{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_sha256": "161e593024ba6832d95b94c7d3ead14cb119711dc477780abd7195d665604011", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaar/issues/1899/11/15_01/bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaar/issues/1899/11/15_01/bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c001", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c001", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "III", "page_fin": "III", "image_debut": 1, "image_fin": 1, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.1", "titre_corps": "EAST & WEST is published on the fifteenth of every month, at", "titre_sommaire": "EAST & WEST is published on the fifteenth of every month, at", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "III", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.1", "debut_caractere": 11, "fin_caractere_exclue": 444, "texte": "EAST & WEST is published on the fifteenth of every month, at\n36 West 75th Street, New York, where all communications, whether to the\nbusiness or editorial departments, should be addressed. Manuscript will be\ngladly received and carefully examined—but should in all cases be\naccompanied by a stamped and addressed envelope for return—although in\nno case can the editors be responsible for unsolicited MSS.\nPrice 20 cents; $2.00 a year"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "III", "page_fin": "III", "image_debut": 1, "image_fin": 1, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "Contents for November, 1899", "titre_sommaire": "Contents for November, 1899", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "III", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.1", "debut_caractere": 446, "fin_caractere_exclue": 962, "texte": "Contents for November, 1899\nTHE UNKNOWN COUNTRY\nJeannette Bliss Gillespy\n1\nCOMMENTS\n1\nREVEALED\nLulah Ragsdale\n3\nTHE ARTIST\nGustav Kobbe\n4\nTO MY BROTHER ON HIS\nTWELFTH BIRTHDAY\nJoel Elias Spingarn\n8\nTHE ECLIPSE OF POETRY\nLouise Betts Edwards\n11\nHOLBEIN\nRobert Jermain Cole\n17\nArthur Ketchum\n18\nAN EPITAPH\n18\nYOUTH'S HERITAGE\nAnne F.Wilson\nl 9\nTHE WORLD-PLAY\nRichard Burton\n25\nTHE NEWYORK THEATRE:\nA FOREWORD\nGeorge C. D. Odell\n26\nREVIEWS\n29\nCopyright 1899—Entered at the Post-office at New York as second-class matter"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "IV", "page_fin": "IV", "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.3", "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": 2, "page_imprimee": "IV", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 28, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1438, "texte": "Hark! All You Who Buy Books and Pictures!\nYOU CAN BUY THEM AT WHOLESALE PRICES BY JOINING\nTHE NEW YORK CO-OPERATIVE SOCIETY\nwhich secures to its members special cut prices on books, pictures and magazines. For example\nour prices for\nRICHARD CARVEL \\ Q\nDAVID HARUM (_ 9o cents each\nTHE KING'S MIRROR ( Published at $1.50\n(New Book by Anthony Hope) J u\nWe supply the cheapest books as well as sets in the finest bindings. Drop us a card, and we\nwill send full information.\n1. A COMPLETE LIST OF MAGAZINES AT SPECIAL PRICES\n2. SOME RETAIL STORES WHERE WE SECURE DISCOUNTS FOR MEMBERS\n3. HOW TO BECOME A MEMBER\n4. HOW TO SAVE MONEY ON ALL YOUR PURCHASES\nAddress ARTHUR H. HAHLO, Manager\nTHE NEW YORK CO-OPERATIVE SOCIETY 139 Fifth Avenue, New York City\nCONCERNING PICTURES\nWe have opened a branch store (retail) for pictures and illustrated books at 140 Fifth Avenue (corner 19th\nStreet), and invite you to inspect our assortment of fine arts, suitable for\nWEDDING AND HOLIDAY GIFTS\nranging in price from one dollar up. The stock includes\nREMARQUE PROOF ETCHINGS (after Meissonier, Millet, Jacque and Breton).\nENGRAVINGS\nDRAWINGS (signed by C. D. GIBSON)\nORIGINAL WATER COLORS (specimens by Palianti, pupil of Corot, and Percy Moran).\nPHOTOGRAVURES, PRINTS AND PHOTOGRAPHS\nORIGINAL SKETCHES by A. B. FROST, HENRY MAYER, WOOLF and others.\nWe invite comparison between our prices and those of other fine-art dealers."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "IV", "page_fin": "IV", "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.4", "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": 2, "page_imprimee": "IV", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1440, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1647, "texte": "THE BEST PORTRAITS\nOF\nAuthors Artists\nLawyers Statesmen\nKings and Queens Musicians\nActors and Actresses Historical Personages\nCATALOGUE (Second Edition, R\nFREDERICK KEPPEL & CO.\n20 East 16th Street, New York"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1", "page_fin": "1", "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "The Unknown Country", "titre_sommaire": "The Unknown Country", "signature_source": "Jeannette Bliss Gillespy", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 54, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1926, "texte": "The Unknown Country\nJeannette Bliss Gillespy\nBy\nAs one who, come at dawn 7ipon a hill\n]V\\arking the confines of some unknown land,\nVauses and looks abroad to tmderstand\nWhat lies before him, if or good or ill,\nThen drazvs the deep breath of the morning chill,\nTightens his staff again within his hand,\nStraightens his shoulders, gives his soul command,\nAnd takes his march again with better will,—\nSo /, upon the borders of the year,\nPause to behold the ways zvhere I must go,\nAnd breathe the deep, clear breath of early day,\nThen down the slope of time, without a fear\n\\Begin my march to meet the day s full glow,\nEager to lose no moment of the way.\nONE day in December of 1898,\nabout the middle of their senior\nyear, two Columbia students\nwho had grown retrospective\nover a lingering luncheon, came to the\nconclusion that they were both equally\neager to continue their literary and edi-\ntorial labors beyond the academic walls.\nThey had common ideals, and held com-\nmon views concerning the condition of\nmagazine literature at the present day\nin America. So, before leaving the\ntable, they reached the decision that im-\nmediately upon graduation, they would\nstart a periodical which should be de-\nvoted to creative and critical literature\nalong the line of their own views. With\nthis plan in mind, they asked the advice of\ncertain persons whose opinion they\nrespected, and, finding encouragement,\nthey went speedily to work. The first\nresult of their labors, this initial number\nof EAST AND WEST, now awaits the ver-\ndict of the public.\nThe considerations that determined the\ncharacter of EAST AND WEST, and the\nintentions and aims of the editors, have\nalready been set forth at length in a pros-\npectus, which many of our readers have\nseen. For the benefit of those who have\nnot been thus prepared, we shall take\nthis opportunity to restate the more im-\nportant points."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1", "page_fin": "3", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 5, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Comments", "titre_sommaire": "Comments", "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": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 1928, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1936, "texte": "Comments"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3883, "texte": "It is a generally recognized fact that in\nnearly all our periodicals, pure literature\nis receiving less and less space and atten-\ntion, because of the journalistic and pic-\ntorial tendencies now so conspicuous.\nThe magazines are filled largely with\narticles of a reportorial nature, with pict-\nures, and with the work of scientific and\npolitical specialists. Verse occupies for\nthe most part, in magazines that print\npoetry at all, the subordinate and un-\nworthy place of stop-gap, and the fiction\nis recommended not infrequently by the\nname of the author rather than by any\nreal merit it may possess. Although, of\ncourse, the modern magazine, with its\nwealth of illustrations and variety of arti-\ncles, has a definite and important place of\nits own, we believe that there are also a\nplace and a public for a magazine that\nshall be entirely literary, containing well-\nwritten stories, good verse, both serious\nand light, and essays of contemporaneous\ninterest. It is hoped that EAST AND\nWEST will take this place among maga-\nzines.\nWhile EAST AND WEST will seek to ob-\ntain the very best American literary\nmaterial from every source, a special\nendeavor will be made to interest the\nyounger writers in the present venture,\nand also to bring before the public the\nwork of those who, as undergraduates,\nhave done most to raise college literature\nto the grade of excellence it has attained\nof late years. It has been common in the\npast to point out the small percentage of\ncollege graduates among American men\nof letters. We feel convinced that this\nwill be very different in the future, and\nthat college men are taking a larger share\nin the nation's literature.\nEAST AND WEST will absolutely avoid\nthe faddish and decadent elements that\nhave lately been so prevalent. While\nseeking to be as vivacious and as graceful\nas its brightest contemporaries, it will aim\nat being thoroughly sensible, honest, and\nin accord with the best standards and tra-\nditions of English literature. In criticism\nit will try to be both progressive and con-\nservative, eager to recognize good in the\nliterature of the present, but careful not\nto be led astray by uncritical enthusiasm\nover mere cleverness and novelty.\nIt will thus be seen that we have certain\nhopes and certain beliefs, and that we\ndeem these well worth the holding and\nthe striving for. We believe that litera-\nture is worth while for its own sake, irre-\nspective of its commercial value, and that,\nto be truly successful, men must write\nwith this at heart. We hold it true, more-\nover, that honesty and sincerity of pur-\npose are the keynotes to what is best in\nart as in life, and that whoever misuses\nthe opportunities of literature, equally\nwith him who misuses the opportunities\nof living, for ends lower than the highest,\nthe satisfaction of his own moral and\nartistic consciousness, fails absolutely, in\nspite of present appearances and the skil-\nful exercise of his talents. We hope that\nthere are sufficient persons in sympathy\nwith our aims, both in the writing and in\nthe reading world, to ensure the continu-\nance of a magazine conducted on these\nlines. It has been intimated to us that\nmany of our ideals will be knocked into\na cocked hat by the ruthless hand of ex-\nperience. Possibly. But, if so, we shall\npick up the cocked hat, and wear it as\nsmartly as may be, until the end of the\nchapter. Some of our early hopes and\nbeliefs may suffer beyond redemption,\nbut we trust that the old fundamental\nfaith in art and life will remain unbattered\nand unchanged.\nIn sending forth our magazine to make\nits first appearance before the public we\nare strongly conscious of a feeling of\ngratitude toward a large number of\nfriends whose interest and kindness have\nbeen never-failing from the first. It is\nnow our high and very pleasurable privi-\nlege to make grateful acknowledgment of\nthe obligations under which they have"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 10, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1510, "texte": "id us. The constant friendly acts and\nLvaluable advice of Professors George\n2. Woodberry, Brander Matthews,\nGeorge R. Carpenter, and A. V. Will-\nams Jackson have meant very much to\nis who have older and firmer bonds than\nleed here be dwelt upon, to bind us\n:o these gentlemen. The encouraging\nvords of Mr. Edmund C. Stedman can\nleither be fittingly acknowledged in a\new printed lines, nor adequately repaid\n>y them. We shall always remember\nvith pride that the hand which has done\n10 much for literature in America, made\nruitful suggestions in the margin of our\nrst prospectus. For the helpful courtesy\n>f Professor E. R. A. Seligman, of Dr.\ndbert Shaw, and of Professor Harry\n\"hurston Peck we would also express\nur sense of deep indebtedness.\nBesides these, there are those whose\nearly faith in us and in our project has\nswelled our subscription list, thus helping\nto make the magazine financially possi-\nble ; and again, those inhabitants of the\ngreat World of Letters, whose cordial\nreception, heartily expressed good-will,\nand above all, generously proffered man-\nuscript, lead us to hope that EAST AND\nWEST will take that place as a medium\nfor the circulation of the best literature,\nthat we desire for it. The confidence and\nkind consideration of all these will be\namong our best incentives for achieve-\nment. In conclusion, we would mention\nfor his good services, Mr. H. I. Kimball,\nto whose admirable taste and valuable\nexperience the magazine owes much of\nwhatever comeliness it may possess."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "3", "page_fin": "3", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 5, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "Revealed", "titre_sommaire": "Revealed", "signature_source": "Lulah Ragsdale", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 1512, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1860, "texte": "Revealed\nLulah Ragsdale\nBy\nI n that wide silence of the Resurrection Morn,\nWhen, in my turn, I stand before the white\nSuspensive legions, suddenly reborn,\nbewildered from the grave\nAnd bare my earthly past before all eyes—\nI fear not then my Maker s wrath to see,\nI dread alone the shock of dazed surprise\nAnd wonder that your face will turn on me."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "4", "page_fin": "8", "image_debut": 6, "image_fin": 10, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "The Artist", "titre_sommaire": "The Artist", "signature_source": "Gustav Kobbe", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3406, "texte": "The Artist\nGustav Kobbe\nBy\nJT JB~ IT HAT is art,\" he said, \" but\nt/t/ loyalty to an ideal—through\nF p disappointment, weariness, hun-\nger, aye, even unto death! \"\nPoor fellow! Who knew better than\nI, who had endeavored to cheer him in his\ndisappointment, how much he had suf-\nfered ? All he craved was appreciation of\nhis art-work. I appreciated it, but I\nseemed the only person' who did. Even\nthe coterie of younger artists who were\nprogressive in their way—certainly no\nbody of men could have progressed fur-\nther in mutual admiration—were indif-\nferent to his work. So was the public.\nHe was sincerely grateful for my sympa-\nthetic interest, but it did not suffice him.\nHe needed the stimulus which public rec-\nognition alone can give.\nThe hack work he did for a livelihood\n—water colors in perspective for archi-\ntects, in which he, an ultra-impressionist\nin art, was obliged to pay strict attention\nto the most trivial minutiae—embittered\nhis nature. The time thus spent in gain-\ning his daily bread he regarded as miser-\nably wasted—as time diverted from an\nideal the adoration of which filled his\nsoul and constituted his only creed. Art,\nand Art again; and Art yet a third time\nwas his divine trinity.\nYet, between his hack work and his\npainting there was a broad field of oppor-\ntunities that I had often urged him to\nutilize—illustrations, pictures for the\ndealers, and the like. But he would not\nlisten to me. When it came to art pure\nand simple it must be of the highest. He\nwas willing to slave over commercial\nwork for a bare living, but art meant with\nhim nothing less than hot pursuit of his\nideal; and from this nothing could swerve\nhim. \" I dread,\" he would say, \" acquir-\ning that fatal facility at turning out pretty\nwork that has been the ruin of so many.\nThe ease with which they are earning\ngood money and securing the comforts\nof life has unfitted them for the trials an\nidealist—or call me ' fool' if you prefer—\nhas to bear.\"\nHe had ample reason that night to feel\nthe world's neglect most bitterly. All\nthe time he could spare from his drudgery\nthat winter he had devoted to a painting\nwhich he hoped would at last win recogni-\ntion for him; a hope in which I had stimu-\nlated him, for I followed the progress of\nhis work with unstinted admiration. It\nseemed as if he were dipping the brush\ninto his heart instead of into the palette;\nthere was no over-elaboration; every\ntouch told; every stroke of the brush was\na stroke of genius. The subject of the\npicture was most pathetic—a beggar\nlooking half-piteously, half-malignantly\nafter a richly dressed woman who had\npassed him by unheeded. My friend had\npainted at this picture with fierce energy,\nliving down to the barest necessaries so\nas to gain as much time as possible for his\nart. The figures were masterpieces of\ncharacterization. The beggar still stood\nwith outstretched hand as if through\nsheer force of habit. His look was a dra-\nmatic mingling of appeal and invection ;\nfor, as his eyes followed the woman who\nhad ignored him, the flash of malign\nhatred was but half veiled by the linger-\ning remnant of supplication. The latter\nwas professional, the former real. The\nfigure of the woman was also admirable.\nShe was advancing, but, although in the\nforeground, she was purposely subordi-\nnated to the beggar. Her face was coldly\nbeautiful, her contour perfect, her car-\nriage erect. As if to emphasize her"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 12, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3905, "texte": "heartlessness, she held a purse. But in\nspite of her rich attire and her proud bear-\ning there was a subtile suggestion of\nmeretriciousness about her.\nI knew too well that when he was paint-\ning this picture he was painting his own\nlife in allegory. He was the beggar.\nShe, the meretricious woman who passed\nhim by, was the world, the purchasable\nworld, purchasable in his opinion by any\none who cared to degrade himself to its\nlevel and cater to its tastes—who would\nstoop from art to mediocrity. Yet after-\nward, when he himself told me what I\nhad already divined, I felt bound to argue\nthat he had misrepresented himself. He\nwas not a supplicant toward the world;\nhe defied it. \"As much/' I said to him,\n\" expect a passer-by to give alms to a\nman who stands erect and defiant as to\nyou.\" But, when I seized this oppor-\ntunity of advising him to meet the public\nhalfway, hinting at false pride in his\nattitude, he flushed with anger and\nexclaimed: \" The noblest quality man\ncan boast is what the world calls ' false\npride.' \" He had adapted the old motto,\nNoblesse oblige, to Genie oblige.\nHis hopes had been greatly raised by\nthe acceptance of this painting for one of\nthe spring exhibitions. We had just\ncome from \" varnishing night\" at the\ngalleries. There we had seen artists busy\nwith their brushes accentuating certain\npoints in their canvases or toning down\nothers according as the light in which\nthey hung or the color schemes of the\nneighboring paintings affected theirs;\nart patrons strolling through the galleries\nwith a self-satisfied air as if they had de-\nluded themselves into belief that they\ncould acquire by purchase the genius as\nwell as the canvases of the artists whose\npictures they bought; critics, some of\nwhom were endeavoring to look as if\nthey constituted the court of last resort\nin the art concerning which they had been\ndelegated to write;—but we had not\nfound the painting until after a long\nsearch.\nWhen we entered the gallery in which\nour catalogue told us it hung, we allowed\nour eyes to wander slowly over the paint-\nings \"on the line.\" My friend's painting\nwas not a large canvas and to be appreci-\nated required a near-by view. This fact,\ncoupled with what we supposed to be its\nmerits, led us to look for it in a position\nworthy of these. But the position of\nhonor was occupied by a rural scene with\na cow painted in what may be called the\n\" official \" style,' for it was the work of\none of the officers of the society which\nwas holding the exhibition. It was exe-\ncuted with photographic detail that defied\nall attempt to look at the canvas as a\nwhole, the eye being constantly distracted\nby minutiae. Thus the hairs at the end\nof the cow's tail had been painted with an\nenthusiasm as touching as it was inar-\ntistic; and one could have counted every\nblade of grass in the foreground if one\ncould have afforded the time. The only\nreason that could be assigned for placing\nthe three canvases occupying the advan-\ntageous spaces above and alongside the\npicture just referred to, was the fact that\nthey had been painted by members of the\nhanging committee; so at least we heard\na young artist, who was standing behind\nus, say.\nFinally, our eyes, as they wandered\nfrom canvas to canvas, fell upon the pict-\nure we were in search of—in the most\nremote corner of the gallery, \" skied \"\nwhere the light was poorest, a corner in\nwhich it seemed to us a painting by the\ngreatest artist who ever lived would have\nbeen lost sight of.\nMy friend grasped my arm, gave it a\nspasmodic clutch and then turning, de-\nscended the stairs and walked into the\nstreet. I joined him, allowing him, how-\never, to choose the way. We hurried\nalong in silence, he taking no notice of my\npresence. The coolness of the night\nseemed grateful to him and so we walked\non and on, up the avenue into which we\nhad turned and down again until, when\nwe were abreast the entrance of the Rain-"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3791, "texte": "bow Inn, a favorite resort with us artists,\nI took his arm and led him in.\nThe Rainbow Inn was a cosey place. It\nwas a tap-room and grill where you could\ncall for ale, stout, barley-wine and stingo\non draught; could have a brace of chops\nor a thick, juicy steak off the gridiron,\nand get trusted for them besides; so that\nthe proprietor was regarded by the ar-\ntists, who were the principal patrons of\nthe place, as a guardian angel of Bohemia.\nLittle tables and comfortable chairs were\nset about the grill, and the panelled walls\nwere hung with canvases contributed by\ngrateful artists. Somehow it seemed\nless objectionable to see one's pictures ac-\ncumulating here than in one's studio.\nIt was here my friend exclaimed after\nhis bitter experience of the evening:\n\" What is art, but loyalty to an ideal—\nthrough disappointment, weariness, hun-\nger, aye, even unto death! \"\nHe had thrown himself back into his\nchair. His excitement had driven two\ncrimson spots to his cheeks, and the fire\nof genius flashed in his eyes. But a mo-\nment later when he leaned forward again\nthe spots faded away, the light in his eyes\nhad grown dim, and he said dejectedly:\n\" And what is the artist's reward? To\nbe ridiculed, or, what is worse, overlooked\naltogether. His only compensation is\nthe consciousness that he has borne un-\nflinchingly the sufferings which he has\nimposed upon himself by his loyalty to\nhis ideal.\"\n\" Does the chance of winning fame\ncount for nothing? \" I asked.\n\" Fame! Chance! \" he repeated after\nme. \" That's the villainy of it. It's all\nchance. Think of the actor whose fame\ndates from the hit he made as the hind\nlegs of a cow in a burlesque! What has\nbecome of the front legs of that cow?\nThe hind legs got the chance to kick and\nprance; the front legs didn't. Tickle\nthat many-headed ass, the public, and\nyou're famous. Get down to the level of\nthe public, and your fortune's made.\nWhat has the genius of art in common\nwith the cheap sestheticism of the day?\nPrettiness, superficial, and easily recog-\nnizable, has thrust real beauty into the\nbackground. The soubrette can draw\ncrowded houses while the tragedienne\nplays to empty seats. Down, down,\ndown to the public's level, and you are\nfamous! \"\n\" But isn't fame with posterity worth\nstriving for? \"\n\" When Cherubini was on his death-\nbed some one asked that same question,\nand the great composer replied: 'At a\ntime like this poor jokes are out of place.'\nPosthumous fame is of value only to the\ndiscoverers: to those who discover that\nan artist, neglected during his life, was a\ngenius. They have both the zest of the\ndiscovery and the aesthetic pleasure over\nbeauty which would, but for them, re-\nmain undiscovered. They may add to\ntheir enjoyment by erecting a monument\nto one to whom, during his life, the pub-\nlic refused even a stone. But the artist\ndoes not see it; he does not hear their\nwords of praise. He died in bitterness\nand despair; and there is nothing left of\nhim but a few bones in a box. Some day\nI shall write a catechism for artists, and\nthe first question and answer will be:\n\" ' Q. What must an artist do to be-\ncome great? A. Die.' And I shall add as\na supplementary beatitude: ' Blessed are\nthey that expect nothing, for they shall\nnot be disappointed/ \"\nI had no desire to enter into a religious\nargument with a man who in religious\nmatters was as severe a realist as he was\nan idealist in art. Moreover, he needed\nsympathy, not doctrine. So I simply\nsaid:\n\" What remedy is there except to\nstruggle on ? \"\n\" As a first remedy/' he answered, \" I\nwould suggest never to have been born.