{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_sha256": "968802e976e5cc62694330115dec42e59e404e6649e6373e705bdbb79507ce12", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/10_01/bmtnaap_1923-10_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/10_01/bmtnaap_1923-10_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 2, "image_fin": 2, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "Table of Contents", "titre_sommaire": "Table of Contents", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 700, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1639, "texte": "Cover Design—Edward Nagle Pa«e\nStill Life—Charles Sheeler ........ (facing) 129\nA Black Wren—John Freeman 129\nFive Americans—E. E. Cummings 134\nHenry Ford—Matthew Josephson . . . . . . . . . 137\nThe Priest Speaks—William Gamaliel Shepard . . . • . . 143\nBucks County Barn-—Charles Sheeler (facing) 144\nPortrait of Joe Gould—Joseph Stella . . . . . (facing) 145\nJoseph Gould: The Man—E. N. and S. B . 145\nSocial Position—Joseph Gould . . . . . . . . . . 147\nEllsworth to Great Pond—Winifred Virginia Jackson . . . 150\nThe Poet Assassinated—Guillaume Apollinaire 151\nBucks County Barns—Charles Sheeler . . . (facing) 160, 161\n\"A Boire! A Boire!\"—Slater Brown 161\nHow Many Miles to Babylon—Robert Graves . . . : . 164\nSoto and the New World—William Carlos Williams ./. . 167\nFlowers, African Musical Instrument—Charles Sheeler\n(facing)' 176, 177\nSixth Poem—Wilfrid H. Bendall . 177\nBook Reviews 178\nComment: Week End Painters—Edward Nagle 184"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[128]", "page_fin": "[128]", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Still Life", "titre_sommaire": "Still Life", "signature_source": "Charles Sheeler", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "[128]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 26, "texte": "Still Life\nCharles Sheeler"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "129", "page_fin": "133", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 9, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "A Black Wren", "titre_sommaire": "A Black Wren", "signature_source": "John Freeman", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "129", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2402, "texte": "A BLACK WREN\n\nThe water was cold and freshening as it poured from the brass\ntap over his fingers and wrists, and he was so occupied with his\npleasure that he scarcely noticed his wife passing through the\nscullery and only heard her voice vaguely, saying, \"I'm going out to\nsee about a black wren.\" He shook the water from his fingers, dried\nthem, and stepped back to his chair repeating her phrase abstractedly,\n\"I'm going out to see about a black wren. ... A black wren.\nWhat did she mean—had she found a black wren, or why did\nshe want to see about it? Its small bright eye—no, she didn't mean\nthat, but a small black bird, black as a rook, sheeny and black, but\nnot languid and heavy as a rook. What did she want with a black\nwren? The phrase reminded him of another small bird, the brisk\nand friendly robin, that perched on his spade if he rested—long rests\nbetween each thrust and lift—pecked, fluttered, perched nearer, and\nlooked up so kin-like and bright. It wasn't that the birds of the garden\nand hedge had any special fondness for him; wild things didn't notice\nor trouble about him. . . . Stay, there was that squirrel, actually\na slightly lame squirrel that wasn't nearly as agile as it should have\nbeen. He had stumbled almost upon it and it had leaped away\n(leaping a little awry, he thought) and then looked as if it trusted\nhim not to harm—not to harm it with a cruel thought even. How\npretty it looked—no, pathetic more than pretty. He had wanted to\nstroke the squirrel, to pat it, but suddenly thought that a motion of\nkindness might seem but as a motion of cruelty, and startle the sly\nsmall thing. So he hung still and it disappeared.\nA black wren, a squirrel: even the gentlest things seemed sad\namid their gaiety. The loveliness of limb and motion, of flight and\nleap, was at the mercy of his hand. Where did the wren come from,\nwhere would it hide to die? All these deaths of lovely living things—\nsorrow in all loveliness. Botticelli's Venus, where was that now?\nIn Maggie's room still, no doubt. She had asked him for it when she\nwas fourteen or fifteen. \"I must look at it when Igo upstairs. Is it as\nbeautiful as I used to think it, or is it too sad to be lovely now? What\na beautiful thing once, yet melancholy. There's too much green in it—\nit's melancholy as the woods in spring. But melancholy means black—\na black wren. . . . Strange!\" Green, too, was always melancholy"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "130", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2729, "texte": "—the April green, the pallid fresh green of buds and small leaves\nshowing paler yet against the russet husks. The Venus rose from the\nsea like the pale spring rising from dark winter—a pretty fancy, yet\ntrue. It was the old sadness of that poor goddess that made him feel—\nhow? Well, he felt as if he were looking not at Venus but at a\ncrucifix. He couldn't help it, they were counterparts, twin types blend-\ning into one. Venus here, Jesus there, both sad in beauty, one lonely\nthe other martyred. He wasn't confusing the two and of course one\nwas pagan and the other christian; \"but they're really the same, the\nsame. The body's crucified in Jesus, and it escapes in Venus, but only\nfor a time. Venus is thinking of the crucifixion—as sad as Jesus him-\nself. She too will be crucified—everything lovely, everything eternal is\ncrucified; else it can't be eternal.\" That was why, if he thought of the\none, so often he thought of the other; they didn't live apart, and one,\nhe supposed, couldn't live without the other.\nThe loveliness! though he was old-fashioned, he knew, in his\nadoration. But one couldn't do without beauty, one couldn't glo with-\nout faith; an altar was necessary, and even if Jesus had not lived, and\ndied on the cross, the story would have been the same. Crucify, crucify\n—yes, everybody had to cry out. That outburst was true—it proved\nthat the crucifixion had happened, just as it was true about Venus. She\nhad lived, of course no one knew when, and she was dying now; she\ncouldn't rise again until she had died. Jesus was happier now—\nradiant. Where was the painter of a radiant Jesus? She had never\nlost that sadness, for a gay Venus was a profanation. Botticelli ought\nto have painted Jesus and Venus together: he could! It wouldn't be\na bit strange, no stranger than a black wren. An innocent mind\nA wonderful, wonderful thing, her body. Mary must be about\nthe same height, the same figure. Her face was different, not\npathetic; but it was only a mask, there must be a likeness hidden\nwithin it. Not quite the same figure, though, for her shoulders were\nspare, her arms thin; altogether she must be a little thinner than the\nVenus. He oughtn't to be thinking thus of her. \"Oughtn't I?\nShe doesn't know, and isn't it a kind of honour? The women who\nwere silent there were doing Jesus honour: thought is the only honour,\nthe purest. Was it wrong to paint the Botticelli Venus, or to look\nat it? That's how I look at Mary now.\" But the crucifixion of\nJesus, of Venus—for once more only that or the prefiguration of it\ncould cause such sadness—but what had this to do with Mary?\nHe had lost the thread. Strange, though, that she should be called\nMary. How that Mary must have suffered! Did everything pure"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "131", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2513, "texte": "and lovely suffer? Yes, of course, long before age came; and then\nage as well. Jesus as an old man, Venus an old woman—O what a\ndisgusting thing a man's mind was.\nAs disgusting was the thought of a black Venus—a black wren.\nWhat did Eleanor mean? Black—it was horrible. Black on white\nsnow—but even bears and pigs weren't quite black: a grizzly gray,\nlooking dark on the snow; pine trees in the distance, ridges of firs,\nweren't so black—nature, someone said, abhorred black. A black\nVenus—O evil, evil! No, grotesque; and he recalled an old music\nhall song, \"I love my coal black Venus.\" These loathsome, vulgar\nthings, once-heard never forgotten. Black Venus—the light sliding\non a heaving black breast, leaden and smooth, shoulders with little\npools of darkness between the black blades, the navel's blackness, the\nundimpled knees—horrible, horrible. Yet somewhere he'd heard\nof Jesus being translated black for the benefit of negroes. Wasn't\nthat crucifying Him again, with a worse shame than ever? Must\neverything lovely be defiled, and then killed?\nWhen he was a boy—\"l remember that Museum, ah yes. How\nold was I? not more than fifteen. Thirty years ago and more, and\nit's but yesterday. That glass case and several small things in it, and\nthe bronze of a naked woman, a little bronze seven inches high. Yes,\nI was with the Adams, I remember now, and I was ashamed to stand\nlooking at the figure and pretended to be looking at something else-\nheaven knows what. I was ashamed, for I adored it. Nothing ever\nso beautiful, a joy to think of even now. O, men lust because they\nfind nothing to love. I remember it all now, and I know. It was\nthe same day, but afterwards, that we walked past the theaters,\nthrough Leicester Square, and so on; and those horrible posters of\ndancing leering girls—horrible. How could I think of my bronze\nfigure then, standing lonely, lovely, silent in the glass case?\" Thirty\nyears ago and more, he reminded himself.\nSuch figures had been dug out of Greece, Egypt, Italy, Mexico—\nadored everywhere. How could men live without adoration? Who\nmade such figures? What lover drew, what artist modeled, what\npriest perfected them? Out of the earth they came, and their lovers\nand artists and myriad worshippers—all from the earth. A restless\nearth, seething with life, sinking into death, with perpetual succession\nof change and counterchange. Like a sea, heaving and sinking; and\nstraightway his thought fled on to:—\nLove still hath something of the sea\nFrom whence his mother rose."}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "132", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2491, "texte": "Jesus walking upon the sea, trampling the storm until it was cowed\nand fled, and Venus rising tranquil from green waves. Her doves\nflying out from the cliff-holes, pale doves, gray and pale; and black\ndiminutive birds, black wrens hovering about the edge and shrilling\ntheir small sweet notes. The doves fled from Venus to Jesus and one\nrested a moment on His head and He smiled; then it flew off and\ncircled above Venus, and all the doves fluttered at once. The black\nwrens had gone—strange birds: he had never heard of them before;\nevil birds, for all that was black was sinister. Their shrill song was but\na mockery— they had gone, but it still sprinkled the air with a faint\nmocking echo. There was mocking round the Hill, women's thinner\nvoices mocking Jesus as He hung on the cross, and men's voices deep\nas cattle. The women's eyes were black, their hair was black, their\ngestures, words, laughter—all black and cruel and mocking. No\nsuch mockery tainted the lily-fairness of this mild sad Venus. Sad,\nbut not suffering, in a lilied tranquillity. Invisible lilies oozed their\nscent around her, wrapped her in their acrid sweetness; they were not\nlilies that fester smelling far worse than weeds. O but they would\nfester yet; rankness would subdue sweetness, the Venus lilies would\nshake down in shrivelled petals. Venus herself, must she perish\ntoo? Venus would fester, shrivel up and sink into dust; the flesh\ncould not endure. Only crucifixion could save it—wasn t that what\nHe meant when He said\nThe handle rattled briskly and the door opened. \"I don't know\nwhat to do with that hen; she's eating her eggs again.\" He raised\nhis head and loomed vacantly out of his thoughts. What are you\ntalking about, Eleanor?\"\nShe looked at him frowning. \"Didn't I tell you, when you were\nwashing your hands just now, didn t I tell you I was going to see\nabout that hen, the black hen? I've thought a long time she's been\neating her eggs—but you take no notice. Why, it was only two\nminutes ago.\"\nTwo minutes—no, surely hours ago, hours and hours. All this\nhad happened to him since then. \"Of course, of course. Only, I'd\nforgotten—thinking of something else.\" He smiled vaguely, as though\nat his own thoughts; a characteristic smile.\n- But when Mary was sitting with them at tea the gray cloud that\nhad lifted suddenly came upon him again, and his thoughts wandered\noff-—so wild and so foolish that it was too much trouble to watch\nthem. Let them go. His wife was talking and Mary sitting almost"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "133", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2428, "texte": "silent. Looking at Mary he was amused to recall how, until now, he\nhad always disliked fair hair and pale eyes. Mary's was fair, her\neyes a little pale. She was thinner than the Venus, her shoulders\nwere spare, but she was the same height and\n\"Goodness, there's Cyril again,\" said his wife as there came a\nbump and a crying overhead; and she sprang up and Mary too.\nMary stood between the french window and the door as his wife ran\nupstairs. The same height, the same figure, the same mask. In the\nhush of his wife's absence a great gulf opened. Across the gulf he\nstared at Mary, not seeing her. His thoughts flowed over her, and\nthen as he looked up suddenly and gazed on her face, half illuminated\nby the falling sun, her consciousness of his gaze increased. She\nknew his look, and her face and neck flushed unbearably. He saw\nthe flush and knew that it was all over her, head to feet; and he was\nashamed and glad. The silence was suspended unbroken, unjarred\nby either of them, but seemed on the point of breaking by its own\nstrained intensity.\nShe was sinking back into her chair as his wife returned saying\nwhat had happened ; and as she spoke he could see Mary's face. A\nbright berry hung in each cheek, making her fairness wonderful.\nBerries—stains—what were they reminding him of? As he caught\nat it a scurry of wings near the panes startled them all and he opened\nthe window to follow the flutter. In a moment he returned saying,\n\"Those pigeons again, the white pigeons, you know.\" Mary's eyes\nwere still averted, but her voice was steady enough whenever she\nanswered Eleanor.\nThe berries still hung in her cheeks, scarcely fainter when she\nrose to go. He dimmed his thoughts with a powerful effort and looked\ninto her eyes only briefly as he said good-bye. Her hands were al-\nready gloved: had the palms, too, a stain, like the stain of her cheeks?\nThe hat came dark over her forehead and he could see nothing there;\nher feet were covered, save to his thoughts. Was she but mortal\nflesh, a Venus only? Had the white pigeons flown towards her,\nbaffled only by the window pane? \"Good-bye, good-bye,\" he was\nsaying, and a moment after watched her through the window—light\nand firm and a mystery— as she stepped into the road.\nThen he opened the door murmuring, \"I must go up and see if\nit's still in Maggie's room.\" As he reached the landing and turned\nto enter, he caught his breath in a great expectancy.\n\nJohn Freeman"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "134", "page_fin": "136", "image_debut": 10, "image_fin": 12, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "Five Americans : (Sonnets)", "titre_sommaire": "Five Americans : (Sonnets)", "signature_source": "E. E. Cummings", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "134", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 991, "texte": "FIVE AMERICANS\n(Sonnets)\n\nI. LIZ\nwith breathing as (faithfully) her lownecked\ndress a little topples and slightly expands\none square foot mired in silk wrinkling loth\nstocking begins queerly to do a few\ngestures to death,\nthe silent shoulders are both\nslowly with pinkish ponderous arms bedecked\nwhose white thick wrists deliver promptly to\na deep lap enormous mindless hands,\nand no one knows what (i am sure of this)\nher blunt unslender, what her big unkeen\n\"Business is rotten\" the face yawning said\nwhat her mouth thinks of\n(if it were a kiss)\ndistinct entirely melting sinuous lean . . .\nwhereof this lady in some book had read\nII. MAME\nshe puts down the handmirror. \"Look at\" arranging\nbefore me a mellifluous idiot grin\n(with what was nose upwrinkled into nothing\nearthly, while the slippery eyes drown\nin surging flesh). A thumblike index down-\ndragging yanks back skin \"see\" (i, seeing, ceased\nto breathe). The plump left fist opening\n\"wisdom.\" Flicker of gold. \"Yep. No gas. Flynn\""}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "135", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1060, "texte": "the words drizzle untidily from released\ncheeks \"I'll tell duh woild; some noive all right.\nAint much on looks but how dat baby ached.\"\nand when i timidly hinted \"novocaine?\"\nthe eyes outstart, curl, bloat, are newly baked\nand swaggering cookies of indignant light\nIII. GERT\njoggle i think will do it although the glad\nmonosyllable jounce possibly can tell\nbetter how the balloons move (as\nher ghost lurks, a Beau Brummel sticking in its three-\ncornered always moist mouth)—jazz,\nfor whose twitching lips, between you and me\nalmost succeeds while toddle rings the bell.\nBut if her tall corpsecoloured body seat\nitself (with the uncouth habitual dull\njerk at garters) there's no sharpest neat\nword for the thing.\nHer voice?\ngruesome: a trull\nleaps from the lungs \"gimme uh swell fite\nlike up ter yknow, Rektuz, Toysday nite;\nwhere uh guy get gayn troze uh lobstersalad\nIV. MARJ\n\"life?\nListen\" the feline she with radishred\nlegs said (crossing them slowly) \"I'm\nasleep. Yep. Youse is asleep kid\nand everybody is.\" And i hazarded\n\"god\" (blushing slightly)—\"O damn"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "136", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 967, "texte": "ginks like dis Gawd\" opening slowly slowly\nthem—then carefully the rolypoly\nvoice squatting on a mountain of gum did\nsomething like a whisper, \"even her.\"\n\"The madam?\" I emitted; vaguely watching\nthat mountainous worthy in the fragile act\nof doing her eyebrows.—Marj's laughter smacked\nme: pummeling the curtains, drooped to a purr . .\ni left her permanently smiling\nV. FRAN\nshould i entirely ask of god why\non the alert neck of this brittle whore\ndelicately wobbles an improbably distinct face,\nand how these wooden big two feet conclude\nhappeningly the unfirm drooping bloated\ncalves\ni would receive the answer more\nor less deserved, Young fellow go in peace,\nwhich i do, being as Dick Mid once noted\nlifting a Green River (here's to youse)\n\"a bloke wot's well behaved\" . . . and always try\nto not wonder how let's say elation\ncauses the bent eyes thickly to protrude—\nor why her tiniest whispered invitation\nis like a clock striking in a dark house\n\nE. E. Cummings"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "137", "page_fin": "142", "image_debut": 13, "image_fin": 18, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Henry Ford", "titre_sommaire": "Henry Ford", "signature_source": "Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "137", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2023, "texte": "HENRY FORD\n\nWho has ever approached political thought or action with an\naesthetic? Not since the Renaissance when, I believe, Machiavelli was\na craftsman of high order, claiming the good of the state for his\nfeats of virtuosity, and Giovanni Batista, who could ride, fence, de-\nliver speeches, write verses, paint, sculpt, play, sing, kill his man with\nthe best of them.\nLet us expand once more the functions of art that our ideas may\nbe deeds and our deeds fit to instill admiration, rapture, suspense,\nbeatitude. The country is all but populated and the immigration\ngates shut. Across the flamboyant front-pages of the newspapers\nthese are, after all, the chateaux, the cathedrals, the mystical shrines\nthat we rear for ourselves.\nThus Henry Ford, the other day, calls up Washington.\n\"Hello, long distance. Henry Ford speaking. I want Uncle Sam.\n. . . Hello, Uncle Sam. This is Henry Ford speaking.\"\n\"Henry Ford. Oh, yes, how are you feeling today. About that\nMuscle Shoals proposition \"\n\"I can complete the construction work for $100,000,000. You\nare spending at present $500,000 per year to guard it, and it is de-\nteriorating rapidly, not to mention the loss of interest on the original\ninvestment of over $120,000,000.\"\n\"Yes, we did make some bad investments during the war.\"\n\"But I believe with the present state of conditions in the agri-\ncultural industry it is imperative to push the whole proposition to\ncompletion. The country needs nitrogen, to double the output of\ncorn per acre, making farming profitable for once and reducing the\ncost of living enormously . .\n\"I know your bid is lower than our engineers . . . but\npolitics \"\nHenry! Ford! Henry Ford! Born in Dearbornville, Mich.,\n1863 of pioneer (nay immigrant) stock. His father saw the first\n\"iron horse\" come roaring in like a drunken Indian through the forest.\nAll they talked about in those days was the \"iron horse.\"\n\"I was born on a farm . . . and my earliest recollection is that\nthere was too much work on the place,\" muses the great manufacturer."}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "138", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2297, "texte": "And there is something of Alexander's satiety with conquest in\nthe words he murmurs today: \"A man is now able to do somewhat\nmore than four did only a comparatively few years ago.\"\nForty years ago, when everyone was thinking only of the new\npower of electricity, Henry Ford began tinkering with his first horse-\nless wagons, run by steam power.\nCrude foolish thing: there is a picture yet to be seen of Henry\nseated in it, holding the tiller with that vacant look about his wide-\napart eyes.\nSoon Henry was building automobiles that were breaking records\nand winning races. A skilled mechanic, he raised capital and opened\na little plant in Detroit, with the first automobile manufacturers.\nSeveral people invested small sums in his company; one invested\n$5,000 in stock. In a few years, Henry Ford bought this man out\nfor $12,500,000.\nFord astounded the world by announcing a minimum wage of $5\na day. Everyone predicted his financial Waterloo. But in a little\nwhile Ford cut the price of his car about 50 per cent and raised the\nminimum wage to $6 a day.\nClearly no one had ever known anything about manufacturing\nbefore Henry Ford.\n\"Unless we know more about machines and their use,\" he says,\n\"unless we better understand the mechanical portion of life, we cannot\nhave the time to enjoy the trees, and the birds, and the flowers, and\nthe green fields.\"\nSoon nearly everybody in America was trundling about the world\nin Mr. Ford's Tin Lizzie.\nTo Fordize an operation you cut the machine down to the least\nnumber of parts; you concentrate upon the least amount of energy\nin making those parts and in assembling them. Each man does the\nsame thing over and over again a thousand times a day. And you\ncut the price more each year and the people buy more.\n\"And they are happier,\" says Mr. Ford. They want to be led,\nand they are glad to do the same thing every day.\nA new consciousness was born in the modern world. Quantity\nproduction making all things so cheap and plentiful favored the rapid\nincrease in population. The United States prospered. If a war should\nrake the land back and forth leaving ruin and barrenness in its wake,\nthe Ford idea would re-people it with huge townships; factories\nwould leap up again, land would be tilled and reclaimed with tractors\nand other power-driven machines."}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "139", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2403, "texte": "He bought a railroad and began to reduce the rates. The United\nStates Government became alarmed. The Interstate Commerce Com-\nmission stepped in and said:\nMr. Ford, we are afraid that you are becoming a little un-\nconstitutional.\"\nMr. Ford desisted. He has always been a little nonplussed by\npolitics. But we are running ahead of our story.\nMr. Ford was opposed to the erection of imposing and costly\nchurches. He refused to contribute to his own parish church for this\nend. But in his automobile plant, he built the costliest and most\nbeautiful power-house in America. It was placed on the avenue along-\nside the office buildings. Power houses are usually in the rear of\nfactories, dark, dusty, greasy holes in the ground with mountains of\ncoal piled outside. Ford filled the windows of his power-house with\nstained-glass. And now the ponderous fly-wheels turn in utter silence,\nsending all the throbbing energy through more than five hundred de-\npartments of the plant with its 55,000 contented workingmen.\nThat this mechanic, this scarcely literate man, should triumph so\nover physical forces!\nSoon he became the mightiest man in the world.\nBut the Great War of 1914 broke out. A world torn in con-\nvulsions of destruction. What is war? To Ford this was a most\nregrettable occurrence. All his competitors began to make ammunition.\nFor what? To a man whose life had been consecrated toward simpli-\nfying and increasing construction, it was a most painful subject, indeed.\nMr. Ford watched the war from Detroit with a restive, uneasy eye.\nMme. Rosika Schwimmer, idealist, fiery, magnificent Hungarian\nJewess, appeared before him and pleaded with him to intervene. Many\nother publicists, preachers, poets, the President of the Humanitarian\nCult; David Starr Jordan, Jane Addams, Louis P. Lochner.\nWon over by the pleas of these public-minded personages, Henry\nFord took a train to Washington and appeared at the White House\nto lay before the President his plan of neutral intervention. Mr. Wil-\nson, however, had at that time launched himself upon a course of\nWatchful Waiting.\nOn November 23, 1915 he chartered a vessel and invited the\nleaders of thought from all over the world to come with him to Europe\nin his peace ship, and hold a Conference of Neutral Countries.\n\"Men and women of our country,\" he proclaimed, \"representing\nall of its ideals and all of its activities, will start from New York on"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "140", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2309, "texte": "December 4, 1915 aboard the Scandinavian-American Steamship\nOscar 11. The peace ship that carries the American delegation will\nproceed to Christiania . . . Stockholm . . . Copenhagen . . .\n\"With twenty thousand men killed every 24 hours, tens of thou-\nsands maimed, homes ruined, another winter begun, the time has come\nfor a few men and women with courage and energy irrespective of\nthe cost in personal inconvenience, money, sacrifice, and criticism, to\nfree the good will of Europe that it may assert itself for peace and\njustice.\"\nMr. Ford made his will and finished dictating his biography.\nThe Peace Mission embarked in pell-mell fashion. There were\ntwo governors, many college professors, writers, teachers, students, a\ngoodly scattering of preachers, and fifty-four press agents.\nAll this in the teeth of immense distrust and denunciation from\nhigh quarters. Don Quixote, they jeered, crossing the seas in his\nflivver.\nBut Ford's faith in \"just folks\" and in the \"plain, democratic way\nof doing things\" was indomitable.\nOn board the Oscar II: a perfectly wild mob lost in the fog of\nthe North Atlantic. No plans of action had been prepared. The huge\nparty on board did not know where to begin to talk. They talked\nand talked. The newspapermen were aghast. There was no \"copy\"\nin all this, they were adrift on the Atlantic, and what was more, Ford\nnever talked!\nThe newspapermen monopolized the First Class Saloon and formed\nthe \"Viking Press Club.\" In their perplexity and desperation they\nwhiled the long hours away with many fitting and practical jokes\nover the radio.\nOn December 14th two British scout cruisers ran the Oscar II\ninto tow and with the voluble passengers prepared for the very worst,\na wind-burned young lieutenant and seven piratical-looking marines,\narmed to the teeth, boarded the ship. The party went on talking dis-\narmament incessantly, while virtually prisoners of war.\nAnd all the time H. Ford, in his staterooms, eating third-class\nfood, according to the legend, working mysteriously on plans, blue-\nprints, notes.\n\"Horses as well as men gone to the war never to return,' he\nruminated. His plans gradually unfolded. Europe without horses.\nThe strongest interests in favor of continuing the dreadful destructive\nwar, were munition makers. How to win them. Let them make farm-"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "141", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2273, "texte": "tractors. Europe would have no more horses. Make tractors at a\nhandsome profit. He would show them—s2oo each—s2 cents a day\nfor oil—would not cost half as much as the horse it displaces. Would\nrevolutionize farm operation and increase farm profits. That busy little\nFord brain! Inventor, Producer.\nIn Christiania the good burgomaster and his officials received the\nparty. Must it be admitted that the reception was chilly. It was the\ndead of winter. Among the individuals of the party there had been\nmistrust, perhaps envy. It is said that leadership had from the start\npassed into the hands of Mme. Rosika Schwimmer. It is whispered\nthat she was a forceful, dominating woman. Mr. Ford had been quite\nsea-sick.\nThree days after landing in the old world, Ford left mysteriously,\nresponsibility divided between Rosika and his business manager who\nhad struggled with this unwieldy Ark and footed all bills like a brave\nlittle man.\nMoney had been flung away lavishly. The party travelled to\nSweden, to Copenhagen, to Holland. Speeches were made. What\ndid the good people of Denmark think of the address of the Nebraska\nminister? Speeches were made. What did it matter?\n\"Ford left us a few days after landing,\" says the Rev. Dr. Aked,\n\"without explanation, without a word of farewell, secretly, in the\nsmall hours of the night, after telling us that he would certainly con-\ntinue the journey with us the next day.\"\nGood-bye Europe. Good-bye Rosika.\nThe Lusitania was blown up.\nThe United States entered the war not long after.\nH. Ford hurried to the White House and offered his complete\nco-operation. You know what the Ford organization did to win the\nwar!\nSoon after H. Ford became an avowed Anti-Semite. A has\nles Juifs! Rosika Schwimmer! The Dearborn Independent waged\na merciless campaign against the Jews everywhere. The Jews were\nmortified; they retorted bitterly, powerfully. What adversaries! Per-\nhaps it was they who countered in the Michigan Senatorial elections,\ndollar against vote, dollar upon dollar. Newberry. Poor tool. Sud-\ndenly the campaign of vilification, slander, suspicion of the Jews,\ncarried on throughout the world by the immense Ford organization,\nceased magically. A terrible silence followed, as the Ford Boom for\nPresident was officially launched."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "142", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2406, "texte": "The world changeth, and a new order taketh the place of the old.\nEven did we bend all our efforts to again embrace the dear old times,\nthose sweet rustic airs, solitude, tranquillity, the bubbling draught,\nthose pleasant vales,—they would never, never be envisaged, those\nhappy, happy days.\nEven should we have preferred to remain cloistered, writing dig-\nnified admonitions to the errant writers of our times, making book re-\nviews, little poems against poets, the Telephone would intervene filling\nour secluded Tower with its worldly vibrations. (Hello! Is this The\nBROOM? Can you please inform me, can you please tell me T»ho are\nthe leading, most reputable, most reliable concerns Teith a country-wide\nservice, furnishing the trade br \" \"No! Sorry, we can't help you.\nThis is not a trade journal. We have nothing to do with the in-\ndustry . . .\")\nThe electric train leaps painlessly out to the distant Hills, where\nthe gay Commuter dances, dances with his little boys and girls to the\n\"Alabama Blues\" over the radio receiver. The man dictates at his\ndesk and at once a syndicate flashes his Message to four hundred news-\npapers throughout the United States, read in the tramways and with\nthe first sunlight on the glass tops of ten million office desks.\nMr. Ford, ladies and gentlemen, is not a human creature. He is\na principle, or better, a relentless process. Away with waste and com-\npetitive capitalism. Our bread, butter, tables, chairs, beds, houses,\nand also our homebrew shall be made in Ford factories. There shall\nbe one great Power-house for the entire land, and ultimately a greater\none for the whole world. Mr. Ford, ladies and gentlemen, is not\na man.\nLet Ford be President. Let him assemble us all into his machine.\nLet us be properly assembled. Let us all function unanimously. Let\nthe wheels turn more swiftly. Coolidge! Bah, what is Coolidge? A\nrococo Yankee lawyer.\nFord means action. Coolidge means procrastination.\nFord, higher wages. Coolidge, the ten-hour day.\nFord, standardization. Coolidge, inefficiency.\nFord, higher wheat market. Coolidge, farm mortgages.\nFord, lower freight-rates. Coolidge, the Pork-barrel!\nVOTE FOR THE PEOPLE'S CANDIDATE. A veritable\ncrusade has sprung up spontaneously throughout the country to place\nthis man in the White House. The vast and effective Ford organization\nin every city and every hamlet of the continent is behind it.\n\nMatthew Josephson"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "143", "page_fin": "144", "image_debut": 19, "image_fin": 20, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "The Priest Speaks", "titre_sommaire": "The Priest Speaks", "signature_source": "William Gamaliel Shepard", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "143", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1428, "texte": "THE PRIEST SPEAKS\n\nScene: Madison Square Garden.\nTime: 1923.\nThe speaker has been talking a long time, his peroration is\nheard in a high singing voice above the heads of a monster\ncrowd •'\nBrother Gods, behold the crawling ant, the lion, the tiger,\nthe crow, the toad, the crayfish and the ellyphunt, little and\nbig beasts to dress the world for us. And birds to sing.\nAnd we ... oh see me beat my breasts and do a few\nsteps of the divine mandance . . . why we sit on the top\nroost crowing over all, with one foot in God's Home and one\non this ashpile. . . . Did you ever see the like of this?\nNever on sea or land such majesty was seen as man coming\nout of the white palm of God, the walls of darkness light-\nshattering to greet him. Look no farther for the finest. Acid\nProof. Made for the Whole Family. NON SHRINK-\nABLE. Send it to the laundry and get it back new.\nWho's Your Tailor?\nStick to God. With a thread and a patch of beef he\nsews up angels. The Miracle Man.\nA secret. Listen. Shut that typewriter. Turn in the\nradio.\nGod sat all night in seance with the stars that breathed\nHim forth in a gust of light, studying the blue prints of his\nnew invention, lopping of a corner here, adding a beam\nthere. When He wrote Appd. and broke a package of\nFatimas to celebrate the labor's end he handed it to His\nangels yet lacking that round turret packed with square mir-\nrors. The copying clerk added this detail. And the Hosts"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "144", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 726, "texte": "of Heaven stood to see the first step of the strange new beast,\nwhose first word, \"I, Am,\" stirred a shudder in Demigorgon.\nEventually. WHY NOT NOW? Lay your heart\nand your dollar on the right altar, you can't miss dividends.\nYour bread is buttered on the right side, children of God.\nKeep your eyes on the grand old nag.\nDon't Forget to Grease the Gears. It takes grease to get\nthere. Not Three-in-One either, but Gargoyle.\nIn the night my soul, my daughter, cries, clinging to a\nraft of greenback, and lo! Christ! . . . walking on the\nwaters, with a harp and a handful of signed receipts.\nGlory. . . . And the harp has golden strings. GLORY.\nAnd the harp . . . has . . . golden . . . strings. . . .\n\nWilliam Gamaliel Shepard"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "145", "page_fin": "145", "image_debut": 21, "image_fin": 21, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "Bucks County Barn", "titre_sommaire": "Bucks County Barn", "signature_source": "Charles Sheeler", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "145", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 33, "texte": "Bucks County Barn\nCharles Sheeler"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "146", "page_fin": "146", "image_debut": 22, "image_fin": 22, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "Portrait of Joe Gould", "titre_sommaire": "Portrait of Joe Gould", "signature_source": "Joseph Stella", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "146", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 35, "texte": "Portrait of Joe Gould\nJoseph Stella"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "147", "page_fin": "148", "image_debut": 23, "image_fin": 24, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "Joseph Gould: The Man", "titre_sommaire": "Joseph Gould: The Man", "signature_source": "E. N. ; S. B.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "147", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2317, "texte": "JOSEPH GOULD: THE MAN\n\nCoincident with the inauguration of the naughty nineties, Joseph\nFerdinand Gould, historian, white-wing, and perpetual candidate for\nthe throne of Albania, made his first private appearance at Norwood,\nMass. Born of undiluted Yankee stock, diapered and weaned by none\nbut Yankee hands, the little gentleman was raised in the strict moral\ntraditions of his race. At a precocious age he entered the public school\nwhere his persistent interest in every phase of human activity astonished\nhis fellow-pupils and instructors alike. Even at the age of thirteen\nwhen his school mates were only interested in abusing him, the little\nJoseph was already publishing a small review, \"The Gleam,\" which\ncontained articles of literary and historical import.