letter I learned that he began with a longing to attain the maximum

intensity of expression and he has ever since been impelled irresistibly towards this end. But the path was not easy, for it seems he became aware at an early period of the small measure of expression in the painter’s dead materials. He relates how one day he took his colors into the sun so that they should rival its livingness. But when he looked at them (in the light of the sun) they were dead. Then he bought the most expensive paint, he kept his palette clean, he slept in the open, watched the sunrise, absorbed its magic, and prepared himself and his materials in every way, as he thought, to express the fluid character of the experience flowing through him. He grappled with powerful feelings and sought to fix them in form. To no purpose. Apparently there was a point beyond which paint, like words, could not go. The fault, however, was not altogether in the materials. The artist too was to blame. He was a boy strenuously striving to transcend representative forms. But in doing so he neglected one thing. He made no attempt to escape from the illusion of volume and solidity contained in solid space. In other words he tried to transcend solids by the process of merely copying solids. He tried to express the eternal livingness of a tree by painting an ephemeral tree. This is the meaning underlying the earliest example of his work. It accounts for the expression of representative forms very slightly raised above actuality. In the second example the next upward sweep of the curve is apparent. The pursuit of the maximum intensity of expression is maintained, with the result that there is a further escape into fluid motion. And actuality becomes very much exaggerated as by a hand that feels the stimulating impulse which the steadily increasing growth of an unknown power brings with it. Perhaps the most noticeable characteristic of the second example is the attainment of a greater freedom of expression. There is in consequence an increase of intensity, and as intensity is the source of rhythm,—rhythm being but the natural characteristic of what we call intensity—a greater manifestation of rhythm. This rhythmic ascent, if I may call it so, marking the growth and development of intense expression, is continued in the third example. The illusion of volume and solidity to be found in the other two examples is still noticeable. But the flow is at a far higher pressure than in actuality, and if the painter is not yet fully afloat on fluid motion, he is certainly moving in the desired direction. He is in fact true to his widening curve.

It is too early to predict what degree of intensity of effect Mr. King will ultimately attain. He is still a young man with an enviable future before him. And he approximates more and more towards an unconscious method of expression. He applies the natural law of growth and progression because he must. A time may come when he will take up his pencil and trace a picture as in a trance simply at the bidding of the inner flow called inner necessity. It is certainly hopeful that he has remained up to the present a fairly pure medium, having escaped the pollution of conventional art education. He turned to painting at the urge of inner necessity and expressed himself in intense form and color because such form and color were in him to express. The technical characteristics of his work are really a part of himself. He expresses everything with simplicity and freedom because they are characteristics of his own nature. It should be said that he does not aim to produce the so-called automatic work of art. There is nothing automatic in a fluid force organizing itself by uniting itself to a medium that is really a part of its own livingness. If the artist’s hands are guided by a mysterious agency it is not a mechanical process any more than the guiding of a plant into leaves, blossom, and fruit is one. The artist is really guided by that which is a part of his higher self. He surrenders himself to the guidance of a spirit which is his own, the spirit of Art. And in doing so he achieves his highest destiny. For in the complete surrender to Art lies the affirmation of Art.

My Friend The Incurable

V.

WAR HALLUCINATIONS

_An interview with Mme. Truth_

I found her in an obscure corner of a wein-stube which bore the legend: In vino veritas. She beckoned to me appealingly. “Mr. Incurable, will you come and sit at my table? They all shun me nowadays; to associate with me is considered _mauvais ton_. But you, I am sure, need not fear for your reputation....” To be sure, my reputation could not suffer any more, even if I committed patricide; so I went bravely to Madame’s table, and ordered Rhine-wine and a neutrality sandwich à la Wilson (caviar and Limburger dressed in petals of French roses); to complete the expression of my loyalty to the President, I requested the national hymns of all the belligerents, after which conscience-clearing ordeal I turned to my companion. Her appearance was shocking; not even the clumsy robe of Censor O’Connor’s cut could conceal her bruises and many-colored insignia. “Madame,” I gallantly inquired, “whence these atrocities?”

“These are love-tokens from the special war correspondents. Ah, dear, since the death of Tolstoy I have had no true lover. You say, how about Shaw? Well, George Bernard has championed me daringly, I admit; but I can never tell whether he is in earnest or whether he makes use of me for his clever jugglery. G. B. S. has made it his profession to say unpopular things; how could he have overlooked such a rare stunt as telling the truth in time of war? He is so very skilful in the gentle art of making himself unpleasant to the majority that I am inclined to believe he would readily betray me for my rival, Mlle. Lie, as soon as she had lost her popularity. As for Maximilian Harden, you see, I am an old flame of his; he has suffered prison and persecution for my sake, the dear; do you remember the Eilenburg affair, when Maxie removed the figments from Wilhelm’s bosom friends, and demonstrated that the “crime” punishable in England with two years of Reading Gaol was freely practiced by the august princes of Germany? O, he is a darling, Monsieur; but, between us, he handles me too roughly, the bulldog. Think of Bismarckian hugs and Kruppesque caresses! You see how hard it is to please me as a lover: I am such a frail sweetheart.”

I protested that I have never had the ambition of becoming her lover, consequently I was in no need of her warning. Mme. Truth felt offended.