\nI am a communist if only for the reason\nthat we are born without being in the\nslightest degree responsible for our birth.\nHaving, without any choice in the matter,\nbeen brought into the world, we are ex-"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 12, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3742, "texte": "pected to bear up bravely under all the\nills of life. If a man gives up the fight\nand kills himself, he is put down as in-\nsane. Yet, it seems to me, suicide is of-\nten striking evidence of a man's sanity.\nHis birth having been a cruel wrong, he\ntakes the simplest method of righting it\n—of resting from the battle of life in the\nsleep of death! \"\nForgetting my resolve, I quoted:\n\"To die,—to sleep,—to sleep! per-\nchance to dream! Aye, there's the rub.\"\nAfter a moment's reflection he said, bit-\nterly : \" I may be mistaken in believing\nthere is no future life, but I hope I am\nnot. This life has already been almost\nmore than I can bear.\"\nHe relapsed into a moody silence, and\nafter a while rose to go. I was too ac-\ncustomed to these attacks of melancholy\nto consider this more than a mere passing\ndepression of spirits caused by his disap-\npointment at having found the canvas, in\nwhich his hopes were centred, hung\nwhere its merits could not be recognized.\nIt was after midnight when we reached\nthe gray, gloomy, fortress-like building\nin which he had his studio—if the con-\ntracted space in which he lived could be\ndignified by that name. Part of the\nbuilding, which faced a public park, was\nused for educational purposes; and to\nthis portion there was a broad entrance.\nBut the occupants of the studios entered\nthrough a low, narrow door, opening on\nthe side street. Our footsteps on the\nflagstone floor of the dark hall re-echoed\nthrough the corridors; as if phantoms\nwere hastily fleeing into the gloom before\nus. We went up several flights of stairs,\nand then walked along the upper hall to\none of the turrets and ascended a winding\nstairway. His was the top room in this\nturret. Scant as was its furniture—an\neasel, a couch, a chair, a table, and a wash-\nstand—it seemed crowded. He had de-\nnied himself even those little comforts\nwhich often make a studio an oasis in the\nartist's barren life. On the table was the\nonly book he owned, a volume of Poe's\npoems. When he turned from his work\nit was to them, for, next to his art, he\nadored them. As we entered he took up\nthe volume, and, throwing himself upon\nthe couch, opened it at random and began\nreading aloud from \" The Conqueror\nWorm.\" He read the last verse with\ntragic emphasis:\nOut—out are the lights—out all!\nAnd, over each quivering form,\nThe curtain, a funeral pall,\nComes down with the rush of a storm,\nAnd the angels, all pallid and wan,\nUprising, unveiling, affirm\nThat the play is the tragedy \" Man,\"\nAnd its hero the Conqueror Worm.\nWhen my friend had finished reading\nhe let the book drop face down upon the\nfloor. I had never seen him look so de-\njected as he lay there brooding over his\nmisfortune. That poem summed up his\nghastly philosophy of life and death, of\nweariness and disappointment—\" The\nTragedy Man/'—and at the end the\n\" Conqueror Worm.\" There was no\ncheering him. He was in no mood to\nspeak or listen; a mutual slight pressure\nof the hand was our only adieu.\nIt was late when I awoke the next\nmorning. After breakfast at the Rain-\nbow Inn, I took up the daily newspa-\nper which employed the most trustworthy\nart critic in order to ascertain his first\nimpression of the exhibition as seen on\n\"varnishing night.\" I had read but a few\nlines when my friend's name greeted my\neyes, and I found a notice of his painting\nwhich was more than appreciative. The\ncritic evidently considered that he had\ncome suddenly upon a new genius in art,\nand he wrote with the enthusiasm of a\ndiscoverer. Had the picture been hung\non the line, and in the best possible light,\nI could not have asked for a ftiore sym-\npathetic criticism. It was a notice that\nwould make a sensation.\nI thought before taking the paper to\nthe little studio where such deep melan-"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1864, "texte": "choly had reigned the previous night, I\nwould stop at the building where the ex-\nhibition was held, and observe if the pict-\nure could be seen more advantageously\nby day than at night. It was now noon,\nand the exhibition had been open three\nhours. As I entered the gallery I saw an\nadmiring group before the canvas; and a\nlittle card in one corner announced that\nthe picture had already found a pur-\nchaser. I inquired his name at the desk.\nHe was one of the most intelligent and\nliberal art patrons. With his patronage\nmy friend's career was assured. Mine\nwas to be the joy of announcing to him\nhis release from drudgery!\nWhen, after bounding up the stair-\ncases, taking two steps at a time, even on\nthe narrow stairway in the turret, I tried\nhis door to find it locked, my disappoint-\nment was very great. Turning to the\nslate that hung at his door to write the\nhappy message upon it, I saw for the first\ntime that he had written in large letters,\n\" Out.\" When I took up the pencil to\nwrite my message, I noticed further that\nhe had followed this word with others\nscattered here and there over the slate,\nand in varied and outre letters; and I was\nstartled, as I put the words together, to\nread:\nOut—out are the lights—out all!\nInstinctively I knew something terrible\nhad happened. Gathering all my\nstrength I broke open the door. The\nheavy curtain at the window shut out the\nlight. Only just enough came in from\nthe hall to show me the dim outlines of a\nform upon the couch. I drew the cur-\ntain. The face, pale and motionless up-\non the pillow; the arm hanging limp from\nthe couch; the empty phial upon the floor\n—told the story. There still lay open\nupon its face the book of poems as he\nhad dropped it; and I seemed to hear his\nvoice reading as he had read the night\nbefore:\n. . . the play is the tragedy \" Man,\"\nAnd its hero the Conqueror Worm."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "8", "page_fin": "10", "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "To My Brother on His Twelfth Birthday : January 9, 1897", "titre_sommaire": "To My Brother on His Twelfth Birthday : January 9, 1897", "signature_source": "Joel Elias Spingarn", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 1866, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2438, "texte": "To My Brother on His Twelfth Birthday\nJanuary 9, 1897\nJoel Elias Spingarn\nBy\nDearest, once more is winter here,\nWith dizzy flakes of snow, and frost,\nTo crown you with another year,\nAnd warn you how the days are lost.\nThe biting air is fresh and sweet,\nAnd from my room I see below\nThe ermine mantle o'er the street,\nThe window-ledges rimmed with snow,\nAnd you once more at eager play,\nWhere, wet with rime, the snow-house stands—\nOnce more the snow-man of a day,\nOnce more the snowball in your hands ;\nAnd romps of many a by-gone year,\nMy share in all your grief and joy,"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 15, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1654, "texte": "And prospects unfulfilled, endear\nThe sight of my beloved boy ;\nWhilst ere I know, my idle brain\nIs searching hidden memories,\nLike sparrows gathering seed and grain\nSnow-hidden under shivering trees ;\nTill all that has been in the past\nCasts shadows of the fate to be :\nDelight, that cannot always last,\nAnd hope, that cannot always see.\nAnd what may yours and mine be ? No,\nThis is no time for such a dream ; .\nHo w swift life bears us you will know,\nWhen you are eddying on the stream ;\nAnd why should these things trouble you,\nWho yet are safe from wind and wave ?\nThere is enough for you to do\nIn being sweet and true and brave ;\nFor now, though you can hardly know,\nYour happy soul is being whirled\nThrough battles with yourself for foe,\nBefore the battle with the world ;•\nAnd you—I have no slightest fear\nBut you will conquer in the fight :\nSuch victories make the hero, dear,—\nA nobler one than errant knight,\nOr swaggering soldier. You will learn\nThat Siegfried, Roland, Agrican,\nOr Lancelot, men laugh to scorn ;\nThe world cares only for a man.\nBut let these thoughts not burden you ;\nYouth fights the victories of youth ;\nNow sweeter, slighter joys will do,—\nSome boyish, wildcap prank, in truth.\nOh, but your eye gleams gay and wild ;\nI see the happy light, and say,\n'Thank God that makes a child a child ! \"\nAnd join you in the snow at play.\nBut now that you have grown so old—\nFor are you not twelve years to-day?\nForgive me, dear, for being bold,\nAnd saying what I used to say\nWhen you were not yet four feet nine,\nAnd knew not Latin, French, and all;\nBut still the duty must be mine,\nThough you have grown so old and tall;"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1739, "texte": "And these few flowers of love I bring,\nTo show you life with love impearled—\nYea, love, the only perfect thing,\nIn this our most imperfect world ;\nAnd if an older brother's right\nTo love and teach you year by year\nBe challenged as the years take flight,\nI still may say, \" God bless you, dear ! \"\nI still may take you by the hand,\nAnd point to where the swallows fly,\nAnd say: \" Take comfort; understand;\nFor oh, the heavens are so high ! \"\nAnd vou will know that earth is wide,\n✓ 7\nAnd weary, it may be, but know\nThat men may on the whirlwind ride,\nAnd soar beyond the sunset glow.\nBut ah, why should I shadow you\nWith secrets of the future year ?\nForget them all, whate'er ensue ;\nLife's turmoil, cynic scoff and sneer,\nGlib wisdom of the shop and street\nCome but too soon. Be young and gay ;\nBe brave and joyous ; taste the sweet\nYouth only gathers by the way.\nBut when the voice of duty calls,\nAs it will call, obey the voice ;\nGo leave the dear old college walls,\nAssume the office of your choice ;\nFor in our great Republic here,\nWhere all are royal, know this thing :\nEach man, whatever be his sphere,\nTo play his part, must be a king ;\nAnd you, sweet prince, now life is fair,\nShould scale the morning heights of joy,\nShould love the lovely, everywhere,\nAnd prove yourself a royal boy.\nAnd I, who love you more than word\nOr kiss can tell you, send you this,\nA birthday greeting, for the bird\nThat far off comes with summer's bliss,\nAnd sings a song you cannot hear ;\nA birthday greeting, for the flower\nThat slumbers in the meadows, dear,\nAnd cannot grace this happy hour ;\nA birthday greeting, for the star\nThat shall to-night burn in the blue,\nAnd whisper, \" Oh, how glad we are\nThat we can shine to-night on you ! \""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "11", "page_fin": "17", "image_debut": 13, "image_fin": 19, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "The Eclipse of Poetry", "titre_sommaire": "The Eclipse of Poetry", "signature_source": "Louise Betts Edwards", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 23, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3433, "texte": "The Eclipse of Poetry\nLouise Betts Edwards\nBy\nT the beginning of the current\nAjl year there came into the writ-\nJL er's hands a most significant\nlittle pamphlet. To say that it\nbelonged to the best-written and best-read\nclass of modern literature is another way\nof saying that it was an advertisement—\nthe announcement by the publishers of a\nwell-known magazine of its menu for the\ncoming twelvemonth. No allurements\nof art or typography were neglected, no\nadjectives were spared, to make it an ap-\npetizing foretaste; if the reader did not\nknow what distinguished artists and\npopular authors, what discourse on topics\nof current or perpetual interest, what\nserial fiction and short stories, what solid\narticles and essays, had been secured to\nminister to his intellectual pleasure, it was\nhis own fault for laying down the cata-\nlogue half read. Nothing could have\nbeen fuller than the table of contents, and\nnothing more remarkable than the quan-\ntity and. quality of the literary attractions\nset forth, save one fact: From beginning\nto end of the pamphlet, though it was\nsearched for as diligently and almost as\ntearfully as Esau sought place for re-\npentance, there was no mention of such\na form of literary composition as poetry.\nNo poet's name or portrait figured in the\nlist of distinguished contributors; no\npoem was heralded among the \" brilliant\nfeatures/' nor, to be exact, heralded at all.\nThe omission would seem less signifi-\ncant, and perhaps less melancholy, if the\nmagazine in question did not publish\npoetry at all. But publish it it does, and,\nas the March Hare sorrowfully reminded\nthe Hatter, \"it was the best butter \"; the\ncream of the present poetical output,\nchurned into the best-approved shapes\nand sizes, and stamped with such manu-\nfacturers' names as command most re-\nspect, being always on its table for those\nwho care for it. But one of those start-\nling straws that determine the wind's di-\nrection is the editor's or publisher's con-\nviction that no one did care enough for it\nto make it worth talking about. He\nsimply spread the feast and said, \" Come,\nfor all things are ready,\" serenely satis-\nfied that no guest would make particular\ninquiry about what would once have been\nan important and highly relished course.\nEven in the days when Taggart took\nthose famous pinches of snuff and said,\n\" Poetry, sir—poetry is a drug in the\nmarket! \" matters had not come to quite\nso desperate a pass. Intelligent people\nmight have begun to ask, What is to be-\ncome of the poet? but they did not ask,\nas we must to-day, What has become of\nthe poet? Who has killed Cock Robin?\nThere is material for a far longer arti-\ncle than this in the attempt to deny his\ndeath, and I leave it to the handful of\nstrenuously optimistic people who, be-\ncause they read poetry, like poetry, and\n—usually—write poetry, imagine they\nare the whole world. If not dead, he at\nleast shows no signs of life—the little\nbright-breasted bird who, ever since the\nworld was a little tiny boy, has contented-\nly fed on its charitable crumbs or on\nworms of his own scratching, and in re-\nturn amused it with his light fantastic\ncapers, roused sighing envy for those deli-\ncate wings that any careless boy could\nbreak in mid-air with a stone, cheered it\nout of its sulks, and comforted it out of\nits despair with his sweet, shrill promise\nof an ending winter and a coming spring.\nGlib testimonials are forthcoming from"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3928, "texte": "everywhere, from those who saw him die,\nwho caught his blood, who sewed his\nshroud—the curious Fly, the cold-blooded\nFish, the insensate Beetle. We are told\nthe twentieth-century atmosphere is\ndeadly to poets, and should not believe\nit, did we not see it.\nThe most convincing and amazing\nproof of the change is to read the history,\ncorrespondence, records of all sorts, of\nany century since the Renaissance save\nour own, and note what a commotion\nthere was over the Poet and the Poem!\nChristine of Pisan supported her family\non doggerel which had not then, as now,\nthe sole interest of being written in Old\nFrench. The Florentine children made\nround eyes at Dante, not primarily because\nhe had been to Hell, not secondarily be-\ncause he was a great poet, but simply be-\ncause he was a poet. Cervantes made the\npages of his masterpiece hideous with for-\ngotten quotations from, and allusions to,\n\" famous \" poets of his day—a day when\npoetry was poetry, as to children cake is\ncake, whatever its shortcomings. The ac-\ncomplished Mrs.Dunlop joyfully reported\nto Robert Burns, and patiently copied for\nhim, any brief ditty or tedious tragedy,\nany inspired bumpkin of the neighbor-\nhood might produce, and he as joyfully\nreceived and as patiently read them.\nAnd, to come heart-breakingly close to\nour own times, there were contemporaries\nof James Russell and Maria White Low-\nell who sincerely believed the allowance\nof the divine afflatus evenly shared be-\ntween husband and wife, because Mrs.\nLowell had written a couple of quite sweet\nand touching poems on the death of chil-\ndren.\nThere are also straws showing how\nstrongly the wind once blew the other\nway. The most complete proof of all,\nperhaps, is that we ourselves feel a secret\nconviction that all these ardently appreci-\native people were fools. They may have\nbeen—those whose tastes differ from ours\nusually are fools; for their taste was for\npoetry, and their eagerness for the\nprecious metal so keen that they would\npainstakingly assay the most unpromis-\ning nugget for the sake of the potential\ngrain of gold-dust.\nSo, after all, who has killed Cock\nRobin ? The hallowed custom is to\nblame the critics; everyone does that, even\nthe poet, who being dead yet speaketh, in\nsepulchral tones denouncing his murder-\ner, or issuing in his presence fresh blood-\ndrops, on which the critic, a patient coro-\nner, must sit afresh in judgment: \" ' For\none so much wounded/ observed Sancho\nPanza, ' this young man talks a great\ndeal/ \"\nAs (aggrieved authors to the contrary)\nthe critics are human, it is possible that\nwhere so much blame is lying around\nloose some of it must be lawfully theirs,\nand I would not intentionally defraud\nthem of one tittle of it. A foreign journal\nrecently remarked that the naval history\nof Spain was a history of notable disas-\nters; it might similarly be said that the\ncritical history of the world is a history of\nnotable blunders—from the manuscript\nof Fitzgerald's \" Rubaiyat,\" lying dusty\nand despised in the office of Fraser's\nMagazine, to the solitary raptures of re-\nviewers over the verses of the late Francis\nSaltus; from the poison-tipped arrows\nthat transfixed poor Keats's faint heart\nto the genial predictions, anent \" Poems\nof Two Brothers,\" of a poetical future for\nFrederick Tennyson. In truth and sober-\nness no one, even in the days of Keats,\never died of what Burns curses as \" the\nblasting depredations of a canker-toothed\ncaterpillar Critic \"; and in these peaceful\ntimes their sins lie not so much along the\nline of slaughtering the innocents as of\ntolerating the guilty. The most surpris-\ning thing to be noticed in the critic's\ncolumn is his unstrained mercy toward\nmushroom bardlets; he passes gently over\nerrors, he passionately extols any stray\nexcellences, he hopes all things* believes\nall things, endures all things, in the name\nof poetry. Nothing could be more in-\nstructive, as showing the change which"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 23, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4316, "texte": "has come over the attitude of the critic of\npoetry—and also over the accepted defi-\nnition of poetry—than the comments of\nno less revered an authority than the\nLondon Spectator on Mr. Stephen Phil-\nlips's poem, \" The Woman with the Dead\nSoul.\" I have selected this poem because\nit has attracted as much attention and\nwon about as much praise as any recent\ncomposition in verse form. Citations are\nnearly always invidious as comparisons\nare odious. I will therefore quote in the\nentirety what the Spectator calls \" a fine\nbut intensely painful\" poem, one which\nis worked out \" in a lofty sense of imag-\nination,\" and \" helps to stir the nation's\nheart,\" and whose author has \" made\nevery phrase sound with the ring of true\ngold.\" The author less pretentiously\nlabels it \"An attempt to render imag-\ninatively a modern tragedy. The horror\nof the tragedy lies in the combination of\ndeath within and neatness without, so of-\nten to be seen in our great cities.\"\nTHE WOMAN WITH THE DEAD SOUL.\nAllured by the disastrous tavern-light,\nUnhappy things flew in out of the night;\nAnd ever the sad human swarm returned,\nSome crazy-suffering, and some half-burned,\nAmid the thwarted workmen, splashed with\nmire,\nAnd disillusioned women sipping fire,\nSlow-tasting bargainers amid the flare\nAnd lurid ruminators, I was 'ware\nOf that cold face from which I may not run—\nWhich even now doth stab me in the sun.\nThe face was of a woman that, alone,\nSat sewing; a white liquor by her shone.\nSpeckless, arranged, no single braid awry,\nPrepared and combed, she stitched incessantly.\nShe turned her eyes on me ; all blank they\nshone,\nLike windows opposite the peer of dawn.\nSo cold her gaze that I bowed down my head,\nTrembling ; it seemed to me that she was\ndead,\nAnd that those hands mechanically went—\nAs if the life that to her limbs was lent,\nSubsiding in her, was not wholly spent.\nYou who have wailed above the quiet clay\nThat on the bed, unrecognizing, lay,\nYet think how I stood mourning by the side\nOf her who sat, yet seemed as she had died—\nCold, yet so busy ; though so nimble, dead ;\nWhose fingers ever at the sewing sped.\nI spoke with her, and in slow terror guessed\nHow she, so ready for perpetual rest—\nSo smoothly combed, and for the ground pre-\npared,\nWhose eyes already fixed beyond me stared—\nCould sidle unobserved, and softly glide\nAmid the crowd that wist not she had died.\nGently she spoke; not once her cheek grew\npale,\nAnd I translate the dreadful, placid tale.\nShe with a soul was born; she felt it leap\nWithin her ; it could wonder, laugh, and weep,\nBut, like persistent rain on ocean blear,\nThe days descended on her spirit drear;\nLife, an eternal want, in sky dead-gray,\nDenying steadily, starved it away ;\nLondon ignoring with deliberate stare,\nSlowly the delicate thing began to wear.\nShe felt it ailing for she knew not what :\nFeebly she wept, but she could aid it not.\nAh, not the stirring child within the womb\nHath such an urgent need of light and room,\nAnd hungry grew her soul; she looked around,\nBut nothing to allay that famine found.\nShe felt it die a little every day,\nFlutter less wildly, and more feebly pray ;\nStiller it grew—at times she felt it pull,,\nImploring thinly something beautiful;\nAnd in the night was painfully awake,\nAnd struggled in the darkness till daybreak—\nFor not at once, not without any strife,\nIt died ; at times it started back to life.\nNow at some angel evening after rain\nBuilded like early Paradise again ;\nOr at some human face, or starry sky,\nThe silent tremble of infinity,\nOr odour of strange fields at midnight sweet,,\nOr soul of summer dawn in the dark street.\nSlowly she was aware her soul had died\nWithin her body, for no more it cried,\nVexed her no more; and now monotonous\nlife\nMore easy came—she was exempt from strife.\nYet for a time more heavily and slow\nShe walked, and indolently worked, as though\nAbout with her she could not help but bring\nWithin her living body the dead thing.\nWhen I had heard her tell, without a tear,\nWhat now I have translated, in great fear\nToward her I leaned, and \" O, my sister!\"\ncried—\n\" My sister !\"—but my hand she put aside,\nLest I her decent dress might disarray ;\nAnd so smiled on me that I might not stay.\nAnd I remembered that to one long dead\nI spoke. \"No sound shall rouse her now,\" I\nsaid ;"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4071, "texte": "\" Not Orpheus touching in the gloom his chord,\nNot even the special whisper that restored\nPale Lazarus ; yet still she seems to run,\nAnd hurries eager in the noonday sun ;\nIndustrious, careful, kempt, till she at last,\nRun down, inaccurate, aside is cast.\"\nWhile thus I whispered, and in wonder wild\nCould not unloose my gaze from her, the child\nPlucked at her dress, and the dead woman rose;\nUp to the mirror silently she goes,\nLightly a loosed tress touched at her ear;\nShe gazed in her own eyes without fear;\nDeliberately then, with fingers light,\nShe smoothed her dress and stole into the\nnight.\nThe meaningless school of poets have\nso chastened us and reduced our demands\nto their lowest terms that at first glance\none cannot say exactly what is the matter\nwith this poem, which actually suggests\nan idea—an idea which, powerfully and\nsympathetically worked out, would jus-\ntify the expression, \" fine but intensely\npainful.\" Moreover, the dismal school\nhave almost bull-dozed us into believing\nthat whatever is painful must be fine.\nBut there are painfulnesses and painful-\nnesses. A battle-scene, wherein tremen-\ndous issues are decided by splendid sac-\nrifice of noble lives, is painful. The\nspectacle of a dog with a tin-can tied to\nhis tail is also* painful. Mere unpleas-\nantness does not make art. In this poem\nwe have an idea—faint, vague, not too\nclearly defined even to the author's mind\n—worked out weakly and gropingly, with\nfrequent lettings-go of the string of\nthought; worked out coldly and inhu-\nmanly as to feeling, and badly and com-\nmonplacely as to style, with such rough-\nnesses and infelicities of phrase and metre\nthat to read it is, on the whole, like riding\na bicycle over cobblestones.