\nUpon graduating from the Norwood High School, Mr. Gould\ncommuted to Harvard College. He naturally elected History as his\nmajor study, but always being more interested in the activities of his\nown time rather than those of a previous one, he became a lively mem-\nber of the Harvard Cosmopolitan Club. It was here from his close\nassociation with the Hindu, African, Chinese, Albanian, and Siamese\nmembers that Mr. Gould learned of the injustices under which the\nsmaller nations of the world suffered. Being a man of action he at\nonce championed the cause of Albania and pledged himself to a life-\nlong solicitation of funds toward Albanian Independence. It was\nalso at this time that Mr. Gould was arrested for assault. On behalf\nof the negro race he kicked the Irish shins of a Scow Boston cop as a\nprotest against a motion picture, \"The Birth of a Nation.\"\nUpon matriculating with honors from Harvard, Mr. Gould ob-\ntained a governmental position and was dispatched to the Indian\nReservation there to carry on anthropological investigations, particular-\nly in the Tecumseh family. After completing his work for the govern-\nment he returned to New York. A duel with the editor of a magazine,\nnow defunct, immediately followed his return and soon after that the\nwar with Germany. Mr. Gould vainly tried to enlist in the glorious\nranks of those fighting for world democracy, but being unable to pass\nthe physical requirements of the army he was obliged to forego that\npleasure. At present Mr. Gould is employed as a book reviewer by a\nmetropolitan daily."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "148", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2627, "texte": "In personal appearance Mr. Gould is striking. Should he be com-\ning around a corner the first harbinger of his approach is a prodigiously\nlong cigarette holder which heaves into view like the bow-sprit of a\nlarge schooner. If times are propitious a cigarette emitting clouds of\nsmoke wobbles loosely at the end of it. Immediately following the\nbow-sprit, there appears a small sharp nose, or prow, on which a pair\nof bent wire spectacles rests askew. This in turn is followed by a\nsparse and goatish beard, a scraggly mustache, two singularly bright\neyes and finally an entire head crowned by an absurdly small pill-box\nhat. Immediately beneath the head, in fact its only visible means of\nsupport, one observes a long flopping overcoat which presumably\nharbors within it some sort of vigorous little body which can and with\namazing rapidity propel the aforesaid overcoat through traffic and\naround corners. Attached to the frayed extremity of the right sleeve a\nsmall parched hand clutches a number of grimy notebooks.\nIt is this mass of grimy note-books which contain (or rather par-\ntially represent), for the fecundity of Mr. Gould passes all natural\nbounds, his omniverous history of the contemporary world. Written\nin a cramped and curiously pedantic hand this work, which now reaches\nmany hundred volumes, touches upon every phase of human, animal,\nvegetable, and mineral activity. For Mr. Gould is restricted by no\nsubject, neither by the limits of time or space, decency or virtue, inter-\nest or insignificance, by the air above or the waters under the earth.\nHis only requirement to which he persistently holds is that no fact\nshall enter his history which he has not seen with his own eyes or heard\nwith his own ears.\nThis requirement is the result of his own philosophic concept of\nhistory. For unlike the general historians who believe that the world\nand time have reached a final culmination in themselves and who for\nthat reason believe it is within their power to give the details of the\npast a value in the light of their own emotional present, Mr. Gould at-\ntempts to renounce his personality and record in as dull and unindi-\nvidual a style as possible all the actual and fortuitous experience of his\nown life. Thus he records the recitation of a drunken negro in the\nback room of a saloon with as equal an objective care as he describes\nthe funeral of his father in Norwood. For this reason his history of\nthe world becomes, not an expressionistic work of art like other his-\ntories, but a purely scientific chronicle on which the historians of the\nfuture will base their subjective studies.\n\nE. N. AND S. B."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "149", "page_fin": "152", "image_debut": 25, "image_fin": 28, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "Social Position", "titre_sommaire": "Social Position", "signature_source": "Joseph Gould", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "149", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2162, "texte": "SOCIAL POSITION\n\nNearly everyone is perplexed by the human instinct to either\nlord it over other people or bow down to them. In the eyes of the\nInfinite, all pride is dust and ashes. But as we must live with our\nbrother man, it is natural that each of us should have his ideal of\nproper society.\nI believe that we need an aristocracy in which each person can\nbe an aristocrat. That is to say every human being is entitled to a\nlegitimate pride in his environment and antecedents. The Socialist\nvision is somewhat similar. However it insists too much on material\nvalues. Its appeal is to those people who cannot respect themselves\nwithout good clothes and well-filled tummies. That is a wrong as-\nsumption. An Indian no matter how dire his poverty can dispense\nhospitality with dignity. He is his own welcome. Roger W. Babson\nonce asked me what I thought was the solution of the high cost of\nliving. I answered, \"The Indian system. Fewer wants.\" He that\nknows he is as good a man as his neighbor does not need to impress by\nevidence of material wealth.\nThe aristocrat is the highest type I can attain to. I believe that\nif one only pushes aristocracy far enough it becomes democracy.\nIn all externals, the two viewpoints keep the same code. One serves\nfrom love of humanity, the other to satisfy himself.\nI believe that no higher race of men ever lived than the back-\nwoods Yankee farmer. Made independent by the toil of his own\nhands he exacted no servility from others and he yielded it to none,\nthose of higher social position in the artificial sense have had to pay for\nit by various acts of flunkeyism.\nI am very cosmopolitan and have met specimens of European,\nAsiatic, American Indian and African nobility. Not even excepting\nWater Chief have I ever met anyone with more reason for pride in his\nimmediate family and remoter ancestry than myself. I said to God\nonce, \"You know I am very proud. If I should ever meet anyone\nwith better blood in his veins than flows in mine what should my con-\nduct be?\" The All Mighty answered me, \"Be not alarmed. Until\n\n* Chapter CCCLXVIII of Joseph Gould's History of the Contemporary World,\nto be published posthumously."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "150", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2631, "texte": "I repeal the law of the survival of the fittest, you will never meet any-\none with a higher claim to pride of race. Your pride, of course, is\nnasty as all pride is, but it is the seed of so much of the good that\nis in you, that I want you to keep it, until you find something better.\nRemember however that every human soul is as big as its environ-\nment and heredity allow it to be.\"\nCivilization brings distinctions of caste apart from individual at-\ntainment. Thus is developed the patrician and the peasant. Each\nhas a different set of virtues, and both are needed for the complete\nsum of humanity. When you find a patrician without pride or a\npeasant without avarice, you get very nearly the perfect man.\nThe European is usually descended from ancestors who were\nall of the same caste. A Southerner's progenitors were all either\nF. F. V' sor all poor white trash. In New England there has always\nbeen the mingling of the two strains. One of my ancestors was the\nfirst Governor of Connecticut. Another came as an indentured ser-\nvant. Mrs. Bowie said to me once, \"There are two types of gentle-\nmen. One is the gentleman by the grace of God. I knew a slave\nwho was that. Then there is the gentleman by virtue of inherited\nculture. You belong to both types.\" At one time I would have been\ngreatly pleased with this compliment. Now however, I feel that if\nI am not big enough to belong to all humanity, I want to think of\nmyself as belonging to the masses rather than to the classes. Ido\nnot want to consider myself a gentleman in the archaic sense unless this\ndistinction permits me to feel as proud of my progenitors who lived\nlives of modest toil and were first nowhere upon the field of battle,\nas I am of colonial governors, knights, nobles, kings and emperors who\nalso had to live that I might be.\nThe past has many claims upon me. I regard the continuity of\nlife as the great miracle, and through genealogical research I like to\nproject myself back into the past. Hence lam a confirmed ancestor\nworshipper. I can still remember the mental glow I experienced when\nI first learned of my descent from William the Conqueror. At the\npresent time I feel differently. The early kings and nobles were very\npromiscuous. I doubt whether there is an Englishman alive who is\nnot descended from William the Conqueror, or a European who is\nnot descended from Charlemagne. I would like to be really ex-\nclusive. I wish I could trace my pedigree back to some common person\nwho lived in the eleventh century.\nMy racial work brought me into contact with certain celebrities.\nMy father and mother treated them with dignity and courtesy giving"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "151", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2593, "texte": "them the best they had. When I invited a Negro deckhand to visit\nme they treated him in the same way. They were sure enough of\ntheir own position to be able to do this. That is real aristocracy. I\ndo not consider anyone quite my social equal who can not do the\nsame. Ralph Watson said to me when I expressed this idea to him,\n\"You would find your social equal among bar tenders then.\" I re-\nplied, \"Not among all. They might be able to entertain a Negro\ndeckhand and yet be flustered by a celebrity. On the other hand I\nfeel as if I were slumming when I visit households where the Negro\ndeckhand could not be entertained.\"\nGoni Katundi the proprietor of the Albanian restaurant, Vatru,\ndid not wish me to invite Miss Culot there, although she had been\nin Albania, because he thought she was of too high a caste. When I\ntook her there, I apologized for this neglect on his part and told\nher the reason. I said he was wrong because the Albanian restaurant\nwas good enough for me, and what was good enough for Joe Gould\nwas good enough for any one else that God had made. She smiled\napproval and said, \"That's the proper way to feel about it.\" At the\ntime she did not hear what I added, that whatever was good enough\nfor anybody else that God had made was good enough for Joe\nGould. I would use this addition to illustrate the difference between\nthe aristocrat and the snob.\nI feel very cocky when I think of the three highest social honors\nthat I have received. The one that I valued least was when I tried so\nhard to get into the army that Captain A. J. Boyce was impressed\nand spoke to Roosevelt about me and the doughty colonel told him\nto bring me to Oyster Bay. Roosevelt was out of luck, for Captain\nBoyce lost track of me. As Roosevelt had no backwoods Yankee\nblood in him, of course, he was not quite my equal, but I was honestly\npleased that despite my poor physique I had made such an impression\nupon Captain Boyce as a man among men that he deemed me worthy\nof the highest honor he could pay me.\nI was more pleased by what happened the first time I met Mrs.\nRust, the widow of the Confederate general who commanded in the\nbattle of Port Hudson in which my grandfather participated. Her\ngrandfather and her husband were congressmen, and she had moved\nin the highest society in Washington and danced twice with Edward\nVII. She was akin to the aristocratic families of the Old South and\nthe list of her relatives was lousy with distinguished names. It was\nsupposed that we would clash bitterly because my Negrophile pre-\njudices were so strong. By a few proofs of deference, I won her so"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "152", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 806, "texte": "completely that on offering me a second helping she said, \"Will you\nhave some more veal, Joe?\" She did not call others by their first\nname whom she had known a much longer time. My head was a bit\nturned then by this unexpected acceptance by the feudal South, but\nI now feel that the real point of the honor was that I had pleased an old\nwoman. The old and children are the best judges of character be-\ncause they are less observant of the superficial.\nI have also had the highest social honor possible. Water Chief\noffered me his peace pipe as a personal friend and an equal. Any\nruling dynasty among white people is a mere mushroom in comparison.\nHereafter, if I am invited to meet kings or emperors or even Police\nCommissioner Enright, I will feel that I do them more honor than they\ndo me.\n\nJoseph Gould"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "152", "page_fin": "152", "image_debut": 28, "image_fin": 28, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "Ellsworth to Great Pond", "titre_sommaire": "Ellsworth to Great Pond", "signature_source": "Winifred Virginia Jackson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "152", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 808, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1330, "texte": "ELLSWORTH TO GREAT POND\nWinifred Virginia Jackson\nDrink hard cider, swig hard cider,\nSwill hard cider, Boys!\nThrow yer spikers, throw yer peavies,\nBeller out yer noise!\nGrub in Waltham, drink in Waltham,\nSlogger up an' down!\nHide ye slat-faced, heathen Christians,\nK-J's crew's in town!\nDrink hard cider, swig hard cider,\nWhoop 'er up, O Boys!\nHell' s own roarin', cant-dog sawmill\nCan't make half our noise!\nSling yer spikers, sling yer peavies,\nPut yer head to use!\nK-J's waitin'! K- T's watchin'!\nKing o' old K. Spruce!"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "153", "page_fin": "162", "image_debut": 29, "image_fin": 38, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "The Poet Assassinated", "titre_sommaire": "The Poet Assassinated", "signature_source": "Guillaume Apollinaire ; Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "153", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2124, "texte": "THE POET ASSASSINATED\n\nXVI\nPERSECUTION\nAt this time prizes for poetry were being awarded every day.\nThousands of societies had been founded for this purpose and their\nmembers lived on the fat of the land, while making upon fixed dates\nlarge benefices to poets. But the 26th of January was the day upon\nwhich the largest associations, companies, boards of directors, acad-\nemies, committees, juries, etc., of the whole world bestowed their\nawards. Upon this day 8,019 prizes for poetry were distributed,\nthe total of which aggregated 50,005,225 francs. On the other hand,\nsince the taste for poetry had never spread among any class of the\npopulation of any country, public opinion had risen powerfully\nagainst the poets who were called parasites, lazy, useless, and so\nforth. The 26th of January of this year passed without incident,\nbut on the following day the great newspaper, La Voix, published at\nAdelaide (Australia) in the French language, contained an article by\nthe distinguished agricultural chemist Horace Tograth (a German\nborn at Leipzig), whose discoveries and inventions had frequently\nseemed to border on the miraculous. The article, entitled The Laurel,\ncontained a sort of chronology of the culture of the laurel in Judea,\nin Greece, in Italy, in Africa and in Provence. The author gave\ncounsel to those who had laurel trees in their gardens, indicating the\nmultiple usage of the laurel, as a food, in art, in poetry, and its role\nas a symbol of poetic glory. He then began to talk of mythology,\nmaking allusions to Apollo and the fable of Daphne. Finally,\nHorace Tograth changed his tone brusquely and concluded his article\nas follows:\n\"And furthermore, I say candidly, this useless tree is still too\ncommon, and we have less glorious symbolisms to which people at-\ntribute the famous savour of the laurel. The laurel holds too large\na place upon our overpopulated earth, the laurels are unworthy of\nliving. Each one of them takes the place of two in the sun. Let them\nbe chopped down, and let their leaves be feared as a poison. Hitherto\nsymbols of poetry and literary science, they are nothing more today"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "154", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2599, "texte": "than that death-glory which is to glory as death is to life, and as the\nhand of glory is to the key.\n\"True glory has abandoned poetry for science, philosophy, acro-\nbatics, philanthropy, sociology, etc. . . . Poets are good for nothing\nmore nowadays than to receive money which they do not earn, since\nthey scarcely ever work and most of them (except for the minstrels)\nhave no talent and no excuse whatsoever. As to those who have some\ngifts, they are even more obnoxious, for if they receive nothing they\nmake more noise than a regiment and din our ears with their being\npersecuted. None of these people have any raison d'etre. The prizes\nwhich are awarded them are stolen from workers, inventors, scientists,\nphilosophers, acrobats, philanthropists, sociologists, and so forth. The\npoets must disappear. Lycurgus would have banished them from the\nRepublic, we too must banish them. Otherwise, the poets, lazy fiefs,\nwill become our princes and while doing nothing, live off our work,\noppressing us, and mocking us. In short, we must rid ourselves im-\nmediately of the poets' tyranny.\n\"If the republics and the kings, if the nations do not take care,\nthe race of poets, too privileged, will increase in such proportions and\nso rapidly that in a short time no one will want to work, invent, teach,\ndo dangerous feats, heal the sick and improve the lot of unfortunate\nmen.\"\nAn enormous stir greeted this article. It was telegraphed or tele-\nphoned everywhere, all the newspapers reproduced it. A few literary\njournals followed their quotations from Tograth's article with mock-\ning reflections as to the scientist; there were doubts as to his mental\nstate. They laughed at the terror which he manifested over the lyric\nlaurel. However, the journals of commerce and information made\ngreat ado about his warnings. They even said that the article in\nLa Voix was a work of genius.\nThe article by Horace Tograth had been a singular pretext, ad-\nmirably fitted to fan the blaze of hatred for poetry. It made its appeal\nthrough the traditional sense of the supernatural, whose memory lies\nin all well bom men, and to the instinct for preservation which all\nbeings feel. That was why nearly all Tograth's readers were thunder-\nstruck, aghast, and wanted to lose no occasion to obliterate poets who,\nbecause of the great numbers of prizes they received were the subjects\nof the jealousy of all classes of the population. The majority of the\nnewspapers advocated that the government take measures leading to\nthe prohibition of all poetry prizes.\nIn the evening, in a later edition of La Voix, the agricultural"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "155", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2541, "texte": "chemist, Horace Tograth, published a new article which like the\nother telephoned or telegraphed everywhere, carried popular emotion\nto a climax in the press, among the public and the governments. The\nscientist concluded as follows:\n\"World, choose between thy life and poetry; if serious measures\nare not taken, civilization is done for. Thou must not hesitate. From\ntomorrow on begins the new era. Poetry will exist no longer, the\nlyres too heavy for old inspirations will be broken. The poets will be\nmassacred.\"\nDuring the night, life went on just as usual in all the cities of\nthe globe. The article, telegraphed everywhere, had been published\nin the special editions of the local newspapers and snatched up by\nthe hungry public. The people all sided with Tograth. Ringleaders\ndescended into the streets and, mingling with the aroused mobs, ex-\ncited them further. But most governments held sittings that very\nnight and passed legislation which provoked an indescribable en-\nthusiasm. France, Italy, Spain and Portugal decreed that all poets\nestablished on their territory should be imprisoned at once pending\nthe determination of their lot. It was cabled that the United States\nof America had decided to electrocute any man who avowed his\nprofession to be that of poetry. In fact, all of the States on earth,\neven those who possessed nothing but meager little bards lacking in\nall lyricism took measures against the very name of poetry. Only\nEngland and Russia were exceptions. The laws went into effect the\nnext day, while the literary magazines appeared all garbed in black,\nlamenting the new terror. Dispatches toward noon told how Aris-\ntenetius Southwest, the great negro poet of Haiti had been cut into\npieces and devoured by an infuriated populace of negroes and mulat-\ntoes. At Cologne, the Kaiserglocke had sounded all night and in the\nmorning Herr Professor Doktor Stimmung, author of a medieval epic\nin forty-eight cantos, having gone out to take the train for Hanover,\nwas set upon by a troop of fanatics who beat him with sticks crying:\n\"Death to the poet!\"\nHe took refuge in the cathedral and remained locked in there\nwith a few beadles, by the excited population of Drikkes, Hanses, and\nMarizibills. These last particularly, were beside themselves with rage,\ninvoking the Virgin, Saint Ursula and the Three Royal Magi in\nplatdeutsch. Their paternosters and pious oaths were interspersed\nwith admirably vile insults to the professor-poet, who owed his rep-\nutation chiefly to the unisexuality of his morals. His head to the"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "156", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2253, "texte": "ground, he was nearly dying of fear under the big wooden statue of\nSaint Christopher.\nTelegrams everywhere announced the arrests of poets, one after\nanother, and the electrocution of the American poets was made known\nearly in the afternoon.\nIn Paris, several young poets of the left bank, who had been\nspared on account of their lack of notoriety, organized a demon-\nstration extending from the Closerie des Lilas to the Couriergerie,\nwhere the \"prince of poets\" was imprisoned.*\nTroops arrived to disperse the demonstrators. The cavalry charged.\nThe poets drew their firearms and defended themselves but the\npeople rushed in and took a hand in the melee. The poets were\nstrangled and everyone else who came to their defense.\nThus began the great persecution which swept rapidly through-\nout the entire world. In America, after the electrocution of the\nfamous poets, they lynched all the negro minstrels and even many\npersons who had never in their lives written a rhyme; then they fell\nupon the whites of literary Bohemia. It was learned that Tograth,\nafter having personally directed the persecution in Australia, had em-\nbarked at Melbourne.\nXVII\nASSASSINATION\nLike Orpheus, all the poets felt violent death staring them in\nthe face. Everywhere, publishers had been pillaged and collections\nof verse burnt. The admiration of all went out to this Horace Tograth\nwho, from far off Adelaide (Australia), had succeeded in unloosing\nthis storm which seemed destined to destroy poetry forever. This\nman's knowledge, they said, bordered on the miraculous. He could\ndrive away clouds or bring on rain anywhere he pleased. Women,\nonce they had seen him were ready to do his bidding. For the rest,\nhe did not disdain either feminine or masculine virginities. As soon\nas Tograth had seen what enthusiasms he had evoked in the whole\nworld, he announced that he would visit the principal cities of the\nglobe, after Australia had been rid of its erotic and elegiac poets.\nAnd indeed some time later uprisings of the population were heard\n\n* Paul Fort, broad-brimmed black hat, was in Apollinaire's time an inveterate\nfrequenter of the Closerie, two blocks west along the Boulvard Montparnasse\nfrom the Cafe Rotonde, where Apollinaire and his circle held forth.—Tr."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "157", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2464, "texte": "of in Tokio, Pekin, Yakutsk, Calcutta, Buenos Ayres, San Francisco,\nChicago, upon the appearance of the terrible German, Tograth.\nWherever he went, he left an unearthly impression on account of his\n\"miracles,\" (which he called scientific), and his extraordinary heal-\nings, all of which lifted his repute as a scientist and a thaumaturgist\nto sublime heights.\nOn May 30, Tograth disembarked at Marseilles. The people\nwere massed along the quays; Tograth landed from the steamer in\na launch. No sooner was he recognized than cries, shouts, toasts,\nfrom innumerable gullets mingled with the sound of the wind, the\nwaves and the sirens of the vessels. Tograth, tall and thin, was stand-\ning up in the launch. As it approached the land, the features of the\nhero could be distinguished more and more clearly. His face was\nsmooth-shaven and blue, his mouth almost lipless, disfigured by an\nugly cut; he had a receding chin which gave him the appearance,\none might have said, of a shark. His brow rose straight up, very\nhigh and very large. Tograth was dressed in a pasty white costume,\nhis shoes also being white and high-heeled. He wore no hat. As soon\nas he placed his foot upon the soil of Marseilles the furor of the\ncrowd rose to such heights that when the quays were cleared three\nhundred people were found dead, strangled, trampled, crushed.\nSeveral men seized the hero and raised him upon their shoulders\nwhile they sang and shouted, and women threw flowers at him all\nthe way to the hotel where a suite had been prepared for him and\nmanagers, interpreters and bell-boys were waiting to greet him.\nOn the same morning, Croniamantal coming from Briinn had\narrived at Marseilles to look for Tristouse who had been there since\nthe evening before with Paponat. All three mingled in the crowd\nwhich acclaimed Tograth before the hotel where he was to stop.\n\"Happy tumult,\" said Tristouse, \"You are not a poet, Paponat,\nyou have learned things which are worth infinitely more than poetry.\nIs it not true, Paponat, that you are in no way a poet?\"\n\"Indeed, my dear,\" replied Paponat, \"I have rhymed at times\nin order to amuse myself, but I am not a poet, I am an excellent\nbusiness man and no one knows better than I how to manage an\nestate.\"\n\"Tonight you must mail a letter to La Voix of Adelaide; you\nmust tell them all that, and so you will be safe.\"\n\"I shall not fail to do that,\" said Paponat. \"Did you ever hear\nof such a thing, a poet! That goes for Croniamantal.\""}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "158", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2121, "texte": "\"I hope to God,\" said Tristouse, \"that they will massacre him\nin Briinn where he expects to find us.\"\n\"But there he is right now,\" whispered Paponat. \"He is in the\ncrowd. He is hiding himself and hasn't seen us.\"\n\"I wish they would hurry up and massacre him,\" sighed Tris-\ntouse. \"I have an idea that that will happen soon.\"\n\"Look,\" exclaimed Paponat, \"here comes the hero.\"\nThe cortege which accompanied Tograth having arrived at the\nhotel, they permitted him to descend from their shoulders. Tograth\nturned to the crowd and addressed them:\n\"Marseilles, in thanking you I could employ, if I wished, com-\npliments that are fatter than your world-renowned sardines. I could,\nif I wished, make a long speech. But words will never quite en-\ncompass the magnificence of the reception which you have accorded\nme. I know that there are maladies in your midst that I might heal\nnot only with my knowledge but with that which scientists have ac-\ncumulated for myriads of years. Bring forth the sick, and I shall\nheal them.\"\nA man whose cranium was as bald as that of an inhabitant of\nMycona cried:\n\"Tograth! god-like mortal, all puissant savaniissimo! Give me\na luxuriant mane of hair.\"\nTograth smiled and asked that the man approach him; then he\ntouched the denuded head, saying:\n\"Thy sterile pate shall be covered with an abundant vegetation,\nbut remember always this favor by hating the laurel.\"\nAt the same time as the bald man, a little girl approached. She\nimplored Tograth:\n\"Sweet man, sweet man, look at my mouth, my lover with a blow\nof his fist has broken several teeth, return them to me.\"\nThe scientist smiled and put his finger into her mouth, saying:\n\"Now thou canst chew, thou hast excellent teeth. But in return,\nshow us what thou hast in thy bag.\"\nThe girl laughed, opening her mouth in which the new teeth\ngleamed; then she opened her bag, excusing herself:\n\"What a funny idea, before everybody! Here are my keys, here\nan enamelled photograph of my lover; he really looks better than that.\"\nBut the eyes of Tograth were greedy; he had perceived all\nfolded up in her bag several Parisian songs, rhymed and set to"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "159", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2095, "texte": "Viennese airs. He took these papers and after having scrutinized\nthem, asked:\n\"These are nothing but songs, have you no poems?\"\n\"I have a very lovely one,\" said the girl. \"It was the bell-boy\nof the Hotel Victoria wrote it for me before he left for Switzerland.\nBut I never showed it to Sossi.\"\nAnd she proffered Tograth a little rose sheet of paper on which\nwas written a pathetic acrostic.\n\"It is not only poetry,\" exclaimed Tograth, \"it is idiotic.\"\nAnd he tore up the paper and threw it into the ditch, while the\ngirl knocked her teeth in fright and cried:\n\"Sweet man, good man, I did not know that it was bad.\"\nJust then Croniamantal advanced close to Tograth and apos-\ntrophized the crowd:\n\"Carrion, assassins!\"\nThey burst into laughter. They yelled:\n\"Into the water with him, the rat.\"\nAnd Tograth, looking Croniamantal in the face, said:\n\"My good brother, let not my affluence disturb you. As for me,\nI love the people, even though I stop at hotels which they do not\nfrequent.\"\nThe poet let Tograth talk, then he continued to address the crowd:\n\"Carrion, laugh at me, your joys are numbered, each one of them\nwill be torn from you one by one. And do you know, o people, what\nyour hero is?\"\nTograth smiled and the crowd became all attention. The poet\ncontinued:\n\"Your hero, o populace, is Boredom bringing Misery.\"\nA cry of astonishment issued from all the throats. Women crossed\nthemselves. Tograth wanted to speak, but Croniamantal seized him\nsuddenly by the neck, threw him to the ground and held him there\nwith his foot on the man's chest, while he spoke:\n\"It is Boredom and Misery, the monstrous enemy of man, the\nBehemoth glutted with debauchery and rape, dripping the blood of\nmarvellous poets. He is the vomit of the Antipodes, and his miracles\ndeceive the clairvoyant no more than the miracles of Simon the Magi\ndid the Apostles. Marseillais, Marseillais, woe that you whose an-\ncestors come from the most purely lyrical land, should unite with the\nenemies of poetry, with the barbarians of all the nations. What a\nstrange miracle, this, of the German returned from Australia! To"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "160", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2307, "texte": "have imposed it upon the world and to have been for a moment\nstronger than creation itself, stronger than immortal poetry.\"\nBut Tograth who was able to extricate himself at last, arose,\nsoiled with dust and drunk with rage. He asked:\n\"Who are you?\"\n\"Who are you, who are you?\" cried the crowd.\nThe poet turned toward the east and in exalted tones said:\n\"I am Croniamantal, the greatest of living poets. I have often\nseen God face to face, I have borne the divine rapture which my\nhuman eyes tempered. I was born in eternity. But the day has come,\nand I am here before you.\"\nTograth greeted these last words with a terrible burst of laughter,\nand the first ranks of the crowd seeing Tograth laugh, took up his\nlaughter, which, in bursts, in rolls, in trills, was soon communicated\nthroughout the entire populace, even to Paponat and Tristouse Bal-\nlerinette. All of the open mouths yawned at Croniamantal, who be-\ncame ill at ease. Interspersed with the laughter were shouts of:\n\"Into the water with the poet! . . . Burn him, Croniamantal!\n... To the dogs with him, lover of the laurel!\"\nA man who was in the first ranks and carried a heavy club gave\nCroniamantal a blow, causing him to make a painful grimace which\ndoubled the merriment of the crowd. A stone, accurately thrown,\nstruck the nose of the poet and drew blood. A fish merchant forced\nhis way through the mob and, confronting Croniamantal, said:\n\"Hou! the raven. I remember you, all right, you're a policeman\nwho wanted to pass for a poet; there, cow; take that, story teller.\"\nAnd he gave him a terrific slap, spitting in his face. The man\nwhom Tograth had cured of alopecia came to him and said:\n\"Look at my hair, is it a false miracle or not?\"\nAnd lifting his cane, he thrust it so adroitly that he gouged out\nCroniamantal's right eye. Croniamantal fell over backward, women\nthrew themselves upon him and beat him. Tristouse jumped up and\ndown with joy, while Paponat tried to calm her. But she went over\nand with the end of her umbrella stuck out Croniamantal's other eye,\nwhile he, seeing her in this last moment of sight, cried:\n\"I confess my love for Tristouse Ballerinette, the divine poesy\nthat consoles my soul.\"\n\"Shut up, vermin!\" cried the crowd of men, \"there are ladies\nhere.\"\nThe women went away soon, and a man who was balancing a"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "161", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1916, "texte": "large knife on his open hand threw it in such a way that it landed\nright in the open mouth of Croniamantal. Other men did the same\nthing. The knives stuck in his belly, his chest, and soon there was\nnothing more on the ground than a corpse bristling with points like\nthe husk of a chestnut.\nXVIII\nAPOTHEOSIS\nCroniamantal dead, Paponat brought Tristouse Ballerinette back\nto the hotel, where she relapsed into nervous fainting-spells. They\nwere in a very old building and by chance Paponat discovered,\nwrapped up in cardboard, a bottle of water of the Queen of Hungary\nwhich dated from the 1 7th Century. This remedy worked rapidly.\nTristouse recovered her senses and immediately went to the hospital\nto claim the body of Croniamantal which was turned over to her\nwithout delay.\nShe arranged a decent burial for him and placed over his tomb\na stone on which there was engraved the following epitaph:\nWalk lightly and your silence keep,\nTo leave untroubled his good sleep.\nThen she went back to Paris with Paponat who soon left her\nfor a mannequin of the Champs-Elysees.\nTristouse did not regret him very long. She went into mourning\nfor Croniamantal and climbed up to the Montmartre, to the Bird of\nBenin's who began to pay court to her, and after he had what he\ndesired they began to talk of Croniamantal.\n\"I ought to make a statue to him,\" said the Bird of Benin, \"For\nI am not only a painter but also a sculptor.\"\n\"That's right,\" said Tristouse, \"we must raise a statue to him.\"\n\"Where?\" asked the Bird of Benin; \"The government will not\ngrant us any ground. Times are bad for poets.\"\n\"So they say,\" replied Tristouse, \"but perhaps it isn't true. What\ndo you think of the Meudon woods?\"\n\"I thought of that, but I dared not say it. Let's go to the Meudon\nwoods.\"\n\"A statue of what?\" asked Tristouse, \"Marble? Bronze?\"\n\"No, that's old fashioned. I must model a profound statue out\nof nothing, like poetry and glory.\""}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "162", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1699, "texte": "\"Bravo! Bravo!\" cried Tristouse clapping her hands, \"A statue\nout of nothing, empty, that's lovely, and when will you make it?\"\n\"Tomorrow, if you wish; we shall go and dine, pass the night\ntogether, and in the morning we shall go to the Meudon woods where\nI shall make this profound statue.\"\nNo sooner said, than done. They went and dined with the elite\nof the Montmartre, returned to sleep at midnight and on the next\nmorning at nine oclock, after having armed himself with a pick-axe,\na spade, a shovel and some boasting-chisels, they took the road for\nthe pretty Meudon woods, where they met the Prince of Poets, ac-\ncompanied by his little friend, quite happy over the pleasant days\nhe had spent in the City-prison.\nThen they had lunch on the grass.\nThe afternoon was devoted by the Bird of Benin to sculpturing\nthe interior of the monument to Croniamantal.\nOn the following day, the sculptor came back with workingmen\nwho fixed up an armed cement wall, six inches broad on top, and\neighteen inches broad at the base, so that the empty space had the\nform of Croniamantal, and the hole was full of his specter.\nOn the next day, the Bird of Benin, Tristouse, the Prince of\nPoets and his little friend came back to the statue which was heaped\nup with earth which they had gathered here and there, and at night-\nfall they planted a fine laurel tree, while Tristouse Ballerinette danced\nand sang:\nNo one loves thee thou art lying\nPalantila Mila Mima\nWhen he was lover to the queen\nHe was king while she was queen\n'Tis true, 'tis true that I love him\nCroniamantal way down in the pit\nCan that be right\nLet us gather the sweet marjoram\nAt night.\n\nGuillaume Apollinaire\n(Translated by Matthew Josephson)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "163", "page_fin": "163", "image_debut": 39, "image_fin": 39, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "Bucks County Barn", "titre_sommaire": "Bucks County Barn", "signature_source": "Charles Sheeler", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "163", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 33, "texte": "Charles Sheeler\nBucks County Barn"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "164", "page_fin": "164", "image_debut": 40, "image_fin": 40, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "Bucks County Barn", "titre_sommaire": "Bucks County Barn", "signature_source": "Charles Sheeler", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "164", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 33, "texte": "Bucks County Barn\nCharles Sheeler"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "165", "page_fin": "167", "image_debut": 41, "image_fin": 43, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "\"A Boire! A Boire!\"", "titre_sommaire": "\"A Boire! A Boire!\"", "signature_source": "Slater Brown", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "165", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2467, "texte": "\"A BOIRE! A BOIRE!