“I shall get you yet. Wait till you grow older, when you will declare from the house-tops your devotion for me. You do not think objectively, Mr. Incurable, hence your numerous offences against me. With all your endeavor to appear neutral, your anti-German feelings are transparent. Why don’t you give ear to me occasionally? Think of a people generally hated and envied, yet strong, successful, defiant. How can you help admiring their wonderful achievements in the present war?”

I rejoined that I could admire war as an art; that there was art in Napoleon’s warfare, no matter whether he won or lost, no matter whether it was St. Bernard or Waterloo; while the Germans are merely good mathematicians, clever technicians; but I prefer Zimbalist’s artistic flaws to the perfect technique of Albert Spalding, the craftsman.

“You are hopelessly incurable, sir. Do you perceive that Germany has won already? Whatever the outcome of the war, the Germans are the victors. To be hated by all one must accomplish something meritorious. Surely the Germans will emerge from the struggle forged with self-respect, self-assurance, and contempt for the rest of the world. Surely they will be spared the demoralizing influence of universal sympathy, which is so atrociously showered upon poor Belgium. In their splendid isolation the Teutons will achieve gigantic things; they may become a race of supermen....”

I hastened to order Moselwine and sauer-kraut.

_Shmah Yisroel_

There is an inmate in one of the Russian insane asylums at present, a Jewish soldier who paces up and down his cell, continually groaning: “Shmah Yisroel.” His story is simple. One night lying in the trenches on the Prussian frontier, he observed an approaching grey figure, obviously that of a German soldier. When the figure came close to the trenches, the Jew leaped upon his foe and pierced him with the bayonet. The German fell, moaning in agony: “Shmah Yisroel.” The two words have been haunting the Russian since, until, they say, he lost his reason.

It is a grave symptom for the Jews, when they begin to lose their reason under the stress of tragedy; their very existence as a people is imperiled, as soon as they show signs of normality, and fail to endure grief and suffering. For what has kept the Eternal Ahasver so wonderfully alive these two thousand years but his philosophical defiance of seeming reality? “Shmah Yisroel,” “Hear, o Israel, the Eternal is our God, the Lord is one,” has been the motto of the nation through the long centuries of persecution, the pillar of fire on its historical Golgotha; it has become the symbol of Judaism, the coat-of-arms of the “Chosen People” who were destined to wander among gentiles, to teach them the living word, and to be rewarded for the instruction with hatred and contempt.

“Shmah Yisroel” were the last defiant words of the Palestinian martyrs, when tortured to death by the Syrian Hellenizers of the time of Antiochus Epiphanes, who attempted the apparently easy task of annihilating Judaism by the force of his mighty legions. “Shmah Yisroel” cheerfully cried the Rabbis enwrapped in the scrolls of the Law, set afire by the order of Emperor Adrian, “and their souls returned in purity to their Creator,” relates the Agadah. “Shmah Yisroel” was the cry that thundered amidst the blaze of the Auto-da-Fe set up by the Spanish Inquisition ad maiorem Dei gloriam. Throughout the ages, humiliated and offended, but inwardly proud, despising and forgiving those “who knew not what they were doing,” the Jew marched his endless road with his Motto as a talisman, as an invulnerable shield. Recently, during the first decade of the twentieth century, the world heard once more the cries of “Shmah Yisroel” piercing the air of Russia from end to end, when Jewish men, women and children were slaughtered by governmental hooligans in order to quench with the blood of Israel the Revolution.

Neither is the present great trial new for the indestructible people: many battles have been fought, with Jews taking part on both sides. There is a popular print in Germany, presenting the Jews of the Kronprinz’s regiment praying on the day of Atonement before Sedan; a grotesque mass of warriors entreating the Lord of peace to grant the world eternal peace. What greater incongruity can be imagined than Jews exterminating one another; what more terrible absurdity, than the descendants of the prophets waging war, the descendants of Isaiah who was the first to preach to the nations “to beat their swords into ploughshares”! Yet the life of Israel in the last two thousand years has been a continuous incongruity, an anomaly, a miracle; will this nation collapse under the tragicness of the present situation?

The Russian-Jewish soldier who lost his reason, because he failed to understand the “Why” of his having killed his brother, a German-Jewish soldier, is a grave symptom for the abnormal, supernormal people. Has “Shmah Yisroel” ceased to serve as the all-answering formula, as the justification of the impossible reality, as the invincible watch-word, as the great stimulus to live on, to march on, ever forward, into the unknown future?

_Bestialization_

The other day I received a deserved blow. A letter from the war-zone reached me. Nothing but the handwriting told me that it was written by an old friend of mine, a poet of exquisite sonnets—so rude was the style, so dry and matter-of-fact the tone of my erstwhile elegant correspondent. She cynically derided my glorification of the war as Europe’s healthful purgatory, and spoke of death and want, cruel prosaic want. Do we ever realize the actual stultifying, bestializing conditions of the non-combatants under whizzing shells and roving aeroplanes? We, the calm philosophizers, the curious spectators and speculators? Do we, neutrals, envisage Death and Murder raging in a bacchanale over the embroiled lands? Of all the war poems and sermons it was only Eunice Tietjens who perceived the trans-Atlantic horrors in her prophetic _Children of War_; the rest are cold, labored writings. Perhaps our American diplomats, who are anything but diplomatic, will innocently involve this country in the world mess, and our authors will be given a fair test.