\nIs it here that we find the indescribable\nbut unmistakable charm and potency of\n\" Lycidas \" or \" II Penseroso,\" of Fitz-\ngerald's \" Omar,\" of the \" Sonnets from\nthe Portuguese,\" of \" Kubla Khan,\" of\n\" The Blessed Damozel,\" of the odes on\nthe Grecian Urn or to the Skylark, of\nShakespeare's sonnets or Tennyson's\nIdylls—in short, of any of the well-known\nand loved poems for which the world is\nricher ? There is simply no comparing it\nwith them; and to any objections it may\nbe counter-objected that there is compari-\nson, one to another, among themselves—\nand that the widest gulf of difference be-\ntween any two of them is bridged by the\none common likeness—they delight the\near, they stir the soul, they make poetry.\nSince there are distinguished reviewers\nto apply the word \" poem \" to Mr. Phil-\nlips's essay-sermon, it only proves afresh\nthat criticism never killed poets; it is not\nsufficiently unanimous.\nIn short, criticism, unjustly accused of\ngoing, like kisses, by favor, goes and\nmust go by taste instead, which is equally\nerratic. To press his own personal pref-\nerences—say for bread-and-milk—down\npalates which cry for caviare and curry;\nto deny himself the privilege of fallibility\nand set himself up for a little pope of\nliterature, these are the painful duties of\nthe critic, whose lot is no more a happy\none than the policeman's. Too long-suf-\nfering he may sometimes be; an oppressor\nof poets he never is. He is too busy to\nhate, too mild to scorn; besides, he does\nnot really know—he cares no more for\npoetry than anyone else, and is sometimes\nhonestly persuaded that for those who\nlike that sort of thing it may be just what\nthey like. In many cases he is, as Napo-\nleon 111. said with memorable inaptitude\nof Bismarck, \" not a serious person.\"\nThe number of brilliant, sincere men with\nliterary sensitiveness at their finger-tips,\nwho make the reviewing of books their\nbusiness in life, can be counted almost\nwithout passing the unit column. Of the\nrest, a few are mere hacks; the majority\nare men who are actually too literary to\njudge of anything; they are dyspeptics,\ntheir palates are worn out with too much\ntasting, their finger-tips deadened with\ntoo much touching. Their much learn-\ning has in fact completely lost them\nThe earlv foolish freshness of the dunce,\nWhose simple instinct guessed the heavens at\nonce."}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 23, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4017, "texte": "Regarding the critic as the middleman\nin the poetry market, and regarding him\nas disposed of, the blame then lies be-\ntween the producer and the consumer.\nIs it the producer who has worn out peo-\nple's patience with his failure to meet the\noccasion ? The consumer—or rather\nnon-consumer—says it is, and adds re-\nsentfully that if good poetry were only\nwritten it would be read fast enough—an\nargument which falls completely before\none question: Is any poetry read? Who\nof the younger generation knows Byron ?\nWho quotes Wordsworth? Who could\npass an examination on any more of the\nwork of Bryant, Whittier, Lowell, Long-\nfellow, than appears in school readers ?\nAsk your friends whether they like\npoetry. The affirmative or negative\ncharacter of the reply will depend upon\nthe veracity of your friends; for, as many\ngood folk go to church who are pagans at\nheart, so the lingering remnant of rever-\nence for an outgrown superstition may\nelicit a conventional \"Yes,\" whose sin-\ncerity may be quickly tested by asking\nthem whose poetry they like, and what\nparticular stanzas lie nearest their hearts ?\nPoetry is parsed in schools (perhaps we\nlearn to hate it there) ; it is declaimed by\nelocutionists, although the recent trend\ntoward prose is noticeable; it is used by\nnewspapers that do not pay for it, to\nbreak the monotony of the Sunday edi-\ntion's serried columns, but it is not read\nas news is read, as novels are read, as the\nmost forbiddingly solid books are read—\nin short, as it once was read. Once, a\nnew poem by a poet, new or old, figured\nimportantly in the news; once, the novel-\nists sandwiched poetical tid-bits profusely\nin among passages; once, the philosophi-\ncal work went down the public throat\nmore smoothly if written in rhyme. That\nwas during the snows of yester-year.\nTwitted with this state of affairs, the\nreader answers—if he troubles to answer\n—that we have no great poets to-day.\nWe might have them by the dozen, and he\nwould never know it, for he will not look\nto see. He skips poetry in the maga-\nzines, he leaves the gilt-edged gift-book\nto gather dust, he sells his father's fat\nMilton and his grandfather's folio Shel-\nley to the second-hand dealer. We may\nnot have any great poets; we have a num-\nber of minor ones whom decent apprecia-\ntion might encourage to do great work,\nand it might be added that much smaller\npoets have been considered much greater\nin times when the very rabble loved and\njudged poetry better than our college\npresidents do. Edith M. Thomas has\nmore of the poet in her little finger than\nFelicia Hemans had in her whole body,\nwhich is not disparaging Mrs. Hemans;\nSidney Lanier is as superior to Bryant as\na diamond to a rhinestone, which is not\ndenying the latter his own place in litera-\nture ; Christina Rossetti would have been\nalmost deified in the times of Mrs. Norton\nand Mrs. Osgood and Mrs. Sigourney,\nand the rest of the pretty little poetesses\nwho, by the irony of fate and literature-\nlessons, are at least known by their names\nin an age that ignores its own prophets.\nBut Edmund Gosse was openly told he\nwas ridiculous for suggesting Christina\nRossetti—author of exquisite and almost\nunknown rhymes and lyrics that she is—\nas a candidate for Poet-laureate; Sidney\nLanier died almost \" unwept, unhonored\nand unsung,\" and is now the lonely cult\nof a discriminating few; while, if one last\nproof were wanting to show that this age\nheads its list of \" Wanted \" with \" No\nPoets Need Apply,\" it could be found in\nthe little-known and less-read work of\nEdith M. Thomas, where virility of grasp\nand polished beauty of expression, subtle-\nty of thought and nobility of spirit, are all\nas many pearls cast before—us.\nOne thing a poet must have—apprecia-\ntion. It is all nonsense that we hear\nabout the poet having* left his field for\nothers of greater pecuniary profit. If\npoets wrote for profit alone—which they\nnever did—they were never better paid\nthan in this day of great magazines. It\nis not the publishers' fault that books of"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3930, "texte": "verse do not sell, nor that a magazine is\nno more or less popular because of the\ngrade of poetry that fills up its waste\nplaces. But, paid or unpaid, he must feel\nhimself an apostle, not to deaf ears, not\nto a small circle of log-rolling brother\nlitterateurs, but to the world. The poetic\ngift is purchased much as Don Quixote\nsays eminence in learning is purchased,\n\" by time, watching, hunger, nakedness,\nvertigo, indigestion, and many other in-\nconveniences \"; and such an outlay will\nnot, cannot, should not be expended for\nno reward. More has been said than can\nbe proved of the impossibility of crushing\ngenius. We hear only of the cases where\nit rises superior to circumstance, not of\nthose saddened singers \" who die with all\ntheir music in them.\"\nOf course, as with the critics, Master\nPoet himself is not wholly blameless.\nThere is a certain style of composition for\nwhich all that is necessary is the nerve,\nand its followers are heard for their much\nspeaking. They succeed just because\npeople are so indifferent; like the famous\nstatesman who opposed Charles Brad-\nlaugh because \" a member of Parliament\nshould believe in some God or other,\"\nthey have a vague acquiescent feeling that\na century should have some poet or other.\nRival poets, less successful but not neces-\nsarily more deserving, can only stand by\nand cast in their teeth the memorable ut-\nterance of Mrs. Stevenson to the pig of\nVailima—\" Gr-r-rr! nobody loves you I\"\nand do not contest the laurel-wreath, be-\ncause nobody would watch the tussle, and\nthe wreath is only paper anyway.\nSo the sparrow who with bow and ar-\nrow killed Cock Robin, when run to earth,\nproves to be the amiable reader after all.\nHe conducts a most sophistical self-de-\nfence, pretending that the Spirit of the\nAge put him up to it. We are told we\nare too hurried for poetry; we are too\nold, too blase; we have lost the child-\nheart. Says one of the poets a genera-\ntion with long, dull ears forced into\ndeath and obscurity—Richard Realf:\nThere is no little child within me now,\nTo sing back to the thrushes, to leap up\nWhen June winds kiss me, when an apple bough\nLaughs into blossoms, or a buttercup\nPlays with the sunshine, or a violet\nDances in the glad dew. Alas ! Alas !\nThe meaning of the daisies in the grassf\nI have forgotten.\nYet how strange that we dotards,\ncynics, materialists, or whatever melan-\ncholy thing we call ourselves, have de-\nlighted to be held in leading-strings by\nStevenson and Haggard, Kipling and\nHope, Weyman and Doyle, who appeal to\nnothing if not to the imagination and\nsentiment of the young heart! It seems\nonly literature written in rhyme and\nmetre, with each line beginning with a\ncapital, which is unpopular. One shud-\nders to think what oblivion would have\nswallowed up those charming fables and\nsketches of Olive Schreiner's, which have\nattained so well-deserved a name and\nfame, had she not cunningly disguised\ntheir poetry in the typographical cloak of\nprose!\nIt is obvious that we can live without\npoetry. The scattered faithful who still\nworship at the fountain where Pegasus\nleft his foot-print will so wince at such a\nstatement as mistakenly to imagine their\nwincing alters matters. But it was a\npoet himself who reminded us that we\ncan live without everything but cooks.\nWe have seen that nations can live with-\nout religion; that is, they can in a man-\nner support a kind of existence; they have\nlived without ideals, and not been vio-\nlently unhappy; for that matter, they have\nlived without all the luxuries of life,\namong which poetry must relentlessly be\ncounted. But it is equally obvious that\nthese people were all savages and semi-\nsavages, not a race reared on luxury,\nwhose fathers lived in luxury before\nthem, and whose sudden drop into desti-\ntution is a graver matter than the savage's\nstinted existence. Spiritual, mental, or\nmaterial poverty sits comfortably only on\nthose who never knew anything better."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 9, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2734, "texte": "Our race was reared on poetry. From\nthe starry legends of the twilight ages to\nthe great sunburst of Shakespeare's\ngenius, from the great systems and satel-\nlites of succeeding centuries, even to the\nfarthing rushlights of our own, the \" light\nthat never was \" has always glimmered\nabove our heads; and surely life has been\nthe brighter, and we have been the better,\nfor it. Mallock, with his usual acute-\nness, has reminded us that \" the use of\npoetry is not to make us admire the poetry\nof poems, but discern the poetry of life.\"\nThat light is there now, only our backs\nare bent with stooping away from it.\nSancho Panza, the soul of honesty, con-\nfessed that when he was digging he for-\ngot all about his Teresa. It is so with\nus; we have been digging, and have for-\ngotten all about the lady of our soul. Or\nperhaps we have a sensitiveness over be-\ning teased about her. It may be that we\nhave stooped too long; it may be that po-\netry is as unrepeatable an episode in hu-\nman history as folklore, with which it\nholds so many affiliations. Yet if so,\nwhat mind with the power to consider\nbut will regret it ? and what heart where-\nin still lurks a half-shamed love for the\nunpopular goddess but ought to cherish\nthe weakness instead of crushing it ?\nThere is a significant incident related\nin the account by Andrew Lang, in his\nsketch of the young Pretender, of the\nbattle of Falkirk: \" What might have\nbeen a victory was lost through trop de\nzele on the part of the pipers. When the\ncharge began, they threw their pipes to\ntheir boys and went in with their clay-\nmores. Consequently, the rallying mu-\nsic could not be sounded, and, in the dark-\nness of a tempest, the scattered clans did\nnot pursue their victory.\"\nWhether the fault be with the over-\nzealous pipers, or the unheeding combat-\nants, shall not we too miss the rallying\nmusic if the last strain suddenly ceases?\nWe need poetry, whether we want it or\nnot, whether we can drag along somehow\nwithout it or not. For, had not its rai-\nson d'etre been portrayed with more pierc-\ning truth, as well as grace and beauty, by\na poet in a poem than in any struggling\nattempt to render it in prose, it would have\nno raison d'etre:\nCome, Poet, come!\nA thousand laborers ply their task,\nAnd what it tends to, scarcely ask,\nAnd trembling thinkers on the brink\nShiver and know not what to think.\nTo tell the purport of their pain,\nAnd what our silly joys contain ;\nIn lasting lineaments portray\nThe substance of the shadowy day;\nOur real and inner deeds rehearse,\nAnd make our meaning clear in verse—\nCome, Poet, come / for but in vain\nWe do the work or feel the pain,\nAnd gather up the evening gain,\nUnless, before the end, thou come\nTo take, ere they are lost, their sum ;"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "17", "page_fin": "17", "image_debut": 19, "image_fin": 19, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "Holbein", "titre_sommaire": "Holbein", "signature_source": "Robert Jermain Cole", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 2736, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2890, "texte": "Holbein\nRobert Jermain Cole\nBy\nAk, well he bribed our\n~Wko pictured all men levelled by his glance.\nS<? flattered, the destroyer\nAnd Holbein lives forever"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "18", "page_fin": "18", "image_debut": 20, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "An Epitaph", "titre_sommaire": "An Epitaph", "signature_source": "Arthur Ketchum", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 820, "texte": "An Epitaph\nArthur Ketchum\nBy\nClose-folded to the mountain's heart,\nLet him sleep well, sleep long.\nThe voices of a thousand pines\nShall be his slumber song.\nO'er him shall ferny greennesses\nA dauntless verdure set,\nTo comfort him, till warm rains wake\nApril's first violet.\nHere to the tired child of change.\nThrough days that shall not fail,\nShall come the summer's last Farewell,\nThe steadfast spring's All hail!\nAnd he shall fear no evil thing j\nWhen warrior winds awake\nI think their mighty hosts will pass\nMore gently for his sake.\nSo, girt by listening forests,\nAnd hushed by breathless song,\nStill dreaming down the pilgrim years,\nHe shall sleep well and long.\nHis was the wanderer's wilding heart,\nThat loved not bonds and bars—\nWildness to wildness ! Rest! while burn\nThe watch-lights of the stars."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "19", "page_fin": "25", "image_debut": 21, "image_fin": 27, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "Youth's Heritage", "titre_sommaire": "Youth's Heritage", "signature_source": "Anne F. Wilson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 18, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3071, "texte": "Youth's Heritage\nAnne F. Wilson\nBy\nrHE September sunlight was\njust touching the tops of the\nwestern hills. The world\nbelow was* still damp and\ncold with early dawn. Two hours be-\nfore, Aunt Delight Severance had parted\nher scanty curtains, with fingers trem-\nbling anxiously; and had looked out\nupon a still moon-lighted world. Reas-\nsured, she had sunk back to sleep fitfully\nuntil daybreak. Now she was dressing\nwith eager haste. The world after a\nhundred years had grown a little distant\nto her; but to-day it drew nearer, with its\nthronging interests, its quizzical occa-\nsional glances at a past which had been\nfor years her sole inheritance, but which,\ntoo, had latterly grown strangely dim.\nTo-day she was eagerly alert for\nthe celebration of a holiday. Already\ndressed, she stepped into the low-ceiled\nkitchen, where her grand-niece, with her\ngray hair tightly plaited into curling pins,\nstood before the stove.\n\" Good-mornin', Ellen,\" she said,\nbriskly. \" It's a real pretty day, ain't\nit? I did think yest'day was a weather\nbreeder, 'twas so pleasant; and I dono'\nhow many times I woke up in the night\nand looked out to see if 'twas stormin'! \"\n\" Well, I hope you got some sleep be-\ntween whiles, Aunt Delight,\" her niece\nanswered. \" It's goin' to be a hard day;\nyou ought to be rested up to be ready for\nit.\"\n\" Wal, I am, Ellen. I don't know, I'm\nsure, when I've felt so brisk. 'N I'm real\nhungry.\"\nThey breakfasted in hurried silence,\nAunt Delight craftily feigning a hunger\nshe did not feel. The others were too\nbusy to notice her guile. The luncheon\nwas packed, the big gray horse was har-\nnessed to the- open wagon, Esther and\nLeroy were already seated. Aunt De-\nlight was tying her bonnet-strings with\nunready fingers. Suddenly, the girlish\nfeatures which had been hers years ago\nseemed to confront her from the narrow\nglass. There were the big dark eyes, the\nolive cheeks, the rings of black hair, and\nthe crimson mouth, all framed by the\nquaint bonnet. Then the illusion faded,\nand the tiny, frightened face of an old,\nold woman looked out at her again. She\nturned from the glass, catching her breath\nsharply at the sight of her lost youth.\nLeroy at the door was shouting:\n\"Ma! Ma! I've got just about sick of\nwaitin'. It's always the way. You get\nme up, an hour before there's any need,\nto get the horse ready, and then you ain't\nready yourself.\"\n\" Well, my son, you ain't ever hurt\nyourself a-gettin' up early; and, I don't\npresume likely you have this mornin',\"\nhis mother answered in even tones from\nwithin. \" Aunt Delight ain't ready yet,\nand we're both of us goin' to take all the\ntime we want.\"\n\" Yes, I be ready,\" Aunt Delight an-\nswered, as she stepped carefully down\nover the door-sill. She stopped to twist\nup a little old-fashioned nosegay of\n\" Southern-wood\" and \" ladies' de-\nlights.\" Then Leroy ran for a chair, and\nhelped her carefully into the back seat\nbeside Esther. Mrs. Swan hurried out\nwith the big picnic basket and clambered\nunaided in beside Leroy, and the party\nwas off.\nIt was one of those rare days when the"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3777, "texte": "departing Summer pauses for a moment\non her way to leave one gracious memory\nthe more. The roadsides were gorgeous\nwith late golden-rod and asters; here and\nthere a swamp maple flamed forth with\nan early scarlet. The air was pungent\nwith the smell of burning pine woods, the\nwind was at once a caress and a chal-\nlenge. A violet haze veiled the hills, and\nhesitated above the waters of the lake. It\nwas a day which pleaded for a tender,\nbackward look, not wholly of regret and\nwistful yearning, not at all of amusement\nor contempt; but a glance, brave if re-\ngretful ; hopeful if sad.\nThey climbed rolling hills where the\ncornstalks were browning under the yel-\nlow sunlight; where the White Moun-\ntains, half lost in the distant west, rose\nto meet them. They rattled down into\ndamp hollows where the ferns were with-\nered and brown. And, as they travelled,\nthey came into the long procession tend-\ning westward; a procession of people,\nwho, with covered baskets and holiday\nfaces, were calling a halt in busy lives to\nspeak together of the past. At last they\ndipped into the wooded hollow, where\nstood the little white school-house, with\nthe pine before its door; they crawled up\nthe sandy hill with the crest of a moun-\ntain rising in their faces.\nAs they reached the top, Aunt Delight\ncaught her breath. The village lay be-\nlow. It had always seemed the most\nbeautiful spot in the world to her. To-\nday the elm-shaded streets—there had\nbeen no elms, only poplars in the old days\n—the unruffled lake, the brooding moun-\ntain were as fair as ever. As they rum-\nbled over the stone bridge, and down the\nshadowed street, Aunt Delight peopled\nthe houses with the occupants of twenty,\nof forty, of sixty, years before. She was\ncareless of perspective, but she gained the\njoy of the home-comer.\nThe open wagon drew up at the long,\nplain \" Town-house.\" There Aunt De-\nlight got down, with her own quaint pre-\ncision, to meet a world of congratulations\nand warm surprise. From this side and\nfrom that voices exclaimed:\n\" Well, if here ain't Aunt Delight\nSeverance! \"\n\" Why, Aunt Delight, I didn't expect\nyou'd git out such a long ways to the\nCentennial.\"\nThe speakers were the grandsons and\ngranddaughters, great-grandsons and\ngreat-granddaughters of her girlhood\nfriends and neighbors. Some of them\nwere elderly men and women now, and\nmost of them were strangers to her; but\nAunt Delight greeted them with imper-\nsonal cordiality. She moved into the hall\nin the midst of a company alert to do her\nhonor, eager to listen to her interpretation\nof the noble, though simple and unre-\ncorded past that had been hers. The\nrelics ranged along the walls, curiosities\nto them, were full of another interest to\nher. As she answered their questions,\nher little spare figure in the thin black\nsilk and fringed shawl straightened; her\nface, under the old-fashioned bonnet, was\ntinged with a wintry pink; her eyes\nglowed with a soft, sunken fire.\n\" I never seen one of them,\" an elderly\nwoman commented, touching a rotary-\ntopped stove, gingerly. \" What was\nthey made to turn like that for, Aunt De-\nlight?\"\n\" Wal, you see they couldn't more'n\ntwo holes git over the fire to once,\" ex-\nplained the old lady eagerly. \" An' if\nyou was a-bakin' of pies two of 'em\nwouldn't git baked at all. So they'd turn\n'em this way, every now and then,\" giv-\ning the top a little spin, \" and they'd all\ngit done. Mother hed one of 'em that\nshe brought when she come from Har-\nvard, Massachusetts. I never knew what\nbecome of it, though.\"\n\" I never could see how they got all\ntheir work done,\" some one commented.\n\" It's all we can do now, with all the mod-\nern improvements we have.\"\n\" Wal, we cal'lated to work all the\ntime/' said Aunt Delight, reminiscently.\nThe notes of the church bell, sounding"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 18, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3754, "texte": "through the still air, broke in upon her\nspeech. The little company about her be-\ngan to disperse.\n\"Of course you're goin' up to the\nchurch to hear the speakin', Aunt De-\nlight? \" said one of her best-remembered\nfriends. \" Why don't you come right\nalong with us ? \"\n\" I don't presume I'd better, Alice. I\ntold Ellen I'd wait for her here. She\nwent with Leroy to find a place for the\nhorse; and then she was goin' to do some\narrants to Farrar's store.\"\nThe two women, who* were lingering\nbeside her, just glanced at each other.\n\" Farrar's store \" had dispensed rum and\nmolasses, salt fish and calico, to the\nWaterbridge of sixty years before.\n\" No, I guess I'll set down here and\nwait for Ellen. This looks like a real\ncomfortable seat, don't it ? \"\n\" Well, we'll see you at the church\nthen. The speaker is goin' to be real\ngood. Did you know he was old Captain\nProctor's grandson ? \"\nAunt Delight sank into the straight-\nbacked chair with a sigh, realizing for the\nfirst time that she was tired. She closed\nher eyes to shut out the confusion. The\npast was loud in its appeal to her. The\nsoft dream-world in which she had been\nliving for years, a world shut into the\ntrivial round of every day, had vanished.\nThe merciful veil, like the violet Septem-\nber haze, shutting off the circling moun-\ntains, had lifted all at once to the east-\nward. She saw the hills where her life\nrose; and the sight brought with it an\nexquisite pain and sense of loss. She\nhad drunk from the flowered cups, and\nhad smiled across their rims into eyes\nnow veiled for years. This very rusty\npillion, perhaps, had carried her along\nwood-screened bridle-paths. Fingers,\nsoft and rosy, scarred and work-worn,\nrigid, free from work at last, had wrought\nat the yellow samplers, had striven clum-\nsily over the dingy copy-books, fingers\nthat had clasped hers in fellowship. The\ntragedy of the inanimate outlasting the\nanimate, moved her half-unconsciously;\nthe loneliness of herself, sole survivor of\nher day beside these mute, pathetic me-\nmorials, wrung her heart numbed with\nmuch living. She rested her head\nagainst the back of the chair, and tried\nto control the quivering of her lip.\nSuddenly a high voice, light and care-\nless as a bird-note, pierced through her\nreverie.\n\" What deliciously funny old men,\nGuy! Just look at their collars and ties\n—what did they call them—stocks ?\n-cravats? Aren't they too absurd for\nanything! When did they live, anyway ?\nOh yes, ages ago! ' Deacon Eliakim\nHowe, 1775-1829'; 'Captain Hiram\nProctor, 1780-1837.' It's hard to realize\nthey ever lived, isn't it ? \"\nThe words cut clear and keen through\nAunt Delight's musing. At their echo\ncame the boyish face of Deacon Eliakim\nHowe when he had taught the winter\nschool, and she had been his big girl pu-\npil. He was not Deacon then, and had a\nfondness for lingering near the back seat\non the girls' side in leisure moments.