\"\n\nGargantua shouted it when he came fat and ruddy tumbling into\nthat bright and wine-glorious country of France. And though I too\nhave bellowed his radiant and congenial war-cry, perhaps with not\nso large a throat but with at least as thirsty a one, I have received no\nanswer in this measly land of prohibition but the flurried reproaches\nof old temperance trots or a rancid sermon or two from some blarting\nminister. But such gratuitous hot air has brought me no nearer to a\nliberal bottle of old Burgundy or to a cool, silent, contemplative stein\nof Miinchener Beer than it has to Paradise.\nFor it is a shocking truth that this country is so lousy and over-\nrun with efficiency hounds, moralizing nitwits, and rubber-heel re-\nformers that a man can hardly lick a postage stamp in public without\nbeing haled into court for indecent exposure. As for drinking, or any\nother of those joyful arts that make life something more than pulling\ndown a fat salary in a mill or breeding a large and hopeless swarm\nof children, they have eternally disappeared. For this virulent pesti-\nlence of busy-bodies is ever on the alert to descend on any human\npleasure and despoil it. Being psychopaths whose minds are of an\ninordinate filth, they can imagine no vice more horrible than that of\nliving, and would rather a man work himself pie-eyed in a sweat-shop\nor yodel himself cuckoo in a church choir than to see him loaf some\nsunny afternoon with a few friends, an accordion, and a keg of beer.\nBut I am more interested in art than I am in fools, and if Amer-\nicans not only insist on swallowing everything these busy vice-sniffers\nsling them, but also continue to believe that it is every man's bounden\nduty to make himself as unhappy as possible for the good of an un-\nhappy many, then all I can say is \"God Bless Them,\" and pass on.\nIf I remember correctly, prohibition has been scourging this country\nfor the past four years. Probably more. It seems at least a decade\nsince I last wet my whistle with anything approaching good liquor.\nFor although the bootleg industry is as highly organized as any of\nHenry Ford's machine shops, the liquor it dispenses is not only so\ndoctored, dyed and cut with spurious acids as to make its consumption\nalmost a question of suicide, but its cost is so far beyond the reach of\nan average human pocketbook that only those fortunate mortals who\nare endowed both with untold wealth and a celluloid stomach dare\nto consume it."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "166", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2776, "texte": "Indeed it is an unhappy enough condition for any human Ameri-\ncan, but particularly for those writers who, in maintaining their artistic\nintegrity, must forever be on the verge of taking the Franciscan vow\nof poverty. For though of old, Beer was the poor man's Freud, it\nhas now become an inaccessible salvation, and the honest writer being\nunable to find any alcoholic release for his complexes or his simplexes,\nhis auto-, klepto-, hydro-, or nympho-manias, must either repress them\nin silence or find expression for them in his art. As for me I should\nregret either of these eventualities, and should be as pained to find\nmy friends gargling tea with a flock of inhibited females as I would\nto find them limiting their literary subject matter to the romantic ex-\nploits of a shop-lifter, a whoremonger, or a water fiend. For ignoring\nits demoralizing influence on the pubic or public mind such a literature\nwould be merely that infantile volitionism against which my friend\nMr. Kenneth Burke has propounded many unanswerable arguments.\nBut enough of manias, repressions, complexes, hebephrenia. Such\ntalk will not get a man an honest snootful, and though when the sky\nfalls we will all catch larks, there is slight chance of that ever happen-\ning in the U. S. A. Let us consider this frustrating problem rationally.\nOf solutions there appear to be three: Expatriation, Rustication\nand The Catacombs.\nI will however pass over the first, Expatriation, rapidly, believing\nas I do that the problem of prohibition should be faced and not run\naway from. The second, Rustication, is at present among writers\none of the more popular solutions. It consists in retiring to some wilder-\nness where, securely cloistered against the incursions of snooping rum-\nagents, the writer may brew such liquors and in such quantities as he\nmay desire. But such a troglodytic life implies an almost total loss\nof personal contact with his fellow craftsmen, and though it is at times\nadvisable to play one's lonely flute in some sequestered nook or covert,\nsuch self-inflicted solitude inevitably leads a writer to take both himself\nand his technique with too astringent a seriousness.\nThe third and last solution of which I will speak is one suggested\nin a recent issue of the Dial; the Catacombs. These catacombs or\ncrypts which presumably are to be burrowed under some American\ncathedral such as the Woolworth Building or the Bush Terminal, are\nto be utilized according to the Dial by such writers who in renouncing\nthe questionable virtue of Quantity Production have found themselves\nat loggerheads with the Capitalist System. To the catacombs these\nwriters will then repair, and publishing their intransigeant volumes of\nprose or verse upon the presses supplied them, will, in the early hours"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "167", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2396, "texte": "of morning, distribute them upon the brown-stone stoops of the\nFifties.\nThough I heartily agree with the spirit of this suggestion, it does\nnot go far enough. Let us have catacombs by all means, but let us\nnot use them to so sad a purpose. Let us not make monasteries of\nthem. Let us, instead of filling them with type, fill them with good\nliquor. Let us conceal within the bowels of our crypt all manner of\nstrong drink. Let us fill our catacombs with rum and whiskey, with\nthe wines of Bordeaux and Burgundy, with Hennesy's Five Star\nCognac, with Vermouth and Grenadine, with Holland Gin, Sauterne,\nand Bass's Ale, with Chartreuse Jaune, Benedictine and Vieux Marc,\nwith Champagne, with barrel upon barrel of Miinchener Beer, with\nAsti Spumanti and name-your-own, with Chianti and Green River\nRye, with Moulin a Vent 1912, with Nebiolo, Swedish Punch and\nChateau Yquem, with Vodka, Sherry and Lachrymae Christi, with all\nthe merry, belly-warming, soul-stirring, and mind-ennobling drinks\nof this wet and reeling earth.\nAnd there ensconced some evening among our kegs and our\nbottles, send down to us, O Mr. William H. Anderson, your roaring\nwind-pots and spittle-tossers. Let them fill up to their pop-eyes with\nall the non-alcoholic belly-wash of New York, but let my hearty\nroistering comrades fortify themselves with a few neat shots of old\nBourbon or a brace of cool schooners, and I assure you, though your\nbarnstormers pick their own subjects, that my friends will so ham-\nstring and hobble them with arguments of wit, ridicule and logic that\nby the end of a half hour your proselyting roarers will be more bleary\neyed with confusion than a styful of stuck pigs. For I have seen my\nfriends so jingled with good liquor they could not walk, yet withal\nso adroit and nimble in their wit, so lucid and eloquent in their thought,\nthat merely to overhear their discourses was worth a library of books\nor a whole band-wagon of lecturing professors.\nBut we will not trifle away our time with blubber-mouths and\nprohibitionists. Our time will be passed in those sports and occupations\nfor which God in His infinite mercy has placed man upon this earth.\nSo, pledging our minds and our hearts to drinking and creating, with\na pen in one hand and a mug of beer in the other, we will make a\nbright havoc of this our puritanical land, impregnating its fallow\nwomb with our lusty children.\n\nSlater Brown"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "168", "page_fin": "170", "image_debut": 44, "image_fin": 46, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "How Many Miles to Babylon?", "titre_sommaire": "How Many Miles to Babylon?", "signature_source": "Robert Graves", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "168", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1748, "texte": "HOW MANY MILES TO BABYLON?\n\nHow many miles to Babylon?\nThreescore miles and ten.\nCan I gel there by candle-light?\nYes, and back again.\nThis nursery rhyme has won the eulogies of R. L. Stevenson and\nMr. Walter de la Mare, among other distinguished poets, as being\none of the most truly poetic pieces in the language. This appears to\nbe generally accepted, but, when I first came to ask why, the same\nvery insufficient answer was always given. \"Oh, I couldn't tell you,\nI suppose because it's so simple.\" But I found that when I asked\npeople to think about this poem on the lines of conflicting ideas recon-\nciling themselves in symbolism by means of associative thought, they\nadmitted that, on the contrary, it was a poem of extraordinarily subtle\nand condensed argument. The following is a synthetic version of con-\nversations on the same subject with several friends, Englishmen and\nAmericans.\nR. G.: \"The first version that I heard of the poem was\nHow many miles to Babyland?\nThreescore miles and ten {etc.)\nHow does that strike you?\"\nFriend: \"It ruins the poem.\"\nR. G.: \"But suppose lam right in concluding that the rhyme\ncame, like all or nearly all good rhymes, from the Lowland Scots,\nand Babby Lon' was converted by South Countrymen into a single\nword? What then?\"\nFriend: \" 'Babylon' is the best version in spite of scholiasts.\"\nR. G.: \"But what does Babylon mean, that Babyland does not\nmean? Is Babylon a mere remote Timbuctoo, or is it something\nV'\nmore ?\nFriend: \"For me it has a great sense of magnificence, hanging\ngardens and all that, but also from the book of Revelation, and from\nthe prophetic books of the Old Testament, it has the suggestion of a\nwicked power constantly coaxing and threatening the chosen people\nto destruction."}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "169", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2320, "texte": "R. G.: \"So the poem contrasts childish innocence, as expressed\nin 'candle-light', with the world, flesh, and devil of 'Babylon'?\"\nFriend: \"I suppose so, but there is more than innocence in the\ncandle-light symbol.\"\nR. G.: \"Loyalty?\"\nFriend: \"Yes, loyalty and faith from the ecclesiastical tradition.\"\nR. G.: \"Then perhaps you would accept this as a tentative\nanalysis of the effect produced in you by the poem: It is a dialogue,\nthe man who has gone astray after the lusts of the flesh and the sophisti-\ncations of the world addresses a child who lies innocently in bed.\nWhen the child asks the question the man feels that, in spite of the\nchild's apparent helplessness and his ignorance of the determinate side\nof life, he himself with all his strength and worldly wisdom is far\ninferior in power to the child.\"\nFriend: \" 'Except ye become as little children' in fact? I admit\nthat I get that feeling, but I don't see where you deduce the 'sophistica-\ntion' and the 'determinate side of life.' \"\nR. G.: \"Well, what if I were to say\n\"How many miles to Babylon?\nFourscore miles and six.\"\nIs three-score and ten merely an archaic 'seventy'?\"\nFriend: \"No, indeed. I see it now. Threescore and ten is the\nlimit on life imposed by the psalmist,. and associated in the memory\nwith 'labour and heaviness.' But what about 'yes, and back again'?\"\nR. G.: \"The remnant's return with all its disillusion and de-\nspondency. My mind rides with Ezra around the circuit of the Soul's\nJerusalem and finds all in ruins. The poem takes on fresh significance.\n'Keep innocency,' it preaches, 'and you can pass through the Babylon\nof manhood and return safe and sound with as much ease as in child-\nhood you visited that magnificent city in your dreams and came back\nbefore the candle had burned to its socket.' \"\nFriend: \"The old dialogue, then, of body and soul? But I\nthink you have disregarded another buried suggestion in the 'threescore\nand ten.' Only a remnant attains fourscore, only a remnant wins back\nfrom Babylon, and they are both confronted with the hopeless task of\nrepairing a lifetime's damage to their spiritual sense.\"\nR. G.: \"That improves the argument. Probably Babyland is\nonly a nursery stupidity. That Babylon is the original version seems\nproved by the interaction of the other symbols too closely for coinci-\ndence.\""}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "170", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1568, "texte": "Friend: \"That is likely. Nursery rhymes and fables are the\ndetritus beds of very ancient history and thought.\"\nR. G.: \"The whole process of romantic poetry is shown in this\nBabylon rhyme. To read or write poetry is to escape under rhythmic\nhypnotism to a primitive state of thought in which the oppression of\ntime and space is no longer felt. Poetry is the Lubberland of the\nlegend, where the traveller's mouth needs only to open and food drops\nfrom the trees into it, while roasted sucking-pigs run about with knife\nand fork sticking into their backs, the land where whatever is wanted,\nIS.\nFriend: \"Would you say that within the limits of the Christian\ngroup to whom the associations of Babylon, candle-light, and three-\nscore and ten are common, the poem strikes the same chords in the un-\nconscious mind?\"\nR. G.: \"Not quite. As there are degrees of implication, so there\nare degrees of perception. There is a common core of experience, cer-\ntainly, but each individual has, for instance, different personal associ-\nations with candle-light, which alter the force of the conflict, whether\nthe candle is thought of more particularly as a friendly charm against\ndarkness, or whether the aspect of the short flickering life of the candle\nmay associate itself more nearly with the threescore and ten idea. An\nunfortunate identification of Babylon with the Church of Rome would\nmake candle-light into a Popish attribute, and make havoc of the\nsense. That shows the insecurity of the appeal, even in poems most\nuniversally accepted as achieving their end.\"\n\nRobert Graves"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "171", "page_fin": "180", "image_debut": 47, "image_fin": 56, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "Soto and the New World", "titre_sommaire": "Soto and the New World", "signature_source": "William Carlos Williams", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "171", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2227, "texte": "SOTO AND THE NEW WORLD\n\nCourage is strength—and you are vigilant, sagacious, firm besides.\nBut I am beautiful—as \"a cane box, called petaca, full of unbored\npearls.\" lam beautiful: a city greater than Cuzco; rocks loaded with\ngold as a comb with honey. Believe it. You will not dare to cease\nfollowing me—at Apalachi, at Cutifachiqui, at Mabilla, turning from\nthe sea, facing inland. And in the end you shall receive of me, nothing\n—save one long caress as of a great river passing forever upon your\nsweet corpse.\nBalboa lost his eyes on the smile of the Chinese ocean; Cabeca de\nVaca lived hard and saw much; Pizarro, Cortez, Coronado—but you,\nHernando de Soto, keeping the lead four years in a savage country,\nagainst odds, \"without fortress or support of any kind,\" you are mine,\nBlack Jasmine, mine.\nOn Friday, the 30th day of May, in the year 1548, the army,\nfresh from Cuba, landed in Florida, two leagues from the town of\nan Indian chief named Ucita. The ground was very fenny and en-\ncumbered with dense thickets and high trees.\nFrom this place, Espiritu Santo, to Anhaica Apalachi, where they\nwintered that year, the course was north and west, a march of about\na hundred leagues—through obscure and intricate parts: native vil-\nlages in the swamps, Caliquen, Napateca, Hurripacuxi, Paracoxi,\nTocaste, Cale—outlandish names. Who will recognize them? None\nbut you. To the rest without definition but to you each a thing in\nitself, delicate, pregnant with sudden meanings. The way had been\ndifficult: through a great morass, misled, ambuscaded at the fords,\nfighting, swimming, starving, thankful for a little parched corn, not\neven ripe, the cob and all being eaten as it was, and the stalk too for\nwant of better. It is de Soto! all goes forward somehow. But lam\nbefore you.\nIt is my country on which you are treading. Everything is in ac-\ncordance with my wish. Eight men start from a thicket, naked and\ntatooed, your lancers rush upon them, but one falls to his knees crying\nout, \"Do not kill me, lam a Christian!\" It is Juan Ortiz, relic of\nNarvaez' forces, whom I have nursed tenderly for you these twelve\nyears, teaching him the wild language. Witness my love. But I shall\ntake him from you when he is most needed."}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "172", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2580, "texte": "On Wednesday, the 3rd of March, 1549, the Governor left his\nwinter quarters at Apalachi to seek Yupaha, of which a young slave\nhad told them: a country toward the rising sun, governed by a woman,\nwhere there was gold in quantity.\nLed by the youth they continued to bear east and north in the hope\nof finding the country of which he had spoke: days, weeks, a month—\nwith small food, such want of meat and salt that often-times, in many\nplaces, a sick man would say, \"Now, if I had but a slice of meat, or\nonly a few lumps of salt, I should not thus die.\" But the Indians,\nskillful with the bow, would get abundance of deer, turkeys, rabbits\nand other game. Crossing a stream after nine last days of forced\nmarching they came out into a pine grove on the far bank. Here all\ndirection was lost. He went about for the road and returned to us\ndesperate.\"\nThe Governor had brought thirteen sows to Florida, which had in-\ncreased to three hundred swine; and the maize having failed for three\ndays, he ordered killed daily, for each man, half a pound of pork, on\nwhich small allowance, and some boiled herbs, the people with much\ndifficulty lived.\nFrom Apalachi to Cutifachiqui, where presently after the greatest\nhardships they arrived, they had travelled north-east it may be four\nhundred and thirty leagues. At this place, on the Savanna River, two\ndays' march from the sea, it appeared well to all to make a settlement;\nbut Soto, as it was his object to find another treasure like that of\nAtabalipa, lord of Peru, would not be content to stay. The natives\nwere asked if they had knowledge of any great lord further on, to\nwhich they answered that twelve days' travel thence was a province\ncalled Chiaha, subject to a chief of Coga.\nThe Governor then resolved, having rested his army, to go at once\nin quest of that country, taking with him a quantity of pearls which the\ncagiqua had given him; and being an inflexible man, and dry of word,\nwho, although he liked to know what the others all thought and had\nto say, after he had once made up his mind he did not like to be op-\nposed, and as he ever acted as he thought best, all bent to his will. So\nthey turned north and continued forward until the fall bending about\nthrough a quiet country.\nFor you I come severally as envoys from the chief men upon the\nroad, bearing baskets of mulberries, a honey comb, marten skins and\nthe hides of deer, and in calabashes the oil of walnuts and bear fat,\ndrawn like olive oil, clear and of good taste. And what? Silences,\ndeath, rotting trees; insects \"so that the sails were black with them and"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "173", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2588, "texte": "the men laughed, in spite of their forlorn condition, to see each others'\nfaces so swollen and out of shape in the morning;\" alligators, reptiles,\na wild rose \"like that of Spain, but with less leaves, because it grew\nin the woods.\" Sun, moon, stars, rain, heat, snow; water to the neck\nfor days; blue butterflies among the green palmetto leaves; grapes and\nothers that grow on vines along the ground; plums of two sorts, Vermil-\nlion and grey, of the form and size of walnuts, having three or four\nstones in them; wolves, deer, jackals, rabbits,—to make you lonesome,\nready for my caresses.\n\"Unprepared, we believed ourselves on a footing of peace, so\nmuch so that some of us, putting our arms in the luggage, had gone\nwithout any.\"\nThen to battle! It is Mabilla, the staked town. It is I, my son,\nTuscaloosa; tall of person, muscular, lean and symmetrical. All\nis you, all is me—one either side. Men, horses, hogs—all goes down\nin our fury. Now you feel me. Many times I shall drive you back\nfrom the palisades. But you come again. What shall Ido to govern\nthat lust—which if it break, lam the most defeated. Those in chains\nhaving set down their burdens near the fence, my people lift them on\ntheir backs and bring them into the town. Thus, to anger you, I have\npossession of all the baggage, the clothes, pearls and whatever else\nyou had besides—lost in the conflagration. I am strong! I shall\npossess you—\nOh but I lie. lam weak. I fail. I cannot take you. What\nare they but savages—who know nothing ? they wound you, they wound\nyou, and every arrow has upon its barbs a kiss from my lips. There is one\nin your thigh, between the edges of the armor. Thrice you fall before\nreaching the gate! The fools, madmen. It is into my own flesh, fifty,\na hundred times deeper than into yours. And me it kills—but you,\nthough you cannot grip the saddle because of it, you fight standing all\nday in the stirrups. I divide myself to take you and it is myself that\nwounds myself, jealous even of your injuries, furious at that sweet\ntouch of your flesh which my tools enjoy but I have—not yet. It is\nall you. The young Sylvestre fainting on the back track; Pedro\nMoron diving from the bridge with a shower of arrows about him—\nswimming to safety; Don Carlos, alighting to pull an arrow from his\nhorse's breast at the stockade, receives one himself, in at the neck, out\nbehind—and falls prostrate —\nAfter heaviest losses in men, beasts and possessions they prevailed\nand of the Indians all were killed, two thousand five hundred more or\nless, all having fought with the utmost bravery and devotion."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "174", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2572, "texte": "The Governor learning that Francisco Maldonado was waiting\nfor him at the port of Ochuse, six days' travel distant, he caused Juan\nOrtiz to keep the news secret, that he might not be interrupted in his\npurpose; because the pearls he wished to send to Cuba for show, that\ntheir fame might raise the desire of coming to Florida, had been lost\nand he feared that, hearing of him without seeing gold or silver or\nother thing of value from that land, it would come to have such a\nreputation that no one would be found willing to go there when men\nwould be wanted ; so he determined to send no news of himself until\nhe should discover a rich country. So that to Tuscaloosa must be\ngiven credit, in effect, for a great victory.\nOn Sunday, the 18th of November, the sick being found to be\ngetting well, the Governor again set out, moving west, to Chicaga, a\nsmall town of twenty houses, but well stocked with maize. There he\ndetermined to pass the season. The Indians, at peace, came frequently\nwith turkeys and rabbits and other food—but secretly they were plot-\nting other matters.\nSuddenly, on a certain night, the air above the straw roofs is\nfilled with flame. Sentries and the enemy arrive in the town together;\na terrific confusion, four columns converging upon the same point. In-\ndians moving about freely in the town, because of the peace that\nexisted, had that night brought the fire in little pots, not to be seen.\nEverything is aflame. Men come out naked from their beds. The\nhorses strive to free themselves, some succeed. The hogs squeel and\nperish. Soto and one other are all that are able to mount. He drives\nupon an Indian with his lance and transpierces him. His saddle girth,\nhastily adjusted, slips and he falls. Who will straighten out the\nconfusion in the night? Who will gather the naked and disarmed\nsoldiers, among the smoke, the flames, the noise? The Governor is\nup. He directs as best he can. But, by luck, the horses dashing about\nthrough the smoke, spread terror to the savages who think it the\ncavalry forming for an atack. Alarmed they escape from the\nstockade.\nNaked, armless, acold you draw off, in the morning, to Chicacilla,\nprotecting yourself as best you can—there to retemper the swords and\nawait what will happen. Some are reduced to straw mats for their\nonly cover, lying now this way, now that to the fire, keeping warm\nas they are able.\nAnd for this your people begin to hate you. It is my work. But\nagain lam defeated, your last thought shall be for their safety. Be-\ncause you have found no gold, only increasing hardships; because of"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "175", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2522, "texte": "your obstinacy, unexplained, incredible to them—you will be com-\npared meanly with far lesser spirits. It is their revenge, making you\nsolitary—ready for my caresses.\nAnd if, to survive, you yourself in the end turned native, this\nvictory is sweetest of all. Bitter the need that at Nilco will cause that\nhorrid slaughter: You already sick, in grave danger, thinking of the\nmen. Let them talk, my Indian: I will console you. None but you,\nthe wise, the brave could have answered.\nAt Quizquiz, after struggling seven days through a wilderness\nhaving many pondy places, with thick forests, they came out upon the\nGreat River.\nHe went to look at the river: swift and very deep; the water,\nflowing turbidly, bringing from above many trees and much timber,\ndriven onward by its force.\nThe next day the chief of that country arrived. It is I. Two\nhundred canoes filled with men having weapons. They were painted\nwith ochre, wearing great bunches of white and other plumes of many\ncolors, having feathered shields in their hands, with which they\nsheltered the oarsmen on either side, the warriors standing erect from\nbow to stern, holding bows and arrows. The barge in which the chief\ncame had an awning at the poop under which he sate; and there, from\nunder the canopy, where the chief man was, the course was directed\nand orders issued to the rest. All came down together, and arrived\nwithin a stone's throw of the ravine, whence the chief said to the\nGovernor, who was walking along the river bank, with others who\nbore him company, that he had come to visit, serve and obey him. The\nGovernor expressed his pleasure, and besought him to land, that they\nmight the better confer; but the chief gave no reply, ordering three\nbarges to draw near, wherein were great quantity of fish, and loaves\nlike bricks, made of pulp of plums, which Soto receiving, gave him\nthanks and again entreated him to land.\nMaking the gifts had been a pretext, to discover if any harm might\nbe done; but finding the Governor and his people on their guard, the\nchief began to draw off from the shore, when the cross-bowmen, who\nwere in readiness, with loud cries shot at the Indians, and struck down\nfive or six of them.—Well done, Spaniard! like an Indian. Witness\nthen my answer:\nThey retired with great order, not one leaving the oar, even though\nthe one next to him might have fallen, and covering themselves they\nwithdrew. These were fine looking men, very large and well formed;\nand what with the awnings, the plumes, and the shields, the pennons,"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "176", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2489, "texte": "and the number of people in the fleet, it appeared like a famous\narmada of galleys.\nDuring the thirty days that were passed there, four piraguas were\nbuilt, into three of which one morning, three hours before daybreak,\nthe Governor ordered twelve cavalry to enter, four in each, men in\nwhom he had confidence that they would gain the land notwith-\nstanding the natives and secure the passage or die. So soon as they\nhad come ashore the piraguas returned and when the sun was two\nhours high, the people had all got over. The distance was nearly half\na league: a man standing on the shore could not be told whether he\nwere a man or something else, from the far side.\nNow you are over, you have straddled me, this is my middle.\nLeft or right, the end is the same. But here in the center lam not\ndefeated. Go wander. Aquixo, Casqui, Pacaha. Take what you\nwill. Clothe your men, yourself you will never clothe save as I clothe\nyou, in my own way. They have suffered, they have gone nearly bare.\nAt Pacaha I have provisioned them in advance. Shawls, deer-skins,\nlion and bear-skins, and many cat-skins were found. Numbers who\nhad been a long time badly covered here clothed themselves. Of\nthe shawls they made mantles and cassocks. Of the deer skins, were\nmade jerkins, shirts, stockings and shoes; and from the bear skins they\nmade very good cloaks, such as no water could get through. They\nfound shields of raw cowhide out of which armor was made for the\nhorses.\nLook then, Soto, upon this transformed army—\nHere forty days and at the end I am beside you once more.\nWhere is she now, Dona Ysobel, your helpmate, years since, in\nCuba? The chief of Pacaha bestowed on him two of his sisters\ntelling him that they were tokens of love, for his remembrance, to be\nhis wives. The name of one was Macanoche, that of the other\nMochila. They were symmetrical, tall and full: Macanoche bore\na pleasant expression; in her manners and features appeared the lady,\nthe other was robust.\nRide upon the belly of the waters, building your boats to carry\nall across. Calculate for the current; the boats move with a force not\ntheir own, up and down, sliding upon that female who communicates\nto them, across all else, herself. And still there is that which you\nhave not sounded, under the boats, under the adventure—giving to\nall things the current, the wave, the onwash of my passion. So cross\nand have done with it, you are safe—and I am desolate.\nBut you are mine and I will strip you naked—jealous of every-"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "177", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2575, "texte": "thing that touches you. Down, down tome—in and under and down,\nunbeaten, the white kernel, the flame—the flame burning under water,\nthat I cannot quench—\nI will cause it to be known that you are a brute. Now it is no\nsea-ringed island, now it is no city in a lake: Come, here is room\nfor search and counter-search. Come, blackbeard, tireless rider, with\nan arrow in the thigh. I wait for you—beyond the river. Follow\nme—if you can. Follow me Senor, this is your country. I give it to\nyou. Take it. Here are carriers for your burdens; here are girls for\nyour beds; my best men for adversaries. You have beaten them all.\nMy time is coming: you have seen how they defend their palisades\nfor me; they have driven trees into the ground about their villages.\nThey are men, tall, slim, full of strategies; they come against you\nnaked, with their bows and arrows; they die at the paddles but none\nquivers. It is me they defend. lam for the brave, for the wise, for\nthe victor. Watch yourself at the fords, at the porches of houses—\nSee how I have fled you, dashing into a lake there to freeze all\nnight, coming forth at dawn, half drowned, my brows hidden in lily\nleaves. At the sight of your boats, at the breath of your name, the\nvillages are left empty. Nothing can induce the chief to show him-\nself. All have gone upstream to an island, carrying their goods with\nthem. At the sight of your men in armor terror strikes them; they\nplunge into the stream, pushing their possessions on little rafts, that\nescaping in the haste, float down-stream. I have fled, a single man,\namong my own people but your hounds scenting me out have dragged\nme down—\nNow it begins to change. The winter past, at Alimamu, it is the\nfourth year.\nAt Alimamu Juan Ortiz died, a loss the Governor greatly re-\ngretted; for, without an interpreter, not knowing whither he was\ntravelling, Soto feared to enter the country, lest he might get lost.\nThe death was so great a hindrance to our going, whether on discovery\nor out of the country, that to learn of the Indians what would have\nbeen rendered in four words, it now became necessary to have the\nwhole day; and oftener than otherwise the very opposite was under-\nstood to what was asked; so that many times it happened the road\ntravelled one day, or sometimes two or three days would have to be\nreturned over, wandering up and down, lost in the thickets.\nFor four days marching was impossible because of the snow.\nWhen that ceased to fall, he travelled three days through a desert,\na region so low, so full of lakes and bad passages, that at one time, for"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "178", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2540, "texte": "a whole day, the travel lay through water up to the knees at places,\nin others to the stirrups; and occasionally, for the distance of a few\npaces there was swimming. And he came to Tutelpinco, a town un-\ntenanted and found to be without maize, seated near a lake that flowed\ninto the river with a great current.\nNearer, nearer: Cayas, Quigaltam, Guachoya—thither the\nGovernor determined to go in a few days to learn if the sea was near.\nOn Monday, the 6th day of March, of the year 1542, the\nGovernor set out from Autiamque to seek Nilco, which the Indians\nsaid was near the Great River, with the purpose, by going to the\nsea, to recruit his forces. He had not over three hundred efficient\nmen, nor more than forty horses. Some of the beasts were lame, and\nuseful only in making out a show of a troop of cavalry.\nAt Guachoya he sent Juan de Anasco with eight of the cavalry\ndown the river to discover what population might be there and get what\nknowledge there was of the sea. He was gone eight days and stated,\nwhen he got back, that in all that time he could not travel more than\nfourteen or fifteen leagues, on account of the great bogs that came\nout of the river, the canebrakes and thick shrubs that were along the\nmargin, and that he had found no inhabited spot.\nThe river, the river—\nThe Governor sank into a deep despondency at sight of the diffi-\nculties that presented themselves to his reaching the sea; and, what\nwas worse, from the way in which the men and horses were diminish-\ning in numbers, he could not sustain himself in the country without\nsuccor. Of that reflection he pined—\nBut before he took to his pallet, he sent a message to the cacique\nof Quigaltam, to say that he was the child of the sun, and whence he\ncame all obeyed him, rendering him tribute; that he besought him to\nvalue his friendship, and to come where he was. By the same Indians\nthe chief replied:\nAs to what you say of your being the child of the sun, if you will\ncause him to dry up the great river, I will believe you; as to the rest,\nit is not my custom to visit anyone, but rather all, of whom I have\never heard, have come to visit me, to serve and obey me, and pay me\ntribute, either voluntarily or by force. If you desire to see me, come\nwhere I am; if for peace, I will receive you with especial good will;\nif for war, I will await you in my town; but neither for you, nor for\nany man, will I set back one foot.\nWhen the messenger returned the Governor was already low,\nbeing very ill of fevers. He grieved that he was not in a state to cross"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "179", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2535, "texte": "the river at once to see if he could not abate that pride; though the\nstream was already flowing very powerfully, was nearly half a league\nbroad, sixteen fathoms deep, rushing by in a furious torrent, and on\neither shore were many Indians; nor was his power any longer so\ngreat that he might disregard advantages, relying on his strength\nalone.\nEvery day the Indians of Guachoya brought fish, until they came\nin such plenty that the town was covered with them.\nNow the Governor feared to repair the palisades that they might\nnot suppose he stood in awe of them; and, lest the Indians rise, he\nordered the slaughter at Nilco, to strike dread into the rest.\nConscious that the hour approached in which he should depart\nthis life, Soto commanded that all the king's officers should be called\nbefore him, the captains and principal personages, to whom he made\na speech. He told them that he was about to go into the presence\nof God, to give account of all his past life; and since He had been\npleased to take him away at such a time, he, His most unworthy ser-\nvant, rendered Him hearty thanks. He confessed his deep obligations\nto them all, for their great qualities, their love and loyalty to his person,\nwell tried in suffering of hardship. He begged that they would pray\nfor him. He asked that they would relieve him of the charge he had\nover them as well as of the indebtedness he was under to them all,\nas to forgive him any wrongs they may have suffered at his hands.\nTo prevent any divisions that might arise, as to who should command,\nhe begged that they elect a principal person to be governor, and\nbeing chosen, they would swear before him to obey; that this would\ngreatly satisfy him, abate somewhat the pains he suffered, and\nmoderate the anxiety of leaving them in a country, they knew not\nwhere.\nBaltasar de Gallegos responded in behalf of all, consoling him\nwith remarks on the shortness of the life of this world, attended as\nit was by so many toils and afflictions, saying that whom God earliest\ncalled away, He showed particular favor; with many other things\nappropriate to such an occasion; and finally since it pleased the Al-\nmighty to take him to Himself, amid the deep sorrow which they not\nunreasonably felt, it was necessary and becoming in him, as in them,\nto conform to the Divine Will; that as respected the election of a\ngovernor, which he ordered, whomsoever his Excellency should name\nto the command, him would they obey. Thereupon the Governor\nnominated Luis Moscosco de Alvarado to be his captain-general;"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "180", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2458, "texte": "when by all those present was he straightway chosen and sworn\nGovernor.\nThe next day, the twenty-first of May, departed this life the\nmagnanimous, the virtuous, the intrepid captain, Don Hernando de\nSoto, Governor of Cuba and Adelantado of Florida. He was ad-\nvanced by fortune, in the way she is wont to lead others, that he\nmight fall the greater depth; he died in a land, and at a time, that\ncould afford him little comfort in his illness, when the danger of being\nno more heard from stared his companions in the face, each one him-\nself having need of sympathy, which was the cause why they neither\ngave him companionship nor visited him, as otherwise they would have\ndone.