing  anything  else 
but  turning  out  novels  or  taking  some 
form  of  strenuous  exercise.  Or  read- 
ing— ^we  forgot  reading.  He  is  a  vo- 
racious reader. 

Katharine  Hopkins  Chapman  atill 
defies  H.  L.  Mencken's  opinion  of 
southern  literature  by  her  gathering 
of  delightful  notes  on  the  people  who 
write'  in  her  neighborhood.  This 
month   she   writes    from   Citronelle. 

Wasn't  there  something  of  that  sort 
one  used  to  keep  off  mosquitoes  In 
other  days? 

TU  Uttl*  town  of  Cltn>n«n*,  AUbwu  U  ridh 
In  UtaTU7  ttmdltlon*.  On  tb*  gronndt  of  tba 
Hold  CltroneUg  |«  Ut*  AmOie  RItm  Cottxn, 
when  tba  PtIdccm  Troabetiko;  wrote  "Tbs 
Quick  or  tba  Dead"  and  otber  ol  ber  Isinona 
noreU.  Th«  eotUfe  wae  headqnarteri  ler  tba 
offlebla  of  the  MobUe  and  Oblo  railroad  In  the 
'•Isbtlga  when  Colonel  SItc*.  tba  father  of  tba 
writer,  wsa  vlee-prealdent  of  tl>«  aratem.  Two 
mUn  aonth  of  thia  airat  la  tbe  famoua  eatats 
loeallr  known  aa  "Hann'a  P0II7",  bnilt  bj 
Cbarlea  Hann,  brother  of  Colonel  WUUam 
D'Alton  Hann,  la.te  editor  of  "Town  Toplea". 
A  qnartar  aectlon  of  woodland  waa  laid  ont  In 
a  chain  of  Italian  lakea  and  rare  ahmba  and 
treea  imported  to  beantlf;  the  groonda.  A 
palatial  atabla  tor  tbe  bonalni  of  blooded  raccra 
waa  bnllt  The  groonda  alone,  It  la  aald,  coat 
80,000  doUara — and  that  when  land  and  labor 
ware  a  tenth  of  what  tbe;  are  oow.  A  hand- 
aome  home  waa  atarted,  bat  when  It  waa  halt 
completed.  Charlea  Mann,  who  waa  aald  to  bare 
taken  a  flter  on  'cbaoga,  went  broke.  He  died 
ahortlj  after  thla  and  the  prapcrtr  paaaed  Into 
the  hand*  of  the  "Town  Toplca"  editor,  but 
waa  never  completed.  Daring  the  cooatractloit 
of  tbe  place  tbe  ale«p7  Uttle  aoatbem  town 
waa  treated  to  kaleldotcoplc  tIswb  of  famoBB 
newa  wrltera,  aiiortamen,  aob  alatera — off  the 
■Ob  Job,  bowever  I — and  otber  colorfnl  peraona 
that  made  up  the  entonrage  of  Colonel  Mann. 
It  has  never  forgatten  the  meteoric  appearane* 
and  dlaappearanee  of  tbe  Manna,  and  the  aa- 
tate,  neglected  and  foclom,  la  referred  to  br 
the  townaiieaple  aa  "Mann 'a  Follj". 

Other  Intereatlng,  If  leaa  apectaenlar  writer 
folk  come  and  go  at  CltroneUe.  Anthony  M. 
Bad,  magailDe  and  Action  writer  ("Satnrdar 
Bvenlng  Poet"  et  aL),  after  (pending  the  win- 
ter and  aprlng  there,  drove  through  to  Chicago 
for  the  aommer-— and  ao  far  aa  the  thermom- 
eter eonnta,  had  better  have  (tared  aonth  I 
WhUe  In  tUa  aectlon  Mr.  Bnd  round  much  to 
Intereat  him  in  the  war  of  atory  material.  One 
of  tbe  acenea  of  bla  forthcoming  talea,  be 
■tatea,  win  be  laid  between  CltroneUe  and 
Vinegar  Bend,  whUe  another  wtU  be  Joat  thla 
•ide  of  Mobile.  He  fonud  the  negro  character 
rich  In  atory  ioggeetlan  and  wUl  nae  it  to  a 
large  extent. 

Another  writer  of  note  who  wlntera  at 
CltroneUe  ia  Charlea  H.  Bjlveater  of  Chicago, 
wbo  compiled  the  famoni  eleven  VDlome  Jave- 
nlle  (erlea,  "JoDme;a  Through  Bookland",  be- 
aldea  doing  a  nnmber  of  text-booka.  Hr.  B7I- 
veater  baa  a  cottage  at  tbe  winter  reaort  and 
la  accompanied  each  aeaaon  bj  bla  alater.  He 
la  Immenaelr  popnlar  with  the  local  Boj  Scoot 
troop,  taking  them  on  hikea,  offering  prliea, 
and  otherwlae  atlmnlating  the  love  of  outdoora 
in  the  Tonngetera. 

Trancaa  O.  J.  Oalther  of  MobUe,  whoa*  pag- 



eant,  "The  Shadow  of  the  BnUder",  wai  pre- 
sented at  the  UniTersitj  of  Virginia  Centennial 
in  June,  is  now  in  New  York  City  attending 
Columbia  for  special  work.  Mrs.  Gaither  wrote 
the  pageant  at  her  summer  home  in  Falrhope, 
en  the  eastern  shore  of  Mobile  Bay.  Fairbope, 
you  know,  is  one — if  not  the  only — single  tax 
colony  that  suryiTed  the  second-sommer  teeth- 
ing. It  may  be  said  to  haye  cut  its  wisdom- 
teeth,  for  the  experiment — ^rationally  modified 
—celebrated  its  majority  several  years  since 
and  must  be  nearing  the  quarter-century  mark. 
Many  famous  writers  hare  sojourned  there, 
among  them — well,  I  am  trying  to  think  of  the 
fellow  who  wrote  **The  Jungle*'  but  the  only 
Sinclair  that  I  can  think  of  is  that  Sinclair 
Lewis  whose  "Main  Street'*  threatens  to  belit- 
tle every  small  town  in  America.  Upton  Sin- 
clair I  He  sought  the  pine-magnolia-salt 
breeses  of  Fairhope  to  disinfect  his  nostrils  of 
the  slaughter-house  scents. 

The  in-town  roads  are  now  filled 
with  returning  novelists,  critics,  et  al. 
You  can  see  them  any  day  on  the  turn- 
pike, with  their  red  bandana  handker- 
chiefs on  their  shoulders,  coming  back 
toward  the  Great  White  Way,  and  the 
benches  of  Washington  Square.  John 
Black  has  returned  from  the  Mac- 
Dowell  Colony,  with  stories  of  the  tre- 
mendous energy  (literary)  of  Max- 
well Bodenheim  who,  it  seems,  has 
turned  out  a  volume  of  poetry*  several 
plays,  and  a  novel,  within  the  past 
months.  William  Rose  Ben6t,  too,  was 
there,  Padraic  Golum,  and  others. 
John  has  nearly  finished  a  novel,  too. 
It  is  of  the  war.  Paul  Rosenfeld,  back 
from  Europe,  where  he  has  left  behind 
Sherwood  Anderson,  tells  of  Ander- 
son's first  glimpse  of  the  Place  du 
Carrousel  near  the  Louvre.  He  saw 
Anderson  rubbing  his  eyes,  and 
thought  he  must  have  acquired  a  cin- 
der, in  memory  of  Chicago  days.  Not 
so;  Mr.  Anderson  was  weeping,  and 
he  continued  to  weep  through  lunch; 
for,  said  he,  ''It  is  so  much  more  beau- 
tiful than  anything  I  had  imagined." 

recently  came  on  to  New  York  to  pur- 
chase books,  tells  us  that  they  have 
taken  over  an  age-old  building  in  the 
old  French  quarter,  and  that  there  is 
to  be  a  combination  teashop,  book- 
shop, antique  furniture  shop,  and  lin- 
gerie shop,  all  operating  under  the 
same  roof.  Back  of  them  is  a  de- 
lightful courtyard  which,  she  prom- 
ises all  those  who  come  to  visit  her, 
will  be  filled  with  charming  southern 
belles.  The  house  was  the  home  of 
Morphy,  the  great  chess  player,  and  a 
tablet  to  his  memory  is  to  be  dedicated 
at  the  opening  of  the  shops  some  time 
in  October.  The  Archbishop,  we  be- 
lieve, is  to  come  in  order  to  give  his 
blessing  to  the  enterprise.  While  the 
teashop  and  the  lingerie  shop  have 
rooms  of  their  own,  the  books  are  to 
be  scattered  around  among  the  an- 
tiques, so  that  the  atmosphere  of  the 
place  will  be  quite  in  keeping  with  the 
historical  associations  of  the  part  of 
the  town  where  it  is  located.  We  sug- 
gested that  the  most  popular  fiction  be 
kept  among  the  laces ;  but  Mrs.  Nixon 
seemed  to  feel  that  the  suggestion, 
while  novel,  was  irrelevant. 

In  New  Orleans,  they  are  to  have 
something  new  in  the  Bookshop. 
Rosalie  Nixon,  a  delightful  lady  who 

Earl  Carroll  has  an  idea,  as  weU  as 
the  foundations  laid  for  his  new  thea- 
tre. He  would  have  a  Green  Room  in 
his  home  of  the  drama,  where  litera- 
ture, art,  and  music  would  touch  ge- 
nial elbows  with  the  stage.  He  has 
even  gone  so  far  as  to  have  the  room 
included  in  his  plans  for  the  theatre. 
Carroll  is  affable,  talented,  enthusiasm 
tic,  and  seems  to  have  a  genius  for  se^ 
curing  a  good  backing.  It  is  rumored 
that  he  will  do  most  engaging  things 
with  his  new  venture.  We  see  no  rea- 
son why  he  shouldn't  collect  an  inter- 
esting crowd  in  his  Green  Room,  pro- 
vided always,  of  course,  that  he 
doesn't  try  too  hard  to  collect  it  Car- 
roll still  lives  in  his  roof-top  bungalow 



overlooking  the  heart  of  the  theatrical 
district.  This  is  a  warm  enough  day, 
so  we  are  again  moved  to  envy  as  we 
remember  the  roof  garden  and  foun- 
tain and  other  coolnesses  in  the  way 
of  refreshments. 

Coamo  Hamilton 

Cosmo  Hamilton 
doesn't  know  how 
closely  we've  observed 
him.  We  met  him 
just  once;  but  we've 
seen  him  innumerable 
times,  on  trains  going 
to  Long  Island,  and 
he's  never  dressed 
alike  twice,  and  he's 
always  impeccable. 
We've  decided  that  he's  oh  I  so 
much  better  a  guide  for  good  clothes 
than  "Vanity  Fair"  or  Kuppenheimer 
catalogues.  Since  last  January  he's 
been  working  very  hard  on  a  novel  of 
English  political  life  to  be  called  'The 
Rustle  of  Silk",  and  his  play  "The  Sil- 
ver Fox",  with  William  Faversham, 
had  its  premiere  on  Labor  Day  in  New 
York  City.  During  the  summer,  for 
his  home  colony  of  Huntington,  he 
cast  off  the  role  of  writer  of  sparkling 
dialogues  in  the  mouths  of  the  so- 
called  smart  set  and  became,  for  the 
nonce,  a  poet.  He  wrote  a  prologue,  it 
seems,  for  a  festival  in  aid  of  the  Near 
East  Relief,  which  was  given  at  the 
Rosemary  Theatre  at  Huntington. 
Carroll  MacComas,  still  playing  Lulu, 
in  Zona  Gale's  play,  spoke  the  lines  as 
follows : 

Here,  in  this  most  gracious  place. 

Where  come,  with  singing  stars  for  music 

And  cold  sweet  moon  In  royal  state, 

The  spirits  of  our  well-remembered  dead 

To  strut  the  stage  once  more, 

Enacting  those  old  plays  of  England's  bard 

Wherein  the  Joy,  the  passion  and  the  pain  of 

Live  on  forever  in  immortal  verse. 
We,  their  humble  comrades,  come  tonight 
Faithful  to  the  Art  they  served  so  well, 
To  wing  imagination's  magic  flight 

And  lead  your  fancy  into  Fairyland ; 

To  touch  the  strings  of  that  old  Harp 

That  wake  kind  echoes  in  the  human  soul ; 

To  speak  again  the  ever -ringing  words 

Of  Masters  who  have  died  but  live. 

And  Join  our  services  with  those  of  yours 

To  that  sweet  cause, — inspired  by  Him 

Whose  cross  still  throws  its  shadow   on   this 

earth, — 
Charity. .  .greatest  of  these. 

Walter  Yust,  now  sojourning  in 
New  Orleans,  sends  us  the  following 
enthusiastic  note : 

If  you  want  to  see  John  McClure,  author  of 
**Air8  and  Ballads"  and  poet  authentic  of  the 
south,  to  best  advantage,  perhaps  you'd  better 
see  him  as  bookseller  in  his  little  dusty  old 
bookshop  on  picturesque  Royal  Street,  New  Or- 
leans. You'U  see  him  there  to  best  advantage, 
because  you'll  usually  find  his  gentle  wife  there 
with  him.  And  what  "Jack"  McClure  lacks  in 
"good  looks",  his  wife  makes  up,  good  measure, 
pressed  down,  shaken  together,  and  running 
over.  Or  you  might  see  him  as  newspaper  man, 
bending  over  the  copy  desk  nights  in  the  ottice 
of  the  daily  "Times-Picasrune" ;  or  talking  as 
editor  animatedly  with  editors  Friend  and 
Thompson  over  the  merits  of  a  new  contrlb  by 
Jeannette  Marks  or  Arthur  Symons,  in  the  of- 
fice of  "The  Double-Dealer".  But  wherever  you 
see  him,  with  his  soft,  quite  ordinary  felt  hat 
and  his  smeUy  pipe,  I'm  afraid  you  won't  rec- 
ognise in  him  the  poet.  He  looks — maybe  they 
are  the  earmarks  of  a  poet  after  all — like  a 
regular,  garden-variety,  everyday  sort  of  man 
who  has  a  mind  and  a  body  which  enjoy  life, 
which  live  gratefully.  He  took  a  2,000  mile 
"hike"  once,  Just  to  see  more  things.  And,  as 
he  says,  being  only  twenty-eight  years  old.  he's 
a  swashbuckler  at  heart  even  if  he  doesn't  look 
like  one. 

Perhaps,  some  day,  the  world  wiU  know  him 
as  one  of  the  few  poets  who  was  the  better 
poet  because  he  could  never  take  his  work  too 
seriously.  "I  enjoyed  writing  it,"  is  the  most 
he'll  say  for  any  of  his  charming  pieces.  "I'd 
tear  my  songs  up  if  singing  didn't  matter  so 
little  anyway,"  he  has  written.  And  he  wants 
for  his  epitaph,  you  know,  if  he  must  have  one, 
nothing  large,  nothing  impressive,  but  Just  a 
word  about  his  being  a  man  "who  was  some- 
what overcome  by  the  beauty  of  the  world". 

Answers  for  our  literary  questions 
must  be  submitted  by  October  twen- 
tieth. State  whether  or  not  it  was 
necessary  to  look  up  the  answer.  The 
best  three  replies  will  receive  a  book 
prize.  (Any  book  in  '"The  Editor 
Recommends".)      There    were    many 



correct  answers  to  the  August  ques- 
tions. Naturally,  the  first  three  to  ar- 
rive are  chosen  for  the  award.  Curi- 
ously enough,  all  chose  the  same  book, 
Edmund  Gosse's  "Books  on  the  Table", 
which  shows  what  a  very  bookish  cir- 
cle our  contestants  must  be.  The 
prize-winners  are:  Florence  L.  Munn 
of  Los  Angeles,  California;  Ada 
Burke  of  Charleston,  South  Carolina; 
and  Mrs.  A.  E.  Kraybill  of  Asbury 
Park,  New  Jersey.  They  are  well 
scattered  over  the  country  now;  but, 
you  see,  New  Jersey  still  persists. 
The  new  questions  were  sent  us  by 
Alys  Gordon,  also  of  New  Jersey,  and 
are  as  follows : 

1.  Who  peeled  and  ate  three  Rlpstone  pip- 

2.  Who  wrote  *'Send  ua  the  men  who  do  the 
worlc  for  which  they  draw  the  wage!*'? 

3.  What  novel  has  a  description  of  a  pecu- 
liar librarian? 

4.  What  author  gives  a  brief  and  satirical 
account  of  the  Peace  Conference? 

5.  What  American  cartoon  was  the  means  of 
bringing  a  political  offender  to  Justice? 

6.  Who  said,  "Training  is  eversrthing,  the 
peach  was  once  a  bitter  almond,  cauliflower  is 
nothing  but  a  cabbage  with  a  college  educa- 

7.  In  what  boolc  does  the  heroine  say,  "The 
board  money's  in  the  ginger  Jar  and  our  con- 
sciences is  free"? 

Here  are  the  answers  to  the  Sep- 
tember questions: 

1.  The  Reverend  Patrick  BrontS,  father  of 
Charlotte,  Emily,  and  Anne. 

2.  Amy  Lowell's  "Can  Grande's  Castle"  cen- 
tres around  the  romantic  figures  of  Lady  Ham- 
ilton and  Nelson.  Its  form  is  '^polyphonic 

3.  Elbert  Hubbard's  "Message  to  Garcia" 
Bhonld  be  an  effective  stimulus  for  a  boy  laclc- 
ing  in  resourcefulness. 

4.  A  nineteenth  century  apotheosis  suffers  a 
collapse  in  Lytton  Strachey's  "Queen  Victoria". 

5.  Sir  Boyle  Roche,  in  the  Irish  Parliament, 
said:  "Why  should  we  legislate  for  posterity? 
— What  has  posterity  ever  done  for  us !" 

6.  Robert  Bums  and  Mrs.  Dunlop 
Abelard  and  Helolse 

Balzac  and  Madame  Hanska 

Nelson  and  Lady  Hamilton 

Pope  and  Lady  Mary  Montagu 

BotticeUi  and  Simonetta 

Swift  and  Hester  Johnson  ("Stella") 

Chopin  and  George  Sand 

7.  Mrs.  Proudie  appears  in  "Barchester 
Towers"  as  weU  as  in  other  of  Trollope's 
novels;  Miss  Matty,  in  Mrs.  Gaskell's  "Cran- 
ford" ;  Lily  Bart  is  the  heroine  of  Mrs.  Whar- 
ton's '*The  House  of  Mirth";  Clem  Sypher, 
"the  friend  of  humanity",  the  optimistic  but 
disillusioned  salve  advertiser  in  Locke's  "Sep- 
timus" ;  Countess  Gruffanuff,  the  governess  to 
the  Princess  Angelica  in  Thackeray's  "The 
Rose  and  the  Ring" ;  "Emily" — a  hen,  one  of 
the  most  memorable  characters  in  Owen  Wis- 
ter's  **The  Virginian" ;  Mr.  Salteena,  the  hero 
of  Daisy  Ashford's  "The  Young  Visiters"; 
NeUie  Bly,  a  ballet  girl  in  Grundy  and  Solo- 
mon's operetta  "The  Vicar  of  Bray";  Mr. 
Puff,  an  exponent  of  the  art  of  pufllng  in  Sheri- 
dan's "The  Critic";  aara  Middleton,  one  of 
the  chief  characters  in  Meredith's  "The 
Egoist";  Prince  Florestan,  the  hero  of  Bea- 
consfleld's  novel  "Bndymion",  supposed  to  be  a 
caricature  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon  III ;  "The 
Midge",  the  heroine  of  Bunner's  story  of  that 

The  Bookman  intimate  family  isn't 
very  large;  but  we  hope  that  it  in- 
cludes Mary  Roberts  Rinehart.  Why 
shouldn't  it?  Her  son  occupies  one  of 
our  offices,  and  swings  along  many  of 
our  affairs  toward  their  ultimate  des- 
tinies, and  her  granddaughter  is  also 
the  granddaughter  of 
Mr.  Doran.  Just  be- 
fore she  was  taken  ill, 
we  had  a  line  talk  m^^ 
with  her.  At  that  YlT 
time  she  was  planning  \  ^^ 
a  mountain  horseback 
trip  through  the 
west.  We  can  re- 
member   no    one    re-  Marp  RohertB 

cently  who  was  such  ^*'»^'*'"'* 
a  picture  of  youth,  vitality,  and  en- 
ergy. She,  who  has  shot  tarpons  at 
night  in  Panama,  lived  among  the  In- 
dians, traveled  on  the  western  war 
front,  done  this,  done  that,  was  plan- 
ning then  to  rest  for  a  while,  then 
start  in  writing  again,  and  a  different 
type  of  book.  She  had  not  long  since 
finished  "The  Breaking  Point",  and, 
much  to  our  disappointment,  told  us 
that    she    didn't    believe    she    would 



write  more  detective  stories.  We  have 
never  forgotten  our  first  thrill  at  ''The 
Circular  Staircase".  Some  day  we  are 
going  to  write  an  article  on  her  books, 
the  way  she  writes,  and  what  she 
hopes  to  write.  Now  we  simply  want 
to  tell  her — ^for  we  were  not  one  of 
the  several  hundreds  who  sent  flowers 
when  she  was  sick — ^that  we  are  very 
happy  that  she  has  recovered  sufficient- 
ly to  be  ranching  it  in  Wyoming  and 
thinking  not  at  all  of  writing,  books, 
or  bookmen.  Stanley  Rinehart,  by  the 
way,  whose  writing  ability  is  shown  in 
our  circulation  letters  now,  has  in- 
herited  the  gift  He  doesn't  like  to 
admit  it;  but  he  sits  down  occasion- 
ally in  the  middle  of  the  night  and 
turns  out  a  story.  Never  a  word  of  it, 
however,  will  he  show.  Says  it's  too 
revealing.  Some  day  we  shall  use 
force,  or  perhaps  his  mother  will  put 
in  a  word  in  our  editorial  favor.  We 
think  that  she  has  much  influence. 
She  should.  We  have  seldom  met  so 
vivid,  so  electric,  so  keen  a  woman, 
one  who  was  so  ready  for  whatever 
opportunities,  grim  or  gay,  life  of- 
fered, and  who  swung  into  them  with 
so  sportsmanlike  a  manner. 

From  Louisville,  Anna  Blanche  Mc- 
Gill  writes  us  of  further  southern  ac- 
tivities : 

With  a  Kentucky  cardinal  singing  at  one 
window  and  a  thrush  at  the  other  on  a  de- 
lectable countryside,  Hortense  Flexner  King, 
author  of  ''Clouds  and  Cobblestones"  and  sev- 
eral plays  staged  by  the  Little  Theatres,  has 
been  poetizing  during  the  summer.  Lyric  re- 
sults will  appear  in  the  autumn  and  winter 
magaslnes.  "The  North  American  Review"  has 
accepted  a  sonnet  of  special  literary  interest. 
Entitled  'The  Street  of  Death*',  it  Is  dedicated 
to  ths  gifted  poet  and  critic,  the  late  Margaret 
Steele  Anderson,  author  of  "The  Flame  in  the 
Wind",  "The  Story  of  Modem  Art",  former 
literary  editor  of  the  LouiSTiUe  "Evening 

Mrs.  King's  drama,  "The  Faun",  consistently 
classic  yet  subtly  modem,  appeared  in  a  recent 
number  of  the  Drama  League  magasine. 
"Voices",   played  by  the  Stuart  Walker  com- 

pany, is  Included  In  "Representatlya  One-Act 
Plays",  compiled  by  Biargaret  O.  Mayorga. 

StUl  another  art  besides  that  of  poetry  and 
play  writing  Is  practised  beneath  the  Flezner- 
Klng  roof  tree.  The  poet's  talented  young  hus- 
band, Wynds  King,  is  cartoonist  of  the  Louis- 
TiUe  "Herald" — a  gentle  and  chivalrous  artist 
withal,  yet  addicted  to  capturing  with  wicked 
verislmllltnde  the  Idiosyncrasies  of  local  and 
visiting  celebrities. 

Various  literary  enterprises  have  recently 
been  making  A.  Carter  Ooodloe,  author  of  "At 
the  Foot  of  the  Rockies",  "Star-Gasers",  etc., 
divide  her  citlsenshlp  between  New  York  and 
Louisville.  Lively  Interest  has  been  quickened 
by  her  series  of  tales  of  two  cities,  her  Old 
LoulsviUe-Old  New  York  stories,  which 
"Scribner's  Magasine"  has  been  publishing. 
The  September  number  has  an  intriguing  one 
of  the  series — "The  Talisman",  a  Chinese 
princess  and  a  young  American  being  the  dram- 
atis persons. 

In  addition  to  her  reputation  for  deftly  han- 
dled fiction,  Miss  Goodloe  has  an  enviable 
prestige  among  that  erudite,  if  sometimes  in- 
suflldently  honored,  tribe — ^the  translators.  A 
frequent  sojourner  In  France,  Miss  Goodloe 
translated  the  articles  by  Captain  Z  (Raymond 
Recouly)  published  In  "Scribner's". 