IBN GABINOL.

New York Letter

GEORGE SOULE

Now that the New York legislature has decided to submit the question of woman suffrage to popular vote, we are being bored and sometimes horrified by the revelations of a battle which most of us get into the habit of thinking was fought and won long ago. That is the trouble with many radicals. The investigation of new causes comes to mean with them merely a process of personal salvation. A belief attained is taken as a matter of course, as if there were nothing more to be done about it. Even to mention it seems in bad taste—there are so many more important things, so many more ecstatic attitudes. And then the world rumbles along to it like some prehistoric monster, and we are caught unaware in the midst of quarreling which seems to us beside the point. Have we not discarded fighting machinery? Have we not thrown our siege guns on the scrap heap? How rude of the unintelligent to disturb us! We are like the pacificists who thought that war could be abolished by the mere act of willing. We forget that mankind never wills all at once. We forget that it is sometimes necessary to sacrifice our energy in the battle for a distressingly old cause. Or else we never see the necessity, and damn the naive volunteers with a supercilious smile of superior enlightenment while we cuddle ourselves in the cotton wool of private emotions. We offer them a new word as a reagent for all their difficulties.

Who, for instance, could have imagined that _The New York Times_, mental yokel though it is, could come out with a two-column editorial article against suffrage on the ground that women are not fitted to vote because they do not share men’s economic burdens? It must have been six months ago at least that _The Times_ published a census report on its back page showing that 30.6 per cent of all the females in New York over ten years of age are engaged in gainful occupations. You would think census statistics would be just the thing to attract the eye of that editorial writer. But here the editorial is, like an unbelievable fossil come to life. If it represented merely a Tory minority we could afford to laugh and wait for its partisans to die. It represents, however, the astute judgment of _The Times_ as to what several hundred thousand people in New York city really think. The big newspaper cannot afford to try leading public opinion. It must agree with as many people of buying capacity as possible. And here we are again, face to face with a blind, stupid majority.

One begins to speculate on what possibility there is for a democracy except running about in circles. Everything is apparently arranged so that the majority can enforce its immediate will, and its immediate will is always several generations behind the wisdom of its best citizens. An enthroned tyrant can be dynamited, but a hydra-headed tyrant in the election booth must be educated. What a wearisome, unromantic task that is! Many a man who would exultingly give his life in the adventure of assassination retires to his study before the labor of training a mob. He has neither the strength of imagination nor the strength of heart necessary to fight his way inch by inch. Here is a real sacrifice to be made for the future. Here is a chance for modern heroes with stuff in them. Here is an opportunity to substitute soul-testing labor for amateur theatricals. To leaven stupidity, to work with raw and shouting enthusiasts, to be humble enough to accept each partial victory, each compromise, and still to fight for the next one—this is the challenge of faith which proves to us there is still iron in mankind. There is satisfaction in the thought that victories have not become easier. Many a Launcelot would go insane in the trenches.

Everyone is looking for the supremacy of his own pet reform or reaction as a result of the war, and it is banal to indulge in prophecies. Yet it seems to me there will be a great gain in our understanding if we approach the monster with humility. It has, to be sure, shown us the brutality lurking in modern civilization. We can easily use it as a text for denouncing politics, commercialism, militarism, and all the other abstractions which represent to us the sum of present human failings. Yet why not go a little farther, and blame as well an intellectualism which slides about on the surface of things, a species of reform and enthusiasm which does not bite into the substance of humanity? Do not our philosophies now appear as futile as the pedantic dreaming of mediaeval schoolmen and alchemists? Does not our separation of the ideal from the material now seem as vicious as Christian asceticism? What business have we to toy with perfectionist theories when to do so we must ignore what is to-day and what will be to-morrow in the blood and brain of nearly all human beings? We must make human breeding the test of effort. We must admit that the will is powerless without the hands. We must create our social tools to accomplish our social ends. We must forget the false distinctions between emotion and intellect, and use both for their common purpose. Let us not repudiate machinery because it has not yet been consciously directed to an end that is worth gaining. Modern civilization has spent its force developing in opposite directions—toward the brute and toward the god—and now we are amazed at the contradiction. Our task is to make a synthesis and arrive at man. It will be a task to engage the highest qualities of the poet and the scientist—this job of putting man’s will in control of his overgrown body. And it will be more fascinating than any other work man has ever set himself.

The Drama

“Alice in Wonderland”

(_Fine Arts Theatre_)

Judging from this initial production of _Alice in Wonderland_ the new management of the Fine Arts Theatre is going to justify the name of the theatre and yet compete with the loop theatres in attracting the attention of the general public. The Players Producing Company has been wise in securing the services of an exceptionally good professional company under the direction of Mr. W. H. Gilmore, and they have made an unusually happy start with Miss Gerstenberg’s dramatization of Lewis Carroll’s classic, supplemented by the scenery of Mr. Wm. P. Henderson and the musical setting of Mr. Eric de Lamarter.