\nAnd Deacon Howe had been dead for\nyears—fifty perhaps, and they had called\nhim \" the old Deacon \" before he died.\nThe light tone hurt her. She felt as if\nsome dear and sacred thing were being\nspoken lightly of. The gentle heart grew\nhot. She wanted to tell the speaker how\nmuch those deliciously funny old men\nhad borne and done; how they had grown\nold in their prime, smoothing the path for\ngenerations to come. She wanted to say\nsomething that should make those smil-\ning lips grow grave, that light voice\nquiver. Instead she closed her lips\nclosely. The past was hers; a legacy of\nnobility, of resolve, of high endeavor that\nno age could take away, that no time\ncould tarnish.\nThe light voice went on:\n\" Oh, but Guy, look! What a hand-\nsome man! And what a fine portrait!\nCan you see who it is ? Oh, yes! ' Dr.\nRichard Warren, who Died at his Post in"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3795, "texte": "the Small-pox Epidemic of 1804.' You\nseldom see so handsome a man.\" And\nthe speaker turned carelessly away.\nBut Aunt Delight had risen and con-\nfronted the picture, trembling. The\ndark, compelling eyes met hers with the\nstrength, the tenderness of life. The\nhair, waving loosely back, the firm lips,\nthe resolute chin; she had known them\nall. She had known them, but she had\nalmost forgotten, in the flood of eighty\nyears. The wrinkled, yellowed silhou-\nette had not reminded her of the rich\nbrown of the hair, the red of the cheek.\nBut she remembered it all now. Where\nhad the picture come from ? She had not\nknown of its existence, she who, most of\nall, should have had its comfort through\nthe obliterating years.\nBeneath the picture hung saddle-bags\nand a worn gauntlet. Aunt Delight\nstretched out a pitiful knotted finger, and\nsmoothed the glove tenderly. She trem-\nbled from head to foot with the inward\nrush of old memories. For fifty, for\neighty years, she had been true to a mem-\nory. She had never forgotten; but time\nhad mercifully numbed her grief, and\ndrifted the snows of eighty winters over\nthat far-away autumn, when life had\nbeen all joy and then all sorrow. The\neyes looked almost as keen, almost as ten-\nder, as if the years of parting had never\nbeen. The old familiar trappings held\nall the pathos that recent bereavement\ngives. She rested her cheek against the\nrusty gauntlet with a little half-sob.\nSuddenly, her niece's brisk voice\nstartled her.\n\" Why, Aunt Delight, where have you\nbeen! I've been lookin' everywheres for\nyou. Ain't you all tired out? I'm\nafraid it's goin' to be too much for you,\nseein' so many people and all. But there,\nyou stood your birthday party so well, I\ndon't know as this will hurt you. Do you\nthink you feel well enough to go up to the\nchurch and hear the speakin'? Because,\nif you don't, I just see Mis' Phillips, and\nshe asked me to have you come into her\nhouse, and lay down if you got tired out.\nWhat do you think about it ? \"\n\" I guess I ain't partic'ly tired, Ellen,\"\nMiss Severance answered, quietly. \" I've\nben restin' here. Seein' of so many peo-\nple kind o' dazed me.\"\n\" And no wonder! \" answered Ellen,\nheartily. \" I hain't looked at the exhibi-\ntion hardly a mite, and I feel real muddled\nup myself. Well! Well! Aunt De-\nlight; what's that behind you there?\n' Standin' Stool which belonged to Dea-\ncon Amos Carter.' Well, I suppose\nstandin' stools was in use when you was\nyoung, Aunt Delight? but I declare I\nnever see one before.\"\nAunt Delight hardly glanced at the\nmovable wooden pen where the babies of\nher day had tended themselves. It was\nblackened with time and with the print of\ntiny moist fingers, and the wooden rail\nwas etched by sharp teeth. But Aunt\nDelight did not notice these things. In-\nstead she saw Deacon Amos Carter's big\nkitchen, dusky save for the flaring fire;\nlight, warm, and sweet with homely\nodors. She and Dr. Warren were linger-\ning at the door, loath to leave the fire-lit\nwarmth for the October dusk without.\nShe could almost hear Deacon Carter's\njovial laugh, as he said:\n\" I've just been tellin' Martha that see-\nin' as we wa'n't goin' to need the old\nstandin' stool no more, and the children\nwas fitted out, we'd better give it to De-\nlight and Doctor for a weddin' present.\nYou'll find it lots of help takin' care of\nthe little doctors, Delight.\"\nShe could almost feel the hot blood in\nher cheeks. And that was eighty years\nago. She only answered her niece:\n\" Yes, Ellen, they used 'em consider-\nable.\"\n\" Now, Aunt/5 Ellen went on, briskly,\n\" We've got to be goin' up to the church.\nThat is if you think you'd ought to go.\nI'd rather you'd stop into Mis' Phillipses.\nShe said she'd leave the key under the\nthermometer, so't we could go right in\nany time. I'm afraid you're gittin' too"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 18, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3782, "texte": "tired. Your voice sounded real trem-\nbly.\"\n\" No, Ellen, I'd rather go,\" said Aunt\nDelight, stoutly. \" I presume likely\nthere'll be a good many things said that\nI wouldn't miss for quite a sum of money.\nI can rest up when I git home.\"\nAn usher met them at the doorway, and\nescorted them to reserved seats far up\nin front. Aunt Delight, however, did\nnot notice the little attentions which ear-\nlier in the day would have pleased her.\nShe did not heed the curious and friendly\nglances which were fastened upon her\nfrom all sides. Her eyes saw only nar-\nrow bridle-paths, thick woodlands, low-\nceiled kitchens, with their bygone plen-\nishings, and men and women now among\nthe shadows.\nMeanwhile the orator of the day was\nspeaking, describing a past of which he\nknew no more, gray-haired man as he\nwas, than the veriest child. Aunt De-\nlight was unheeding, living in her world\nof memory. Suddenly some words\ncaught her attention. She listened with\nstrained eagerness for a name which she\nlonged, yet dreaded to hear. The speak-\ner was saying:\n\" I hardly need speak of those who\nhave gone forth from us to make the\nname of Waterbridge a known one, a\nbeneficent one. We point to certain hon-\norable, certain well-known men with\npride, and say, ' They belong to us.' The\nknown are in truth a goodly company;\nbut the unknown are not less so. They\nhave stayed among their native rocky\nhills, laboring with the simple, yet com-\nprehensive, ambition of rearing their\nfamilies comfortably, and in the fear of\nGod; in the hope that at last Earth, their\nnourice-mother, would take them back to\nherself not without honor. Their names\nare forgotten even among us, but their\nwork lives on: in the wilderness they have\nreclaimed, in the roads they have built,\nin the schools they have founded, in the\nchurches they have dedicated to their\nfathers' God, in the quiet dignity and no-\nbility of the old town which welcomes us\nto-day.\n\" One of these obscure names I must\ncall back to you. This does not appear\nin the list of the world's heroes; but it\nshould never be forgotten here. He laid\nhis rich gifts of knowledge and skill at\nour feet without grudging and without\ngain. He stood by us in our hour of\ndread and danger, and left us only at the\nlast imperative call.\n\"It is of Dr. Richard Warren that I\nspeak. You have all seen his picture in\nthe Hall to-day. This portrait I discov-\nered in Massachusetts in possession of\nthat branch of the family, and I brought\nit with me in order that you may form a\npicture of him in your minds. Do you\nknow the story of his brief life? He\ngained his medical education against\nalmost overwhelming odds, working by\nday on the farm, at the forge, studying\nby night. When larger opportunities\nopened before him he made a brilliant\nname for himself in English hospitals.\nHe came back, and dedicated his life to us.\n\" In less than two years his offering\nwas called for. He went in and out of\nhouses where the dread scourge raged.\nHe nursed the sick, he solaced the dying,\nhe buried the dead. He faced prejudice\nand even violence with his wonderful new\ncure. He spent himself, he poured out\nhis whole glad, strong life for our fathers,\nand through them for us. And at last,\nwhen the plague was almost spent, he\ndied, alone, untended. With hushed\nbreath, with hearts thrilled with the no-\nbility, the possibility of manhood, we\nspeak his name.\"\nOnce again Aunt Delight lived in the\ndark days of the pestilence, days when\nduty to her invalid mother and her lover's\ncommand alone kept her from his side.\nThe nightly breathless run to the top of\nthe hill; the heart-breaking suspense un-\ntil she saw the signal light, that told her\nall was well with him; the last night,\nwhen, instead of the gleam in the cottage\nwindow, she had seen a flaring torch-light"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3675, "texte": "in the hollow, and a slender figure, not his,\ndigging a shallow grave: all came back\nto her as she listened. The ferns had\nsmelled rank and dead in her nostrils; one\nlow band of pale yellow had lingered in\nthe west; the north wind had beaten and\nbuffeted her. She had turned blindly—\nshe could not remember what had hap-\npened next. She had wandered far, it\nseemed, wrenched by the wind, dry-eyed\nand still; had wandered on into years\nwithout mark or mile-stone, years that\nhad dragged along until the wound had\nceased to ache—and even that had been\nlong ago.\nAunt Delight was silent and ab-\nsorbed through the neighborly picnicing,\nthrough the toasts that followed. She\nwas overwhelmed in the flood of mem-\nories that had come surging back. Even\nthe bustle of starting failed to rouse her.\nThe weather had changed. The sky was\novercast, a cold wind filled with damp-\nness blew strong from the south. The\nwayside flowers, and the solitary flaming\nmaples had lost their morning glow. The\nride dragged endlessly. The disillusion-\nment that follows a holiday, the vague re-\ngret that the first autumn days bring, a\nsense of the irrevocableness of the past,\ntouched them all. Even Leroy, the\nhealthful, prosaic little animal, was silent\nwith an unanalyzed discontent. He\nroused once to say, with a quizzical\nglance at his sister:\n\" Say, Ess, did that picture of Dr. War-\nren remind you of anybody ? \"\nEsther flushed up to her pretty blonde\nhair.\n\" I ain't sayin' that Frank Ames looks\nas well as that,\" the boy went on. \" For\nhe don't. But there's a sort of a like-\nness. But say! that Dr. Warren must\nhave been a corker if what the man said\nof him was true.\"\n\" Sh! Leroy,\" his mother said, softly.\n\" Aunt Delight's tired. Don't bother her\ntalkin'.\"\nAunt Delight was tired, body and soul.\nShe had reached out through the isolation\nof years for the past and had grasped its\npain, had taken it full of its past force\ninto her heart. She had found herself\nstanding uncompanioned in the waste of\nthe years. The future held nothing for\nher, the present was empty, the past was\n—where? A fear as of a child alone in\nthe darkness laid cold hands on her heart\n•—a fear of the days to come. She had\nwakened from the peaceful, numb calm\nthat had been hers for years, a calm full\nof trivial pleasures, free from griefs and\ncares—into the full stress of living again,\ninto a loneliness such as her hundred\nyears had never known. She was tired,\nbody and soul.\nIt was dark when she woke from her\ndreamless sleep in the little chamber, lead-\ning out of the farm-house kitchen. She\ntried to remember where she was, what\nshe had been doing; but she met only a\nblank wall of forgetfulness. She rose\nmechanically, and crossed the dusky\nkitchen to the lighted sitting-room be-\nyond. To her dazzled eyes, the room\nwas empty save for a young man who sat\nby the table with his head bent over a\nbook. He looked up as she entered.\nHis forceful dark eyes met hers. The\nmists of memory cleared and revealed\nwhat she had been groping for. The\nfirm chin, the dark hair waving back from\nthe high forehead, were just as ever.\nShe stepped forward eagerly in spite of\nthe strange languor that hindered her.\n\" Where have you ben, Richard ? \" she\nasked, breathlessly. \" It's ben sech a\nlong time sence I've seen you. Oh, yes;\nI remember, it was the sickness; and I\nmust have ben sick too.\"\nFrank Ames rose from his-chair, his\nhandsome face troubled.\n\" Good-evening, Aunt Delight,\" he\nfaltered. \" Did you have a good time to-\nday?\"\nMrs. Stone hastened to her Aunt's side\nand clasped her hand. Aunt Delight\nstood erect, with her lips trembling. She\ncast an appealing look into her niece's\nmotherly face."}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 994, "texte": "\" What's the matter, mother ? \" she\nsaid. \" It's ben so long sence Richard's\nben here, and now he don't seem glad to\nsee me. Hev I ben sick, mother? It\nseemed to me that I was old, and every-\nbody I knew was dead, and I was so lone-\nsome. It's hard to realize when you're\nyoung, that anybody can be old like that,\nain't it? But I can't understand why\nRichard don't seem glad to see me.\"\nFrank Ames glanced at Esther, who\nwas crying softly. Then he stooped and\ntouched Aunt Delight's wrinkled cheek\nwith his lips.\n\" I can't say how glad I am to see you,\nDelight,\" he murmured. Then he and\nEsther stole out hand in hand into the\ndusk.\nThe wind, pungent with the scent of\nburnt-out fires, blew strong through the\nopen door. The room was silent save\nfor the insistent night sounds. Aunt\nDelight leaned heavily against her niece's\narm with a happy sigh.\n\" I'm so glad it was only a dream,\nmother,\" she said. \" I was so lonesome,\nbut now it's all right.\"\nAnd Aunt Delight spoke truth."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "25", "page_fin": "26", "image_debut": 27, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "The World-Play", "titre_sommaire": "The World-Play", "signature_source": "Richard Burton", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 996, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1851, "texte": "The World-Play\nRichard Burton\nBy\n\"And all the men and\nThe entrance-price you willy-nilly pay,\nSit with your kind, take pleasure, if you may,\nOr puzzle at the meaning of the play.\nCOMEDY\nThe humors of the Time, the painted show\nOf character, the Attic salt of wTit;\nNow, laughter lilts its high, now, tender woe\nFor a pale moment o'er the stage must flit,\nTo make the main plot merrier; maids and men\nTeach life is sweet and love may come again.\nMELODRAMA\nSee how the Swashbucklers swagger,\nHark to the villain's dark cry!\nMuch is a-doing and many are ruing!\nInnocents, destined to die,\nHaply, with thrust of a dagger.\nEvil frustrate and virtue tried and true,\nRomance, adventure, sleight, and derring-do,\nThe earth's wide passions served up hot for you!\nFARCE\nSee the buffoon's fat cheeks ballooning out!\nThwack! the lath sword descends, guffaws are rife,"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1087, "texte": "Midst gallery gods, with many a boorish shout\nOf approbation. Yet, 'tis part of life,\nAnd honest, too—the grammarless crude heart\nOf one's own kinsmen, and this stir-about\nIs wholesome, though it lack the soul of art.\nTRAGEDY\nSlow evolution to a fateful close;\nDeepest of dramas, knocking at our soul;\nGlints of the gay, but gloom that spreads and grows\nTowards some sardonic end, the gruesome goal\nOf all the light, the motion, and the glee\nPranked out high-heartedly;\nBehind man's quest and woman's sacrifice,\nBravery and risk and lure of ardent eyes,\nQuieting the stir,\nMingling mold-odors with love's sweetest myrrh,\nForever looms and glooms the sepulchre!\nEPILOGUE\nGreat Watcher of the whole, the motley shift\nOf play and counterplay, sole Critic, who\nMust understand, because Creator too;\nPrompter and Playwright both: the curtains lift\nAnd fall, while joy and sorrow interweave;\nWe know full well what time to smile or grieve,\nNo more: the ultimate meaning's shut from view.\nThe world-play, act by act, moves on and we\nAre shaken by its moods—mirth, anguish, mystery!"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "26", "page_fin": "29", "image_debut": 28, "image_fin": 31, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "The New York Theatre: A Foreword", "titre_sommaire": "The New York Theatre: A Foreword", "signature_source": "George C. D. Odell", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 1089, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2041, "texte": "The New York Theatre: A Foreword\nGeorge C. D. Odell\nBy\nW' TOW many New Yorkers would\ntolerate the suggestion that\nM M their theatre is provincial? Yet\nwhat other idea can be gath-\nered from reading the announcements\nfor the coming season at our leading\nplayhouses? Only one or two serious\nefforts of American writers are prom-\nised; in all other cases it is clearly as-\nsumed that the legend \" Latest London\nSuccess \" will be the surest highroad to\nNew York favor. We might as well be\nManchester, or Birmingham, or Liver-\npool, for any evidence we offer of a\ndeclaration of dramatic independence.\nSeemingly, we still go to the theatre to\nlearn what England and (occasionally)\nother nations think of life. What Amer-\nican manager reads an American play?\nIn such circumstances the theatre can\nnever be a vital force. If a large part\nof this foreign product could justly be\nheld as a model for aspiring playwrights,\nif only it were humanly true, all might"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 22, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3919, "texte": "yet be well and an American drama\nmight even now be building in the secret\nplaces. Our writers for the stage could\nnever be utterly discouraged if they saw\nheights to be scaled by patient endeavor.\nBut the best, the most intellectual, in the\nforeign drama is exactly what we never\nget; Ibser and the younger Germans are\npractically unknown to our boards. Our\nimported drama is largely silly farce or\nsentimental or \"smart\" comedy; some\nof the greatest successes of recent years\nhave ranked in literary quality with the\nnovels of the late Mrs. Southworth. Our\nambitious young writers, seeing this out-\nput—\" The Cuckoo,\" \" Zaza,\" \"Lord\nand Lady Algy,\" \" His Excellency the\nGovernor \"■—soon discover that emula-\ntion is not a matter of cloud-scaling, but\nof plunging into depths of vulgar inan-\nity. Men of parts take their energies\nelsewhere; the residuum largely writes\nnoisy farces for music-hall favorites. The\nart of Congreve and Sheridan has degen-\nerated into an affair of the scissors and\nthe paste-pot.\nThe blame comes largely upon the\npublic. When a people looks to its\ndrama purely for diversion, no self-re-\nspecting artist can use the drama as a\nmeans of expression; the novel, the\nmagazine, and the newspaper, even, thus\nbecome the enemies of the stage.\nAbroad, especially on the continent of\nEurope, the theatre of a country means,\nat its best, a national theatre, a vehicle\ntor the exploiting of national character,\nnational customs, national ideals. Much\nthat is unworthy creeps in; but this is\nthe conception of the functions of a the-\natre prevalent in Germany, France, Italy,\nand the Scandinavian countries; and it\nis in these countries that really serious\nplays are written to-day. Empty cachin-\ntiation is not the be-all and the end-all\nof the drama there; Mr. Conried's the-\natre in Irving Place, so opposed in spirit\nto the dramatic habitudes of Broadway,\nis typical of what I mean. But this con-\nception of the drama has not yet begun\nto take root in the American mind; we\ndo not look to the stage for inspiration\nor for suggestion. We speak of the the-\natrical business, as if the matter ended\nwith commerce, and, being a commercial\nnation of large ideas, we surrender all\nour theatres and all our actors into the\nhands of a theatrical trust who are, by\nthe very irony of fate, just the people\nleast able to arouse us to a realization of\nour sodden condition.\nBefore this consummation, devoutly\nto be deplored, there was a moment of\nhope for a national and therefore a living\ntheatre. For a brief spell it seemed as\nif the American dramatist—that plant of\nsickly and retarded growth—were to\nspring into full flower. Mr. Bronson\nHoward had written, in \" Young Mrs.\nWinthrop \" and \" The Henrietta,\" plays\nthat seemed actually to reflect our own\nsocial conditions; Mr. Thomas had pro-\nduced \" Alabama \" and \" In Mizzoura \";\nMr. Gillette's war plays had depicted for\na younger generation the sorrows of a\nbygone time; Belasco and De Mille were\nthe best liked of Lyceum playwrights.\nOther men were coming forward. It\nwas seen that our national characteristics\nafforded a rich field for humor or for pa-\nthos. But with the forming of the \" syn-\ndicate \" all this was changed; the mar-\nket, so many theatres and companies,\nmust be supplied quickly with ready-\nmade wares. The cable invited to Lon-\ndon and Paris and Berlin; the American\ndramatist went back to his native ob-\nscurity. There was not time to consider\nhim. To-day the aspirant practically\nknocks in vain at the doors of our the-\natre ; for him there is no room at the top.\nThis is worse than the \" Frohmanizing \"\nof all our young actors, by so much as\nthe creator is more important than the\ninterpreter; this is to dry at its source\nthe living stream of the drama. Of\ncourse, Mr. Howard and Mr. Gillette\nhave made their hearing and keep it; but\nno manager would bother with an un-\nknown writer. The theory seems to be"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3838, "texte": "that it is much better to invest money\nin elaborate scenery than in plays still\nuntried; the managers owe nothing to\ntheir public or to their art. Besides, how\ncan a commercial manager be expected\nto know a good play when he reads it?\nIt is much easier to buy a successful play\nby cable.\nAnd yet, curiously enough, it is becom-\ning more and more difficult to find plays\nenough to go around. Mr. Charles Froh-\nman is said to be sometimes at a loss for\ntried material in which to employ his nu-\nmerous \" stars \" and companies. He and\nthe others are feverishly \" cornering \" the\nforeign market, and the intelligent ob-\nserver, by reading the theatrical adver-\ntisements of a London spring, will know\nwhat to expect in New York the follow-\ning September and October. The man-\nagers insist that all plays by American\nwriters—except, of course, hack-work\nunder contract—is bad; they never re-\nflect that these plays are bad because in-\ntelligent workmen are driven from the\nfield.\nThe English visitor to New York who\nrecently insisted on seeing an American\nplay, called for exactly the one com-\nmodity his hosts could not supply. The\nAmerican eagle screams loudly for pro-\ntection to American industries of all\nkinds; personally, I shall be glad when\nprohibitive duties are laid on foreign\nmachine-made work like \" Zaza\" or\n\" His Excellency the Governor/'\nWho goes to the theatre for ideas?\nWho goes for sweet pictures of human-\nity, such as one gets from Shakespeare\nand Dickens and all writers who have\nbeen near the people? What does our\ntheatre offer, except stock notions, stock\nphrases, sentimental platitude, or inane\nfrivolity? For one \" Trelawney of the\nWells,\" how many \" Phrosos\" and\n\" Lord and Lady Algys \" do we see ? Far\nbe it from us to plead for Ibsen and the\nintellectuals exclusively or even largely;\nthe stage looks toward a larger morn, of\nrich human insight and sympathy, of\nShakespeares and Molieres yet to be.\nOnly let our stage here in America begin\nto be of us and for us; let it use its own\nmaterial from the rich soil about it. Give\nour dramatists a chance to use their own\neyes and free themselves from the rickety\nbugbear of English tradition. Only thus\ncan be developed among us a theatre of\nwhich we as a nation can be proud. As\nit is, why should we provincials be edified\nby the spectacle of a stage absolutely de-\npendent for subject-matter on the veriest\nhacks of London and Paris ?\nThis is the most crying need for the\nendowed theatre prefigured in the vision\nbeatific of Mr. Hapgood and Mr. Archer.\nIn New York it would be an open door\nfor the American dramatist, where all\nshould have an equal hearing before com-\npetent judges, and where those found\nworthy might hope for a pathway to pop-\nular approval. Money could be taken\nfrom the account of scenery and cos-\ntumes and risked on the production of\nuntried plays. Literature and the drama\nmight again be wedded. In such a the-\natre we should hope to see the classics\nand frequent performances of the mod-\nern plays now proscribed by the syndi-\ncate—Ibsen, if you please (though not\ntoo much of him), Maeterlink, Suder-\nmann, and the rest. But our own writers\nshould be first freed from paralyzing\nconditions, and they should teach us to\ncare most for what is at home. There\nwill be the true life of the drama and\nthere will be a stimulus for other branch-\nes of art.\nBut this process, even at best, we must\nexpect to be slow. A drama is not made\nby merely wishing for it. There will be\nmany failures and few successes at first.