\nSome were glad—\nIt was decided to conceal what had happened, lest the Indians\nmight venture on an attack when they should learn that he whom\nthey feared was no longer opposed to them.\nSo soon as death had taken place, the body was put secretly in\na house, where it remained three days: thence it was taken by night\nto the gate of the town and buried within. The Indians having seen\nhim ill, finding him no longer, suspected the reason ; and passing by\nwhere he lay, they observed the ground loose and looking about talked\namong themselves. This coming to the knowledge of Luis de Mos-\ncosco he ordered the corpse to be taken up at night, and among the\nshawls that enshrouded it having cast abundance of sand, it was taken\nout in a canoe and committed to the middle of the stream.\nDown, down, this solitary sperm, down into the liquid, the form-\nless, the insatiable belly of sleep; down among the fishes: there was\none called bagre, the third part of which was head, with gills from\nend to end, and along the sides were great spines, like very sharp\nawls, there were some in the river that weighed from a hundred to a\nhundred and fifty pounds. There were some in the shape of barbel;\nanother like bream, with the head of a hake, having a color between\nred and brown. There was likewise a kind called peel-fish, the snout\na cubit in length, the upper lip being shaped like a shovel. Others\nwere like a shad. There was one called pereo the Indians sometimes\nbrought, the size of a hog and had rows of teeth above and below.\nLuis de Moscosco ordered the property of the Governor to be\nsold at public cry. It consisted of two male and three female slaves,\nthree horses, and seven hundred swine. From that time forward most\nof the people owned and raised hogs.\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "181", "page_fin": "181", "image_debut": 57, "image_fin": 57, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "Flowers", "titre_sommaire": "Flowers", "signature_source": "Charles Sheeler", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 23, "texte": "Flowers\nCharles Sheeler"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "182", "page_fin": "182", "image_debut": 58, "image_fin": 58, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "African Musical Instrument", "titre_sommaire": "African Musical Instrument", "signature_source": "Charles Sheeler", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 42, "texte": "African Musical Instrument\nCharles Sheeler"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "183", "page_fin": "183", "image_debut": 59, "image_fin": 59, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.21", "titre_corps": "Sixth Poem", "titre_sommaire": "Sixth Poem", "signature_source": "Wilfrid H. Bendall", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1213, "texte": "SIXTH POEM\nWilfrid H. Bendall\nHere comes, stirred by its own intrinsic power\nThe accolated chalice of my hate,\nBalanced on staggering steps . . . jewelled steps\nThat leave a red print on the pavements of my heart:\nIt is tilted at the place, on the bolus I have created,\nA symbolic mass of granite. . .\nIts thick sweet upsets with a scream\nDancing a scalding saraband over the tepid democracy of my\nrace;\nI lie calmly awake among the clouds, watching;\nMy left thigh resting warmly in the last sunset,\nMy head in the dapper moonlight of a dying world.\nThe swirling intense die under the flush of my hate,\nThe splendid sluggish picturesque waves settling,\nLowering, into extremely slow wavelets. . .\nThe sombre swell rising and falling with histrionic affecta-\ntion.\nI myself, alone,\nThe woof remembered and the forgotten warp\nPicked up and basely fondled, kissed and bathed in maudlin,\nLonely smiles. Starkly, I arise calmly. . .\nStanding up with the broken threads,\n(tottering to and fro with intense sarcasm)\nGrasp the slimed bolus in five places\nPlacing it besides the shattered chalice.\nSinking back among the clouds with closed eyes\nI dutifully purse my lips for a kiss fulgent with death and\nunabated content."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "184", "page_fin": "189", "image_debut": 60, "image_fin": 65, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.22", "titre_corps": "Great American Novels", "titre_sommaire": "Great American Novels", "signature_source": "M. J. ; I. S. ; J. T.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1974, "texte": "BOOK REVIEWS\nGREAT AMERICAN NOVELS\n\nThe Great American Novel, by William Carlos IVilliams. Paris.\nThe Three Mountain Press.\nCane, b\\) Jean Toomer. Nexe Yorfy. Boni and Liveright. $2.00.\n\"Of all the ways of beginning a book which are now in practice\nthroughout the known world, I am confident my own way of doing\nit is best ... for I begin with writing the first sentence and trusting\nto Almighty God for the second.\" In this way Laurence Sterne set\nout to write Tristram Shandy which is perhaps The Great English\nNovel. And William Carlos Williams, by what can scarcely be called\na coincidence, is off in the same direction to make The Great Amer-\nican Novel. Dr. Williams is obsessed by the word. To make words\nplay, or to be at mercy of their play. This is the only reality the\nartist in literature knows.\n\"If there is progress then there is a novel,\" he says in the first\nchapter. \"One must begin with words if one is to write. ... It is\nwords that must progress.\"\nAnd soon: \"What difference is it whether I make the words or\ntake the words? . . . There cannot be a novel. There can only be\npyramids, pyramids of words, tombs.\nThe words paint the background of America. Now we are gaping\nat the outline of Manhattan from the factory laden meadows of\nNew Jersey; now we are brooding with the discoverers over a new\nocean or an unknown province.\nIn pyramids Williams heaps up his America. He knows her\nnational accent; her speech, her credulities, her prejudices burn in\nhis ears. He is terribly sincere. Perhaps the only one, and so much so\nthat his honesty drives him to the ground, where one begins with words.\nAll other moderns write constantly to belie their experiences and their\npersonalities, to be artists. (And yet some absurd person accuses\nWilliams of \"pose.\")\nAt their best his dissociations have a necessity about them that is\nmore satisfying than causality. At their worst we are simply in the\nwilderness of modern art. We know in our deepest conscience that"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "185", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2084, "texte": "words are all we have, and that if our sensibilities be acute enough\n(as naturalists learn the speech of birds) they will lead us into their\nown game and we will learn.\nToomer is close to his soil, his book is dripping of the Negro\nSouth, and beyond this, he writes with a prodigious intensity of sight\nand hearing. Hitherto this unconsciously gifted race has expressed\nitself in America through a superb folk-music and folk-poetry. Cane\nis unique in that it is the expression of an artist working deliberately\nin the literary medium, young, headstrong, unreserved, but ultimately\nfaithful.\nThe hysteria, the passion, the madness and the great sweetness\nof his negroes recalls Dostoyevski and his possessed Russian char-\nacters. In the many moments of most perfect insight which occur in\nthe book, these people speak and move with the same awful sense of\nrevelation, and catharisis.\nIn a mood of great fear, Ralph Kabnis speaks to himself:\n\"Come now, Ralph, go in and make yourself go to sleep. Come\nnow ... in the door . . . that's right. Put the poker down. There.\nAll right. Slip under the sheets. Close your eyes. Think nothing\n... a long time . . . nothing, nothing. Don't even think nothing.\nBlank. Not even blank. Count. No, you mustn't count. Nothing\n. . . blank . . . nothing . . . blank . . . space without stars in it.\nNo, nothing . . . nothing ...\n\"Kabnis sleeps. The winds, like soft voiced vagrant poets sing:\nWhite -man's land\nNiggers sing.\nBurn, bear black children\nTill poor rivers bring\nRest and sweet glory\nIn Camp Ground.\"\nThis is remarkable sensuous writing. The lyric is unaffected and\nspontaneous poetry, and there are others in the book, such as Karintha\nand Seventh Street which startle by their unrestrained passion or anger.\nThe stories, sketches and lyrics which compose the books have\nbeen arranged with some attempt at architectural unity. But this is\nbeside the point. At bottom Toomer is fiercely emotional, vigorous\n—and how often one has wailed at the lack of energy in contemporary\nwriters—at times fearfully impolite, by standards of recent English"}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2288, "texte": "schools. Perhaps it were better for Toomer to follow his five or six\nsenses rather than search for cerebral super-forms. Once he has for-\ngotten his lessons in psychoanalysis and unanimisme his own sensibilities\nwill determine the simple artistic forms which will contain his huge\nspouting pages of American prose.\nHistory of Magic and Experimental Science in the First to the Thir-\nteenth Century of Our Era, by Lyn Thorndike; 2 volumes. New\nYork• The Macmillan Co. $10.00.\nWe have all, at one time or another, smiled significantly over\nthe fact that astronomy is a development from astrology; chemistry\nfrom alchemy; and so on. Humorous pedants have seen in this\nnothing more than an application of current homiletics, the \"poor boy\nto president\" stuff. Lowly alchemy became chemistry to help Dupont\nmanufacture Pyrahn. It is doubtful whether Dr. Thorndike himself\nhas escaped from this attitude, wholly; but his book is so rich, is such\na generous gathering of fascinating knowledge that he can be forgiven.\nIn effect the book is a sequel to Frazer's Golden Bough in reveal-\ning the primitive background of human achievements in science, and\ngeneral culture. Although it halts at the thirteenth century, it explains\nthe Ku Klux Klan and Raymond Duncan quite as capably as it does\nthe awe of the Greek Herodotus over the mysteries of Osiris.\nThe book should be very helpful in one way, probably uninten-\ntionally so. If magic was the science of the world up to the thirteenth\ncentury, it should be equally clear that our own science, to which we\nare no less respectful than Voodoo devotees to their Mumbo-Jumbo,\nis the magic of our time. Our magic it is true is becoming more and\nmore plausible and exact. One could hardly ask more of a book\nthan a twofold illumination like this.\nFaint Perfume, by Zona Gale. New York• D. Appleton and Com-\npany. $1.75.\nA mild and somewhat passive sensitivity in contact with life's in-\nnocuous commonplaces yields two primary states: a poignance, and an\nawareness proportioned to the degree of sensitivity. Faint Perfume\nthe story of a delicate woman shunted temporarily into the family of\na Gideonite, receiving her love experience in their midst, is less success-\nful in realizng the first than the second of these. The book is emotion-\n\nM. J.\nI. s."}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "187", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1999, "texte": "ally thin, and curiously without body. Hence the impacts, frictions,\nand distress that it should generate never really move one. Though\nthe boy, Oliver, responding in the spontaneous manner of childhood\nto life's quick shifts from ioy to pain, is satisfying in this respect.\nBut the positive feature of this novel is the delicate awareness that\nillumines its pages. Particularly, the awareness that springs into being\nwith the love episode. It is a fine thing in these days to be reminded\nand convinced that the contact of a man and a woman can result in\nsomething beyond sex conflict; in an expansion, in an intensification of\nlife generally. And it is pleasant in current fiction to read such state-\nments of inner and outer relationship as these:\n\"Leda was shaken by an abrupt sense that they were one\ncreature, as if each had extensions of being which had fused\nin something finer than light and color, had become one con-\nsciousness.\" \"At this she laughed, thinking how in his pres-\nence one became multiplied, arrived at more being. But she\nwas afraid to tell him so. Not afraid of him essentially, but\nrather of -his external and worldly self, the guest of that\nhouse.\" \"How is anyone to survive talk which leaves one\nphysically faint from its unconscious breaches of decency?\"\n\"It was an intense affirmation to sit there saying nothing.\"\nIn fact, the fault and fineness of the book lie in just this: that it\ngives the reality of perception rather than that of dimensional experi-\nence; that its movement is achieved by no motors below the level of\nsensitized perception. If the following quotation be taken as the central\nidea of Faint Perfume: \"There awaited her that new horror, new\nby only a few thousand years, which attends on the emergence of sen-\nsibility: The new horror of an isolated sensibility wared upon by the\nstill insensible flesh of the race from which it rises.\" then it may be\nconcluded that while this sensibility is given, the horror, the emotion\nis not realized.\n\nJ. T."}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "188", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2105, "texte": "Tennyson, by Harold Nicolson. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Company.\n$4.00.\nTennyson has been under-estimated by the present generation. Hav-\ning been adulated as a thinker and prophet by his own age, the present\nhas come to ignore even the technical excellences of the mans writing.\nMr. Harold Nicolson's critical biography is an elaborate and severe\nappraisal of the Poet Laureate. Steeping ourselves in Tennyson, we\nobserve how he was \"influenced by the contemporary demand for calm\nelevation and for human sentiment. His mother's fondness for Felicia\nHemans could not fail to leave a tremulous impression; the society of\nthe young ladies at Horncastle, the type of verses which these young\nladies expected and received ...\"\nTennyson's case is epitomized by Mr. Nicolson as of a subjective\npoet, \"forced however justifiably, into a perpetual straining after ob-\njective expression.\" Tennyson should perhaps have been a volcanic\npoet, if his loose and floundering youth had been built upon as theatri-\ncally as Byron's.\nWhat is admirable in that phase of Tennyson's writings which still\nmay appeal to us is the accuracy with which he worked. His method\nwas reasonable, and he was evidently possessed of great mechanical\ncuriosity. Thus his letters and notes furnish evidence of the precision\nand authority with which he went at his versification.\nAn unfavorable review of one of Tennyson's early volumes caused\nthe Laureate to lapse into a ten years' silence. This episode may be\nnumbered among the many, by now, quaint and archaic mannerisms\nof the Victorian era which so amuse our own generation.\nHaving been accused, among other things, of a \"shallow meta-\nphysics,\" Tennyson, during his seclusion, set himself an exacting\nprogram:\nMonday History, German\nTuesday Chemistry, German\nWednesday Botany, German\nThursday Electricity, German\nFriday Animal Physiology, German\nSaturday Mechanics\nSunday Geology\nThus, Tennyson eventually became immensely popular—a best\nseller in fact.\nThe biographer does not succeed in making of Tennyson a sym-\npathetic and imposing figure. One doubts whether he really tried to,"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "189", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1468, "texte": "or that it mattered much. Instead, he seizes, profitably and with much\nshrewdness the most illuminating details of the Laureate s career. The\nbook forms a keen and sensitive revaluation of Tennyson.\nCups of Illusion, by Henry Bellamann. Boston. Houghton, Mifflin\nCompany. $1.50.\nMr. Bellamann is a more painstaking poet than are most our\ncontemporaries. His training is excellent, and his regard for the laws,\nhis sound ear and eye are gratifying. At his best his observations\ntake the form of direct statement as in\"The Return\":\nI have been very conscious of the hills\nwarming their soft round backs\nin the April sun,\nor in \"Hedges,\" which is the most firmly carved poem in his book:\nHedges have good manners . . .\nThings grow in rows.\nWeak things bloom free—\nCertain slow and strong things\nWait the gardener's passing.\nHaving recorded his certain delicate sensations in an impressionistic\nmanner, Mr. Bellamann is finished. At his indifferent best, the verses\nlack energy, and are notably wanting in those robust spiritual qualities\nthat larger poets are made of. Let us have done with this facile\nhedonism which the American poetry movement has been nourish-\ning, and whereby poetry becomes the fragmentary record of the more\nsubtle experiences of the senses. How far can one go, oh how far,\nwith the business of being \"suggestive\" and not echo all the other\nsuggestive poets who have been professionally \"suggestive\" in a yearly\nvolume for these past twelve years?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "190", "page_fin": "193", "image_debut": 66, "image_fin": 69, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.23", "titre_corps": "Comment: Week End Painters", "titre_sommaire": "Comment: Week End Painters", "signature_source": "Edward Nagle", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "190", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1648, "texte": "COMMENT\nWEEK END PAINTERS\n\nThe prodigious spread of that costly urban pastime, painting, as\na country sport in the course of the summer months must be cheering\nto pigment grinders and color vendors of a complacent creed. Gate\nreceipts to the meets held sporadically from Woodstock to Taos\nand from Monhegan to Santa Barbara are not as yet exorbitantly\ntaxed. Painting, not so long ago classified with ping-pong and other\nmildly exhilarating games for girlish gentlemen and unprepossessing\nmasculine young ladies, is on the way to becoming a major American\nsummer sport.\nThe exhibitions presented this past season by the Woodstock As-\nsociation may be considered together a fair specimen of the efforts of\nthese new growths in process of formation. It incorporates individuals\nwho have either been members of, or who hold strong affiliations with,\nother summer associations. It possesses an obsolete tradition, owing to\nits having been the summer seat of the most productive American\nacademic factory, presumably moved elsewhere, but certainly still\nactively flourishing in three or more local schools.\nNew York witnesses, among others, two yearly exhibitions: the\nIndependents and the American Painters and Sculptors. The latter\nhas a jury, an unimportant incumbrance in contradistinction to the\nformer free-for-all at eight or ten dollars a head. These two shows last\nwinter included what was found more fittingly in smaller quantity\nwithin the Woodstock Gallery. The Painters and Sculptors contribute\n\n* A George Bellows\nB Henry Macfee\nC. ...... • • • John F. Carlson\nD Charles Rosen\nE • Unknown\nF Andrew Dasburg\nC Eleanor Rixon\nH Eugene Speicher"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "191", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2708, "texte": "a half dozen painters, men in the limelight, because of their dexterity\nin rounding out semi-pleasing portraits, landscapes, and occasional\nstill-lifes for their casual and not too exacting followers. The de-\ncorative value of dead fish on a silver platter or a bowl of rubber\nfruit is at least questioned by the picture purchasing public, today.\nThese individuals have been heralded far too long a time as younger\npainters of worth, even though their youth is no longer in evidence.\nOur most delightful non-comprehending public grants them prestige,\nsince they possess the ability to catch a yearly medal or honorable\nmention from a defunct group of academicians who maintain a Eu-\nropean or two of reputation to give them the semblance of officialdom.\nTheir endeavors are purely mimetic and they at best approximate only\nthe secondary attributes of this now standardized subject matter which\nhas been completely constructed by their acknowledged masters abroad.\nThe Independents donate a hundred of their approximately un-\nknown in two sections. The majority, leaning on the judgments of\ntheir none-too-able instructors, struggle to present their curiously im-\npotent groping towards the chaos from which contemporary art\nemerges. The minority of amateurs such as have dominated all In-\ndependent exhibitions, after a few glances at their favorites are irre-\ntrievably fixed in the reproduction of anaemic day dreams. All this is\na severe reflection on the efficacy of present criticism, especially a\ncensure of the live painters who appear flattered when contiguous to\nthis detractory dead weight. To be more explicit:\nA is a portrait whose antecedents were Rembrandt, Velasquez,\nWhistler and another great American, Mr. Chase. Rembrandt con-\ntributes the essay at reality worked by a play of light about an in-\ndifferent head, with so unskillful an emphasis upon the hands that\nthe lady's fingers remain tortured wet sticks of paint. Velasquez\nbestows the precocious lace making as an idle effort for body. Whistler\nwas sought for grace in the application of light strokes to the hair\nand lines of the gown, opposed to the broad slapping of the re-\nmainder of the gown and standard background in Chase's once popu-\nlar manner carried on by the mop-painting of Sargent.\nB is a portrait that shouts Cezanne and then disintegrates like\na flickering electric light bulb. Its maker, as the innumerable man-\nfacturers of pseudo Cezannes, overcome by the adulation of his master,\ncannot take up the tools perfected by him to progress with them into\nand out of his own being.\nC is a painstaking landscape of hills and trees in the autumn as\nhills and trees never are in the autumn, except on unsuccessful colored"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "192", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2509, "texte": "picture post cards. There are schools that teach how to do this ably\nin exchange for money.\nD is a landscape of a bridge and trees that amazes by the vers-\natility of its drawing even with the superimposed cold cream, negative\npigment. Drawing that fascinates as a good juggling act which is\nruined when an extra ball is added.\nE is a landscape, hills and meadow that Van Gogh painted one\nmorning and then wisely destroyed.\nF is the landscape that just missed ifame because its maker did\nnot possess the mental stomach to digest Picasso and the great out of\ndoors we are taught to see.\nG is a landscape by a young portrait painter of hills and a village\nthat offers objective reality without a vulgarization of the refreshing\nqualities of rocks, trees and houses.\nH is a still life, a vase of flowers, as flowers and vases never are\nsave as chosen by interior decorators for the walls of those who are\nindifferent to what sort of color spots fall within the focus of their\neyes, provided they are in fashion.\nI to Z are those nondescript canvases which are usually mentioned\nas impressionistic since they are neither classic nor expressionistic.\nThe effect of such a presentation of paintings is not dissimilar\nto that of gazing at scratched and spotted flat tone surfaces. Opposite\nthe entrance to the gallery there is an object, a standard Socony motor\ngasoline pump, constructed with no motive beyond its utility, yet it\nis so finely made that it bears a more stimulating relationship to con-\ntemporary art than the contrived exhibitions within.\nIt is all too apparent that these associations are not organized\nprimarily to pursue the technical means adopted by these painters\nto their logical conclusions, and clear away the clogs that still persist,\nwhile constructing the present in the manner of those abler European\ngroups who constantly challenge accepted aesthetic values.\nA, C, D, G, H are called academic while B, E, F are termed\nmodern, but this is solely a surface discrimination. Fundamentally\nthey accept the limitations of their group, however elastic it may be;\nfor any group is necessarily resigned to the intellect and energy con-\ntained in it.\nThis peculiar American situation is due to the influence of the\nall-powerful galleries abetted by the painters themselves. Our gallery\nowners, in their natural eagerness to measure their salesmanship with\none another, relate paintings indiscriminately with just enough atten-\ntion to acquire a moneyed inquisitive public. The painters, in their"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "193", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1682, "texte": "anxiety to gain a livelihood, to hold the captured public, and secure\nan immediate renown, are far too timorous to swerve from the chance\ncategories in which they battle to be bottled up. Emphatic differences\nof academicians and moderns are being merged to a smooth unevent-\nfulness. Contacts established with an eye to the galleries' returns,\npurchasers and mutual admirers, lead the academician to help himself\nto what he believes appealing in the modern, and the modern hangs\non desperately to the academic tricks that are applauded because they\nserved masters. Abroad a Derain and a Vlaminck stepped out of\nsuch amelioration, but here the superior individuals march along with\nthe average. These summer associations therefore, though in appear-\nance freer than winter societies because they assume a greater contact\nof painters without any exterior meddling, remain excellent examples\nof arrested growths.\nOne salvation there is. Pressure must be brought to bear on those\npainters recognized both at home and abroad, though all too little\nknown there, who advance the true concepts of painting while stead-\nfastly adhering to their birthrights. They must be urged into a de-\nfensive and offensive body by the forces of active contemporary opinion\nto stand together and present Contemporary American Art not only\nto New York, but to Paris, London, Rome, Berlin, and Moscow.\nOtherwise our industrialism which increases its domination of the\nuniverse daily, will continue to be the best fertilizer for the growth\nof European painters alone,—save for the isolated American artists\nwho always appear accidentally and at great intervals, among the\nhorde of idle players.\n\nEdward Nagle"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[127]", "page_fin": "[127]", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.25", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[127]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 51, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2667, "texte": "We won't attempt the futility of\nadvertising\nTravels In\nArabia Deserta\nBy C. M. DOUGHTY\nto BROOM readers. With the exception of\n\"Ulysses\" by James Joyce, no book written m\nthe last century has been so hard to get or has\nhad such significance in modern letters, so all\nwe will do is pass on the news that at last an\nedition is ready. We are publishing it in con-\njunction with Jonathan Cape of London, and the\nMedici Society; except for the binding, a rich,\ngold-stamped black buckram, the two volumes\nin which the work is being issued, are in fac-\nsimile of the original Cambridge Edition, which\nsold at $50 on publication and is almost impos-\nsible to buy now. It contains the arrangements\nand specifications (which meant practically the\ninvention of a new system of punctuation, an-\nticipating many effects used by contemporary\nwriters), which the author insisted upon for his\nbook.\nThe price is $17.50 per\nset. 750 are being is-\nsued in this country,\nand by September 20th,\n420 were subscribed for,\nalthough the book had\nnot yet been published.\nWe urge you to place\nyour orders now, with\nyour booksellers or di-\nrectly with us; we\nshould like to send you\na brochure that we have\nprepared on this work,\nanyway.\nHnSB\nI\nWe fondly believe that\nwherever reading is re-\ngarded not as _ duty but as\na pleasant habit and one of\nthe comforts of civilization,\nB & L books are well\nknown. Q. E. D., BROOM\nreaders know B & L books;\nbut we would like them to\nhave the exhilaration of\nknowing the complete list;\na post card will bring it.\nCANE\nBy JEAN TOOMER\nYou have seen parts\nof this unusual book\nin BROOM an d\nother portions prob-\nably in \"Little Re-\nview\" and other un-\nfashionable maga-\nzines. The book is\nreally a stirring\nevent in the year's\nliterature. $2.00\nBONI 6 LIVERIGHT\nHOLIDAY\nBy WALDO FRANK\nThe \"White Covers,\" as\nParis calls the \"Nou-\nvelle Revue Francaise\"\nwriters, \"L'Europe,\"\n\"Ma,\" all the forces of\ngay and unflagging ad-\nvance inartistic Europe\nhave pointed out Waldo\nFrank, not only as a\ncompeer, hut as a mas-\nter. He is the most un-\ncompromising force in\nAmerican letters, and in\nthis remarkable book,\nHOLIDAY, he has\ncrystallized his method,\nmaking i't his most per-\nfect expression. $2.00.\nCHARLES MONTAGUE\nDOUGHTY\nsoon after his return\nfrom Arabia\nThe garments' are those\ngiven him by the Great\nS'herif of Mecca. (Vol.\nII p. 508.)\nA BOOK\nByDJUNABARNES\nThat almost mythi-\ncal personality that\nhas loomed so large-\nly and intangibly\nover modern art in\nAmerica — D j un a\nB a r n e s—has here\nmade itself manifest\nin 'a book as indi-\nvidual as its creator.\n$2.00.\n61 WEST 48'-H STREET\nNEW YORK. N.Y.\n1"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[194]", "page_fin": "[194]", "image_debut": 70, "image_fin": 70, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.26", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "[194]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 51, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1828, "texte": "Issue a Book\n—and there are twelve of them a year\nTHE DIAL does not publish anything which is not worthy of per-\npetuation in book form. It does not bother with ephemera. Each\nissue is a record of the finest creative work by contemporary artists.\nIt publishes only work possessing a permanent value. Incidentally, THE\nDIAL is quite as well printed as the best books.\nEvery issue of THE DIAL is a book—a remarkably good book—\nand there are twelve of them a year. A year of THE DIAL is the\nequivalent of a dozen books—a dozen superlative, contemporary books.\nFor $5.00 (few good books now cost less than $2.00) we will send\nyou a copy of THE DIAL every month for a year—twelve books for less\nthan the cost of three. In addition, we will send you from THE DIAL'S\nlibrary one of the following important books of the past season. THE\nDIAL has a small surplus of books carried over from last year, which it is\noffering to new subscribers at a remarkably low combination price. Present\nsubscribers may secure one or more of these books by writing us for a\nspecial rate.\nA SURVEY, by Max Beerbohm\nAARON'S ROD, by D. H. Lawrence\nPOEMS 1918-1921, by Ezra Pound\nAFOOT IN ENGLAND, by W. H. Hudson\nSEA AND SARDINIA, by D. H. Lawrence\nMR. WADDINGTON OF WYCK, by Map Sinclair\nTHE STORY OF MANKIND, by Hendrik W. Van Loon\nTHE STORY OF UTOPIAS, by Lewis Mumford\nAGAINST THE GRAIN, by /. K. Huysmans\nMAYA THE BEE, by Waldemar Bonsels\nMARIA CHAPDELAINE, by Louis Hemon\nTHE WASTE LAND, by T. S. Eliot\nTHE JUDGE, by Rebecca West\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street New York City\nGentlemen: Please enter my name for a year's subscription to THE DIAL, beginning with the\nOctober issue. Also, send me the book listed below.\nName\nAddress\nBook\n| 11 enclose $5.00. Q I will remit $5.00 on receipt of your bill."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[195]", "page_fin": "[195]", "image_debut": 71, "image_fin": 71, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.27", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "[195]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 51, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2621, "texte": "The most precious cargo\nof the Mayflower was invisible—the English \"soul\" and its heritage of English\nculture. Every ship that has landed settlers ever since—from the S. Caterina\nthat brought the first handful of Jews and the Goede Vrouw with its Dutchmen\nto the last Cunarder racing; through the Narrows its quota of Jugo-Slavs\nhas brought a similarly precious cargo.\nBut do we enjoy to the full the age-ripe heritages of all our constituent nation-\nalities which, tempered by the new American experience, are the real sources\nof a great American culture of the future? They are the motifs that can\nmake the pattern of American culture rich, manifold, alive, and beautiful.\nThe Menorah Journal\nembodies the experience and expression of a group of writers and artists who\nas Jews see American life through the lens of their own historical and cultural\npast; they are giving color, vividness, and critical consciousness to American\nlife that all Americans must value—they are putting their racial cargo to\nwork, for the general benefit. In addition to this distinctly American group,\nrealizing in their own fashion the inherent inter-nationalism of culture, THE\nMENORAH JOURNAL is introducing to America the most significant and\ncharacteristic Jewish writers and artists abroad. Not least, the Journal\nfeatures the thought of Gentiles alive to the significance of the Jew in American\nlife and culture.\nThe current issue, which is typical, contains\nThe Judaic Strain in Modern Letters,\nBurton Rascoe\nHerzi/s Utopia .Lewis Mumford\nSaturday : The Story of a Crime, Max Bobin\nWith drawings by I. Tchaikov\nThe Village .Issachar Ber Rybbak\nAn Insert of wSeven Drawings\nThe Jew in the European Scene,\nMarvin Lowenthal\n11. With Kunze and Hitler\nFive Years of the Jewish Art Theatre,\nSamuel S. Grossman\nDo You Know What the Mountains\nAre? . Jacob Cahan\nLouis Untermeyer—(\"At Least Four\nPortraits \") James N. Rosenberg\nLeopold Zunz—Humanist S. Barueh\n(Concluded)\nLetters From Abroad\nWarsaw: Looking at the Nalewki,\nI. M. Neuman\nWith illustration: Three Jewish Art Posters\nVienna: Morale in Austria.. .Eugen Hoeflich\nJerusalem: The \"Soap-Bubble City\",\nJessie E. Sampter\nSalvaging Our Folk-Art. .Marek Schwarz\nThe Adversary's Note-Book,\nH. Ben-Shahar\nThe inevitable coupon, of course—but tear it off quickly and, as an acknowl-\nedgment, we will send you any two books of the Modern Library series and\nthe previous issue containing the seventeen woodcuts of Jacob Steinhardt.\nStill hesitant? Send us fifty cents and we'll despatch you the current issue\nand the previous issue, gratis."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[195]", "page_fin": "[195]", "image_debut": 71, "image_fin": 71, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.28", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "[195]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 2623, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2941, "texte": "The Menorah: Journal, 167 West 13th Street, New York City\nFor the enclosed ) $3,92 I send The Menorah Send the two books from the Modern Library\n* > ( year ) noted below or list of Modern Library titles\nJournal for a j montk to from which to select and the previous issue to\nName Name\nAddress Address •\nThese two books"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 72, "image_fin": 72, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.29", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 51, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1846, "texte": "— Informed Criticism —\n— Entertaining Gossip —\n— Excellent Short Stories —\n— Illuminating Editorials —\n— Contemporary Poetry —\n— Provocative Discussions —\nTHE\nBOOKMAN\nThe Literary Magazine With a Personality\nEdited by John Farrar\nAn American Critic Says:\n\"I often wonder at the friends who say they do not see THE BOOKMAN. In\nall the magazine list I know nothing more generally agreeable than this publication of\nthe George H. Doran Company. It is not alone for its book notes, reviews of the\nlatest publications, gossip of books and authors that we value it, but for a certain\nspontaneous charm in almost every contribution. It is as if those men who had become\nfamous assumed a more natural attitude, feeling themselves at home in a congenial\natmosphere.\"\nAn English Critic Says: /\nI am glad to find that THE BOOKMAN of New York is issued here as S\nTHE AMERICAN BOOKMAN, for it is, in my judgment, far and /\naway the most interesting literary magazine issued in the English-speak- /\ning world. It is edited by Mr. John Farrar. There is good criticism /\nin it and good literature, and with these we have just that element /\nof news which has a special charm for people of my disposi- /\ntion.\"—Clement Shorter in\"The Sphere\" {London). / BOOKMAN\nIt not only gives you the news of the world of lit era- 112 244 Madison Avenue\nture, hut it fills the gaps with charming essays, / New York.\ngo,.ip and fun-making. It has more than doubled y Gentlemen: I should like\nits circulation in the past three years. The / , , . £\n» r nn _ _ / to try the next three issues or\nreaders of BROOM are the type of new / Dmi,y *XT ,\n, « . * > . - , / THE BOOKMAN and am en-\nsubscnbers it is looking for! Will you / , . rr r .\n_ 9 * closing fifty cents for that purpose.\nnot give it a try: /\n/Name\nAddress\n/\n. T. 26.7"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 73, "image_fin": 73, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.30", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 51, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2631, "texte": "Artists !\nHow often have you wanted to possess a well-illustrated book on the work of that penetrating,\nsardonic genius, HENRI DE TOULOUSE-LAUTREC! But you did not know just where\nto get it, or it was too expensive, or you had to send to Europe for it. Here is your chance.\nTHE ARTS for SEPTEMBER\nis a special\nTOULOUSE-LAUTREC NUMBER\nIt contains FORTY-TWO REPRODUCTIONS selected for you by an artist, our Paris repre-\nsentative, after careful study of all available material. No matter how well you are acquainted\nwith the art of Toulouse-Lautrec you will be surprised and delighted by the variety, scope\nand biting quality of these works of art. THE SEPTEMBER ARTS is a BOOK ON\nTOULOUSE-LAUTREC which you cannot secure in any other form for ten times the price\nof a single copy of THE ARTS.\nAnd the illustrations accompany an essay by Alexander Brook that is worthy of them. It is\nfresh, youthful, accurate and interesting from beginning to end.\nIe TUT A\nAcquainted With\nHave You Become THE ARTS?\nTHE ARTS is an entirely new type of art magazine. It is not edited for those interested\nonly in the art of today nor for those interested only in ancient art. THE ARTS assumes\nthat thinking people wish intelligent information on all phases of art. THE ARTS represents\nno cause or group. To contribute to the pleasure and enjoyment of art for the artist and\nthe layman is its aim.\nPublished each month THE ARTS brings you all the news of the current exhibitions worth\nseeing. If an exhibition is reviewed in THE ARTS you should see it.