At first thought it seems incredible that the subtle comedy of _Alice in Wonderland_ could lend itself to the wider stage values; but the dialogue loses nothing—it gains, rather, by the transposition. Some doubt has been expressed as to whether _Alice_ is really a children’s classic or an adult classic. On the stage that doubt is resolved—it is both. The children appreciate seeing all the quaint creatures and people that Alice meets in her adventures, and the grown-ups enjoy the humor of the dialogue and the extraordinary real unreality of Carroll’s imagination. As a matter of fact the psychology of Lewis Carroll is amazing! He lived long before Mme. Montessori; yet in his own whimsical fashion he has recorded how absurdly unreal and fantastic the unrelated elements of education must seem to the child mind! The grown-up who does not appreciate the humor of _Alice in Wonderland_ must be a very dull person. Both the fun and the dream quality of the original have been carefully emphasized in the production. Mr. Henderson’s scenery is successful in more senses than one. First of all it is beautiful and entirely in the spirit of the play, and, secondly, it does not sacrifice the actors as so much of the new stage craft has a tendency to do. Although extremely rich and varied in color, the setting waits for the final complement of the actors in costume before the design is complete. As Mr. Henderson is a _painter_, rather than a “man of the theatre”—that vague term invented by Craig—he knows how to obtain effects on the stage by color, and does not depend upon the manipulation of direct lighting—often as imitative and theatrical as the old style scenery—to create illusion. He obtains the effect of depth or distance on the stage by the tonal quality of his painted drop, rather than by an increased cubic depth which is apt to reduce an actor to the thin and non-existent quality of a paper silhouette. It is well to indicate these principles, for they are all important in connection with drama that depends upon speech, and in his use of these principles Mr. Henderson is probably the most radical of all the advanced scenic artists.

Altogether Chicago has reason to be proud of this production. It reveals the fact that Chicago is not without independent artistic initiative, and a full conviction of this fact should lead to interesting developments. Unfortunately in this review it is impossible to speak of the acting in detail, but this is hardly necessary as the critics have given it the stamp of their approval. For the professional finish of the performance credit is due to Mr. W. H. Gilmore. Little Miss Alice Tobin made an ideal Alice. In fact not one part is mis-cast, and all the actors give the impression that they are having the time of their life—which contributes much to the spirit of the entertainment. Mr. De Lamarter’s music has a charming fantastic quality and great delicacy of imagination. And above all the delightful freshness of the play is due to Miss Gerstenberg’s good faith in sticking to the text of the original and not attempting to pump into it any extraneous matter which might have deteriorated into musical comedy or farce. As it is the play is a fantasy, and, when successful, as in this case, no form is more capable of giving lasting enjoyment.

S. H. R.

Music

SAMAROFF AND CLAUSSEN

Olga Samaroff is not conspicuous for her bad piano-playing. There are a great many others, as prominent as Mme. Samaroff, as popular in their own way, who make just as much noise when they play—pianists who seem to exert an odd vigilance lest music enter in for a moment. Mme. Samaroff played Beethoven’s E-flat piano concerto with the Chicago Symphony. This work is unique in its bombast, causing one to blush for the composer. The soloist appeared in an ample gown of scorched orange, with slippers of scarlet, and gave the work its traditional beating. The eye suffered only less than the ear.

But the excellent Claussen, taking part in a Wagner program, swept away all pettiness. She liberated emotions that Wagner alone can touch, when adequately interpreted. Here is no prima donna, but an artist who sings. Her voice is a brimming-over of loveliness; her emotional power becomes inevitable, for she sings in phrases of beauty—a living beauty that moves to tears. Hers is an art that pervades and satisfies ... something to be treasured.

Vocalists are generally peacocks—usually moulting. It is a great event to discover a singing artist, for when the lack is neither a matter of intelligence nor of intensity, it often happens that the musician uses a voice that could never perjure itself as beautiful. Julia Claussen gives a feeling of utter security. No sensibility is wounded or left asleep.

Samaroff is not to be blamed, individually; although what she represents is not an art, but a menace, for it is always applauded, copied, and taught to the youth. Sonority and power in tone-masses are never obtained by blows upon the piano-keys, or by waving the arms over the head. The piano is capable of infinite shading and many kinds of tone, from mighty chords and fierce tumult to delicate tonal weavings and vague states of calm, from crystalline brilliance to low-sung intimate melodies; and there are certain artists now living who listen closely, hear these strange secrets, and bring them out for other ears. Olga Samaroff, apparently, like her Chicago audience, is aware chiefly of the difference between loud and soft.

HERMAN SCHUCHERT.

Book Discussion

A Peter Pan Lover

_Young Earnest, by Gilbert Cannan._ [_D. Appleton and Company, New York_]

A man “who is submissive to his emotions is not in power over himself”—so wrote Spinoza; and such a man is René Fourmy, the Peter Pan lover of Gilbert Cannan’s latest novel, who never grew up into the fact that he should not have everything he wanted. After a boyhood and youth of almost unconscious surrender to environment, he suddenly rebelled against the pretense that surrounded him and gave himself up as completely to his emotions as he had hitherto yielded himself to external circumstances. He had been educated to be a professor and had married an ambitious girl without having awakened to the meaning of life, love, or passion. His first great disillusionment came with his honeymoon, when instead of finding in his bride “the new wonders and sweet joy” of fulfilled love, they together “attained nothing but heat, hunger, and distress.”