In  a  spasm  of  nerves,  we  peered 
down  the  back  stairs.  Something  low 
and  black  and  curly  was  crawling  up 
them.  We  whistled  to  it,  but  it  didn't 
bark  and  nothing  wagged.  We  stood 
our  ground  manfully,  too  cowardly  to 
show  cowardice.  The  curly  black  ball 
lifted  and  turned  into  the  head  of  the 
Italian  gardener's  son  creeping  up  the 
back  way  in  Frances  Hodgson  Bur- 
nett's villa  at  Plandome.  He  was  com- 
ing up  on  all  fours,  pretending  to  be  a 
bear.  The  hope  in  his  heart  was  that 
Mrs.  Burnett  would  tell  him  a  fairy 
story,  all  made  up  for  him — ^just  one 
little  boy — and  the  greatest  children's 
story-teller  in  the  world  I  He  was 
quite  casual  about  it.  It  was  our  first 
week-end  with  Mrs.  Burnett,  and  he 
left  us  gasping.  We  know  better  now. 
Such  things  happen  in  Plandome  Park. 
But  he  didn't  get  his  fairy  story  just 
then,  for  Mrs.  Burnett  was  on  her  own 
little  strip  of  beach.  We  found  her 
there  after  a  long  search  but  she 
couldn't  shake  hands  even  with 



though  we  don't  care  much  what  we 
touch — ^because  her  hands  were  cov- 
ered with  mud.  She  was  making  a 
clay  elephant.  It  was  a  very  bad  ele- 
phant. She  was  making  it  for  Verity. 
Verity  is  Mrs.  Burnett's  granddaugh- 
ter. We  are  notoriously  bad  at  guess- 
ing feminine  ages,  but  Verity  must  be 
four — and  if  you  close  your  eyes  when 
you  are  looking  at  her  you  have  to 
open  them  again  before  you  can  be- 
lieve she  is  as  pretty  as  you  thought. 
Mrs.  Burnett  has  the  granddaughter 
she  deserves — ^we  almost  said  ea/med. 

The  elephant  got  worse  and  worse. 
Verity  dug  her  toes  into  the  moist 

"Tell  a  fairy  to  come  and  make  it/' 
she  said. 

''If  we  only  had  one  here!"  her 
grandmother  cried. 

We  protested:  "Not  here.  The 
fairy  work  is  all  done:  lawn,  flowers, 
house — ^perfect  I" 

Mrs.  Burnett  confided:  "What  I 
want  a  fairy  to  do  for  me  is  to  give 
me  money;  quantities  and  quantities 
of  money  that  I  haven't  earned  and  in 
no  way  deserve  I" 

"But  for  what?" 

"Gardens!  Gardens  and  more  gar- 
dens. Gardens  in  terraces  as  far  as 
you  could  see — gardens  flowing  into 
each  other." 

"And  then?" 

"Then,  if  there  was  any  money  left 
over,  I  would  pick  out  some  young 
couple  who  were  having  a  hard  time 
finding  an  apartment — everybody  is 
talking  about  big  rents — and  I  would 
give  them  a  little  home  in  the  suburbs, 
all  furnished." 

"But  food  I    Food  is  so  high." 

"Oh,  if  they  just  had  to  starve, 
they  could  do  it  so  decently  with  a  roof 
over  their  heads."  And  she  left  it  at 
that.    Just  like  a  fairy  herself! 

We   clutched   our   practical   head: 

fairy  gardens  flowing  into  each  other, 
houses  given  away,  and  ten  thousand 
dollar  tales  for  the  exclusive  hearing 
of  the  gardener's  son! 

After  dinner,  over  cigarettes,  Mrs. 
Burnett  told  us  the  story  of  her  Ber- 
muda garden. 

"The  sun  and  the  sky  wanted  a  gar- 
den," she  said,  "and  the  air.  They 
were  all  ready  for  flowers,  for  color, 
for  fragrance,  and  so  I  said:  'I  will 
have  flowers.'  They  told  me  I  could 
not,  and  they  gave  me  a  sharp  stick 
and  I  punched  and  learned  an  awful 
truth.  Mother  earth  was  skin  and 
bones.  There  was  only  coral,  like 
rock,  and  over  it  a  scant  little  layer  of 
soil — ^no  bed  for  flowers  to  sleep  in. 
Then  I  knew  I  mtiat  have  flowers.  I 
made  them  blast  the  coral  away — ^the 
work  of  millions  of  polyps — ^puflf! — 
and  I  had  them  bring  soil  and  I  had 
my  flowers  I" 

"All  this  talk  of  fairies,"  we  said, 
"when  you  beat  them  at  their  own 

Then  we  got  an  invitation  to  go  to 
Bermuda  to  see  and  to  smeU  and  we 
are  going  to  accept  it  and  sail  away 
when  we  have  a  lot  of  money  we 
"haven't  earned  and  in  no  way  de- 


We  disagreed  so  thoroughly  with 
Mr.  Sandburg  on  the  July  poems,  that 
we  almost  hesitate  to  give  our  own 
choice  at  all,  relying  so  completely  on 
his  judgment,  of  course.  However, 
here  they  are,  and  we  like  Stirling 
Bowen's  "Cartoons  of  the  French 
Revolution"  in  "The  Measure"  the 
best  of  the  lot.  Others  are:  "The 
Outcast"  by  Josephine  Pinckney  in 
"Poetry",  "The  Holy  Women"  by  Wil- 
liam Alexander  Percy  in  "Contempo- 
rary Verse",  "Blackbird"  by  Bernard 
Raymond    in    "The    Measure"    and 



"South"  by  Elinor  Wylie  in  "The  New 

Joseph  Anthony  is  a  dark-haired, 
dark-eyed  young  New  Yorker,  who 
published  his  first  novel  "Rekindled 
Fires"  at  twenty,  and  now,  three  years 
later,  is  to  see  his  second,  "The  Gang", 
in  print.  Anthony  was  about  to  sail 
for  England,  where  he  will  represent 
an  American  publisher,  when  we  met 
him.  He  is  a  quiet,  slow-speaking  in- 
dividual, who  works  long  and  hard  on 
his  novels,  and  takes  them  more  seri- 
ously than  do  some  of  the  younger 
novelists.  He  understands  his  New 
York,  and  its  street  life.  He  was 
brought  up  in  it.  No  one  has  ever 
captured  the  lore  of  the  kid's  gang  be- 
fore, and,  if  Anthony  writes  as  well  as 
he  talks,  it  has  been  done  now.  There 
are  the  countless  little  ceremonies  that 
attend  the  rites  peculiar  to  the  New 
York  gamin,  the  codes  and  the  morals, 
the  legends  and  the  heroes.  We  have 
never  forgotten  a  day  spent  with  Row- 
land Sheldon  at  his  camp  for  the  "Lit- 
tle Brothers",  when  gathered  around 
us  watching  a  baseball  game  were  six 
youngsters  of  ages  varying  from 
twelve  to  fourteen.  No  one  of  them, 
but  had  been  in  the  hands  of  the  law. 
Gradually  their  shyness  dropped  and 
they  talked,  cruelly,  bitingly,  of  the 
city  streets.  Hard  little  heads  these 
were,  given  to  analysis  beyond  their 
years.  The  boundaries  of  their  land 
of  romance  were  the  rivers  that  bind 
Manhattan.  Rowland  Sheldon,  too,  is 
writing  a  story  of  them ;  but  his  will 
be  from  a  different  angle,  none  the 
less  interesting.  Anthony's  book 
sounds  fascinating.  He  is  already 
working  on  another,  which  will  show 
the  psychological  effect  of  the  setting 
down  in  America  of  a  group  of  Ru- 
manian colonists  with  their  old-world 
color  and  legendry. 

As  usual,  the  piece  of  news  that 
Earl  Fisk  sends  is  a  choice  one.  By 
the  way,  a  friend  of  ours  was  trav- 
eling recently  on  a  train  with  The 
Bookman.  We  mean  that  he  had  a 
copy  of  The  Bookman  with  him,  and 
whom  should  he  see  but  Jack  Demp- 
sey;  so  he  promptly  made  the  gentle- 
man's acquaintance  by  giving  him  the 
number.  That  is  not  so  foolish  as  it 
at  first  sounds,  because  Heywood 
Broun's  article  on  Jack's  own  literary 
attainments  was  included.  Our  friend 
then  asked  Jack  if  he  was,  by  nature, 
aggressive.  "No",  replied  the  pugilist 
thoughtfully,  "I  never  had  a  fight  in 
my  life !"  Which,  after  all,  was  an  ad- 
mission. So  much  for  the  growing 
popularity  of  our  magazine.  Says  Mr. 

Shortly  before  the  Carpentier-Dempsey  fight 
I  sent  a  clipping  of  an  interview  with  Dempaey 
on  Sbaw*8  "Cashel  Byron's  ProfeMlon**  to  Mr. 
Shaw.  Dempaey  only  read  aboat  ten  pages  of 
the  book  and  gave  it  np.  It  was  too  much  for 
him.  Said  he  didn't  care  for  it  at  aU.  I  re- 
ceiTed  a  reply  from  Mr.  Shaw  today  and  he 
said  in  part  as  foUows  referring  to  Dempsey : 

**I  am  afraid  that  Dempsey  will  regard  me  as 
a  monster  of  ingratitude;  but  really  his  best 
friends  are  not  those  who  ridiculously  belittled 
Carpentier,  but  those  who  put  up  his  stocks  to 
the  utmost.  A  man  who  can  stop  Georges* 
right  with  his  Jaw  and  not  notice  it  must  have 
quite  the  solidest  head  in  the  ring." 

(AftcA  Austin  Dobson's  "Farewell,  Renown !") 

Farewell,  quaint  muse!     Bach  dainty  flower 

That  flUs  an  elfln  lady's  bower 

Shalf  Dobson's  .ilender  tomes  entwine 
WhUe  shepherds  drink  in  native  wine 

A  sad  health  to  thy  passing  hour. 

Thine  was  no  pen  of  pomp  or  power 
To  span  the  moat  or  top  the  tower, 
That  found  a  petticoat  divine— 
FareweU,  quaint  muse! 

Farewell! — and  when  free  verses  shower 

And  poets  find  life  drab  and  dour, 
We'U  seek  again  the  rippling  line. 
The  magic  measures  that  were  thine, 

Seek  thee — when  modern  wines  prove  sour — 
Farewell,  quaint  muse! 




November,  1921 

Q4n  Industry,  Not  an  Art 
Ifairton  Radcoe 


I :    Chicaco 


n :    Botitli  Tarktngton 



Annie  (JhitoII  Houm? 


A  Parody  of  H.  G.  W.lla  liy  Donald  Ogd'^o  SU-wiut  ] 

OTHER  tO\TRlBt"roi{S 
Horrifmi  Rhmta                       /...'jn  fl,-.  f'...i„ 
F.  &coU  Fil;gfr^fJ  

Jftfie   fl.   Ritlt^lh.-U!-: 

HrtloT  MiLi^uurnc 
Louii  (.'n/cTWJrjrrr 

40  Cents  $  40°  Yea{ 

THE    VOOKMjtN   AS>  V  E  It  T I SE  K. 

The  career 



The  struggle  between  New 
England  Puritanism  and 
Continental  freedom  is  the 
main  theme  of  this  novel 
which  tells  of  the  molding 
and  bending  of  two  con- 
flicting temperaments  and 
characters  in  the  throes  of 
a  tenacious  passion.  The 
author,  wife  of  Senator 
Keyes  of  New  Hampshire, 
is  well  known  to  magazine 
readers.  Her  "Letters  from 
a  Senator's  Wife"  are  ap- 
pearing regularly  in  a 
popular  monthly.    |1.90. 

The  wings 


A  novel  that  brings  home  a 
too-often  forgotten  truth 
—life  is  something  more 
than  falling  in  love.  Friend- 
ships, ambitions,  work  have 
to  be  taken  into  account. 
The  heroine  of  this  novel 
has  a  happy,  satisfying 
romance,  but  her  life  is  full 
to  overflow  with  more  than 

In  Four  Volumes 




Volumes  I  and  II  now  ready 
Volumes  III  and  IV published  Spring  1922 

A  chronicle  of  life  in  England  drawn  in  its  essen- 
tials from  the  pages  of  the  world-famous  Punch — 
a  history  of  the  Victorians  written  by  themselves. 
No  historical  library  is  complete  without  it,  no  stu- 
dent can  afford  to  pass  it  by,  and  no  searcher  for 
piquant  reading  need  go  further  for  utter  satisfac- 
tion. The  illustrations — over  500  in  the  four  vol- 
umes— represent  the  best  work  of  Punch's  artists. 

As  requests  for  the  First  Edition  will  be  filled  in  order  of  their 
receipt  we  suggest  that  you  mail  your  order  (to  your  bookseller,  if 
convenient)  at  once.  Order  by  set  only.  Volumes  I  and  JI  will 
be  sent  you  at  once.  Volumes  III  and  IV  next  Spring.  Remit 
for  the  entire  set  with  order  ($20)  or  for  two  volumes  now 
($10)  and  for  two  in  the  Spring  ($10). 

ENGLISH  FURNITURE     By  r.  w.  symonds 

A  practical  handbook  on  old  English  furniture  by  a  well- 
known  English  dealer  in  antiques.  It  outlines  the  history 
of  English  furniture,  discusses  the  essential  qualities  of 
design,  proportion,  etc.,  and  examines  the  present  condition 
of  antique  furniture.  With  g6  illustrations  from  photo- 
graphs.   120.00. 


AND  WALES  By  t.  francis  bumpus 

A  new,  inclusive  edition  of  the  author's  well-known  work 
originally  published  in  three  volumes,  thoroughly  revised 
and  brought  down  to  date.  IVith  frontispiece  in  color  and 
32  halftone  illustrations,    |5.00. 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  By  mary  sturobon 

An  account  of  the  famous  Abbey  in  its  connection  with 
English  life.  The  author  treats  her  subject  broadly, 
pointing  out  the  significance  of  what  a  visitor  to  the 
Abbey  sees.  With  etched  frontispiece  and  15  exquisite 
drawings  by  Louis  Weirter,    17.50. 



The  author  does  for  Dante  what  Lamb  did  for  Shakes- 
peare, providing  a  vivid  introduction  to  the  great  Italian 
for  those  who  might  never  attempt  his  study  otherwise. 
With  j6  full-color  illustrations  by  Evelyn  Paul    V^M. 


N«w  Y«ric 

I^f^mmA    VM A. 

NOVEMBER,  1921 





An  Industry  y  Not  an  Art 

By  Burton  Rascoe 

NOTE:  The  suhjoimd  article  nvas  ^written  several  nveeks  bejore  the  Arbuckle  scandal  fell  as 
manna  upon  the  desks  of  nenusstamjed  editors.  The  article  is  a  sumny  of  the  industry  as  a  ijuhole  and 
is  not  concerned  «with  the  morals  of  its  mimes. 

FROM  data  afforded  by  the  exami- 
nation for  the  draft  during  the 
recent  war,  the  National  Research 
Council  estimated  the  intelligence  of 
the  average  adult  male  in  the  United 
States  as  that  of  a  normal  fourteen 
year  old  child.  The  assumption  of 
various  psychiatrists  concerning  the 
feminine  mean  of  intelligence  is  not  so 
flattering.  The  all-prevalent  movie 
gives  uncomfortable  weight  both  to 
the  estimate  and  to  the  assumption. 
Indeed,  taking  the  successful  movies 
to  be  indicative  of  the  mentality  of 
their  patrons,  one's  inevitable  conclu- 
sion is  that  the  Council  and  the  psy- 
chiatrists do  not  err  on  the  side  of 
pessimism.  The  more  highly  praised 
among  the  successful  American  films, 
say,  the  Chaplin  comedies,  ''Blind 
Husbands",  "The  Birth  of  a  Nation", 
"Way  Down  East",  and  "The  Four 

Horsemen  of  the  Apocalsrpse",  might 
reasonably  lie  within  the  intellectual 
range  of  a  normal  child  on  the  thresh- 
old of  adolescence.  But  the  mass  of 
movies  which  nightly  draw  enormous 
crowds  could  be  endured  regularly,  as 
a  form  of  amusement,  only  by  persons 
whose  psychopathic  condition  is  a  sub- 
ject for  grave  concern. 

Striking  an  average  between  the  in- 
telligence to  which  "The  Four  Horse- 
men of  the  Apocalypse"  is  a  pleasura- 
ble diversion  and  the  mental  flicker 
which  is  vaguely  animate  in  the 
presence  of  "Heedless  Moths",  one 
emerges  with  a  determinant  upon 
which  hinges  the  whole  problem,  not 
only  of  the  movies,  but  of  the  ideals, 
aspirations,  social  life,  and  educational 
progress  of  the  race.  That  determi- 
nant is  the  coercive  force  and  weight 
of  the  economic  patronage  of  the  aver- 




age  man  who,  it  has  been  seen,  pos- 
sesses in  this  countiy  a  fourteen  year 
old  intelligence  in  a  state  of  arrested 
development,  with  its  sinister  burden 
of  prejudices,  taboos,  neuroses,  and 
superstitions.     He  is   inevitably  the 
arbiter  of  our  destinies  in  any  vast 
group  expression  such  as  custom  and 
law,  manners  and  recreation.    He  gov- 
erns all  of  the  self-supporting  media 
of  information;  he  dictates  the  laws 
for  the  minorities;    and  he  specifies 
the  sort  of  education  the  succeeding 
generation  shall  have.    Such  minority 
expressions  as  fail  to  meet  his  ap- 
proval or  to  engage  his  interest  are 
possible   only   through   subsidies   de- 
rived from  profits  accruing  from  ac- 
tivities to  which  he  has  given  sanc- 
tion.   Just  as  long  as  he  remains  what 
he  is,  with  his  power  unchallenged  and 
his  tastes  catered  to,  it  is  impossible 
to  foresee  any  progress  toward  a  ho- 
mogeneous racial  culture  of  a  satis- 
factory standard. 

The  outlook,  indeed,  is  dim.  Every- 
thing makes  not  only  for  the  statically 
uncompromising  condition  of  the 
average  man  but  for  his  actual  debase- 
ment. The  fear  of  his  economic  power 
is  so  great  that  few  attempts  are  made 
to  give  new  direction  to  his  thoughts 
and  habits.  His  narrow  and  material 
predilections  are  not  only  recognized 
for  what  they  are;  they  are  system- 
atically exploited  and  debauched.  His 
sense  of  sight  is  so  easily  engaged 
that  the  tendency  is  to  appeal  to  him, 
through  that  medium  alone.  It  is  not 
merely  fortuitous  that  the  past  few 
years  have  seen  the  increase  of  the 
number  of  magazines  and  newspapers 
which  are  made  up  almost  exclusively 
of  pictures.  It  is  stretching  the  truth 
to  say  that  such  magazines  and  news- 
papers are  designed  to  meet  the  de- 
mand of  people  who  cannot  read;  but 
it  is  obvious  that  they  are  designed 

for  sale  to  people  for  whom  reading  is 
an  effort  to  be  exerted  as  little  as  pos- 

There  is  scant  repose  for  the  retina 
of  the  modern  man  either  in  the  towns 
or  the  cities  on  account  of  this  fugal 
increase  in  frequency  of  the  appeal  to 
sight.     Huge  gothic  headlines  which 
appeared  for  the  first  time  in  the  less 
blatant  newspapers  during  the  war 
have  remained  as  lurid  and  startling, 
even  though  the  events  to  which  they 
now  call  attention  are  neither  cata- 
strophic nor  of  particular  interest  to 
large  numbers  of  people.    Signboards 
vie  with  each  other  in  color  and  design 
and  in  frugality  of  words  necessary 
for  conveying  the  sales  idea.    On  the 
aural  side  the  nervous  strain  of  the 
American   city   resident   is   not  less 
great.     His  sensitivity  to  sound   is 
blunted  by  the  excessive  noises  which 
assail   his   ears,    and   the   protective 
mechanism  of  the  body  of  necessity 
tends  to  make  him  impervious  to  the 
less  distracting  of  these  noises.    Other- 
wise he  would  go  to  pieces  under  the 
extraordinary  demands  made  upon  his 
nervous  system.     The  net  results  of 
these  terrific  drains  upon  the  senses 
and  upon  the  vital  energy  necessary  to 
resist  these  drains  are:  first,  fatigue 
which  makes  reading,  study,  and  con- 
templation   almost    impossible;     and 
second,   an   unresponsiveness   to   any 
visual  or  aural  impressions  which  are 
not  violent,  badly  organized,  and  sen- 
sational.   The  movies  are  merely  con- 
tributions to  the  mass  effect  of  condi- 
tions which  tend  toward  either  the 
nervous  derangement  of  the  modem 
American  or  to  his  complete  impervi- 
ousness  to  anything  which  is  fine,  deli- 
cately organized,  poised,  and  harmo- 
nious.   To  attain  the  hold  they  have 
upon  Americans,  the  movies  have  had 
to  compete  in  blatancy  with  the  post- 
ers   and    billboards,    the    newspaper 



headlines  and  magazine  advertise- 
ments»  the  picture  papers  and  the  elec- 
tric signs. 

With  all  these  things  in  mind  it  is 
possible  to  approach  the  subject  of  the 
movies  unsentimentally  and  to  set 
forth  the  chief  facts  concerning  them, 
without  being  drawn  for  long  into  the 
swirling  nonsense  about  the  ''art  of 
the  motion  picture",  movie  censorship, 
the  future  of  the  films,  and  similar 
topics  which  only  remotely  touch  an 
intelligent  man's  tastes  or  intellectual 

The  movie  industry  in  America  is  a 
commercial  and  speculative  enterprise 
and  nothing  more.  Within  a  few 
years  it  has  become  one  of  the  five 
most  important  industries  in  the 
country.  It  has  behind  it  a  vast  deal 
of  shrewd  and  adventurous  business 
acumen  but  not  one  influential  direc- 
tive mind  above  the  level  of  a  stock 
promoter,  not  one  guiding  personality 
who  has  revealed  more  than  a  glimmer 
of  esthetic  interests  or  even  of  ele- 
mentary taste.  The  aims  of  those  con- 
cerned with  it  from  the  first  have  been 
as  meretricious  as  the  aims  of  so 
many  real  estate  boosters.  Its  pro- 
moters have  successfully  resisted 
every  influence  designed  to  lift  the 
movies  above  the  level  of  a  cheap 
and  gaudy  piece  of  merchandise. 
They  have  kept  the  movie  on  the  intel- 
lectual level  of  the  peep-show  and  the 
penny  arcade,  the  trashy  novel  and 
the  illustrated  newspaper.  And  for 
this  reason  they  have  been  inordinate- 
ly successful.  They  have  been  shrewd 
enough  to  take  advantage  of  an  inven- 
tion whereby  an  infantile  amusement 
is  profitably  purveyed  to  millions  of 
people.  Before  the  motion  picture 
was  developed  the  craving  of  the  in- 
sensate and  the  feeble-minded  for 
crude  distractions  was  supplied  by 
novelty  factories,  five  and  ten  cent 

stores,  amusement  parks,  itinerant 
evangelists,  barn-storming  stock  com- 
panies, sideshows,  and  street  comer 
vendors.  The  movies  synchronized 
the  appeal  of  all  these  and  made  mil- 
lions for  the  money-grubbing  doodle 
bugs  who  early  recognized  the  fact 
and  made  capital  of  it. 

Financial  success  has  had  its  usual 
American  consequences.  From  open 
scorn  and  ridicule  on  the  part  of  the 
literate  came  serious  interest  and  ex- 
aggerated esteem.  The  newspapers 
opened  their  columns  to  the  new  mat- 
ter of  national  interest,  engaged  movie 
critics,  and  set  about  taking  advantage 
of  the  possibilities  for  revenue  de- 
rived from  a  widely  exploited  amuse- 
ment. Costly  theatres  were  built  sole- 
ly for  motion  pictures.  Massive  stu- 
dios were  erected.  Salaries  for  per- 
sonable young  women  and  handsome 
young  men  with  a  knack  for  easy  pan- 
tomime went  skyrocketing.  The 
business  boomed.  Wall  Street  poured 
money  into  it  and  competitive  produc- 
tion was  augmented  to  the  point  of 
saturation.  Weak  companies  collapsed 
or  were  absorbed  by  other  organiza- 
tions. Obscure  stock  performers  and 
vaudeville  comedians  became  national 
figures.  A  huge  movie  colony  grew  up 
in  Hollywood,  California,  a  site  se- 
lected by  numerous  companies  because 
of  the  advantageous  atmospheric  con- 
ditions in  southern  California  for  mo- 
tion picture  photography.  Thence 
were  attracted  thousands  of  young 
men  and  women  from  farms  and  cities, 
fired  with  ambitions  to  become  Mary 
Pickfords  and  Wallie  Reids,  BiU 
Harts,  and  Douglas  Fairbankses. 
This,  in  itself,  was  the  postulation  of 
a  new  goal  of  ambition  for  the  imma- 
ture, a  distressingly  cheap  ambition, 
combining  exhibitionism  and  huge 
salaries  as  a  goal. 

Meanwhile   what   was   and   is   the 



form  of  amusement  or  diversion  pro- 
vided by  the  movies?  It  was  and  is 
the  mirror  of  the  aspirations  of  a  pe- 
culiarly unimaginative,  repressed,  and 
mentally  starved  people,  a  people  who 
have  in  the  overwhelming  main  been 
taught  to  value  only  a  devitalizing  and 
despiritualizing  material  success,  ar- 
rived at  by  a  curious  duality  of  ethical 
teaching  and  practice.  It  provides  a 
vicarious  wish  fulfilment  of  a  char- 
acter which  is  pitiably  revelatory. 
Tired,  asthmatic  clerks  in  office  build- 
ings, gaunt  salesmen,  and  timid  news- 
paper men  seek  escape  from  the  con- 
fining monotony  of  their  indoor  rou- 
tine in  pictures  depicting  impossible 
adventures  of  impossible  heroes  in  im- 
possible "sets''  and  situations  in  the 
far  west  and  the  northern  wilds. 
Girls  and  women  living  cramped  lives 
in  factories  and  offices,  in  schoolrooms 
and  apartments,  refuse  to  be  repleted 
by  the  repetition  of  the  typical  movie 
variation  on  the  Cinderella  story,  a 
variation  with  little  of  the  simple  hu- 
manity and  poetry  of  the  Cinderella 
original  or  of  its  permutations  in  the 
literature  of  other  people.  A  typical 
movie  plot  is  that  of  the  poor  young 
man  who  wins  to  the  love  of  his  em- 
ployer's daughter  by  a  business  coup 
which  discomfits  the  villain  and  wins 
the  respect  of  the  irascible  father. 
The  rewards  of  honesty  and  hard  work 
are  invariably  pictured  as  involving 
beautiful  estates,  elaborate  wardrobes, 
motor  cars,  and  bowing  servants.  No 
film  actress  is  ever  pictured  in  rags 
and  tatters  in  the  opening  scenes  with- 
out a  triumphal  emergence  toward  the 
"clinch"  in  a  gown  designed  by  Paquin 
or  Lucile. 

