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Ex libris Henry S. Saunders 

VMiitman Collection 

(Jontinuous Ecstasy ' 

MY THIRTY YEARS WAR: An Autobiography. 
By Margaret Anderson. New York: Covici- 
Friede. 1930. $4. $A^,1u4r, ^/uf. «Ta«<^ 

Reviewed by R. N, Linscott f^, ^^iO 
^k S every literary left-winger knows, Margaret 
/ ^ Anderson was the founder and editor of the 
M. Jk Little Review^ that admirable and militant 
magazine, "making no compromise with the public 
taste," which was born in Chicago in 1914, moved 
to New York in 1924, and died in Paris in 1929. 
For fifteen years she fought the good fight and 
now, in the best military tradition, she has justified 
her battles in a volume of memoirs. 

At the age of twenty-one, Margaret Anderson 
decided that "it was time to confer upon life that 
inspiration without which life is meaningless." She 
thereupon started the Little Review. Neither critic 
nor creator, she was a magnificent literary impres- 
sario. Her Rooseveltian enthusiasms, her Napole- 
onic self-confidence, her really sublime courage and 
pertinacity in sounding the tocsin for literary liberty 
are faithfully mirrored in these uncommonly vivid 
reminiscences. She performed the miracle of pub- 
lishing a magazine without resources, of getting the 
best " M, <3uinu32 J!*^Voioa„ aqj i and of living, 
mean^fi-y^ s9Aii jno J3<J5S oj 9jb k spiritual inebria- 
tion ^^^ o^ ,m 3JE jj|iAv,, aqj puB ^^aoj.soul lir— jn a 
we't^-^^Tw 33U9D113J puB XjipjauaS ajsqAv (^^uiBjp; 
w"^ ^^ am puB ^^3DioA,, aqj uo) aAqBDiunujuiooun si 
^^ jix^ 'snopjBZBq puB XjESSaoauun qioq si uopBog 
lOads 9J3qM (ubiu ui spAa^ aajqj aqj puB ^/smbj^, 
oAvi aqj ^^'uisi|Bnpj, ajjq sjuiod uo) saijpads ij 'ajnj 
-Buiuit puB 3jniBtu9jd 3DUO ;b josdsB UB 'jib pastA 
-ojduii 'XjsBq B SBq pSuBAa jo luaoj m3U sii ui paajo 
jiaqi iaX — sn Suoujb spuim SuiuiBjsns-jps SuiX^a.r 
-jps Xpo aqj isoiup — spuiiu jsadu jno Suouib ojb 
jjiqqBg puB ajop^ *SJSS3j/\[ •Xjjadojd ua\o sji j-aod3j 
JO X3UUB UBD ji 9jopq o^B^nuiJopj pUB 3ZlUr;jgj03J OJ 
— qonui Xj9A — qoniu SBq juids iBqi iBqj 3A9ipq os[b 
J jnq '.ujsiuBuinq Avau aqj puiqaq saq jBqi luids 
aqi 01 sSuopq ajmnj aqi jBqj aAsipq j -jadujsj 
joqi SI — anpA s;i jpq jo ajnsuao isnf sqoj jBqM 

AVOABSlp pUB 3A0jddBSip \ JBqM ^jnDUOD J SUJSp 

-pUD DtJTDads jpqj JO XuBUI U3A3 |BJ9A9S qi|^ 

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IjBj Xaqj 'XpsB[ '. uisiuvmnii m 'juaiuSpnf ui 'auqdp 
-sip UI ajnpBj JO '2uiq3B3j uavo jpqi oj XouBajc^aj 
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The Little Review 

Literature Dra?7ia Music Art 



MARCH. 1914 

A Letter «^o^« Galsworthy 3 

"The Dark Flower" and the "MorallstB" . Margaret C. Anderson 5 

Five Japanese Prints Arthur Davison Fiche 5 

A EemarkaWe Nletzschean Drama BeWitt C. Wing 8 

The Lost Joy Floyd Dell 10 

Paderewskl and the New Gods The Editor 11 

The Major Symphony George Soule 13 

The Prophet of a New Culture George Burman Foster 14 

How a Little Girl Danced Nicholas Vachel Lindsay 18 

The New Note Sherwood Anderson 23 

Eahel Vamhagen: Feminist Margery Currey 25 

Tagore as a Dynamic George Soule 32 

The Meaning of Bergsonism Llewellyn Jones 38 

Eupert Brooke's Poetry 29 

Ethel Sldgwlck's "Succession" 34 

Letters of William Vaughn Moody 24 

Emerson's Journals 42 

The Critics' Critic 20 

New York Letter . 43 


Fine Arts Building 


Volume 1 
Number 1 

Copyrlgbt, 1914, by 
Margaret C. Andereon 

25 cents a copy 
$2.50 a year 

Some Scribner Spring Books 

Notes of a 
Son and 

By Henry James 

Illustrated, $B.50 net; post- 
age extra 

This is the continuation of 
the account, in "A Small B07 
and Others," of the early 
years of William and Henry 
James and their brothers, with 
much about their father and 
their friends. The story of the 
life in Switzerland and Geneva, 
and later on in Newport and 
Cambridge, tells not only their 
own experiences but a great 
deal about such men as John 
LaFarge, Hunt, Professor Nor- 
ton, Professor Childs, and Ralph 
Waldo Emerson, who was a 
close friend of Henry James, 
Senior. The description of the 
Civil War time and of Wilkin- 
son James's experiences with 
Colonel Shaw's colored regi- 
ment are particularly interest- 
ing. The illustrations are from 
drawings made by William 
James in the early part of his 
career when he was studying to 
be a painter. 

Shallow Soil 

By Knut Hamsun 

Translated from the Norwe- 
gian by Carl Chr. Eyllested 
$1.35 net; postage extra 

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

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

A Village Romeo 
and Juliet 

By Gottfried Keller 

With a Biographical and 
Critical Introduction by 
Edith Wharton. Translated 
by A. C. Bahlmann. $1.00 
net; postage extra 

This love story of Swiss peas- 
ant life — whose title conveys 
the character of its plot — is 
generally regarded as the finest 
and most representative pro- 
duction of the great Swiss 
novelist. But it has a stUl 
further element of interest be- 
yond that which necessarily 
attaches to so fine a piece of 
writing — the singularly modern 
spirit which actuates the char- 
acters and inspires the writer. 

Plays by 



Translated from the Norwe- 
gian, with Introductions, by 
Edwin Bjorkman. Each with 
Frontispiece. $1.50 net; pott- 
age extra 

Second Series 

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

Plays by 
Bjornstjerne Bjornson 

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

Translated from the Norwe- 
gian, with an Introduction, 
by Edwin BjorJcman. Front- 
ispiece. $1.50 net; by mail 

Charles Scribner's Sons 

Second Nights 

By Arthur Ruhl, author of 
' ' The other Americans, ' ' etc. 
$1.50 net; by mail, $1.64 

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

The Fugitive: 

A Play in Four Acts 

By John Galsworthy 
60 cents net; postage extra 
This is the tragic story of a 
woman who tries to escape 
from the bondage of social con- 
ventions. Clare, the heroine, 
strikes the key-note of the 
whole play when, in the last 
act, she says to the young man 
she has never seen before: 

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

It has a deep significance 
when taken in connection with 
the feminist movement of to- 

Mural Painting 
in America 

By Edwin H. Blashfibld 

Illustrated, $2.Q 0_^e t; post- 
age exWlfft 

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

— T?w American AroMteet. 

Fifth Avenue, New York 

The Little Review 

MARCH, 1914 


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

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

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

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

reason we feel that we needn't be accused 
of an unthinking " all's-right-with-the- 
world" attitude when we assert that life 
is glorious. 

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

The Little Review 

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

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

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

Feminism.? A clear-thinking mag- 
azine can have onl}' one attitude; the 
degree of ours is ardent ! 

Finally, since The Little Review, 
which is neither directly nor indirectly 
connected in any way with any organ- 
ization, society, company, cult or move- 
ment, is the personal enterprise of the 
editor, it shall enjoy that untrammelled 
liberty which is the life of Art. 

And now that we've made our formal 
bow we may say confidentially that we 
take a certain joyous pride in confessing 
our 3'outh, our perfectly inexpressible 
enthusiasm, and our courage in the face 
of a serious undertaking; for those 
qualities mean freshness, reverence, and 
victory ! At least we have got to the 
age when we realize that all beautiful 
things make a place for themselves 
sooner or later in the world. And we 
Iwpe to be very beautiful ! 

If 3'ou've ever read poetry with a 
feeling that it was your religion, your 
very life; if you've ever come suddenly 
upon the whiteness of a Venus in a dim, 
deep room ; if you've ever felt music 
replacing 3'our shabby soul with a new 
one of shining gold; if, in the early 
morning, 3"ou've Watched a bird with 
great white wings fly from the edge of 
the sea straight up into the rose-colored 
sun — if these things have happened to 
you and continue to happen till you're 
left quite speechless with the wonder of it 
all, then you'll understand our hope to 
bring them nearer to the common ex- 
perience of the people who r^^us. 

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

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

Life is like music; it must be composed by 
ear, feeling and instinct, not by rule. — The 
Note-Boohs of Samuel Butler. 

The Little Review 

A Letter from Galsworthy 

Written from Taormina, February 23, 1914. 

My Dear Madam: 

You ask me to bid your magazine 
good speed; and so far as I have any 
right, I do indeed. It seems you are 
setting out to watch the street of Life 
from a high balcony, wliere at all events 
the air should be fresh and sunrise some- 
times visible. I hope you will decide to 
sleep out there under the stars, for what 
kills most literary effort is the hothouse 
air of temples, clubs, and coteries, that, 
never changed, breeds in us by turn 
febrility and torpor. Enthusiasms are 
more convincing from those who have 
not told their loves too often. And 
criticism more poignant from one who 
has been up at dawn, seen for himself 
and put down his impression before he 
goes on 'Change. There is a saying of 
de Maupassant about a writer sitting 
down before an object until he has seen 

it in the way that he alone can see it, 
seen it with the part of him which makes 
him This man and not That. For the 
creative artist and the creative critic 
there is no rule, I think, so golden. And 
I did seem to notice in America that 
there was a good deal of space and not 
much time ; and that without too much 
danger of becoming " Yogis " people 
might perhaps sit down a little longer 
in front of things than they seemed to 
do. But I noticed too a great energy 
and hope. These will be your servants 
to carry through what will not, surely, 
be just an exploit or adventure, but a 
true and long comradeship with effort 
that is worth befriending. 
So all good fortune ! 

Very faithfully yours, 

John Galsworthy. 

Five Japanese Prints 

Arthur Davison Ficke 


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

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

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

The Little Review 


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

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

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


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

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

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

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


O lady of the long robes, the slow folds flowing — • 
Lady of the white breast, the dark and lofty head — 
Dwells there any wonder, the way that thou art going — 

Or goest thou toward the dead.'' 

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

Or goest toward which deep. 

Thou laj^est th\' robes aside with gesture large and flowing - 
Is it for love or sleep — is it for life or death.-' 
I would my feet might follow the path that thou art going,. 

And thy breath be my breath. 

The Little Review 


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

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

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

"The Dark Flower" and the "Moralists' 

Margaret C. Anderson 

Tlie Baric Flower, by John Galsworthy. (Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.) 

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

INIy quite spontaneous tribute to Gals- 
worthy's Mark Lennan — before I'd 
heard anyone discuss him — was that 
here was a man a woman would be glad 
to trust her soul to. And, in view of 
how silly it is for a woman to trust her 
soul to anyone but herself, I still insisted 
that one could do it with Mark Lennan : 
because he'd not take charge of anyone's 

soul ! — his wife's least of all. Of course, 
to love a man of his sort would mean 
unhappiness ; but women who face life 
with any show of bravery face unhappi- 
ness as part of the day's work. It re- 
mains to decide whether one will reach 
high and break a bone or two over some- 
thing worth having, or play safe and 
take a pale joy in one's unscarred con- 
dition. With Mark Lennan a woman 
would have had — a la Browning — her 
perfect moment ; and such things are 
rare enough to pay well for, if necessary. 

All of which is making a very personal 
issue of The Dark Flower; but it's 
the kind of book you've got to be per- 
sonal about; you revise your list of 
friends on a basis of their attitude toward 

After I'd finished The Dark Flower 
— and it had never occurred to my na'ive 
mind that anyone would disagree with 
me about it — various persons began to 
tell me how wrong I was. Mark Lennan 
was a cad and a weakling — decidedly 
the kind of person to be kept out of a 
good novel. The very beauty of the 


The Little Review 

book made it insidious, someone said; 
such art expended in defense of immoral- 
ity would soon tend to confuse our stand- 
ards. Someone else remarked patroniz- 
ingly : " Oh, The Dark Floicer may be 
well done and all that, but personally 
I've always had a passion for the nor- 
mal!" But, most maddening of all, I 
think, were those readers of thrillers, of 
sweet, sentimental stories — those per- 
sons who patronize comic opera exclu- 
sively because they " see enough tragedy 
in life to avoid it in the theater " — who 
asked earnestly : " But, after all, what's 
the use of such books? What possible 
good do they do? " 

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

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

In the second place — the great mat- 
ter of style. Every page shows the very 

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

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

As to the lesson of The Dark Flower 
— its philosophy, its "moral" — I can 
only say that it hasn't any such thing; 
that is, while it's full to the brim of 
philosophy, it doesn's attempt to force 

The Little Review 

a philosophy upon you. It offers you 
the truth about a human being and lets 
it go at that — which seems to be the 
manner of not a few who have written 
greatly. For the other sort of thing, go 
to an}' second-rate novelist you happen 
to admire ; he'll give you characters who 
have a hard time of it and tell you just 
where they're right and where they're 
wrong. I can see how you feel you're 
getting more for your money. 

I can't help feeling that everything 
Galsworthy has done has had its special 
function in making The Dark Flower 
possible. The sociology of Fraternity, 
the passionate pleading of Justice and 
Strife, the incomparable emotional ex- 
periments of A Commentary, the intel- 
lectuality of The Patrician — all these 
have contributed to the noble simplici- 
ties and the noble beauty of The Dark 

The Garden 

My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own, 
Into thy garden; thine be happy hours 

Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers, 
From root to crowning petal thine alone. 

Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown 
Up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers. 

But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowers 
To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown. 

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

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

— Alice MeyneU's Poems. (Charles Scribner's Sons.) 

The Little Review 

A Remarkable Nietzschean Drama 

DeWitt C. Wing 

Mr. Faust, by Arthur Davison Ficke. (Mitchell Kennerley, New York.) 

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

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

Mr. Fausfs creator may have no con- 
scious knowledge of Whitman's poetry, 
which is a matter of no moment, but he 
has read Nietzsche, and that is moment- 
ous — indispensable — in relation to this 
splendid result of white-heat intellection. 
I say intellection because Mr. Fmist is 
not so much a work of art as a remark- 
able example of reproduction. I know 
that, although the thought and feeling 
of the work rise in places to the power 
of an inspiration wholly personal to the 
author, never " Thus Spake Zarathu- 
stra." For that is an original, authentic 
voice which, like everything else in 
nature, has no substitute or duplicate. 

I can fancy a strong, health}', organ- 
ically cultured young man, just begin- 
ning to feel his way into the realities 
that lie outside the American cornbelt, 
by chance taking a peep into one of 

Nietzsche's great books, and, fascinated 
and quickened by that marvelously con- 
tagious god, leaping to new heights of 
his own manhood. I should guess that 
in this instance the young man, who 
happens to be a lawyer, thirty-one years 
old, living at Davenport, la., was tem- 
porarily Christianized by bad luck, illness 
or something of the sort, and in this 
extremity, kicked by Nietzsche, experi- 
enced the feeling of personal adequacy 
to which Mr. Faust gjves utterance. 
Recovering himself, he avowed his own 
godhood, even to the last ditch ! And 
that is the triumphant Youth — the 
Nietzsche — of the thing. 

A day or two subsequent to the ap- 
pearance of Mr. Ficke's book upon the 
market I had the pleasure of hearing it 
read, with well-nigh perfect s\'mpathy 
and appreciation, by the foremost Nietz- 
schean expositor in this country. Like 
other listeners I was amazed, charmed 
and aroused. Were these results refer- 
able to the play alone or in part to the 
reader, or to both.'' To what extent, I 
was compelled to ask, was the effect 
illusory or hypnotic.'* I had read some 
of Ficke's verse, which had given no 
intimation of anything in its author so 
heroically Nietzschean as Mr. Faust. I 
had consequently tabbed Ficke as pi'ob- 
ably a poetic possibility, provided he 
lived a dozen j-ears in an involuntary 
hell, undergoing a new birth. Enter- 
taining the doubts indicated by my ques- 
tions, I read Mr. Faust to myself, trying 
it in my fashion by the trees, the stars 
and the lake. Subjected to this test the 
play did not have the ring and lift which 

The Little Review 


I had heard and felt when it was read — 
perhaps I should say given an added 
vitality — by a Nietzschean philosopher. 
It now impressed me as an extraordinary 
tour de force, reaching in some of its 
passages a species of accidental trans- 

Written in blank verse, the superior 
quality of which is admirably sustained, 
the style of the drama is undeniably 
poetical, as Edwin Bjorkman, the editor 
of Mr. Kennerley's Modern Drama Se- 
ries, states in an interesting biograph- 
ical sketch: but where there is so much 
consciousness of workmanship — so 
much preoccupation with an imported 
idea instead of sweeping control by an 
inner, personal urge like that, for ex- 
ample, which produced Thus Spake 
Zarathusfra — poetry is not to be ex- 
pected. What surprises me is that, de- 
spite this restriction, ]\Ir. Ficke strides 
upward in many lines to the borderland 
of the gods. In the first three acts he 
writes as one possessed — as an intellec- 
tualist furiously interested in Amer- 
icanizing, if you please, the racial 
implications of the philosophy of a 
superhumanity which will always be as- 
sociated with the name of his temporary 
master, Nietzsche. In these acts there is 
a deal of amazing revealment of insight ; 
of aspiration for transcendent goals ; of 
the spiritual insatiability of man. And 
there is a cold humor. Underneath the 
whole thing lies its own by-product: 
social dynamite! 

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

Near the middle of the opening act, 
Faust, roused by an inquiring mind to 

an analytical protest against things as 
they are, says, 

. . . T would go 

Out to some golden sun-lighted land 

Of silence. 
That is poetical; it is cosmic in its feel- 
ing. Looking at a bust of Washington, 
he enviously — no, compassionately — 
. . . Not a star 

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

It is altogether too early in the morn- 
ing of humanity to expect to see this 
play or one like it on the stage. That 
it should be written by a young Amer- 
ican and published by a young English- 
man is enough to satisfy those who would 
enjoy its presentation, and those to 
whom it would be Greek or " unpleas- 
ant," whether they saw it or read it, must 
wait for its truth through their chil- 
dren — across the dusk ! 


The Little Review 

The Lost Joy 

Floyd Dell 

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

Consider the possibility — a book enti- 
tled Woman and Love, a book proving 
with logic and eloquence that woman 
ought to love, and that, unless she loved, 
the highest self-development was impos- 
sible to her and to the race ! 

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

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

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

And, curiously enoiiglt^he book ex- 
ists. It is Olive Schreiner's Woman and 
Labor. It is a wise book and a beautiful 
book. There are statistics in it, but there 
is eloquence flaming on every page. It 
is a book of the joy and the significance 
of work for women. 

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

H. G. Wells on America 

I came to America balancing between hope 
and skepticism. The European world is full 
of the criticism of America; and, for the mat- 
ter of that, America, too, is full of it; hostil- 
ity and depreciation prevail — overmuch; for, in 
spite of rawness and vehemence and a scum of 
blatant, oh! quite asinine, folly, the United 
States of America remains the greatest coun- 
try in the world and the living hope of man- 
kind. It is the supreme break with the old tra- 
dition; it is the freshest and most valiant 
beginning that has ever been made in human 
life. — The Passionate Friends. 

The Little Review 


Paderewski and the New Gods 

Margaret C. Anderson 

I SHALL keep always, as my most 
unforgettable memory, the thought 
of a certain afternoon during Paderew- 
ski's tour this 3'ear when he walked 
quietly back across the stage, in response 
to an encore, and played Schumann's 
Wanim. It was somehow heart-breaking. 
It was a more poignant questioning to 
me, than Arnold's 

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

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

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

The three most interesting human 
faces I know are Forbes-Robertson's, 
Kreisler's, and Paderewski's. In the 
English actor's there is a meeting of 

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


The Little Review 

his violin, you can never for a moment 
think of Paderewski without his piano. 
Not that he's less of a man, but that 
he's the most sensitized human instru- 
ment that ever dedicated itself to an art. 

To resort to the most overworked 
phrase in the language, Paderewski has 
a temperament. Somebody has said that 
no fat person ever possessed one; and 
after you've speculated about this till 
you begin to wonder what temperament 
really is, you can come back to Paderew- 
ski as the most adequate illustration. 
Ysaye is the best example I know of the 
opposite. When strength turns to fat 
. . . well, we'll not go into that ; but to 
make my point — and there's certainly 
nothing of personal maliciousness in it 
— it's necessary to reflect that obesity 
has some insidious influence upon artistic 
utterance. (Schumann-Heink is an art- 
ist in the best meaning of the word ; but 
no one ever talked of her and tempera- 
ment in the same breath, so she doesn't 
negate the issue.) But Ysaye's tepid, 
wingless, uninspired music- — his utterly 
sweet but fat music — that appears to 
attract thousands of people, is as lazily 
inadequate as its creator would 1 :c in a 
marathon. It's as though his visiosi ii- d 
dropped slowly away with every added 
pound of avoirdupois. Or perhaps it's 
because vision has a fashion of dropping 
away with age. . . . 

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

This is the secret of Paderewski's 
white magic. He's still the supreme god ! 
Bauer plays perfectly within the rules — 
exquisitely and powerfully — and misses 

the top height by the mere fraction of a 
mood, the simple lack of a temperament ; 
or, as O. Henry might have explained it, 
by the unfortunate encumbrance of a 
forty-two-inch belt. Hofman has an im- 
patience with his medium, apparently, 
that leaves his hearer unsatisfied with the 
piano ; while Paderewski, though he tran- 
scends the instrument, does so because of 
his love for the piano as a medium, and 
forces his hearer to agree with him that 
it's the supreme one. Godowsky forces 
things into the piano — pushes them in 
and makes them stay there ; Paderewski 
draws things out, always, and fills the 
world with them. 

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

The Little Review 


played to Chopin in the sun." 

I have still one great wish in the 
world : that some time I may hear Pade- 
rewski pla}'^ on a Mason and Hamlin — 
that piano of unutterable depth and 
richness. The fact that he's never used 
it is the one flaw in his performances, 
for no other instrument that I've heard 
gives you the same sense of drowning in 
great waves of warm sound. The com- 

bination would convince even the fol- 
lowers of the new gods. But, old or 
new, and even on his cold Steinway, no 
one has ever drawn from the piano the 
same quality of golden tone or dared 
such simplicity of singing as Paderewski. 
To put his genius into a sentence: no 
one has ever built so strong a bridge 
across the gulf that yawns between vision 
and accomplishment. 

The Major Symphony 

George Soule 

Round splendor of the harp's entoned gold 
Throbbing beneath the pleading violins — 
That hundred-choiring voice that wins and wins 

To over-filling song; the bright and bold 

Clamor of trumpets ; 'cellos that enfold 

Richly the flutes; and basses that like djinns 
Thunder their clumsy threatening, as begins 

The oboe's mystic plaint of sorrows old : — 

Are these the symphony ? No, it is will 
In passion striving to surmount the world. 
Growing in sensuous dalliance, sudden whirled 

To ecstasies of shivering joy, and still 

Marching and mastering, singing mightily, 
Consummate when the silence makes it free. 


The Little Review 

The Prophet of a New Culture 

George Burman Foster 

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

First of all, there are those who bor- 
row their panacea from religion. They 
demand a reform of the ecclesiastical life 
according to the sense and spirit of prim- 
itive Christianity. They propose to re- 
cover the religion of Jesus, and to find 
in it healing for all the diseases of the 
times. But this remedy is so compli- 
cated that it reveals rather than heals the 
whole disunity and distraction of our 
present life. It was Tolstoi, in garb of 
desert prophet, who would restore orig- 
inal Christianity. He preached a radical 
reversal of our cultural life — a monastic 
asceticism, a warfare against all life's 

impulses, on whose development our cul- 
ture is founded. And ecclesiastical lib- 
erals would do virtually the same thing 
when the}^ try to extract from the relig- 
ion of Jesus a food that shall be pala- 
table to modern taste, and then call their 
ragout, compounded according to their 
own recipe, " original " Christianity. 

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

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

All of them have one adverse thing in 
common : They would tear up an old 
tree by its roots, and put in its place 
another tree equall}^ as old and equally 
as rotten. There is something reaction- 
ary in all of them. They want to cure 
the present by the past. It is precisely 
this that cannot be done. If Christianity 
was once original, spontaneous, creative, 
it is so no more. We cannot lead an age 
back to Jesus, which has grown out be- 
yond him. And the Buddha-religion is 
no more youthful and life-giving than 
the Jesus-religion. It is indicative of the 
depth of the disgust and the extent of 
the confusion on the part of the man of 
today that such a hoary thing as Bud- 
dhism can make so great an impression 
upon him. A revived, renascent heathen- 
ism, even as compared with Christianity, 

The Little Review 


would mean a reactionary and outlived 
form of life. That men of moral en- 
deavor and scientific vision could hope 
for a substitute for Christianity, a con- 
quest over Christianity, in a rebirth of 
paganism, is a new riddle of the Sphinx. 

One way only remains out of the ab- 
erration and dividcdness of our present 
life: not backzcard, but forward! No 
winning of a religious view of the world 
in any other wa}^ ! No pursuit of the 
tasks of the moral life by those who seek 
a real part and place in the modern world, 
in any other way ! 

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

I do not know how many of you know 
the poet of Zarathustra. But if you do 
not know him, if you have never even 
heard his name, yet you do know him, 
for a part of him is in your own heart 
and hope. If you have ever thought 
seriously about yourself, if you have 
even tried to think seriously about your- 
self, 3'ou have taken up into yourself a 
part of Nietzsche as you have so thought. 
Even without your knowledge or inten- 
tion, you have passed into the world of 
thought for which the name of Nietzsche 
stands. It has been only now and then, 
in quite significant turning points in 
human history, and only in the case of 
the rarest of men, that such an influence 
has gone forth as from this man. Once 
in the horizon of his power, and you are 
held there as by magic. And yet not in 
centuries has a name been so reviled and 
blasphemed as his. Anathematized from 
the pulpit, ridiculed from the stage, de- 
molished by any champion of blatant and 
blind bourgeoisie, refuted regularly by 
pedants, he is still Friedrich Nietzsche, 
and, unlike most preachers, his congre- 

gation grows from year to yeav. News- 
papers, always sensitive to the pulse-beat 
of mediocrity, tell us that "the man is 
dead " ; that he belongs to the past ; that 
he is already forgotten. But he is more 
alive, now that he is dead, than he was 
when he was living. Dead in the flesh, 
he is alive in the spirit, as is so often 
the case. Superficial misunderstandings, 
transient externals, regrettable excres- 
cences — these were interred with his 
bones. The real and true Nietzsche lives, 
and has the keys of death and of hell. 
Who has the youth has the future — 
and this is why the future belongs to 
Nietzsche ; for no contemporary so gath- 
ers the 3^outh under his shining banner. 
And it is because the moral seething of 
our time, our struggle with questions of 
the moral life, are recapitulated and epit- 
omized in Nietzsche, that he stands out, 
like an Alpine apocalypse, as the new 
prophet of our new day. The mysterious 
need of a man to find himself in another, 
another in himself, as deep calls unto 
deep or star shines unto star, is met in 
the resources of the great personality of 

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

"The sea of faith 
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's 

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled," 

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

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

But the calm proves to be treacherous. 
The tide of the new faith now in the 
bible, and in the doctrine derived from 


The Little Review 

the bible, went back to sea, and now I 
only hear 

"Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 
Eetreating to the breath 

Of the night-wind down the vast edges drear 
And naked shingles of the world." 

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

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

morals — are not these perhaps a blun- 
der of history, an old hereditar^^ woe 
with which humanity is weighted down? 

This doubt — long and ominously ma- 
turing throughout the spiritual evolu- 
tion of our new time — finds its most 
radical, most conscious, and most elo- 
quent expression in Friedrich Nietzsche. 
He launches this doubt not only against 
all that has been believed and thought 
and done, but against all that men be- 
lieve and think and do toda3\ He shakes 
every position which men have held to 
be unshakable. An irresistible, diabolical 
curiosity impels him to transvalue all 
values with which men have reckoned, 
and to inquire whether they are values at 
all ; whether " good " must not be called 
evil, " truth " error. As Nietzsche ven- 
tures upon this experiment of his curios- 
ity, as he advances farther and farther 
with it, suddenly he laughs with an 
ironic, uproarious laughter. The experi- 
ment is a success ! In the new illumina- 
tion all the colors of life change. Light 
is dark, dark is light. What men had 
appraised as food, as medicine, evinced 
itself to be dangerous poison, miserably 
encompassing their doom. And since 
men believed that all the forces present, 
dying, poisoned culture, were resident 
in their " morals " and their " Christian- 
ity," it was necessary to smash the tables 
of these old values. In full conscious- 
ness of his calling as destroyer of these 
old tables, Nietzsche called himself the 
immoralist, the anti-Christ. Morals and 
Christianity signified to him the most 
dangerous maladies with which men were 
suffering. He considered it to be his 
high calling as savior to heal men of 
these maladies. He sprang into the 
breach as anti-Christ. Like Voltaire, he 
was the apostle and genius of disrespect 
— respectability was the only disgrace, 
popularity the only perdition. 

Nietzsche the Immoralist, Nietzsche 
the Antichrist ! Dare we write his name 

The Little Review 


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

Even Christianity, at its origin, in its 
young and heroic militancy, was not so 
amiable and harmless as we are wont to 
think. It, too, was born of the doubt of 
that whole old culture ; of the most rad- 

ical protest again status quo. It, too, 
leagued with all the revolutionary spirits 
of humanity. And it, too, revalued all 
the values of " faith " and " morals." 
What if this new Nietzschean spirit of 
life's universal reform, this creative, for- 
ward-striving genius of humanity, be 
once yet again embodiment and repre- 
sentative of life's essential element of 
rejuvenescence and growth? What if 
true prophets are alwaj's men of Sturm 
und Drang, men of divine discontent, 
fellow-conspirators with the Future? 
Anti-Christs ? These are they who blas- 
pheme the holy spirit of humanity. Im- 
moralists? These are they who say that 
life is good as it is, and therefore should 
sta}' as it " is" forever. Faith? This is 
directed, not to the past, but to the 
future; not to the certain, but to the 
uncertain. Faith is the venturesomeness 
of moral knighthood. Nietzsche was a 
Knight of the Future. 

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

18 The Little Review 

How a Little Girl Danced 

Nicholas Vachel Lindsay 

Being a Reminiscence of Certain Private Theatricals 
(Dedicated to Lucy Bates) 

Oh, cabaret dancer, 

I know a dancer 

Whose eyes have not looked 

On the feasts that are vain. 

/ know a dancer, 

I know a dancer, 

Whose soul has no bond 

With the beasts of the plain: 

Judith the dancer, 

Judith the dancer. 

With foot like the snow 

And with step like the rain. 

Oh, thrice-painted dancer. 

Vaudeville dancer. 

Sad in your spangles. 

With soul all astrain : 

I know a dancer, 

/ know a dancer. 

Whose laughter and Aveeping 

Are spiritual gain ; 

A pure-hearted, high-hearted 

Maiden evangel 

With strength the dark cynical 

Earth to disdain. 

Flowers of bright Broadway ! 

You of the chorus 

Who sing in the hope 

Of forgetting your pain : 

I turn to a sister 

Of sainted Cecelia, 

A white bird escaping 

The earth's tangled skein ! — 

The music of God 

In her innermost brooding! 

The whispering angels 

Her footsteps sustain ! 

The Little Review 19 

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

/ know a dancer 

Who finds the true God-head ; 

Who bends o'er a brazier 

In Heaven's clear plain. 

I know a dancer, 

/ know a dancer. 

Who lifts us toward peace 

From this Earth that is vain : — 

Judith the dancer, 

Judith the dancer, 

With foot like the snow, 

And with step like the r;iin. 

The Dream of the Children 

The children awoke in their dreaming 

While earth lay dewy and still: 
They followed the rill in its gleaming 

To the heart-light of the hill. 

From their feet as they strayed in the meadow 

It led through caverned aisles, 
Filled with purple and green light and shadow 

For mystic miles on miles. 

— From A. E.'s Collected Poems. 


The Little Review 

The Critics' Critic 

Galsworthy as a Greek 

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

"This Cyprian 

She is a million, million changing things; 

She brings more joy than any god, 

She brings 

More pain. I cannot judge her; may it be 

An hour of mercy when she looks on me." 

Galsworthy's hero was just a Greek, 
swayed b}' Aphrodite. There's no ques- 
tion of morals. And besides, he behaved 
pretty well — for a man ! 

The Case of Rupert Brooke 

I can't share The Little Review's 
estimate of Rupert Brooke. I'm re- 
minded inmiediateh' of something I 
found not long ago by Herbert Trench : 

"Come, let us make love deathless, thou and I, 

Seeing that our footing on the earth is brief, 

Seeing that her multitudes sweep out to die 

Mocking at all that passes their belief. 

For standard of our love not theirs we take 

If we go hence today 
Fill the high cup that is so soon to break 
With richer wine than they. 

Ay, since beyond these waUs no heavens 
there be, 
Joy to revive or wasted youth repair, 
I'll not bedim the lovely flame in thee 

Nor sully the sad splendor that we wear. 
Great be the love, if with the lover dies 

Our greatness past recall; 
And nobler for the- fading of those eyes 
The world seen once for all." 


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

I like better so far as the music of it is 
concerned ; and fully as well, perhaps, as 
far as ideas go. There is something rather 
conscious and posing in Mr. Trench's 
effort. And j^ou see why I think of him 
when I read Rupert Brooke. There is 
the same memento mori, the same hope- 
lessness of outlook. It seems a pity to 
me, when a man can write as well as 
Brooke does in The Hill and in that ex- 
quisite sonnet beginning " Oh ! Death 
will find me, long before I tire of watch- 
ing you," that he should waste his 
time on stupid, unpleasant c^'nicisms like 
Wag-7ier and that Channel Passage, in 
which he doesn't know which pain to 
choose — nausea or memory. I believe 
an Englishman can't achieve just the 
right degree of mockery and brutality 
necessary for such an effort. Take 
Heine, if you will — (I'm a Heine enthu- 
siast) ; he could do it with supreme ar- 
tistry. Do you remember the sea poems 
— especially the one where he looks into 
the depths of the sea, catches sight of 
buried cities and sees his lost love ("ein 
amies, vergessenes Kind")? It finishes 
with the captain pulling him in by the 
heels, crying, " Doktor, sind Sie des 
Teufcls?" Heine can touch filth and 
offer it to you, and you are rather 
amused — as at a child. But English- 

The Little Review 


men are too self-conscious for anything 
of that sort. You arc shocked and 
ashamed when they try it, feehng in a 
wa}' defiled yourself by reading. It irri- 
tates me, and I wish Mr. Brooke would 
stop it, right away. He's too worth while 
to waste himself. 

The Feminist Discussions 

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

In much the same frame of mind I 
read the articles that are appearing in 
the current magazines on the subject of 
feminism and militancy. Edna Kenton's 
in The Century is the only one that is 
content to give one side of the case. 
Decidedly, you will say on reading it, 
" That feller wins." The Atlantic prints 
an admirable article by W. L. George on 
Feminist Intentions, and follows it hasti- 
ly Avith a rebuttal by E. S. Martin 
{Much Ado About Women^, fearing, I 
imagine, lest it would seem to be bow- 
ing its venerable head before new, pro- 
fane altars. Life gets out a really excel- 
lent suffrage number, sane and logical 
and reasonable, and has followed it up 
ever since with all the flings it can collect 
against suffrage, militanc}^ or feminism 
in any form. A recent amusing instance 
of this is a letter by one Thomas H. 
Lipscomb, who signs himself, alack ! A 
^Modern Man, and adds that his name is 
legion. Judging by the terror in the 
communication Mr. Lipscomb's modern- 
ity goes back as far as the Old Testa- 
ment Proverbs, and the womanly ideal he 
so passionately upholds is in all respects 

the one the writer of this particular prov- 
erb acclaims. I have heard it used as a 
text so often, and have had it grounded 
into the very framework of my being so 
consistently, that it seems almost strange 
and irreverent to regard it with an alien 
and critical eye. And yet — j ust see what 
is expected of the poor thing: She 

Seeketh wool and flax and worketh willingly 
with her hands. 

Bringeth her food from afar. 

Eiseth while it is yet night and giveth meat 
to her household; 

Considereth a field, and buyeth it; with the 
fruit of her hands planteth a vineyard. 

Her candle goeth not out by night. 


Layeth her hands to the spindle; and her 
hands hold the distaff. 

Maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and deliv- 
ereth girdles unto the merchant. . . . 

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

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

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

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

For all this she is to 

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

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

To go back to The Atlantic, I find 
]Mr. George, who is in full sympathy 
with the movement of which he writes, 
classifying the demands of the feminists 
as follows : Economically, they intend to 


The Little E eview 

open every occupation to women ; they 
intend to level the wages of women ; in 
general, they wish to change the attitude 
of those who regard women's present 
inferiority to men (they franklj^ admit 
that there is inferiority in many re- 
spects) as inherent and insuperable, by 
demonstrating that it is due merely to 
long lack of thorough training — (an 
old friend, apparentl}^ in a new dress ! ) 
They wish also gradually to modify and 
change existing marriage laws so that 
they will be equally fair to both sexes. 

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

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

As I read further, however, the cat 
begins to poke a cautious head out of 
the bag. Women, Mr. Martin argues, 
are not responsible for the blessings the 

feminist movement is trying to bring 
them. It is men ! That is why he is so 
particular to tell us of the careful solici- 
tude of a father for his daughters. Men, 
right along, have procured all happiness 
for women: or, if not men exactly, at 
least a sort of Zeit Gebt — I believe he 
calls it " necessity'." And the poor de- 
luded feminists are simply the little boys 
running along by the side of the proces- 
sion and hollering. The procession is 
made up of vague forces, " working now- 
adays for the enlargement and better- 
ment of life for women " — forces, he 
quaintly complains, that are " making 
things go too fast their way already." 

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

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

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

The Little Review 


The New Note 

Sherwood Anderson 

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

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

In all the world there is no such thing 
as an old sunrise, an old wind upon the 
cheeks, or an old kiss from the lips of 
your beloved ; and in the craft of writing 
there can be no such thing as age in the 
souls of the young poets and novelists 
who demand for themselves the right to 
stand up and be counted among the sol- 
diers of the new. That there are such 
youths is brother to the fact that there 

are ardent young cubists and futurists, 
anarchists, socialists, and feminists ; it is 
the promise of a perpetual sweet new 
birth of the world ; it is as a strong wind 
come out of the virgin west. 

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

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

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

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


The Little Review 

Some Letters of William Vaughn Moody 

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

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

The following is typical: 

To Daniel Gregory Mason. 

Dear Dan: 

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

The metaphor is however happily inexact 
in your case, with Milton to retire to and Cam- 
bridge humming melodiously on the horizon. If 
you can only throttle your Daemon, or make 

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

I thoroughly envy you your stay at Milton — 
wrist, Daemon, and all. You must send me a 
lengthy account of the state of things at Cam- 
bridge. ... If the wrist forbids writing, 
employ a typewriter of the most fashionable 
tint — I will pay all expenses and stand the 

The Little Review 


breakage. I stipulate that you shall avoid 
blonds, however, they are fragile. 

"William Vaughn Moody. 

There are over a hundred letters here, 
written to Mr. INIason, Percy MacKaye, 
Richard Watson Gilder, Josephine Pres- 
ton Peabody, Edmund Clarence Sted- 
man, Henry Miller, Robert Morss 
Lovett, Ferdinand Schevill, and others; 
and every one of them shows Moody's 
remarkable gift of metaphor, his con- 
stant striving to "win for language 
some new swiftness, some rare compres- 
sion," his belief in the positive accept- 
ance of life, his paganism, " deeply 

spiritual, and as far as possible removed 
from the sensualism the thoughtless have 
found in it." Mr. Mason furnishes an 
introduction that is masterly ; and the 
first and final drafts of Hearths Wild 
Flower are included, proving vividly 
how this poet disciplined his rich imag- 
inative gifts, training away from a na- 
tive tendency to the rococo to the high, 
pure dignity that marks his finished 
verse. This volume is invaluable. Cer- 
tainly with two such authentic voices to 
boast of as Whitman's and Moody's 
this young country of ours has reason 
to be proud. M. C. A. 

A Feminist of a Hundred Years Ago 

Margery Currey 

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

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

The rare woman, here and there, who 
worships simple, direct thinking (which, 
after all, takes the most courage) will 
know how to value Rahel. Always she 
thought truthfully. The woman who 
has been filled with joyful new amaze- 
ment on finding that her only reliance is 
on herself — that she may not depend 
upon this person or that convention to 
preserve her happiness — will know how 
to value her. Just so far as any woman 
of todav has become interested in her 

own thoughts and work, is the originator 
of ideas, and knows the joy of making 
or doing something that more than all 
else in the world she wants to make or do, 
so far she is nearer to becoming of the 
size of this great woman. 

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


The Little Review 

but meeting them with a quiet, sincere 
inquirj" of the reason and truth they con- 

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

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

This passion for truth in her own 
thinking was the origin of her social 
value. Its stimulus to others was imme- 
diate, and her recognition through it of 

the important things in life made her 
detect at once those people and things 
that were original and valuable in them- 

" Rahel's most comprehensive signifi- 
cance," writes Ellen Key, " lay in aug- 
menting the productiveness, humanity 
and culture of her time by herself every- 
where seeking and teaching others to 
seek the truth; by everywhere encourag- 
ing them to manifest their own culture ; 
by imparting to others her profound 
wa}^ of looking at religion, men and 
women, literature and art; by judging 
everything according to its intrinsic 
value, not according to its deficiencies; 
by everywhere understanding, because 
she loved, and giving life, because she 
believed in liberty." 

Think always, ceaselessly ! — this was 
Rahel's cry. This, she said, is the only 
duty, the only happiness. To a young 
friend she wrote, begging that he keep 
ploughing through things afresh, tell- 
ing him that he " must always have the 
courage to hiii't himself with questioning 
and doubts ; to destroy the most com- 
fortable and beautiful edifice of thought 
— one that might have stood for life — 
if honesty demands it." And so, having 
thought out things in the most utter 
freedom, luihampered by old preconcep- 
tions, and finally unafraid of the stark- 
ness of the truths which she faced, she 
let nothing prescribed be her unchal- 
lenged guide or stand as a substitute 
for her own vigor and hardness of think- 
ing. This is why she said that she was 
revived by downright brutality, after 
being wearied by insincerity. 

A virtue, so called, had to give a very 
good accounting of itself to Rahel. She 
demanded that it answer a certain test 
before it could be called a piece of good- 
ness. For instance, in many cases she 
recognized in " performance of duty " 
mere acquiescence — a laziness of mind 
which does not bestir itself to ask what 

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right this duty has to impose itself. 
Patience to her was often lack of cour- 
age to seize upon a situation and change 
it to suit the imperative demand to ex- 
press oneself. " The more I see and 
meditate upon the strivings of this 
world," wrote Rahel, " the more insane 
it appears to me day by day not to live 
according to one's inmost heart. To do 
so has such a bad name, because simulacra 
of it are in circulation." Of these " simu- 
lacra " we are familiar in ever}' age — 
the amazing antics of certain self-staled 
" radicals," the unaccountable manifesta- 
tions of those who, while professing lib- 
erality of view, seem to have no standards 
of values in their extravagances of liv- 
ing. Rahcl could understand every 
nature except the insincere and unnat- 

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

Since it is reality and not appearance 
that alone could stand before Rahel's 
devastating scrutiny of human things, 
and since to her the highest personal 
morality consisted in being true, coercive 

marriage seemed to her the great social 
lie. How could one of her simple clarity 
of thinking be anything but outraged 
by the vulgarities of an average mar- 
riage.'' "Is not an intimacy without 
charm or transport more indecent than 
ecstasy of what kind so ever?" she de- 
mands. " Is not a state of things in 
which truth, amenity, and innocence are 
impossible, to be rejected for these rea- 
sons alone. ^" Of the evils in Europe 
she cries, " Slavery, war, marriage — and 
they go on wondering and patching and 
mending ! " Rahel believed that in the 
existing institution of marriage it was 
almost impossible to find a union in which 
full, clear truth and mutual love pre- 

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

Biographical facts are negligible here. 
Even comment on the intei*pretive in- 
sight of Ellen Key seems not to be essen- 
tial, though without it this book could 
not be. It is the personality of Rahel 
Vamhagen that matters, and the influ- 
ence of that personality on the men of 
her day. 

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


The Little Review 

Some Contemporary Opinions of 
Rahel Varnhagen 

Cornelia L. Axdersox 

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

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

Ellen Key writes : " How Rahel, with 
her lucidity of thought, would have ex- 
posed the modern superstition that it is 
in outward departments of work that 
woman gives expression to her human 
' individuality.' She sa^'s by true econ- 
omy 'nature keeps woman nearer to the 
plant ' ! This ' economy ' is easily under- 
stood; it is because the tender life is 
woman's creation and because that life 
requires tranquillity for its genesis and 
growth; because a woman taken up by 
the problems of external life ... no 
longer possesses the psychological qual- 
ifications which are indispensable in order 
that a child's soul may grow in peace and 
joy; because, in other words, children 

need mothers, not only for their physical 
birth but for their human bringing-up. 
Rahel hits the very center of the spir- 
itual task of motherhood when she says 
that if she had a child she would help 
it to learn to listen to its own inmost 
ego ; everything else she would sacrifice 
to this. . . . The progress or ruin of 
humanity depends, in Rahel's prophetic 
view, upon the capacity- of the mothers 
for performing their task." 

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

What Rahel's power over her contem- 
poraries was we may gather from what 

The Little Review 


they say of her who was " Rahel and 
nothing more : " 

Heine describes her as " the most in- 
spired woman in the universe." T. Mundt 
calls her "the sympathetic ner\'e of the 
time." The Austrian dramatist, Grill- 
parger, relates : " Varnhagen went home 
with me. As we passed his house, it oc- 
curred to him to introduce me to his wife, 
the aftei-wards so celebrated Rahel, of 
whom I then knew nothing. I had been 
strolling about all day and felt tired to 
death, and was, therefore, heartily glad 
when we were told that Frau Varnhagen 
was not at home. But as we came down 

tlie stairs, she met us and I submitted to 
my fate. But now the lady, — elderly, 
perhaps never handsomer, shriveled by 
illness, reminding me rather of a fairy, 
not to say a witch, — began to talk, and 
I was altogether enchanted. My weari- 
ness disappeared, or perhaps, rather, 
gave way to intoxication. She talked 
and talked till nearly midnight, and I 
don't know whether they turned me out 
or whether I went away of my own ac- 
cord. Never in my life have I heard 
anyone talk more interestingly. Un- 
fortunately it was near the end of my 
stay, and I could not repeat the visit." 

The Poetry of Rupert Brooke 

Margaret C. Anderson 
Foems, by Kupert Brooke. (Sidgwick and Jackson, London.) 

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

monotonous. For example, in the first 
sonnet of this collection: 

Oh ! Death will find me, long before I tire 
Of watching you; and swing me suddenly 

Into the shade and loneliness and mire 

Of the last land! There, waiting patiently, 

One day, I think, I'll feel a cool wind blowing, 
See a slow light across the Stygian tide. 

And hear the Dead about me stir, unknowing. 
And tremble. And I shall know that you 
have died, 

And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling 

Pass, light as ever, through the lightless host, 
Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam — 

Most individual and bewildering ghost! — 

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

There are about eighteen words in 
this one sonnet chosen with infinite pains ; 
and yet the effect of the whole is quite 


The Little Review 

unlabored — an effect of spontaneity re- 
duced to its simplest terms. 

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

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

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

High sat white Helen, lonely and serene. 

He had not remembered that she was so fair, 
And that her neck curved down in such a way; 

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

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

Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill, 
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely 

You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we 

Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing 

When we are old, are old. . . " "And when 

we die 
All's over that is ours; and life burns on 
Through other lovers, other lips," said I, 
— ' ' Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is 

won ! ' ' 

"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson 

Life is our cry. We have kept the faith ! " we 

said ; 
"We shall go down with imreluctant tread 
Eose-crowned into the darkness ! " . . . Proud 

we were, 
And laughed, that had such brave true things 

to say. 
— And then you suddenly cried, and turned 


Everything in it — with the exception 
of "kissed the lovely grass," which 
might easil3^ be spared — is fine; "with 
unreluctant tread Rose-crowned into the 
darkness ! " is vivid with beauty ; and 
when the simple dignity of " such brave 
true things to say " has swung you to its 
great height, the drop in that sudden 
last line comes with the most moving 
wistfulness. There are several poems, 
too long to quote here, which show Mr. 
Brooke's affinity with the outdoors ; but 

The Little Review 


perhaps even five lines from one of them 
will suggest it: 

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

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

Creeps in half wanton, half asleep. 
One with a fat wide hairless face. 

He likes love music that is cheap; 
Likes women in a crowded place; 
And wants to hear the noise they're making. 

His heavy eyelids droop half-over, 
Great pouches swing beneath his eyes. 

He listens, thinks himself the lover, 

Heaves from his stomach wheezy sighs; 
He likes to feel his heart's a-breaking. 

The music swells. His gross legs quiver. 

His little lips are bright with slime. 
The music swells. The women shiver, 

And all the while, in perfect time 

His pendulous stomach hangs a-shaking. 

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

Mr, Brooke's pictures have much of 

the quality of Bocklin's. That first son- 
net can be imagined in the same tone 
values as Bocklin's wonderful Isle of the 
Dead, and the closing lines of Victor^/ 
need the same medium : 

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

Thundered the black battalions of the Gods. 

Seaside needs an artist like Leon 

Swiftly out from the friendly lilt of the band. 

The crowd's good laughter, the loved eyes of 

I am drawn nightward; I must turn again 
Where, down beyond the low untrodden strand. 
There curves and glimmers outward to the 

The old unquiet ocean. All the shade 
Is rife with magic and movement. I stray alone 

Here on the edge of silence, half afraid. 

Waiting a sign. In the deep heart of me 
The sullen waters swell towards the moon. 
And all my tides set seaward. 

From inland 
Leaps a gay fragment of some mocking tune. 
That tinkles and laughs and fades along the 

And dies between the seawall and the sea. 

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

One will find in Rupert Brooke vari- 
ous kinds of things, but never attitu- 
dinizing and never insincerity. He is 
one of the most important of those 
young Englishmen who are doing so 
much for modem poetry. He is essen- 
tially a poet's poet, and yet his feet are 
deep in the common soil. Swinburne 
would have liked him, but the signifi- 
cant thing is that Whitman would, too. 
There are several poems I have not men- 
tioned that Whitman would have loved. 


The Little Review 

Tagore As a Dynamic 

George Soule 

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

IN The Crescent Moon, with its ravish- 
ing beauty of childhood, in The 
Gardener, with its passion of love, and 
especially in Gitanjali and Sadhana 
(Macmillan), with their life universal 
and all-permeating, we have found the 
poet Tagore and been grateful. It re- 
mains to ask : What has Tagore done to 
us.? What is he likely to do for the 
future.'' What has been his answer to 
the promise and the challenge of the 

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

The more intelligent part of mankind 
has also outgrown the conception of a 
definite heaven. It is impossible to imag- 
ing a satisfactory heaven for the indi- 
vidual. A place where there is no strife, 
where everj^thing is perfection and com- 

pletion — what joy is to be found there? 
The essence of life as we know it is 
growth and survival ; its happiness comes 
from the exercise of a function. Growth 
and survival postulate extinction ; in 
heaven an individual would evaporate. 

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

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

The doctrine of transmigration is 
equally unsatisfying. If an individual 

The Little Re view 


never succeeds in any single life, in- 
numerable chances will be mere repeti- 
tions of tragedy. The only hope of 
such a process would be a final " heaven 
on earth," which is just as inconceiv- 
able as that of the humanitarians. 

We cannot now be satisfied with theo- 
logical answers. Nor will the world ever 
find an answer permanently satisfactory. 
Is not this as it should be? A fixed sys- 
tem of thought which answers every spir- 
itual craving must be a shell around the 
individual, preventing growth. It finally 
ceases to be a dynamic and becomes a 
wall in the way of the feelers which man- 
kind is constantly sending into his spir- 
itual environment. It forces him to rest. 
It eventual!}' turns all his expansion into 
tiie lower planes of life. It is deaden- 
ing, suffocating, as soon as he reaches its 

Of what nature, then, must be the re- 
ligion of the modern man and woman? 
First of all, it must not be imposed from 
without ; it must grow through the per- 
sonality and find its being there. It must 
not only square with every known fact 
of science and thought; it must stimu- 
late to a fervent desire for new under- 
standing. It must not deny or de- 
stroy life ; it must be life's essence. 
It must ring with a call to the indi- 
vidual to assume his proper dignity 
of life. It must harmonize with the 
laughter of children and with the bitter 
beauty of a winter sea. It must flame 
with emotion, yet be keen and hard as 
a sword. And it must be not a self-con- 
stituted standard with which every other 
thing is arbitrarily compared, but a 
principle of growth making necessary 

in us vision, strength, freedom, and fear- 

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

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


The Little Review 

Ethel Sidgwick's '^Succession" 

Margaret C. Anderson 

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

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

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

I know there are people who'll read 
Succession and continue to prefer Thack- 
eray's geniality to Miss Sidgwick's bril- 
liant seriousness and her humor that's 
not at all genial — but rapid, sophisti- 
cated, impatient of comedy in the ac- 

cepted sense. Ethel Sidgwick might 
write a radiant traged}^, or a wistful sat- 
ire, or a sad comedy ; I can never imag- 
ine her being anything so obvious as 
merely comic — or genial! She doesn't 
laugh; she couldn't chuckle; she has just 
the flash of a smile, and then she hurries 
on dazzlingly, as though things were too 
important to be anything but passionate 
about. She doesn't "warm the cockles 
of your heart" — or whatever that silly 
phrase is ; and she doesn't do crude, raw 
things to show you that she " knows 
life." She goes down into the darkness 
rose-crowned, in Rupert Brooke's gor- 
geous phrase ; when she goes into the 
sunlight it is always with something of 
remembered agony. That's the fine qual- 
ity of her vitalism. She's too strong to 
be hard, too steel-like to be robust. She's 
like fire and keen air — to borrow an- 
other poet's phrase. She reflects life 
through the mirror of a vivid personality 
— which is one way of being an impor- 
tant artist. She assumes that j^ou're also 
vivid, and quick, and subtle, and this 
gives her writing the most beautiful 
quality of nervousness — the kind you 
mean when you're not talking about 
nerves. In short, Ethel Sidgwick is the 
most definitely magnetic personality I've 
ever felt through a book's pages. 

Succession, though complete in itself, 
is really a sequel to Promise, published 
a year ago. The sub-title presents the 
idea, and can be concretely expanded in 
a sentence : Antoine, child-wonder violin- 
ist, and the youngest of the celebrated 
Lemaures, revolts against the musical 
ideas of his grandfather. Here it is 

The Little Review 


again — the battle of 3'outh and age, 
made particularly interesting because it's 
a purely intellectual warfare, and par- 
ticularly charming because its partici- 
pants are such delightful people. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You imply my father's composition is not 

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

"To be sure," said M. Lucien, with stateli- 
ness. "And have you no duty to him as 

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

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

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

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

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


"The thing you are ashamed of." 

Plow I wanted to hug him ! 

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

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

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

The old musician asks about the last 

"I was not at the last orchestral," Lucien 
answers. ' ' I left him in Wurst 's charge, and 


The Little Eevie 

went to the country, ... I should not 
easily desert my post, as you know; but the 
boy made it clear enough he had no use for 
me. He clung to that saere concerto of 
Tsehedin, which he knows you detest, and 
which I never thought in a condition to per- 
form. He mocked himself of my objections, 
contradicted me, eluded me, and twisted 
Wurst round his finger at rehearsals. ' ' 

"And Wurst r' 

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

"Bebe forgot himself," pronounced M. 
Lemaure, still quite at ease. Indeed the sit- 
uation so reminded him of Antoine's child- 
hood that he longed to laugh. "What did he 
say, and when?" 

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

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

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

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

"Father! How absurd." 

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

"Antoine adores Duchatel" remarked Lu- 
cien. "There is no fighting there." 

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

There are over six hundred pages in 
the story, and they cover just a year and 
a half of Antoine's hfe. This appears 
to be an impossible literary feat; any 
orthodox novelist will tell you that you 

can't hold a reader through six hundred 
pages with the story of a fourteen-year- 
old boy. But Miss Sidgwick's holding 
power is — well, I read Succession during 
a brief trip to Boston, and much as I 
longed to absorb Concord and all its 
charms, I found I only had half my 
capacity with me ; the rest was with An- 
toine, and it stayed there till in despera- 
tion I shut myself up in a hotel room 
and saw him safely off to America with 
his nice, wholesome, inartistic father. 
Then came the awful realization that I'd 
have to wait a whole year for the next 
volume — for surely Miss Sidgwick in- 
tends to make a trilogy. 

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

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

"A blackbeetle, I presume," said Philip. 

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, most interesting of all is 
his musical development, in which are 
involved several personalities of striking 
character: Duchatel, the revolutionary, 
more a son, after the French fashion, 

The Little Review 


than a man or a musician ; Savigny, tlie 
celebrated alienist, who treats the child 
hypnotically in his severe illnesses ; Le- 
monski, a rival child wonder, who is like 
a pig, and vulgar — which it is silly to 
say, because he is a beautiful artist, ac- 
cording to Antoine ; Reuss, the great 
German conductor, and the boy's staunch 
friend, ^vho hates " the cursed French 
training " of making life weigh so heav- 
ily on its youth; Jacques Charretteur, 
the vagabond violinist, " a man to play 
French music in France " ; Cecile, the 
aunt, who has the perception to under- 
stand the little genius with the dark cj^es, 
whose "expression was so beautiful that 
she could hardly bear it " ; and Ribi- 
era, the famous Spanish pianist, who 
" warms " the piano, in Antoine's words, 
and calls the boy an intelligent ape, by 
way of. expressing his admiration. All 
these people are drawn with consummate 

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

' * The first part had gone pretty well, though 
I did not like how the Duchatel sounded. I 
thought that was the violin, perhaps — and a 
new room. It was a bad room, pretty, but 
stupid for the sound. I heard much too much, 
so I was sure they were not hearing properly. 
They were extremely still, and made a little 
clapping at the end. I did not find it a good 
concert, but Wurst in the interval said it was 
very well, and I should not excite myself. So 
when I did not, then I was tired, and it 
seemed stupider than before. And at last that 
thing came, the Mirski 'Caprice,' which you 
know how detestable. The passages are hard 
in that thing, but I know them. Every morn- 
ing I played them to Moricz, so now I do not 
trouble. . . . And then, in the middle of 
it, I heard Peter Axel playing wrong. . . . 
And I was frightened horribly. . . . And I 
made him an awful frown for forgetting it, 
and Peter was looking at me. His face was 
not happy like it generally is. It was like one 

of tliose worst dreams. And, of course, I 
stopped playing, because it cannot be like that. 
And Peter said 'Go back,' very quietly, mak- 
ing a lot of little passages and returning for 
me to find, do you see?" 

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

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

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

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

' ' Did you go on again ? ' ' 

' ' Yes. After Wurst had finished talking, I 
had to. I should not have for my imcle, but I 
had to for him. He was violent, Wurst. He 
said it was indigne and loche if I stopped, and 
a lot of other words. He was like a little dog 
barking. A man like Wurst does not 'rater.' 
He does not know how that is done. His head 
has all the big scores inside . . . He did 
not see how it was for me to stand up on the 
estrade again, with quantities of beautiful peo- 
ple looking kind. It would have been so better 
if they had sifl3i, like here in Paris. ' ' 

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

Succession is a masterpiece of art, and 
Antoine is the most lovable and interest- 
ino- character in new fiction. 


The Little Review 

The Meaning of Bergsonism 

Llewellyn Jones 

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

We know, of course, that the physical 
universe is simply energy running down. 
Just as a glass of water cools off, so the 
sun dissipates its heat, and so, we are 
learning, the elements break up into sim- 
pler forms, giving off their contained 
energy in the forms of heat and electric- 
ity as thev do so. But on the other hand 

the plant takes unto itself that energy 
of the sun, and with it builds up again 
the inorganic salts from its soil into 
higher forms with a greater content of 
stored energy. What the plant does, 
sa^s Bergson, is typical and symbolical 
of what all life does at all times : sets up 
a reverse current to the running-down 
tendency of the universe of matter. 

Life cannot do this easily, but has to 
adapt itself to the resistance of the down- 
ward flow. It does this through its motor 
reactions, its sense organs, and above all 
through its intelligence when that is 
evolved. The evolution of these things 
gives us our ideas of space. The in- 
sect cuts up its environment into spatial 
forms easy for it to deal with. Man 
with different sense organs probably lives 
in a different space world. As " a thing 
is where it acts," it is obvious that 
the boundaries of things in the material 
realm would be quite different if we had, 
for example, some sort of sense organ 
adapted to identify things by their elec- 
trical properties. But this identif^^ing 
of things by spatial and material con- 
cepts — the mathematical order — is in- 
strumental to the ends of action, and the 
original consciousness of life, while it in- 
cluded the potentialities of intellectual 
knowledge, was instinctive. Instinct, ac- 
cording to Bergson, is first-hand knowl- 
edge, but knowledge incapable of con- 
ceptual extension. It is therefore no use 
in the practical affairs of life, but certain 
and immediate in its apprehension of the 
actual flow of life itself. In its broad- 
ened form of intuition it is responsible 
for all the A'alid and original insights of 
the philosophers and poets. The struc- 
tural and dialectic forms in which phi- 
losophies have been given to the world 

The Little Review 


arc simply the intellcctualizing process 
which philosophers have used to buttress 

— and which they have often thought 
produced — the insight which was prior 
to and independent of the system. 

Bergson's doctrine has been seized 
upon by apologists for every creed and 
for every iconoclasm. Bergson has been 
accused of every intellectual crime, from 
being the intellectual father of syndi- 
calism to being the last rich relative of 
struggling obscurantism. The protest- 
ant theologians talk glibl}^ of Bergson's 
idea of God, and use him as a stick 
with which to beat the hated materialist. 
Bergson himself would never apply his 
philosophy to the uses of the syndicalists. 
The argument of the syndicalists them- 
selves is simply an ingenious parody of 
the Bergsonian philosophy, as it is so far 
developed. As mechanism and the math- 
ematical order, they sa}', do not repre- 
sent life, we cannot by the means of 
natural and sociological sciences predict 
in advance what life will do, and what 
forms it will take. We cannot base rev- 
olutionary action, for instance, along 
Marxian lines, because the whole ]Marx- 
ist philosophy rests upon the assumption 
that life is the slave of material forces 

— chemical firstl>% and economical in the 
human drama- — and that it will there- 
fore follow along predetermined lines. 
If life is an " elan vital," breaking its 
path as it goes, and only able to think 
in terms of the past, then revolutionary 
activity must cut loose from the reac- 
tionary intellect, and trust itself to its 
instincts ; fight its way to that freedom 
which is impossible in the mathematically 
determined intellectual realm, and which 
is equally impossible of achievement by 
mere intellectual foresight. So the syn- 
dicalist in the name of Bergson cuts 
loose from all theories of the future he 
wishes to bring in, preaches the " general 
strike" for its stimulating effect on the 
emotions of the proletarian constituents 

of his social " elan vital " — quite care- 
less of whether it would ever be a prac- 
tical success or not — and deliberately 
cuts loose from all forms of " bourgeoise 

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

Perhaps the most detailed application 
that Bergson has yet made of his phi- 
losophy to the affairs of life is his appli- 
cation of its principles to the puzzling 
aesthetic problem of laughter and the 
comic. His tlieory is that laughter is a 
social corrective directed against the man 
who allows the dogging steps of mecha- 
nism to overtake him and imprison his 
spirit in a web of meaningless action. 
The man who is walkincn along; the street 


The Little Bevie' 

should be going in a determinate direc- 
tion with a determinate end in view, and 
with the ability to get there in spite of 
reasonable obstacles. So says society. 
When he becomes abstracted, walks me- 
chanically, and in consequence falls over 
a brick, we laugh at him. He has per- 
mitted himself to become a machine for 
the nonce instead of a self-conscious 
spirit, and society cannot afford to have 
its interests jeopardized in that way. 

The International Journal of Ethics 
for January-, 191-1, contains an article 
by J. W. Scott, who accuses Bergson of 
ethical pessimism on the grounds of his 
view of the comic. He points out that 
the psychology of comic action, as Berg- 
son works it out, is precisely that of 
moral action. For in moral action, too, 
a man does what is habitual, what is 
against his own self-conscious impulse, 
what is mechanical in that it is a fixed 
course of conduct pursued without ref- 
erence to the favor or disfavor of the 
environment. The life impulse must be, 
he convicts Bergson of saying, adaptable 
to its circumstances ; it must insert itself 
between the determinisms of matter; it 
must pursue the crooked path where the 
straight path is too difficult. It cannot 
follow its moral ideal without making 
itself ridiculous, as indeed in real life 
moral people are always doing. 

This criticism hangs on the acceptance 
of a moral ideal, and if we must have an 
ideal in the sense of a goal beckoning us 
from the future, then the criticism is 
well founded and Bergson is an ethical 
pessimist. But systematic ethics have 
been denied by other philosophers before 
Bergson, and most people of modern 
temperament are quite willing to let the 
whole question of a priori ethics drop. 
They might not be willing to exchange 
it for the very unpoetic utilitarianism 
which has so often been offered in its 
place, but Bergson offers something 
more than that. If he be an ethical pes- 

simist, he is not a religious pessimist. Of 
religion he has not yet spoken, except 
incidentally. Obviously so long as he 
uses the scientific method in his philoso- 
phy, proceeding from facts to their sub- 
ordination in a picture whose values are 
given by intuitions, he cannot present a 
systematic philosophy. But in spite of 
the fact that pessimism — not only in 
ethics but in his view of the content of 
personality and its relations with the uni- 
verse — is charged against him, Bergson 
means to be decidedly optimistic in his 
treatment of personality. In his article 
in The Hibbert Journal for October, 
1911, occur these remarkable words: 

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

On the other suppositions of Berg- 
son's philosophy this is by no means so 
far-fetched as are most theories of im- 
mortality. For the consciousness which 
cuts out the patterns of our spatial life 
here could easily cut out others in the 
beyond, like enough to our present ones 
to carry on the continuity of our active 
existence. The idea of survival, or an 
idea that may be applied to transmun- 
dane survival, is suggested by Laurence 

The Little Be view 


Binyon in a recent volvnnc of poems enti- 
tled " Auguries." He writes : 

And because in my heart is a flowing no hour 

can bind 
Because through the wrongs of the work! 

looking forth and behind 
I find for my thoughts not a close, not an end, 
With you will I follow, nor crave the strength 

of the strong 
Nor a fortress of time to enshield me from 

storms that rend. 
This is life, this is home, to be poured as a 

stream as a song. 

This is quoted not only because it repre- 
sents the poetical realization of Berg- 
son's message, but because it points to 
one reason v^hy the charge of pessimism 

has been brought against Bergson even 
in this connection. 

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

Instinct and Intelligence 

Clarence Darrow recently echoed that high 
estimate of instinct at the expense of intelli- 
gence which has been the fashion since Berg- 
son. Some of these days, when that case has 
been overstated often enough, there will be a 
return swing of that pendulum. The instinc- 
tive wasp'*who, in order to paralyze it, knows 
how to sting a caterpillar "as though she 
knew its anatomy" may not always seem in 
all respects superior to the human surgeon 
who does actually know anatomy and can ap- 

ply that knowledge in a thousand ways — versus 
the wasp's one. Some day it will strike some 
one that no creature has an instinct against 
poison comparable in delicacy, subtlety, and 
fullness with a chemist's noninstinetive, intelli- 
gent knowledge of poisons — and nonpoisons. 
So with a number of things. The pragmatic 
objection to our present glorification of in- 
stinct is that it tends to become a glorification 
of intellectual whim. — George Cram Cook in 
The Chicago Evening Post. 


The Little Review 

The Jewels of a Lapidary 

Emerson's Journals, Volume IX, 1856-1863. 
(Houghton Miflain Company, Boston.) 

AT least nine events of permanent 
historic interest have occurred in 
American literature within the past few 
years: they are represented by the pub- 
lication of nine volumes of Emerson's 
Journals. Those who are trying to 
achieve a personal religion, which ac- 
knowledges God as an immanence in- 
stead of a proposition, hail with a quiet 
joy ever}' extraction from the great mine 
in which Emerson stored the jewels of 
his life. If we do not recognize them 
as lapidarious we must perceive them as 
the better metals of ourselves, for this 
"friend and aider of those who would 
live in the spirit" inhumed those spir- 
itual values which all men at some time 
or another seek as their own. Emerson 
buoys us up for our common struggles 
and makes us conscious of that aid which 
is the awakening of latent power. He 
composed the bricks which thousands of 
builders have used in fashioning beau- 
tiful personal temples. " I dot evermore 
in my endless journal," he wrote to Car- 
Ijde; "... the arrangement loiters 
long, and I get a brick-kiln instead of 
a house." Speaking of his philosoph- 
ical work he confesses a " formidable 
tendency to the lapidary style," and 
adds, " I build my house of boulders." 
Emerson's published journals are kilns 
and quarries from which the foundation 
materials for the edifice of character 
have been obtained by countless builders. 
If he could not construct a system of 
philosophy, as Arnold alleges, he could 
and did provide the " boulders " and 
indicate the pattern which others have 
used. He is a part of every well-read 

American, and, chiefly through Carlyle, 
still lives in the land of his forefathers. 
He was an inspiration to Whitman, one 
of whose " specimen days " closed with 
" a long and blessed evening with Emer- 
son." Such evenings are as real now as 
in Whibnan's time, and are more com- 
monly experienced, for Emerson is west- 
ward-bound. He has traveled slowly in 
this direction : " boulders " are not car- 
ried by exploiters and pioneers who build 
and live in a world not of "the spirit" 
but of the senses. With the establishing 
of easier communication between centers 
of thought and fields of action in 
America, New England " boulders " 
were brought hither, to chink the crude 
walls of western life; and it is a token 
of Emerson's vitality and spiritual uni- 
versality that his " bricks " and " boul- 
ders " are discoverable in all sorts of 
shacks which men are tr3'ing to improve. 
Lumber decays, but " boulders " remain, 
and some of them become talismanic. 

In reading and re-reading Emerson's 
Journals one is impressed with their re- 
markable quotability, and in this mechan- 
ical handiness of his work we have a par- 
tial explanation of the slowness with 
which it has been assimilated. " Boul- 
ders " are fated to be knocked about be- 
fore they are appreciated. We throw 
them at one another with a sort of phys- 
ical dexterity until, burnished and trans- 
formed, the}"^ are recognized as adapted 
to higher uses. We do not flippantly 
quote or mention the authors who have 
become personal to us; I quote Emer- 
son's Journal as a blessed soliloquy. 
D. C. W. 

The Little Review 


New York Letter 

George Soule 

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

Really it is quite simple to follow the 
futurist line of thought once you get 
the hang of it. For instance — two de- 
velopments of painting predicted at the 
Troubetzkoys. In the first, each plane 
in the cubist picture, instead of being 
colored, is to be numbered, and the num- 
bers printed in a catalogue opposite the 
names of the colors for which they stand. 
Thus any approach to the vulgar intru- 
sion of realism would be avoided, and 
abstract beauty furthered. What chances 
for the imagination ! And think of the 
subtle possibilities in the mathematics of 
color ! One could surely express by some 
abstruse quadratic a color quite beyond 

the realm of visual possibility, and thus 
man by one gigantic tug at his boot- 
straps would pull his soul out of its finite 

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

Has the cubist literature of Gertrude 
Stein awakened echoes in Chicago .^ I 
have read it without understanding be- 
fore this. But one night my host — a 
great, strong, humorous, intelligent hulk 
of a man, himself a scoffer at cubism — 
read part of her essay on Matisse so 
that it was almost intelligible. His in- 
flection and punctuation did it. Her 
cliief characteristics seem to be an aver- 


The Little Review 

sion to personal pronouns and a strict 
adherence to simple declarative state- 
ments, untroubled by subordinate clauses 
or phrases of any kind. Her thought, 
therefore, resolves itself awlcAvardly in a 
four-square way. The multiplicity of 
her planes becomes confusing after a 
page, but each plane stands alone. Thus 
— (I quote inaccurately ) — " Some ones 
knew this one to be expressing something 
being struggling. Some ones knew this 
one not to be expressing something be- 
ing struggling. This one expressed 
something being struggling. This one 
did not express something being strug- 
gling." Which, of course, is the cubist 
way of saying that " Some thought he 
was trying to express struggle in an 
object, others thought the contrary. As 
a matter of fact, he sometimes did ex- 
press struggle ; sometimes he did not." 

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

The craze for colored wigs i^, of 
course, an outgrowi;h of futurism. ^Vliv 
should a man be any color except that 
which his will dictates? This has long 
(a few months) been the cry of the 
painter, and the smart set has echoed: 

Why should he.'' Women in green and 
blue wigs have been seen in New York 
alread}'. But, of course, it would be 
senseless to stop there; if one has an 
orange toupe he should surely have a 
mauve face. Yellow complexions are 
worn with indigo hair. We have long 
been accustomed to blue powdered noses 
on Fifth Avenue, and the setting of dia- 
monds in the teeth is an old story. The 
only trouble with this epoch-making idea 
is that it is old. Phoencian women did it ! 
And wasn't it Edward Lear who wrote of 
The JumbUes: 

' ' Their heads are green, and their hands are 

And they went to sea in a sieve ' ' ? 

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

Forgive my preposterosities ! But the 
ridiculous seriousness with which every- 
thing unfamiliar is taken by a sensation- 
sated haute monde is such a brilliant tar- 
get for satire. I think with immense 
relief of a wonderful bit of sky, and a 
long stretch of beach, and of all things 
tangible and — yes, though it may be 
bourgeois - — healthy. 

The Little Review 45 

To a Lost Friend 

Eunice Tietjens 

Across the tide of years you come to me, 

You whom I knew so long ago, 
A poignant letter kept half carelessly, 
A faded likeness, dull and gray to see . . . 

And now I know. 

Strange that I knew not then, — that when you stood 

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

I could not see your soul like thin red fire 

Flash downward to my gaze. 
Nor guess the strange, half-understood desire, 
The tumult and the question and the ire 

Of those far days. 

I saw your soul stretch longing arms to love 

In adolescent shyness bound. 
And passionately storm the gods above. 
Yet, since my own young heart knew naught thereof, 

You never found. 

It is too late now. You have dropped away 

In formless silence from my ken. 
And youth's high hopes turn backward to decay. 
Yet, oh, my lieart were very fain to-day 

To love you then ! 

Culture has one great passion — the passion 
for sweetness and light. It has one even yet 
greater!— the passion for making them pre- 
Vflt?.— Matthew Arnold in Culture and Anarchy. 


The Little Review 

The Irish Players: An Impression 

A small, low room with walls of cool 
green-grey ; in the center an old brown 
fire-place with a great black chimney; 
on the hearth a light like a deep rasp- 
berry; at each end a chair of smudgy 
brown ; near the front a table toned 
with the walls ; on it two black mugs 
and a stein ; in one corner at the back, 

piled against the green-grey, flour sacks 
the color of dirty straw; and standing 
in the foreground, balanced as Whistler 
would have done it, a miller in a suit 
of brown, a thin widow in rusty black, 
a fat widow with bustles in rusty black 
and dirty white. — Somehow one planned 
beauty in that place. 

The Novel of Manners 

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

Forbes-Robertson's Hamlet 

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

To feel, to do, to stride forward in elation, 
chanting a poem of triimiphant life! — James 
Stephens in The Crock of Gold. 

A man should always obey the law with his 
body and always disobey it with his mind. — 
James Stephens in The Crock of Gold. 

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

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

The Little Review 47 

The Dying Pantheist to the Priest 

Henry A. Beers, the author of this dynamic poem from which we quote 

only a part, is a professor of literature at Yale — a man 

supposedly conventional and soft spoken ! 

Take your ivory Christ away: 
No dying god shall have my knee, 

While Live gods breathe in this wild wind 
And shout from yonder dashing sea. 

O no, the old gods are not dead: 
I think that they will never die; 

But I, who lie upon this bed 
In mortal anguish — what am I? 

A wave that rises with a breath 

Above the infinite watery plain, 
To foam and sparkle in the sun ^ 

A moment ere it sink again. 

The eternal undulation runs: 

A man, I die ; perchance to be, 
Next life, a white-throat on the wind, 

A daffodil on Tempe's lea. 

They lied who said that Pan was dead: 
Life was, life is, and life shall be. 

So take away your crucifix — 
The ever-living gods for me! 

— The Yale Beview. 

Interesting New or Forthcoming Books 

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

Notes* of a Son and Brother, by Henry Stories of Red Hanrahan, by William 

James. Butler Yeats. 

Collected Essays of Rudolph Eucken. The Tragedy of Pompey, by John 

The Fugitive, by John Galsworthy. Masefield. 

Plays, by TchekofF and Andreyeff. Chitra, by Rabindranath Tagore. 

Stories of Russian Life, by TchekofF. The Possessed, by Dostoevsky. 

Selected Essays of Alice Meynell. The Flight and Other Poems, by George 

Second Nights, by Arthur Ruhl. E. Woodberry. 

— Scribner. — Macmillan. 


The Little Review 

When Ghost Meets Ghost, b}^ William Our friend, John Burroughs, by Clara 

De Morgan. 

Nowadays, by George Middleton. 

Angel Island, by Inez Haynes Gillmore. 

Euripides and His Age, by Gilbert Mur- 

Social Insurance, by I. M. Rubinow. 
— Holt. 

Paul Verlaine, by Wilfred Thorley. 
l^he Japanese Empire, by T. Philip 


— Houghton Mifflin. 

Knoicledge and Life, hy Rudolf Eucken. 
The Science of Happiness, by Jean 

— Putnam. 

The World Set Free, by H. G. Wells. 

The Way of All Flesh, by Samuel But 

ler (new edition). 

Wasner as Man and Artist, bv Ernest ^.7 • nr i ti tut i 

J^ ' t lormn Mayr, by Baron von Wolzog 

Newman. J > J s 

The Philosophy of Ruskin, by Andre 


— Button. 

Little Essays in Literature and Life, by 

Richard Burton. 
Beaumont, the Dramatist, by Charles IM. 

Gay ley. 
Arthur Rackham's Book of Pictures. 
Prostitution in Europe, by Abraham 


— Century. 

The Poems of Francois Villon. 

Knave of Hearts, by Arthur S^Miions. 

Essays of Francis Grierson (new edi- 

The Fortunate Youth, by William J. 

— Lane. 

Socialism and Motherhood, by John 

— Huebsch. 

Richard Wagner, by Oliver Huckel. 
The Education of Karl Witte, trans- 
lated by Leo Wiener. 

— Crowell. 

Crowds, Jr., by Gerald Stanley Lee. 
A Thousand Years Ago, by Percy Mac- 

— Doubleday. 

The Masque of Saint Louis, by Percy 

— Stokes. 

Old Mole, by Gilbert Cannan. 

— Appleton. 

The Making of an Englishman, by W. 

L. George. 
The Truth About Women, by C. Gas- 

quoine Hartley. 

— Dodd, Mead. 

Poems, by Brian Hooker. 

— Yale University. 

The Clean Heart, by M. A. Hutchinson. 
— Little, Brown. 

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56 The Little Review 

Books of Timely Interest and Importance 

THE WALLET OF TIME william winter 

Personal, Biographical, and Critical Reminiscence 

of The American Theatre, 1791-1912 

Two volumes, hoxed. Price, $10.00 net. A special edition limited to 1,250 copies. 

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Their Position in Society 

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stirring accounts of leaders in Polar exploration, 
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Revised by C. O. S. MAWSON 

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The COLOUR of the 


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62 The Little Review 


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gaaazjne qmr5e 

The Troubadour Madison Cawein 

Poems Edith Wyatt 

Annie Shore and Johnnie Doon^ „ . , ^ 

In the Mohave \ Pafri.:* Orr 

The Lost Kingdom Ethel Talbot Scheffauer 

Conquered } ^ . ^, . 

The WandererJ • ^'^^ ^^'*^ 

Epigrams Remy de Gourmont 

To^H^dJ Frances Gregg 

Qualche Cosa Veduta Hall Roffey 

The Musicmaker's Child Miriam Allen de Ford 

Modem Music Alice Ormond Campbell 

The Temple ] ■ ' 

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The Little Review 

L,iterature Drama Music Art 



APRIL, 1914 

"The Germ" 1 

Rebellion . George Soule 3 

Man and Superman George Burtnan Foster 3 

Lines for Two Futurists ..... Arthur Davison Ficke 8 

A New Winged Victory Margaret C. Anderson 9 

Correspondence : Two Views of H. G. Wells . 12 

" ^ ". — 5»>Ru pert Brooke and Whitman 15 

More About "The New Note" 16 

Sonnet Sara Teasdale 17 

Sonnet Eunice Tietjens 18 

The Critics' Critic M. H. P. 18 

Women and the Life Struggle . . . Clara E. Laughlin 20 

"Change" 24 

The Poetry of Alice Meynell Lleicellyn Jones 25 

An Ancient Radical William L. Chenery 1^ 

Equal Suffrage: The First Real Test Henry Blackman Sell 30 

Education of Yesterday and Today . . . William Saphier 31 

Some Book Reviews Zl> 

New York Letter George Soule 4<> 

William Butler Yeats to American Poets 47 

Letters to the Little Review 49 

The Best Sellers 55 

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The Little Review 

Vol. I 

APRIL, 1914 

No. 2 

"The Germ" 

IN 1850 an astounding thing hap- 
pened in England. A little group 
of artists and poets, known as the Pre- 
Raphaelite Brotherhood, began the pub- 
lication of a magazine. It was to be 
given over to " thoughts towards nature 
in poetr^', literature, and art " ; and it 
was called The Germ. 

The idea was Dante Gabriel Rossetti's, 
who was then just twent^^-two years old. 
Thomas Woolner, of the same age, and 
Holman Hunt and Millais, both some- 
where in the neighborhood of twenty, 
were dragged willingly into the plan. 
William Michael Rossetti, aged nine- 
teen, was made editor; James Collinson 
and Frederick George Stephens were 
added to the four original P. R. B.'s; 
John Lucas Tupper, Ford Madox 
Brown, Walter Howell Deverell, William 
Cave Thomas, John Hancock, and Cov- 
entry Patmore were intimately connected 
with the project; and Christina, then 
eighteen, offered her poems for publica- 
tion therein. 

The Germ was published for four 
months, and then it died. Like all serious 
things it could find no immediate audi- 
ence ; like all revolutionary things it 
was called juvenile and regarded with 
shyness; and like all original and beau- 
tiful things it has managed to stay very 
much alive. For, in 1899, a limited 
edition of The Germ in facsimile was 
brought out, and William Michael Ros- 
setti wrote an extensive introduction for 

it in which he described minutely the 
whole glorious undertaking. It is these 
facsimiles that we have been looking 
through with such awe, and which tell 
such an interesting story. 

Here was a league of " unquiet and 
ambitious young spirits, bent upon mak- 
ing a fresh start of their own, and a 
clean sweep of some effete respectabil- 
ities." On the night of December 19, 
1849, when the first issue of the maga- 
zine was impending, they met in Dante 
Rossetti's studio at 72 Newman Street to 
discuss a change of title. The P. R. B. 
Journal and Thoughts Towards Nature 
(the "extra-peculiar" suggestion of 
Dante, according to his brother) had 
been discarded, and Mr. Cave Thomas 
had drawn up a list of sixty-five possi- 
bilities, among them The Seed, The 
Scroll, The Harbinger, First Thoughts, 
The Sower, The Truth- Seeker, The 
Acorn, and The Germ. The last was de- 
cided upon and the first issue came out 
about the first of January. Seven hun- 
dred copies were printed and about two 
hundred sold. This wasn't encouraging, 
so the second issue was limited to five 
hundred; but it sold even less well than 
the first, and the P. R. B.'s were at the 
end of their resources. Then the print- 
ing-firm came to the rescue and under- 
took the responsibility of two more num- 
bers. The title was changed to Art and 
Poetry, being Thoughts towards Nature, 
conducted, principcdly by Artists; but " all 

Copyright, 1914, by Margaret C. Anderson. 

The Little Review 

efforts proved useless. . . . People would 
not buy The Germ, and 'Would scarcely 
consent to know of its existence. So the 
magazine breathed its last, and its obse- 
quies were conducted in the strictest 

It did attract some critical attention, 
however. The Critic Avrote : " We can- 
not contemplate this young and rising 
school in art and literature without the 
most ardent anticipation of something 
great to grow from it, something new 
and worthy of our age, and we bid them 
godspeed upon the path they have ad- 
ventured." Others remarked that the 
poetry in The Germ was all beautiful, 
" marred by not a few affectations — the 
genuine metal, but wanting to be puri- 
fied from its dross " ; " much of it of ex- 
traordinary merit, and equal to anything 
that any of our known poets could write, 
save Tennyson. . . ." 

Well — the situation demands a phi- 
losopher. We might undertake the role 
ourselves, except that we're too near the 
situation, having just started a magazine 
with certain high hopes of our own. 

On the cover of each issue of The 
Germ appeared this poem by William 
Rossetti, the mastery of which, some one 
said, would require a Browning Society's 
united intellects: 

When whoso merely hath a little thought 

Will plainly think the thought which is in 

him — 
Not imaging another's bright or dim, 

Not mangling with new words what others 
taught ; 

When whoso speaks, from having either sought 
Or only found, — will speak, not just to skim 
A shallow surface with words made and trim, 

But in that very speech the matter brought: 

Be not too keen to cry — "So this is all I — 
A thing I might myself have thought as well, 

But would not say it, for it was not worth ! ' ' 
Ask : "Is this truth ? " For is it still to tell 
That be the theme a point or the whole earth. 

Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small? 

Patmore's The Seasons, Christina Ros- 
setti's Dream Land, Dante's My Sister's 
Sleep and Hand and Soul, Woolner's 
My Beautiful Lady and Of My Lady in 
Death, Tupper's The Subject in Art, 
William Rossetti's Her First Season, and 
a long review of Clough's Bothic of 
Toper-na-fuosich make up the first num- 
ber. In the others are The Blessed Dam- 
ozel, Christina's An End and A Pause of 
Thought, Patmore's Stars and Moon, 
John Orchard's Dialogue on Art, and 
many other things of value, concluding 
with a review of Browning's Christmas 
Eve and Easter Day, in which William 
Rossetti establishes with elaborate seri- 
ousness, through six pages of solemn and 
awesome sentences, that "Browning's 
style is copious and certainly not other 
than appropriate " ; that if you will un- 
derstand him, you shall. 

All this came to our mind the other 
day when some one accused us of being 
"juvenile." What hideous stigma was 
thereby put upon us.'* The only griev- 
ous thing about juvenility is its unwill- 
ingness to be frank ; it usually tries to 
appear very, very old and very, very 
wise. The Germ was quite frankly 
young; othei-wise it could not have been 
so full of death poetry, for it is youth's 
most natural affectation to steep itself 
in death. But The Germ might have 
been even more "juvenile" and so 
avoided some of the heavj-, sumptuous 
sentences in that Browning review. It 
would have gained in readableness with- 
out any possible sacrifice of beaut}' or 
truth. In their poetry the Pre-Raphael- 
ites were as simple and spontaneous as 
children ; in their criticism they were 
rhetorical. Our sympathy is somehow 
very strongly with the spontaneity — 
whatever dark juvenile crimes it may be 
guilty of — in the eyes of those who 
merelv look but do not see. 