\nWe must induce men of ability to write\nfor the stage, and a trained body of dram-\natists, even then, we shall not soon\nhave. Old conventions, old fetters will\nwith difficulty be shaken off. But how\ncan you learn to swim if you never go\ninto the water? Our writers must have\na chance. The public, too, must be edu-"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 9, "fin_caractere_exclue": 798, "texte": "cated, and the actors; the former to think,\nthe latter to practise self-abnegation.\nated, and the actors; the former to think,\nIf Americans only cared!\nMeantime, having thus set forth its\nviews of the theatres of New York, EAST\nAND WEST stands waiting for what shall\ncome. The immediate present offers the\nproduction of an interesting experiment\nin collaboration by two American drama-\ntists—the most important 'production\n(from our point of view) for the last five\nyears. Aside from this, our Colossus\nmanager, bestriding the Atlantic, offers\nus, as we have said, all the latest London\nnovelties. Some of these will be good\nand many of them will be bad; but all\nwill find a large and a pleased public.\nFor what is good we shall be thank-\nful ; the rest we, personally, shall try to\navoid."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "29", "page_fin": "VI", "image_debut": 31, "image_fin": 36, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "Reviews", "titre_sommaire": "Reviews", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 800, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3255, "texte": "Reviews\n(As this first number of \"East and IVest\" went to press before the appearance\nof the AuWnn lists of the publishers, the editors have merely selected for notice here\nsome of the more interesting novels and books of short stories, of the past season.)\n\nNEW NOVELS BY MR. WARNER\nAND MR. HOWELLS.\nTHAT FORTUNE. RAGGED LADY.\n\nHarper & Bros.\nThe simultaneous appearance of\" That\nFortune \" and \" Ragged Lady \" makes\nsomething approaching an occasion in\nour contemporary literature. Mr. War-\nner and Mr. Howells are among our fore-\nmost representatives in a field that still,\nhowever, awaits the American master,\nand have, because of their serious, sin-\ncere pursuit of the profession of letters,\nthroughout long lives, made themselves\nfirmest pillars of the literary tradition in\nthis country.\nIn \" That Fortune \" Mr. Warner is the\nshrewd, kindly philosopher of old, look-\ning out upon life broadly, sweetly, and\npoetically; a mentor with wit, humor,\nand pen making him a worthy succes-\nsor in our generation to Dr. Holmes.\nThis most recent novel sets forth that\nconflict between worldliness and high\nideals which is ever on for youth. Philip\nand Evelyn, born into very different con-\nditions of life, have this in common, that\nboth were isolated in childhood from\nouter influences, and reared in the pure,\nbracing altitudes of romance and abstract\nideas. They were thus, the dishonest\nmillionaire's daughter and the country\nlad, equally imbued with an idealism, de-\nvotion to the beautiful and true, which\ncarried them triumphant through the\nconflict, causing them instinctively to\ncleave to the good, as Mr. Warner would\nhave us see it, and safe to each other's\narms. For thus does Mr. Warner, in\ngood old fashion, make the poetry of\nright in the world work justice for itself.\nIf we owe much of our pleasure in\n\" That Fortune\" to the personal ele-\nment projected by the author into the\nbook, through which we view the pas-\nsages of life presented, and to the easy\nlittle asides, disquisitions on a thousand\ntopics, new or old, we must be prepared\nto forego this particular form of pleasure\nin turning to Mr. Howells and his\n\" Ragged Lady.\" Mr. Warner is the\ncritic, Mr. Howells the creator. Mr.\nHowells strives to make a frieze, a fresco\nof life as he sees it, and then, he himself\nwithdrawing from his work, leads us to\nthe spectacle. We are to be equally with\nhimself the philosopher; he merely pre-\nsents the text.\nThe reason why so many of us find"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3788, "texte": "his work not altogether to our personal\nliking lies simply in the choice of a field\nfor his researches. To study the com-\nmonplace, the mean in life, has been his\nconstant occupation, just as if the essence\nof humanity could be most clearly and\ncompletely viewed through the still, shal-\nlow waters of the everyday varia-\ntions being but ripples to obscure. We\nfeel, many of us, that the elemental hu-\nman is deep in every condition of life,\nand to be found in far greater range and\nrichness, depth and beauty amid the\nstress of the unusual—in the prince and\nin the pauper, rather than in the peasant\nand the burgess. Romance, not the dead\nlevel of actuality, is the true revelation of\nhuman nature.\n\n\" Ragged Lady,\" needless to say, is a\ntypical study in the commonplace. The\nmaterial is not promising; the canvas is\nvery narrow, the observation very mi-\nnute. The difficulty in art so opposed to\nthe impressionistic, so different from the\neasy, broad sketches in which Mr.\nWarner covers the whole social range,\nis, while rendering the detail, to keep the\nproportion of the whole. That Mr.\nHowells succeeds in this is beyond all\nquestion. The sketch of Mrs. Lander,\nthat awful picture of the vulgar, selfish\nwoman, grows more painfully life-like\nwith each succeeding touch. But here\nMr. Howells;s real triumph is in his\nheroine, Clementina. In her he some-\nhow succeeds in gilding the common-\nplace in fiction with some of the glory it\npossesses in real life. To present a\nheroine who has no ideal characteristics,\nwho can neither converse nor think, who\ntalks a strange dialect—and here Mr.\nHowells very inartistically over-em-\nphasizes a detail—but who is still charm-\ning and capable of enrolling us among\nher many admirers, is an achievement.\nFor the average male in literature ex-\npects the Woman Wonderful—particu-\nlarly in intellect and her ability to cope\nwith man in his own field—just as the\naverage female will have her Prince\nCharming: each oblivious in this imagi-\nnative sphere, that in the work-a-day\nworld of prose, love goes by no allotment\nof the heroic, in beauty, strength, or in-\ntellect. In short, Clementina is not the\nsort of girl whom we should expect to\ncarry us captive through a novel, though\nit is well we should know that nothing is\nmore likely than this in the strange mys-\nteries of flesh and blood. That Mr. How-\nells can so present in fiction some hint of\nthose subtle influences and affinities that\nplay fast and loose with so many of our\nintellectual ideals, is no small thing to\nhave compassed, even though it does not\nproduce the really great art that stirs and\nstimulates.\nIt is an interesting fact that both Mr.\nWarner and Mr. Howells, philosopher\nand artist, viewing the world from dif-\nferent coigns, should see it so much the\nsame. For both it seems a good world,\na happy place, on the whole, despite trials\nand crosses. In \" That Fortune \" Mr.\nWarner says of Philip: \"He did not\neven know that when he became very\nold, the world would seem to him good\nor bad according to the degree in which\nhe had become a good or a bad man.\"\nThat, therefore, now, the philosopher\nshould not cry out utterly against man-\nkind; and the realist not see the evil\ncompletely overshadowing the good,\neven if not necessarily a convincing ar-\ngument for a cheerful optimism, never-\ntheless throws a pleasant light upon the\nnatures of the two men the burden of\nwhose song might be:\n\" God's in his heaven—\nAll's right with the world.\"\n\nThe Macmil-\nlan Company.\n\nRICHARD CARVEL.\n\" Richard Carvel\" is a very pleasant\nstory, quite justifying that high pogular\nopinion which has made it the success\nof the summer season. The theme is\nold, the setting more or less new. And\nthese, with a manner perfectly simple and\nintelligible, give Mr. Churchill's book the"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 9, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3937, "texte": "chief requirements demanded of a popu-\nlar novel. The story is the eternal one\nof love and adventure in their commonest\nromantic phases, and the last century set-\nting is happily chosen.\nAll this is very far from saying that\n\" Richard Carvel\" is a great book. In-\ndeed, this idea would hardly have en-\ntered one's mind save for the exagger-\nated praise of certain critics whose enthu-\nsiasm outruns their discernment. It is\ndistinctly a novel ala mode. It is not one\nof those books which happen irrespective\nof the world's work or thought at the\ntime, original, inimitable, and isolated.\n\" Richard Carvel\" was written because\nother stories of the same sort are being\nwritten and eagerly read to-day. It rep-\nresents the prevailing literary fashion of\nthe present, which is to rehabilitate some\npicturesque past period in a cloak of fic-\ntion. It is the local color method moved\nback from the present to the past; and\nthe interest still lies obviously, and to the\nevident exclusion of anything approach-\ning great art, very much less in the char-\nacters portrayed, who, with their stories,\nare stereotyped, than in interesting and\nunfamiliar conditions of life. The slight,\npretty tale of Richard Carvel and Dolly\nManners is almost crushed by the erudi-\ntion of the author, who has read widely\nand well for his task of distancing his\ncompetitors, by giving fuller measure\nand variety of stage settings, properties,\nand persons. This he has certainly done.\nMost novelists of his class are content\nwith one complete, carefully studied set\nof scenery. Mr. Churchill gives us two,\nand of historical lay figures, not one, but\na dozen. It cost Cooper two novels to\npresent Paul Jones and George Wash-\nington. Mr. Churchill puts them both\nwith endless others into a single volume.\nThis is said less in dispraise of \" Rich-\nard Carvel,\" than of the critics who claim\nfor it \" an enduring place in literature/'\netc., and who will leave a hundred thou-\nsand credulous readers in great perplex-\nity when it shall have run its course and\nfallen gracefully back for the next. Ay,\nin perplexity, and with a wavering faith\nin the real worth of literature, the great\nexamples of which are so very mortal, so\neasily turned out, two or three a season,\nand then forgotten. \" Richard Carvel \"\nis a good book of its kind—a kind that\ngives us no insignificant share of what\npleasure we get from reading—better\nthan the average, perhaps. But it is not\na great book, like \" Henry Esmond \" or\n\" Peg Woffington,\" stories with an old\nsetting, truly, yet' in which this setting is\nproperly subordinated, as it always is in\nlife and true art, to the personalities of\nmen and women, and the vital interest of\na deeply human story.\n\nTHE FOWLER.\nBy Beatrice Harra-\nden. Dodd, Mead & Co.\nA novel like \" The Fowler\" is more\nthan ordinarily difficult to criticise quite\nfairly. Miss Harraden has aimed higher\nthan her strength could reach, and the\nfailure, already accentuated by the suc-\ncess of an earlier work, is brought into\nstill stronger relief by the possibilities\nof greatness inherent in the characters\nwhich Miss Harraden attempts to por-\ntray. Theodore Bevan, the Fowler, the\ntype of evil, the spirit of pessimism; Brian\nUppingham, the type of good, the spirit\nof optimism; and Nora Penhurst, the\nprey of the Fowler, and the beloved of\nBrian—these are the three significant\ncharacters of the book, and the story is\nthe story of Nora's struggles under these\ntwo influences.\nIn her subjection to the Fowler the\nreader does not feel the sense of fear, of\nrecoilment, and yet of inevitability that\nmakes the greatness in Hawthorne's por-\ntrayal of Chillingworth. We are told of\nthe fascination of the Fowler, but we do\nnot feel it, and we finish chapter after\nchapter, wondering why the strong-\nminded heroine ever fell into his toils.\nBrian Uppingham is, on the whole, far\nmore satisfactorily portrayed, though he,\ntoo, is not quite convincing. But, worst"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3661, "texte": "of all, having failed to take advantage of\nthe material offered by such antipodal\ncharacters, the author allows a mere de-\nvice, and a very evident and hackneyed\none at that, to be the final cause of Nora's\nescape from the net of the Fowler. We\nare left in doubt as to whether Brian\nwould have overcome Theodore Bevan,\nwhether virtue or evil would have pre-\ndominated, had not the villain—strangely\ncarelessly, be it said—missent his diary\ncontaining a record of his evil designs into\nthe very hands of Nora Penhurst.\nWe congratulate Miss Harraden on\nhaving aimed somewhat higher than\nusual. That itself is worth while, and\nrecognition of it constitutes high praise\nfor this present day, when, indeed, people\nwho write, ordinarily do not aim at all,\nsave at some well-riddled bull's-eye of\npopularity.\n\nTHE GREATER INCLINATION.\nBy\nEdith Wharton. Charles Scribner's\nSons.\nThere are three admirable stories in\nMrs. Wharton's volume—the first three\n\" The Muse's Tragedy\" is interesting\nand suggestive almost faintly remi-\nniscent, it is so convincing—in its cu-\nrious probing into the morbid myste-\nries of genius and love, literature and life.\nIt is delicately done. \" A Journey \" is\na masterpiece in the school of De Mau-\npassant. It is simple, direct, true, and\nterrible. It deserves to live as a brilliant\nexample of its kind. \" The Pelican\"\ngains over its fellows in having humor\nand lightness. It contains excellent sat-\nire, with a flavor of burlesque.\nThe remainder of the volume does not\nbear out its early promise. The whole is\na study of human nature in its less usual,\noften its yellowest phases. But the first\nstories had a certain distinction which\nsaved them to literature. The rest, un-\nless, possibly, we except\" Souls Belated/'\nare unjustified in presentation by good\nart or interesting psychology. In con-\nelusion, the constant hard, light, occa-\nsionally flippant reference to grave so-\ncial crimes with their attendant circum-\nstances—and here we would cite the story-\nlast referred to—gives a note of vulgarity\nalmost, indeed, inseparable from such\nsubjects, except when treated far differ-\nently, in their profoundest human as-\npects, by the great moral masters of lit-\nerature.\n\nMEN'S TRAGEDIES.\nBy R. V. Ris-\nley. The Macmillan Company.\nIn a preface which arouses hopes not\ndestined to be fulfilled, the author of\n\"Men's Tragedies\" lays down the dictum\nthat \" life is but a realized fiction.\" How,\nthen, we wonder, could he ever have fol-\nlowed this preface by a work of fiction\nwhich gives a false impression of life?\nAnd we ask this with all the more regret\nbecause there are many passages which\nwould seem to indicate that the author\nreally knows what is most worth while in\nmen's actions.\nThere are nine stories in the book, and\nthrough each one runs the same motif of\nshattered ideals; and in every case it is\nsome deed in which an impure man or an\nimpure woman is involved, that leads to\nthe final tragedy. Thus the impression\nthat the reader must receive will be that\nin this world the pure and the lofty-mind-\ned have no place. Whether they love, or\nhate, or sneer, or care, or kill, they seem\nto go through life isolated, and not help-\nful to their fellow-men.\nFor the same reason that these stories\nare untrue to life, they lose in interest\nconsidered merely as stories. It was a\ngreat mistake of the author to put in one\nvolume nine articles of fiction so nearly\nalike in plot and treatment. Nor do the\nstatements in the preface that \"each of\nthese tales has an intention,\" and that\nthey are \" studies of intensity,\" lead us to\nchange our opinion, for analytically and\npsychologically they offer little that is\nnew."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "29", "page_fin": "30", "image_debut": 31, "image_fin": 32, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.16.2", "titre_corps": "NEW NOVELS BY MR. WARNER AND MR. HOWELLS. THAT FORTUNE. RAGGED LADY.", "titre_sommaire": "NEW NOVELS BY MR. WARNER AND MR. HOWELLS. THAT FORTUNE. RAGGED LADY.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 1059, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3255, "texte": "NEW NOVELS BY MR. WARNER\nAND MR. HOWELLS.\nTHAT FORTUNE. RAGGED LADY.\n\nHarper & Bros.\nThe simultaneous appearance of\" That\nFortune \" and \" Ragged Lady \" makes\nsomething approaching an occasion in\nour contemporary literature. Mr. War-\nner and Mr. Howells are among our fore-\nmost representatives in a field that still,\nhowever, awaits the American master,\nand have, because of their serious, sin-\ncere pursuit of the profession of letters,\nthroughout long lives, made themselves\nfirmest pillars of the literary tradition in\nthis country.\nIn \" That Fortune \" Mr. Warner is the\nshrewd, kindly philosopher of old, look-\ning out upon life broadly, sweetly, and\npoetically; a mentor with wit, humor,\nand pen making him a worthy succes-\nsor in our generation to Dr. Holmes.\nThis most recent novel sets forth that\nconflict between worldliness and high\nideals which is ever on for youth. Philip\nand Evelyn, born into very different con-\nditions of life, have this in common, that\nboth were isolated in childhood from\nouter influences, and reared in the pure,\nbracing altitudes of romance and abstract\nideas. They were thus, the dishonest\nmillionaire's daughter and the country\nlad, equally imbued with an idealism, de-\nvotion to the beautiful and true, which\ncarried them triumphant through the\nconflict, causing them instinctively to\ncleave to the good, as Mr. Warner would\nhave us see it, and safe to each other's\narms. For thus does Mr. Warner, in\ngood old fashion, make the poetry of\nright in the world work justice for itself.\nIf we owe much of our pleasure in\n\" That Fortune\" to the personal ele-\nment projected by the author into the\nbook, through which we view the pas-\nsages of life presented, and to the easy\nlittle asides, disquisitions on a thousand\ntopics, new or old, we must be prepared\nto forego this particular form of pleasure\nin turning to Mr. Howells and his\n\" Ragged Lady.\" Mr. Warner is the\ncritic, Mr. Howells the creator. Mr.\nHowells strives to make a frieze, a fresco\nof life as he sees it, and then, he himself\nwithdrawing from his work, leads us to\nthe spectacle. We are to be equally with\nhimself the philosopher; he merely pre-\nsents the text.\nThe reason why so many of us find"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3468, "texte": "his work not altogether to our personal\nliking lies simply in the choice of a field\nfor his researches. To study the com-\nmonplace, the mean in life, has been his\nconstant occupation, just as if the essence\nof humanity could be most clearly and\ncompletely viewed through the still, shal-\nlow waters of the everyday varia-\ntions being but ripples to obscure. We\nfeel, many of us, that the elemental hu-\nman is deep in every condition of life,\nand to be found in far greater range and\nrichness, depth and beauty amid the\nstress of the unusual—in the prince and\nin the pauper, rather than in the peasant\nand the burgess. Romance, not the dead\nlevel of actuality, is the true revelation of\nhuman nature.\n\n\" Ragged Lady,\" needless to say, is a\ntypical study in the commonplace. The\nmaterial is not promising; the canvas is\nvery narrow, the observation very mi-\nnute. The difficulty in art so opposed to\nthe impressionistic, so different from the\neasy, broad sketches in which Mr.\nWarner covers the whole social range,\nis, while rendering the detail, to keep the\nproportion of the whole. That Mr.\nHowells succeeds in this is beyond all\nquestion. The sketch of Mrs. Lander,\nthat awful picture of the vulgar, selfish\nwoman, grows more painfully life-like\nwith each succeeding touch. But here\nMr. Howells;s real triumph is in his\nheroine, Clementina. In her he some-\nhow succeeds in gilding the common-\nplace in fiction with some of the glory it\npossesses in real life. To present a\nheroine who has no ideal characteristics,\nwho can neither converse nor think, who\ntalks a strange dialect—and here Mr.\nHowells very inartistically over-em-\nphasizes a detail—but who is still charm-\ning and capable of enrolling us among\nher many admirers, is an achievement.\nFor the average male in literature ex-\npects the Woman Wonderful—particu-\nlarly in intellect and her ability to cope\nwith man in his own field—just as the\naverage female will have her Prince\nCharming: each oblivious in this imagi-\nnative sphere, that in the work-a-day\nworld of prose, love goes by no allotment\nof the heroic, in beauty, strength, or in-\ntellect. In short, Clementina is not the\nsort of girl whom we should expect to\ncarry us captive through a novel, though\nit is well we should know that nothing is\nmore likely than this in the strange mys-\nteries of flesh and blood. That Mr. How-\nells can so present in fiction some hint of\nthose subtle influences and affinities that\nplay fast and loose with so many of our\nintellectual ideals, is no small thing to\nhave compassed, even though it does not\nproduce the really great art that stirs and\nstimulates.\nIt is an interesting fact that both Mr.\nWarner and Mr. Howells, philosopher\nand artist, viewing the world from dif-\nferent coigns, should see it so much the\nsame. For both it seems a good world,\na happy place, on the whole, despite trials\nand crosses. In \" That Fortune \" Mr.\nWarner says of Philip: \"He did not\neven know that when he became very\nold, the world would seem to him good\nor bad according to the degree in which\nhe had become a good or a bad man.\"\nThat, therefore, now, the philosopher\nshould not cry out utterly against man-\nkind; and the realist not see the evil\ncompletely overshadowing the good,\neven if not necessarily a convincing ar-\ngument for a cheerful optimism, never-\ntheless throws a pleasant light upon the\nnatures of the two men the burden of\nwhose song might be:\n\" God's in his heaven—\nAll's right with the world.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "30", "page_fin": "31", "image_debut": 32, "image_fin": 33, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.16.3", "titre_corps": "RICHARD CARVEL.", "titre_sommaire": "RICHARD CARVEL.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 3470, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3788, "texte": "The Macmil-\nlan Company.\n\nRICHARD CARVEL.\n\" Richard Carvel\" is a very pleasant\nstory, quite justifying that high pogular\nopinion which has made it the success\nof the summer season. The theme is\nold, the setting more or less new. And\nthese, with a manner perfectly simple and\nintelligible, give Mr. Churchill's book the"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 9, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2708, "texte": "chief requirements demanded of a popu-\nlar novel. The story is the eternal one\nof love and adventure in their commonest\nromantic phases, and the last century set-\nting is happily chosen.\nAll this is very far from saying that\n\" Richard Carvel\" is a great book. In-\ndeed, this idea would hardly have en-\ntered one's mind save for the exagger-\nated praise of certain critics whose enthu-\nsiasm outruns their discernment. It is\ndistinctly a novel ala mode. It is not one\nof those books which happen irrespective\nof the world's work or thought at the\ntime, original, inimitable, and isolated.\n\" Richard Carvel\" was written because\nother stories of the same sort are being\nwritten and eagerly read to-day. It rep-\nresents the prevailing literary fashion of\nthe present, which is to rehabilitate some\npicturesque past period in a cloak of fic-\ntion. It is the local color method moved\nback from the present to the past; and\nthe interest still lies obviously, and to the\nevident exclusion of anything approach-\ning great art, very much less in the char-\nacters portrayed, who, with their stories,\nare stereotyped, than in interesting and\nunfamiliar conditions of life. The slight,\npretty tale of Richard Carvel and Dolly\nManners is almost crushed by the erudi-\ntion of the author, who has read widely\nand well for his task of distancing his\ncompetitors, by giving fuller measure\nand variety of stage settings, properties,\nand persons. This he has certainly done.\nMost novelists of his class are content\nwith one complete, carefully studied set\nof scenery. Mr. Churchill gives us two,\nand of historical lay figures, not one, but\na dozen. It cost Cooper two novels to\npresent Paul Jones and George Wash-\nington. Mr. Churchill puts them both\nwith endless others into a single volume.\nThis is said less in dispraise of \" Rich-\nard Carvel,\" than of the critics who claim\nfor it \" an enduring place in literature/'\netc., and who will leave a hundred thou-\nsand credulous readers in great perplex-\nity when it shall have run its course and\nfallen gracefully back for the next. Ay,\nin perplexity, and with a wavering faith\nin the real worth of literature, the great\nexamples of which are so very mortal, so\neasily turned out, two or three a season,\nand then forgotten. \" Richard Carvel \"\nis a good book of its kind—a kind that\ngives us no insignificant share of what\npleasure we get from reading—better\nthan the average, perhaps. But it is not\na great book, like \" Henry Esmond \" or\n\" Peg Woffington,\" stories with an old\nsetting, truly, yet' in which this setting is\nproperly subordinated, as it always is in\nlife and true art, to the personalities of\nmen and women, and the vital interest of\na deeply human story."