Not  one  scenario  has  been  prepared 
in  this  country  for  a  motion  picture 
with  a  significant  idea.  In  almost  every 
instance  where  good  novels  and  plays 
and  short  stories  have  been  drawn 

upon  for  movie  material,  the  ideas 
have  been  distorted  and  sentimental- 
ized out  of  all  recognition.  And  the 
very  worst  and  most  insipid  of  Ameri- 
can fiction  has  been  gutted  for  sce- 
narios of  widely  advertised  and  pat- 
ronized films.  In  the  process  of  pre- 
paring a  plot  for  the  movies  a  series 
of  rigid  taboos  are  observed  by  which 
every  possible  variation  from  the  in- 
sipid formulse  of  sentimental  moraliz- 
ing is  rigidly  excluded.  Stage  suc- 
cesses such  as  "The  Easiest  Way"  and 
"The  Affairs  of  Anatol"  have,  on  the 
screen,  become  nauseating,  the  very 
wallow  and  mire  of  sentimental 
bawdry.  It  would  seem  that  the  most 
incompetent  journalistic  hacks,  the 
most  illiterate  backwash  of  the  writ- 
ing profession,  are  retained  to  prepare 
the  scenarios  for  American  film  pro- 
duction. Reputable  authors,  serious 
craftsmen  with  a  conscience  about 
their  work,  have  at  times  yielded  to 
the  importunities  of  the  movie  pro- 
ducers. And  when  they  have  seen  the 
continuity  writer's  version,  the  "art 
director's"  conception,  and  the  actors' 
portrayal  of  what  they  originally  con- 
ceived in  intellectual  honesty  and  ar- 
tistic integrity,  they  have  experienced 
various  stages  of  exasperation.  Most 
of  the  reputable  writers  who  have  sold 
and  have  contracted  to  sell  the  motion 
picture  rights  to  their  work,  have 
either  ostensibly  or  actually  taken  the 
attitude  that  there  is  no  help  for  the 
situation,  that  the  movies  are  an  in- 
stitution by  illiterates,  of  illiterates, 
and  for  illiterates,  and  pocketed  the 
easy  money. 

Among  the  purely  conmiercial 
writers  the  pernicious  effects  of  the 
motion  picture  industry  are  every- 
where observable.  The  movie  pro- 
ducers are  able  to  pay  prices  so  over- 
topping those  derivable  from  the 
stage,  from  the  magazines,  and  from 




book  publication,  that  the  majority  of 
American  writers  are  planning  ttieir 
work  with  a  view  to  screen  production. 
This  condition,  of  course,  does  not 
affect  the  serious  literary  artist,  but 
the  cumulative  force  of  narrative  con- 
stantly reduced  to  its  lowest  elements 
of  continuous  action,  devoid  of  com- 
ment, observation,  and  philosophic 
content,  and  stripped  of  the  factors 
requiring  cerebration  for  appreciation, 
must  ultimately  have  its  disastrous 
effect  upon  the  cerebral  processes  of 
that  portion  of  the  race  which  reads 
solely  for  vicarious  adventure  and  re- 

Another  problem  presents  itself  in 
the  physiological  and  psychological 
effect  of  habitual  attendance  at  the 
movies  regularly  shown  in  American 
theatres.  The  American  movies  are 
preponderately  sentimental,  evoking 
the  emotions  of  sympathy,  pity,  and 
terror,  with  constant  recourse  to  the 
readiest  surefire  methods,  such  as  de- 
picting babies,  small  children,  defense- 
less mothers,  and  helpless  women,  in 
tragic  circumstances.  Consider  then 
the  fact  that  such  movies  with  their 
catharsis  of  pity  and  sympathy  and 
terror,  are  attended  night  after  night 
by  a  vast  portion  of  the  population  of 
the  country.  The  Greeks  recognized 
the  need  of  tragedy  upon  the  stage  as 
a  means  whereby  the  audiences  might 
be  purged  at  rare  intervals  of  the 
emotions  of  pity  and  terror  and  thus 
remain  good  citizens,  valiant  soldiers, 
and  decent  human  beings  adjusted  to 
the  reality  of  life.  But  American 
movie  fans  are  constantly  stimulated 
artificially.  Their  tear  ducts  and  ad- 
renal glands  are  overtaxed.  They  are 
emotionally  sapped  night  after  night 
before  unreal  circumstances.  This 
means  that  their  capacity  for  reacting 
emotionally  in  real  life  is  reduced. 
The  tendency  is  toward  emotional  in- 

sanity, a  complete  inability  to  feel  any 
emotion  which  is  not  artificially  stim- 

Whether  the  movies  in  this  country 
will  ever  attract  the  first-class  artist 
is  problematical.  The  field  is  held  at 
present  by  ex-chauffeurs  and  ex-scene 
shifters  who  summarily  reject  all  con- 
structive criticism  and  are  hostile  to 
all  ideas  which  they  stigmatize  as 
highbrow.  It  is  to  their  interest,  ob- 
viously, that  the  movies  remain  the 
tawdry  claptrap  they  are,  sentimental 
and  vulgar  episodes  in  settings  which 
are  anachronistic,  flashy,  ludicrous, 
and  absurd. 

To  talk  of  the  art  of  the  motion  pic- 
tures as  we  know  them  from  Ameri- 
can producers  is  to  talk  of  the  art  of 
the  depilator,  of  canned  beans,  and  of 
dental  creams— of  any  merchandise 
designed  to  meet  the  needs  of  or  to 
create  a  need  in  vast  numbers  of  peo- 
ple. It  is  unwarrantable  to  hope  for 
a  development  of  the  movies  into  a 
distinctive  art  form  or  that  they  will 
become  reasonably  and  satisfyingly 
artistic  as  long  as  they  are  in  the 
hands  of  the  present  group  of  men 
whose  sole  concern  is  that  they  make 
enormous  profits  out  of  thenL  Such 
improvements  as  will  be  made  are  al- 
most certain  to  be  merely  the  perfec- 
tion of  ingenious  camera  tricks,  light- 
ing effects,  scene  shifting,  double  ex- 
posures, and  other  mechanical  minu- 
tiae. Concretely,  should  any  present- 
day  producer  in  America  take  it  into 
his  head  to  picturize  "Hamlet",  one 
knows  beforehand  that  his  efforts 
would  be  mainly  bent  upon  making  a 
very  nebulous  and  ghostly  ghost,  for 
that  is  exactly  how  the  creative  mind 
of  the  motion  picture  producer  works. 
He  will  have  a  more  ghostly  ghost 
than  has  ever  been  seen  on  the  stagey 




and  upon  that  fact  alone  he  will  rest 
his  achievement. 

So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  learn, 
there  is  not  one  American  producer 
who  has  made  any  effort  to  plumb 
the  possibilities  of  the  motion  picture 
as  a  distinct  art  form.  The  American 
producer  has  been  content  to  leave  it 
a  sorry  mongrel  through  a  miscegena- 
tion of  bad  literature  and  bad  theatre, 
with  photography  as  an  inept  obste- 
trician. Yet  these  possibilities  have 
occurred  to  everyone,  excepting  the 
movie  producers,  who  has  ever  given 
thought  to  the  subject  It  is  incon- 
ceivable that  any  American  producer 
would  picturize  Conrad's  "Lord  Jim" 
without  making  a  botch  of  it.  But  it 
is  conceivable  that  a  serious  student 
of  the  resources  of  motion  picture 
photography  and  projection  might 
evolve  a  motion  picture  masterpiece 
as  powerful  and  as  satisfying  as  Con- 
rad's novel.  Conrad  himself  has 
stated  his  aim  as  ''by  the  power  of  the 
written  word  to  make  you  see  and 
above  all  to  make  you  feel".  The  very 
words  he  uses  are  adaptable  to  the 
medium  of  the  motion  picture.  But 
such  a  consummation  will  never  be 
achieved  by  a  collaboration  of  hack 
fictionists,  illiterate  continuity  writers, 
vainglorious  directors,  simpering 
flappers,  and  strutting  pomade  addicts. 
It  will  take  long  and* serious  study, 
constant  experimenting,  courage  in 
defeat  and  frustration,  vision,  and 
ideals.  These  qualities  are  not  ap- 
preciably evident  among  the  American 
motion  picture  producers. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  I,  for  one, 
cannot  grow  indignant  over  the  mo- 
tion picture  censorship,  although  I 
align  myself  with  the  angels  of  lib- 
eralism and  free  speech.  The  uphold- 
ers of  the  movie  censorship,  it  seems 

of  its  journalistic  opponents,  however 
mad,  silly,  and  pathologic  are  the  bases 
of  this  censorship.  The  opponents  of 
the  movie  censorship,  on  the  other 
hand,  are,  in  the  main,  upholders  of  the 
principle  of  freedom  as  concerns  the 
exploitation  of  a  brand  of  cheap  mer- 
chandise, a  definite  source  of  adver- 
tising revenue,  purveyed  by  a  finan- 
cially powerful  organization.  And 
they  are  upholders  of  the  principle  of 
freedom  only  as  concerns  the  movies. 
They  are  not  concerned  with  the 
larger  problems  of  intellectual  and  ar- 
tistic freedom.  The  movies  as  we 
know  them  might  very  well  be  cen- 
sored off  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  the 
only  effect  upon  the  intelligence  and 
art  of  the  country  would  be  one  of 
lasting  benefit.  Yet  the  majority  of 
the  opponents  of  the  movie  censorship 
arrogate  to  their  arguments  the  dia^ 
lectic  weapons  which  should  remain 
inviolate  except  in  battles  involving 
the  spiritual  integrity  of  man.  They 
cheapen  and  devitalize  the  concepts  of 
free  action.  The  eager  journalist  calls 
Patrick  Henry  to  witness  that  the 
censor's  shears  which  snipped  the 
scene  where  the  burglar  enters  the 
ladjr's  boudoir  are  an  instrument  and 
a  symbol  of  modem  tyranny  and  of 
inquisitorial  arrogance.  The  indig- 
nant editorial  writer  fresh  from  an 
abbreviated  version  of  a  Mack  Sennett 
comedy  sees  in  the  deleted  flashes  of 
bathing  beauties  an  abrogation  of  the 
Constitutional  rights  of  free  speech 
and  a  menace  to  American  art  and  let- 
ters. This  is  all  grotesquely  ludicrous. 
There  is  something  comically  incon- 
gruous in  a  polemic  against  the  cen- 
sorship of  the  movies  appearing  in  the 
press  which  is  resolutely  antagonistic 
to  the  free  interchange  of  ideas  and  is 
conspicuously  silent  when  the  Com- 

ers 01  the  movie  censorship,  it  seems  conspicuously  silent  when  the  oom- 
to  me,  are,  if  ansrthing,  more  worthy  stocks  suppress  another  piece  of  lit- 
of  respect  than  are  the  rank  and  file     erature  or  when  the  federal  authorities 



hold  up  another  issue  of  an  intelligent 
magazine.  The  suppressions  of  "The 
'Genius' ",  of  "Jurgen",  and  of  "Ulys- 
ses"  and  the  impounding  of  "The 
Liberator",  "The  Little  RevieV,  and 
the  New  York  "CaU"  (which  evoked 
no  concerted  protest  from  the  Ameri- 
can press)  mean  something  in  the  his- 
tory of  free  speech  in  America.  The 
deletion  of  a  movie  version  of  an  act 
of  violence  or  of  a  bawdy  scene  means 
only  official  interference  with  a  lucra- 
tive industry. 

Moreover  the  movie  producers,  with 
characteristic    stupidity,    got    them- 
selves into  the  censorship  mess  which 
threatens  to  curtail  their  revenue  and 
to  diminish  their  profits.     The  Na- 
tional Board  of  Review  was  a  highly 
liberal  organization  of  disinterested 
and  unsalaried  public  servants  who 
vetoed  nothing  which  was  not  obvious- 
ly  injurious   or   detrimental   to   the 
minds    and    morals    of    the    young. 
Among  their  meagre  taboos  were  pic- 
turization  of  the  nude  and  acts  of  vio- 
lence upon  women.    During  the  war, 
predatory  movie  producers,  on  a  plea 
of  patriotic  ardor,  procured  permis- 
sion to  show  acts  of  violence  com- 
mitted upon  women  by  German  sol- 
diers.     Once    this    permission    was 
granted,  they  proceeded  to  concoct  pic- 
tures of  inconceivable  lewdness  and 
excruciating  horror.    The  reaction,  of 
course,  was  quick  and  violent.    Once 
elementary  racial  sanity  was  resumed 
after  the  war  feeling  died  down,  such 
pictures  were  seen  for  what  they  were 
— ^the  obscene  and  sadistic  imaginings 
of  human  swine — and  the   National 
Board    of    Review    became    useless 
through  the  rise  of  state  and  munici- 
pal censorship  boards  which  were  pre- 
pared to  clip  every  reel  to  a  pattern 
of  innocuous  insipidity.    The  movies 
are   seriously   threatened.     No   pro- 
ducer knows  whether  a  film  which 

passes  one  board  will  be  denied  by  an- 
other. Unless  he  adheres  to  a  thumb 
rule  of  Valentine  sweetness  and  Sun- 
day School  teaching,  he  is  never  sure 
whether  the  distribution  of  his  film 
will  be  profitable  or  not.  Like  the 
brewers  and  distillers  he  is  mainly  re- 
sponsible for  the  predicament  in  which 
he  finds  himself,  and  it  is  difficult  to 
share  his  tears  and  his  indignation. 

It   is  not  with  the  censorship  of 
American  movies,  indeed,  but  with  the 
censorship  of  imported  films  that  the 
liberal-minded    need    concern    them- 
selves.   With  their  early  start  in  the 
field  and  their  vast  financial  backing, 
American   motion   picture   producers 
have  shown   excellence   in  only   two 
fields,  that  of  satiric  and  farce  comedy, 
and    in    exploiting   the    beauty    and 
health,  the  freshness  and  na!vet6  of 
American  girlhood.     Chaplin's  walk, 
Turpin's  eyes,  Fairbanks's  acrobatics, 
Miss    Pickford's    pout.    Miss    Gish's 
tears.  Miss  Talmadge's  smile  are  fa- 
miliar throughout  the  world;  nor  is  it 
likely  that  they  will  ever  be  seriously 
interfered  with  by  the  censors.    But 
there   is  evidence  that  foreign  pro- 
ducers are  putting   into  their  films 
much  intelligent  effort  and  artistic  en- 
terprise.    The    German    films,    "The 
Cabinet  of  Dr.  Caligari"  and  "The 
Golem",  and  various  French  and  Ital- 
ian projects  show  a  tendency  abroad 
to  grasp  the  particular  problem  of  the 
movies  and  to  evolve  an  art  form  pe- 
culiar to  that  medium.    The  enumer- 
ated taboos  of  the  numerous  state  and 
municipal  censorship  boards  automat- 
ically preclude  the  free  distribution  of 
these    motion    pictures    in    America. 
Such   is  the   result  of  the  coercive 
power  and  weight  of  the  economic 
patronage  of  the  average  adult  Ameri- 
can male,  with  his  fourteen  year  old 
intelligence,  his  burden  of  prejudices, 
taboos,  neuroses,  and  superstitions. 


By  Donald  Ogden  Stewart 

With  Sketches  by  Herb  Roth 


In  the  Manner  of  Harold  Bell  Wright 

ON  a  brisk  winter  evening  in  the 
winter  of  1864  the  palatial  Fifth 
Avenue  "palace''  of  Cornelius  van  der 
Griff  was  brilliantly  lighted  with 
many  brilliant  lights.  Outside  the  im- 
posing front  entrance  a  small  group 
of  pedestrians  had  gathered  to  gape 
enviously  at  the  invited  guests  of  the 
"four  hundred"  who  were  beginning 
to  arrive  in  elegant  equipages,  expen- 
sive ball  dresses,  and  fashionable 

"Hully  gee  I"  exclaimed  little  Frank, 
a  crippled  newsboy  who  was  the  only 
support  of  an  aged  mother,  as  a  par- 
ticularly sumptuous  carriage  drove  up 
and  a  stylishly  dressed  lady  of  fifty- 
five  or  sixty  stepped  out  accompanied 
by  a  haughty  society  girl  and  an  elder- 
ly gentleman  in  clerical  dress.  It  was 
Mrs.  Rhinelander,  a  social  leader,  and 
her  daughter  Geraldine,  together  with 
the  Reverend  Dr.  Gedney,  pastor  of 
an  exclusive  Fifth  Avenue  church. 

"What  common  looking  people,"  said 
Mrs.  Rhinelander,  surveying  the 
crowd  aristocratically  with  her  lor- 

'Tes,  aren't  they?"  replied  the 
clergyman  with  a  condescending 
glance  which  ill  befit  his  clerical  garb. 


I'm  glad  you  don't  have  people  like 
that  djune  voire  igliee.  Dr.  Gedney," 
said  young  Geraldine,  who  thought  it 
was  "smart"  to  display  her  proficiency 
in  the  styliah  French  tongue.  At  this 
moment  the  door  of  the  van  der  Griff 
residence  was  opened  for  them  by  an 
imposing  footman  in  scarlet  livery 
and  they  passed  into  the  abode  of  the 

"HuUy  gee!"  repeated  little  Frank. 

"What's  going  on  tonight?"  asked 
a  newcomer. 

"Gee — don't  youse  know?"  an- 
swered the  newsboy.  "Dis  is  de  van 
der  Griff's  and  tonight  dey  are  giving 
a  swell  dinner  for  General  Grant.  Dat 
lady  wot  just  went  in  was  old  Mrs. 
Rhinelander.  I  seen  her  pitcher  in  de 
last  'Harper's  WeekV  and  dere  was  a 
story  in  de  paper  dis  morning  dat  her 
daughter  Geraldine  was  going  to 
marry  de  General." 

"That  isn't  so,"  broke  in  another. 
"It  was  just  a  rumor." 

"Well,  anyway,"  said  Frank,  "I 
wisht  de  General  would  hurry  up  and 
come — if  8  getting  cold  enough  to 
freeze  the  tail  off  a  brass  monkey." 
The  onlookers  laughed  merrily  at  his 
humorous  reference  to  the  frigid  tem- 



tMeUv  fOt*  te»\  Hon" 

perature,  although  many  cast  sympa- 
ttietic  looks  st  his  thin  threadbare 
germents  and  registered  a  kindly 
thought  for  this  brave  boy  who  so 
philosophically  accepted  the  buffets  of 

"I  bet  this  is  him  now,"  cried  Frank, 
and  all  waited  expectantly  as  a  vehicle 
drove  up.  The  cabman  jumped  off  his 
box  and  held  the  carriage  door  open. 

"Here  you  are,  Mias  Flowers,"  he 
said,  toudiing  his  hat  reapectfully, 

A  silver  peal  of  rippling  laughter 
sounded  from  the  interior  of  the  car- 

"Why  Jerry,"  came  In  velvet  tones 
addressed  to  the  coachman,  *^on 
mustn't  be  so  formaJ  just  because  I 
have  come  to  New  York  to  live.  CaU 
me  Miss  Ella,  of  course,  just  like  yoo 



did  when  we  lived  out  in  Kansas/'  and 
with  these  words  Miss  Ella  Flowers, 
for  it  was  she,  stepped  out  of  the  car- 

A  hush  fell  on  the  crowd  as  they 
caught  sight  of  her  face — a  hush  of 
silent  tribute  to  the  clear  sweet  wom- 
anhood of  that  pure  countenance.  A 
young  man  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd 
who  was  on  the  verge  of  becoming  a 
drunkard  burst  into  tears  and  walked 
rapidly  away  to  join  the  nearest 
church.  A  pr-st — ^te  who  had  been 
plying  her  nefarious  trade  on  the  ave- 
nue, sank  to  her  knees  to  pray  for 
strength  to  go  back  to  her  aged  par- 
ents on  the  farm.  Another  young 
man,  catching  sight  of  Ella's  pure 
face,  vowed  to  write  home  to  his  old 
mother  and  send  her  the  money  he  had 
been  expending  in  the  city  on  drinks 
and  dissipation. 

And  well  might  these  city  people  be 
affected  by  the  glimpse  of  the  sweet 
noble  virtue  which  shone  forth  so  ra- 
diantly in  this  Kansas  girl's  counte- 
nance. Although  bom  in  Jersey  City, 
Ella  had  moved  with  her  parents  to  the 
west  at  an  early  age  and  she  had  grown 
up  in  the  open  country  where  a  man's 
a  man  and  women  lead  clean  sweet 
womanly  lives.  But  on  her  eighteenth 
birthday,  her  parents  had  passed  on  to 
the  Great  Beyond  and  the  heartbroken 
Ella  had  come  east  to  live  with  Mrs. 
Montgomery,  her  aunt  in  Jersey  City. 
This  lady,  being  socially  prominent  in 
New  York's  "four  hundred",  was  of 
course  quite  ambitious  that  her  pretty 
little  niece  from  the  west  should  also 
enter  society.  For  the  last  three 
months,  therefore,  Ella  had  been  f §ted 
at  all  the  better  class  homes  in  New 
York  and  Jersey  City,  and  as  Mrs. 
van  der  Griff,  the  Fifth  Avenue  social 
leader,  was  in  the  same  set  as  Ella's 
aunt,  it  was  only  natural  that  when 
making  out  her  list  of  guests  for  the 

dinner  in  honor  of  General  Grant  she 
should  include  the  beautiful  niece  of 
her  friend. 

As  Ella  stepped  from  the  carriage, 
her  gaze  fell  upon  little  Frank,  the 
crippled  newsboy,  and  her  eyes  quick- 
ly filled  with  tears,  for  social  success 
had  not  yet  caused  her  to  forget  that 
''blessed  ard  the  weak".  Taking  out 
her  purse,  she  gave  Frank  a  silver 
dollar  and  a  warm  look  of  sympathy  as 
she  passed  into  the  house. 

"Gee,  there  went  an  angel,"  whis- 
pered the  little  cripple,  and  many  who 
heard  him  silently  echoed  that  thought 
in  their  hearts.  Nor  were  they  far 
from  wrong. 

But  even  an  angel  is  not  free  from 
temptation,  and  by  letting  Ella  go  into 
society  her  aunt  was  exposing  the  girl 
to  the  whisperings  of  Satan — ^whisper- 
ings of  things  material  rather  than 
things  spiritual.  Many  a  girl  just  as 
pure  as  Ella  has  found  her  standards 
gradually  lowered  and  her  moral  char- 
acter slowly  weakened  by  the  contact 
with  the  so-called  "refined"  and  "cul- 
tured" infidels  one  meets  in  fashiona- 
ble society.  Many  a  father  and 
mother  whose  ambition  has  caused 
them  to  have  their  daughter  go  out  in 
society  have  bitterly  repented  of  that 
step  as  they  watched  the  poor  girl 
gradually  succumbing  to  the  tempta- 
tions of  the  world.  Let  her  who 
thinks  it  is  "smart"  to  be  in  society 
consider  that  our  brothels  with  their 
red  plush  curtains,  their  hardwood 
fioors,  and  their  luxurious  appoint- 
ments, are  filled  largely  with  the  worn 
out  belles  and  debutantes  of  fashion- 
able society. 

The  next  minute  a  bugle  call 
sounded  down  the  street  and  up  drove 
a  team  of  prancing  greys.  Two  sol- 
diers sprang  down  from  the  coachman's 
box  and  stood  at  rigid  attention  while 
the  door  of  the  carriage  opened  and 


oat  stepped  General  Ulysaes  S.  Grant 
A  murmur  of  admiration  swept  over 
the  crowd  at  the  sigrht  of  hie  manly 
inspiring  features,  in  which  the  clean- 
cut  virility  of  a  life  free  from  diasipa- 

"I  thank  you  for  your  ^eers.  It 
makes  my  heart  rejoice  to  hear  them, 
for  I  know  that  you  are  not  cheering 
me  personally  but  only  as  one  of  the 
many  men  who  aro  fighting  for  the 

"OalUmlly  and  lool/iilly  rttcued  her" 

tion  was  accentuated  by  the  neatly 
trimmed  black  beard.  His  erect  mili- 
tary bearing — his  neat,  well-fltting 
uniform — but  above  all  his  frank  open 
face  proclaimed  him  a  man's  man — a 
man  among  men.  A  cheer  burst  from 
the  lips  of  the  onlookers  and  the  brave 
but  modest  general  lowered  his  eyes 
and  blushed  as  he  acknowledged  their 

"Men  and  women,"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  which  although  low,  one  could 
see  was  accustomed  to  being  obeyed, 

cause  of  liberfy  and  freedom,  and  for" 
— the  general's  voice  broke  a  little,  but 
he  mastered  his  emotion  and  went  on 
— "for  the  flag  we  all  love." 

At  this  he  pulled  from  his  pocket 
an  American  flag  and  held  it  up  so 
that  all  could  see.  Cheer  after  cheer 
rent  the  air,  and  tears  came  to  the  gen- 
eral's eyes  at  this  mark  of  devotion  to 
the  common  cause. 

"Wipe  the  d — d  rebels  off  the  face 
of  the  earth,  G-d  d —  'em,"  shouted  a 
too  enthusiastic  member  of  the  crowd 



who,  I  fear,  was  a  little  the  worse  for 
drink.  In  an  instant  General  Grant 
had  stepped  up  to  him  and  fixed  upon 
him  those  fearless  blue  eyes. 