The Little Review 3 


George Soule 

Sing me no song of the wind and rain — 

The wind and the rain are better. 

I'll swing to the road on the gusty plain 

Without any load, 

And shatter your fetter. 

And when you sing of the strange, bright sea, 

I'll leave 3'our dark little singing 

For the plunging shore where foam leaps free 

And long waves roar 

And gulls go winging. 

Sorrow-dark ladies you've dreamed afar; 

I stay not to hear their praises. 

But here is a woman you cannot mar, 

In life arrayed; 

Her spirit blazes. 

I shall not stiffen and die in 3'our songs. 

Flatten between your pages, 

But trample the earth and jostle the throngs, 

Try out life's worth — 

And burst all cages ! 

Man and Superman 

George Burman Foster 

N HIS voluptuous vagabondage which lit up a murky night and helped 

Rousseau at length halted at Paris, this bewildered and lonely wanderer to 

where he managed to worry through get his bearings. Thoughts came to 

some inconstant years. The thing that him demoniacally which shaped his 

saved the day for him was the fragment entire future and won him no small place 

of a pamphlet that blew across his path in the history of humanity. 

in one of his rambles, announcing a Answer is " No ! " said Rousseau. 

prize to be awarded by the Academy of And his answer was awarded the 

Dijon for the best answer to an academic prize. 

extraordinary question. Had the renas- It seems strange that the history of 

cence of the arts and sciences ennobled his times sided with Rousseau's " No.'* 

morals.'' That was a flash of lightning Certainly it was the first fiery meteor 



The Little Review 

of the French revolution. It pronounced 
the first damnatory sentence upon a 
culture that had already reached the 
point of collapse. In his own body and 
soul Rousseau had bitterly experienced 
the curse of this culture. It was 
largely responsible for his heart's abnor- 
mal yearning whose glow was consuming 
him. Instead of ennobling moi'als this 
culture had inwardly barbarized man. 
Then it galvanized and painted the out- 
side of life. And then life became a 
glittering lie. 

Thus Rousseau became prophet in 
this desert of culture, and called men 
to repentance. " Back from culture to 
nature," was his radical cry ; back from 
what man has made out of himself to 
what nature meant him to be. Nature 
gave man free use of his limbs; culture 
has bound them with all sorts of bind- 
ings, until he is stiff, and short-winded, 
and crippled. According to nature man 
lives his own life ; man is what he seems 
and seems what he is; according to cul- 
ture he is cunning, and crafty, and 

The eighteenth^century man of cul- 
ture hearkened with attentive soul to the 
dirge in which one of its noblest sons 
vented his tortured heart. The melan- 
choly music bruised from this prophet's 
heart silenced the wit and ridicule of 
even a Voltaire, who wanted to know, 
however, whether " the idea was that 
man was to go on all fours again." In 
a few decades the feet of revolutionary 
Frenchmen were at the door ready, with 
few and short prayers, to bear to its last 
abode that culture whose moral worth 
even a French Academy had called in 
question, and for whose moral con- 
demnation had awarded the first prize. 

Now it is our turn ! What is the good 
of our culture? Such is the query of 
a host of people who know nothing 

thereof save the wounds it has inflicted 
upon them — a host of people who face 
our culture with the bitter feeling that 
they have created it with the sweat of 
their brows, but have not been permitted 
to taste its joys. Such, too, is the query 
of others who, satiated with its benefi- 
cence, have been its pioneers, — a John 
Stuart Mill, political economist, who 
doubts whether all our cultural progress 
has mitigated the sufferings of a single 
human being ; a Huxley, naturalist, who 
finds the present condition of the larger 
part of humanity so intolerable to-day 
that, were no way of improvement to be 
found, he would welcome the collision 
of a kindly comet that would smash our 
petty planet into smithereens. 

Also, there is 3'our proletariat. And 
there is your culture on summits far 
out of his reach. The more inaccessible 
it is, shining there with a radiance that 
never falls upon him, the less does he 
reflect that all is not gold that glitters. 
Then there is your philanthropist, fore- 
most in culture of mind and heart, 
surveying the masses far beneath him, 
in the sliinc and grime of life, and 
doubting at last whether any labor of 
love can lift men up to w^here he thinks 
men ought to be ; whether, after all, it 
can bring joy to men who are sick and 
sore with the load of life. 

Not to be partial, one ma}^ magnani- 
mously cite your philistine also — the 
man of " the golden mean," the " man of 
sanity," as mediocrity has ever brand- 
marked itself, who "hates ultra." For 
the life of him your philistine cannot 
understand how a " reasonable " man can 
have any doubt about our culture. Does 
he not read in his favorite newspaper how 
gloriously we have progressed.'* Docs 
he not encore the prodigious achieve- 
ments of our technique? Has he not 
heard his crack spellbinder orate on the 


The Little It e view 

cultural felicity that follows our flag? 
Down with the disloyalty of highbrow 
doubters ! 

Now it was from an entirely different 
side, indeed it Avas from an entirely 
different standpoint, that Friedrich 
Nietzsche contemplated modem culture, 
particularly the national culture of the 
German Fatherland. What horrified 
him was not simpl}^ the content, but the 
criterion, of our culture. He sharply 
scrutinized the ideals which we set our- 
selves in our culture. He found not 
simply our achievements but our ideals, 
ourselves even, so inferior, so vulgar, 
so contemptible, that he began to doubt 
whether even the Germans could be rec- 
ognized as a culture people or not. 
Hence Nietzsche became the most ruth- 
less iconoclast of our culture. Unlike the 
majority, unlike the scholars, the philan- 
thropists, the philistines, Nietzsche was 
not moved by the misery of the masses, 
by the great social need of our time. 
He did not regret that the boon of our 
culture was shared by so few, inasmuch 
as, in his opinion, this boon was of very 
doubtful value. He found our life so 
barbarous, so culture-hostile, that he 
still missed the first elements of a true 
culture among us. 

Hence Nietzsche lunged against status 
quo. He did what he himself called 
''unzeitmdssig," untimely. He flung a 
question, more burning than any othei', 
into our time — more burning than even 
the social question, constituting indeed 
the main part of that question. It was 
the question as to how man fared in this 
culture — the question as to what man 
got out of it and as to what it got out 
of man. 

Never before had this question been 
put as Nietzsche put it. We should 
recall that Nietzsche was not one of 
those who had experienced the extremes 

of either plenty or want, nor was he 
one of those who filled the wide space 
between the two. To him, the pessimism 
of the discontented and the optimism of 
the fortunate and the satisfied were alike 
superficial, if not impertinent. It was not 
a question of " happiness " at all. In 
bitter, biting sarcasm he says, with ref- 
erence to the English utilitarian " hap- 
piness moralit}^ " : "I do not seek my 
happiness ; only an Englishman seeks 
his happiness; I seek my work." 

No ; his was a question which his con- 
science put to culture. Was it a " cul- 
ture of the earth, or of man? " Here 
Nietzsche probes home. And he alone 
did it. The most diverse censors of our 
time had not seen and said that no mat- 
ter how desirable, no matter how glori- 
ously conceived the new order of things 
might be, man must be the decisive 
thing; man must tip the scales. It was 
this that went against the grain. Might- 
ier machines, larger cities, better apart- 
ments, bigger schools, what was the good 
of it all, et id omne genus, if new and 
greater men did not arise? So said 
Nietzsche. And he said it with high 
scorn to a generation which had forgot- 
ten that man is not for " culture," but 
culture for man ; of man, by man, for 

Every people seems to pass through a 
period in which it is obsessed with the 
idea that the causes of popular prosper- 
ity are at once motive and criterion of 
culture; that the natural laws of eco- 
nomics are the universally valid norms of 
the ebb and flow of human values ; that a 
balance on the balance sheet to the good, 
the satisfactoriness of the statistics of 
exports and imports to the wishes of the 
interested parties, are an occasion for 
jubilation over the ascent which life has 
compassed. Harbor some scruple as to 
whether the jubilation be warranted or 


The Little Review 

not, and j^ou are at once pilloried as a 
pessimist and a malcontent. And yet had 
there been no Nietzsche there would still 
remain Cicero's warning: "Woe to a 
people whose wealth grows but whose 
men decay." But there was a Nietzsche, 
and he dared to call even his Fatherland 
Europe's "flat country" — flat was a 
hard word for a land that could once 
boast of so many poets and thinkers. 
But now the flatter the better ! But now 
no peaks to scale, no yawning abysses on 
whose edges one grows dizzy ! Nothing 
a single step removed from the ordi- 
nary, the conventional! Now heights 
and depths, distinctions and distances, 
these are valid in the world of quantity, 
not of quality ; of possession, not of be- 
ing ; of tax tables, not of human essence 
and human power! Now all men are 
equal ! But Nietzsche knew that if men 
are equal they are not free ; if free they 
are not equal. With a fury and a fire 
that literally consumed him, he dedi- 
cated himself to the task of leading men 
up out of this flatness, away from this 
leveling — up to an appreciation of the 
potential — not the actual — greatness 
of man's life. Greatness is not yet man's 
verity but hisi vocation, his true and 
idiomatic destiny. Greatness.? This is a 
man's strength of will ; the unfolding of 
a free personality. To say I will is to be 
a man. All human values are embraced 
in this / will. To produce men who can 
say / will is at once the task and the test 
of culture. This / will is the climax and 
goal of man. In this / will vanishes 
every fearsome and disquieting / must, 
every compulsion of outer necessity. 
Not the passive adjustment of man to 
nature, but the active adjustment of 
nature to man; nature outside of him 
and nature inside of him — that is human 
calling and human culture. Vanishes, 
also, every / ought. Man refuses to be 

ridden by a duty spook, but subordinates 
even duty to himself. Duty, too, is for 
the sake of man, not man for the sake of 
duty. In the depths of his own being, 
man reserves the sovereign right to speak 
his yes and his 7io to duty. To his own 
will he subjects all good and all evil 
taught him by others, past or present, 
and thus occupies a standpoint " beyond 
good and evil." Lord of the Sabbath.'' 
Yes, but lord also of standards sanctified 
by their antiquity ; lord of all the stand- 
ards of life; lord of all that has been 
written or thought or done. " And thou, 
lord, art more than thej' ! " Thou — 
thou alone ^ — art central and supreme 
and sacred and inviolable. " Bring forth 
the roval diadem and crown him lord of 

But not yet ! Alas, there are no such 
lords, no such will-men, personality-men ! 
Such men are not Gegenwortsmenchen, 
present day men, but Zukunftsmenschen, 
future day men ; not reality but task — 
our task. That future man will surpass 
present man as much as present man sur- 
passes the monkey which he in his devel- 
opment has left behind. We are bridges 
from monkey to superman. Superman ! 
In him at last, at last, all that is unliving, 
unfree, withered and weak, all that is 
sickly in man, shall be obliterated; and 
all the forces that are great and creative 
shall be unfolded and molded into cul- 
tural values. 

This is the meaning of the superman 
of Friedrich Nietzsche. Malice and^ 
ignorance have vied — vainly we may 
now hope ^- in caricaturing it. The wa}^ 
to superman is the rugged, steep moun- 
tain path up to conscious deed and 
mighty achievement; not the gentle in- 
cline down to stupid indulgence, indolent 
disposition, enervating or bestial impul- 
sive life. Not that ! Superman is pre- 
ciselv the man wlio overcomes the man of 

The Little Review 

today aAvcary of life and athirst for 

This preaching of Superman might be 
called Messianic. It is the bold faith 
that we are not the last word of the Word 
of life ; it is the glad hope that the best 
treasures, the greatest deeds, the supreme 
goals of humankind are still in the 
future. Nietzsche's message is a breath 
of spring blowing over the land pro- 
claiming the advent of an issue from the 
womb of time of something greater, bet- 
ter than anything we have been, than 
anj'thing we have called good or great ; 
the advent of a new day when our best 
songs now will be our worst then ; our 
noblest thoughts now our basest then ; 
our highest achievements now, our poor- 
est by-products then. 

We shall usher in that day ; superman 
shall be our will, our deed! Superman 
gives our life worth. Ours is the new, 
exhilarating responsibility, swallowing 
up and nullifying all the petty respon- 
sibilities which fret us today. We have 
to justify our lives to that great future, 
to that coming one, to our children. 
The}^ through us, must be greater, bet- 
ter, freer, than all of us put together. 
We are worth our contribution to the 
achievement of future man. Nay, only 
superman can justify the history of the 

cosmos! Consider pre-human and sub- 
human life, red in tooth and claw ; con- 
sider human life, often not much better 
and sometimes much worse ; consider our- 
selves, our meanness and our mediocrity. 
Is this all ? Is this warrant for the long 
human and pre-human story.'' Can you 
escape the conviction that but for super- 
man the eternal gestation and agony of 
cosmic maternity admits of no rational 
vindication ? 

Breed, then, with a view of breeding 




Let this be not 

for ease, not for the propagation of 
yourselves ; the pushing of yourselves 
into your children, parents, but for the 
creation of something new, of superman ! 
Education.^ Not to assimilate the chil- 
dren to us, to the past, but to free them 
from us ; not Vaterland, but Kinderland, 
must be our concern. Children shall not 
" sit at our feet " but stand upon our 
shoulders, that they may have a freer and 
broader sweep of the horizon. And in 
our children we shall love the Coming 
One, prepare the way for Superman, that 
free, great man who shall have conquered 
present petty man with all his slave in- 
stincts ! Such, at' all events, are the 
dreams of the great poetic and prophetic 
philosopher of the German Fatherland 
of today. 

All great things have first to wander alaout 
the earth as enormous and awe-inspiring cari- 
catures. — Nietzsche in Beyond Good and Evil. 

Cultivation will breed in any man a certainty 
of the uncertainty of his most assured convic- 
tions. — Samuel Butler in Life and Eahit. 

Plato will always be an object of admiration 
and reverence to men who would ratlier see vast 
images of uncertain objects reflected from 
illuminated clouds, than representations of 
things in their just proportions, measurable, 
tangible, and convertible to household use. — 
Walter Savage Landor in Imaginary Conversa- 
tions, Vol. 2. 

Knowledge is in an inchoate state as long as 
it is capable of logical treatment; it must be 
transmitted into that sense or instinct which 
rises altogether above the sphere in which words 
can have being at all, otherwise it is not yet 
vital. — Samuel Butler in Life and Habit. 

The Little Review 

Lines for Two Futurists 

Arthur Davison Ficke 

Why does all of sharp and new 
That our modern days can brew 
Culminate in you? 

This chaotic age's wine 
You have drunk — and now decline 
Any anodyne. 

On the broken walls you stand, 
Peering toward some stony land 
With ej^e-shading hand. 

Is it lonely as you peer.-^ 
Do you never miss, in fear, 
Simple things and dear, 

Half-remembered, left behind.'' 
Or are backward glances blind 
Here where the wind 

Round the outposts sweeps and cries — 
And each distant hearthlight dies 
To your peering eyes.'' ... 

I too stand where you have stood ; 
And the fever fills my blood 
With your cruel mood. 

Yet some backward longings press 
On my heart: yea, I confess 
My soul's heaviness. 

Me a homesick tremor thrills 
As I dream how sunlight fills 
My familiar hills. 

Me the yesterdays still hold — 
Liegeman still unto the old 
Stories sweetly told. 

The Little Review 9 

Into that profound unknown 
Where the eai-thquake forces strown 
Shake each piled stone 

Look ; and exultance smites 
Me with joy; the sphntered heights 
Call me with fierce lights. 

But a piety still dwells 
In my bones; my spirit knells 
Solemnly farewells 

To safe halls where I was born — 
To old haunts I leave forlorn 
For this perilous morn. 

Yet I come ! I cannot stay ! 
Be it bitter night, or day 
Glorious, — your way 

I must tread ; and on the walls. 
Where this flame-swept future calls 
To fierce miracles, 

Lo, I greet you here ! But me 
Mock not lightly. I come free — 
But with agony. 

A New Winged Victory 

Angel Island, by Inez Haynes GiUmore. 
[Henry Holt and Company, New York.] 

Angel Island is several rare things: more's is beautiful and exciting. I kept 

original, profound, flaming. It leaves thinking as I read it : here is something 

you with a gasping sense of having been absolutely new, absoluteh'^ authentic ; 

swept through the skies; and also with something so full of vision and truth 

that feeling of new life which comes with that it's like getting to the top of a 

a plunge into cold, deep seas. Angel mountain for the sunrise. Its freshness 

Island is a new kind of Winged Victory ! and its clearness are like cool morning 

Innumerable books have been written mists that the sun has shot through, 
about the conflict of the sexes, about the But to discard vague phrases and get 

emergence of the new w^oman. Most of to the story — for it is not a tract, but 

them are dull books. But Mrs. Gill- a novel — or rather a poetic allegory — 


The Little Review 

that Mrs. Gillmore has written. Five 
men of representative modern types — 
a professor, a libertine, a soldier of 
fortune, a " mere mutt-man," and an 
artist — are shipwrecked on a tropical 
island. After a few days their attention 
is caught by what appears to be huge 
birds flying through the heavens. The 
birds come nearer and prove to be 
winged women ! Then comes the story 
of their wooing, their capture, their 
ultimate evolution into what modern 
women have decided they want to be: 

However, this is going too fast. The 
only way to appreciate Angel Island is 
to be conscious of the art of it as you 
read. Beginning with the shipwreck, 
Mrs. Gillmore creates a series of brilliant 
pictures that culminate in the flying 
orgies of the bird-women. 

. . . All this was intensified by the an- 
archy of sea and sky, by the incessant explosion 
of the waves, by the wind which seemed to 
sweep from end to end of a liquefying universe, 
by a downpour which threatened to beat their 
sodden bodies to pulp, by all the connotation of 
terror that lay in the darkness and in their un- 
guarded condition on a barbarous, semi-tropical 
coast. . . . 

The storm, which had seemed to worry the 
whole universe in its grip, had died finally but 
it had died hard. On a quieted earth, the sea 
alone showed signs of revolution. The waves, 
monstrous, towering, swollen, were still march- 
ing on to the beach with a machine-like regu- 
larity that was swift and ponderous at the same 
time. . . . Beyond the wave-line, under a 
cover of foam, the jaded sea lay feebly palpitant 
like an old man asleep. . . . 

They had watched the sun come up over the 
trees at their back. And it was as if they had 
seen a sunrise for the first time in their lives. 
To them it was neither beautiful nor familiar; 
it was sinister and strange. A chill, that was 
not of the dawn but of death itself, lay over 
everything. The morning wind was the breath 
of the tomb, the smells that came to them from 
the island bore the taint of mortality, the very 
sun seemed icy. They suffered — the five sur- 
vivors of the night's tragedy — Mith a scarify- 

ing sense of disillusion with Nature. . . . 
The sun was racing up a sky smooth and clear 
as gray glass. It dropped on the torn green sea 
a shimmer that was almost dazzling; but there 
was something incongruous about that — as 
though Nature had covered her victim with a 
spangled scarf. It brought out millions of 
sparkles in the white sand; and there seemed 
something calculating about that — as though 
she were bribing them with jewels to forget. 

Dozens of waves flashed and crashed their 
way up the beach; but now they trailed an iri- 
descent network of foam over the lilac-gray 
sand. The sun raced high ; but now it poured a 
flood of light ou the green-gray water. The air 
grew bright and brighter. The earth grew warm 
and warmer. Blue came into the sky, deepened 
— and the sea reflected it. Suddenly the world 
was one huge glittering bubble, half of which 
was the brilliant azure sky and half the bur- 
nished azure sea. 

All this is gorgeous enough — this 
clear, vivid painting of nature. But 
when Mrs. Gillmore turns her hand to 
the supernatural, she is simply ravish- 
ing. For instance : 

The semi-tropical moon was at its full. Huge, 
white, embossed, cut out, it did not shine — it 
glared from the sky. It made a melted moon- 
stone of the atmosphere. It faded the few 
clouds to a sapphire-gray, just touched here and 
there with the chalky dot of a star. It slashed 
a silver trail across a sea jet-black except where 
the waves rimmed it with snow. Up in the 
white enchantment, but not far above them, the 
strange air-creatures were flying. They were 
not birds; they were winged women! 

Darting, diving, glancing, curving, wheeling, 
they interwove in what seemed the premeditated 
figures of an aerial dance. . . . Their wings, 
like enormous scimitars, caught the moonlight, 
flashed it back. For an interval, they played 
close in a group inextricably intertwined, a re- 
volving ball of vivid color. Then, &s if seized 
by a common impulse, they stretched, hand in 
hand, in a line across the sky — drifted. The 
moonlight flooded them full, caught glitter and 
gleam from wing-sockets, shot shimmer and 
sheen from wing-tips, sent cataracts of iridescent 
color pulsing between. Snow-silver one, bril- 
liant green and gold another, dazzling blue the 
next, luminous orange a fourtli, flaming flamingo 
scarlet the last, their colors seemed half liquid. 

The Little Review 


half light. One moment the whole figure would 
flare into a splendid blaze, as if an inner mech- 
anism had suddenly turned on all the electricity; 
the next, the blaze died down to the fairy glisten 
given by the moonlight. 

As if by one impulse, they began finally to fly 
upward. Higher and higher they rose, still hand 
in hand. . . . One instant, relaxed, they 
seemed tiny galleons, all sails set, that floated 
lazily, the sport of an aerial sea; another, supple 
and sinuous, they seemed monstrous fish whose 
fins triumphantly clove the air, monarchs of 
that aerial sea. 

A little of this and there came another im- 
pulse. The great wings furled close like blades 
leaping back to scabbard; the flying-girls 
dropped sheer in a dizzying fall. Half-way to 
the ground, they stopped simultaneously as if 
caught by some invisible air plateau. The great 
feathery fans opened — and this time the men 
got the whipping whirr of them — spread high, 
palpitated with color. From this lower level, 
the girls began to fall again, but gently, like 
dropping clouds. . . . They paused an in- 
stant and fluttered like a swarm of butterflies 
undecided where to go. . . . Then they 
turned out to sea, streaming through the air in 
line still, but one behind the other. And for 
the first time, sound came from them; they 
threw off peals of girl-laughter that fell like 
handfuls of diamonds. Their mirth ended in a 
long, eerie cry. 

To me, that is wonderful work — one 
jeweled word after another. And it's 
sustained through the whole book. But 
of course, after this first sense of ravish- 
ment with her pictures, you touch upon 
the deeper wonder of Mrs. Gillmore — 
her ideas. There are enough ideas in 
Angel Island to equip the women who 
are fighting for selfhood with armour 
that is absolutely hole proof. 

The winged-women differ in type as 
widely as the men ; and each man chooses 
very quickly the type that appeals to 
him most. The libertine wants the big 
blond one, whom they've named 
" Peachy " ; the professor likes Chiquita, 
the very feminine, unintellectual one; 
Billy, the mere man, falls violently and 
reverently in love with the radiant Julia, 

the leader of the group and the one 
your interest centers in immediately. 
Julia has a personality: she appears to 
be "pushed on by some intellectual or 
artistic impulse, to express by the sym- 
bols of her complicated flight some the- 
ory, some philosophy of life." She seems 
always to shine. She is a creator. In 
short, Julia thinks. 

The men plan capture and finally ac- 
complish it by a time-honored method: 
that of arousing the women's curiosity. 
Then follows a tragic episode when they 
cut the captives' wings, making flight 
impossible. Of course, marriage is the 
next step, and later, children are born 
on Angel Island — little girl children 
with wings, and boys without them. But 
all this time Julia has refused to marry 
Bill}^ though she's in love with him. 
Her only reason is that something tells 
her to w^ait. 

Inevitably the women mourn the loss 
of their wings; and just as they become 
reconciled to a second-hand jo}^ in their 
daughters' flights, Peachy's husband 
informs her that flying is unwomanly 
— that Avoraan's place is in the home, 
not in the air (!) — and that their 
daughter must be shorn of her wungs 
as soon as she's eighteen. 

What next.'' Rebellion, Avith Julia 
shining gloriously as leader. She had 
been waiting for this. And in ten pages 
of profound, simple, magnificent talk — 
if only every woman in the world would 
read it ! — she explains to the others that 
they must learn to walk. Peachy ob- 
jects, because she dislikes the earth. 
" There are stars in the air," she argues. 
" But we never reached them," answers 
Julia. The earth is a good place, and 
they must leam to live in it. Besides, 
their children will fly better for learning 
to Avalk, and walk better for knowing 
hoAv to fly ; and she prophesies that 


The Little Review 

then will be born to one of them a boy 
child with wings. 

The women hide and master the art 
of walking. While they're doing this 
their poor wings have a chance to grow 
a little, and by the time the men are 
ready to capture and subdue them a 
second time they have achieved a com- 
bination of walking and flying that puts 
them beyond reach. Then the men sub- 
mit . . . and Julia asks Billy to marry 

That's all, except one short chapter 
about Julia. She has a son with wings ! 
And then she dies — radiant, white, god- 

dess-woman, whose life had been so fine 
a thing. The beauty of it all simply 
overwhelmed me. 

All of which points to several im- 
portant conclusions. First, that Mrs. 
Gillmore is a poet and prophet of golden 
values. Second, that prejudice is the 
most foolish thing in the world. A gen- 
eral prejudice against that obvious form 
of comedy called farce might cause you 
to miss The Legend of Leonore. And 
a stubborn caution in regard to alle- 
gories — which, I concede, generally are 
unsubtle^ — might keep you from Angel 

Two Views of H. G. Wells 

I AM just reading The Passionate 
Friends, and every time I read any- 
thing of Wells's I wonder why it is I 
don't like him better. The World Set 
Free that has been running in The 
Century was intensely worth while, I 
thought — reall}^ prophetic. One tasted 
something almost divine ; human nature 
is capable of such wonderful undreamed 
of things ! It was like Tennyson prophe- 
sying the Federation of the World, air- 
ships, etc. Wells does seem inspired in 
some ways. But every time I read any 
of his novels — well, you remember I 
have a distinct mid-Victorian flavor that 
has to be reckoned with. I wasn't 
brought up in a minister's family for 
nothing! I suppose it's what we used 
to call our conscience. Mine isn't much 
good, alas ; I sometimes think of it as 
a little old Victorian lady. She sits in 
the background of my consciousness and 
knits and knits and nods her head. Mean- 
while I go blithely about, espousing all 

sorts of causes and thinking out all sorts 
of theories — imagining, you know, that 
I'm perfectly free. Suddenly she wakes 
up — she lays aside her knitting with a 
determined air and says, " Mary Martha, 
what are >^ou thinking about ! Stop that 
right noAv ; I'm ashamed of you." And 
she has authority, too, you know. I 
stop. Ridiculous, isn't it? — but so it is. 
And every time I read a Wells novel 
my little old lady folds her hands and 
sits up very primly and says, "Aha, 
you're reading something of that man's 
again. Well, I'm not asleep — I'm right 
on the job and I know just what I think 
of him." So you see! And the worst 
— or the best — of it is that I agree with 
her. I can't like him. I read along and 
it's all so reasonable — he's so clever and 
he thinks; but his conclusions are all so 
weak — if he comes to any. One passage 
in The Passioiuite Friends has made me 
furious. How can a man who's at all 
wortli while be so reallv wicked — (an- 

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other word gone out of style). I iiieau 
this : 

It is manifestly true that for the most of us 
free talk, intimate association, and any real 
fellowship between men and women turns with 
extreme readiness to love. And that being so, 
it follows that under existing conditions the 
unrestricted meeting and companionship of men 
and women in society is a notorious sham, a 
merely dangerous pretence of encounters. The 
safe reality beneath those liberal appeaiances is 
that a woman must be content with the easy 
friendship of other women and of one man only, 
letting a superficial friendship towards all other 
men veil impassable abysses of separation, and 
a man must in the same way have one sole 
woman intimate. ... To me that is an intol- 
erable state of affairs, but is reality. 

Now can you suppose that is Wells's 
own reasoning that he puts into' the 
mouth of his unfortunate hero? Talk 
about Edith Wharton being thin-lipped 
in the pursuit of her heroines — that's 
a great deal better than being loose- 
lipped; don't you agree with me? It 
may be true, and I rather think to some 
extent it is true, that a man cannot have 
an absorbing friendship with a woman 
and not run the risk of falling in love. 

But what does that 


That he 

should be allowed free rein and carry on 
as many liaisons veiled under the name of 
friendship as he chooses? Or unveiled, 
rather, for Wells seems to want every- 
thing in the open. He's like a child 
who says : Here's a verj^ dangerous beast 
in a flimsy, inadequate cage. Frequently 
he escapes from it and has to be put back 
in. Let's abolish the cage and let the 
beast run about openly, doing what it 
wants. And the good old-fashioned word 
for that beast is lust, and it should be 
caged; if the cage is getting more and 
more inadequate it's only a piece with 
what Agnes Repplier calls our loss of 
nerve. How I liked that article of hers ! 
What in the name of sense are we in this 
world for if not to build up a character? 

That's all that amounts to anything, and 
it comes from countless denials and 
countless responses to duty. And what 
Goethe said, some time ago, is still ever- 
lastingly true : " Euch heJiren sollst 
Du, sollst eutbehren! " (Deny yourself, 
deny, deny.) He ought to know, too, 
because he tried indulgence, goodness 
knows, and knew the dregs at the bot- 
tom of that cup. And I can't forgive 
Wells. He knows better than to let 
people make all manner of experiment 
with such things. They wouldn't even 
be happy ; for happiness is built of sta- 
bility, loyalty, character, and again char- 
acter. My husband said, after reading 
that passage in The Passionate Friends, 
" The trouble with him and the class he 
writes of is that they aren't busy enough. 
Let 'em work for a living, be interested 
in something vitally for ten hours out of 
the twenty-four, and they'll forget all 
about their neighbors' wives and be con- 
tent with good men friends and casual 
women friends." 

The trouble lies with poor old human 
nature, I guess, and the way it wants 
what it cannot and ought not to have. 
But Wells says all unreality is hateful 
to him. Let's tear down the barriers, 
let's show up for wliat we are. Poor 
Smith wants something his neighbor has 
— well, let's give it to him, whether it's 
his neighbor's success or his wife or his 
happiness. Nature is still unbearably 
ugly in lots of ways. When we can 
train it to be unselfish and disinterested 
then it will be time to tear doAvn ban-iers. 

Lady Mary in The Passionate Friends 
is an unconvincing character, too. I can 
conceive of a woman who Avill take all 
of a man's possessions, giving him noth- 
ing in return, not even fidelity, but I can- 
not conceive of her justifying herself 
unless she is an utter moral degenerate. 
The danger of such writers as Wells is 


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that they are plausible enough till you 
look below the surface. He tries to rep- 
resent Lady Mary as charming, but she, 
it seems to me, even more than modem 
society which he arraigns, is " honey- 
combed and rotten with evil." 

"M. M." 

The description of a "little old Vic- 
torian lady " who sits in the background 
of our consciousness and plays conscience 
for us is chamiing; but . . . She's a 
sweet-faced little lady to whom the uni- 
verse is as clear as crystal and as simple 
as plane geometry. She is always knit- 
ting, and what she knits is a fine web of 
sentimentality with which to cover the 
nakedness of truth — "for it is not 
seemly, my dear, that anything, even 
truth, should be naked." 

This web af hers is as fine as soft 
silk and as strong as chain mail. It's 
sticky, too. And it clothes truth so thor- 
oughly that she grows unrecognizable to 
any but the most penetrating searcher — 
to H. G. Wells, for instance. It's natu- 
ral enough that the old lady should dis- 
like Wells, for he's found her out; he's 
made the astonishing discovery that un- 
derneath the web life is not sentimentally 
simple. He discloses to her scandalized 
eyes various unfortunate facts which she 
has done her best to conceal, as for in- 
stance the fact that there is such a thing 
as sex. 

" Sex," says Wells in effect in every 
one of his novels, " is a disturbing ele- 
ment, the disturbing element, in life. So 
long as sex exists it is a physical impos- 
sibility that life should be the sweetly 
pretty parlor game our little Victorian 
lady would have it." 

Right here the husband of the little 
lady has something to say : " The trouble 
with him and the class he writes of," he 

announces, " is that they aren't busy 
enough. Let 'em work for a living, be 
interested in something vitally for ten 
hours out of the twenty-four, and they'll 
forget all about their neighbors' wives 
and be content with good men friends 
and casual women friends." This is an 
excellent example of what Wells finds the 
next most disturbing element in life — 
" rauddle-headedness," the lack of ability 
to think straight, to think things 
through. " Let Wells be vitally interested 
in something for ten hours of the twenty- 
four ! " Doesn't he see that if Wells had 
ever limited himself to ten hours of inter- 
est he would be making shirts today ? It 
is because Wells works twenty-five hours 
of the twent3^-f our at being " vitally in- 
terested in something " that he is one of 
the major prophets of our time. And the 
thing in which he is interested is Kfe it- 
self, the great unsolvable mystery, life 
which extends below the simple, polished 
surface that is all the Victorian lady 
knows as the sea extends below its glassy 
smoothness on a summer day. 

One of the greatest things that Wells 
has done for some of us v» ho came on him 
young enough so that our minds did not 
close automatically at his first startling 
revelation, is this: he taught us to look 
at life squarely, without moral cant, and 
with a scientific disregard as to whether 
it pleased us personally or not. We may 
not always agree with him — very likel}'^ 
we don't — but at least we must face 
the issue squarely and not take refuge 
in the vague sentimentality and slushy 
hopefulness of the Victorian lady. 

Wells states facts and very frequently 
lets it go at that. Witness the shock this 
method is to our little old lady. She 
asks how anyone at all worth while can 
be so " really wicked " as to write about 
sex and society as he does. 

She admits that what he says is a fact, 

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hut — it sticks out like a jagged, untidy 
rock from the smooth surface of things ; 
therefore it is wicked. As a matter of 
fact that statement of his has no more 
to do with morality, is no more wicked, 
or virtuous, than the statement of a 
physical fact — to say, for instance, that 
glass breaks when hurled against a stone 
wall. It is unfortunate, but it is not 

No, the day of Victorianism is past. 
We are slashing away the web, we are 
learning to think. It is a slow and pain- 
ful process and we know not yet where 
the struggle will end. But at least we 
shall be nearer to the divine nakedness of 
truth. If Wells has done nothing else 
than to prove to us how much of our 
thinking is dictated not by our own souls 
but by the artificially-imposed sentimen- 
tality of the " little old Victorian lady " 
he has done a full man's work. And we 
who owe our emancipation largely to his 
vision can never be too thankful to him. 
Frances Tkevor. 

Rupert Brooke and Whitman 

You treated Brooke in a masterly way 
in the last issue. I saw many things I 
hadn't seen before, and understood the 
Wagner better. But I disagree with you 
in one way. 

The Wagner and the Channel Passage 
are merely clever realistic satire — that's 
always worth while. But it's the thought 
behind the Menelaus and Helen sort of 
thing that I don't like. Of course there's 
no doubt that Helen grew wrinkled and 
peevish. But to say that therefore Paris 
in his grave was better off than Menelaus 
living is just a bit decadent, isn't it? 
I'm forced to picture Brooke as the sort 
of chap who couldn't enjoy a good din- 
ner if he had to wash the dishes after- 
ward: — instead of regarding dishwash- 

ing as a natural variety of living that 
could be thoroughly enjoyable with 
shirtsleeves and a pipe. I'm afraid he 
wouldn't play American football for fear 
of getting his face dirty. He's just a 
bit finicky about life. He's afraid to 
commit himself for fear he'll have to 
endure something about which he can't 
weave golden syllables. That's the rea- 
son I don't agree with you about Whit- 
man liking all of him. Whitman was 
frank about the whole world, dirt and 
all, and he accepted it enthusiastically. 
Brooke writes about dirt in such a way 
as to make it seem horrible. 

This poem of Whitman's will prove 
my point: 

Afoot and light hearted, I take to the open 

road ; 
Healthy, free, the world before me, 
The long brown path before me, leading where- 

ever I choose. 

Henceforth I ask not good fortune — I myself 

am good fortune; 
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no 

more, heed nothing; 
Strong and content I travel the open road. 

The earth — that is sufficient ; 
I do not want the constellations any nearer, 
I know they are very well where they are; 
I know they suffice for those who belong to 

Still, here I carry my old delicious burdens; 
I carry them, men and women — I carry them 

with me wherever I go. 
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of 

them ; 
I am filled with them and I will fill them in 


You road I enter upon and look around! I 
believe that you are not all that is here; 
I believe that much unseen is also here. 

Here the profound lesson of reception, neither 

preference nor denial; 
The black and his woolly head, the felon, the dis' 

eased, the illiterate person, are not denied; 
The birth, the hasting after the physician; the 


The Little Review 

beggar's tramp, the drunkard's stagger, 

the laughing party of mechanics, 
The escaped youth, the rich person's carriage, 

the fop, the eloping couple. 
The early marketman, the hearse, the moving 

of furniture into town, the return back 

from town 
They pass — I also pass — anything passes — 

none may be interdicted; 
None but are accepted — none but are dear to 

Mon enfant! I give you my hand! 
I give you my love more precious than money; 
I give you myself before preaching or law; 
Will you give me yourself? Will you come 

travel with me? 
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live? 

Beside this, doesn't the Mcnelaus and 
Helen seem hke an orchid? — a very 
beautiful, rich orchid, to be sure, but not 
of the Whitman famil3\ 

George Soule. 

More About the 


The idea of '* the new note " might 
be worked out more fully, but after all 
little or nothing would be gained by 
elaboration. Given this note of craft 
love all the rest must follow, as the spirit 
of self-revelation, which is also a part of 
the new note, will follow any true 
present-day love of craft. You will re- 
member we once discussed Coningsb}' 
Dawson's The Garden Without Walls. 
What I quarreled with in that book was 
that the writer looked outside of himself 
for his material. Even realists have done 
this - — as, for example, Howells ; and to 
that extent have failed. The master 
Zola failed here. Why do we so prize the 
¥ V work of Whitman, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, 

Twain, and Fielding.'^ Is it not because 
as we read we are constantly saying to 
ourselves, " This book is true. A man 
of flesli and blood like mvself has lived 

the substance of it. In the love of his 
craft he has done the most difficult of 
all things : revealed the workings of his 
own soul and mind".'' 

To get near to the social advance for 
which all moderns hunger, is it not neces- 
sary to have first of all understanding.-^ 
How can I love my neighbor if I do not 
understand him.'' And it is just in the 
wider diffusion of this understanding 
that the work of a great writer helps 
the advance of mankind. I would like 
to have you think much of this in your 
attitude toward all present-day writers. 
It is so easy for them to bluff us from 
our position, and I know from my own 
experience how baffling it is constantly 
to be coming upon good, well-done work 
that is false. 

In this connection I am tempted to 
give 3^ou the substance of a formula I 
have just worked out. It lies here be- 
fore me, and if you will accept it in the 
comradely spirit in which it is offered I 
shall be glad. It is the most delicate and 
the most unbelievably difficult task to 
catch, understand, and record your own 
mood. The thing must be done simpl}'^ 
and without pretense or windiness, for 
tlie moment these creep in your record is 
no longer a record, but a mere mass of 
words meaning nothing. The value of 
such a record is not in the facts caught 
and recorded but in the fact of your hav- 
ing been able truthfully to make the rec- 
ord — something within yourself will tell 
you when you have not done it truth- 
fully. I myself believe that Avhen a man 
can thus stand aside from himself, re- 
cording simply and truthfully the inner 
workings of his own mind, he will be 
prepared to record truthfully the work- 
ings of other minds. In every man or 
woman dwell dozens of men and women, 
and the highly imaginative individual 
will lead fiftv lives. Surclv this can be 

The Little Review 


said if it can be said that the unimagina- 
tive individual has led one life. 

The practice of constantly and per- 
sistently making such a record as this 
will prove invaluable to the person who 
wishes to become a true critic of writing 
in the new spirit. Whenever he finds 
himself baffled in drawing a character 
or in judging one drawn by another, 
let him turn thus in upon himself, trust- 
ing with child-like simplicity and hon- 
esty the truth that lives in his own mind. 
Indeed, one of the great rewards of liv- 
ing with small children is to watch their 
faith in themselves and to try to emulate 
them in this art. 

If the practice spoken of above is 
followed diligently, a kind of partner- 
ship will in time spring up between the 
hand and the brain of the writer. He 
will find himself becoming in truth a 

cattle herder, a drug clerk, a murderer, 
for the benefit of the hand that is writ- 
ing of these, or the brain that is judging 
Ihe work of another who has written of 

To be sure this result will not always 
follow, and even after long and patient 
following of the system one will run into 
barren periods when the brain and the 
hand do not co-ordinate. In such a 
period it seems to me the part of wisdom 
to drop your work and begin again 
patiently making a record of the work- 
ings of your own mind, trying to put 
down truthfully those workings during 
the period of failure. I would like to 
scold every one who writes, or who has 
to do with writing, into adopting this 
practice, which has been such a help and 
such a delight to me. 

Sherw^god Anderson. 


Sara Teasdale 

The door was opened and I saw you there 

And for the first time heard you speak my name. 

Then like the sun your sweetness overcame 

My shy and shadowy mood ; I was aware 

That joy was hidden in j^our happy hair. 

And that for you love held no hint of shame ; 

My eyes caught light from yours, within whose flame 

Humor and passion have an equal share. 

How many times since then have I not seen 
Your great eyes widen when you talk of love. 
And darken slowl^^ with a far desire ; 
How many times since then your soul has been 
Clear to my gaze as curving skies above, 
Wearing like them a raiment made of fire. 

18 The Little Review 


Eunice Tietjeks 

From my llfe''s outer orbit, where the night 

That bounds my knowledge still is pierced through 

By far-ofF singing planets such as you, 

Whose faint, sweet voices come to me like light 

In disembodied beauty, keen and bright, — 

From this far orbit to my nearer view 

You came one day, grown tangible and true 

And warm with sympathy and fair with sight. 

Then I who still had loved your distant voice, 

Your songs, shot through with beauty and with tears 

And woven magic of the wistful years, 

I felt the listless heart of me rejoice 

And stir again, that had lain stunned so long. 

Since I had you, yourself a living song. 

The Critics' Critic 

Agnes Repplier on Popular Education 

THROUGH all of Miss Repplier's children were of exactly the same type, 

latest essays in The Atlantic runs a so that the same kind of schooling would 

note of appeal for the sterner virtues, suffice for all their needs ! Or even if 

which she thinks are in danger of dying they could come from the same kind of 

out under modern conditions. So per- homes with more or less similar ideals! 
sistently is this note, admirable in itself, Let us hear what she and Mr. Lindsey 

sounded, that we wonder if it doesn't have to say about Tony — (Tony is a 

hark back a bit to Sparta, and the cast- boy who does not like school as it is at 

ing away of the unfit. When it comes present organized). "Mr. Edison is 

.to the question of an education broad coming to the rescue of Tony," says 

enough to fit the needs of ever}^ child,. we Judge Lindsey. " He will take him away 

may all pause and take a deep breath. from me and put him in a school that is 

We may not approve of a school of not a scliool at all but just one big game, 

moving pictures, advocated by Judge . . . There will be something moving, 

Lindsey, and 3'et we may not wish to go something doing at that school all the 

to the other exti'eme of severe discipline time. When I tell him about it Tony 

advocated by Miss Repplier. If only all shouts ' Hooray for Mr. Edison ! ' right 

The Little Review 


in front of the battery, just as he used 
to say ' To liell wid de cop ! ' " On the 
other hand : - — " The old time teacher," 
says Miss ReppHer, " sought to spur the 
pupil to keen and combative effort, rather 
than beguile him into knowledge witli 
cunning games and lantern slides. . . . 
The old time parent set a high value on 
self discipline and self control." 

But can she believe for one moment 
that Tony's parents ever dreamed of 
" setting a high value on self discipline 
and self control .'' " Or that Tony's sister 
was taught to " read aloud with correct- 
ness and expression, to write notes with 
propriety and grace, and to play back- 
gammon and whist?" . . . 

Figurez-vous! And so, if we can reach 
little Tony's darkened vision by the sim- 
ple method of moving pictures, keep him 
off the streets until he learns at least not 
to become a hardened criminal — are we 
not that much to the good? Tony will 
never, never be ambassador to the court 
of St. James (or if he is going to be, 
he'll be it in spite of movies !) but he may 
be a fairly honest, happy fi-uit vendor 
some day, instead of No. 207 in a cell. 
Useless to cite the dull bo^'s in school, 
who absolutely refused pedagogic train- 
ing and later blazed their wa}- — lumi- 
naries — through the world, when once 
they had found the work that interested 
them. To interest, stimulate, and arouse 
is the prelude to work ; and precious few 
kiddies, except those who don't really 
need it, do enough work that they dislike 
to strengthen their little characters. But 
even if tliey do, are those who will not 
to have nothing? 

Of course, education is a thing that 
can't be disposed of in a few well mean- 
ing phrases. Miss Repplier ma}" be 
right, too, in what she says of the educa- 
tion of Montaigne. You remember he 
learned to talk Latin under a tutor, at an 

early age, in much the same way that our 
modern young ones leani French and 

" All the boy gained by the most elab- 
orate system ever devised for the saving 
of labor," she says, "was that he over- 
skipped the lower forms in school. What 
he lost was the habit of mastering his 
prescript lessons, which he seems to have 
disliked heartily." But how does any 
one know that that was all he gained? 
I should hardly select Montaigne as my 
model, if I were trying to point out the 
ill effects of an}- pai-ticular type of edu- 
cation. Besides, whatever its effect may 
have been on him, I should hate to lose 
the mental picture of the little lad Latin- 
izing with the " simple folk of Perigord." 
Charming little lad, and wonderful old 
father, doing his best to elevate and help 
his boy. No, decidedly ; whatever Miss 
Repplier may do to dispose of Tony 
and his ilk, I am glad she had nothing 
whatever to do with the education of 
Montaigne ! 

The Little Review 

Since it appears to be my dut}^ to read 
all the critical journals and dissect their 
contents for these columns, I can't in 
good faith neglect The Little Review. 
I have just devoured the first issue. What 
can I say about the superb " announce- 
ment" ? I agree ardently with it. It 
needed to be said; the magazine needed 
to be born. There's no quarrel between 
art and life except where one or the other 
is kept back of the door. Anyone with a 
keen appreciation of art can't help ap- 
preciating life too, and ]Mrs. Jones Avho 
runs away from her husband can't fairly 
stand for " life." Besides, wh}' should 
anybody object to a thing because it's 
transitorial? Everything is transitorial. 
It must either grow or perish. 

Mr. Wing's criticism of Mr. Faust is 


The Little Review 

admirable — direct, unpretentious, sound. 
But you must let me register a slight ob- 
jection to Dr. Foster's Nietzsche article. 
It seems to me there's just too much en- 
thusiasm to be borne by what he actually 
says. When I came to the end of 
that third paragraph on page fifteen I 
sneaked back to Galsworthy's letter and 
found an answering twinkle in its eye. I 
felt like going up to Dr. Foster with a 
grin, putting my hand on his shoulder 
and saying, " My dear man, a candidate 
for major prophet doesn't need political 
speeches. It is really not half so impor- 
tant that we unregenerate should give 
three cheers for him as that we should 
live his truth. Won't you forget a little 
of this sound and fury and tell us as sim- 
ply as you can just what it is that you 
want us to do ^ " 

I went from his article with the im- 
pression that here was a man who was 
verv enthusiastic about Mr. Nietzsche. 

I'm sure that's not the impression Dr. 
Foster intended to make. But I have a 
feeling that pure enthusiasm wasting it- 
self in little geysers is intrinsically ridic- 
ulous. Enthusiasm should grow trees 
and put magic in violets — and that 
can't be done with undue quickness, or in 
any but the most simple way. Nobody 
cares about the sap except for what it 
does. And, anyhow, it alwa3's makes me 
savage to be orated at, or told that my 
soul will be damned if I don't admit the 
particular authority of Mr. Jehovah or 
Mr. Nietzsche or Mr. anybody else. 

That's all by the way, however, and 
the impression of the magazine as a 
whole is clear, true, swift. Its impact 
can't be forgotten. You haven't at- 
tained your ideal — which is right; but 
you've done so well you'll have to 
scratch to keep up the speed, — which is 
rig-ht, too. 

Women and the Life Struggle 

Clara E. Laughlin. 

The Truth About Women, by C. Gasquoine Hartley (Mrs. Walter M. Gallichan). 
[Dodd, Mead & Company, New York.] 

Mrs. Gallichan has not told the whole 
truth about woman ; but she has told as 
much of it as has been told by any one 
writer except Olive Schreincr ; and al- 
though she has made no important dis- 
covery, educed no brilliant new conclu- 
sion, she has summarized the best of all 
that has been said in a book which can 
scarcely fail to render notable service. 

It is interesting to recall how the truth 
about women has been disclosed. The 
voice of Mary Wollstonccraft, crying in 
the wilderness, in 1792, pleaded that " if 
woman be not prepared by education to 
become the companion of man, she will 
stop the progress of knowledge ; for 
truth must be common to all." Yet 

it was nearly sixty years before 
Frederick Dcnison Maurice was able to 
open Queen's College, and give a few 
English women the opportunity of an 
education. (In America, Mary Lyon 
had alread}' broken ground for the 
higher education of her countrywomen.) 

Here and there, in those days, an in- 
trepid female declared herself a believer 
in woman's rights ; but her pretensions 
were scarcely honored to the point even 
of ridicule. Women were inferior crea- 
tures, designed and ordered by God to 
be subordinate to men. Didn't every- 
thing go to prove it? And, indeed, 
nearly everything seemed to ! 

In 1861, several scholarlv gentlemen 

The Little Be view 


in Europe were delving in fields of re- 
search where they were destined to up- 
turn facts of great interest to the 
inferior sex. One of these was John 
Stuart Mill, whose impassioned protest 
against the subjection of women was 
then being written, although it was not 
published until eight j^ears later. An- 
other was Henry Maine, who was dis- 
closing some significant things about the 
ancient law on which our modern laws 
are founded. Another was Leck}^, who 
was gathering material for his History 
of European Morals, from Augustus 
to Charlemagne, and — incidentally — 
discovering that "natural history of 
morals " wherewith he was to shock the 
vo?id in 1869. But two of the others 
rere searching back of Augustus — 
*' back " of him both in point of time 
and also in degree of civilization. One 
of these was Bachofen, a German, who 
published, in 1861, Das Mutterrecht, 
in which he made it clear that women 
had not always been subordinate, de- 
pendent, but among primitive peoples 
had been the rulers of their race. Mc- 
Lennan's Primitive Marriage, published 
in 1865, brought prominently to British 
thinkers this quite-new contention of 
woman as a creature born to rule, but 
defrauded and degraded. 

Then, in 1871, Dai-nin startled the 
world with The Descent of Man, and 
Selection in Relation to Sex; and those 
who accepted his theory of evolution 
had to revise all their previous notions 
about the relations of the sexes. 

During the next quarter-century 
many minds were busy with this whole- 
sale revision of itieas, but nothing signal 
was set forth until Charlotte Stetson — 
working Avith the historical data of 
Maine and Mill and Lecky and their 
followers, with the ethnological data of 
Bachofen and McLennan, and many 

more, and with the natural history of 
morals as Darwin and Wallace and 
Huxley and their school disclosed it — 
declared that the enslavement of women 
was economic in its origin and in its final 
analysis. This was not the whole truth, 
but it was so important a part of the 
whole that the book Women and Eco- 
nomics may be said to have given the 
most productive stimulus the feminist 
movement had had since The Descent of 

Scores, almost hundreds, of books 
dealing with some phase or other of 
woman's history, appeared in the next 
few 3-ears. But while many of them 
were valuable, and some were all but 
invaluable, none of them was epoch- 
marking until Olive Schreiner put forth 
her magnificent fragment on Woman 
and Labor, the chapter on Parasitism 
being the noblest and most pregnant 
thing that any student of woman has 
given to the world. Olive Schreiner saw 
much further into the question of women 
and economics than Charlotte Stetson 
knew how to see. She has a greater 
vision. She perceives that women are 
ennobled by what they do — just as men 
are — and that they are degraded by 
being denied creative, productive labor 
— not b}- being denied the full reward 
of their toil. 

Mrs. Gallichan does not advance upon 
the contribution of Mrs. Schreiner, as 
Mrs. Schreiner did upon that of Mrs. 
Stetson ; but she had less opportunity to 
do so: Mrs. Schreiner did not leave so 
much for some one else to say. But ]\Irs. 
Gallichan has summarized all that has 
been said more fully than any other 
writer has done; and she has done it so 
interestingly, so abW, "that she deserves 
grateful praise. 

Her book has three sections : the bio- 
logical, the historical, and the modern. 


The Little Review 

Let no one resent or think useless an analogy 
between animal love-matings and our own. In 
tracing tlie evolution of our love-passions from 
the sexual relations of other mammals, and back 
to those of their ancestors, and to the humbler, 
though scarcely less beautiful, ancestors of 
these, we shall discover what must be considered 
as essential and should be lasting, and what is 
false in the conditions and character of the 
sexes today; and thereby we shall gain at once 
warning in what directions to pause, and new 
hope to send us forward. We shall learn that 
there are factors in our sex-impulses that require 
to be lived down as out-of-date and no longer 
beneficial to the social needs of life. But en- 
couragement will come as, looking backwards, 
we learn how the mighty dynamic of sex-love 
has evolved in fineness, without losing in in- 
tensity, how it is tending to become more mu- 
tual, more beautiful, more lasting. 

Two suggestions which Mrs. Gallichan 
makes in the biological section are espe- 
cially striking. One is derived from the 
bee, and one from the spider. The bee, 
she reminds us, belongs 
to a highly evolved and complex society, which 
may be said to represent a very perfected and 
extreme socialism. In this society the vast ma- 
jority of the population — the workers — are 
sterile females, and of the drones, or males, only 
a very few at the most are ever functional. 
Eeproduction is carried on by the queen-mother 
. . . specialized for maternity and incapable 
of any other function. ... I have little 
doubt that something which is at least analogous 
to the sterilization of the female bees is present 
among ourselves. The complexity of our social 
conditions, resulting in the great disproportion 
between the number of the sexes, has tended to 
set aside a great number of women from the 
normal expression of their sex functions. 

The danger to society, when mater- 
nity shall be left to the stupid parasitic 
Avomen who are unable to exist as 
workers, is pointed out b}' ]Mrs. Galli- 
chan; as is also that exaggerated form 
of matriarchy which is realized among 
the ants and bees. And she reminds 
women who are workers, not mothers, 
that in the bee-workers the ovipositor 
becomes a poisoned sting. She warns 

women not to become like the sterile 
bees; but she warns them also against 
state endowment of motherhood. And 
she does not suggest how the great 
excess of women are to become mothers 
without reorganizing society. 

The second example she cites in warn- 
ing, the common spider, whose court- 
ship customs Darwin described in The 
Descent of Man, is " a case of female 
superiorit}^ carried to a savage conclu- 
sion." And from this female who ruth- 
lessly devours her lover, Mrs. Gallichan 
deduces a theory for " many of those 
wrongs which Avomen have suffered at 
the hands of men. Man, acting instinc- 
tively, has rebelled, not so much, I think, 
against woman as against this driving 
hunger within himself, which forces him 
lielpless into her power." 

The stages by which parasitism was 
transferred from the male to the female 
still need some elucidation — like the 
stages by which marriage passed from 
endogamy to exogamy. But Mrs. Galli- 
chan's suggestion about the male pre- 
serving himself b}^ appearing as self- 
sufficient and as dominant as he can, is 
highly interesting. It will probably not 
be long before we know a great deal 
more of this. 

In the historical section of her book, 
Mrs. Gallichan devotes four admirable 
chapters to the mother-age civilization, 
and four others to the position of women 
in Eg3^pt, Babylon, Greece, and Rome. 

Of immense significance is the relation 
between the enviable status of women in 
Egypt and that love of peace and of 
peaceful pursuits which characterized 
the Egyptian people. War, patriarchy, 
and the subjection of women, have gone 
hand in hand. Social organizations in 
which might was right have minimized 
the worth of women : those in which in- 
genuity, resourcefulness, and ideality 

The Little Review 


were set above brute force have given 
women most justice. 

Mrs. Gallichan's chapter on the women 
of Athens and of Sparta is most sug- 
gestive. So is that on the women of 

In her modern section she discusses 
women and labor: 

The old Tray of looking at the patriarchal 
family was, from one point of thought, perfectly 
right and reasonable as long as every woman 
was ensured the protection of, and mainte- 
nance by, some man. Nor do I think there 
was any unhappiness or degradation involved 
to women in this co-operation of the old days, 
where the man went out to work and the 
woman stayed to do work at least equally 
valuable in the home. It was, as a rule, a 
co-operation of love, and in any case it 
was an equal partnership in work. But 
what was true once is not true now. We are 
living in a continually changing development 
and modification of the old tradition of the re- 
lationship of woman and man. . . . The 
women of one class have been forced into labor 
by the sharp driving of hunger. Among the 
women of the other class have arisen a great 
number who have turned to seek occupation 
from an entirely different cause, the no less bit- 
ter driving of an unstimulating and ineffective 
existence, a kind of boiling-over of women's 
energy wasted, causing a revolt of the woman- 
soul against a life of confused purposes, achiev- 
ing by accident what is achieved at all. Be- 
tween the women who have the finest opportuni- 
ties and the women who have none there is this 
common kinship — the wastage not so much of 
woman as of womanhood. 

She considers " the women who have 
been forced into the cheating, damning 
struggle for life," and urges that " the 
life-blood of women, that should be given 
to the race, is being stitched into our 
ready-made clothes; washed and ironed 
into our linen; poured into our adul- 
terated foods"; and so on. But her 
reasoning in this chapter is not very 
clear. Women, to avoid parasitism, must 
work, and only a relatively small pro- 
portion of them can now find in their 

homes work enough to keep them self- 
sustaining. Protest against the sweat- 
ing of women is not only philanthropic 
— it is perfectly sound political econ- 
omy. Women workers not only should 
be protected against long hours, unnec- 
essary risks, insanitar}^ surroundings, 
merciless nerve tension, and the compu- 
tation of their wages on a basis of their 
assured ability to live partly by their 
labor and partly by the legitimatized or 
unlegitimatized sale of their sex; but 
this can, and must, be done. Yet, Avhen 
all this has been accomplished, will Mrs. 
Gallichan feel satisfied that the struggle 
for life is not " cheating, damning," if 
owing to conditions we cannot regulate 
that struggle fails also to comprehend 
the struggle to give life, to reproduce.? 
It is because we are the mothers of men that 
we claim to be free. 

This is the keynote of her book. But 
she is by no means clear in her mind as 
to how the mothers of men are to main- 
tain themselves in a freedom which shall 
be real, not merely conceded; nor as to 
how the millions of women who, under 
our monogamous societies, cannot be 
permanently mated, are to justif}'^ their 
struggle for existence by becoming 
" mothers of men." 

The something that Mrs. Gallichan 
lacks, not in her retrospect so much as 
in her previsioning, has been lacked by 
many of the great investigators and 
writers who have built up the magnifi- 
cent literature of evolution and evolu- 
tionar}^ philosoph}' : she has an admir- 
able sui'%'ey of the " whenceness " of life 
and love and labor, but a short-sighted, 
astigmatic vision of its " whereunto- 

If the sole purpose of life and love 
and labor, among humans as among 
lower animals, is to continue life, to 
transmit the life-force, then indeed are 


The Little Review 

those frustrated, futile creatures who 
are cheated, or who cheat themselves, 
out of rendering this one service to the 
world which can justify them for hav- 
ing lived in it. 

But if, as most of us believe, we are 
more than j ust links in the human chain ; 
if we have a relation to eternity as 
well as to history and to posterity, there 
are splendid interpretations of our 
struggles that Mrs. Gallichan does not 
apprehend. If souls are immortal, life 
is more than the perpetuation of species, 
or even than the 'improvement of the 
race ; it is the place allotted to us for the 
development of that imperishable part 
which we are to carry hence, and through 
eternity. And any effort of ours which 
helps other souls to realize the best that 
life can give, to seek the best that im- 
mortality can perpetuate, may splen- 
didly justify our existence. 

Mrs. Gallichan's conclusion about re- 
ligion is that it is an " opium " to which 
women resort when they have no proper 
outlet for their sex-impulses. " I am 
certain," she says, "that in us the re- 
ligious impulse and the sex impulse are 

one." And when she was able to satisfy 
the sex impulse, she no longer had any 
need of or interest in religion. 

The limitations this puts upon her 
interpretation of life are too obvious to 
need cataloging. And this is the reason 
she signally fails to tell the whole of 
the truth about woman. This is the 
reason why the latter chapters of her 
book, in which she writes of marriage 
and divorce and prostitution, are of less 
worth to the generality of readers than 
the earlier ones ; though this is not to 
say that these chapters do not contain a 
very great deal of vigorous thinking and 
excellent suggestion. But to anyone 
who holds that the continuance of life 
is the principal justification for having 
lived, yet deplores free love and state 
endowment of mothers, there is inevita- 
bly an appalling waste, for the elimina- 
tion of which she may well be staggered 
to suggest a remedy. 

Mrs. Gallichan's book is not construc- 
tive in eifect. But it is so excellently 
analj'tical, as far as it goes, that it can 
scarcely fail to provoke a great deal of 


There is coming soon, to the Fine 
Arts Theatre — that charming Chicago 
home of the Irish Players and of "the 
new note" in drama — a play with an 
interesting title. It is called Change. 
It is to be given by the Welsh Players 
— which fact alone has a thrill in it. 
But the theme is even more compelling. 

Two old God-fearing Welsh people 
have denied themselves of comforts and 
pleasures to give their sons an education. 
Then, when they expect to reap the bene- 
fits of the sacrifice, three unexpected and 
awful things happen: the student son 
has so fallen under the influence of 

modern skepticism as to be forced to 
abandon his father's Calvinistic creed. 
The second one has become soaked with 
socialism and syndicalism. The third, 
a chronic invalid, is a Christian and a 
comfort ; but he is killed, quite unnec- 
essarily, in a labor conflict instigated 
b}^ his brother. Then — the two old 
people again, alone. What can a play- 
wright do with such a situation? Noth- 
ing, certainly, to attract a " capacity 
house." But we shall be among the first 
of that small minority who likes thinking 
in the theatre to hear what Mr. Francis 
has to say. His theme is tremendous. 

The Little Review 


The Poetry of Alice Meynell 

Llewellyn Jones 

NOT least among the stirring events 
of our present poetical renaissance 
are the publication of the collected edi- 
tions of the works of Alice Meynell and 
Francis Thompson (Scribner). Spiritu- 
ally akin, mutually influencing one an- 
other in material as in more subtle ways, 
their poetry stands in vivid contrast to 
the muse of our younger singers, the 
makers of what English critics hail as a 
new Georgian Age. That this difference 
gives them an added significance, and not 
as some critics have said, a lessened one, 
is the burden of the present appreciation 
of the poems of Alice Meynell. For 
there is a tendency for the reader who 
is intoxicated with poetic modernity to 
reason somewhat after this fashion. 
Here, he will say, — as indeed INIr. Austin 
Harrison has said of Francis Thompson 
— is a " reed pipe of neo-mediaevalism 
... a poet of the gargoyle," not of 
this modem world, and so neither in sym- 
path}'^ of thought or melody with us of 
the twentieth century, its free life and 
vers libre. All this, of course, because, 
Francis Thompson was — as is Mrs. 
Meynell — a child of the Catholic 
Church. Our supposititious reader will 
continue to the effect that there is no 
spiritual profit to be had in reading these 
poets when the modern attitude is to be 
found in such writers as W. W. Gibson, 
Masefield, and Hardy. But in so argu- 
ing, our reader will be entirely wrong as 
to the facts, and mistaken in his whole 
manner of approach to the realm of 
poetic values. 

Mr. Max Eastman, in his charming 
book, The Enjoyment of Poetry, lays 

stress on the fact that poetry is not pri- 
marily the registering of emotions but 
the expression of keen realizations. A 
mathematical concept may arouse an 
emotion, but the poet makes the actual 
emotion transmissible by his selective 
power in picking out the focal point of 
the experience by^hich it is aroused. 
If poetry is essentially realization of life, 
then we have no longer any excuse for 
asking our poets to share our doctrinal 
views before we consent to read them. 
On the contrary, we should be more anx- 
ious to read Mrs. Meynell than Mr. Gib- 
son, if we are modernists, for Mr. Gib- 
son may, conceivably, not be able to tell 
us anything we have not already felt. 
Mrs. Me^aiell, on the other hand, can in- 
form our feelings with fresh aspects of 
experience, and she does so abundantly. 
Her Catholicism is not mediaevalism, but, 
. in so far as it is translatable into her 
poetry it is simply a vocabulary for 
the expression of certain emotional real- 
izations of life which we modernists find 
it very hard to express because we do not 
have the necessary vocabulary. What 
can be more modem than the doctrine of 
the immanence of God and his abode in 
man, that much-discussed " social gos- 
pel ? " Yet the following poem, not in 
spite of but through its Catholic termi- 
nology, heightens our realization of 
brotherhood and dependence one upon 
another. It is entitled The Unknown 

One of the crowd went up, 
And knelt before the Paten and the Cup, 
Received the Lord, returned in peace, and prayed 
Close to my side; then in my heart I said: 


The Little Review 

"O Christ, in this man's life — 

This stranger who is Thine — in all his strife, 

All his felicity, his good and ill, 

In the assaulted stronghold of his will, 

" I do confess Thee here. 
Alive within this life; I know Thee near 
Within this lonely conscience, closed away 
"Within this brother '3 solitary day. 

"Christ in his unknown heart. 
His intellect unknown — this love, this art, 
This battle and this peace, this destiny 
That I shall never know, look upon me! 

' ' Christ in his numbered breath, 
Christ in his beating heart and in his death, 
Christ in his mystery! From that secret place 
And from that separate dwelling, give me 
grace. ' ' 

The spectacle of a general communion 
again gives Mrs. Me3'nell inspiration for 
a poem whose last two stanzas apply 
equally as well to the secular, evolution- 
ary view of salvation as they do to the 
ecclesiastical view, and whose last stanza 
is most suggestive in the light it throws 
upon the puzzling discrepancy between 
the littleness of man and the unlimited 
material vast in which he finds himself a 
floating speck : 

I saw this people as a field of flowers. 

Each grown at such a price 
The sum of unimaginable powers 

Did no more than suffice. 

A thousand single central daisies they, 

A thousand of the one; 
For each, the entire monopoly of day; 

For each, the whole of the devoted sun. 

Even so typically modem a philosopher 
as Henri Bergson would find one of his 
leading and rather baffling ideas beauti- 
full}^ realized in one of INIrs. Mcynell's 
sonnets. Matter, Bergson tells us, in all 
its manifestations is moulded by a spirit- 
ual push from behind it, so that the sen- 
sible world is not a mosaic of atoms obey- 
ing fixed laws but rather a cosmic 
compromise between matter and spirit, a 
modus Vivendi the operation of which 

would seem very different to us were our 
viewpoint that of pure spirit. Says Mrs. 
Meynell in To a Daisy: 

Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide 
Like all created things, secrets from me, 
And stand, a. barrier to eternity. 

And I, how can I praise thee well and wide 

From where I dwell — upon the hither side? 
Thou little veil for so great mystery. 
When shall I penetrate all things and thee, 

And then look back? For this I must abide, 

Till thou shalt grow and fold and be unfurled 
Literally between me and the world. 

Then I shall drink from in beneath a spring. 

And from a poet's side shall read his book. 
O daisy mine, what shall it be to look 

From God's side even of such a simple thing? 

The sense of what might, perhaps, be 
called restrained paradox in that sonnet, 
is frequently met with in Mrs. Meynell's 
writings, and it corresponds to aspects 
of reality which the old religious phrase- 
ology'' she has so freshly minted for us 
is alone fitted to convey. The Young 
Neophyte is a beautiful sonnet enshrin- 
ing the fatefulness of every human 
action, the gift of the full flower which 
is implicit in the gift of the smallest bud, 
the preparation we are constantly mak- 
ing for crises which are 3'et hidden in the 
future. Thoughts in Separation also 
deals with the paradoxical overcoming of 
the handicaps of personal absence of our 
friends through communit}^ of thought 
and feeling. Not only are these para- 
doxes in human psychology delicately 
set forth bv the poet, but those darker 
ones of lunnan work and destiny are con- 
solingh' illuminated in such a poem as 
Builders of Ruins — -which does not de- 
pend for its quality of consolation upon 
anything foreign to its poetic truth. 

One poem in the book is, perhaps, 
most remarkable for the light it throws 
upon the sense in which the term poetic 
truth mav be used, and as showing the 

The Little Review 


difference between the poetic, the realiz- 
able, and, therefore, the true side of a 
religion — the side jMatthew Arnold was 
so anxious to keep — and the mere theo- 
logical framework, always smelling of 
unreality and always in need of renova- 
tion. The poem ma}- stand as a warn- 
ing against confusing real poetry — in 
whose truth we need not be afraid to 
trust because its author does not inhabit 
our own thought world — with versified 
theology. If all of Mrs. Meynell's work 
were like her Messina, 1908, then the 
critic and reader who now mistakenly 
shun her would be right. And the poem 
is a curious commentary upon Mr. East- 
man's insistence that poetry- is realiza- 
tion. For in her other poems the author 
has presented those aspects of her reli- 
gion which are verifiable in experience. 
Perhaps the quotations given above bear 
out that point. But one aspect of re- 
ligious thought has now been pretty gen- 
erally abandoned, not because it has ever 
been proven false, but because we have 
never succeeded in realizing it for our- 
selves. The God of orthodox church 
theodicy never did " make good " ; 
Christ, the Saints, and even the very ma- 
terial form of the cross itself had to 
mediate between man and the divine. 
And it is precisely in the one case in this 
book where Mrs. INIeynell tries to present 
the governing rather than the immanent 
God to us that she fails — as, if poetr}^ 
be realization, we should expect her to 
fail. The first stanza of the poem ad- 
dressed to the Deity describes in a few 
bold strokes the wreck of ]\Iessina, and 
ends with the lines : 

Destroyer, we have cowered beneath Thine own 
Immediate unintelligible hand. 

The second stanza describes the mis- 
sions of mercy to the stricken city, and 
ends : 

. . . our shattered fingers feel 
Thy mediate and intelligible hand. 

The essential weakness of this depend- 
ence for poetic effect upon the two ad- 
jectives and their negatives is no less 
obvious than the weakness of the poet's 
attribution of such apparently impulsive 
and then retractatory conduct to a God 
whose ways must either be explicable in 
terms of a human sense of order or not 
made the subject of human discourse at 

Mrs. Me>-nell describes herself in one 
of these poems as a singer of a single 
mood. Some of her critics have taken 
her at her word and saved themselves 
some trouble thereby in their task of 
appreciation. But as a matter of fact, 
she should not be taken at her own mod- 
est estimate, for her one mood is such a 
pervasive one, such a large and sane 
mood, that it pays to look at more than 
one aspect of life through its coloring. 
And in truHi, besides her better-known 
poems which need no further mention 
here, The Lady Poverty and Renounce- 
ment, for example, there will be found 
within the small compass of her beauti- 
fully-housed collection of verse many 
aspects of nature, all of them instinct 
with a mystic shimmer of life, as well as 
aspects of the mnermost life of man 
which it is given ro few spirits to sing 
in words — only, in fact, to those spirits 
whose effort it is to make their poetry 

Plain, behind oracles . . . and past 
All symbols, simple; perfect, heavenly -wild 
The song some loaded poets reacn at last — 
The kings that founa a (Jhiid. 

To have the sense or creative activity is the 
great happiness and tne great proof of being 
alive, and it is not denied to criticism to have 
it; but then criticism must be sincere, simple, 
flexible, ardent, ever widening its knowledge. 
— Matthew Arnold in Essays in Criticism (First 
Series) . 


The Little Review 

An Ancient Radical 

William L. Chenery 
Euripides and His Age, by Gilbert Murray. [Henry Holt and Company, New York.] 

The " conspiracy of silence " which 
oppressed the youth of those of us who 
were bom in the late Victorian era never 
seems more hateful than when some mas- 
ter hand connects the present labors of 
liberty with the strivings of the infinite 
past. In some fashion the dominating 
spirits of a generation ago contrived to 
make the struggles for human freedom 
appear as ugly isolated episodes without 
precursors or ancestry. They forgot the 
Shelleys and the GodAvins and they even 
denied the significance of the classic 
forerunners of today's ardent prophets. 

There were happy exceptions. Some 
of us cherish the teachings of a Virginia 
professor who, as far as the adolescent 
capacities of his students permitted, 
bridged the gap between Socrates's free 
questionings and the contemporary' 
yearnings for a world of uncompromis- 
ing justice and beauty. What that 
Southern student did for his small band 
of followers Gilbert INIurray has long 
been doing for the great world. His 
present contribution belongs to that 
satisfying series, Tlxe Home University 
Library. Incidentally, one reflects that 
this Home University is one of the few 
institutions of learning which has com- 
pletely avoided the blinders so many are 
complacently wearing. The Euripides 
of Murray suggests to the author — and 
to the reader, one may claim — both 
Tolstoi and Ibsen. But, one hastens to 
state. Professor INIurray is too learned 
and thoughtful a man to paint a revo- 
lutionary Euripides such as The Masses 
— much as one loves that exuberant Don 

Quixote — would delight to honor and to 
portray. His onset, however, catches us : 

"Every man who possesses real vitality can 
be seen as the resultant of two forces," says 
Murray. "He is first the child of a particular 
age, society, convention ; of what we may call in 
one word a tradition. He is secondly, in one 
degree or another, a rebel against that tradi- 
tion. And the best traditions make the best 
rebels. Euripides is the child of a strong and 
splendid tradition and is, together with Plato, 
the fiercest of all rebels against it. . . . 
Euripides, like ourselves, comes in an age of 
criticism, following upon an age of movement 
and action. And for the most part, like our- 
selves, he accepts the general standards on 
which the movement and action were based. He 
accepts the Athenian ideals of free thought, 
free speech, democracy, 'virtue,' and patriot- 
ism. He arraigns his country because she 
is false to them." 

The suffragist and the feminist move- 
ments have recently brought the great 
dramatist to his proper appreciation in 
respect to women. Some of the passages 
in the Meilea are quoted as often in suf- 
fragist campaigns as the words of Ber- 
nard Shaw or of Olive Schreiner. This 
Greek is sometimes said to be the first 
literary man who understood women. 
For that reason, as Professor Murray so 
chaiTningly emphasizes, Euripides was 
ever accounted a woman hater, despite 
even the implications of his great chorus 
which sings so nobly woman's destined 
rise as a power in the world. His state- 
ment of the cause of barbarian woman 
against a civilized man who has wronged 
her is incomparably more contemporary 
than Madam Butterfly, and with INIurray 
we may doubt " if ever the deserted one 
has found such words of fire as Medea 

The Little Review 


speaks." And, as the author continues, 
" Medea is not only a barbarian ; she is 
also a woman, and fights the horrible 
war that lies, an eternally latent possi- 
bility, between woman and man. Some 
of the most profound and wounding 
things said both by Medea and Jason 
might almost be labelled in a book of 
extracts ' Any Wife to Any Husband ' 
or ' Any Husband to Any Wife.' " 

The change which came over the spirit 
of Euripides's vision, as Athens itself 
was transformed by empire lust from the 
first glories of Pericles, suggest again 
the purifying satire of our ablest mod- 
erns. War is hateful and the picture 
which the Attic dramatist drew of the 
horrors of dying Troy leave little to the 
present imagination. Euripides accord- 
ingly became as popular in imperialistic 
Athens as was Bebel among the Kaiser's 
ministers. Murray interprets this phase 
magnificently. He concludes : " This 
scene, with the parting between Andro- 
mache and the child which follows, seems 
to me perhaps the most heartrending in 
all the tragic literature of the world. 
After rising from it one understands 
Aristotle's judgment of Euripides as the 
' most tragic of the poets.' " One has 
onh' to recall the brave gentleness of 
Hector's wife, described first in Homeric 
words, to agree with the present author. 

On the purely critical side Professor 
Murray's words are vastly important. 
Especially valuable is his discussion of 
the chorus and the deus ex machina con- 
cerning which so much error has been 
taught since Horace wrote on the art 
of poetry. But this small book is not 
designed for those whose interest in 
Greek drama is technical. It is Eurip- 
ides, the philosopher; Eui'ipides, the 
satirist of his times ; Euripides, the 
preacher of lofty virtues, the apostle of 
new men and more righteous gods, who 
concerns the great awakening world of 
1914. The intellectual battles which 
Euripides fought on behalf of Athens 
have been waged again and often for the 
millions who slumber and are content. 
They are being fought now with an in- 
tensity unprecedented. So it brings 
courage and it brings calm to reahze 
the continuity of the conflict, and to re- 
call the signal victories of the olden 
days. Gilbert Murray's achievements 
are too numerous to permit praise. One 
may only say now that the present book 
is in line with the fine things of his 
past; that by virtue of his labors the 
world agony for liberty and justice and 
beauty reveals new phases of the intrinsic 
dignity and honor which have been its 
possession since men desired better 

For those whose lives are chaotic personal 
loves must also be chaotic ; this or that passion, 
malice, a jesting humor, some physical lust, 
gratified vanity, egotistical pride, will rule and 
limit the relationship and color its ultimate 
futility. — H. G. Wells in First and Last 

Isn't it possible to be pedantic in the demand 
for simplicity? It's a cry which, if I notice 
aright, nature has a jaimty way of disregarding. 
Command a rosebush in the stress of June to 
purge itself; coerce a convolvulus out of the 
paths of cataehresis. Amen ! — Some Letters of 
JVilliam Vaughn Moody. 


The Little Review 

Equal Suffrage: The First Real Test 

Henry Blackman Sell 

THE query of the anti-suffragist — 
"Will the women really use suf- 
frage if they have it" — was rather 
conclusively answered in the affirmative 
at Chicago aldermanic elections on April 
7, when equal suffrage was given its first 
real test in an American city of first 
rank. This election brought out many 
interesting incidents which might be con- 
sidered as having " laboratory " value. 

It has been contended by the " antis " 
that the women would be bad losers ; 
that they would not support the non- 
partisan ideals which are becoming a 
definite part of our " new patriotism " ; 
that the result of equal suffrage would 
simply be one of double vote, wives vot- 
ing as their husbands decided ; that the 
women coming out in the first enthusi- 
asm of registration would not take the 
same interest in the prosaic work at the 
polls ; that the fights against bad nomi- 
nees would result either in a duplication 
of man-run campaigns, or in ineffective 
and lady-like campaigns. 

The first of these contentions was 
proved untrue to even the most casual 
observer at the polls on election day. 
The women were fighting uphill all the 
way, and where the so-termed " suffrage 
men " were slightly unpleasant in their 
attitude towards the " antis," the women 
were all cheerfulness and all refreshing 
encouragement. As one explained : " It 
has been the most wonderful feeling, 
working shoulder to shoulder with the 
men in something that has reall}^ been 
our duty all along." 

Nine women candidates were up for 
election and not one was chosen ; and 
yet, after talking with five defeated 

women candidates and three defeated 
men candidates, I concluded that the 
women knew more about the philosophy 
of politics and its sad uncertainties than 
men who had been contesting for years. 

True, election to office is but a by- 
product of political experience ; it is 
a most coveted by-product, nevertheless, 
and Avhen a woman like Marion Drake, 
who ran a close race against Chicago's 
" bad " alderman, says, at the closing of 
the polls, " I have not been elected, but 
every minute of the time I have expended 
has been worth while and I shall try 
again at the next election," — it shows 
the right spirit and the fundamental 
error in the assertion that women cannot 
lose gracefully. 

Non-pai-tisanism could tie given no 
real test, for these ideals seemed neces- 
sary of application in onl}^ two or three 
wards. In one — -the twent3'-first — an 
alderman with a bad record was up for 
re-election in opposition to a Republican 
of no particular merit. The Avomen got 
together, Avith the aid of some of the 
better men, and selected a non-partisan 
candidate. This man was elected directly 
through the efforts of the women who, 
Republican, Democratic, and Progres- 
sive, rallied in true non-partisan spirit 
to his aid. 

As to the control of the Avomen's votes 
by the men : it is interesting to note 
that in the more intelligent wards there 
was considerable variance between the 
men and the women, while in the wards 
of the poorer and less intellectually- 
inclined portions of the city the votes 
ran a great deal alike. 

The women came out in n-ood numbers 

The Little Review 


and, as a matter of fact, tlic masculine 
vote was considerably higher than usual ; 
but even with this advantage, the regis- 
tered Avomen outvoted the registered 
men by a small per cent. 

The campaigns conducted by the vari- 
ous women were distinctly different from 
the ordinary political campaigns. They 
were dignified, straightforward, strong, 
and effective. Miss Drake, in her cam- 
paign against John Coughlin, colloqui- 
ally and delicately known as " Bathhouse 
John," — the name originating from the 
fact that the gentleman in question re- 
ceived liis political training as a mopper 
and rubber in one of Chicago's most 
infamous bath houses, — made a direct 

appeal, in a house to house, voter to 
voter, canvass of her ward. In this 
way she told over two-thirds of the 
people of the "Bathhouse's" territory 
all about the gentleman, his ambitions, 
his desires, and his insidious motives. 
And while she was defeated, it must be 
remembered that though Coughlin re- 
ceived a sufficient plurality, he by no 
means attained his boast : — " I'll beat 
that skirt by 8,000 votes." In fact, 
where his plurality at the last elections 
was approximatel}'^ eight to one, this 
year it was less than two-and-a-half to 
one, making an obvious deduction that 
Miss Drake's campaign was decidedly 
successful even though she did not win. 

The Education of Yesterday and Today 

William Saphier 

The Education of Karl Witte, translated by Leo Wiener and edited by H. Addington Bruce. 
[Thomas Y. Crowell Company, New York.] 

Mr. Saphier is a Eoumanian who came to this country only a few years ago and learned Eng- 
lish. The following review is his first attempt at writing, and we print it just as it came to 
us, hoping our readers will find it as interesting as we did. 

hundred 3'ears ago when scientific advice 

French, Italian, English, Greek, and 
German at the age of nine, a Ph.D. de- 
gree at fourteen, a doctor of laws and 
an appointment to the teaching staff of 
the Berlin University at sixteen — these 
were some of the achievements of Karl 
Witte. Or shall I say of pastor Witte, 
the father.? For the boy had very little 
to do with it: he was merely a piece of 
putty in the able hands of a strong- 
willed man who knew what he wanted and 
how to get it. A child of ordinary abili- 
ties, according to pastor Witte and oth- 
ers, Karl absorbed an enormous amount 
of knowledge in a comparatively short 
time, as a result of a method of educa- 
tion which began almost as soon as he 
showed intelligence. 

The book, original^ Avritten about one 

on the subject was lacking, is a remark- 
able document. It is full of useful in- 
formation and practical hints to parents 
and people interested in the education of 
children, even in this day of scientific 
methods and conflicting authorities. But 
as Ave might have expected, the disci- 
pline reminds us a little of the German 
" Kaserne." The spilling of a little milk 
on the tablecloth was punished by en- 
forced abstinence from all foods except 
bread and salt. Punishment as a rem- 
edy for an offense is always wrong, be- 
cause it does not prove the responsibil- 
ity of the act to the child. 

The spirit in which pastor Witte went 
about his task is shown in the following 
passage : 


The Little Review 

The firmness in executing my purpose went 
so far that even our house dog knew the em- 
phasis of the words: "I must work," and 
calmed down the moment we spoke these words 
softly into his ears. Almost from the outset 
this made an enormous impression on Karl. He 
soon became accustomed to look upon his work 
time as something sacred. 

The development of intellectual and 
moral courage, the most important qual- 
ities any man or woman may possess, 
were neglected, at least were not given 
the attention they deserse. To inculcate 
in the child a desire for liberty and social 
equality, he overlooks entirely. 

The father is really the more remark- 
able of the two. A product of the meth- 
od of education prevailing at the time, 
he stands as a refutation of his own the- 
ories. Pastor Witte conceived and car- 
ried out an idea successfully. He did 
something, at least theoretically, worth 
while. The son died at eightj^-three. 
Now what difference would it have 
made either to the boy or to the world if 
his appointment to the teaching staff of 
Berlin had come at a later date.'' Most 
methods of education aim at the train- 
ing of the senses and the accumulation of 
facts. While these are necessary, I think 
the speed at which this is done is imma- 
terial to the child. 

Some of the finest men and women, 
who made this a better world to live in, 
had no scientific training in their child- 
hood or later. We need not go back to 
history to find them. Maxime Gorky, 
for instance, lost his parents before he 
Avas four years old, and began to read 
under the supervision of a cook at six- 
teen. Jack London is another instance 
that suggests itself readily to one's mind. 

Of course these are exceptional peo- 
ple, but take the thousands of able and 
brainy men and women in labor organ- 
izations and idealists in all walks of life. 
Usuallv they had verv little attention 

from their parents, either because they 
had no time or did not know enough. 
These men and women who had to rub up 
against the rough edges of our money- 
making machinery and to stand squarely 
on their feet facing this world and its 
problems,^ — willing to lend a hand, yes, 
even to give their lives for the better- 
ment of social and economic conditions 
— these persons are worthy of the name. 

Now I don't want to say anything 
against the early training of children, 
The kindergarten and all the methods of 
early training in schools have come into 
existence because there is a real need for 
them. Parents, for many reasons, no 
longer have the time to train their own 
children; but we expect results from 
education in general that cannot be 

What good are all the learning and 
scientific facts that we have accumulated 
up to now, if we don't use them to make 
our life richer and more beautiful.'' 
Knowledge and ability are worthless if 
there is no moral and intellectual cour- 
age to back them up. Pastor Witte 
thought the education of his son fin- 
ished when he reached the age of sixteen. 
We to-da}' do things in the same spirit. 
We get things done. Nothing slow 
about us. The result, of course, is very 
poor; nobody is satisfied. Our experts, 
always ready with advice on any and 
everything, tell us that what we need is 
technical training to provide industry 
with efficient help. These educators do 
not see that the difficulty is not with 
the child but with industrial conditions. 
They are going to fit the child to this 
miser}" called modern industry. But re- 
move the possibility of the unscrupulous 
taking advantage of the inexperienced 
and simple-minded, and many of the so- 
called educational problems will disap- 

The Little Review 


Some Book Reviews 

A New-Old Tagore Play 

Chitra: A Play in One Act, by Eabindrauath Tagore. 
[The Macmillan Company, New York.] 

Nothing is more irritating to a really 
modern critic than to have to join in a 
chorus of universal praise. It is par- 
ticularly irritating when the person ac- 
claimed is a Nobel prize winner, for sure- 
ly those of us who sit in private judg- 
ment in secluded places ought to be able 
to discern values subtler than the ones 
open to the eyes of some mysterious 
frock-coated and silk-hatted jury of pro- 
fessors in Stockholm, or wherever it may 
be. The very maiTow in the bones of 
criticism curdles at the thought of agree- 
ing with a popular award. 

But a certain native honesty and a dis- 
tinct desire to spread good news obliges 
one, in the case of Chitra, to withhold 
the amiable dissecting knife. The play 
is far too beautiful to serve as a cadaver 
for the illustration of either the anato- 
mist's skill or the facts of anatomy. Let 
it be confessed that this reviewer, who 
was about to send the book back with a 
refusal to review any work of Tagore, 
found, after reading a few lines, that he 
was forced to go on ; and that having 
once gone on, he preferred to write tlie 
review rather than to give up the book. 