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "31", "page_fin": "32", "image_debut": 33, "image_fin": 34, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.16.4", "titre_corps": "THE FOWLER.", "titre_sommaire": "THE FOWLER.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 2710, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3937, "texte": "THE FOWLER.\nBy Beatrice Harra-\nden. Dodd, Mead & Co.\nA novel like \" The Fowler\" is more\nthan ordinarily difficult to criticise quite\nfairly. Miss Harraden has aimed higher\nthan her strength could reach, and the\nfailure, already accentuated by the suc-\ncess of an earlier work, is brought into\nstill stronger relief by the possibilities\nof greatness inherent in the characters\nwhich Miss Harraden attempts to por-\ntray. Theodore Bevan, the Fowler, the\ntype of evil, the spirit of pessimism; Brian\nUppingham, the type of good, the spirit\nof optimism; and Nora Penhurst, the\nprey of the Fowler, and the beloved of\nBrian—these are the three significant\ncharacters of the book, and the story is\nthe story of Nora's struggles under these\ntwo influences.\nIn her subjection to the Fowler the\nreader does not feel the sense of fear, of\nrecoilment, and yet of inevitability that\nmakes the greatness in Hawthorne's por-\ntrayal of Chillingworth. We are told of\nthe fascination of the Fowler, but we do\nnot feel it, and we finish chapter after\nchapter, wondering why the strong-\nminded heroine ever fell into his toils.\nBrian Uppingham is, on the whole, far\nmore satisfactorily portrayed, though he,\ntoo, is not quite convincing. But, worst"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 814, "texte": "of all, having failed to take advantage of\nthe material offered by such antipodal\ncharacters, the author allows a mere de-\nvice, and a very evident and hackneyed\none at that, to be the final cause of Nora's\nescape from the net of the Fowler. We\nare left in doubt as to whether Brian\nwould have overcome Theodore Bevan,\nwhether virtue or evil would have pre-\ndominated, had not the villain—strangely\ncarelessly, be it said—missent his diary\ncontaining a record of his evil designs into\nthe very hands of Nora Penhurst.\nWe congratulate Miss Harraden on\nhaving aimed somewhat higher than\nusual. That itself is worth while, and\nrecognition of it constitutes high praise\nfor this present day, when, indeed, people\nwho write, ordinarily do not aim at all,\nsave at some well-riddled bull's-eye of\npopularity."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "32", "page_fin": "32", "image_debut": 34, "image_fin": 34, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.16.5", "titre_corps": "THE GREATER INCLINATION.", "titre_sommaire": "THE GREATER INCLINATION.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 816, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2211, "texte": "THE GREATER INCLINATION.\nBy\nEdith Wharton. Charles Scribner's\nSons.\nThere are three admirable stories in\nMrs. Wharton's volume—the first three\n\" The Muse's Tragedy\" is interesting\nand suggestive almost faintly remi-\nniscent, it is so convincing—in its cu-\nrious probing into the morbid myste-\nries of genius and love, literature and life.\nIt is delicately done. \" A Journey \" is\na masterpiece in the school of De Mau-\npassant. It is simple, direct, true, and\nterrible. It deserves to live as a brilliant\nexample of its kind. \" The Pelican\"\ngains over its fellows in having humor\nand lightness. It contains excellent sat-\nire, with a flavor of burlesque.\nThe remainder of the volume does not\nbear out its early promise. The whole is\na study of human nature in its less usual,\noften its yellowest phases. But the first\nstories had a certain distinction which\nsaved them to literature. The rest, un-\nless, possibly, we except\" Souls Belated/'\nare unjustified in presentation by good\nart or interesting psychology. In con-\nelusion, the constant hard, light, occa-\nsionally flippant reference to grave so-\ncial crimes with their attendant circum-\nstances—and here we would cite the story-\nlast referred to—gives a note of vulgarity\nalmost, indeed, inseparable from such\nsubjects, except when treated far differ-\nently, in their profoundest human as-\npects, by the great moral masters of lit-\nerature."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "32", "page_fin": "32", "image_debut": 34, "image_fin": 34, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.16.6", "titre_corps": "MEN'S TRAGEDIES.", "titre_sommaire": "MEN'S TRAGEDIES.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 2213, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3661, "texte": "MEN'S TRAGEDIES.\nBy R. V. Ris-\nley. The Macmillan Company.\nIn a preface which arouses hopes not\ndestined to be fulfilled, the author of\n\"Men's Tragedies\" lays down the dictum\nthat \" life is but a realized fiction.\" How,\nthen, we wonder, could he ever have fol-\nlowed this preface by a work of fiction\nwhich gives a false impression of life?\nAnd we ask this with all the more regret\nbecause there are many passages which\nwould seem to indicate that the author\nreally knows what is most worth while in\nmen's actions.\nThere are nine stories in the book, and\nthrough each one runs the same motif of\nshattered ideals; and in every case it is\nsome deed in which an impure man or an\nimpure woman is involved, that leads to\nthe final tragedy. Thus the impression\nthat the reader must receive will be that\nin this world the pure and the lofty-mind-\ned have no place. Whether they love, or\nhate, or sneer, or care, or kill, they seem\nto go through life isolated, and not help-\nful to their fellow-men.\nFor the same reason that these stories\nare untrue to life, they lose in interest\nconsidered merely as stories. It was a\ngreat mistake of the author to put in one\nvolume nine articles of fiction so nearly\nalike in plot and treatment. Nor do the\nstatements in the preface that \"each of\nthese tales has an intention,\" and that\nthey are \" studies of intensity,\" lead us to\nchange our opinion, for analytically and\npsychologically they offer little that is\nnew."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "V", "page_fin": "V", "image_debut": 35, "image_fin": 35, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.17", "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": 35, "page_imprimee": "V", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 28, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1290, "texte": "THE AUDIT COMPANY\nOF NEW YORK\nEQUITABLE BUILDING, 120 BROADWAY\nOFFICERS\nActing President,\nAUGUST BELMONT\nVice-President,\nWILLIAM A. NASH.\nConsulting- Engineers,\nWM. BARCLAY PARSONS, F. S. PEARSON,\nSecretary and Treasurer,\nEDWARD T. PERINE.\nManager,\nTHOMAS L. GREENE.\nChief Consulting Auditor,\nSTEPHEN LITTLE.\nDIRECTORS\nAugust Belmont, A. J. Cassatt,\nFrederic P. Olcott, Marcellus Hartley,\nJames Stillman, Charles R. Flint,\nWilliam A. Nash, George Coppell,\nJoseph S. Auerbach, G. B. M. Harvey,\nGeorge G. Haven, John I. Waterbury,\nGeorge W. Young.\nFORD, BACON & DAVIS.\nADVISORY COMMITTEE\nOF STOCKHOLDERS\nW. Bayard Cutting,\nWalter G. Oakman,\nA. D. Juilliard,\nHenry W. Poor,\nLouis Fitzgerald,\nT. Jefferson Coolidge, Jr.,\nCharles S. Fairchild,\nGustav E. Kissel,\nIsaac N. Seligman,\nE. R. Chapman.\nMakes Examinations for Purchasers and Vendors, and Makes Periodical Audits for\nIndividuals, Firms, and Corporations.\nIssues Certificates as to the Correctness of Accounts Examined or Audited.\nTakes General Charge of Systems of Manufacturing and Mercantile Bookkeeping and\nFurnishes Expert Criticism thereon.\nSimplifies Systems of Accounting, thus Insuring Reduced Expenses.\nMakes Engineering Investigations, with Appraisals of Values.\nRenders All Services Confidentially."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "V", "page_fin": "V", "image_debut": 35, "image_fin": 35, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.18", "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": 35, "page_imprimee": "V", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 1292, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1748, "texte": "J. & W. SELIGMAN & CO.\n. . . BANKERS ...\nMills Building, 21 Broad Street, New York\nISSUE LETTERS OF CREDIT FOR TRAVELERS\nPayable in any part of Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia and America\nDRAW BILLS OF EXCHANGE ON AND MAKE TELEGRAPHIC TRANSFERS\nOF MONEY TO EUROPE AND CALIFORNIA\nSELIGMAN BROTHERS, London\nSELIGMAN FRERES & CIE., Paris\nSELIGMAN & STETTHEIMER, Frankfurt\nANGLO-CALIFORNIAN BANK, Limited, San Francisco, Cal.\nBUY AND SELL INVESTMENT SECURITIES"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "VI", "page_fin": "VI", "image_debut": 36, "image_fin": 36, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.19", "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": 36, "page_imprimee": "VI", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 28, "fin_caractere_exclue": 142, "texte": "SIMON BORG & Co.\nBankers\nINVESTMENT SECURITIES FOR BANKS,\nCORPORATIONS AND TRUST ESTATES\n20 Nassau Street New York"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "VI", "page_fin": "VI", "image_debut": 36, "image_fin": 36, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.20", "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": 36, "page_imprimee": "VI", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 144, "fin_caractere_exclue": 667, "texte": "THE PLAZA BANK\nFifth Ave. and 58th St., N. Y.\nCapital, $lOO,OOO\nPresident\nMcMaster\nW.\nV ice-Pres iden t\nA. Newbold Morris\nDirectors\nH. B. Hollins\nJohn Jacob Astor\nB. Beinecke\nAugust Belmont\nJohn E. Borne\nAddison Cammack\nRichard Delafield\nStuyvesant Fish\nJoseph Larocque\nHenry Marquand\nW. McMaster Mills\nA. Newbold Morris\nHermann Oelrichs\nJoseph Park\nSurplus, $lOO,OOO\nMills\nCashier\nCharles W. Parson\nEdward E. Poor\nF. B. Poor\nJohn L. Riker\nCharles Scribner\nWilliam H. Tillinghast\nGeorge Frederick Vietor\nHarry Payne Whitney"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "VI", "page_fin": "VI", "image_debut": 36, "image_fin": 36, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.21", "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": 36, "page_imprimee": "VI", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 669, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1178, "texte": "George Coppell Gerald L. Hoyt\nDallas B. Pratt Arthur Coppell Herbert Coppell\nMaitland, Coppell & Co.\n22 and 24 Exchange Place\nNEW YORK\nOrders executed for all Investment Securities. Act as\nagents of Corporations, and negotiate and issue Loans.\nBills of Exchange, Telegraphic Transfers,\nLetters of Credit,\nON\nMessrs. Smith, Payne & Smiths, London, Messrs.\nMallet Freres & Cie., Paris, Banco Nacional\nde Mexico, and its Branches.\nAgents for the Bank of Australasia, the British Guiana\nBank, Demerara. etc., etc."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "VI", "page_fin": "VI", "image_debut": 36, "image_fin": 36, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.22", "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": 36, "page_imprimee": "VI", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 1180, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1644, "texte": "New York Security\nand Trust Company\n44 & 46 Wall Street, New York\nCapital, $1,000,000.00 Surplus, $2 000,000.00\nCHARLES S. FAIRCHILD, President\nWM. L. STRONG, Ist Vice-Pres. ABRAM M. HYATT, 2d Vice-Pres.\nOSBORN W. BRIGHT. Secretary ZELAH VAN LOAN, Ass't-Secretary\nReceives deposits subject to sight drafts, allowing\ninterest on daily balances, and issues certificates\nof deposit bearing interest. Acts as registrar\nand transfer agent of all stocks and bonds. : : :"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "VI", "page_fin": "VI", "image_debut": 36, "image_fin": 36, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.23", "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": 36, "page_imprimee": "VI", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 1646, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2162, "texte": "THE NATIONAL n,KT\nPARK BANK 0 ew\nCapital, $2,000,000 Surplus, $3,000,000\nPRESIDENT\nEDWARD E. POOR\nVice-President\nSTUYVESANT FISH\nGEORGE S. HICKOK\nCashier\nVICE-PRESIDENT\nRICHARD DELAFIELD\nVice-President\nALBERT H. WIGGIN\nEDWARD J. BALDWIN\nAss't Cashier\nDIRECTORS\nJoseph T. Moore\nGeorge S. Hart\nCharles Scribner\nEdward E. Poor\nAugust Belmont\nFrancis R. Appleton\nGeorge S. Hickok\nHermann\nStuyvesant Fish\nCharles Sternbach\nEdward C. Hoyt,\nW. Rockhill Potts\nRichard Delafield\nJohn Jacob Astor\nGeorge Fred'k Vietor\nOelrichs"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "VI", "page_fin": "VI", "image_debut": 36, "image_fin": 36, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.24", "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": 36, "page_imprimee": "VI", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 2164, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2441, "texte": "Continental\nTrust Company\nOF THE CITY OF NEW YORK\nTelephone : 1309 Broad\nCapital, $500,000 Surplus, $500,000\nOFFICERS\nOTTO T. BANNARD PRESIDENT\nWILLIAM ALEXANDER SMITH ISTVICE-PRESIDENT\nGORDON MACDONALD . . 2ND VICE-PRESIDENT\nWILLARD V. KING SECRETARY\nHENRY E. DABOLL TREASURER"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "VI", "page_fin": "VI", "image_debut": 36, "image_fin": 36, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.25", "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": 36, "page_imprimee": "VI", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 2443, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2641, "texte": "HENRY A. SIEBRECHT\nHENRY A. SIEBRECHT, JR.\nSIEBRECHT & SON\n409 Fifth Avenue\n. . . NEW YORK\nRose Hill Nurseries, New Rochelle, N. Y. Newport Branch, Newport, R. I.\nTropical Nurseries, Trinidad, W. I."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "couv. 3", "page_fin": "couv. 3", "image_debut": 37, "image_fin": 37, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.26", "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": 37, "page_imprimee": "couv. 3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4320, "texte": "The Macmillan Company's New Books\nTHE NEW NOVELS\nVIA CRUCIS\nA Romance of the Second Crusade. With 12 full-page\nillustrations by Louis LOEB. Cloth, crown Bvo, $1.50.\nNEW NOVELS BY F. MARION CRAWFORD\nSARACINESCA\nIllustrated Edition. Illustrated by ORSON LOWELL. In\ntwo volumes. Sateen, Crown Bvo, $5.00.\nMr. Crawford's latest work and one which many of his admirers consider his best, in illustrated editions.\nYOUNG APRIL\nBy EGERTON CASTLE, author of \" The Pride of Jennico.\"\nIllustrated by WENZELL. Cloth, i2mo, $1.50.\n*' By the author of tha bewitching romance, 'The Pride\nof Jennico.' Tribune.\nHENRY WORTHINGTON, IDEALIST\nBy MARGARET SHERWOOD, author of \" An Experiment in\nAltruism, A Puritan Bohemia,\" etc. Cloth, i2mo, $1.50#\nThe novel is a strong one, practically certain to arouse\nwide discussion.\"—Chicago Tribune.\nMr. Zangwill's THEY THAT WALK IN DARKNESS. Ghetto Tragedies. Cloth. $1.50.\n\"Ghetto Tragedies\" covers a wide range of production, for it contains specimens of the realistic storv as'well\npoetic, imaginative story. . . . As in \" Dreamers of the Ghetto,\" Mr. Zangwill'iscontinually rha££wh?ilSLSL\nNow we are in the wards of the hospital for the incurables in East London now in the streets of iprnJFiem 11,\nEast Side of New York, while the concluding scene of the title story ?akes P\"a« in the Vatican of Rm ™ Vet aU thl\nscenes unite to give a vivid picture of the tragedy and the poetry and the dreams of Israel of to-day.\nMY LADY and ALLEN DARKE\nBy CHARLES DONNEL GIBSON. Cloth, i2mo, $1.50.\nStirring and dramatic. A fascinating picture.\nBEN COMEE\nA Rogers' Rangers. By M. J. CANAVAN. Illus*\ntrated by GEORGE GIBBS. $1,50.\nBased on history, vivid and intense.\nSOLDIER RIGDALE\nHO'MV^\"*l HOW HE SERVED MILES STANDISH- BEULAH D,X, author of - Hugh\nTT r , .. , Cloth, Bvo, $1.50.\nHUGH GWYETH was described as engrossmgly interesting,\" well-written and stirring\" (Phila. Press), etc.\nLITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY\nBy MAURICE HEWLETT, author of ''The Forest Lovers.\"\nT- T Cloth, i2mo, $1.50.\nThe Forest Lovers \" proved so fascinating that further\nwork by Mr. Hewlett is eagerly.waited for.\nTHE DEVELOPMENT AND CHAR.\nACTER OF GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE\nBy CHARLES HERBERT MOORE, Ph.D., Harvard Univer-\nsity. New edition. Fully revised, with new illustra-\ntions. Cloth, Bvo, $4.50 net.\nAMONG ENGLISH HEDGEROWS\nBy CLIFTON JOHNSON. Introduction by HAMILTON W.\nMABIE. Illustrated from original photographs.\nCloth, crown Bvo, $2.00.\nTHE FAVOR OF PRINCES\nBy MARK LEE LUTHER. - Cloth, i2mo, $1.50.\nA tale of the time of Louis XIV. with Dumas' own spirit\nmd dash. Mme. de Pompadour, the Due de Choiseul,\nRousseau, etc., are characters.\nNEW ILLUSTRATED BOOKS\nLETTERS FROM JAPAN\nModern Life in the Island Empire. By Mrs. HUGH FRASER.\nSuperbly illustrated. Two vols., Bvo, $7.50.\n\" Simply captivating.\"—Evening Post.\nDIOMED\nrhe Life, Travels, and Observations of a Dog. By JOHN\nSERGEANT WISE. With over 100 illustrations by J.\nLINTON CHAPMAN. Cloth, i2mo, $2.00.\nMRS. ALICE MORSE EARLESS HOME AN\nCHILD LIFE IN COLONIAL DAYS\n'rofusely illustrated. Cloth, crown Bvo, $2.50.\nHOME LIFE IN COLONIAL DAYS\nIllustrated by photographs. $2.50.\nk?r , Home Life in Colonial Days \" Mrs. Earle touched a very fascinating phase of American history As in\nlat book she described with unequaled 4 completeness, fairness, and suggestiveness\" {Boston Herald) the customs\nin?\" period S & mothers, So in another volume she has illustrated and described the \"Child Life\" of the\nVEW AND POPULAR BIOGRAPHIES, ESSAYS, ETC\\\nABRAHAM LINCOLN: The Man of the People\ny NORMAN HAPGOOD, author of '* Essays on Literary Statesmen,\" etc. Illustrated. Cloth, $2.00\nDRAKE AND HIS YEOMEN\nof tlifruCha-ra(^ and Adventures of Sir Francis Drake, as Told by Sir Matthew Maunsell His\nQV/ 1 RCnMS h Forth Much the Narrator's Private History. By JAMES BARNES, author of\nYankee Ships and Yankee Sailors,\" etc. Illustrated by CARLTON CHAPMAN. Y J Cloth i2mo, $2.00.\nOLD CAMBRIDGE\nTHOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. The first of the\nat,l?nal Studies in American Letters,\" of which Prof.\nWoodberry is general Editor. Cloth, $1.50.\nbend for circular offorthcoming volumes.\nHEART OF MAN\nBy GEORGE E. WOODBERRY, author of \"The North Shore\nWatch,\" etc. Cloth, $1.50.\n\"Very attractive pages, . . • loftily ideal.\"\n—The Nation.\nSEND FOR THE NEW ANNOUNCEMENT LIST\nTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY, NEW YORK"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-11-15-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "couv. 4", "page_fin": "couv. 4", "image_debut": 38, "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=bmtnaar18991115-01.2.27", "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": 38, "page_imprimee": "couv. 4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2609, "texte": "\"Rrentano's New \"Rooks\nThe Standard Operaglass\nBy CHARLES ANNESLEY, with a Prelude by JAMES HUNEKER, Containing the Detailed\nPlots of 123 Celebrated Operas, with Critical and Biographical Remarks, Dates, etc.\nAn exceptionally valuable hand-book for all music lovers. i2mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.50.\nA Silent Singer\nA Collection of Eleven Short Stories by CLARA MORRIS. They are studies full of pathos,\nhumor, and ingenious literary invention. All are of sustained and noteworthy\ninterest. They will be read with pleasure by the thousands who have admired the\nhistrionic ability of this distinguished actress. i2mo, cloth, illuminated, $1.25.\nThe Shellback\nBy ALEC. J. BOYD. A thrilling story of life on the sea in the last generation, and\ngives a vivid picture of conditions that are fast vanishing. MORGAN ROBERTSON, the\nwell-known writer of sea tales contributes an introduction. Illustrated. i2mo,\ncloth, $1.50.\nCashel Byron's Profession\nBy G. BERNARD SHAW. A clever and whimsical study of English social life. There\nhas been no desirable edition hitherto issued in America. The work fairly bristles\nwith wit from beginning to end, but the utmost good sense lies at the bottom of the\nstory. i2mo, $1.25.\nRomances of the Old Seraglio\nBy H. N. CRELLIN, with 28 illustrations by STANLEY L. WOOD. Stories that are\nwonderfully well told, some of them absorbing in their nature, and all stirring up the\nimaginative faculty in no small degree. i2mo, illuminated cover, $1.25.\nOne of Cleopatra's Nights\nBy THEOPHILE GAUTIER. Translated by LAFCADIO HEARN.\nThe stories have been admirably chosen, and within limited space they give the reader a\nclear view of the many-sidedness of Gautier's genius, . . . and may justly be ranked among\nthe most remarkable literary productions of the century.—N. Y. Sun.\ni2mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.50.\nMichael Dred, Detective\nBy MARIE and ROBERT LEIGHTON. A thoroughly interesting detective story, written in a\nclever manner; the reader is hardly liable to put the book down before finishing.\nIllustrated. i2mo, cloth, $1.25.\nWhat Makes a Friend? In Friendship's Name\nTwo volumes compiled by VOLNEY STREAMER.\nThese dainty little volumes contain selections from the writings of wise men in all ages of\nthe world on the subject of friendship. It is a string of pearls, and the compiler has laid a wide\nreading under contribution in forming it. Every reader will find some favorite quotation or one\nto be made a favorite to cling to the memory forever.—Chicago Times.\nBound in white parchment covers. Boxed, each, $1.25.\nBRENTANO'S, 31 Union Square, New York\nTHE CHELTENHAM PRESS, New York"}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "III", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.1", "texte": "EAST&WEST\n\nEAST & WEST is published on the fifteenth of every month, at\n36 West 75th Street, New York, where all communications, whether to the\nbusiness or editorial departments, should be addressed. Manuscript will be\ngladly received and carefully examined—but should in all cases be\naccompanied by a stamped and addressed envelope for return—although in\nno case can the editors be responsible for unsolicited MSS.\nPrice 20 cents; $2.00 a year\n\nContents for November, 1899\nTHE UNKNOWN COUNTRY\nJeannette Bliss Gillespy\n1\nCOMMENTS\n1\nREVEALED\nLulah Ragsdale\n3\nTHE ARTIST\nGustav Kobbe\n4\nTO MY BROTHER ON HIS\nTWELFTH BIRTHDAY\nJoel Elias Spingarn\n8\nTHE ECLIPSE OF POETRY\nLouise Betts Edwards\n11\nHOLBEIN\nRobert Jermain Cole\n17\nArthur Ketchum\n18\nAN EPITAPH\n18\nYOUTH'S HERITAGE\nAnne F.Wilson\nl 9\nTHE WORLD-PLAY\nRichard Burton\n25\nTHE NEWYORK THEATRE:\nA FOREWORD\nGeorge C. D. Odell\n26\nREVIEWS\n29\nCopyright 1899—Entered at the Post-office at New York as second-class matter"}, {"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "IV", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.2", "texte": "EAST & WEST ADVERTISEMENTS\n\nHark! All You Who Buy Books and Pictures!\nYOU CAN BUY THEM AT WHOLESALE PRICES BY JOINING\nTHE NEW YORK CO-OPERATIVE SOCIETY\nwhich secures to its members special cut prices on books, pictures and magazines. For example\nour prices for\nRICHARD CARVEL \\ Q\nDAVID HARUM (_ 9o cents each\nTHE KING'S MIRROR ( Published at $1.50\n(New Book by Anthony Hope) J u\nWe supply the cheapest books as well as sets in the finest bindings. Drop us a card, and we\nwill send full information.\n1. A COMPLETE LIST OF MAGAZINES AT SPECIAL PRICES\n2. SOME RETAIL STORES WHERE WE SECURE DISCOUNTS FOR MEMBERS\n3. HOW TO BECOME A MEMBER\n4. HOW TO SAVE MONEY ON ALL YOUR PURCHASES\nAddress ARTHUR H. HAHLO, Manager\nTHE NEW YORK CO-OPERATIVE SOCIETY 139 Fifth Avenue, New York City\nCONCERNING PICTURES\nWe have opened a branch store (retail) for pictures and illustrated books at 140 Fifth Avenue (corner 19th\nStreet), and invite you to inspect our assortment of fine arts, suitable for\nWEDDING AND HOLIDAY GIFTS\nranging in price from one dollar up. The stock includes\nREMARQUE PROOF ETCHINGS (after Meissonier, Millet, Jacque and Breton).\nENGRAVINGS\nDRAWINGS (signed by C. D. GIBSON)\nORIGINAL WATER COLORS (specimens by Palianti, pupil of Corot, and Percy Moran).\nPHOTOGRAVURES, PRINTS AND PHOTOGRAPHS\nORIGINAL SKETCHES by A. B. FROST, HENRY MAYER, WOOLF and others.\nWe invite comparison between our prices and those of other fine-art dealers.\n\nTHE BEST PORTRAITS\nOF\nAuthors Artists\nLawyers Statesmen\nKings and Queens Musicians\nActors and Actresses Historical Personages\nCATALOGUE (Second Edition, R\nFREDERICK KEPPEL & CO.