''My  man/'  said  the  general,  "it 
hurts  me  to  hear  you  give  vent  to 
those  oaths,  especially  in  the  presence 
of  ladies.  Soldiers  do  not  curse,  and 
I  think  you  would  do  well  to  follow 
their  example." 

The  other  lowered  his  head  shame- 
facedly. "General",  he  said,  "you're 
right  and  I  apologize." 

A  smile  lit  up  the  general's  hand- 
some features  and  he  extended  his 
hand  to  the  other. 

"Shake  on  it,"  he  said  simply,  and 
as  the  crowd  roared  its  approval  of 
this  speech  the  two  men  "shook". 

Meanwhile  within  the  van  der  Griff 
house  all  were  agog  with  excitement 
in  expectation  of  the  arrival  of  the 
distinguished  guest.  Expensively 
dressed  ladies  fluttered  here  and  there 
amid  the  elegant  appointments;  serv- 
ants in  stylish  livery  passed  to  and 
fro  with  trays  of  wine  and  other 
spirituous  liquors. 

At  the  sound  of  the  cheering  out- 
side, the  haughty  Mrs.  Rhinelander 
patted  her  daughter  Greraldine  nerv- 
ously, and  between  mother  and  daugh- 
ter passed  a  glance  of  understanding, 
for  both  felt  that  tonight,  if  ever,  was 
Geraldine's  opportunity  to  win  the 
handsome  and  popular  general. 

The  doorbell  rang,  and  a  hush  fell 
over  the  chattering  assemblage;  then 
came  the  proud  announcement  from 
the  doorman:  "General  Ulysses  S. 
Grant" — and  aU  the  society  belles 
crowded  forward  around  the  guest  of 

It  had  been  rumored  that  the  gen- 
eral, being  a  soldier,  was  ignorant  of 
social  etiquette,  but  such  proved  to  be 
far  from  the  case.  Indeed,  he  han- 
dled himself  with  such  ease  of  manner 

that  he  captivated  all,  and  for  each 
and  every  young  miss  he  had  an  apt 
phrase  or  a  pretty  compliment,  greatiy 
to  their  delight. 

"Pleased  to  know  you"— "Glad  to 
shake  the  hand  of  such  a  pretty  girl" 
— **What  a  nice  little  hand — I  wish  I 
might  hold  it  all  evening" — ^with  these 
and  kindred  pleasantries  the  general 
won  the  way  into  the  graces  of  Mrs. 
van  der  Griff's  fair  guests,  and  many 
a  female  heart  fluttered  as  its  owner 
gazed  into  the  clear  blue  eyes  of  the 
soldier,  and  listened  to  his  well-chosen 
tactful  words. 

"And  how  is  the  dear  General  this 
evening?" — ^This  in  the  affected  tone 
of  old  Mrs.  Rhinelander,  as  she  forced 
her  way  through  the  crowd. 

"Finer  than  silk,"  replied  he,  and  he 
added,  solicitously,  "I  hope  you  have 
recovered  from  your  lumbago,  Mrs. 

"Oh  quite",  answered  she,  "and  here 
is  Gersddine,  General",  and  the  am- 
bitious mother  pushed  her  daughter 

'^Comment  vovs  portez-vous,  mon 
G4niralf"  said  Geraldine  in  French. 
"I  hope  we  can  have  a  nice  tite-dr 
tite  tonight",  and  she  fawned  upon 
her  prey  in  a  manner  that  would  have 
sickened  a  less  artificial  gathering. 

Were  there  not  some  amid  all  that 
fashionable  throng  in  whom  ideals  of 
purity  and  true  womanhood  lived — 
some  who  cared  enough  for  the  sar 
credness  of  real  love  to  cry  out  upon 
this  hollow  mockery  that  was  being 
used  to  ensnare  the  simple,  honest  sol- 
dier? There  was  only  one,  and  she 
was  at  that  moment  entering  the 
drawing  room  for  the  purpose  of  being 
presented  to  the  general.  Need  I 
name  her? 

Ella,  for  it  was  she,  had  been  up- 
stairs busying  herself  with  her  toilet 
when  General  Grant  had  arrived  and 


I,"  cried  Oeneral  Ormt. 

she  now  hurried  forward  to  pay  her 
homage  to  the  great  soldier.  And 
then,  aa  she  caught  sight  of  his  face, 
she  stopped  suddenly  and  a  deep  crim- 
son blush  spread  over  her  features. 
She  looked  again,  and  then  drew  back 
behind  a  nearby  porti&re,  her  heart 
beating  wildly. 

Well  did  Ella  remember  where  she 
had  seen  that  countenance  before,  and 
as  she  stood  there  trembling  the  whole 
scene  of  her  folly  came  back  to  her. 
It  had  happened  in  Kansas,  just  be- 
fore her  parents  died,  on  one  sunny 
May  morning.  She  had  gone  for  a 
walk ;  her  footsteps  had  led  her  to  the 
banks  of  a  secluded  lake  where  she 
often  went  when  she  wished  to  be 
alone.  Many  an  afternoon  had  Ella 
dreamed  idly  away  on  this  shore,  hut 
that  day,  for  some  reason,  she  had  felt 
unusually  full  of  life  and  not  at  all  like 
dreaming.  Obeying  a  thoughtless  but 
innocent  impulse,  with  no  intention  of 
evil,  she  had  taken  off  her  clothes  and 

plunged  thus  n-k-d  into  the  cool  waters 
of  the  lake.  After  she  had  swum 
around  a  little  she  began  to  realize 
the  extent  of  her  folly  and  was  hur- 
riedly swimming  towards  the  shore 
when  a  terrific  cramp  had  seized  her 
lower  limbs,  rendering  them  power- 
less. Her  first  impulse,  to  scream  for 
help,  was  quickly  checked  with  a  deep 
blush,  as  she  realized  the  consequences 
if  a  man  should  hear  her  call,  for  near- 
by was  an  encampment  of  Union  sol- 
diers, none  of  whom  she  knew.  The 
perplexed  and  helpless  girl  was  in  sore 
straits  and  was  slowly  sinking  for 
the  third  time,  when  a  bearded 
stranger  in  soldier's  uniform  appeared 
on  the  bank  and  dove  into  the  water. 
To  her  horror  he  swam  rapidly  to- 
wards her — but  her  shame  was  soon 
changed  to  joy  when  she  realized  that 
he  was  purposely  keeping  his  eyes 
tight  shut.  With  a  few  swift  power- 
ful strokes  he  reached  her  side,  and, 
blushing  deeply,  took  off  his  blue  coat, 



fastened  it  around  her,  opened  his 
eyes,  and  swam  with  her  to  the  shore. 
Carrying  her  to  where  she  had  left 
her  clothes,  he  stayed  only  long 
enough  to  assure  himself  that  she  had 
completely  recovered  the  use  of  her 
limbs,  and  evidently  to  spare  her  fur- 
ther embarrassment,  had  vanished  as 
quickly  and  as  mysteriously  as  he  had 

Many  a  night  after  that  had  Ella 
lain  awake  thinking  of  the  splendid 
features  and  the  even  more  splendid 
conduct  of  this  unknown  knight  who 
wore  the  uniform  of  the  Union  army. 
"How  I  love  him,"  she  would  whisper 
to  herself;  ''but  how  he  must  despise 
me!"  she  would  cry,  and  her  pillow 
was  often  wet  with  tears  of  shame 
and  mortification  at  her  folly. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  episode 
that  her  parents  had  taken  sick  and 
passed  away.  Ella  had  come  east  and 
had  given  up  hope  of  ever  seeing  her 
rescuer  again.  You  may  imagine  her 
feelings  then  when,  on  entering  the 
drawing  room  at  the  van  der  Griff's, 
she  discovered  that  the  stranger  who 
had  so  gallantly  and  tactfully  rescued 
her  from  a  watery  grave  was  none 
other  than  General  Ulysses  S.  Grant. 

The  poor  girl  was  torn  by  a  tumult 
of  contrary  emotions.  Suppose  he 
should  remember  her  face.  She 
blushed  at  the  thought.  And  besides, 
what  chance  had  she  to  win  such  a 
great  man's  heart  in  competition  with 
these  society  girls  like  Geraldine 
Rhinelander  who  had  been  "abroad" 
and  spoke  French. 

At  that  moment  one  of  the  liveried 
servants  approached  the  general  with 
a  trayful  of  filled  wine  glasses.  So 
engrossed  was  the  soldier-hero  in  talk- 
ing to  Geraldine — or,  rather,  in  listen- 
ing to  her  alluring  chatter — that  he 
did  not  at  first  notice  what  was  being 
offered  him. 


'Will  you  have  a  drink  of  cham- 
pagne wine.  General?"  said  Mrs.  van 
der  Griff  who  stood  near. 

The  general  raised  his  head  and 
frowned  as  if  he  did  not  understand. 

"Come,  mon  General,"  cried  Geral- 
dine gaily,  "we  shall  drink  d  voire  stic- 
da  dans  la  guerre",  and  the  fiighty 
girl  raised  a  glass  of  wine  on  high. 
Several  of  the  guests  crowded  around 
and  all  were  about  to  drink  to  the  gen- 
eral's health. 

"Stop,"  cried  General  Grant,  sud- 
denly realizing  what  was  being  done, 
and  something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice 
made  everyone  pause. 

"Madam",  said  he,  turning  to  Mrs. 
van  der  Griff,  "am  I  to  understand 
that  there  is  liquor  in  those  glasses?" 

"Why  yes.  General,"  said  the  hostess 
smiling  uneasily,  "it  is  just  a  little 
champagne  wine." 

"Madam",  said  the  general,  "it  may 
be  'just  champagne  wine'  to  you,  but 
'just  champagne  wine'  has  ruined 
many  a  poor  fellow  and  to  me  all  al- 
coholic beverages  are  an  abomination. 
I  cannot  consent,  madam,  to  remain 
under  your  roof  if  they  are  to  be 
served.  I  have  never  taken  a  drop — ^I 
have  tried  to  stamp  it  out  of  the  army, 
and  I  owe  it  to  my  soldiers  to  decline 
to  be  a  guest  at  a  house  where  wine 
and  liquor  are  served." 

An  excited  buzz  of  comment  arose 
as  the  general  delivered  this  ultima- 
tum.  A  few  there  were  who  secretly 
approved  his  sentiments,  but  they 
were  far  too  few  in  number  and  con- 
stant indulgence  in  alcohol  had  weak- 
ened their  wills  so  that  they  dared  not 
stand  forth.  An  angry  fiush  appeared 
on  the  face  of  the  hostess,  for  in  so- 
ciety "good  form"  is  more  important 
than  courage  and  ideals,  and  by  his 
frank  statement  General  Grant  had 
violently  violated  the  canons  of  correct 
social  etiquette. 



"Very  weU,  Mr.  Grant",  she  said, 
stressing  the  "Mr."— "if  that's  the 
way  you  feel  about  it — *' 

"Stop,"  cried  an  unexpected  voice 
and  to  the  amazement  of  all  Ella 
Flowers  stepped  forward,  her  teeth 
clenched,  her  eyes  blazing. 

"Stop,"  she  repeated.  "He  is  right 
— ^the  liquor  evil  is  one  of  the  worst 
curses  of  modem  civilization,  and  if 
General  Grant  leaves,  so  do  I." 

Mrs.  van  der  Griff  hesitated  for  an 
instant,  and  then  forced  a  smile. 

"Why  Ella  dear,  of  course  General 
Grant  is  right,"  said  she,  for  it  was 
well  known  in  financial  circles  that  her 
husband,  Mr.  van  der  Griff,  had  re- 
cently borrowed  heavily  from  Ella's 
uncle.  "There  will  not  be  a  drop  of 
wine  served  tonight,  and  now  General, 
shall  we  go  in  to  dinner?  Will  you  be 
so  kind  as  to  lead  the  way  with  Miss 
Rhinelander?"  The  hostess  had  re- 
covered her  composure,  and  smiling 
sweetly  at  the  guest  of  honor,  gave 
orders  to  the  servants  to  remove  the 
wine  glasses. 

But  General  Grant  did  not  hear  her; 
he  was  looking  at  Ella  Flowers. 
And  as  he  gazed  at  the  sweet  beauty 
of  her  countenance  he  seemed  to  feel 
rising  within  him  something  which  he 
had  never  felt  before — something 
which  made  everything  else  seem 
petty  and  trivial.  And  as  he  looked 
into  her  eyes  and  she  looked  into  his, 
he  reAi  her  answer — ^the  only  answer 
true  womanhood  can  make  to  clean, 
worthy  manhood. 

"Shall  we  go  d  2a  saUe'drmangerf" 
sounded  a  voice  in  his  ears,  and  Ger- 
aldine's  sinuous  arm  was  thrust 
through  his. 

General  Grant  took  the  preferred 
talon  and  gently  removed  it  from  him. 

"Miss  Rhinelander,"  he  said  firmly, 
"I  am  taking  this  young  lady  as  my 
partner",  and  suiting  the  action  to  the 

word,  he  graciously  extended  his  arm 
to  EUa  who  took  it  with  a  blush. 

It  was  General  Grant's  turn  to  blush 
when  the  other  guests,  with  a  few  ex- 
ceptions, applauded  his  choice  loudly, 
and  made  way  enthusiastically  as  the 
handsome  couple  advanced  to  the  bril- 
liantly lighted  dining  room. 

But  although  the  hostess  had  pro- 
vided the  most  costly  of  viands,  I  am 
afraid  that  the  brave  general  did  not 
fully  appreciate  them,  for  in  his  soul 
was  the  joy  of  a  strong  man  who  has 
found  his  mate  and  in  his  heart  was 
the  singing  of  the  eternal  song,  "I  love 
her — I  love  her — I  love  her!" 

It  was  only  too  apparent  to  the  other 
guests  what  had  happened  and  to  their 
credit  be  it  said  that  they  heartily  ap- 
proved his  choice,  for  Mrs.  Rhine- 
lander and  her  scheming  daughter 
Geraldine  had  made  countless  enen&ies 
with  their  haughty  manners,  whereas 
the  sweet  simplicity  of  Ella  Flowers 
had  won  her  numerous  friends.  And 
all  laughted  merrily  when  General 
Grant,  in  his  after-dinner  speech,  said 
"flowers"  instead  of  "flour"  when 
speaking  of  provisioning  the  army — a 
slip  which  caused  both  the  general  and 
Miss  Flowers  to  blush  furiously, 
greatly  to  the  delight  of  the  good- 
natured  guests.  "All  the  world  loves 
a  lover" — ^truer  words  were  never 

After  dinner,  while  the  other  men, 
according  to  the  usages  of  best  so- 
ciety, were  filling  the  air  of  the  dining 
room  with  the  fumes  of  nicotine,  the 
general,  who  did  not  use  tobacco,  ex- 
cused himself — amid  many  sly  winks 
from  the  other  men — and  wandered 
out  into  the  conservatory. 

There  he  found  Ella. 

"General,"  she  began. 

"Miss  Flowers",  said  the  strong 
man  simply,  "call  me  Ulysses." 

And  there  let  us  leave  them. 

By  Theodore  Dreiser 

/;    CHICAGO 

DURING  the  preceding  year  (1890) 
I  had  been  sensing  my  first  dim 
notion  as  to  what  it  was  I  wanted  to 
do  in  life.  For  two  years  and  more  I 
had  been  reading  Eugene  Field's 
"Sharps  and  Flats'',  a  column  he  wrote 
daily  for  the  Chicago  "Daily  News'% 
and  through  this,  the  various  phases 
of  life  which  he  suggested  in  a  humor- 
ous though  at  times  romantic  way,  I 
was  beginning  to  suspect,  vaguely  at 
first,  that  I  wanted  to  write,  possibly 
something  like  that.  Nothing  else 
that  I  had  so  far  read — ^novels,  plays, 
poems,  histories — gave  me  quite  the 
same  feeling  for  constructive  thought 
as  did  the  matter  of  his  daily  notes, 
poems,  and  aphorisms,  which  were  of 
Chicago  principally,  whereas  nearly  all 
others  dealt  with  more  foreign  matter. 
But  this  conunent  on  local  life  here 
and  now,  these  trenchant  bits  on  local 
street  scenes,  institutions,  characters, 
functions,  aU  moved  me  as  nothing 
hitherto  had.  To  me  Chicago  at  this 
time  seethed  with  a  peculiarly  human 
or  realistic  atmosphere.  It  is  given 
to  some  cities,  as  to  some  lands,  to 
suggest  romance,  and  to  me  Chicago 
did  that  hourly.  It  sang,  I  thought, 
and  in  spite  of  what  I  deemed  my 
various  troubles — small  enough  as  I 
now  see  them — I  was  singing  with  it. 
These  seemingly  drear  neighborhoods 
through  which  I  walked  each  day,  do- 
ing collecting  for  an  easy-payment 
furniture  company,  these  ponderous 
regions  of  large  homes  where  new- 

wealthy  packers  and  manufacturers 
dwelt,  these  curiously  foreign  neigh- 
borhoods of  almost  all  nationalities; 
and,  lastly,  that  great  downtown  area, 
surrounded  on  two  sides  by  the  river, 
on  the  east  by  the  lake,  and  op  the 
south  by  railroad  yards  and  stations, 
the  whole  set  with  these  new  tall 
buildings,  the  wonder  of  the  western 
world,  fascinated  me.  Chicago  was  so 
young,  so  blithe,  so  new,  I  thought. 
Florence  in  its  best  days  must  have 
been  something  like  this  to  young 
Florentines,  or  Venice  to  the  young 

Here  was  a  city  which  had  no  tradi- 
tions but  was  making  them,  and  this 
was  the  very  thing  that  everyone 
seemed  to  understand  and  rejoice  in. 
Chicago  was  like  no  other  city  in  the 
world,  so  said  they  all.  Chicago  would 
outstrip  every  other  American  city. 
New  York  included,  and  become  the 
first  of  all  American,  if  not  European 
or  world,  cities. . . .  This  dream  many 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  its  citizens 
held  dear.  Chicago  would  be  fRrst  in 
wealth,  first  in  beauty,  first  in  art 
achievement.  A  great  World's  Fair 
was  even  then  being  planned  that 
would  bring  people  from  all  over  the 
world.  The  Auditorium,  the  new 
Great  Northern  Hotel,  the  amazing 
(for  its  day)  Masonic  Temple  twenty- 
two  stories  high,  a  score  of  public  in- 
stitutions, depots,  theatres  and  the 
like,  were  being  constructed.  It  is 
something   wonderful   to    witness    a 




world  metropolis  springing  up  under 
one's  very  eyes,  and  this  is  what  was 
happening  here  before  me. 

Nosing  about  the  city  in  an  inquir- 
ing way  and  dreaming  half-formed 
dreams  of  one  and  another  thing  I 
would  like  to  do,  it  finally  came  to  me, 
dimly,  like  a  bean  that  strains  at  its 
envdoping  shell,  that  I  would  like  to 
write  of  these  things.  It  would  be  in- 
teresting, so  I  thought,  to  describe  a 
place  like  Goose  Island  in  the  Chicago 
River,  a  mucky  and  neglected  realm 
then  covered  with  shanties  made  of 
upturned  boats  sawed  in  two,  and  yet 
which  seemed  to  me  the  height  of  the 
picturesque;  also  a  building  like  the 
Auditorium  or  the  Masonic  Temple, 
that  vast  wall  of  masonry  twenty-two 
stories  high  and  at  that  time  actually 
the  largest  building  in  the  world;  or 
a  seething  pit  like  that  of  the  Board 
of  Trade,  which  I  had  once  visited  and 
which  astonished  and  fascinated  me 
as  much  as  anjrthing  ever  had.  That 
roaring,  yelling,  screaming  whirlpool 
of  life  I  And  then  the  lake,  with  its 
pure  white  sails  and  its  blue  water; 
the  Chicago  River,  with  its  black,  oily 
water,  its  tall  grain  elevators  and 
black  coal  pockets;  the  great  railroad 
yards,  covering  miles  and  miles  of 
space  with  their  cars. 

How  wonderful  it  all  was  I  As  I 
walked  from  place  to  place  collecting 
I  began  betimes  to  improvise  rhjrth- 
mic,  vaguely  formulated  word-pictures 
or  rhapsodies  anent  these  same  and 
many  other  things — free  verse,  I  sup- 
pose we  should  call  it  now — ^which  con- 
cerned everything  and  nothing  but 
somehow  expressed  the  seething  po- 
etry of  my  soul  and  this  thing  to  me. 
Indeed  I  was  cra^or  with  life,  a  little 
demented  or  frenzied  with  romance 
and  hope.  I  wanted  to  sing,  to  dance, 
to  eat,  to  love.  My  word-dreams  and 
maunderings  concerned  my  day,  my 

Afire,  poverty,  hope,  beauty,  which  I 
mouthed  to  myself,  chanting  aloud  at 
times.  Sometimes,  because  on  a  num- 
ber of  occasions  I  had  heard  the  Rev- 
erend Frank  W.  Gunsaulus  and  his 
like  spout  rocket-like  sputterinfi^  on 
the  subjects  of  life  and  relifirion,  I 
would  orate,  pleading  great  causes  as 
I  went.  I  imagined  myself  a  great 
orator  with  thousands  of  people  be- 
fore me,  my  srestures  and  enunciation 
and  thought  perfect,  poetic,  and  all  my 
hearers  moved  to  tears  or  demonstra- 
tions of  wild  delight. 

After  a  time  I  ventured  to  commit 
some  of  these  things  to  paper,  scarce- 
ly knowing  what  they  were,  and  in  a 
fever  for  self-advancement  I  bundled 
them  up  and  sent  them  to  Eufi^ene 
Field.  In  his  column  and  elsewhere  I 
had  read  about  geniuses  being  occa- 
sionally discovered  by  some  chance 
composition  or  work  noted  by  one  in 
authority.  I  waited  for  a  time,  with 
great  interest  but  no  vast  depression, 
to  see  what  my  fate  would  be,  but  no 
word  came  and  in  time  I  came  to  real- 
ize that  they  must  have  been  very  bad 
and  had  been  dropped  into  the  nearest 
waste  basket.  But  this  did  not  srive 
me  pause  nor  grieve  me.  I  seettied 
to  express  myself.  I  bubbled.  I 
dreamed.  And  I  had  a  singing  feel- 
ing, now  that  I  had  done  this  much, 
that  some  day  I  should  really  write 
and  be  very  famous  into  the  barfi^in. 

But  how?  How?  My  feeling  was 
that  I  ought  to  get  into  newspaper 
work,  and  yet  this  feeling  was  so 
nebulous  that  I  thought  it  would  never 
come  to  pass.  I  saw  mention  in  the 
papers  of  reporters  calling  to  find  out 
this,  or  being  sent  to  do  that,  and  so 
the  idea  of  becoming  a  reporter  grad- 
ually  formulated  itself  in  my  mind, 
though  how  I  was  to  get  such  a  place 
I  had  not  the  slightest  idea.  Perhaps 
reporters  had  to  have  a  special  train- 



ing  of  some  kind;  maybe  they  had  to 
begin  as  clerks  behind  the  counter, 
and  this  made  me  very  sombre,  for 
those  glowing  business  offices  always 
seemed  so  far  removed  from  anything 
to  which  I  could  aspire.  Most  of  them 
were  ornate,  floreate,  with  onjrx  or 
chalcedony  wall  trimmings,  flambeaux 
of  bronze  or  copper  on  the  walls,  imi- 
tation mother-of-pearl  lights  in  the 
ceilings — in  short,  all  the  gorgeous- 
ness  of  a  sultan's  court  brought  to  the 
outer  counter  where  people  subscribed 
or  paid  for  ads.  Because  the  news- 
papers were  always  dealing  with  signs 
and  wonders,  great  functions,  great 
commercial  schemes,  great  tragedies 
and  pleasures,  I  began  to  conceive  of 
them  as  wonderlands  in  which  all  con- 
cerned were  prosperous  and  happy.  I 
painted  reporters  and  newspaper  men 
generally  as  receiving  fabulous  sal- 
aries, being  sent  on  the  most  urgent 
and  interesting  missions.  I  think  I 
confused,  inextricably,  reporters  with 
ambassadors  and  prominent  men  gen- 
erally. Their  lives  were  laid  among 
great  people,  the  rich,  the  famous,  the 
powerful;  and  because  of  their  posi- 
tion and  facility  of  expression  and 
mental  force  they  were  received  every- 
where as  equals.  Think  of  me,  new, 
young,  poor,  being  received  in  that 

Imagine  then  my  intense  delight 
one  day,  when,  scanning  the  "Help 
Wanted:  Male"  columns  of  the  Chi- 
cago "Herald",  I  encountered  an  ad- 
vertisement which  ran  (in  sub- 
stance) : 

Wanted:  A  number  of  bright  young  men  to 
assiBt  in  the  bniiness  department  during  the 
Christmai  holidays.  Promotion  possible.  Ap- 
ply to  Business  Manager  between  9  and  10 
a.  m. 

"Here",  I  thought  as  I  read  it,  "is 
just  the  thing  I  am  looking  for.  Here 
is  this  great  paper,  one  of  the  most 
prosperous  in  Chicago,  and  here  is  an 

opening  for  me.  If  I  can  only  get  this 
my  fortune  is  made.  I  shall  rise  rap- 
idly." I  conceived  of  niyself  as  being 
sent  off  the  same  day,  as  it  were,  on 
some  brilliant  mission  and  returning, 
somehow,  covered  with  glory. 

I  hurried  to  the  office  of  the  "Her- 
ald", in  Washington  Street  near  Fifth 
Avenue,  this  same  morning,  and  asked 
to  see  the  business  manager.  After  a 
short  wait  I  was  permitted  to  enter 
the  sanctuary  of  this  great  person, 
who  to  me,  because  of  the  material 
splendor  of  the  front  office,  seemed  to 
be  the  equal  of  a  millionaire  at  least. 
He  was  tall,  graceful,  dark,  his  full 
black  whiskers  parted  aristocratically 
in  the  middle  of  his  chin,  his  eyes 
vague  pools  of  subtlety.  "See  what  a 
wonderful  thing  it  is  to  be  connected 
with  the  newspaper  business!"  I  told 

"I  saw  your  ad  in  this  morning's 
paper,"  I  said  hopefully. 