This play was written twenty-five 
years ago, and belongs, therefore, to 
that earlier strata of Tagore's life which 
is to the normal mind so much more 
alluring than the latter detritus that 
seems to have accumulated over him. His 
later work appears to be old with the old 
age of Asia and with the old age of him- 
self. Its fundamental feeling is the only 
too familiar impulse to recline on the 

bosom of a remote God. We who regard 
this attitude as a perversion of manhood 
will turn from it with relief to the earlier 
writing, in which the very lifeblood of 
our own hearts seems quivering with 
the intimations of a better-than-godlike 

As I have suggested, there is very 
little that can rationally be said about 
this play Chitra. To indicate something 
of the nature of so perfect' a work is the 
sole office that I can profitably perform. 

Chitra, daughter of a King who had 
no sons, was brought up to live the life 
and perform the activities of a man, with 
a man's hardness of frame and a man's 
directness of will. One day while hunt- 
ing in the forest, she found sleeping in 
her path Arjuna, the great warrior of 
the Kuru Clan. " Then for the first time 
in my life I felt myself a woman, and 
knew that a man was before me ... " 
Going to the gods of love, Chitra ob- 
tained from them the gift of a perfect 
and world-vanquishing beauty to last for 
one year only ; and returning to Arjuna 
she overcame by this invincible weapon 
the monastic vows which he had taken 
upon himself, and swept him away into 
the wild and glorious current of her year 
of beauty. Thus the year begins : 


At evening I lay down on a grassy bed 
strewn with the petals of spring flowers, and 
recollected the wonderful praise of my beauty 
I had heard from Arjuna ; — drinking drop by ■ 
drop the honey that I had stored during the 
long day. The history of my past life, like 


The Little Review 

that of my former existences, was forgotten. I 
felt like a flower, which has but a few fleet- 
ing hours to listen to all the humming of the 
woodlands and then must lower its eyes from 
the sky, bend its head, and at a breath give 
itself up to the dust without a cry, thus ending 
the short story of a perfect moment that has 
neither past nor future. 

Vasanta (The God of Love) 

A limitless life of glory can bloom and spend 
itself in a morning. 

Madana (The God of the 

Like an endless meaning in the narrow span 
of a song. 


The southern breeze caressed me to sleep. 
From the flowering malati bower overhead 
silent kisses dropped over my body. On my 
hair, my breast, my feet, each flower chose a 
bed to die on. I slept. And suddenly, in the 
depth of my sleep, I felt as if some intense 
eager look, like tapering fingers of flame, 
touched my slumbering body. I started up and 
saw the Hermit standing before me. The moon 
had moved to the west, peering through the 
leaves to espy this wonder of divine art wrought 
in a fragile human frame. The air was heavy 
with perfume; the silence of the night was 
vocal with the chirping of crickets; the reflec- 
tions of the trees hung motionless in the lake; 
and with his staff in his hand he stood, tall 
and straight and still, like a forest tree. It 
seemed to me that I had, on opening my eyes, 
died to all realities of life and undergone a 
dream birth into a shadow land. Shame slipped 
to my feet like loosened clothes. I heard his 
call — ' ' Beloved, my most beloved ! ' ' And all 
my forgotten lives united as one and responded 
to it. I said, ' ' Take me, take all I am ! " And 
I stretched out my arms to him. The moon set 
behind the trees. Heaven and earth, time and 
space, pleasure and pain, death and life merged 
together in an unbearable ecstasy. . . . With 
the first gleam of light, the first twitter of 
birds, I rose up and sat leaning on my left 
arm. He lay asleep with a vague smile about 
his lips like the crescent moon in the morning. 
The rosy-red glow of the dawn fell upon his 
noble forehead. I sighed and stood up. I 
drew together the leafy lianas to screen the 
streaming sun from his face. I looked about 
me and saw the same old earth. I remembered 
what I used to be, and ran and ran like a deer 

afraid of her own shadow, through the forest 
path strewn with shepliali flowers. I found a 
lonely nook, and sitting down covered my face 
with both hands, and tried to weep and cry. 
But no tears came to my eyes. 

Alas, thou daughter of mortals I I stole 
from the divine storehouse the fragrant wine 
of heaven, filled with it one earthly night to the 
brim, and placed it in thy hand to drink — ■ 
yet still I hear this cry of anguish ! . . . 

A few words, a half dozen pages of 
prose modulated to perform an office as 
subtle as that of blank verse, give us the 
exquisite essence of the year that fol- 
lows ; and toward the end there steal into 
it notes of the inadequacy Avhich the 
great warrior feels in this perfection, and 
his desire for the old and harsher round 
of human life. Thus the year ends: 

Tonight is thy last night. 
The loveliness of your body will return tomor- 
row to the inexhaustible stores of the spring. 
The ruddy tint of thy lips, freed from the 
memory of Arjuna's kisses, will bud anew as 
a pair of fresh asoka leaves, and the soft, 
white glow of thy skin will be born again in 
a hundred fragrant jasmine flowers. 
gods, grant me this my prayer! Tonight, 
in its last hour, let my beauty flash its bright- 
est, like the final flicker of a dying flame. 
Thou shalt have thy wish. 

And as it ends, and as Chitra realizes 
that there is to fall from her that radi- 
ance which has been, for a year, the sole 
bond between her and her lover, and also 
the sole barrier between the real her and 
him, she finds that his profounder long- 
ing has changed into a desire for the 
companionship of that strong and eager 
boy-woman that she was before her 

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Chitra (cloaTced) 

My lord, has the cup been drained to the 
last drop? Is this indeed the end? No; when 
all is done something still remains, and that is 
my last sacrifice at your feet. 

I brought from the garden of heaven flowers 
of incomparable beauty with which to worship 
you, god of my heart. If the rites are over, if 
the flowers have faded, let me throw them out 
of the temple (unveiling in her original male 
attire). Now, look at your worshipper with 
gracious eyes. 

I am not beautifully perfect as the flowers 
with which I worshipped. I have many flaws 
and blemishes. I am a traveller in the great 
world-path, my garments are dirty, and my 
feet are bleeding with thorns. Where should I 
achieve flower-beauty, the unsullied loveliness of 
a moment 's life ? The gift that I proudly bring 
you is the heart of a woman. Here have all 
pains and joys gathered, the hopes and fears 
and shames of a daughter of the dust ; here love 
springs up struggling toward immortal life. 
Herein lies an imperfection which yet is noble 
and grand. If the flower-service is finished, my 
master, accept this as your servant for the days 
to come! 

I am Chitra, the king's daughter. Perhaps 
you will remember the day when a woman came 
to you in the temple of Shiva, her body loaded 
wdth ornaments and finery. That shameless 
woman came to court you as though she were a 
man. You rejected her; you did' well. My 
lord, I am that w^oman. She was my disguise. 
Then by the boon of gods I obtained for a 
year the most radiant form that a mortal ever 
wore, and wearied my hero's heart with the 
burden of that deceit. Most surely I am not 
tliat woman. 

I am Chitra. No goddess to be worshipped, 
nor yet the object of common pity to be brushed 
aside like a moth M-ith indifference. If you 
deign to keep me by your side in the path of 
danger and daring, if you allow me to share the 
great duties of your life, then you will know 
my true self. If your babe, whom I am nour- 
ishing in my womb, be born a son, I shall myself 
teach him to be a second Arjuna, and send him 
to you when the time comes, and then at last 
you will truly know me. Today I can only 
offer you Chitra, the daughter of a king. 

Beloved, my life is full. 

Arthur Davison Ficke. 

An Unorthodox View of Burroughs 

Our Friend John Burroughs, by Clara Barrus. 
[Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.] 

That title engenders a resentment in 
me, a sense of unfitness. It is an epitome 
of a popular approval which has cheap- 
ened the word " friendship." If Walt 
Whitman, John Muir, and Francis F. 
Browne had jointly written of Bur- 
roughs, the words " our friend " in the 
title of their collaboration would have 
been inevitable and nice. The common 
disregard of so unimportant a matter as 
this seems to be in the author's opinion 
exhibits the crass liberties w^hich the pub- 
lic is wont to take %vith personalities. 
The result is that a great man may be- 
come popular and useful before he is 

Burroughs happily is both read and 
understood. His popularity therefore is 
Avholesome. But the mild and consistent 
protest which his life has been and is 
against the necessary artificialities in 
which most of his " friends " live has 
never drawn them into a comprehending, 
practicing sympathy with it. He is read, 
applauded, and envied — but not fol- 
lowed. His softness and gentle uncon- 
cern with affairs are the antitheses of 
those dynamic qualities which confer 
leadership and vitalize men's impulses 
and deeds. His urban admirers go to 
the country to rusticate and picnic but 
not to live a life like his. He does too 


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much speculative thinking to give his at- 
titude toward the world an opportunity 
to go home to his readers. 

Whitman, with a similar indifference 
to a following, drives men into the open 
road; Thoreau lures them to Walden 
Ponds to repeat his experiment ; Ik Mar- 
vel persuades them to farm; David 
Grayson charms cit}^ folk back to the 
land, to anchor and live. Burroughs at- 
tracts visitors to Slabsides, He is on the 
verge of becoming an institution, a cu- 
riosity. His life has been a personal suc- 
cess. He is young in spirit and surpris- 
ingly robust at nearly eighty years of 
age — he is seventy-seven this month — 
and I daresay that his obvious failure to 
lead his readers towards country homes 
of their own or seriously to interest them 
in the art of simple living has never 
given him the slightest pain. He has as- 
sumed no responsibility for the ways of 
the world. Nature is capable of working 
out her own salvation during a future 
etemitj^ A leaf on a tree does not quar- 
rel with or attempt to refonn its per- 
sonal kin. It functions alone; the life 
of which it is a part must take care of 
horticultural sociology. Burroughs to 
me acknowledges himself to be a leaf on 
the great tree. That is exceedingly in- 
teresting; but endow leaves with reason, 
give them an expanding consciousness, 
and their functions must change. Bur- 
roughs would require to be more than a 
predestinated leaf if his fellows were 

By virtue of societ^^'s struggle and in- 
dustrv, in which Burroughs is not inter- 

ested, he has made of the world, so far as 
he is concerned, a quiet, beautiful out- 
door cathedral, domed by the sky, its 
chief priest being fed and clothed by the 
slaves of productive industry- in 3'our 
world and mine. With great respect and 
admiration I pronounce him a sagacious 
man, a clever leaf that has employed its 
reason with remarkable personal advan- 
tage. In Burroughs' world the trage- 
dies, strife, and noise that we experience 
do not exist ; his cathedral is a by-prod- 
uct and he is a modest beneficiary of 
humanity's work. In relation to the 
masses of people it is as unreal as it is 
unproductive of racial fitness to persist 
in the world as most men know it. He 
loves to dream, think, and write in his 
cathedral ; what is going on outside does 
not disturb him. He revels in the leisure, 
order, and security which the outsiders 
have provided. He assures us that it is 
pleasant and satisfying, and we honor 
and reward him for the information, but 
I should like to ask him whether the 
largest freedom and selfhood that are 
achievable apart from working, conflict- 
ing, warring men are not themselves fun- 
damentally artificial. 

Burroughs does not seem to be suffi- 
ciently alive to suspect that he has missed 
something greater than personal con- 
tentment. A reader of everything that 
he has published, I never, until I read the 
autobiographical sketches in this work, 
felt the pity and unsocial contempt — 
not for the man but for the type — 
which I have here tried to express. 

D. C. W. 

Another Masefield Tragedy 

The Tragedy of Pompey the Great, by John Masefield. 
[The Macmillan Company, New York.] 

Creative artist that he is, Masefield 
moves forward into amazing clearness, 

heightened by flashes of poetic light, the 
scenes of nearly two thousand years ago 

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in Rome. The fidelity of this tragedy to 
the facts of histoid, and the remarkable 
extent to which it reproduces the over- 
whelming glory of a great struggle, are 
new proofs of the author's special affin- 
ity with the sanguinary deeds of heroic 
men. Masefield's plays and narrative 
poems give the element of tragedy some- 
thing of its old vividness and nobility in 
art. Some of his phrases sound like the 
fall of a guillotine. He is a master of 
the magic of objectifying tremendous 
unrealities. He hates feeble passions ; 
wanton courage and oaken physical 
power in action are the big things that 
he likes to ennoble with poetic treatment. 
And his success is incomparable, so far 
as his contemporaries are concerned. 

Masefield's great characters, true to 
the glossed facts of life, in crises exhibit 
indwelling cave-men. His frankness and 
honesty are themselves tragical. Life is 
full of and inseparable from tragedy. 
Pompey " saAv a madman in Egypt. He 
was ej^eless with staring at the sun. He 
said that ideas come out of the East, 
like locusts. They settle on the nations 
and give them life; and then pass on, 
dying, to the wilds, to end in some scratch 
on a bone, by a cave-man's fire." The 
old warrior lies awake, thinking. " What 
are we ? " he asks Lucceius, and that 
actor in a great play replies, " Who 
knows.'* Dust with a tragic purpose. 
Then an end." ^Masefield surveys the 
recorded history of the past, sees into 
the heart of the present and exclaims, 
" Tragedy ! " And of course that is in 
his own life ; otherwise he could not see 
it apart from himself. In sheer despera- 
tion he endues dust with a " tragic pur- 
pose," but he does not believe so much as 
he hopes that a " purpose " inheres in 
that resultant of life, for in the big poem 
with which he summarizes the record of 
Pompey he says : . 

And all their passionate hearts are dust, 
And dust the great idea that burned 

In various flames of love and lust 
Till the world's brain was turned. 

God, moving darkly in men's brains, 
Using their passions as his tool, 

Brings freedom with a tyrant's chains 
And wisdom with the fool. 

Blindly and bloodily we drift, 

Our interests clog our hearts with dreams, 
God make my brooding soul a rift 

Through which a meaning gleams. 

The Tragedy of Pompey the Great, 
unlike any Shaw play or even The Trag- 
edy of Nan, is not good reading; its 
short sentences, tragic with import, are 
mere outlines. But they drive incarnate 
reality into one's soul. 

What was the tragedy of Pompe}? 
Well, it began hundreds of years before 
he was born ; he was the accidental em- 
bodiment of it. He had earned security 
and peace. Ho had aided Caesar in con- 
quering Gaul. " Caesar would never 
have been an^^body if Pompey hadn't 
backed him." But that tyrant's lust for 
power provoked a civil war, and the end 
was " a blind, turbulent heaving towards 
freedom." Pompey's dream of freedom 
— his conviction that power was in too 
few hands — cost him his life. To him 
Rome was inwardly " a great democratic 
power struggling with obsolete laws." 
He declared that " Rome must be settled. 
The crowd must have more power." But 
Pompey's dream was shallow and human, 
even if great, for, regarding the 
" thought of the world " as of transcend- 
ent importance, he asks, " For what else 
are we fighting but to control the 
thought of the world? What else 
matters ? " 

History seems to try to repeat itself. 
Lentulus, fearing that they were losing 
Rome, said to Pompey, " You have done 
nothing." The reply — " Wait " — has 


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a modem sound. Pompey was prepar- 
ing to fight Caesar, but public opinion, 
voiced by Metellus, excitedly demanded, 
"but at once. Give him no time to win 
recruits by success. Give them no time 
here. The rabble don't hesitate. They 
don't understand a man who hesitates." 

That too might have been said by a 
modern American newspaper, affecting to 
speak for the crowd. 

Philip, beloved of the maiden Antistia, 
is fanatically true to his master, whom 
he would follow " To the desert. To the 
night without stars. To the wastes of 
the seas. To the two-forked flame." To 
him this blind devotion meant more than 

Antistia's love. " We shall have to put 
off our marriage," he said to her, and 
she, speaking from the deep heart of the 
mother, unachieved, answered: 

Why, thus it is. We put off and put off till 
youth's gone, and strength's gone, and beauty's 
gone. Till we two dry sticks mumble by the 
fire together, wondering what there was in life, 
when the sap ran. . . . When you kiss the dry 
old hag, Philip, you'U remember these arms 
that lay wide on the bed, waiting, empty. 
Years. You'll remember this beauty. All this 
beauty. That would have borne you sons but 
for your master. 

Whatever the fate of Pompey, Antis- 
tia's was the supreme tragedy. 

DeWitt C. Wing. 

A Net to Snare the Sun 

The World Set Free, by H. G. Wells. 
[E. P. Button and Company, New York.] 

Do you remember the little verse of 
Kipling's in the Just So Stories about 
the small person who kept so many serv- 
ing men 
' ' ' One million Hows, two million Wheres, 
And seven million Whys?" 

There's something very much like that 
small person in a decidedly larger person 
called H. G. Wells. For all the great 
sweep and astonishing convincingness of 
his later novels he still keeps the child- 
like quality of asking startling questions 
about everything in the universe. He 
still wants to know : " Why can't I catch 
the sun, and what would happen if I 

In his last half dozen novels he has 
been asking about various phases of our 
modern society, politics, and the sex 
question. But in this latest book, The 
World Set Free, he goes back to a type 
of question that interested him some 
years ago, the type half fanciful and 
half sociological that produced In the 
Days of the Comet, The Time Machine, 

and When tJie Sleeper Wakes. But this 
book is not entirely like the earlier ones. 
For one thing the science is for the first 
time so nearly possible that it is ahnost 
probable, and for another this book is 
the work of an older, quieter soul with 
less regard for externals and with more 
faith in the ultimate high hope for man- 

What Wells has asked himself this 
time is : " What would happen if man 
were suddenly given command over an 
unhmited amount of physical power.? " 
He brings this about by modern chemis- 
try. A scientist discovers a new theory 
of matter which enables him to break 
down metals by radio-activity and so 
generate practically limitless power. The 
first use the world makes of this power 
is to go to war. We can hardly quarrel 
with Wells for the improbability of this 
because it sweeps the board so clear for 
his reconstruction period, which is the 
heart of the story. 

A strange storj^ it is; one whose hero 

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is mankind — mankind in the bulk, grop- 
ing, struggling, trying half blindly to 
adapt himself to the new conditions, and 
at last, after a desperate period of recon- 
struction, coming out into the sunlight, 
triumphant, clean, and at peace. Now 
and then an individual is caught up for 
an instant into the story, transfigured 
for the moment by circumstances into a 
mouthpiece for the mass of mankind, — a 
scientist, a middle-class Englishman who 
wrote his memoirs, the Slavic Fox, a 
dying prophet of the later age, — but 
for the most part it is just mankind who 
speaks. Wells, by the great sweep and 
vision of his ideas and the almost super- 
human handling of the technical diffi- 
culties of such an impersonal story, suc- 
ceeds in raising us for a moment out of 
our personal selves so that we are com- 

pletely identified with the race, and view 
its later successes with a serene and per- 
sonal pride. 

Each of us becomes a link in the great 
chain of humanity that reaches from the 
cave man through the " chuckle-headed 
youth" to the dying professor, the men 
who dreamed of snaring: the sun in a net 
and taming it to their hand. "Ye auld 
red thing . . ." we say with the chuckle- 
headed youth, " We'll have you yet! " 
And the dying prophet cries for each 
of us to the setting orb: 

"Old Sun, I gather myself together out of 
the pools of the individual that have held me 
dispersed so long. I gather my billion thoughts 
into science and my million wills into a common 
purpose. Well may you slink down behind the 
mountain from me, well may you cower. ..." 

Eunice Tietjens. 

A $10,000 Novel 

Diane of the Green Van, by Leona Dalrymple. 
[The Eeilly and Britton Company, Chicago.] 

About the middle of last December 
Mr. F. K. Reilly sent a telegram to a 
Miss Leona Dalrymple of Passaic, New 
Jersey, in which he asked : " May I call 
upon you Thursday afternoon?" The 
telegram was the result of the $10,000 
prize contest which the Reilly and Brit- 
ton Company had planned early in the 
year ; and Miss Dalrymple had just been 
announced as the winner by the three 
judges — S. S. McClure, Ida Tarbell, 
and George N. Madison. She knew noth- 
ing of this, however, though she thought 
Mr. Reilly's telegram must mean an in- 
terest in her work ; so she replied calmly 
that she would be pleased to see him on 
Thursday. Then Mr. Reilly's eyes begin 
to twinkle, as he tells the story, for it is 
rather a joke to set out on a journey 
with a $10,000 check in your pocket for 

an unsuspecting young woman. Even 
when he explained to her and presented 
the check she remained calm — though 
she is only twenty-eight years old and 
this was her first taste of real fame. She 
told Mr. Reilly that she had another 
novel which she hoped might interest 
him — but he took the words out of her 
mouth by saying that he had come pre- 
pared to make a contract for it ! 

So much for the latest of modem 
fairy tales. Diane of the Green Van 
is the prize-winning novel, and, despite 
our first suspicion of it because of that 
very fact, it proves to be a good one. 
Miss Dalrymple loves the outdoors, and 
her present story of an American girl 
who goes jaunting in a van in the 
Florida Everglades was suggested by a 
newspaper clipping about an adventur- 


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ous young Englishwoman who managed 
to break away from conventions once a 
year and roam the country in a gipsy 
wagon. Not all "best sellers" have as 
much real charm as this one. Perhaps 
its freshness and spontaneity are due to 
the fact that it had to be written in six 
weeks for the contest. 

Miss Dalrymple has stated that her 
purpose in writing novels is to " enter- 
tain wholesomely through optimism and 
romance." Usually that type of purpose 
is linked up with a sentimentality which 

means being sweet at the expense of 
truth. But this author is not that sort: 
in expressing her dislike of sex stories, 
for instance, she attributes their short- 
comings to treatment, not to material — 
"since there is absolutely no subject 
under the sun which may not be treated 
with perfect good taste in a novel." She 
has also stated that in her opinion the 
modern woman is over-sexed — a popu- 
lar though altogether wrong-headed view 
which we mean some time to argue with 
her in these columns. 

Slime and the Breath of Life 

Tlie Bussian Novel, translated from the French of Le Vicomte E. M. de Yogiie by Colonel H. 

A. Sawyer. 
[George H. Doran Company, New York.] 

Although this book was written in 
1886, its treatments of Pushkin, Gogol, 
Turgeneff, Dostoevsky, and Tolstoy 
are now first made accessible to the Eng- 
lish reader, and will still be worth his 
attention. In fact one reads them with a 
growing regret that the author, who died 
in 1910, did not continue his interpreta- 
tion of the Russian spirit as the religious 
and mystic tone of its nihilism grad- 
ually faded and left us the bleaker out- 
look of such men as Gorky. With Tol- 
stoy, however- — "probably the greatest 
demonstrator of life which has arisen 
since Goethe " — the book closes. 

The author treats his subject from the 
standpoint of a certain fonnula which he 
finds to hold throughout the range of 
that realism which succeeded the roman- 
ticism of Pushkin — a romanticism which 
disappeared in 1840. Thereafter there 
grew up the great realistic school which 
gives Russia the leadership of the world 
in the field of realistic fiction — a leader- 
ship du« partly to the temperamental 
standpoint of the Russian, adapted for 

just the kind of work which the great 
realistic novel involves, and partly to the 
importance of the novel as the vehicle of 
those ideas which the censor barred from 
every other channel of expression. 

In the bible we are told that God made 
man out of the slime of the earth and 
breathed into him the breath of life. In 
those words is the secret of the Russian 
realistic novel. For the realism of his 
own country the author of this work has 
little praise. Because, he says, it lacked 
that human sympathy which saw in man 
not only the slime of the earth but the 
breath of life, it is barren. 

Dickens, on the other hand, and 
George Eliot gave to English realism a 
standpoint which was moulded, nay, im- 
pregnated through and through, with 
the religion of that book to which Mary 
Evans had renounced formal allegiance 
— the Protestant bible. In fact, De 
Vogiie goes so far as to say that some of 
her writing, for instance "the meeting 
between Dinah and Lisbeth," is biblical 
in the quality of its appeal, and might 

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have been written by the hand that gave 
us Ruth. 

This spirit, but without the Anglo- 
Saxon hardness, is the spirit of Russian 
realism. It has all the photographic ac- 
curac}', the preocupation with all types 
of life that distinguislies French realism ; 
but the preoccupation with the divine, 
the mystical turning away from the 
things of this world, is also present. The 
S3'mpath3^ of Gogol is intensified to pain- 
fulness in Dostoevsky and is apotheo- 
sized into a new religion of renunciation 
in Tolstoy. 

And because (in contrast to the 
French) the Russians "disentangled 
themselves from these excesses, and like 

the English gave realism a superior 
beauty moved by the same moral spirit 
of a compassion cleansed of all impuri- 
ties and glorified by the spirit of the gos- 
pels" — because of this De Vogiie re- 
gards Russian realistic literature as the 
one force that can rejuvenate the literary 
art of the European nations. 

The author writes with the authority 
of long study and gives us a sufficient 
basis for what we must now do our- 
selves — namely, read comtemporary 
Russian literature and ask ourselves 
what it tells us ; whether or not it tells us 
that Christian realism is a contradiction 
in terms. 

Llewellyx Jones. 

A Drama of the Two Generations 

Noicadays . 

Contemporaneous Comedy in Three Acts, by George Middleton. 
[Henry Holt aud Company, New York.] 

Some little theatre company ought to 
send eight of its members on tour 
through all the smaller cities of the coun- 
try in Noxcadays. It would be the most 
effective way in the world to awaken the 
people of those slumbering places to the 
really amazing revolutions in contem- 
porary life — and incidentally in the 
contemporary theatre. For one thing, it 
shows how parents and children are 
gradually bridging the foolish gulf be- 
tween the generations — the gulf that 
Shaw has called the degrading, objec- 
tion of youth to age ; for another, it re- 
flects the extraordinary renaissance that 
has come to our theatre since the first 
visit of the Irish Players. 

Mr. Middleton takes a typical small- 
town family — a father, mother, son, 
and daughter — and leads them through 
a domestic crisis that has probably been 
the sad lot of most modern families. The 

daughter, like all proper young women, 
has an ambition: she wants to be a 
sculptor. The mother understands, hav- 
ing had similar longings before she mar- 
ried a man who made it his business to 
suppress them. The father refuses to 
listen to the daughter's idea, and tells 
her that if she goes to New York it will 
be without his help. But she goes; and 
the pla}^ opens with her first visit home. 
The son, a weakling without ability of 
any sort except to spend mone}' and sow 
wild oats, has also left home ; but he has 
managed to live very comfortably be- 
cause of a monthly allowance from his 
father. The justice of the situation 
harks back to the antique theory that 
even a weak boy has more right to the 
splendors of the world than a girl of 
any type. 

Diana's father refuses to think about 
woman suffrage. " I don't have to think 


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about something I feel. I tell you, if we 
had woman suffrage, women would all 
vote like their husbands." 

" They say it would double the igno- 
rant vote," answers Diana's friend, Peter, 
the journalist, who has encouraged her 
in rebelling. 

" He's a good-natured old fossil," 
Peter says later to Diana. And when the 
girl insists that she loves her father any- 
how, Peter says, " I love radishes, but 
they don't agree with me. If he had a 
new idea he'd die of drops}'." 

The result of Diana's visit is to pro- 
duce certain rebellions in her mother, 
who goes back to New York with her to 

help make a home of that lonely little 
flat, and to revive her own early ambitions 
as a painter. Later the father succumbs 
to the new order. It is all good " com- 
edy " ; also it's tremendously good think- 
ing. If only it could be read by all the 
people who misunderstand the surging 
modern spirit that is riding so bravely 
through traditions and inheritances. 

But Nowadays has another value be- 
sides that of its story. It is made of the 
stuff of the new drama ; it fulfills our de- 
mand that the theatre shall give us the 
truth about life in a simple way. How- 
ever, we shall talk more about this in 
another issue. 

Our Mr. Wrenn and Us 

Our Mr. Wrenn, by Sinclair Lewis. 
[Harper and Brothers, New York.] 

The poverty of American workaday 
criticism has rarely shown more thread- 
bare than in the fact that of all the re- 
views of Our Mr. Wrenn, a first novel 
by Sinclair Lewis, a new author, not one 
has mentioned the idea under the book. ' 

They have been good reviews, too, as 
reviews go. Many have praised the book, 
have talked around it, described its char- 
acters, attempted to classify it — under 
names so various as Locke, Wells, and 
Dickens. Yet so expected is the novel 
that means nothing, and so dead is crit- 
ical vision, that no one has thought to 
say " Here is a new American writer. 
What is in his soul? " 

Let me prove the point. " Our Mr. 
Wrenn " is a mouse-like little clerk in the 
office of a New York novelty company. 
He is called " Our Mr. Wrenn " in busi- 
ness correspondence by the manager of 
the firm. He is overshadowed by " the 
job." He lives uncomfortably in Mrs. 
Zapp's downtown boarding house. Be- 

cause the author can see, various figures 
from the drab stream one meets in the 
street are made human. Because the 
author has whimsicality and scorn and 
sympathy, the book has humor and satire 
and pathos. All these things have been 
noted by the critics. 

Mr. Wrenn is not always " Our." He 
becomes his own in the gorgeously illus- 
trated travel leaflets sent out by steam- 
ship companies. Eventually he does go 
to England on a cattle steamer. He is 
" Bill Wrenn " and licks a tough. He 
meets adventures — Istra, an over-fine 
artist girl who likes him because he's 
real. In the end he pathetically' sees her 
soar above him and sails back to America, 
where he goes into the office again, falls 
in love with a sweet little lingerie-counter 
clerk, marries, and " settles down." All 
these things the critics have told us. 

But Mr. Wrenn is at once glorious 
and pathetic, not only because he says 
" Gee ! " when he has the emotions of a 

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poet. It isn't only the little things of 
the book that twist our smiles. 

There is an epic conflict between Mr. 
Wrenn of the job and Bill Wrenn of the 
sunsets and the sea. Our Mr. Wrenn, 
oppressed and bullied, scuttling out of 
the way, not quite daring to think his 
own thoughts or dream his own dreams, 
not knowing quite enough to understand 
the great things of the world — this man 
is everywhere in New York, in America; 
he is in our own souls. And when he mus- 
ters courage to become Bill Wrenn, when 
he sets out on dangerous quests and loves 
strange beauty, he becomes a conqueror 
who rallies with him the great of history, 
and stands on the high places of our own 

Pitifully inadequate Bill Wrenn is, of 

course. The lonely tragedy of that con- 
ventionally " happy ending" has escaped 
the critics. The drab, the commonplace, 
creep over Bill again without his know- 
ing it. That's the frightful part of it. 
It's very like what appears to happen to 
everybody. Our Mr. Wrenn he is at the 
end, sunk in comfort and forgetting his 
flags in sunsets. 

It is a poignant, bitterly human novel. 
After reading it in sympathy one cannot 
lean back in satisfaction and write com- 
monplaces. It leads to understandings 
and resolutions. When we learn to de- 
mand such things of American writers, 
their primary purpose will then cease 
to be either to entertain or to " teach a 

Gilbert Alden. 

Lantern Gleams 

Little Essays in Literature and Life, by Eiehard Burton. 
[The Century Company, New York.] 

Readers of The Bellman will welcome 
in this permanent form many little lan- 
tern gleams of thought that have been 
shed athwart their path by this unaca- 
demically-minded incumbent of a Minne- 
sota chair. 

Mr. Burton flashes his lamp fitfully 
over a large area, and shows us loitering 
spots as well as boggy ground it were 
well to avoid. Opening his book at ran- 
dom, we find here a hint on reading and 
here a warning gleam over some political 
or social morass. 

When the morass is a deep one, how- 
ever, we must not expect to sound its 
depths wuth a lantern gleam, and so 
sometimes Mr. Burton disappoints us. 
Thus in discussing the individual and so- 
ciety he merely tells us what we all know : 
that we pay for the advantage of so- 
ciality, of mutual comfort, and support 

by. the loss of individuality, by the 
growth of a fear to do the thing that 
commends itself to our best judgment. 
But what must w^e do.'' Must we fill in 
this particular morass by throwing in all 
the individuals.? Or will the individuals 
be able to jump it.^^ Mr. Burton is dis- 
creet on such points. 

More satisfactory than that essay and 
others like it are those on literature. 
Under " Books and Men " the author de- 
plores the tendency which characterized 
Chaucer ( " Farewell my books and my 
devotion " ) of drawing an antithesis be- 
tween men and books, between literature 
and life. Literature has its origin in 
life and its apparent separation from it 
is an accidental result of the printed 
book method of spreading what used to 
be spread by the human voice alone or in 
chorus. Illiam Dhone. 


The Little Review 

About Nietzsche 


Nietzsche and Other Exponents of Individualism, by Paul Cams. 
[The Open Court Publishing Company, Chicago.] 

Expositions of Nietzsche are usually 
written by uncritical disciples with little 
knowledge of formal philosophy. In so 
far as Nietzsche was a poet, some of 
these productions may be of value in 
spots, but in so far as Nietzsche was an 
intellectual critic of life they are Avorth- 

Dr. Carus writes from the standpoint 
of a philosopher in the most formal 
sense of that word. To him Nietzsche 
the thundering voice of protest named 
Zarathustra is of less importance than 
Nietzsche the extreme nominalist. The 
chief value of his work therefore is pure- 
ly informative. He will certainly not 
send the philosophic debutante further 
into the matter. 

Even from the purely informative 
side, however. Dr. Carus's work is de- 
limited by his own attitude, which is that 
of the old time believer in the validity of 
universals. Recurrence, uniformit}', eter- 
nal norms of things behind the changing 
phenomena are the foundations of Dr. 

Carus's stated or implied world view. 

He therefore treats Nietzsche as sim- 
ply a forerunner of such, to him, mis- 
chievous people as William James and 
Henri Bergson. He takes great pains, 
indeed, to show that there are many 
Nietzsches, and among them he classes 
George Moore, on the strength of ex- 
tracts from his Confessions of a Young 
Man. Of more value than that is his 
consideration of the philosoph}' of Stir- 
ner- — mainly because Stirner is not so 
well known as Nietzsche, nor so well as 
he deserves to be on his merits. 

One undoubted merit the book has, and 
that is the industrious collection of per- 
sonal recollections of Nietzsche and of 
Nietzsche portraits which Dr. Carus has 
brought together in its pages. These 
will give the book a positive value to the 
Nietzsche enthusiast, while the sight of 
Dr. Canis's cool, scholastic temperament 
trying to drench the burning bush of 
Nietzsche will at least interest him. 

Illiam Dhone. 

Feminism and New Music 

Anthony the Absolute, by Samuel Merwin. 
[The Century Company, New York.j 

It is interesting to watch the struggles 
of an essentially chivalrous masculine 
soul caught in the whirlpool of modern 
feminism. Samuel Merwin, ever since 
the old days of A Short Line War and 
Calumet K., written in collaboration with 
Henry Kitchell Webster, has held 
towards women the attitude of the 
knight errant. Recently, as shown in 

The Citadel, The Charmed Life of Miss 
Austin, and even more strongly in this 
latest book, Anthony the Absolute, he 
has become a determined feminist. But 
the attitude has not changed. Foranerly 
his hero laid at the feet of the lady of his 
choice as much wealth, fame, and posi- 
tion as he could acquire ; this latest hero 
gives her in the same spirit a career and 

The Little Review 


the chance to develop her own person- 
aht y. Mr. Mcrwin says : " The man 
who deliberately stops a woman's growth 
— no matter what his traditions; no 
matter what his fears for her — is doing 
a monstrous tiling, a thing for which 
he must some day answer to the God of 
all life." He is still the knight errant. 
It is still man who permits woman to de- 

None the less it is a very readable tale. 
The male characters are all clearly and 
convincingly drawn, not without humor. 
The lady is a little nebulous, but very 
charming. Illustrating the absoluteness 
of Anthony and serving as an introduc- 
tion to the charming Heloise is an inter- 
esting musical theme. The scene is laid 
in China, where Anthony is studying 

primitive music, and Heloise is able to 
sing for him a perfect close-interval 
scale, in eighth tones instead of the 
■'barbarous" half and whole tones of 
the piano scale. 

Unfortunately Mr. Merwin has per- 
mitted himself to be led by the exigen- 
cies of a popular magazine, in which the 
story appeared in serial form, into giv- 
ing the tale a certain meretricious air of 
sex allurement which it fundamentally 
does not possess. On the whole, except 
in a certain technical facility in handling 
the situations and sustaining the tension 
of the plot, Anthony the Absolute is a 
decided falling below the really splendid 
standard of excellence which Mr. Merwin 
set for himself in The Citadel. 

Eunice Tietjens. 

Of all our funny little Pantheon the absurd 
little god who gets the least of my service is 
the one labeled "Personal Dignity." — Some 
Letters of William Vaughn Moody. 


The Little Review 

New York Letter 

George Soule 

IS IT true that a Chicago woman's 
club recently declared any book to be 
immoral which contains a character whom 
you wouldn't invite into your home to 
meet your daughter? If so, the world is 
to be congratulated, because all novels 
except the Rollo Books are labeled im- 
moral, and we needn't worry any more 
about the word. Provided, of course, 
that the daughters of this particular 
woman's club are sheltered as carefully 
as they should be, having been brought 
up by such mothers. 

I'm afraid only authors and publishers 
know just how threatening this fear of 
" immoral " books is getting to be. The 
most significant American novelist has 
just written a masterful book which has 
been declined by two at least of the old- 
est and best publishing houses because it 
is " too frank." The men in charge want 
to publish it ; they think the world ought 
to have a chance at it. But they are 
afraid. And the author, unlike most au- 
thors under similar circumstances, won't 
modify the book. He says he'll wait 
twenty-five years, if necessary, but he 
won't change a word. And yet, if 
the book were published, some people 
would accuse him of " pandering to 

Don't blame the publisher. Mitchell 
Kennerley came near being fined hun- 
dreds of dollars and sent to jail recently 
for issuing Hagar ReveJly — a serious 
though by no means a great novel. 
Anthony Comstock, who earns his living 
by attempting to suppress anything 
which he happens to consider immoral, is 
likely at any time to pick out a good 
piece of work for his thunderbolts — and 

he is a government official in the post of- 
fice department. You can't tell what he 
is going to do next. Everybody remem- 
bers his ill-advised censorship of Paul 
Chabas's delicate and inoffensive little 
September Morn; yet in every cheap pic- 
ture-store window in New York there is 
now displayed without protest a photo- 
graph of a nude woman which makes no 
pretense to art or beauty. 

Not many people know that six men 
decide what Boston may or may not read. 
The Watch and Ward Society, a group 
of puritans backed up by the blue laws of 
the state, have long been active in this 
Pharisaical undertaking and from time to 
time have arrested booksellers. The 
booksellers in self-defense have recently 
formed a committee of three to act with 
three members of this society. When a 
new book comes along which anybody 
"suspects," it is put before the joint 
committee, and if that decides against it, 
Boston cannot buy it except by mail. 
The DeviVs Garden only barely escaped, 
because somebody had read to the end of 
the book and labeled it " religious." In 
other words, it teaches a lesson. But the 
same argument did not save Witter Byn- 
ner's Tiger. 

Magazine editors Avill tell you similar 
facts by the hour. The Metropolitan 
was recentl}" held up by the post office be- 
cause it contained photographs of nude 
statuary — from the winter exhibition of 
the National Academy ! 

We shall not rid ourselves of this 
vicious situation by simpl}^ getting en- 
raged at the censors. The truth is, they 
are too well entrenched in public opinion. 
The people who enforce the law are 

The Little Review 


ignorant postal clerks, clergymen of ar- 
chaic convictions, and lower court judges 
of the tobacco-chewing, corner-saloon 
type to whom any thought of sex is 
necessarily nasty. But behind them is 
the man who is always saying that such 
and such a book or play " oughtn't to be 
allowed." He is alwaj^s wanting to pro- 
tect " the young," or somebody else, al- 
though he rarely reads books himself, 
and probably would resent interference 
with his own often vicious pleasures. His 
mind is essentially rotten. He is incapa- 
ble of understanding the pure beauty of 
the human body, because he has seen so 
many " musical comedies." He would be 
shocked by the statement that passion is 
a beautiful element of nature toward 
which we should be reverent. He has a 
sense of propriety, not so much about 
what should be done as about what should 
be said. And then there is the vast Flor- 
ence Barclay contingent, largely women, 
who, because they don't know what the 
world is like, don't want to know, and 
don't think anybody should be allowed to 

The trouble with censorship is that we 
always want it to apply to other people, 
never to ourselves. It is our national 

weakness that we try to prescribe con- 
duct by law, instead of seeing that the 
individual is strong and truth-seeing, and 
leaving conduct to take care of itself, al- 
lowing ideas to fight their own battles. If 
we must have a censorship, let it be in the 
hands of the strong and intelligent. Let 
us forbid all books which are not true. 
Mental and moral fibre is really vitiated 
by the Florence Barclay sort of thing. 
People brought up on that are enemies 
of light and progress. Their world is 
an exercise-place for impossible ethics. 
Their emotion is washed-out sentiment. 
Courage and vigor are unknown to them. 
And the worst of it is that their soft and 
clinging hands are wrapped about the 
rest of us, as they try to drag us down 
from the rain-washed skies of the morn- 
ing to their stuffy hair-cloth religion and 
pink-cand}'^ pleasures. 

The fight between the writers and the 
censors is sure to grow bitter in the next 
few years ; both sides are getting more 
determined every day. But such crises 
■are welcomed by the adventurous. We 
shall end not only by riding over our 
small opponents, but b}- carrying with 
us an army awakened to the true issues 
of art and life. 

William Butler Yeats to American Poets 

The current number of Poetry prints 
a speech that William Butler Yeats made 
during his recent visit to Chicago, in 
which he took occasion to warn his con- 
freres in America against a number of 
besetting sins. He said, in part: 

Twenty-five years ago a celebrated writer 
from South Africa said she lived in the East 
End of London because only there could she see 
the faces of people without a mask. To this 
Oscar Wilde replied that he lived in the West 
End because nothing interested him but the 

mask. After a week of lecturing I am too tired 
to assume a mask, so I will address my remarks 
especially to a fellow craftsman. For since 
coming to Chicago I have read several times a 
poem by Mr. Lindsay, one which will be in the 
anthologies, General Booth Enters Into Heaven. 
This poem is stripped bare of ornament; it has 
an earnest simplicity, a strange beauty, and you 
know Bacon said, ' ' There Js no excellent beauty 
without strangeness." . . . 

I have lived a good many years and have read 
many writers. When I was younger than Mr. 
Lindsay, and was beginning to write in Ireland, 
there was all around me the rhetorical poetry 


The Little Review 

of the Irish politicians. We young writers re- 
belled against that rhetoric ; there was too much 
of it and to a great extent it was meaningless. 
When I went to London I found a group of 
young lyric writers who were also against rhet- 
oric. We formed the Ehymers' Club; we used 
to meet and read our poems to one another,"and 
we tried to rid them of rhetoric. 

But now, when I open the ordinary American 
magazine, I find that all we rebelled against in 
those early days — the sentimentality, the rhet- 
oric, the "moral uplift" — still exists here. 
Not because you are too far from England, but 
because you are too far from Paris. 

It is from Paris that nearly all the great in- 
fluences in art and literature have come, from 
the time of Chaucer until now. Today the 
metrical experiments of French poets are over- 
whelming in their variety and delicacy. The 
best English writing is dominated by French 
criticism; in France is the great critical mind. 

The Victorians forgot this; also, they forgot 
the austerity of art and began to preach. When 
I saw Paul Verlaine in Paris, he told me that 
he could not translate Tennyson because he was 
"too Anglais, too noble" — "when he should 
be broken-hearted he has too many reminis- 
cences. ' ' 

We in England, our little group of rhymers, 
were weary of all this. We wanted to get rid 
not only of rhetoric but of poetic diction. We 
tried to strip away everything that was arti- 
ficial, to get a style like speech, as simple as the 
simplest prose, like a cry of the heart. . . . 

Real enjoyment of a beautiful thing is not 
achieved when a poet tries to teach. It is not 
the business of a poet to instruct his age. He 
should be too humble to instruct his age. His 
business is merely to express himself, whatever 
that self may be. I would have all American 

poets keep in mind the example of Frangois 

So you who are readers should encourage 
American poets to strive to become very simple, 
very humble. Your poet must put the fervor 
of his life into his work, giving you his emo- 
tions before the world, the evil with the good, 
not thinking whether he is a good man or a bad 
man, or whether he is teaching you. A poet 
does not know whether he is a good man. If he 
is a good man, he probably thinks he is a bad 

Poetry that is naturally simple, that might 
exist as the simplest prose, should have instan- 
taneousness of effect, provided it finds the right 
audience. You may have to wait years for that 
audience, but when it is found that instantane- 
ousness of effect is produced. . . . 

We rebelled against rhetoric, and now there is 
a group of younger poets who dare to call us 
rhetorical. When I returned to London from 
Ireland, I had a young man go over all my work 
with me to eliminate the abstract. This was an 
American poet, Ezra Pound. Much of his work 
is experimental; his work will come slowly, he 
will make many an experiment before he comes 
into his own. I should like to read to you two 
poems of permanent value. The Ballad of the 
Goodly Fere and The Beturn. This last is, I 
think, the most beautiful poem that has been 
written in the free form, one of the few in 
which I find real organic rhythm. A great 
many poets use vers Ubre because they think it 
is easier to write than rhymed verse, but it is 
much more difficult. 

The whole movement of poetry is toward pic- 
tures, sensuous images, away from rhetoric, from 
the abstract, toward humility. But I fear I am 
now becoming rhetorical. I have been driven 
into Irish public life — how can I avoid rhetoric? 

The Little Review 


Letters to The Little Review 

What an insouciant little pagan paper 
3'ou flourish before our bewildered eyes ! 
Please accept the congratulations of a 

But you must not scoff at age, little 
bright eyes, for some day you, too, 
will know age; and you should not jeer 
at robustness of form, slim one, for the 
time may come when you, too, will find 
the burdens of flesh upon you. Above 
all, do not proclaim too loudly the sub- 
stitution of Nietzsche for Jesus of the 
Little Town in the niche of your invisible 
temple, for when you are broken and 
forgotten there is no comfort in the 

One thing more: Restraint is some- 
times better than expression. One who 
has learned this lesson cannot refrain 
from saj'ing this apropos of the first 
paragraphs in the criticism of The Dark 
Flower. Do not give folk a chance to 
misunderstand you. Being a woman, you 
have to pay too high a price for moments 
of high intellectual orgy. 

Forgive all this and go on valiantly. 
Sade Iverson. 


I am greatly indebted for a copy of 
The Little Review. I take this 
opportunity of stating that the publica- 
tion is one of the cleverest and best 
things I have seen. It deserves success, 
for it contains stuffs which will compare 
very favorably with the best that is 
being written. 

G. Frank Lydston. 


Will you allow me to congratulate you 
on your magnificent effort in bringing 
out The Little Review.'' 

I have found it very refreshing after 
having suffered for so long by reading 
the so-called book review magazines that 
have no right to more than passing no- 

You have accomplished wonders, and 
if your efforts of the future come up 
to those put into the first number of The 
Little Review, your success is assured. 

The best wish I can offer is that its 
path may be covered with roses and bor- 
dered with the trees of prosperity. 

Again congratulating you, I am, with 
every good wish, very truly yours, 

Lee a. Stone, M. D. 


The Little Review came this morn- 
ing! And I have read it all! And I 
love it ! Much more than I expected, to 
be perfectly honest ! I feared something 
too radical — too modern — if that is 
possible. If it had been like The Masses 
— well, I can never express my contempt 
for that sheet. But you're perfectly 
sane, intelligent, readable, and enthusi- 
astic — gloriously so ! 

Your description of Kreisler is worth 
much to me. It is precisely what I have 
always felt about him. Paderewski, too. 
But I think the Mason and Hamlin ref- 
erence a little too commercial. I realize 
you want The Little Review to be 
straightforward, honest, intimate, etc., 
but I fear that kind of thing will be 
taken as advertisement and not as a 
personal belief and enthusiasm. 

If I should never know anything more 


The Little Review 

of Mr. George Soule than his sonnet and 
New York letter I should have to like 
him. The man who could feel and write 
that last paragraph is a splendid type. 

But the whole thing is beautiful, and 
worth while, whether you agree with it 
all or not. A thousand congratulations ! 
Agxes Darrow. 

Dayton, Ohio. 

[Of course our remarks about the Mason and 
Hamlin violated all journalistic traditions. But 
traditions are so likely to need violation, and 
diplomacy and caution are such uninteresting 
qualities! What we feel and tried to say about 
that piano is that it 's as definitely a work of art 
as good poetry or good music. Why not say so, 
quite naturally? We know something of the 
man who is responsible for its quality of tone; 
he's as authentic an artist as those musicians 
who create on his foundations. Is there any 
reason why such an achievement is not to be 
mentioned in a journal that means to devote 
itself to beauty? Is anything vital ever gained 
by a cautious regard for "on dit"? Above 
all, if one can discover no importance in 
journalistic tradition of that type, why defer 
to it? — The Editor.] 

I am very much pleased with the first 
issue of The Little Review. I am 
very glad to know that such a thing 
should be started, and it should be both a 
cause and an effect of better times in 
literature. I shall do everything I can 
to make it better known. 

William Lyon Phelps. 

Yale University. 

When I found that the local book- 
stores had sold out their first orders of 
The Little Review I was delighted ; 
for it meant folks were interested in the 
fledgeling. The first number deserves the 
praise and congratulations of everybody 
interested in literature; everything in it 
is fine, even unto the composition of the 
" ad " pages. With its fresh, cheerful 
note The Little Review very fittingly 
comes forth on the first day of Spring. 
Long mav it spread sweetness and light. 
W. W. G. 


I haven't got over your beautiful 
magazine yet. Don't let anybody keep 
you from making it a truthful expres- 
sion of yourself — but 3'ou won't. 

First of all, it's beautifully made. You 
couldn't have done better typographic- 
ally. It's the most inviting magazine 
published. I like the color and the paper 

Second, its spirit blows keen and with 
a pure fragrance. If you can continue 
to show such freshness you will have 
gone far toward achieving the goal Mr. 
Galsworthy urges — that " sleeping out 
under the stars " which cleans our hearts 
of all things artificial. 

With sinccrest congratulations, 

Henry S. 

New York. 

There are so many things that I ad- 
mire in the first issue of The Little 
Review that I find it difficult to decide 
just Avhere to begin. It was like taking 
up a copy of the Preludes of Debessy 
for the first time ; after playing them 
over and over again I found it difficult 
to know whether it was what he said or 
the way he said it which held the greater 
charm for me. I congratulate you most 
sincerely on the distinct personal quality 
which is so evident in your magazine 
and you may count upon me to rejoice 
with you if it meets with anything like 
the great success which it so distinctly 

F. L. R. 


The Little Review 


Your now publication has just fallen 
into my hands. The vital thing! 

I cannot begin to tell you what its 
pulsating, teeming import means to me. 
I know nothing today in magazine form 
that will mean so nuich to busy, thinking 

Nannie C. Love. 


Please let me offer my sincerest con- 
gratulations and my warmest wishes for 
the continued success of The Little 
Review. There are numerous points in 
the first issue that I should like to discuss 
with you ; I must warn you that you are 
tempting your readers and must not 
be surprised if you are overwhelmed 
with letters, questioning, approving, and 

The foreword strikes such a splendid 
note ! I hope no criticism will influence 
you to change it. 

You agree, evidently, with the point 
that The Dark Flower suggests a Greek 
classic; so do I. But, conceding that, 
how could you have been surprised that 
countless people care nothing for it? 
Don't you know that the majority of 
people in the world do not really "pos- 
sess " the Greek classics ? Without the 
background of the world's thought, ages 
ago, and its progress ^ — unless we agree 
with Alfred Russell Wallace that we have 
made no progress — can't you see that 
The Dark Flower could genuinely startle 
many people? So I beg for less sharp- 
ness toward those who do not feel the 
wonder of it. The tragedy is in their 

For just the same reason Jean Chris- 
fophe belongs to a few, comparatively. 
If you had never before felt the power of 
a great epic, could you really grasp this 
one? Modern as Ave claim to be — and 
• independent — must there not be some 

foundation? Oh dear! — I do want to 
tell you why I think Vanity Fair is 
greater than Succession and why Ysaye's 
music is inspired — when I listen, at 
least. But one can't go on forever. 

Since the " Critics' Critic " expressed a 
doubt about that quotation from Euripi- 
des and since you insisted that it sounded 
like a Gilbert Murray translation, you 
may be glad to know that it is both. 
But you quoted it wrong. It is from 
Aeolus, a lost play, and this is the cor- 
rect version : 

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

I do agree that " a million, million 
changing things " is somehow more per- 
fect; I even agree now, though not at 
first, with the order of attributes : " She 
brings more joy than any god, she brings 
more pain," On a re-reading of Aeolus 
I am taken with the way you misquoted 
it. Joy was surely first in the Greek's 
life. And of course the human beauty 
of the thing made me think immediately 
of the way ]Mrs. Browning " struck off " 
Euripides : 

Our Euripides, the human, 

With his droppings of warm tears 
And his touches of things common 

Till they rose to touch the spheres! 

Katherine Tappert. 
Davenport, Iowa. 

... I don't know when I've read any- 
thing so inspiring as that letter from 
Galsworthy. Can't all of you who are 
helping to make the magazine ari'ange 
to march up to it mentally and present 
your " copy " for approval before you 
decide to print it ? 

I like the article on Paderewski and 
the one about The Dark Flower. But do 
be careful of "beauty" and "passion." 


The Little Review 

It's easy to make them commonplace. 
Also spare jour adjectives a bit; you 
don't need an adjective for everything. 
I realize that your abbreviations are 
made in the interest of readableness, but 
however informal you want to make it 
you only succeed in sounding hideously 
colloquial. It doesn't read well, and it 
makes, me feel that you're trying to 
achieve through the style what ought to 
be achieved quite simply through the ma- 
terial itself. Not that I approve of 
anything stilted, but 3'ou can easily over- 
do the other side of it. And wouldn't it 
be better to leave some of the things un- 
signed.'' People who don't know that 
the various Anderson contributors are 
unrelated will think it's rather a family 

The Ficke poems are exquisite ; and 
how I love Nicholas Vachel Lindsay's! 
Also I like the New York letter very 
much, but George Soule's Major Sym- 
phony could just as well be unwritten. 
Poetry' has to be so much better than 
that to be real poctr}-. Another thing: 
I think your quotations from Succession 
weren't as efficient as you hoped. It's a 
book that can't well be quoted except to 
one who knows it. 

You wanted frankness, so here it is. 
Otherwise, I have nothing but praise for 
the whole glorious undertaking ! 

Lois At^lex Peters. 


[Being a sister of the editor, Mrs. Peters 
speaks her mind with a freedom that enchants 
us. It also helps us — ■ though we want to shake 
her for one or two of those remarks. However 
— may her letter serve as a model to timid but 
opinionated readers! — The Editor.] 

If you will allow me to be perfectly 
frank about your first issue, I should like 
to tell you that The Little Review 
seems rather too esthetic in tone and 
spirit to avoid being " restrictive " ■ — a 

wish you expressed in jour editorial. 
There is not enough variety in it, for 
one thing. For another, some of its 
critical judgments are too personal — 
are too largelj^ temperamental judgments 

— to be of any permanent value. You 
seem to have set out to exploit personali- 
ties; and there's a juvenility in many of 
the articles that I'm afraid you'll all 
blush for in ten years. 

A Well-Meaning Critic. 

The first number of The Little 
Review came as a delightful . surprise 
and I have enjoyed reading it. I par- 
ticularly appreciate the spirit of appre- 
ciation running through the pages, _ 
which I believe will be of inestimable 
service to young writers, if you are able 
to keep it up. 

M. K. 

New York. 

The Little Review looks very in- 
teresting. I hope to have the pleasure 
of reading it through very soon, but at 
tlie moment my small sister is devouring 
it and refuses absolutelj' to give it up. 
If you are as successful in pleasing 
women generally as 3'ou have been in 
pleasing her you need have no fear for 
the success of tlie magazine. 

J. C. P. 

New York. 

Professor Foster's essay on The 
Prophet of a Nezc Culture is magnificent 

— a soul-searching, heart-breaking bit 
of writing, fiery and tragic. Nicholas 
Vachel Lindsay's Hozc a Little Girl 
Danced is a delightful thing — airy, 
high-minded, and full of his burning 
spirit. In fact, The Little Review is 
full of things that one reads with a keen 
zest. W. L. C. 


The Little Review 


The Little Review came to hand 
promptl}^, but I was unable to read it 
until last night. That is where I made 
my first mistake, as I had been denying 
myself a very pleasant two hours. My 
second mistake was in having read it at 
all, as it has now become one of those 
eight or ten journals which are always 
welcome and more or less necessary. Ten 
journals each month (and some week- 
lies), quietly j^et insistently urging me 
to take them up, are like those good 
friends who tempt me with an outing in 
Spring when work is crowding. So with 
The Little Review. It has with one 
reading become a distinctly individual 
friend. ' W. M. L. 


Your Little Review has just reached 
me. I took it home for leisurely exam- 
ination on Sunday. I congratulate you 
upon launching and hope that you'll 
meet no adverse trade winds in your 
voyage. Its atmosphere is certainly any- 
thing but editorial, and j^ou've put 
plenty of your own personality into it. 
And what a delightfully channing letter 
is that from Galsworthy ! 

I should take sharp issue with you on 
one or two slight points could I face you 
across a lunch table, but as it is, I tuck 
my differences away, with a sigh of envy 
at your enthusiasm, and the sincere wish 
that you may always keep it. 

With best wishes for your good luck. 
Beatrice L. Miller. 


I think 3'our first number very inter- 
esting indeed, and congratulate j^ou on 
your fine start. I am always delighted 
with every new manifestation of the life 
and enthusiasm in Chicago ! 

With best wishes for your future. 
Alice C. Henderson. 

Chicago. "^ 

. . . I've fallen in love with M. H. P., 
"The Critics' Critic." She's just the 
sort of person I'd like to go and talk 
with this afternoon. Please ask her to 
write a letter properly sitting on Agnes 
Rcpplier for her Atlantic essays. A very 
delicate, cultured,^ polite little woman 
sitting behind a tea-table in her aloof 
apartment, and given over to well-bred 
sneering at things she doesn't know any- 
thing about — that's how I picture Miss 

A Contributor. 

The Little Review is here, and I 
have so enjoyed going over it. 

It is a great first number and sets a 
pace that would have made most of us 
breathless before we started ; but anyone 
can know it isn't so with you, from that 
last paragraph of your announcement. 
It was lovely ! 

I loved the Paderewski, too. Was 
there anything more wonderful than the 
glory of the Funeral March as he played 
it the afternoon of his first recital here 
this winter.^ I know you heard it from 
the way you write of it. An emotion that 
brings the tears and makes the sobs strug- 
gle in the back of your throat is always 
worth living through, and I wouldn't 
have missed it for worlds. 

With the best of good wishes. 

Mabel Reber. 


I want to tell you how very good the 
first issue of The Little Review is. I 
don't know what the succeeding numbers 
will be like, but you have set a place in 
this one that will demand some vigorous 
effort to keep up. After that " grip- 
ping" announcement no one will doubt 
the real purpose of the Review and the 
fine optimism that is behind it. I don't 
have to believe everything you are going 
to print, but if those who write it do, by 


The Little Review 

all means keep them together. And donH 
let George Soule get away. 

It's too earl}' to make suggestions, but 
I should say that Number One is well bal- 
anced and very readable, and I like the 
trick of throwing the light on from dif- 
ferent angles — like the Galsworthy and 
Nietzsche discussions. The tone is high, 
and I am quite sure I never read more 
intelligent reviews anywhere. 

Good luck to The Little Review ! 
J. D. Maeney. 

Springfield, 111. 

Will you let me thank you for giving 
me a ver}' pleasant experience in reading 
the first copy of The Little Review.'* 
There are many things in the first num- 
ber which arouse one's interest, though 
I am not sure that I would at all agree 
in all the critical judgments which are 
there pronounced. Anyway, you will 
let me wish you all success, and wave 
you my hand with the hope that The 
Little Review shall be the biggest re- 
view in the country. 

D. W. Wylie. 

Iowa City, Iowa. 

Congratulations must be pouring in 
on you from all sides, but I want, just 
the same, to add my voice to the chorus 
of " Bravos " that surrounds you. 

The Little Review is a triumph. It 
even outdoes my picture of it ; and that 
is saying much, for I have known it was 
to be something exceptionally nice. 

It is a delight to look at, showing 
somebody's good personal taste ; and the 
contents — well, I like them lots more 
than I could say adequately or put in 
this space. 

Blessings on you and the heartiest 
congratulations to all concerned in the 
making of The Little Review. 

Margaret T. Corwin. 

New Haven, Conn. 

I am pleased with its general appear- 
ance, and the contents are inspiring — 
full of the spirit of youth. I wish The 
Little Review every success. 

Georgia M. Weston. 

Geneva, 111. 

The initial number of The Little 
Review has impressed me so favorably 
that I want some of my friends also to 
share in its appreciation. 

You surely have made a fine begin- 
ning and, in my judgment, cannot do 
better than to adopt as the creed of 
The Little Review the sound and en- 
couraging advice given in JNIr. Gals- 
worthy's inspiring letter. 

Albert H. Loeb. 


From the first page to the last book 
announcement I have read The Little 
Review with pride and delight. 

Its sincerity attracts me even more 
than its obvious literary merit, and its 
comprehensiveness and quality will ap- 
peal to all who read at all — especially 
to those who go below the surface. 

Alethea F. Grimsley. 

Springfield, 111. 

Thank you so much for The Little 
Review ! I liked it from the moment I 
Gaw it, both outside and in. I like par- 
ticularly^ the personal note you put into 
3'our writing. It's as though 30U Avere 
really talking to me and telling me how 
you feel about The Dark Floxcer and 
Paderewski and dear little Antoine with 
his bad room that was " pretty but stupid 
for the sound." 

With best wishes to you in 3'our beau- 
tiful, big undertaking. 

Zetta Gay Whitson. 


The Little Review 


The "Best Sellers" 

The following books, arr 
sellers" in Chicago during M 
The Inside of the Cup 
Diane of the Green Van 

T. Temharom 
Sunnhine Jane 

The Woman Thou Gavest Me 
Cap'n Dan's Daughter 
Passipnate Friends 
Old ][alentines 
The Devil's Garden 
The White Linen Nurse 
When Ghost Meets Ghost 
The After House 
The Iron Trail 
The Dark Holloxv 
The Rocks of Valpre 
The Light of Western Stars 
Peg o' My Heart 
The Dark Flower 
Daddy Long Legs 
It Happened in Egypt 
Darkness and Dawn 
The Forester's Daughter 

My Wife's Hidden Life 

The Valley of the Moon 
The Harvester 

A People's Man 
The Way Home 
Martha by the Day 
The Rosary 
Making Over Martha 

anged in order of popularity, 
arch : 

Winston Churchill 

Leona Dalrymple 

Eleanor Porter 

Gene Stratton-Porter 

Frances Hodgson Burnett 

Anne Warner 

Hall Caine 

Joseph C. Lincoln 

H. G. Wells 

S. H. Havens 

W. B. Maxwell 

Eleanor Abbott 

William DeMorgan 

Mary Roberts Rinehart 

Rex Beach 

Anne Katherine Green 

E. H. Dell 

Zane Gray 

Hartley Manners 

John Galsworth}' 

Jean Webster 

C. N. and A. M. Williamson 

George Allan England 

Hamlin Garland 

S. Weir Mitchell 



Jack London 

Gene Stratton-Porter 

Stewart Edward White 

E. Phillips Oppenheim 

Basil King 

Julie M. Lippman 

Florence Barclay 

Julie M. Lippman 

have been the "best- 

Reilly and Britton 
L. C. Page 
Doubleday, Page 
Little, Brown 

Houghton Mifflin 
Henry Holt 
Houghton Mifflin 
Dodd, Mead 
Dodd, Mead 

Doubleday, Page 
Small, Maynard 
Rand, McNally 
Doubleday, Page 
Doubleday, Page 
Little, Brown 


The Little Review 


Alone in the Wilderness 


What Men Live By 

The Gardener 

The Modern Dances 

The '*Best Sellers' 


Gerald Stanley Lee 
Joseph Knowles 
Theodore Roosevelt 
Richard C. Cabot 
Rabindranath Tagore 
Ellen Walker 

Doubleday, Page 
Small, Maynard 
Houghton Mifflin 

The Little Review is now on sale 

New York: 
Vaughn and Gamme. 
M. J. Whaley. 

Chicago : 

The Little Theatre. 


Morris's Book Shop. 

Carson, Pirie, Scott and Company. 

A. Kroch and Company. 

Chandler's Bookstore, Evanston. 

W. S. Lord, Evanston. 

Pittsburg : 

Davis's Bookshop. 

Springfield, Mass. : 
Johnson's Bookstore. 

in the following bookstores: 

Cleveland : 

Burrows Brothers Company. 

Detroit : 

Macauley Brothers. 

Minneapolis : 

Nathaniel McCarthy's. 

Los Angeles : 
C. C. Parker's. 

Omaha : 

Henry F. Keiser. 

Columbus, 0. 
A. H. Smythe's. 

The Little Review 





4 Park Street, Boston 

16 E. 40th St., New York 

George Borrow and His Circle By clement k. shorter 

"A treasure and a delight to admirers of Borrow." — London Athenwum. "A 
sane and magnificently wholesome man." — London Dailij Express. 

With frontispiece. $3.00 net. 

What Men Live By 

Our Friend John Burroughs 

ane book about a 
Postage extra. 


A pli.vsicians contribution to the conduct of life. His application of work, play, love, and worship 
to :laily lite and his experience of their healing powers are set forth in this volume in an inspiring 
and readable way. 

$1.50 net. Postage extra. 


The increasing thousands of lovers of John Burroughs and his writings will welcome this intimate 
book about the man, his life, and his personality. A picturesque and vivid account of his vouth, 
written by Mr. Burroughs himself, is a prominent and important feature. 

Illustrated. $2.00 net. Postage extra. 

Annals and Memoirs of the Court of Peking 


"An extraordinarily vivid picture of life at the Court of Peking from the middle of the six- 
teenth century down to our day." — London Truth. 

"Of the importance to us to-day of understanding or endeavoring to understand the Chinese, 
no one will entertain a doubt, and therefore we heartily welcome a book like this in which the 
attempt is made, and made, we believe, successfully, to trace cause and effect back to the buried 
foundations of Chinese philosophy and civilization and to look at things from the Chinese point 
of view." — London Globe. 

In the Old Paths 

Lavishly illustrated. $4.50 net. Postage extra. 

A series of delightful essays, by a popular English writer, which recreate with charm and delicacy 
some of the great scenes of literature. Using as a starting-point some poet, Mr. Grant writes of the 
country in which he lived, or which lives in his work, and allows a sensitive fancy to draw pictures of 
the past. 

Illustrated. $1.50 net. Postage extra. 

Thomas Wentworth Higginson : The Story of His Life 


This intimate biography tells for the first time the full story of the life of one of the most inter- 
esting of American soldiers and writers. Fully illustrated from portraits, views of Colonel Higgin- 
son's homes, friends, etc., and with facsimiles of interesting manuscripts. 

Illustrated. $3.00 net. Postage extra. 

The Ministry of Art 


Among the subjects discussed are: Art as an Expression of Religion, the Place of Fine 
Arts in Public Education, the Significance of the Gothic Eevival in American Architecture, 
American University Architecture. 

These papers all embody and eloquently exploit that view of the relation of mediaeval ideals 
to modern life which has made the author the most brilliant exponent of Gothic architecture in 

$1.50 net. Postage extra. 

Elia W. Peattie's 


"One of the most significant novels that have appeared this season 
true to life that it is hard to consider it fiction." 

, . so absolutely 
-Boston Post. 

' ' A book which men and women alike wiU be better for reading, of which any true hearted 
author might be proud. . . . The author knows life and human nature thoroughly, and 
she has written out of ripened perceptions and a full heart." — Chicago Record Herald. 

"An intimate and sympathetic study of new-century womanhood . . . presents a 
profoundly interesting survey of the new social order of things." 

— Philadelphia North American. 
With frontispiece. $1.35 net. Postage extra. 


The Little Review 





m (Diam. #i. 


of the 


^^QrccriOdTi ^^ 

By Leona Dalrymple 





Viewed even in the critical light of the high 
standard set for the winner of a ten-thonsand- 
dollar prize, ''Diane of the Green Van" fully 
measures up to the expectations of the novel- 
readiug public. 

This is why it heads the list of best sellers in 
New York, Chicago, Philadelphia. The adver- 
tising value of a big prize offer may account in 
some degree for the heavy advance sale — al- 
though the wholesale buyers ordered after read- 
ing. Nothing but sheer merit can account for 
the extremely large retail sale. Friend-to-friend 
commendation is steadily increasing over-the- 
counter demand. 

The judges — the readers — all gave ''Diane" 
first place among five hundred manuscripts, 
many of them by first-class authors. The trade 
has applauded the choice. Reviewers have called 
"Diane of the Green Van" well worth the big 

We should like to be able to publish the list 
of twenty or more successful writers who en- 
tered stories. On reputation alone, their work 
would have gone far ; but we feel that the story 
of "Diane" will go farther. 

' * Here are expectation and enthusiasm 
justified alike. It is a clear, clean, clever 
romance. ... It combines the love 
and intrigue of the ' Zenda ' tale ^vith the 
freedom of a Locke or Farnol story of 
broad highways. ' ' — New York World. 

' ' Just what countless pleased readers 
will devour with avidity. . . . Grace- 
fully written, vivid in style and sugges- 
tion. . . . Bright and breezy and ex- 
citing. ' ' — Chicago Eccord-Herald. 

"The tale has unusual dramatic grip, 
much brilliancy of dialogue. ... It 
is the sort of narrative that no one will- 
ingly lays down until the last page has 
been turned." 

— Fhiladdphia North American. 

' ' The novel throbs with the youthful 
joy of living and the enchantments of 
summer hover over its pages. Every- 
where is there originality in the invention 
of the incidents and subtlety in the de- 
lineation of characters." 

— Chicago Tribune. 

' ' A heroine whose fascination richly 
merits study. A hero who will capture 
the heart of the reader from the moment 
of his first appearance." — Boston Globe. 

"So good a thing, a thing so romantic 
and thrilling, we have not seen in — lo, 
these many moons of story telling. ' ' 

— Louisville Post. 

Diane " is a tale with the f reslniess and spontaneity of youth, Avith the rich personal- 
ity of the author shining through its diverting pages. In its imagination and clever dia- 
logue and plot it strikes the keynote of popular appeal. At the same time, "Diane" has 
all the essentials of lasting popularity. The publishers feel justified in predicting a 
long journey for the Green Van and its charming young mistress. {$1-35 net) 


The Reilly & Britton Co. 


The Little R evieic 


A New "Frank Danby'' and Other Spring Leaders 


Finest and Most Powerful Work 


A book in whose rushing current glow two love stories of heart- 
gripping interest, passion and tears are mingled in Frank Danby's 
masterly work, " Full Swing." Vivid, forceful, rich in character- 
drawing that challenges comparison with the best in English fiction 
— the author has added a supreme touch to her book — a new type 
of heroine, incredible as that may appear. A new type that 
ne\'ertheless is as credible as your oldest friend — ^\vho wins and 
holds your heart through startling incidents that would wreck a 
less powerful book with the doubt of their possibility. With 
dramatic scenes in abundance throughout the book, the interest 
increases steadily to the very end. No jaded reader, seeking a 
new sensation in literature, will be able to lay down the volume 
until the tale is finished. Si. 3 5 net. Postage, extra. 

The Full of the Moon 

By CAROLINE LOCKHART, Illustrated in color, $1.25 net. Postage 

JEANNETTE L. GILDER, in the Chicago Tribune: 

"It would not surprise me if 'The Full of the Moon' proves to be the 
most popular of Miss Lockhart's novels, and if it does not ultimately find 
its way to the stage I will be very much surprised, for it has all the elements 
of popular drama in it." 

The Best Man 



By GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL LUTZ, Illustrated in color. 

net. Postage extra. 

"A romance of startling adventure. The action is rapid, everything 
moves in a breathless whirl." 

The Red Emerald 

By JOHN REED SCOTT, Illustrated in color. Si. 25 net. Postage 

"As always, Mr. Scott exudes modernity, his dialogue scintillates . . . 

His viewpoint is that of a man of the world . . . His courage falters not 

even before Grundy, hence his vogue among the pleasure lovers. That 
this is his best book many declare." 

Anybody But Anne 

Bv CAROLYN WELLS, Illustrated in color. $i.25net. Postage extra. 

"The character of Fleming Stone appears even more wondeiful and 
plausible than in Miss Wells' earlier stories. The tale is a baffling one, and 
the suspense is well sustained." 

The Practical 
Book of Garden 

Fountains, Gateways, Per- 
golas, Tennis Courts, Lakes 
and Baths, Arches, Cascades, 
Windmills, Temples, Spring 
Houses, Bridges, Terraces, 
Water Towers, etc., etc. 
tispiece in color. 120 illus- 
trations from actual exam- 
ples of Garden Architecture 
and House surroundings. 
Square octavo. Ornamental 
cloth, in a box, S5.00 net. 
Postpaid. S5-2S- 
A volume for the owner de- 
veloping his property, large or 
small, for the amateur or pro- 
fessional garden architect, for 
the artist^ student and nature 

The Flower-Finder 


WALTON, M.D. 590 illus. 

Limp leather. $2.00 net. 

Postage extra. 

DEALER:— "Whut's that 
flower over there in the field? 
You'll find out in ' The Flower 
Finder'. Gives many color 
charts and sketches ; grouped 
so that you can easily find 
what you are looking for ; is 
bound in leather that permits 
it to be slipped in the pocket.'' 

The Training of a 


8 illus. Si. 00 net. Postage 


Just the book to put in the 
hands of the young man who 
loves outdoorlife. Mr. Pinchot 
has written aninspiring volume 
on the profession which he has 
brought so forcibly to public 

J. B 




The Little Review 



By Annie S. Peck »a search for the Ap°ex of America" 

With 87 illustrations mainly from photographs by the author. 
This is tiie first guide to THE SOUTH AMERICAN TOUR which is 
adequate and up-to-date in its treatment, dealing importantly with the 
subject both in its commercial and pleasure aspects. 8vo. Net $2.50 


By Sir W. Robertson Nicoli, M.A., LL.D. 

Tliese papers here collected, forty-eiglit in all, deal with various literary 
personalities, problems and impressions and show Sir William Nicoll in 
his most genial and leisured spirit. Octavo. Net $1. 75 



By E. Blantyre Simpson 

The hitherto untold record of the boyhood days of Stevenson— the most 
valuable recent contribution to Stevensoniana.' 

Fully illustrated. Octavo. Net $2. 00 


Translated from the French by 
Mrs. Rodolph Stawell 

By Ernest Daudet 

The story of Madame Royale, daughter of Louis XVI and Marie An- 
toinette, covers the French Revolution, the tragic execution of her 
parents, and the mystery of the lost Dauphin. Ernest Daudet tells 
this story in a form which reads like fiction — impressionistic, racy — but 
is no less truth. Illustrated. Octavo. Net $3.50 

By Estelle W. Stead 

The Record of the Personal and Spiritual Experience of W. T. STEAD. 

An extraordinary light cast on the life of the great journalist who 
ordered his life on direct messages from another world. 

Octavo. Net $2.50 

THINKING BLACK with many illustrations and maps. 

By Dan Crawford, F.R.G.S. 

Twenty-two Years Without a Break in the Long Grass of Central Africa. 

A brilliant and original book whicli will take its place among the Classics 
of the Missions. What Paton did for the New Hebrides, Cary for India, 
and Mackey for Uganda, Crawford has done for Central Africa. 

Octavo. Net $2.00 

THE NEW TESTAMENT; A New Translation 
By James Moffatt, D.D., D.Litt. 

Dr. Moffatt is one of the most distinguished living scholars of the Greek 
New Testament. He is also a profound student of modern literature. 
He has re-translated with the view of giving a modern literary version 
which shall be verbally accurate in its equivalents for the Greek phrases. 
It is a work which ' awakens enthusiasm by its distinguished choice of 
language and which stirs up thought bv its originality of rendering. 

Small Quarto. Net $1.50 



By Mrs. Hubert Barclay 

Author of "ADream of Blue 

Roses. ' ' etc. 

One of tlie most original love stories 

that ever- was penned — narrating a 

woman's power to restore romance. 

12mo. Nets J .25 

By Hamilton GIbbs 

The story of a man who achieved 
the extraordinary through remorse- 
ful rec<M lection of early wrong- 
'loinp. 12mo. Net $1.25 


By J. Macdougall Hay 

A stnjng, daring, original piece of 
work, which exhibits that rare but 
unmistakable quality of penna- 
nency. 12mo. Net $1.40 

By Mrs. Baillie-Reynolds 

An enigmatic love-storv bv the 
author of "Out of the Night." ""A 
Make-Shift Marriage," etc. 

12mo. Net $1.25 


A Mystery Novel 
By Victor Bridges 

Many a man lends a double life— 

this man lived the life of a double in 

a desperate attempt to cheat destiny. 

12mo. Net $1.25 


By Hugh Walpoie 

The novel that places Hugh Walpoie 
in the front rank of novelists to-day. 
A story of inspiring courage. 

12mo. Net, $1.40 

By Antonin Dusserre 

From the French by John M. 
Raphael with pen portrait of 
the author by Marguerite Au- 
doux, author of ' 'Marie Claire 

The chief claim of this novel Is its 
entire difference from all other 
novels. It discovers a new territory 
and exploring it with beauty and 
tenderness, makes it appeal in the 
delicacy and sweetness of its atmos- 
lihere and character portraiture. 

I2mo. $1.20 

By Will Levington Comfort 

Author of "Routledge Rides 

The high-tide of Mr. Comfort's art 
—bigger than his previous novels. 
12mo. Net $1.25 

By Oliver Onions 

The story of Louie, an experimenter 
in Life, triumphantly completes 
Oliver Onions' remarkable trilogy 
begun in "In Accordance With the 
Evidence " and carried throngfh 
" The Debit Account." 

12mo. Net $1.25 




America for HODDER 

New York 


The Little Revie' 


You Can Examine These Books 
at Home 

Thanks to the Parcel Post they will come to your 
door on approval. Look them over at your leisure 
and return them if not satisfactory. 
Use Coupon Below 




Aulhor of "Monsii-iir Beauraire." "The Gentle- 
man From Indiana," etc. 

If you ever were a hoy, if you ever had one, 
or if you remember your scalawag brother 
in those days when his last short pair of 
trousers were last becoming inadequate to his 
needs, then tlie exploits of the uuregenerate 
Penrod will recall some of the most harrowing 
yet amusing experiences of your life. When a 
boy is a 7eal ho;/ there is nothing under heaven 
in his class. JUST OUT. Really illustrated bv 
Gordan Grant. Net, $1.25. 


Author of "Youth." "Typhoon," etc. 

"Chance" is a novel of the effect of cir- 
cumstances, on character. In the case of 
Flora de Barral, Chance was finally on her 
side, though for a long time the reader is 
left in thick and thrilling uncertainty. Al- 
though we never see her face to face, but 
only reflected, she is one of the most appeal- 
ing heroines in modern fiction. Neiv York 
Times. JUST OUT, net, $1.35. 


Author of "Fables in Slang," "Knocking the 
Neighbors," etc. 

■'Fables in Slang" up to date. How "Tangc 
Teas." '-Buzzing Blondines" and "Speedy 
Sprites" appear to George Ade, artist of whim- 
sical and amusing English. Illustrated by Johi 
T. McCuteheon. Net $1.00. JUST OUT. 



How a sickly lady gave up doctors and nos- 
trums for the cultivation of a garden, and how 
n the end she was cured. A delightful little 
•omance. JUST OUT. Net $1.00. 


The first true expression of the voice of the 
Mexican iieople. A history of the Revolution 
written by a participator and a leader of the 
movement. Illustrated. Net $1.50. JUST OUT 



Author of "The Story of Ab," etc. 

The Darwinian theorv in fiction. The storj 
of Scar, who, unlike common mortals, lives 
through the ages and so traces the descent ol 
man. Illustrated by Craig Johns. Net $1.25 


The acting version of the masque, which is tc 
be performed in the latter part of May in con- 
nection with the St. Louis pageant. Net $1.00 
Ready May 1.5th. 



Author of "The American Government." 

The story of the Canal with Col. Goethals's 
0. K. A complete account of the great worl< 
from its Inception to its completion. Illustrated 
Xet $1..3.5. JUST OUT. 


The stoiy of the result of the sixteen years 
American occupation of the islands, which shows 
the success that has been achieved and oppor- 
tunity offered in our island possessions. JUST 
OUT. Illustrated. Net $2.00. 

The Carpenter and the 
Rich Man By bouck white 

.Author of "The Call of the Carpenter" 

A book that puts Christ's doctrine of the 
immorality of the swollen fortune fairly up 
to people of to-day and shows how impos- 
sible it will be to stem the tide of social 
unrest unless the movement is robbed of its 
terrors bv the application of Christ's idea 
of true fellowship. JUST OUT. Net $1.25. 

Psychology and Social 
Sanity By hugo munsterberg 

The closing link in Profc-^sor Miinster- 
berg's popular books on the application of 
modern psychology to the practical tasks of 
life — how psychology can help us in settling 
social problems and contribute to social 
soundness. In it he discusses the sex prob- 
lem, socialism, our jury system, investors 
and investments and other topics of public 
interest. JUST OUT. Net $1.25. 




Garden City, New Y'ork. 
Gentlemen: — Please send me on approval by 
ircel post the following books. It is understood 
at if they do not prove satisfactory I may return 
em, the bill for the same being cancelled. 


ame . . . 

I'k^-kll'l^l ^-k^n-Sr n««.<->,#« je. t^.r^'m^^-m^r^-m^-m 

U K.— 4-14 

uaraen City, l\cw YorK 



The Little Review 


Nov. 16, 1912 
Mason & Hamlin Piano Company, 

New York, N. Y. 

The Mason & Hamlin Piano used by me dur- 
ing my operatic engagement in this country 
has been a source of great pleasure. 

Its beautiful singing tone is remarkable. 
Such qualities for the vocalists or pianiste 
must be a great inspiration. I know of no 
piano that gives me so much satisfaction and 
heartily recommend it to those of my 
f ession . 

Mason & Hamlin should feel proud of their 
;reat achievement in pro 
ducing those wonderful 

Sincerely yours. 


/ 5iMe piano ^oTitflam/ 

The Little Review 


Some New McClurg Books 

The Coming Hawaii 


Beginning witli Captain Cook and even earlier navigators, tlie liistory of tliis 
"Paradise of tlie Pacific" is briefly told. Descriptions of the cliaracter and life of tlie 
natives and newcomers follow, and full space is given to the attractions of the islands 
for tourists and settlers. The products, business and possibilities receive abundant 
mention, and little worthy of interest is left untouched. The volume is a timely ad- 
dition to the "The World Today Series." The statistics are up to date. Illustrated. 
Net $1.50 

Junipero Serra, His Life and His Work By a. h. fitch 

The present biography is an attempt to supply the need for a popular account of 
the life and labors of the simple Franciscan monk, whose memory is reverenced and 
honored by California. Illustrated. Net $1.50 

Cubists and Post-Impressionism By Arthur jerome eddy 

Author of "Delight; the Soul of Art," and "The New Competition" 
This remarkable work is far more than an exposition of certain styles of painting, 
but while broadly historical and descriptive of many men and schools, presents a plea 
for the public to react to new impressions, and a defence of freedom for the artist to 
express himself untrammeled by the past. Illustrated by twenty-four color plates 
and over forty half-tones of the pictures under discussion. Boxed. Net $3.00 


The Art of Story-Telling 

Out of her broad experience and love for the work. Miss Cowles tells how the art 
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The Little Review 

Literature Drama Music Art 



MAY, 1914 

On Behalf of Literature DelVitt C. Wing 

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The Little Review 

Vol. I 

MAY, 1914 

No. 3 

On Behalf of Literature 

DeWitt C. Wing 

IT is well-nigh Incredible that Edwin 
Bjorkman, of his own freewill, should 
have written the " open letter to Presi- 
dent Wilson on behalf of American lit- 
erature" which appeared in the April 
Century. Whenever a man of promise 
and power shows the white feather those 
who admire him suffer a keen, personal 
pain. And yet Mr. Bjorkman is by no 
means the last man whom I should expect 
to make a plea for an official recogni- 
tion, through honors, prizes, and sub- 
sidies, of an American literature. A 
conventional literary man could have 
done it, but a great man never. 

]Mr. Bjorkman, after remarking the 
President's ability to appreciate the im- 
portance of what he purposes to lay 
before him, asks, " Will this nation, as a 
nation, never do anything for the en- 
couragement or reward of its poets and 
men of letters .P" He thinks it ought to 
do something because " the soul of a 
nation is in its literature," and because 
"we shall never raise our poetry to the 
level of our other achievements until we, 
as a nation, try to find some method of 
providing money for the poet's purse 
and laurels for his brow." 

No specific proposal is made to the 
President. Mr. Bjorkman outlines the 
general question, instances England, 
France, SAveden, and Norway as bestoAv- 
ing honors and rewards upon their 
writers, and says that he has " learned 

by bitter experience what it means to 
strive for sincere artistic expression in a 
field where brass is commonly valued 
above gold," and " should like to see the 
road made a little less hard, and the goal 
a little more attractive, lest too many 
of those that come after lose their cour- 
age and let themselves be tempted by the 
incessant clangor of metal in the market- 
place." Wherefore " on behalf of men 
and women who are striving against tre- 
mendous odds to give this nation a 
poetry equaling in worth and glory that 
of any other nation in the world" he 
appeals to the Chief Executive to take 
the lead. 

A literature worthy of national foster- 
ing does not require it. 

When President Wilson read Mr. 
Bjorkman's letter — we may assume that 
he has somehoAV found time to do so — 
my little wager is that he smiled sadly, 
and perhaps recalled a sentence that he 
wrote nearly twenty years ago, when the 
spirit of youth gave a sort of instinctive 
inerrancy to his judgments. In an essay 
on An Author^s Company he said: 

Literatures are renewed, as they are origi- 
nated, by uncontrived impulses of nature, as 
if the sap moved unbidden in the mind. 

In the same essay occurs this wide- 
worldly phrase: 

There is a greater thing than the spirit of the 
age, and that is the spirit of the ages. 

Copyright 1914, by Margaret C. Anderson. 

The Little Review 

A man capable of the deep, wide 
thought which these excerpts contain is 
not the man seriously to consider Mr. 
Bjorkman's appeal. Literature is not a 
response to a monetary or other invita- 
tion; it is as inevitable as the sunrise, 
and opportunity neither originates nor 
develops it. The conditions that govern 
the rise of sap and its transformations 
into beauty cannot be set up by legis- 
lation nor made easier by Nobel prizes. 
An artist of original power, born preg- 
nant with a poem, a picture, or a sym- 
phony, will inevitably give it birth. His 
necessity is not to receive but to give. 
He is independent of the caprice of 
chance. He has no thought of a chance 
" for sincere artistic expression." He is 
not interested in the control of circum- 
stance; he is the instrument of some- 
thing that controls him. Opportunity 
never knocks at his door; his door can- 
not be opened from without ; it is pushed 
open by an indwelling, outgrowing 
guest. The process is as uncontrived as 
the unfolding of an acorn into an oak. 

I fear that Mr. Bjorkman's definition 
of art, if he have one, needs expansion. 
The so-called art which he wishes to have 
encouraged as something geographically 
local is an imitation which probably 
would suffice in a petty world of ortho- 
dox socialism, where writing was a kind 
of sociological business. Since unmis- 
takable art is born, not manufactured 
or induced, it were folly to try to nur- 
ture it. Unborn art is nurtured by an 
inner sap; it cannot be fed on sedative 
pap. It always has been and always will 
be born of suffering, in unexpected, un- 
prepared places, like all its wild and won- 
derful kin. Eugenics cannot be applied 
to its unfathomable heredity. 