\nTHE ARTS keeps abreast of the important happenings in Europe and America. Its con-\ntributors have the highest standing in their respective fields. A partial list of the men who\nwrite for THE ARTS is sufficient to verify this fact.\nAlexander Brook\nAlan Burroughs\nVirgil Barker\nWilliam M. Ivins, Jr.\nCharles Downing Lay\nAllen Tucker\nHarry Wehle\nCharles Sheeler\nStewart Culin\nFletcher Steele\nEgerton Swartwout\nJohn Jay Chapman\nJohn Dos Passos\nFrances Morris\nDudley Poore\nEdwin Evans\nHarley Perkins\nJohn Bunting\nJohn Blomshield\nForbes Watson\nArthur Davison Ficke\nSpecial Introductory Offer\nThe regular price of T'HE ARTS is 50 cents a copy, $5.00 a year. We are anxious to have\nyou become acquainted with the magazine, however, and for that reason we are offering a\nsix months' subscription for $2.00. On receipt of your order your name will be entered on\nour list to receive the next six issues of THE ARTS' starting with the September issue con-\ntaining the Toulouse-Lautrec article.\nThe Arts Publishing Corporation\n19 East 59th Street New York City"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 74, "image_fin": 74, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.31", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 51, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1173, "texte": "(OtftlT6<y wY. WORU.O\nm\n. G. WELLS\nagain chooses The New Republic for the serial presentation of his\nforthcoming work \"A Great Schoolmaster: Sanderson of Oundle.\"\nThe first of six parts will appear in the issue of October 3rd. Wells\nregarded Sanderson as the greatest educator of his generation, whose\nideas and methods are of profound importance. He has written an\ninstructive book about him that is invaluable to parents, educators\nand students of modern educational theories.\n[If you are not a subscriber insure getting the 1\nentire series by filling in one of the forms below.J\nTHE NEW REPUBLIC,\n421 West 21st St., New York.\nFor the enclosed $ send me The\nNew Republic for and this book by\nH. G. Wells\nName\nAddress\nMen Like Gods, with a year of The N. R.\nfor $5.50; Ann Veronica with six months\n($2.50); Short History of the World (N. R.\nedition) with a year, $6.80. 10-23\n\"tjfie ' I\\Tejf\nREPUBLIC\n421 West 21S Street\nNewYerkCity THE NEW REPUBLIC,\n421 West 21st St., New York.\nFor the enclosed $1.00 send me The New\nRepublic for the next 13 weeks, commencing\nwith the issue of October 3rd.\nName\nAddress\n(in full) 10-23"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-10-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-10_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 75, "image_fin": 75, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.2.32", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 717, "texte": "The Age\nof the Machine\nT\nHE Age of the Machine in America is an age of\ni i\n— J —mm Tt r y-v 11 n\none\nof\neco-\nEX LIBRIS\nily from the\nS\nI\nI\nft\n%\n%\nin aggressive\nid non-com-\nwork of sig-\nof all names\nvith Europe,\nndellos, and\nto America,\nith two-color\nactions, and\nAs an inducemen\nfollowing books 1\nSHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY\nPARIS\nir one of the\nJacob's Room, bj\nThe Captain's Doll, by D. H.\nLawrence\nCANE, by Jean Toomer\nHoliday, by Waldo Frank\nHarmonium, by Wallace Stevens\nDove's Nest, by Katherine Mansfield\nThe Enormous Room, by E. E.\nCummings\n| BROOM -47 W. 34th St., N. Y. i\nFor the enclosed $ please\nsend Broom for one year and the fol~\nlowing book:\nName\nAddress\nL\n$5.00 Annual Subscription.\n50 Cents the Copy.\ni\n_i"}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAN INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS\nEditor, Harold A. Loeb\nAssociate Editors, Slater Brown, Malcolm Cowley, Matthew Josephson\nOctober, 1923\nPublished Monthly\nVol. 5, No. 3\nThe Editors of Broom will be pleased to consider mss. /submitted to them, but\nall mss. must be accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope. The Editors\ncannot be held responsible for mss. lost in transit. '\nBroom is published monthly at 47 West 34th Street, New York, by The\nBroom Publishing Company, Inc. Entered as Second Class Matter, June 30, 1923,\nat the Post Office of New York, N. Y., under the act of March 3, 1879. Copy-\nright, 1923, by the Broom Publishing Company, Inc.\nif i\n$5 a Year\n50 Cents the Copy\n\nCover Design—Edward Nagle Pa«e\nStill Life—Charles Sheeler ........ (facing) 129\nA Black Wren—John Freeman 129\nFive Americans—E. E. Cummings 134\nHenry Ford—Matthew Josephson . . . . . . . . . 137\nThe Priest Speaks—William Gamaliel Shepard . . . • . . 143\nBucks County Barn-—Charles Sheeler (facing) 144\nPortrait of Joe Gould—Joseph Stella . . . . . (facing) 145\nJoseph Gould: The Man—E. N. and S. B . 145\nSocial Position—Joseph Gould . . . . . . . . . . 147\nEllsworth to Great Pond—Winifred Virginia Jackson . . . 150\nThe Poet Assassinated—Guillaume Apollinaire 151\nBucks County Barns—Charles Sheeler . . . (facing) 160, 161\n\"A Boire! A Boire!\"—Slater Brown 161\nHow Many Miles to Babylon—Robert Graves . . . : . 164\nSoto and the New World—William Carlos Williams ./. . 167\nFlowers, African Musical Instrument—Charles Sheeler\n(facing)' 176, 177\nSixth Poem—Wilfrid H. Bendall . 177\nBook Reviews 178\nComment: Week End Painters—Edward Nagle 184"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[127]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.3", "texte": "When writing to advertisers please mention BROOM.\n\nWe won't attempt the futility of\nadvertising\nTravels In\nArabia Deserta\nBy C. M. DOUGHTY\nto BROOM readers. With the exception of\n\"Ulysses\" by James Joyce, no book written m\nthe last century has been so hard to get or has\nhad such significance in modern letters, so all\nwe will do is pass on the news that at last an\nedition is ready. We are publishing it in con-\njunction with Jonathan Cape of London, and the\nMedici Society; except for the binding, a rich,\ngold-stamped black buckram, the two volumes\nin which the work is being issued, are in fac-\nsimile of the original Cambridge Edition, which\nsold at $50 on publication and is almost impos-\nsible to buy now. It contains the arrangements\nand specifications (which meant practically the\ninvention of a new system of punctuation, an-\nticipating many effects used by contemporary\nwriters), which the author insisted upon for his\nbook.\nThe price is $17.50 per\nset. 750 are being is-\nsued in this country,\nand by September 20th,\n420 were subscribed for,\nalthough the book had\nnot yet been published.\nWe urge you to place\nyour orders now, with\nyour booksellers or di-\nrectly with us; we\nshould like to send you\na brochure that we have\nprepared on this work,\nanyway.\nHnSB\nI\nWe fondly believe that\nwherever reading is re-\ngarded not as _ duty but as\na pleasant habit and one of\nthe comforts of civilization,\nB & L books are well\nknown. Q. E. D., BROOM\nreaders know B & L books;\nbut we would like them to\nhave the exhilaration of\nknowing the complete list;\na post card will bring it.\nCANE\nBy JEAN TOOMER\nYou have seen parts\nof this unusual book\nin BROOM an d\nother portions prob-\nably in \"Little Re-\nview\" and other un-\nfashionable maga-\nzines. The book is\nreally a stirring\nevent in the year's\nliterature. $2.00\nBONI 6 LIVERIGHT\nHOLIDAY\nBy WALDO FRANK\nThe \"White Covers,\" as\nParis calls the \"Nou-\nvelle Revue Francaise\"\nwriters, \"L'Europe,\"\n\"Ma,\" all the forces of\ngay and unflagging ad-\nvance inartistic Europe\nhave pointed out Waldo\nFrank, not only as a\ncompeer, hut as a mas-\nter. He is the most un-\ncompromising force in\nAmerican letters, and in\nthis remarkable book,\nHOLIDAY, he has\ncrystallized his method,\nmaking i't his most per-\nfect expression. $2.00.\nCHARLES MONTAGUE\nDOUGHTY\nsoon after his return\nfrom Arabia\nThe garments' are those\ngiven him by the Great\nS'herif of Mecca. (Vol.\nII p. 508.)\nA BOOK\nByDJUNABARNES\nThat almost mythi-\ncal personality that\nhas loomed so large-\nly and intangibly\nover modern art in\nAmerica — D j un a\nB a r n e s—has here\nmade itself manifest\nin 'a book as indi-\nvidual as its creator.\n$2.00.\n61 WEST 48'-H STREET\nNEW YORK. N.Y.\n1"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "[128]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.4", "texte": "Still Life\nCharles Sheeler"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "129", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.5", "texte": "A BLACK WREN\n\nThe water was cold and freshening as it poured from the brass\ntap over his fingers and wrists, and he was so occupied with his\npleasure that he scarcely noticed his wife passing through the\nscullery and only heard her voice vaguely, saying, \"I'm going out to\nsee about a black wren.\" He shook the water from his fingers, dried\nthem, and stepped back to his chair repeating her phrase abstractedly,\n\"I'm going out to see about a black wren. ... A black wren.\nWhat did she mean—had she found a black wren, or why did\nshe want to see about it? Its small bright eye—no, she didn't mean\nthat, but a small black bird, black as a rook, sheeny and black, but\nnot languid and heavy as a rook. What did she want with a black\nwren? The phrase reminded him of another small bird, the brisk\nand friendly robin, that perched on his spade if he rested—long rests\nbetween each thrust and lift—pecked, fluttered, perched nearer, and\nlooked up so kin-like and bright. It wasn't that the birds of the garden\nand hedge had any special fondness for him; wild things didn't notice\nor trouble about him. . . . Stay, there was that squirrel, actually\na slightly lame squirrel that wasn't nearly as agile as it should have\nbeen. He had stumbled almost upon it and it had leaped away\n(leaping a little awry, he thought) and then looked as if it trusted\nhim not to harm—not to harm it with a cruel thought even. How\npretty it looked—no, pathetic more than pretty. He had wanted to\nstroke the squirrel, to pat it, but suddenly thought that a motion of\nkindness might seem but as a motion of cruelty, and startle the sly\nsmall thing. So he hung still and it disappeared.\nA black wren, a squirrel: even the gentlest things seemed sad\namid their gaiety. The loveliness of limb and motion, of flight and\nleap, was at the mercy of his hand. Where did the wren come from,\nwhere would it hide to die? All these deaths of lovely living things—\nsorrow in all loveliness. Botticelli's Venus, where was that now?\nIn Maggie's room still, no doubt. She had asked him for it when she\nwas fourteen or fifteen. \"I must look at it when Igo upstairs. Is it as\nbeautiful as I used to think it, or is it too sad to be lovely now? What\na beautiful thing once, yet melancholy. There's too much green in it—\nit's melancholy as the woods in spring. But melancholy means black—\na black wren. . . . Strange!\" Green, too, was always melancholy"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "130", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.6", "texte": "—the April green, the pallid fresh green of buds and small leaves\nshowing paler yet against the russet husks. The Venus rose from the\nsea like the pale spring rising from dark winter—a pretty fancy, yet\ntrue. It was the old sadness of that poor goddess that made him feel—\nhow? Well, he felt as if he were looking not at Venus but at a\ncrucifix. He couldn't help it, they were counterparts, twin types blend-\ning into one. Venus here, Jesus there, both sad in beauty, one lonely\nthe other martyred. He wasn't confusing the two and of course one\nwas pagan and the other christian; \"but they're really the same, the\nsame. The body's crucified in Jesus, and it escapes in Venus, but only\nfor a time. Venus is thinking of the crucifixion—as sad as Jesus him-\nself. She too will be crucified—everything lovely, everything eternal is\ncrucified; else it can't be eternal.\" That was why, if he thought of the\none, so often he thought of the other; they didn't live apart, and one,\nhe supposed, couldn't live without the other.\nThe loveliness! though he was old-fashioned, he knew, in his\nadoration. But one couldn't do without beauty, one couldn't glo with-\nout faith; an altar was necessary, and even if Jesus had not lived, and\ndied on the cross, the story would have been the same. Crucify, crucify\n—yes, everybody had to cry out. That outburst was true—it proved\nthat the crucifixion had happened, just as it was true about Venus. She\nhad lived, of course no one knew when, and she was dying now; she\ncouldn't rise again until she had died. Jesus was happier now—\nradiant. Where was the painter of a radiant Jesus? She had never\nlost that sadness, for a gay Venus was a profanation. Botticelli ought\nto have painted Jesus and Venus together: he could! It wouldn't be\na bit strange, no stranger than a black wren. An innocent mind\nA wonderful, wonderful thing, her body. Mary must be about\nthe same height, the same figure. Her face was different, not\npathetic; but it was only a mask, there must be a likeness hidden\nwithin it. Not quite the same figure, though, for her shoulders were\nspare, her arms thin; altogether she must be a little thinner than the\nVenus. He oughtn't to be thinking thus of her. \"Oughtn't I?\nShe doesn't know, and isn't it a kind of honour? The women who\nwere silent there were doing Jesus honour: thought is the only honour,\nthe purest. Was it wrong to paint the Botticelli Venus, or to look\nat it? That's how I look at Mary now.\" But the crucifixion of\nJesus, of Venus—for once more only that or the prefiguration of it\ncould cause such sadness—but what had this to do with Mary?\nHe had lost the thread. Strange, though, that she should be called\nMary. How that Mary must have suffered! Did everything pure"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "131", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.7", "texte": "and lovely suffer? Yes, of course, long before age came; and then\nage as well. Jesus as an old man, Venus an old woman—O what a\ndisgusting thing a man's mind was.\nAs disgusting was the thought of a black Venus—a black wren.\nWhat did Eleanor mean? Black—it was horrible. Black on white\nsnow—but even bears and pigs weren't quite black: a grizzly gray,\nlooking dark on the snow; pine trees in the distance, ridges of firs,\nweren't so black—nature, someone said, abhorred black. A black\nVenus—O evil, evil! No, grotesque; and he recalled an old music\nhall song, \"I love my coal black Venus.\" These loathsome, vulgar\nthings, once-heard never forgotten. Black Venus—the light sliding\non a heaving black breast, leaden and smooth, shoulders with little\npools of darkness between the black blades, the navel's blackness, the\nundimpled knees—horrible, horrible. Yet somewhere he'd heard\nof Jesus being translated black for the benefit of negroes. Wasn't\nthat crucifying Him again, with a worse shame than ever? Must\neverything lovely be defiled, and then killed?\nWhen he was a boy—\"l remember that Museum, ah yes. How\nold was I? not more than fifteen. Thirty years ago and more, and\nit's but yesterday. That glass case and several small things in it, and\nthe bronze of a naked woman, a little bronze seven inches high. Yes,\nI was with the Adams, I remember now, and I was ashamed to stand\nlooking at the figure and pretended to be looking at something else-\nheaven knows what. I was ashamed, for I adored it. Nothing ever\nso beautiful, a joy to think of even now. O, men lust because they\nfind nothing to love. I remember it all now, and I know. It was\nthe same day, but afterwards, that we walked past the theaters,\nthrough Leicester Square, and so on; and those horrible posters of\ndancing leering girls—horrible. How could I think of my bronze\nfigure then, standing lonely, lovely, silent in the glass case?\" Thirty\nyears ago and more, he reminded himself.\nSuch figures had been dug out of Greece, Egypt, Italy, Mexico—\nadored everywhere. How could men live without adoration? Who\nmade such figures? What lover drew, what artist modeled, what\npriest perfected them? Out of the earth they came, and their lovers\nand artists and myriad worshippers—all from the earth. A restless\nearth, seething with life, sinking into death, with perpetual succession\nof change and counterchange. Like a sea, heaving and sinking; and\nstraightway his thought fled on to:—\nLove still hath something of the sea\nFrom whence his mother rose."}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "132", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.8", "texte": "Jesus walking upon the sea, trampling the storm until it was cowed\nand fled, and Venus rising tranquil from green waves. Her doves\nflying out from the cliff-holes, pale doves, gray and pale; and black\ndiminutive birds, black wrens hovering about the edge and shrilling\ntheir small sweet notes. The doves fled from Venus to Jesus and one\nrested a moment on His head and He smiled; then it flew off and\ncircled above Venus, and all the doves fluttered at once. The black\nwrens had gone—strange birds: he had never heard of them before;\nevil birds, for all that was black was sinister. Their shrill song was but\na mockery— they had gone, but it still sprinkled the air with a faint\nmocking echo. There was mocking round the Hill, women's thinner\nvoices mocking Jesus as He hung on the cross, and men's voices deep\nas cattle. The women's eyes were black, their hair was black, their\ngestures, words, laughter—all black and cruel and mocking. No\nsuch mockery tainted the lily-fairness of this mild sad Venus. Sad,\nbut not suffering, in a lilied tranquillity. Invisible lilies oozed their\nscent around her, wrapped her in their acrid sweetness; they were not\nlilies that fester smelling far worse than weeds. O but they would\nfester yet; rankness would subdue sweetness, the Venus lilies would\nshake down in shrivelled petals. Venus herself, must she perish\ntoo? Venus would fester, shrivel up and sink into dust; the flesh\ncould not endure. Only crucifixion could save it—wasn t that what\nHe meant when He said\nThe handle rattled briskly and the door opened. \"I don't know\nwhat to do with that hen; she's eating her eggs again.\" He raised\nhis head and loomed vacantly out of his thoughts. What are you\ntalking about, Eleanor?\"\nShe looked at him frowning. \"Didn't I tell you, when you were\nwashing your hands just now, didn t I tell you I was going to see\nabout that hen, the black hen? I've thought a long time she's been\neating her eggs—but you take no notice. Why, it was only two\nminutes ago.\"\nTwo minutes—no, surely hours ago, hours and hours. All this\nhad happened to him since then. \"Of course, of course. Only, I'd\nforgotten—thinking of something else.\" He smiled vaguely, as though\nat his own thoughts; a characteristic smile.\n- But when Mary was sitting with them at tea the gray cloud that\nhad lifted suddenly came upon him again, and his thoughts wandered\noff-—so wild and so foolish that it was too much trouble to watch\nthem. Let them go. His wife was talking and Mary sitting almost"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "133", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.9", "texte": "silent. Looking at Mary he was amused to recall how, until now, he\nhad always disliked fair hair and pale eyes. Mary's was fair, her\neyes a little pale. She was thinner than the Venus, her shoulders\nwere spare, but she was the same height and\n\"Goodness, there's Cyril again,\" said his wife as there came a\nbump and a crying overhead; and she sprang up and Mary too.\nMary stood between the french window and the door as his wife ran\nupstairs. The same height, the same figure, the same mask. In the\nhush of his wife's absence a great gulf opened. Across the gulf he\nstared at Mary, not seeing her. His thoughts flowed over her, and\nthen as he looked up suddenly and gazed on her face, half illuminated\nby the falling sun, her consciousness of his gaze increased. She\nknew his look, and her face and neck flushed unbearably. He saw\nthe flush and knew that it was all over her, head to feet; and he was\nashamed and glad. The silence was suspended unbroken, unjarred\nby either of them, but seemed on the point of breaking by its own\nstrained intensity.\nShe was sinking back into her chair as his wife returned saying\nwhat had happened ; and as she spoke he could see Mary's face. A\nbright berry hung in each cheek, making her fairness wonderful.\nBerries—stains—what were they reminding him of? As he caught\nat it a scurry of wings near the panes startled them all and he opened\nthe window to follow the flutter. In a moment he returned saying,\n\"Those pigeons again, the white pigeons, you know.\" Mary's eyes\nwere still averted, but her voice was steady enough whenever she\nanswered Eleanor.\nThe berries still hung in her cheeks, scarcely fainter when she\nrose to go. He dimmed his thoughts with a powerful effort and looked\ninto her eyes only briefly as he said good-bye. Her hands were al-\nready gloved: had the palms, too, a stain, like the stain of her cheeks?\nThe hat came dark over her forehead and he could see nothing there;\nher feet were covered, save to his thoughts. Was she but mortal\nflesh, a Venus only? Had the white pigeons flown towards her,\nbaffled only by the window pane? \"Good-bye, good-bye,\" he was\nsaying, and a moment after watched her through the window—light\nand firm and a mystery— as she stepped into the road.\nThen he opened the door murmuring, \"I must go up and see if\nit's still in Maggie's room.\" As he reached the landing and turned\nto enter, he caught his breath in a great expectancy.\n\nJohn Freeman"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "134", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.10", "texte": "FIVE AMERICANS\n(Sonnets)\n\nI. LIZ\nwith breathing as (faithfully) her lownecked\ndress a little topples and slightly expands\none square foot mired in silk wrinkling loth\nstocking begins queerly to do a few\ngestures to death,\nthe silent shoulders are both\nslowly with pinkish ponderous arms bedecked\nwhose white thick wrists deliver promptly to\na deep lap enormous mindless hands,\nand no one knows what (i am sure of this)\nher blunt unslender, what her big unkeen\n\"Business is rotten\" the face yawning said\nwhat her mouth thinks of\n(if it were a kiss)\ndistinct entirely melting sinuous lean . . .\nwhereof this lady in some book had read\nII. MAME\nshe puts down the handmirror. \"Look at\" arranging\nbefore me a mellifluous idiot grin\n(with what was nose upwrinkled into nothing\nearthly, while the slippery eyes drown\nin surging flesh). A thumblike index down-\ndragging yanks back skin \"see\" (i, seeing, ceased\nto breathe). The plump left fist opening\n\"wisdom.\" Flicker of gold. \"Yep. No gas. Flynn\""}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "135", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.11", "texte": "the words drizzle untidily from released\ncheeks \"I'll tell duh woild; some noive all right.\nAint much on looks but how dat baby ached.\"\nand when i timidly hinted \"novocaine?\"\nthe eyes outstart, curl, bloat, are newly baked\nand swaggering cookies of indignant light\nIII. GERT\njoggle i think will do it although the glad\nmonosyllable jounce possibly can tell\nbetter how the balloons move (as\nher ghost lurks, a Beau Brummel sticking in its three-\ncornered always moist mouth)—jazz,\nfor whose twitching lips, between you and me\nalmost succeeds while toddle rings the bell.\nBut if her tall corpsecoloured body seat\nitself (with the uncouth habitual dull\njerk at garters) there's no sharpest neat\nword for the thing.\nHer voice?\ngruesome: a trull\nleaps from the lungs \"gimme uh swell fite\nlike up ter yknow, Rektuz, Toysday nite;\nwhere uh guy get gayn troze uh lobstersalad\nIV. MARJ\n\"life?\nListen\" the feline she with radishred\nlegs said (crossing them slowly) \"I'm\nasleep. Yep. Youse is asleep kid\nand everybody is.\" And i hazarded\n\"god\" (blushing slightly)—\"O damn"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "136", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.12", "texte": "ginks like dis Gawd\" opening slowly slowly\nthem—then carefully the rolypoly\nvoice squatting on a mountain of gum did\nsomething like a whisper, \"even her.\"\n\"The madam?\" I emitted; vaguely watching\nthat mountainous worthy in the fragile act\nof doing her eyebrows.—Marj's laughter smacked\nme: pummeling the curtains, drooped to a purr . .\ni left her permanently smiling\nV. FRAN\nshould i entirely ask of god why\non the alert neck of this brittle whore\ndelicately wobbles an improbably distinct face,\nand how these wooden big two feet conclude\nhappeningly the unfirm drooping bloated\ncalves\ni would receive the answer more\nor less deserved, Young fellow go in peace,\nwhich i do, being as Dick Mid once noted\nlifting a Green River (here's to youse)\n\"a bloke wot's well behaved\" . . . and always try\nto not wonder how let's say elation\ncauses the bent eyes thickly to protrude—\nor why her tiniest whispered invitation\nis like a clock striking in a dark house\n\nE. E. Cummings"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "137", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.13", "texte": "HENRY FORD\n\nWho has ever approached political thought or action with an\naesthetic? Not since the Renaissance when, I believe, Machiavelli was\na craftsman of high order, claiming the good of the state for his\nfeats of virtuosity, and Giovanni Batista, who could ride, fence, de-\nliver speeches, write verses, paint, sculpt, play, sing, kill his man with\nthe best of them.\nLet us expand once more the functions of art that our ideas may\nbe deeds and our deeds fit to instill admiration, rapture, suspense,\nbeatitude. The country is all but populated and the immigration\ngates shut. Across the flamboyant front-pages of the newspapers\nthese are, after all, the chateaux, the cathedrals, the mystical shrines\nthat we rear for ourselves.\nThus Henry Ford, the other day, calls up Washington.\n\"Hello, long distance. Henry Ford speaking. I want Uncle Sam.\n. . . Hello, Uncle Sam. This is Henry Ford speaking.\"\n\"Henry Ford. Oh, yes, how are you feeling today. About that\nMuscle Shoals proposition \"\n\"I can complete the construction work for $100,000,000. You\nare spending at present $500,000 per year to guard it, and it is de-\nteriorating rapidly, not to mention the loss of interest on the original\ninvestment of over $120,000,000.\"\n\"Yes, we did make some bad investments during the war.\"\n\"But I believe with the present state of conditions in the agri-\ncultural industry it is imperative to push the whole proposition to\ncompletion. The country needs nitrogen, to double the output of\ncorn per acre, making farming profitable for once and reducing the\ncost of living enormously . .\n\"I know your bid is lower than our engineers . . . but\npolitics \"\nHenry! Ford! Henry Ford! Born in Dearbornville, Mich.,\n1863 of pioneer (nay immigrant) stock. His father saw the first\n\"iron horse\" come roaring in like a drunken Indian through the forest.\nAll they talked about in those days was the \"iron horse.\"\n\"I was born on a farm . . . and my earliest recollection is that\nthere was too much work on the place,\" muses the great manufacturer."}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "138", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.14", "texte": "And there is something of Alexander's satiety with conquest in\nthe words he murmurs today: \"A man is now able to do somewhat\nmore than four did only a comparatively few years ago.\"\nForty years ago, when everyone was thinking only of the new\npower of electricity, Henry Ford began tinkering with his first horse-\nless wagons, run by steam power.\nCrude foolish thing: there is a picture yet to be seen of Henry\nseated in it, holding the tiller with that vacant look about his wide-\napart eyes.\nSoon Henry was building automobiles that were breaking records\nand winning races. A skilled mechanic, he raised capital and opened\na little plant in Detroit, with the first automobile manufacturers.\nSeveral people invested small sums in his company; one invested\n$5,000 in stock. In a few years, Henry Ford bought this man out\nfor $12,500,000.\nFord astounded the world by announcing a minimum wage of $5\na day. Everyone predicted his financial Waterloo. But in a little\nwhile Ford cut the price of his car about 50 per cent and raised the\nminimum wage to $6 a day.\nClearly no one had ever known anything about manufacturing\nbefore Henry Ford.\n\"Unless we know more about machines and their use,\" he says,\n\"unless we better understand the mechanical portion of life, we cannot\nhave the time to enjoy the trees, and the birds, and the flowers, and\nthe green fields.\"\nSoon nearly everybody in America was trundling about the world\nin Mr. Ford's Tin Lizzie.\nTo Fordize an operation you cut the machine down to the least\nnumber of parts; you concentrate upon the least amount of energy\nin making those parts and in assembling them. Each man does the\nsame thing over and over again a thousand times a day. And you\ncut the price more each year and the people buy more.\n\"And they are happier,\" says Mr. Ford. They want to be led,\nand they are glad to do the same thing every day.\nA new consciousness was born in the modern world. Quantity\nproduction making all things so cheap and plentiful favored the rapid\nincrease in population. The United States prospered. If a war should\nrake the land back and forth leaving ruin and barrenness in its wake,\nthe Ford idea would re-people it with huge townships; factories\nwould leap up again, land would be tilled and reclaimed with tractors\nand other power-driven machines."}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "139", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.15", "texte": "He bought a railroad and began to reduce the rates. The United\nStates Government became alarmed. The Interstate Commerce Com-\nmission stepped in and said:\nMr. Ford, we are afraid that you are becoming a little un-\nconstitutional.\"\nMr. Ford desisted. He has always been a little nonplussed by\npolitics. But we are running ahead of our story.\nMr. Ford was opposed to the erection of imposing and costly\nchurches. He refused to contribute to his own parish church for this\nend. But in his automobile plant, he built the costliest and most\nbeautiful power-house in America. It was placed on the avenue along-\nside the office buildings. Power houses are usually in the rear of\nfactories, dark, dusty, greasy holes in the ground with mountains of\ncoal piled outside. Ford filled the windows of his power-house with\nstained-glass. And now the ponderous fly-wheels turn in utter silence,\nsending all the throbbing energy through more than five hundred de-\npartments of the plant with its 55,000 contented workingmen.\nThat this mechanic, this scarcely literate man, should triumph so\nover physical forces!\nSoon he became the mightiest man in the world.\nBut the Great War of 1914 broke out. A world torn in con-\nvulsions of destruction. What is war? To Ford this was a most\nregrettable occurrence. All his competitors began to make ammunition.\nFor what? To a man whose life had been consecrated toward simpli-\nfying and increasing construction, it was a most painful subject, indeed.\nMr. Ford watched the war from Detroit with a restive, uneasy eye.\nMme. Rosika Schwimmer, idealist, fiery, magnificent Hungarian\nJewess, appeared before him and pleaded with him to intervene. Many\nother publicists, preachers, poets, the President of the Humanitarian\nCult; David Starr Jordan, Jane Addams, Louis P. Lochner.\nWon over by the pleas of these public-minded personages, Henry\nFord took a train to Washington and appeared at the White House\nto lay before the President his plan of neutral intervention. Mr. Wil-\nson, however, had at that time launched himself upon a course of\nWatchful Waiting.\nOn November 23, 1915 he chartered a vessel and invited the\nleaders of thought from all over the world to come with him to Europe\nin his peace ship, and hold a Conference of Neutral Countries.\n\"Men and women of our country,\" he proclaimed, \"representing\nall of its ideals and all of its activities, will start from New York on"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "140", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.16", "texte": "December 4, 1915 aboard the Scandinavian-American Steamship\nOscar 11. The peace ship that carries the American delegation will\nproceed to Christiania . . . Stockholm . . . Copenhagen . . .\n\"With twenty thousand men killed every 24 hours, tens of thou-\nsands maimed, homes ruined, another winter begun, the time has come\nfor a few men and women with courage and energy irrespective of\nthe cost in personal inconvenience, money, sacrifice, and criticism, to\nfree the good will of Europe that it may assert itself for peace and\njustice.\"\nMr. Ford made his will and finished dictating his biography.\nThe Peace Mission embarked in pell-mell fashion. There were\ntwo governors, many college professors, writers, teachers, students, a\ngoodly scattering of preachers, and fifty-four press agents.\nAll this in the teeth of immense distrust and denunciation from\nhigh quarters. Don Quixote, they jeered, crossing the seas in his\nflivver.\nBut Ford's faith in \"just folks\" and in the \"plain, democratic way\nof doing things\" was indomitable.\nOn board the Oscar II: a perfectly wild mob lost in the fog of\nthe North Atlantic. No plans of action had been prepared. The huge\nparty on board did not know where to begin to talk. They talked\nand talked. The newspapermen were aghast. There was no \"copy\"\nin all this, they were adrift on the Atlantic, and what was more, Ford\nnever talked!\nThe newspapermen monopolized the First Class Saloon and formed\nthe \"Viking Press Club.\" In their perplexity and desperation they\nwhiled the long hours away with many fitting and practical jokes\nover the radio.\nOn December 14th two British scout cruisers ran the Oscar II\ninto tow and with the voluble passengers prepared for the very worst,\na wind-burned young lieutenant and seven piratical-looking marines,\narmed to the teeth, boarded the ship. The party went on talking dis-\narmament incessantly, while virtually prisoners of war.\nAnd all the time H. Ford, in his staterooms, eating third-class\nfood, according to the legend, working mysteriously on plans, blue-\nprints, notes.\n\"Horses as well as men gone to the war never to return,' he\nruminated. His plans gradually unfolded. Europe without horses.\nThe strongest interests in favor of continuing the dreadful destructive\nwar, were munition makers. How to win them. Let them make farm-"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "141", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.17", "texte": "tractors. Europe would have no more horses. Make tractors at a\nhandsome profit. He would show them—s2oo each—s2 cents a day\nfor oil—would not cost half as much as the horse it displaces. Would\nrevolutionize farm operation and increase farm profits. That busy little\nFord brain! Inventor, Producer.\nIn Christiania the good burgomaster and his officials received the\nparty. Must it be admitted that the reception was chilly. It was the\ndead of winter. Among the individuals of the party there had been\nmistrust, perhaps envy. It is said that leadership had from the start\npassed into the hands of Mme. Rosika Schwimmer. It is whispered\nthat she was a forceful, dominating woman. Mr. Ford had been quite\nsea-sick.\nThree days after landing in the old world, Ford left mysteriously,\nresponsibility divided between Rosika and his business manager who\nhad struggled with this unwieldy Ark and footed all bills like a brave\nlittle man.\nMoney had been flung away lavishly. The party travelled to\nSweden, to Copenhagen, to Holland. Speeches were made. What\ndid the good people of Denmark think of the address of the Nebraska\nminister? Speeches were made. What did it matter?\n\"Ford left us a few days after landing,\" says the Rev. Dr. Aked,\n\"without explanation, without a word of farewell, secretly, in the\nsmall hours of the night, after telling us that he would certainly con-\ntinue the journey with us the next day.\"\nGood-bye Europe. Good-bye Rosika.\nThe Lusitania was blown up.\nThe United States entered the war not long after.\nH. Ford hurried to the White House and offered his complete\nco-operation. You know what the Ford organization did to win the\nwar!\nSoon after H. Ford became an avowed Anti-Semite. A has\nles Juifs! Rosika Schwimmer! The Dearborn Independent waged\na merciless campaign against the Jews everywhere. The Jews were\nmortified; they retorted bitterly, powerfully. What adversaries! Per-\nhaps it was they who countered in the Michigan Senatorial elections,\ndollar against vote, dollar upon dollar. Newberry. Poor tool. Sud-\ndenly the campaign of vilification, slander, suspicion of the Jews,\ncarried on throughout the world by the immense Ford organization,\nceased magically. A terrible silence followed, as the Ford Boom for\nPresident was officially launched."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "142", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.18", "texte": "The world changeth, and a new order taketh the place of the old.\nEven did we bend all our efforts to again embrace the dear old times,\nthose sweet rustic airs, solitude, tranquillity, the bubbling draught,\nthose pleasant vales,—they would never, never be envisaged, those\nhappy, happy days.\nEven should we have preferred to remain cloistered, writing dig-\nnified admonitions to the errant writers of our times, making book re-\nviews, little poems against poets, the Telephone would intervene filling\nour secluded Tower with its worldly vibrations. (Hello! Is this The\nBROOM? Can you please inform me, can you please tell me T»ho are\nthe leading, most reputable, most reliable concerns Teith a country-wide\nservice, furnishing the trade br \" \"No! Sorry, we can't help you.\nThis is not a trade journal. We have nothing to do with the in-\ndustry . . .\")\nThe electric train leaps painlessly out to the distant Hills, where\nthe gay Commuter dances, dances with his little boys and girls to the\n\"Alabama Blues\" over the radio receiver. The man dictates at his\ndesk and at once a syndicate flashes his Message to four hundred news-\npapers throughout the United States, read in the tramways and with\nthe first sunlight on the glass tops of ten million office desks.\nMr. Ford, ladies and gentlemen, is not a human creature. He is\na principle, or better, a relentless process. Away with waste and com-\npetitive capitalism. Our bread, butter, tables, chairs, beds, houses,\nand also our homebrew shall be made in Ford factories. There shall\nbe one great Power-house for the entire land, and ultimately a greater\none for the whole world. Mr. Ford, ladies and gentlemen, is not\na man.\nLet Ford be President. Let him assemble us all into his machine.\nLet us be properly assembled. Let us all function unanimously. Let\nthe wheels turn more swiftly. Coolidge! Bah, what is Coolidge? A\nrococo Yankee lawyer.\nFord means action. Coolidge means procrastination.