'Tes,  I  did  want  a  half  dozen  young 
men,"  he  replied,  beaming  upon  me  re- 
assuringly, "and  I  think  I  have  nearly 
enough.  Most  of  the  young  men  that 
come  here  seem  to  think  they  are  to  be 
connected  with  the  'Herald'  direct,  but 
the  fact  is  we  want  them  only  for 
clerks  in  our  free  Christmas  gift  bu- 
reau. They  have  to  judge  whether  or 
not  the  applicants  are  imposters  and 
keep  people  from  imposing  on  the 
paper.  The  work  will  only  be  for  a 
week  or  ten  days,  but  you  will  proba- 
bly earn  ten  or  twelve  dollars  in  that 
time — "  My  heart  sank.  "After  the 
first  of  the  year,  if  you  take  it,  you 
may  come  around  to  see  me.  I  may 
have  something  for  you." 

When  he  spoke  of  the  free  Christ- 
mas gift  bureau  I  vaguely  understood 
what  he  meant.  For  weeks  past,  the 
"Herald"  had  been  conducting  a  cam- 
paign for  gifts  for  the  poorest  chil- 
dren of  the  city.    It  had  been  impor- 



tuning  the  rich  and  the  moderately 
comfortable  to  give,  through  the  me- 
dium of  its  scheme,  which  was  a  bu- 
reau for  the  free  distribution  of  all 
such  things  as  could  be  gathered  via 
cash  or  direct  donation  of  supplies: 
toys,  clothing,  even  food,  for  children. 

"But  I  wanted  to  become  a  reporter 
if  I  could,"  I  suggested. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand,  "this  is  as  good  a  way  as  any 
other.  When  this  is  over  I  may  be 
able  to  introduce  you  to  our  city  edi- 
tor." The  title,  "city  editor",  mysti- 
fied and  intrigued  me.  It  sounded  so 
big  and  significant. 

This  offer  was  far  from  what  I  an- 
ticipated, but  I  took  it  joyfully.  Thus 
to  step  from  one  job  to  another,  how- 
ever brief,  and  one  with  such  pros- 
pects, seemed  the  greatest  luck  in  the 
world.  For  by  now  I  was  nearly  hy- 
pochondriacal on  the  subjects  of  pov- 
erty, loneliness,  the  want  of  the  crea- 
ture comforts  and  pleasures  of  life. 
The  mere  thought  of  having  enough  to 
eat  and  to  wear  and  to  do  had  some- 
thing of  paradise  about  it.  Some 
previous  long  and  fruitless  searches 
for  work  had  marked  me  with  a  horror 
of  being  without  it. 

I  bustled  about  to  the  "Herald's" 
Christmas  Annex,  as  it  was  called,  a 
building  standing  in  Fifth  Avenue  be- 
tween Madison  and  Monroe,  and  re- 
ported to  a  brisk  underling  in  charge 
of  the  doling  out  of  these  pittances  to 
the  poor.  Without  a  word  he  put  me 
behind  the  single  long  counter  which 
ran  across  the  front  of  the  room  and 
over  which  were  handed  all  those  toys 
and  Christmas  pleasure  pieces  which  a 
loud  tomtoming  concerning  the  dire 
need  of  the  poor  and  the  proper 
Christmas  spirit  had  produced. 

Life  certainly  offers  some  amusing 
paradoxes  at  times,  and  that  with  that 
gay  insouciance  which  life  alone  can 

muster  and  achieve  when  it  is  at  its 
worst  anachronistically.  Here  was  I, 
a  victim  of  what  Socialists  would  look 
upon  as  wage  slavery  and  economic 
robbery,  quite  as  worthy,  I  am  sure, 
of  gifts  as  any  other,  and  yet  lined  up 
with  fifteen  or  twenty  other  economic 
victims,  ragamufiin  souls  like  mysell 
all  out  of  jobs,  many  of  them  out  at 
elbows,  and  all  of  them  doling  out 
gifts  from  eighty-thirty  in  the  morn- 
ing until  eleven  and  twelve  at  night  to 
people  no  worse  off  than  themselves. 

I  wish  you  might  have  seen  this 
chamber  as  I  saw  it  for  eight  or  nine 
days  just  preceding  and  including 
Christmas  day  itself.  (Yes;  we 
worked  from  eight  a.  m.  to  five-thirty 
p.  m.  on  Christmas  day,  and  very  glad 
to  get  the  money,  thank  you.)  There 
poured  in  here  from  the  day  the  bu- 
reau opened,  which  was  the  morning 
I  called,  and  until  it  closed  Christmas 
night,  as  diverse  an  assortment  of  al- 
leged poverty-stricken  souls  as  one 
would  want  to  see.  I  do  not  say  that 
many  of  them  were  not  deserving;  I 
am  willing  to  believe  that  most  of 
them  were;  but,  deserving  or  no,  they 
were  still  worthy  of  all  they  received 
here.  Indeed  when  I  think  of  the 
many  who  came  miles,  carrying  slips 
of  paper  on  which  had  been  listed,  as 
per  the  advice  of  this  paper,  all  they 
wished  Santa  Claus  to  bring  them  or 
their  children,  and  then  recall  that, 
for  all  their  pains  in  having  their  min* 
ister  or  doctor  or  the  "Herald"  itself 
vis6  their  request,  they  received  only 
a  fraction  of  what  they  sought,  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  all  were  even 
more  deserving  than  their  reward  in- 

For  the  whole  scheme,  as  I  soon 
found  in  talking  with  others  and  see- 
ing for  myself  how  it  worked,  was 
most  loosely  managed.  Endless  va- 
rieties of  toys  and  comforts  had  been 



talked  about  in  the  paper,  but  only  a 
few  of  the  thingrs  promised,  or  vaguely 
indicated,  were  here  to  give — ^for  the 
very  good  reason  that  no  one  would 
give  them  for  nothing  to  the  "Herald". 
Nor  had  any  sensible  plan  been  de- 
vised for  checking  up  either  the  gifts 
given  or  the  persons  who  had  received 
them,  and  so  the  same  person,  as  some 
of  these  recipients  soon  discovered, 
could  come  over  and  over,  bearing  dif- 
ferent lists  of  toys,  and  get  them,  or 
at  least  a  part  of  them,  until  some 
clerk  with  a  better  eye  for  faces  than 
another  would  chance  to  recognize  the 
offender  and  point  him  or  her  out. 
Jews,  the  fox-like  Slavic  type  of 
course,  and  the  poor  Irish,  were  the 
worst  offenders  in  this  respect.  The 
"Herald"  was  supposed  to  have  kept 
all  applications  written  by  children  to 
Santa  Glaus,  but  it  had  not  done  so, 
and  so  hundreds  claimed  that  they  had 
written  letters  and  received  no  an- 
swer. At  the  end  of  the  second  or 
third  day  before  Christmas  it  was 
found  necessary,  because  of  the  con- 
fusion and  uncertainty,  to  throw  the 
doors  wide  open  and  give  to  all  and 
sundry  who  looked  worthy  of  what- 
ever was  left  or  "handy",  we,  the 
ragamuffin  clerks,  being  the  judges. 

And  now  the  clerks  themselves,  see- 
ing that  no  records  were  kept  and  how 
without  plan  the  whole  thing  was, 
notified  poor  relatives  and  friends,  and 
these  descended  upon  us  with  baskets, 
expecting  candy,  turkeys,  suits  of 
clothing  and  the  like,  but  receiving 
instead  only  toy  wagons,  toy  stoves, 
baby  brooms,  Noah's  Arks,  story 
books — ^the  shabbiest  mess  of  cheap 
things  one  could  imagine.  For  the 
newspaper,  true  to  that  canon  of  com- 
merce which  demands  the  most  for 
the  least,  the  greatest  show  for  the 
least  money,  had  gathered  all  the  odds 
and  ends  and  leftovers  of  toy  bargain 

sales  and  had  dumped  them  into  the 
large  lofts  above,  to  be  doled  out  as 
best  we  could.  We  could  not  give  a 
much-desired  article  to  any  one  per- 
son because,  supposing  it  were  there, 
which  was  rarely  the  case,  we  could 
not  get  at  it  or  find  it;  yet  later  an- 
other person  might  apply  and  receive 
the  very  thing  the  other  had  wanted. 

And  we  clerks,  going  out  to  lunch 
or  dinner  (save  the  mark!),  would 
seek  some  scrubby  little  restaurant 
and  eat  ham  and  beans,  or  crullers  and 
coffee,  or  some  other  tasteless  dish,  at 
ten  or  fifteen  cents  per  head.  Hard 
luck  stories,  comments  on  what  a 
botch  the  "Herald"  gift  bureau  was, 
on  the  strange  characters  that  showed 
up — the  hooded  Niobes  and  dusty 
Priams,  with  eyes  too  sunken  and  too 
dry  for  tears — ^were  the  order  of  the 
day.  Here  I  met  a  young  newspaper 
man,  gloomy,  out  at  elbows,  who  told 
me  what  a  wretched,  pathetic  struggle 
the  newspaper  world  presented,  but  I 
did  not  believe  him  although  he  had 
worked  in  Chicago,  Denver,  St.  Paul. 

"A  poor  failure,"  I  thought ;  "some- 
one who  can't  write  and  who  now 
whines  and  wastes  his  substance  in 
riotous  living  when  he  has  it !" 

So  much  for  the  sympathy  of  the 
poor  for  the  poor. 

But  the  "Herald"  was  doing  very 
well.  Daily  it  was  filling  its  pages 
with  the  splendid  results  of  its  char- 
ity, the  poor  relieved,  the  darkling 
homes  restored  to  gaiety  and  bliss.. .  • 
Can  you  beat  it?  But  it  was  good  ad- 
vertising, and  that  was  all  the  "Her- 
ald" wanted. 

Hey,  Rub-a-dub!  Hey,  Rub-a-dub- 
dub  I 

(After  worhUng  aga/in  for  a  hiU-eolleeting 
agency,  Dreiser  tooa  finally  taken  on  as  an 
ewtra  reporter  by  the  Chicago  "Olobe**  at  the 
time  of  the  Democratic  Convention  of  189M. 
For  eeveral  monthe  he  pursued  his  ioork  as  a 
reporter  with  various  failures  and  successes,) 



THE  thing  which  brought  my  news- 
paper life  in  Chicago  to  a  close,  and 
indeed  the  whole  period  which  I  may 
call  my  guileless,  fumbling  youth,  was 
a  series  of  assignments  or  rather  a 
campaign  to  close  a  group  of  so-called 
"fake  auction  shops"  licensed  by  the 
city  and  from  which  the  police  were 
deriving  a  very  handsome  revenue, 
which  task  was  placed  in  my  hands  as 
a  regular  daily  assignment  by  this  new 
city  editor  of  mine  with  the  comment 
that  I  must  make  something  out  of  it, 
put  a  news  punch  in  it.  Campaigns 
of  this  kind  are  occasionally  under- 
taken not  in  a  spirit  of  righteousness 
as  a  rule  but  because  of  public  pres- 
sure and  a  wish  to  increase  circulation 
and  popularity;  yet  in  this  case  no 
such  laudable  or  excusable  intent  could 
be  alleged. 

This  paper,  as  I  now  learned,  was 
controlled  by  one  John  B.  MacDonald, 
a  celebrated  Irish  politician,  gambler, 
racer  of  horses,  and  the  owner  of  a 
string  of  local  houses  of  prostitution, 
saloons,  and  gambling  dens,  aU  of 
which  combined  netted  him  a  large 
income  and  made  him  one  of  the  most 
influential  men  politically  in  the  city. 
Recently,  owing  to  one  spiritual  acci- 
dent and  another,  he  had  fallen  on 
comparatively  difficult  days.  His  rep- 
utation as  a  shady  character  had  be- 
come too  widespread.  The  pharisees 
and  influential  men  generally  who  had 
formerly  profited  by  his  favor  now 
found  it  expedient  to  pass  by  on  the 
other  side.  Public  sentiment  against 
him  had  been  aroused  by  political  at- 
tacks on  the  part  of  one  newspaper 
and  another  that  did  not  belong  to  his 
party;  the  last  election  having  been 
lost  to  him,  the  police  and  other  de- 
partments of  the  city  were  now  sup- 
posed to  work  in  harmony  to  root  out 
his  vile  though  profitable  vice  privi- 

Everybody  knows  how  these  things 
work.     Some  administration  attacks 
had  been  made  upon  him,  or  rather 
his  privileges,  whereupon,  not  finding 
suitable  support  in  the  papers  of  the 
city  of  his  own  persuasion — ^they  hav- 
ing axes  of  their  own  to  grind — ^he 
had  started  a  paper  of  his  own,  the 
Chicago  ''Globe".    He  had  brought  on 
a  capable  newspaper  man  from  New 
York,  who  was  doing  his  best  to  make 
of  the  paper  something  which  would 
satisfy  MacDonald's  desire  for  influ- 
ence and  circulation  the  while  he  lined 
his   own   pockets   as   best   he   could 
against  a  rainy  day.    For  this  reason, 
no  doubt,  our  general  staff  was  under- 
paid, though  fairly  efficient.    During 
my  stay  the  police  and  other  depart- 
ments, under  the  guidance  of  Repub- 
lican politicians  and  newspapers,  were 
making  an  attack  on  Mr.  MacDonald's 
preserves;  to  which  he  replied  by  at- 
tacking as  best  he  might  through  the 
medium  of  the  "Globe"  anything  and 
everything  he  thought  would  do  his 
rivals  hann.     Among  these  were  a 
large  number  of  mock  auction  shops 
in  the  downtown  section  which  were 
daily    fleecing    hundreds    by    selling 
bogus  watches,  jewelry,  diamonds,  and 
the  like.     Evidently  the  police  were 
deriving  a  direct  revenue  from  these, 
but  since  the  administration  was  now 
anti-MacDonald  and  these  were  not 
Mr.    MacDonald's    property    nothing 
was  said  or  done  to  stop  this  traffic, 
though  victims  appeared  before  the 
police  to  explain  that  they  had  been 
swindled  and  to  ask  for  restitution. 

I  cannot  now  recaU  what  it  was 
about  my  treatment  of  these  institu- 
tions that  aroused  so  much  interest  in 
the  ofiice  and  made  me  into  a  kind  of 
"Globe"  hero.  When  I  started  I  was 
practically  innocent  of  all  knowledge 
of  the  complications  which  I  have  de- 
scribed above,  and  almost  as  innocent 



when  I  concluded.  Daily  now  at  ten 
a.  m.  I  went  to  one  or  another  of  theae 
shops,  listened  to  the  harangue  of  the 
noisy  ''barkers",  as  they  were  called, 
saw  tin-gilt  jewelry  "knocked  down" 
to  unsuspecting  yokels  from  the  south 
and  west  who  stood  open-mouthed 
watching  the  hypnotizing  movements 
of  the  auctioneer's  hands  as  he  waved 
a  glistering  gem  or  watch  in  front  of 
them  and  expatiated  in  pyrotechnic 
language  on  the  beauties  and  perfec- 
tions of  the  article  he  was  compelled 
to  part  from  for  a  song.  These  places 
were  not  only  deceptions  and  frauds 
as  to  the  things  they  pretended 
to  sell  but  were  as  well  gathering- 
places  for  thieves,  pickpockets,  foot- 
pads and  the  like,  who,  finding  some 
deluded  bystander  to  be  possessed  of 
a  watch,  pin,  or  roll  of  money,  either 
then  and  there  robbed  him  by  some 
legerdemain  or  followed  him  into  a 
dark  street  and  knocked  him  down  and 
robbed  him.  At  this  time  Chicago 
was  notorious  for  this  sort  of  thing, 
and  it  was  openly  charged  in  the 
"Globe"  and  elsewhere  that  the  police 
connived  at  and  thrived  by  the  trans- 

However  that  may  be,  my  descrip- 
tions of  what  was  going  on  pleased 
Mr.  McEnnis  far  and  beyond  anything 
I  had  previously  done.  I  was  cau- 
tioned against  detection  and  being 
"beaten  up"  by  those  whom  I  was  of- 
fending, for  I  noticed  after  the  first 
day  or  two  that  the  "barkers"  of  some 
of  the  shops  occasionally  studied  me 
curiously  or  ceased  their  more  shame- 
ful effronteries  in  my  presence  and 
produced  something  of  more  value. 
The  facts  which  my  articles  presented 
finally  began  to  attract  a  little  atten- 
tion to  the  paper.  Either  because  the 
paper  sold  better  or  that  this  was  an 
excellent  club  wherewith  to  belabor 
his  enemies,  the  publisher  now  decided 

to  call  the  attention  of  the  public  to 
what  was  going  on  in  our  colunms  via 
the  billboards,  and  McEnnis  himself 
undertook  to  frighten  the  police  into 
activity  by  swearing  out  warrants 
against  the  different  owners  of  the 
shops  and  thus  compelling  them  to 
take  action. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  be- 
came the  centre  of  a  semi-literary, 
semi-public  reform  hubbub.  The 
principal  members  of  the  staff  assured 
me  that  the  articles  were  forceful  in 
fact  and  color  and  highly  amusing. 
One  day,  via  the  license  bureau  and 
with  the  aid  of  McEnnis,  I  secured 
the  names  of  the  alleged  owners  and 
managers  of  nearly  all  of  these  shops 
and  thereafter  attacked  them  by  name, 
describing  them  just  as  they  were, 
where  they  lived,  how  they  made  their 
money,  etc.  In  company  with  a  pri- 
vate detective  and  several  times  with 
McEnnis,  I  personally  served  war- 
rants of  arrest,  accompanied  the 
sharpers  to  police  headquarters,  where 
th^  were  immediately  released  on 
bail,  and  then  ran  to  the  ofiice  to  write 
out  my  impressions  of  all  I  had  seen, 
repeating  conversations  as  nearly  as  I 
could  remember,  describing  uncouth 
faces  and  bodies  of  crooks,  policemen 
and  detectives,  and  by  sly  innuendo 
indicating  what  a  farce  and  sham  the 
whole  seeming  interest  of  the  police 

One  day,  as  McEnnis  and  I  were 
calling  on  the  chief  of  police,  demand- 
ing to  know  why  he  was  so  indifferent 
to  our  crusade  and  the  facts  we  put 
before  him,  he  actually  shook  his  fist 
in  our  faces  and  exclaimed :  'Tou  can 
go  to  the  devil,  and  so  can  the  'Globe' ! 
I  know  who's  back  of  this  campaign, 
and  why.  Well,  go  on  and  play  your 
little  game  I  Shout  all  you  want  to. 
You're  not  going  to  make  a  mark  of 
me,  and  you're  not  going  to  get  me 



fired  out  of  here  for  not  performing 
my  duty.  Your  paper  is  only  a  dirty 
political  rag  without  any  influence." 

"Is  it!"  taunted  McEnnis.  "Well, 
you  just  wait  and  see.  I  think  you'll 
change  your  mind  as  to  that",  and  we 
stalked  solemnly  out. 

And  in  the  course  of  time  he  did 
change  his  mind.  Some  of  the  fakers 
had  to  be  arrested  and  fined  and  their 
places  closed  up,  and  the  longer  we 
talked  and  exposed  the  worse  it  be- 
came for  them.  Finally  a  dealer  ap- 
proached me  one  morning  and  offered 
me  an  eighteen-carat  gold  watch,  to 
be  selected  by  me  from  any  jewelry 
store  in  the  city  and  paid  for  by  him, 
if  I  would  let  his  store  alone.  I  re- 
fused. Another,  a  dark,  dusty,  most 
amusing  and  serious-seeming  little 
Jew,  offered  me  a  diamond  pin,  insist- 
ing upon  sticking  it  in  my  cravat,  and 
said:  "Go  see!  Go  see!  Ask  any 
jeweler  what  he  thinks,  if  that  ain't  a 
real  stone!  If  it  ain't — if  he  says  no 
— ^bring  it  back  to  me  and  I'll  give  you 
a  hundred  dollars  in  cash  for  it. 
Don't  you  mention  me  no  more  now. 
Be  a  nice  young  feller  now.  I'm  a 
hard-workin'  man  just  like  anybody 
else.    I  run  a  honest  place." 

I  had  to  laugh. 

I  carried  the  pin  back  to  the  office 
and  gave  it  to  McEnnis.  He  stared  at 
me  in  amazement. 

'Tou  shouldn't  have  taken  this,"  he 
said.  "It  may  get  the  paper  in  trou- 
ble. They  may  have  had  witnesses  to 
this — ^but  maybe  not.  Perhaps  this 
fellow  is  just  trying  to  protect  him- 
self. Ansrway,  don't  take  anything 
more,  money  or  anything.  If  I  didn't 
think  you  were  honest  I'd  fire  you 
right  now." 

He  took  me  into  the  office  of  the 
editor-in-chief,  who  looked  at  me  with 
still,  grey-blue  eyes  and  listened  to  my 
story.    When  I  had  done  he  dismissed 

me  and  talked  with  McEnnis  for  a 
while.  When  the  latter  came  out  he 
exclaimed  triumphantly:  "He  sees 
that  you're  honest,  all  right,  and  he's 
tickled  to  death.  Now  we'll  take  this 
pin  back,  and  then  you'll  write  out  the 
whole  story  just  as  it  happened." 

On  the  way  we  went  to  a  magistrate 
to  swear  out  a  charge  of  attempted 
bribery  against  this  man,  and  later  in 
the  same  day  I  went  with  the  detec- 
tive to  serve  the  warrant.  To  myself 
I  seemed  to  be  swinrniing  in  a  de- 
licious sea  of  life.  "What  a  fine  thing 
life  is!"  I  thought.  "Here  I  am  get- 
ting along  famously  because  I  can 
write.  Soon  I  will  get  more  money, 
and  maybe  some  day  people  will  begin 
to  hear  of  me.  I  will  get  a  fine  repu- 
tation in  the  newspaper  world.  May- 
be I  will  be  sent  on  some  big  commis- 
sion like  Stanley"  (who  had  just  been 
sent  to  Africa  by  the  New  York  "Her- 
ald") "or  George  Kennan"  (who  had 
been  sent  to  Russia  to  ferret  out  the 
horrors  of  the  exile  system  by  the  New 
York  "Tribune"). 

Already  the  distant  city  of  New 
York,  with  its  now  famous  elevated 
road,  its  world  of  great  hotels  and 
theatres  and  mansions,  was  calling  to 
me,  but  as  yet  it  was  a  faint  call. 
Thanks  to  this  vigorous  campaign,  of 
which  McEnnis  was  the  inspiration 
and  guiding  spirit,  all  these  shops 
were  eventually  closed.  In  so  much 
at  least  John  6.  MacDonald  had 
achieved  a  revenge. 

As  for  myself,  I  felt  that  there  must 
be  some  serious  and  favorable  change 
impending  for  me,  so  warm  was  Mc- 
Ennis's  espousal  of  my  cause,  so  gen- 
ial was  his  constant  companionship; 
and  true  enough,  within  a  fortnight 
after  this  the  change  came.  As  the 
auction  campaign  had  progressed  I 
had  noticed  that  McEnnis  had  become 
more  and  more  friendly.     He  intro- 



daced  me  to  his  wife  one  day  when  she 
was  in  the  office  and  told  her  in  my 
presence  what  splendid  work  I  was 
doing.  Often  he  would  take  me  to 
lanch  or  to  a  saloon  for  drinks  (for 
which  I  would  pay),  and  would  then 
borrow  a  dollar  or  two  or  three,  no 
part  of  which  he  ever  returned.  He 
lectured  me  on  the  subject  of  study, 
urging  me  to  give  myself  a  general 
education  by  reading,  attending  lec- 
tures and  ttie  like.  He  wanted  me  to 
look  into  the  matters  of  painting, 
music,  sculpture,  in  order  ttiat  I 
should  know  what  was  going  on  in  the 
world  esttietically.  As  he  talked  the 
blood  would  swirl  in  my  head,  and  I 
kept  thinking  what  a  brilliant  career 
must  be  awaiting  me.  One  thing  he 
did  was  to  secure  me  a  place  on  the  St. 
Louis  ''Globe-Democrat",  and  this  in  a 
manner  so  genial  and  affectionate  that 
as  I  looked  back  on  it  in  after  years  it 
seemed  as  ttiough  it  were  something 
that  had  not  happened  at  all.  The 
way  of  it  was  this: 

Just  at  this  time  there  chanced  to 
come  to  Chicago  one  Henry  G.  Mil- 
lerand,  the  Washington  correspondent 
of  the  St  Louis  "Globe-Democrat'S 
who  had  come  here  to  report  the  pre- 
liminary preparations  for  the  great 
World^s  Fair  which  was  to  open  the 
following  spring.  Already  the  con- 
struction of  a  number  of  great  build- 
ings in  Jackson  Park  had  been  begun, 
and  ttie  newspapers  throughout  ttie 
country  were  on  the  alert  as  to  its 
progress,  its  problem,  its  import  and 
the  like.  Immense  sums  of  money  had 
been  voted  for  it;  powerful  individ- 
uals in  Ghicago  and  elsewhere  were 
its  friends  and  sponsors.  This  man, 
a  cool,  capable  observer  and  writer, 
chanced  to  be  an  oldtime  friend  of 
McEnnis,  one  of  his  cronies;  to  him, 
before  he  had  been  in  our  office  an 
hour,   McEnnis    introduced   me   and 

made  an  impassioned  plea  in  my  be- 
half for  an  opportunity  for  me  to  do 
some  writing  for  the  ''Globe-Demo- 
crat" in  St.  Louis  under  his  direction. 
The  idea  was  to  get  this  man  to  allow 
me  to  do  some  World's  Fair  work  for 
him,  on  the  side  as  it  were,  in  addition 
to  my  work  on  the  "Globe". 