The soul of a nation is not in its lit- 
erature but in its contemporary life. 
Literatures haven't souls, even if, haply, 

they have considerable vitality or per- 
manence. Literatures are intricate auto- 
biographies, vague symbols of personal 
feeling, lifted by a modicum of con- 
sciousness into mystic articulation. The 
great literatures that are on the way will 
be more and more psychological. What 
people call love in the world of realism 
will play a sublimer part in the world of 
consciousness. Prose and poetry in 
which our conscious life is more inti- 
mately portrayed will challenge and in a 
million years increase consciousness, so 
that through emphasis and use this later 
acquisition of the race will transmute in- 
formation into perfect organic knowl- 
edge. A larger consciousness will break 
up the chaos of unnumbered antagon- 
isms in human relationships. The litera- 
ture of description and the blind play 
of instinct has served its purpose and 
had its day. The literature of the future 
must deal with a vaster world than that 
in which animals prey upon one another. 
Such a literature will not bear the name 
of a man, a state, a nation, or an age. 
We are opposed to the whole idea of 
nationalism ; we even ob j ect to worldli- 
ness in literature; we want something 
still bigger: a literature with a sense of 
the planets in it. In tliis new day it is 
too late to fuss about nations, geo- 
graphical literatures, and races. We are 
called toward the universe and mankind. 
In this land of blended nationalities our 
hope is to evolve a literature vitalized by 
the blood of multitudinous races and 
linked in pedigree with the infinite ages 
of the past. Walt Whitman's poetry 
was cosmic; the new poetry will extend 
to the planets. The summit of Parnassus 
now rests in the gloom of the valley, and 
the poet of the future will look down 
from the higher eminence to w^hich 
science has called him. Man today soars 
in flying machines in the old realm of 

The Little Review 

his young imagination. Poets must out- 
reach mci-e science. 

What httle patriots call a nation is a 
huge dogma that must be overcome. In 
poetry there must be an increasingly 
larger sense of the universe instead of 
nations as man's habitation. National 
literatures are exclusive of and alien to 
one another; they should be interrelated 
and fundamentally combinable. There 
can be no local literature if the thought 
of the world is embodied in it, and any 
other quality of literature must lack in- 
tegrity. Wild dreamers insist upon a 
literature that shall be superior to polit- 
ical boundaries. The idea of nation- 
alism involves the setting up of barriers 
and the fossilizing of life. It is a small 
idea that belongs to the dark ages. If 
we are ever to expand in feeling, 
thought, and achievement we must rise 
above nations into the starry spaces. 
We shall at least be citizens of the world, 
and, if citizens of the world, then truth- 
seekers beyond the reach of land and 

The little question put to President 
Wilson by Mr. Bjorkman cannot escape 
a negative answer, unless through petty 
exclusions and barbaric insularities we 
continue trying to organize, cement, and 
perpetuate a nation — that smug dream 
of our forefathers who reeked with 
selfishness and reveled in a freedom that 
at the core was slavery. Statehood must 
give way to a universal brotherhood. 
And if this were achieved it would still 
be idle twaddle to talli about " providing 
money for the poet's purse and laurels 
for his brow " ; for a poet — I am not 
thinking of facile versifiers, who are 
capable of intoxicating emotional per- 
sons with philological colors and sensu- 
ous music — is rewarded not by money 
but by understanding, and he fashions 
his own laurel, even as the sea pink 

crowns itself with its ample glory. The 
kind of poet whose measure is taken by 
Mr. Bjorkman's pale solicitude is 
already generously provided for by an 
unpoetic public, and there awaits his 
moist brow a laurel of uncritical, na- 
tional homage. 

Whitman, chanter of the earth's ma- 
jor note, and Blake, exquisite singer 
of its subtlest minors, are clearly recog- 
nizable mutations. Apart from the work 
of four or five men English verse falls 
into infinite grades of imitative excel- 
lence and mediocrity. The best of it is 
highly finished manufactured or in part 
reproduced art, obedient to a commercial 
age, in which little men with renowned 
names gossip about nations, and worship 
the god of utihty. 

Poetry of the highest quality — great 
enough to burst a language — is the out- 
flow of the unconfinable passion of ex- 
ceedingly rare individualities that can be 
neither encouraged nor discouraged by 
any external condition. They are va- 
grant leaps of life, wild with the creative 
power of projecting variety. They come 
off the common stock as new forms hav- 
ing many characteristics common to their 
ancestors but expressing their unlikeness 
in mental or physiological development. 
Real poets are genuine " sports " or 
mutations ; near-poets are made by culti- 
vation. As a nation grows old and the 
impact of its culture upon all classes of 
people increases, the greater its produc- 
tion of so-called classical art; but this 
has nothing to do with what I mean by 

Wliat is popularly termed poetry may 
represent sincere work; it may answer 
to all the technical requirements of versi- 
fication ; it may possess a sheen of word- 
music; it may contain deep, subtle 
thought, and yet, despite all these cus- 
tomary earmarks, it is not real poetry. 

The Little Review 

To be sure, thousands of critics will 
acclaim it as authentic, and lecturers will 
quote it as beautiful wisdom, but it is 
soon lost to eye and memory. And in a 
large sense this must be true of the 
greatest poetry. 

One reason why we haven't more and 
better contemporary poetry and prose is 
that we are under the tyranny of so- 
called masters. It is foolishly assumed 
that masterpieces are finalities in their 
fields. By talking, writing, and teach- 
ing this absurdity we set up popular 
prejudices against vital \vork of our own 
time, so that even literary artists, with 
an alleged shai-p eye for genius, cannot 
identify an outstanding genius when it 
appears before them. Only that poetry 
or prose which is a reminder of or is 
almost as good as a celebrity's work is 
accepted as art. We thus evolve " forms 
of appraisal" or standards with which 
we try to hammer rebels and geniuses 
into line. The artist who, confident, 
fearless, ample, and resolute, can go 
through this acid test without com- 
promise (fighting, even dying, for his 
vision) is the hope of men. He does not 
ask for anything ; he is a god ; the gods 
merely command — not always post- 
humously — and all the world is theirs. 

It is quite possible to encourage the 
profession of Avriting verse and prose by 
making the road easier and the goal 
\ more attractive for the weaklings who 
whine for nationalized alms, to enable 
them to pursue a craft ; but literature in 
the big sense is created by all sorts of 
men and women who cannot withhold it, 
let the world approve, condemn, or 
ignore. Hence literature is incapable of 

In his Gleams, which are tlie most in- 
timateh' personal things that he has pub- 

lished, Mr. Bjorkman reiterates the con- 
viction that artists ought to have a bet- 
ter chance than the}' now enjoy to ex- 
press themselves. For instance, he says : 

He who is to minister to men's souls should 
have time and chance to acquire one for himself. 

And this: 

The children will build up the New Kingdom 
as soon as they are given a chance. 

These extracts from his Gleams taken 
in connection with our concluding quota- 
tion from his Century article indicate if 
they do not prove that Mr. Bjorkman 
regards artists as meticulous persons 
who must be coaxed, humored, coddled, 
and rewarded in order to incite them to 
creative activity'. Obviously he means \ 
craftsmen when he uses the word artists. 
An artist is impelled to do his work, '^ 
which is his pain, joy, and passion. If 
life is made easy for him the chances are 
that he will lose his independence and 
power, and descend to a popular suc- 
cess. Stevenson could not endure pros- 
perity ; once a man, accustomed to a 
hard, uphill road — he did his noblest 
work then — a sentimental public made 
it so easy for him that he eventually 
grew fairly Tennysonian in his output 
of pretty trifles. 

A literature worthy of the name might 
address itself, in Whitman's words, to ^ 
authors who would be themselves in life 
and art : 

I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer. 

rough new prizes ; 
You shall not heap up what is call 'd riches, 
You shall scatter with lavish hand all that vou 

earn or achieve. 
You but arrive at the city to which you were 

destin'd — you hardly settle yourself to 

satisfaction, before you are call'd by an 

irresistible call to depart. 

The Little Review 

The Challenge of Emma Goldman 

Margaret C. Anderson 

EMMA GOLDMAN has been lectur- 
ing in Chicago, and various kinds 
of people have been going to hear her. 
I have heard her twice — once before 
the audience of well-dressed women who 
flock to her drama lectures and don't 
know quite what to think of her, and 
once at the International Labor Hall 
before a crowd of anarchists and syn- 
dicalists and socialists, most of whom 
were collarless but who knew very em- 
phatically what they thought of her and 
of her ideas. I came away with a series 
of impressions, every one of which re- 
solved somehow into a single conviction : 
that here was a great woman. 

The drama audience might have been 
dolls, for all they appeared to under- 
stand what was going on. One of them 
went up to ]Miss Goldman afterward and 
tried, almost petulantly, to explain wh}'' 
she believed in property and wealth. She 
was utterly serious. No one could have 
convinced her that there was any humor 
in the situation ; that she might as well 
try to work up a fervor of war enthu- 
siasm in Carnegie as to expect Emma 
Goldman to sympathize in the sanctity 
of property. The second audience, after 
listening to a talk on anti-Christianity, 
got to its feet and asked intelligent ques- 
tions. Men with the faces of fanatics 
and martyrs waved their arms in their 
excitement pro and con ; some one tried 
to prove tliat Nietzsche had an unscien- 
tific mind ; a suave lawyer stated that 
Miss Goldman was profoundly intellec- 
tual, but that her talk was destructive — 
to which she replied that it would require 
another lawyer to unravel his incon- 
sistency ; and then some one established 

forcibly that the only real problem in 
the universe was that of three meals a 

Most people who read and think have 
become enlightened about anarchism. 
They know that anarchists are usually 
timid, thoughtful, unviolent people ; that 
dynamite is a part of their intellectual, 
not their physical, equipment; and that 
the goal for which they are striving — 
namel}^, individual human freedom — is 
one for which we might all strive with 
credit. But for the benefit of those -who 
regard Emma Goldman as a public men- 
ace, and for those who simply don't 
know what to make of her — like that 
fashionable feminine audience — it may 
be interesting to look at her in a new 

To begin with, why not take her quite 
simply .-^ She's a simple person. She's 
natural. In any civilization it requires 
genius to be really simple and natural. 
It's one of the most subtle, baffling, and 
agonizing struggles we go through — 
this trying to attain the quality that 
ought to be easiest of all attainment be- 
cause we were given it to start with. 
What a commentary on civilization ! — 
that one can regain his original sim- 
plicity only through colossal effort. 
Nietzsche calls it the three metamor- 
phoses of the spirit : " how the spirit be- 
cometh a camel, the camel a lion, and 
the lion at last a child." 

And Emma Goldman has struggled 
through these stages. She has taken her 
"heavy load-bearing spirit" into the "^ 
wilderness, like the camel ; become lord 
of that wilderness, captured freedom for 
new creating, like the lion ; and then 


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created new values, said her Yea to life, 
like the child. Somehow Zarathustra 
kept running through my mind as I 
listened to her that afternoon. 

Emma Goldman preaches and prac- 
tises the philosophy of freedom ; she 
pushes through tlie network of a com- 
plicated society as if it were a cobweb 
instead of a steel structure; she brushes 
the cobwebs from her eyes and hair and 
calls back to the less daring ones that the 
air is more pure up there and " sunrise 
sometimes visible." Someone has put it 
this way: "Repudiating as she does 
practically every tenet of what the mod- 
ern state holds good, she stands for some 
of the noblest traits in human nature." 
And no one who listens to her thought- 
fully, whatever his opinion of her creed, 
will deny that she has nobility. Such 
qualities as courage — dauntless to the 
point of heartbreak; as sincerity, rever- 
ence, high - mindedness, self - reliance, 
helpfulness, generosity, strength, a 
capacity for love and work and life — 
all these are noble qualities, and Emma 
Goldman has them in the 72th power. She 
has no pale traits like tact, gentleness, 
humility, meekness, compromise. She 
has " a hard, kind heart " instead of " a 
soft, cruel one." And she's such a splen- 
did fighter! 

What is she fighting for? For the 
same things, concretely, that Nietzsche 
and Max Stirner fought for abstractly. 
She has nothing to say that they have 
not already said, perhaps ; but the fact 
that she says it instead of putting it 
into books, that she hurls it from the 
platform straight into the minds and 
hearts of the eager, bewildered, or un- 
friendly people who listen to her, gives 
her personality and her message a unique 
value. She says it with the same un- 
flinching violence to an audience of capi- 
talists as to her friends the workers. 

And the substance of her gospel — I 
speak merely from the impressions of 
those two lectures and the very little 
reading I've done of her published work 
— is something of this sort : 

Radical changes in society, release- 
ment from present injustices and mis- 
cries, can come about not through re- 
form but through change; not through 
a patching up of the old order, but 
tiirough a tearing down and a rebuild- 
ing. This process involves the repudia- 
tion of such " spooks " as Christianity, 
conventional morality, immortahty, and 
all other " myths " that stand as ob- 
stacles to progress, freedom, health, 
truth, and beauty. One thus achieves 
that position beyond good and evil for 
which Nietzsche pleaded. But it is more 
fair to use Miss Goldman's own words. 
In writing of the failure of Christianity, 
for instance, she says : 

I believe that Christianity is most admirably 
adapted to the training of slaves, to the per- 
petuation of a slave society; in short, to the 
very conditions confronting us today. Indeed, 
never could society have degenerated to its pres- 
ent appalling stage if not for the assistance of 
Christianity. . . . No doubt I will be told that, 
though religion is a poison and institutionalized 
Christianity the greatest enemy of progress and 
freedom, there is some good in Christianity 
itself. What about the teachings of Christ and 
early Christianity, I may be asked; do they 
not stand for the spirit of humanity, for right, 
and justice? 

It is precisely this oft-repeated contention 
that induced me to choose this subject, to enable 
me to demonstrate that the abuses of Christian- 
ity, like the abuses of government, are condi- 
tioned in the thing itself, and are not to be 
charged to the representatives of the creed. 
Christ and his teachings are the embodiment 
of inertia, of the denial of life; hence respon- 
sible for the things done in their name. 

I am not interested in the theological Christ. 
Brilliant minds like Bauer, Strauss, Eenan, 
Thomas Paine, and others refuted that myth 
long ago. I am even ready to admit that the 
theological Christ is not half so dangerous as 

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the ethical and social Christ. In proportion as 
science takes the place of blind faith, theology 
loses its hold. But the ethical and poetical 
Christ-myth has so thoroughly saturated our 
lives, that even some of the most advanced 
minds find it difficult to emancipate themselves 
from its yoke. They have rid themselves of the 
letter, but have retained the spirit; yet it is the 
spirit which is back of all the crimes and hor- 
rors committed by orthodox Christianity. The 
Fathers of the Church can well afford to preach 
the gospel of Christ. It contains nothing dan- 
gerous to the regime of authority and wealth; 
it stands for self-denial and self-abnegation, 
for penance and regret, and is absolutely inert 
in the face of every indignity, every outrage 
imposed upon mankind. . . . Many otherwise 
earnest haters of slavery and injustice confuse, 
in a most distressing manner, the teachings of 
Christ with the great struggles for social and 
economic emancipation. The two are irrevo- 
cably and forever opposed to each other. The 
one necessitates courage, daring, defiance, and 
strength. The other preaches the gospel of non- 
resistance, of slavish acquiescence in the will of 
others; it is the complete disregard of character 
and self-reliance, and, therefore, destructive of 
liberty and well-being. . . . 

"The public career of Christ begins with the 
edict, "Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is 
at hand." 

Why repent, why regret, in the face of 
something that was supposed to bring deliver- 
ance ? Had not the people suffered and endured 
enough; had they not earned their right to de- 
liverance by their suffering? Take the Sermon 
on the Mount, for instance; what is it but a 
eulogy on submission to fate, to the inevita- 
bility of things? 

' ' Blessed are the poor in spirit. ..." 

Heaven must be an awfully dull place if the 
poor in spirit live there. How can anything 
creative, anything vital, useful, and beautiful, 
come from the poor in spirit? The idea con- 
veyed in the Sermon on the Mount is the great- 
est indictment against the teachings of Christ, 
because it sees in the poverty of mind and body 
a virtue, and because it seeks to maintain this 
virtue by reward and punishment. Every intel- 
ligent being realizes that our worst curse is the 
poverty of the spii-it; that it is productive of 
all evil and misery, of all the injustice and 
crimes in the world. 

"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit 
the earth." 

What a preposterous notion! What incen- 
tive to slavery, inactivity, and parasitism. Be- 
sides, it is not true that the meek can inherit 

"Blessed are ye when men shall revile you 
. . . for great is your reward in heaven." 

The reward in heaven is the perpetual bait, 
a bait that has caught man in an iron net, a 
strait- jacket which does not let him expand 
or grow. All pioneers of truth have been, and 
still are, reviled. But did they ask humanity to 
pay the price? Did they seek to bribe mankind 
to accept their ideas? . . . Eedemption through 
tlie Cross is worse than damnation, because of 
the terrible burden it imposes upon humanity, 
because of the effect it has on the human soul, 
fettering and paralyzing it with the weight 
of the burden exacted through the death of 
Christ. . . . 

The teachings of Christ and of his followers 
have failed because they lacked the vitality to 
lift the burdens from the shoulders of the race; 
they have failed because the very essence of 
that doctrine is contrary to the spirit of life, 
opposed to the manifestation of nature, to the 
strength and beauty of passion. 

And so on. In her dissolution of 
other " m^'ths " — such as that of moral- 
ity, for instance, — she has even more 
direct things to say. I quote from a 
lecture on Victims of Morality : 

It is Morality which condemns woman to the 
position of a celibate, a prostitute, or a reck- 
less, incessant breeder of children. 

First as to the celibate, the famished and 
withered human plant. When still a young, 
beautiful flower, she falls in love with a re- 
spectable young man. But Morality decrees 
that unless he can marry the girl, she must 
never know the raptures of love, the ecstasy of 
passion. The respectable young man is will- 
ing to marry, but the Property Morality, the 
Family and Social Moralities decree that he 
must first make his pile, must save up enough 
to establish a home and be able to provide for 
a family. The young people must wait, often 
many long, weary years. . . . And the young 
flower, with every fiber aglow with the love of 
life? She develops headaches, insomnia, hys- 
teria; grows embittered, quarrelsome, and soon 
becomes a faded, withered, joyless being, a nui- 
sance to herself and every one else. . . . Hedged 
in her narrow confines with family and social 

The Little Review 

tradition, guarded by a thousand eyes, afraid 
of her own shadow — the yearning of her inmost 
being for the man or the child, she must turn 
to eats, dogs, canary birds, or the Bible class. 

Now as to the prostitute. In spite of laws, 
ordinances, persecution, and prisons; in spite 
of segregation, registration, vice crusades, and 
other similar devices, the prostitute is the real 
specter of our age. . . . What has made her? 
Whence does she come? Morality, the morality 
which is merciless in its attitude to women. 
Once she dares to be herself, to be true to her 
nature, to life, there is no return; the woman 
is thrust out from the pale and protection of 
society. The prostitute becomes the victim of 
Morality, even as the withered old maid is its 
victim. But the prostitute is victimized by still 
other forces, foremost among them the Prop- 
erty Morality, which compels woman to sell her- 
self as a sex commodity or in the sacred fold 
of matrimony. The latter is no doubt safer, 
more respected, more recognized, but of the two 
forms of prostitution the girl of the street is 
the least hypocritical, the least debased, since 
her trade lacks the pious mask of hypocrisy, 
and yet she is hounded, fleeced, outraged, and 
shunned by the very powers that have made 
her: the financier, the priest, the moralist, the 
judge, the jailer, and the detective, not to for- 
get her sheltered, respectably virtuous sister, 
who is the most relentless and brutal in her 
persecution of the prostitute. 

Morality and its victim, the mother — what 
a terrible picture! Is there, indeed, anything 
more terrible, more criminal, than our glorified 
sacred function of motherhood? The woman, 
physically and mentally unfit to be a mother, 
yet condemned to breed; the woman, economic- 
ally taxed to the very last spark of energy, yet 
forced to breed; the woman, tied to a man she 
loathes, yet made to breed; the woman, worn 
and used-up from the process of procreation, 
yet coerced to breed, more, ever more. What a 
hideous thing, this much-lauded motherhood ! 

With the economic war raging all around 
her, with strife, misery, crime, disease, and 
insanity staring her in the face, with number- 
less little children ground into gold dust, how 
can the self and race-conscious woman become 
a mother? Morality cannot answer this ques- 
tion. It can only dictate, coerce, or condemn 
— and how many women are strong enough to 
face this condemnation, to defy the moral dicta? 
Few indeed. Hence they fill the factories, the 
reformatories, the homes for feeble-minded, the 

prisons. . . . Oh, Motherhood, what crimes are 
committed in thy name! What hosts are laid 
at your feet. Morality, destroyer of life! 

Fortunately, the Dawn is emerging from the 
chaos and darkness. . . . Through her re-born 
consciousness as a unit, a personality, a race 
builder, woman will become a mother only if 
she desires the child, and if she can give to the 
child, even before its birth, all that her nature 
and intellect can yield . . . above all, under, 
standing, reverence, and love, which is the only 
fertile soil for new life, a new being. 

I have talked lately with a man who 
thinks Emma Goldman ought to have 
been hanged long ago. She's directly or 
indirectly " responsible " for so many 
crimes. " Do you know what she's try- 
ing to do ? " I asked him. 

" She's trying to break up our gov- 
ernment," he responded heatedly. 

" Have you ever read any of her 


"Have you ever heard her lecture .P" 

" No! I should say not." 

In a play, that line would get a laugh. 
(It did in Man and Superman.) But in 
life it fares better. It gets serious con- 
sideration; it even has a certain prestige 
as a rather righteous thing to say. 

Another man threw himself into the 
argument. "I know very little about 
Emma Goldman," he said, "but it has 
always struck me that she's simply try- 
ing to inflame people — particularly to 
do things that she'd never think of doing 
herself." That charge can be answered 
best by a study of her life, which will 
show that she has spent her time doing 
things that almost no one else would dare 
to do. 

In his Women as World Builders 
Floyd Dell said this : " Emma Goldman 
has become simply an advocate of free- 
dom of every sort. She does not advo- 
cate violence any more than Ralph 
Waldo Emerson advocated violence. It 

The Little Review 

is, in fiict, as an essayist and speaker of 
the kind, if not the quality, of Emerson, 
Thoreau, and George Francis Train, 
tliat she is to be considei'ed." I think, 
rather, that she is to be considered fun- 
damentally as something more definite 
than that: — as a practical Nietzschean. 
I am incapable of listening, un- 
arouscd, to the person who believes 
something intensel}', and who does in- 
tensely what she believes. What more 
simple — or more difficult? Most of us 
don't know what we believe, or, if we do, 
we have the most extraordinary time try- 
ing to live it. Emma Goldman is so 
bravely consistent — which to manj^ 
people is a confession of limitations. 
But if one is going to criticise her there 
are more subtle grounds to do it on. 
One of her frequent assertions is that 
she has no use for religion. That is like 
saying that one has no use for poetry : 
relis-ion isn't merelv a matter of Chris- 

tianity or Catholicism or Buddhism or 
any other classifiable quantity. Also, if 
it is true that the person to be distrusted 
is the one who has found an answer to 
the riddle, then Emma Goldman is to be 
discounted. Her convictions are pre- 
sented with a sense of definite finality. 
But there's something splendidly un- 
cautious, something irresistibly stirring, 
about such an attitude. And whatever 
one believes, of one thing I'm certain: 
whoever means to face the world and its 
problems intelligently must know some- 
thing about Emma Goldman. Whether 
her philosophy will change the face of 
the earth isn't the supreme issue. As 
the enemy of all smug contentment, of 
all blind acquiescence in things as they 
are, and as the prophet who dares to 
preach that our failures are not in 
wrong applications of values but in the 
values themselves, Emma Goldman is the 
most challenging spirit in America. 

No sooner is a thing brought to sight than it 
is swept by and another takes its place, and 
this, too, will be swept away. . . . Observe al- 
ways that everything is the result of a change, 
. . . get used to thinking that there is nothing 
Xature loves so well as to change existing 
forms and to make new ones like them. — Mar- 
cus Aurelius. 

10 The Little Review 



Mahy Aldis and Arthur Davison Ficke 

A sickening odour, treacherously sweet, 
Steals through my sense heavily. 
Above me leans an ominous shape, 
Fearful, white-robed, hooded and masked in white. 
The pits of his eyes 

Peer like the port-holes of an armoured ship. 
Merciless, keen, inhuman, dark. 
The hands alone are of my kindred; 
Their slender strength, that soon shall press the knife 
Silver and red, now lingers slowly above me, 
The last links with my human world . . . 

. . . The living daylight 
Clouds and thickens. 

Flashes of sudden clearness stream before me, — and then 
A menacing wave of darkness 

Swallows the glow with floods of vast and indeterminate grey. 
But in the flashes 
I see the white form towering, 
Dim, ominous. 

Like some apostate monk whose will unholy 
Has renounced God; and now 
In this most awful secret laboratory 
Would wring from matter 
Its stark and appalling answer. 
At the gates of a bitter hell he stands, to wrest with eager 

More of that dark forbidden knowledge 
Wlierefrom his soul draws fervor to deny. 

The clouds have grown thicker; they sway around me 
Dizzj^ing, terrible, gigantic, pressing in upon me 
Like a thousand monsters of the deep with formless arms. 
I cannot push them back, I cannot! 
From far, far ofl", a voice I knew long ago 
Sounds faintly thin and clear. 

Suddenly in a desperate rebellion I strive to answer, — 
I strive to call aloud. — 
But darkness chokes and overcomes me: 
None mav hear mv soundless crv. 

The Little Review H 

A depth abyssmal opens 
And receives, enfolds, engulfs me, — 
Wherein to sink at last seems blissful 
Even though to deeper pain. . . . 

O respite and peace of deliverance! 
The silence 

Lies over me like a benediction. 
As in the earth's first pale creation-morn 
Among winds and Avaters holy 
I am borne as I longed to be borne. 
I am adrift in the depths of an ocean grey 
Like seaweed, desiring solely 
To drift with the winds and waters ; I sway 
Into their vast slow movements ; all the shores 
Of being are laved by my tides. 
I am drawn out toward spaces wonderful and holy 
Where peace abides. 
And into golden aeons far away. 

But over m.e 
Where I swing slowly 
Bodiless in the bodiless sea, 
Very far. 
Oh very far away, 
Hangs a ghostly star 

Toward whose pure beam I must flow resistlessly. 
Well do I know its ray ! 
It is the light beyond the worlds of space. 
By groping sorrowing man yet never known — 
The goal where all men's blind and j^earning desire 
Has vainly longed to go 
And has not gone: — 

Where Eternity has its blue-walled dwelling-place. 
And the crystal ether opens endlessly 
To all the recessed corners of the world. 
Like liquid fire 

Pouring a flood through the dimness revealingly; 
Where my soul shall behold, and in lightness of wonder rise 

Out of the shadow that long ago 
Around me with mortalitj- was' furled. 

12 The Little Review 

I rise where have winds 
Of the night never flown ; 
Shaken with rapture 
Is the vault of desire. 
The weakness that binds 
Like a shadow is gone. 
The bonds of my capture 
Are sundered with fire! 

This is the hour 
When the wonders open ! 
The lightning-winged spaces 
Through which I fly 
Accept me, a power 
Whose prisons are broken — 

. . . But the wonder wavers — 
The light goes out. 

I am in the void no more ; changes are imminent. 
Time with a million beating wings 
Deafens the air in migratory flight 
Like the roar of seas — and is gone . . . 
And a silence 
Lasts deafeningly. 
In darkness and perfect silence 
I wander groping in my agony, 
Far from the light lost in the upper ether — 
Unknown, unknowable, so nearly mine. 
And the ages pass by me. 
Thousands each instant, yet I feel them all 
To the last second of their dragging time. 
Thus have I striven alwa}' s 
Since the world began. 
And when it dies I still must struggle . . . 

The voice I knew so long ago, like a muffled echo under 
the sea 
Is coming nearer. 
Strong hands 
Grip mine. 

And words whose tones are warm with some forgotten consolation, 
Some unintelligible hope, 
.Drag me upward in horrible mercy; 
And the cold once-familiar daylight glares into my eyes. 

The Little Be vie' 


He stands there, 
The white apostate monk, 
Speaking low lying words to soothe me. 
And I lift my voice out of its vales of agony 
And laugh in his face. 

Mocking him with astonishment of wonder. 
For he has denied ; 
And I have come so near, so near to knowing. . . . 

Then as his hand touches me gently, I am drawn up from 
the lonely abysses, 
And suffer him to lead me back into the green valleys of the 

"True to Life" 

Edith Wyatt 

A RECENT sincere and beautiful 
greeting from Mr. John Gals- 
worthy to The Little Review suggests 
that the creative artist and the creative 
critic in America may wisely heed a say- 
ing of de Maupassant about a writer 
"sitting down before an object until he 
has seen it in the way that he alone can 
see it, seen it with the part of him which 
makes This man and not That." 

Mr. Galsworthy adds: "And I did 
seem to notice in America that there was 
a good deal of space and not much time ; 
and that without too much danger of be- 
coming ' Yogis,' people might perhaps 
sit down a little longer in front of things 
than they seemed to do." 

What native observer of American 
writing will not welcome the justice of 
this comment ? Surely the contemporary 
American poems, novels, tales, and cri- 

tiques which express an individual and 
attentively-considered impression of any 
subject from our own life here are few: 
and these not, it would appear, greatly 
in vogue. Why? Everyone will have 
his own answer. 

In replying to the first part of the 
question — why closelj^-considered indi- 
vidual impressions of our life are few — 
I think it should be said that the habit 
of respect for close attention of any kind 
is not among the American virtues. The 
visitor of our political conventions, the 
reader of our " literary criticism " must 
have noted a prevailing, shuffling, and 
perfunctory mood of casual disregard 
for the matter in hand. Many American 
people are indeed reared to suppose that 
if they appear to bestow an interested at- 
tention on the matter before them, some 
misunderstanding will ensue as to their 


The Little Review 

own social importance. Nearly everyone 
must have noted with a sinking of the 
heart this attitude towards the public 
among library attendants, hotel-clerks, 
and plumbers. This abstraction is not, 
however, confined to the pursuers of any 
occupation, but to some degree affects 
us all. In the consciousness of our na- 
tion there appears to exist a mysterious 
though deep-seated awe for the prestige 
of the casual and the off-hand. 

Especially we think it an unworthiness 
in an author that he should, as the phrase 
is, " take himself seriously." We con- 
sider the attitude we have described as 
characterizing library attendants and 
hotel-clerks as the only correct one for 
writers — the attitude of a person doing 
something as it were unconsciously, a 
matter he pooh-poohs and scarcely cares 
to expend his energy and time upon in 
the grand course of his personal exist- 
ence. You may hear plenty of American 
authors talk of "not taking themselves 
seriously " who, if they spoke with ac- 
curacy, should say that they regarded 
themselves as too important and precious 
to exhaust themselves by doing their 
work with conscience. 

This dull self-importance insidiously 
saps in our country the respect for thor- 
oughness and application characteristic 
of Germany ; insidiousl}^ blunts in Amer- 
ican penetrative powers the English fac- 
ulty of being "keen" on a subject, re- 
cently presented to us with such grace 
in the young hero's eager pursuits in 
Compton Mackenzie's Sinister Street; 
and disparages lightly but often com- 
pletely the growth of the fresh and va- 
ried spirit of production described in the 
passage of de Maupassant to which Mr. 
Galsworthy refers. This passage ex- 
presses the clear fire of attention our 
American habits lack, with a sympathy 
it is a pleasure to quote here in its en- 

tiret}-. De Maupassant says in the pref- 
ace of Pierre et Jean: 

For seven years I wrote verses, I wrote 
stories, I wrote novels. I even wrote a detest- 
able play. Of these nothing survives. The 
master (Flaubert) read them all, and on the 
following Sunday at luncheon he would give 
me his criticism, and inculcate little by little 
two or three principles that sum up his long 
and patient lesson. "If one has any origi- 
nality, the first thing requisite is to bring it 
out: if one has none, the first thing to be done 
is to acquire it." 

Talent is long patience. Everything which 
one desires to express must be considered with 
sufficient attention and during a sufficiently 
long time to discover in it some aspect which 
no one has yet seen or described. In every- 
thing there is still some spot unexplored, be- 
cause we are accustomed to look at things only 
with the recollection of what others before us 
have thought of the subject we are contem- 
plating. The smallest object contains some- 
thing unknown. Let us find it. In order to 
describe a fire that flames and a tree on the 
plain, we must keep looking at that flame and 
that tree until to our eyes they no longer 
resemble any other tree, or any other fire. 

This is the way to become original. 

Having besides laid down this truth that 
there are not in the whole world two grains of 
sand, two specks, two hands, or two noses alike, 
Flaubert compelled me to describe in a few 
phrases a being or an object in such a manner 
as to clearly particularize it, 'and distinguish it 
from all the other beings or all the other 
objects of the same race, or the same species. 
"When you pass," he would say, "a grocer 
seated at his shop door, a janitor smoking his 
pipe, a stand of hackney coaches, show me that 
grocer and that janitor, their attitude, their 
whole physical appearance, including also by a 
skilful description their whole moral nature 
so that I cannot confound them with any other 
grocer or any other janitor: make me see, in 
one word, that a certain cab-horse does not 
resemble the fifty others that foUow or pre- 
cede it. 

One underlying reason Avhy American 
writers so seldom pursue such studies and 
methods as these is the prevailing dis- 
esteem for clearly-focussed attention we 

The Little Review 


have described. Another reason is that 
the American writer of fiction who loves 
the pursuit of precise expression will 
indubitably have to face a number of 
difficulties which may perhaps not be 
readily apparent to the writers of other 

Naturally enough, in his more newly- 
settled, or rather his settling, nation, 
made up of many nationalities, the Amer- 
ican writer who desires to "particular- 
ize" a subject from his countrj^'s con- 
temporary history, and "to distinguish 
this from all the other beings and all the 
other objects of the same race," will have 
man}" more heretofore unexpressed con- 
ditions and basic circumstances to evoke 
in his reader's mind than the German or 
French or English writer must summon. 

For instance, the young French writer 
of de Maupassant's narrative who was to 
call up out of the deep of European life 
the individuality of one single French 
grocer, would himself have and would 
address an audience who had — whether 
for better or worse (to my way of think- 
ing, as it chances, for worse) — a fairly 
fixed social conception of the class of this 
retail merchant. The American writer 
who knows very well that General Grant 
once kept an unsuccessful shoe store, 
and that some of the most distinguished 
paintings the country possesses have been 
selected by the admirably-educated taste 
and knowledge of one or two public- 
spirited retail dry-goods merchants ; and 
who also has seen gaunt and poverty- 
stricken Russian store-keepers standing 
among stalls of rotten strawberries in 
Jefferson Street market, in Chicago — 
that writer will neither speak from nor 
address this definite social conception ac- 
cording to mere character of occupation 
which I have indicated as a part of the 
French author's means of exactitude in 

Nothing in our own random civiliza- 
tion, as it seems to me, is quite so fixed as 
that French grocer seated in his door- 
way, that dc Maupassant and Flaubert 
mention with such charm. Nothing here 
is so neat as that. To convey social 
truth, the American writer interested in 
giving his own impression of a grocer in 
America, whether rich or poor or moder- 
ately prospering, will have to individual- 
ize him and all his suiTounding condition 
more, and to classify him and all his sur- 
rounding condition less, than de Mau- 
passant does, to convey the social truth 
his own inimitable sketches impart. 

Again, ours is a very changing popu- 
lation. Its movement of life through 
one of our cities is attended with various 
and choppy and many-toned sounds com- 
municating a varied rhythm of its own. 
To return to our figure of the retail 
tradesman — if this tradesman be in Chi- 
cago, for instance, he may neither be 
expressed clearly by typical classifica- 
tions, nor shown without a genuine error 
in historical perspective against a static 
street background and trade life. This 
background must have change and mo- 
tion, unless the writer is to copy into 
his own picture some foreign author's 
rendition of a totally different place and 
state of human existence. The tune of 
the story's text, too, should repeat for 
the reader's inward ear the special ex- 
perience of truth the author has per- 
ceived, the special ragged sound and 
rhythm of the motion of life he has 
heard telling the tale of that special 

May one add what is only too obvious, 
and said because I think it may serve 
to explain in some degree why individ- 
ual impressions of American life are 
not greatly encouraged in this country.? 
It will be quite plain that such a limpid, 
clear-spaced, reverent style and stilled 


The Little Review 

background as speaks in one of Mr. 
Galsworthy's stories the tragedy of a 
London shoe-maker's commercial ruin, 
would be false to all these values. It 
will be quite plain that such a bright, 
hard, definite manner as that which states 
with perfection the life of the circles 
of the petty government-official and his 
wife in The Necklace would be powerless 
to convey some of the elements we have 
selected as characterizing the American 
subject we have tried to suggest. 

But many American reviewers and 
professional readers and publishers, who 
suppose themselves to be devoted to 
" realism " and to writing of " radical " 
tendency, believe not at all that the real- 
istic Avriter should adopt de Maupas- 
sant's method and incarnate for us his 
own American vision of the life he sees 
here, but simply that he should imitate 
the manner of de Maupassant. Many 
such American reviewers and profes- 
sional readers and publishers believe not 
at all that the radical writer should find 
and represent for us some unseen branch- 
ing root of certain American social phe- 
nomena which he himself has detected, 
but simply that he should copy some 
excellent drawing of English roots by 
Mr. Galsworthy, or of Russian roots by 

The craze for imitation in American 
writing is almost unbelievably perva- 
sive. The author here, who is devoted to 
the attempt to speak his own truth — 
and the more devoted he is the more 
reverently, I believe, will he regard all 
other authors' truth as theirs and derived 
exactly from their own point of view — 
will find opposed to him not only the 
great body of conventional romanticists 
and conservatives who will think he ought 
to stereotype and conventionalize his 
work into a poor, dulled contemporary 
imitation of the delightful narratives 

of Sir Walter Scott. He will also find 
opposed to him the great body of con- 
ventional " realists " and " radicals " who 
will think he ought to stereotype and 
conventionalize his work into a poor, 
blurred imitation of the keen narratives 
of Mr. H. G. Wells. 

Sometimes these counsellors, not con- 
tent with commending a copied manner, 
seriously urge — one might think at the 
risk of advising plagiarism — that the 
Amei'ican author simply transplant the 
social ideas of some admirable foreign 
artist to one of our own local scenes. 
Thus, a year or two ago, in one of our 
critical journals, I saw the writer of a 
novel about Indiana state politicians se- 
verely blamed for not making the same 
observations on the subject that Mr. 
Wells had made about English national 
parliamentary life in The New Machia- 
velli. Not long since another American 
reviewer of " radical " tendency harshly 
censured the author of a novel about 
American under-graduate life in a New 
York college, because the daughter of 
the college president uttered views of 
sex and marriage unlike those expressed 
in Ann Veronica. 

This sort of criticism — equally' un- 
flattering and obtuse, it appears to me, 
in its perception of the special character- 
izations of Mr. Wells's thoughtful pages, 
and in its counsel to the artist depict- 
ing an alien topic to insert extraneous 
and unrelated views in his landscape — 
proceeds from a certain strange and ridic- 
ulous conception of truth peculiar to 
many persons engaged in the great fields 
of our literary criticism and of our pub- 
lishing and political activities. 

This is a conception of truth not at 
all as something capable of irradiating 
any scene on the globe, like light; but 
as some very definite and limited force, 
driving a band-wagon. People who 

The Little Review 


possess this conception of truth seem to 
argue very reasonably that if Mr. Wells 
is " in " it, so to speak, with truth, and 
is saying " the thing " to say about sex 
or about the liberal party, then the intel- 
ligent author anywhere who desires to be 
" in " it with truth will surely get into 
this band-wagon of Mr. Wells's and 
stand on the very planks he has placed 
in the platform of its particular wagon- 
bed. It is an ironical, if tragic, com- 
ment on the intelligence of American 
reading that the driver I have chanced 
to see most frequently urged for authors 
here should be Mr. H. G. Wells, who 
has done probably more than any other 
living writer of English to encourage 
varied specialistic and non-partisan ex- 

W^e have said that to tell his own 
truth the American writer will have to 
sit longer before his subject and will 
have more to do to express it, than if 
he chose it from a country of more an- 
cient practices in art, and of longer 
ancestral sojourns. We have said that 
he will be urged not to tell his own truth 
considerably more than an English or 
German or French writer would be. 
These authors are at least not advised to 
imitate American expression, and they 
live in countries where the habit of copy- 
ing the work of other artists is much 
less widely regarded as an evidence of 
sophistication than it is here. 

The American writer must also face 
a marked historical peculiarit}'^ of our 
national letters. The publishing centres 
of England and of Germany and of 
France are in the midst of these na- 
tions. Outside the daily press, the 
greater part of the publishing business 
of our own country is in New York — 
situated in the northeast corner, nearly 
a continent away from many of our na- 
tional interests and from manv millions 

of our population. By an odd coinci- 
dence, outside the daily press, the field 
of our national letters in magazine and 
book publication seems to be occupied 
not at all with individual impressions of 
truth from over the whole country, but 
with W'hat may be called the New York 

The young American author in the 
Klondike or in San Francisco who de- 
sires to sit long before his subject and 
to reveal its hitherto unrecorded aspect 
must do so with the clear knowledge 
that the field of publication for him in 
the East is already filled by our old 
friend the New York Klondike, scarcely 
changed by the disappearance of one 
dog or sweater from the early days of 
the gold discoveries ; and that no earth- 
quake has shaken the New York San 

Of course we know, because she almost 
annually reassures the country on these 
points, that New York instantly wel- 
comes all original and fresh writing aris- 
ing from the remotest borders of the 
nation ; and that in all these matters 
she is not and never possibly could be 
dull. Yet one can understand how the 
Klondike author, interested, as Mr. Gals- 
worthy advises, in seeing an object in 
" the way that he alone can see it " and 
" with the part of him which makes 
him This man and not That," might feel 
a trifle dashed by New York's way of 
showing her love of originality in spend- 
ing nearly all the money and energy her 
publishers and reviewers have in adver- 
tising and in praising authors as the six- 
teenth Kipling of the Klondike or the 
thirtieth O. Henry, of California. This 
is apt to be bewildering, too, for the read- 
ers of Mr. Kipling and 0. Henry, who 
have enjoyed in the tales of each of these 
men the truth told " with the part of 
him which makes him This man and not 


The Little R evie 


That." It is possible to understand, too, 
how the young author in San Francisco 
may feel that since New York's con- 
sciousness of his city has remained vir- 
tually untouched for eight years by the 
greatest cataclysm of nature on our con- 
tinent, perhaps she overrates the ex- 
treme swiftness and sensitiveness of her 
reaction to novel impression from with- 
out; and might conceivably not hear a 
story of heretofore unexpressed aspects 
of San Francisco told by the truthful 
voice of one young writer. 

These are some of my own guesses as 
to why individual impressions of our na- 
tional life are few and why they are not 
greatly in vogue in America. Whether 
they be poor or good guesses they repre- 
sent one Middle Western reader's obser- 
vation of some of the actual difficulties 

that will have to be faced in America 
by the writer who by temperament de- 
sires to follow that golden and beautiful 
way of Flaubert's, which Mr. Gals- 
worthy has mentioned. 

This writer will doubtless get from 
these difficulties far more fun than he 
ever could have had without them. They 
are suggested here in the pages of The 
Little Review, not at all with the idea 
of discouraging a single traveler from 
setting out on that splendid road, but 
rather as a step towards the beginning 
of that true and long comradeship with 
effort that is worth befriending which 
our felicitous English well-wisher hopes 
may be The Little Review's abiding 

" Henceforth I ask not Good Fortune : 
I, myself, am Good Fortune." 


The Little Review 19 


George Soule 

Her life was late a new-built house — 
Empty, with shining window panes, 
Where neither sorrow nor carouse 
Had left red stains. 

A passing vagrant, least of men. 
Entered and used ; her hearth-fire shone. 
She mellowed, he grew restless then — 
Left her alone. 

Now she is vacant as before. 
Desolate through the weary whiles ; 
Yet play about the darkened door 
Shadows of smiles. 

Art and Life 

George Burman Foster 

ODIUM THEOLOGICUM — it is a disapproved and screaming modernity — 
deadly thing. But the ridicule and who hereticize each other, who even deny 
obloquy, formerly characteristic of ere- each other right of domicile, save, per- 
dal fanaticism, seem to have passed over haps, in the unvisited solitudes of inter- 
in recent j-^ears into the camp of art con- stellar spaces. To be sure, those august 
noisseurs. No denying it, it was a and frozen solitudes of the everlasting 
Homeric warfare that reverberated up nothing may be conceivably preferable 
and down the earth from land to land, to the theological Inferno, though prob- 
and from century to century, between ably this question has not yet received 
what was ever the "old" faith and the the attention from critics and philan- 
" new." In this year of grace, however, thropists that its importance would seem 
it is the disciples of " classic " art — to merit. 

aureoled with the sanctity of some an- At the outset it seemed as if the re- 

tiquity or idealism — and "modern" art ligious warfare had a certain advantage 

— in whatever nuance or novelty of most over the esthetic — it agitated more peo- 


The Little Review 

pie, and seized men in their idiomatic and 
innermost interests, while, on the other 
side, but small and select circles partici- 
pated in partisan questions and contro- 
versies respecting art. But it looks now 
as if it would soon be the other way 
around. The people' face religious 
problems with less and less sympathy and 
understanding. But art, art of some 
kind and some degree, they are keenh' 
alive as to that, and quick to appraise 
or to argue. The churches are ever 
emptier; the theatres, concert halls, 
museums, " movies," ever fuller. A re- 
ligious book — short of epoch-making — 
finds, at best, -only a reluctant and pan- 
icky publisher ; a new play, a new novel, 
see how many editions it passes 
through, how hard it is to draw at the 
libraries, even after the staff and all 
their friends and sweethearts have cour- 
teously had first chance at it ! 

Now, it is of no use to quarrel with 
this turn matters have taken. And we 
miss the mark if we say that it is all 
bad. Off moments come to-the best of us 
when Ave grow a bit tired of being " up- 
lifted " and " reformed." Humanity has 
turned to art and, in doing so, has, on 
some side of its life, moved forward 
apace, mounted to higher modes of ex- 
istence, and, whether the church knows 
it or not, along the steeps of Parnassus 
and in the home of the muses has heard 
some music and caught some glimpses of 
the not too distant fatherland of the 
divine and the eternal. 

First-rate spirits of light and lead- 
ing have pointed the way to a new es- 
thetic culture — prophetic spirits Avho in 
blackest night when deep sleep had fallen 
upon most men saw the rosy-fingered 
dawn of our new day. It was to be a 
day when beauty should be bidden to 
lead the dance at the ball of life. There 
were serious philosophers — there was 

Kant, who contemplated art as the key- 
stone in the sublime structure which mod- 
ern knowledge and moral will should 
be summoned to erect in life. There 
was Schopenhauer, to whom art was the 
unveiling of the riddle of the world, the 
most intimate revelation of the divine 
mystery of life. There was the hero 
of Baireuth, who, in his artistic crea- 
tions, summed up all the spiritual and 
moral forces of humanity, and made 
them fruitful for the rebirth and frui- 
tion of our modern day. 

Among these prophets of a new es- 
thetic culture, Friedrich Nietzsche occu- 
pies a quite special place, and influences 
the course of coming events. As a most 
enthusiastic apostle of the gospel of a 
world-redeeming art he first flung his 
fire-brand into the land, but only to 
scorn and blaspheme soon thereafter the 
very gods he had formerly so passion- 
ately worshipped; now degrading them 
to idols. His faith in art, not this art 
or that, but in all art, in art as such, 
pathetically wavered. Still the artist 
in him himself did not die; its eye was 
undiramed and its boAV abode in strength. 
And though he later confronted every 
work of art with a malevolent and ex- 
asperating interrogation, all this was 
only his pure and pellucid soul wrestling 
for better and surer values, for new and 
nobler revelations, of the artistic genius. 
Indeed, it was precisely in these interro- 
gations that he was at once our liberator 
and our leader — our liberator from the 
frenz}' into Avhich the overfoaming en- 
thusiasm as regards art had transported 
men; our leader to a livelier, loftier 
beauty summoned to the creation of the 
humancst, divinest robes for the adorn- 
ment of humanity as a whole. 

The great movement and seething in 
the artistic life of our age signifies at 
the same time a turning point in our 

The Little Review 


entire cultural life. This turning point 
discloses new perspective into vast illim- 
itable distances where new victories are 
to be achieved by new struggles. The 
great diremption in our present world, 
making men sick and weak, calling for 
relaxation and convalescence, appears at 
a definite stage as the opposition between 
life and art. Life is serious, art is 
gay — so were we taught. Seriousness 
and gaiety — it was the fatality of our 
time that these could not be combined. 
So art and life were torn asunder. Art 
was no serious matter, no vital matter, 
'satisfying a true and necessary human 
requirement. Art was a luxury, a sport, 
and since but few men were in a posi- 
tion to avail themselves of such luxury, 
art came to be the prerogative of a few 
rich people. Down at the bottom, in 
homes of want and misery, life's trage- 
dies were real and fearful ; life was real, 
indeed, life was earnest, indeed; at the 
top, however, pleasures claimed the 
senses and 'thoughts of men; so much 
so, that even tragedies served but to 
amuse ; tragedies were an illusion of the 
senses, not realities of life and pain. 
What God had joined together man had 
put asunder — and there was art without 
life, life without art, and both art and 
life suffering from ailments which neither 

There was a time when men worked, 
too, but it was a beautiful halcyon time, 
when pleasure and joy throbbed in the 
very heart of the work itself; when a 
sunny serenity- suffused life's profound- 
est seriousness. Art pervaded all life, 
active in all man's activities, present in 
every nook and corner whither his va- 
grant feet wandered. Indeed, art was 
the very life of man, revealing his 
strength, his freedom, his creativeness, 
with which he fashioned things after his 
own image and according to his own like- 

ness. Every craftsman was an artist, 
every peasant a poet. Man put his soul 
into all that he said and did, all that 
he lived ; his work was a work of art, 
his speech a song, his life beauty. No 
man lived by bread alone; everyone 
heard and had a word that was the True 
Bread. His cathedrals — domes of 
many-colored glass — preached it to 
him; his actors sang it to him; even 
his priests were artists. With a sort of 
divine humor, man thus subjected to 
himself all the anxiety and need of life. 
Then, later, man came to think that 
he could live by bread alone. Even the 
True Bread came to be mere bread — 
public influence ; political power. And 
then man's poor soul hungered. And 
when he longed for a Living Word 
that was not mere bread, he was given 
printer's ink and the " sacred letter " of 
the Bible. But this — ah, this was no 
soul's food. So the soul lost its soul. 
Then, as man had no soul to work with, 
he had to work with his head, his arms, 
his feet. Man ceased to be an artist 
who breathes his living soul into his 
life, an artist who illumined all the seri- 
ousness of life with the sunshine of his 
living love. Would he art, he could not 
make it, he had to buy it. Could he not 
buy it, he had to do without it. Thus, 
life became as jejune and rational as 
a Protestant service, where, to be sure, 
there was no priest more, but also no 
artist, only scribe and theologian — 
where religion became dogmatics, faith 
a sum in arithmetic, Christianity a docu- 
mentarily deposited judicial process be- 
tween God and man. To be sure, under 
certain circumstances, decoration and 
color, even pomp and magnificence, may 
be found in this church, but no living 
connection between the outward appear- 
ance of these churches and their inner 
and peculiar service. Thus, too, our 


The Little Review 

private dwellings have lost living union 
between their appointments and their 
inmates. What all are curious to know 
about these houses is whether the men 
who dwell in them are rich or poor, not 
whether they have souls, and w^hat lives 
in their souls, should they have any. 

And because art had no soul of its own 
more, it became patronizing and mendi- 
cant — coquetting for the favors of the 
rich and powerful, sitting at their tables, 
perhaps even picking up the crumbs that 
fall beneath the tables. Art, ah, art sought 
bread — -mere bread — and adopted the 
sorry principle that to get bread was the 
sacredest of all duties. 

Art without life, life without art ! 
Then came that might}' movement of 
spirits to bring art and life together 
again, to reconquer and recreate and re- 
establish a view of life in which man 
should learn to see and achieve beauty 
once 3'et again. Of that movement, 
Friedrich Nietzsche was the purest and 
intensest herald. Bold, fiery spirit, with 
words that burn, he uttered what had 
been for a long time a soul-burden of 
all deeper spirits. This burden of souls 
was that an art creation should go on in 
ever}^ human life as its highest and holiest 
calling ; that, without the living effectu- 
ation of the artistic power of the human 
soul, all human culture would serve but 
beastliness and barbarity. 

To this end our poet-philosopher re- 
turns to the Ur^rund, the abyss of na- 
ture's life, from whose mysterious deep 
all tempestuous, wild impulses tumble 
forth and struggle for form and ex- 
pression in man. It is life which seeks 
death in order to renew itself in the pain- 
ful pleasure of its destruction, perceived 
but then by nian in the thrill of delight 
which prepares the way for his most 
original eternal revelation. To breed 
pleasure from pain ; to suck forces of 

life from the most shocking tragedies; 
to eavesdrop on the brink of the abys- 
mal so as to fashion sweet phantoms in 
the divine intoxication of the soul, — 
this is music, this is art, in this, man 
struggles beyond and above his whole 
contradictory nature, transfigures death, 
creates forms and figures in which he 
celebrates his self-redemption from seri- 
ousness, from the curse of existence. 
Here, at last, art is no sport, no fiddle- 
faddle, but at once highest and gayest 
seriousness. It returns from the serv- 
ice of death which it has performed, to 
its life, which it receives from "every' 
word that proceedeth out of the mouth of 
God." Herein lies the overpowering, the 
prophetic, in this Nietzschean preaching 
of art. It tells us that we are very far 
from comprehending life when we have 
but measured its length and breadth 
with yardstick and square; that nature 
is far different from what scholars have 
figured it out to be, or from what inves- 
tigators have seen of it with telescope 
and microscope. It teaches us to listen 
to the old eternal murmurs of the spirit, 
whose sigh we hear indeed, but whence 
it comes and whither it goes we never 
know — murmurs and sighs which bring 
forth the elementary forces, instincts, 
passions, and friendships in man, which 
men fashion and shape, regulate and 
direct indeed, but whose coming and 
going, whose ebbing and flowing, is not 
within their power. Inspiration, divine 
in-breathing — a dead concept as ap- 
plied by theologians to their Bible — 
comes into its own again in- human na- 
ture as a whole, it is the true element in 
man's life, by virtue of which the soul 
feels within itself a creative life — its 
own proof that its dependence is no 
slave-service, but freedom ; that its deep- 
est suffering of pain is itself creative life, 
creative pleasure. 

The Little Review 


Is it, noAV, the tragic fatality of a 
sick soul, is it the demoniac play of a 
spirit of negation when precisely the 
very preacher of this grandiose art- 
prophecy goes astray in his own preach- 
ing, when he finally thrusts it from him, 
with shrill laughter? The poet-philoso- 
pher begins to think concerning his 
preaching ! Art makes the thinker's 
heart heavy ! Art ever speaks a lan- 
guage which thought cannot express. 
Art strikes chords in the human heart, 
and there are at once intimations of a 
Beyond of all thought. And the thinker 
of today has bidden good-bye to every 
Beyond of his thought. Nothing un- 
thinkable was to be left for the feelings. 
So the thinker felt a stab in every art 
for his thinker's heart, a doubt whether 
he should hold fast to the incomprehensi- 
ble or sell himself to the devil of the 
universally comprehensible. And this 
doubt becomes an open confession of sin 
in the Zarathustra poes}- : poets — and 
Z»rathustra himself was a poet — lie too 
much ! It is adulterated wine which they 
set before the thirst3\ They muddy all 
their streams so that the}- shall appear 
deep. Into the kingdom of clouds they 
go, and build their air-castles on all too 
airy foundations. Thus, Zarathustra, 
poet, grows weary of their lies; he is 
a bit tired even of himself. And so, 
now, this doubt -respecting art slips into 
the soul of even its most enthusiastic 
prophets — nor are thej'^ the worst art- 
ists at whose souls these doubts gnaw! 
To create a beautiful culture in which 
man shall receive a higher revelation of 
life, and mount to a higher stage of his 
development, to this, art which receives 
its consecration in dizziness and dream, is 
not yet called. In fact, these artists do 
lie too much! They seek life indeed, 
they hunger for life; but, because life 
is too living to them, too natural, thcv 

create an artificial glow in whose heat 
they think they first have life. Thus, 
the second deception becomes worse than 
the first. The devil of matter-of-fact 
prose is driven out by the beelzebub of 
over-stimulated nerves, and men flee from 
the monotony of every-day life to the 
refinement of sensibility, which art shall 
superinduce. Poets do lie too much, not 
because they tell us fairy tales — fairy 
tales could be the beautifulest, holiest 
truths ! But because they simulate feel- 
ings they do not have — feelings which 
arise in them not naturally but narcotic- 
ally ! Sculptors, painters, do lie too 
nmch, not because they create forms and 
colors which no man's eyes have ever 
seen, but because they create their own 
selves unfaithfully — an alien life, which 
they have somewhere inoculated them- 
selves with and given out as their own. 
Even architects lie too much, because 
they compel their works to speak a for- 
eign language, as if stone should be 
ashamed to speak as stone, wood as wood, 
iron as iron ! 

The Nietzschean doubt respecting art 
— today this has become a demand for 
truth in art and for truthfulness in the 
artist! And from these a third — the 
demand for simplicity! And all this is 
of a piece with the purpose to live a 
simple life. 

Man does n6t live by bread alone. It 
is a living question for the sake of 
future humanity that our art shall give 
the True Bread to the heart of man, so 
that we may form a life in us and around 
us, a life whereon shall not repose the 
dead weight of a culture artificially bur- 
dened with a thousand anxieties and 
cares, but a life wherein man shall 
breathe freer, because he breathes the 
fresh free air of life itself. Beautiful 
life, artistic culture; this means the op- 
posite of what many mean by it today — 

24 The Little Review 

It means, not upholstered chairs, not more pathway to the heart, to bear witness 

cushions and carpets, not mother pictures there of a joy and an ardor, of a freedom 

on the walls, and not a pleroma of all and a truth, inspiring men to cry: It 

varieties of ornaments overloading stands is good to be here, let us build taber- 

and tables, but it means a life full of soul, nacles ! For such beautiful life, so little is 

warai with the sunshine of love, it means required, yet so much ! So little sumptu- 

that all man does, all that environs him, ousness, so much soul! So little money, 

shall find through e3'e and ear the mj^stic so much man ! 


• ON THE "7:50" 

Parke Farley 

As 3'ou go in and out upon the train, 
You're always reading poetry? 

. . . Yes. 

At first it slightly did embarrass me 

To have the people stare. 

Like you, over my shoulder, 

Catching, as it were, a sudden flashing thigh, 

Or gleam of sunlight on a truth laid bare. 

Then sizing, me up from the tail of the eye. 

I used to shield the books, and myself, too. 

But now I have grown bolder — I don't care . . . 

They say this morning train from Lake Forest to Chicago 

Carries more mone}' , more living money 

Than any train of its length and size in the world. 

There's the Club car, for Bridge, and then the Smoker, 

And four or five other coaches. 

It makes one feel rich merely to ride upon it. . . . 

No, it's not Keats or Shelley — yes, well enough. 

But these are living. 

I like them young and strenuous. 

And when I find one that has done with lies, 

I send a word . . . 

The Little Review 


"Change" at the Fine Arts Theatre 

DkWitt C. Wing 

YOUR enthusiastic welcome of 
Change, published in the April 
number of The Little Review, com- 
pelled me to see the play, and I hasten to 
report a memorable evening. Have j^ou 
ever heard the hard, sharp, battering, 
hammering of an electric riveter used 
on a steel bridge? Change has a punch 
like that, and every punch is a puncture. 
No kind of orthodoxy can resist it. 

I have never spent a dozy moment in 
the Fine Arts Theatre. I shall never 
forget Candida, Hindle Wakes, Miles 
Dixon, Prunella, CJiange, and other 
dramas and tragedies that I have wit- 
nessed there. I shall not even forget 
Cowards. Chicago some day will repro- 
duce and expand the truth which a dozen 
plays have driven into the souls of 
people who have sat in that beautiful 
little room. Whatever the commercial 
outcome of an attempt to present beauty 
and truth as expressions of life, the man- 
agement has already achieved a noble 
success. Hundreds of men and women 
will always remember the Fine Arts The- 
atre as an inner shrine of authentic art, 
where the furthermost reaches of the 
human spirit in the fiction of plays have 
touched and quickened the heart of 

Change represents an ever-new voice 
rising above the rattle of inevitable 
dogma and decay. It rings true to life. 
Even its name is profoundly appropriate 
as a label for an inexorable law. If a 
play reveals splendid thinking I am 
almost indifferent to what in that case 
becomes largely the incident of acting, 
for to be engrossed in enforced thought 
is to lose that narrow vision of the out- 

ward eye which merely looks on a per- 
formance. One is not then an onlooker 
but a discoverer. Change was hard, 
subtle thinking plus admirable interpre- 
tative acting. Like the Irish and Eng- 
lish players who have appeared in the 
Fine Arts Theatre, the Welsh company 
who recently gave us this trenchant criti- 
cism of life endowed the word " acting " 
with a fresh significance. One does not 
think of them as players ; they impress 
one as re-livers of the life that they por- 
tray. That is art of a high order. If 
we Americans are proud of our wealth 
and wonders, we must bow in humility 
when we consider that the biggest plays 
that we have seen and the best acting 
that we have witnessed are not of domes- 
tic authorship. They are imported, and 
w^e have enjoyed them at the Fine Arts 
Theatre in Chicago. 

Change is in four acts, written by 
J. O. Francis. It was awarded the prize 
offered by the Incorporated Stage So- 
ciety of London for the best play of the 
season. The scene is in a cottage on the 
Twmp, Aberpandy, in South Wales. 
The time is the present. A tragic 
change occurs in a family, whose head 
was a collier. It is a kind of drama that 
might inspire the private regret that the 
tragic mart^a-dom of Christian fanatics 
is no longer in vogue, and offers a spe- 
cies of justification of summarily re- 
moving human obstacles. Who among 
real men wouldn't have an impulse to 
take an active hand in ridding life of a 
suppressive old barnacle like John 
Price. ^ He and his conscience and his 
God stood against the primal law of 
change, with blind passion and colossal 


The Little Review 

selfishness. If his sons Jolin Henry and 
Lewis had mangled him I should have 
adnyred their passion. Gwen Price, the 
wife and mother, suffered more than all 
because she was capable of suffering; 
I did not wish a change on her account ; 
she was a woman. Her suffering and 
weakness were her triumph and strength. 
Besides, she was not at war with life as 
she saw it in her sons. Her love was 
great and wise enough to confer tragic 
beauty and adorn a soul ; that kind of 
love is the supreme religion. 

What John Price felt and expressed 
as religion was a contemptible mental 
narroAvness and spiritual poverty ; a 
counterfeit religion based upon fear and 
hardened by ceremonial practice. Its one 
virtue was that it offered the most for- 
midable opposition to the unfolding of 
manhood in two young men. Youth is 
ever pushing its entangled feet down 
against the hard substrata of anterior 
generations. Too often it is stuck and 
gradually smothered in the upper mud, 
which solidifies as insidiously as it forms. 
A man who can be held bj^ dying or dead 
impedimenta is himself dead. A man 
who struggles out and stands triumph- 
ant upon it, with the antennae of his 
being reaching up and out for the widest 
and finest contacts, fulfills destiny ~ by 
adding a golden grain of solid vahie on 
which a succeeding aspirant for a larger 
life may stand that much higher on the 
old foundation. The man who conforms, 
remains in and a part of the common 
level, plastically flattens out like dough 
under a rolling pin, merely fulfills the 
law of tlie indestructibility of matter 
and the conservation of mass. Whereas 
youth's great dream is symbolized by the 
over-topping king of the forest, stand- 
ing stiff-spined and straight upon the 
old earth, •'its head in rare aloofness, the 
ease-lover functions as a lowly parasite. 

With wild winged thoughts of which 
these remarks are vague memories I took 
Change in my consciousness from the 
theatre. No thoughtful person could 
have returned unchanged from the play- 
house. The transitoriness of religions, 
institutions, customs, and all other so- 
called fixtures which constitute modern 
civilization is the tremendous fact that 
makes Change a powerful supplement to 
social forces. Of course to the modern 
mind the idea is already old, but to the 
primitive majority it is a prophec}'. 

The author tempered his mild radical- 
ism with the hard-headed sagacity of 
Sam Thatcher, a one-armed pointsman, 
who, while unintellectually aware of the 
changelessness of change, "figured it 
out " that life is cyclic ; that as experi- 
ence broadens the attitudes of men lose 
their little individualities in a common 
resignation, defeat, and decay, which to 
him meant contentment. " I've been 
round the world some — round and 
round. That's how things go^ — round 
and round — I know, round and round." 
Sam thus epitomized an old theory which 
has so many supporters that it must be 
wrong. But if we do not go " round 
and round " in what direction do we go ? 
Nobody knows. If our movement^is cir- 
cular there is the desperate possibility 
of sufficient momentum to gain new ter- 
ritory by virtue of centrifugal force. 
We can at least make the circle larger. 
Races have bloomed, fruited, and passed ; 
planets have shone for an abbreviated 
eternity and disappeared: baffling facts 
about life-forms upon the earth have 
come to light. Our conscious life is 
young, densely ignorant, and full of 
pain ; our instinctive life is ageless, has 
perfected its knowledge and can endure, 
as it has endured, the aeons of change. 
We shall some day get the idea of change 
into our consciousness. 

The Little Review 


Unthinkingly' one might regret that 
Sam was clever enough to sway back to- 
ward dogma those wavering minds which 
might otherwise have yielded to the 
drama's punches. But his pathetically 
amusing romance should have made it 
clear to respectable auditors flirting with 
new ideas that he Avas not a competent 
critic of their particular class-slice of 
life. What he said was reassuring, as- 
suaging, brilliantly trite, and an un- 
troubled mind would take it and reject 
the austere, burning truth of the essen- 
tial message of the play. 

" Naught may endure but mutabil- 
itv' " : Shelley thus expressed what every 
educated man knows. Change is the un- 
varying order, and yet we are constitu- 
tionally averse to it. Comfortable people 
dislike it. "All great natures love sta- 
bility." Why do we make John Prices 
of ourselves? (I think that H. G. Wells, 
more than any other literary man, has 
lived in consonance with the law of 
change.) An expanding knowledge pre- 
cludes constanc3^ All John Prices are 
obscurantists. Convictions and blind 
faith based upon glorified ignorance 
have for thousands of years encysted, 
cramped, and twisted personal life, but 
somehow it has burst through the fetters 
and arrayed itself for successive 
struggles. Analyzing what we see and 
know, and confessing what we think we 
feel, we have the ancient riddle before 
us. We applaud a play like Change, but 
seek security and stability in every rela- 
tionship. Eventually every man must 
feel what Rousseau wrote : " Everything 

in this world is a tangled yarn ; we taste 
nothing in its purity, we do not remain 
two moments in the same state. Our 
affections, as well as bodies, are in per- 
petual flux." Maybe Sam Thatcher was 
wise, but if we knew that our life were 
cyclic the joy of it to us would cease. 
The wiser man does not know so much 
as Sam professed, but his endless en- 
deavor is to try to know more. The 
law of change, which he sees enforced 
everywhere, increases his insatiability. 

It is ultimate questions to which 
Change gives rise, and to such questions 
there are no satisfactory answers. The 
social value of the play lies in the 
graphic clearness with which it illust>rates 
the slow but epochal shifts that are 
always under way in thinking individ- 
uals, families, and nations. 

There is no Rock of Ages in the land 
of courageous knowledge. Nothing en- 
dures but mutability. The purpose of a 
play like Change is to open the inner 
mind to this glorious truth, so that with 
a fortitude born of understanding we 
may accept misfortune, calamity, and 
death as the effects of unalterable law, 
and not as donated penalties or inscru- 
table accidents. Poise, power, and per- 
sonality are the fruits of this attitude 
toward change, and w^hoever achieves 
these has climbed out of the " reddest 
hell " 

Armoured and militant, 

New-pithed, new-souled, new-visioned, up the 

To those great altitudes whereat the weak 
Live not. 


The Little Review 


The Vision of Wells 

ISHOTjXD like to set " M. M.'s " 
mind at rest about H. G. Wells, but 
I can't quite understand what her objec- 
tion to him really is. She seems to be in 
what the charming little old Victorian 
lady would have called " a state of 
mind." Something about Wells annoys 
her; she hasn't thought it out clearly, 
but she raps Wells wherever she can get 
at him, as a sort of personal revenge for 
her discomfort. 

Suppose, for the sake of argument, 
that the passage she quotes from the 
hero really represents Wells's feeling 
about the relations between the sexes. 
He believes that " under existing condi- 
tions " there is always danger of love 
between men and women unless the man 
has one sole woman intimate, and lets " a 
superficial friendship toward all other 
women veil impassable abysses of sepa- 
ration." "M. M." wisely admits the 
truth of that — in fact, it's the most 
obvious of truisms. Then the hero — or 
Wells — goes on to say that this, to him. 
is an intolerable state of affairs. For 
this "M. M." calls him "wicked," and 
" Mr, M, M," accuses him of not being 
busy enough, and of not working for a 

I wonder if " M, M." stopped to think 
exactly why the hero considers this an 
intolerable state of affairs. The state- 
ment means nothing more than that the 
man would like to have intimate friend- 
ships with more than one woman. He 
doesn't say he wants to love more than 
one woman. Well, it is easily conceiva- 
ble that a man of active mind and com- 
panionability would like to have some 

degree of intimacy with various women. 
There doesn't seem to be anything wicked 
about that, and it's possible that he 
should feel so even if he was " working 
for a living." If we confine ourselves to 
one intimacy, we're likely to lose the 
full relish of it before many years. The 
thought of that is certainly intolerable. 
A man who is close to a good many 
people is usually better fitted to appre- 
ciate his best friend. A woman novelist 
who has a conspicuously successful mar- 
riage put it well the other day. " If you 
go into a room where there is a bunch of 
violets," she said, "you are charmed by 
the odor. If you stay in the room all 
the time, you forget about the odor — 
or it bores you. But if you are con- 
tinually going out and coming in again, 
it greets you every time, and j'ou learn 
to appreciate its subtleties." Perhaps 
" M. M." thinks that reason is begging 
the question. Well, take the other side. 
Any human being who is expanding has 
an insatiable desire for new experience, 
new knowledge. That is the healthiest 
instinct in mankind. Such a person would 
naturally fret at the inabilit}' to be inti- 
mate with a new acquaintance who inter- 
ests him. That feeling would not be 
wicked; it would be right, by any sane 

Forgive the blatant obviousness of all 
this. But I'm bent on carrying through 
the discussion to the end. Granted, then, 
that our hero's feeling is not intrinsic- 
ally wicked — what then.? He faces a 
dilemma. Either he must run the risk 
of a new love affair, or — and this, I 
think, escaped " M. M." — present condi- 

The Little Review 


tions must be changed. If he has a new 
love affair, he is at the least violating the 
Victorian lady's conventional morality, 
which says that every man must love not 
more than one woman as long as that 
woman lives. We come then to an ex- 
tremely vital problem. On the one hand, 
is conventional morality desirable.^ On 
the other, can present conditions be so 
changed as to eliminate the danger ? The 
solution of that problem is of great im- 
portance to anj'one interested in human 
beings. If it can't be solved, it means 
that the man or woman must quench a 
right and health}^ instinct along which- 
ever line he or she chooses. And that's 
a bit of pessimism wfiich a warm-hearted 
man like H. G. Wells doesn't want to 
accept without further investigation. 
That's the reason he wrote The Passion- 
ate Friends. He is engaged in the noble 
endeavor to do something at least toward 
freeing the great spirit of mankind from 
the network in which it is enmeshed. 
The history of that struggle is the his- 
tory of human progress. 

Perhaps it isn't necessary further to 
defend Mr. Wells for the sort of novels 
he writes. But I'd like to offer an illus- 
tration of the difference between Wells 
and the old-fashioned novelist. The old 
writer started with the conviction that 
certain laws and fundamental conditions 
were forever fixed, and must limit the 
destinies of his characters. He then 
works out his little stor}' according to 
rules, and gets his effect by arousing in 
us pity for the misfortunes, hatred for 
the sins, and joy for the virtuous tri- 
umphs of his people. The tendency of 
the whole was to show us once more 
what the eternal verities were — and the 
result was highly " moral." Every char- 
acter was an object lesson. Wells, on 
the other hand, is not a preacher, but a 
scientist. He starts with the conviction 

that, through lack of impartial investi- 
gation, we don't really know what the 
eternal verities are, or what power can 
be derived from them. His attitude is 
as far from the old writers' as is Mme. 
Curie's from the alchemists'. He at- 
tempts to free his mind from every prej- 
udice. Then he begins his experiment, 
puts his characters in their retort under 
"controlled conditions," and watches 
what happens. What his characters do 
corresponds to fact as well as his trained 
mind can m^ke it. The result may be 
negative or positive — but at least it is 
true, and, like all truth, it is really valu- 

"M. M." prejudges the case when she 
talks about denial, and building up char- 
acter, and loyalty, and unselfishness. 
These things may demand her conclu- 
sion, and again they may not. At best 
they are means to an end. She may be 
right. But Wells is going ahead to find 
out. He isn't arguing for anything. 
We may be denying something we ought 
to have ; we may be building the wrong 
kind of character; we maj^ be loj^al to 
a false principle ; we may be unselfish 
with evil result. But if we cease to 
becloud the issue, and watch carefully 
the experiment of Mr. Wells and his 
followers, we shall know more about it 
than we do. 

And, for a general toning of her mind, 
I should like to ask "M. M." to read 
The Death of Eve, by William Vaughn 
Mood3\ to pay particular attention to 
the majestic song of Eve in the garden, 
and after she has felt the tremendous 
impulse of that line — 

Whoso denyeth aught, let him depart from here 

to turn back to her words about denial, 
and see whether she still thinks denial 
is always synonymous with strength. 
George Soule. 


The Little Review 

Another View of "The Dark Flower" 


T is with no desire to be carping that 
I offer this criticism of The Dark 
Flower, for I, too, am a devoted disciple 
who hangs on the master's lips ; but 
being a skeptical modern woman Avithal, 
I am not abject. Perhaps we should be 
'' satisfied with what Galsworthy has given 
us — this searching vision into the soul 
of a rarely sensitive man. The writing 
of it — what we term style*- — is beyond 
doubt Galsworthy's most distinguished 
performance, far more poetical than any 
of his verse. Its material is invaluable 
for its sheer honesty as well as its sheer 
beauty. Its reality and intimacy are 
grippingly poignant. And yet how ac- 
count for the pain of futility which 
sweeps over you as you close the book, 
drowning for the time the ecstasy of 
high joy in all its beauty .'* It is as if 
the heav}^ aroma of autumn's decay had 
invaded a garden in early spring. 

Yes, there is something essentially fu- 
tile about The Dark Floxeer. It lies so 
hidden in the warp and woof of the 
whole fabric that the casual reader passes 
it over unseen. I can best explain by 
referring to the novel itself. Each of 
the three episodes deals with Mark Len- 
nan's passion for a w^oman : in his youth 
for an older woman, in his maturity for 
a woman his own age, in his approaching 
autumn for a young girl. And in all 
three passion — the great primal force 
— is made an illicit emotion. In the first 
two episodes the women are married ; in 
the last, Lennan is. It is scarcely by 
chance that Lennan's loves were unlaw- 

ful ; on the contrary, a symbolic signifi- 
cance seems to be intended, that passion 
is natural, free, coming and going by 
tides unbound by man's will or law. But 
if that was Galsworthj^'s aim, he has run 
an unnecessary stretch beyond his goal. 
B}^ his over-emphasis, passion becomes 
pvu'posefully illicit, voluntarily seeking 
out the forbidden object and the secret 
passage. And instead of being the price- 
less inheritance from a free God, passion 
becomes an ailment laid upon us by some 
designing fate. 

And now glance at the denouement 
of each episode. In the first it is the 
woman who closes the little drama ; Mark 
merely watches her go. In the second 
the woman's husband kills her, and Mark 
is left dazed. In the last his wife steps 
in and turns the current of events. Al- 
ways an extraneous force makes the deci- 
sion for him. He is never permitted to 
grapple with the situation created. Gals- 
worthy forever extricates him. Not once 
is his passion allowed to run its course. 
Each experience is abortive. If I had 
been ^Nlark Lennan I should have been 
tempted to curse the meddling fate that 
insisted upon rescuing me just before I 

No, a woman would not have had her 
perfect moment with Mark Lennan, but 
only the promise of it. 

Mark is a futile person : his love life 
a procession of futile experiences. But 
in spite of its futility it is an exquisite 
record for which I whole-heartedlj' give 
thanks. Marguerite Swawite. 


The Little Review 


Dr. Foster's Articles on Nietzsche 

M. H. P.'s remarks in "The Critics' 
Critic" of the April number of The 
Little Review on Dr. George Burman 
Foster's paper entitled " The Prophet of 
a New Culture" in the March issue in- 
duced me to give that notable article a 
third reading. M. H. P. says "... 
there's . . . too much enthusiasm to be 
borne out by what he actually says," and 
then asks the author, " Won't you forget 
a little of this sound and fury and tell 
us as simply as you can just what it is 
that you want us to do ? " This obvi- 
ously tired and disturbed " critic " con- 
tinues: "... I have a feeling that 
pure enthusiasm, wasting itself in little 
geysers, is intrinsically ridiculous. En- 
thusiasm should grow trees and put 
magic in violets - — and that can't be done 
with undue quickness, or in any but the 
most simple way. Nobody cares about 
the sap except for what it does." 

This irrelevant criticism is an intellect- 
ually lazy protest of a sensuous, self- 
styled " healthy " person blundering 
through an interpretative analysis of 
hard, serious thought, expecting to find 
a program or a plan, cut and dried, 
ready for the seekers of a new culture. 
Dr. Foster properly avoided making any 
definite proposals based upon his study 
of Nietzsche. With a contagious en- 
thusiasm he wrote his own response to 
Nietzsche's attitude toward the universe. 
To condemn his animation is barbaric 
stupidity. He probably was not con- 
scious when he wrote the paper that any- 
body wanted him to outline in desiccated 
phrases a scheme to crystallize the Nietz- 
schean philosophy into personal or social 
action. He was fired by his subject, and 
his function — I do not say his purpose 

— was to spread the flame. The depths 
of feeling must be reached before action 
can be more than an abortion of the 
mind. Dr. Foster's serious, almost sad, 
enthusiasm, makes the spirit of Nietz- 
sche arouse feeling, and -feeling under- 
lies every organic social action. It is 
not what he " actually says " but what 
Nietzsche says to him that explains and 
justifies Dr. Foster's enthusiasm. 

An incoherent generalization like 
" pure enthusiasm wasting itself in little 
geysers is intrinsically ridiculous " is a 
part of the typical literary method of 
veneering ignorance or prejudices. For 
a critic who asks " what is it that you 
want us to do ? " which is the desperate 
voice of an imitationist, and then talks 
glibly of " pure enthusiasm," which is 
gaseous rhetoric, I have neither respect 
nor compassion. What is " pure enthu- 
siasm ? " 

M. H. P.'s objection to "sound and 
fur}"," which he associates with " polit- 
ical speeches" "for a major prophet," 
clearly is attributable to a temperamental 
inability to understand Nietzsche or emo- 
tionally to respond to his dynamic ap- 
peal to intelligence. A " healthy " critic 

— was there ever one.^ — is a myth, or 
a morbidly self-conscious person whose 
striving after " healthy " attitudes is 
an infallible sign of disease at the top. 
Such a person is pathologically inter- 
esting, but in the realm of philosophical 
criticism he is incompetent. I should ex- 
pect him to demand that " enthusiasm 
should grow trees and put magic in 
violets " — which is a ridiculous horticul- 
ture. To limit enthusiasm to so definite 
a purpose as this is to affect a poetic 
attitude whose labored simplicity has 


The Little Review 

nothing in common with the magic of 

Your critic, who has a mania for " the 
most simple wa}'," is aware of his own 
amorphous complexit}^, and demands that 
thinkers and writers be specific, calm, 
easy, leisurely, "healthy," and lucid, 
thereby economizing his unhealthy dis- 
tress. For him, Nietzsche has no mes- 
sage, and upon him Dr. Foster's enthu- 
siasm is wasted. To him " sound and 
fury" exist where to Nietzsche's "pre- 
ordained readers " there is the new music 
of truth. It is that deep harmon}^ which 
ran in legitimate fury through the re- 
markable article contributed by Dr. Fos- 
ter. " Nietzsche was a Knight of the 
Future." This sentence from the article 
bears interestingly upon M. H. P.'s alle- 
gation of " undue quickness " in what 

the author expects from the adoption of 
the Nietzschean view of life. As for 
nobod}^ caring about the sap, I should 
say that if he have an enthusiasm for 
growing trees and putting magic in vio- 
lets he will, perforce, have that care for 
the sap which conditions the strength of 
the tree and the magic of the violet. 
Nietzsche's superman is not to be 
achieved in a society that cares nothing 
about the sap. 

Whoever reads Nietzsche and Whit- 
man " slowly, profoundh', attentively, 
prudenth", with inner thoughts, with 
mental doors ajar, with delicate fingers 
and eyes," will be better qualified than 
M. H. P. to serve as a critic of articles 
like Dr. Foster's. Why not call it " the 
critics' gossip" ? 

DeWitt C. Wixg. 

H. G. Wells's Man of the Future 

In a little while he will reach out to the other 
planets, and take the greater fire, the sun, into 
his service. He will bring his solvent intelli- 
gence to bear upon the riddles of his individual 
interaction, transmute jealousy and every pas- 
sion, control his o^ti increase, select and breed 
for his embodiment a continually finer and 
stronger and wiser race. What none of us can 
thiuk or will, save in a disconnected partiality, 
he will think and will collectively. Already 
some of us feel our merger with that greater 
life. There come moments when the thing 

shines out upon our thoughts. Sometimes in 
the dark, sleepless solitudes of night one ceases 
to be so-and-so, one ceases to bear a proper 
name, forgets one's quarrels and vanities, for- 
gives and understands one's enemies and one- 
self, as one forgives and understands the quar- 
rels of little children, knowing oneself indeed 
to be a being greater than one's personal acci- 
dents, knowing oneself for Man on his planet, 
flying swiftly to tmmeasured destinies through 
the starry stillnesses of space. — H. G. Wells in 
Social Forces in England and America. 

The Little Review 


Lawton Parker 

Eunice Tietjens 

PARIS, the iridescent dream of every 
struggling art student on the round 
world ; Paris the sophisticated, the most 
provincial of all cities — as provincial 
as Athens of old in the sense that she is 
complacently sufficient to herself and all 
the world else may wag as it will, since 
she cares for nothing that does not hap- 
pen on a few square miles of soil beside 
the Seine; Paris the proud, the diffi- 
cult; — Paris has recently done the one 
thing that could be surprising from her. 
She has laid aside her prejudices and her 
pride and has awarded to a foreigner — 
and that foreigner an American — the 
most coveted prize in the whole realm 
of painting. She has given to Lawton 
Parker of Chicago the first medal at the 
Old Salon. 

Hitherto it has been an unwritten law 
that the first medal was not to go out of 
France. The most ambitious American 
student, dreaming in his little atelier high 
up among the pigeons, over fifty cen- 
times' worth of roast rabbit from the 
rotisserie and a glass of vin ordinaire, 
never has dared even to dream of a first 
medal. A second has been the height of 
his wildest hopes. Ten times only since 
the foundation of the Old Salon has a 
second medal, of which more than one 
is given each year, been awarded to an 
American. Sargent had one. Mary 
Green Blumenschein, H. O. Tanner, 
jNIanuel Barthold, Robert Mac Cameron, 
Aston Knight, the son of Ridgeway 
Knight, and Richard E. Miller are among 
the others so honored. Gari Melchers 
and Frederick MacMonnies have had a 
third medal. 

Now Lawton Parker has carried off 

the first! Even for a Frenchman this is 
an extraordinary honor. It is kept for 
paintings of most unusual merit, and 
often no work of the many thousands 
submitted is considered worthy of the 
honor. At least four Salons have passed 
without the award being made at all. 

The painting with which Mr. Parker 
has enchanted Paris is called Paresse, or 
Indolence. It is a picture of a nude 
model resting on a couch. She lies per- 
fectly relaxed, her body twisted a little 
and one arm raised behind her head. 
The delicate flesh tones are outlined 
against pale draperies, mauve, gray, and 
light yellow. The whole composition is 
in a very high key, the red hair of the 
girl being the strongest note in the 

But it is the lighting which seems most 
strongly to have impressed the French 
critics. More than forty reviews ii\ 
Europe have contained favorable ac- 
counts of this painting, and they have 
been unanimous in their praise of the 
effects of lighting. Indeed, they have 
almost exhausted the vocabulary in their 
efforts to describe it. It is the light of 
a gray day filtered through a Venetian 
blind, and the picture's most puissant 
charm lies in the way Mr. Parker has 
caught the delicate and subtle values of 
this lighting. " Delicate, nebulous, pale, 
sifted, intimate, tender, harmonious " — 
these are some of the adjectives used by 
the French reviewers to describe it. 

All this is, however, built on a founda- 
tion of solid knowledge. Mr. Parker is 
an excellent draughtsman and under- 
stands thoroughly the possibilities and 
limitations of his medium. He has long 


The Little Review 

been known among the artists in the 
Quarter as the most scientific of them all. 
The chemical composition of the colors, 
their action and interaction, and the re- 
sult of time on their brilliancy — these 
]Mr. Parker has studied minutely. It is 
a subject with which the old masters were 
thoroughly familiar, but which painters 
of to-day too often neglect. 

Sanity is one of the chief characteris- 
tics of Mr. Parker's work. This is a 
day of extravagance, of cutting loose 
from all ties that bind us to the past. 
In Paris the academies are virtually emp- 
tied of students, that the young men may 
search for individuality in their own little 
ateliers. The Cubists and the Futurists 
are the flowering of the tree -of experi- 
mentation that has thrust its roots even 
into the most academic of "sanctuaries. 
Many a promising young man has lost 
his head entirely. But Lawton Parker 
has succeeded in keeping his. 

He has gone forward with his day, but 
not blindly. He has carefully tested 
each step as he came to it, and has 
•siopped short where sanity stopped. The 
old virtues of draughtsmanship, compo- 
sition, and color he has kept. But he 
has added thereto the modern discoveries 
in the treatment of light. 

He and his colleagues, the little group 
of painters called the Giveniy school, are 
already known as Luminists. Frederick 
C. Frieseke, Richard E. Miller, and Kai'l 
Anderson belong to this group. During 
the summer months they paint at the 
beautiful little village of Giverny. They 
experiment with light in all its possible 
manifestations. Frieseke and Parker 
have an open-air studio together, a 
" water-garden " traversed by a little 
brook. Here on warm days they paint 
beautiful opalescent nudes in the sun- 
light, among the shimmering greens of 
the leaves or beside the luminous water 

surfaces. All who have followed the 
exhibitions in France or even in Amer- 
ica during the last few years are familiar 
with this " n3nnph pasture," as it has 
been wittily called. It was here that the 
prize picture was painted — but not on 
warm, sunny days. A year ago it rained 
all summer, and in desperation !Mr. Parker 
• resorted to an indoor canvas, executed in 
the house adjoining. It was painted with 
extreme care. One comparatively unim- 
portant part of the canvas, a bit of wall 
space, he painted over twelve or fifteen 
times to get just the precise shade he 
wanted. This painting is now on exhi- 
bition in this country. 