\nFord, higher wages. Coolidge, the ten-hour day.\nFord, standardization. Coolidge, inefficiency.\nFord, higher wheat market. Coolidge, farm mortgages.\nFord, lower freight-rates. Coolidge, the Pork-barrel!\nVOTE FOR THE PEOPLE'S CANDIDATE. A veritable\ncrusade has sprung up spontaneously throughout the country to place\nthis man in the White House. The vast and effective Ford organization\nin every city and every hamlet of the continent is behind it.\n\nMatthew Josephson"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "143", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.19", "texte": "THE PRIEST SPEAKS\n\nScene: Madison Square Garden.\nTime: 1923.\nThe speaker has been talking a long time, his peroration is\nheard in a high singing voice above the heads of a monster\ncrowd •'\nBrother Gods, behold the crawling ant, the lion, the tiger,\nthe crow, the toad, the crayfish and the ellyphunt, little and\nbig beasts to dress the world for us. And birds to sing.\nAnd we ... oh see me beat my breasts and do a few\nsteps of the divine mandance . . . why we sit on the top\nroost crowing over all, with one foot in God's Home and one\non this ashpile. . . . Did you ever see the like of this?\nNever on sea or land such majesty was seen as man coming\nout of the white palm of God, the walls of darkness light-\nshattering to greet him. Look no farther for the finest. Acid\nProof. Made for the Whole Family. NON SHRINK-\nABLE. Send it to the laundry and get it back new.\nWho's Your Tailor?\nStick to God. With a thread and a patch of beef he\nsews up angels. The Miracle Man.\nA secret. Listen. Shut that typewriter. Turn in the\nradio.\nGod sat all night in seance with the stars that breathed\nHim forth in a gust of light, studying the blue prints of his\nnew invention, lopping of a corner here, adding a beam\nthere. When He wrote Appd. and broke a package of\nFatimas to celebrate the labor's end he handed it to His\nangels yet lacking that round turret packed with square mir-\nrors. The copying clerk added this detail. And the Hosts"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "144", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.20", "texte": "of Heaven stood to see the first step of the strange new beast,\nwhose first word, \"I, Am,\" stirred a shudder in Demigorgon.\nEventually. WHY NOT NOW? Lay your heart\nand your dollar on the right altar, you can't miss dividends.\nYour bread is buttered on the right side, children of God.\nKeep your eyes on the grand old nag.\nDon't Forget to Grease the Gears. It takes grease to get\nthere. Not Three-in-One either, but Gargoyle.\nIn the night my soul, my daughter, cries, clinging to a\nraft of greenback, and lo! Christ! . . . walking on the\nwaters, with a harp and a handful of signed receipts.\nGlory. . . . And the harp has golden strings. GLORY.\nAnd the harp . . . has . . . golden . . . strings. . . .\n\nWilliam Gamaliel Shepard"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "145", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.21", "texte": "Bucks County Barn\nCharles Sheeler"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "146", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.22", "texte": "Portrait of Joe Gould\nJoseph Stella"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "147", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.23", "texte": "JOSEPH GOULD: THE MAN\n\nCoincident with the inauguration of the naughty nineties, Joseph\nFerdinand Gould, historian, white-wing, and perpetual candidate for\nthe throne of Albania, made his first private appearance at Norwood,\nMass. Born of undiluted Yankee stock, diapered and weaned by none\nbut Yankee hands, the little gentleman was raised in the strict moral\ntraditions of his race. At a precocious age he entered the public school\nwhere his persistent interest in every phase of human activity astonished\nhis fellow-pupils and instructors alike. Even at the age of thirteen\nwhen his school mates were only interested in abusing him, the little\nJoseph was already publishing a small review, \"The Gleam,\" which\ncontained articles of literary and historical import.\nUpon graduating from the Norwood High School, Mr. Gould\ncommuted to Harvard College. He naturally elected History as his\nmajor study, but always being more interested in the activities of his\nown time rather than those of a previous one, he became a lively mem-\nber of the Harvard Cosmopolitan Club. It was here from his close\nassociation with the Hindu, African, Chinese, Albanian, and Siamese\nmembers that Mr. Gould learned of the injustices under which the\nsmaller nations of the world suffered. Being a man of action he at\nonce championed the cause of Albania and pledged himself to a life-\nlong solicitation of funds toward Albanian Independence. It was\nalso at this time that Mr. Gould was arrested for assault. On behalf\nof the negro race he kicked the Irish shins of a Scow Boston cop as a\nprotest against a motion picture, \"The Birth of a Nation.\"\nUpon matriculating with honors from Harvard, Mr. Gould ob-\ntained a governmental position and was dispatched to the Indian\nReservation there to carry on anthropological investigations, particular-\nly in the Tecumseh family. After completing his work for the govern-\nment he returned to New York. A duel with the editor of a magazine,\nnow defunct, immediately followed his return and soon after that the\nwar with Germany. Mr. Gould vainly tried to enlist in the glorious\nranks of those fighting for world democracy, but being unable to pass\nthe physical requirements of the army he was obliged to forego that\npleasure. At present Mr. Gould is employed as a book reviewer by a\nmetropolitan daily."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "148", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.24", "texte": "In personal appearance Mr. Gould is striking. Should he be com-\ning around a corner the first harbinger of his approach is a prodigiously\nlong cigarette holder which heaves into view like the bow-sprit of a\nlarge schooner. If times are propitious a cigarette emitting clouds of\nsmoke wobbles loosely at the end of it. Immediately following the\nbow-sprit, there appears a small sharp nose, or prow, on which a pair\nof bent wire spectacles rests askew. This in turn is followed by a\nsparse and goatish beard, a scraggly mustache, two singularly bright\neyes and finally an entire head crowned by an absurdly small pill-box\nhat. Immediately beneath the head, in fact its only visible means of\nsupport, one observes a long flopping overcoat which presumably\nharbors within it some sort of vigorous little body which can and with\namazing rapidity propel the aforesaid overcoat through traffic and\naround corners. Attached to the frayed extremity of the right sleeve a\nsmall parched hand clutches a number of grimy notebooks.\nIt is this mass of grimy note-books which contain (or rather par-\ntially represent), for the fecundity of Mr. Gould passes all natural\nbounds, his omniverous history of the contemporary world. Written\nin a cramped and curiously pedantic hand this work, which now reaches\nmany hundred volumes, touches upon every phase of human, animal,\nvegetable, and mineral activity. For Mr. Gould is restricted by no\nsubject, neither by the limits of time or space, decency or virtue, inter-\nest or insignificance, by the air above or the waters under the earth.\nHis only requirement to which he persistently holds is that no fact\nshall enter his history which he has not seen with his own eyes or heard\nwith his own ears.\nThis requirement is the result of his own philosophic concept of\nhistory. For unlike the general historians who believe that the world\nand time have reached a final culmination in themselves and who for\nthat reason believe it is within their power to give the details of the\npast a value in the light of their own emotional present, Mr. Gould at-\ntempts to renounce his personality and record in as dull and unindi-\nvidual a style as possible all the actual and fortuitous experience of his\nown life. Thus he records the recitation of a drunken negro in the\nback room of a saloon with as equal an objective care as he describes\nthe funeral of his father in Norwood. For this reason his history of\nthe world becomes, not an expressionistic work of art like other his-\ntories, but a purely scientific chronicle on which the historians of the\nfuture will base their subjective studies.\n\nE. N. AND S. B."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "149", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.25", "texte": "SOCIAL POSITION\n\nNearly everyone is perplexed by the human instinct to either\nlord it over other people or bow down to them. In the eyes of the\nInfinite, all pride is dust and ashes. But as we must live with our\nbrother man, it is natural that each of us should have his ideal of\nproper society.\nI believe that we need an aristocracy in which each person can\nbe an aristocrat. That is to say every human being is entitled to a\nlegitimate pride in his environment and antecedents. The Socialist\nvision is somewhat similar. However it insists too much on material\nvalues. Its appeal is to those people who cannot respect themselves\nwithout good clothes and well-filled tummies. That is a wrong as-\nsumption. An Indian no matter how dire his poverty can dispense\nhospitality with dignity. He is his own welcome. Roger W. Babson\nonce asked me what I thought was the solution of the high cost of\nliving. I answered, \"The Indian system. Fewer wants.\" He that\nknows he is as good a man as his neighbor does not need to impress by\nevidence of material wealth.\nThe aristocrat is the highest type I can attain to. I believe that\nif one only pushes aristocracy far enough it becomes democracy.\nIn all externals, the two viewpoints keep the same code. One serves\nfrom love of humanity, the other to satisfy himself.\nI believe that no higher race of men ever lived than the back-\nwoods Yankee farmer. Made independent by the toil of his own\nhands he exacted no servility from others and he yielded it to none,\nthose of higher social position in the artificial sense have had to pay for\nit by various acts of flunkeyism.\nI am very cosmopolitan and have met specimens of European,\nAsiatic, American Indian and African nobility. Not even excepting\nWater Chief have I ever met anyone with more reason for pride in his\nimmediate family and remoter ancestry than myself. I said to God\nonce, \"You know I am very proud. If I should ever meet anyone\nwith better blood in his veins than flows in mine what should my con-\nduct be?\" The All Mighty answered me, \"Be not alarmed. Until\n\n* Chapter CCCLXVIII of Joseph Gould's History of the Contemporary World,\nto be published posthumously."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "150", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.26", "texte": "I repeal the law of the survival of the fittest, you will never meet any-\none with a higher claim to pride of race. Your pride, of course, is\nnasty as all pride is, but it is the seed of so much of the good that\nis in you, that I want you to keep it, until you find something better.\nRemember however that every human soul is as big as its environ-\nment and heredity allow it to be.\"\nCivilization brings distinctions of caste apart from individual at-\ntainment. Thus is developed the patrician and the peasant. Each\nhas a different set of virtues, and both are needed for the complete\nsum of humanity. When you find a patrician without pride or a\npeasant without avarice, you get very nearly the perfect man.\nThe European is usually descended from ancestors who were\nall of the same caste. A Southerner's progenitors were all either\nF. F. V' sor all poor white trash. In New England there has always\nbeen the mingling of the two strains. One of my ancestors was the\nfirst Governor of Connecticut. Another came as an indentured ser-\nvant. Mrs. Bowie said to me once, \"There are two types of gentle-\nmen. One is the gentleman by the grace of God. I knew a slave\nwho was that. Then there is the gentleman by virtue of inherited\nculture. You belong to both types.\" At one time I would have been\ngreatly pleased with this compliment. Now however, I feel that if\nI am not big enough to belong to all humanity, I want to think of\nmyself as belonging to the masses rather than to the classes. Ido\nnot want to consider myself a gentleman in the archaic sense unless this\ndistinction permits me to feel as proud of my progenitors who lived\nlives of modest toil and were first nowhere upon the field of battle,\nas I am of colonial governors, knights, nobles, kings and emperors who\nalso had to live that I might be.\nThe past has many claims upon me. I regard the continuity of\nlife as the great miracle, and through genealogical research I like to\nproject myself back into the past. Hence lam a confirmed ancestor\nworshipper. I can still remember the mental glow I experienced when\nI first learned of my descent from William the Conqueror. At the\npresent time I feel differently. The early kings and nobles were very\npromiscuous. I doubt whether there is an Englishman alive who is\nnot descended from William the Conqueror, or a European who is\nnot descended from Charlemagne. I would like to be really ex-\nclusive. I wish I could trace my pedigree back to some common person\nwho lived in the eleventh century.\nMy racial work brought me into contact with certain celebrities.\nMy father and mother treated them with dignity and courtesy giving"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "151", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.27", "texte": "them the best they had. When I invited a Negro deckhand to visit\nme they treated him in the same way. They were sure enough of\ntheir own position to be able to do this. That is real aristocracy. I\ndo not consider anyone quite my social equal who can not do the\nsame. Ralph Watson said to me when I expressed this idea to him,\n\"You would find your social equal among bar tenders then.\" I re-\nplied, \"Not among all. They might be able to entertain a Negro\ndeckhand and yet be flustered by a celebrity. On the other hand I\nfeel as if I were slumming when I visit households where the Negro\ndeckhand could not be entertained.\"\nGoni Katundi the proprietor of the Albanian restaurant, Vatru,\ndid not wish me to invite Miss Culot there, although she had been\nin Albania, because he thought she was of too high a caste. When I\ntook her there, I apologized for this neglect on his part and told\nher the reason. I said he was wrong because the Albanian restaurant\nwas good enough for me, and what was good enough for Joe Gould\nwas good enough for any one else that God had made. She smiled\napproval and said, \"That's the proper way to feel about it.\" At the\ntime she did not hear what I added, that whatever was good enough\nfor anybody else that God had made was good enough for Joe\nGould. I would use this addition to illustrate the difference between\nthe aristocrat and the snob.\nI feel very cocky when I think of the three highest social honors\nthat I have received. The one that I valued least was when I tried so\nhard to get into the army that Captain A. J. Boyce was impressed\nand spoke to Roosevelt about me and the doughty colonel told him\nto bring me to Oyster Bay. Roosevelt was out of luck, for Captain\nBoyce lost track of me. As Roosevelt had no backwoods Yankee\nblood in him, of course, he was not quite my equal, but I was honestly\npleased that despite my poor physique I had made such an impression\nupon Captain Boyce as a man among men that he deemed me worthy\nof the highest honor he could pay me.\nI was more pleased by what happened the first time I met Mrs.\nRust, the widow of the Confederate general who commanded in the\nbattle of Port Hudson in which my grandfather participated. Her\ngrandfather and her husband were congressmen, and she had moved\nin the highest society in Washington and danced twice with Edward\nVII. She was akin to the aristocratic families of the Old South and\nthe list of her relatives was lousy with distinguished names. It was\nsupposed that we would clash bitterly because my Negrophile pre-\njudices were so strong. By a few proofs of deference, I won her so"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "152", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.28", "texte": "completely that on offering me a second helping she said, \"Will you\nhave some more veal, Joe?\" She did not call others by their first\nname whom she had known a much longer time. My head was a bit\nturned then by this unexpected acceptance by the feudal South, but\nI now feel that the real point of the honor was that I had pleased an old\nwoman. The old and children are the best judges of character be-\ncause they are less observant of the superficial.\nI have also had the highest social honor possible. Water Chief\noffered me his peace pipe as a personal friend and an equal. Any\nruling dynasty among white people is a mere mushroom in comparison.\nHereafter, if I am invited to meet kings or emperors or even Police\nCommissioner Enright, I will feel that I do them more honor than they\ndo me.\n\nJoseph Gould\n\nELLSWORTH TO GREAT POND\nWinifred Virginia Jackson\nDrink hard cider, swig hard cider,\nSwill hard cider, Boys!\nThrow yer spikers, throw yer peavies,\nBeller out yer noise!\nGrub in Waltham, drink in Waltham,\nSlogger up an' down!\nHide ye slat-faced, heathen Christians,\nK-J's crew's in town!\nDrink hard cider, swig hard cider,\nWhoop 'er up, O Boys!\nHell' s own roarin', cant-dog sawmill\nCan't make half our noise!\nSling yer spikers, sling yer peavies,\nPut yer head to use!\nK-J's waitin'! K- T's watchin'!\nKing o' old K. Spruce!"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "153", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.29", "texte": "THE POET ASSASSINATED\n\nXVI\nPERSECUTION\nAt this time prizes for poetry were being awarded every day.\nThousands of societies had been founded for this purpose and their\nmembers lived on the fat of the land, while making upon fixed dates\nlarge benefices to poets. But the 26th of January was the day upon\nwhich the largest associations, companies, boards of directors, acad-\nemies, committees, juries, etc., of the whole world bestowed their\nawards. Upon this day 8,019 prizes for poetry were distributed,\nthe total of which aggregated 50,005,225 francs. On the other hand,\nsince the taste for poetry had never spread among any class of the\npopulation of any country, public opinion had risen powerfully\nagainst the poets who were called parasites, lazy, useless, and so\nforth. The 26th of January of this year passed without incident,\nbut on the following day the great newspaper, La Voix, published at\nAdelaide (Australia) in the French language, contained an article by\nthe distinguished agricultural chemist Horace Tograth (a German\nborn at Leipzig), whose discoveries and inventions had frequently\nseemed to border on the miraculous. The article, entitled The Laurel,\ncontained a sort of chronology of the culture of the laurel in Judea,\nin Greece, in Italy, in Africa and in Provence. The author gave\ncounsel to those who had laurel trees in their gardens, indicating the\nmultiple usage of the laurel, as a food, in art, in poetry, and its role\nas a symbol of poetic glory. He then began to talk of mythology,\nmaking allusions to Apollo and the fable of Daphne. Finally,\nHorace Tograth changed his tone brusquely and concluded his article\nas follows:\n\"And furthermore, I say candidly, this useless tree is still too\ncommon, and we have less glorious symbolisms to which people at-\ntribute the famous savour of the laurel. The laurel holds too large\na place upon our overpopulated earth, the laurels are unworthy of\nliving. Each one of them takes the place of two in the sun. Let them\nbe chopped down, and let their leaves be feared as a poison. Hitherto\nsymbols of poetry and literary science, they are nothing more today"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "154", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.30", "texte": "than that death-glory which is to glory as death is to life, and as the\nhand of glory is to the key.\n\"True glory has abandoned poetry for science, philosophy, acro-\nbatics, philanthropy, sociology, etc. . . . Poets are good for nothing\nmore nowadays than to receive money which they do not earn, since\nthey scarcely ever work and most of them (except for the minstrels)\nhave no talent and no excuse whatsoever. As to those who have some\ngifts, they are even more obnoxious, for if they receive nothing they\nmake more noise than a regiment and din our ears with their being\npersecuted. None of these people have any raison d'etre. The prizes\nwhich are awarded them are stolen from workers, inventors, scientists,\nphilosophers, acrobats, philanthropists, sociologists, and so forth. The\npoets must disappear. Lycurgus would have banished them from the\nRepublic, we too must banish them. Otherwise, the poets, lazy fiefs,\nwill become our princes and while doing nothing, live off our work,\noppressing us, and mocking us. In short, we must rid ourselves im-\nmediately of the poets' tyranny.\n\"If the republics and the kings, if the nations do not take care,\nthe race of poets, too privileged, will increase in such proportions and\nso rapidly that in a short time no one will want to work, invent, teach,\ndo dangerous feats, heal the sick and improve the lot of unfortunate\nmen.\"\nAn enormous stir greeted this article. It was telegraphed or tele-\nphoned everywhere, all the newspapers reproduced it. A few literary\njournals followed their quotations from Tograth's article with mock-\ning reflections as to the scientist; there were doubts as to his mental\nstate. They laughed at the terror which he manifested over the lyric\nlaurel. However, the journals of commerce and information made\ngreat ado about his warnings. They even said that the article in\nLa Voix was a work of genius.\nThe article by Horace Tograth had been a singular pretext, ad-\nmirably fitted to fan the blaze of hatred for poetry. It made its appeal\nthrough the traditional sense of the supernatural, whose memory lies\nin all well bom men, and to the instinct for preservation which all\nbeings feel. That was why nearly all Tograth's readers were thunder-\nstruck, aghast, and wanted to lose no occasion to obliterate poets who,\nbecause of the great numbers of prizes they received were the subjects\nof the jealousy of all classes of the population. The majority of the\nnewspapers advocated that the government take measures leading to\nthe prohibition of all poetry prizes.\nIn the evening, in a later edition of La Voix, the agricultural"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "155", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.31", "texte": "chemist, Horace Tograth, published a new article which like the\nother telephoned or telegraphed everywhere, carried popular emotion\nto a climax in the press, among the public and the governments. The\nscientist concluded as follows:\n\"World, choose between thy life and poetry; if serious measures\nare not taken, civilization is done for. Thou must not hesitate. From\ntomorrow on begins the new era. Poetry will exist no longer, the\nlyres too heavy for old inspirations will be broken. The poets will be\nmassacred.\"\nDuring the night, life went on just as usual in all the cities of\nthe globe. The article, telegraphed everywhere, had been published\nin the special editions of the local newspapers and snatched up by\nthe hungry public. The people all sided with Tograth. Ringleaders\ndescended into the streets and, mingling with the aroused mobs, ex-\ncited them further. But most governments held sittings that very\nnight and passed legislation which provoked an indescribable en-\nthusiasm. France, Italy, Spain and Portugal decreed that all poets\nestablished on their territory should be imprisoned at once pending\nthe determination of their lot. It was cabled that the United States\nof America had decided to electrocute any man who avowed his\nprofession to be that of poetry. In fact, all of the States on earth,\neven those who possessed nothing but meager little bards lacking in\nall lyricism took measures against the very name of poetry. Only\nEngland and Russia were exceptions. The laws went into effect the\nnext day, while the literary magazines appeared all garbed in black,\nlamenting the new terror. Dispatches toward noon told how Aris-\ntenetius Southwest, the great negro poet of Haiti had been cut into\npieces and devoured by an infuriated populace of negroes and mulat-\ntoes. At Cologne, the Kaiserglocke had sounded all night and in the\nmorning Herr Professor Doktor Stimmung, author of a medieval epic\nin forty-eight cantos, having gone out to take the train for Hanover,\nwas set upon by a troop of fanatics who beat him with sticks crying:\n\"Death to the poet!\"\nHe took refuge in the cathedral and remained locked in there\nwith a few beadles, by the excited population of Drikkes, Hanses, and\nMarizibills. These last particularly, were beside themselves with rage,\ninvoking the Virgin, Saint Ursula and the Three Royal Magi in\nplatdeutsch. Their paternosters and pious oaths were interspersed\nwith admirably vile insults to the professor-poet, who owed his rep-\nutation chiefly to the unisexuality of his morals. His head to the"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "156", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.32", "texte": "ground, he was nearly dying of fear under the big wooden statue of\nSaint Christopher.\nTelegrams everywhere announced the arrests of poets, one after\nanother, and the electrocution of the American poets was made known\nearly in the afternoon.\nIn Paris, several young poets of the left bank, who had been\nspared on account of their lack of notoriety, organized a demon-\nstration extending from the Closerie des Lilas to the Couriergerie,\nwhere the \"prince of poets\" was imprisoned.*\nTroops arrived to disperse the demonstrators. The cavalry charged.\nThe poets drew their firearms and defended themselves but the\npeople rushed in and took a hand in the melee. The poets were\nstrangled and everyone else who came to their defense.\nThus began the great persecution which swept rapidly through-\nout the entire world. In America, after the electrocution of the\nfamous poets, they lynched all the negro minstrels and even many\npersons who had never in their lives written a rhyme; then they fell\nupon the whites of literary Bohemia. It was learned that Tograth,\nafter having personally directed the persecution in Australia, had em-\nbarked at Melbourne.\nXVII\nASSASSINATION\nLike Orpheus, all the poets felt violent death staring them in\nthe face. Everywhere, publishers had been pillaged and collections\nof verse burnt. The admiration of all went out to this Horace Tograth\nwho, from far off Adelaide (Australia), had succeeded in unloosing\nthis storm which seemed destined to destroy poetry forever. This\nman's knowledge, they said, bordered on the miraculous. He could\ndrive away clouds or bring on rain anywhere he pleased. Women,\nonce they had seen him were ready to do his bidding. For the rest,\nhe did not disdain either feminine or masculine virginities. As soon\nas Tograth had seen what enthusiasms he had evoked in the whole\nworld, he announced that he would visit the principal cities of the\nglobe, after Australia had been rid of its erotic and elegiac poets.\nAnd indeed some time later uprisings of the population were heard\n\n* Paul Fort, broad-brimmed black hat, was in Apollinaire's time an inveterate\nfrequenter of the Closerie, two blocks west along the Boulvard Montparnasse\nfrom the Cafe Rotonde, where Apollinaire and his circle held forth.—Tr."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "157", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.33", "texte": "of in Tokio, Pekin, Yakutsk, Calcutta, Buenos Ayres, San Francisco,\nChicago, upon the appearance of the terrible German, Tograth.\nWherever he went, he left an unearthly impression on account of his\n\"miracles,\" (which he called scientific), and his extraordinary heal-\nings, all of which lifted his repute as a scientist and a thaumaturgist\nto sublime heights.\nOn May 30, Tograth disembarked at Marseilles. The people\nwere massed along the quays; Tograth landed from the steamer in\na launch. No sooner was he recognized than cries, shouts, toasts,\nfrom innumerable gullets mingled with the sound of the wind, the\nwaves and the sirens of the vessels. Tograth, tall and thin, was stand-\ning up in the launch. As it approached the land, the features of the\nhero could be distinguished more and more clearly. His face was\nsmooth-shaven and blue, his mouth almost lipless, disfigured by an\nugly cut; he had a receding chin which gave him the appearance,\none might have said, of a shark. His brow rose straight up, very\nhigh and very large. Tograth was dressed in a pasty white costume,\nhis shoes also being white and high-heeled. He wore no hat. As soon\nas he placed his foot upon the soil of Marseilles the furor of the\ncrowd rose to such heights that when the quays were cleared three\nhundred people were found dead, strangled, trampled, crushed.\nSeveral men seized the hero and raised him upon their shoulders\nwhile they sang and shouted, and women threw flowers at him all\nthe way to the hotel where a suite had been prepared for him and\nmanagers, interpreters and bell-boys were waiting to greet him.\nOn the same morning, Croniamantal coming from Briinn had\narrived at Marseilles to look for Tristouse who had been there since\nthe evening before with Paponat. All three mingled in the crowd\nwhich acclaimed Tograth before the hotel where he was to stop.\n\"Happy tumult,\" said Tristouse, \"You are not a poet, Paponat,\nyou have learned things which are worth infinitely more than poetry.\nIs it not true, Paponat, that you are in no way a poet?\"\n\"Indeed, my dear,\" replied Paponat, \"I have rhymed at times\nin order to amuse myself, but I am not a poet, I am an excellent\nbusiness man and no one knows better than I how to manage an\nestate.\"\n\"Tonight you must mail a letter to La Voix of Adelaide; you\nmust tell them all that, and so you will be safe.\"\n\"I shall not fail to do that,\" said Paponat. \"Did you ever hear\nof such a thing, a poet! That goes for Croniamantal.\""}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "158", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.34", "texte": "\"I hope to God,\" said Tristouse, \"that they will massacre him\nin Briinn where he expects to find us.\"\n\"But there he is right now,\" whispered Paponat. \"He is in the\ncrowd. He is hiding himself and hasn't seen us.\"\n\"I wish they would hurry up and massacre him,\" sighed Tris-\ntouse. \"I have an idea that that will happen soon.\"\n\"Look,\" exclaimed Paponat, \"here comes the hero.\"\nThe cortege which accompanied Tograth having arrived at the\nhotel, they permitted him to descend from their shoulders. Tograth\nturned to the crowd and addressed them:\n\"Marseilles, in thanking you I could employ, if I wished, com-\npliments that are fatter than your world-renowned sardines. I could,\nif I wished, make a long speech. But words will never quite en-\ncompass the magnificence of the reception which you have accorded\nme. I know that there are maladies in your midst that I might heal\nnot only with my knowledge but with that which scientists have ac-\ncumulated for myriads of years. Bring forth the sick, and I shall\nheal them.\"\nA man whose cranium was as bald as that of an inhabitant of\nMycona cried:\n\"Tograth! god-like mortal, all puissant savaniissimo! Give me\na luxuriant mane of hair.\"\nTograth smiled and asked that the man approach him; then he\ntouched the denuded head, saying:\n\"Thy sterile pate shall be covered with an abundant vegetation,\nbut remember always this favor by hating the laurel.\"\nAt the same time as the bald man, a little girl approached. She\nimplored Tograth:\n\"Sweet man, sweet man, look at my mouth, my lover with a blow\nof his fist has broken several teeth, return them to me.\"\nThe scientist smiled and put his finger into her mouth, saying:\n\"Now thou canst chew, thou hast excellent teeth. But in return,\nshow us what thou hast in thy bag.\"\nThe girl laughed, opening her mouth in which the new teeth\ngleamed; then she opened her bag, excusing herself:\n\"What a funny idea, before everybody! Here are my keys, here\nan enamelled photograph of my lover; he really looks better than that.\"\nBut the eyes of Tograth were greedy; he had perceived all\nfolded up in her bag several Parisian songs, rhymed and set to"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "159", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.35", "texte": "Viennese airs. He took these papers and after having scrutinized\nthem, asked:\n\"These are nothing but songs, have you no poems?\"\n\"I have a very lovely one,\" said the girl. \"It was the bell-boy\nof the Hotel Victoria wrote it for me before he left for Switzerland.\nBut I never showed it to Sossi.\"\nAnd she proffered Tograth a little rose sheet of paper on which\nwas written a pathetic acrostic.\n\"It is not only poetry,\" exclaimed Tograth, \"it is idiotic.\"\nAnd he tore up the paper and threw it into the ditch, while the\ngirl knocked her teeth in fright and cried:\n\"Sweet man, good man, I did not know that it was bad.\"\nJust then Croniamantal advanced close to Tograth and apos-\ntrophized the crowd:\n\"Carrion, assassins!\"\nThey burst into laughter. They yelled:\n\"Into the water with him, the rat.\"\nAnd Tograth, looking Croniamantal in the face, said:\n\"My good brother, let not my affluence disturb you. As for me,\nI love the people, even though I stop at hotels which they do not\nfrequent.\"\nThe poet let Tograth talk, then he continued to address the crowd:\n\"Carrion, laugh at me, your joys are numbered, each one of them\nwill be torn from you one by one. And do you know, o people, what\nyour hero is?\"\nTograth smiled and the crowd became all attention. The poet\ncontinued:\n\"Your hero, o populace, is Boredom bringing Misery.\"\nA cry of astonishment issued from all the throats. Women crossed\nthemselves. Tograth wanted to speak, but Croniamantal seized him\nsuddenly by the neck, threw him to the ground and held him there\nwith his foot on the man's chest, while he spoke:\n\"It is Boredom and Misery, the monstrous enemy of man, the\nBehemoth glutted with debauchery and rape, dripping the blood of\nmarvellous poets. He is the vomit of the Antipodes, and his miracles\ndeceive the clairvoyant no more than the miracles of Simon the Magi\ndid the Apostles. Marseillais, Marseillais, woe that you whose an-\ncestors come from the most purely lyrical land, should unite with the\nenemies of poetry, with the barbarians of all the nations. What a\nstrange miracle, this, of the German returned from Australia! To"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "160", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.36", "texte": "have imposed it upon the world and to have been for a moment\nstronger than creation itself, stronger than immortal poetry.\"\nBut Tograth who was able to extricate himself at last, arose,\nsoiled with dust and drunk with rage. He asked:\n\"Who are you?\"\n\"Who are you, who are you?\" cried the crowd.\nThe poet turned toward the east and in exalted tones said:\n\"I am Croniamantal, the greatest of living poets. I have often\nseen God face to face, I have borne the divine rapture which my\nhuman eyes tempered. I was born in eternity. But the day has come,\nand I am here before you.\"\nTograth greeted these last words with a terrible burst of laughter,\nand the first ranks of the crowd seeing Tograth laugh, took up his\nlaughter, which, in bursts, in rolls, in trills, was soon communicated\nthroughout the entire populace, even to Paponat and Tristouse Bal-\nlerinette. All of the open mouths yawned at Croniamantal, who be-\ncame ill at ease. Interspersed with the laughter were shouts of:\n\"Into the water with the poet! . . . Burn him, Croniamantal!\n... To the dogs with him, lover of the laurel!\"\nA man who was in the first ranks and carried a heavy club gave\nCroniamantal a blow, causing him to make a painful grimace which\ndoubled the merriment of the crowd. A stone, accurately thrown,\nstruck the nose of the poet and drew blood. A fish merchant forced\nhis way through the mob and, confronting Croniamantal, said:\n\"Hou! the raven. I remember you, all right, you're a policeman\nwho wanted to pass for a poet; there, cow; take that, story teller.\"\nAnd he gave him a terrific slap, spitting in his face. The man\nwhom Tograth had cured of alopecia came to him and said:\n\"Look at my hair, is it a false miracle or not?\"\nAnd lifting his cane, he thrust it so adroitly that he gouged out\nCroniamantal's right eye. Croniamantal fell over backward, women\nthrew themselves upon him and beat him. Tristouse jumped up and\ndown with joy, while Paponat tried to calm her. But she went over\nand with the end of her umbrella stuck out Croniamantal's other eye,\nwhile he, seeing her in this last moment of sight, cried:\n\"I confess my love for Tristouse Ballerinette, the divine poesy\nthat consoles my soul.\"\n\"Shut up, vermin!\" cried the crowd of men, \"there are ladies\nhere.\"\nThe women went away soon, and a man who was balancing a"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "161", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.37", "texte": "large knife on his open hand threw it in such a way that it landed\nright in the open mouth of Croniamantal. Other men did the same\nthing. The knives stuck in his belly, his chest, and soon there was\nnothing more on the ground than a corpse bristling with points like\nthe husk of a chestnut.\nXVIII\nAPOTHEOSIS\nCroniamantal dead, Paponat brought Tristouse Ballerinette back\nto the hotel, where she relapsed into nervous fainting-spells. They\nwere in a very old building and by chance Paponat discovered,\nwrapped up in cardboard, a bottle of water of the Queen of Hungary\nwhich dated from the 1 7th Century. This remedy worked rapidly.\nTristouse recovered her senses and immediately went to the hospital\nto claim the body of Croniamantal which was turned over to her\nwithout delay.\nShe arranged a decent burial for him and placed over his tomb\na stone on which there was engraved the following epitaph:\nWalk lightly and your silence keep,\nTo leave untroubled his good sleep.\nThen she went back to Paris with Paponat who soon left her\nfor a mannequin of the Champs-Elysees.\nTristouse did not regret him very long. She went into mourning\nfor Croniamantal and climbed up to the Montmartre, to the Bird of\nBenin's who began to pay court to her, and after he had what he\ndesired they began to talk of Croniamantal.\n\"I ought to make a statue to him,\" said the Bird of Benin, \"For\nI am not only a painter but also a sculptor.\"\n\"That's right,\" said Tristouse, \"we must raise a statue to him.\"\n\"Where?\" asked the Bird of Benin; \"The government will not\ngrant us any ground. Times are bad for poets.