"As  you  see,"  he  said  when  he  in- 
troduced me,  "he's  a  mere  boy  with- 
out any  experience,  but  he  has  the 
makings  of  a  first-rate  newspaper 
man.  Now,  Henry,  as  a  favor  to  me, 
I  want  you  to  help  him.  You're  close 
to  Mac"  (Joseph  B.  McGuUagh,  editor- 
in-chief  of  the  St.  Louis  "Globe-Demo- 
crat"), "and  he's  just  the  man  this 
boy  ought  to  get  his  training  under. 
Dreiser  has  just  completed  a  fine  piece 
of  journalistic  work  for  me.  He's 
closed  up  the  fake  auction  shops  here, 
and  I  want  to  reward  him.  He  only 
gets  fifteen  a  week  here,  and  I  can't 
do  anything  for  him  in  Ghicago  just 
now.  I'll  write  and  ask  Mac  to  put 
him  on  down  there,  and  you  write  also 
and  tell  him  how  I  feel  about  it." 

The  upshot  of  this  was  that  I  was 
inmiediately  taken  into  the  favor  of 
Mr.  Millerand,  given  some  easy  gossip 
writing  to  do,  which  netted  me  six- 
teen dollars  the  week  for  three  weeks 
straight  running  in  addition  to  my 
fifteen  earned  on  the  "Globe";  at  the 
end  of  that  time,  some  correspondence 
having  ensued  between  the  editor  of 
the  "Globe-Democrat"  and  his  two 
Chicago  admirers,  I  one  day  received 
a  telegram  which  read: 

You  may  bare  reportorlal  potiUon  on  thla 
paper  at  twenty  dollars  a  week,  beginninf  next 
Monday.    Wire  reply. 

I  Stood  in  the  dusty  little  "Globe" 
office  and  stared  at  this,  wondering 
what  so  great  an  opportunity  por- 
tended. Only  six  months  before  I  had 
been  jobless  and  hanging  about  this 
back  door;   here  I  was  tonight  with 



as  much  as  fifty  dollars  in  my  pocket, 
a  suit  of  good  clothes  on  my  back» 
good  shoes,  a  good  hat  and  overcoat. 
I  had  learned  how  to  write  and  was  al- 
ready classed  here  as  a  star  reporter. 
I  felt  as  though  life  were  going  to  do 
wonderful  and  beautiful  things  for 
me.  I  thought  of  this  familiar  and 
now  comfortable  Chicago  atmosphere, 
and  then  I  went  over  to  McEnnis  to 
ask  him  what  I  ought  to  do. 

When  he  read  the  telegram  he  said: 
"This  is  the  best  chance  that  could 
possibly  come  to  you.  You  will  be 
working  on  one  of  the  greatest  papers 
and  under  one  of  the  greatest  editors 
that  ever  lived.  Make  the  most  of 
your  chance.  Go?  Of  course  gol 
Let's  see — it's  Tuesday;  our  regular 
week  ends  Friday.  You  hand  in  your 
resignation  now,  to  take  effect  then, 
and  go  Sunday.  I'll  give  you  some 
letters  that  will  help  you",  and  he  at 
once  turned  to  his  desk  and  wrote  out 

a  series  of  instructions  and  recom- 
mendations which  he  later  gave  me. 

That  night,  and  for  four  days  after, 
until  I  took  the  train  for  St.  Louis,  I 
walked  on  air.  I  was  going  away.  I 
was  going  out  in  the  world  to  make 
my  fortune.  No  knight  ever  mounted 
his  faithful  steed  or  set  his  lance  at 
rest,  facing  an  unknown  future,  with 
more  ease  and  cheer  of  mind  than  did 
I  at  this  time.  I  was  your  true  ad- 
venturer, meditating  on  the  wonders 
of  a  distant,  unknown  world  which 
was  calling  to  me  with  a  voice  of  pur- 
est music;  and  withal  I  was  touched 
by  the  pathos  of  the  fact  that  life  and 
youth  and  eversrthing  which  now  glim- 
mered about  me  so  hopefully  was,  for 
me  as  well  as  for  every  other  living, 
breathing  individual,  insensibly  slip- 
ping away. 

{The  neai  imtaiw^ent  oj  Mr,  DrtUer'B  mh 
toWoifraphy  noill  appear  in  January,) 


By  Hazel  Hall 

I  HAD  forgotten  the  gesture  of  branches 
Suddenly  white. 
And  I  had  forgotten  the  fragrance  of  blossoms 
Filling  a  room  at  night 

In  remembering  the  curve  of  branches 

Who  beckoned  me  in  vain. 

Remembering  dark  rooms  of  coolness 

Where  fragrance  was  like  pain, 

I  have  forgotten  all  else;  there  is  nothing 

That  signifies — 

There  is  only  the  brush  of  branch  and  a  white  breath 

Against  my  lips  and  eyes. 


fVith  a  Sketch  by  WilKam  Cropper 

HE  has  been  a  "great  man"  longer 
than  any  other  living  American 

There  is  a  poignant  story  told  of  a 
young  man  who  was  ruined  by  living 
across  the  street  from  him,  in  the  days 
when  he  was  a  romanticist — in  life, 
as  in  his  fiction.  This  youth  got  the 
idea  that  to  be  a  famous  writer  it  was 
necessary  to  keep  two  or  three  cabs 
chugging  out  in  front  all  night,  in 
case  you  might  suddenly  want  to  go 

He  has  had  a  terrible  time  "grow- 
ing up" — in  fiction  as  in  life.  He 
managed  this,  in  both  respects,  quite 

He  looks  today  like  an  old  actor. 
Probably  you  would  not  say  precisely 
that  he  looks  like  a  bad  actor,  but  I 
doubt  whether  he  would  suggest  to 
you  a  particularly  good  one.  He  looks 
like  that  kind  of  actor  the  menu  of 
whose  Thanksgiving  dinner,  at  Oriole, 
Ohio  (a  one  night  stand),  would  wind 
up  with  bread  pudding.  He  would  use 
at  that  meal  a  crinkly  tissue-paper 
napkin  with  Japanesque  birds  on  it 
done  in  blue.  He  (the  actor,  that  is) 
would  figure  everything  in  weeks.  He 
might  work  fourteen  weeks  out  of 
sixty  weeks.  If  he  ran  an  extra  week 
he'd  live  throughout  the  summer  on 
that  extra  week's  salary.  He  would 
open  at  Stamford,  Connecticut.  He 
might  speak  the  opening  lines  of  the 
piece,  which  would  likely  be  some  such 
momentous  words  as  "Why  hello  Al- 
fred, old  boy  I    Where  have  you  been 

keeping  yourself  for  so  long?" 

Tarkington's  wardrobe  inclines  to 
emphasis  in  color,  striking  effects — 
pearl-grey  soft  hats,  suits  dashingly 
light  in  tone  with  high-power  checks, 
ties  with  no  faint  stripes,  that  sort  of 
thing.  He  could  not  appear  on  the 
street  without  a  stick,  generally  a 
stocky  canary-hued  staff  with  a  heavy 
silver  top.  His  most  humorous  make- 
up is  a  black  derby  hat,  wherein  he 
seems  to  be  very  much  nose,  a  Cyrano 
oddly  got  into  sharply  pressed  modern 

His  voice  certainly  ought  to  carry 
all  over  the  house.  It  has  timbre  and 
moving  volume.  It  has  been  spoken 
of  as  hoarse  and  has  been  said  to 
boom.  He  himself  describes  it  as  a 
"rich  contralto".  Anyway,  he  may  be 
said  to  be  generally  in  very  good  voice. 
Old,  an  old  actor?  And  only  in,  as 
he  puts  it,  the  "infant  fifties".  WeU, 
perhaps  it's  his  stoop  that  goes  far  to 
produce  the  effect — a  quaint  blend  of 
the  amiable  elderly  with  a  spice  of  the 
debonair  spirit  of  youth.  I  fancy  he 
rather  relishes  his  stoop,  in  a  subcon- 
scious way.  It's  effective  when  you 
arrive  ansrwhere  late  to  stand  for  a 
moment  somewhat  stooped  at  the  en- 
trance. One  does  not  want  to  seem 
too  brash  and  forward,  you  know. 
Then,  also,  it  is  a  good  deal  of  trouble 
for  one  who  never  takes  any  regular 
exercise  to  sit  up  quite  straight  all  the 
while.  And,  further,  though  you  walk 
briskly  enough,  it  is  amusing  to  feel 
that  you  have  known  the  world  for  a 




considerable  lensi;h  of  time.    VanitcLS 

It  is  gratifying  to  love  many  old- 
time  things:  the  old  buildings  at 
Princeton;  the  old  house  of  Edwin 
Booth  on  Gramercy  Park,  the  home  of 
The  Players;  and  the  old  family 
homestead  in  Indianapolis.  That  club 
is  now  for  him  "full  of  ghost8'^  there 
is  "a  new  population  down  there".  It 
is  mellowing  to  the  spirit  to  contem- 
plate that  one's  dancing  days  are  in 
the  past.  It  is  an  invigorating  exer- 
cise for  the  mind  to  hate  with  a  good 
rousing  hatred  many  new-fangled 
things:  a  "forest"  of  telegraph  poles 
before  your  door,  street  cars  all  about, 
burglars  and  burglars  and  burglars, 
the  insane  new  dances,  the  rage  for 
**bigness",  the  "boosting"  spirit  come 
to  town,  the  hordes  and  hordes  of  new 
citizens  of  mongrel  blood  filling  the 

Why,  before  his  town  became  a  city, 
when  he  was  a  boy,  his  father  used  to 
come  home  from  business  at  three  or 
four  in  the  afternoon,  with  their  shep- 
herd dog  which  had  gone  downtown 
with  him  in  the  forenoon  bounding 
about  him.  Those  were  days  for  liv- 
ing! And,  above  all,  it  was  long  be- 
fore the  time  of  the  great  and  awful 

It  is  well,  too,  exceedingly  well,  to 
have  got  over  long  ago  the  juvenile 
desire  to  write  stories  doctored  up  for 
theatrical  effect.  One  woman  reader 
was  heard  to  speak  of  "Alice  Adams" 
as  a  "flat"  story.  A  mighty  flat  story, 
indeed,  he  thought  it  Doubtless,  it 
would  not  be  quite  correct  to  say  that 
he  now  deliberately  sets  out  to  write  a 
flat  story,  but  an  earnestness  almost 
gruesome  which  has  come  to  eat  at  his 
vitals  in  the  matter  of  creating  fiction, 
makes  the  sort  of  story  which  strikes 
this  lady  as  flat  the  only  kind  of  story 
he  can  continue  to  write. 

His  energy  of  expression,  in  speech, 
in  correspondence,  and  in  his  fiction, 
has  its  spring  in  his  saying  things 
straight  ahead  as  they  come  through 
an  honest  mind,  clear  and  simple  in  its 
workings  and  close  in  feeling  with 
everyday  stuff.  That  critic  wouldn't 
be  so  misguided  who  should  declare 
that  one  of  the  finest  lines  in  litera- 
ture is  that  one  somewhere  in  "Pen- 
rod"  where  one  of  the  characters  'let 
out  a  yell  like  a  gin-maddened  nigger'\ 

It  is  possible  to  read  his  handwrit- 
ing by  the  exercise  of  patience  and 
with  the  aid  of  a  fair  amount  of 
former  experience  with  it.  He  begins 
at  the  top  of  the  page  with  letters  of 
generous  size  and  good  clear  spaces 
between  the  lines,  but  generally  as  he 
nears  the  lower  right-hand  comer  of 
his  sheet  of  paper,  cramps  things  up 
woefully.  The  very  deft^  drawn  pen 
sketches  with  which  he  now  and  then 
adorns  his  letters  have  an  amount  of 
wit  and  go  to  them  seldom  found  in 
magazine  illustrations.  He  has  prob- 
ably never  written  out  the  word  them 
in  any  letter;  it  is  always  'em;  as  / 
wovld  always  is  Vd,  and  so  on.  His 
pounding  earnestness  leads  him  to  un- 
derscore something  every  few  words, 
with  somewhat  the  resulting  effect  of 
his  shouting  it  at  you.  He  may  write 
you  three  long  letters  within  two 
weeks,  and  then  not  again  for  eight 
months — ^unless  you  call  upon  him  to 
do  something  for  you,  when  he  re- 
sponds at  once. 

The  difficulties  occasioned  many  \ry 
the  activities  of  Mr.  Volstead  are  quite 
without  sting  for  him.  He  decided  to 
duck,  as  he  puts  it,  the  allurements 
now  prohibited,  a  round  number  of 
years  ago.  Indeed,  on  that  tack  he  is 
mighty  earnest,  too:  he  will  tell  you  it 
is  "nasty  stuff";  and  tell  it  to  you 

His   dissipation   is   what  he  calls 



work  sprees.  And  his  closest  friends 
confirm  the  idea  that  these  affairs  are 
chronic  in  their  occurrence  and  in 
character  extreme  and  protracted.  He 
has  come  to  be,  like  all  sensible  men 
keenly  intent  upon  their  job,  very 
guarded  against  promiscuous  intru- 
sion. And  to  break  in  upon  him,  by 
telephone  or  in  person,  without  war- 
rant— ^you  might  as  well  try  Bucking- 
ham Palace.  But  if  you  have  honest 
need  of  him  you'll  find  hiuL 

At  home  you'll  find  him  pouring 
glass  after  glass  of  ice  water  out  of  a 
tall  silver  pitcher  and,  as  elsewhere, 
smoking  an  endless  number  of  the 
mammoth  cigarettes  which  he  has 
made  for  him,  a  hundred  to  a  tin  box, 
and  labeUed  "B.  T.'' 

An  oldtime  friend  of  his,  an  actor 
(really  an  actor),  has  an  amusing 
story  of  how  he  disported  himself  one 
evening  by  presenting  twenty  dollar 
bills  to  vagrants  in  Bryant  Park,  tak- 
ing his  reward  in  relish  of  their  aston- 
ishment. But  that  was  many  years 
ago,  before  the  business  of  being  a 
serious  novelist  engrossed  him  com- 
pletely. He  derives  amusement  from 
surplus  money  today  in  another  fash- 
ion, by  buying  bonds.  He  seems  to 
have  become  something  of  an  amateur 
of  bonds,  a  collector.  The  bond  habit 
he  will  strongly  recommend,  if  you 
have  inclined  him  to  think  that  you 
are  interested  in  the  subject. 

Though  he  has,  as  we  all  know,  lived 
for  lengthy  periods  in  various  parts 
of  the  world,  the  intensity  of  his 
Americanism  perhaps  would  amuse  a 
budding  cosmopolite.  He  frequently 
refers  to  "foreigners"  without  malice 
in  inflection  but  certainly  as  to  those, 
as  it  were,  of  another  faith. 

He  has  owned  a  succession  of  dogs 
illustrious   locally.     Probably   of   no 

other  living  writer  have  so  many  dif- 
ferent portraits  appeared  in  the  course 
of  the  past  twenty  years.  He  does  not 
care  to  be  long  in  great  cities :  a  week 
or  so  once  or  twice  a  year  in  New 
York  is  enough  for  him.  He  spends 
the  months  between  late  fall  and  early 
spring  at  his  home  in  Indianapolis, 
then  migrates  for  the  rest  of  the  year 
to  Kennebunkport,  Maine,  where  a  few 
years  ago  he  built  a  very  handsome 
new  house.  The  child  of  a  town  far 
inland  with  no  ships  in  his  books  and 
no  seafarers  among  his  forebears,  he 
has  called  the  new  place  "Seawood", 
and  among  the  proudest  interior  dec- 
orations of  the  house  are  a  number  of 
very  elaborate  models  of  ships.  He  is 
very  fond,  he  declares,  of  the  country, 
and  of  being  on  the  water. 

By  birth,  inheritance,  education, 
freedom  from  the  necessity  of  engag- 
ing in  business  routine,  and  success  in 
his  own  work,  he  has  always  been,  you 
might  say,  on  the  inside.  From 
"Beaucaire"  to  "Alice  Adams"  one 
outstanding  circumstance  has  always 
attached  to  the  character  holding  the 
centre  of  his  stage.  Alice  is  again 
what  he  calls  an  outsider.  At  length, 
he  had  almost  shaken  off  the  lace  and 
ruffles  of  chivalry.  And  then,  at  last, 
the  most  awful  catastrophe  overtook 
her  which  could  befall  a  heroine  of 
his :  grim  tragedy  brought  her  to  the 
door  of  a  business  college. 

Many  people  have  seen  his  plays, 
but  dramatic  critics  almost  never  do. 

How  long  will  he  continue  to  bottle 
the  now  old  reliable  "boy  stuff"  for 
popular  drug  store  consumption? 

His  first  editions  fetch  two  dollars. 

But  he  is  brought  out  in  the  most 
sumptuous  edition  de  luxe  of  any  liv- 
ing American  author. 


London,  September,  1921. 

IT  seems  odd  in  these  warm  days  to 
be  sitting  down  to  write  aboat  the 
autunm  books,  and  yet  it  must  be  so, 
for  there  are  such  an  astonishing 
number  of  new  books  coming  from  the 
publishers  that  the  season  has  had  to 
begin  early  in  order  that  all  the  books 
shall  be  put  upon  the  market  at  all. 
Where  they  all  come  from  I  cannot 
think.  A  few  weeks  ago,  and  there 
was  every  indication  that  the  season 
would  be  a  meagre  one.  Now  all  is 
changed,  and  the  lists  which  have  been 
issued  show  that  there  is  great  activ- 
ity in  at  least  a  section  of  the  publish- 
ing offices.  Long  lists  of  new  books — 
I  will  not  say,  of  interesting  books, 
for  that  would  be  to  me  an  exaggera- 
tion, and  exaggeration  is  a  thing  I 
abhor — are  being  printed  in  all  the 
papers  which  specialize  in  such 
things;  and  the  demand  for  some  of 
the  books  would  appear  to  be  consider- 
able. London,  in  fact,  is  waking  up. 
•  «  «  « 

For  one  thing,  the  "Proms"  are 
again  with  us,  and  the  "Proms"  mean 
a  decided  indication  of  the  wakeful- 
ness of  London.  The  audiences  at  the 
"Proms"  (for  the  benefit  of  those 
Americans  who  do  not  know  London 
in  August  and  September  I  ought  to 
mention  that  the  "Proms"  are  the 
Promenade  Concerts  which  begin  each 
year  in  the  middle  of  August  and  go 
on  until  the  middle  of  October)  are 
enormous.  So  are  the  programs.  I 
went  the  other  night,  and  found  that 
the  so-called  "promenade"  was  in  re- 
ality a  solid  wad  of  people.  They 
were  tightly  wedged  into  a  compact 
mass,  and  they  remained  so  to  the 

end,   in  spite   of  those   faint-hearts 
whose    endurance    collapsed    in    the 
course  of  the  evening.     I  sometimes 
wonder  why  people  with  cardiac  affec- 
tions go  to  the  "Proms"  in  their  full 
season.     It  really  is  a  physical  and 
emotional  strain  which  only  those  who 
are  very  strong  should  attempt  to  en- 
dure.   I  have  never  myself  fainted  at 
a  concert,  although  I  have  been  in 
company  with  one  who  has  done  so 
and  although  I  once  accomplished  a 
very  spectacular  "faint"  on  the  Brigh- 
ton   railway    station;     but    I    never 
would  go  to  a  Promenade  Concert,  in 
the  promenade,  with  the  intention  of 
standing    the    whole    evening.      Yet 
there  are  able-bodied  people  who  will 
wait  for  some  time  outside  the  Hall, 
and  who  will  then  do  another  two  and 
a  half  hours'  standing  in  peculiarly 
exacting  circumstances.    I  suppose  it 
will  be  agreed  that  music  is  a  strain, 
when  it  is  well  rendered  and  properly 
appreciated.      At    the    "Proms"    the 
strain  is  doubled.    To  go  to  one  of 
them  is  to  receive  impressions  so  ex- 
citing and  so  moving  that  only  a  very 
physically  tough  person  could  survive 
unexhausted.    And  they  are  extraordi- 
narily universal  in  their  appeal.    I  re- 
member going  once  and  in  five  min- 
utes meeting  such  a  galaxy  of  distin- 
guished writers  as  to  mark  the  eve- 
ning throughout  my  days.     And  yet 
there  is  nothing  snobbish  about  the 
"Proms".    They  are  in  the  best  sense 
of  the  word  popular.    There  is  noth- 
ing more  democratic  and  less  preten- 
tious in  the  world  of  London  enter- 
tainments.    And  the  quality  of  the 
playing  is  considerable.    I  will  not  say 
so  much  for  the  quality  of  the  vocal- 




ists  or  the  discrimination  of  the  ap- 
plause. But  one  can  and  does  go  to  a 
Promenade  Concert  for  the  music. 

The  secret  of  the  success  of  these 
concerts  is  based  upon  a  personal  mag- 
netism, and  the  magnetism  is  that  of 
the  conductor,  Sir  Henry  J.  Wood. 
Wood  was  in  his  early  days,  as  a  boy, 
so  markedly  enthusiastic  that  it  is 
said  he  used  to  gather  a  band  in  a 
cellar,  where  concerts  were  given  for 
the  sheer  love  of  music.  And  he  is 
something  more  than  a  mere  person- 
ality, for  he  is  marked  by  the  disin- 
terestedness of  the  real  artist.  He 
goes  to  other  concerts,  follows  eagerly 
players  and  other  conductors;  and  he 
pays  for  his  seats.  This  is  such  a 
marvelous  thing  in  a  world  that  sub- 
sists so  much  on  the  use  of  paper — 
paper  meaning  free  admission — as  to 
be  worth  mention.  I  have  seen  Wood 
at  these  other  concerts,  so  I  speak  of 
what  I  know.  His  courtesy  is  famous. 
At  a  suburban  concert,  following  a 
curious  habit  of  doing  the  wrong 
thing,  I  once  dashed  under  the  concert 
hall  and  found  myself  in  the  midst  of 
a  tuning  orchestra.  There  among  the 
players  stood  Wood,  chatting,  as  jour- 
nalists always  say  of  royal  persons, 
with  simplicity  and  candor  to  some 
friend.  At  my  approach  it  was  Wood 
who  directed  me  to  the  point  I  wished 
to  reach.  It  was  a  pleasing  incident, 
for  musical  celebrities  are  not  always 
free  from  conceit.  Here,  however,  as 
in  other  professions,  it  may  be  that 
the  good  men  are  the  least  conscious 
of  their  superiority  to  others  of  their 
species.  I  remember  a  musical  friend 
who  had  been  very  dubious  of  Wood's 
mannerisms  in  conducting,  having  the 
experience  of  playing  under  Wood's 
command.  He  afterward  said  to  me: 
"He  can  conduct  on  his  head,  if  he 
likes.     The  moment  he  begins  work 

you  know  it's  all  right,  that  you  can 
leave  it  all  to  him." 

These  notes  are  supposed  more  di- 
rectly to  refer  to  books  and  their  au- 
thors; but  a  digression  to  a  kindred 
art  may  be  forgiven.  Nothing,  I 
think,  so  stimulates  the  writer  in  his 
work  as  music.  I  have  even  seen  Sir 
Hall  Caine  sitting  at  a  Promenade 
Concert,  rapt  in  delight  and  philo- 
sophic enjoyment.  I  have  also  seen 
other,  less  philosophic,  writers  there, 
almost  equfdly  absorbed.  And  we  all 
know  the  stories  of  those  novelists  and 
poets  who  have  to  have  music  played 
to  them  before  they  can  begin  to  com- 
pose their  epics  of  human  nature  and 
human  beings.  It  is  not  alone  the  sav- 
age breast  which  is  soothed.  If  I 
were  very  rich,  and  remained  a  writer 
(a  conjunction  of  events  extremely 
unlikely),  I  should  like  to  employ  a 
special  secretary  who  could  play  with 
the  endurance  of  a  pianola.  It  would 
not  be  to  "play  me  in"  to  work,  but 
rather  to  recover  me  from  the  rav- 
ages of  composition.  Meanwhile,  a 
Promenade  Concert,  or  indeed  any- 
thing except  a  highbrow  recital  by 
some  executant  who  understands  the 
resources  of  his  instrument  better 
than  the  hearts  and  minds  of  those 
who  have  written  for  it,  will  do  well 


«  «  •  « 

Speaking  just  now  of  Sir  Hall  Caine 
reminds  me  that  I  have  handled  a  copy 
of  "The  Master  of  Man".  It  seems  a 
long  book.  I  do  not  know  more  than 
one  person  who  has  read  it,  but  that  is 
my  misfortune.  This  man  has  been 
deeply  impressed.  He  recited  the 
story  to  me  and  to  several  others.  An 
unknown  listener,  not  in  the  group, 
but  drawn  into  it  by  the  sheer  mag- 
netism of  the  story  that  was  being  un- 
folded, burst  into  a  great  laugh,  and 
said:    "For  God's  sake,  what  is  this 



book  you  are  describing?  I  must  get 
it  at  once."  No  wonder  that  the  Eng- 
lish publishers  of  "The  Master  of 
Man"  advertise  that  its  sale  has  al- 
ready exceeded  85,000  copies.  If  its 
whole  system  of  morals  is  unfamiliar 
to  us,  nobody  in  the  world  who  has 
any  knowledge  of  such  things  will 
deny  that  Hall  Caine  has  in  a  great 
degree  the  essential  faculty  of  the 
novelist.  He  has  the  root  of  the  mat- 
ter in  him.  He  can  make  quite  ordi- 
nary people  want  to  know  more  of  his 
story,  want  to  know  its  end  and  its 
development.  And  the  feat  of  com- 
bining and  controlling  all  the  intrica- 
cies of  such  a  plot  as  that  of  the  new 

book  is  a  considerable  one. 