Lawton Parker's canvases in his Giver- 
ny style are interesting technically. On 
a foundation of very careful drawing 
they are handled with great freedom of 
execution. The brush work is loose and 
vigorous, the paint being laid on thickly, 
especialh' in the background. The flesh 
is painted more closely, always with 
great subtlety in the values. A nude 
body in the shade flecked with spots of 
brilliant sunlight is a favorite and very 
diflficult subject, in which this subtlety is 
well shown. The color is excellent, at 
times, as in the prize picture, very deli- 
cate and carefully harmonized ; at times 
dealing successfully with great splashes 
of autumn leaves or the vivid green of 
spring foliage. The composition is 

Mr. Parker is not by any means lim- 
ited to this style. Indeed, it is in another 
and quite diff'erent character that he is 
best known in this country. As a por- 
trait painter his work has for a number 
of 3^ears been gaining steadily in popu- 
larity. Man}^ prominent people have sat 
for him, including President Harry 
Pratt Judson, Judge Peter S. Grosscup, 
Martin Ryerson, Mrs. Leonard Wood, 
and ]Mrs. N. W. Harris. 

The Little Review 


This portrait style of Mr. Parker's is 
very difFcront from his Giverny style. 
He developed it much earlier in his 
career, but still uses it on occasion. The 
difference is one of psychological view- 
point rather than of technic. A por- 
trait, he feels, should be a livable pres- 
entation of the subject. It is not a pic- 
ture to be looked at casually and passed 
b^', but a work to be lived with intimately 
for long spaces of time. The excep- 
tions are, of course, those portraits of 
well-known men and women which are 
to hang in public places. Generally- 
speaking, he paints his portraits in color 
schemes that will wear well, in a rather 
low key, with neutral backgrounds. These 
likenesses are solid, dignified, and simple. 
To catch the individuality of the sitter 
is of more importance to him than to 
paint a striking canvas. That his por- 
traits are successful technically is proved 
by the fact that he has taken a num- 
ber of prizes with them, both here and 

Lawton Parker was born at Fairfield, 
Michigan, in 1868, but spent his early 
youth in Kearney, Nebraska. When he 

took up seriously the study of painting 
he moved to Chicago, which has since 
remained his pied-a-terre in this countr}'. 
He studied and taught at the Art Insti- 
tute there. Later he went to New York, 
where, in 1897, he took the "Paris 
Prize" founded by John Armstrong 
Chaloner : a . five years' scholarship 
abroad. In Paris he studied under Ge- 
rome. Whistler, and Jean Paul Laurens. 
In 1899 he took the "Prix d'afelier" at 
the Beaux Arts. In 1900 he received 
honorable mention at the Old Salon with 
a nude ; in 1902 a third medal, on a por- 
trait. Four years ago he missed by three 
votes a second medal, which was fortu- 
nate for him, since the first cannot be 
awarded a painter who has received a 

He has also received medals from the 
Chicago Society of Artists, the St. Louis 
Exposition, and the International Exhi- 
bition in Munich in 1905. 

All lovers of art in this country, as 
well as the painters themselves, should 
thank Mr. Parker for having opened the 
way in Paris for so unprecedented an 

It is rhythm that makes music, that makes 
poetry, that makes pictures; what we are all 
after is rhythm, and the whole of the young 
man's life is going to a tune as he walks home, 
to the same tune as the stars are going over his 
head. All things are singing together. — George 
Moore in Memoirs of My Dead Self. 


The Little Review 

New York Letter 

George Soule 

PAAXOWA and her Russian dancers 
have just finished their tour here in 
a high tide of enthusiasm, — and finan- 
cial success, which is worth mentioning 
because it means other tours next year. 
There is a whisper that we shall see a 
ballet still more important which hasn't 
hitherto been coaxed west of London and 
Paris. Only a little of the new art-form 
now being developed by Fokine, Diaghi- 
lev, Bakst, Rimski-KorsakofF, and the 
rest of the great Russian romanticists of 
the stage, has come to us. But the im- 
portant fact is that America, as always 
behind Europe in seeing new ideas that 
are not mechanical, is at last waking up 
to the dance as an art on equal terms 
with the greatest. 

It is curious, but not comforting, to 
know that in this case the original in- 
spiration came from Illinois. My au- 
thority is Troy Kinney, who is, with- 
out question, our best-informed critic of 
dancing outside of the performers and 
choregraphers themselves. Mr, Kinney 
tells me that after Isadora Duncan failed 
to arouse much interest in America she 
went to Europe, leaving a trail of heated 
discussion there. When she reached St. 
Petersburg the head of the imperial 
academy, Fokine, saw the vision of a 
renaissance of the dance from its classic 
sterility. He gathered about him the 
group of dancers whose names are now 
known around the world, and persuaded 
them to desert the imperial academy, 
which clung to the formalism of the old 
Frencli and Italian ballet. Artists and 
musicians were attracted to the move- 
ment. This proceeding was quite as dar- 
ing as it would have been for the super- 

intendent of the United States Naval 
Academy to desert with part of his fac- 
ulty and the best of the middies. But 
Diaghilev espoused their cause and per- 
suaded the government not to punish 
them, but to let them work out their 
ideas and then make themselves useful 
politicalh' by showing western Europe 
that Russia was not as barbarous as was 
generally supposed. They are now fully 
recognized in St. Petersburg and Fokine 
is again head of the academy. 

On the basis of the old formal steps 
and positions Fokine built a freer struc- 
ture of movement whose chief aim is not 
virtuosity or pure beauty of line, but 
expression. In this new style more mod- 
ern music was not only possible, but 
necessary-. Meanwhile, setting and cos- 
tume of the most imaginative t^'pe — 
often futuristic — had to be developed. 
They all set to work with an ardor pos- 
sible only to tradition-breakers and are 
producing an art which is likely to 
achieve the supreme place first dreamed 
of by the inventors of modern opera. 

Here is another keenly interesting re- 
lation brought to light by ]Mr. Kinney. 
Everybody knows, of course, that opera 
was begun during the Renaissance as an 
attempt to revive the Greek drama. It 
now appears that in our present Renais- 
sance the revived ballet is probably much 
nearer the highest form of Greek drama 
than opera or anj'thing else ever has 
been. The early drama of Athens, ac- 
cording to Mme. Nelidoff of Moscow, 
consisted largely of pantomime, dance, 
and chorus. Words were introduced for 
the literal-minded. As the size of thea- 
tres increased, the actors came to use 

The Li it tie Review 


megaphones, to conceal wliich the mask 
was invented. The masks were made 
larger and heavier to add to the height. 
With this handicap to dancing, the actor 
had to depend more on his voice and stat- 
ure; and the elaborate dialogue, com- 
bined with the high heels of the cothur- 
nus, gave dancing its final blow. This 
kind of drama, sa3's Mme. NelidofF, ap- 
pealed largel}- to the less imaginative 
and uncultivated, on account of their 
desire to know in detail what was going 
on. The other kind, however, continued 
being developed for smaller audiences, 
and retained its purer beauty of forai 
in space, sound, and thought. We have 
little record of it outside of sculpture 
simply because there were few words, and 
a choregraphic vocabulary had not been 
invented. We have almost no- record 
of Greek music, either. It is a bit shock- 
ing to think that Aeschylus and Sopho- 
cles were, perhaps, contributors to an 
inferior art, but there seem to be 
grounds for the ingenious theory. 

Everyone who has been to a " movie 
show " knows how effective even crude 
pantomime can be. But make your pan- 
tomime a portrayal of moods and emo- 
tions rather than of events, give it vis- 
ual beauty which will occasionally wring 
tears from anyone sensitive to line, and 
accompany it with music whose most 
complex rhythm and harmonic color are 
intensified by the stage picture, and you 

have an expression on a plane of the 
imagination where the introduction of a 
spoken word is like the creak of a piano 
pedal. If we can't lead the people back 
from the movies to "plays," can't we 
give them the modern ballet.'* 

That is exactly what Kinney proposes. 
He wants a National Academy for 
America, with resources equal to the 
backing of the Metropolitan Opera 
House. Big managers and opera au- 
thorities have alread}^ admitted that such 
an undertaking would, if properly man- 
aged, be successful. Compared with the 
present interest in good ballet the inter- 
est in good music wuth which Theodore 
Thomas started, was nothing. But it is 
a miracle if America does a thing like 
that in the right way. Our princes have, 
as a rule, neither good taste nor much 
public spirit. Our race of artists — 
thinkers — mental heroes — is small and 
largely uncourageous. Our government 
accuratel}' represents the most of our 
people, who still regard art either as 
immoral or entertaining and hence not 
worth the attention of sensible people. 

How bitterly we need missionaries like 
The Little Review and the people who 
feel the same spirit'! But our case is 
far from hopeless. The good fighters 
among us are glad there is a lot still 
to do. Such visions give strength to our 
hewing anns as we ciy room for our 
new imao-es. 

The men who are cursed with the gift of the 
literal mind are the unfortunate ones who are 
always busy with their nets and neglect the fish- 
ing. — Eabindranath Tagore in Sadhana. 


The Little Review 

Union vs. Union Privileges 

Henry B lac km ax Sell 

4iT T TE have granted the mhiers every 
T V union demand," benevolently 
asserts the remarkable J. D. R., Jr., 
"but we will not recognize their organ- 
ization" — and here is the hitch. The 
average lay observer of the fearful 
struggle raging in Colorado tosses aside 
his paper after reading this, and pos- 
sibly comments that he can't see what 
the miners want, if all the union priv- 
ileges have been granted. 

That was my first thought, but I felt 
that there must be something behind the 
trouble; so I hunted out my old friend 
Tony Exposito, a walking delegate for 
Chicago's pick-and-shovel men, and asked 
him to explain. 

Now Tony never took a degree, and 
his English is reminiscent of sunny Italy, 
but he knows just what the trouble is in 

" Eh ^ You wanta know what ees 
matta downa there .^ Eh.'' Mecster Roke- 
fella say he geeve union precvelcg to all 
da men.'* Eh.'^ Meester Rokefella say 
begess shara men no wanta strike? Eh.^ 
He geeve many thengs to da men .^ Sure ! 
Sure ! He geeve many thengs ! He geeve 
many preeveleg ! Sure ! He gecvc ! Das 
justa trubble! Das why da men go 
strike ! No wanta thengs be gceva to 
them. Santa Maria ! when a man breaka 
hees back en wear da skeen off hecs 
hans wet da pick en da shovel, hasn' he 
gotta right to da money he gets.? Eh.'' 
Now, w'at you theenka dat.? Eh? " 

"Well, Tony," I answered, "I never 
thought of it that way. It does seem 
as though a man might have what he 
earns without its being handed to him 
as if it were a cliaritv." 

" Sure ! Sure ! " cut in the impetuous 
Tony. "Sure! das da theng — charety! 
Meester Rokefella, he say, ' Coma here, 
lectle slave, nica leetle slave, coma here ; ' 
en he patta on da head en say, ' You 
donna have to work so meny hours ; I 
geeve you tena cents more pay!' Eh? 
en then what? Eh? He calla all the 
newsapaper up en tella dem, ' I maka 
mucha nion ; I geeve some to my worka- 
man.' Then all the peeple say, 'Whata 
fuss about ? ' Eh ? I tella you : Work- 
aman want to sell hees labor justa lika 
Meester Rokefella buy hees beega ma- 
chenes. Notheng extra to nobody. Eh ? " 

"But, Tony," I interrupted, "they 
say that only a few of the men want the 
union recognized. What about that? " 

"Sure! Das true! Sure! Das jus 
da fac. When decsa beeg, granda coini- 
tree fighta Eengeland, deed all the men 
wanta fight? Eh? Tell me! Eh? No, 
et was justa few ct ferst, dena more, 
dena more, teel everyone wanta to be 
free. Sure ! Das da way. Poor nuts, 
dca don'a know whata rights dea shoulda 
have, en dea musta be ah — educate to 
steek togeatcr." 

And I wondered how many of my 
highly educated friends realized so well 
as Tony Exposito how frightfully' devi- 
talizing gratuities are, and what it means 
to be able to take a week's pa}^ with the 
feeling not of accepting a charity, but 
of receiving an honest wage for honest 
work; what it means to teach mentally 
stunned and browbeaten laborers that 
they have certain definite rights of life 
and happiness, and that they must earn 
them ; that when they have earned those 
riglits, it is no favor given or received. 

The Little Review 


Book Discussion 

Mr. Chesterton's Prejudices 

The Flying Inn, by G. K. Chesterton. 
[John Lane Company, New York.] 

G. K. Chesterton really possesses a 
philosophy, but it is a question whether 
he has ever shown a clear intellectual 
title to it. His method of asserting 
ownership is to abuse those who ques- 
tion either his right to possess it or the 
desirability of the philosophy itself. 

In The Flying Inn Mr. Chesterton 
does two things. He writes a most 
amusing criticism of modern tendencies 
the while he is defending his philosophy 
of Augustinian Christianity. 

It may be news to some of Mr. 
Chesterton's readers that he is a sym- 
bolist with a profound philosophy to 
expound, and I would never have guessed 
from his latest work that he was fighting 
over again the battle of St. Augustine 
against the Pelagians. But this book 
recently fell into the hands of a more 
than usually industrious and erudite 
critic, Mr. Israel Solon, and in a recent 
issue of The Fridiiy Literary Review of 
The Chicago Evening Post, Mr. Solon 
took the trouble to explain some of Mr. 
Chesterton's symbolism. The general 
reader, however, — and what a good 
thing it is — does not care a red cent 
about the triumph of Augustinian 
Christianity, while the unbiased student 
of religion knows that Pelagianism, a 
healthy-minded British heresy of about 
400 A. D., which denied original sin, was 
a more reasonable proposition than the 
Christianity which it tried to displace. 

The only real interest of Mr. Chester- 
ton's latest book, tlien, is in his criticisms 

of life, and that interest arises from 
their humor rather than from their 

Mr. Chesterton's theory of criticism 
is very simple. Poke fun at everything 
you do not like. If it is difficult to poke 
fun at it on account of its worth or 
dignity then misrepresent it first. 

The present story, for instance, covers 
the adventures of an Irishman who left 
the British navy and became a soldier of 
fortune, and an innkeeper whose inn is 
closed by a fanatical temperance ad- 
vocate holding office under a ver^^ fussy 
pseudo-liberal government. This person- 
age, who is an amateur of religions and 
wishes to combine Mahomedanism and 
Christianity, drives the innkeeper into 
vagabondage. The Irishman accom- 
panies him, and they carry the old inn 
sign and a keg of rum and a round 
cheese with them. They buy a donkey 
and cart, and travel the neighborhood 
breaking up meetings in favor of tem- 
perance, vegetarianism, polygamy, and 
other absurdities advocated by the tee- 
total aristocrat. 

Most of the fooling is excellent, but 
some of it is very childish. It shows 
Mr. Chesterton at his most characteristic. 
He dislikes all liberalism, so the efforts 
of- the present British government 
toward various forms of amelioration of 
bonds — ecclesiastical, puritanic, and eco- 
nomic — are satirized by the implica- 
tion that the aristocrats of this story 
wish to re-establish the Eastern vices of 


The Little Review 

pol3gamy and abstinence from wine. 
He dislikes the Ethical Societies, so he 
represents them as meeting in little tin 
halls and listening to fakers from the 
East preaching strange exotic doctrines 
in return for large fees. He dislikes the 
Jews, and so a particularly mean and 
futile character is painted very carefully 
as a Jew who mixes in British politics — 
a thing which Mr. Chesterton and his 
political allies seem to think should be 
forbidden by statute. 

If we discount all this, however, we 
shall be able to derive a lot of enjoy- 
ment from Mr. Chesterton. In partic- 
ular we shall enjoy his songs against 
temperance. One of them concerns 
Noah's views on drinking: 

Old Noah, he had an ostrich farm, and fowls 

on the greatest scale; 
He ate his egg with a ladle in an egg-cup big 

as a pail, 
And the soup he took was Elephant Soup and 

the fish he took was Whale; 
But they all were small to the cellar he took 

when he set out to sail: 
And Noah, he often said to his wife when he 

sat down to dine, 
' ' I don 't care where the water goes if it doesn 't 

go into the wine." 

The cataract of the cliff of heaven fell blinding 

off the brink, 
As if it would wash the stars away as suds go 

down a sink; 
The seven heavens came roaring down for the 

throats of hell to drink, 
And Noah, he cocked his eye and said: "It 

looks like rain, I think." 
The water has drowned the Matterhorn as 

deep as a Mendip mine, 
But I don't care where the water goes if it 

doesn't get into the wine. 

And for other drinks than those of 
orthodox alcoholic content he has nothing 
but contempt, 
remarks : 

Witness the followin< 

Tea is like the East he grows in, 

A great yellow Mandarin, 
With urbanity of manner. 

And unconsciousness of sin ; 
All the women, like a harem^ 

At his pig-tail troop along. 
And, like all the East he grows in, 

He is Poison when he's strong. 

Tea, although an Oriental, 

Is a gentleman at least; 
Cocoa is a cad and coward. 

Cocoa is a vulgar beast. 
Cocoa is a dull, disloyal. 

Lying, crawling, cad and clown 
And may very well be grateful 

To the fool that takes him down. 

As for all the windy waters. 

They were rained like trumpets down, 
When good drink had been dishonored 

By the tipplers of the town. 
When red wine had brought red ruin. 

And the death-dance of our times. 
Heaven sent us Soda Water 

As a torment for our crimes. 

To the American cocoa debauchee — if 
there be an}-- — ^it should be intimated 
that in all probability Mr. Chesterton's 
turn for s3'mbolism is at work in the 
second of the stanzas quoted above. 
The English cocoa interests are very 
powerful and very much interested in 
the progress of the present liberal 
government. In England not cocoa 
drinkers but certain liberal politicians 
will wince with pained appreciation of 
that particular stanza. • 

Such is the method of attack with 
which Mr. Chesterton goes after liberal 
Christianity, the Ethical Movement, 
temperance legislation, futurist art, and 
— for some insane reason — the Mech- 
nikoff lactic acid bacillus treatment. As 
we have said, it is, except in spots, most 
interesting and most amusing, but, 
except in spots, it is not significant. 
Lt^ewellyx Jones. 

The Little Review 


Dr. Flexner on Prostitution 

Prostitution in Europe, by Abraham Flexner. 
[The Century Company, New York.] 

There can be no doubt whatever in the 
mind of any student of the evolution of 
" civic conscience " that the prominence 
now being given to the subject of pros- 
titution is one of the most promising 
signs of our day. It is inevitable in the 
first uncovering of what has been hidden 
for many generations that this promi- 
nence should be marred by much that is 
to be regretted, by much wild hysteria, 
and much morbid dwelling on erstwhile 
forbidden topics. But in the main the 
knowledge by the people at large of the 
cess-pools that lie below our civilization 
is the only starting-point from which to 
set about the draining and cleaning up 
of these cess-pools. 

As Dr. Flexner points out repeatedly 
in this volume, it is public opinion, 
and in the last anal^'sis, that only, which 
determines the fate of prostitution in 
any given city. Even the most strin- 
gent laws are of comparatively little 
service when unsupported by an intel- 
ligent and watchful interest on the part 
of the people at large. And on what 
can an intelligent interest be founded 
except on knowledge.'' The voices raised 
in protest — the voice of Agnes Repplier, 
for instance — belong surely to the pro- 
tected "leisure class "-^ the class which 
sees no need for change since they have 
never known from personal experience 
that such problems exist. Yet it is safe 
to sa}^ that for the great maj ority of the 
world's population the question of pros- 
titution and its attendent train of dis- 
ease, misery, and degenei'ation is and has 
always been one of the most vital ques- 
tions of life. 

A single calm, wise, scientific book, like 
this of Dr. Flexner's, given into the 
hands of our boys and girls of eighteen, 
would do quite as much good, and for 
many dispositions infinitely more, than a 
whole battery of moral lectures, warn- 
ing vaguely against the " wickedness of 
human nature " and the " allurements of 
sin." Not that this book was written for 
boys and girls. Far from it. It was 
written for the serious student of the 
social evil by Dr. Flexner as representa- 
tive of the Bureau of Social Hygiene of 
New York City. It is an unprejudiced, 
authoritative statement of the present 
condition of prostitution in the various 
countries of Europe, and is the result 
of an impartial and painstaking personal 
investigation which required two years 
of the time of an educational expert. 

Dr. Flexner nowhere raises any ques- 
tion as to how far European experience 
is significant for America, but it is in- 
evitable that the reader should form cer- 
tain conclusions of his own. Much of 
the book is devoted to the relative merits 
of the two systems of handling prostitu- 
tion now prevalent in Europe: regula- 
tion and so-called " abolition." The 
weight of evidence is overwhelmingly on 
the side of abolition. Regulation is left 
without a leg to stand on. This, how- 
ever, is not a burning issue in America. 
The New York Committee of Fifteen de- 
cided, years ago, that " regulation does 
not regulate," and such has been the gen- 
eral opinion in the United States. But 
the remainder of the book and much 
that is brought out in the discussion of 
regulation can be of great service. 


The Little Review 

It is impossible to summarize here a 
book so rich both in thought and mate- 
rial. But one thing may be said for the 
encouragement of future readers : There 
is in this volume absolutely no trace of 
the hysteria so prevalent today, and on 
the other hand, no trace of the morbid 
dwelling on details from which even some 
of our official investigations have unfor- 
tunately not been free. There is in the 
entire book not a detailed account of an 
individual case to turn the stomach. Yet 
the opinion of every prominent expert in 
Europe is given, and a calm, scientific 
attitude is maintained throughout. We 
are, as Jane Addams has so aptly ex- 
pressed it, " facing an ancient evil with 
a new conscience," and this book of Dr. 
Flexner's is the embodied voice of that 
conscience. This Is his last word on the 
sub j ect : 

In so far as prostitution is the outcome of 
ignorance, laws and police are powerless; only 
knowledge will aid. In so far as prostitution 
is the outcome of mental or moral defect, laws 

and police are powerless; only the intelligent 
guardianship of the state will avail. In so 
far as prostitution is the outcome of natural 
impulses denied a legitimate expression, only 
a rationalized social life will really forestall 
it. In so far as j^rostitution is due to alcohol, 
to illegitimacy, to broken homes, to bad homes, 
to low wages, to wretched industrial conditions 
— to any or all of the particular phenomena 
respecting which the modern conscience is 
becoming sensitive, — only a transformation 
^vrought by education, religion, science, sani- 
tation, enlightened and far-reaching statesman- 
ship can effect a cure. Our attitude towards 
prostitution, in so far as these factors are con- 
cerned, cannot embody itself in a special reme- 
dial or repressive policy, for in this sense it 
must be dealt with as a part of the larger social 
problems with which it is inextricably entangled. 
Civilization has stripped for a life-and-death 
wrestle with tuberculosis, alcohol and other 
plagues. It is on the verge of a similar struggle 
with the crasser forms of commercialized vice.- 
Sooner or later it must fling down the gauntlet 
to the whole horrible thing. This will be the 
real contest, — a contest that will tax the cour- 
age, the self-denial, the faith, the resources of 
humanity to their uttermost. 


The welfare of mankind is as much promoted 
by the mistakes and vanity of fools and knaves 
as by the virtuous activity of wise and good 
men. — The late Professor Churton Collinsr in 
The English Beview. 

The Little Review 


The Critic^' Critic 

Masculine axb Fjemixine Literature 

SOMEWHERE lately I read a review 
of Home and the reviewer says that 
it was probably written by a woman, giv- 
ing I forget what reason as to descrip- 
tion of home life, and details of that 
sort, which " no one but a woman could 
have written with such fidelity to truth." 
But I couldn't believe it even before the 
truth came out the other day. Home is 
distinctly a man's story, written by a 
man. The psychology of it is man- 
psychologj' (unconscious of course), and 
its appeal is more strongly to masculine 
than to feminine taste — much as I hate 
to think they differ in literature. I have 
heard several men speak of it as one of 
the best stories the}^ ever read, and I, 
myself, though liking it, could never 
become more than mildly enthusiastic. 
To be sure, it is a great tale of adven- 
ture. But for whom is the great adven- 
ture? Alan and Gerry go blithely about 
the world in pursuit of it. Alix, Gerry's 
wife, after taking a feeble little step in 
the direction of what was for her a stir- 
ring adventure, returns home, chastened, 
and is properly punished b}^ years of 
waiting for her husband to close up his 
small affairs. Her great adventure was 
sitting at home rearing Gerry's child. 
Clem's seems to have been sitting at 
home Avaiting for Alan to get through 
roving and come back to her. And never 
a comment to the effect that this should 
not have been perfectly soul-satisfying 
to both of the women, and never a 
notion, apparently, but that they were 
richly rewarded for their waiting by 
being allowed "to spend the rest of their 
lives caring for the two bold adventurers. 
I couldn't believe a woman living in the 

twentieth century could even have imag- 
ined such stupidities. I don't mean that 
Home isn't interesting, as stories go, but 
it is the crudest kind of man-psychology 
and will be as out-of-date in a few years 
as Clarissa Harlowe is now. 

I've been wondering a great deal 
lately whether there is a masculine and 
feminine literature after one. is grown 
up. I know there was for me as a 
child. When a story like Camp Mates 
began in Harper^s Young People I 
regretted that it was not something by 
Lucy C. Lillie, who wrote of adorably 
nice little girls. But possibly if I had 
ever gone out for long walks and camped 
for the day in the open as my own little 
lad does now, I too would have read 
Camp Mates. A man not undistantly 
related to me by marriage confessed the 
other day that he was fondest of stories 
telling of castaways on desert islands. 
"It's a thing I'd like to do myself — 
have a try at an island," he said, eagerly. 
"With your wife.'"' I asked, tentatively. 
He nodded, and gulped his dinner, and 
then immediately repented : " W^ith no 
woman, he said, firmly ; " they bring 
civilization, and I'd want it wild." Well, 
I don't blame him. It's appalling to 
think of how many men would measure 
up to a desert island test — would pro- 
cure by hook or crook some manner of 
sustenance. And I can think of few, 
very few women (among whom I do not 
include myself) whom I should select as 
companions if I were thus stranded. I 
jnean, of course, as far as their resource- 
fulness is concerned. Perhaps that is 
why, in stories of adventure, the woman 
is left behind, inevitably ; or, if she is 


The Little Review 

washed up on the shore by the waves, 
proves an encumbrance, delightful* or 
otherwise. And it is all a matter of 
training — not, as our novelist would 
have us believe, a deplorable lack of 
brains and stamina. 

The Educatigx of Girls 

And speaking of training — an in- 
teresting thing in March Atlantic about 
The Education of the Girl has set me 
thinking. How am I going to bring up 
my daughter .'^ The education of a boy 
is, compared to that, a simple matter. 
Too ridiculous, too, the answers to my 
query returned to me by different friends 
and relatives. " Make her a good girl," 
says one. But surely " Be good, fair 
maid ; let those who will be clever," has 
been ridiculed to a timely demise. An- 
other said : " I hope I shall be able to 
bring up my daughter so that when she 
is grown she can persuade some nice man 
to take care of her, as her mother did." 
No mention is made, of course, of what 
happens if the plan miscarries. It some- 
times does. And it is too funny when 
one realizes that several decades ago, 
when absolutely no question was raised 
as to woman's sphere (home and the 
rearing of children), she received in 
college a severely classical or scientific 
training; and now, when it is by no 
means admitted without argument that 
home is her one vocation, noted educat- 
ors are recommending that Avomen's 
colleges abolish Greek and Latin or treat 
them and science as purely secondary 
and take up domestic science, economics, 
nursing, etc., in their place. How can 
I tell beforehand which of the two my 
daughter is going to need.-^ I think of 
myself, filled to the brim with Greek, 
Latin, French, and German, producing 
in my early married life a distinctly 

leather}' and most unpleasant pie, or 
rushing to the doctor with my baby to 
have him treat a dreadful sore which 
turned out to be a mosquito bite, and 
my tearful struggles with the sewing 
machine on my first shirtwaist which I 
christened a " Dance on the Lawn," for 
obvious reasons . . . and I wonder. 
Never would I. willingly give up my 
classics and the joy they gave me. But 
a soupgon of domesticity would surely 
have done me no harm. jNIiss Harkness, 
in this article, is inclined to think that 
it docs us all harm. She says: 

Would men ever get anywhere, do you think, 
if they fussed around with as many discon- 
nected things as most women do? And the 
worst of our case is that we are rather inclined 
to point with pride to what is really one of the 
most vicious habits of our sex. 

But in the meantime that daughter of 
mine! Suppose she prefers to run a 
house and be the mother of six children ! 
Some Avomen do, and are wonderfully 
fitted for it. Won't she be happier if 
she knows beforehand how to do it most 
efficiently.'^ I hope, of course, she will 
choose, besides, a career of her own ; but 
if she doesn't want to? And to give 
both does mean a scattering of po- 
tentialities ! Which brings me back to 
the statement that the education of the 
modem girl is a complex — oh, but a 
very complex problem. 

You remember Stevenson's poem to 
his wife. I speak of it in this connection 
because it throws light on one facet of 
the feminist problem which perhaps is 
not sufficiently illuminated. He says: 

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true. 

With eyes of gold and bramble-dew; 

Steel-true and blade straight, 

The great artificer made my mate. 

"Stcel-true" and "blade straight" 
are epithets more often applied to men; 

The Little Review 


<ind indeed Mr. iMcClure, in speaking 
of Mrs. Stevenson in his memoirs, says: 
" She had many of the fine quahties that 
arc usually attributed to men rather 
than women : a fair-mindedness, a large 
judgment, a robust, inconsequential 
philosophy of life." 

How then, if in seeking an ideal edu- 
cation for girls, we should dismiss, or 
at least diminish, the importance of a 
purely utilitarian aspect and look for 
something that will eventually ensure 
such qualities? 

If, as the feminists urge, they are try- 
ing to raise men to a higher plane, why 
not apply a little of this passion for 
uplift to the education of women into 
nobler, higher attitudes ? Steel-ti-ue, and 
blade straight ! I like the sound of that. 

This education of the girl is getting 
to be an obsession with me. Everything 
I read resolves itself into terms of girl- 
psychology. A ridiculous tale, not long 
ago, appeared in The Saturday Evening 
Post, called Letting George Do It. 
George, in charge of the kitchen for a 
few weeks or days, immediately revolu- 
tionized everything; shortened and 
lightened labor, invented all sorts of 
labor-saving devices, etc., etc. Imme- 
diately all men say, derisively : " Well, 
that's exactly what a man "would do. 
You boast that women are as good as 
men. Why haven't they, years ago, 
done all these things for themselves." 
It seemed unanswerable. I have heard 
housekeepers, bright women, too, speak 
with exasperation of the foolish story, 
while helplessly admitting its truth. But 
I really think^ I've stalked the beast to 
its lair. Granted it is ti-ue, but have 
men spent their lives for centuries in a 
narrow round of domestic drudgery? 
Women have, and with very little intel- 
lectual diversion, besides, their society 
limited to other domestic drudges, and 

to their own husbands, who don't try to 
broaden them unless they are exceptional 
men. And if men had lived such lives 
would they have blithely introduced these 
reforms just because their masculinity 
makes them so superior to women that 
they would develop, even under ad- 
verse conditions? They wouldn''t stay 
drudges, they claim. Well, we won't 
either, so George is not so smart as he 
thinks he is ! 

Germ AX- Americans ^\nd Americans 

I have been greatly interested in an 
article in the May Century. It was by 
Prof. Edward A. Ross, of the Univer- 
sity of Wisconsin, the title being TJie 
Germans in America. You know why, 
of course. My father was born in 
Germany, and came over in 1850. About 
ten years ago Hugo Miinsterberg had 
an article in the Atlantic on the same 
subject, in which he tried to explain the 
antagonism existing between native-born 
Germans and Americans. His argument 
summed itself up in the stateme'nt that 
the German considers the American no 
gentleman, and the American considers 
the German no gentleman. But why? 
I was willing enough to believe him be- 
cause of a curious experience of my 
childhood. I can remember the incident 
perfectly, though it is maiw years since 
it happened. I was in the fifth grade, 
and the girl Avho figured prominenth' 
therein — her name Avas Siddons, by the 
way, and most appropriatel}', for she 
spelled tragedy to me — had called out 
on the street to a little boy who was 
carrying my books home for me, "Aw, 
George, do you like the Dutch? George 
is going with a Dutchman ! " 

George was certainly no cavalier, for 
he dropped my books, mumbled some- 
thing, and was off, while I continued 


The Little Review 

on ni}' dazed, bewildered way, won- 
dering what it was all about. Chil- 
dren learn so quickly to keep their 
deepest hurts to themselves that I doubt 
whether I should ever have mentioned 
it at home had it not been for this same 
bewilderment. My mother was indignant, 
not, it seems, because I had had names 
flung at me in scorn, but because it was 
the wrong name ! " You are not Dutch. 
You are German, and proud of it," she 
said, holding her head a little higher. 
Pressed for an explanation, she re- 
vealed that my father had been born in 
Germany, "but you must never, never 
be ashamed of that," she added earnestly. 
" Your father was an educated, cultured 
gentleman." I was then taken into our 
little library with its crowded shelves 
climbing to the ceiling, and shown 
volumes of Schiller, Goethe, Lessing in 
German, Tauchnitz editions of the great 
English writers, books of philosophy 
and history, and shelves full of Hayden, 
Beethoven, and Mozart. "He was a 
graduate of a German university," said 
mother, ' " and you must pay no atten- 
tion to these foolish children whose 
parents never even saw an American 
university." All very well, but had my 
mother been German herself.'' No, in- 
deed, so she could hardly realize what 
it meant to be an alien and an outcast. 
Many times during that hard year, while 
the detested Siddons crossed my unwill- 
ing path would I have bartered an edu- 
cated and cultured German forbear for 
any kind of American, be his lowly occu- 
pation what it might. Later that year 
a little French girl, Dunois by name, 
came into our grade. Joy! Here was 
another alien who would be a com- 
panion in misery. But to my great 
surprise she was courted and flattered 
by this same Siddons and the two became 
bosom friends. The Dunois pere kept 

a small, unsavory restaurant in a side 
street, but the glamour of his " French- 
ness " was an aureole compared to the 
stigma of my " Dutchness." That is 
still something of a mystery to me, but 
the article in the Century explains in 
part the cause of this attitude among 
unthinking Americans. Prof. Ross says : 

"Between 1839 and 1845 numerous 
old Lutherans, resenting the attempt of 
their king to unite Lutheran and Re- 
formed faiths, migrated hither. , . . The 
political reaction in the German states 
after the revolution of 1830, and again 
after the revolution of 1848, brought 
tens of thousands of liberty-lovers." 
And again he says of these political 
exiles that they " included many men of 
unusual attainments and character. . . . 
These university professors, physicians, 
journalists, and even aristocrats aroused 
many of their fellow-countrymen to feel 
a pride in German culture, and they left 
a stamp of political idealism, social 
radicalism and religious skepticism which 
is slow to be effaced." 

Possibly one reason for American 
antagonism to these earlier, superior 
settlers was the fact that they did some- 
what despise American culture and hold 
rather closely to their own German ways 
of thinking. I remember in my child- 
hood, in my own home, that although 
we had Harpers Young People and St. 
Nicholas, we also had English Chatter- 
box — I rather fancy as a corrective to 
Americanisms to be found in the other 
magazines. You know Germans in their 
own land today do not wish for Amer- 
ican governesses to teach their children 
English ; it must be Englishwomen. All 
our \o\s were sent for from the beloved 
Fatherland, and beautiful toys they 
were, too. We had a system of Froebel 
with all his methods established in our 
own home. Ions; before the middle west- 

The Little Review 


ern cities dreamed of a public kindci*- 
garten. This deep distrust of Aincricau 
methods and culture could not help but 
impress Americans unfavorably ; they 
would retaliate with the cry of Dutch- 
man, perhaps. Prof. Ross goes on to 

" Germans brought a language, lit- 
erature, and social customs of their own, 
so that although when scattered they 
Americanized with great rapidity wher- 
ever they were strong enough to main- 
tain church and schools in their own 
tongue they were slow to take the Amer- 
ican stamp." So much for those earlier 
immigrants. The case is vastly different 
with the later tides of immigration. 
" After 1870," he writes, " the Teutonic 
overflow^ was pi'ompted by economic 
motives, and such a migration shows little 
persistence in flying the flag of its na- 
tional culture. Numbers came, little 
instructed." In the words of a German- 
American, Knortz, " nine-tenths of all 
Gennan immigrants come from humble 
circumstances and have had only an 
indiff'erent schooling. Whoever, there- 
fore, expects pride in their German 
descent from these people who ow^e every- 
thing to their new country and nothing 
to their fatherland, simply expects too 

Well, then ! If the}- no longer pride 
themselves on being German, and are 
easily assimilated by the second genera- 
tion, we should expect to see the slight 
stigma of being of German descent 
removed by this time. But is it.-' Not 
long ago I had occasion to attend a 
Bach revival and the beautiful passion 
music was played and sung. One of my 
friends remarked, " You have to get used 
to this music before you can appreciate 
it," and I retorted condescendingly, " I 
don't; I have heard it from childhood. 
This is the kind of music we sing in the 

liUtheran church." This same friend 
later, guiding my tottering steps 
through the mazes and pitfalls of society 
in the " most aristocratic suburb of New 
York," said hesitatingly, " I don't think 
I'd mention it, especially to people in 
general, that I was a Lutheran, if I were 
you." Of course I was seized imme- 
diate]}' Avith a perfectly natural desire 
to talk of it in season and out to every- 
one I met. Why not.'' Why not be a 
Lutheran as naturally as an Episco- 
palian or a Methodist.'* "Well, they are 
mostly Germans, you see." But I don't 
see, and I never have seen, although this 
article, enlightening and interesting, goes 
nearer to the reasons for such an attitude 
than anything else I have ever read. 

Rejections by Editors 

Never again shall I feel a sense of 
shame and humiliation on receiving my 
rejected MS. and the printed slip. I 
have always suspected that it was on 
account of the editors' lack of taste and 
discrimination ; now I am sure of it. 
Indeed, I'm not quite sure but that it 
argues more to be rejected than to be 
accepted. I'm beginning to be proud 
of it. Read Henry Sydnor Harrison's 
article in the April Atlantic — Adven- 
tures with the Editors — and see if you 
don't feel the same way ! Or, perhaps, 
you've never been rejected with the 
added ignominy of the printed slip. If 
so, don't read this; it is not for you. 
But all ye rejected ones take renewed 
hope from this statement that an editor, 
actually an editor himself, has made: 

" I think I can tell you why editors 
so frequently reject the earlier and often 
the best w^ork of writers: it is because 
any new writer who sends in 'first-class 
work sends in work that is very diff"erent 
from what editors are used to." 


The Little 'Review 

It reminds me of a time when I wrote, 
maliciously, I admit, to a certain well- 
known magazine, to tell its editors a 
story they had printed by a renowned 
author had been cribbed entire (un- 
consciously, possibly) from an old 
classic; and I told them, too, if they 
would prefer to print original stories, 
I had one on hand. I got back such a 
deliciously solemn reply regretting the 
unconscious plagiarism and asking me 
to send on any story I had. I did not 
do so, for the good and sufficient reason 
that I had already sent it to them 
several weeks previously, and had had it 
rejected without comment. No doubt it 
deserved to be rejected; every one else 
did the same with it. To be sure, one 
kindly editor took the pains to tell me 
why, personally. " The trouble is," he 
said, " there isn't enough story. Your 
character-drawing is both careful and 
sincere, however." So it must have been 
dull to deserve anything like that. I 
wish we could hear a little more of the 
experiences of those poor rejected, who 
never do " get over the wall," as Mr. 
Harrison terms it. I imagine it would be 
both illuminating and ludicrous. 

And, oh ! the happy moments I had on 
reading E. S. Martin's comments, in Life, 
on Mr. Harrison's article. Mr. Har- 
rison makes the charge that magazines 

will print poor stories of well known 
writers in preference to good stories of 
the unknown, and Mr. Martin's re- 
sponse is: 

" It does not follow that the editors 
were wrong because they did not buy 
Mr. Harrison's tales before Queed. 
Maybe they were not more than average 
stories. But after Queed they were 
stories by the author of Queed . . . 
Queed pulled all Mr. Harrison's past 
tales out of the ruck, and put them in 
the running. It was hardly fair to 
expect the editors to pick them for 
winners beforehand." 

What then are editors for, if not to 
"pick winners.'"' And Mr. Harrison 
says himself that Queed was rejected by 
two publishers. Probably it was hardly 
fair to expect the publishers to pick such 
a winner in advance. We, the rejected, 
have always humbly thought that was 
their occupation — their raison d'etre. 
And if Mr. Harrison's short stories were 
" not more than average stories," doesn't 
it prove his contention that average 
poor stories by the known are more 
acceptable to editors than good ones by 
the unknown.'' 

At least I am going to think so, and 
some day I shall write an article on the 
loftv distinction of being rejected. 
M. H. P. 

The witty niincl is the most banal thing that 
exists. — James Stephens in The English Eevieic. 

The Little Review 


Sentence Reviews 

The Goldfish: The Confessions of a Successful 
Man. Anonymous. [The Centiu'J Company, 
New York.] Proves conclusively, for anyone 
who may need such proof, that the ' ' successful ' ' 
man misses those adventures which William 
James ascribed to poverty: "The liberation 
from material attachments; the uubribed soul; 
the manlier indifference; the paying our way 
by what we are or do, and not by what we 
have; the right to fling away our life at any 
moment irresponsibly — 'the more athletic trim, 
in short, the fighting shape. ..." 

Walt Whitman: A Critical Study, by Basil 
De Seiincourt. [Mitchell Kennerley, New 
York.] Any biography of Whitman which re- 
veals a large understanding of his big poems 
of personality is notable. De Seiincourt proves 
in his closing sentence that he knows his sub- 
ject, for it is the clearest and best characteriza- 
tion of the poet that has ever been written: 
' ' He rises . . . above nationality and becomes 
a universal figure : poet of the ever -beckoning 
future, the ever-expanding, ever-insatiable spirit 
of man." 

Sadhana: The Bealisation of Life, by Rabin- 
dranath Tagore. [The Macmillan Company, 
New York.] A quiet essay full of the queer 
charm of conquered strength memorable for at 
least one splendid sentence: "... life is im- 
mortal youthfulness, and it hates age that tries 
to clog its movements." But Tagore is vying 
too nuich with Tango just now among people 
who can neither orient nor dance. 

The Meaning of Art, by Paul Gaultier. Trans- 
lation by H. & E. Baldwin. [J. B. Lippincott 
Company, Philadelphia.] What is art? This 
book gives the best answer that we have read, 
but when the author is psychological he is 
wrong, in most cases. He has a rare faculty 
of compelling one to read between his lines, 
and argue things out with oneself. 

The Deaf: Their Position in Society, by 
Harry Best. [Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 
New York.] An astonishing compilation of 
facts and figures by a social economist who 
makes a morbid subject interesting to a healthy 
citizen unafraid of truth about life. 

Socialism: Promise or Menace? by Morris 
Hillquit and Rev. Dr. John A. Ryan. [The 
Macmillan Company, New York.] A sophomoiic 
debate between two dogmatists that ran in 
Everybody's Magazine. One instinctively feels 
that two evils are guised as panaceas and he will 
have neither of them. The church, of course, 
has the last word — in the book. 

Penrod, by Booth Tarkington. [Doubleday, 
Page, and Company, New York.] At rare inter- 
vals we have a book on boys that holds the gen- 
uine boy boj'eousness. The Eeal Diary of a 
Seal Boy captivated us with the story of big 
little boys in a village; The Varmit told us of 
the irresponsible capers of little big boys in 
•'prep" school; and now we have Penrod, in 
which Mr. Tarkington tells us much — well, of 
just hoys. 

Joseph Pulitzer: Eeminiscences of a Secre- 
tary, by AUeyne Ireland. [Mitchell Kennerley, 
New York.] An extraordinarily interesting 
piece of Boswellizing. 

Hail and Farewell: Vale, by George Moore. 

[D. Appleton & Company, New York.] A com- \ 

pletion of the most fascinating autobiography ) 

in the English language. / 

American Policy: The Western Hemisphere 
in. Its Belation to the Eastern, by John Bige- 
low. [Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.] 
Cautious discussions that respect diplomatic red 
tape interest patriotic pedants but bore per- 
sonalities who are concerned with bigger things 
than national policies. 

The Fortunate Youth, by William J. Locke. 
[John Lane Company, New Y^ork.] Has all the 
Locke charm — and all the Locke prettinesses. 
The dish has been served so often that it has 
become a bit tasteless. Most accurately de- 
scribed as the kind of story whose heroine is 
always called "princess" and whose hero rises 
from the slums to make flaming speeches in 
parliament and achieve the ' ' Vision Splendid. ' ' 
It will probably run into ten editions and bring 
much joy. 


The Little Review 

The Wonderful Visit, by H. G. Wells. [E. P. 
Dutton and Company, New York.] A reprint 
of a story published in 1895 which shows Mr. 
Wells in the very interesting position of grop- 
ing toward his present altitude. 

Sweet apple Cove, by George Van Schaick. 
[Small, Maynard, and Company, Boston.] The 
kind of sweet, gentle love story that a publisher 
would rather discover than anything Ethel Sidg- 
wick could write. We searched in vain for just 
one page to hold our attention. 

Idle Wives, by James Oppenheim. [The Cen- 
tury Company, New York.] Despite a narrative 
style that at times fairly suffocates with its 
emotionality, Mr. Oppenheim has put up a very 
strong ease for the woman who demands some- 
thing of life except having things done for her. 

Bedesman 4, by Mary J. H. Shrine. [The 
Century Company, New York.] The outline is 
traditional: an English peasant boy makes his 
way through Oxford, becomes a brilliant his- 
torian and a "gentleman," and marries a 
"lady." But the treatment is fresh and de- 
lightful; there is something real about it. 

Over the Hills, by Mary Findlater. [E. P. 
Dutton and Company, New York.] There are 
no new things to say about a Findlater novel. 
They are always good. 

Sunshine Jane, by Anue Warner. [Little, 
Brown, and Company, Boston.] Jane has our 
own theory that one can get what he wants out 
of life if he wants it hard enough. Though 
we don't advocate some of her "sunshine" 

The Full of the Moon, by Caroline Lockhart. 
[J. B. Lippineott Company, Philadelphia.] As 
superfluous as The Lady Doe. Those people 
who are always asking why such books as The 
Baric Flower should be written ought to turn 
their questioning to things of this type. 

The Congresswoman, by Isabel Gordon Cur- 
tis. [Browne and Howell Company, Chicago.] 
The tale of an Oklahoma woman elected to 
congress which closes with a retreat — though 
not an ignominious one — to a little white house 
with a fireside and a conquering male. 

The Last Shot, by Frederick Palmer. 
[Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.] A war 
novel without a hero by a man who has expe- 
rienced many wars, 

TJie Women We Marry, by Arthur Stanwood 
Pier. [The Century Company, New York.] 
One of the most amateurish attempts to meet 
the modern demand for sex stories that we have 

A Child of the Orient, by Demetra Vaka, 
[Houghton Mifllin Company, New York.] A 
blend of Greek poetry and Turkish conquest and 
American progress in autobiographical form, 
by the Greek woman who wrote HaremliJc. 

Anybody but Anne, by Carolyn Wells. [J. B. 
Lippineott Company, Philadelphia.] A mystery 
story of which the most fascinating feature is 
the architect's plan of the house in which it 
takes place. 

The Floiver-Finder, by George Lincoln Wal- 
ton; with frontispiece by W. H, Stedman and 
photographs by Henry Troth. [J. B, Lippin- 
eott Company, Philadelphia,] Worth owning 
if merely for the end-papers which literally 
lead you into a spring woods. A comprehensive 
pocket guide to wild flowers. 

Prisons and Prisoners: Personal Experiences 
of Constance Lytton and Jane Warton, Spin- 
ster. [George H. Doran Company, New York.] 
As Lady Lytton, an enthusiastic convert to 
militant suffrage, the author received courteous 
treatment in prison; disguised successfully as 
a middle-class old maid she was handled shame- 
fully. Everyone who doubts the martyrdom or 
the intrepidity of the suffragettes ought to 
read this record. 

Women as World Builders, by Floyd Dell, 
[Forbes and Company, Chicago.] Birdseye 
views of the feminist movement by a literary 
aviator whose cleverly-composed snapshots ac- 
tually justify his cocksure audacity. 

Women and Morality, by a mother, a father, 
and a woman. [The Laurentian Publishers, Chi- 
cago.] Men and immorality discussed bravely 
by two women and a man, without the artistic 
justification of "getting anywhere," 

The Little Review 


Karen Borneman ami Lijnggaard cf Co., by 
Hjalniar Bergstrom, translated from the Danish 
by Edwin Bjorkman; The Gods of the Moun- 
tain, The Golden Boom, King Argimenes and 
the Unknown Warrior, The Glittering Gate, 
and The Lost Silk Hat, by Lord Dunsany ; Peer 
Gynt, by Henrik Ibsen, with introduction by E. 
Ellis Koberts. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] 
New volumes in The Modern Drama Series. 

What Is It All About? A Sketch of the New 
Movement in the Theatre, by Henry Blackman 
Sell. [The Laurentian Publishers, Chicago.] 
The "art theatre" is explained illuminatingly 
for those wto are vague about the movement. 
Condensed, to the point, and really informing. 

The Beginning of Grand Opera in Chicago 
(1850-1859), by Karleton Hackett. [The Lau- 
rentian Publishers, Chicago.] Mr. Hackett is a 
man of ideas and he might have written an in- 
teresting book by taking "grand opera in Chi- 
cago" as his theme. Instead, he has done a 
hack job with its early history and been given 
the distinction of tasteful binding and printing. 

Tuberciilosis : Its Cause, Cure, and Preven- 
tion,^ by Edward O. Otis, M.D. [Thomas Y. 
Crowell Company, New" York.] A revised edi- 
tion of an old, popular book "for laymen." 
Abounds in hard, cocksure rules that, if fol- 
lowed, ought to discourage any germ whose host 
could outlive it. A valuable work for persons 
who must have a definite programme to guide 
them in fighting an always individualized dis- 

Boget's Thesaurus of English Words and 
Phrases, classified and arranged so as to facili- 
tate the expression of ideas and assist in liter- 
ary composition, edited by C. O. Sylvester Maw- 
son. [Thomas Y. Crowell Company, New York.] 
A revised edition in large type on thin paper. 

Bichard Wagner: The Man and His Work, by 
Oliver Huckel. [Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 
New York.] Between W. J. Henderson's char- 
acterization of Wagner as ' ' the greatest genius 
that art has produced" and Eupert Brooke's 
as an emotionalist with "a fat, wide, hairless 
face" there ought to be a man worth biog- 
raphies ad infinitum. Dr. Huckel 's is simply 
a clear condensation for the general reader of 
standard biographical material, and is worth 

The Book of the Epic: All the World's Great 
Epics Told in Story, by H. A. Guerber; with in- 
troduction by J. Berg Esenwein. [J. B. Lip- 
pincott Company, Philadelphia.] The most sat- 
isfying compilation in the field that has ever 
been offered to the young student or general 

The Practical Book of Garden Architecture, 
by Phebe Westcott Humphreys. [J. B. Lippin- 
cott Company, Philadelphia.] A weighty chron- 
icle of garden architecture, observations in 
many lands and under many conditions. "A 
pick up and browse" book for the nature lover, 
with delightful illustrations and much interest- 
ing general data of sunny gardens, cobble walls, 
and running streams. 

I am that which unseen comes and sings, 
sings, sings ; which babbles in brooks and scoots 
in showers on the land, which the birds know 
in the woods, mornings and evenings, and the 
shore-sands know, and the hissing wave. — Walt 


The Little Review 

Letters to The Little Review 

A. S. E., Chicago: 

With your permission I shall try to explain 
why I am not enthusiastic about the second 
issue of your magazine: 

The crime of the April issue lies in the fact 
of its closely following (chronologically) the 
issue of March. In the beginning you appeared 
to us as a prophet, and we wistfully listened to 
your unique message ; now you have degenerated 
into a priest, a dignified station indeed, but 
don't you think there are already more priests 
than worshippers in our Temple? If you are 
going to be " one of many ' ' I quesstiou the 
raison d'etre of The Little Remew. 

Your debut was a revelation, a new word, a 
rejuvenating breeze in the tepid atmosphere of 
our periodical press. It was a wonderful num- 
ber, all fresh and beautiful; even the one or 
two grotesque pieces that had smuggled in 
drowned in the mass of splendor, just as the 
heavy colors of the rainbow soften in the j)0w- 
erful symphony of the spectrum. 

Now, frankly, would you sign your name 
under every article of the April Eeview? I 
hope not! You have turned your temple into 
a parliament of dissonances ; you have admitted 
Victorian ladies and sentimental crucifiers of 
Nietzsche; you have even polluted your pages 
with an anti-Bathhouse tirade! Then that 
cacophony of personal letters: I blushed at 
the sight of these tokens of familiarity and tap- 
pings over your shoulder on the part of the 
benevolent readers. I wished to shout to the 
Misses Jones to keep off the altar, lest they 
besmirch your white robe with their penny com- 
pliments and saccharine effusions. 

I could hardly make myself believe that this 
irritating copy was The Little Review. 

Pardon this frankness. But I wish you suc- 
cess, not popularity. 

Mary TV. Ohr, InduinapoUs : 

Let me tell you how much pleasure you have 
given me in the second issue of your magazine. 
You are certainly to be congratulated upon 
having the initiative to start anything so great 
as this. 

I have reserved writing to you until now, for 
I wished to avoid the appearance of trying to 
tear down or discourage an effort that was so 
much bigger than anything I could ever achieve. 

Your article on The Dark Flower made me feel 
that jjossibly intolerance might be your stum- 
bling block, and that your youth and enthusiasm 
might lead you into many pitfalls that might 
not be for the betterment of your work. But 
this number has made me your equal in enthusi« 
asm', and I believe The LittlE Review is here 
to stay. 

Verne DeWitt Howell, London, Ontario: 

The Little Review is a whirlwind surprise. 
There is nothing like it in America. I am glad 
to see you playing up Nietzsche. Over here in 
this little town we have a Nietzsehean vogue, 
and we are all delighted. Truly the intellectual 
center of America has shifted westward. To be 
sure, New York has The International; but Chi' 
cago has The Little Review, The Trimmed 
Lamp, and one or two other magazines of real 
literature. Then there is Burns Lee's Bell Cow 
in Cleveland. Nietzsche is coming into his own 
at last. Wishing every success to The Little 
Review, which is one of the two best magazines 
in America (the other is Current Opinion). 

Mollie Levin, Chicago: 

The formal bow that The Little Review 
made to the public in its first issue violated 
tradition beautifully by doing what formal bows 
never do — really mean something. It is glori- 
ous to be young and enthusiastic, and still more 
so to be courageous; and whatever goes into 
The Little Review in that spirit is admirable, 
regardless of any reader's personal judgment. 

It's good, too, to have used The Little Re- 
view: It makes me think of a child — beauti- 
ful in its present stage and with promise of 
infinite fulfillment. 

Marie Patridge, Clearfield, Pa.: 

I've been tremendously interested in the sec- 
ond issue. It seems to me your critic is wrong 
in speaking of juvenility or the restrictive tone 
of the magazine. It's exactly that which gives 
The Little Review an excuse for being, that 
it is not like all other magazines with their cut- 
and-dried precision and their ' ' Thus saith the 
Lord ' ' attitude toward things. 

As time goes on I think it will be wise to 
enlarge the scope — more of drama, more of 

Tlie Little Review 


music, more of ^vorld politics and science. You 
will thus get away from the aesthetic tendency 
which your critic mentions. 

I enjoyed the Wells discussion so much. And 
yet Miss Trevor doesn't advance any real argu- 
ments. It's very easy to call people muddle- 
headed and vaguely sentimental, but an appeal 
to the upbuilding of character isn't slushy. 
I'm inclined to agree with "M. M., " though 
I'd like to hear an advanced — not a hysterical 
— argument on the subject. I 'm willing to be 
convinced of the other side, but assuredly it 
would take something stronger and sterner and 
more logical than Miss Trevor. 

[The suggestion about enlarging our scope is 
one we hoped no one would make until we had 
done it, that being the plan closest to our hearts. 
We can only explain our shortcomings in this 
regard by refering to a homely but reasonable 
saying about not being able to do everything at 
once. — The Editor.] 

Mali el Frusli, Chicago: 

You have invited frank criticism, and that 
is my reason for not writing at first: I could 
not accept it all. In the first place, regarding 
Paderewski. Do you never find him a bit over- 
powering; do you never feel that a trifle more 
restraint might give greater strength? In Grieg, 
for instance, does he carry you up into the 
high places, give you that impression of unlim- 
ited space, rugged strength, and wild beauty? 
Is he not too subjective? 

I quite agree with you as regards Chopin and 
Schumann. There he is satisfying. His inter- 
pretations carry a quality that other artists 
sometimes treat too lightly; forgetting "a 
man's reach must exceed his gi-asp, " and so 
sacrificing the greater to the lesser in striving 
for perfection. Impotency is the price of ultra- 

Your comments on temperament are interest- 
ing, but I feel you are not quite fair in your 
comparisons. Is not Paderewski 's genius largely 
a racial gift? To me all Eussian (or Polish) 
art — both creative and interpretative — pos- 
sesses the flame of the elemental, that genera- 
tive quality which marks the difference between 
technical perfection and living, breathing, throb- 
bing art. Appreciating that ' ' all music is what 
awakens in you when reminded by the instru- 

ment, ' ' he strives for but one thing : an emo- 
tional releasement that results in a tempera- 
mental orgy which leaves his hearers dazed, lost 
in the labyrinth of their own emotions. 

As for Eupert Brooke's poetry, I regard him 
as decadent — at least too much so to be really 
vital. Perhaps my vision is clouded, but I could 
as easily conceive of Johnson worshipping at 
the shrine of Boswell as of Whitman liking 
Brooke. Now and then he impresses me as 
being effete, and I can never separate him from 
a cult, though I do delight in some of his 

Mrs. William H. Andrews, Cleveland: 

May I put in my little word and wish you all 
good speed, editor of The Little Eeview.? 

You evidently live in the clear, blue sky 
where fresh enthusiasms rush on like white 
clouds bearing us irresistibly along. Life grows 
even more vivid under such stimulating courage 
and pulsing optimism. 

The world is indeed wonderful if we but live 
it passionately, as did Jean Christophe and 
Antoine, leaping forward, breasting the waves, 
with music in the soul. My ears are singing 
with the third movement of Tschaikowsky 's 
immortal Pathetique, which to me, in larger 
part, so belies its name. 

Hail to The Little Eeview! May it dart 
' ' rose-crowned ' ' along its shining way, emblaz- 
oning the path for many of us. 

Mary Carolyn Davies, New York: 

I have just finished reading The Little Ee- 
view from cover to cover, and much of it twice 

Thank you for loving the things I love, and 
thank you for being young and not being afraid 
to be young! This is such a good day to be 
young in ! 

With all good wishes for the success of The 
Little Eeview (though it needs no good wishes, 
for it cannot help succeeding). 

P. E. W., Chicago: 

The article on Mrs. Meynell in your April 
issue sounded a little curious in its surround- 
ings, as it was a piece of pure criticism and 
The Little Eeview is the official organ of 
exuberance. It is the only one, in fact, and it 
is a good thing to have such an organ. 


The Little Review 

The "Best Sellers 

The following books, arranged in order of popularity-, have been the "best 
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Diane of the Green Van 


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The Fortunate Youth 

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The Woman Thou Gavest Me 

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World Set Free 

The After House 

Miss Billy Married 

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Ariadne of Allan Water 

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When Ghost Meets Ghost 

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The Forester s Daughter 

Peg o' My Heart 

Passionate Friends 

Martha by the Day 



Valley of the Moon 

Leona Dalrjmple 
Eleanor H. Porter 
Winston Churcliill 
William J. Locke 
Frances H. Burnett 
Booth Tarkington 
Gene Stratton-Porter 
Joseph Conrad 
Harold McGrath 
W. B. :Maxwell 
Robert Chambers 
Anne Warner 
Zane Gray 
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Dodd, Mead 


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The Little Review 



It Happened in Egypt 

The Treasure 

Witness for the Defense 

Iron Trail 

Friendly Road 

C. M. & A. M. Wil 
Kathleen Norris 
A. E. W. Mason 
Rex Beach 
David Gravson 











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Modern Dances 



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The press of my foot to the earth springs a 
hundred affections. — Walt Whitman. 


I . . . am he who places over you no master, 
owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrin- 
sically in yourself. — Walt Whitman in Leaves 
of Grass. 

56 The Little Review 

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The Little Re vie' 





By Maxwell Struthers Burt 

This little hook is one that the lover of poetry cannot 
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Poems, most of them Iiitherto unpublished, of Dr. 
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The Little Revierv 59 

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The Little Review 




The Pre-eminence of the 

During the musical season, just closing, the Mason & Hamlin has been heard 
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The Little Review 





MAY, 1914 

Nishikigi Ernest Fenollosa 

Translation of a Japanese Noh Drama 

The Rainbird 

Bliss Carman 

Poems Skipwith Cannell 

Ikons— The Blind Man— The Dwarf Speaks 
— Epilogue to the Crows. 

Poems .... William Butler Yeats 
To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Noth- 
ing — Paudeen — To a Shade — When Helen Lived 
—Beggar to Beggar Cried— The Witch— The 
Peacock — Running to Paradise — The Player 
Queen— To a Child Dancing in the Wind— The 
Magi — A Coat. 

Editorial Comments 

The Enemies We Have Made- 
— Reviews — Notes. 

-The Later Yeats 

543 Cass Street, Chicago 

Annual ^ufagcription $ L50 


The Little Review 




A New Book of 

Permanent Literary 


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Prominent among numbers 
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Imagistes, an anthology of 
the Imagists' movement in 
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Hueffer, Aldington, Flint 
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Key; a play by Frank 
Wedekind ; collects and 
prose pieces by Horace 
Traubel; and The Doina, 
translations by Maurice 
Aisen of Koumanian folk- 
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Des Imagistes 

An anthology of the youngest and most discussed school 
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By Jose Echegaray 

Winner of the Nobel Prize, 1904. 
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A Defence of the Bottom Dog 

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of production to the hands of the people. 



The Little Review 63 

The Mosher Books 


Billy: The True Story of a Canary Bird 

By Maud Thornhill Porter 950 copies, Fcap Svo. $1.00 net 

This pathetic little story was first issued by Mr. Mosher in a privately printed edition 
of 500 copies and was practically sold out before January 1, 1913. The late Dr. Weir 
Mitchell in a letter to the owner of the copyright said among other things: "Certainly 
no more beautiful piece of English has been printed of late years." And again: "May 
I ask if this lady did not leave other literary products? The one you print is so unusual 
in style and quality and imagination that after I read it I felt convinced there must be 
other matter of like character." 


Billy and Hans: My Squirrel Friends. A True History 

B}^ W. J. StilLMAN 950 copies, Fcap Svo. 75 cents net 

Reprinted from the revised London edition of 1907 by kind permission of Mrs. W. J. 


Books and the Quiet Life: Being Some Pages from The Pri- 
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64 The Little Review 

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The Editor 

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The Will to Live 

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No. 4 

*' Incense and Splendor" 

Margaret C. Anderson 

A YOUNG American novelist stated 
the other day that the American 
woman is oversexed; that present-day 
modes of dress are all designed to em- 
phasize sex; and that it is high time 
for a reaction against sex discussions, sex 
stories, and sex plays. 

But I think she's entirely mistaken. 
The American woman, speaking broadl}", 
is pathetically undersexed, just as she is 
undersensitive and underintelligent. The 
last adjective will be disputed or re- 
sented ; but it's interesting once in a 
while to hear the thoughtful foreigner's 
opinion of our intelligence. Tagore, 
for instance, said that he was agreeably 
surprised in regard to the American 
man and astonished at the stupidity of 
the American woman. As for our fiction 
and drama — we've had much about sex 
in the last few years, some of it intensely 
valuable, much of it intensely foolish ; 
but it's quite too early to predict the 
reaction. The really constructive work 
on the subject is yet to be done. 

And the pity of the whole thing is that 
the critics who keep lecturing us on our 
oversexedness don't realize that what 
they're really trying to get at is our 
poverty of spirit, our emotional inca- 
pacities, our vanities, our pettinesses — 
any number of qualities which spring 
from anything but too much sex. Noth- 
ing is safer than to say that the man or 

woman of strong sex equipment is rarely 
vain or petty or mean or unintelligent. 
But as a result of all this vague bicker- 
ing, "sex" continues to shoulder the 
blame for all kinds of shortcomings, and 
the real root of the trouble goes un- 
treated — even undiagnosed. One thing 
is certain : until we become conscious 
that there's something very wrong with 
our attitude toward sex, we'll never get 
rid of the hard, tight, anaemic, metallic 
woman who flourishes in America as no- 
where else in the world. 

This doesn't mean the old Puritan 
type, to whom sex was a rotten, unmen- 
tionable thing; nor does it mean the 
Victorian, who recognizes the sex im- 
pulse only as a means to an end. They 
belong to the past too definitely to be 
harmful. It means two newer types than 
these : the woman Avho looks upon sex as 
something to be endured and forgiven, 
and the woman who doesn't feel at all. 

The first type has a great (and by no 
means a secret) pride in her spiritual 
superiority to the coarse creature she 
married, and a never-dying hope that she 
can lead him up to her level. She talks 
a lot about spirituality; she has her 
standards, and she knows how to classify 
what she calls "sensuality" ; she's con- 
vinced that she has married the best man 
in the world, but — well, all men have 
this failing in common, and the only 

Copyright, 1914, by Margaret C. Anderson. 

The Little Review 

thing one can do is to rise above it mag- 
nificently, with that air of spiritual iso- 
lation which is her most effective weapon. 
Shaw has hit her off on occasion, but he 
ought to devote a whole three acts to her 
undoing; or perhaps an Ibsen would do 
it better, because tragedy follows her 
path like some sinister shadow, as inevita- 
bly as those other " ghosts " of his. The 
second type has no more capacity for 
love or sex than she has for music or 
poety — which is none at all. Like a 
polished glass vase, empty and beautiful, 
she lures the man who loves her to a kind 
of supreme nothingness. She will al- 
ways tell you that marriage is " wonder- 
ful" ; and she urges all her friends to 
marry as quickly as possible, for that's 
the only way to be perfectly happy. 
Marriage is "wonderful" to her just as 
birth is "wonderful" in Charlotte Per- 
kins Gilman's satire : 

Birth comes. Birth — 

The breathing re-creation of the earth! 

All earth, all sky, all God, life's sweet deep 

Newborn again to each new soul! 
"Oh, are you? What a shame! Too bad, my 

How will you stand it, too. It's very queer 
The dreadful trials women have to carry; 
But you can't always help it when you marry. 
Oh, what a sweet layette! What lovely socks! 
What an exquisite puff and powder box! 
Who is your doctor? Yes, his skill's immense — 
But it 's a dreadful danger and expense ! ' ' 

It's all a powder-puff matter: mar- 
riage means new clothes, gifts, and a 
house to play with. It gives her another 
chance to get something for nothing — 
which is immoral. But the beauty of 
the situation is that the immorality 
(thanks to our habits of not thinking 
straight) is so perfectly concealed: it 
even appears that she is the one who 
does the giving. As for any bother 
about sex, she'll soon put an end to hat. 

And so she goes on her pirate ways, 
luring for the sake of the lure, adding 
her voice to the already swelled chorus 
which proclaims that truth and beauty 
lodge in things as they are, not in things 
as they might or should be. 

But, to return to the novelist's argu- 
ment about clothes, the present fashion 
for low necks and slit skirts has nothing 
to do with sex necessarily. Its origin is 
in vanity — which may or may not have 
a bearing upon sex. And of course it 
usually hasn't; for vanity is an attri- 
bute of small natures, and sex is an attri- 
bute of great ones. 

There has never been a time when 
women had such an opportunity to be 
beautiful physically. And they are tak- 
ing advantage of it. Watch any modern 
matinee or concert or shopping crowd 
carefully. There's something about the 
new style that points to a finer natural- 
ness, just as it is more natural for men 
to wear clothes that follow the lines of 
their bodies than to pad their shoul- 
ders and use twice too much cloth in 
their trouser legs. The move of muscles 
through a close-fitting suit gives an 
effect of strength and efficiency and ani- 
mal grace that is superbl}' healthy. And 
it is so with women, too. With the 
exception of the foolish and unnecessary 
restrictions in walking women have such 
a splendid chance to look straight, un- 
hampered, direct, lithe, I don't know 
just why, but I want to use the word 
" true " about the new clothes. They're 
so much less dishonest than the old 
padded ways — the strange, perverted, 
muffled methods. The old plan was 
built on the theory that the suppression 
of nature is civilization ; the new plan 
seems to be that a recognition of nature is 
common sense. We may become Greek 
yet. By all of which I'll probably be 
credited with supporting the silly inde- 

The Little Be vie 

cencies we see every day on tlie street — 
ridiculous, unintelligent manifestations 
of the new freedom — instead of merely 
seeing in its wise expression a bigger 
hope of truth. I think tlie preachers 
who are filling tlic newspapers with hys- 
terical pi'otests about women's dress had 
better look a little more closely at the 
real issue and stop confusing a fine im- 
pulse with its inevitable abuses. 

But after all there's only one impor- 
tant thing to be said about sex in its 
relation to a full life. Some day we're 
going to have a tremendous revaluation 
of the thing known as feeling. We're 
going to realize that the only person who 
doesn't err in relation to values is the 
artist; and since the bigger part of the 
artist's equipment is simply the capacity 
to feel, we're going to begin training a 
race of men toward a new ideal. It shall 
be this : that nothing shall qualify as 
fundamentally " immoral " except denial 
— the failure of imagination, of under- 
standing, of appreciation, of quickening 
to beauty in every form, of perceiving 
beauty where custom or convention has 
dwarfed its original stature; the failure 
to put one's self in the other person's 
place; the great, ghastly failure of life 
which allows one to look but not to see, 
to listen but not to hear — to touch but 
not to feel. 

The other night I heard Schumann's 
Des Abends — that summer-night elegy 
of a thousand, thousand cadences — 
plaA'ed near a place where trees w^ere 
stirring softly and grass smelling warm 
and cool; some one said afterward that 
it was pretty. . . . The other day I 
heard a violin played so throbbingly that 
it was like " what the sea has striven to 
say " ; and through it all a group of 
people talked, as though no miracle were 
happening. Not very long after these 
two (I can't find a noun), I talked 

with some one who tried to convince me 
that the biggest and most valiant person 
I know was — " well, not the sort one can 
afford to be friends with." Somehow all 
three episodes immediately linked them- 
selves together in my mind. Each was 
a failure of the same type — a failure of 
imagination, of feeling; the last one, at 
least, was tragedy ; and it will become 
impossible for people to fail that way 
only when they stop failing in the first 
two wa^'s. 

Not long ago I went into a music 
store and bought Tschaikowsky's Les 
Larmes. It cost twenty-eight cents. I 
walked out so under the spell of the im- 
mense adventure of living that I realized 
later how imbecile I must have looked and 
why the clerk gazed at me so suspi- 
ciously. But I had a song which had 
cost a man who knows what sorrow to 
write — ^a thing of such richness that it 
meant experience to any one who could 
own it. One of the world's big things 
for twenty-eight cents ! And such things 
happen every day ! 

Sex is simply the quintessence of this 
type of feeling, plus a deeper thing for 
which no words have been made. But we 
reach the wonder of the utmost realiza- 
tion in just one way: by having felt 
greatly at every step. 

" American artists know everything,'! 
said a young foreign sculptor lately; 
"they know that much" (throwing out 
his anus wide), "but they only feel that 
much!" (measuring an inch with his 
fingers). How can we produce the great 
audiences that Whitman knew we needed 
in order to have great poets, if we don't 
train the new generations to feel.-^ How- 
can we prevent these crimes against love 
and sex — how put a stop to human 
waste in all its hideous forms — if we 
don't recognize the new idealism which 
means not to deny? 

The Little Review 

A Kaleidoscope 

Nicholas Vachel Lindsay 

Blanche Sweet — Moving-Picture Actress 

[After seeing the reel called Oil and Water. 1 

Beauty has a throne-room 
In our humorous town, 
SpoiHng its hobgoblins, 
Laughing shadows down. 
Dour musicians torture 
Rag-time ballads vile, 
But we walk serenely 
Down the odorous aisle. 
We forgive the squalor, 
And the boom and squeal, 
For the Great Queen flashes 
From the moving reel. 

Just a prim blonde stranger 

In her early day, 

Hiding brilliant weapons. 

Too averse to play ; 

Then she burst upon us 

Dancing through the night, 

Oh, her maiden radiance. 

Veils and roses white ! 

With new powers, j^et cautious, 

Not too smart or skilled, 

That first flash of dancing 

Wrought the thing she willed: — 

Mobs of us made noble 

By her strong desire. 

By her white, uplifting 

Royal romance-fire. 

Though the tin piano 

Snarls its tango rude, 

Though the chairs are shaky 

And the drama's crude. 

Solemn are her motions. 

Stately are her wiles, 

Filling oafs with Avisdom, 

The Little Review 

Saving souls with smiles ; 
Mid the restless actors 
She is rich and slow, 
She will stand like marble, 
She will pause and glow. 
Though the film is twitching 
Keep a peaceful reign. 
Ruler of her passion, 
Ruler of our pain ! 

Girl, You Shall Mock No Longer 

You shall not hide forever, 
I shall your path discern; 
I have the key to Heaven, 
Key to the pits that burn. 

Saved ones will help me, lost ones 
Spy on your secret way — 
Show me your flying footprints 
On past your death-bed day. 

If by your pride you stumble 
Down to the demon-land, 
I shall be there beside you, 
Chained to your burning hand. 

If, by your choice and pleasure, 
You shall ascend the sky, 
I, too, will mount that stairway, 
You shall not put me by. 

There, 'mid the holy people. 
Healed of your blasting scorn. 
Clasped in these arms that hunger, 
Splendid with dreams reborn. 

You shall be mastered, lady. 
Knowing, at last. Desire- — 
Lifting your face for kisses — 
Kisses of bitter fire. 

The Little Re vie 

The Amaranth 

Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here . . . 
Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yaAvns 
And the tremendous amaranth descends 
Sweet with glory of ten thousand dawns? 

Does it not mean my God would have me say : — 
"Whether you will or no, oh city young 
Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you, 
Flash and loom greatly, all your marts among?" 

Friends I will not cease hoping, though you Aveep. 
Such things I see, and some of them shall come. 
Though now our streets are harsh and ashen-grey. 
Though now our j^ouths are strident, or are dumb. 

Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town shall rise. 
Naught can delay it. Though it may not be 
Just as I dream, it comes at last, I know 
With streets like channels of an incen.te-sen! 

An Argument 

I. The voice of the man who is impatient xtith visions and 

We find your soft Utopias as white 
As new-cut bread, as dull as life in cells, 
Oh scribes that dare forget how wild we are. 
How human breasts adore alarum bells. 

You house us in a hive of prigs and saints 
Communal, frugal, clean, and chaste by law. 
I'd rather brood in bloody Elsinore 
Or be Lear's fool, straw-crowned amid the straw. 

Promise us all our share in Agincourt. 

Say that our clerks shall venture scorns and death. 

That future ant-hills will not be too good 

For Henry Fifth, or Hotspur, or jVIacbeth. 

The Little Review 

Promise tliat through tomorrow's spirit-war 
Man's deathless sou! will hack and hew its way, 
Each flaunting Ca?sar climbing to his fate 
Scorning the utmost steps of ^^esterday. 

And never a shallow jester any more. 
Let not Jack Falstaff spill the ale in vain. 
Let Touchstone set the fashions for the wise, 
And Ariel wreak his fancies through the rain ! 

II. The Rhymer's reply. Incense and Splendor. 

Incense and splendor haunt me as I go. 
Though my good works have been, alas, too few. 
Though I do naught. High Heaven comes down to me 
And future ages pass in tall review. 

I see the years to come as armies vast. 
Stalking tremendous through the fields of time. 
Man is unborn. Tomorrow he is born 
Flamelike to hover o'er the moil and grime ; 

Striving, aspiring till the shame is gone. 
Sowing a million flowers where now we mourn — 
Laying new precious pavements with a song, 
Founding new shrines, the good streets to adorn. 

I have seen lovers by those new-built walls 
Clothed like the dawn, in orange, gold, and red ; 
Eyes flashing forth the glory-light of love 
Under the wreaths that crowned each royal head. 

Life was made greater by their sweetheart prayers ; 
Passion was turned to civic strength that day — 
Piling the marbles, making fairer domes 
With zeal that else had burned bright youth away. 

I have seen priestesses of life go by 
Gliding in Samite through the incense-sea : — 
Innocent children marching with them there, 
Singing in flowered robes — " the Earth is free ! " 

The Little Review 

While on the fair deep-carved, unfinished towers 
Sentinels watched in armor night and day — 
Guarding the brazier-fires of hope and dream — 
Wild was their peace, and dawn-bright their array ! 

Darling Daughter of Babylon 

Too soon you wearied of our tears. 
And then you danced with spangled feet, 
Leading Belshazzar's chattering court 
A-tinkling through the shadowy street. 
With mead they came, with chants of shame. 
Desire's red flag before them flew. 
And Istar's music moved yoxxr mouth 
And Baal's deep shames rewoke in you. 

Now you could drive the royal car: 
Forget our Nation's breaking load : — 
Now you could sleep on silver beds — 
(Bitter and dark was our abode). 
And so for many a night j'ou laughed 
And knew not of my hopeless prayer. 
Till God's own spirit whipped you forth 
Frnni Istar's shrine, from Istar's stair. 

Darling daughter of Babylon — 

Rose by the black Euphrates flood — 

Again your beauty grew more dear 

Than my slave's bread, than my heart's blood. 

We sang of Zion, good to know. 

Where righteousness and peace abide . . . 

What of your second sacrilege 

Carousing at Belshazzar's side? 

Once, by a stream, we clasped tired hands — 
Your paint and henna washed away. 
Your place (you said) was with the slaves 
Who sewed the thick cloth, night and day. 
You were a pale and holy maid 
Toil-bound with us. One night you said: — 
'• Your God shall be my God until 
I slumber with the patriarch dead." 

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Pardon, daughter of Babylon, 

If, on this night remembering 

Our lover walks under the walls 

Of hanging gardens in the spring — 

A venom conies, from broken hope — 

From memories of your comrade-song. 

Until I curse your painted eyes 

And do your flower-mouth too much wrong. 

I Went Down Into the Desert 

I went down into the desert 

To meet Elijah — 

Or some one like, arisen from the dead. 

I thought to find him in an echoing cave, 

For so my dream liad said. 

I went down into the desert 

To meet John the Baptist. 

I walked with feet that bled, 

Seeking that prophet, lean and brown and bold. 

/ spied foul -fiends instead. 

I went down into the desert 

To meet my God, 

By Him be comforted. 

I went down into the desert 

To meet my God 

And 1 met the Devil in Red. 

I Ment down into the desert 

To meet my God. 

Oh Lord, my God, awaken from the dead! 

I see you there, your thorn-crown on the ground — 

I see you there, half-buried in the sand — 

I see you there, your white bones glistening, bare. 

The carrion birds a-wheeling round your head! 

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Encountered on the Streets of the City 

The Church of Vision and Dream 

Is it for naught that where the tired crowds see 

Only a place for trade, a teeming square, 

Doors of high portent open unto me 

Carved with great eagles, and with Hawthorns rare ? 

Doors I proclaim, for there are rooms forgot 
Ripened through a?ons by the good and wise: 
Walls set with Art's own pearl and amethyst 
Angel-wrought hangings there, and heaven-hued dyes: — 

Dazzling the eye of faith, the hope-filled heart: — 
Rooms rich in records of old deeds sublime: 
Books that hold garnered harvests of far lands 
Pictures that tableau Man's triumphant climb: 

Statues so white, so counterfeiting life. 
Bronze so ennobled, so with glory fraught 
That the tired eyes must weep with jo}^ to see, 
And the tired mind in Beauty's net be caught. 

Come, enter there, and meet Tomorrow's Man, 
Communing Avith him softly, day by day. 
Ah, the deep vistas he reveals, the dream 
Of Angel-bands in infinite arra}^ — 

Bright angel-bands that dance in paths of earth 
When our despairs are gone, long overpast — 
When men and maidens give fair hearts to Christ 
And white streets flame in righteous peace at last! 

The Stubborn Mouse 

The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down 
Began liis task in early life. 
He kept so busy with his teeth 
He had no time to take a wife. 



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He gnawed and gnawed tlirough sun and I'ain, 
When the ambitious fit was on, 
Then rested in the sawdust till 
A month in idleness had gone. 

He did not move about to hunt 
The coteries of mousie-men; 
He was a snail-paced stupid thing 
Until he cared to gnaw again. 

The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down 
When that tough foe was at his feet — 
Found in the stump no angel-cake 
Nor buttered bread, no cheese, nor meat — 

The forest-roof let in the sky. 

" This light is worth the w^ork," said he. 

" I'll make this ancient swamp more light " — 

And started on another tree! 

The Sword-Pen of the Rhymer 

I'll haunt this town, though gone the maids and men 
The darling few, ni}^ friends and loves today. 
My ghost returns, bearing a great sword-pen 
When far off children of their children play. 

That pen will drip with moonlight and with fire ; 
I'll write upon the church-doors and the walls ; 
And reading there, young hearts shall leap the higher 
Though drunk already with their own love-calls. 

Still led of love, and arm in arm, strange gold 
Shall find in tracing the far-speeding track 
The dauntless war-cries that my sword-pen bold 
Shall carve on terraces and tree-trunks black — 

On tree-trunks black, 'mid orchard-blossoms white — 
Just as the phospherent mcnnan, struggling home, 
Jewels his fire-paths in the tides at night 
While hurrying sea-babes follow through the foam. 


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And, In the winter, when the leaves are dead 
And the first snow has carpeted the street, 
While joung cheeks flush a healthful Christmas red, 
And young eyes glisten with youth's fervor sweet — 

My pen will cut in snow my hopes of yore, 
Cries that in channelled glory leap and shine — 
My village gospel — living evermore 
'Mid those rejoicing loyal friends of mine. 

Futurism and Pseudo-Futurism 

Alexander S. Kaun 

THAT Futurism is not a mere fad, a 
capricious bubble, is apparent from 
the fact that after five years of stormy 
existence the movement does not disap- 
pear or abate, but, on the contrary, con- 
tinually gains soil and spreads deep and 
wide over all fields of European art. 
The critics of the new school no longer 
find it possible to dismiss it with a con- 
temptuous smile as a silly joke of over- 
satiated modernists, but they either at- 
tack the Futurists with the vehemence 
and fury of a losing combatant, or 
they discuss the doctrine earnestly and 

To set art free of the atavistic fetters 
of the old culture and civilization, to im- 
bue it with the nervous sensitiveness of 
our age, have been the negative and posi- 
tive aims of Futurism. It is absurd to 
abide by the forms of Phydias and 
^schylus in the days of radium and 

aeroplanes. The influence of the old 
masterpieces is accountable for the fact 
that of late humanity ceased to produce 
great works of art. It is quite natural 
that the protest against the "historical 
burden " should have originated in Italy, 
a country which, after having served for 
centuries as a pillar of light, has so de- 
generated that in our times it can boast 
only of such names as the saccharine 
Verdi and the pretentious D'Annunzio. 
It is natural, I should like to add, that in 
this country Futurism is still a foreign 
plant ; for, fortunately or unfortunately, 
we have been free of a burdensome heri- 
tage, and an iconoclastic movement would 
appear quixotic. 

Started in Milan in the end of the 
year 1909, the movement has swept the 
continent and has revolutionized art. 
Even conservative England feebly echoes 
the battle-cry in the attempts of the 

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Iinagists. 1 do not intend to prognosti- 
cate tlic future of Futurism ; it is still in 
its infantile stage, growing and develop- 
ing with surprising leaps, continually 
taking on new forms ; but the pr.escnt- 
day Futurism is abundant with quaint, 
grotesque features approaching carica- 
ture; and some of them mei'it a few 

The " parent " of Futurism and the 
present leader of Futurist poets, Mari- 
netti, is, to say the least, an unusual per- 
sonality. His Boswell, Tullia Pantea, 
describes his master's life in its minutest 
nuances and chants dithyrambs to his 
wonderful achievements. We learn that 
Marinetti was born in Egypt in volup- 
tuous surroundings, his father being a 
millionaire. From his childhood on he 
disposed of unlimited sums of money. 
" At the age of eleven he knew a woman ; 
at fifteen he edited a literary magazine. 
Papyrus, printed on vellum paper; at 
seventeen he fought a duel." We follow 
this enfant terrible to Paris where he lav- 
ishly squanders his millions, fights duels, 
and faces the court for his pornographic 
poems. He is sentenced to an eight 
weeks' imprisonment for an exotic work 
which I shall not venture to quote, as it 
is too repulsive to the English reader. 
Pantea further describes his master's 
kingly palazzo in Milan, where ". . . at 
night in the bed-chamber decorated with 
a,stonishing elegance and with mad 
extravagance meet the most beautiful 
women of Italy and Europe." 

I quote these nauseatic details, for they 
help to explain the erotic aroma of Mari- 
netti's poems. Their erotism is mor- 
bid, aroused b}' artificial " convulsions of 
sensuality," " imitation of madness," " a 
cancan of dancing Death." Yet we can- 
not overlook the beauty of the verses, 
their devilish rhythm, and enchanting 
mysticism. Some of his early poems, 

more natural than his latest Words at 
Liberty, are intoxicating with their mad 

The following is one of his best-known 
poems, The Banjos of Despair: 

Elles chantent, les benjohs hysteriques et sau- 

comme des chattes enervees par I'odeur de 

Ce sont des negres qui les tiennent 
empoignees violemment, comme on tient 
line amarre que secoue la bourrasque. 
Elles miaulent, les benjohs, sous leurs doigts 

et la mer, en bombant son dos d 'hippopotame, 
acclanie leurs chansons par des flie-flacs sonores 
et des renaclements. 

The hysteric and savage banjos that 
meow like cats maddened by the odor of 
the storm ; the sea which, swelling its 
back of a hippopotamus, applauds their 
songs with its sonorous twick-twacks and 
snorts — I understand the poet, I believe 
him. But, as I said, this is Marinetti's 
.early poetry. How far he has " pro- 
gressed" you may judge from the fol- 
lowing quotation from his latest Words 
at Liberty, as it appears in The London 
Times : 





villaggi turchi 

grande 'p 


rrrrrzzzonzzzzzzante d'ue monoplano bulgaro 
-j- neve di manifest!. 

This " poem " is a description of a battle 
during the Turco-Bulgarian war; the 


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style is supposed to be "polychromatic, 
polymorphous, and polyphonic, that may 
not only animalize, vegetalize, electrify, 
and liquefy itself, but penetrate and ex- 
press the essence and the atomic life of 
matter." This is the: dernier cri of Italian 
Futurism which originated in a^ — draff- 
ditch. Here is Marinetti's own " elec- 
trified" description of that memorable 
event : 

As usual we spent the night in our favorite 
cafe, which is attended by the most elegant 
women. Some one suggested that we take an 
automobile ride in the suburbs. We whirled 
over the sleepy streets. Out of town. Deep 
darkness. . . . Moment of falling. We are 
hurled into an abyss. Ecstasy. . . 

Then — we are on the bottom of a ditch filled 
with malodorous dregs. We drown in the mud. 
Mud covers the face, the body, mud blinds the 
eyes, fills the mouth. 

Finally we succeed in getting out of the filthy 
ditch and we go back to the city. But . . , 

For a certain time there remained with us 
the taste of rottenness; we could not get rid 
of the rotten odor that permeated all pores 
of our bodies. In the moment of falling into- 
that ditch the idea of Futurism came into my 
head. On the same night before dawn we wrote 
the entire first manifesto on Futurism. 