When he could bear this relationship no longer he fled to London, cast in his lot with Ann, a girl of the slums, and became a taxi driver. Here he was happy for a time because of his savage hunger for real things, no matter if they were degrading. The crude, harsh reality of this life fascinated him until he discovered that Ann’s love was no more the fulfillment of his dreams than his wife’s had been; only its honesty had made it endurable. When he discovers that Ann is to have a child—an unwanted, unexpected child that will be like a chain binding their two lives—he is driven to a second rebellion and the ultimate rediscovery of his first sweetheart. Ann shows her anger in the vulgar, uncontrolled outbursts natural to such a woman, and finally disappears to Canada, leaving René free to go to Cathleen. We are given to understand that at last René has attained to the happiness of his love dream, but nothing Mr. Cannan has told us warrants the belief that he might not suddenly discover that Cathleen too falls short of his vision of what real love should be and start out madly once more in pursuit of he knows not what. If he and Cathleen do finish their lives together it is safe to gamble that it will not be because René has learned to adjust himself to life but because he has met his Waterloo in Cathleen, a clever woman who wanted him and understood how to keep him.

René was a rebel against the conventions which interfered with his happiness, a dreamer, and a seeker after the Holy Grail of love. His attempts to find happiness were utterly selfish, yet honest, so that our quarrel is not with his morals but with his egotism. He never awoke to the responsibilities of life, never felt remorse for the sufferings that he caused others, never grew up to the consciousness that life was intended for something higher than the fulfillment of his enthusiastic visions, but blundered into more or less freedom where another man, perhaps equally rebellious but more scrupulous, would quietly maintain his outward equanimity and let conventional spiders weave their webs all about him.

Quarrels there will be and condemnation arising from _Young Earnest_, but will they be because readers think Mr. Cannan does not understand whereof he writes or because he is audacious enough to describe a man who would not accept shams? We may not like the subject any better than we would a painting of a maimed or ugly person, yet that objection does not destroy its art, and art it has, in an unusual degree. Only a skilled writer could depict a man doing sensual things without being a sensualist, and René was just the opposite of that. All his sins were of the spirit rather than of the flesh. His ambition in life was to find happiness at any cost. He desired love as many desire money and with as little consideration for others, and although hopelessly at odds with conventional standards and prudish morals it seems to me that the study of Young Earnest’s efforts to understand life and his own self is rather a glorious attempt, and that Gilbert Cannan has been decidedly courageous to try to reduce to printed terms the emotions, aspirations, cravings, and blunders of a young man too honest to accept deceits, yet too cowardly (or perhaps too brave) to stand by his blunders. Not a pretty story, of course, but life is seldom pretty when it is frank, and his stumbling “from one love to another” is not the expression of sensuality but rather a spiritual attempt to live out the best that was in him.

The book has many passages of beauty, many expressions of keen philosophy which seem to indicate that the author’s soul belongs to the divine side of life—not to its sordidness. So wonderfully does he reproduce mediocrity, middle-class respectability, and the vital if less commendable phases of Mitcham Mews that one is led to believe that all of life—from visions to slums—is unfolding to him, and that no matter what his subject, his pen will paint a picture that rings true. One could hardly find a more subtle task than has been accomplished in _Young Earnest_—that of painting a man who was not a sensualist doing sensual things. That Mr. Cannan knew precisely what he was doing is revealed in the words that he puts into the mouth of one of his characters who describes René as being a man “simply inappropriate in a community of creatures who live by cunning.”

M. A. S.

Nietzsche in Fiction

_The Encounter, by Anne Douglas Sedgewick._ [_The Century Company, New York_]

Nietzsche—jealous, dyspeptic, wonderful—lives in these pages so vividly that the illusion of biography is attained. His dreams, his faults, his fears stand forth. Light is focussed upon the great thinker. Ludwig Wehlitz, as he is called in the novel, loves a young and beautiful girl from America—Persis Fenamy. He is rivalled in his love by two other Germans, disciples of his, but very different personally. Persis, who is a combination of loveliness and good sense, proves to be a difficult, even impossible, problem for the three philosophers. Their wooing is the basis of the work.

Such a story achieves originality at one stroke; and it is fair to say that the author’s development of this dangerous theme is fully equal to her daring. She catches the high-lights upon the soul of this curious Titan; she constructs the man as he must actually have been, and places him in circumstances of her own arrangement. His imperative genius and his characteristic childishness work out consistently together. Pedants and long-winded scholars, who know not the poet in their god, will argue that the real Nietzsche neither could nor would have waxed passionate over a lovely woman ... the book is not for them. Anne Douglas Sedgewick sees deep and imagines clearly, and her findings are authentic. Her lesser people, notably Wehlitz’s untidy Italian friend, Eleanora, and the inscrutable Mrs. Fenamy, are created with the same splendid skill and vision. This writer’s realism is not the vaunted “crude and ruthless” variety; for, although it displays life in a plain and natural manner, there is in it an intense emotional quality which always evades the camera or the microscope. _The Encounter_ is altogether worthy.