«  «  «  « 

By  a  strange  coincidence  Marie 
Gorelli  has  also  chosen  this  season  in 
which  to  break  her  long  silence  as  a 
novelist.  Her  book  is  to  be  called 
"The  Secret  Power:  A  Romance  of 
the  Time".  More  is  not  known  of  it 
at  the  time  at  which  I  write.  Possi- 
bly the  secret  power  is  that  of  the 
Food  Ck)ntroller,  with  whom  Miss 
Gorelli  came  into  conflict  during  the 
war  (this  makes  an  amusing  episode 
in  the  little  book  which  Miss  Gorelli 
wrote  about  her  war  activities),  or  it 
may  be  that  in  her  entertainment  of 
the  Australian  cricket  team  Miss 
Gorelli  learned  the  secret  which  has 
enabled  them  to  go  through  an  entire 
tour  of  England,  including  five  so- 
called  "test-matches",  without  being 
defeated.  Or  of  course  the  title  may 
refer  to  the  quality  which  makes  for 
the  continuing  popularity  of  the  work 
of  famous  novelists.  The  last  novel 
by  Miss  Gorelli  which  I  read,  however, 
was  highly  psychic  in  its  character, 
and  it  is  more  probable  that  the  new 
book  may  have  some  relation  to  spirit- 
ual forces. 

«  •  «  « 

Judging  from  conversation  alon< 
that  is,  the  readiness  of  all  people  I 
meet  to  dilate  upon  those  books — I 
should  say  that  the  two  most  popular 
and  widely  read  novels  of  the  moment 
among  the  better  educated  classes  in 
London  and  the  home  counties  are 
Miss  Macaulay's  "Dangerous  Ages" 
and  Gompton  Mackenzie's  "Rich  Rela- 
tives"— everywhere  being  reviewed  as 
"Rich  Relations",  which  shows  how 
little  care  readers  give  to  the  title- 
pages  of  books  (snub  for  publishers 
who  suppose  their  imprints  to  be  of 
value).  "Dangerous  Ages"  has  been 
out  for  some  time,  and  it  has  perco- 
lated to  all  sorts  of  strange  places. 
"Rich  Relatives"  is  only  recently  pub- 
lished. Already,  however,  it  seems  as 
though  it  were  going  to  repeat  the 
success  of  the  book  to  which  it  is  in 
some  degree  a  complement — ^"Poor 
Relations".  I  think  I  can  understand 
the  reason.  These  books  are  merry, 
light,  unfatiguing,  and  thoroughly  di- 
verting. They  exact  no  strain  of  the 
mind  or  the  emotions.  They  are  writ- 
ten to  entertain,  and  they  fulfil  their 
intention  admirably.  Personally,  I 
have  read  only  three  paragraphs  of 
"Rich  Relatives",  but  I  laughed  at  all 
three.  Perhaps  I  am  easily  amused, 
but  I  do  not  expect  so.  And  it  is  a 
great  thing  for  a  novelist  of  Mr. 
Mackenzie's  genuine  talent  to  wish  to 
amuse  his  readers.  I  will  name  no 
rivals,  but  I  will  admit  to  liking  books 
which  I  can  enjoy.    I  expect  to  enjoy 

"Rich  Relatives"  very  much. 

«  •  «  « 

For  entertainment,  also  not  unre- 
lated to  brains,  since  the  author  has 
brains  as  acute  as  any  in  masculine 
London  (one  has  now  always  to  make 
this  reservation,  since  Rebecca  West 
took  to  irradiating  "The  New  States- 
man"), I  look  to  two  new  books  by  A. 
A.  Milne.    Milne  has  a  new  volume  of 



essays  coming  out  this  autumn;  but 
he  also  has  two  novels.  One  of  them 
is  the  already  mentioned  "noveliza- 
tion"  of  "Mr.  Pim  Passes  By",  the 
other  is  a  real  live  detective  story, 
called,  I  think,  "The  Red  House  Mys- 
tery". I  have  not  read  the  latter,  al- 
though it  has  appeared  serially;  but  I 
know  that  it  has  always  been  Milne's 
ambition  to  write  a  detective  story. 
So  has  it  been  the  ambition  of  every- 
body who  has  ever  written  for  publi- 
cation. The  lust  for  detective  stories 
can  never  be  sated.  The  great  Swin- 
burne himself  once  ordered  a  complete 
collection  of  the  fifty  or  sixty  detec- 
tive tales  of  "Dick  Donovan",  whose 
books,  except  that  they  surveyed  the 
course  and  detection  of  crimes,  had  lit- 
tle else  to  recommend  them.  I  wonder 
he  never  filled  the  bill  himself.  Per- 
haps he  did,  under  a  pseudonym? 
What  a  ravishing  thought!  Anyhow, 
Milne  has  carried  his  ambition  into 
effect.  He  has  attained  his  end. 
What  triumph  must  reign  in  the  house 
in  Chelsea!  The  famous  "Billy" 
Milne  must  have  a  rival.  Its  name 
is  "The  Red  House  Mystery". 
"Billy's"  nose  will  be  out  of  joint. 

And  only  naturally. 

«  «  «  « 

A  novel  which  I  am  glad  to  see  in 
the  lists  is  "The  Tower  of  Oblivion", 
by  Oliver  Onions.  This  does  not 
sound  either  cheering  or  criminal  in 
character.  What  a  lark  if  it  were 
both!  I  am  afraid  that  this  is  too 
good  to  be  true.  But  Onions  wrote 
one  of  the  best  "crime"  stories  I  have 
ever  read.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
quality  of  "In  Accordance  with  the 
Evidence".  It  was  a  great  book,  as 
strong  and  as  original  as  many  books 

far  more  highly  celebrated. 

«  «  «  « 

"Elizabeth"  is  represented  by 
'^era",  a  novel  of  which  the  scenes 

appear  to  be  laid  in  or  near  London 
and  the  river.  This  is  Lady  Russell's 
first  long  novel  since  "Christopher  and 
Columbus",  and  as  it  was  written  for 
the  most  part  in  the  mountains  of 
Switzerland  and  in  equally  beautiful 
Italian  surroundings,  I  am  hoping  it 
is  a  happy  and  vivacious  book.  It 
may  be  thought  that  I  write  rather 
wistfully  about  happy  books.  This  is 
not  the  case.  I  have  always  liked  ttiis 
kind;  but  the  truth  is,  I  think  it  is 
time  I  kept  from  going  back  and  back 
into  the  past  for  my  reading.  So  few 
really  able  writers  nowadays  think  it 
necessary  or  worth  while  to  write 
amusing  books  that  I  love  those  who 
continue  to  give  the  pleasure  which 
comes  from  delightful  characters  in 
amusing  and  delightful  circumstances. 
Nobody  does  this  so  well  for  me  as 
Jane  Austen;  but  if  there  were  a  con- 
temporary Jane  Austen  I  would  collect 
her  works  with  the  jealousy  of  the  au- 
thentic first  edition  fan. 

«  «  «  « 

It  seems  extraordinary  that  so  long 
after  his  death  Sir  W.  S.  Gilbert's 
"Story  of  the  Mikado"  should  be  pub- 
lished. "The  Mikado"  must  be  nearly 
forty  years  old  in  its  original  form, 
and  I  must  admit  that  I  tremble  at  the 
prospect  of  a  retelling  by  the  author. 
So  much  of  the  text  of  the  Gilbert 
libretti  is  old-fashioned  that  one  fears 
for  the  narrative.  The  lyrics  remain 
unforgetable,  of  course.  Nobody 
questions  their  unrivaled  quality.  But 
sometimes  I  fancy  we  are  made  to 
fidget  a  little  by  the  puns  and  ttie  an- 
tiquated quips  of  the  prose  connec- 
tions between  the  Ijrrics.  I  think  of 
"The  Gondoliers"  and  "The  Yeomen 
of  the  Guard",  I  admit,  rather  than  of 
"The  Mikado",  and  it  may  be  that  in 
this  case  all  the  free  fun  and  inge- 
nuity of  the  opera  has  been  retained. 
I  hope  so.     "The  Mikado"  certainly 



represents  Gilbert's  art  at  its  ripest, 
just  as  "The  Pirates  of  Penzance" 
represents  it  at  its  most  nonsensical. 
Some  of  the  other  operas,  mordant 
though  the  wit  is,  owe  more  to  Sulli- 
van's musical  genius.  I  see  by  the 
way  that  apropos  of  the  revival  of 
"Cox  and  Box",  an  opera  in  which 
Bumand  and  Sullivan  collaborated, 
some  commentator  has  suggested  that 
there  was  more  in  common  between 
Sullivan  and  Bumand  than  between 
Sullivan  and  Gilbert  This  seems  to 
me  to  be  a  horrible  suggestion.  It 
will  seem  so  to  any  unprejudiced  per- 
son who  will  examine  the  text  of  any 
book  of  Bumand's.  Ansrthing  more 
dreary  and  determinedly  obsolete  it 

would  be  hard  to  find. 

«  •  •  • 

Sir  Sidney  Colvin  has  always  been 
going  to  write  the  life  of  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson.  He  has  never  carried  out 
his  intention,  and  I  suppose  that  he 
now  never  will  do  this.  He  is  an  old 
man — ^he  must  be  over  seventy-six — 
and  it  seems  unlikely  that  he  could  en- 
dure the  labor  of  executing  such  a 
work.  This  biography  has  been  so 
much  expected  that  it  has  almost  at- 
tained the  status  of  an  unwritten 
classic.  All  sorts  of  questions  have 
been  put  aside  "until  we  have  Colvin's 
'Life'".  And  it  seems  as  though  we 
were  not  to  have  it  after  all.  So  Ste- 
venson will  have  to  depend  upon  Gra- 
ham Balfour's  book  to  the  end  of  time. 
It  was  Balfour's  book  which  drew 
Henley's  onslaught.  Sir  Sidney  Ck)l- 
vin  now  announces  a  book  of  reminis- 
cences to  be  published  this  season. 
The  publishers  say  that  it  was  origi- 
nally planned  as  a  work  in  several  vol- 
umes, but  that  the  author's  advancing 
years  have  led  him  to  restrict  his  pen 
to  a  less  ambitious  scheme.  However 
long  or  short,  the  reminiscences 
should  be  interesting,  for  the  author's 

long  life  has  been  spent  in  the  com- 
pany of  many  famous  men.  Stevenson 
was  not  the  only  one  of  them,  although 
the  names  of  the  two  have  been  more 
often  coupled  than  those  of  most  lit- 
erary friends.  Sir  Sidney  also  knew 
George  Meredith  familiarly,  and  in 
later  years  much  of  his  ardent  prose- 
lytizing spirit  has  been  devoted  to  the 
cause  of  his  friend  Joseph  Conrad. 

Sir  Sidney  has,  of  course,  written 
much  about  Keats,  and  he  caused  a 
good  deal  of  indignation  some  years 
ago  by  referring,  in  certain  contribu- 
tions to  the  "Times  Literary  Supple- 
ment", to  Keats's  "under-breeding". 
The  cause  of  this  was  that  Keats,  less 
farseeing  than  he  might  have  been  in 
the  matter  of  change?  of  taste  as  they 
affect  words,  used  in  an  amorous  poem 
the  term  squeeze.  The  charge  of 
under-breeding  was  a  little  pedantic, 
for  it  drew  attention  to  the  editor's 
prudishness  rather  than  to  Keats's 
crude  use  of  a  word  rigidly  avoided  by 
the  most  refined  of  modem  poets. 
However,  there  was  a  breeze  (not  a 
squeeze),  and  Keats  remained  very 
much  where  he  had  been  before.  And 
yet  it  may  be  questioned  whether  a 
man  who  took  the  line  Sir  Sidney  did 
was  quite  the  ideal  biographer  for  the 
poet.  In  dealing  with  Keats  one 
would  like  any  editor  or  critic  or  bi- 
ographer to  be  a  little  less  conscious 
throughout  of  the  "gallipots"  and  the 
parentage  of  his  subject,  and  a  little 
less  avuncular  in  his  judgments.  One 
always  felt  that  Sir  Sidney  would  have 
scolded  Keats  very  severely  for  his 
more  luscious  lines,  and  indeed  for 
any  writing  or  behavior  which  was 
not  perfectly  in  accord  with  the  most 
decorous  good-breeding.  I  am  glad 
Sir  Sidney  was  not  Keats's  uncle.  It 
might  have  been  a  pity. 

The  point  applies  also  to  the  letters 
of  Keats.     Sir  Sidney  published  an 



edition  of  these  letters,  and  designedly 
excluded  from  his  edition  any  letters 
addressed  to  Fanny  Brawne,  on  the 
ground  that  they  did  the  poet  no 
credit.  This  was  absurd,  when  the 
editor  expressed  the  hope  tiiat  his  edi- 
tion of  the  letters  would  prove  to  be 
the  standard  edition.  One  may  take 
any  attitude  one  likes  toward  the  let- 
ters to  Fanny  Brawne  (personally  I 
find  nothing  unhealthy  in  them,  and 
would  rather  have  the  letters  them- 
selves than  any  comment  upon  them), 
but  to  exclude  these  letters  from  a  so- 
called  standard  edition,  when  the  curi- 
ous could  always  get  them  elsewhere, 
was  to  behave  in  the  classic  manner 
of  the  ostrich. 

The  best  thing  Sir  Sidney  ever  did 
was  his  selection  from  Landor.  It 
was  a  service  to  literature,  and  his 
preface  is  a  most  interesting  and  sim- 
ple contribution  to  esthetic  criticism. 
For  this  piece  of  work  alone  he  de- 
serves great  praise,  and  his  ready  en- 
couragement of  writers  in  their  diffi- 
cult times  of  imperfect  self-expression 
and  non-recognition  will  suffice  to  se- 
cure him  a  place  in  our  memories  and 
our  gratitude.  When  his  reminis- 
cences are  published  they  are  bound  to 
contain  much  that  is  of  value,  and  it 
is  to  be  hoped  that  they  will  throw 
new  light  upon  several  figures  promi- 
nent in  their  own  day  as  well  as  upon 
some  of  those  whose  distinction  in- 
creases with  the  years. 

«  «  «  « 

No  man  of  our  day — leaving  aside 

that  monumental  Johnsonian,  Birk- 
beck  Hill — ^has  known  more,  I  suppose, 
about  the  byways  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  than  did  Austin  Dobson.  His 
work  was  very  unobtrusive,  but  he 
edited  and  annotated  Groldsmith  de- 
lightfully, and  his  own  contributions 
to  the  essay,  as  well  as  to  our  knowl- 
edge of  the  lesser  lights  of  a  fascinat- 
ing period,  are  classic  in  their  appeal. 
Through  all  his  work  there  was  an  es- 
sential neatness,  as  one  may  see  in  the 
adroit  and  exquisite  verses  which  rep- 
resent his  poetical  output.  To  exam- 
ine a  letter  of  Austin  Dobson's,  writ- 
ten in  his  fine  script,  was  to  receive  a 
quite  genuine  delight.  So  with  his 
corrected  proofs.  One  took  up  the 
proofs,  and  found  them  peppered  with 
innumerable  little  ticks.  The  effect 
was  at  first  puzzling,  until  one  sud- 
denly recognized  that  each  tick  repre- 
sented a  fact  checked  and  confirmed. 
Then  indeed  did  the  heart  of  any 
writer  who  has  done  such  work,  or 
worked  in  the  field  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  go  out  to  Dobson.  One  may 
at  times  have  found  his  interests  fine 
and  small  rather  than  profound,  but  at 
least  what  he  knew  he  knew  to  its  last 
hair's  breadth.  And  when  one  recalls 
the  havoc  some  splashy  and  delight- 
fully preposterous  workers  in  eight- 
eenth century  lore  have  perpetrated, 
great  songs  of  praise  well  from  the 
lips  at  the  mere  thought  of  this  de- 
voted and  charming  annalist  who  was 
also  reliable. 



By  Kenneth  Andrews 

With  Sketches  by  the  Author 

WHEN  a  new  playwright  first 
raises  his  voice  on  Broadway  all 
the  artisans  of  the  theatre  of  high  and 
low  degree — ^from  Lee  Shubert  down 
to  the  utility  boy  in  Gray's  drug  store 
— pause  and  give  ear.  It  is  only  a 
pause.  The  roar  of  the  play  foundries 
begins  again  promptly,  and  by  the 
morning  after  the  first  night,  the  new- 
comer is  usually  forgotten.  But  his 
salutatory  is  an  event.  When  the 
pallid  neophyte  shows  himself  pos- 
sessed of  fresh  imagination,  when  he 
shows  himself  able  to  clothe  his 
fancies  in  language  which  lives  when 
spoken,  yet  glows  with  beauty;  when 
he  comes  into  the  theatre  full  of  the 
vigor  of  youth  and  its  audacity,  pre- 
pared to  write  for  the  stage  as  well  as 
he  knows  how  to  write — it  is  a  time 
for  great  rejoicing. 

Sidney  Howard  in  "Swords",  a  play 
in  verse  about  the  Italy  of  the  Guelphs 
and  Ghibellines,  reveals  himself  as  a 
young  writing  man  with  such  gifts  as 
these.  "Swords"  is  a  play  of  exuber- 
ant fancy;  the  story  shapes  itself  in 
the  sweep  of  poetry  which  is  warmed 
with  the  true  fire,  and  through  the  in- 
terweaving of  robust  imagery.  It  is 
not  surprising,  or  very  serious,  that 
the  plasrwright  did  not  impart  to  the 
story  quite  the  literalness  and  direct- 
ness which  would  have  sent  it  smooth- 
ly over  the  footlights.  The  intentions 
and  promise  of  a  new  writer  are  of 
more  consequence  than  the  fate  of  his 
first  play;  and  here  we  have  the  prom- 

ise of  a  rare  skill  in  theatrical  story 
telling.  His  intentions  were  to  write 
a  play  which,  chiefly  through  the  ap- 
peal of  its  beauty,  would  survive  in 
the  hurly  burly  of  Times  Square;  and 
those  are  honorable  intentions,  and 
daring  ones.  He  did  not  achieve  a 
best  seller;  but  he  did  write  a  play  of 
beauty.  It  has  the  beauty  of  a  rare — 
if  blurred — old  Italian  tapestry. 

It  is  a  tale  of  love  and  lust  and  glit- 
tering swords  which  unfolds  itself  in 
this  old  castle  off  the  coast  of  Italy. 
In  the  castle  a  glamorous  creature. 
Donna  Fiamma,  is  held  as  a  hostage 
by  the  enemies  of  the  Pope.  To  the 
peasants  of  the  island  Fiamma  is  a 
holy  woman,  for  them  she  is  "like  the 
Virgin  Mary".  Ganetto,  subtlest  and 
wickedest  of  all  the  Pope's  enemies, 
engages  on  the  great  adventure  of  his 
life :  the  attempt  to  gain  this  ward  of 
the  Pope's  for  his  pleasure.  That  is 
the  story  of  the  play,  and  it  seems 
straightaway  enough.  It  is  difficult 
to  understand  how  it  was  so  fogged  in 
its  presentation.  It  needed  of  course 
the  most  delicate  shading.  It  was  es- 
sential that  the  radiance  of  holiness 
be  shed  about  Fiamma;  and  that 
should  have  been  done  much  more  in- 
geniously than  it  was  done.  It  is  not 
enough  for  the  peasants,  in  a  crowded 
scene  at  the  very  beginning  of  the 
play,  to  whisper  among  themselves  of 
how  Fiamma  (whom  we  have  not  yet 
seen)  healed  the  blind  boy  in  the 
market  place,  of  how  she  blessed  the 



boats  of  the  fishermen  and  brought 
them  riches.  That  touch  of  the  un- 
earthly  should  have  tinged  every 
scene;  once  lost  the  story  is  flattened 
to  the  level  of  romantic  melodrama, 
which  was  not  in  the  least  what  the 
playwright  meant.  Canetto  is  the 
wiliest  of  humans;  but  he  is  match* 
ing  his  cunning  against  the  woman  of 
God.  If  this  had  been  constantly 
stressed,  if  we  had  felt  always  that  all 
his  super-cunning  could  effect  nothing 
but  his  own  destruction  the  strange 
duel  would  have  had  its  chill.  It  was 
not  stressed;  it  was  scarcely  sug- 
gested at  all;  and  the  story  slipped 
out  of  focus,  its  true  values  were 

Clare  Barnes  understood  all  this. 
Her  Fiamma  was  superb:  a  woman 
and  a  mother  with  human  passions, 
who  yet  waUced  a  little  apart  The 
play  should  have  been  keyed  to  her; 
she  could  not  preserve  its  balance  un- 
aided. And  tiie  regrettable  thing  is 
that  it  all  seemed  to  be  in  the  pl^, 
needing  only  the  unwavering  hand  of 
a  producer  to  unify  it  and  heighten  it 
into  stage  effectiveness.  Certainly 
there  can  be  no  excuse  for  the  con- 
fusion of  the  first  two  acts  which  so 
entirely  lacked  all  sembUnce  of  point- 
ing or  emphasis  that  it  is  doubtful  if 
there  were  a  half  dozen  people  in  the 
theatre  who  knew  what  it  was  all 
about.  And  it  is  incredible  that  any 
producer  would  permit  two  particu- 
larly ungainly  supers  to  come  In  just 
before  the  final  curtain  and  slam  down 
a  trap  door  while  the  audience  is  tense 
and  silent  watching  the  door  through 
which  Hie  doomed  Canetto  has  just 
passed.  Still  it  is  an  extremely  ex- 
acting job  to  stage  a  play  of  such  deli- 
cate adjustments,  so  figuratively  told. 
All  credit  to  Brock  Pemberton  for  try- 
ing it 

/<•  "Bmtrdt"  h«  porlmy*  icflA  relUh  at  tOkg 

OHd  tly  ant  eimnbui  and  tetelced  a  i><IIa<n  m 

avBT  won  dimbtst  and  hatt. 

There  is  in  "The  Hero"  by  Gilbert 
Emery  the  sort  of  observation  of 
Americans  as  they  are  which  is  so 
true  that  it  is  almost  seditious.  Un- 
derlying the  play — deep  down,  but 
there — is  a  disillusionment  that  is  al- 
most sinister.  Yet  it  is  all  done  in  the 
best  of  spirits.  The  author  has  no 
message  to  deliver,  no  grievance 
against  mankind;  but  he  does  have 
some  convictions  on  what  the  war  did 
to  the  country.  He  takes  the  best  way 
in  the  world  to  make  them  known  in  a 
pl^r:  he  simply  does  not  mention 
them  at  aU.  Quite  pleasantly  he  gives 
^  picture  of  a  house  that  is  not  un- 
happy and  not  happy,  merely  one  of 
the  houses  on  the  block,  like  any 
household  whose  breadwinner  wears 
rubbers  and  muffler  to  the  office. 

The  black  sheep  of  the  family  re- 
turns to  the  placid  manage  with  a  rib- 
bon in  his  lapel,  and  a  stiff  leg.  He 
has  had  a  career  of  glory  in  the  For- 
eign Legion.  He  is  a  hero,  and  they 
are  proud  of  him.  He  has  been 
through  the  fire  and  the  trenches  have 
purged  him.  So  he  thinks  and  so  they 
think.  But  Oswald  is  still  ttie  vagar 
bond,   the   adventurer,   the   ne'er   do 



well.  Even  while  he  talks  of  his  re- 
generation we  know  it.  For  him  the 
war  was  merely  one  of  his  adven- 
tures. For  the  Lanes  who  stayed  at 
home  it  was  "that 
war  in  France''. 

Not  a  person  in 
the  play  has  been 
vitally  touched  by 
the  war,  save 
Marth£  whose  fam- 
ily was  murdered 
before  her  eyes  in 
Belgium;  and  her 
presence  in  this 
family  of  average 
Americans  merely 
sharpens   the    dis- 


"CMd"  hy  Buaene  O'NHU  (Boni  and 
lAveright),  The  tragedy  of  the  old  Mea-dog 
who  found  a  treasure  ehett  which  contained 
only  hraee  and  funk.  Very  different  from 
the  other  etoriee  about  the  Bouth  Bea  ielee. 

**The  Whiteheaded  Boy"  by  Lennoa  Rob- 
inson (Putnam).  A  delightful  evening  with 
the  Oeoghegan  family  of  Ballycolman,  One 
of  the  most  enjoyable — and  one  of  the  most 
Irish — plays  yet  to  be  brought  over  by  the 
Irish  Players. 

"Biw  Bhort  Plays''  by  John  Oalsworthy 
(Boribner).  Among  them  "The  Little  Man" 
whom  everyone  should  know. 

creet  cynicism 
which  gives  this 
disturbing  war  play 
its  tang.  The  war 
pinched  the  pocket- 
books  of  the  Lanes 
a  little,  but  it  left 
their  souls  unmo- 
lested. Their  only 
feeling  about  it 
now  is  that  they  are  glad  it  is  over. 
And  this  play  is  the  first  reflection  on 
our  stage  of  the  country's  second 
thoughts  on  the  war.  No  doubt  it  is 
the  forerunner  of  other  after-war 
plays  and  many  after-war  books.  Are 
these  merely  to  be  a  record  of  indiffer- 
ence, sham  heroics,  and  disillusion- 
ment? "The  Hero"  is  indeed  a  dis- 
turbing play  because  it  seems  so  true. 

Zoe  Akins  seems  to  have  no  more 
concern  for  the  sufferings  of  the  peo- 
ple in  "Daddy's  Gone  A-Hunting"  than 
a  professor  has  for  the  discomfort  of 
a  rabbit  whose  heart  action  he  is  dem- 
onstrating to  the  class.  It  is  a  hard 
pitiless  play,  as  concise  and  dispas- 
sionate as  a  novel  by  Frank  Swinner- 
ton.     It  is  de-sentimentalized:    quite 

"The  Circle"  by  W.  Bomerset  Maugham 
(Doran).  A  crisp,  happily  told  comedy 
showing  how  young  lovers  profit  by  the  ex- 
perience of  older  ones. 