Thus the new art was born under pe- 
culiar circumstances — " under the sign 
of scandal" — and scandal became the 
tactics of Italian Futurists who have pro- 
fessed their " delight in being hissed " 
and their contempt for applause. 

A few points of that manifesto : 

We shall sing of the love of danger, the habit 
of energy and boldness. Literature has hitherto 
glorified thoughtful immobility, ecstasy of 
sleep ; we shall extol aggressive movement, fever- 
ish insomnia, the double quick step, the somer- 
sault, the box on the ear, the fisticuff. 

There is no more beauty except in strife. 
We wish to glorify war — the only purifier of 
the world — militarism, patriotism, the destruc- 
ive gesture of the anarchist, the beauty of Ideas 
that kill, the contempt for women. 

We wish to destroy the museums, the libraries, 
to fight against moralism and feminism, and 
all opportunistic and utilitarian meannesses. 

This bombastic program has been her- 
alded by the Italian Futurists ever since 
1909. Fortunately they went no further 
than threats, but they strove to attract 
attention and in this they gloriously 

Their attitude toward women was 
expressed in the motto : " Meprisez la 
femme." Love for woman is an atavism 
and should be discarded into archives. 

We chant hymns to the new beauty that has 
come into the world in our days, a hymn to 
swiftness, a doxology to motion. 

Woman is justified in her existence in- 
asmuch as she is a prostitute. Sensuality 
for the sake of sensuality is extolled as 
the only stimulus in human life, — its 
only aim. Otherwise human beings are 
of no importance, at best as important 
as inanimate objects. 

The suffering of a man is of the same inter- 
est to us as the suffering of an electric lamp, 
which, with spasmodic starts, shrieks out the 
most heart-rending expressions of color. 

These aphorisms belong to the pen of 
Marinetti or to those of his disciples, 
who are but pigmies in comparison with 
their leader. They greeted the war with 
Turkey in Tripolitania enthusiastically, 
and Marinetti joyously witnessed the 
splendor of "bayonets piercing human 
bodies " and similar features of the great 
"health-giver" — war. At that time he 
began the cycle of his pictorial poems re- 
cently published in the Words at Libert?/. 
Here is one of his early descriptions : 

A stream. A bridge. Plus artillery. Plus 
infantry. Plus trenches. Plus cadavers. Dzang- 
bah-bakh. Cannon. Kha-kh-kha. Mitrailleuse. 
Tr-r-r. Sh-sh-sh-sh. S-s-s-s-s-s. Bullets. Chill. 
Blood. Smoke. 

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To complete the cliaracter of Mari- 
netti I shall quote his article in The Lon- 
don Daily Mail in which he states his 
"profound disgust for the contempo- 
rary stage because it stupidly fluctuates 
between historic reconstruction (pasticcio 
or plagiarism) and a minute, wearying, 
photographic reproduction of actuality." 

His ideal is the smoking concert, cir- 
cus, cabaret, and night-club as " the only 
theatrical entertainment worthy of the 
true Futurist spirit." " The variety the- 
ater is the onl}' kind of theater where the 
public does not remain static and stu- 
pidly passive, but participates noisily in 
action." The variety show "brutally 
strips woman of all her veils, of the ro- 
mantic phrases, sighs, and sobs which 
mark and defonn her. On the other 
hand, it shows up all the most admirable 
animal qualities of woman, her powers of 
attack and of seduction, of treacher}^, 
and of resistance." 

The variety theater is, of course, antiacadem- 
ical, primitive, and ingenuous, and therefore 
all the more significant by reason of the unfore- 
seen nature of all its fumbling efforts. . . . 
The variety theater destroys all that is solemn, 
sacred, earnest, and pure in Art — with a big 
A. It collaborates with Futurism in the de- 
struction of the immortal masterpieces by pla- 
giarizing them, parodying them, and by retail- 
ing them without style, apparatus, or pity. 

At this point I am readj^ to agree wdth 
the Russian critic, A. Lunacharsky, who 
thus defines Marinetti : 

He combines in his personality the exoticism 
of an East-African with the cynical 'blaguerie 
of a Parisian and the clownishness of a Nea- 

In connection with the foregoing it is 
curious to observe the pranks of ]Mari- 
netti's colleagues in the land of eternal 
contradictions — Russia. The Russian 
Futurists, Ego-futurists, and Acmeists, 
vie with the Italians in noisiness and ec- 

centricit}', and they have aroused an ex- 
tensive pro and con polemic. In the last 
issue of Russkaja Mysl there is an inter- 
esting criticism of the Futurist poetry 
written b}' Valery Brusov. This fore- 
most poet, known on the continent as the 
Russian Verhaeren, began his literary ca- 
reer some fifteen years ago with the one- 
line " poem " : " Oh, conceal thy pallid 
legs." This extremist is now ranked by 
the Futurists among the reactionaries. 
Brusov is not hostile to Futurism, al- 
though he opposes the contemporary 
bearers of its banner. In a dialogue sup- 
posedly carried on between a Symbolist 
and a Futurist Brusov makes the latter 

Tell me, Mhat is poetry? The art of words, 
is it not? In what else does it differ from 
music, from painting? The poet is the artist 
of words: they are for him what colors are for 
the painter or marble for your sculptors. We 
have determined to be artists of words, and 
only of words, which means to fulfill the true 
vocation of the poet. You, what have you done 
with the word? You have transformed it into 
a slave, into a hireling, to serve your so- 
called ideas! You have debased the word to a 
subservient role. All of you, the realists as 
well as the sympolists, have used words just as 
the "Academicians" have used colors. Those 
understood not that the essence of painting is 
in the combination of colors and lines, and they 
have strived to express through colors and lines 
some meager ideas absolutely useless for com- 
monly known. You likewise have not under- 
stood that the essence of poetry lies in the com- 
bination of words, and you have mutilated them 
by forcing them to express your thoughts bor- 
rowed from the philosophers. The futurists are 
the first to proclaim the true poetry, the free, 
the real freedom of words. 

And so, since words have become en- 
slaved and carry, unfortunately, within 
them the ballast of established notions 
and conceptions, the Futurists experi- 
ment in liberating the words of their ac- 
cepted meanings by creating new words, 
weird combinations of syllables, skilful 


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arrangements of sounds which defy trans- 
lation. For the benefit of that part of 
mankind which does not understand Rus- 
sian the Futurists invented a " universal 
tongue " which consists exclusively of 
single vowels. Here is a specimen under 
the title Heights. I give the original let- 
ters and their English transliteration. 

e y K) — yell oo you 
n a — ee ah oh 
o a — oh ah 
a e e n e a — oh ah yeh yeh ee yeh yah 
o a — oh ah 
e y H e y — yeh oo ee yeh oo 
H e e — ee yeh yeh 
H H H n e n H H — ■ ee ee eh ee yeh ee ee eh 

Do you feel the heights ^ The poet does, 
however, and he proclaims in his defense : 
" The more sub j ective is truth, the more 
objective is the subjective objectivity." 

Brusov's point of view is expressed in 
the impassioned words of the historian of 
literature who appears at the end of the 
above-mentioned dialogue : 

In the new poetry, that is, in the poetry of 
the last centuries, one observes a definite shift- 
ing of two currents. One school puts forward 
the primary importance of the content, the 
other — that of form; later the same tendencies 
are repeated in the two successive schools. 
Pseudo-Classicism, as a school, placed above all 
form not the "what" but the "how." The 
content they borrowed from the ancients and 
then performed the task most important in their 
eyes — the elaboration of that material. The 
Eomanticists, in contra-distinction to the 
Pseudo-Classicists, insisted first of all on the 
content. They admired the middle ages, their 
yearning for an ideal, their religious aspirations. 
Of course, the Romanticists contributed their 
did this, so to speak, casually, while actually 
they neglected the form of their verses ; recall, if 
you will, the frolics of Musset or the carelessness 
of the poems of Novalis. The Parnassians once 
more proclaimed the primariness of form. ' ' Re- 
proachless verse" became their motto. It was 

they who declared that in poetry not the 
"what" was important, but the "how," and 
it was none other than Theophile Gautier who 
invented the formula "art for the sake of 
art. ' ' The Symbolistic school again revived the 
content. All this was in reality not so simple, 
schematic, rectilineal, as I expressed it. To be 
sure, all true poets have endeavored to bring 
into harmony both content and form, but I 
have in view the prevailing tendency of the 
poetic school as a whole. If my point of view 
is correct, then it is natural to expect that 
there is to come a new school, replacing the 
Symbolists, which will once more consider form 
of primary importance. At the appearance 
of a new school the doctrine of the old cor- 
responding school becomes more subtle, more 
[joignant, more extreme. The Parnassians 
went further than their progenitors, the Pseudo- 
Classicists. It is natural then to foresee that 
the new coming school will in its cult of form 
go further than the Parnassians. As such a 
school, destined to take the place of Symbol- 
ism, I consider Futurism. Its historic role is 
to establish the absolute predominance of form 
in poetry, and to repudiate any content in it." 

The weak point of Futurism appears 
to be, as is the case Avith every revolu- 
tionary movement, the fact that along- 
side with the true fighters for new hori- 
zons straggle parasitic marauders, that 
on the heels of the sincere searchers of 
artistic truth tread nonchalantly buffoons 
and charlatans. The number of the lat- 
ter is so great that the true prophets 
drown in the vast slough, and the public 
sees but the caricature side of the move- 
ment. Take for instance, the Post-Im- 
pressionist and the Futurist painters. 
Any unbiased and open-minded observer 
will admit that man\^ of them, like Odilon 
Redon, Duchamp, Picasso, Chabaud, 
even Matisse, have created works which, 
whether you like them or not, possess the 
sure criterion of art : they stir you, 
arouse your thoughts and emotions. Yet 
how easy it is to smuggle into their 
midst colossal nonsense and counterfeit 
can be judged from the following 
episode : 

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A group of young painters in Paris 
decided to arouse public opinion against 
the unrestricted accessibility of the Inde- 
pendent Salon by proving that among 
the exponents of the exhibition such an 
" independent " artist as a donkey could 
find a place. The editors of Fantasio 
undertook to assist them in carrying out 
their plan. A manifesto was issued of 
which I quote a few pearls : 

To art-critics: 
To painters: 
To the public : 

A manifesto of the school of the Excessiv- 
ists. Hurrah! Brother-Exeessivists, hurrah! 
Masters splendid and renascent, we are on the 
eve of various exhibitions of banal and stereo- 
typical paintings. Let us smash, then, the 
palettes of our forefathers; let us set fire of 
joy to the pseudo-masterpieces, and let us estab- 
lish great canons destined to rule art hence- 

The cannon is contained in one word: L'ex- 

"Excess in everything is a defect," once 
said a certain ass. We proclaim the reverse: 
excess at all times, in everything, is the abso- 
lute power. The sun can never be too ardent, 
the sky too blue, the sea-perspective too ruby, 
darkness too black, as there can never be heroes 
too valiant or flowers too fragrant. 

Down with contours, down with half- 
tones, down with craft! Instead — daz- 
zling and resplendent colors ! And so 
on. Bombastic phrases borrowed from 
Marinetti and his colleagues. The 
manifesto is signed Joachim Raphael 
Boronali. Boronali is the anagram of 
Aliboron — the French word for donkey. 
The jesters later explained that they in- 
tended by the euphony of an Italian 
name "to arouse with more certainty the 
admiration of the crowd." 

The next step was to procure the serv- 
ices of Lolo, an old donkey well known 
to the artists on Montmartre, as its stable 
is at the cabaret Lapin Agile. The fol- 

lowing procedure is inmiortalized in an 
official protocol, the most unique docu- 
ment in the annals of art : 

I'rotocol (Proces-vcrbal de constat). On the 
8th of March, before me, Paul Henri Brionne, 
magistrate of the civil court of Paris, in my 
office on rue du Faubourg Montmartre, 33, ap- 
peared M. ,* of the periodical Fantasio, 

whose residence is in Paris, boulevard Pois- 
soniere, 14, and declared: 

' ' Every year there takes place an exhibition 
of various works of drawing, painting, and 
sculpture under the name of the Salon of the 
Independent Artists ; 

' ' This exhibition is open for all painters, 
and unfortunately, alongside with productions 
of high value there figure ridiculous works that 
have no signs of art ; 

' ' In order to show to what extent any work 
can be accepted in that exhibition, to the detri- 
ment of the meritorious productions, he in- 
tends to send there in the name of Fantasio, a 
picture the author of which would be a donkey. 
The picture will be entered in the catalogue 
under the title Et le soleil s'endormit sur 
I'Adriatique, and signed J. B. Boronali; 

' ' For said reasons he asks me to be present 
at the painting of said picture in order to wit- 
ness the process and draw an official report 
about it. ' ' 

Having consented to the request, I went in 

the company of Messrs. , the editors of 

Fantasio, to the cabaret du Lapin Agile, where 

in front of said establishment Messrs. 

set up a new canvas on a chair that took the 
place of an easel. In my presence they ar- 
ranged paints — blue, green, yellow, and red; 
to the tail-extremity of the donkey, which be- 
longs to the owner of the cabaret Lapin Agile, 
was tied a paint-brush. 

Then the donkey was brought to the canvas, 

and M. upholding the brush and the tail 

of the beast allowed her to daub in all direc- 
tions taking care only of changing the paints 
on the brush. 

I assured myself that the picture presented 
various tones passing from blue into green and 
from yellow into red without constituting any- 
thing definite and resembling nothing. 

When the work had been finished, in my 
presence the jjicture and author were photo- 

The names were not revealed. 


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In testimony of the aforesaid I have written 
and issued this protocol for legal use. 

P. Brioxne. 

From the photograph it may be seen 
that the donkey had been teased with 
some appetizing food held before his 
mouth, to which tantahzation the so- 
called Boronali responded witli the 
wags of his " tail-extremity," according 
to the phraseology of the solcnm docu- 

The picture then having been taken 
to the Salon, Monsieur Boronali was 
asked to pay his membership fee, and 
thenceforward his name figured among 
those of Matisse, Rousseau, Le Faucon- 
nicr, and other great. To the astonish- 
ment of the Fantasia group, their prank 
remained unnoticed for some time; the 
critics spoke of Boronali's work along 
with the other pictures, and the manifesto 
of the Excessivists was but slightly com- 
mented upon. In a series of sensational 
articles and piquant stories The Fantasia 
finally succeeded in drawing general at- 
tention to their chef d'oeuvre. The Paris 
press, as well as the foreign, opened a hot 
discussion on tlie significance of Boro- 
nali's work in a serious tone. Only the 
Kolnische Zeitung in a review of the 
manifesto and the picture carefully re- 
marked, "If it is not a carnival joke" 
- — referring to the manifesto but not 
doubting the authenticity of Boronali's 
canvas. True, the title of the picture 

seemed mystifj'ing: why The Sun Asleep 
over the Adriatic, when there were neither 
sun nor sea.'' The Gazette de France 
ridiculed the title. The New York Her- 
ald, endeavoring to justify the name of 
the picture, suggested that the sun was 
asleep beneath the Adriatic — an inge- 
nious hypothesis. The Revue des Beaux- 
Arts gave a detailed and scholarly ac- 
count of the picture, but found in it 
nothing extraordinary in comparison 
with the other Independents. The hard- 
est blow to Boronali's genius was dealt 
by De VArt Ancien et Moderne, which ac- 
cused him of being banal. " Among the 
cosmopolite crowd, along with Messrs. 
Gheon, Klingsor, Jamet . . . struts the 
sheer banality of ^I. Boronali." 

The scandal that took place after the 
mystificators had revealed their trick is 
of secondary importance. What looms 
out of this incident is the dangerously 
vague line of demarcation between what 
is true art and what is mere daubery in 

The Gaulois summed up the affair in a 
few significant words : 

The scholastics had maintained that "It is 
much easier for the ass to disprove than it is 
for the philosopher to assert." But here came 
an ass and proved something in spite of all the 
philosophers of the world. He has proved — 
not a priori but a posteriori — that the most 
manifest daubery may pass as a picture in the 
eyes of those who accept the non-real, the im- 
P'f:l able, and the absurd for new art. 

Tliouijlit uttered becomes an untrutli. — Thaddcus Tutchev. 

The Little Review 


A Wonder-Child Violinist 

Margahet C. AXDEItSOX 

THE wonder-child is not so much a 
"" wonder " in Europe as in this 
country. "At seven, yes — even up to 
eleven, perhaps," a j'oung German vio- 
linist who began to concertize at six once 
told me. "But after that — there are 
so many and they all play so heoufiful! 
So it is more common there and people 
think not so much of it." And she went 
on to tell me, with the most wistful seri- 
ousness, how at t^velve she had felt sud- 
denly so oppressed with age and weari- 
ness that for two years she had wanted 
not to play at all. She described it as a 
period when she wanted to " stop feeling 
and run in the country all day and be 
only with animals." 

But on the whole her theory seemed 
to be that it was the simplest thing in 
the world for a child to play well — bet- 
ter, in some ways, than he will ever play 
later on ; and very likely it's true. The 
newer psychologists have given us 
enough reason to think so. 

It still comes with something of a 
shock to us here, however; and when we 
started for The Chicago Little Theatre 
one night two weeks ago to hear Master 
Ruby Davis, aged twelve, give a violin 
recital, it was with the most excited an- 
ticipations. I had never heard a child 
play the violin. Surely disappointment 
was inevitable . . . 

A little boy walked quietly out on to 
the stage, smiling. (I heard afterward 
that some one had asked him if it didn't 
frighten him to face all those people. 
" Oh, no," he said, " I'm going to play 
my violin!") He had on a little soft 
white shirt and knickerbockers. His 
hair was almost auburn and curled aAvav 

from his forehead ; his eyes were blue 
and his skin the softest white. His 
hands were the long, slender, " artistic " 
type rather than the blunt, heavy type 
which is quite as common among first- 
rate violinists. " Antoine " — that was 
all I could think. 

And then he lifted his bow and swung 
into the Haendel Sonata in A with all 
the assurance of a master. It was only 
a matter of seconds until you kneAV that 
he could not disappoint — ever : he knew 
how to feel ! A musician may commit 
all the crimes in the musical universe, or 
he may play so flawlessly that you mar 
vel ; but none of it matters particularly. 
A phrase will tell you whether he is an 
artist — the way the notes rise or fall 
or seem to be gathered up into that sub- 
tle thing which is the difference between 
efficient Pla^'ing and jMusic by the grace 
of God. 

Ruby Davis makes Music. And how 
he loved doing it! He played a Can- 
zonetta by Ambrosia, and the Jarnefelt 
Berceuse, and other difficult things like 
the Pugnani Praelud'mm, and that Motto 
Perpetuo of Ries, beside the regulation 
Cavatina and the Dvorak Humoresqu€ 
— every one of them, in spite of small 
deficiencies that will be corrected, with 
a quality that is genius. As nearly as 
I can register it this is the picture of 
him I shall remember: 

A little slender, eager, swaying body, 
and a great violin above which his face 
seemed worshipping. His eyes turned 
deep blue as flowers when he raised his 
head for some lovely soaring tone or 
dropped it on his instrument over some 
Continued on page 54 


The Little Review 

The New Paganism 

I>eWitt C. Wing 

ONE of the momentous achievements 
of appHed science is the convinc- 
ing demonstration that the earth is a 
living thing. It is as truly a live organ- 
ism as any of the animals of which it is 
the mother. Life could not have been 
evolved by or from it if there had not 
been life in it. We do not require an 
inexplicable miracle to account for the 
evolution of man ; we can trace his pedi- 
gree back to an ancestry with fins and 
gills, and of course it stretches far be- 
yond that comparatively recent stage in 
his development. From the beginning 
of the world conditions have steadily 
grown more favorable to the habitation 
of the earth by the higher animals. 
Since man is a part of the earth, what 
he himself has done to bring about this 
auspicious change may be credited to the 
mind or life resident in the earth. Then 
there is essential goodness in the earth 
— which is not saying that there is no 
evil in it. The world is a better place 
for a man to live in now than it was 
when his ancestors occupied dismal caves. 
It is no illusion that, design or no de- 
sign, the cosmic urge has been toward 
goodness, by which I mean an increas- 
ingly hospitable dwelling-place for men. 
There have been recessions, and there 
will be others, but, apart from faith and 
hope, established facts compel the man 
who understands them to declare his ab- 
solute and unalterable certainty that the 
inexorable hnv of life's becoming gi'cater 
than it is cannot be nullified. So that, 
regardless of all poverty and misery, of 
all that is unlovely, of all the blind and 

passionate class hatreds and sex quib- 
bles, the man who really thinks must 
think hopefully. There is indeed the 
most ample justification of optimism. 

The world is God, and the man who 
worships it the new pagan. He comes 
off the same stock as the old pagans, 
Avho were called heathens — because they 
were not Christians. They were, in fact, 
the classic earth-lovers, and, hence, more 
truly the sons of God than the crusaders 
who, directed by an anthropomorphic 
Deity, tortured and killed them. The 
new pagan, who not only feels, smells, 
hears, and sees the earth, but compre- 
hends the established scientific facts 
about it, finds a keener and larger de- 
light and satisfaction in it than his fore- 
fathers could experience. He loves it 
with his heart and his mind. Having 
this attitude toward it, he wishes to serve 
it, prompted by the same motive which 
actuates him when he sencs his imme- 
diate father and mother. 

Ruskin was sure that his beautiful 
England was desecrated Avhen steel rails 
were laid across its green fields and fac- 
tor}^ smoke contaminated the golden air; 
he canonized the landscape, and when it 
changed, his heart ached. He was an 
artist, not a prophet. The industrialism 
that he hated disseminated his written 
appreciations of beauty. Machinery is 
the extension of man's personality and 
power; the instnnnent with which he is 
realizing the bounties and the Father- 
hood of God. At present it is too much 
an end in itself instead of a means 
toward nobler results, but tomorrow will 

The Little Review 


see the needed adjustment. Wherefore 
the new pagan is not saddened but glad- 
dened at the sight of factories and the 
development of commerce. The awful 
carnage which connnercialism entails is 
the price which we have been fated to 
pay for experience. Through com- 
merce we are paving the way for the 
action of the world-mind — the collec- 
tive thought of men. Collective think- 
ing precludes socialism as well as indi- 
vidualism, and brings in humanism. The 
increasing complexity of civilizations 
symbolizes the enlarged intricacy of 
human life. Experience and conscious- 
ness are expanded by the maze of exter- 
nal detail through which a child in a 
modern state passes to maturity. The 
extension of a more highly organized 
civilization into every habitable region 
of the earth, and commercial and intel- 
lectual communication among all na- 
tions, will synthesize the thought of the 
world. Toward this goal every vital move- 
ment is directed, whether consciously or 
unwittingly. The germ of life was the 
original leaven, and it will leaven the 
whole lump. That races and states 
should disappear does not matter; if hu- 
man life as a whole were to vanish the 
birth-labor that the world has begun 
would be retarded but not abandoned. 
Man would return in a few billion years. 
If not, a higher animal would ; man him- 
self is on the long way to ever-new 
heights. He has climbed up out of the 
sea, and with the birth of reason in his 
brain he began to ascend into loftier 
realms. The power of reason is a late 
acquisition, but it has provided the w on- 
drous banquet at which the modem pa- 
gan feasts. It has enabled him literally 
to soar and revel in high, thin air. 

All the fine arts are subsidiary to and 
dependent upon material progress, and 

the primal source of well-being is the 
soil. Man is a land animal, and he must 
have access to the land with the same 
freedom that a babe enjoys at its 
mother's breast; otherwise he will be 
stunted and dwarfed. The earth is the 
Old Mother, yielding an abundance of 
food for all her children. More reason 
and more consciousness on their part 
will induce them to share it with one an- 
other, not like unreasoning pigs but like 
reasoning men. The "new freedom" 
means eventually the accessibility of the 
earth to every man. In the meantime the 
biggest business at hand is to build soils 
as well as schools; to keep the land full 
of sap ; to extend mechanism into the 
arts of agriculture ; to unify the thought 
and purpose of city and country. All 
this will follow the world-mindedness 
that is being developed by industrialism 
and internationalism. 

All constructive thought and action 
must deal not less with the city but more 
and more with the country — the land. 
Typical cities are sapping the wealth of 
life that grows up round them. The 
obsessed man in the market place needs 
the poise and power of the shepherd on 
the hill. The only true and durable 
magnificence of a state lies in the equi- 
table use of its natural resources. No 
man who has thought profoundly wants 
to own land, but the majority of men do 
want to use it. That ought to be every 
man's privilege, for every man is in some 
fashion a lover of the verdant earth. But 
even the millions of us who are landless, 
because a few men legally own the earth, 
have occasional esthetic accesses to it, 
and if we passionately loved its beauty 
we should hasten the day of its release 
by an uneconomic monopoly. An intel- 
hgent love of the earth as a living thing 

22 The Little Review 

is at the bottom of the dynamic impulse and for ever perceives the veils of mystery and 

of man to be forever becoming. ^^^ rainbows of hope upon our human horizons; 

. , ., 1 1 J p , which hears and sees, and yet turns wisely, 

And as these lovely days oi wanton , „,, , ., . ,, ,. » „ ., ., ' 

^ _ ^ meanwhile, to the life of the green earth, of 

greenness steal like fairies into the secret ^hjch we are part, to the common kindred of 

recesses of his child-heart, man has a living things, with which we are at one — is 

sense of eternal kinship with content, in a word, to live, because of the dream 

, . . that small untoward class which knows that makes living so mysteriously sweet and 

the divine call of the spirit through the brain, poignant; and to dream, because of the com- 

and the secret whisper of the soul in the heart, manding immediacy of life. 

Gloria Mundi 

Eunice Tietjens 

In what dim, half imagined place 

Does the Titanic lie to-day, 

Too deep for tide, too deep for spray, 
In night and saltiness and space.'' 

Oh, quiet must the sea-floor be ! 
And very still must be the gloom 
Where in each well-appointed room 

The splendor rots unto the sea. 

Through crannies in the shattered decks 
The sea-weed thrusts pale finger-tips, 
And in the bottom's jagged rips 

With ghosth' hands it waves and becks. 

The mirrors in the great saloons 
Sleep darkly in their gilt and brass 
Save when the silent fishes pass 

With eyes like phosphorescent moons. 

On painted walls are slimy things, 

And strange sea creatures, lithe and cool, 
Spawn in the marble swimming pool 

And shall, a thousand springs. 

For as it is, so it shall be, 

UiiLOUched of time till Doom appears. 
Too deep for days, too deep for years 

In the salt quiet of the sea. 

The Little Review 


The Will to Live 

George Burman Foster 

LIKP] the sense for the true, the good, 
the holy, the esthetic sense is ele- 
mentary. Man comes to himself as man 
in all alike. Without the effectuation of 
his peculiar artistic impulse, man, the 
born artist, could not find the real conse- 
cration and dignity of the human. In- 
deed, the worth of all human culture de- 
pends upon the sense for the beautiful. 
As religion is not restricted to some 
fragment of our experience but informs 
the whole, so culture requires that life 
shall be beautiful down to the common- 
place and homely things of the daily 
round. The new program, to which this 
modern insight points, means a rebirth 
of our entire moral and social life. 

Why is it, then, that those who voca- 
tionally and constantly worship in the 
sanctuary of art — the priests in this 
sanctuary — often so easily and singu- 
larly fail in the consecration which the 
worship of beauty is supposed to supply 
to the human personalit}^ ? The lives of 
those whose calling it is to exhibit and 
exemplify the beautiful, why are they 
often so very ugly, so bereft of lovable 
emotions.'' The shortcomings of the 
artist, why do we count among these the 
pettiest and the basest known to man.-* 
To be specific, why do we speak almost 
proverbially of an artistic vanity, an 
artistic sensitiveness, an artistic envy or 
jealousy? If we answered, "Because the 
shadows of the ' human all too human ' 
seem so dark in the golden light of the 
artistic calling," that would be true, but 
it would not be the whole truth. Does 
not the professional occupation of one- 
self with art involve a danger to char- 
acter? To live constantly in the world 

of the emotions, to fable and fantasy 
and dream, in all this there is so easily 
something weak, not to say " effemi- 
nate" and sickly, and hence enervating. 
Of great spirits this is true often enough 
— how much more of the lesser who so- 
phistically find warrant in the weakness 
of the great for the greatness of their 


For instance, thev have heard 

of " inspiration " — something not under 
the control of the artist, something that 
must "come upon him," but only when 
the divine hour strikes, as it struck at 
the Pentecostal " outpouring " of the 
" spirit " upon the early Christians. 
Hence no care for a thousand things — 
in both cases — for which other men 
must care ! Hence a standard of life 
different from that by which other men 
live! To be outwardly different from 
others, to set oneself above others, that 
is to be artistic. Because some great 
artists are different from other people in 
moods and manners and morals, it is 
naively concluded that to emulate the lat- 
ter is to be the former, and right merrily 
does the emulation go on. It must be a 
grief to a real artist, this culture of the 
eccentric head and the more eccentric 
heart. Therefore we need a man to free 
us from these eccentricities, a man to 
lift us above these caricatures because 
he has himself put them beneath his feet. 
This man is Friedrich Nietzsche. ■^ 

The sickness and the soundness of 
life, both these were in Nietzsche. In 
his demand for an artistic culture he put 
his finger upon the wound of present 
humanity. This demand was accepted, 
the meaning of the demand was lost 
sight of. This was the fatality — as if 


The Little Review 

Nietzsche required a new artistic culture 
only, and not at the same time a new life 
culture ! Beauty the form of life in- 
deed, but strength, will, deed, the con- 
tent — that was the brave burden of the 
prophet's message. 

Nietzsche was born into a time that 
marked the climax of a more than mil- 
lennial cultus of Death. The old songs 
of death as bridge of sunset into the 
eternal day of Bliss, songs of earthly 
lamentation and heavenly yearning and 
anticipation, these no longer came from 
the heart, to be sure; though still sung, 
the voices of " the faithful " grew ever 
thinner and thinner; and the songs were 
a monument of past piety rather than 
a witness to a present. Like vice, tliis 
earth which was once " a monster of so 
frightful mien " was first endured, then 
pitied, then embraced — and even wed- 
ded by man ; its sufferings were healed 
and its delights enjo3ed. The pain, the 
pleasure of earth, what does it mean.'* 
man's heart again asked as it asked in 
happy Greece long ago. But as time 
went by, the human mind was bruised 
and broken over this question, until it 
concluded that all we call life is a great 
illusion. And back and behind this life, 
with its tumult and fitful fever, there is 
the " vasty deep " of the infinite nothing. 
Life is a cheat. And now there is ^Yelt- 
schmerz, Lebenschmerz — simply a nat- 
uralistic form of the old ecclesiastical 
longing for death. It said tlie same 
" No ! " to life that the old church song 
said — it, too, valued the day of death 
higher than the day of birth ; it, too, 
urged that, since life is intrinsically evil, 
the cure of the evil is to live as little 
as possible. 

Into such a world Friedrich Nietzsche 
was born, breathed its atmosphere, was 
himself once drunk upon its drugged 
drinks. The preacher of this modern 

yearning for Nirvana, — i.e., not meta- 
physical non-existence but psychological 
desirelessness, — was Schopenhauer as 
well as his disciple von Hartmann. This 
is the worst possible world, croaked 
Schopenhauer; No, moaned von Hart- 
mann, it is not the worst possible world, 
it is the best possible world, but it is 
worse than none ! And once Nietzsche 
called Schopenhauer his teacher — went 
forth as an enthusiastic apostle of the 
message of passive resignation to the 
inevitable sorry scheme of things, nay, 
of the message that the world is the 
work of an anguished god seeking re- 
demption from the infinite misery of ex- 
istence by the infinite negation of life. 

And surely the anguish of Nietzsche 
fitted him, as no other, to be partner in 
distress of this anguished god. Surely 
he, if anyone, could say. To this end 
was I born and for this purpose came I 
into the world, to bear witness — to the 
body of this death. From his mother's 
womb was he set apart to suffer. En- 
dowed with a transcendent and super- 
abundant fulness of spirit, every fresh 
and forceful impulse of his personality 
he felt as an indictment of the inexor- 
able pitiless limitations within which his 
best innermost life was imprisoned. He 
was a voice crying in the wilderness, not 
only to men, but to hinxself. Each new 
flash of light which illumined his inner 
eye let him see the graves upon which he 
was treading, and revealed those who 
claimed to be alive in the mask of the 
death to which they had succumbed. In 
the abounding wealth of youth he felt a 
mortal sickness getting its grip upon 
him. As life dragged on, he felt more 
and more the hell tortures of pain from 
which he had to wring his work every 
hour of his existence. 

Who would have the effrontery to cast 
a stone at this man had he flung down 

The Little Review 


his arins into one of those graves, and 
cried with an old philosopher: This 
may all be very well for the gods, but 
not for me ! But he did not lay down 
his arms! Freed from all encumbrances 
of conscience and debilitating sense of 
sin which had paralyzed the Christian, 
and from the Schopenhauer Welt-und 
Lebenanschauung, he welcomed all that 
life had to offer and went unhesitatingly 
toward the universal goal of annihilation 
with a blithe and unregretting spirit. 
Entertaining no illusions about indeter- 
minism or free-will or immortality', he re- 
joiced in his strength, seized with avidity 
the passing moment, and fell fighting to 
the last. He spoke his courageous 
"Yes!" to life, while Schopenhauer, 
with his money and his mistress, and all 
the world beside, were crying to him to 
say " No ! " For this we must thank 
him. In this we find an antidote to pres- 
ent-day tendencies to sink the individual 
in the multitude, to subordinate men to 
institutions, and to apotheosize medioc- 
rity. Nietzsche met pain with a power 
which transformed even death into life, 
and turned the day of his death even 
into a festival of the soul. He taught 
himself and he taught others to believe 
in that power, which alone is great, — to 
believe in the Power of the Will! Niet- 
zsche, like Jesus, proclaimed the inesti- 
mable worth of the individual man, saw 
for him vast and glorious possibilities, 
sought the regeneration of society 
through the regeneration of the indi- 
vidual. Both committed the fortunes of 
the cause to which they devoted their 
lives to individuals and not to masses of 
men. Both believed that the best was yet 
to be. Both believed in the inwardness, 
the self-dependence, and the autonomy 
of personality. Neither ever side-stepped 
or flinched. 

Toda}' we are suffering from impuis- 
sant personality, from cowardice, from 
weakness of the will. Taming the great 
wild strong instincts, making them small 
and weak, choking them, so that man can 
will nothing or do nothing great and 
original and special — this is what we 
call civilization. A comfortable exist- 
ence, this is the final end of life, accord- 
ing to this civilization. No conflict, no 
danger, for these menace comfort ! Not 
to know the comfort of a calm, safe 
existence from which you can look down 
upon the struggles in a neck-breaking 
life far below — that is barbarism in- 
deed ! And is not this comfort a virtue, 
buttressed by moral principles at that.'' 
So buttressed, one's slumbers are not 
disturbed. And may not one add to this 
virtue of comfort that other cardinal 
virtue of hatred of all that keeps mat- 
ters stirred up, all that causes unrest, 
that causes sleepless nights and stormy 
days.'' What the man of civilization 
hates he calls "bad," what he loves he 
calls " good." Accordingly, as Neit- 
zsche saw and said, the weak are the 
" good " people, the brave and the 
strong are the " bad." Accordingh^, 
also, it is comfortable to be " moral." 
All one needs is to attune one's life to 
the " common run," to quarantine 
against every profound disturbance, to 
steal by every dangerous abyss of life. 
And if powers stir in man which do not 
amiabh' submit to taming, why, " moral- 
ity" may be used as a whip to lash 
these insubordinate stirrings into sub- 
jection. And if the living heart 
crouches into submission under the lash, 
wh}', such crouching is called " virtue," 
and the daring to resist and escape 
the lash, this of course is "vice." In 
a word, the most will-less is the most 
virtuous. Thus — such was Nietzsche's 

The Little Review 

uncanny insight ^ — "moral laws" are 
devices for disciplining the will into 
weakness ! " Morality " is a poison with 
which man is inoculated, so that his 
strength may be palsied. " Morality " 
is itself death to a man, a will to weak- 
ness, a destruction of the will, while life 
is a will to power, a will to self-affirma- 

Every virtue has its double, easily 
confounded with it, in reality the exact 
opposite of it. Take meekness, peace- 
ableness. It is a virtue which the cow- 
ardly, the over-cautious, arrogate to 
themselves — those who duck and bow 
and bend so as to give no offense, and 
to conjure up no violent conflict. Yet 
to be peaceable and meek is in truth 
supreme strength, having one's own 
stormy heart under control, and being 
absolutely sure of power over the mili- 
tant spirits of men. Humility is a sign 
at once of smallness and of greatness. 
Patience is at once a lazy lassitude and 
an active steadfast strength. Chastity 
may be reduced vitality, fear of disease, 
fear of being found out, lack of oppor- 
tunity, slaver}^ to respectabilit}^, pov- 
erty, or it may be temperance and self- 
control in satisfying sex-needs. And so 
on. Every virtue may arise because a 
man is too weak for the opposite. And 
this virtue which walks the path of vir- 
tue because it lacks the courage and 
the strength not to do so, this compla- 
cent, harmless, untempted virtue, men 
make the universal criterion of all vir- 
tue, the codex of their morality. To- 
day still the pharisee, not the publican, 
the son who stupidly ate his fill in his 
father's house, not the " prodigal " who 
hungered in the far country, heads the 
scroll of the virtuous. To fear and 
flee vice, or to " pass a law," this is the 
current solution of morality, dinged 
into us from youth up, not to confront 

vice, battle with it, conquer and coerce 

So misunderstood Nietzsche thought. 
He thought that the morality of " vir- 
tuous people " was, in fact, a foe of life, 
that the virtue of the weak was a grave 
for the virtue of the strong, and that, 
consequently the consciences of men must 
be aroused so that they could see the 
whole abomination of this, their virtue, 
of which they were so proud. To bridle 
and tame men is not to ennoble them ; to 
make men too weak and cowardly for 
vice is not to make them strong and brave 
for the good. This anxious and pain- 
ful slipping and Avinding and twisting 
between virtue and vice, this cannot be 
the fate of the future, the eternal des- 
tiny of man ; this is to make man the 
eternal slave of man ; to damn him in 
his innermost and idiomatic life to the 
lot of the eternal slave. Virtue and 
vice are values which men mint, stamps 
which men imprint upon their ever- 
changing conduct, not eternal values, 
born of life itself, sanctioned b}' the law 
of life itself. As time goes on tables 
of old values become sins. To obey 
them, to have the law outside and not 
inside us, is " to fall from grace " in- 
deed. A law of life cannot be on paper, 
for paper is not living. Life must be 
the law of life. Life must interpret 
and reveal life. And life must be the 
criterion of life. What makes us alive, 
and strong, and mighty of will, is on 
that account good; what brings death 
and weakness, foulness and feebleness of 
will is bad. The courage which in the 
most desperate situation of life, in the 
most labyrinthan aberration of thought, 
dares to wring a new strength to live, 
is good : all pusillanimity, all over- 
mastery by pain, all collapse under the 
burden of life, all disappointing desert 
of tlie censure, " O ve of little faith, 

The Little Review 27 

why arc ye fearful ? " — all this is bad. fear in the future. The powerful will, 

It will be a new day for man when he nay, the will become power itself, the 

feels it wrong and immoral to lament his fixed heart, the keyed and concentrated 

lot. to whine, but right and moral to personality; this means freedom from 

earn strength from pain, a will to labor every slave yoke. And it means that life 

from temptation to die. Not the fear is no longer at the mercy of capricious 

of the moral man to sin, but the fear to and contingent gain and loss, but a 

be weak, so that one cannot do one's King's Crown conquered in conflict with 

work in the world — that is to be the itself, with man, and with God. 

Also sprach Nietzche-Zarathustra! 

Keats and Fannie Brawne 

By Charlotte Wilson 

He tried to pour the torrents of his love 

Into a tiny vase; a trinket — smooth, 

Pretty enough — but fit to hold a rose 

Upon some shrewd collector's cabinet. 

Toward that small moon the wild tides of his love 

Reared up, and fell back, moaning; and he died 

Asking his heart why love was agony. 

And she.'' She loved the best she could, I think, 
And wondered sometimes — but not overmuch — 
At poor John's queer, unseemly violence. 


The Little Review 

A New Woman from Denmark 
Marguerite Swawite 

Karen Borneman, by Hjalmar Berg'strom. 
[Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] 

FROM the nortli, whence Ibsen's Nora 
challenged the world as far back as 
1879, comes a fresh message of rebellion 
in the more radical figure of Karen 
Borneman. In judging this play of 
Bergstrom's, which has but now appeared 
in Edwin Bjorkman's translation, we 
must remember that it was written in 
1907 — before we had grown so sophis- 
ticated concerning the rebel woman in 
her infinite manifestations. And yet, be- 
cause this vanguard of a new morality is 
still a slender company, the addition of 
a new member cannot fail to arouse a 
ripple of excitement in the watchful rank 
and file. For that reason, as well as for 
some novel characteristics of her own, 
Karen Borneman merits a word for her- 

Bergstrom chose the most obvious 
method of contrast in projecting his her- 
oine upon a background of stringent re- 
straint. Her father is Kristen Borne- 
man, a professor of theology whose chief 
interest in life is the propagation of the 
principles contained in his magnum opus, 
Marriage and Christian Morality. Her 
mother is an apparently submissive woman 
who sometimes questions the edicts of her 
husband. Her brother, Peter, is an ado- 
lescent youth, already awake to the con- 
flict between the natural man and the 
unnatural economic system, and seem- 
ingly bound for destruction. Thora, her 
young sister, is already seeking out the 
clandestine outlet for an excessive and 
dangerous sentimentality. Another sis- 
ter, Gertrude, has suffered a mental col- 
lapse and is confined in an insane asylum. 

These children, the author seems to say, 
are the results of a chafing restrictive 
discipline, and natural instincts gone 
wrong — a conclusion weakened, not 
strengthened by over-illustration. When 
four of a family of eight show signs of 
a similar abnormal development one sus- 
pects not only the disciplinary system 
but the purity of their inheritance. 

Be that as it may, the chief protago- 
nist, Karen, is quite a normal person — 
except in the matter of courage, of which 
she possesses an inordinate amount. But 
then all new women are courageous to a 
fault. She is a woman of twenty-eight, 
mature, cultivated, and a successful pro- 
fessional writer. Her most salient claim 
to consideration in the early scenes of 
the play is her quiet assurance in the 
right of her position. She voluntarily 
opens up her past to the professedly lib- 
eral physician who seeks her hand. 

" Some years ago I — lived with a 
man. . . . You are a widower yourself. 
You may regard me as a widow or — a 
divorced wife." 

And when he spurns her action as 
squalor, she indignantly replies, " Doc- 
tor, how dare 3'ou. A phase of my life 
that at least to me is sacred, and you 
cast reflections on it, that — " 

There is a brevity, a terseness, about 
her words that create greater sense of 
her power than would any amount of 
emotional pyrotechnics. In the later 
scene with her father she is equally as 
simple : 

" The sum and substance of it is this : 
I have been married twice. ... I mean 

The Little Review 


that twice diirlno- my life — with ^-ears 
between — I have given myself, body and 
soul, to the man I loved, firmly deter- 
mined to remain faithful to him unto 
death." Then follows the recital of the 
two love affairs — the first with a bril- 
liant but very poor journalist who died 
prematurel}', and the other with a sculp- 
tor, Strandgaard, whom she left on the 
discovery of his faithlessness. 

Her vision is of a time of greater free- 
dom for self-expression : 

"... the day will come when we, too, will 
ileniaud it as our right — demand the cliance 
to live our own lives as we choose and as we 
can, without being held the worse on that 
account. Of course, I know that this is not an 
ideal, but merely a makeshift meant to serve 
until at last a time comes which recognizes the 
right of every human being to continue its life 
through the race." 

Her justification is the characteristic 
one : 

' ' I have, after all, lived for a time during 
those few years of youth that are granted us 
human beings only once in our lifetime, and 
that will never, never come back again. What 
have these other ones got out of their enforced 
duty and virtue except bitterness — bitterness 
and emptiness? I have, after all, felt the full- 
ness of life within me while there was still 
time, and I don't regret it!" 

The clash with her father whom she 
loves tenderly she accepts as inevitable 
in spite of the pain it must bring them 
both. The ecstasy of a great vision 
softens to the note of personal loss as she 
leaves him : 

"Yes — I do pity you, father! Don't think 
my heart is made of stone. The sorrow I have 
done you cannot be greater than the one I feel 
within myself at this moment, when perhaps I 
see you for the last time! But how can I help 
that I am the child of a time that you don't 
understand? "We have never wanted to hurt 
each other, of course — but I suppose it is the 
law of life, that nothing new can come into the 
world without pain — ' ' 

Because Karen advocates a course gen- 
erally denoted by the term (of wretched 
connotation) free love, she is not to be 
confused with those of lesser fineness 
who are fighting at her side. For in- 
stance, with Stanley Houghton's heroine 
in H'lndle Wcikes. Anyone who sees in 
Karen another Fanny Hawthorne, has 
failed to understand Karen's position. 
She is a woman of culture and of ideals 
in all matters of life, and especially in 
that of the sex relationship. " I have 
given myself, . . ." she says, " to the 
man I loved, firmly determined to remain 
faithful to him unto death." This is a 
far cry from Fanny's reply to Alan: 
"Love you.'' Good heavens, of course 
not! Wh}' on earth should I love you.'' 
You were just someone to have a bit of 
fun with. You were an amusement — a 
lark." To Karen the relationship is jus- 
tified only by depth of passion, and she 
entered it with as great a solemnity and 
glow of consecration as did ever a seri- 
ous woman a church-made marriage. To 
the many camp-followers of " estab- 
lished " feminism, those who don or doff 
their principles with the transient fash- 
ion, — to them Karen must seem a 
humorous, if not a pitiable figure. For 
she dares to have beliefs and gallantly 
cleaves to them. 

Karen, then, is a new woman in the 
sense that in the moment of crisis she 
did not accept as inevitable the reply of 
convention, but weighed her need against 
the law, and, finding the latter wanting, 
fulfilled her need at the sacrifice of the 
law. On the other hand, she is not of 
those who break laws for the intrinsic 
pleasure of destruction. 

" Of course," she admits, " it would 
have been ever so much more easy for 
me if, while I was still young, some pre- 
sentable man, with all his papers in per- 


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feet order and a financially secure future, 
had come and asked for me — " 

And she welcomes marriage with the 
good Doctor Schou in an attitude un- 
pleasantly reactionary : 

" ... I believe every woman who has 
reached a certain age — and you know I am 
twenty-eight — will, without hesitation, prefer 
a limited but secure existence by the side of an 
honest man to the most unlimited personal free- 
dom. ' ' 

And worst of all, she, who throughout 
the play declares herself unconvinced of 
guilt or stain, at the close of the first act 
becomes quite mawkishly sentimental 
over Heine's pretty line, " May God for- 
ever keep you so fair, and sweet, and 

Because Karen exhibits these painful 
inconsistencies, she is no less possible 
or real or worthwhile. .We who know 
many women emerging in diverse odd 
shapes from the travail of awakening 
have discovered just as inconsistent a 
combination of precipitation and reac- 
tion ; and thus will it ever be until we 
have at length worked out our way to 
the most serviceable harmony. It is for 
this very reason that Karen is interest- 
ing : she is no superwoman, but our own 
imperfect sister. 

Of the other characters there is but 
one deserving special comment — Karen's 
mother, who to me is the most remark- 
able person Bergstrom has here created. 
She confesses to her husband that she has 
known for three years that Karen had 
been living in Paris with Strandgaard, 
but had kept the knowledge to herself 
because it had been too late to interfere, 
and because she did not regard the calam- 
ity as others would have in her place. 
From a terrible and bitter experience 
with another daughter, Gertrude, who 
had gone insane through the abrupt 
breaking off of a long engagement which 

had aroused primitive passion and left it 
unfulfilled, Mrs. Borneman had reached 
a revolutionary conclusion: 

"... from that day I have — after a care- 
ful consideration — done what I could to let 
our children live the life of youth, sexually and 
otherwise, in as much freedom as possible. The 
result of your educational method, my dear 
Kristen, is our poor Gertrude, who is now con- 
fined in an insane asylum, as incurable. The 
result of my method is Karen, I suppose. I 
don't know if it is very sinful to say so, but 
I feel much less burdened by guilt than I should 
if conditions were reversed." 

When Karen, however, defends her 
course as an abstract ideal of " every 
human being to continue its life through 
the race," and appeals to her mother to 
understand, jNIrs. Borneman retreats with, 
" I wash my hands of it, Karen. I don't 
dare to think that far. . . ." 

It was her motherhood that had forced 
upon h<?r the courage to overlook the 
law, and not any desire to throw over 
the old to set up a new law. The glory 
of the new vision means nothing to her 
in comparison with her husband's suffer- 
ing to which she herself has added. 
She is the promise of a new type — the 
awakened mother. 

As for the play as a whole, it appears 
to me that Mr. Bergstrom has tried to 
say too much in the slight space of one 
short play, for he has two distinct themes 
— the right of woman to love and life, 
and the relationsliip between marriage 
and children. The first is the chief 
theme, which is worked out in the story 
of Karen ; the second is too important 
to be employed as a subsidiary thread, 
and instead of adding richness to the first 
it rather clutters and confuses it with 
unnecessary baggage. Mrs. Borneman 
pities one of her sons because he cannot 
afford to have children on his slender 
salary, and feels that her other son is not 
justified in blindly bringing child after 

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child into the world, depending vipon the 
rest of the family for their maintenance. 
She asks her husband : 

« " So it is not enough for two j^eople to live 
together in mutual love?" 

"No, Cecilia, that has nothing to do with 
marriage. What is so inconceivably glorious 
about marriage is that, through it, God has del- 
egated His own creative power to us simple 
human beings — that He has made us share His 
own divine omnipotence." 

The poor professor is made consistent 
to the point of absurdity, and the main 
issue befogged, when he cries out to 
Karen : 

' ' And yet I could h«ivc forgiven you every- 
thing — your wantonness and your defiance — 
if you had taken the consequences and had a 
child ! If you had had ten illegitimate children 
— better that than none at all ! But you have 
arrogantly defied the very commandments of 
nature, which are nothing but the command- 
ments of God ! ' ' 

Perhaps this matter was included for 
the sake of Karen's reply : 

* ' Do you think I am a perfect monster of a 
woman, who has never felt the longing for a 
baby? Not me does your anger hit, but that 
society which will not regard it as an inevitable 
duty to recognize the right of every human 
being to have children — as a right, mark you. 

and not as a ])rivilege reserved for the richest 
and the poorest. There are thousands of us to 
whom the right is denied — thousands of men 
:is well as women. But we, too, are human 
beings, with love longings and love instincts, 
:ind we will not let us be cheated out of the best 
thing that life holds! " 

Technically the play is not so perfect 
a thing as Mr. Bjorkman's unbounded 
encomiums would make us believe. It 
opens, for instance, in the good old fash- 
ion scorned by Ibsen- — -with the gossip 
of servants, who are here engaged in 
laying the table instead of in the time- 
honored task of dusting. The whole ac- 
tion is cast within some eight hours, thus 
causing a use of coincidence to the strain- 
ing point. The most commendable fea- 
ture of technique is the admirably sus- 
tained suspense: the story of Gertrude 
overshadows the entire piece from the 
opening scene to Mrs. Borneman's avowal 
in the last act. The powerful use of the 
story as contrast to Karen's career is also 

And yet in spite of its faults — perhaps 
because of them — we have found Karen 
Borncman the most stimulating play of 
the year. We hope one of our two or- 
ganizations dedicated to the drama will 
put it on in the near future. 

When the ape lost his wits he became man. — Viacheslav Ivanov. 


The Little Review 


Little Human Comedy 

TWO :MAGAZINE that comes to this 
"'■ office is looked for more excitedly 
than Harper's Weekly. Poetry and 
Drama is a quarterly event that keeps 
us in a dignified intensity of expecta- 
tion; and there are others. But Har- 
per's is a weekly adventure in the in- 
terest of which we haunt the post- 
man. At present it is featuring a series 
of sketches by Galsworthy — satirical 
characterizations of those human beings 
who pride themselves on being " differ- 
ent." Here is a man who knows himself 
for a philosopher; here is an "artist"; 
here is one of those rare individualities 
so enlightened, so superior, so removed, 
that there is only one label for liim: 
" The Superlative." 

But it is in llie Philosopher that 
Galsworthy excels himself. It is prob- 
ably the most consummate satire that 
has appeared in the last decade: 

He had a philosophy as yet untouched. 
His stars were the old stars, his faith the old 
faith ; nor would he recognize that there was 
any other, for not to recognize any point of 
view except his own was no doubt the very 
essence of his faith. Wisdom! There was 
surely none save the flinging of the door to, 
standing with your back against that door, 
and telling people what was behind it. For 
though he did not know what was behind, 
he thought it low to say so. An ' ' atheist, ' ' 
as he termed certain persons, was to him 
lieneath contempt; an "agnostic," as he 
termed certain others, a poor and foolish 
creature. As for a rationalist, positivist, 
pragmatist, or any other "ist" — well, that 
was just what they were. He made no secret 
of the fact that he simply could not under- 
stand people like that. It was true. ' ' What 
can they do save deny?" he wouM say. 
"What do they contribute to the morals and 
the elevation of the world? What do they 
put in place of what they take away? What 
have they got, to make up for what is be- 
hind that door? Where are their symbols.^ 
How shall they move and leave the people ? ' ' 
' ' No, ' ' he said ; "a little child shall lead 
them, and I am the little child. For I can 
spin them a tale, such as children love, of 
what is behind the door." Such was the 
temper of his mind that he never flinched 
from believing true what he thought would 
benefit himself and others. Amongst other 
things he held a crown of ultimate advan- 

tage to be necessary to pure and stable liv- 
ing. If cne could not say: "Listen, chil- 
dren, there it is, behind the door. Look at 
it, shining, golden — yours! Not now, but 
when you die, if you are good." ... If 
one could not say that, what could one say? 
Wliat inducement hold out? . . . 

This is merely the first paragraph. 
The rest is even better. Such an analy- 
sis ought to extinguish the Puritan for- 
ever — except that he won't understand 
it. He'll think it was aimed at his 
neighbor. He knows any number of 
men like that. . . . 


Knotdedge or Prejudice 

\ CRITIC writes us that he finds no 
'^^^ fault with freedom of speech, and 
that Emma Goldman's disregard of or- 
dinary moral laws and blasphemy of 
religion do not destroy the fact that she 
exists. But such an article about her 
as appeared in our last issue is well 
calculated to make us apjjear absurd, lie 
thinks ; it sounds like the oration of 
some one who is just beginning to dis- 
cover the things that the world has 
known always ; and he closes with this 
deliciously naive question : " Do you 
believe in listening respectfully to ad- 
vocates of free love, and, because of 
their daring, applauding them ? " 

Yes, we believe in listening respect- 
fully to any sincere programme; we 
believe that is the only way people get 
to understand things. We even believe 
in listening seriously to insincere pro- 
grammes, because the insincere person 
usually thinks he is sincere and helps 
one to understand even more. By doing 
all these things one is likely to reach 
that altitude where " to understand all 
is to forgive all." 

As for " advocates of free love " — 
we recall the impatient comment of a 
well-known woman novelist: "When 
xcill people stop using that silly, super- 
fluous phrase ' free love ' ? We don't 
talk about ' cold ice ' or ' black coal ' ! " 

And, though our applause was not 
confined to Emma Goldman's daring, 

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as our critic would probably concede, is 
not daring a thing worthy of applause? 
Just as conflict is better than mediation, 
or suffering than security, daring is so 
much more legitimate an attitude than 

liut it is that remark about " things 
the \vorld has known always " which 
exasperates us the most. The world 
has not known them ahvays; it doesn't 
know them now. It has heard of them 
vaguely — just to the point of becoming 
prejudiced about them. And prejudice 
is the first element that sneaks away 
when knowledge begins to develop. If 
the world represented by our critic 
hnexc these things it might be roused to 
darinsc, too. 

Eupcrt Brooke's Visit 


UPERT BROOKE was in Chicago 
for a few days last month. One of 
the most interesting things to us about 
his visit was that he so quickly justi- 
fied all the theories we have had about 
him since we first read his poetry. 
First, that only the most pristine fresh- 
ness could have produced those poems 
that some people have been calling de- 
cadent; second, that while he probably 
is " the most beautiful young man in 
England " it was rather silly of Mr. 
Yeats to add that he is also " the wearer 
of the most gorgeous shirts." Because 
Rupert Brooke doesn't wear gorgeous 
shirts; he appears to have very little 
interest in shirts, as we expected. He 
is too concerned with the big business 
of life and poetry. He is, as a very 
astute young member of our staff sug- 
gested, somehow like the sea. 

''Books and the Quiet Life" 

p EORGE GISSING has always had 
^^ a peculiarly poignant place in our 
galaxy of literary favorites, and no- 
where have we loved him more than in 
that little "autobiography" which he 

called The Private Papers of Henry 
Ryecroft. The portions of that book 
which have to do specifically with books 
and reading have been brought together 
by Mr. Waldo R. Browme and published 
with Mr. Mosher's usual incomparable 

A good many people have loved books 
as well as George Gissing did, perhaps, 
but very few of them have been able to 
express that love like this : 

The exquisite quiet of this room! I have 
been sitting in utter idleness, watching the 
sky, viewing the shape of golden sunlight 
upon the carpet, which changes as the min- 
utes pass, letting my eye wander from one 
framed print to another, and along the ranks 
of my beloved books. . . . 

I havfe my home at last. When I place a 
new volume on my shelves, I say: Stand 
there whilst I have eyes to see you; and a 
joyous tremor thrills me. . . . 

For one thing, I know every book of mine 
by its scent, and I have but to put my nose 
between the pages to be reminded of all 
sorts of things. . . . 

I regard the book with that peculiar af- 
fection which results from sacrifice ... in 
no drawing-room sense of the word. Dozens 
of my books were purchased with money 
which ought to have been spent upon what 
are called the necessities of life. Many a 
time I have stood before a stall, or a book- 
seller 's window, torn by conflict of intel- 
lectual desire and bodily need. At the very 
hour of dinner, when my stomach clamored 
for food, I have been stopped by sight of a 
volume so long coveted, and marked at so 
advantageous a price, that I could not let it 
go; yet to buy it meant pangs of famine. 
My Heyne's Tihullus was grasped at such 
a moment. It lay on the stall of the old 
book-shoj) in Goodge Street — a stall where 
now and then one found an excellent thing 
among quantities of rubbish. Sixpence was 
the price — sixpence ! At that time I used 
to eat my mid-day meal (of course, my din- 
ner) at a coffee-shop in Oxford Street, one 
of the real old coffee-shops, such as now, I 
suppose, can hardly be found. Sixpence 
was all I had — yes, all I had in the world ; 
it would purchase a plate of meat and vege- 
tables. But I did not dare to hope that 
the Tihullus would wait until the morrow, 
when a certain small sum fell due me. I 
paced the pavement, fingering the coppers 
in my pocket, eyeing the stall, two appe- 
tites at combat within me. The book was 
bought and I went home with it, and as I 
made a dinner of bread and butter I gloated 
over the pages. 


The Little Review 

New York Letter 

George Soule 

HILAIRE BELLOC is coining to 
America next fall for a lecturing 
tour. It is well to take stock of him, so 
that we shall know what to expect. He 
is clever, and a Catholic — that tells the 
whole story. We don't know exactly 
how he will say it, but we know what he 
will say. Through various smiling sub- 
tleties and paradoxes he will attack de- 
mocracy, feminism, socialism, individual- 
istic rebellion of any kind. It is quite 
possible that he will aim a few careless 
shots at Montessori, the discussion of sex 
questions in public, Galsworthy, and Ber- 
nard Shaw. He is a masculine, English, 
Agnes Repplier. He will entertain his 
cultivated audiences, and give them the 
impression that he is very modem and 

It is curious how the thinking mind 
immediately discounts the testimony of 
one who is known to have given his alle- 
giance to an embracing authority of anj"^ 
kind. Whether the authority in question 
is the Vatican, Karl Marx, Business, 
Nietzsche, or Theodore Roosevelt, we 
know the man's whole mind is likely to 
be colored with it, and that the evidence 
is probably of less importance to him 
than his case. Yet there is always a 
moral suspicion against the man who re- 
fuses to enroll himself under any banner. 
He seems dead, inhuman, academic. 
March to the drums, salute the colors, or 
admit there is no blood in you! It is 
good that most of mankind does so. The 
strongest army (not necessarily the larg- 
est) will win, and the battle must come 
for the sake of the victory. 

Therefore, let the radicals welcome 
Mr. Belloc as a good enemy. He stands 

for a sincere, highly organized, and pow- 
erful propaganda which cannot be ig- 
nored on the modern battlefield. On ac- 
count of their worship of authority the 
Catholics have a solidarity which no 
other movement can boast. For the 
same reason they are doomed to an eter- 
nal enmity with adventurous souls, those 
who fight for change of any kind. They 
seem often to be in accord with advanc- 
ing thinkers because they condemn pres- 
ent conditions. But closer investigation 
will always show that instead of pointing 
to the future they cling to the past. 
Mgr. Benson, during his recent visit to 
New York, stated in private conversation 
that present social conditions are intol- 
erable. He went on to say that an ideal 
society can be attained only under feu- 
dalism, Avith the church in control. 

There will be no more danger from 
the Catholics than from any other army 
as long as we know what they are fight- 
ing for, and are able to recognize their 
irregular troops. 

But let there be no complacency 
among the enemies of the church on the 
ground that it may not be really in the 
field, or has not artillery when it gets 
there. Without investigation of any 
kind, I have heard of two books attack- 
ing the church which were suppressed by 
their publishers at the demand of Catho- 
lic authorities. In each case the weapon 
was a threat to withdraw an extensive 
text book business from the house in 
question. Naturally, the parties to the 
matter have not been anxious to give it 
publicity. A magazine which published 
an article displeasing to Catholics re- 
ceived a letter threatenincr it with black- 

The Little He view 


listing. There appears to be a well or- 
ganized and efficient church publicity bu- 
4'eau to attend to these and other matters. 
A proposal was recently made by a Cath- 
olic journal that priests in confessional 
impose as penance the subscription to 
Catholic papers and the purchase of 
Catholic books, at the same time warning 
the people against secular publications. 
This was discussed with some approval 
by America, the New York Jesuit weekly, 
which regretfully admitted, however, 
that in the end Catholic publications 
must depend " mainly on their merit." 
We are likely to ignore such medijeval 
methods until we find them obstructing 
some actual movement of importance. 
; They do obstruct such movements, how- 
Vever, sometimes very annoyingly. 

All these methods are but the natural 
and blameless working of the doctrine of 
intolerance. And perhaps their greatest 
danger is that their temporary success 
wdll induce the opposing armies to use 
the same w^eapon and so shackle them- 
selves. The intolerance of the Puritan 
was a natural result of his bitter strug- 
gle, yet it produced a century of aes- 
thetic darkness. The advanced opponents 
of the Puritan era are now uttering pro- 
nunciamcntos and personalities that are 
Archiepiscopal in their intolerance. 

But, you say, intolerance is necessary 
in the soldier. He must hate his enemy 
and seek not only to dislodge but to 
silence his opponent. Well, I w^ill admit 
that when the soldier is in battle he must 
shoot to kill. But there is a new kind of 
soldier developing who is more valuable 
to man than the old. He joins the army 
not so much because of the magic of the 
colors as because of the necessity of the 
cause and its temporary usefulness in 
serving the truth behind it. Just as he 
will not march to war without reason, so 

he will stop fighting his immediate enemy 
when his cause is won, and will not go on 
to bickering and pillage. He is ready to, 
enlist under a new banner at any moment \ 
when a new banner represents a more I 
glorious cause than the old. His General 
is not a god, but a leader. His freedom 
of choice is always the biggest asset of 
his strength. Therefore he cannot be in- 
tolerant. He is strong, hard, efficient, 
relentless, but never pompous or slavish. 
How much time the world has lost elim- 
inating armies of strong men whose fatal 
fault was excessive, unreasoning loyalty ! 

That, after all, solves the riddle of my 
second paragraph. And if the soldier 
must subordinate his cause to his truth, 
how much more so the General and the 
King! The General has very little time 
to hate his enemy. He must know their 
strength, study their methods, adopt the 
best of their ideas, spy out the country, 
plan a campaign. He orders slaughter 
not for revenge or hatred, but for suc- 
cess. Therefore it is of supreme impor- 
tance that his success be worth while. 

And the King, the man who selects the 
cause and fires men to battle. The nearer 
he comes to an assertion of infallibility 
the surer is the final defeat of his cause. 
If he will allow- no room for change and 
growth, change and growth will sweep 
him aside. We need big men who will 
not enlist under colors, but are 
pushing back the horizon of truth, 
tiaist the leader who has found the final 
answer to the riddle. Some day shall we 
not have a Messiah who shall begin by 
saying: " Do not found in my name any 
church, cult, or school. If a man question 
my message, listen to him closely and 
learn w^hat truth he has. Always seek 
the new, the more perfect. Always grow 
out from the fixed. So shall you begin a 
race of Kings greater than I." 

L sweep 
ho will V\ 
always ] / 
I. Dis- / ' 

The Little Review 


Miss Columbia: An Old-Fashioned Girl 

That the United States of America is 
young is a truism which needs no stating, 
and unfortunately its youth is hopelessly 
fettered in the strings of tradition. 

Ferrero says that aesthetic taste in 
America shows itself in bathrooms ; and 
certainly in plumbing we do seem to have 
a taste above that of the rest of the 
world. In other things America fears 
originality and change far more even 
than England does. Miss Columbia is a 
bright girl, sitting in a schoolroom, with 
well-worn editions of the English classics 
on the book-shelves. Miss Columbia 
writes verses and stories following the 
most approved models ; she succeeds 
rather well, but, after all, they are only 
school essays. It seems impossible for 
Americans to have the courage to admit 
that Life is as they see it. Hence the 
shallow and frivolous optimism which 
hangs like an obscuring fog over prac- 
tically all our writing. It would be a 
convention were it not that we think we 
believe it ; it would be a conviction only 
that we never look at it close enough to 
test it. The vogue, a year or two ago, 
of Mr. Robert Haven Schauffler's Scum 
o' the Earth is a case in point. It deals 
with the problem of immigration, not as 
it is, but as it might be if it were. The 
poem is imitative as art, and false as life, 
but it flatters an existing condition, and 
paints a sore to represent healthy flesh ; 
wherefore America hails it with content. 
Americans are afraid of Life, in the Vic- 
torian manner. A Catholic said to me, 
some time ago : " Sex is dirty." This 
sacrilege is a thoroughly Victorian senti- 
ment, but sex alone does not come under 

the ban ; pain, squalor, and, above all, 
the fact that virtue and effort frequently 
go unrewarded, are facts to Avhich, in 
America, one must shut one's eyes. 
Miss Columbia is very young, and her 
gold must be minted before she recog- 
nizes it; in the matrix it looks insignifi- 
cant to her inexperienced eyes. 

Style is not manner, but personality. 
And the fact that our poets and story 
writers keep to the old forms and expres- 
sions proves (does it not.^) that they 
have no inward urging which makes them 
find old molds too cramping. 
/' In a play of George Cohan's, Broad- 
jway Jones, you have the best of middle- 
/ class America — its good points and its 
' limitations. Perhaps this is even better 
i brought out in his other play, Get-Bich- 
; Quick Wallingford. "Crude," you say; 
" childish ! " Quite true, but entirely and 
absolutely America. For the United 
States is governed by the Great God: 
Mediocrity! The middle-class, or, as we 
call him, " the man in the street," rules. 
Neither the gaunt simplicities of the 
lower class (although we talk a great 
deal about the lower class), nor the sim- 
plicities of the educated and intellectually 
alert, can leaven the lump of self-satisfied 
commonplaceness. Not only don't we 
know, but we don't want to know. An 
American writer, Avho had lived in Europe 
long enough to forget the peculiar 
American temper, was sufficiently ingen- 
uous as to propose to the editor of one of 
our best-known magazines a series of 
three articles on six contemporary 
French poets. They were refused, be- 
cause his clientele did not care to read 

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of things of which they knew nothing. 
"Thej- will know less than I," said the 
editor, " and I have only heard of two 
of these names." 

We are a little better off as regards 
our musical taste, because music is a uni- 
versal language, and we can hear music 
in the " original," so to say. In music, 
again, out output is more in accordance 
with the spirit of the whole world. 

This does not mean that there are not 
good writers in America. There are. 
But most of them write "dans le gout 
d'avant-h'wr." I am only teUing you 
that Miss Columbia is in her artistic 
'teens, and is as unimaginatively conven- 
tional as is the human animal at the same 
age. And, again like the human animal, 
she was not so childish when she was a 
baby. Paul Revere, riding across the 
Middlesex Fells to rouse the minute men, 
was like any adult man on a j ob which he 
shrewdly suspects will change the fate of 
nations. Poe and Whitman were not ex- 
actly childish. But were Poe writing 
today, he would be told that his subjects 
were " unimportant " and that he " lacked 
social consciousness." For we in Amer- 
ica are suffering from a pathological 
outlook on the world. Our activities 
function along the line of preventive 
medicine for communities. The richness 

and variety of personality is lost sight of 
in the lump. We forget that admirable 
truth set forth in the poem beginning 
" Little drops of water." 

And then, too, poor America is so 
many different kinds of persons and 
places. What we are going to be lies on 
the lap of the Gods. But it seems quite 
clear that, whatever it is, it will not be 

Go to any vaudeville theatre and you 
will see Americans "turkey-trotting" to 
an intricately syncopated music we have 
dubbed " rag-time." No European can 
dance it with just that zip and swing. 
It is a purely American thing. Stop a 
minute ! Do you realize that this is 
America's first original contribution to 
the arts ! Low or high, that is not the 
point ; it is America's own product, and 
for that reason I regret to see the tango 
superseding it, although the tango is a 
better dance. I am told by those who 
know, that dancing is the first art prac- 
tised by primitive peoples. I believe 
that in our " turkey-trotting " and " rag- 
time " we have the earliest artistic grop- 
ings of a new race. Our musicians scorn 
" rag-time," and it takes the clear eye of 
a Frenchman to see its interest. Debussy 
has seen it in his Minstrels. 

Amy Lowell. 

Poetry to the Uttermost 

We are afraid. We are all horribly 
afraid. The seal of poetic propriety is 
laid upon our lips, the burden of tradi- 
tion bows us down. Crouched and ab- 
ject beneath the dominance of the slave- 

shoulders to the toil — the useless toil — 
of dragging through the mile-years 
of simoom-whipped sand the impassive 
statue of Mediocrity. 

What, if the vulture scream above us. 

driver, gap-toothed Custom, we set our can we dare to tell the meaning of its 


The Little Review 

cry ? Sharp will descend the whip of cir- 
cumstance to warn that otherwhere the 
nightingales are singing under a full- 
orbed moon and we must sing of them. 

Does an all-reckless slave defy his 
Maker with a thunderbolt of blasphemy, 
forged in the furnace of his agony? 
Straight comes the penalty decreeing 
silence and neglect unless we chant apoc- 
alyptic anodynes. 

If the challenge of the blood outbeats 
the clanging of the bonds and in the 
glowing dusk man and woman cling to 
each other until the uttermost is Avon, 
shall this be told in paean and in song? 
Not unless social usage has been satisfied 
and it be ascertained that desire has 
given place to design, that love has been 
exchanged for lucre, and that marriage 
has been substituted for mating; then 
are we bidden cull from the common-cas- 
ket of permitted phrases the veil, the 
orange-flower wreath, and all the weary 
paraphernalia of convention, and write 
an epithalamium to the plaudits of the 
admiring throng. 

Rituals began in poetry. And since 
all rituals today have lost most of their 
ancient power, serving to soothe and 

charm instead of to stir and challenge, 
we look to the poetry of today to lay the 
web whereon the rituals of the future 
shall be spun. Let not that web possess 
one strand of mediocrit}'. Platitudiniz- 
ing is no pattern for the future. If we 
are fain to cry aloud, let our throats 
crack thereat ; if Ave Avould hurl defiance, 
let us not fear to charge after our jave- 
lins and find our freedom in the breach 
oursch^es have made. 

Every true poet has the uttennost 
Avithin, if he or she will but give it voice. 
Oh, poets of every craft, giA^e of the ut- 
termost! Better a single cry like The 
Ballad of Reading Gaol, like Bianca, like 
When I am dead and sister to the dust — 
to touch on a f eAv moderns only — than a 
lumber-loft of prett}^ and tuneful voic- 
ings of the themes that please but do not 
satisfy. There are those of us who read 
whose blood runs hot and red as well as 
yours. Dare, O you poets of every 
craft ! Rise to the cry ! Your hearts are 
high and full of gallantry, the world is 
Avaiting to be led by you to heights be- 
fore unsealed. Shake cowardice aAA-av 

id df 

Fraxcis Rolt-Wheeler. 

Reflections of a Dilettante 

All art is symbolical. A mere presen- 
tation of things as they are seen by 
our physical eye is photography, not art. 
Yet there exists a SA^mbolistic school 
• in contradistinction to other currents 
such as Realism, Impressionism, Neo- 
Romanticism, etc. Is not this a mis- 
nomer? Can Ave say, for instance, that 
Beaudelairc's Fleurs du Mai Avere sym- 


hols, Avhile Goethe gave us but realistic 
reproductions of actual life? Should 
Ave exclude Whitman from the Sym- 
bolists for the reason that his poems 
are less fantastic, nearer to life than 
those of Poe? What about Vereshcha- 
gin : AA'as not his brush SA'mbolistic be- 
cause he adhered to realistic methods? 
Obviously, an artist presents not objects 

The Little Review 


but ideas, and the s^mibolisticity of a cer- 
tain work of art is rather a question of 
method and degree. 

Perliaps we should differentiate artists 
according to their relationship with and 
attitude towards the public. The realist 

— and under this elastic term we may 
understand likewise the romanticist and 
the impressionist — is definite in his in- 
terpretation of life, is outspoken and 
clear in conve3dng his conceptions; he 
drags us unto his point of view, makes 
us see through his eyes and take for 
granted his impressions. He says to us : 
" Thus I see the world. Thus life and 
nature are reflected in my mind. This is 
precisely what I mean ; please do not mis- 
interpret me." We are bound to obey ; 
the artist — provided he is a real artist 

— forces upon us his eyeglasses, and we 
follow his directions. 

The purely Symbolistic artist, on the 
other hand, grants freedom to the public. 
Vague tones, dim outlines, abstract fig- 
ures, imperceptible moods, misty reflec- 
tions, make his art unyielding to a defi- 
nite interpretation. All he imposes upon 
us is an atmosphere, into which we are 
invited to come and co-create. Here is a 
canvas, here are colors, here are moods :, 
go ahead and make out of them what you 
like. We are thus left to our own guid- 
ance ; we are enabled to put our ego into 
the artist's work, we are free to find in it 
whatever reflections we choose and to 
form our own conceptions. If we suc- 
ceed in solving the problem, if we make 
the symbol live in our imagination, we 
experience the bliss of creation ; should 
we fail in our task, should the symbol 
remain meaningless to us, Ave conclude 
that the given atmosphere is alien to our 
mind. Music of all arts is the most sym- 
bolical. True, Wagner and Strauss have 
endeavored to impose upon the listener 
leit-motifs, to dictate the public an inter- 

pretation of specific tones, but they have 
failed in their attempts to introduce a 
sort of a " key " to music ; we remain 
autonomous in " explaining " Siegfried 
and Don Quixote. 

Which of the methods is preferable? 
I should resent any narrow decision on 
this point. A crystalline September day 
or a purple-crimson sunset, how can we 
choose.'' We delight in both, but in one 
case we admire the visible beauty, while 
in the other we make one step forward 
and complement the seen splendor with 
strokes of our creative imagination. 
Perhaps my non-partisanship is due to 
my dilettantism; as it is, I approach a 
book or a picture with one scale: is it a 
Avork of art? If it is, then any method 
is justifiable, no matter hoAV differently it 
ma}^ appeal to the individual taste. 

Yet- — and there is no inconsistency in 
my statement — I do discriminate in art 
productions in so far as my personal af- 
fections are concerned. Great as my de- 
light is in the arts of Tolstoi and Zola, 
of Rubens and Corot, of Brahms and 
Massenet, of Pavlova and Karsavina, my 
mind is more akin to the mystic utter- 
ances of Maeterlinck and Brusov, to the 
haz3^ landscapes of Whistler and to the 
unreal Avomen of Bakst, to the narcotic 
music of Debussy and Rachmaninov, to 
the wavy rhythm of Duncan and St. 
Denis. It is with them, with the latter, 
that I erect fantastic castles of my own 
designs and find expression of my moods 
and Avhims. I may not understand all of 
the Cubists and Futurists, but I owe 
them many new thoughts and emotions 
which I had not realized before having 
seen the ncAv art. Schoenberg's pieces 
still irritate my conventional ear, but I 
alloAv him credit for discovering ucaa' pos- 
sibilities in the region of sound interpre- 
tation. We, plain mortals, aa'Iio are 
doomed to contemplate art Avithout hav- 


The Little Review 

ing the gift to contribute to it, we are 
envious of genius and crave for freedom 
in co-creating with the artist. Hence my 
love for Bergson who appeals to the cre- 
ative instinct of man; for him I aban- 

doned Nietzsche, my former idol: it is 
so much more pleasant and feasible to be 
a creative being than to strive to become 
a perfect super-being. 

Alexander S. Kaun. 


The Immortality of the Soul 

Bergson argues that there is a spir- 
itual entity behind all science and that 
it is impossible for scientists to go be- 
yond a certain point in developing a 
knowledge of whence we came. Clara E. 
Laughlin, in writing a review of The 
Truth about Woman, by Mrs. Walter 
M. Gallichan, accuses the writer of pos- 
sessing a short-sighted, astigmatic vision 
of " whereuntoness." She winds up her 
discussion with the sob of an ultra relig- 
ionist by accusing Mrs. Gallichan of haA- 
ing left out a most important point in 
her discussion — that of the immortality 
of the soul. To quote Miss Laughlin 
exactly : 

But if, as most of us believe, we are more 
than just links in the human chain; if we have 
a relation to eternity as well as to history and 
to posterity, there are splendid interpretations 
of our struggles that Mrs. Gallichan does not 
apprehend. If souls are immortal, life is more 
than the jierpetration of species, or even than 
the improvement of the race; it is the place al- 
lotted to us for the development of that im- 
perishable part which we are to carry hence, 
and through eternity. And any effort of ours 
which helps other souls to realize the best that 
life can give, to seek the best that immortality 
can perpetuate, may splendidly justify our 

Very fortunately for the future of her 
book, Mrs. GalHchan ignores the relig- 
ionist except to say of religion, " I am 
certain that in us the religious impulse 
and the sex impulse are one." 

Mrs. Gallichan's book is a scientific 
discussion of woman vcstcrdav and 

today, without any attempt at sentimen- 
talism. Her analysis is perfect and de- 
cidedly constructive. She goes back to 
prehistoric times and discusses in scien- 
tific phraseology how woman has pro- 
gressed through the ages, and describes 
the part she has taken in establishing 
civilizations. Nowhere does she forget 
that she is writing for posterity and in- 
dulge in the petty foibles that are some- 
times so noticeable in the work of women 
who write on feminism. 

Lee a. Stone. 
[The question of whether whatever it is that 
is meant by the word soul is immortal — im- 
mortal in the sense that it will live forever in 
a realm of the spirit or the blessed — is an- 
swered affirmatively by those who hold to the 
orthodox faith, is not worth discussing by a 
rational man who is informed, and is discussed 
by avowed or implied atheists with a fanatical 
seriousness that destroys whatever force their 
main contention may have. The legitimate 
domain of argument is limited; truth that is 
verifiable by men here and now is its only con- 
tent. As regards what uncritical people call 
• ' iinniortality " serious argumentation is ab- 
solutely impossible. Faith, quotations, and 
personal desires are not arguments. Mrs. Gal- 
lichan 's book is in parts scientific, and is there- 
fore of importance to thousands of people 
whose religion is an achievement of courageous 
thinking and living. To many excellent per- 
sons their professed belief in what they term 
"immortality" is a kind of merciful necessity. 
They crave and even invent assurances of it. 
To such persons there is no argument against 
it. To persons who produce the ' ' negative ' ' 
arguments theie is no argument tor it. And 
t!:oie vou aro! — \V. ('. D.l 

The Little Review 


Book Discussion 

Dostoevsky — Pessimist ? 

The Possessed, by Fyodor Dostoevsky. 
[The Macmillan Company, New York.] 

Shatov was an incorrigible idealist, 
with a keen satirical ability to destroy 
his own ideals. He had made a god out 
of Verhovensky, the leading figure in 
Dostoevsky's The Possessed. Verhoven- 
sky was, he imagined, a god of selfish 
courage and supreme unconcern, the sort 
of man whom everybody followed invol- 
untarih'. Shatov knew that his hero had 
irreparabh- injured three women, one of 
them half-witted and defenseless. That 
did not bother the idealist at all ; it was 
" in character." But when Verhovensky 
lied about it to avoid condemnation, 
Shatov hit him a savage blow on the 
check and brooded for weeks over the 
disappointment. The disappointment 
was deepened by the fact that Verhoven- 
sky did not kill him for the blow. 

There is something characteristically 
Russian about that. It goes far to ex- 
plain Russian pessimism, and give the 
key to this very book. Your Russian 
wants above all things to be logical. He 
will fasten upon an idea and enshrine it 
in his holy of holies. He will relentlessly 
follow the dictates of his idea though it 
lead him to insanity. There is greatness 
in his attitude, also absurdity. Witness 
Tolstoy. And Avhen he recognizes his 
own absurdity he becomes gloomy and 
savage ; there is no escape from the 
vanity of the world, the spirit, and 

I can imagine the mood of Dostoevsky 
when this book germinated in his mind. 
He saw this trait in the people about 
him, he felt it in himself. The intel- 

lectuals, each with his little theory, were 
steadily working towards — nothing at 
all. The government with its elaborate 
systems for economic improvement and 
individual repression, the revolutionary 
with his scheming insincerity and chaotic 
program, were equally futile. The 
Avomcn with their pathetic loves, the friv- 
olous with their mad pursuit of amuse- 
ment, the great and the small, the syco- 
phant and the rebel, were all bitter fail- 
ures. Suddenly it occurred to him — 
they are all mad in an insane world, each 
in his way, one no more than another. I 
will vent my disgust with these vermin 
in a book; I will show what they really 
are. Like the madman who carefully 
traces out his meaningless labyrinth, 1 
will with the most painstaking psychol- 
ogy unravel their minds, and in so doing 
I will find my release and my fiendish 
joy. The only thing lacking in this 
madhouse is complete self-consciousness. 
That I will furnish. — And so Dostoev- 
sky logically and nobly followed his idea 
to its insane conclusion. 

The fascinating result cannot be de- 
scribed in a paragraph. It is done, of 
course, with consummate ability. Begin- 
ning the book is like walking into a vil- 
lage of unknown people. They are real 
enough outwardly ; you don't know their 
nature or direction. Little by little you 
learn about them, and begin to take 
sides. Long habit makes you pick fa- 
vorites. This man will be noble and suc- 
cessful ; perhaps he is the hero. Sud- 
denh' 3'ou begin to suspect that some- 


The Little Review 

thing is wrong. All things are not work- 
ing together for one end, as in well-regu- 
lated novels. Your favorites become 
jumbled up with the others. The author 
doesn't give you a chance, because he 
never shows you a cross-section of a 
mind. He merely tells what the people 
do and say. You must draw your own 
conclusions as in ordinary life. When 
you get used to this, you see an occa- 
sional subtlety, a flash of sardonic laugh- 
ter. Some of the people are not quite 
right in their minds. And at length the 
truth dawns ; the sane people are even 
crazier than the others ! This impression 
comes by sheer force of magic; how the 
author creates it is inexplicable. But 
once you have it, the fascination of fol- 
lowing an idea obsesses you. And at the 
end it is impossible to find any meaning 
or direction in the world. 

Of course, no such obsession can find a 
firm footing in the American tempera- 
ment. After a while it seems Russian 
and incredible. If you can't" answer 
Dostoevsky logically, you will abandon 
logic. But he has stirred you up, and 

certain important conclusions rise to the 

One is that it would be impossible to 
be such a pessimist unless one looked for 
a good deal in the world, and looked for 
it rather sharply. Idealism and courage 
began this course of thought. Isn't a 
big share of our optimism shallow? 
Shouldn't we go a little deeper into 
things before being so sure they are 
right.'' Another is that no living indi- 
vidual is worth very much, after all. Our 
only salvation is in creating a nobler 
race. And for that any sacrifice of pres- 
ent individuals is supremeh- worth while. 

It is as if some inspired member of a 
negro tribe in central Africa had sud- 
denly awakened to the fact that his voo- 
doo-worshipping friends were not acting 
rationally. From their status the burden 
of his chant might be horrible for its 
devilish revelations. But in our eyes he 
would be a seer and a prophet. Why 
should he have considered the feelings of 
tlie miserable savages.'' There is some- 
thing more important than that ! 

George Soule. 

The Salvation of the World a la Wells 

Social Forces in England and America, by H. G. Wells. 
[Harper and Brothers, New York.] 

Like many philosophers, Mr. Wells is 
concerned mainly with the need of a new 
human race. All profound reformers 
want that. The method of achieving 
this desirable result is, however, the rock 
of turning. It probably isn't necessary 
to say that our present reformer is not 
one of those blind apostles of effortless 
immediacy. Such transmution was re- 
spectable when Botany Bay was a popu- 

lar seaside resort for radical poets and 
philosophers. They of today realize 
something of the immensity of the de- 
velopmental process. Their hopes are 
often so remote that they seem almost 
despair, but still time is trusted with a re- 
liance on science for the urge toward hu- 
man perfectibility. Of such the leader is 
H. G. Wells. 

Clearly the conviction that civilization 

The Little Review 


needs a new race is well founded. All 
ideals, all ideas, civilization, culture are 
and have always been the products of "x 
pitiful minority. The tendency at pres- 
ent is toward making the desire of the 
majority supreme. The majority do not 
cleave toward ideals — not even toward 
estahlishin<if their own glory. Rousseau 
imagined that millions loved righteous- 
ness ; Jefferson made such beliefs the 
basis of the country's documents of in- 
corporation. The idealists were mani- 
festl}"^ mistaken. Men have never been 
di'awn toward the ideals they have pro- 
fessed. Truth, justice, equality have 
never been valued when sex, property, or 
power were opposed. The virtues came 
in the early days from " Thus saith the 
Lord," and they come today, if they 
come at all, from " Thus saith a Strong 

Mr. Wells guesses that there are fifty 
thousand reading and thinking persons 
in England — keepers of the citadel. 
The fifty thousand are practically Eng- 
land. Perhaps his estimate is too low, 
John Brisben Walker says that in the 
United States the number of persons 
able to think independently about polit- 
ical and social matters has increased from 
a few score to about two hundred and 
fifty thousand Avithin thirty years. The 
fact is, albeit, that the world has been 
fashioned always by this very small 
minority-. Furthermore the present cre- 
ation is not one in which there is rea- 
son for great pride. 

The essay on the Great State is espe- 
cially fine in this connection. Wells's 
idea of the Normal Social Life and of 
the constant divergence of a minority 
is altogether clarifying for the watcher 
from any vantage, but it is in his discus- 
sion of the labor unrest that the reader 
in Colorado discovers the prophecies he 
most needs. For illustration this : 

The worker in a former generation took him- 
self for granted; it is a new phase when the 
toilers begin to ask, not one man here and 
there, but in masses, in battalions, in trades: 
"Why, then, are we toilers, and for what is 
it that we toil?" 

The ruling minority in Colorado has 
been confronted with this question dur- 
ing the coal strike. So far no response 
has been given save the impromptu 
utterances of a hideous rage and fright 
at the thought of awakening workers. 