HERMAN SCHUCHERT.

Joseph Campbell

_Irishry, by Joseph Campbell._ [_Maunsel and Company, London_]

Joseph Campbell holds an enviable position among the present-day Irish bards. His poems are big, vital themes, readable by every intelligent person. In his volume of lyrics—for he possesses to a remarkable degree the enchanted tongue—he takes you into every walk of life in Ireland. And what goes in regard to life and occupations in England and Ireland holds good in this country and elsewhere. He does not shun the pig-killer, the quarry-man, the mid-wife, the unfrocked, or disgraced priest, the blind man, the osier seller, or even the ragman. The characters are not put before you as repugnance personified; he makes you sympathize, admire, and even love them. You could call it a drama of characters; each one unfolded being a separate act.

How beautiful is _The Shepherd_. You can see the stars, and clearly comprehend the beauty of the simile in which he compares the shepherd to the man of Chaldea. The picture of the pasture of eld looms forth like a marvelous mosaic or mural painting:

THE SHEPHERD

Dark against the stars He stands: the cloudy bars Of nebulae, the constellations ring His forehead like a king.

The ewes are in the fold: His consciousness is old As his, who in Chaldea long ago Penned his flock, and brooded so.

_The Shepherd_ can justly be compared to Sir Richard Lovelace’s _To Lucretia on Going to War_. They have in common the same metallic sweetness. A companion piece in both strength of beauty and lyrical qualities is _The Mother_:

The hearthstone broods in shadow, And the dark hills are old, But the child clings to the mother, And the corn springs in the mould.

And Dana moves on Luachra, And makes the world anew: The cuckoo’s cry in the meadow, The moon, and the earthly dew.

In _The Blind Man at the Fair_ there is a truly masterly imagining of the blind one’s agony.

O to be blind! To know the darkness that I know. The stir I hear is the empty wind, The people idly come and go.

. . . . . . . . . .

Last night the moon of Lammas shined, Rising high and setting low; But light is nothing to the blind— All, all is darkness where they go.

In _The Laborer_ he reminds one of Whitman in lyrics. Here he speaks of the open roads, the blue hills, the tranquil skies, and the serene heavens. A beautiful passage from _The Whelk-Gatherer_ reads:

Where the dim sea-line Is a wheel unbroken; Where day dawns on water, And night falls on wind, And the fluid elements Quarrel forever.

What satire, profusely laden with bitter irony is contained in _The Orangeman_:

His faith, ’Sixteen-Ninety; His love, none; his hope, That hell may one day Get the soul of the Pope.

. . . . . . . . . .

Lives in beauty, with Venus And Psyche in white, And the Trojan Laocoön For his spirit’s delight.

Last, but not least, is _The Old Woman_:

As a white candle In a holy place, So is the beauty Of an aged face.

As the spent radiance Of the winter sun, So is the woman With her travail done.

Her brood gone from her, And her thought as still As the waters Under the ruined mill.

The Reader Critic

_Will Levington Comfort, Kingsville, Ontario_:

I have just had the January number.

I feel as if I had found my companions. You who rejoiced in Caroline Branson and Margaret Swawite will know what one means by finding his companions.

And when I came to the line of George Soule’s—“I am the greatest anarchist of you all—” the fact is I had settled for a nap by the fire, and here I am by the machine instead.

I am proud of you and glad to be in the world with you all. I am sure you must feel the same about each other—for you must have been very lonely in a world that has lost the art of playing—you who play so well.

I have looked long for the new voices; of late I have put every faith in the conviction that they were just behind. You will have everything in ten years. No voice from Germany, England, or France—all must come from you. The only thing that can possibly hurt you is Beauduin and his kind. They are poison and vision is not with them. I think you must belong to that generation now of the twenties—that I have felt behind me so long and so wonderfully. Again and again I have written about this new race of Americans—there is a touch of it in the _January Craftsman_ which I wish you would read.

You are singing it. You are of it. You ask nothing—you sing, you play. There are moments in which I caught you (you of the little book) in that wondrous naivete which is the loss of the love of self—that cosmic simplicity of the workmen of to-morrow.

How dreadful is the old—

“And then O night, deliberate, unlovely—”

But the new which you voice, and must always voice—

“In the inspired improvisation of love—”

I have read your January poems to all who come to the study. I have looked with even more delight at old Walt—who opened the door for (y)our generation—the dear old pioneer. He helped to make possible, too, our acceptance of the Zarathustra man—the pillar of fire of our transition, but Walt is the pillar of cloud by day.