"A  BiU  of  Divorcement"  by  Olemence 
Dane  (MaemUlan).  An  after-math  of  the 
war.  It  takes  place  in  19 S3  when  a  shell 
shock  victim  returns  to  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter who  had  believed  him  to  be  incurably 

in  the  new  manner  of  writing  about 
ourselves.  In  its  way,  also,  it  is  as 
timely  an  anecdote  from  the  life  about 
us  as  "The  Hero"  itself.    The  Harlem 

daddy  who  goes 
a-hunting  for  the 
Heaven  beyond  his 
grasp  is  a  creature 
of  the  moment. 
His  quest  ends  ig- 
nominiously,  as 
such  quests  usually 
do;  but,  as  Miss 
Akins  presents  it» 
his  failure  and  his 
wife's  unhappiness 
arouse  only  an  im- 
personal 83rmpathy : 
the  sort  of  sym- 
pathy we  might  feel 
if  we  read  about 
them  in  the  evening 
paper.  The  cold, 
curt  method  which 
she  adopts  serves 
the  novelist  better 
than  it  does  the 
playwright.  On  the 
stage  it  has  its  penalties.  We  become 
acquainted  only  casually  with  Julian 
and  Edith;  and  they  do  not  seem  in 
the  least  the  sort  who  would  move 
down  to  Greenwich  Village  and  lose 
their  souls.  It  might  well  have  hap- 
pened; but  it  would  have  been  more 
credible — and  more  interesting — if 
the  author  had  been  a  little  more  com- 
municative and  a  little  warmer  in  her 
attitude.  Yet  it  is  a  refreshingly  ma- 
ture play,  where  it  might  have  been 
very  tearful  and  sweet.  When  we 
think  of  what  Rupert  Hughes  or 
David  Belasco  might  have  wrung  from 
the  story,  we  may  be  grateful. 

"The  Easiest  Way"— the  best  title 
a  play  ever  had — is  a  good  play.  It  is 
as  good  today  as  it  ever  was.    It  has 



not  begun  to  "dat«"  at  all  save  poui- 
bly  where  Annie,  the  negro  maid, 
bursts  into  tears  at  the  prospect  of 
trying  to  find  another  situation.  One 
of  the  best  things  about  it  la  that  it 
means  nothing.  It  has  no  moral  It 
is  one  woman's  life.  Laura  Murdock 
is  not  a  type,  she  is  a  woman  who  hap- 
pened to  get  a  wrong  start,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  weaker  than  some,  who 
happened  to  fall  in  with  a  man  clever 
enough  and  rich  enough  to  close  every 
way  out  save  the  easy  one.  She  does 
not  have  the  nerve  to  tell  the  truth 
when  her  happiness  depends  on  it. 
She  does  not  have  the  nerve  to  commit 
suicide ;  so  only  Montmartre  is  left  to 
her — now  that  Rector's  is  no  more. 

Seeing  this  play  of  a  decade  ago,  in 
revival,  renews  regret  that  there  is  not 
some  permanent  repertoire  company 
in  which  deserving  plays  might  end 
their  days  properly.  Plays  like  "The 
Great  Divide"  and  "The  Witching 
Hour"  and  "The  Fortune  Hunter" 
should  not  be  condemned  to  obscure 
storehouses.  Thousands  would  agree 
to  see  each  one  of  them  at  least  once  a 
year.  We  think  we  would  agree  to  see 
"The  Easiest  Way"  once  a  month. 

It  is  difficult  to  treat  as  an  equal  a 
man  who  believes  that  no  woman  who 
wears  them  rolled  down  can  be  chaste, 
a  man  who  repines  because  Edison 
has  not  invented  something  to  keep 
the  feminine  nose  perpetually  like  a 
marshmallow,  a  man  who  (borrowing 
his  own  borrowed  phrase)  is  one  of 
the  pure  to  whom  all  things  are  in- 
decent In  Cosmo  Hamilton's  "The 
Silver  Fox"  there  is  such  a  being. 
We  are  not  only  asked  to  take  him 
seriously,  but  are  expected  to  believe 
that  Helen  Quilter,  a  refreshingly  un- 
fettered spirit,  desires  him  for  a  mate. 
She  does  desire  him  and  she  marries 
him,  after  blithely  compromising  her- 

self into  a  divorce  from  the  complai- 
sant Quilter.  She  does  it  charmingly 
enough;  and  the  play  may  be  re- 
garded as  a  rather  smartly  designed 
piece  of  trade  goods  whose  falsity  is 
disguised  by  the  shimmer  of  good  talk. 

"The  Whiteheaded  Boy"  by  Len- 
nox Robinson,  which  the  Irish  Players 
brought  over  from  Dublin,  has  only 
one  blemish;  and  it  is  not  a  serious 
one  because  it  has  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  the  play.  Somewhere  to- 
ward the  end  Denis  Geoghegan  is 
likened  to  Ireland;  and  this  comes  as 
something  of  a  shock.  He  has  not 
seemed  in  the  least  like  anything  but 
a  good-natured  boy  who  has  been  al- 
most spoiled  by  kindness,  and  who  is 
cleverer  than  he  thought  he  was.  But 
without  the  slightest  warning  he  is 
compared  with  his  native  land.  Like 
Ireland  he  has  always  been  the  pride 
of  the  family,  their  pet,  their  i^ite- 
headed  boy.  Like  Ireland  he  has  been 
easy-going  and  sunny-hearted,  has 
been  fussed  over  and  humored.  What 
was  best  for  him  has  been  decided  in 
family  councils,  and  the  best  he  has 
always  had,  at  whatever  cost  to  the 


ThtM  etietttent  aelor  vat  ntvtr  firi 
it  in  "The  trero"  at  (he  Jtrtty  o 
heroteally  tept  tha  Aonia  jlrtt  himtfv  uAtla  MJ 
brollttT  fomghl  In  ona  «/  the  neent  European 



other  children.  Like  Ireland*  indeed, 
he  has  been  given  eversrthing  he  could 
desire  save  the  one  thing  he  has  al- 
ways desired — ^his  freedom.  We 
might  go  on  and  suggest  that  like  Ire- 
land he  causes  a  lot  of  trouble;  but 
Denis  is  not  like  Ireland,  and  the 
other  Geoghegans  are  not  like  Aus- 
tralia or  India  or  South  Africa.  They 
are  the  Geoghegan  family  of  Bally- 
colman ;  and  the  play  depicts  a  night, 
and  a  busy  one,  in  their  cottage.  It 
simply  refuses  to  be  allegorical,  and 
of  course  the  author  did  not  mean  it 
as  such.  It  is  too  warm  and  true,  too 
full  of  the  zest  of  life,  too  good  a  play 
to  be  tagged  as  propaganda. 

One  has  always  had  the  impression 
that  Somerset  Maugham  is  a  novelist 
who,  now  and  then,  tosses  off  a  play 
for  the  fun  of  it.  He  has  always 
seemed  to  turn  to  the  stage  for  his 
recreation;  and  he  has  found  it  con- 
genial play;  he  has  always  had  a  good 
time.  His  comedies  have  the  flash  and 
whir  of  a  good  game  of  tennis  on  a 
sunny  day.  "The  Circle"  is  as  airy 
and  irresponsible  as  anything  he  has 
ever  done  for  the  stage,  but  there  is 
nothing  offhand  about  it.  It  was  writ- 
ten by  the  author  of  "The  Moon  and 
Sixpence"  and  "Of  Human  Bondage", 
not  by  the  author  of  "Mrs.  Dot"  and 
"Jack  Straw**.  There  are  times  when 
there  is  a  note  of  wistfulness  in  the 
banter,  and  that  is  one  of  the  reasons 
why  it  is  such  excellent  banter.  Side 
by  side  in  the  play  are  two  love  stories, 
and  they  are  just  alike.  We  see  the 
beginning  of  one  and  the  end  of  the 
other.  All  for  love,  Lady  Kitty  Cham- 
pion-Cheney, in  her  youth,  threw  over 
husband  and  position  and  ran  away  to 
the  far  places.  All  for  love  Elizabeth 
Champion-Cheney  is  on  the  point  of 
doing  the  same  thing.  Lady  Kitty, 
after  thirty  years,  is  not  the  pale,  frail 

lady  of  romance  whom  Elizabetii  had 
expected  to  see.  She  is  rather  a  flashy 
and  frivolous  poseur  with  dyed  hair 
and  a  soul  as  thickly  rouged  as  her 
face.  The  once  dashing  Lord  Porteous 
is  a  soggy  old  chap,  very  bored,  ¥^0 
has  trouble  with  his  false  teeth. 
Their  life  of  love — among  the  outcasts 
— ^has  robbed  them  of  ever3rthing  flne. 
Even  the  love  for  which  they  gaily 
lost  the  world  has  withered  long  since. 
They  are  as  yappy  with  each  other  as 
they  would  be  if  they  were  respectably 
married.  Elizabeth,  with  dismay, 
realizes  what  folly  it  would  be  to  fly 
away  with  her  penniless  lover  to  his 
rubber  farm  in  the  Federated  Malay 
States.  And  then  she  goes  right 
ahead  and  flies  away  with  him.  It  is 
one  of  those  rare  plays  which  does  not 
end,  for  you,  when  the  flnal  curtain 
comes  down.  You  enjoy  it  thoroughly 
while  it  is  going  on;  but  next  morn- 
ing you  like  it  better  still  and,  curious- 
ly enough,  for  entirely  different  rea- 

Lawrence  Langner  describes  his 
"Don  Juan"  as  an  English  version  of 
Henri  Bataille's  "L'Homme  It  la  Rose". 
It  might  almost  be  called  a  smoking 
car  version  of  it.  There  are  ways  and 
ways  of  telling  a  slightly  risque  anec- 
dote, and  all  depends  on  the  telling. 
Many  a  wretch,  who  does  not  quite 
have  the  knack  of  it,  has  embarrassed 
himself  and  his  hostess  by  trying  to 
tell  the  delightful  one  he  heard  at  just 
the  same  sort  of  dinner  party  the 
night  before.  Lawrence  Langner 
lacks  the  manner.  His  "Don  Juan", 
robbed  of  the  flickering  fantasy  and 
irony  which  gives  "L'Homme  k  la 
Rose"  its  charm,  becomes  merely 
naughty  and  stodgy  and  occasionally 

The  play  which  Todi  Cushing  fash- 



ioned  from  ''Blood  and  Sand"  pre- 
serves quite  successfully  much  of  the 
color  and  glitter  of  the  book.  The  be- 
ginning, while  Gallardo  is  nervously 
preparing  for  the  corrida,  is  especially 
good.  Running  through  these  early 
scenes  there  is  the  flutter  and  quiver 
and  expectancy  of  a  bright  festival 
day  in  Spain.  But  atmosphere  alone 
cannot  make  a  play.  Gallardo  tumbles 
from  his  high  place  because  of  his  in- 
fatuation for  Dofia  Sol;  but,  in  the 
play,  we  see  them  alone  together  only 
twice.  On  the  first  occasion  he  makes 
fervid  love  to  her,  and  carries  her  out 
into  the  garden  ''where  it  is  dark'\ 
On  the  second,  near  the  end  of  the 
play,  he  accuses  her  of  wrecking  his 
life.  Why  their  liaison  (about  which 
the  play  was  written)  is  kept  so  rig- 
orously off  the  stage  is  perplexing.    It 

was  tantalizing  enough,  surely,  to  have 
a  bull  fight  going  on  just  out  of  sight. 

The  pleasantest  memory  we  have  of 
"The  Blue  Lagoon",  a  dramatization 
of  H.  de  Vere  Stacpoole's  novel,  is  the 
death  of  Paddy.  Paddy  was  as  dear 
an  old  salt  as  ever  had  a  way  with  the 
children.  He  had  been  teUing  tot 
stories  to  the  two  little  castaways  for 
hours  and  hours  and  hours.  Then  he 
ate  the  "never-wake-up  berries".  At 
once  it  was  plain  that  he  was  a 
stricken  man,  and  presently  he  began 
to  die.  He  took  a  long  time  about  it ; 
he  never  did  anything  in  a  hurry,  this 
old  sailorman,  but  he  did  it  thorough- 
ly. He  died  a  perfectly  frightful 
death,  and  not  a  twitch  or  a  kick  es- 
caped us.  When  he  finally  lay  still  we 
leaned  back  in  the  chair  with  a  satis- 
faction that  was  ghoulish. 


By  Robert  Hillycr 

I  MADE  a  slow  lament  for  you,  lost  magic 
Of  schoolboy  love  and  dreams  in  shadowed  places. 
Where  passed  in  visible  parade,  the  tragic 
Desires  of  vanished  gods  and  women's  faces. 

On  violins  beneath  long,  undisputed 
New  England  orchards  sombred  by  the  spirit 
Of  endless  autunm,  I  awoke  the  muted 
Strings  of  your  lament,  but  none  could  hear  it. 

Except,  perhaps,  one  passerby,  who  skirted 
The  upland  fields  in  that  avoided  spot; 
And,  marveling  at  the  music  in  deserted 
Orchards,  hurried  on,  and  soon  forgot. 


New  York,  October,  1921. 

HE  nearly  scared  her  to  death,  the 
young  woman  secretary  who 
arose  as  he  entered  to  receive  him. 
He  was  such  a  spectacle  as  she  had 
never  before  seen  close  up,  and  never 
in  the  respectable  surroundings  of  a 
business  office.  In  effect  what  is  com- 
monly described  as  an  "old  bum".  His 
toes  were  sticking  out  He  hadn't 
shaved  for  perhaps  a  week.  The  di- 
lapidated garment  which  he  would 
have  called  his  coat  was  several  sizes 
too  large  for  him.  He  informed  the 
young  woman  that  he  had  a  manu- 
script which  he  had  called  to  discuss. 
It  was  the  office  of  a  'literary  agent". 
The  gentleman  dealing  in  literature 
asked  him  the  nature  of  his  manu- 
script. He  replied  that  it  was  "about 
feet".  "About  feet  I"  "Yes."  He  had 
never  shown  it  before,  he  said ;  but  he 
had  been  working  at  it  for  more  than 
fifteen  years.  He  tugged  at  one  of  the 
side  pockets  of  his  great  coat,  and  pro- 
duced a  huge  wad  of  ancient,  ragged, 
and  grimy  paper.  This  proved  to  be  the 
most  extraordinary  work  of  literary 
intention  that  this  literary  agent  had 
ever  seen.  The  singular  author  must 
have  spent  something  like  a  lifetime 
at  it.  He  had  covered  most  exhaus- 
tively the  subject  of  feet.  He  had 
ransacked  Shakespeare,  army  orders, 
a  bewildering  variety  of  novels,  appar- 
ently endless  newspapers.  He  must 
have  spent  more  hours  in  a  library 
than  ever  did  Leslie  Stephen.  And  in 
his  consuming  passion  for  the  fasci- 
nating subject  of  feet  he  had  been 
more  than  utterly  ruthless  with  a  pen- 
knife. His  voluminous  manuscript 
was  largely  a  vast  array  of  clippings 
pasted  up. 

He  wanted  to  know,  this  grotesque 
apparition,  what  the  cost  would  be  of 
tsrping  his  manuscript.  About  fifteen 
dollars  was  suggested  as  a  reasonable 
sum  for  the  work.  Too  much,  he  said ; 
the  manuscript  would  have  to  go  back 
to  his  trunk,  where  it  had  been  for  five 
years.  Well,  what  did  he  owe  for  the 
trouble  he  had  given?  He  was  told 
not  anything.  Oh,  yes  I  he  said;  he 
always  paid  as  he  went.  He  put  his 
hand  deep  down  into  his  trouser 
pocket  and  brought  forth  a  pretty 
corpulent  roll  of  bills,  at  the  same  time 
casting  an  eye  at  the  clock.  He  had 
taken  up  probably  twenty  minutes  of 
time,  he  said,  and  he  wanted  to  pay 
for  it — ^people  could  not  be  in  business 
for  nothing.  If  nothing  could  be  paid, 
then  have  some  cigars.  He  took  from 
that  capacious  mantle  a  large  handful 
of  cigars,  laid  them  on  the  table,  and 
made  his  adieu.  There  were,  said  my 
friend  in  telling  me  of  this  matter,  all 
kinds  of  cigars  you  can  think  of. 

The  writing  "bug"  is,  indeed,  a 
curious  thing.  The  highly  attractive 
and  picturesque  character  whom  I 
have  just  endeavored  to  depict  was 
obviously  of  the  purest  tsrpe  of  disin- 
terested student.  A  much  more  fre- 
quent phenomenon  is  the  simple  soul 
with  thoroughly  utilitarian  motive. 
There  are  apparently  multitudes  of 
those  affecting  beings  who  innocently 
consider  that  to  write  is  to  have,  as  I 
one  time  heard  the  matter  delightfully 
put,  "a  fortune  in  your  fingers".  The 
other  day  a  "literary  adviser"  to  a 
prominent  publishing  house  received 
in  his  morning  batch  of  mail  this  let- 




Dear  sir: 

I  found  yonr  name  in  the  Curler  Jonmal  of 
Lonisvllle,  Ky.,  and  to  I  thonght  I  wonid  write 
yon  and  see  what  yon  think  of  the  proppotitian 
I  hare  to  offer.  I  beliere  I  can  walk  acroM 
the  United  States  on  my  hands  and  feet  in . 
one  year  starting  from  the  State  of  N.  C.  to 
Sanfransisco,  Calif,  and  never  get  np  only  for 
sleep  at  night — if  yon  think  there's  iny  thing 
to  it  just  give  me  a  hearing  it  can  be  done  and 
I  am  fool  enough  to  try  it  altho  its  a  feat  that 
will  be  well  won  if  you  are  not  interested  give 
me  the  address  of  some  magasine  that  you 
think  would  be.  I  was  in  the  Army  seven  or 
eight  years  and  I  know  what  hard  ships  are 
I'l  make  the  trip  on  my  hands  (and  feet)  (all 
fores)  for  so  much  and  my  expenses  which  will 
be  small  During  that  time. 

So  thanking  yon  Gentlemen  for  your  trouble 
I  remain  Tours  Respectfully 

This  letter  was  written  from  a  small 
town  in  North  Carolina.  The  "proppo- 
titian" set  forth  presumably  was  that 
the  house  addressed  should  advance 
the  amount  that  would  be  required  for 
expenses  by  this  gentleman  during  his 
expedition  on  all  ''fores"  from  N.  C.  to 
CsJif .,  together  with  an  additional  "so 
much"  in  cash  payment,  and  in  return 
have  the  privilege  of  reaping  the  har- 
vest from  the  publication  of  his  ac- 
count of  the  picturesque  adventure. 
Though  he  does  not  mention  that  he 
is  a  writer,  and  possibly  he  assumed 
that  the  publishers  would  be  glad  to 
send  along  a  man  equipped  with  the 
faculty  necessary  for  covering  that 
minor  part  of  the  enterprise.  His 
own  highly  colorful  style,  however,  to 
judge  from  the  sample  submitted,  one 
might  regard  as  a  peculiarly  happy 
style  for  such  a  narrative.  But  this 
house  was  a  rather  conservative  one, 
and  so  the  novel  idea  had  no  business 
interest  for  the  firm. 

Written  in  pencil  on  paper  carrying 
the  letter-head  of  the  American  Red 
Cross,  another  letter: 

From  Prv.  Peter  M.  Johnson, 

A  natural  Poet, 
Just  Back  from  France. 

Sir,  As  a  **natnral   Poet"  I  has  Wrote  thou- 
sands of  Poems.    War  and  reconstruction-ones. 

Sir,  I  am  WiUing  to  enter  and  agrement  With 
You  to  that  end. 

Sincerely.      Yourt 

This  letter  was  received,  some  time 
ago,  by  the  editor  of  an  American 
magazine  of  literary  character.  The 
"end"  sought  to  be  arrived  at  by  Prv. 
Johnson  is  not  definitely  presented, 
but  the  implication  is  fairly  clear  that 
he  had  expectations  that  the  magazine 
would  proceed  to  sign  up  with  him  as 
a  star  contributor. 

One  of  the  curious  ideas  firmly 
rooted  in  the  minds  of  a  large  class  of 
persons  strongly  tempted  to  "write"  is 
that  they  have  the  fundamental  quali- 
ties for  the  purpose  but  lack  the  su- 
perficial accomplishment  needful  for 
taking  their  material  and  "whipping 
it  into  shape".  The  following  com- 
munication to  a  literary  agent  is  a 
typical  presentation  of  this  fanciful 
conception  of  the  affair  of  writing: 

Win  you  kindly  pass  judgement  on  the  en- 
closed and  put  it  up  in  the  proper  shape  for 
sale.  I  have  a  good  many  ideas  but  have 
neither  the  time  to  put  stories  into  shape  or 
the  vocabulary  to  make  them  presentable. 

Ho,  that  handsome  word  voeabU' 
lary!  It  always  means  something 
knowing,  all  right,  if  you  don't  know 
just  what.  I  one  time  worked  (as  edi- 
tor) for  a  man  who  owned  a  trade 
journal.  He  would  come  in  with  a 
number  of  little  "editorials"  (as  he 
called  them)  which  he  had  'Svritten 
out".  "Just  run  your  vocabulary  over 
these  for  the  paper,"  he  would  say. 
Like  a  lawn  mower,  perhaps.  To 
smarten  up  a  bit  the  external  look  of 

Another  curious  thing.  A  great 
many  people  untutored  in  the  elemen- 
tary principles  of  creative  production 
seem  to  have  a  pleasant  notion  that  if 
you  miss  your  aim  in  one  form  of  en- 
deavor all  you  have  to  do  is  to  take  an- 
other chance  with  your  product  at  a 
different  objective.    Here  are  two  let- 



ters  written  to  a  literary  agent  which 
well  illustrate  this  simplicity  of 
thought.  One  letter  refers  to  the 
manuscript  which  it  accompanied 

If  it  wUl  not  measure  np  to  the  technical 
demands  of  a  short  story  then  perhaps  it  may 
be  used  as  a  motion  play  production. 

An  esoteric  thing  like  the  "tech- 
nical demands"  of  the  performance  to 
which  he  has  applied  himself  is  appar- 
ently a  little  matter  which  does  not 
concern  this  writer.  Indeed,  tech^ 
niqtie  is  a  word  which  you  may  often 
hear  pronounced  by  those  innocent  of 
a  knowledge  of  art  with  somewhat  the 
same  inflection  employed  by  ''prac- 
tical" men  when  they  say  'theoreti- 
cal". The  other  letter  is  without  ar- 
rogance; it  runs  so: 

Dear  Sir :  find  enclosed  a  MS.  please  let  me 
know  what  yon  think  of  it.  If  not  fit  for  a 
Photoplay  i  wonld  like  for  yon  to  transfer  it  to 
a  short  story  and  want  yon  to  write  it  oyer  as 
if  yon  yourself  were  going  to  submit  it,  i  am 
just  a  new  beginn^  and  if  you  think  that  i 
could  ever  write  i  would  take  training,  i  have 
several  other  MS.  trusting  that  you  will  take 
a  consious  interest. 

One  aspiring  author  sends  along  a 
worldly  word  of  suggestion  to  the  lit- 
erary agent.  Concerning  his  manu- 
script he  advises  this:  "If  the 
women's  magazines  do  not  care  for  it, 
I  should  cut  out  the  profanity  and  try 
it  on  the  religious  periodicals."  A 
lady  who  has  written  what  at  first  she 
describes  as  a  "fairy  drama"  writes 
that  "when  you  have  read  the  play 
with  a  view  to  the  composition  of  the 
music  for  it  I  think  you  will  find  it  is 
what  might  be  called  a  slightly  heavy 
light  opera".  She  had  been  working 
hard  to  get  it  done,  "along  with  an-t 
other  rather  heavy  piece  of  work  I 
have  undertaken  in  the  last  two 
months,  which  is  a  90,000  word  novel". 
And  "at  present"  she  is  engaged  on 
"an  historical  drama",  and  also  a  "me- 
dieval drama".    She  concludes :  "That 

is  all  the  drama  I  have  attempted  to 
write.  I  did  not  begin  to  try  to  write 
anything  until  the  First  of  Feb.  this 
year  so  my  experience  is  not  veiy 
broad  yet."  A  very  conscientious  au- 
thor who  seeks  expert  advice  in  a 
minor  point  writes : 

I  am  enclosing  herewith  a  short  story  o( 
about  1800  words,  entitled  *'A  Scream.*'  Kind- 
ly notice  on  page  5,  in  the  last  line,  whether  I 
have  spelt  **mumble  peg"  (the  game  boys  play 
with  a  knife)  correctly,  and  if  not  please  eor- 
rect.    Thanking  you. 

A  person  of  commendably  cautious 
disposition  who  is  not  going  to  appear 
over-eager  in  the  eyes  of  a  strange 
bird  such  as  a  literary  agent  says: 

I  saw  an  ad  in  a  magasine  about  the  market- 
ing of  short  stories,  or  something  to  that  effect 
This  is  of  mild  interest  to  me,  so  would  like 
more  detailed  information. 

A  considerable  body  of  persons  in 
their  early  seekings  to  place  manu- 
scripts have  evidently  hit  upon  the 
wild  notion  that  the  literary  agent 
"stands  in",  so  to  say,  with  all  maga- 
zine editors — ^that  all  they  have  to  do 
is  to  get  into  his  good  graces,  and  that 
then  he  will,  in  the  political  manner, 
"fix"  things.  The  literary  agent,  of 
course,  has  the  drop,  so  to  say,  on  the 
novice  author  only  in  this:  that  he 
has  made  it  his  business  to  know 
which  magazine,  or  publishing  house, 
is  the  best  bet  for  this  or  for  that 
The  literary  agent  is  of  service  to  the 
author  who