Wells answers his own questions. He 
replies as Colorado will sometime if Colo- 
rado is to persist. It is in this tone : 

The supply of good-tempered, cheap labor — 
upon which the fabric of our contemporary ease 
and comfort is erected — is giving out. The 
spread of information and the means of presen- 
tation in every class and the increase of luxury 
and self-indulgence in the prosperous classes 
are the chief cause of that. In the place of 
the old convenient labor comes a new sort of 
labor, reluctant, resentful, critical, and sus- 
jiieious. The replacement has already gone so 
far that I am certain that attempts to baffle 
and coerce the workers back to their old con- 
ditions must inevitably lead to a series of in- 
creasingly destructive outbreaks, to stresses 
and disorder culminating in revolution. It is 
useless to dream of going on now for much 
longer upon the old lines; our civilization, if 
it is not to enter upon a phase of conflict and 
decay, must begin to adapt itself to the new 
conditions, of which the first and foremost is 
that the wage earning laboring class, consent- 
ing to a distinctive treatment and accepting 
life at a disadvantage, is going to disappear. 

That is the truth which men hate 
most to hear. It is the doctrine Avhich 
" Mother " Jones preaches and for 
which she has been imprisoned regard- 
less of laws and constitutions. 

But this reasonableness of Wells ap- 
peals as little to the left wing of the 
socialists as it does to conservatives. 
The I. W. W.'s have no patience with 
tlie detailed delays suggested and Wells 
is as irritated with the losses in civiliza- 


The Little Review 

tion to which a violent revolution is 
likely to lead. He sets forth his feeling 
in a discussion of the American popula- 
tion, a curious phrase, necessary on ac- 
count of his distaste for the word people. 
In speaking of the possibility of a na- 
tional revolutionary movement as an 
arrest for the aristocratic tendency now 
so pronounced he says : 

The area of the country is too great and 
the means of communication between the work- 
ers in different parts inadequate for a con- 
certed rising or even for effective political 
action in mass. In the worst event — and it 
is only in the worst event that a great insur- 
rectionary movement becomes probable — the 
newspapers, magazines, telephones, and tele- 
graphs, all the apparatus of discussion and 
popular appeal, the railways, arsenals, guns, 
flying machines, and all the materials of war- 
fare, will be in the hands of the property 
owners, and the average of betrayal among 
the leaders of a class, not racially homogeneous, 
embittered, suspicious, united only by their 
discomforts and not by any constructive inten- 
tions, will necessarily be high. 

It is true almost. There are always 

enough of the Gracchi family present to 
supply the minimum number of weapons 
essential. To the truth of this the revo- 
lutionary movement in Mexico is a wit- 
ness and Colorado itself could tell tales. 

Social Forces, a too collegiate title, 
sums up satisfactorily Wells's important 
opinions. The book isn't really a whole : 
some of the essays are journalistic and 
some are old. It lacks nearly every- 
where the fierceness of TJie Passionate 
Friends. In this book Wells is in his 
dinner coat, comfortable and well fed. 
He is respectable — horrible admission 
— but he is still prophetic. 

In a sense, too. Social Forces is a ware- 
house. There one may find stored the 
rough materials which on occasion are 
hammered into the poignancies of Mar- 
riage or Tono-Bungay. As a vista into 
a masterhand's workshop the book has 
its intense psychological interest, but 
most of all it is text for salvation of the 
world. ' 

William L. Chenery. 

A Novelist's Review of a Novel 

Vandover and the Brute, by Frank Norris. 
[Doubleday, Page and Company, New York.] 

"I told them the truth. They liked it or 
they didn't like it. What had that to do with 
me? I told them the truth; I knew it for the 
truth then, and I know it for the truth now." 
— Frank Norbis. 

It would seem inevitable that had 
Frank Norris lived he would have re- 
written Vandover and the Brute. In the 
book, as it was rescued from the packing 
box that had been through the San 
Francisco fire and sent to the publisher, 
there is much that would have been dis- 
carded by the later Norris. Perhaps he 

would have thrown it all away and writ- 
ten a new story with the same theme. 
He was a big man and he had the cour- 
age of bigness. He could throw fairly 
good work into the waste-paper basket. 
The decay of man in modem society, 
the slow growth in him of the brute 
that goes upon all fours — what a big, 
terrible theme ! What a book the later 
Norris would have made of it! 

In the introduction by Charles G. 
Norris quotation is made from the Frank 
Norris essay, The True Reivard of the 

The Little Review 


Novelist, in which this sentence stands 
out: " To make money is not the prov- 
ince of the novehst." Also it is sug- 
o-estod that the book was written under 
the influence of Zola, and thei'e is more 
than a hint of Zola's fornuila that every- 
thing in life is material for literature in 
the way the job is done. 

As it stands, Vandovcr wants cutting 
— cutting and something else. With 
that said and understood, we are glad 
that the book has been rescued and that 
it can stand upon our book shelves. 
American letters cannot know and un- 
derstand too much of the spirit of Frank 
Norris, and just at this time when there 
is much talk of the new note and some 
little sincere effort toward a return to 
truth and honesty in the craft of Avrit- 
ting, it is good to have this visit from the 
boy Norris. He was a brave lad, an 
American writing man who lived, 
worked, and died without once putting 
his foot upon the pasteboard road that 
leads to easy money. " The easy 
money is not for us," he said and had 

the manhood to write and live with that 
warning in his mind. He had craft- 
love. With a few more writers work- 
ing in his spirit we should hear less of 
the new note. Norris was the new note. 
He was of the undying brotherhood. 

When Frank Norris wrote Vandover 
he Avas not the great artist he became, 
but he was the great man ; and that's 
why this book of his is worth publishing 
and reading. The greater writer would 
have possessed a faculty the boy who 
wrote this book had not acquired — 
the faculty of selection. He would have 
been less intent upon telling truly un- 
important details and by elimination 
would have gained dramatic strength. 

Read Vandover therefore not as an 
example of the work of Norris the artist 
but as the work of a true man. It will 
inspire you. Its very rawness will show 
you the artist in the making. It will 
make you understand why Frank Nor- 
ris with Mark Twain will perhaps, 
among all American writers, reach the 
goal of immortality. 

The Immigrant's Pursuit of Happiness 

They Who Knock at Our Gates, by Mary Antin. 
[Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.] 

Shaking the Declaration of Independ- 
ence in the face of all those opposed to 
immigration in any form Mary Antin 
makes an impassioned appeal for prac- 
tically unrestricted immigration. Her 
motive is no doubt praiseworthy, her en- 
thusiasm and eloquence are admirable. 
She contrasts the nature of our present- 
day immigrants with those who landed in 
the Mayflower. The self-satisfied mid- 
dle class attitude peeps through the ques- 

tion : "Is immigration good for us?" 
And of course it is good. The immi- 
grants do more than three-quarters of 
our bituminous coal mining. They 
make seven-tenths of our steel. They 
do four-fifths of our woolen, nine-tenths 
of our cotton-mill work, nearly all our 
clothing, nearly all our sugar, eighty- 
five per cent of all labor in the stock- 
yards. You cannot but come to the 
same conclusions as Mary Antin : " Open 


The Little Review 

wide our gates and set him on liis way 
to happiness." 

On his way to happiness ? One tliinks 
of Lawrence, Massachusetts, where immi- 
grants are not exactly happy ; or Pat- 
erson. New Jersey; or an incident of 
this kind from Marysville, Cahfornia, 
related by Inez Haynes Gillmore in 
Harper s Weekly for April 4- : " An 
English lad, the possessor of a beautiful 
tenor voice, song leader of the hop pick- 
ers, was walking along carrying a bucket 
of water. A deputy sheriff shot him 
down." One thinks of the ^Michigan 
copper mines. Alexander Irvine told us 
something about peonage in the South 
in his " Magyar." The New York 
East Side with its 36^,367* dark rooms 
and its t"lung block with nearly four 
thousand people, some four hundred of 
whom are babies. In the past nine years 
alone this block has reported two hun- 
dred and sixty-five cases of tubercu- 
losis." In Pittsburgh alone, according 
to The Literary Digest of January 16, 
1909, five hundred laborers are killed 
and an unknown number injured every 
year in the steel industry. According 
to Dr. Peter Roberts about eighty per 
cent of those suffering from rickets in 
Chicago are Italians, Greeks, and S3'ri- 
ans. This disease is almost unknown in 
the southern countries. The following 
is taken from an article by Henry A. 
Atkinson in Harper'' s Weekly: 

The policy of the companies has been to 
exclude the more intelligent, capable English- 
speaking laborers by importing large numbers 
from southern Europe: Greeks, Slavonians, 
Bulgarians, Magyars, M^mtenegrins, Albanians, 
Turks as well as representatives from all of the 
Balkan states. The Labor Bureau charges the 

* Fifth Report of Tenement House Depart- 
ment. 1909. Page 102. 

t Ernest Poole: — A HandbooJc on the Preven- 
tion of Tuberculosis. 

large corporations of the state with hiring these 
men — ' ' because they can be handled and 
abused with impunity. "... Louis Tikas is 
dead. His body riddled with fifty-one shots 
from rapid fire guns, lay uncared for twenty- 
four hours at Ludlow where he had been for 
seven months the respected chief of his Greek 
countrymen. He was shot while attempting to 
lead the women and children to a place of 
safety. At least sLx women and fifteen little 
children died with him. 

"Open wide our gates and set him on 
his way to happiness " says Mary Antin. 

Sixty thousand illiterate women were 
admitted in 1911 to this country. The 
president of The Woman's National In- 
dustrial League says in this connection 
to the House Committee : " Syndicates 
exist in New York and Boston for the 
purpose of supplying fresh young girls 
from immigrants arriving in this coun- 
try for houses of ill fame. Immigrants 
arriving in New York furnish twenty 
thousand victims annually." Mr. Jacob 
Riis said very recentl}^ : " Scarce a 
Greek comes here, man or boy, Avho is 
not under contract. A hundred dollars 
a year is the price, so it is said by those 
who know, though the padrone's cunning 
has put the legal proof beyond their 

But these are statistics, and Mary 
Antin is horrified by statistics except 
when she can prove that " the average 
immigrant famih^ of the new period is 
represented by an ascending curve. The 
descending cur\^es are furnished by de- 
generate families of what was once prime 
American stock." The " happiness " 
that those who knock at our gates run 
into once they land in our mines, facto- 
ries, sweatshops, department stores, etc., 
might be traced further. The real ques- 
tion is this: Is immigration good for 
the immigrant.'' In view of the above 
facts there is but one answer so far as 
the illiterate and physically weak are 

The Little Review 


concerned. Twisting of facts out of a 
desire to reach certain conclusions will 
only harm the immigrant and the inhab- 
itants of this coimtry. 

Mary Antin would have been Mary 
Antin in Russia, Turlcey, or Apligan- 
istan. The weak and the illiterate are 

the ones who keep this question in the 
foreground. Probably the only excep- 
tion is the Russian Jew. He has no 
country of his own and the New York 
P^ast Side is a comparative improvement 
over the Czar's empire. 

William Saphier. 

The Unique James Family 

Notes of a Son and Brother, by Henry James. 
[Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.] 

Whatever the deprecators of Henry 
James's later manner may have to say 
about the difficulties of his involved style 
there are some situations, some plots, 
for which it is most happily suited. Was 
so haunting a ghost story ever written 
as that truly horrible one which involved 
two children — the name of which has 
unfortunately escaped me, for I should 
like to recommend it for nocturnal peru- 
sal. And in The Golden Bowl the grad- 
ual way you are led to perceive the 
wrong relationship between two of the 
characters, which, had it been offered 
bluntl}-, with no five degrees of approach 
and insinuation, would have lost half its 
mystery of guilt. xVs he himself says, 
in the Notes of a Son and Brother, " I 
like ambiguities, and detest great 

Unfortunately, the style that is fit- 
ting to a slow unfolding of a psycho- 
logical situation does not lend itself well 
to biography. The direct way is the 
only possible way there, if the reader is 
to keep an unflagging interest, and the 
direct way is simply not possible for 
Henry James. And one asks nothing 
more than to be told simply of the 
student days at Switzerland and Ger- 

man}^, and the life afterward at New- 
port, just as the Civil War was begin- 
ning or best of all throughout the 
story of a united family — the four 
boys, little sister, father, mother, and aunt, 
quite unlike, I imagine, any other family 
in the world. The quality of the genius of 
the brothers seems to have sprung from 
the association with a father as unlike as 
possible to the American father of today. 
He did not influence them, we are told, 
by any power of verbal persuasion to 
his own ideas. It was quite simply him- 
self, his personality and character, the 
way he lived life, that took hold upon 
his sons' imagination. Of course that 
is the only way anyone ever is influ- 
enced, but I think most parents do try 
the verbal persuasion as well. Henrj'^ 
James says of his father: 

I am not sure, indeed, that the kind of per- 
sonal history most appealing to my father 
would not have been some kind that should 
fairly proceed by mistakes, mistakes more 
human, more associational, less angular, less 
hard for others, that is less exemplary for them 
(since righteousness, as mostly understood, was 
in our parents ' view, I think, the cruellest thing 
in the world) than straight and smug and de- 
clared felicities. The qualification here, I 
allow, would be his scant measure of the dif- 


The Little Review 

ference, after all, for the life of the soul, be- 
tween the marked achievement and the marked 
shortcoming. He had a manner of his own of 
appreciating failure or of not, at least, piously 
rejoicing in displayed moral, intellectual, or even 
material economies, which, had it not been that 
his humanity, his generosity, and, for the most 
part, his gaiety were always, at the worst, con- 
sistent, might sometimes have left us with our 
small saving, our little exhibitions and com- 
placencies, rather on our hands. 

Speaking of the " detached " f eehng 
they had after returning from Europe 
to settle in Newport, he says : 

I remember well how, when we were all young 
together, we had, under pressure of the Amer- 
ican ideal in that matter, then so rigid, felt it 
tasteless and even humiliating that the head 
of our little family was not in business. . . . 

Such had never been the case with the father 
of any boy of our acquaintance; the business 
in which the boy's father gloriously was stood 
forth inveterately as the very first note of our 
comrade's impressiveness. We had no note of 
that sort to produce, and I perfectly recover 
the effect of my own repeated appeal to our 
parent for some presentable account of him 
that would prove us respectable. Business 
alone was respectable — if one meant by it, 
that is, the calling of a lawyer, a doctor, or a 
minister (we never spoke of clergymen) as 
well; I think if we had had the Pope among 
us we should have supposed the Pope in busi- 
ness, just as I remember my friend Simpson's 
telling me crushingly, at one of our New York 
schools, on my hanging back with the fatal 
truth about our credentials, that the author of 
Ms being was in the business of stevedore. 
That struck me as a great card to play — the 
word was fine and mysterious; so that "What 
shall we tell them you are, don't you see?" 
could but become on our lips at home a more 
constant appeal. 

Very interesting are the occasional 
letters telling of Emerson and Carlyle. 
Especially so to me are the side lights 
on Carlyle, as chiming in somehow Avith 
the series of impressions I seem gradu- 
all}^ to have accumulated about him as 
time goes on. Perhaps it really isn't 

fair, as a large amount of those impres- 
sions I feel sure I owe to Froude, but I 
can't help wondering what our times, 
with modern surgery and therapeutics, 
would have accomplished Avith Carl3"le's 
indigestion, and what resultant differ- 
ence there would assuredly have been 
in his philosophy. To quote from a let- 
ter of the elder Henry James : 

I took our friend M to see him [Car- 
lyle], and he came away greatly distressed and 
desillusionnc, Carlyle having taken the utmost 
pains to deny and descry and deride the idea 
of his having done the least good to anybody, 
and to profess, indeed, the utmost contempt 
for everybody who thought he had, and poor 

M being intent on giving him a plenary 

assurance of this fact in his own case. 

And again in a letter to Emerson: 

Carlyle nowadays is a palpable nuisance. If 
he holds to his present mouthing ways to the 
end he will find no showman la-bas to match 
him. . . . Carlyle 's intellectual pride is so 
stupid that one can hardly imagine anything 
able to cope with it. 

An earlier letter has this delicious bit 
about Hawthorne : 

Hawthorne isn't to me a prepossessing fig- 
ure, nor apparently at all an enjoying person. 
. . . But in spite of his rusticity I felt a sym- 
pathy for him fairly amounting to anguish, and 
couldn 't take my eyes off him all dinner, nor my 
rapt attention. ... It was heavenly to see him 
persist in ignoring the spectral smiles — in eat- 
ing his dinner and doing nothing but that, and 
then go home to his Concord den to fall upon 
his knees and ask his heavenly Father why it 
was that an owl couldn 't remain an owl and not 
be forced into the diversions of a canary! 

And in the postcript of the same 

What a world, what a world! But once we 
get rid of Slavery the new heavens and the 
new earth will swim into reality. 

Which shows how much in earnest the 
Abolitionists really were — it was a tenet 
of faith with them. Sad and strange 

The Little Review 


and illuminating to us of a later genera- 
tion, who are now struggling for other 
abolitions of slavery, and still hoping 
for a new world. 

I wish I could quote from the delight- 
ful letters of William James, but they 
must be read entire, with the author's 
comments, to place them correctly. 
Pending a biography of the man, these 
letters will be to many readers the most 

interesting feature of the book. One of 
the most magnificent things about the 
book, however, — if I may use a large 
word for a large concept — is the spirit 
running through it of filial and fra- 
ternal love, never expressed in so many 
words, but apparent throughout, which 
makes, as I said before, the James fam- 
ily unique in the history of American 

De Morgan's Latest 

When Ghost Meets Ghost, by "William De Morgan. 
[Henry Holt and Company, New York.] 

Whatever else I may say about De 
Morgan's new book, I absolutely refuse 
to tell the number of its pages. Every 
other criticism begins or ends with this 
uninteresting fact, and usually adds that 
it makes no difference how long it is, 
since the writer's charm pervades it all. 
But it does make a diffei"ence, and it is 
too trite to say we are so hurried and 
nervous and given over to frivolity now- 
adays that we are unable to read Dick- 
ens and Thackeray and Scott and De 
Morgan. There is a great deal more 
to read, and a great deal more to do 
and to think about, than ever there was 
in Thackeray's da}'. And if we are 
going to spend our time reading count- 
less pages ( I very nearly told how many, 
after all!) we want to be sure it is more 
worth while than anything else wc can 
be doing, or thinking, or reading. 

However, one can't say very well that 
he greatly admires a stork, or would if 
he had a short beak and short legs. De 
Morgan's style is his own, and he will 

tell the story his own way, though we 
all have a quarrel with him for leaving 
the most interesting bits to a short " Pen- 
drift" at the end. Did Given's lover 
contemplate taking his East Indian poi- 
son when the newspapers announced that 
she was to marry an Austrian noble.'* 
Think of cutting that episode off in a 
few words, while an entire chapter is 
devoted to a " shortage of mud " for 
little Dave and Dolly, who were making 
a dyke in the street ! But then, De Mor- 
gan doesn't know how to stop when he 
begins to talk of children. How he 
loves them, and all other helpless crea- 
tures ! He can't speak even of kittens 
without a touch of tenderness : 

Mrs. Lapping explained that she was using 
it (the basket) to convey a kitten, born in her 
establishment, to Miss Druitt at thirty-four 
opposite, who had expressed anxiety to possess 
it. It was this kitten's expression of impa- 
tience with its position that had excited Mrs. 
Riley 's curiosity. * ' Why don 't ye carry the 
little sowl across in your hands, me dyurr?" 
she said, not unreasonably, for it was only a 


The Little Review 

stone's throw. Mrs. Topping added that this 
was no common kitten, but one of preternat- 
ural activities and possessed of diabolical, ten- 
tacular powers of entanglement. "I would 
not undertake," said she, "to get it across 
the road, ma'am, only catching hold. Nor if 
I got it safe across, to onhook it, without tear- 
ing. " Mrs. Eiley was obliged to admit the 
wisdom of the Janus basket. She knew how 
difficult it is to be even with a kitten." 

It is bits like tliis that make Mr. De 
Morgan's story so long, and it is bits 
like this that reconcile us to its length. 
I believe most readers won't care greatly 
whether the two poor old sisters who 
have been separated so many years ever 
do meet again. There is no feeling of 
climax when they do — merely relief that 
the thing has finally been put across. It 
was beginning to look as if it never 
would happen ; and though the reader 
himself, as I say, doesn't greatly care, 
he can see that De Morgan does ; he has 
apparently been doing his best to bring 
it about, but the cantankerous ones just 
wouldn't let him. 

On the other hand, who can help lov- 
ing Given o' the Towers — all sweetness, 
beauty, and light.'' Only — isn't she 
really more of a twentieth-century hero- 
ine than a Victorian young lad}', with 
her crisp decisiveness and air of being 
most ably able to look out for herself? 
Truly Victorian, however, are our " slow 
couple " — Miss Dickenson and Mr. Pel- 
lew. Miss Dickenson is thirty-six, and, 
by all Victorian standards, quite out of 
the running. De Morgan is extremely 
apologetic for allowing her to have a 
romance at this belated hour — her 

charms faded and gone. But we are 
betting quite heavily on Miss Dicken- 
son's chances for happiness with the 
Hon. Mr. Pellew. The two were " good 
gossips," and would always have topics 
of interest in common. 

The Pendrift at the end — quite the 
most fascinating part of the book — 
tells us of the daughter of this union 
Cicely, by this time sixteen years old. 

"You know," says the girl, Cis, — 
who is new and naturally knows things, 
and can tell her parents, — "you know 
there is never the slightest reason for 
apprehension as long as there is no delu- 
sion. Even then we have to discriminate 
carefully between fixed and permanent 
delusions and " 

" Shut up. Mouse ! " says her father. 
"What's that striking.?" '. . . 

The young lady says, " Well, I got it 
all out of a book." 

One good reason for reading De Mor- 
gan is the fact that he is older than the 
majority of his readers. We read so 
much, we hear so much acclaimed that 
is written by children of twenty, whose 
experience of life must necessarily be 
got, like Cicely's, " out of a book." The 
saj'ing of De Maupassant surely applies 
here — that the writer must sit down 
before an object until he has seen it in 
the way that he alone can see it. De 
^f organ has had the opportunity of see- 
ing life, surely, and knowing what most 
of it amounts to. The result is a large 
tolerance and tenderness toward his fel- 
low men. 

M. H. P. 

The Little Review 


The Economics of Social Insurance 

Social Insurance: 

With Special Beference to American Conditions, by I. M. Eubinow. 
[Ilenry Holt and Company, New York.] 

The logic of events is rapidly forcing 
nation after nation into what has hith- 
erto been damned with the epithet pater- 
nalism. America, perhaps, is the last 
important country in the world to face 
the problems raised by the march of 
events in this direction. Social insur- 
ance, a thing accomplished and a com- 
monplace of government functioning in 
so many countries, recently adopted in 
England, is, in this country, still a nov- 
elty outside the university class room 
and the lecture halls of fanatical dema- 
gogues who wish to upset the founda- 
tions of our civil government and civil- 
ization — as the elder politicians express 
it when their attention is drawn to these 
sinister activities of thought. 

The author of this book in fact was 
the first academic lecturer on the subject 
to give a university course in the vari- 
ous forms which social insurance has 
taken. These lectures he delivered be- 
fore the New York School of Philan- 
thropy, and they are reprinted here in 
an extended form. 

After giving the philosophy of the 
matter, the underlying social necessity 
for insurance, the author takes up the 
various forms of the activity. Acci- 
dent, disease, old age, and unemploy- 
ment must all be provided against, and 
the state, the employer, and the laborer 
may share the burden among them, or 
the two latter may be relieved — as in 
various types of non-contributory in- 

Of course the old school economist 
will ask why the latter two are not re- 
lieved, and why the employe or private 
citizen is not just encouraged to in- 

sure with a private corporation. The 
author's answer is that, even if he 
were educated to the point of desiring 
to do that, he could not. A man in- 
sures his house because the feeling of 
security is worth the small premium he 
pays, even if that premium is larger than 
the actual risk involved would warrant 
- — - larger by a sum equal to the cost and 
profits of the business of the insurance 
company. But the poor man's chances 
of loss of employment, accident, or sick- 
ness are so much greater in proportion 
to the capitalized value of his job that 
he could never afford to pay the pre- 
mium necessary for a private company 
to take care of him; while his old age 
could not be insured without taking all 
of his earnings — and even then he 
might die before he reached it. 

The situation then is that an admitted 
necessity cannot be obtained unless the 
state as a whole takes steps to attain 
it for all the members of the state. How 
other states have done this, how type 
after type of insurance has been evolved, 
and how these t3^pes may be adapted to 
American practice is the burden of the 
present work. 

The author writes in a clear and non- 
technical manner, and makes no extrava- 
gant claims for what some people may 
regard as a social panacea; but he Is 
confident that the full development of 
the idea of social insurance will relieve 
the worst aspects of poverty — the as- 
pects in which poverty is not only a 
hardship, but a haunting spirit, sapping 
the vitality of its victims until they are 
rendered socially useless. 

Llewellyn Jones. 


The Little Review 

Prose Poems of Ireland 

Bed Hanrahan, by William Butler Yeats. New edition. 
[The Macmillan Company, New York.] 

If you believe, with Chesterton, that 
"should the snap dragon open its little 
pollened mouth and sing 'twould be no 
more wonderful a thing" than that a 
solemn little blue egg should turn into a 
big happy red-breasted bird ; if you are 
of " the young men that dream dreams " 
or of "the old men who have visions" 
the songs and the tales and the wander- 
ings and the mysteries of " Red " Owen 
Hanrahan will thrill you with a sense of 
your real nearness to " something lovelier 
than Heaven." 

Such a group of tales of the people 
and by the people as Mr. Yeats has 
gathered together in Red Hanrahan can 
be nothing if not a personal matter. 
Franklj^, I never saw a fairy, or a 
gnome, or a hobgoblin. I have never 
even had a vision worth writing a book 
about; but I am young yet, and if the 
gods continue to be kind ... In the 
meanwhile I shall grasp the first oppor- 
tunity to read Red Hanrahan in a deep 
woods, at dusk — regardless of the opti- 
cian's orders. H. B. S. 

To William Butler Yeats 

Marguerite O. B. Wilkinson 

As one, who, wandering down a squalid street, 
Where dingy buildings crowd each other high, 
Where all who pass have need to hurry by. 
Saddened and parched and fighting through the heat. 
Comes suddenly where pain and beauty meet, 
And sees a stretch of fair, unsullied sky. 
Covering a field of clover bloom, so I, 
With heart prepared to find the contrast sweet 

In seeking through a world of sordid prose, 

Where use-stained words with luiddlcd shoulders stand 
In sullen, monumental, loveless rows, 

Have found a sudden green and sunny land 
Where you, O Poet, give us back lost wonder, 
Leisure, sweet fields, clean skies to travel under ! 

The Little Review 


Sentence Reviews 

[Inclusion in this category does not preclude a more extended notice.] 

The Titan, by Theodore Dreiser [John Lane 
Company, New York], will be reviewed at 
length in the July issue. 

Clay and Fire, by Layton Crippen. [Henry 
Holt and Company, New York.] A provoca- 
tive philosophical discussion of the basal prob- 
lem of religion by an author who treats pessim- 
ism according to the homeopathic principle. 
Reasonable hopes are made to seem hopeless. 
A morbid retrospectiveness may, however, force 
thought into light, and the book leaves one in 
a strange illumination effected by spiritual fire. 

At the Sign of the Van, by Michael Mona- 
han. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] These 
essays include The Log of the Papyrus ivith 
Other Escapades in Life and Letters. Whether 
he is praising Percival Pollard, explaining 
Whitman 's cosmic consciousness — which he did 
to a Whitman Fellowship gathering — or wist- 
fully telling us how he would like to have had 
a look in on the doings in Babylon, the amorous 
dallyings which Jeremiah muckraked in the 
name of his Comstockean Jehovah, Michael 
Monahan is always interesting even if he is not 
always as stormy as his designation "the 
stormy petrel of literature" would indicate. 
In truth it would take a number of birds of 
different species — but all pleasant ones — to 
make up the tale of the qualities which this 
versatile essayist exhibits in these pages. 

Aphrodite and Other Poems, by John Helston. 
[The Macmillan Company, New York.] Mr. 
Helston does not write great poetry, — though 
he comes close to very good poetry at times, — 
but he writes greatly about love. His attitude 
is a refusal to divorce the spiritual from the 
earthly with which we have a hearty sympathy. 
No franker love poetry has been written, prob- 
ably; but somehow we failed to find in it the 
sensuality that its critics have discovered. It 
is richly pagan. 

Love of One's Neighbor, by Leonid Andreyev. 
[Albert and Charles Boni, New York.] A very 
excellent translation of a one-act play which 
will probably sell well, though coming from the 
author of The Seven Who Were Banged it 

seems a mere trifle. The translator, Thomas 
Seltzer, should be urged to undertake the more 
worthy task of introducing Andreyev's really 
great work to English-speaking readers. 

New Men for Old, by Howard Vincent 
O'Brien. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] 
The first novel of a new young writer, espe- 
cially when he is as sincere as Mr. O'Brien 
and as deeply interested in the joy of Work, 
is a matter of importance. The book has its 
obvious faults technically, even psychologically, 
but it preaches socialism from an interesting 
standpoint and makes good reading. 

Challenge, by Louise Untermeyer. [The 
Century Co., New York.] Virile and ambitious 
songs of the present. Caliban in the Coal 
Mines, Any City, Strilcers, In the Subway, The 
Heretic, show that the poet is not a shrinker 
from modern life. The title poem sounds the 
keynote : 

The quiet and courageous night. 
The keen vibration of the stars 

Call me, from morbid peace, to fight 
The world's forlorn and desperate wars. 

John Ward, M.B., by Charles Vale. [Mitchell 
Kennerley, New York.] Seneschal sentimental- 
ity with a ' ' modern ' ' plot woven about the 
questionable science of eugenics. One of those 
irritating books in which one reads page after 
page after jjage in the vain endeavor to find 
out why Mitchell Kennerly spent his money 
on it. 

Forum Stories, selected by Charles Vail. 
[Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] All these 
stories have appeared in The Forum since it 
came under Mr. Kennerley 's management, and 
they are all by American writers. They rep- 
resent the work not only of such well known 
writers as Reginal Wright Kauffman, James 
Hopper, Margaret Widdemer, and John S. 
Reed — who has a tense little narrative of the 
struggle toward land of two swimmers wrecked 
in the Pacific Ocean — but the work of several 
lesser known but promising authors. Among 
them is Miss Florence Kiper, of Chicago, who 
writes under the title I Have Borne My Lord a 
Son a most penetrating study of the psychology 
of motherhood. 


The Little Review 

Papa, by Zoe Akins. [Mitchell Kennerley, 
New York.] A little play which shows so much 
determination to be clever and very, very 
naughty that it's almost a pity it doesn't 

/Saint Louis: a Civic Masque, by Percy Mac- 
Kaye. [Doubleday, Page and Company, New 
York.] A valuable contribution to the dramatic 
"spirit" of awakening civic intelligence. 

Great Days, by Frank Harris. [Mitchell 
Kennerley, New York.] Audacious, vivid, 
gripping sex experiences of the son of an 
immoral English innkeeper. The big rough 
brother of Three Weeks. 

Poems, by Walter Conrad Amberg. [Hough- 
ton Mifflin Company, Boston.] Poems written 
with a sure and gentle delicacy that seems for- 
gotten by this generation of rude iconoclasts. 

The True Adventures of a Play, by Louis 
Evan Shipman. [Mitchell Kennerley, New 
York.] The play is D'Arcy of the Guards and 
its author tells in full the trials and tribula- 
tions — and the eventual triumph — which met 
him from the moment when he offered to submit 
the manuscript to E. H. Sothern, and that star 
told him to send it along. Not only are the 
details of acceptances of plays, the incidental 
negotiations and red tape described, but the 
making of costume plates, the designing of the 
whole presentation, and the collaboration be- 
tween author, producer, and actors are told 
with such humor and documentary fidelity to the 
actual transactions that the book will not only 
be interesting to the general reader but indis- 
pensable to the tyro playwright. 

Nova Hibernia, by Michael Monahan. [Mitch- 
ell Kennerley, New York.] Competent, inci- 
sive studies, sketches, and lectures dealing with 
"Irish poets and dramatists of today and yes- 
terday" — Yeats, Synge, Thomas Moore, Man- 
gan, Gerald Griffin, Callahan, Doctor Maginn, 
Father Prout, Sheridan, and others. 

The Pipes of Clovis, by Grace Duffie Boylan. 
[Little, Brown, and Company, Boston.] A 
forester 's son proficient on a magic pipe ; a blue 
and silver-gowned princess; the invasion of 
Swabia by the Huns away back in the twelfth 
century, all woven into a romance for children 
and grown-ups who still love the fairies. 

The Post Office, by Eabindranath Tagore. 
[The Maemillan Company, New York.] A 
touching little idyll of a sick child who longs 
for a letter from the king through the post 
office which he can see across the road. And 
his dream comes true. Written in rhythmic 

Sanctiiary, by Percy MacKaye. [Frederick 
A. Stokes, New York.] A bird masque per- 
formed in September, 1913, for the dedication 
of the bird sanctuary of the Meriden Bird 
Club at Meriden, N. H. A defense of birds 
and a defense of poetry. The theme is the 
conversion of a bird slaughterer. The verse is 
full of ' ' birdblithesomeness. ' ' 

Old World Memories, by Edward Lowe Tem- 
ple. [The Page Company, Boston.] The story 
of a summer vacation in Europe as naive, as 
full of human interest, disjoined history, and 
worthy indefinite advice as the after dinner 
"post card tour" of a just-returned Cook's 

A Wonder-Child Violinist 

Continued from page 19 

deep G string melody. His mouth wtis 
the saddest little mouth I've ever seen, 
and somehow you could watch the music 
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right foot kept moving gently inside his 
shoe, always in perfect time. 

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The Little Review 

Vol. I JULY, 1914 No. 5 


{A M\fster}f Rime for Little Children of All Ages) 

The rain comes down and veils the hills. 
Ah, tender rain for aching fields! 

The hills are clothed in a mist of rain. 
(My heart is clothed in a mist of pain.) 
Ah, mother rain, that laves the field, 
If I to you my poor soul yield. 
Will you not cleanse it, soothe it, tend it, 
Weep upon it 'til 'tis mended? 
'Twas sweet to sow, 'tis hard to reap. 
Come, mother rain, and lull me to sleep. 
Lull me to sleep and wash me away, 
Out of the realm of Night and Day, 
Back to the bourne from whence I came, 
Seeming alike yet not the same. . . . 

Rain, you are more than rain to me. 

And Lash of Pain may be a Key. 

Ope, then, the door and tread within. 

The double Door of Good and Sin 

Is vanquished. Lo, with bread and wine, 

The table's spread! The feast is Mine! 

The Little R e v i e to 


Amidst the buzz of bawdy tales 

And the laughter of drinking men, 

1 sat and laughed and shouted also. 

Yet was I not content. 

My seared and restless eyes, turning here and there, — 

Like my tired soul, — 

Seeking new joys and finding them not, — 

How oft swept you unseeing. 

Until, suddenly, — 

And now I know not how I could have missed it, — 

My eyes saw into yours. 

And plumbed the deep wells of newly born desire. 

Ah, dear my heart, what things your eyes did speak! 
Not God's own music of creation's dawn. 
Revealed to mystic in a holy trance, 
Could pleasure me more sweetly. 

So dear were your lips — 
Your lips so kind and regal red. 
My memory of your lips I cherish 
As a great possession . . . 

Ah, flying joy. 

Caught on the wings of Time . . . 

Tender oasis, 

Ingemmed in a wilderness of grey ! 

Kisses, kisses, — 

Kisses upon your red lips in the black night . . . 

When, alone in the long, quiet street. 

By the door of the tavern. 

Shielded from sight of those within. 

The soft rain falling on our heads like a mother's blessins 

We bartered the clinging kisses of new desire. 

The Little Review 

And, as I held you to me, 
The whole universe 
Became informed of God, 
And lay within my arms. 


You are possessed by another. 
How I hate him! 

Hear the rational people say: "Jealousy is a primitive thing. A 

thing of the emotions; not of reason." 
Fools! You do not know scarlet desire, full-flooded! 

Ah, my dearest, Graal of my heart's longing. 

Your stolen kiss is fresh upon my neck. 

My lips are full of my secret kiss upon your neck. 

You are with another, whom I hate; whom I like well for himself, but 
hate because he possesses you . . . 

Your possessor is old and ugly; 

He can not love you as I can. 

I can pour out for you the scented treasures of my young love. 

Dear night of hope, when you gave me the whispered promise to come 
to me . . . 

Stealthy was I and cunning. 

Friendly and attentive was I to your old lover (if lover he may be 

called, who is almost incapable of love). 
And, all the time, I was scheming for you. 
When the old man was away for an instant — 
Oh, golden moment, — 

I poured my whispered passion into your ears. 
When he looked away, or, for a moment, was distracted, with swift 

undertones I declared myself to you. 
How dear was your welcoming glance and your quickly toned assent! 

4 The Little Review 

You had a face so proud. 

So quiet and poised among the throng. 

Yet, for once, you gave me your eyes and, in so doing, gave me your 

priceless body and warm, comradely soul. 
Ah, flash of answering love that transformed your face! 
As a jewel of my memory's treasure-casket may it be preserved. 

When the drinking-place was closed, we walked along the dark street. 
Do you remember? 

We were four, luckily, and the old man was kept busy in conversation, 
half drunken as he was. 

And we, with our secret between us, walked behind. 

Our hands were tight clasped in the folds of our dress. 

Tight clasped with the clinging hand caress; you and I trying to put 

into our hands all the longing that was in us. 
All the time we were apprehensive of a sudden turning of the old 

man or the other . . . 

Then, the whispered troth, and the meeting-place appointed. 

And, then, later, boldly, so openly and audaciously it brought no 

Under seeming of wine-induced jollity, we kissed. 
And they laughed; it seemed a trivial jest to them. 
But to us it was a sacrament. 

But, best of all, my beloved, was the hurried clasping and kissing 

when we were alone in the dark. 
Promise of joy to come. 
Foretaste of the coming ecstasy. 

And then we had to part. 
I and my unaware friend. 
You and the old man. 

As I walked home that night. 
How I hated him! 

T he Little Re v tew 6 

How I looked up at the pale-golden moon high-hung in the purple 
sky, and sang in my heart your praise and cursed in my heart 
your possessor . . . 

But we will out-wit him. 

Young I am and young are you and the Law of Life bids us mate. 
And a whole world standing between us would be melted and de- 
stroyed by the fire of our youth's desire. 


1 swim with the tide of life towards the new ; 

I reach out hungered arms to flowing change. — 
I smash the awesome totems of my kind; 

My smarting vision bursts its cramping range. 

A thousand voices yell within my soul; 

A thousand hymns are chanting in my heart. — 
I blast the mist of worlds and years apart ; 

I sense the blending glory of the whole. 

The sap of flowers and trees, it mounts in me. 

I feel the child w^ithin me cry and turn ; 

The crimson thoughts within me writhe and burn. — 
I stand, with craving arms high-flung, before the rimless sea. 

And every whirling, passionate star sings melodies to Me; 

And every bud and every leaf has sought my private ear; 

And to the quickening soul of Me has told its mystery, 
As I sit in state in the heart of the world, 
As I proudly hug the core of the world. 
As I make me a boat of the whole, wide world . . 

And then for new worlds steer. 

6 The Little Review 



nnHERE seems to be a kind of renaissance of motherhood in the air. 

Ellen Key has just done a book with that title which has come to 
us too late to be reviewed adequately in this issue; Mrs. Gasquoine 
Hartley has written The Age of Mother Power which will be brought 
out in the fall; and in Shaw's new volume of plays {Misalliance, 
Fanny's First Pla^ and The Dark Ladvi of the Sonnets) there is a 
preface of over a hundred pages devoted to a discussion of parents and 
children which says some of the most refreshing and important things 
about that relationship I have ever read. 

The home, as such, is rapidly losing its old functions — perhaps it 
is more accurate to say that it is changing its standards of functioning, 
and that the present distress merely heralds in a wonderful new con- 
ception of family potentiality. But a generalization of this sort can 
be disputed by any family egotist, so let's get down to particulars. It's 
all right for the enlightened of the older generation to preach violently 
that the family is a humbug, as Shaw does; that the child should have 
all the rights of any other human being, and that there is nothing so 
futile or so stupid as to try to "control " your children. It's not only 
all right; it's glorious! But what I'm more interested in, still being of 
the age that must classify as "daughter," is this: — what are "the chil- 
dren" themselves doing about it? Have their rebellions been anything 
more than complaints ; have they made any real stand for liberty ; have 
they proved themselves worthy of the Shavian championship? 

Well — I got hold recently of a human document which answered 
these questions quite in the affirmative. It was a rather startling thing 
because, while it offered nothing new on the theory side of the matter, 
it show^ed the theory in thoughtful action — which, for all the talk on 
the subject, is still rare. It was a letter of some twenty pages written 
by a girl to her mother at the time of a domestic climax when all the 
bonds of family affection, family idealism and obligation w^ere tending 
to smother the human truth of the situation, as the girl put it. She 
was in her early twenties; she had a sister two or three years younger, 
and both of them had reached at least a sort of economic independence. 
She had come to the conclusion, after a good many years of rebellion. 

The JLittle R eview 7 

that the whole fabric of their family life was wrong; and since it was 
impossible to talk the thing out sensibly — because, as in all families 
where the children grow up without being given the necessary revalua- 
tions, real talk is no more possible than it is between uncongenial 
strangers — she had decided to discuss it in a letter. That medium does 
away with the patronage of the parents' refusal to listen seriously: — 
that "Ch, come now, what do you know about these things?" If the 
child has anything interesting to say, if he puts any of his rebellion into 
his writing, the chances are that the parent will read the letter through; 
and the result is that he'll know more about his child than he has 
learned in all the years they've been trying to talk with each other and 
not succeeding. I'm enthusiastic about this kind of family correspond- 
ence; it's good training in expression and it clears the air — jolts the 
"heads" of the family into realizing that the thinking and planning are 
not all on one side. I once did it myself to my father — put ten pages 
of closely-written argument on his office desk (so that he'd open it 
v/ith the same impersonality given to a business communication), in 
which I explained why I wanted to go away from home and learn to 
Work, ^^^ why I thought such a course was an intelligent one. The 
letter accomplished what no amount of talking would have done, be- 
cause in our talk we rarely got beyond the "Oh, now, you're just a lit- 
tle excited, it will look different in the morning" stage. Father said it 
was rather a shock to him because he didn't know I had ever figured 
things out to that extent ; but we always understood each other better 
after that. 

However — not to get lost in personalities — this is the letter the 
girl showed me and which she allows me to quote from partially : 

If we are to continue living together in any sort of happiness and growth 
the entire basis of our present life will have to be changed. We can do it if 
we're brave enough to do what people usually do only in books: — face the 
fact squarely that our family life is and has been a failure, and set about to 
remedy it. It will mean an entire change of home conditions, and these are 
the terms of the new arrangement: 

When I said to you the other day that things would have to go m)j way 
now, you were horrified at the conceit of it. To get to facts, there's no con- 
ceit in it — because my way is simply the practise of not imposing one's will 
upon other people. I made the remark merely as a common sense suggestion, 
and made it out of a seriousness that is desperate. I say "desperate" because 
I mean that literally: the situation isn't a question of a mere temporary adjust- 
ment — just some sort of superficial arrangement so that we can get on pleas- 
antly for a while before the next outbreak comes. The plans Betty and I 
have discussed have been made in the interest of our whole future lives: — 

8 The Little Review 

whether we're going to submit (either by surrender or compromise or by 
just drifting along and not doing anything) to an existence of bickering, nag- 
ing, hours spent in the discussion of non-essentials, hideous lack of harmony — 
the whole stupid programme we've watched working for years and achieving 
nothing but unhappiness, folly, and a terrible "human waste." You ask us 
to continue in your way; but from at least three points of view that way has 
been a failure. I ask you to adopt my way — which has not yet failed. That's 
why 1 say it's not conceit, but common sense. 

My way is simply this: that we three can live together and work in peace 
and harmony if this awful bugbear of Authority is dropped out of the scheme. 
Each of us must go her own way; we're all different, and there's no reason 
why one should impose her authority on the lives of the others. You say that 
you should because you're our mother. But that's the thing I want to discuss. 

Motherhood isn't infallibility. If a woman is a wise woman she's a wise 
mother; if she's a foolish woman she's a foolish mother. Because you're our 
mother doesn't mean that you must always be right; before being a mother 
you're a human being, and any human being is likely to be wrong. To get 
down to brutal facts, we think you are not right about the whole thing. We've 
thought so for years, but now it's come to the time when our thinking must be 
put into action. We're no longer children; but even as mere infants we 
thought these things — without having the right to express them. What I'm 
trying to do now is to express them not as a daughter, but quite impersonally 
as a human being, as a mere friend, a sister, or anyone who might come to 
you stating that she believed with all her soul that you were wrong, and also 
stating, just as impersonally, that she wouldn't think of modeling her line of 
conduct after that pattern which appeared to her so wrong. We must face the 
facts; if you do that squarely it doesn't seem so bad, and you stop flinching 
about it. You get to the point where you're not afraid to face them boldly, 
and then you begin to construct. And this is the only way to clear up the 
kind of rottenness and decay that flourishes in our family life. 

It's in the interest of this achievement that I say the thing a girl isn't 
supposed to say to her mother — namely, that Betty and I will not any longer 
subscribe to the things you expect us to. The fact to face just as quickly as 
possible is this: it's the starting point. When you realize that w^e feel it's a 
question of doing this or laying a foundation for lives that are just half lives — 
hideous perverted things which miss all the beauty that you can put into the 
short life given you — I think you'll see how serious we are. We're at least 
two intelligent human beings, if we're nothing else. And why should you ask 
or expect that we'll submit to a system which to us means stupidity, misery, 
pettiness — all those things which we've seen working out for years and which, 
being at least intelligent, we want to keep away from? 

That much settled, we can continue to live together in just one way — as 
three sisters or friends; the motherhood, in so far as it means authority or an 
attempt to mould us to your way, must be eliminated. A complete new family 
fdealism can be built on such a basis. You will say that it's an abnormal basis 
for any mother to accept. Of course it is; but the situation is abnormal, and 
the orthodox remedies aren't applicable. 

The reason I say the situation is abnormal is this: usually when a mother 
objects to her daughters' behavior it is on some definite basis of opposing the 
things they do — like going to too many parties or falling in love with the 
wrong man. You have very little fault to find with the things we do. Your 
objections are on a basis of what we are — or, rather, of what we are not: that 
we are not orthodox, that we are not hypocrites, that we are not the kind of 

The Little Review 9 

daughters the Victorians approved of. "Hypocrites" will sound paradoxical; 
but you have confessed that you would rather have us lie to you than to dis- 
agree with you; that you would rather have us be sentimental about "the way 
a girl should treat her mother" than to learn how we ought to treat ourselves. 
You call that being "respectful" and think that harmony is possible only under 
such conditions. We call it being "insulting," and think that it's the one sure 
way of destroying any chance of harmony. If we respect you it must be be- 
cause we think you worthy of the truth: anything else is degrading to both 

You'll say you can't be satisfied to live with us and not give advice and 
all the other things that are part of a mother's duty. You may give all the 
advice you want to; the keynote of the new situation will be that we'll take the 
advice if we believe it's right; if not we'll ignore it, just as a man ignores his 
friend's advice when he feels it to be wrong. Of course the wise person 
doesn't give much advice; he simply lives his life"" the best way he knows how. 
That's the only bid he can make for emulation. If we tell you that we don't 
approve of the creed you have made you mustn't be surprised if we try to 
formulate one of our own. There's no reason for us to ask you to change 
just because we're your daughters. You must do as you believe. But you 
must grant us the same privilege. 

We disagree about fundamentals. If our beliefs were merely the vague, 
unformed ideas of children you might try to change them. But it's too late 
now. So we can live together harmoniously only if we give up the foolish 
attempts at "influencing." 

We're not living three generations ago. We've had Shaw since then, 
and parents and children aren't doing the insulting things to each other they 
used to do. Among intelligent people some of the old issues can never raise 
their heads again. And so, it's for you to decide: — whether we shall build on 
the new foundation together or separately. 

It might be a play; it's certainly rather good for reality. And 
what happened? The mother refused to "accept the terms" — which is 
not surprising, perhaps; and the household broke up into two estab- 
lishments with results that will disappoint the conservative who thinks 
those girls should have been soundly beaten. The first wrench of it, 
the girl said, reminded her of George's parting with Marion in Tono- 
Bungay: — that sense of belonging to each other immensely, that "pro- 
found persuasion of irreparable error" in the midst of what seemed 
profoundly right. "Nothing is simple," Wells wrote in that connec- 
tion; "every wrong done has a certain justice in it, and every good 
deed has dregs of evil. " But the girl and her mother have learned to be 
friends as a result of that break, and the latter will tell you now that 
it was the right thing to have done. 

The preface to Misalliance has such a wealth of quotable things 
in it that the only way to get them appreciated is to quote. Shaw has 
said much of this before, but it is all so valuable that it ought to be 
shouted from the housetops: 

10 The Little Review 

The people against whom children are wholly unprotected are those 
who devote themselves to the very mischievous and cruel sort of abortion 
which is called bringing up a child in the way it should go. Now nobody 
knows the way a child should go. 

What is a child? An experiment. A fresh attempt to produce the just 
man made perfect: that is, to make humanity divine. And you will vitiate the 
experiment if you make the slightest attempt to abort it into some fancy figure 
of your own: for example, your notion of a good man or a womanly woman. 
If you treat it as a little wild beast to be tamed, or as a pet to be played with, 
or even as a means to save you trouble and to make money for you (and 
these are our commonest ways), it may fight its v^^ay through in spite of you 
and save its soul alive; for all its instincts will resist you, and possibly be 
strengthened in the resistance; but if you begin with its own holiest aspira- 
tions, and suborn them for your own purposes, then there is hardly any limit 
to the mischief you may do. 

Francis Place tells us that his father always struck his children when he 
found one within his reach. . . . Francis records the habit with bitter- 
ness, having reason to thank his stars that his father respected the inside of 
his head whilst cuffing the outside of it; and this made it easy for Francis to 
do yeoman's service to his country as that rare and admirable thing, a Free- 
thinker: the only sort of thinker, I may remark, whose thoughts, and conse- 
quently whose religious convictions, command any respect. 

Now Mr. Place, senior, would be described by many as a bad father; 
and 1 do not contend that he was a conspicuously good one. But as com- 
pared with the conventionally good father who deliberately imposes himself 
on his son as god; who takes advantage of childish credulity and parent wor- 
ship to persuade his son that what he approves of is right and what he disap- 
proves of is wrong; who imposes a corresponding conduct on the child by a 
system of prohibitions and penalties, rewards and eulogies, for which he 
claims divine sanction; compared to this sort of abortionist and monster maker, 
I say, Place appears almost as a Providence. 

A gentleinan once wrote to me and said, with an obvious conviction 
that he was being most reasonable and high minded, that the only thing he 
beat his children for v/as failure in perfect obedience and perfect truthfulness. 
On these attributes, he said, he must insist. As one of them is not a virtue at 
all, and the other is the attribute of a god, one can imagine what the lives of 
this gentleman's children would have been if it had been possible for him to 
live down to his monstrous and foolish pretentions. 

The cruelty (of beating a child) must be whitewashed by a moral excuse, 
and a pretense of reluctance. It must be for the child's good. The assailant 
must say "This hurts me more than it hurts you." There must be hypocrisy 
as well as cruelty. 

The most excusable parents are those who try to correct their own faults in 
their offspring. The parent who says to his child: "I am one of the successes 
of the Almighty: therefore imitate me in every particular or I will have the 
skin off your back" (a quite common attitude) is a much more absurd figure 
than the man who, with a pipe in his m.outh, thrashes his boy for smoking. 

If you must hold yourself up to your children as an object lesson (which 
is not at all necessary), hold yourself up as a warning and not as an example. 
But you had much better let the child's character alone. If you once allov/ 
yourself to regard a child as so much material for you to manufacture into any 
shape that happens to suit your fancy you are defeating the experiment of the 

The Little Review 11 

Life Force. You are assuming that the child does not know its own business, 
and that you do. In this you are sure to be wrong. The child feels the 
drive of the Life Force (often called the Will of God) ; and you cannot feel it 
for him. 

Most children can be, and many are, hopelessly warped and wasted by 
parents who are ignorant and silly enough to suppose that they know what a 
human being ought to be, and who stick at nothing in their determination to 
force their children into their moulds. 

Experienced parents, when children's rights are preached to them, very 
naturally ask whether children are to be allowed to do what they like. The best 
reply is to ask whether adults are to be allowed to do what they like. The two 
cases are the same. The adult who is nasty is not allowed to do what he likes: 
neither can the child who likes to be nasty. There is no difference in prin- 
ciple between the rights of a child and those of an adult: the difference in their 
cases is one of circumstance. 

Most working folk today either send their children to day schools or 
turn them out of doors. This solves the problem for the parents. It does not 
solve it for the children, any more than the tethering of a goat in the field or 
the chasing of an unlicensed dog in the streets solves it for the goat or the dog; 
but it shows that in no class are people willing to endure the society of their 
children, and consequently it is an error to believe that the family provides 
children with edifying adult society, or that the family is a social unit. 

The family is in that, as in so many other respects, a humbug. Old peo- 
ple and young people cannot walk at the same pace without distress and final 
loss of health to one of the parties. . . . And since our system is never- 
theless to pack them all into the same house and pretend that they are happy, 
and that this particular sort of happiness is the foundation of virtue, it is 
found that in discussing family life we never speak of actual adults or actual 
children, or of realities of any sort, but always of ideals such as The Home, a 
Mother's Influence, a Father's Care, Filial Piety, Duty, Affection, Family Life, 
etc., etc., which are no doubt very comforting phrases, but which beg the ques- 
tion of what a home and a mother's influence and a father's care and so forth 
really come to. . . . Women who cannot bear to be separated from their 
pet dogs send their children to boarding school cheerfully. They may say 
and even believe that in allowing their children to leave home they are sacri- 
ficing themselves for their children's good. . . . But to allege that chil- 
dren are better continually away from home is to give up the whole popular 
sentimental theory of the family. 

If you compel an adult and a child to live in one another's company 
either the adult or the child will be miserable. There is nothing whatever un- 
natural or wrong or shocking in this fact, and there is no harm in it if only it 
be sensibly faced and provided for. The mischief that it does at present is 
produced by our efforts to ignore it, or to smother it under a heap of senti- 
mental and false pretences. 

The child's rights, being clearly those of any other human being, are 
summed up in the right to live. . . . And the rights of society over it 
clearly extend to requiring it to quaHfy itself to live in society without wasting 
other people's time. 

We must reconcile education with liberty. We must find out some means 
of making men workers and, if need be, warriors, without making them 

In dealing with children what is needed is not logic but sense. 

12 The Little Revie^w 

A child should begin to assert itself early, and shift for itself more and 
more not only in washing and dressing itself, but in opinions and conduct. 
And what is a tyrant? Quite simply a person who says to another 
person, young or old, "You shall do as I tell you." 

Children are extremely cruel without intending it; and in ninety-nine cases 
out of a hundred the reason is that they do not conceive their elders as having 
any human feeling. Serve the elders right, perhaps, for posing as superhuman! 
The penalty of the imposter is not that he is found out (he very seldom is) 
but that he is taken for what he pretends to be and treated as such. 

The family ideal is a humbug and a nuisance: one might as reasonably 
talk of the barrack ideal, or the forecastle ideal, or any other substitution of 
the machinery of social for the end of it, which must always be the fullest 
and most capable life: in short, the most Godly life. 

Even apart from its insufferable pretensions, the family needs hearty 
discrediting; for there is hardly any vulnerable part of it that could not be 
amputated with advantage. 

Do not for a moment suppose that uncultivated people are merely indif- 
ferent to high and noble qualities. They hate them malignantly. 

Whether the risks to which liberty exposes us are moral or physical our 
right to liberty involves the right to run them. A man who is not free to risk 
his neck as an aviator or his soul as a heretic is not free at all; and the right to 
liberty begins, not at the age of 2 1 years, but of 2 I seconds. 

You may have as much fun at Shaw's expense as you want on 
the grounds that he has never had to train a child and therefore doesn't 
know the difficulties. But if you want to laugh last don't read this 
preface or the play that follows it, because he will make a laughing- 
stock or a convert of you as surely as he will prove that he is far clev- 
erer than you can ever hope to be. 

Shaw and Ellen Key preach practically the same doctrine about 
the home; both are temperamentally incapable of Charlotte Perkins 
Oilman's programme — education outside the home: Shaw because the 
school is as big a humbug as the family, and Miss Key because "even 
if institutions can thus rough-plane the material that is to become a 
member of society, nevertheless they cannot — if they take in the major 
part of the child's education — accomplish that which is needed first 
of all if we are to lift ourselves to a higher spiritual plane in an econom- 
ically just society: they cannot deepen the emotional life." Her in- 
sistence is strongly upon the education of the feelings as the most 
important factor in the soul-life. In her vision of the renaissance of 
motherhood she begins with Nietzsche's dictum that "a time will come 
when men will think of nothing except education." Not that any one 
can be educated to motherliness; but that our sentimentalization of 
motherhood as the ever holy, ever infallible power, must be aban- 

The Little Review 13 

doned, and a quality of intelligent mother-power cultivated by definite 
courses of training which she lays out in detail. 

In view of the number of homes I know of that come legitimately 
under the Shaw denunciation I feel sometimes that any socialization 
of home life is more hopeful than an attempt to remodel the hopeless 
conditions inside the home. Regard the parents you know — the 
great mass of them outside the exceptions that encourage you to be- 
lieve spasmodically in the beauty and noble need of parenthood. If 
they are not cruel or stupid or ignorant or smug or righteous or tyran- 
nical or dishonest or unimaginative or weak or quiet ineffectual, they 
are something else just as bad. It has come to the point where a good 
parent is as hard to find as an honest man. 

Very seriously, however, there is hope in the situation — there is 
renaissance in the air. And it has its foundation in the sensible and 
healthy (though so far only tacit) admission that it doesn't matter so 
much what your child becomes as that he shall become something! You 
can't do much with him, anyhow, and you may as well face it. You 
can give him, during his first few years, the kind of foundation you 
think will help him ; and for the rest of the time you can do only one 
thing that he will really need from you : you can develop your own 
personality as richly as you want him to develop his. You can refuse 
to worry about him — since that does neither of you any good — and 
thereby save stores of energy that he may draw upon for ],^our mutual 
benefit. It becomes a sort of game for two, instead of the uninteresting 
kind in which one player is given all the advantages. Compared with 
it the old-fashioned game in which the mother sacrificed everything, 
suffered everything, wore herself out trying to help her child win, looks 
not only very unfair and very unnecessary, but very wasteful. And 
have you ever noticed how the man who sentimentalizes about the 
wonderful mothers we used to have — his own in particular — is the one 
whose life is lived at the opposite pole of the mother's wise direction? 

If you disagree with all this, there is still one other method by 
which you may produce a child who will be a credit to himslf and to 
society. You may be so utterly stupid and wrong-headed that he will 
rebel to the point of becoming something different. If you prefer 
this course no one need worry much about your child, because he'll 
probably found a system of child education that will cause him to be 
famous; and if you have a daughter, she'll probably become a Mon- 

14 The Little Review 

The new home is a recognition that the child is not the only fac- 
tor in society that needs educating. It assumes that no one's educa- 
tion is finished just because he's been made a parent. It means that 
we can all go on being educated together. It means the elimination of 
all kinds of domestic follies — for one, the ghastly embarrassment of 
growing up to discover that you're different from the rest of your fam- 
ily, and for that reason something of a criminal. It means the kind of 
understanding that develops a child's feeling instead of suppressing 
it, so that he won't be ashamed, for instance, of having such glorious 
things as dreams and visions. It means artistic education: and Shaw 
says that we all grow up stupid or mad to just the extent to which we 
have not been artistically educated. 


Under the lily shadow 
and the gold 
and the blue and mauve 
that the whin and the lilac 
pour down on the water, 
the fishes quiver. 

Over the green cold leaves 
and the rippled silver 
and the tarnished copper 
of its neck and beak, 
toward the deep black water 
beneath the arches, 
the swan floats slowly. 

Into the dark of the arch the swan floats 
and into the black depth of my sorrow 
it bears a white rose of flame. 

F. S, Flint. 

The Little Review 15 


ANEW and well born recruit has been added to the ranks of the 
Insurgents. It is true he appeared before we did, but we wel- 
come him before he welcomes us, and thus are things evened. 
THE LITTLE Review, TheMasses, Poetry^, The International -a\\ hearers 
of the sacred fire, — and now cometh The Glebe, heralding his ap- 
proach with the chanting of many-colored strains. And, among the 
good things which The Glebe has put forth, is a book of portent : Des 

The Imagistes form one of the latest schools, and it is meet that, 
before we read their work, we get some idea of their doctrine. There- 
fore I transcribe here some statements of representative Imagiste 
poets, which I have culled from Poetry, The Egotist, and other sources. 
Richard Aldington gives the following rules: 

I. Direct treatment of subject. We convey an emotion by presenting 
the object and circumstance of the emotion without comment. For example, 
we do not say, "O how I admire that exquisite, that beautiful, that — 25 more 
adjectives — vv^oman." But we present that v/oman, we make an "Image" 
of her, we make the scene convey the emotion. . . . 

II. As few adjectives as possible. 

III. A hardness as of cut stone. No slop, no sentimentality. When 
people say the Imagiste poems are "too hard" . . . we know we have 
done something good. 

IV. Individuality of rhythm. We make new fashions instead of cut- 
ting our clothes on the old models. 

V. The exact word. We make quite a heavy stress on that. It is 
most important. All great poetry is exact. All the dreariness of nineteenth 
century poetry comes from their not quite knowing what they wanted to say 
and filling up the gaps with portentous adjectives and idiotic similes. 

Here is a definition by Ezra Pound which helps us: "An Image is that 
which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time." 

The book, Des Imagistes, is an anthology, presumably of Imagist 
(let us, once for all, Anglicize the French word and have done with 
it) poetry. Yet, one of the foremost imagists, Richard Aldington, in 
a critique of this book, — comparatively modest, owing to the fact 
that his own poems formed a sumptuous fraction of the volume, — 
says that five of those whose poems are there included are not true 

16 The Little Review 

Imagists. These are Cournos, Hueffer, Upward, Joyce, and Cannell. 
Mr. Aldington says he doesn't mean that these poems are not beau- 
tiful — on the contrary, he admires them immensely — but they are 
not, "strictly speaking," Imagist poems. 

I agree that the poems of these five men are beautiful, espe- 
cially the / hear an army of James Joyce and the Nocturnes of Skip- 
with Cannell; and I also maintain that, all unconsciously, the pub- 
lishers of The Glebe have dealt a deadly blow^ to sectarian Imagism by 
including these non-Imagist poems in their anthology. Because, un- 
less a school can prove that it alone has that unnameable wonder which 
excites us to deepest emotional turmoil, and which we call poetry, 
it has but little right to isolate itself or to separate its adepts from 
the bulk of poets. This may sound sententious, but is, nevertheless, 
true. Speak you in whatever mode or meter you will, if you arouse 
me to exultation, or to horror, or to the high pitch of any feeling, — 
if in me there is that responsive vibration that only true art can pro- 
duce — then are you a poet. 

Whitman does it to me. Poe does it to me. Baudelaire and 
Henley do it. To all of these there is in me a response. I'm aw- 
fully sorry, but that's how it is. I think them all poets. 

The Imagists believe in the direct presentation of emotion, pref- 
erably in terms of objectivity. They abhor an excess of adjectives, 
and, after a satiety of the pompous Victorian stuff, I am much in- 
clined to sympathize with that tenet of their faith. 

I wish, however, to make clear my own position, which is the 
one that most counts when I am writing. I am an anarchist in poetry : 
I recognize no rules, no exclusions. 

If the expression of a certain thought, vision, or what not, re- 
quires twenty adjectives, then let us have them. If it be better ex- 
pressed without adjectives, then let us abjure them — temporarily. 

I am myself a poet (whether performance equals desire is doubt- 
ful). My object as a poet is to express the things which are closest 
to me. This sounds banal, but is better than rhetoric; words exist 
not with which to define with superclarity the poet's function, source, 
and performance. 

In the true expression of myself I might write Images which 
would be worshipped for their perfection by the Imagists. A mo- 
ment after, I might gloat and wallow in the joy of my cosmic one- 

The Little B eview 17 

ness (anathema to Imagists!) and, perhaps recall Whitman. The 
next minute, chronicling some shadowy episode of my variegated 
past, I may out-decay the decadent Baudelaire. But, this is always 
poetry if, by the magic of its words and the music of its arrangement, 
it speaks directly and beautifully to you, giving you that indescrib- 
able but unmistakeable sense of liberation and soul-expansion which 
comes on the contemplation of true art. 

I think I have made myself clear. There is no quarrel with the 
Imagists, who have done some beautiful work, as such. But, if they 
claim monopoly of inspiration or art, as some of them appear to do, 
then — ! Therefore, as a restricted and doctrinaire school, "a bas les 
Imagistes!" But, as an envigored company of the grand army of 
poets, "Vivent les Imagistes!" 




Since even to poets — and poets are erroneously supposed to 
sing their hearts out — there remains a certain right of privacy, I am 
not sure that we do well in writing so much of their personalities and 
their individual views of life. When we read a poem, we feel a 
temperament behind it ; but the effort to catalogue and label that mind 
and its "message" is a little impertinent, and very futile. Mr. Rupert 
Brooke is an excellent illustration. His fondness for this or that — 
whether in landscape, food, ideas, or morals — is hardly our concern. 
He deserves to be treated not as a natural-history specimen, — a pe- 
culiar group of likes and dislikes and convictions, — but as an artist. 

Mr. Brooke has the distinction, rare for a young poet, of not 
having written any bad verse, or of not having printed it. His sole 
volume. Poems (Sidgwick and Jackson, London, 1913), manifests 
in even its least notable pieces a creative spirit not allowed to run riot, 
but chastened and restrained by a keen sense of the obscure laws 
whose workings turn passion into a decorative pattern, and the 
emotions of the blood into intelligible designs. 

18 The Little Tie view 

Unless one is deeply concerned with such things, one is not likely 
to recognize the fundamental difference between those poets whose 
work is merely a more or less interesting emotional cry, and those 
nobler and more mature poets in whose work the crude elements of 
emotion are subordinated to the exegencies of an artistic concep- 
tion. Only the latter have written fine poetry. The former may move 
us, as a crying child may move us; but they cannot exalt us to a 
peak that rises above the region of mere sympathetic response. They 
can never bring us a wind of revelation, or a flame from beyond the 
world. They are never the poets to whom other poets — and these 
are the only final judges — turn for inspiration or for fellowship. 

For after all, there is no magic in any theme or in the emotion 
behind it; what is magical lies wholly in the design, the mould, in 
which the poet embodies a feeling that is probably common to all. 
No thought is so profound, no intimation so subtle, that it alone suf- 
fices as the stuff of poetry. But any thought, any intimation, if it be 
justly correlated and moulded into an organic and expressive shape, 
will serve to awaken echoes of a forgotten or unknov/n loveliness, 
and pierce its way into the very soul of the listener. 

This sense of design of which I speak is not a hard, formal, con- 
scious thing in the mind of the poet; but rather a carefully trained 
instinct, like the instinct that guides the hand of a fine draughtsman 
in the draw^ing of a curve of unexpected beauty. There is a right 
place to begin the curve, and a right place to end it; and at every 
instant of its length it is swayed and governed by a sense of relation 
to preceding and succeeding moments, — a sense subject to laws that 
defy mathematical formulation, but are perilously definite neverthe- 
less. This sense of control is a rare thing to find in the w^ork of so 
young a man as Mr. Brooke. Most young writers seem to approach 
their work as an unrestrained expression of themselves, — which it 
should be: but they forget that, for real self-expression, the most 
scrupulous mastery of the medium of expression is necessary. They 
regard the writing of verse as something in the nature of a joy-ride 
v/ith an open throttle, — instead of seeing in it a piece of difficult driv- 
ing, to be achieved only by the use of every subtlety of modulated 
speed and controlled steering that the mind is capable of employing. 

That Mr. Brooke needs no such warning, let the following fine 
sonnet bear witness : 

The Little R eview 19 


I think if you had loved me when I wanted; 

If I'd looked up one day, and seen your eyes. 

And found my wild sick blasphemous prayer granted. 

And your brown face, that's full of pity and wise, 

Flushed suddenly; the white godhead in new fear 

Intollerably so struggling, and so shamed; 

Most holy and far, if you'd come all too near. 

If earth had seen Earth's lordliest wild limbs tamed. 

Shaken, and trapped, and shivering, for m^ touch — 

Myself should I have slain? or that foul you? 

But this the strange gods, who had given so much, 

To have seen and known you, this they might not do. 

One last shame's spared me, one black word's unspoken; 

And I'm alone; and you have not awoken. 

It is significant that for his sonnets Mr. Brooke frequently chooses 
the Shakesperian form, — a form which, strangely, English poets have 
generally for at least a century discarded in favor of the Petrarchan 
model. The common feeling appears to be that the Petrarchan (a-b- 
b-a, a-b-b-a, c-d-e-c-d-e or some variation on that scheme) is musical and 
emotional; and that the Shakesperian (a-b-a-b, c-d-c-d, e-f-e-f, g-g) 
is harsh, cold, mechanical, and incapable of subtle harmonies. The 
exact reverse of this is the case. It is perhaps too much to ask the 
reader to write a sequence of a hundred sonnets in each form, as a 
test; but I am confident that after such an experience, he would 
agree with me. The Petrarchan form is capable of only one suc- 
cessful effect; a rising on the crest of a wave, whose summit is the 
end of the eighth line; and a subsidence of the wave, in the course 
of the last six lines. The Shakesperian form, on the other hand, is 
capable of a literally infinite variety of effects: no pattern is set ar- 
bitrarily in advance, but, as in blank verse, any pattern may be 
created. The first twelve lines — vv^hich are nothing but three qua- 
trains — can be moulded into a contour that fits any shape or size 
of thought whatsoever; and the couplet at the end — a device de- 
spised by the ignorant — may be used either to clinch the purport 
of the preceding twelve lines, or to blend with them, or startlingly to 
refute them, or to serve any other end that the genius of the writer 
is capable of imagining. The mere novice will like this form be- 
cause of its simple rhyme-scheme and its superficial ease of working; 
the experienced amateur will prefer the Petrarchan form because, 
while the more complex rhyme-scheme presents for him no difficul- 

20 The Little Review 

ties, the basic inadequacies of his thought-structure are fairly well con- 
cealed by the arbitrary sonnet-structure; but the master of imagina- 
tion and expression is likely to follow Shakespere and the novice in 
preferring the true English form, wherein he can with perfect free- 
dom create a subtly modulated movement that will answer to every 
sway and leap of his thought. Mr. Brooke, whose sense of form is 
keen, is one of those who can safely and wisely try the more inter- 
esting and more dangerous medium. 

I have thought it worth while to talk a good deal of the sonnet 
in connection with Mr. Brooke for the reason that several of his very 
finest pieces are in this form. The following is one that stands a 
good chance of being in the anthologies a hundred years from now: 


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

"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here. 

Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said; 

"We shall go down with unreluctant tread 

Rose-crowned into the darkness!" . . . Proud we were. 

And laughed, that had such brave, true things to say. 

— And then you suddenly cried, and turned away. 

Perhaps as magical as any of Mr. Brooke's work is a longer poem 
called The Fish, — a remarkable and original piece of fantasy that 
makes the sub-aqueous universe vivid and real to the senses of the 
reader, and opens to him a new world of imaginative experience. 
Even the opening lines will serve to indicate something of the curious 
trance-quality : 

In a cool curving world he lies 
And ripples with dark ecstasies. 
The kind luxurious lapse and steal 
Shapes all his universe to feel 
And know and be; the clinging stream 
Closes his memory, glooms his dream. 
Who lips the roots o' the shore, and glides 
Superb on unreturning tides . , , 

The Little Review 21 

In other of these poems, one is struck by Mr. Brooke's passion 
for ugliness. He loves to take the most hideous and base facts of 
life and give them a place in his work alongside the things of beauty. 
It w^ould be hard to find anything more humorous and at the same 
time more repulsive than this: 


Creeps in half wanton, half asleep, 
One with a fat wide hairless face. 
- He likes love music that is cheap; 

Likes women in a crowded place; 

And wants to hear the noise they're making. 

His heavy eyelids droop half-over, 

Great pouches swing beneath his eyes. 
He listens, thinks himself the lover. 

Heaves from his stomach wheezy sighs; 
He likes to feel his heart's a-breaking. 

The music swells. His gross legs quiver. i 

His little lips are bright with slime. 
The music swells. The women shiver, 

And all the while, in perfect time 

His pendulous stomach hangs a-shaking. 

Novv^, a passion for ugliness like this is really a revolt against 
ugliness, — not the tender-skinned esthete's revolt, which consists in 
denying ugliness and escaping into a remote dream, but the strong 
man's, the poet's, — the revolt that is in effect a siezing of ugliness 
in all its repulsiveness and giving it a reason for existence by embody- 
ing it in a chosen pattern that is beautiful. By this method the poet 
masters emotion, even unpleasant emotion, making it subservient to 
a decorative design dictated by his own sense of proportion. It is 
thus that he is able to endure the world of actualities, and to find it 
comparable in interest with the world of his own thoughts. And by 
this process he saves himself from the sharpest bite of evil. For there 
is a curious consolation in transforming a spontaneous cry into a cal- 
culated work of art. By such a process one can give, to elements 
that before seemed only parts of a torturing chaos, their ordered 
places in a known scheme. One can impose propitious form upon 
one's recollections, and create a little world of design-relations where 
the poignancy of experience is lost in the discipline of beauty. It is 
for this reason that the poet must be considered, in spite of every- 
thing, the happiest of men. 

22 Th e Little R eview 


BACK to the Old Greek for a starting-point ! Two seeds, of the same 
species, though distant in space and time, go through an iden- 
tical development. Root corresponds with root, stem with stem, 
flower with flower, fruit with fruit. Something seems to control all this 
change. It is not mere change. It is change with a plan, a purpose, a 
pattern. Hence the Greek said that there must be an unchanging 
type, a fixed "idea," a spiritual, invisible norm, the "first" and "final" 
cause of all this change, to which all concrete, particular plants of the 
species are true. Back of the visible tangible plant must be its Eidos, 
its eternal norm, form, idea, "species." So w^ith everything. An elab- 
oration of this conclusion gives the real unchanging, fixed eternal 
world back of, underpinning, supporting this visible changing, tem- 
poral world. 

Such a world-view as this was made more valuable and more im- 
perative by the break-up of the traditional morals and religion of the 
Greek state. The search for the meaning of life was precipitated by 
the disintegration of social sanctions and of the guarantees of custom. 
This search w^as voiced in the questionings of Socrates. It was made 
serious by the menacing individualism of the sophists. The outcome 
was that stability, security, confidence were found in the Platonic doc- 
trine. Back of this ephemeral w^orld is the real world of "ideas," the 
unchanging and eternal, upon which we may rest our minds and hearts 
amid all this disappointing and desperate flux. 

Passing by the Middle Ages, which, mutatis matandis, appropri- 
ated this scheme, we pause over the significance of the Renaissance 
period. Two things are uppermost in one's mind and as one thinks of 
the tumultuous beginnings of modern life w^hich characterized the 
fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries. For one thing, the 
Renaissance was the culmination of a long period of absorption in 
which men had been gradually working their way back, by intellectual 
assimilation, towards the beginnings of the rich tradition which Church 
and Empire had stored up. This period of absorption was that five 
hundred years during which pagan hordes that had conquered Rome 

The Little Ue view 23 

were conquered by the knowledge, faith, custom, civilization of their 
victims. From the cultural standpoint the new nations were hungry, 
the larder of the old civilization was replete, and hence authority on 
one side and absorption on the other became natural and inevitable 
Thus, the philosophical preconceptions, the cosmological ground-pr .1- 
ciples, the whole general attitude toward life's problems of the whole 
old world were fastened upon the mind of the young European peo- 
ples. // must not be forgotten that all this was aat the hatural achieve- 
ment of the new European life and genius, but as foreign to it, as inher- 
ited (and at first as cherished) as grandfatherly ideas are in the mind 
of a child. If some day the child must shake off the old conceptions 
because he hears the call of life to go forth and achieve his own inner 
world, it would be only natural to expect that this young European 
giant should some day struggle to cast aside his intellectual inheri- 
tance and go forth to conquer reality for himself, in his own v/ay, with 
his own weapons. 

Well — and this is the second matter — it was just that very thing 
that was happening in the early "teens" of our era. The young west- 
ern world began to look at life for itself, and a curious, astonished, 
wild-eyed look it was. Europe had learned at its mother's knee to 
say: "The true world is fixed and final. Reality is static." But look- 
ing out now in wonderment, seeing farther than the ancient world had 
ever seen, the new world said: "Ah, no! The world is not static. The 
world moves. Things change." 

Two well-known anecdotes are told of Galileo, which, if not 
authentic, are well invented. The one tells how, in the dome at Pisa 
during worship, the litany or the sermon boring him, he observed the 
cathedral chandelier move by the wind and, studying its vibrations, 
discovered a basic law of mechanics. The profound meaning of this 
anecdote is, obviously, that God spoke to the man more effectively 
through the selj-moving pendulum than in the rigid, immobile litany 
from a rigid, immobile, hieratic heart; and that, if we do not under- 
stand such litany, and it bores us, we may still devoutly worship by 
meditating upon what we can understand. 

The other narrative tells how, imprisoned, tortured inwardly by 
a compulsory recantation, Galileo gathered himself together and de- 
clared: "E pu se muove" ("it moves though"). Galileo never uttered 
these words; but the history of the world has uttered them for him! 

24 The Little Review 

Yes, it moves itself, this earth, and in its motion it knocks everything 
down that is in its way. Not the earth alone moves — all that is in 
the world is eternal motion ! 

Man moves — in space, and time, extensively and intensively. 
Truth moves, and, moving, demolishes thrones and altars. Morality 
moves, making ancient good uncouth. Faith moves, the human heart 
putting into it the pulse beat of its life, and there is no way to stop 
this self moving Faith. 

Those old stories are not true to fact, but they are true to truth. 
Galileo did say: "It is my opinion that the earth is very noble and 
admirable by reason of so many and so different generations and al- 
terations which are incessantly made therein." And Descartes joined 
him: "The nature of things physical is much more easily conceived 
when they are beheld coming gradually into existence, than when they 
are only considered as produced at once in a finished and perfect 
state." Thus these men — and many others — voiced the changed 
temper that was coming over the world, — the transfer of interest 
from the permanent to the changing. 

Slowly the new attitude was adopted in many departments of 
knowledge, but the facts of biology were apparently all against its 
becoming a general philosophical movement. The species of plants 
and animals had every appearance of being fixed and final, unchange- 
ably stamped once for all upon the sentient world by the Creator. Not 
only so, but the wonderful adaptation of organism to environment, 
of organ to organism, a marvelous and delicate complexity of teleo- 
logical adjustment, seemed to testify unanswerably to the reality of 
fixed and final types, to a static underpinning for all this changing 

Origin of Species ! That was the bomb with which Charles Dar- 
win destroyed the last stronghold of a static world-view. "Species" 
is the scholastics' translation of the Greek Eidos, the fixed and final 
type or idea which is first and final cause of the changing life of each 
creature. Species is a synomym and epitome of fixity and finality; 
it is the key-word of a static other-world reality. When Darwin said, 
"Origin of Species," he was cramming the conflict of the ancient wis- 
dom and the modern knowledge into a bursting phrase. When he 
said of species what Galileo said of the earth, e pu se muove, he 
emancipated once for all genetic and experimental ideas as an or- 

The Little Re v i e w 25 

ganon of asking questions and looking for explanations. He lifted 
the biological gates which had kept back the flood of change from 
inundating the old fields of fixity. 

In sum: The world of thought is slowly, painfully making a 
change in its fundamental attitude toward reality such as is not made 
oftener than once in several millennia: One general conception of 
reality was all-controling for 2,000 years. Then from Copurnicus 
to Darwin many factors in a world-subversive change were struggling 
for recognition. Conceptions that had reigned in the philosophy of 
nature and of knowledge for 2,000 years rested in the superiority of 
the fixed and final : they rested on treating change and origin as signs 
of defect and unreality. In laying hands upon the sacred ark of ab- 
solute permanency ; in treating forms that had been regarded as types 
of fixity and perfection as originating and passing away, the "origin of 
species" introduced a mode of thinking that in the end was bound to 
transform the logic of knowledge, and hence the treatment of all our 
values and verities and virtues. 

But heaven and earth and species are not all. Shall there be no 
Copernicus of the moral heavens, no Galileo of the moral earth, no 
Darw^in of the moral life? 

Hove now Friedrich Nietzsche into sight! 

Loyalty has ever been the basic virtue, foundation of life and of 
law. Naturally, in the moral world, the objects to which loyalty shall 
be related will be objects that are real. But, as we have seen, in the 
old world, the real was the unchangeable, the immobile, the finished, 
the final, the absolute. To these, therefore, the old loyalty was di- 
rected and dedicated. 

Comes now Friedrich Nietzsche, a man in whose name the entire 
moral revolution of our time has found its most pregnant expression, 
and declares war upon that old loyalty, and does so in the name of 
a new culture, a new humanity. To him this loyalty is not only an 
empty folloy; it is more than that — a crime against life, a weakening 
of human power. To him, not stationariness, but self -changing, is 
the life task of man. He feels himself akin only to him who changes. 
Every moment of life has an existence, a right, a content of its own. 
No present point of time has a right to lay claim, on its own account, 
to the next point. From what we now will, think, feel, no man may 
presume to require us to will, think, feel the same way tomorrow. 

26 The Little Review 

And this preaching of Nietzsche's on the duty of change as against 
the old duty to change never has found more ears to listen and more 
hearts to believe than any other preaching of our time. This new 
preaching is at once most influential and most dangerous. But its 
very dangerousness is a most wholesome and necessary part of the 
modern moral view of life. 

Is loyalty, then, something about which there is nothing to be 
learned? Is there no counterfeit and caricature of loyalty? No mask 
behind which men hide their indolence and complacency and thought- 
lessness? You meet a man whom you have not seen in long years, 
and you say to him: "Why, you have not changed a bit, you are 
precisely the same as in the old days." Have you praised him, neces- 
sarily? If he left you as a child, looking and speaking and thinking 
and acting like a child, ought he not to have changed? Does a fruit 
remain what it was as bud and blossom? Life is development — 
but development is a constant self 'changing. Development is an in- 
cessant J/s-loyalty to what is already there. And if man, just because 
he is man, and has a will of his own and can set himself against the 
law of development, should sell his life to the force of inertia — would 
not that be a crime against life? And yet, even such a deed men 
call loyalty! Men say that they want to be faithful to the heritage 
of the fathers. Which is often enough simply to say that they mean 
to store away their heritage where it will be kept from the world's 
light and air that would destroy it — but where, also, it can enter into 
no human intercourse, serve no life, fulfil no end of life. This loy- 
alty of unchangeableness to the heritage puts the talent in a napkin, 
and there can be no increase. Men say that they mean to abide faith- 
ful to their faith unto death. Often enough this is only stubborn- 
ness and narrowness. It requires no art and no merit to exercise such 
faithfulness. All one needs to do is to close one's eyes and ears to 
what lies beyond the bounds of this faith, to forego the questionings 
and uncertainties that others must pass through, — and then to send in 
one's claim to the reward and gratitude due such loyalty! Today it is 
quite the thing at college commencements to spy out the men who are 
models of such loyalty and to say: "Look how firm and steadfast 
and rock-like they are!" But it cannot be denied that much of this 
illustrious loyalty is nothing but natural or voluntary incapacity to 
think more widely than others have taught them to think, or, for the 

The Little Review 27 

matter of that, permitted them to think. Back of this bragging about 
principles which are vainly declared to be unshakable, there is fre- 
quently nothing but an ill-natured obstinacy whose so-called princi- 
ples have no other basis than the self-interest to which they are con- 
tributary. It was this loyalty to the finished, — finished cult, finished 
belief, finished customs and practices, finished religion and morality, — 
that stoned the prophets and crucified Jesus. It was this kind of loy- 
alty that the mediaeval church imposed upon the "Faithful," imprison- 
ing the conscience therein for time and for eternity. Bound by an 
oath of loyalty, the priest renounced the world; the monk and nun 
under monastic vov/s dedicated their lives to the church, their serv- 
ices to "heaven." And hence it marked an epoch when Luther called 
their loyalty a sin, and went forth into the world, the home, the voca- 
tion, the business, breaking the vows of priest and cloister. Was 
such disloyalty to a sacred obligation loyalty in the sixteenth cen- 
tury, and shall it be blasphemy in the twentieth? Is it not rather a 
blasphemy to preach to men a loyalty which obligates them to forego 
the use of their best and noblest powers, which condemns them to 
spiritual standstill in the eternal progressive movement of life? 

Take some illustrations which will test insight and courage. 
There is the constitution of the United States. Shall we assume 
toward it the loyalty of fixedness and finality, or the loyalty of change? 
No man of veneration and equipoise would favor capricious or pre- 
cipitate or superfluous change in so noble a document. But, for all 
that, the experience of life made the constitution for life's sake, and 
the maker is more than the made. If our national life pass — as pass 
it has — into new seas and under new stars, where life needs a change 
of the constitution, then the principle which prompted the people to 
frame the constitution in the first place requires them to change it 
to meet the new needs of our growing and changing national life. 
The superficial loyalty to the changeless letter must yield to the pro- 
found loyalty to the ever-changing spirit. The constitution is for 
the sake of the people, not the people for the sake of the constitu- 
tion. They, rather than it, are sacred. 

Similarly, there is the modern problem of marriage, the family, 
and the home. Shall ours be the old loyalty that holds the customs 
of the past inviolable, marriage indissoluble, the inherited patterns of 
home and family unchangeable — the loyalty of fixedness and finished- 

28 The Little Review 

ness; or shall it be the loyalty of change in all these matters to meet 
the changing needs and situations of our burdened and bewildered 
modernity? Again, no man of sanctity and sanity and stability of 
soul can favor any arbitrary radicalism that is subversive of time-hon- 
ored institutions for no better reason than a fleeting fancy, or the 
passing of the romance of the honeymoon, or raw self-will, or an un- 
anticipated burden or hardship. But, for all that, the marriage insti- 
tution, like all others, is for the sake of man and not man for the sake 
of the institution. It was life that originated our domestic ideas and 
customs and conventions and codes; and if ever life, in the interest 
of its well-being and progress, requires changes suited to new needs 
and new days, then the "new loyalty" to life that ever changes must 
replace the old loyalty to codes that never change. Codes, too, are 
for the sake of life, not life for the sake of codes. No loyalty to the 
letter that means disloyalty to the spirit. 

And there is the everlasting problem of education. Education 
in the past had for its subject matter symbols — reading, writing, arith- 
metic, grammar, rhetoric, logic, and the like. The new^ education has 
for its subject matter realities — nature and history. The old educa- 
tion taught topics or subjects; the new education teaches boys and 
girls. According to the old education, knowledge precedes action; 
according to the new education, action precedes knowledge. In the 
old education things were done to the pupils ; in the new education the 
pupils do things. 

The old school teacher was a "star and dwelt apart" — that is, 
his aloofness and superiority were indispensable. He taught from 
above. The new^ school teacher is down among the students, a demo- 
crat of democrats. The old school teacher communicated knowledge 
from without; the new school teacher develops interest from within. 
The old education was atomistic, the new^ organic. The old education 
was a donation to the pupils, the new is an achievement by them. 
The old education proceeded on the assumption that man is primarily 
intellect; the new that he is primarily will. The old education pre- 
ceded life and fitted for it ; the new education is a part of life itself. 