I’m sure you’ll see my zeal for you. I have plugged through fifteen years in which every ideal of workmanship has sunk visibly in America until it can sink no lower. The great crowd is forgetting even how to read. It has lost the cohering line of expression—a series of broken pictures is enough to hold its eye. But the end is reached with the war—and the new generation which will witness the tragedy of greater human waste perhaps than the one before it, also contains the superb individuals—the few—such individuals as _we_ never dreamed of in our twenties. I want some time to do for you a bit on this generation of mine (the bleakest in the world). The age of advertising.... Imagine a race that can only point to Herrick and London and Atherton and Dreiser and Watts—weakened solutions of Zola and Thackeray—except London who was great and open-souled—but lost his way. So I laugh and think of myself as born out of due time, and though just past midstream, I want to belong to the twenties again. I believe that you can become the heart of our new age of letters—if you are true; and I know you will not encounter the bleakness and the killing terror that we met, for the way is preparing momentarily. The glory of it all will come from your being yourselves—as you are so splendidly now. But the prison-house will close on some, and others will hear the call of the markets and others the decadence of Europe’s withered loins—and that is why I venture to ask you to hold fast to the dream—not to listen to anyone—for you have _emerged_ truly.... Remember there are no others but you in the world—you alone have touched the new harmony—and it had to come from America. The New Republic is not doing it, nor _The Masses_, nor _The Unpopular_. Though they are great—they are of the old. Just to be true to your vision is all Heaven asks, and believe me one with you. I am just beginning, too. I want to belong—although I have ten years start. Great good to you—all.

P. S. We have all loved the little milliner’s hat, and some of us have wept over it.

ANOTHER NOTE ON PAROXYSM IN POETRY

_Rex Lampman, Portland, Oregon_:

Quoting Mr. Edward J. O’Brien’s instructive article in THE LITTLE REVIEW for January: “Paroxysm is the poetic expression of that modern spirit which finds its most notable expression in the sculpture of Meunier, the polyphonic music of Strauss, the philosophy of Bergson, and the American skyscraper.... It aims to attain and express, with the quick, keen vigor and strength of steel, the whirling, audacious, burning life of our epoch in all the paroxysm of the New Beauty.”

Quoting the dictionary, a paroxysm is “any sudden, violent and uncontrollable action or emotion; a convulsion or fit.”

The dictionary definition seems more nearly to apply to inspirational poetic effort, such as Poe had in mind when he advanced his theory that a long poem is an artistic impossibility; such an effort is as necessary to any truly poetic performance. Mr. O’Brien’s definition refers to a particular kind of poetic effort, which, to achieve its aims, also must be inspirational, and finds its inspiration in “modern industrial and mechanical effort,” rather than in all creation, free field for the poet of no prescribed and particular province.

I am totally unacquainted with the sculpture of Meunier, almost as innocent of knowledge of Strauss’s music, and of Bergson I know but a little, but I have seen the American skyscraper clutching its black steel fingers toward the blue, amid the rat-tat-tat-tat-tat of the pneumatic riveting hammers. Here in Portland the skyscraper is pre-empting one by one our views of the evergreen hills and the snowy mountains. Perhaps the other things Mr. O’Brien enumerates as paroxyst manifestations are shutting off our views of the eternal verities of life and the silent splendors of the soul—or rather, perhaps they symbolize the materialistic ideals that are walling us away from the things of the spirit.

If we accept these paroxyst manifestations as art, and keep our eyes fixed on them, surely the infinite horizon, with its never-conquered boundaries always beckoning out and on, is lost to us.

But do we accept them? Beyond the skyscrapers are the quiet hills, and however we throw ourselves into the vortices of cities, however often we go down among the red-mouthed, roaring furnaces, however we may acquiesce in, and even exult in and exalt, the materialistic horrors that multiply around us like monsters in a steamy primal fen, deep in ourselves we know that all these things are vain and vanishing, and that the actual and enduring lie outside and beyond, or within ourselves. The skyscraper is a monument to the Moloch of Rent. The furnaces are those of Baal, in which we give our souls as well as those of our children for sacrifice.

“The evolution of poetry is to be as rapid and terrible henceforth as material evolution,” says M. Nicholas Beauduin, as quoted by Mr. O’Brien. No, the gods will not forbid it, for it is their way to let things run their courses.

Doubtless there were singers, when Babylon was building, who insisted that a new poetry was necessary to celebrate the city, with its walls and towers and the efficient wonder of its sewer system, if it had one. Perhaps these poets, blinking in the glare of the furnaces and confused by the thunder of the shops whence issued the swords and spears and war-chariots, said to each other, “These are the supremest things, the worth-while things, and we must sing of them or be out of date.” And a paroxyst school was born.

But always the heart of man has yearned toward things other than the works of his hands. When the walls and towers and spears and chariots have returned to the earth from which they were fashioned, there still endured the love for those other things, and the joy in their artistic expression.

The springtime, banal as it is as a poetic subject, will remain forever more pleasing to the singer and his audience than can any paroxysm, of however “scientific technique,” proclaiming in “swift, hurtling, dynamic rhythms” the clamor and clangor of an armor-plate factory or the din and danger of a textile-mill. The earth is our mother, and hers are our deepest yearnings, first and last. “She waits for each and all.”

And if the paroxysts seek for power—for power that overcomes and subdues, that smites suddenly or conquers slowly, and recreates again the same—let them look aside from their banging machinery, from all materialistic illusion—from “the poetry contained in modern cities, locomotives, aeroplanes, dreadnoughts and submarines; in a stock exchange, a Wall street or a wheat pit—and behold the power and the marvel, beyond all “scientific marvels,” of Nature, singing slow or fast as suits her business, chanting her inevitable rhythms through the ages, taking back into her patient bosom all the marring excrescence that man for a little while has reared thereon. What is New York or Pittsburg but an itching pimple on the face of the earth? There is much outside incorporate limits, and beyond the sound of mill-whistles and the scream of trains. The earth is scarce disturbed as yet.