\"\n\"So they say,\" replied Tristouse, \"but perhaps it isn't true. What\ndo you think of the Meudon woods?\"\n\"I thought of that, but I dared not say it. Let's go to the Meudon\nwoods.\"\n\"A statue of what?\" asked Tristouse, \"Marble? Bronze?\"\n\"No, that's old fashioned. I must model a profound statue out\nof nothing, like poetry and glory.\""}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "162", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.38", "texte": "\"Bravo! Bravo!\" cried Tristouse clapping her hands, \"A statue\nout of nothing, empty, that's lovely, and when will you make it?\"\n\"Tomorrow, if you wish; we shall go and dine, pass the night\ntogether, and in the morning we shall go to the Meudon woods where\nI shall make this profound statue.\"\nNo sooner said, than done. They went and dined with the elite\nof the Montmartre, returned to sleep at midnight and on the next\nmorning at nine oclock, after having armed himself with a pick-axe,\na spade, a shovel and some boasting-chisels, they took the road for\nthe pretty Meudon woods, where they met the Prince of Poets, ac-\ncompanied by his little friend, quite happy over the pleasant days\nhe had spent in the City-prison.\nThen they had lunch on the grass.\nThe afternoon was devoted by the Bird of Benin to sculpturing\nthe interior of the monument to Croniamantal.\nOn the following day, the sculptor came back with workingmen\nwho fixed up an armed cement wall, six inches broad on top, and\neighteen inches broad at the base, so that the empty space had the\nform of Croniamantal, and the hole was full of his specter.\nOn the next day, the Bird of Benin, Tristouse, the Prince of\nPoets and his little friend came back to the statue which was heaped\nup with earth which they had gathered here and there, and at night-\nfall they planted a fine laurel tree, while Tristouse Ballerinette danced\nand sang:\nNo one loves thee thou art lying\nPalantila Mila Mima\nWhen he was lover to the queen\nHe was king while she was queen\n'Tis true, 'tis true that I love him\nCroniamantal way down in the pit\nCan that be right\nLet us gather the sweet marjoram\nAt night.\n\nGuillaume Apollinaire\n(Translated by Matthew Josephson)"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "163", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.39", "texte": "Charles Sheeler\nBucks County Barn"}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "164", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.40", "texte": "Bucks County Barn\nCharles Sheeler"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "165", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.41", "texte": "\"A BOIRE! A BOIRE!\"\n\nGargantua shouted it when he came fat and ruddy tumbling into\nthat bright and wine-glorious country of France. And though I too\nhave bellowed his radiant and congenial war-cry, perhaps with not\nso large a throat but with at least as thirsty a one, I have received no\nanswer in this measly land of prohibition but the flurried reproaches\nof old temperance trots or a rancid sermon or two from some blarting\nminister. But such gratuitous hot air has brought me no nearer to a\nliberal bottle of old Burgundy or to a cool, silent, contemplative stein\nof Miinchener Beer than it has to Paradise.\nFor it is a shocking truth that this country is so lousy and over-\nrun with efficiency hounds, moralizing nitwits, and rubber-heel re-\nformers that a man can hardly lick a postage stamp in public without\nbeing haled into court for indecent exposure. As for drinking, or any\nother of those joyful arts that make life something more than pulling\ndown a fat salary in a mill or breeding a large and hopeless swarm\nof children, they have eternally disappeared. For this virulent pesti-\nlence of busy-bodies is ever on the alert to descend on any human\npleasure and despoil it. Being psychopaths whose minds are of an\ninordinate filth, they can imagine no vice more horrible than that of\nliving, and would rather a man work himself pie-eyed in a sweat-shop\nor yodel himself cuckoo in a church choir than to see him loaf some\nsunny afternoon with a few friends, an accordion, and a keg of beer.\nBut I am more interested in art than I am in fools, and if Amer-\nicans not only insist on swallowing everything these busy vice-sniffers\nsling them, but also continue to believe that it is every man's bounden\nduty to make himself as unhappy as possible for the good of an un-\nhappy many, then all I can say is \"God Bless Them,\" and pass on.\nIf I remember correctly, prohibition has been scourging this country\nfor the past four years. Probably more. It seems at least a decade\nsince I last wet my whistle with anything approaching good liquor.\nFor although the bootleg industry is as highly organized as any of\nHenry Ford's machine shops, the liquor it dispenses is not only so\ndoctored, dyed and cut with spurious acids as to make its consumption\nalmost a question of suicide, but its cost is so far beyond the reach of\nan average human pocketbook that only those fortunate mortals who\nare endowed both with untold wealth and a celluloid stomach dare\nto consume it."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "166", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.42", "texte": "Indeed it is an unhappy enough condition for any human Ameri-\ncan, but particularly for those writers who, in maintaining their artistic\nintegrity, must forever be on the verge of taking the Franciscan vow\nof poverty. For though of old, Beer was the poor man's Freud, it\nhas now become an inaccessible salvation, and the honest writer being\nunable to find any alcoholic release for his complexes or his simplexes,\nhis auto-, klepto-, hydro-, or nympho-manias, must either repress them\nin silence or find expression for them in his art. As for me I should\nregret either of these eventualities, and should be as pained to find\nmy friends gargling tea with a flock of inhibited females as I would\nto find them limiting their literary subject matter to the romantic ex-\nploits of a shop-lifter, a whoremonger, or a water fiend. For ignoring\nits demoralizing influence on the pubic or public mind such a literature\nwould be merely that infantile volitionism against which my friend\nMr. Kenneth Burke has propounded many unanswerable arguments.\nBut enough of manias, repressions, complexes, hebephrenia. Such\ntalk will not get a man an honest snootful, and though when the sky\nfalls we will all catch larks, there is slight chance of that ever happen-\ning in the U. S. A. Let us consider this frustrating problem rationally.\nOf solutions there appear to be three: Expatriation, Rustication\nand The Catacombs.\nI will however pass over the first, Expatriation, rapidly, believing\nas I do that the problem of prohibition should be faced and not run\naway from. The second, Rustication, is at present among writers\none of the more popular solutions. It consists in retiring to some wilder-\nness where, securely cloistered against the incursions of snooping rum-\nagents, the writer may brew such liquors and in such quantities as he\nmay desire. But such a troglodytic life implies an almost total loss\nof personal contact with his fellow craftsmen, and though it is at times\nadvisable to play one's lonely flute in some sequestered nook or covert,\nsuch self-inflicted solitude inevitably leads a writer to take both himself\nand his technique with too astringent a seriousness.\nThe third and last solution of which I will speak is one suggested\nin a recent issue of the Dial; the Catacombs. These catacombs or\ncrypts which presumably are to be burrowed under some American\ncathedral such as the Woolworth Building or the Bush Terminal, are\nto be utilized according to the Dial by such writers who in renouncing\nthe questionable virtue of Quantity Production have found themselves\nat loggerheads with the Capitalist System. To the catacombs these\nwriters will then repair, and publishing their intransigeant volumes of\nprose or verse upon the presses supplied them, will, in the early hours"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "167", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.43", "texte": "of morning, distribute them upon the brown-stone stoops of the\nFifties.\nThough I heartily agree with the spirit of this suggestion, it does\nnot go far enough. Let us have catacombs by all means, but let us\nnot use them to so sad a purpose. Let us not make monasteries of\nthem. Let us, instead of filling them with type, fill them with good\nliquor. Let us conceal within the bowels of our crypt all manner of\nstrong drink. Let us fill our catacombs with rum and whiskey, with\nthe wines of Bordeaux and Burgundy, with Hennesy's Five Star\nCognac, with Vermouth and Grenadine, with Holland Gin, Sauterne,\nand Bass's Ale, with Chartreuse Jaune, Benedictine and Vieux Marc,\nwith Champagne, with barrel upon barrel of Miinchener Beer, with\nAsti Spumanti and name-your-own, with Chianti and Green River\nRye, with Moulin a Vent 1912, with Nebiolo, Swedish Punch and\nChateau Yquem, with Vodka, Sherry and Lachrymae Christi, with all\nthe merry, belly-warming, soul-stirring, and mind-ennobling drinks\nof this wet and reeling earth.\nAnd there ensconced some evening among our kegs and our\nbottles, send down to us, O Mr. William H. Anderson, your roaring\nwind-pots and spittle-tossers. Let them fill up to their pop-eyes with\nall the non-alcoholic belly-wash of New York, but let my hearty\nroistering comrades fortify themselves with a few neat shots of old\nBourbon or a brace of cool schooners, and I assure you, though your\nbarnstormers pick their own subjects, that my friends will so ham-\nstring and hobble them with arguments of wit, ridicule and logic that\nby the end of a half hour your proselyting roarers will be more bleary\neyed with confusion than a styful of stuck pigs. For I have seen my\nfriends so jingled with good liquor they could not walk, yet withal\nso adroit and nimble in their wit, so lucid and eloquent in their thought,\nthat merely to overhear their discourses was worth a library of books\nor a whole band-wagon of lecturing professors.\nBut we will not trifle away our time with blubber-mouths and\nprohibitionists. Our time will be passed in those sports and occupations\nfor which God in His infinite mercy has placed man upon this earth.\nSo, pledging our minds and our hearts to drinking and creating, with\na pen in one hand and a mug of beer in the other, we will make a\nbright havoc of this our puritanical land, impregnating its fallow\nwomb with our lusty children.\n\nSlater Brown"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "168", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.44", "texte": "HOW MANY MILES TO BABYLON?\n\nHow many miles to Babylon?\nThreescore miles and ten.\nCan I gel there by candle-light?\nYes, and back again.\nThis nursery rhyme has won the eulogies of R. L. Stevenson and\nMr. Walter de la Mare, among other distinguished poets, as being\none of the most truly poetic pieces in the language. This appears to\nbe generally accepted, but, when I first came to ask why, the same\nvery insufficient answer was always given. \"Oh, I couldn't tell you,\nI suppose because it's so simple.\" But I found that when I asked\npeople to think about this poem on the lines of conflicting ideas recon-\nciling themselves in symbolism by means of associative thought, they\nadmitted that, on the contrary, it was a poem of extraordinarily subtle\nand condensed argument. The following is a synthetic version of con-\nversations on the same subject with several friends, Englishmen and\nAmericans.\nR. G.: \"The first version that I heard of the poem was\nHow many miles to Babyland?\nThreescore miles and ten {etc.)\nHow does that strike you?\"\nFriend: \"It ruins the poem.\"\nR. G.: \"But suppose lam right in concluding that the rhyme\ncame, like all or nearly all good rhymes, from the Lowland Scots,\nand Babby Lon' was converted by South Countrymen into a single\nword? What then?\"\nFriend: \" 'Babylon' is the best version in spite of scholiasts.\"\nR. G.: \"But what does Babylon mean, that Babyland does not\nmean? Is Babylon a mere remote Timbuctoo, or is it something\nV'\nmore ?\nFriend: \"For me it has a great sense of magnificence, hanging\ngardens and all that, but also from the book of Revelation, and from\nthe prophetic books of the Old Testament, it has the suggestion of a\nwicked power constantly coaxing and threatening the chosen people\nto destruction."}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "169", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.45", "texte": "R. G.: \"So the poem contrasts childish innocence, as expressed\nin 'candle-light', with the world, flesh, and devil of 'Babylon'?\"\nFriend: \"I suppose so, but there is more than innocence in the\ncandle-light symbol.\"\nR. G.: \"Loyalty?\"\nFriend: \"Yes, loyalty and faith from the ecclesiastical tradition.\"\nR. G.: \"Then perhaps you would accept this as a tentative\nanalysis of the effect produced in you by the poem: It is a dialogue,\nthe man who has gone astray after the lusts of the flesh and the sophisti-\ncations of the world addresses a child who lies innocently in bed.\nWhen the child asks the question the man feels that, in spite of the\nchild's apparent helplessness and his ignorance of the determinate side\nof life, he himself with all his strength and worldly wisdom is far\ninferior in power to the child.\"\nFriend: \" 'Except ye become as little children' in fact? I admit\nthat I get that feeling, but I don't see where you deduce the 'sophistica-\ntion' and the 'determinate side of life.' \"\nR. G.: \"Well, what if I were to say\n\"How many miles to Babylon?\nFourscore miles and six.\"\nIs three-score and ten merely an archaic 'seventy'?\"\nFriend: \"No, indeed. I see it now. Threescore and ten is the\nlimit on life imposed by the psalmist,. and associated in the memory\nwith 'labour and heaviness.' But what about 'yes, and back again'?\"\nR. G.: \"The remnant's return with all its disillusion and de-\nspondency. My mind rides with Ezra around the circuit of the Soul's\nJerusalem and finds all in ruins. The poem takes on fresh significance.\n'Keep innocency,' it preaches, 'and you can pass through the Babylon\nof manhood and return safe and sound with as much ease as in child-\nhood you visited that magnificent city in your dreams and came back\nbefore the candle had burned to its socket.' \"\nFriend: \"The old dialogue, then, of body and soul? But I\nthink you have disregarded another buried suggestion in the 'threescore\nand ten.' Only a remnant attains fourscore, only a remnant wins back\nfrom Babylon, and they are both confronted with the hopeless task of\nrepairing a lifetime's damage to their spiritual sense.\"\nR. G.: \"That improves the argument. Probably Babyland is\nonly a nursery stupidity. That Babylon is the original version seems\nproved by the interaction of the other symbols too closely for coinci-\ndence.\""}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "170", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.46", "texte": "Friend: \"That is likely. Nursery rhymes and fables are the\ndetritus beds of very ancient history and thought.\"\nR. G.: \"The whole process of romantic poetry is shown in this\nBabylon rhyme. To read or write poetry is to escape under rhythmic\nhypnotism to a primitive state of thought in which the oppression of\ntime and space is no longer felt. Poetry is the Lubberland of the\nlegend, where the traveller's mouth needs only to open and food drops\nfrom the trees into it, while roasted sucking-pigs run about with knife\nand fork sticking into their backs, the land where whatever is wanted,\nIS.\nFriend: \"Would you say that within the limits of the Christian\ngroup to whom the associations of Babylon, candle-light, and three-\nscore and ten are common, the poem strikes the same chords in the un-\nconscious mind?\"\nR. G.: \"Not quite. As there are degrees of implication, so there\nare degrees of perception. There is a common core of experience, cer-\ntainly, but each individual has, for instance, different personal associ-\nations with candle-light, which alter the force of the conflict, whether\nthe candle is thought of more particularly as a friendly charm against\ndarkness, or whether the aspect of the short flickering life of the candle\nmay associate itself more nearly with the threescore and ten idea. An\nunfortunate identification of Babylon with the Church of Rome would\nmake candle-light into a Popish attribute, and make havoc of the\nsense. That shows the insecurity of the appeal, even in poems most\nuniversally accepted as achieving their end.\"\n\nRobert Graves"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "171", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.47", "texte": "SOTO AND THE NEW WORLD\n\nCourage is strength—and you are vigilant, sagacious, firm besides.\nBut I am beautiful—as \"a cane box, called petaca, full of unbored\npearls.\" lam beautiful: a city greater than Cuzco; rocks loaded with\ngold as a comb with honey. Believe it. You will not dare to cease\nfollowing me—at Apalachi, at Cutifachiqui, at Mabilla, turning from\nthe sea, facing inland. And in the end you shall receive of me, nothing\n—save one long caress as of a great river passing forever upon your\nsweet corpse.\nBalboa lost his eyes on the smile of the Chinese ocean; Cabeca de\nVaca lived hard and saw much; Pizarro, Cortez, Coronado—but you,\nHernando de Soto, keeping the lead four years in a savage country,\nagainst odds, \"without fortress or support of any kind,\" you are mine,\nBlack Jasmine, mine.\nOn Friday, the 30th day of May, in the year 1548, the army,\nfresh from Cuba, landed in Florida, two leagues from the town of\nan Indian chief named Ucita. The ground was very fenny and en-\ncumbered with dense thickets and high trees.\nFrom this place, Espiritu Santo, to Anhaica Apalachi, where they\nwintered that year, the course was north and west, a march of about\na hundred leagues—through obscure and intricate parts: native vil-\nlages in the swamps, Caliquen, Napateca, Hurripacuxi, Paracoxi,\nTocaste, Cale—outlandish names. Who will recognize them? None\nbut you. To the rest without definition but to you each a thing in\nitself, delicate, pregnant with sudden meanings. The way had been\ndifficult: through a great morass, misled, ambuscaded at the fords,\nfighting, swimming, starving, thankful for a little parched corn, not\neven ripe, the cob and all being eaten as it was, and the stalk too for\nwant of better. It is de Soto! all goes forward somehow. But lam\nbefore you.\nIt is my country on which you are treading. Everything is in ac-\ncordance with my wish. Eight men start from a thicket, naked and\ntatooed, your lancers rush upon them, but one falls to his knees crying\nout, \"Do not kill me, lam a Christian!\" It is Juan Ortiz, relic of\nNarvaez' forces, whom I have nursed tenderly for you these twelve\nyears, teaching him the wild language. Witness my love. But I shall\ntake him from you when he is most needed."}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "172", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.48", "texte": "On Wednesday, the 3rd of March, 1549, the Governor left his\nwinter quarters at Apalachi to seek Yupaha, of which a young slave\nhad told them: a country toward the rising sun, governed by a woman,\nwhere there was gold in quantity.\nLed by the youth they continued to bear east and north in the hope\nof finding the country of which he had spoke: days, weeks, a month—\nwith small food, such want of meat and salt that often-times, in many\nplaces, a sick man would say, \"Now, if I had but a slice of meat, or\nonly a few lumps of salt, I should not thus die.\" But the Indians,\nskillful with the bow, would get abundance of deer, turkeys, rabbits\nand other game. Crossing a stream after nine last days of forced\nmarching they came out into a pine grove on the far bank. Here all\ndirection was lost. He went about for the road and returned to us\ndesperate.\"\nThe Governor had brought thirteen sows to Florida, which had in-\ncreased to three hundred swine; and the maize having failed for three\ndays, he ordered killed daily, for each man, half a pound of pork, on\nwhich small allowance, and some boiled herbs, the people with much\ndifficulty lived.\nFrom Apalachi to Cutifachiqui, where presently after the greatest\nhardships they arrived, they had travelled north-east it may be four\nhundred and thirty leagues. At this place, on the Savanna River, two\ndays' march from the sea, it appeared well to all to make a settlement;\nbut Soto, as it was his object to find another treasure like that of\nAtabalipa, lord of Peru, would not be content to stay. The natives\nwere asked if they had knowledge of any great lord further on, to\nwhich they answered that twelve days' travel thence was a province\ncalled Chiaha, subject to a chief of Coga.\nThe Governor then resolved, having rested his army, to go at once\nin quest of that country, taking with him a quantity of pearls which the\ncagiqua had given him; and being an inflexible man, and dry of word,\nwho, although he liked to know what the others all thought and had\nto say, after he had once made up his mind he did not like to be op-\nposed, and as he ever acted as he thought best, all bent to his will. So\nthey turned north and continued forward until the fall bending about\nthrough a quiet country.\nFor you I come severally as envoys from the chief men upon the\nroad, bearing baskets of mulberries, a honey comb, marten skins and\nthe hides of deer, and in calabashes the oil of walnuts and bear fat,\ndrawn like olive oil, clear and of good taste. And what? Silences,\ndeath, rotting trees; insects \"so that the sails were black with them and"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "173", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.49", "texte": "the men laughed, in spite of their forlorn condition, to see each others'\nfaces so swollen and out of shape in the morning;\" alligators, reptiles,\na wild rose \"like that of Spain, but with less leaves, because it grew\nin the woods.\" Sun, moon, stars, rain, heat, snow; water to the neck\nfor days; blue butterflies among the green palmetto leaves; grapes and\nothers that grow on vines along the ground; plums of two sorts, Vermil-\nlion and grey, of the form and size of walnuts, having three or four\nstones in them; wolves, deer, jackals, rabbits,—to make you lonesome,\nready for my caresses.\n\"Unprepared, we believed ourselves on a footing of peace, so\nmuch so that some of us, putting our arms in the luggage, had gone\nwithout any.\"\nThen to battle! It is Mabilla, the staked town. It is I, my son,\nTuscaloosa; tall of person, muscular, lean and symmetrical. All\nis you, all is me—one either side. Men, horses, hogs—all goes down\nin our fury. Now you feel me. Many times I shall drive you back\nfrom the palisades. But you come again. What shall Ido to govern\nthat lust—which if it break, lam the most defeated. Those in chains\nhaving set down their burdens near the fence, my people lift them on\ntheir backs and bring them into the town. Thus, to anger you, I have\npossession of all the baggage, the clothes, pearls and whatever else\nyou had besides—lost in the conflagration. I am strong! I shall\npossess you—\nOh but I lie. lam weak. I fail. I cannot take you. What\nare they but savages—who know nothing ? they wound you, they wound\nyou, and every arrow has upon its barbs a kiss from my lips. There is one\nin your thigh, between the edges of the armor. Thrice you fall before\nreaching the gate! The fools, madmen. It is into my own flesh, fifty,\na hundred times deeper than into yours. And me it kills—but you,\nthough you cannot grip the saddle because of it, you fight standing all\nday in the stirrups. I divide myself to take you and it is myself that\nwounds myself, jealous even of your injuries, furious at that sweet\ntouch of your flesh which my tools enjoy but I have—not yet. It is\nall you. The young Sylvestre fainting on the back track; Pedro\nMoron diving from the bridge with a shower of arrows about him—\nswimming to safety; Don Carlos, alighting to pull an arrow from his\nhorse's breast at the stockade, receives one himself, in at the neck, out\nbehind—and falls prostrate —\nAfter heaviest losses in men, beasts and possessions they prevailed\nand of the Indians all were killed, two thousand five hundred more or\nless, all having fought with the utmost bravery and devotion."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "174", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.50", "texte": "The Governor learning that Francisco Maldonado was waiting\nfor him at the port of Ochuse, six days' travel distant, he caused Juan\nOrtiz to keep the news secret, that he might not be interrupted in his\npurpose; because the pearls he wished to send to Cuba for show, that\ntheir fame might raise the desire of coming to Florida, had been lost\nand he feared that, hearing of him without seeing gold or silver or\nother thing of value from that land, it would come to have such a\nreputation that no one would be found willing to go there when men\nwould be wanted ; so he determined to send no news of himself until\nhe should discover a rich country. So that to Tuscaloosa must be\ngiven credit, in effect, for a great victory.\nOn Sunday, the 18th of November, the sick being found to be\ngetting well, the Governor again set out, moving west, to Chicaga, a\nsmall town of twenty houses, but well stocked with maize. There he\ndetermined to pass the season. The Indians, at peace, came frequently\nwith turkeys and rabbits and other food—but secretly they were plot-\nting other matters.\nSuddenly, on a certain night, the air above the straw roofs is\nfilled with flame. Sentries and the enemy arrive in the town together;\na terrific confusion, four columns converging upon the same point. In-\ndians moving about freely in the town, because of the peace that\nexisted, had that night brought the fire in little pots, not to be seen.\nEverything is aflame. Men come out naked from their beds. The\nhorses strive to free themselves, some succeed. The hogs squeel and\nperish. Soto and one other are all that are able to mount. He drives\nupon an Indian with his lance and transpierces him. His saddle girth,\nhastily adjusted, slips and he falls. Who will straighten out the\nconfusion in the night? Who will gather the naked and disarmed\nsoldiers, among the smoke, the flames, the noise? The Governor is\nup. He directs as best he can. But, by luck, the horses dashing about\nthrough the smoke, spread terror to the savages who think it the\ncavalry forming for an atack. Alarmed they escape from the\nstockade.\nNaked, armless, acold you draw off, in the morning, to Chicacilla,\nprotecting yourself as best you can—there to retemper the swords and\nawait what will happen. Some are reduced to straw mats for their\nonly cover, lying now this way, now that to the fire, keeping warm\nas they are able.\nAnd for this your people begin to hate you. It is my work. But\nagain lam defeated, your last thought shall be for their safety. Be-\ncause you have found no gold, only increasing hardships; because of"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "175", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.51", "texte": "your obstinacy, unexplained, incredible to them—you will be com-\npared meanly with far lesser spirits. It is their revenge, making you\nsolitary—ready for my caresses.\nAnd if, to survive, you yourself in the end turned native, this\nvictory is sweetest of all. Bitter the need that at Nilco will cause that\nhorrid slaughter: You already sick, in grave danger, thinking of the\nmen. Let them talk, my Indian: I will console you. None but you,\nthe wise, the brave could have answered.\nAt Quizquiz, after struggling seven days through a wilderness\nhaving many pondy places, with thick forests, they came out upon the\nGreat River.\nHe went to look at the river: swift and very deep; the water,\nflowing turbidly, bringing from above many trees and much timber,\ndriven onward by its force.\nThe next day the chief of that country arrived. It is I. Two\nhundred canoes filled with men having weapons. They were painted\nwith ochre, wearing great bunches of white and other plumes of many\ncolors, having feathered shields in their hands, with which they\nsheltered the oarsmen on either side, the warriors standing erect from\nbow to stern, holding bows and arrows. The barge in which the chief\ncame had an awning at the poop under which he sate; and there, from\nunder the canopy, where the chief man was, the course was directed\nand orders issued to the rest. All came down together, and arrived\nwithin a stone's throw of the ravine, whence the chief said to the\nGovernor, who was walking along the river bank, with others who\nbore him company, that he had come to visit, serve and obey him. The\nGovernor expressed his pleasure, and besought him to land, that they\nmight the better confer; but the chief gave no reply, ordering three\nbarges to draw near, wherein were great quantity of fish, and loaves\nlike bricks, made of pulp of plums, which Soto receiving, gave him\nthanks and again entreated him to land.\nMaking the gifts had been a pretext, to discover if any harm might\nbe done; but finding the Governor and his people on their guard, the\nchief began to draw off from the shore, when the cross-bowmen, who\nwere in readiness, with loud cries shot at the Indians, and struck down\nfive or six of them.—Well done, Spaniard! like an Indian. Witness\nthen my answer:\nThey retired with great order, not one leaving the oar, even though\nthe one next to him might have fallen, and covering themselves they\nwithdrew. These were fine looking men, very large and well formed;\nand what with the awnings, the plumes, and the shields, the pennons,"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "176", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.52", "texte": "and the number of people in the fleet, it appeared like a famous\narmada of galleys.\nDuring the thirty days that were passed there, four piraguas were\nbuilt, into three of which one morning, three hours before daybreak,\nthe Governor ordered twelve cavalry to enter, four in each, men in\nwhom he had confidence that they would gain the land notwith-\nstanding the natives and secure the passage or die. So soon as they\nhad come ashore the piraguas returned and when the sun was two\nhours high, the people had all got over. The distance was nearly half\na league: a man standing on the shore could not be told whether he\nwere a man or something else, from the far side.\nNow you are over, you have straddled me, this is my middle.\nLeft or right, the end is the same. But here in the center lam not\ndefeated. Go wander. Aquixo, Casqui, Pacaha. Take what you\nwill. Clothe your men, yourself you will never clothe save as I clothe\nyou, in my own way. They have suffered, they have gone nearly bare.\nAt Pacaha I have provisioned them in advance. Shawls, deer-skins,\nlion and bear-skins, and many cat-skins were found. Numbers who\nhad been a long time badly covered here clothed themselves. Of\nthe shawls they made mantles and cassocks. Of the deer skins, were\nmade jerkins, shirts, stockings and shoes; and from the bear skins they\nmade very good cloaks, such as no water could get through. They\nfound shields of raw cowhide out of which armor was made for the\nhorses.\nLook then, Soto, upon this transformed army—\nHere forty days and at the end I am beside you once more.\nWhere is she now, Dona Ysobel, your helpmate, years since, in\nCuba? The chief of Pacaha bestowed on him two of his sisters\ntelling him that they were tokens of love, for his remembrance, to be\nhis wives. The name of one was Macanoche, that of the other\nMochila. They were symmetrical, tall and full: Macanoche bore\na pleasant expression; in her manners and features appeared the lady,\nthe other was robust.\nRide upon the belly of the waters, building your boats to carry\nall across. Calculate for the current; the boats move with a force not\ntheir own, up and down, sliding upon that female who communicates\nto them, across all else, herself. And still there is that which you\nhave not sounded, under the boats, under the adventure—giving to\nall things the current, the wave, the onwash of my passion. So cross\nand have done with it, you are safe—and I am desolate.\nBut you are mine and I will strip you naked—jealous of every-"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "177", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.53", "texte": "thing that touches you. Down, down tome—in and under and down,\nunbeaten, the white kernel, the flame—the flame burning under water,\nthat I cannot quench—\nI will cause it to be known that you are a brute. Now it is no\nsea-ringed island, now it is no city in a lake: Come, here is room\nfor search and counter-search. Come, blackbeard, tireless rider, with\nan arrow in the thigh. I wait for you—beyond the river. Follow\nme—if you can. Follow me Senor, this is your country. I give it to\nyou. Take it. Here are carriers for your burdens; here are girls for\nyour beds; my best men for adversaries. You have beaten them all.\nMy time is coming: you have seen how they defend their palisades\nfor me; they have driven trees into the ground about their villages.\nThey are men, tall, slim, full of strategies; they come against you\nnaked, with their bows and arrows; they die at the paddles but none\nquivers. It is me they defend. lam for the brave, for the wise, for\nthe victor. Watch yourself at the fords, at the porches of houses—\nSee how I have fled you, dashing into a lake there to freeze all\nnight, coming forth at dawn, half drowned, my brows hidden in lily\nleaves. At the sight of your boats, at the breath of your name, the\nvillages are left empty. Nothing can induce the chief to show him-\nself. All have gone upstream to an island, carrying their goods with\nthem. At the sight of your men in armor terror strikes them; they\nplunge into the stream, pushing their possessions on little rafts, that\nescaping in the haste, float down-stream. I have fled, a single man,\namong my own people but your hounds scenting me out have dragged\nme down—\nNow it begins to change. The winter past, at Alimamu, it is the\nfourth year.\nAt Alimamu Juan Ortiz died, a loss the Governor greatly re-\ngretted; for, without an interpreter, not knowing whither he was\ntravelling, Soto feared to enter the country, lest he might get lost.\nThe death was so great a hindrance to our going, whether on discovery\nor out of the country, that to learn of the Indians what would have\nbeen rendered in four words, it now became necessary to have the\nwhole day; and oftener than otherwise the very opposite was under-\nstood to what was asked; so that many times it happened the road\ntravelled one day, or sometimes two or three days would have to be\nreturned over, wandering up and down, lost in the thickets.\nFor four days marching was impossible because of the snow.\nWhen that ceased to fall, he travelled three days through a desert,\na region so low, so full of lakes and bad passages, that at one time, for"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "178", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.54", "texte": "a whole day, the travel lay through water up to the knees at places,\nin others to the stirrups; and occasionally, for the distance of a few\npaces there was swimming. And he came to Tutelpinco, a town un-\ntenanted and found to be without maize, seated near a lake that flowed\ninto the river with a great current.\nNearer, nearer: Cayas, Quigaltam, Guachoya—thither the\nGovernor determined to go in a few days to learn if the sea was near.\nOn Monday, the 6th day of March, of the year 1542, the\nGovernor set out from Autiamque to seek Nilco, which the Indians\nsaid was near the Great River, with the purpose, by going to the\nsea, to recruit his forces. He had not over three hundred efficient\nmen, nor more than forty horses. Some of the beasts were lame, and\nuseful only in making out a show of a troop of cavalry.\nAt Guachoya he sent Juan de Anasco with eight of the cavalry\ndown the river to discover what population might be there and get what\nknowledge there was of the sea. He was gone eight days and stated,\nwhen he got back, that in all that time he could not travel more than\nfourteen or fifteen leagues, on account of the great bogs that came\nout of the river, the canebrakes and thick shrubs that were along the\nmargin, and that he had found no inhabited spot.\nThe river, the river—\nThe Governor sank into a deep despondency at sight of the diffi-\nculties that presented themselves to his reaching the sea; and, what\nwas worse, from the way in which the men and horses were diminish-\ning in numbers, he could not sustain himself in the country without\nsuccor. Of that reflection he pined—\nBut before he took to his pallet, he sent a message to the cacique\nof Quigaltam, to say that he was the child of the sun, and whence he\ncame all obeyed him, rendering him tribute; that he besought him to\nvalue his friendship, and to come where he was. By the same Indians\nthe chief replied:\nAs to what you say of your being the child of the sun, if you will\ncause him to dry up the great river, I will believe you; as to the rest,\nit is not my custom to visit anyone, but rather all, of whom I have\never heard, have come to visit me, to serve and obey me, and pay me\ntribute, either voluntarily or by force. If you desire to see me, come\nwhere I am; if for peace, I will receive you with especial good will;\nif for war, I will await you in my town; but neither for you, nor for\nany man, will I set back one foot.\nWhen the messenger returned the Governor was already low,\nbeing very ill of fevers. He grieved that he was not in a state to cross"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "179", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.55", "texte": "the river at once to see if he could not abate that pride; though the\nstream was already flowing very powerfully, was nearly half a league\nbroad, sixteen fathoms deep, rushing by in a furious torrent, and on\neither shore were many Indians; nor was his power any longer so\ngreat that he might disregard advantages, relying on his strength\nalone.\nEvery day the Indians of Guachoya brought fish, until they came\nin such plenty that the town was covered with them.\nNow the Governor feared to repair the palisades that they might\nnot suppose he stood in awe of them; and, lest the Indians rise, he\nordered the slaughter at Nilco, to strike dread into the rest.\nConscious that the hour approached in which he should depart\nthis life, Soto commanded that all the king's officers should be called\nbefore him, the captains and principal personages, to whom he made\na speech. He told them that he was about to go into the presence\nof God, to give account of all his past life; and since He had been\npleased to take him away at such a time, he, His most unworthy ser-\nvant, rendered Him hearty thanks. He confessed his deep obligations\nto them all, for their great qualities, their love and loyalty to his person,\nwell tried in suffering of hardship. He begged that they would pray\nfor him. He asked that they would relieve him of the charge he had\nover them as well as of the indebtedness he was under to them all,\nas to forgive him any wrongs they may have suffered at his hands.