It is a great change. According to the old theory, there was per- 
fection to start with, perfection at the top. All that we needed was 
to pipe it dov/n through aqueducts so well constructed that nothing 
that was in could get out, nothing that was without could get in; 

T h e L i i f I e Ti e V i e w 29 

and thus — thus only — would the vain and empty world and Hfe be 
filled with value and verity and virtue — donation on the one side, re- 
ception on the other. 

But the time came when men asked: if there is perfection to 
start with, why start? Why paint the lily? And if there is perfec- 
tion to start with, how does there come to be imperfection? How 
can imperfection come from perfection? Ugly questions, these! Soon 
the world was turned upside down. 

The new theory holds that matters began very humbly and 
struggled and fought their way slowly upward. Ascent from below, 
not descent from above. No values or verities or virtues donated, 
all achieved. Education an evolution, not a communication. 

Some business men favor the old education. Their world is one 
of mechanism and authority. They think that they do not need men 
with initiative, spontaneity, freedom. That is their prerogative, as 
it was of the king of old. They need the mechanical, the automatic, 
the impersonal in man. This fits into their world. This is what the 
old education stands for. The new education unfolds and matures 
personalities. Personalities make good masters but poor servants. 

Business men as a class are perhaps our best men. But the very 
conditions of business economy and certainty are the impersonal, the 
unfree, the mechanical. So business has warped the judgment of some 
good men and led them astray on the most fundamental problem in 
the history of the race. 

Were it not multiplying illustrations, the same point might be 
urged as to politics. Does not party loyalty often mean personal 
servility? As a matter of fact what is loyalty in one situation, or 
one age, may be simple cowardice or abjectness in another. 

The upshot is that the modern man has to endure the reproach 
of not thinking and feeling and judging and acting as men formerly 
did — the reproach of perfidy toward the past, its solutions and its sanc- 
tities. In consequence, it w^ould not be a bad idea for him to cultivate 
respect for the past, gratitude for its achievements, appreciation for 
its unfinished tasks. Still, he should learn to accept the reproach as 
praise, — recognition that, though problems remain the same, solu- 
tions change; though sanctity abide, the objects which are sacred 
change. Evolutionism no longer recognizes an^ fact as sacred. 

30 The Little Review 

Man is inwardly working on ever farther, ever overcoming the old 
and conquering ever the new^ — this must also be recognized. 

It is said that we ought to love the old, the finished. But is love 
blind? Does it consist in advocating the point of view of one's friend, 
not because it seems true, but just because love requires it? Is loyalty 
of love the faculty of adaptation with which we remodel ourselves 
after the image of another? Is one disloyal in love if one affirm 
one's self against another, or if another affirm himself against one? 
Surely fidelity of friendship, even of marriage, ought not to be the 
grave of one's own being. Surely loyalty should be the life and not 
the death of one's self! Surely we must all see with our own eyes, 
hear with our own ears, judge with our own judgments, love with 
our own hearts, for the quite plain reason that we have no others 
with which we can do these things. 

And so, if we take up this great subject in a large way, as 
Nietzsche has done, we see that we have all broken with the old loy- 
alty, and that the consummation of this breach has been life and 
blessing to us. We moderns all somehow live in a disloyalty which 
we have committed — imputed to us as transgression, viewed by us as 
our strength and pride. We have all become unfaithful, — as chil- 
dren to our parents, as pupils to our teachers, as disciples to our mas- 
ters. We felt ourselves bound to them; we loosed ourselves from 
them. The paths they walked we have forsaken. In the strange un- 
trodden land whither our vagrant feet have wandered, v/e "came to 
ourselves" in declaring disobedience to the laws of tradition, in break- 
ing loyalty to the rules of the schools. It is precisely on this account 
that once again we have won spiritual life, a living art and science, 
a living religion and morality. We have snapped the fetters fastened 
upon us in the name of the old loyalty, and all that is great and fruit- 
ful and constructive in the life of the modern spirit is a monument 
of the disloyalty which its creators have built thereto. Nothing is 
gained any longer by our screening ourselves behind this w^ord loyalty, 
and making believe that we shall not be found out! We owe it to 
ourselves and we owe it to the world to confess frankly that we have 
done with the old loyalty to the unchangeable and the finished, for 
that is to be loyal to an unreality, since there is no such thing. Even 
God, if he be the living God, cannot be the same yesterday, today, 
and forever. But we owe it even more to ourselves and to the world 
to strive for a clear position in reference to this question which is so 

T h e Little R e view 31 

profoundly agitating our entire moral world today. We may not 
abandon the field to those who would demolish the temple of the old 
goddess simply that they may celebrate upon its ruins the orgies of 
their caprice and inconstancy and characterlessness. If ever there was 
a doctrine whose right is easily turned into a wrong, whose truth 
into an error, whose blessing into a curse, it is this Nietzschean doc- 
trine of the right and the duty of ceaseless change, of self-dependence, 
by which we are redeemed from slavery to the past. If the old loyalty 
— loyalty to the past — no longer holds men, wherewith shall they be 
held? Shall they be like the weathervane blown hither and thither 
by every wind of doctrine, or like the rudderless ship driven aimless 
and planless over the high seas by the midnight hurricane? Better 
a thousand times be tethered to the old loyalty than to be doomed to 
such a life of levity and poiselessness and flightiness. 

But the new loyalty which we seek, without which we go for- 
ward into no future, should it not be more stable and enduring and 
loyal than the old? If a moment releases itself from what to it is past, 
and validates its right as a self-dependent life to its predecessor, a 
birth has transpired in man, and birth means pain. Without such 
pain, man has changed his situation, but not himself. A new color 
has come upon the motly manifoldness of his life — he has remained 
the same. Trees do not have their roots in the air. Weaklings can- 
not make the real change — it needs a strength that they do not have. 
The strength to change really — only he has this who bears the new 
loyalty in his own bosom; loyalty not to his opinion, not to his learn- 
ing and heritage, but loyalty to his growth, to the great eternal goal 
of life, to the great sacred task which he has yet to fulfil in life. 

Loyal to ourself? Would that it might be so! But the self that 
we would at first be loyal to is not our self at all. It is foreign wares, 
loaded upon us, — first even in the nursery, slyly slipped subsequently 
upon our shoulders, — foreign words, foreign worths! Loyalty to what 
satiates, not the better loyalty to our hunger! We begin to live only 
when we live in our hunger; our hunger is we ourselves. It is a good 
satiety only if a new hunger comes from it. Loyalty to our self — 
this is to keep our life alive in us — a young glad life, that never grows 
old, because the old is ever transmuted into a new. This loyalty to 
ourself, — it is to expel from every truth its error, from every boun- 
( Continued on page 66 ) 

32 The Little Review 



All the day long I have been sitting in my shop 
Sewing straw on hat-shapes according to the fashion, 
Putting lace and ribbon on according to the fashion, 
Setting out the faces of customers according to fashion. 
Whatever they asked for I tried to give them ; 
Over their worldly faces I put mimic flowers 
From out my silk and velvet garden; I bade Spring come 
To those who had seen Autumn ; I coaxed faded eyes 
To look bright and hard brows to soften. 

Not once, while they were looking in the glass, 

Did I peep over their shoulders to see myself. 

It would have been quite unavailing for me, 

Who have grown grey in service of other women. 

To have used myself as any sort of a model. 

Had I looked in the mirror I should have seen 

Only a bleached face, long housed from sunshine, 

A mouth quick with forced smiles, eyes greyly stagnant, 

And over all, like a night fog creeping. 

Something chill and obscuring and dead — 

The miasmatic mist of the soul of the lonely. 

When night comes and the buyers are gone their ways, 

I go into the little room behind my shop. 

It is my home — my silent and lonely home ; 

But it has fire, it has food; there is a bed; 

Pictures are on the walls, showing the faces 

I kissed in girlhood. I am myself here; 

All my forced smiles are laid away with the moline 

And the ribbon and roses. I may do as I please. 

If I beat with my fists on the table, no one hears; 

If I lie in my bed, staring, staring. 

No one can know; I shall not suffer the pity 

Of those who, passing, see my light edge the grey curtain. 

The Little Review 

One night, long ago, merely for madness 

I stripped myself like a dancing girl; 

I draped myself with rose-hued silks 

And set a crimson feather in my hair. 

There were twists of gold lace about my arms 

And a girdle of gold about my waist. 

I danced before the mirror till I dropped! 

(Outside I could hear the rain falling 

And the wind crept in beneath my door 

Along my worn carpet.) 

I folded my finery 
And prayed as if kneeling beside my mother. 
Whether there was listening I cannot say. 
There was praying ! There was praying ! 
Never again shall I dance before the mirror 
Bedizened like a dancing girl — never, my mother ! 

I have a low voice and quiet movements. 

And early and late I study to please. 

As long as I live I shall be adorning other women, 

I shall be decking them for their lovers 

And sending them upon women's adventures. 

But none of them shall see behind this curtain 

Where I have my little home, where I weep 

When I please, and beat upon the table with my fists. 


34 The Little Review 



IN one of Chicago's big department stores of the cheaper type you 
may — provided you're something of a poet — walk straight into the 
heart of a musical adventure. It is that amazing, resentful, and very 
satisfying adventure of discovering genius at work, under the by no 
means unique condition of being unrecognized. 

You go to one of the upper floors where the big lunch-room is. 
You find a table near a platform in the center, on which sit four 
musicians — a pianist, a 'cellist, a clarinet/s/ (if there is such a thing), 
and a second violinist. You expect the usual clamor. 

Suddenly you notice a fifth figure who has been sitting quietly in 
the background. She comes forward with a violin in her hand, and 
stands ready to play. There is something still about her — that quality 
of stillness which is invariably the first thing you notice in any dynamic. 
She seems not scornful of her surroundings, but quite indifferent to 
them; not arrogant, but sure of power; not timid, and yet incredibly 
soft and shy and serious. She is plainly foreign; she is German, looks 
French, and plays like a Viennese. Or, to be exact, she merges the 
German "heaviness" with the Viennese gay-sadness, and the result is a 
sensuousness that is both deep and clear, with the haunting wail that 
distinguishes all the music which comes from Vienna. She looks 
almost like a little girl; but you would notice her any place because 
of that stillness and the haunting appeal that always attaches to a 
certain type of eyes and mouth — the kind which seem to say: "I 
will make music for you; I will take you to a new world. I will do 
it because I can dream intensely." 

She begins to play, and you understand why you watched her. 
The depth of it startles you at first — it is so big, so moving, so al- 
most uncanny coming from such a small person, whose hands seem 
scarcely large enough to hold a violin. It is playing of the Mischa 
Elman type, without his emotional extravagances and with some- 
thing that is more soul-shaking. If I were an Imagist I could find the 
right word; but this music eludes me. It is sure and simple. It grips 

l^he Little Review 35 

you till you don't know whether you are listening to music or to the 
urge of some hidden inner self. It is a divine thing. 

In the midst of it the waitresses rush back and forth, the patrons 
eat their food with interest, only pausing to applaud when some tawdry 
vaudevillian sings a particularly vulgar song. The dishes clang, 

some one upsets a tray with a great crash, and at intervals there is a 
tango outrage by a couple who know nothing about dancing. Un- 
derneath it all the violin throbs its deep accompaniment. 

I wish I could make a poem of it. I have thought of taking my 
poet friends there and having the thing done. But almost without 
exception the poets I know don't care for music essentially; though 
why a mind keyed to the tone qualities of words should be so tone- 
deaf in another medium has always been a mystery to me. And what 
a poet's opportunity here: "the boom and squeal," and out of it music 
that is as sacred as an organ meditation and as passionate as a Russian 
slave song! 

However, generalizations will not serve to give any musician's 
special quality, and this one is so emphatically individual 
as to make description easy. To begin with, she was concertising in 
Europe as a wonder-child at the age of six. For a number of years her 
playing brought forth a chorus of superlatives from the critics: "her 
full blooming tone, her great taste in phrasing, economic use of the 
bow, glowing passion of interpretation; her fiery temperament, re- 
markable earnestness and will power, the soul, life, and emotion in 
her presentations." The verdict of a "a veritable artist soul" appeared 
to be unanimous ; and one man summed up with admirable insight and 
simplicity: "Her chief excellence is in this: that she seeks her main 
task to be an artist in the real and earnest sense of the word, and who- 
soever comes to hear music does not go empty from her." 

Friedrich Spielhagen wrote a sonnet to her, of which I have a 
careful, but metrically inadequate, translation : 

Thou standst before us, a picture of wondrous charm; 
The little violin thou holdst, in tenderess. 
Half maidenly, half like a child in dress 
Hast soared away from Heaven's angel-farm 
Toward where thy large mild eye is dreaming. 

And he ended it with these lines: 

36 The Little Review 

Thou movest thy bow; 

No sounds are these of nicely moved strings, 

No, No! Thy own sweet soul rings out and sings 

The melodies that have with you come 

From yon high wide-sphered home, 

To where thy longing soul swings upward now. 

Our apologies to Mr. Spielhagen for that more than atrocious 
twelfth line and for the other deficiencies! But the last line is par- 
ticularly keen in its photography. It has the spirit of her. 

After much touring in Europe she came to this country and 
played under the same promising conditions. The critics predicted 
that if she should decide to stay here she would probably out-rival our 
own few noted women violinists. And then came a period of sorrow, 
bereavement, hardship, and illness — and in the meantime the problem 
of living. That problem becomes a real one when an artist loves life 
just a bit more than her art and refuses to make that spiritual com- 
promise which life tries to wrest from one in the hard places. One 
must live, and it takes money to do it rather than art. The romantic no- 
tion that all genius has to do is to stand up and make itself heard is 
one of the silliest notions the great public suffers from. Only the 
hundreth person recognizes genius when it proclaims itself;- the rest 
are as blind as this department-store audience until the sign-posts have 
been put up, with letters large enough to be easily read. Also, the 
amount of machinery and money involved in the arrangement of con- 
cert engagements would surprise the public as much as the true stories 
of what it costs the "wealthy patron" to get his artist started toward 

And so this particular genius will continue for a while to cast her 
pearls in a lunch room, and a few of the discerning will find her out 
and thank their stars that they may hear such beauty at the small cost 
of a bad club sandwich and a worse cup of coffee. 

If you go there you will be haunted by music for days afterward. 
I say "haunted" because that is the only word to describe your feel- 
ing of pursuit by melody. And 1 think I have discovered the reason 
for it. A poet once said that the only permanent emotion we human 
being are capable of is — not love, as we like to imagine — but longing. 
And that is what this music says to you. It is the very essence of long- 
ing — the enternal seeking, the rapturous satisfaction, the disappoint- 

TheLittleRevietc 37 

ment, and the renewed quest. I have never heard such a quality of 
sehnsucht in any music; it is almost more than you can bear. Of 
course, in these surroundings, you must listen to the complete gamut 
of new^ popular songs; but at intervals, when the managerial demand 
for "noise" can be ignored for a moment, you will be rewarded by 
the Thais Meditation or a Schutt waltz or that exquisite Saint-Saens 
poem called The Swan — or even a Tschaikowsky song. Where does 
the tone come from, you keep wondering? Not from a wooden in- 
strument, not from small human fingers, surely. It is tone of such 
richness and depth that you sometimes have the illusion of each note 
being sung twice. "It transcends music to me entirely and becomes 
a matter of life — or of soul," said a critic who listened with me the 
other day. 

Through it all the artist's earnest face is still and unchanging. 
That is part of the fascination — the contrast of that tumultuous sing- 
ing and the thoughtful, dreaming face that seems to control it all, "My 
violin belongs to me — yes," she says, "but that is such a cold word. 
It is part of my body. I feel it is growing on me just like my arms 
and hands. I could not live without it." If you watch her closely you 
will decide that her playing is the result of an extraordinary sensitive- 
ness to life. If you know her, as I do, you will expand that judgment 
to this one: an extrordinary strength about life; for she is both deep 
and strong — qualities that are supposed to be inseparable, but which 
are so rarely found together that their combination means — a great 

I am afraid I am too much of a musician not to be a romanticist. With 
out music life to me would be a mistake. — Nietzche to Brandes, 1888. 

All restlessness, misery, all crime, is the result of the betrayal of one's 
inner life. — Will Lexington Comfort in "Midstream." 

38 The Little R e view 


Our New Poet 

r^ HARLES ASHLEIGH, who makes his appearance in this issue, was born in 
London twenty-five years ago. He was educated in England, Switzerland, and 
Germany, and speaks French, German, and Spanish, "as well as two or three 
varieties of English and American slang." He has wandered in Europe, South 
America and this country, traveling on foot through Argentine, Chile, and Peru, 
and in the States as a hobo. He has been sailor, newspaper man, tramp, actor, 
farm hand, railroad clerk, interpreter, and a few other things. He has written 
verse, short stories, social studies, literary criticism, and lectured on his travels 
as well as on sociological, literary, and dramatic subjects. Quite unlike those poets 
who insist that they have no opinions on any subject — that they simply photo- 
graph life — Mr, Ashleigh states his creed in this way: "I am interested in 
Labor, literature, and many other aspects and angles of Life. Men and deeds are 
to me of primary importance and books secondary." We look for big things 
from this young man. 

Two Important Books 

\ll ARY AUSTIN has written a study of marriage which she calls Love and the 
Soul Maker. It appears to be about as big a thing on the subject as any 
American woman has done. Will Lexington Comfort has written an auto- 
biographical novel which he calls Midstream. It tells the truth about a man's life, 
and is also a big thing. Both will be reviewed in the August issue. 

The Congo 

M ICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY'S new poem, The Congo, is to appear in The 
Metropolitan for August. Mr. Lindsay's opinion is that the best efifect will be 
got by reading it aloud. 

The Basis for a New Painting 

T^RULY these Imagists are enchanting! The following examples are selected 
from the anthology published by The Glebe : 

Fan-Piece for Her Imperial Lord 
O fan of white silk, 

clear as frost on the grass-blade, 
You also are laid aside. 

Ezra Pound. 

In A Garden 
Gushing from the mouths of stone men 
To spread at ease under the sky 
In granite-lipped basins, 
Where iris dabble their feet 
And rustle to a passing wind, 

The Little Review 

The water fills the garden with its rushing, 

In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns. 

Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone, 
Where trickle and splash the fountains, 
Marble fountains, yellowed with much water. 

Splashing down moss-tarnished steps 

It falls, the water; 

And the air is throbbing with it ; 

With its gurgling and running; 

With its leaping, and deep, cool mumur. 

And I wished for night and you. 

I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool, 

White and shining in the silver-flecked water. 

While the moon rode over the garden 

High in the arch of night, 

And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness. 

Night and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing! 

Amy Lowell. 

An Vieux Jar din 

I have sat here happy in the gardens, 

Watching the still pool and the reeds 

And the dark clouds 

Which the wind of the upper air 

Tore like the green leafy bough 

Of the divers-hued trees of late summer; 

But though I greatly delight 

In these and the water lilies, 

That which sets me nighest to weeping 

Is the rose and white colour of the smooth flag-stones. 

And the pale yellow grasses 

Among them. 

Richard Aldington. 

Ts'ai Chi'h 

The petals fall in the fountain, 

the orange coloured rose-leaves. 
Their ochre clings to the stone. 

Ezra Pound. 

Liu Ch'e 

The rustling of the silk is discontinued, 

Dust drifts over the courtyard, 

There is no sound of footfall, and the leaves 

Scurry into heaps and lie still. 

And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them. 

A wet leaf that clings to the threshold. 

Ezra Pound. 

40 The Little Review 




THE man who fought the big battle for Ibsen and Nietzsche should 
have filled Madison Square Garden; as it was, the little Comedy 
Theatre wasn't large enough to hold the audience, although Scandi- 
navian patriotism accounted for a good deal of it. He came on the 
stage with Brander Matthews, the apotheosis of the academic, and the 
contrast was striking. Matthews was tall, dull, professional. Brandes, 
with his keen face, alert eyes, and shock of grayish hair, was possibly 
the most fully alive person in the room. He radiated interest — human 
connection with anything vital. 

We were all a little sorry his subject was Shakespeare; we wanted 
to hear of something modern. And when the first part of the lecture 
was read, couched in scholarly but terse English, we felt cheated. It 
was good criticism, and informing, but it wasn't the sort of thing we 
had expected from Brandes. Suddenly a spark shot out. (The quo- 
tation is from memory) : 

We cannot emphasize too strongly the fact that all works of literature 
which have a real effect on mankind, all works which endure hundreds of 
years, find their inspiration not in books, but in life. 

The words were pronounced with excited intensity. Soon came 

another : 

We used to define the genius as the man who interprets his age; now 
we know that the genius is the man who, working against his age, creates new 

Dr. Brandes broke into a lively sally at the Baconians. He spoke 
of Shakespeare's errors in scholarship. These Bacon would surely 
have avoided, but of Shakespeare's great lines Bacon could not possi- 
bly have written one. He ended that section with something like this : 

The Baconian theory was founded by the uneducated, it was developed 
by the half-educated, and it is now held solely by idiots. 

The audience was immensely pleased at his sharp fire. 

Dr, Brandes' epigrams sometimes sound as if he substituted wit 
for wisdom. But that is because the epigrams stick and are repeated. 
His method is to open with an epigram to catch the attention, to pro- 
ceed with a line of sound argument, and at the end to finish superbly 

Til e Little R eview 41 

with a sentence that contains his conclusions and impales his opponent 
at the same time. 

With Frank Harris, Dr. Brandes was no more gentle. By parallel 
quotation Harris was made to appear ridiculous. Brandes showed 
that whatever in his writings is sound has been said before. This was 
the end of the lecture: 

Mr. Harris says that it is possible to admire Shakespeare, but that it 
is impossible to worship him. Ladies and gentlemen, I do the impossible. 

Afterwards came a supper of the Scandinavian Society, at which 
the guest of honor made a speech that looked brilliant and was lively 
even as a piece of pantomime — but it was in Danish. Dr. Brandes was 
beaming and unaffectedly cordial with everybody. He smilingly inter- 
rupted one of the pompous addresses in his honor to correct a quota- 
tion from Goethe. He proposed a toast to the charming young lady 
who acted as his American manager, and said that the success of his 
tour was due entirely to her. Later a consul made a highly compli- 
mentary, but exceedingly tedious, speech. Dr. Brandes fidgeted until 
he could stand it no longer, then he quickly got up, took his cham- 
pagne glass, ran over to the orator and slapped him on the shoulder, 
saying, "You are a very nice man." The rest was drowned in the toast. 


The other day an illustrator saw a hand-mirror in a pubHsher's 
office. He put the mirror against a book cover and held it at arm's 
length. "There," he said, "is the ideal jacket for a novel. Every 
woman likes to imagine herself the heroine of the book she is reading." 
But the publisher was wiser. "You are half right," he answered. "But 
she wants to be a Gibson heroine. To see her own face, without flat- 
tery, would startle her into disapproval of the book." 

A recent symposium in The Sun bore the impressive title. The 
Sentimentalization of Woman in American Fiction. All the authors 

were agreed that realism doesn't go because of the desire of the reader 
to be flattered. If she isn't, the novel is "unpleasant," "depressing." 
You may paint your villainess black, but, as your reader will take her 
for an enemy, you must see that she is properly punished. But if your 
heroine does anything unconventional, it must be of the kind that your 
reader enjoys by imagination, though she wouldn't have the courage 

42 The Little Review 

to do it. Only you must not make the thrills so strong as to shock the 
reader into self-consciousness and self-disapproval. Georg Brandes 
said that our novels are written by old maids for old maids. If we 
would only put into our literature the same genius and daring that we 
put into our skyscrapers ! 

The thing none of the authors seemed to see is that it is futile to 
stop at blaming the readers. Of course the great public is compara- 
tively stupid. It is everywhere, it always has been and always will be. 
What is a leader if he is not someone in advance of the others? And the 
essential act for a leader is to lead. He can't get a following until he 
does that. Only a coward stays behind and flatters the crowd because 
he is afraid they will not come after him. Perhaps they w^on't follow 
his particular route. But if he goes on fearlessly he has done the best 
that is in him, anyway. The chances are that if he has a sincere con- 
viction and marches far enough in one direction they will at least 
struggle along after a w^hile. They may even follow in hordes. What 
we need first is not a more intelligent public, but courageous writers. 

Naturally the matter is not simple. Your artist has to be fed and 
clothed. If he is creating a new medium — as did Wagner — he even 
needs large resources to produce his art. The solution used to be the 
wealthy patron. The petty monarch maintained a musician or a 
painter to enhance the glory of his court. The noble supported a 
writer from personal pride. The monastery afforded a refuge for the 
unworldly creator. It would be difficult to find a great artist before the 
last century who did not have some such subsidy, unless he had means 
of his own. 

Since then democracy has permeated the world. Fast presses, 
advertising, and royalties have been invented. Now the public is 
the writer's patron. Music is often subsidized, to be sure, and painters 
can still sell their canvases to the wealthy. But the earnings of the 
writer are in strict proportion to the number of copies of his books that 
can be sold. 

There is a distinct advantage in this situation. The virtue of 
democracy is not the government of the majority, but the opportunity 
of the minority. The minority becomes, not a defensive close corpora- 
tion, but a body of fighting visionaries. The emphasis is placed on 
growth. The eternal impulse of the minority to turn itself into a 
majority prevents a static age. The strongest lead, instead of the 
highly born. 

T he Little Review 43 

So it must be with our writers. Difficulty insures heroes. We can 
discount at once the truckUng commercial writers. But the others must 
be deeply sincere and strong in order to exist at all. There is little 
room for the dilletante. Let our young people who have something 
to say recognize the situation. They must dedicate themselves to a 
probable poverty. They must gird their loins and sharpen their 
weapons. They must be prepared to wait years, if need be, even for 
recognition. Every energy must be devoted to saying as well as may 
be the thing that is in them. And so, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, 
living simply, supporting themselves as best they may, but always 
doing the thing that is worth while for its own sake, they may produce 
a literature that has not been equalled since the world began. 

Others of us can share in this glorious undertaking. Discerning 
critics must sift the true from the false. They must lay aside the twin 
snobberies of praising or blaming a work because of its popularity. 
They must fight eternally for the sincere. They must point out direc- 
tions, they must prize meanings above methods. They must give a 
nucleus to the intelligent reading public and constantly augment it. 
They must bear sturdy witness to the fact that art is not an amusement 
for idle moments, but the consciousness of the race. They must show 
its relation to life as well as to living. They must be predisposed in 
favor of no work on account of its nationality, school or tendency. 
Just as Brandes enlarged the conception of literature by showing it 
as a world phenomenon, they must rid it of petty divisions in the realm 
of thought. No more should such a statement as "Galsworthy is a 
poet rather than a novelist" be allowed to pass as criticism. A novelist 
may be a poet or a philosopher or a psychologist or a historian or a 
sociologist. Any of these may combine the intrinsic abilities of any or 
all of the others. He is greater for doing so. The only test of his work 
is its effectiveness. A work of art is an organism, the highest product 
of nature, infinitely more real, more beautiful, more potent, than any 
flower. Only when we see it as such, and not as a collection of petals 
and stamens, or as a member of a species, shall we know it. 

The whole problem of creating a literature, as of doing anything 
else, is one of direction and power. If we blame someone else for our 
deficiencies, if we stand aloof, if we bow to circumstances and are 
afraid to pay for what we want, we shall of course do nothing. And 
we shall not enjoy ourselves or the world much either. But if we fix 

44 l^he Little R e view 

on a goal that is worth a life, and set out for it with the joyous spirit 
of adventurers, risking everything, enduring everything, sleeping un- 
der the stars, staying hard and keen, we shall command the fates. What 
more could we ask of the world? 



The Idiot, The Brothers Karamazov, Crime and Punishment, etc., 

translated by Constance Garnett. [The Macmillan Company, New 


It's not a matter of intellect or logic, it's loving (life) with one's inside, 
with one's stomach. 

— Ivan Karamazov. 

Chiefly concerned with the fester of civilization, literature, music, 
painting, all the modern forms of individual expression are elliptical 
in the sense that the old aesthetic values of emotional beauty seem to 
have become nuUified, or else congealed, in the artist's direct applica- 
tion of his instrument to the repudiation of fixed social values or moral- 
ities; to the expansion of life-interests. We today want more than 
beauty of external form; we want the beauty of depth! 

The true artist is such primarily because of his engrossing appe- 
tite for life, because (as Flaubert said) of the chaos in his soul. And 
although Flaubert kept on chiseling words around the lives of men 
and women totally devoid of inspirating individuality, his dictum has 
been nobly exemplified in the hfe and writings of Fyodor Dostoevsky, 
that great-hearted epileptic Russian of whose psychological powers 
Nietzsche admittedly availed himself. 

Tolstoy was reported to have said, in conversation with a writer 
for Le Temps, "A woman who has never suffered pain is a beast." 
He could have stretched the allegation to include the other sex, if only 
by way of illusion to that intense spiritual quality in modern Russian 
literature — a literature that has never been (notably) an off-shoot of, 
as much as a protest against, the retrogressive structures of its respec- 
tive periods. 

This spiritual, or psychical, concern with the individual's adjust- 
ment to the functioning of life has been revealed to highest degree in 

The Little R eview 45 

Dostoevsky's novels. It is also manifest in the analytical mould as- 
sumed by the creative arts of our time. 

While Dostoevsky's personality is separably bound up with his 
work, profitable appreciation of the latter can be considerably ampli- 
fied with knowledge of the important facts of his life and the condi- 
tions with which he struggled. I will record the more essential facts 
of his life as I have gathered them, and try to explain the causes that 
have made for the distinction in his work from that of all other writers. 

He was born in a charity-hospital in Moscow, in 1821. His father 
was an army-surgeon, his mother a store-keeper's daughter. I like to 
think that he derived his expressive powers, or rather the nebulae out 
of which they subsequently developed, from his mother, perhaps partly 
because of my theory that men of acute genius ultimately do transcend 
the difference of sex in the quality of their personalities as w^ell as in 
that of their work. 

Like most imaginative youths who come into contact with fine 
art, Dostoevsky was stimulated to literary expression by his study of 
classical and contemporaneous European literature. He had lived 
twenty-three years when he graduated from a St. Petersburg school of 
military engineering. His first novel, Poor Folk, was published three 
years later, and served to focus upon him the attention of the critics. 

In 1 849 Dostoevsky was arrested, with members of a radical or- 
ganization, on governmental charges of sedition. The terrible suffering 
he sustained while awaiting his execution (he -was first confined in 
prison for eight months) have been set forth in striking passages of his 
novels, The Idiot and Letters from a Dead House. The sentence of 
death was finally, and very unexpectedly, commuted to one of impris- 
onment in Siberia for four years. At the expiration of this period he 
served perforce as a private soldier in the Russian army for three more 
years. When he was permitted to return to St. Petersburg he was 
accompanied by his first wife, whom he had loved and married while 
in exile. 

Dostoevsky's interminable suffering from epileptic seizures (it 
has been suggested that these fits originated in a beating administered 
to him by his father when Fyodor was a boy) ; his poverty, and the 
constant accumulation of debt ; the terrific haste with which he found 
it necessary to write his most profound books — all have made it nat- 
ural to him, in dwelling upon any physiological aspect of his characters, 


46 T h e L it tl e R e vi e w 

to be as unconvincing as the eremite attempting an analysis of con- 
ditions of sex life. 

In short, Dostoevsky's nervous disorders pervaded his"sensual 
sense" of beauty — of beauty in all its manifestations. At the same 
time it must be remarked that this negation of physical responsiveness 
surely intensified the acuteness of his mental vision, which was other- 
wise refined emotionally by the results of his imprisonment and life- 
long hardships. And this also explains w^hy Dostoevsky's novels are 
lacking so singularly in the tingle of the physical contact of his char- 
acters; why the suffering of his men and women move us so pro- 
foundly; why his writings are so uneven, his dialogues of such ele- 
mental power, and his purely descriptive passages so ordinary. 

The elemental power in his dialogues is due chiefly to the vigor 
of action accredited his characters. In his work is not to be found the 
picturesque phrase, the adroitly-turned period, the illuminating meta- 
phor, the sequence of construction, the tone or shading offered by the 
commingling of his objects. Dostoevsky has no style of form, his out- 
lines are amorphous. It is in his power of transcribing the living voice, 
of recording in never-failing reflex emotionalism the lives and deeds 
of his startling figures that he is supreme. 

If you have read one of his books you know much of what he 
has to say. His other works are repetitions, mainly. For Dostoevsky 
does not attempt to paint character, and rarely does he stop to show the 
subtly-reacting influence of environment upon his men and women. 
Always he is concerned with the idea of the individual's personal ad- 
justments to life. Each book of his throbs with the discordant ele- 
ments that clash over the establishment of this idea; and always its 
conclusions are recognized. That is why I regard Dostoevsky as an 
optimist. And his emphasis on humanity's spiritual conception of 
life, no matter what the cost, grew more and more pronounced in his 
later works. 

His faith in human beings is expressed in one set theme, which 
can be conveniently resolved into terms of comparison : on one hand 
the individual's evasion of life's realities by the exercise of material 
(and therefore fictitious) values; and on the other hand, the frank 
acceptance of life's realities for the attainment of a proportionate spir- 
itual balance. 

In Crime and Punishment, Dr. Raskolnikov is in doubt as to the 

T he Little R e view 47 

ultimate worth of this attainment, until he expiates his crime in killing 
the old moneylender (I forget her name) not by confessing, — Dos- 
toevsky is too fine a realist for that, — but by obtaining personal solace 
from the regenerating qualities of his resignation. And it is charac- 
teristic of our writer's method that Raskolnikov is assisted toward this 
state of resignation by his love, Sonia, the prostitute, whose regard 
for the murderer is based upon the confirmation evidenced in him of 
the faith that has been stimulated in herself. 

Similar in thesis, though expressed in terms of minor differences, 
is Dostoevsky's last and unquestionably finest work, The Brothers 
Karamazov. It is incomplete, actually one-third as long as he had in- 
tended it to be. He died before he could finish the book. Neverthe- 
less it is compactly-formed material as the work now stands, and su- 
perior to his other novels not because his outlines are more constrained, 
his movement more co-ordinate, and the actual writing of a more inten- 
sive quality, but because here he defines his own conception of spir- 
itual beauty in a distinctive fashion not to be found in his other books. 

He offers us the history of a family, — and what a family! Each 
figure in this domestic (?) group embodies conflicting phases of his 
great idea. Fyodor Karamazov, the father, is a sensualist of the low- 
est type imaginable. His three sons are Dmitri, Ivan, and Aloysha. 
There is also another (illegitimate) son, Smerdyakov, an epileptic. 

Dmitri Karamazov inherits his father's passion for wine, women, 
and song, but the son's pursuit of this tame and conventional item is 
tempered by frequent lapses, by periods of misgiving. The second son 
is a materialist and a cynic. He changes his mind after a severe illness, 
and his materialistic beliefs are all but supplanted by intense spiritual 
curiosity. The third and youngest son is an idealist, lovable and lov- 
ing. Here again we have Dostoevsky's discordant elements conveyed 
in terms of human characterizations. The plot of the story is as form- 
less as life itself, for it is with life, not with plots, that Dostoevsky deals. 

Dmitri's hatred of his father is intensified by the rivalry that 
exists betw^een the two in their common pursuit of Grushenka's affec- 
tions. Grushenka is a woman of the demi-monde. The author, I 
think, tried to draw her in lines that would reveal a physical zest of 
life, as evidenced, for example, in Tolstoy's Anna Karen'ma. His fail- 
ure to make Grushenka a convincing individual, as an individual, is 
typical, for the reasons I have already advanced. 

48 The Little R eview 

Development of the story shows how Dmitri's repeatedly avowed 
determination to kill his father bears fruit. The elder Karamazov is 
found dead one night, with his skull crushed. Dmitri is imprisoned. 
And the rest of the book, which is devoted to Dmitri's trial, the moral 
regeneration of Ivan, and the urge of life in Aloysha, approaches psy- 
chological heights (or depths) that have not been surpassed to this day. 
Small wonder that Nietzsche referred so affectionately to the "giant 

I have made reference to Dostoevsky's "optimism." A better 
word for it is faith — faith of a new high order. He is the most cheer- 
ful, sunlight-giving writer in Russian literature. "The essence of re- 
ligious feeling," says Prince Myshkin in The Idiot, "does not come 
under any sort of reasoning or atheism, and has nothing to do with 
any crimes or misdemeanors." 

Prince Myshkin is the central figure of the novel; he is the "idiot," 
and everybody abuses him. He is insulted and beaten, and robbed and 
deceived and loved. He is the most singular figure in literature — he is 
Dostoevsky himself. 

But he is not an idiot in any sense. He is so profoundly simple 
and wise, and has such great faith in human beings, that he is mistaken 
by the men and women of ordinary passions as a fool. While he can 
be readily toyed with by women — a significant phase of the writer's 
own attitude toward the sex — Prince Myshkin is regarded by them 
from a common basis of understanding. For them he holds no quality 
of sex. "Perhaps you don't know that, ov/ing to my illness," he says 
(he too is an epileptic), "I know nothing of women." 

It is in The Idiot that Dostoevsky's women are at least life-like. 
The Epanchin sisters, especially the youngest, Aglaia, are net "types" 
in the usual sense, but preconceived studies. The pages devoted to 
Aglaia's love affair with Prince Myshkin are of the happiest in the 

Besides the books I have already mentioned, the more important 
works are The Possessed, in which national politics play a large part; 
Poor Folk, the story of a poor clerk's love for a poor woman who 
eventually turns from him ; and Letters from a Dead House. This last 
is a book of personal experiences, and reveals Dostoevsky's relations 
with the criminals with whom he was imprisoned in Siberia. The men- 
tal temper of men who disregard and break the common and social 

The Little Review 49 

laws, is set forth with the passionate curiosity that lies behind all his 
probings of the human soul. I am strongly tempted to offer quotations; 
to show, in this passage or that, how deeply Dostoevsky looked into the 
most extreme boundaries of human sensibilities; but on the whole 
extracts from his writings would do more harm than good. His work 
is so disconnected, though not in any sense detached, that extracts 
could not serve here to indicate the amazing clarity of his vision. 

His books arouse a feeling of wonder that there can be so many 
things in our own individual emotions with which we never before 
came into contact. He moves us so profoundly because he tears his 
men and women out of their morally-bound lives and makes them 
confront stupendous questions — the questions of life. He plies detail 
upon detail of human misery until one feels that the whole world is 
reeling from him — then grows aware of the sweet white glow of Dos- 
toevsky's faith, and feels that life can hold no terrors — that he is above 
the petty miseries of human strife! That is why I say Dostoevsky's 
optimism is of the new high order. 

Dostoevsky purges one's mind. He makes you conscious of the 
beauty of a soul. 



The Titan, by Theodore Dreiser 

[John Lane Company, New York] 

npHEODORE DREISER possesses none of the standard qualifica- 
**• tions for the art of fiction writing. He is not imaginative but 
inventive; he is not clever but clear; he is not excited but calm. What- 
ever the flaws in his considerable body of work no fair-minded reader 
may say that it is made to catch popular applause. Its tremendous 
distinction is sincerity. Another characteristic which his novels ex- 

50 The Little Review 

hibit is resolute purpose. Dreiser is aiming at something, and in The 
Titan, the second book in an unfinished trilogy, he takes a long if 
wobbly step toward it. Previously to the publishing of this volume 
he had not even hinted at what he intended to work out. One thing 
was certain: he was not a trifler; he was not trying to write best 
sellers; literary success was not in his mind. He had set out seri- 
ously and indefatigably to write, not so much what he felt and thought, 
as what he saw. Some day he would try to get at the realities that lay 
back of their representations. He would probably undertake to re- 
veal the soul of the American nation. He would pass through the 
growth stages of a nation, and achieve some kind of spiritual na- 
tional life. In the last two pages of The Titan this guess at his pur- 
pose receives appreciable encouragement. Moreover, it is made evi- 
dent for the first time, in these concluding paragraphs, that Dreiser's 
prosaic realism springs not only from a vague, deep idealism but a 
large, hidden spirituality. For at the core of him Dreiser is a pro- 
foundly religious person. 

Neither his style nor his stuff is far above the dead level of 
mediocrity; in fact, Dreiser's rhetoric is often inexcusably atrocious 
— intentionally crude, one is tempted to assert. Obviously he is not 
interested in style; he is conscious of something bigger than that re- 
vealing itself in a huge, ugly, unfinished moving picture — a net re- 
sult symbolical of a young, raw, riotous, unsynthesized national life. 
One is therefore tempted to say that Dreiser, more than any other 
author, is the personification of America. He represents the com- 
posite personality of Uncle Sam. 

After reading The Financier and running far into the intermin- 
able pages of The Titan 1 felt that in the absence of cameras, kodaks, 
Baedekers, and historians Dreiser would be worth while. His end- 
less reels of pictorial facts did not impress me as possessing sufficient 
animation successfully to compete with these odd rivals, but I ad- 
mired his consistent sincerity and simplicity and felt that something 
important was promised by the mere unfinishedness of his pictures. 
I was sure that he did not write as one inspired, and certainly not as 
one fired. And after finishing The Titan I felt that here was a work 
having the aspects of a seriously performed duty, exacted by fidelity 
to some personal theory of industrial change. I could not imagine 
the author happy as an artist is happy in his creative work; he was 

T h e Little R e view 51 

too conscious of service to a cause. But in the last paragraph I dis- 
covered a big, personal note which introduced an attitude that ex- 
tends beyond the borders of materialism. It presented another 
Dreiser — an author who was much more than a cinematograph, 
snapping superficial impressions of a vast panorama. Two years ago 
I should not have attributed the following words to Theodore Dreiser : 

In a mulch of darkness is bedded the roots of endless sorrows — and of 
endless joys. Canst thou fix thine eye on the morning? Be glad. And if 
in the ultimate it blind thee, be glad also! Thou hast lived. 

After laboring through arid deserts of description, this memor- 
able passage, fraught with recognition, satisfaction, challenge, hope, 
and promise, stands out as an oasis. 

The Titan, by virtue of its bold, graphic strokes, loses its iden- 
tity as a tree, with sharply defined individual characters, and repre- 
sents the forest. It is more Hke a jungle, and the jungle is our na- 
tional life, into which the morning sun inevitably will shine. 

— DeWitt C. Wing. 


Challenge, by Louis Untermeyer. 

[The Century Company, New York] 

np HERE has recently appeared a volume of verse by Louis Unter- 
"*• meyer which is an excellent example of the determinedly young 
and eupeptic philosophy so prevalent today — the philosophy of re- 
volt. The book is named Challenge and as challenge it must be con- 
sidered. To be sure it is rhymed, but the fact seems quite incidental. 
To rhyme a polemic does not make it poetry, and one feels sure that 
Mr. Untermeyer is more proud of the spiritual attitude than of the 

The book is a revolt, but a careful perusal of its pages fails to 
reveal against what it revolts. At first glance one might think it 
socialistic, but it is not clearly enough visualized for that. Social- 
ism has at least found the enemy. Mr. Untermeyer manfully girds on 
his armor and sets forth to war, shouting his challenge lustily the 
while. And why, after all, be particular about having an actual en- 
emy? Life, with a capital L, can do duty for that, or "the scornful 

52 The Little Ee vie to 

and untroubled skies," or the "cold complacency of earth." The re- 
volt is the point, and Mr. Untermeyer drives it home with all the 
phrases of frozen impetuosity to be discovered in a very useful vo- 
cabulary. "Athletic courage," "eager night," "Life's lusty banner," 
"impetuous winds," "raging mirth," etc., are scattered carefully 
through the pages. But unfortunately, virility — with all due respect 
to the reviewer who mentioned these poems in the June number of 
The Little Review — has a v/ay of oozing out of such phrases, leaving 
them empty of everything save a painful determination to be manly at 
all costs. 

But though Mr. Untermeyer is not quite clear on some subjects 
he is very clear on others. Several things seem to have struck him 
with peculiar force — that city streets are dirty, for instance ; that strife 
is tonic for young blood; and that it is difficult for the human soul 
to conceive of complete annihilation. These things he proclaims pas- 
sionately and challenges the world to disprove them. A little couplet 
from Kipling's Jungle Book suggests itself rather maliciously as the 
probable attitude of the world towards this outbreak: 

"There is none like to me!" says the Cub in the pride of his earhest kill; 
But the Jungle is large and the Cub he is small. Let him think and be still. 

Seriously, however, Mr. Untermeyer's attitude is what William 
James calls the attitude of the "once born." One feels that he thinks 
in one dimension, that he does not see around his subject, nor hear 
the overtones which surround every happening for a man of deep in- 
tellect. The revolt is Walt Whitman's magnificent revolt, which is 
overpowering in a giant, cropping out in a man of very ordinary 
stature, where it sits a little ridiculously. 

As philosophy much of this, printed on a neat little card, would 
do splendidly to hang in a business office for the encouragement of 
the employees. As poetry it is negligible. Mr. Untermeyer lacks 
entirely the one gift which could redeem it — the gift of poignancy. 
This lack is particularly striking in the middle section, called Inter- 
ludes, in which he pauses for a little from revolt. These are love songs 
and lyrics, a field in which anything not perfect is no longer accept- 
able. And Mr. Untermeyer's are not perfect. His sense of rhythm 
is extremely primitive and his lyrics are full of words. Only now and 
then, when he forgets for a moment how manly he is, does he say 

The Little Review 53 

anything simply enough to strike home. These Hnes, for instance, 
from Iron"^ stick : 

There is no kind of death to kill 
the sands that lie so meek and still . . . 
But man is great and strong and wise — 
And so he dies. 

But in the main it is unfortunate that Mr. Untermeyer, who 
writes so much and so readably on the subject of poetry, should put 
out so pretentious and undeveloped a volume as this is. It is inevit- 
able that it should affect his standing as a critic, and there seems little 
doubt that his work in that field is really valuable to the cause of poetry 
in America today. 

— Eunice Tietjens. 


Paul Verlaine, hy Wilfred Thorley; Tolstoy: His Life and Writings, 
by Edward Garnett. [Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.] 

YV 7 HEN autumn is in your heart — not that of the golden delirium of 
^ exotic agony, but bleak weeping autumn of crucifixion and dead 
leaves — what dirge, what note haunts you in accompaniment to your 
grief? Maddening darts from Tchaikowsky's Pathetique, or IVelt- 
chwerz -moans from Beethoven's Marchia Funebre, or an unuttered 
accord known only to your soul? Or, if you are a brother of mine, do 
your lips soundlessly mutter this? 

Les sanglots longs 
Des violons 

De I'automne 
Blessent mon coeur 
» D'une langueur 


Don't you hear the resonance of the tolling bells in Chopin's 
Funeral March? Your sorrow grows crescendo as you proceed, recall- 
ing Massenet's Elegie: 

54 The Little Review 

Tout suffocant 
Et bleme, quand 

Sonne I'heure, 
Je me souviens 
Des jours anciens 

Et je pleure; 

Et je m'en vais 
Au vent mauvais 

Qui m'emporte 
Deca, dela 
Pareil a la 

Feuille morte. 

When I think of Paul Verlaine I invariably recall Oscar Wilde, 
despite or because of the abysmal dissimilarity of the two personalities. 
The sincere, ingenuous, all-loving child Paul, and the thoroughly arti- 
ficial, paradoxical Oscar; the typical Bohemian with the criminal-face 
like that of Dostoevsky, and the salon-idol, the refined and gorgeous 
bearer of the sun-flower. Fate had somewhat reconciled the two con- 
trasts. Both had been "sinners," both were condemned by society and 
imprisoned, both had "repented" — one in De Profundis where the 
haughty humility of the self-enamored artist stirs us with its artificial 
beauty; the other in the primitive-Christian — nay. Catholic- — Sagesse: 

Mon Dieu ma dit: Monfils, il jaut m' aimer .... 

Some months ago in reviewing Edmond Lepelletier's voluminous 
book, (Paul Verlaine: His Life and Work) I remarked that the Poet of 
Absinthe and Violets was still awaiting his Boswell. My view has not 
changed after reading Wilfrid Thorley's monograph on Verlaine ; but 
my wish for an adequate biography of the signer of Romances sans 
Paroles has now become counterbalanced by an earnest prayer that the 
memory of the poet may be saved from such indelicate manipulators 
as Mr. Thorley. Why this respectable Englishman should have at- 
tempted to treat the life of the most wayward French poet since Villon 
can be explained by no other reason than that it was a case of "made to 
order." When a Velasquez is pierced by a fanatical suffragette the 
whole civilized world is roused to indignation; but when an honest 
philistine unceremoniously puffs his cheap smoke into the face of a 
dead poet there is not a single protest against that sort of vandalism. 
Fear of the editor's blue pencil restrains me from putting my attitude 
more outspokenly. 

The Little Review 55 

A conscientious compilator would have found sufficient material 
for an unpretentious sketch of the life of Verlaine and for an apprecia- 
tion of his works. Lepelletier gives an amazing mass of facts and 
personal reminiscences (you may ignore his naive interpretations) ; 
Arthur Symons in The Symbolist Movement in Literature has a mas- 
terpiece essay on Verlaine, not to mention a number of other French 
and English writers who have given us glimpses of the imperceptible 
image of the poet — writers who f^neu) what the^ were talking about. 
Mr. Thorley has made use of various sources, but in a peculiar way. 
He fished out the anecdotal scraps, the piquant details, the filthy hints, 
and patched up a caricature-portrait of a lewd, perverse "undesirable," 
whose poetry (I quote reluctantly) "was born solely of the genitals," 
whose "life is but the trite old story of the emotions developed at the 
expense of domestic peace and civic order; of art for art's sake made 
to condone the manner of its begetting, and the trend of its appeal; 
of the hushed acquiescence in emotion as a sacred thing, whatever the 
quality of the impulse from which it ripens or the level of ideas on 
which it feeds." Out of the ninety-odd pages of stuff seventy-nine are 
devoted to "biography" sufficiently spicy to make any toothless old 
rake chuckle; the rest is given over to "criticism" — a mutilated 
melange of some of the views of Symons, George Moore, and others, 
flavored with the compilator's own commonplaces. I quote from the 
closing lines: 

A specious and high-sounding phrase has been invented to excu^se the 
perversities of imaginative genius by speaking of its achievement as a "con- 
quest of new realms for the spirit." But the worth of such acquisitions de- 
pends on the nature of the territory, and if it be, morally, a malarial swamp 
conducive only to a human type found subversive in our normal world, it will 
always appear to the English mind that we shall do well to forego the new 
kingdom and to withhold our homage from its discoverer. . . . That 
"nice is nasty, nasty nice," and the creative artist the sole arbiter, must be 
hotly opposed so long as a social conscience survives. 

And this was written in Anno Domini 1914! 

A sense of fairness urges me to rehabilitate the "English mind" 
by recalling a passage from Mr. Thorley's compatriot, Arthur Symons: 

The artist, it cannot be too clearly understood, has no more part in so- 
ciety than a monk in domestic life: he cannot be judged by its rules, he can 
be neither praised nor blamed for his acceptance or rejection of its conven- 
tions. Social rules are made by normal people for normal people, and the 
man of genius is fundamentally abnormal. 

56 The Little Review 

It is high time that this axiom became a truism and that we cease 
to measure the artist with the yard-stick of conventional morahty. 
"L' art, mes enfants, c'est d* etre absolument sai-meme, " sang Verlaine, 
and somewhere else he reveals a bit of that self with his usual sincerity : 

I believe, and I sin in thought as in action; I believe, and I repent in 
thought, if no more. Or again, 1 believe, and I am a good Christian at this 
moment; I believe, and I am a bad Christian the instant after. The remem- 
brance, the hope, the invocation of a sin delights me, with or without remorse, 
sometimes under the very form of sin, and hedged with all its natural conse- 
quences This delight .... it pleases us to put to paper 

and publish more or less well expressed: we consign it, in short, into literary 
form, forgetting all religious ideas, or not letting one of them escape us. Can 
any one in good faith condemn us as poets? A hundred times no. 

"And, indeed, I should echo, a hundred times no!" exclaims the 
Englishman, Arthur Symons. 

I cannot resist the temptation of quoting the happiest definition 
of Verlaine's personality written by Charles Morice back in 1 888 : 

The soul of an immortal child, that is the soul of Verlaine, v/ith all the 
privileges and all the perils of so being: with the sudden despair so easily dis- 
tracted, the vivid gaieties without a cause, the excessive suspicions and the 
excessive confidences, the whims so easily outwearied, the deaf and blind in- 
fatuations, with, especially, the unceasing renewal of impressions in the incor- 
ruptible integrity of personal vision and sensation. Years, influences, teach- 
ings, may pass over a temperament such as this, may irritate it, may fatigue 
it; transform it, never — never so much as to alter that particular unity which 
consists in a dualism, in the division of forces between the longing after what 
is evil and the adoration of what is good; or rather, in the antagonism of spirit 
and flesh 

I,have not mentioned the most striking "feature" of Mr. Thorley's 
production — the appendix. Six of Verlaine's poems are 
translated by him for the benefit of those who do not understand 
French "intimately." "To offer them to other readers, would, of 
course, be an impertinence," he modestly admits. Impertinence is not 
the word for that outrage. I have experienced physical pain at the 
sight of the Hunnish sacrilege committed by this well-wishing moralist. 
The poet, for whom "De la musique avant toute chose; De la muscique 
encore et toujours!" who had pleaded, "Car nous voulons la nuance 
encor. Pas la coulem rien que la nuance!" has been mercilessly cruci- 
fied in the form of quasi-Tennysonian, taffy-like verses. One recalls 
with gratitude the careful albeit pale translations of Gertrude Hall, who 
at least had the sense of aesthetic propriety in endeavoring to remain 
true to the master's meter and rhythm. 

The Little R evie tv 57 

From Tolstoy's diary in 1 855 : 

a great, a stupendous idea, to the realization of which I feel 
myself capable of devoting all my life. The idea is the foundation of a new 
religion corresponding to the development of mankind — the religion oj Jesus, 
but purified from dogma and my^sticism; a practical religion, not promising bliss in future, 
but giving happiness on earth To work con- 
sciously for the union on earth by religion 

From a letter to the poet Fet in 1 898 : 

I am so different to things of this life that life becomes uninteresting. 
I hope you will love me though I be black. 

From the fragment There are no guili]^ people: 

There was a time when I tried to change my position which was not in 
harmony w^ith my conscience, but the conditions created by the past, by my 
family and its claims upon me, were so complicated that 1 did not know how 
to free myself. I had not the strength. Now that 1 am over eighty and have 
become feeble I have given up trying to free myself. Strange to say, as my 
feebleness increases 1 realize more and more strongly the wrongfulness of my 
position, and it grows more and more intolerable to me. 

On his death-bed at the railroad station Astapovo, November, 

I am tired of this world of men. 

Tolstoy's failure was inevitable, for he had approached life with 
the uncompromising logic of a child or a god. For fifty years he 
preached his religion, and during all that time he remained splendidly 
inconsistent. He opposed private property and proceeded to live on 
his estate; he had denounced marriage and was a father to thirteen 
children. Notwithstanding his deadly hatred for the Russian govern- 
ment, he bitterly denounced the liberals and the revolutionists for their 
"un-Christian" ways of fighting the enemy; but his greatest contra- 
diction, to the joy of the intellectual world, consisted in the victory of 
the artist over the moralist as manifested in his numerous novels and 

The work of Edward Garnett is conscientious and is, to my knowl- 
edge, the best short biography of Tolstoy. It was a happy idea to 
discard the traditional portrait and use a reproduction of Kramskoy's 
painting, which dates back to the sixties, if I am not mistaken. It is 
when looking at this portrait, a great piece of art in itself, that we 
envisage the author of War and Peace. A few words from the descrip- 
tion of Tolstoy's face by P. A. Terzeyeonvo: 

His face was a true peasant's face: simple, rustic, with a broad nose, a 
weather-beaten skin, and thick overhanging brows, from beneath which small, 
keen, grey eyes peered sharply forth. . . . One instantly divines in Tol- 

58 Th e Little B e view 

stoy a man of the highest society — with polished, unconstrained manners. 

On the one hand an insatiable thirst for power over people, and 
on the other an unconquerable ardor for inward purity and the sweetness of 

In this chain of seething, imperious instincts linked with delicate spiritual 
organization lies the profound tragicness of Tolstoy's personality. 

Mr. Garnett succeeds in giving the quintessence of Tolstoy's 
works and teachings in less than a hundred pages. Like most of the 
Russian's eulogistic biographers, Mr. Garnett has not escaped the fal- 
lacy of exaggerating the moral power that Tolstoy exercised over the 
government. To say that the Czar and his ministers "dared not touch" 
the outspoken anarchist and heretic "out of dread of Europe — nay, of 
Russia," is to reveal one's ignorance of the brazen defiance displayed 
by Muscovite autocrats in regard to public opinion. As the Germans 
put it: "Herr Kossack, schamen Sie sich!" Tolstoy, as a matter of 
fact, had helped to check the revolutionary spirit of his compatriots in 
a greater degree than the tyrannic persecutions of Von-Plehve. Had 
he not appealed time and again to embrace his doctrine of Non-Resist- 
ance? Had he not denounced the revolutionists as violent prototypes 
of their hangers? Could the government see any danger i na man who 
wrote in The Times during the revolution of 1905: "To free oneself 
from the government it is only necessary to abstain from participating 
in it and supporting it. Our consciousness of the law^ of God demands 
from us only one thing: moral self-perfection, i. e., the liberation of 
oneself from all those weaknesses and vices w^hich make one the slave 
of governments and the participation in their crimes"? Another tragic 
contradiction of the restless soul of the anarchist who, despite himself, 
renders aid to the despots. 

— Alexander S. Kaun. 


Chance, by Joseph Conrad. 
[Doubleday, Page & Company, New York.] 

Did you ever take supper in the apartments of a dear bachelor 
friend, on a night when the w^ind howled outside the window, and the 
rain beat against the pane? And after the satisfying meal, whose 

The Little Review 59 

perfect appointment made you forget all save the luxury of living, 
did you retire to the spacious living room, and after accepting an 
aromatic Havana, stretch your feet out to the crackling log fire, and 
as the smoke from your cigar crawled upward listen to the philosophi- 
cal analyses of your cultured host on that marvelously simple and 
profoundly complex servant and master of man, the human mind? 
Of such an evening is the atmosphere of Chance. Not academically 
deep, but deep from the standpoint of a full life and an active intelli- 

Everyone loves to analyze his fellow creatures. Some do it well, 
some do it badly, but we all do it. Conrad does it masterfully. There 
doesn't seem to be a type which holds a mystery for him. The vil- 
lage pillar; the frail, ill-fated maid; the buxsom housewife; the si- 
lent captain ashore and afloat; the opinionated, retired old gentle- 
man; the cynical, good-natured man of thirty-five; the flat, tintless 
fraud. Into the mental realm of all these he makes expeditions long 
and short. His characters live. They mingle good and bad, and, as 
strong characters should, weave for themselves a charming story of 
love, adventure, trial, and victory, never trite, and always surprising. 
It is a tale built of character studies and garnished with odd conjective 

Our new acquaintance paused, then added meditatively: 

"Queer man. As if it made any difference. Queer man." 

"It's certainly unwise to admit any sort of responsibility for our actions, 
whose consequences we are never able to foresee," remarked Marlow by way 
of assent. 

"The consequence of his action was that I got a ship," said the other. 
"That could not do much harm," he added with a laugh which argued a 
probably unconscious contempt of general ideas. 

But Marlow was not put off. He was patient and reflective. He had 
been at sea many years and I verily believe he liked sea-life because upon 
the whole it is favourable to reflection. I am speaking of the now nearly 
vanished sea-life under sail. To those who may be surprised at the state- 
ment 1 will point out that this life secured for the mind of him who embraced 
it the inestimable advantages of solitude and silence. Marlow had the habit 
of pursuing general ideas in a peculiar manner, between jest and earnest. 

"Oh, I wouldn't suggest," he said, "that your namesake, Mr. Powell, 
the Shipping Master, had done you much harm. Such was hardly his inten- 
tion. And even if it had been he would not have had the power. He was but 
a man, and the incapacity to achieve anything distinctly good or evil is inherent 
in our earthly condition. Mediocrity is our mark. And perhaps it's just as 
well, since, for the most part, we cannot be certain of the effect of our 

"I don't know about the effect," the other stood up to Marlow man- 

60 The Little Review 

fully. "What effect did you expect anyhow? I tell you he did something 
uncommonly kind." 

"He did what he could," Marlov/ retorted gently, "and on his own show- 
ing that was not a very great deal. I cannot help thinking that there was 
some malice in the way he seized the opportunity to serve you. He man- 
aged to make you uncomfortable. You wanted to go to sea, but he jumped 
on the chance of accommodating your desire with a vengeance. I am in- 
clined to think your cheek alarmed him. And this was an excellent occasion 
to suppress you altogether. For if you accepted he was relieved of you with 
every appearance of humanity, and if you made objections (after requesting 
his assistance, mind you) it was open to him to drop you as a sort of im- 
postor. You might have had to decline that berth for some very valid 
reason. From sheer necessity, perhaps. The notice was too uncommonly 
short. But under the circumstances you'd have covered yourself with ig- 

Our new friend knocked the ashes out of his pipe. 

There is something about Conrad which gives a warm feeling 

about the heart. A certain fineness of humor, a certain fullness of 

sympathy. He never mixes his similes; they always take the same 

tone and the same color. For instance: 

I took a piece of cake and went out to bribe the Fyne dog into some 
sort of self-control. His sharp, comical yapping was unbearable, like stabs 
through one's brain, and Fyne's deeply modulated remonstrances abashed 
the vivacious animal no more than the deep, patient murmur of the sea abashes 
a nigger minstrel on a popular beach. Fyne was beginning to swear at him 
in low, sepulchral tones when I appeared. The dog became at once wildly 
demonstrative, half-strangling himself in his collar, his eyes and tongue hang- 
ing out in the excess of his uncomprehensible affection for me. This was 
before he caught sight of the cake in my hand. A series of vertical springs 
high up in the air followed, and then, when he got the cake, he instantly 
lost his interest in everything else. 

No, this illustration is not of Conrad's finest, but in a homely 
v/ay it illustrates a deep sympathy with life, which this strong worker 
and writer gives in such bountiful measure in ail his literature; and, 
to quote an eminent writer, "Literature and Conrad are interchange- 
able terms." — Henry Blackman Sell. 


Clark Field, by Robert Herrick. 
[Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.] 

It was but the other day that Mr. Herrick told us what he thought 
about the American novel. Those who read the trenchant article 
found not only a criticism of our machine-like fictionists and their 
half-baked methods, but also a sturdy conviction that the day was 
surely approaching when we should demand and receive a truer and 

TheLittlcRevieiv 61 

more vital presentation of our national life in our literature. And if 
Mr. Herrick, long since tagged an apostate to our national creed of 
turgid optimism, believes this, we can safely trust to his cool vision and 
be glad that the tide has turned. The rich human material lies ready 
at hand, and the audience is fast growing intelligent and discriminat- 
ing. As yet, however, "we await the writer or writers keen enough 
to perceive the opportunity, powerful enough to interest the public in 
what it has been unwilling to heed, and of course endowed with suf- 
ficient insight to comprehend our big new world." 

Whatever may be said for our other novelists, surely not one of 
them can exhibit a mingling of the powers of insight and artistry equal 
to that of Robert Herrick. His work from the beginning has been an 
honest and incisive attempt to interpret our life in its peculiar and 
universal aspects, in spite of the clamor of the public at his tearing 
away of the veils of sentimentality and prudery. The errors into 
which he fell were due to the ardor of his spiritual vision, which drove 
him into an impassioned taking of sides. He has emerged from that 
stage into what his critics call his "old manner," a more objective 
treatment of his material. But in the process of change something 
was lost — the element of flaming intensity which gave the reader a 
similar capacity to feel. In this latest performance, as well as in One 
Woman's Life, he is always cool, clear-sighted, and admirably efficient 
in the task he sets himself; but never passionate. On the contrary, 
despite the pervading atmosphere of earnestness, he often assumes a 
playful satiric tone, mordant but not bitter, — a method well suited to 
his matter and purpose. 

Claris Field tells the story of the influence of property upon the 
human beings who own it and hope to reap gold from its increasing 
value. All that is left of the great Clark farm is a fifty-acre field in a 
growing New England town, bequeathed jointly to the two brothers, 
Edward and Samuel, the former of whom has emigrated to the West 
and wholly disappeared from the ken of his relatives. So at first the 
tale is of the baleful influence of expectation delayed again and again : 
in the case of Samuel who cannot sell the land because of his brother's 
half-interest, and who in consequence sinks into a sodden inertia: in 
his son's disintegration into a lazy and drunken "Vet"; in his sister 
Addie's sordid and pathetic sally into life resulting in the birth of an- 
other human being destined to taste of the fruit of their tree and to find 
it, one day, very bitter. 

62 The Little Review 

The greater portion of the novel, then, deals with the influence of 
the realized wealth upon the unformed, colorless little girl, Adelle, the 
last of the Clarks. It is a masterly piece of work — the gradual devel- 
opment of the pale rooming-house drudge into the silly and insolent 
woman of fashion, and slowly but certainly into a human being with a 
soul. Less promising stuff for a heroine neither fate nor Mr. Herrick 
could have chosen ; the latter delights in ample admissions throughout 
the book of Adelle's lack of beauty, brains, and charm. Yet he is always 
sufficiently temperate to escape the danger of caricature. Adelle is a 
convincing figure. The slow dawning upon her consciousness of the 
power of money, her "magic lamp" which she need only rub to gratify 
any desire, is followed by swift and constant use of the new weapon. 
It brings her a fresh assurance, a few scatter-brained friends, some 
stylish clothes, and, at length, a callow youth for a husband. It never 
brings her contact with a real person or friendship with a stimulating 
individual; nor can it save her from the failure of her marriage, nor 
compensate her for the death of her little boy. 

Adelle's story, then, turns out to be what we least expected it, — 
a hopeful one. It leaves us with almost a sense of security, for is she 
not one of those who can "derive good from her mistakes," and there- 
fore "the safest sort of human being to raise in this garden plot of 
souls"? And although we are still saddled with "that absurd code of 
inheritance and property rights that the Anglo-Saxon peoples have 
preserved from their ancient tribal days in the gloomy forests of 
the lower Rhine," the situation is not without hope, since it has yielded 
a man of the judge's type, in whom the beauty of a past idealism is 
coupled with the freshness of a new vision of responsibility. 

To hark back to the recent article in The Yale Review, we be- 
lieve that Mr. Herrick himself has given us an American novel — thor- 
oughly American in situation, character, treatment, and even in philos- 
ophy. We, as a people, are beginning to suspect our boastful optimism 
as we become aware of the sordidness beneath the fair exterior of our 
glorious civilization. And in accordance with the western tempera- 
ment, the awareness of wrong leads not to bitter cynicism but to sturdy 
efforts toward amelioration. Such, then, is the spirit of Clark's Field 
— a hopefulness in the power of courage, and labor, and a growing 
sense of social responsibility to move mounds that seem to have be- 
come immovable mountains through a tenacious fostering of tradition. 

— Marguerite Swawite. 

I'he Little Review 68 


Cubists and Post Impressionism, by Arthur Jerome Eddy. 

[A. C. McClurg and Company, Chicago.] 

An attempt to explain the new schools in art "in plain, everj'^-day 
terms." An earnest appeal for tolerance in regard to seemingly per- 
versive forms. The book has a wealth of material and numerous quo- 
tations from Picasso, Picabia, Cezanne, Matisse, and others, consider- 
ably more interesting and instructive than Mr. Eddy's own truisms. 
Although the author repeatedly resents any accusation in his adher- 
ence to Cubism, the reader gets the impression that the Cubistic move- 
ment has received a more thorough and fair treatment than the other 
new schools. Of the sixty-nine reproductions of Post-Impressionistic 
paintings and sculpture, only five represent the Futurists. Idillon 
Redon, who gave us the greater delight in last year's International 
Exhibition, is totally ignored. Among the Self-Portraits that of Matisse 
is sorely missed — a work that helps greatly in understanding the quaint 
painter of the Woman in Red Madras. Whether Mr. Eddy will succeed 
in convincing the prejudiced conservatives is doubtful; but in those 
who have appreciated the daring attempts of the new schools his book 
will arouse a renewed longing for the foreign "savages" and an ardent 
hope for their further invasions in our "sane and healthful" galleries. 


(With apologies to the author of Tender Buttons) 
Oil and Water 

Enough water is plenty and more, more is almost plenty enough. 
Enthusiastically hurting sad size, such size, same size slighter, same 
splendor simpler, same sore sounder. Glazed glitter, eddy eddies dis- 
cover discovered discoveries, discover Mediterranean sea, large print 
large. Small print small, picked plumes painters and penmen, pretty 
pieces Picasso, Picabia plus Plato, Hegel, Cezanne, Kandinsky, more 
plenty more, small print single sign of oil supposing shattering scatter 
and scattering certainly splendidly. Suppose oil surrounded with 
watery sauce, suppose spare solely inside, suppose the rest. 

—A. S. K. 

64 The Little Review 


(Inclusion in this category does not preclude a more extended notice.) 

The Return of the Prodigal, by May Sinclair. [The Macmillan Com- 
pany, New York.] Eight short stories, all subtly done. The Cosmopolitan 
proves beyond a doubt that women, or at least the thousandth woman, is cap- 
able of a disinterested love of life and of nature. It is a big story and a very 
finished one. 

John Addington S^monds, by Van Wyck Brooks. [Mitchell Kennerley, 
New York.] A biography of rare charm and distinction in which Mr. Brooks 
builds a clear picture of Symonds's life as it is related to our day. 

The Sister of the Wind, and Other Poems, by Grace Fallow Norton. 
[Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.] Some of this will disappoint lovers 
of Little Gra^ Songs From St. Joseph's — in fact, none of the poems here has 
such extraordinary poignancy. But there are many that are worth knowing. 

The Continental Drama of Toda^, by Barrett H. Clark. [Henry Holt and 
Company, New York.] Invaluable to the student of continental drama. A 
half dozen pages of critical analysis devoted to each of thirty modern play- 

Stories and Poems and Other Uncollected Writing, by Bret Harte, com- 
piled by Charles Meeker Kozlay, with an introductory account of Harte's early 
contributions to the California press. [Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.) 
A very beautiful Riverside Press volume with photogravures. 

/ Should Sa^ So, by James Montgomery Flagg. [George H. Doran 
Company, New York.] Yes, he is silly; but Mr. Flagg is so nicely naughty 
and so naughtily human that you simply must laugh. 

Broken Music, by Phyllis Bottome. [Houghton Mifflin Company, Bos- 
ton.] Charming and well done. The story of a young French boy's struggle 
to create music, and his success after the tradition of a "broken heart" had 
been fulfilled. 

The Old Game, by Samuel G. Blythe. [George H. Doran Company, 
New York.] A temperance tract by a man who knows; minus sanctimonious- 
ness and plus a punch. 

Dramatic Portaits, by P. P. Howe. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] 
One man's opinion of the modern dramatists. A "shelf book" for occasional 

Bill}) and Hans, by W. J. Stillman. [Thomas B. Mosher, Portland, 
Maine.] A charming story of the most temperamental of pets, the squirrel. A 


The Little Review 65 

Mosher book bound in a cover dark enough to stand wear. A distinct relief 
from the AHce blue and pale old rose of Mr. Mosher's more delicate periods. 

Billy, by Maud Thornhill Porter. [Thomas B. Mosher, Portland, 
Maine. 1 The true story of a canary bird. One of those little documents writ- 
ten for the enjoyment of a family circle and read on winter evenings. Bright, 
human, and personal. 

The Social Significance oj the Modern Drama, by Emma Goldman. 
[Richard G. Badger, Boston.] Miss Goldman discusses Ibsen, Strindberg, 
Sudermann, Hauptmann, Wedekind, Maeterlinck, Rostand, Brieux, Shaw, 
Galsworthy, Stanley Houghton, Githa Sowerby, Yeats, Lenox Robinson, T. G. 
Murray, Tolstoy, Tchekhof, Gorki, and Andreyev, outlining the plays of each 
and emphasizing their relation to the problem of modern society. She is 
the interpreter here rather than the popagandist, and her interpretations are 
not academic discourses. They give you the plays partly by quotation, partly 
in crisp narrative, and they are not the kind of interpretations that make 
the authors wish they had never written plays. Whether you like Emma 
Goldman or not, you will get a more compact and comprehensive working- 
knowledge of the modern drama from her book than from any other recent 
compilation we know of. 












66 The Little Review 

(Continued from page 31) 
dary its limit which blocks the vision into the wide world, the blue 
sky, and the distant sea. 

Loyalty to men? Would that it might be so! But such loyalty 
costs so much trouble and toil. For the faithfulness that is genuine 
and living, there is no law, no binding / must, only a glorious / will. 
One day we shall have done with the loyalty which means master and 
servant, leader and led — the loyalty of the dog that is loyalest to him 
who feeds him best or beats him hardest. One day we shall under- 
stand what the loyalty of man means — this new loyalty toward man, 
in which souls meet and chime and work together, and live in each 
other, yet each remains itself and true to itself. 

So, then, the law of change and of growth is the law of the new 
loyalty, as the law of fixedness and finishedness and finality was of 
the old. It is the duty of such new loyalty to protect itself against 
the deadening force of habit and of petrifaction, to guard itself against 
any obedience by which it would become disloyal to itself. Such 
loyalty is too honorable to humor inertia and laziness under its banner, 
too courageous to conceal cowardice behind a slave's patience. 

But thought on our theme is usually lifted up to where the sky 
keeps company with the granite and the grass, to a religious eleva- 
tion. Nor do w^e need stop short here. Ultimately the new loyalty 
is loyalty to God, the new God, of whom something must be said 
later. The God in whom all fulness dwells summons us to ever new 
truths, and reveals underground wells of living water throwing its 
spray aloft on life's ferns and flowers. To be loyal to him is never 
to sunder ourselves from his fulness and freshness, but to co-work 
with him who is forever making all things new. 

And now I think we are at the end. The result? It is needless 
to state it, but I would not shrink from the thankless task. In a word, 
then, the new loyalty — in harmony with the w^hole great changed 
view of the world and of life — is loyalty to change and becoming 
rather than to finishedness and finality; to the future rather than to 
the past; to ideals rather than to conventions; to freedom rather than 
to authority; to personality rather than to institution; to character 
rather than to respectability ; to our hunger rather than to our satiety ; 
to the God that is to be rather than to the God that is. Thus the 
loyalty abides, but the objects of loyalty change and pass. 

The Little K evi e w 67 


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The Little Review 


Vol. IV 


No. IV 

jEdiiedhj l^arriei Monroe 

JULY, 1914 

Poems to be Chanted, Nicholas Vachel Lindsay 

The Fireman's Ball— The Santa Fe Trail, A 
Humoresque — The Black Hawk War of the 

Poems Richard Butler Glaenzer 

From a Club Window — Rodin — Star Magic. 

Sitting Blind by the Sea, Ruth McEnery Stuart 

Roumanian Poems 

Maurice Aisen 

We Want Land— Peasant Love Songs I-VII 
—The Conscript I-IV. 

Comments and Reviews 

A French Poet on Tradition — Mr. Lindsay on 
"Primitive Singing" — Doina — Reviews — Notes. 

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70 The Little Review 

The Mosher Books 


Billy : The True Story of a Canary Bird 

By Maud Thornhill Porter 950 copies, Fcap Svo. $1.00 net 

This pathetic little story was first issued by Mr. Mosher in a privately printed edition 
of 500 copies and was practically sold out before January 1, 1913. The late Dr. Weir 
Mitchell in a letter to the owner of the copyright said among other things : "Certainly 
no more beautiful piece of English has been printed of late years." And again : "May 
I ask if this lady did not leave other literary products? The one you print is so unusual 
in style and quality and imagination that after I read it I felt convinced there must be 
other matter of like character." 


Billy and Hans : My Squirrel Friends. A True History 

By W. J. Stillman 950 copies, Fcap Svo. 75 cents net 

Reprinted from the revised London edition of 1907 by kind permission of Mrs. W. J. 


Books and the Quiet Life: Being Some Pages from The Private 
Papers of Henry Ryecroft 

By George Gissing 950 copies, Fcap 8i'o. 75 cents net 

To the lover of what may be called spiritual autobiography, perhaps no other book in 
recent English literature appeals with so potent a charm as "The Private Papers of 
Henry Ryecroft." It is the highest expression of Gissing's genius — a book that de- 
serves a place on the same shelf with the Journals of De Guerin and Amiel. For the 
present publication, the numerous passages of the "Papers" relating to books and read- 
ing have been brought together and given an external setting appropriate to their exquisite 
literary flavor. 

Mr. Mosher also begs to state that the follounng new editions are now ready: 


Under a Fool's Cap : Songs 

By Daniel Henry Holmes 900 copies, Fcap 8ro, old-rose boards. $1.25 net 

For an Appreciation of this book read Mr. Larned's article in the February Century. 


Amphora : A Collection of Prose and Verse chosen bv the Editor of 
The Bibelot 

925 copies, Fcap Svo, old-style ribbed boards. $1.75 net 
The Forum for January, in an Appreciation by Mr. Richard Le Gallienne, pays tribute 
to this book in a most convincing manner. 

All books sent postpaid on receipt of price }iet. 

THOMAS B. MOSHER Portland, Maine 

The Little Review 


Nancy The Joyous By Edith Stow 

Nancy theJoyous 

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Women in War 
Children of War 
Grocer Shops and Souls 
The Constructive Reasoner 
The Democrat 
The Crucified Dionysus 

-The Poetry of Revolt ('iC^.-^.v.^^ 
The Nietzschean Love of Eternity 
The Restaurant Violin 
Obituary of a Poet 
Humbugging the Public 
New York Letter 
Book Discussion: 

The Gospel According to Moore 

Chekhov and Andreyev 
^ Horace Traubel's Whitman 


A Defense of the Grotesque 
The Reader Critic 

Maxwell Bodenheim 

Sonya Levien 
Eunice Tietjens 

\ With Apologies to Mr. Galsworthy 

Alexander S. Kaun 

Amy Lowell 

.vv,^:.'^' "^ Charles Ashleigh 

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George Soule 

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The Little Review 

Vol. I SEPTEMBER, 1914 No. 6 


ISIaxweix Bodenheim 
After Feeling Deux Arabesques by Debussy 

I stufifed my ears with faded stars 

From the little universe of music pent in me, 

For your fiendish ripple must be heard but once : 

Passing twice through ears, it looses 

Its thin divine kinkiness. 

I felt it undulate my soul — 

Lavender water, pitted and heaved to huge, uneasy circles. 

Let Me Not Live Too Long 

Never will my crumbling tongue hug the drying sides of the basin, 

Slaying the last, delicate drops. 

Fire have I tasted ; 

It has flicked me but never burnt — 

I shall leave it before it breaks into me. 

One flame will I wrap about my browned skin — a deed accomplished — 

To speak to me on the way. 

Then will I go quickly, lest the other fire-beings scorch my slow feet. 

To the Violinist 

(Mr. Bodenheim zvrites of the violinist described in our last issue.) 

Pits a trillion times blacker than black. 

Fringed with little black grasses, each holding 

The jerking, smoldering ghost of a thought. 

(O deep-aged pupils and lashes!) 

At the bottom of the pits lay the phosphorescent bones. 

Of many souls that have cried and died. 

I think you clutched one of your soul-bones with irreverent hands, 

And struck your cringing violin. 

Oopyiight. 1914, by Margaret C. Anderson. 

The Little Review 


A dwindling gift are you. laughter. 

Old men have I seen, counterfeiting you on street-corners. 
Never shall I join them, 
For not in scorn do I laugh, but in praise. 
Only with my smiles am I lavish; 
A different smile for each thought have I. 
(O thousands of smiles waiting for the labor of birth!) 
To my death-bed will come the wildest smile : 
It will be moon-paint on a colorless house. 


(A Part of Heaven Overlooked by Ford Madox Hueffer.) 

Heaven and Hell are together. 

As we walk home on a street in Heaven, in the evening. 

Those in Hell will stalk past us 

(For Hell is a condition, not a place) 

And w^hen we return at dawn will w'e still see them — 

Men bearing infants born dead, 

Kissing the inert purple cheeks; 

(For the kiss will be the one punishment of Hell) ; 

Men and women holding the severed heads of those they once spat on. 

Before a king kissing the head of his queen will we stop. 

To give him a kind word ; 

Or before an anarchist clasping the head of the king; 

Or before a woman carrying the head of the anarchist — 

Each unaware of the other's presence. 

We will see them w^alking up and down the streets of Heaven 

For countless years. 

Till the day when the heads will disappear, 

And the head-bearers build homes next to our own. 

The Little Review 
To a Woman 

Lovers married a thousand years in Heaven 

And in that which lies beyond Heaven 

(For Heaven is but the first rest of a thirstless journey) 

Know not each other as we do. 

Knowledge is born of a second : 

We had our slim second, 

And it will live for millions of years. 

Only when it reaches the suburbs of Eternity, will it die. 


THE greatest war of history flames away all other human concerns. 
Upon the reaction of humanity to this gigantic thing depends the 

No one can foresee what will happen to the cultures and the peoples 
which already crackle in its vortex. It is more profitable to search the 
heart of America. 

A great newspaper has published a cartoon picturing Uncle Sam on 
a harvesting machine, calmly saying "Giddap" to his horses, while a neg- 
lected sheet with the inscription "European war" blows to one side. As 
long as devastation and horror do not exist on his own piece of land. 
Uncle Sam doesn't care — while he can harvest his wheat and sell it at a 
good high price to starving people. Even the dramatic aspect of the tre- 
mendous conflict does not impinge on his provincial consciousness. Can this 
contemptible attitude represent that of any great number of our people? 
One cannot escape the feeling that it is the usual reaction of the newspaper 
to any thing outside of "business," whether it be social misery, or an interest- 
ing idea. But in this case its brutish stupidity is so flagrantly apparent that 
even the majority must revolt from it. 

A more creditable reaction is anger. With such titanic wrath blazing 
in Europe, any sensitive person must reflect a little of it. Anger at what? 
We don't know precisely until we stop to think. The emotion comes before 
the intellectual objective. Anger perhaps at the terrific human waste. 
Twenty-odd million men flying at each other's throats and destroying the 
bitterly won triumphs of years of peace, without any good reason. We 
hear phrases like "balance of power," "dynastic supremacy," "the life of 
our country," "patriotism," "racial prejudice," "difiference of religion," 
Each individual nation is praying to God with profound sincerity for its 
own success. Priests bless the arms. There is no denying the reality of 

4 The Little Review 

all this in the consciousness of Europe. Such things do lead men to battle 
with the fire of conviction. 

Well, the brutal fact stands out like a giant against the sky, that if 
such motives can produce such a result, they are working only for their own 
destruction. Not a single nation, whether conqueror or victim, can come 
out of the struggle as strong or as great as it went in. All alike must be 
swept into destitution of all the things civilization has taught us to value. 
And this is the result of civilization ! It is a spectacle or demoniac laughter. 

And shall the United States stand aloof with a feeling of pitying super- 
iority, thinking that, because we happen to have a president instead of a 
king, and inhabit a different continent, such motives are foreign to us? 
What folly of conceit ! As long as we cultivate the ideal of patriotism, as 
long as we put economic value above spiritual and human value, as long 
as in our borders there exist dogmatic religions, as long as we consider 
desirable the private ownership and exploitation of property for private 
profit — whether by nations or by individuals — w-e maintain those elements 
of civilization which have led Europe to the present crisis. 

Do not think that we shall ever escape wrath, hatred, violence. The 
so-called "primitive emotions" are giving incontrovertible proof of strong 
present existence. The thing to do is to turn all the emotions, which are 
eternal, into new forms which shall not be self-destructive, w^hich shall pro- 
pel instead of oppose the starward march of mankind. Violence? Yes, 
if it destroys something hateful. 

Nineteenth-century civilization has overwhelmingly and dramatically 
failed. What shall we build now? 

Women in War 

(By a spectator) 


^nr^HE suffragettes at Lincoln's Inn are skeptical of foreigners' sympathy. 
■■■ I pleaded with those in authority to be taken in. 

"It is real war with us," I was told, "and we have reached the stage 
where, even at the sacrifice of being regarded as insane and fools by the 
world, we cannot stop to explain all over again." It was not curiosity, I 
urged, or lack of understanding. I believed in votes, but I believed in women 
more ; I wanted to feel as well as understand their great Purpose. 

]\Iy earnestness won their faith, and for two weeks my senses were 
saturated with every emotion that prevailed in the Englishwomen's fight 
against their own country and the rest of the world. 

The Little Review 5 

I saw their ammunition stored in back bedrooms of hidden houses — 
cotton soaked in kerosene, small bags of stone, bottles filled with queer- 
smelling liquids, and now and then a small bomb filled with powder or 
metal. All this I considered very formidable then and marvelled at the 
women's courage in handling the material. 

Scared and horrified, I witnessed the burning of two famous old 
churches; I helped in the heckling of public speakers, and remonstrated 
with the police at their outrages upon unofifending women. 

The spiritual urge of the fighting women transmitted itself to me and 
I found myself supporting them with a courage not natural to me. That 
the character of their protest might be petty, tactless, unwomanly, or even 
futile, mattered not — for one felt that they were soldiers fighting in a great 
cause, the slogan of which was : "Give us a chance to develop a better race 
of men and women." And the Englishmen looked on ashamed of their 
womenkind, and the rest of the world snickered. 

And then the cataclysm of war descended upon all Europe and civil- 
ized man went mad for murder — wholesale terrible murder without reason 
or purpose. Sickened by the cry for blood, the women's fight became holy 
in its significance to me. I saw England change in five minutes when on 
the streets of London the first cry of war was heard. In a lightning shift 
Trafalgar Square became a seething mass of gesticulating people — a mob 
which seemed instantly to drop its sacred inheritance of "good form" and 
give way to wild and ominous protest and speak eloquently of "an honor" 
to be upheld ; but just what "the honor" was no one seemed to know. 

Berlin sang all night to the tune of "Die Wacht Am Rhein," in cele- 
bration of the opportunity given the fittest of the Vaterland to slaughter and 
be slaughtered by the pick of the neighboring countries. But the reason 
and purpose for the slaughter they did not know. 

Russia, famous for its barbaric cruelty to the Poles and Jews, asks for 
the sacrifice of the races and thinks itself a generous Christian if in return 
it promises to give what is left of them the right to their mother-tongue and 
the privilege to worship God in their own way. 

And what of the women? For the first time I felt the real greatness 
of the women's fight and the sad futility of it before man's ignorance. For 
the first time I felt the real tragedy of the women of Europe whose busi- 
ness it is to bring up son? for the man's game of war. And' to see them 
now is to see death — a calm bitter death surrounded by panic and catas- 

6 T h e Lit tl e R e vi e TV 

Children of War 

Eunice Tietjens 

Out of the womb of war we cry to you, 

We who have yet to be, 

We who lie waiting in the strong loins of time, unformed and hesitant, 

We who shall be your sons and your slim daughters. 

In the womb of war shall you beget us, and with the seal of the war-god 

shall we be sealed; 
In ditches shall w^e be begotten, of lust-crazed soldiers on the screaming 

women of the enemy. 
Of camp followers and scavengers shall we be conceived, of the weakling 

and the sick. 
We shall be begotten in secret, stolen meeting of man and wife, drunk 

wnth weariness the man, and blind with terror the woman. 
In bitterness of soul shall we be borne, and deeply shall we suck the pap 

of hatred. Revenge shall be our daily bread, and with blood-lust shall 

we be nourished. 
Yea, in our bodies shall we bear the seal of the war-beast. 
Our hearts shall be thin and naked as your sword-blades, and our souls 

ruthless as your cannon. 
And we shall pay — year by year, in our frail bodies and our twisted souls 

shall we pay 
For your glorious patriotism. 
Out of the womb of war we cry to you, 
We who have vet to be ! 

The Little Re