“My love is like a red, red rose”—the same song that sang the enraptured Solomon, or whoever it was that indited the Canticle—will, I believe, outlast any paroxysm which records a “cinematographic vision of modern life.” This is possibly the idea of the paroxysts themselves, they to sing anew as the occasion demands, and keep their product, like that of the movies, down-to-now. But though the words of the love-song perish, some man will sing it again, for joy at sight of his beloved, when springtime urges on the rose. Sappho sang of love, and men search the sea-floor for her fragments.

However, if the paroxysts wish to see their notions expressed in proper relation to all things else, let them read Walt Whitman, who had room for everything, as he lustily proclaimed, in his sturdy chants.

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Poetry

A Magazine of Verse

EDITED BY HARRIET MONROE

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If you love good poetry, and wish to encourage its creation and publication in the United States, ask your friends to become subscribers to POETRY. Remind them that this is the most effectual way to show their appreciation of an attempt to make this art of as much national concern as the arts of painting, sculpture, music and the drama.

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Earth Triumphant _and_ Other Tales In Verse

BY CONRAD AIKEN

Opinions of the Leading Reviewers

“There are many volumes of poetry this season, Conrad Aiken’s ‘Earth Triumphant’ being given first place not only because of its excellence, but because it voices the spirit of the new world in sonorous tones.”—_Los Angeles Graphic._

“The narrative poems in this book in hand are written by one whose thought has sounded further depths than the author of ‘The Everlasting Mercy’ has yet found. In particular is this true of ‘Youth,’ the second number in the book, a poem of greater daring, strength, and scope than has come from any singer of recent note.”—_New York World._

“A new champion has entered the lists, for it is impossible to read Mr. Conrad Aiken’s volume, ‘Earth Triumphant,’ without realizing that he sounds a note quite different to any that has been heard before.... A remarkable sense of balance and of value is combined with no little beauty of expression and the result cannot fail to be impressive. The philosophy is that of the transcendency of youth, of the cleansing that is to be found in the forces of nature. To make use of a phrase lately rediscovered by one of our novelists, Mr. Aiken makes us ‘touch earth.’”—L. B. Lippman, in _The Book News Monthly_.

“Aiken sings the praises of Earth and Youth with genuine sweetness and exuberance ... rapid moving narratives with many soaring lyrics by the way.”—_Chicago Evening Post._

“His stories are graphic, his shorter lyrics steeped in warm earth music.... Mr. Aiken’s book is one of the most pleasing of the year.”—_American Review of Reviews._

“The author’s manifestly accurate power of observation finds fullest scope in this (Earth Triumphant) the greatest of the poems.... There are descriptions of the effect of nature upon the man noticing its beauties for the first time which remind us of the younger Wordsworth; but there is in addition the fuller flood of tide of modern life which is always heard in these poems. The appeal of the earth and her relation to man are spoken of again and again in various poems, all of which give forth an atmosphere of keen, vibrant life, of largeness, and of the fuller music of reality in life.”—_Boston Daily Advertiser._

“With genuine beauty they relate tales which reveal the heart of modern life in various phases of youth, and contain a reading of earth which differs in essentials from that of Meredith. The volume deserves a wider audience than the usual public which cares for poetry.”—Wm. S. Braithwaite, _Anthology of Magazine Verse, 1914_.

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Transcriber’s Notes

Advertisements were collected at the end of the text.

The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect correctly the headings in this issue of THE LITTLE REVIEW.

The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here (before/after):

[p. 5]: ... quietness of this place, and the absence, even round about the purliens of it, ... ... quietness of this place, and the absence, even round about the purlieus of it, ...

[p. 8]: ... “macrabrism” of Ibsen and Strindberg dissolves like mephitic scum when ... ... “macabrism” of Ibsen and Strindberg dissolves like mephitic scum when ...

[p. 27]: ... to be fostered on one’s readers as anything ‘ex catheda’. One such ... ... to be foisted on one’s readers as anything ‘ex cathedra’. One such ...

[p. 40]: ... example of John D. Fergussion are boldly rhythmising the people and affairs ... ... example of John D. Fergusson are boldly rhythmising the people and affairs ...

[p. 47]: ... horrified by the relevations of a battle which most of us get into the habit ... ... horrified by the revelations of a battle which most of us get into the habit ...

[p. 51]: ... fierce tumult to delicate tontal weavings and vague states of calm, from crystalline ... ... fierce tumult to delicate tonal weavings and vague states of calm, from crystalline ...

[p. 54]: ... The Hearthstone broods in shadow, ... ... The hearthstone broods in shadow, ...

[p. 54]: ... And Dana moves on Lauchra, ... ... And Dana moves on Luachra, ...

[p. 55]: ... And the Trojan Laöcoon ... ... And the Trojan Laocoön ...

[p. 56]: ... Imagine a race than can only point to Herrick and London and ... ... Imagine a race that can only point to Herrick and London and ...