\nTo prevent any divisions that might arise, as to who should command,\nhe begged that they elect a principal person to be governor, and\nbeing chosen, they would swear before him to obey; that this would\ngreatly satisfy him, abate somewhat the pains he suffered, and\nmoderate the anxiety of leaving them in a country, they knew not\nwhere.\nBaltasar de Gallegos responded in behalf of all, consoling him\nwith remarks on the shortness of the life of this world, attended as\nit was by so many toils and afflictions, saying that whom God earliest\ncalled away, He showed particular favor; with many other things\nappropriate to such an occasion; and finally since it pleased the Al-\nmighty to take him to Himself, amid the deep sorrow which they not\nunreasonably felt, it was necessary and becoming in him, as in them,\nto conform to the Divine Will; that as respected the election of a\ngovernor, which he ordered, whomsoever his Excellency should name\nto the command, him would they obey. Thereupon the Governor\nnominated Luis Moscosco de Alvarado to be his captain-general;"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "180", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.56", "texte": "when by all those present was he straightway chosen and sworn\nGovernor.\nThe next day, the twenty-first of May, departed this life the\nmagnanimous, the virtuous, the intrepid captain, Don Hernando de\nSoto, Governor of Cuba and Adelantado of Florida. He was ad-\nvanced by fortune, in the way she is wont to lead others, that he\nmight fall the greater depth; he died in a land, and at a time, that\ncould afford him little comfort in his illness, when the danger of being\nno more heard from stared his companions in the face, each one him-\nself having need of sympathy, which was the cause why they neither\ngave him companionship nor visited him, as otherwise they would have\ndone.\nSome were glad—\nIt was decided to conceal what had happened, lest the Indians\nmight venture on an attack when they should learn that he whom\nthey feared was no longer opposed to them.\nSo soon as death had taken place, the body was put secretly in\na house, where it remained three days: thence it was taken by night\nto the gate of the town and buried within. The Indians having seen\nhim ill, finding him no longer, suspected the reason ; and passing by\nwhere he lay, they observed the ground loose and looking about talked\namong themselves. This coming to the knowledge of Luis de Mos-\ncosco he ordered the corpse to be taken up at night, and among the\nshawls that enshrouded it having cast abundance of sand, it was taken\nout in a canoe and committed to the middle of the stream.\nDown, down, this solitary sperm, down into the liquid, the form-\nless, the insatiable belly of sleep; down among the fishes: there was\none called bagre, the third part of which was head, with gills from\nend to end, and along the sides were great spines, like very sharp\nawls, there were some in the river that weighed from a hundred to a\nhundred and fifty pounds. There were some in the shape of barbel;\nanother like bream, with the head of a hake, having a color between\nred and brown. There was likewise a kind called peel-fish, the snout\na cubit in length, the upper lip being shaped like a shovel. Others\nwere like a shad. There was one called pereo the Indians sometimes\nbrought, the size of a hog and had rows of teeth above and below.\nLuis de Moscosco ordered the property of the Governor to be\nsold at public cry. It consisted of two male and three female slaves,\nthree horses, and seven hundred swine. From that time forward most\nof the people owned and raised hogs.\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.57", "texte": "Flowers\nCharles Sheeler"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.58", "texte": "African Musical Instrument\nCharles Sheeler"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.59", "texte": "SIXTH POEM\nWilfrid H. Bendall\nHere comes, stirred by its own intrinsic power\nThe accolated chalice of my hate,\nBalanced on staggering steps . . . jewelled steps\nThat leave a red print on the pavements of my heart:\nIt is tilted at the place, on the bolus I have created,\nA symbolic mass of granite. . .\nIts thick sweet upsets with a scream\nDancing a scalding saraband over the tepid democracy of my\nrace;\nI lie calmly awake among the clouds, watching;\nMy left thigh resting warmly in the last sunset,\nMy head in the dapper moonlight of a dying world.\nThe swirling intense die under the flush of my hate,\nThe splendid sluggish picturesque waves settling,\nLowering, into extremely slow wavelets. . .\nThe sombre swell rising and falling with histrionic affecta-\ntion.\nI myself, alone,\nThe woof remembered and the forgotten warp\nPicked up and basely fondled, kissed and bathed in maudlin,\nLonely smiles. Starkly, I arise calmly. . .\nStanding up with the broken threads,\n(tottering to and fro with intense sarcasm)\nGrasp the slimed bolus in five places\nPlacing it besides the shattered chalice.\nSinking back among the clouds with closed eyes\nI dutifully purse my lips for a kiss fulgent with death and\nunabated content."}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.60", "texte": "BOOK REVIEWS\nGREAT AMERICAN NOVELS\n\nThe Great American Novel, by William Carlos IVilliams. Paris.\nThe Three Mountain Press.\nCane, b\\) Jean Toomer. Nexe Yorfy. Boni and Liveright. $2.00.\n\"Of all the ways of beginning a book which are now in practice\nthroughout the known world, I am confident my own way of doing\nit is best ... for I begin with writing the first sentence and trusting\nto Almighty God for the second.\" In this way Laurence Sterne set\nout to write Tristram Shandy which is perhaps The Great English\nNovel. And William Carlos Williams, by what can scarcely be called\na coincidence, is off in the same direction to make The Great Amer-\nican Novel. Dr. Williams is obsessed by the word. To make words\nplay, or to be at mercy of their play. This is the only reality the\nartist in literature knows.\n\"If there is progress then there is a novel,\" he says in the first\nchapter. \"One must begin with words if one is to write. ... It is\nwords that must progress.\"\nAnd soon: \"What difference is it whether I make the words or\ntake the words? . . . There cannot be a novel. There can only be\npyramids, pyramids of words, tombs.\nThe words paint the background of America. Now we are gaping\nat the outline of Manhattan from the factory laden meadows of\nNew Jersey; now we are brooding with the discoverers over a new\nocean or an unknown province.\nIn pyramids Williams heaps up his America. He knows her\nnational accent; her speech, her credulities, her prejudices burn in\nhis ears. He is terribly sincere. Perhaps the only one, and so much so\nthat his honesty drives him to the ground, where one begins with words.\nAll other moderns write constantly to belie their experiences and their\npersonalities, to be artists. (And yet some absurd person accuses\nWilliams of \"pose.\")\nAt their best his dissociations have a necessity about them that is\nmore satisfying than causality. At their worst we are simply in the\nwilderness of modern art. We know in our deepest conscience that"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "185", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.61", "texte": "words are all we have, and that if our sensibilities be acute enough\n(as naturalists learn the speech of birds) they will lead us into their\nown game and we will learn.\nToomer is close to his soil, his book is dripping of the Negro\nSouth, and beyond this, he writes with a prodigious intensity of sight\nand hearing. Hitherto this unconsciously gifted race has expressed\nitself in America through a superb folk-music and folk-poetry. Cane\nis unique in that it is the expression of an artist working deliberately\nin the literary medium, young, headstrong, unreserved, but ultimately\nfaithful.\nThe hysteria, the passion, the madness and the great sweetness\nof his negroes recalls Dostoyevski and his possessed Russian char-\nacters. In the many moments of most perfect insight which occur in\nthe book, these people speak and move with the same awful sense of\nrevelation, and catharisis.\nIn a mood of great fear, Ralph Kabnis speaks to himself:\n\"Come now, Ralph, go in and make yourself go to sleep. Come\nnow ... in the door . . . that's right. Put the poker down. There.\nAll right. Slip under the sheets. Close your eyes. Think nothing\n... a long time . . . nothing, nothing. Don't even think nothing.\nBlank. Not even blank. Count. No, you mustn't count. Nothing\n. . . blank . . . nothing . . . blank . . . space without stars in it.\nNo, nothing . . . nothing ...\n\"Kabnis sleeps. The winds, like soft voiced vagrant poets sing:\nWhite -man's land\nNiggers sing.\nBurn, bear black children\nTill poor rivers bring\nRest and sweet glory\nIn Camp Ground.\"\nThis is remarkable sensuous writing. The lyric is unaffected and\nspontaneous poetry, and there are others in the book, such as Karintha\nand Seventh Street which startle by their unrestrained passion or anger.\nThe stories, sketches and lyrics which compose the books have\nbeen arranged with some attempt at architectural unity. But this is\nbeside the point. At bottom Toomer is fiercely emotional, vigorous\n—and how often one has wailed at the lack of energy in contemporary\nwriters—at times fearfully impolite, by standards of recent English"}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.62", "texte": "schools. Perhaps it were better for Toomer to follow his five or six\nsenses rather than search for cerebral super-forms. Once he has for-\ngotten his lessons in psychoanalysis and unanimisme his own sensibilities\nwill determine the simple artistic forms which will contain his huge\nspouting pages of American prose.\nHistory of Magic and Experimental Science in the First to the Thir-\nteenth Century of Our Era, by Lyn Thorndike; 2 volumes. New\nYork• The Macmillan Co. $10.00.\nWe have all, at one time or another, smiled significantly over\nthe fact that astronomy is a development from astrology; chemistry\nfrom alchemy; and so on. Humorous pedants have seen in this\nnothing more than an application of current homiletics, the \"poor boy\nto president\" stuff. Lowly alchemy became chemistry to help Dupont\nmanufacture Pyrahn. It is doubtful whether Dr. Thorndike himself\nhas escaped from this attitude, wholly; but his book is so rich, is such\na generous gathering of fascinating knowledge that he can be forgiven.\nIn effect the book is a sequel to Frazer's Golden Bough in reveal-\ning the primitive background of human achievements in science, and\ngeneral culture. Although it halts at the thirteenth century, it explains\nthe Ku Klux Klan and Raymond Duncan quite as capably as it does\nthe awe of the Greek Herodotus over the mysteries of Osiris.\nThe book should be very helpful in one way, probably uninten-\ntionally so. If magic was the science of the world up to the thirteenth\ncentury, it should be equally clear that our own science, to which we\nare no less respectful than Voodoo devotees to their Mumbo-Jumbo,\nis the magic of our time. Our magic it is true is becoming more and\nmore plausible and exact. One could hardly ask more of a book\nthan a twofold illumination like this.\nFaint Perfume, by Zona Gale. New York• D. Appleton and Com-\npany. $1.75.\nA mild and somewhat passive sensitivity in contact with life's in-\nnocuous commonplaces yields two primary states: a poignance, and an\nawareness proportioned to the degree of sensitivity. Faint Perfume\nthe story of a delicate woman shunted temporarily into the family of\na Gideonite, receiving her love experience in their midst, is less success-\nful in realizng the first than the second of these. The book is emotion-\n\nM. J.\nI. s."}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "187", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.63", "texte": "ally thin, and curiously without body. Hence the impacts, frictions,\nand distress that it should generate never really move one. Though\nthe boy, Oliver, responding in the spontaneous manner of childhood\nto life's quick shifts from ioy to pain, is satisfying in this respect.\nBut the positive feature of this novel is the delicate awareness that\nillumines its pages. Particularly, the awareness that springs into being\nwith the love episode. It is a fine thing in these days to be reminded\nand convinced that the contact of a man and a woman can result in\nsomething beyond sex conflict; in an expansion, in an intensification of\nlife generally. And it is pleasant in current fiction to read such state-\nments of inner and outer relationship as these:\n\"Leda was shaken by an abrupt sense that they were one\ncreature, as if each had extensions of being which had fused\nin something finer than light and color, had become one con-\nsciousness.\" \"At this she laughed, thinking how in his pres-\nence one became multiplied, arrived at more being. But she\nwas afraid to tell him so. Not afraid of him essentially, but\nrather of -his external and worldly self, the guest of that\nhouse.\" \"How is anyone to survive talk which leaves one\nphysically faint from its unconscious breaches of decency?\"\n\"It was an intense affirmation to sit there saying nothing.\"\nIn fact, the fault and fineness of the book lie in just this: that it\ngives the reality of perception rather than that of dimensional experi-\nence; that its movement is achieved by no motors below the level of\nsensitized perception. If the following quotation be taken as the central\nidea of Faint Perfume: \"There awaited her that new horror, new\nby only a few thousand years, which attends on the emergence of sen-\nsibility: The new horror of an isolated sensibility wared upon by the\nstill insensible flesh of the race from which it rises.\" then it may be\nconcluded that while this sensibility is given, the horror, the emotion\nis not realized.\n\nJ. T."}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "188", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.64", "texte": "Tennyson, by Harold Nicolson. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Company.\n$4.00.\nTennyson has been under-estimated by the present generation. Hav-\ning been adulated as a thinker and prophet by his own age, the present\nhas come to ignore even the technical excellences of the mans writing.\nMr. Harold Nicolson's critical biography is an elaborate and severe\nappraisal of the Poet Laureate. Steeping ourselves in Tennyson, we\nobserve how he was \"influenced by the contemporary demand for calm\nelevation and for human sentiment. His mother's fondness for Felicia\nHemans could not fail to leave a tremulous impression; the society of\nthe young ladies at Horncastle, the type of verses which these young\nladies expected and received ...\"\nTennyson's case is epitomized by Mr. Nicolson as of a subjective\npoet, \"forced however justifiably, into a perpetual straining after ob-\njective expression.\" Tennyson should perhaps have been a volcanic\npoet, if his loose and floundering youth had been built upon as theatri-\ncally as Byron's.\nWhat is admirable in that phase of Tennyson's writings which still\nmay appeal to us is the accuracy with which he worked. His method\nwas reasonable, and he was evidently possessed of great mechanical\ncuriosity. Thus his letters and notes furnish evidence of the precision\nand authority with which he went at his versification.\nAn unfavorable review of one of Tennyson's early volumes caused\nthe Laureate to lapse into a ten years' silence. This episode may be\nnumbered among the many, by now, quaint and archaic mannerisms\nof the Victorian era which so amuse our own generation.\nHaving been accused, among other things, of a \"shallow meta-\nphysics,\" Tennyson, during his seclusion, set himself an exacting\nprogram:\nMonday History, German\nTuesday Chemistry, German\nWednesday Botany, German\nThursday Electricity, German\nFriday Animal Physiology, German\nSaturday Mechanics\nSunday Geology\nThus, Tennyson eventually became immensely popular—a best\nseller in fact.\nThe biographer does not succeed in making of Tennyson a sym-\npathetic and imposing figure. One doubts whether he really tried to,"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "189", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.65", "texte": "or that it mattered much. Instead, he seizes, profitably and with much\nshrewdness the most illuminating details of the Laureate s career. The\nbook forms a keen and sensitive revaluation of Tennyson.\nCups of Illusion, by Henry Bellamann. Boston. Houghton, Mifflin\nCompany. $1.50.\nMr. Bellamann is a more painstaking poet than are most our\ncontemporaries. His training is excellent, and his regard for the laws,\nhis sound ear and eye are gratifying. At his best his observations\ntake the form of direct statement as in\"The Return\":\nI have been very conscious of the hills\nwarming their soft round backs\nin the April sun,\nor in \"Hedges,\" which is the most firmly carved poem in his book:\nHedges have good manners . . .\nThings grow in rows.\nWeak things bloom free—\nCertain slow and strong things\nWait the gardener's passing.\nHaving recorded his certain delicate sensations in an impressionistic\nmanner, Mr. Bellamann is finished. At his indifferent best, the verses\nlack energy, and are notably wanting in those robust spiritual qualities\nthat larger poets are made of. Let us have done with this facile\nhedonism which the American poetry movement has been nourish-\ning, and whereby poetry becomes the fragmentary record of the more\nsubtle experiences of the senses. How far can one go, oh how far,\nwith the business of being \"suggestive\" and not echo all the other\nsuggestive poets who have been professionally \"suggestive\" in a yearly\nvolume for these past twelve years?"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "190", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.66", "texte": "COMMENT\nWEEK END PAINTERS\n\nThe prodigious spread of that costly urban pastime, painting, as\na country sport in the course of the summer months must be cheering\nto pigment grinders and color vendors of a complacent creed. Gate\nreceipts to the meets held sporadically from Woodstock to Taos\nand from Monhegan to Santa Barbara are not as yet exorbitantly\ntaxed. Painting, not so long ago classified with ping-pong and other\nmildly exhilarating games for girlish gentlemen and unprepossessing\nmasculine young ladies, is on the way to becoming a major American\nsummer sport.\nThe exhibitions presented this past season by the Woodstock As-\nsociation may be considered together a fair specimen of the efforts of\nthese new growths in process of formation. It incorporates individuals\nwho have either been members of, or who hold strong affiliations with,\nother summer associations. It possesses an obsolete tradition, owing to\nits having been the summer seat of the most productive American\nacademic factory, presumably moved elsewhere, but certainly still\nactively flourishing in three or more local schools.\nNew York witnesses, among others, two yearly exhibitions: the\nIndependents and the American Painters and Sculptors. The latter\nhas a jury, an unimportant incumbrance in contradistinction to the\nformer free-for-all at eight or ten dollars a head. These two shows last\nwinter included what was found more fittingly in smaller quantity\nwithin the Woodstock Gallery. The Painters and Sculptors contribute\n\n* A George Bellows\nB Henry Macfee\nC. ...... • • • John F. Carlson\nD Charles Rosen\nE • Unknown\nF Andrew Dasburg\nC Eleanor Rixon\nH Eugene Speicher"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "191", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.67", "texte": "a half dozen painters, men in the limelight, because of their dexterity\nin rounding out semi-pleasing portraits, landscapes, and occasional\nstill-lifes for their casual and not too exacting followers. The de-\ncorative value of dead fish on a silver platter or a bowl of rubber\nfruit is at least questioned by the picture purchasing public, today.\nThese individuals have been heralded far too long a time as younger\npainters of worth, even though their youth is no longer in evidence.\nOur most delightful non-comprehending public grants them prestige,\nsince they possess the ability to catch a yearly medal or honorable\nmention from a defunct group of academicians who maintain a Eu-\nropean or two of reputation to give them the semblance of officialdom.\nTheir endeavors are purely mimetic and they at best approximate only\nthe secondary attributes of this now standardized subject matter which\nhas been completely constructed by their acknowledged masters abroad.\nThe Independents donate a hundred of their approximately un-\nknown in two sections. The majority, leaning on the judgments of\ntheir none-too-able instructors, struggle to present their curiously im-\npotent groping towards the chaos from which contemporary art\nemerges. The minority of amateurs such as have dominated all In-\ndependent exhibitions, after a few glances at their favorites are irre-\ntrievably fixed in the reproduction of anaemic day dreams. All this is\na severe reflection on the efficacy of present criticism, especially a\ncensure of the live painters who appear flattered when contiguous to\nthis detractory dead weight. To be more explicit:\nA is a portrait whose antecedents were Rembrandt, Velasquez,\nWhistler and another great American, Mr. Chase. Rembrandt con-\ntributes the essay at reality worked by a play of light about an in-\ndifferent head, with so unskillful an emphasis upon the hands that\nthe lady's fingers remain tortured wet sticks of paint. Velasquez\nbestows the precocious lace making as an idle effort for body. Whistler\nwas sought for grace in the application of light strokes to the hair\nand lines of the gown, opposed to the broad slapping of the re-\nmainder of the gown and standard background in Chase's once popu-\nlar manner carried on by the mop-painting of Sargent.\nB is a portrait that shouts Cezanne and then disintegrates like\na flickering electric light bulb. Its maker, as the innumerable man-\nfacturers of pseudo Cezannes, overcome by the adulation of his master,\ncannot take up the tools perfected by him to progress with them into\nand out of his own being.\nC is a painstaking landscape of hills and trees in the autumn as\nhills and trees never are in the autumn, except on unsuccessful colored"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "192", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.68", "texte": "picture post cards. There are schools that teach how to do this ably\nin exchange for money.\nD is a landscape of a bridge and trees that amazes by the vers-\natility of its drawing even with the superimposed cold cream, negative\npigment. Drawing that fascinates as a good juggling act which is\nruined when an extra ball is added.\nE is a landscape, hills and meadow that Van Gogh painted one\nmorning and then wisely destroyed.\nF is the landscape that just missed ifame because its maker did\nnot possess the mental stomach to digest Picasso and the great out of\ndoors we are taught to see.\nG is a landscape by a young portrait painter of hills and a village\nthat offers objective reality without a vulgarization of the refreshing\nqualities of rocks, trees and houses.\nH is a still life, a vase of flowers, as flowers and vases never are\nsave as chosen by interior decorators for the walls of those who are\nindifferent to what sort of color spots fall within the focus of their\neyes, provided they are in fashion.\nI to Z are those nondescript canvases which are usually mentioned\nas impressionistic since they are neither classic nor expressionistic.\nThe effect of such a presentation of paintings is not dissimilar\nto that of gazing at scratched and spotted flat tone surfaces. Opposite\nthe entrance to the gallery there is an object, a standard Socony motor\ngasoline pump, constructed with no motive beyond its utility, yet it\nis so finely made that it bears a more stimulating relationship to con-\ntemporary art than the contrived exhibitions within.\nIt is all too apparent that these associations are not organized\nprimarily to pursue the technical means adopted by these painters\nto their logical conclusions, and clear away the clogs that still persist,\nwhile constructing the present in the manner of those abler European\ngroups who constantly challenge accepted aesthetic values.\nA, C, D, G, H are called academic while B, E, F are termed\nmodern, but this is solely a surface discrimination. Fundamentally\nthey accept the limitations of their group, however elastic it may be;\nfor any group is necessarily resigned to the intellect and energy con-\ntained in it.\nThis peculiar American situation is due to the influence of the\nall-powerful galleries abetted by the painters themselves. Our gallery\nowners, in their natural eagerness to measure their salesmanship with\none another, relate paintings indiscriminately with just enough atten-\ntion to acquire a moneyed inquisitive public. The painters, in their"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "193", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.69", "texte": "anxiety to gain a livelihood, to hold the captured public, and secure\nan immediate renown, are far too timorous to swerve from the chance\ncategories in which they battle to be bottled up. Emphatic differences\nof academicians and moderns are being merged to a smooth unevent-\nfulness. Contacts established with an eye to the galleries' returns,\npurchasers and mutual admirers, lead the academician to help himself\nto what he believes appealing in the modern, and the modern hangs\non desperately to the academic tricks that are applauded because they\nserved masters. Abroad a Derain and a Vlaminck stepped out of\nsuch amelioration, but here the superior individuals march along with\nthe average. These summer associations therefore, though in appear-\nance freer than winter societies because they assume a greater contact\nof painters without any exterior meddling, remain excellent examples\nof arrested growths.\nOne salvation there is. Pressure must be brought to bear on those\npainters recognized both at home and abroad, though all too little\nknown there, who advance the true concepts of painting while stead-\nfastly adhering to their birthrights. They must be urged into a de-\nfensive and offensive body by the forces of active contemporary opinion\nto stand together and present Contemporary American Art not only\nto New York, but to Paris, London, Rome, Berlin, and Moscow.\nOtherwise our industrialism which increases its domination of the\nuniverse daily, will continue to be the best fertilizer for the growth\nof European painters alone,—save for the isolated American artists\nwho always appear accidentally and at great intervals, among the\nhorde of idle players.\n\nEdward Nagle"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "[194]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.70", "texte": "When writing to advertisers please mention BROOM.\n\nIssue a Book\n—and there are twelve of them a year\nTHE DIAL does not publish anything which is not worthy of per-\npetuation in book form. It does not bother with ephemera. Each\nissue is a record of the finest creative work by contemporary artists.\nIt publishes only work possessing a permanent value. Incidentally, THE\nDIAL is quite as well printed as the best books.\nEvery issue of THE DIAL is a book—a remarkably good book—\nand there are twelve of them a year. A year of THE DIAL is the\nequivalent of a dozen books—a dozen superlative, contemporary books.\nFor $5.00 (few good books now cost less than $2.00) we will send\nyou a copy of THE DIAL every month for a year—twelve books for less\nthan the cost of three. In addition, we will send you from THE DIAL'S\nlibrary one of the following important books of the past season. THE\nDIAL has a small surplus of books carried over from last year, which it is\noffering to new subscribers at a remarkably low combination price. Present\nsubscribers may secure one or more of these books by writing us for a\nspecial rate.\nA SURVEY, by Max Beerbohm\nAARON'S ROD, by D. H. Lawrence\nPOEMS 1918-1921, by Ezra Pound\nAFOOT IN ENGLAND, by W. H. Hudson\nSEA AND SARDINIA, by D. H. Lawrence\nMR. WADDINGTON OF WYCK, by Map Sinclair\nTHE STORY OF MANKIND, by Hendrik W. Van Loon\nTHE STORY OF UTOPIAS, by Lewis Mumford\nAGAINST THE GRAIN, by /. K. Huysmans\nMAYA THE BEE, by Waldemar Bonsels\nMARIA CHAPDELAINE, by Louis Hemon\nTHE WASTE LAND, by T. S. Eliot\nTHE JUDGE, by Rebecca West\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13th Street New York City\nGentlemen: Please enter my name for a year's subscription to THE DIAL, beginning with the\nOctober issue. Also, send me the book listed below.\nName\nAddress\nBook\n| 11 enclose $5.00. Q I will remit $5.00 on receipt of your bill."}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "[195]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.71", "texte": "When writing to advertisers please mention BROOM.\n\nThe most precious cargo\nof the Mayflower was invisible—the English \"soul\" and its heritage of English\nculture. Every ship that has landed settlers ever since—from the S. Caterina\nthat brought the first handful of Jews and the Goede Vrouw with its Dutchmen\nto the last Cunarder racing; through the Narrows its quota of Jugo-Slavs\nhas brought a similarly precious cargo.\nBut do we enjoy to the full the age-ripe heritages of all our constituent nation-\nalities which, tempered by the new American experience, are the real sources\nof a great American culture of the future? They are the motifs that can\nmake the pattern of American culture rich, manifold, alive, and beautiful.\nThe Menorah Journal\nembodies the experience and expression of a group of writers and artists who\nas Jews see American life through the lens of their own historical and cultural\npast; they are giving color, vividness, and critical consciousness to American\nlife that all Americans must value—they are putting their racial cargo to\nwork, for the general benefit. In addition to this distinctly American group,\nrealizing in their own fashion the inherent inter-nationalism of culture, THE\nMENORAH JOURNAL is introducing to America the most significant and\ncharacteristic Jewish writers and artists abroad. Not least, the Journal\nfeatures the thought of Gentiles alive to the significance of the Jew in American\nlife and culture.\nThe current issue, which is typical, contains\nThe Judaic Strain in Modern Letters,\nBurton Rascoe\nHerzi/s Utopia .Lewis Mumford\nSaturday : The Story of a Crime, Max Bobin\nWith drawings by I. Tchaikov\nThe Village .Issachar Ber Rybbak\nAn Insert of wSeven Drawings\nThe Jew in the European Scene,\nMarvin Lowenthal\n11. With Kunze and Hitler\nFive Years of the Jewish Art Theatre,\nSamuel S. Grossman\nDo You Know What the Mountains\nAre? . Jacob Cahan\nLouis Untermeyer—(\"At Least Four\nPortraits \") James N. Rosenberg\nLeopold Zunz—Humanist S. Barueh\n(Concluded)\nLetters From Abroad\nWarsaw: Looking at the Nalewki,\nI. M. Neuman\nWith illustration: Three Jewish Art Posters\nVienna: Morale in Austria.. .Eugen Hoeflich\nJerusalem: The \"Soap-Bubble City\",\nJessie E. Sampter\nSalvaging Our Folk-Art. .Marek Schwarz\nThe Adversary's Note-Book,\nH. Ben-Shahar\nThe inevitable coupon, of course—but tear it off quickly and, as an acknowl-\nedgment, we will send you any two books of the Modern Library series and\nthe previous issue containing the seventeen woodcuts of Jacob Steinhardt.\nStill hesitant? Send us fifty cents and we'll despatch you the current issue\nand the previous issue, gratis.\n\nThe Menorah: Journal, 167 West 13th Street, New York City\nFor the enclosed ) $3,92 I send The Menorah Send the two books from the Modern Library\n* > ( year ) noted below or list of Modern Library titles\nJournal for a j montk to from which to select and the previous issue to\nName Name\nAddress Address •\nThese two books"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.72", "texte": "When writing to advertisers please mention BROOM.\n\n— Informed Criticism —\n— Entertaining Gossip —\n— Excellent Short Stories —\n— Illuminating Editorials —\n— Contemporary Poetry —\n— Provocative Discussions —\nTHE\nBOOKMAN\nThe Literary Magazine With a Personality\nEdited by John Farrar\nAn American Critic Says:\n\"I often wonder at the friends who say they do not see THE BOOKMAN. In\nall the magazine list I know nothing more generally agreeable than this publication of\nthe George H. Doran Company. It is not alone for its book notes, reviews of the\nlatest publications, gossip of books and authors that we value it, but for a certain\nspontaneous charm in almost every contribution. It is as if those men who had become\nfamous assumed a more natural attitude, feeling themselves at home in a congenial\natmosphere.\"\nAn English Critic Says: /\nI am glad to find that THE BOOKMAN of New York is issued here as S\nTHE AMERICAN BOOKMAN, for it is, in my judgment, far and /\naway the most interesting literary magazine issued in the English-speak- /\ning world. It is edited by Mr. John Farrar. There is good criticism /\nin it and good literature, and with these we have just that element /\nof news which has a special charm for people of my disposi- /\ntion.\"—Clement Shorter in\"The Sphere\" {London). / BOOKMAN\nIt not only gives you the news of the world of lit era- 112 244 Madison Avenue\nture, hut it fills the gaps with charming essays, / New York.\ngo,.ip and fun-making. It has more than doubled y Gentlemen: I should like\nits circulation in the past three years. The / , , . £\n» r nn _ _ / to try the next three issues or\nreaders of BROOM are the type of new / Dmi,y *XT ,\n, « . * > . - , / THE BOOKMAN and am en-\nsubscnbers it is looking for! Will you / , . rr r .\n_ 9 * closing fifty cents for that purpose.\nnot give it a try: /\n/Name\nAddress\n/\n. T. 26.7"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.73", "texte": "When writing to advertisers please mention BROOM.\n\nArtists !\nHow often have you wanted to possess a well-illustrated book on the work of that penetrating,\nsardonic genius, HENRI DE TOULOUSE-LAUTREC! But you did not know just where\nto get it, or it was too expensive, or you had to send to Europe for it. Here is your chance.\nTHE ARTS for SEPTEMBER\nis a special\nTOULOUSE-LAUTREC NUMBER\nIt contains FORTY-TWO REPRODUCTIONS selected for you by an artist, our Paris repre-\nsentative, after careful study of all available material. No matter how well you are acquainted\nwith the art of Toulouse-Lautrec you will be surprised and delighted by the variety, scope\nand biting quality of these works of art. THE SEPTEMBER ARTS is a BOOK ON\nTOULOUSE-LAUTREC which you cannot secure in any other form for ten times the price\nof a single copy of THE ARTS.\nAnd the illustrations accompany an essay by Alexander Brook that is worthy of them. It is\nfresh, youthful, accurate and interesting from beginning to end.\nIe TUT A\nAcquainted With\nHave You Become THE ARTS?\nTHE ARTS is an entirely new type of art magazine. It is not edited for those interested\nonly in the art of today nor for those interested only in ancient art. THE ARTS assumes\nthat thinking people wish intelligent information on all phases of art. THE ARTS represents\nno cause or group. To contribute to the pleasure and enjoyment of art for the artist and\nthe layman is its aim.\nPublished each month THE ARTS brings you all the news of the current exhibitions worth\nseeing. If an exhibition is reviewed in THE ARTS you should see it.\nTHE ARTS keeps abreast of the important happenings in Europe and America. Its con-\ntributors have the highest standing in their respective fields. A partial list of the men who\nwrite for THE ARTS is sufficient to verify this fact.\nAlexander Brook\nAlan Burroughs\nVirgil Barker\nWilliam M. Ivins, Jr.\nCharles Downing Lay\nAllen Tucker\nHarry Wehle\nCharles Sheeler\nStewart Culin\nFletcher Steele\nEgerton Swartwout\nJohn Jay Chapman\nJohn Dos Passos\nFrances Morris\nDudley Poore\nEdwin Evans\nHarley Perkins\nJohn Bunting\nJohn Blomshield\nForbes Watson\nArthur Davison Ficke\nSpecial Introductory Offer\nThe regular price of T'HE ARTS is 50 cents a copy, $5.00 a year. We are anxious to have\nyou become acquainted with the magazine, however, and for that reason we are offering a\nsix months' subscription for $2.00. On receipt of your order your name will be entered on\nour list to receive the next six issues of THE ARTS' starting with the September issue con-\ntaining the Toulouse-Lautrec article.\nThe Arts Publishing Corporation\n19 East 59th Street New York City"}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.74", "texte": "When writing to advertisers please mention BROOM.\n\n(OtftlT6<y wY. WORU.O\nm\n. G. WELLS\nagain chooses The New Republic for the serial presentation of his\nforthcoming work \"A Great Schoolmaster: Sanderson of Oundle.\"\nThe first of six parts will appear in the issue of October 3rd. Wells\nregarded Sanderson as the greatest educator of his generation, whose\nideas and methods are of profound importance. He has written an\ninstructive book about him that is invaluable to parents, educators\nand students of modern educational theories.\n[If you are not a subscriber insure getting the 1\nentire series by filling in one of the forms below.J\nTHE NEW REPUBLIC,\n421 West 21st St., New York.\nFor the enclosed $ send me The\nNew Republic for and this book by\nH. G. Wells\nName\nAddress\nMen Like Gods, with a year of The N. R.\nfor $5.50; Ann Veronica with six months\n($2.50); Short History of the World (N. R.\nedition) with a year, $6.80. 10-23\n\"tjfie ' I\\Tejf\nREPUBLIC\n421 West 21S Street\nNewYerkCity THE NEW REPUBLIC,\n421 West 21st St., New York.\nFor the enclosed $1.00 send me The New\nRepublic for the next 13 weeks, commencing\nwith the issue of October 3rd.\nName\nAddress\n(in full) 10-23"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192310-01.1.75", "texte": "The Age\nof the Machine\nT\nHE Age of the Machine in America is an age of\ni i\n— J —mm Tt r y-v 11 n\none\nof\neco-\nEX LIBRIS\nily from the\nS\nI\nI\nft\n%\n%\nin aggressive\nid non-com-\nwork of sig-\nof all names\nvith Europe,\nndellos, and\nto America,\nith two-color\nactions, and\nAs an inducemen\nfollowing books 1\nSHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY\nPARIS\nir one of the\nJacob's Room, bj\nThe Captain's Doll, by D. H.\nLawrence\nCANE, by Jean Toomer\nHoliday, by Waldo Frank\nHarmonium, by Wallace Stevens\nDove's Nest, by Katherine Mansfield\nThe Enormous Room, by E. E.\nCummings\n| BROOM -47 W. 34th St., N. Y. i\nFor the enclosed $ please\nsend Broom for one year and the fol~\nlowing book:\nName\nAddress\nL\n$5.00 Annual Subscription.\n50 Cents the Copy.\ni\n_i"}]}