\n20 East 16th Street, New York"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.3", "texte": "EASTdWEST\nVolume I New York, November, 1899 Number 1\n\nThe Unknown Country\nJeannette Bliss Gillespy\nBy\nAs one who, come at dawn 7ipon a hill\n]V\\arking the confines of some unknown land,\nVauses and looks abroad to tmderstand\nWhat lies before him, if or good or ill,\nThen drazvs the deep breath of the morning chill,\nTightens his staff again within his hand,\nStraightens his shoulders, gives his soul command,\nAnd takes his march again with better will,—\nSo /, upon the borders of the year,\nPause to behold the ways zvhere I must go,\nAnd breathe the deep, clear breath of early day,\nThen down the slope of time, without a fear\n\\Begin my march to meet the day s full glow,\nEager to lose no moment of the way.\nONE day in December of 1898,\nabout the middle of their senior\nyear, two Columbia students\nwho had grown retrospective\nover a lingering luncheon, came to the\nconclusion that they were both equally\neager to continue their literary and edi-\ntorial labors beyond the academic walls.\nThey had common ideals, and held com-\nmon views concerning the condition of\nmagazine literature at the present day\nin America. So, before leaving the\ntable, they reached the decision that im-\nmediately upon graduation, they would\nstart a periodical which should be de-\nvoted to creative and critical literature\nalong the line of their own views. With\nthis plan in mind, they asked the advice of\ncertain persons whose opinion they\nrespected, and, finding encouragement,\nthey went speedily to work. The first\nresult of their labors, this initial number\nof EAST AND WEST, now awaits the ver-\ndict of the public.\nThe considerations that determined the\ncharacter of EAST AND WEST, and the\nintentions and aims of the editors, have\nalready been set forth at length in a pros-\npectus, which many of our readers have\nseen. For the benefit of those who have\nnot been thus prepared, we shall take\nthis opportunity to restate the more im-\nportant points.\n\nComments"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.4", "texte": "East & West\n\nIt is a generally recognized fact that in\nnearly all our periodicals, pure literature\nis receiving less and less space and atten-\ntion, because of the journalistic and pic-\ntorial tendencies now so conspicuous.\nThe magazines are filled largely with\narticles of a reportorial nature, with pict-\nures, and with the work of scientific and\npolitical specialists. Verse occupies for\nthe most part, in magazines that print\npoetry at all, the subordinate and un-\nworthy place of stop-gap, and the fiction\nis recommended not infrequently by the\nname of the author rather than by any\nreal merit it may possess. Although, of\ncourse, the modern magazine, with its\nwealth of illustrations and variety of arti-\ncles, has a definite and important place of\nits own, we believe that there are also a\nplace and a public for a magazine that\nshall be entirely literary, containing well-\nwritten stories, good verse, both serious\nand light, and essays of contemporaneous\ninterest. It is hoped that EAST AND\nWEST will take this place among maga-\nzines.\nWhile EAST AND WEST will seek to ob-\ntain the very best American literary\nmaterial from every source, a special\nendeavor will be made to interest the\nyounger writers in the present venture,\nand also to bring before the public the\nwork of those who, as undergraduates,\nhave done most to raise college literature\nto the grade of excellence it has attained\nof late years. It has been common in the\npast to point out the small percentage of\ncollege graduates among American men\nof letters. We feel convinced that this\nwill be very different in the future, and\nthat college men are taking a larger share\nin the nation's literature.\nEAST AND WEST will absolutely avoid\nthe faddish and decadent elements that\nhave lately been so prevalent. While\nseeking to be as vivacious and as graceful\nas its brightest contemporaries, it will aim\nat being thoroughly sensible, honest, and\nin accord with the best standards and tra-\nditions of English literature. In criticism\nit will try to be both progressive and con-\nservative, eager to recognize good in the\nliterature of the present, but careful not\nto be led astray by uncritical enthusiasm\nover mere cleverness and novelty.\nIt will thus be seen that we have certain\nhopes and certain beliefs, and that we\ndeem these well worth the holding and\nthe striving for. We believe that litera-\nture is worth while for its own sake, irre-\nspective of its commercial value, and that,\nto be truly successful, men must write\nwith this at heart. We hold it true, more-\nover, that honesty and sincerity of pur-\npose are the keynotes to what is best in\nart as in life, and that whoever misuses\nthe opportunities of literature, equally\nwith him who misuses the opportunities\nof living, for ends lower than the highest,\nthe satisfaction of his own moral and\nartistic consciousness, fails absolutely, in\nspite of present appearances and the skil-\nful exercise of his talents. We hope that\nthere are sufficient persons in sympathy\nwith our aims, both in the writing and in\nthe reading world, to ensure the continu-\nance of a magazine conducted on these\nlines. It has been intimated to us that\nmany of our ideals will be knocked into\na cocked hat by the ruthless hand of ex-\nperience. Possibly. But, if so, we shall\npick up the cocked hat, and wear it as\nsmartly as may be, until the end of the\nchapter. Some of our early hopes and\nbeliefs may suffer beyond redemption,\nbut we trust that the old fundamental\nfaith in art and life will remain unbattered\nand unchanged.\nIn sending forth our magazine to make\nits first appearance before the public we\nare strongly conscious of a feeling of\ngratitude toward a large number of\nfriends whose interest and kindness have\nbeen never-failing from the first. It is\nnow our high and very pleasurable privi-\nlege to make grateful acknowledgment of\nthe obligations under which they have"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.5", "texte": "Revealed\n\nid us. The constant friendly acts and\nLvaluable advice of Professors George\n2. Woodberry, Brander Matthews,\nGeorge R. Carpenter, and A. V. Will-\nams Jackson have meant very much to\nis who have older and firmer bonds than\nleed here be dwelt upon, to bind us\n:o these gentlemen. The encouraging\nvords of Mr. Edmund C. Stedman can\nleither be fittingly acknowledged in a\new printed lines, nor adequately repaid\n>y them. We shall always remember\nvith pride that the hand which has done\n10 much for literature in America, made\nruitful suggestions in the margin of our\nrst prospectus. For the helpful courtesy\n>f Professor E. R. A. Seligman, of Dr.\ndbert Shaw, and of Professor Harry\n\"hurston Peck we would also express\nur sense of deep indebtedness.\nBesides these, there are those whose\nearly faith in us and in our project has\nswelled our subscription list, thus helping\nto make the magazine financially possi-\nble ; and again, those inhabitants of the\ngreat World of Letters, whose cordial\nreception, heartily expressed good-will,\nand above all, generously proffered man-\nuscript, lead us to hope that EAST AND\nWEST will take that place as a medium\nfor the circulation of the best literature,\nthat we desire for it. The confidence and\nkind consideration of all these will be\namong our best incentives for achieve-\nment. In conclusion, we would mention\nfor his good services, Mr. H. I. Kimball,\nto whose admirable taste and valuable\nexperience the magazine owes much of\nwhatever comeliness it may possess.\n\nRevealed\nLulah Ragsdale\nBy\nI n that wide silence of the Resurrection Morn,\nWhen, in my turn, I stand before the white\nSuspensive legions, suddenly reborn,\nbewildered from the grave\nAnd bare my earthly past before all eyes—\nI fear not then my Maker s wrath to see,\nI dread alone the shock of dazed surprise\nAnd wonder that your face will turn on me."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.6", "texte": "East & West\n\nThe Artist\nGustav Kobbe\nBy\nJT JB~ IT HAT is art,\" he said, \" but\nt/t/ loyalty to an ideal—through\nF p disappointment, weariness, hun-\nger, aye, even unto death! \"\nPoor fellow! Who knew better than\nI, who had endeavored to cheer him in his\ndisappointment, how much he had suf-\nfered ? All he craved was appreciation of\nhis art-work. I appreciated it, but I\nseemed the only person' who did. Even\nthe coterie of younger artists who were\nprogressive in their way—certainly no\nbody of men could have progressed fur-\nther in mutual admiration—were indif-\nferent to his work. So was the public.\nHe was sincerely grateful for my sympa-\nthetic interest, but it did not suffice him.\nHe needed the stimulus which public rec-\nognition alone can give.\nThe hack work he did for a livelihood\n—water colors in perspective for archi-\ntects, in which he, an ultra-impressionist\nin art, was obliged to pay strict attention\nto the most trivial minutiae—embittered\nhis nature. The time thus spent in gain-\ning his daily bread he regarded as miser-\nably wasted—as time diverted from an\nideal the adoration of which filled his\nsoul and constituted his only creed. Art,\nand Art again; and Art yet a third time\nwas his divine trinity.\nYet, between his hack work and his\npainting there was a broad field of oppor-\ntunities that I had often urged him to\nutilize—illustrations, pictures for the\ndealers, and the like. But he would not\nlisten to me. When it came to art pure\nand simple it must be of the highest. He\nwas willing to slave over commercial\nwork for a bare living, but art meant with\nhim nothing less than hot pursuit of his\nideal; and from this nothing could swerve\nhim. \" I dread,\" he would say, \" acquir-\ning that fatal facility at turning out pretty\nwork that has been the ruin of so many.\nThe ease with which they are earning\ngood money and securing the comforts\nof life has unfitted them for the trials an\nidealist—or call me ' fool' if you prefer—\nhas to bear.\"\nHe had ample reason that night to feel\nthe world's neglect most bitterly. All\nthe time he could spare from his drudgery\nthat winter he had devoted to a painting\nwhich he hoped would at last win recogni-\ntion for him; a hope in which I had stimu-\nlated him, for I followed the progress of\nhis work with unstinted admiration. It\nseemed as if he were dipping the brush\ninto his heart instead of into the palette;\nthere was no over-elaboration; every\ntouch told; every stroke of the brush was\na stroke of genius. The subject of the\npicture was most pathetic—a beggar\nlooking half-piteously, half-malignantly\nafter a richly dressed woman who had\npassed him by unheeded. My friend had\npainted at this picture with fierce energy,\nliving down to the barest necessaries so\nas to gain as much time as possible for his\nart. The figures were masterpieces of\ncharacterization. The beggar still stood\nwith outstretched hand as if through\nsheer force of habit. His look was a dra-\nmatic mingling of appeal and invection ;\nfor, as his eyes followed the woman who\nhad ignored him, the flash of malign\nhatred was but half veiled by the linger-\ning remnant of supplication. The latter\nwas professional, the former real. The\nfigure of the woman was also admirable.\nShe was advancing, but, although in the\nforeground, she was purposely subordi-\nnated to the beggar. Her face was coldly\nbeautiful, her contour perfect, her car-\nriage erect. As if to emphasize her"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.7", "texte": "The Artist\n\nheartlessness, she held a purse. But in\nspite of her rich attire and her proud bear-\ning there was a subtile suggestion of\nmeretriciousness about her.\nI knew too well that when he was paint-\ning this picture he was painting his own\nlife in allegory. He was the beggar.\nShe, the meretricious woman who passed\nhim by, was the world, the purchasable\nworld, purchasable in his opinion by any\none who cared to degrade himself to its\nlevel and cater to its tastes—who would\nstoop from art to mediocrity. Yet after-\nward, when he himself told me what I\nhad already divined, I felt bound to argue\nthat he had misrepresented himself. He\nwas not a supplicant toward the world;\nhe defied it. \"As much/' I said to him,\n\" expect a passer-by to give alms to a\nman who stands erect and defiant as to\nyou.\" But, when I seized this oppor-\ntunity of advising him to meet the public\nhalfway, hinting at false pride in his\nattitude, he flushed with anger and\nexclaimed: \" The noblest quality man\ncan boast is what the world calls ' false\npride.' \" He had adapted the old motto,\nNoblesse oblige, to Genie oblige.\nHis hopes had been greatly raised by\nthe acceptance of this painting for one of\nthe spring exhibitions. We had just\ncome from \" varnishing night\" at the\ngalleries. There we had seen artists busy\nwith their brushes accentuating certain\npoints in their canvases or toning down\nothers according as the light in which\nthey hung or the color schemes of the\nneighboring paintings affected theirs;\nart patrons strolling through the galleries\nwith a self-satisfied air as if they had de-\nluded themselves into belief that they\ncould acquire by purchase the genius as\nwell as the canvases of the artists whose\npictures they bought; critics, some of\nwhom were endeavoring to look as if\nthey constituted the court of last resort\nin the art concerning which they had been\ndelegated to write;—but we had not\nfound the painting until after a long\nsearch.\nWhen we entered the gallery in which\nour catalogue told us it hung, we allowed\nour eyes to wander slowly over the paint-\nings \"on the line.\" My friend's painting\nwas not a large canvas and to be appreci-\nated required a near-by view. This fact,\ncoupled with what we supposed to be its\nmerits, led us to look for it in a position\nworthy of these. But the position of\nhonor was occupied by a rural scene with\na cow painted in what may be called the\n\" official \" style,' for it was the work of\none of the officers of the society which\nwas holding the exhibition. It was exe-\ncuted with photographic detail that defied\nall attempt to look at the canvas as a\nwhole, the eye being constantly distracted\nby minutiae. Thus the hairs at the end\nof the cow's tail had been painted with an\nenthusiasm as touching as it was inar-\ntistic; and one could have counted every\nblade of grass in the foreground if one\ncould have afforded the time. The only\nreason that could be assigned for placing\nthe three canvases occupying the advan-\ntageous spaces above and alongside the\npicture just referred to, was the fact that\nthey had been painted by members of the\nhanging committee; so at least we heard\na young artist, who was standing behind\nus, say.\nFinally, our eyes, as they wandered\nfrom canvas to canvas, fell upon the pict-\nure we were in search of—in the most\nremote corner of the gallery, \" skied \"\nwhere the light was poorest, a corner in\nwhich it seemed to us a painting by the\ngreatest artist who ever lived would have\nbeen lost sight of.\nMy friend grasped my arm, gave it a\nspasmodic clutch and then turning, de-\nscended the stairs and walked into the\nstreet. I joined him, allowing him, how-\never, to choose the way. We hurried\nalong in silence, he taking no notice of my\npresence. The coolness of the night\nseemed grateful to him and so we walked\non and on, up the avenue into which we\nhad turned and down again until, when\nwe were abreast the entrance of the Rain-"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.8", "texte": "East & West\n\nbow Inn, a favorite resort with us artists,\nI took his arm and led him in.\nThe Rainbow Inn was a cosey place. It\nwas a tap-room and grill where you could\ncall for ale, stout, barley-wine and stingo\non draught; could have a brace of chops\nor a thick, juicy steak off the gridiron,\nand get trusted for them besides; so that\nthe proprietor was regarded by the ar-\ntists, who were the principal patrons of\nthe place, as a guardian angel of Bohemia.\nLittle tables and comfortable chairs were\nset about the grill, and the panelled walls\nwere hung with canvases contributed by\ngrateful artists. Somehow it seemed\nless objectionable to see one's pictures ac-\ncumulating here than in one's studio.\nIt was here my friend exclaimed after\nhis bitter experience of the evening:\n\" What is art, but loyalty to an ideal—\nthrough disappointment, weariness, hun-\nger, aye, even unto death! \"\nHe had thrown himself back into his\nchair. His excitement had driven two\ncrimson spots to his cheeks, and the fire\nof genius flashed in his eyes. But a mo-\nment later when he leaned forward again\nthe spots faded away, the light in his eyes\nhad grown dim, and he said dejectedly:\n\" And what is the artist's reward? To\nbe ridiculed, or, what is worse, overlooked\naltogether. His only compensation is\nthe consciousness that he has borne un-\nflinchingly the sufferings which he has\nimposed upon himself by his loyalty to\nhis ideal.\"\n\" Does the chance of winning fame\ncount for nothing? \" I asked.\n\" Fame! Chance! \" he repeated after\nme. \" That's the villainy of it. It's all\nchance. Think of the actor whose fame\ndates from the hit he made as the hind\nlegs of a cow in a burlesque! What has\nbecome of the front legs of that cow?\nThe hind legs got the chance to kick and\nprance; the front legs didn't. Tickle\nthat many-headed ass, the public, and\nyou're famous. Get down to the level of\nthe public, and your fortune's made.\nWhat has the genius of art in common\nwith the cheap sestheticism of the day?\nPrettiness, superficial, and easily recog-\nnizable, has thrust real beauty into the\nbackground. The soubrette can draw\ncrowded houses while the tragedienne\nplays to empty seats. Down, down,\ndown to the public's level, and you are\nfamous! \"\n\" But isn't fame with posterity worth\nstriving for? \"\n\" When Cherubini was on his death-\nbed some one asked that same question,\nand the great composer replied: 'At a\ntime like this poor jokes are out of place.'\nPosthumous fame is of value only to the\ndiscoverers: to those who discover that\nan artist, neglected during his life, was a\ngenius. They have both the zest of the\ndiscovery and the aesthetic pleasure over\nbeauty which would, but for them, re-\nmain undiscovered. They may add to\ntheir enjoyment by erecting a monument\nto one to whom, during his life, the pub-\nlic refused even a stone. But the artist\ndoes not see it; he does not hear their\nwords of praise. He died in bitterness\nand despair; and there is nothing left of\nhim but a few bones in a box. Some day\nI shall write a catechism for artists, and\nthe first question and answer will be:\n\" ' Q. What must an artist do to be-\ncome great? A. Die.' And I shall add as\na supplementary beatitude: ' Blessed are\nthey that expect nothing, for they shall\nnot be disappointed/ \"\nI had no desire to enter into a religious\nargument with a man who in religious\nmatters was as severe a realist as he was\nan idealist in art. Moreover, he needed\nsympathy, not doctrine. So I simply\nsaid:\n\" What remedy is there except to\nstruggle on ? \"\n\" As a first remedy/' he answered, \" I\nwould suggest never to have been born.\nI am a communist if only for the reason\nthat we are born without being in the\nslightest degree responsible for our birth.\nHaving, without any choice in the matter,\nbeen brought into the world, we are ex-"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.9", "texte": "The Artist\n\npected to bear up bravely under all the\nills of life. If a man gives up the fight\nand kills himself, he is put down as in-\nsane. Yet, it seems to me, suicide is of-\nten striking evidence of a man's sanity.\nHis birth having been a cruel wrong, he\ntakes the simplest method of righting it\n—of resting from the battle of life in the\nsleep of death! \"\nForgetting my resolve, I quoted:\n\"To die,—to sleep,—to sleep! per-\nchance to dream! Aye, there's the rub.\"\nAfter a moment's reflection he said, bit-\nterly : \" I may be mistaken in believing\nthere is no future life, but I hope I am\nnot. This life has already been almost\nmore than I can bear.\"\nHe relapsed into a moody silence, and\nafter a while rose to go. I was too ac-\ncustomed to these attacks of melancholy\nto consider this more than a mere passing\ndepression of spirits caused by his disap-\npointment at having found the canvas, in\nwhich his hopes were centred, hung\nwhere its merits could not be recognized.\nIt was after midnight when we reached\nthe gray, gloomy, fortress-like building\nin which he had his studio—if the con-\ntracted space in which he lived could be\ndignified by that name. Part of the\nbuilding, which faced a public park, was\nused for educational purposes; and to\nthis portion there was a broad entrance.\nBut the occupants of the studios entered\nthrough a low, narrow door, opening on\nthe side street. Our footsteps on the\nflagstone floor of the dark hall re-echoed\nthrough the corridors; as if phantoms\nwere hastily fleeing into the gloom before\nus. We went up several flights of stairs,\nand then walked along the upper hall to\none of the turrets and ascended a winding\nstairway. His was the top room in this\nturret. Scant as was its furniture—an\neasel, a couch, a chair, a table, and a wash-\nstand—it seemed crowded. He had de-\nnied himself even those little comforts\nwhich often make a studio an oasis in the\nartist's barren life. On the table was the\nonly book he owned, a volume of Poe's\npoems. When he turned from his work\nit was to them, for, next to his art, he\nadored them. As we entered he took up\nthe volume, and, throwing himself upon\nthe couch, opened it at random and began\nreading aloud from \" The Conqueror\nWorm.\" He read the last verse with\ntragic emphasis:\nOut—out are the lights—out all!\nAnd, over each quivering form,\nThe curtain, a funeral pall,\nComes down with the rush of a storm,\nAnd the angels, all pallid and wan,\nUprising, unveiling, affirm\nThat the play is the tragedy \" Man,\"\nAnd its hero the Conqueror Worm.\nWhen my friend had finished reading\nhe let the book drop face down upon the\nfloor. I had never seen him look so de-\njected as he lay there brooding over his\nmisfortune. That poem summed up his\nghastly philosophy of life and death, of\nweariness and disappointment—\" The\nTragedy Man/'—and at the end the\n\" Conqueror Worm.\" There was no\ncheering him. He was in no mood to\nspeak or listen; a mutual slight pressure\nof the hand was our only adieu.\nIt was late when I awoke the next\nmorning. After breakfast at the Rain-\nbow Inn, I took up the daily newspa-\nper which employed the most trustworthy\nart critic in order to ascertain his first\nimpression of the exhibition as seen on\n\"varnishing night.\" I had read but a few\nlines when my friend's name greeted my\neyes, and I found a notice of his painting\nwhich was more than appreciative. The\ncritic evidently considered that he had\ncome suddenly upon a new genius in art,\nand he wrote with the enthusiasm of a\ndiscoverer. Had the picture been hung\non the line, and in the best possible light,\nI could not have asked for a ftiore sym-\npathetic criticism. It was a notice that\nwould make a sensation.\nI thought before taking the paper to\nthe little studio where such deep melan-"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.10", "texte": "East & West\n\ncholy had reigned the previous night, I\nwould stop at the building where the ex-\nhibition was held, and observe if the pict-\nure could be seen more advantageously\nby day than at night. It was now noon,\nand the exhibition had been open three\nhours. As I entered the gallery I saw an\nadmiring group before the canvas; and a\nlittle card in one corner announced that\nthe picture had already found a pur-\nchaser. I inquired his name at the desk.\nHe was one of the most intelligent and\nliberal art patrons. With his patronage\nmy friend's career was assured. Mine\nwas to be the joy of announcing to him\nhis release from drudgery!\nWhen, after bounding up the stair-\ncases, taking two steps at a time, even on\nthe narrow stairway in the turret, I tried\nhis door to find it locked, my disappoint-\nment was very great. Turning to the\nslate that hung at his door to write the\nhappy message upon it, I saw for the first\ntime that he had written in large letters,\n\" Out.\" When I took up the pencil to\nwrite my message, I noticed further that\nhe had followed this word with others\nscattered here and there over the slate,\nand in varied and outre letters; and I was\nstartled, as I put the words together, to\nread:\nOut—out are the lights—out all!\nInstinctively I knew something terrible\nhad happened. Gathering all my\nstrength I broke open the door. The\nheavy curtain at the window shut out the\nlight. Only just enough came in from\nthe hall to show me the dim outlines of a\nform upon the couch. I drew the cur-\ntain. The face, pale and motionless up-\non the pillow; the arm hanging limp from\nthe couch; the empty phial upon the floor\n—told the story. There still lay open\nupon its face the book of poems as he\nhad dropped it; and I seemed to hear his\nvoice reading as he had read the night\nbefore:\n. . . the play is the tragedy \" Man,\"\nAnd its hero the Conqueror Worm.\n\nTo My Brother on His Twelfth Birthday\nJanuary 9, 1897\nJoel Elias Spingarn\nBy\nDearest, once more is winter here,\nWith dizzy flakes of snow, and frost,\nTo crown you with another year,\nAnd warn you how the days are lost.\nThe biting air is fresh and sweet,\nAnd from my room I see below\nThe ermine mantle o'er the street,\nThe window-ledges rimmed with snow,\nAnd you once more at eager play,\nWhere, wet with rime, the snow-house stands—\nOnce more the snow-man of a day,\nOnce more the snowball in your hands ;\nAnd romps of many a by-gone year,\nMy share in all your grief and joy,"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.11", "texte": "To My Brother\n\nAnd prospects unfulfilled, endear\nThe sight of my beloved boy ;\nWhilst ere I know, my idle brain\nIs searching hidden memories,\nLike sparrows gathering seed and grain\nSnow-hidden under shivering trees ;\nTill all that has been in the past\nCasts shadows of the fate to be :\nDelight, that cannot always last,\nAnd hope, that cannot always see.\nAnd what may yours and mine be ? No,\nThis is no time for such a dream ; .\nHo w swift life bears us you will know,\nWhen you are eddying on the stream ;\nAnd why should these things trouble you,\nWho yet are safe from wind and wave ?\nThere is enough for you to do\nIn being sweet and true and brave ;\nFor now, though you can hardly know,\nYour happy soul is being whirled\nThrough battles with yourself for foe,\nBefore the battle with the world ;•\nAnd you—I have no slightest fear\nBut you will conquer in the fight :\nSuch victories make the hero, dear,—\nA nobler one than errant knight,\nOr swaggering soldier. You will learn\nThat Siegfried, Roland, Agrican,\nOr Lancelot, men laugh to scorn ;\nThe world cares only for a man.\nBut let these thoughts not burden you ;\nYouth fights the victories of youth ;\nNow sweeter, slighter joys will do,—\nSome boyish, wildcap prank, in truth.\nOh, but your eye gleams gay and wild ;\nI see the happy light, and say,\n'Thank God that makes a child a child ! \"\nAnd join you in the snow at play.\nBut now that you have grown so old—\nFor are you not twelve years to-day?\nForgive me, dear, for being bold,\nAnd saying what I used to say\nWhen you were not yet four feet nine,\nAnd knew not Latin, French, and all;\nBut still the duty must be mine,\nThough you have grown so old and tall;"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.12", "texte": "East & West\n\nAnd these few flowers of love I bring,\nTo show you life with love impearled—\nYea, love, the only perfect thing,\nIn this our most imperfect world ;\nAnd if an older brother's right\nTo love and teach you year by year\nBe challenged as the years take flight,\nI still may say, \" God bless you, dear ! \"\nI still may take you by the hand,\nAnd point to where the swallows fly,\nAnd say: \" Take comfort; understand;\nFor oh, the heavens are so high ! \"\nAnd vou will know that earth is wide,\n✓ 7\nAnd weary, it may be, but know\nThat men may on the whirlwind ride,\nAnd soar beyond the sunset glow.\nBut ah, why should I shadow you\nWith secrets of the future year ?\nForget them all, whate'er ensue ;\nLife's turmoil, cynic scoff and sneer,\nGlib wisdom of the shop and street\nCome but too soon. Be young and gay ;\nBe brave and joyous ; taste the sweet\nYouth only gathers by the way.\nBut when the voice of duty calls,\nAs it will call, obey the voice ;\nGo leave the dear old college walls,\nAssume the office of your choice ;\nFor in our great Republic here,\nWhere all are royal, know this thing :\nEach man, whatever be his sphere,\nTo play his part, must be a king ;\nAnd you, sweet prince, now life is fair,\nShould scale the morning heights of joy,\nShould love the lovely, everywhere,\nAnd prove yourself a royal boy.\nAnd I, who love you more than word\nOr kiss can tell you, send you this,\nA birthday greeting, for the bird\nThat far off comes with summer's bliss,\nAnd sings a song you cannot hear ;\nA birthday greeting, for the flower\nThat slumbers in the meadows, dear,\nAnd cannot grace this happy hour ;\nA birthday greeting, for the star\nThat shall to-night burn in the blue,\nAnd whisper, \" Oh, how glad we are\nThat we can shine to-night on you ! \""}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.13", "texte": "The Eclipse of Poetry\n\nThe Eclipse of Poetry\nLouise Betts Edwards\nBy\nT the beginning of the current\nAjl year there came into the writ-\nJL er's hands a most significant\nlittle pamphlet. To say that it\nbelonged to the best-written and best-read\nclass of modern literature is another way\nof saying that it was an advertisement—\nthe announcement by the publishers of a\nwell-known magazine of its menu for the\ncoming twelvemonth. No allurements\nof art or typography were neglected, no\nadjectives were spared, to make it an ap-\npetizing foretaste; if the reader did not\nknow what distinguished artists and\npopular authors, what discourse on topics\nof current or perpetual interest, what\nserial fiction and short stories, what solid\narticles and essays, had been secured to\nminister to his intellectual pleasure, it was\nhis own fault for laying down the cata-\nlogue half read. Nothing could have\nbeen fuller than the table of contents, and\nnothing more remarkable than the quan-\ntity and. quality of the literary attractions\nset forth, save one fact: From beginning\nto end of the pamphlet, though it was\nsearched for as diligently and almost as\ntearfully as Esau sought place for re-\npentance, there was no mention of such\na form of literary composition as poetry.\nNo poet's name or portrait figured in the\nlist of distinguished contributors; no\npoem was heralded among the \" brilliant\nfeatures/' nor, to be exact, heralded at all.\nThe omission would seem less signifi-\ncant, and perhaps less melancholy, if the\nmagazine in question did not publish\npoetry at all. But publish it it does, and,\nas the March Hare sorrowfully reminded\nthe Hatter, \"it was the best butter \"; the\ncream of the present poetical output,\nchurned into the best-approved shapes\nand sizes, and stamped with such manu-\nfacturers' names as command most re-\nspect, being always on its table for those\nwho care for it. But one of those start-\nling straws that determine the wind's di-\nrection is the editor's or publisher's con-\nviction that no one did care enough for it\nto make it worth talking about. He\nsimply spread the feast and said, \" Come,\nfor all things are ready,\" serenely satis-\nfied that no guest would make particular\ninquiry about what would once have been\nan important and highly relished course.\nEven in the days when Taggart took\nthose famous pinches of snuff and said,\n\" Poetry, sir—poetry is a drug in the\nmarket! \" matters had not come to quite\nso desperate a pass. Intelligent people\nmight have begun to ask, What is to be-\ncome of the poet? but they did not ask,\nas we must to-day, What has become of\nthe poet? Who has killed Cock Robin?\nThere is material for a far longer arti-\ncle than this in the attempt to deny his\ndeath, and I leave it to the handful of\nstrenuously optimistic people who, be-\ncause they read poetry, like poetry, and\n—usually—write poetry, imagine they\nare the whole world. If not dead, he at\nleast shows no signs of life—the little\nbright-breasted bird who, ever since the\nworld was a little tiny boy, has contented-\nly fed on its charitable crumbs or on\nworms of his own scratching, and in re-\nturn amused it with his light fantastic\ncapers, roused sighing envy for those deli-\ncate wings that any careless boy could\nbreak in mid-air with a stone, cheered it\nout of its sulks, and comforted it out of\nits despair with his sweet, shrill promise\nof an ending winter and a coming spring.\nGlib testimonials are forthcoming from"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.14", "texte": "East & West\n\neverywhere, from those who saw him die,\nwho caught his blood, who sewed his\nshroud—the curious Fly, the cold-blooded\nFish, the insensate Beetle. We are told\nthe twentieth-century atmosphere is\ndeadly to poets, and should not believe\nit, did we not see it.\nThe most convincing and amazing\nproof of the change is to read the history,\ncorrespondence, records of all sorts, of\nany century since the Renaissance save\nour own, and note what a commotion\nthere was over the Poet and the Poem!\nChristine of Pisan supported her family\non doggerel which had not then, as now,\nthe sole interest of being written in Old\nFrench. The Florentine children made\nround eyes at Dante, not primarily because\nhe had been to Hell, not secondarily be-\ncause he was a great poet, but simply be-\ncause he was a poet. Cervantes made the\npages of his masterpiece hideous with for-\ngotten quotations from, and allusions to,\n\" famous \" poets of his day—a day when\npoetry was poetry, as to children cake is\ncake, whatever its shortcomings. The ac-\ncomplished Mrs.Dunlop joyfully reported\nto Robert Burns, and patiently copied for\nhim, any brief ditty or tedious tragedy,\nany inspired bumpkin of the neighbor-\nhood might produce, and he as joyfully\nreceived and as patiently read them.\nAnd, to come heart-breakingly close to\nour own times, there were contemporaries\nof James Russell and Maria White Low-\nell who sincerely believed the allowance\nof the divine afflatus evenly shared be-\ntween husband and wife, because Mrs.\nLowell had written a couple of quite sweet\nand touching poems on the death of chil-\ndren.\nThere are also straws showing how\nstrongly the wind once blew the other\nway. The most complete proof of all,\nperhaps, is that we ourselves feel a secret\nconviction that all these ardently appreci-\native people were fools. They may have\nbeen—those whose tastes differ from ours\nusually are fools; for their taste was for\npoetry, and their eagerness for the\nprecious metal so keen that they would\npainstakingly assay the most unpromis-\ning nugget for the sake of the potential\ngrain of gold-dust.\nSo, after all, who has killed Cock\nRobin ? The hallowed custom is to\nblame the critics; everyone does that, even\nthe poet, who being dead yet speaketh, in\nsepulchral tones denouncing his murder-\ner, or issuing in his presence fresh blood-\ndrops, on which the critic, a patient coro-\nner, must sit afresh in judgment: \" ' For\none so much wounded/ observed Sancho\nPanza, ' this young man talks a great\ndeal/ \"\nAs (aggrieved authors to the contrary)\nthe critics are human, it is possible that\nwhere so much blame is lying around\nloose some of it must be lawfully theirs,\nand I would not intentionally defraud\nthem of one tittle of it. A foreign journal\nrecently remarked that the naval history\nof Spain was a history of notable disas-\nters; it might similarly be said that the\ncritical history of the world is a history of\nnotable blunders—from the manuscript\nof Fitzgerald's \" Rubaiyat,\" lying dusty\nand despised in the office of Fraser's\nMagazine, to the solitary raptures of re-\nviewers over the verses of the late Francis\nSaltus; from the poison-tipped arrows\nthat transfixed poor Keats's faint heart\nto the genial predictions, anent \" Poems\nof Two Brothers,\" of a poetical future for\nFrederick Tennyson. In truth and sober-\nness no one, even in the days of Keats,\never died of what Burns curses as \" the\nblasting depredations of a canker-toothed\ncaterpillar Critic \"; and in these peaceful\ntimes their sins lie not so much along the\nline of slaughtering the innocents as of\ntolerating the guilty. The most surpris-\ning thing to be noticed in the critic's\ncolumn is his unstrained mercy toward\nmushroom bardlets; he passes gently over\nerrors, he passionately extols any stray\nexcellences, he hopes all things* believes\nall things, endures all things, in the name\nof poetry. Nothing could be more in-\nstructive, as showing the change which"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.15", "texte": "The Eclipse of Poetry\n\nhas come over the attitude of the critic of\npoetry—and also over the accepted defi-\nnition of poetry—than the comments of\nno less revered an authority than the\nLondon Spectator on Mr. Stephen Phil-\nlips's poem, \" The Woman with the Dead\nSoul.\" I have selected this poem because\nit has attracted as much attention and\nwon about as much praise as any recent\ncomposition in verse form. Citations are\nnearly always invidious as comparisons\nare odious. I will therefore quote in the\nentirety what the Spectator calls \" a fine\nbut intensely painful\" poem, one which\nis worked out \" in a lofty sense of imag-\nination,\" and \" helps to stir the nation's\nheart,\" and whose author has \" made\nevery phrase sound with the ring of true\ngold.\" The author less pretentiously\nlabels it \"An attempt to render imag-\ninatively a modern tragedy. The horror\nof the tragedy lies in the combination of\ndeath within and neatness without, so of-\nten to be seen in our great cities.\"\nTHE WOMAN WITH THE DEAD SOUL.\nAllured by the disastrous tavern-light,\nUnhappy things flew in out of the night;\nAnd ever the sad human swarm returned,\nSome crazy-suffering, and some half-burned,\nAmid the thwarted workmen, splashed with\nmire,\nAnd disillusioned women sipping fire,\nSlow-tasting bargainers amid the flare\nAnd lurid ruminators, I was 'ware\nOf that cold face from which I may not run—\nWhich even now doth stab me in the sun.\nThe face was of a woman that, alone,\nSat sewing; a white liquor by her shone.\nSpeckless, arranged, no single braid awry,\nPrepared and combed, she stitched incessantly.\nShe turned her eyes on me ; all blank they\nshone,\nLike windows opposite the peer of dawn.\nSo cold her gaze that I bowed down my head,\nTrembling ; it seemed to me that she was\ndead,\nAnd that those hands mechanically went—\nAs if the life that to her limbs was lent,\nSubsiding in her, was not wholly spent.\nYou who have wailed above the quiet clay\nThat on the bed, unrecognizing, lay,\nYet think how I stood mourning by the side\nOf her who sat, yet seemed as she had died—\nCold, yet so busy ; though so nimble, dead ;\nWhose fingers ever at the sewing sped.\nI spoke with her, and in slow terror guessed\nHow she, so ready for perpetual rest—\nSo smoothly combed, and for the ground pre-\npared,\nWhose eyes already fixed beyond me stared—\nCould sidle unobserved, and softly glide\nAmid the crowd that wist not she had died.\nGently she spoke; not once her cheek grew\npale,\nAnd I translate the dreadful, placid tale.\nShe with a soul was born; she felt it leap\nWithin her ; it could wonder, laugh, and weep,\nBut, like persistent rain on ocean blear,\nThe days descended on her spirit drear;\nLife, an eternal want, in sky dead-gray,\nDenying steadily, starved it away ;\nLondon ignoring with deliberate stare,\nSlowly the delicate thing began to wear.\nShe felt it ailing for she knew not what :\nFeebly she wept, but she could aid it not.\nAh, not the stirring child within the womb\nHath such an urgent need of light and room,\nAnd hungry grew her soul; she looked around,\nBut nothing to allay that famine found.\nShe felt it die a little every day,\nFlutter less wildly, and more feebly pray ;\nStiller it grew—at times she felt it pull,,\nImploring thinly something beautiful;\nAnd in the night was painfully awake,\nAnd struggled in the darkness till daybreak—\nFor not at once, not without any strife,\nIt died ; at times it started back to life.\nNow at some angel evening after rain\nBuilded like early Paradise again ;\nOr at some human face, or starry sky,\nThe silent tremble of infinity,\nOr odour of strange fields at midnight sweet,,\nOr soul of summer dawn in the dark street.\nSlowly she was aware her soul had died\nWithin her body, for no more it cried,\nVexed her no more; and now monotonous\nlife\nMore easy came—she was exempt from strife.\nYet for a time more heavily and slow\nShe walked, and indolently worked, as though\nAbout with her she could not help but bring\nWithin her living body the dead thing.\nWhen I had heard her tell, without a tear,\nWhat now I have translated, in great fear\nToward her I leaned, and \" O, my sister!\"\ncried—\n\" My sister !\"—but my hand she put aside,\nLest I her decent dress might disarray ;\nAnd so smiled on me that I might not stay.\nAnd I remembered that to one long dead\nI spoke. \"No sound shall rouse her now,\" I\nsaid ;"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.16", "texte": "East & West\n\n\" Not Orpheus touching in the gloom his chord,\nNot even the special whisper that restored\nPale Lazarus ; yet still she seems to run,\nAnd hurries eager in the noonday sun ;\nIndustrious, careful, kempt, till she at last,\nRun down, inaccurate, aside is cast.\"\nWhile thus I whispered, and in wonder wild\nCould not unloose my gaze from her, the child\nPlucked at her dress, and the dead woman rose;\nUp to the mirror silently she goes,\nLightly a loosed tress touched at her ear;\nShe gazed in her own eyes without fear;\nDeliberately then, with fingers light,\nShe smoothed her dress and stole into the\nnight.\nThe meaningless school of poets have\nso chastened us and reduced our demands\nto their lowest terms that at first glance\none cannot say exactly what is the matter\nwith this poem, which actually suggests\nan idea—an idea which, powerfully and\nsympathetically worked out, would jus-\ntify the expression, \" fine but intensely\npainful.\" Moreover, the dismal school\nhave almost bull-dozed us into believing\nthat whatever is painful must be fine.\nBut there are painfulnesses and painful-\nnesses. A battle-scene, wherein tremen-\ndous issues are decided by splendid sac-\nrifice of noble lives, is painful. The\nspectacle of a dog with a tin-can tied to\nhis tail is also* painful. Mere unpleas-\nantness does not make art. In this poem\nwe have an idea—faint, vague, not too\nclearly defined even to the author's mind\n—worked out weakly and gropingly, with\nfrequent lettings-go of the string of\nthought; worked out coldly and inhu-\nmanly as to feeling, and badly and com-\nmonplacely as to style, with such rough-\nnesses and infelicities of phrase and metre\nthat to read it is, on the whole, like riding\na bicycle over cobblestones.\nIs it here that we find the indescribable\nbut unmistakable charm and potency of\n\" Lycidas \" or \" II Penseroso,\" of Fitz-\ngerald's \" Omar,\" of the \" Sonnets from\nthe Portuguese,\" of \" Kubla Khan,\" of\n\" The Blessed Damozel,\" of the odes on\nthe Grecian Urn or to the Skylark, of\nShakespeare's sonnets or Tennyson's\nIdylls—in short, of any of the well-known\nand loved poems for which the world is\nricher ? There is simply no comparing it\nwith them; and to any objections it may\nbe counter-objected that there is compari-\nson, one to another, among themselves—\nand that the widest gulf of difference be-\ntween any two of them is bridged by the\none common likeness—they delight the\near, they stir the soul, they make poetry.\nSince there are distinguished reviewers\nto apply the word \" poem \" to Mr. Phil-\nlips's essay-sermon, it only proves afresh\nthat criticism never killed poets; it is not\nsufficiently unanimous.\nIn short, criticism, unjustly accused of\ngoing, like kisses, by favor, goes and\nmust go by taste instead, which is equally\nerratic. To press his own personal pref-\nerences—say for bread-and-milk—down\npalates which cry for caviare and curry;\nto deny himself the privilege of fallibility\nand set himself up for a little pope of\nliterature, these are the painful duties of\nthe critic, whose lot is no more a happy\none than the policeman's. Too long-suf-\nfering he may sometimes be; an oppressor\nof poets he never is. He is too busy to\nhate, too mild to scorn; besides, he does\nnot really know—he cares no more for\npoetry than anyone else, and is sometimes\nhonestly persuaded that for those who\nlike that sort of thing it may be just what\nthey like. In many cases he is, as Napo-\nleon 111. said with memorable inaptitude\nof Bismarck, \" not a serious person.\"\nThe number of brilliant, sincere men with\nliterary sensitiveness at their finger-tips,\nwho make the reviewing of books their\nbusiness in life, can be counted almost\nwithout passing the unit column. Of the\nrest, a few are mere hacks; the majority\nare men who are actually too literary to\njudge of anything; they are dyspeptics,\ntheir palates are worn out with too much\ntasting, their finger-tips deadened with\ntoo much touching. Their much learn-\ning has in fact completely lost them\nThe earlv foolish freshness of the dunce,\nWhose simple instinct guessed the heavens at\nonce."}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.17", "texte": "The Eclipse of Poetry\n\nRegarding the critic as the middleman\nin the poetry market, and regarding him\nas disposed of, the blame then lies be-\ntween the producer and the consumer.\nIs it the producer who has worn out peo-\nple's patience with his failure to meet the\noccasion ? The consumer—or rather\nnon-consumer—says it is, and adds re-\nsentfully that if good poetry were only\nwritten it would be read fast enough—an\nargument which falls completely before\none question: Is any poetry read? Who\nof the younger generation knows Byron ?\nWho quotes Wordsworth? Who could\npass an examination on any more of the\nwork of Bryant, Whittier, Lowell, Long-\nfellow, than appears in school readers ?\nAsk your friends whether they like\npoetry. The affirmative or negative\ncharacter of the reply will depend upon\nthe veracity of your friends; for, as many\ngood folk go to church who are pagans at\nheart, so the lingering remnant of rever-\nence for an outgrown superstition may\nelicit a conventional \"Yes,\" whose sin-\ncerity may be quickly tested by asking\nthem whose poetry they like, and what\nparticular stanzas lie nearest their hearts ?\nPoetry is parsed in schools (perhaps we\nlearn to hate it there) ; it is declaimed by\nelocutionists, although the recent trend\ntoward prose is noticeable; it is used by\nnewspapers that do not pay for it, to\nbreak the monotony of the Sunday edi-\ntion's serried columns, but it is not read\nas news is read, as novels are read, as the\nmost forbiddingly solid books are read—\nin short, as it once was read. Once, a\nnew poem by a poet, new or old, figured\nimportantly in the news; once, the novel-\nists sandwiched poetical tid-bits profusely\nin among passages; once, the philosophi-\ncal work went down the public throat\nmore smoothly if written in rhyme. That\nwas during the snows of yester-year.\nTwitted with this state of affairs, the\nreader answers—if he troubles to answer\n—that we have no great poets to-day.\nWe might have them by the dozen, and he\nwould never know it, for he will not look\nto see. He skips poetry in the maga-\nzines, he leaves the gilt-edged gift-book\nto gather dust, he sells his father's fat\nMilton and his grandfather's folio Shel-\nley to the second-hand dealer. We may\nnot have any great poets; we have a num-\nber of minor ones whom decent apprecia-\ntion might encourage to do great work,\nand it might be added that much smaller\npoets have been considered much greater\nin times when the very rabble loved and\njudged poetry better than our college\npresidents do. Edith M. Thomas has\nmore of the poet in her little finger than\nFelicia Hemans had in her whole body,\nwhich is not disparaging Mrs. Hemans;\nSidney Lanier is as superior to Bryant as\na diamond to a rhinestone, which is not\ndenying the latter his own place in litera-\nture ; Christina Rossetti would have been\nalmost deified in the times of Mrs. Norton\nand Mrs. Osgood and Mrs. Sigourney,\nand the rest of the pretty little poetesses\nwho, by the irony of fate and literature-\nlessons, are at least known by their names\nin an age that ignores its own prophets.\nBut Edmund Gosse was openly told he\nwas ridiculous for suggesting Christina\nRossetti—author of exquisite and almost\nunknown rhymes and lyrics that she is—\nas a candidate for Poet-laureate; Sidney\nLanier died almost \" unwept, unhonored\nand unsung,\" and is now the lonely cult\nof a discriminating few; while, if one last\nproof were wanting to show that this age\nheads its list of \" Wanted \" with \" No\nPoets Need Apply,\" it could be found in\nthe little-known and less-read work of\nEdith M. Thomas, where virility of grasp\nand polished beauty of expression, subtle-\nty of thought and nobility of spirit, are all\nas many pearls cast before—us.\nOne thing a poet must have—apprecia-\ntion. It is all nonsense that we hear\nabout the poet having* left his field for\nothers of greater pecuniary profit. If\npoets wrote for profit alone—which they\nnever did—they were never better paid\nthan in this day of great magazines. It\nis not the publishers' fault that books of"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.18", "texte": "East & West\n\nverse do not sell, nor that a magazine is\nno more or less popular because of the\ngrade of poetry that fills up its waste\nplaces. But, paid or unpaid, he must feel\nhimself an apostle, not to deaf ears, not\nto a small circle of log-rolling brother\nlitterateurs, but to the world. The poetic\ngift is purchased much as Don Quixote\nsays eminence in learning is purchased,\n\" by time, watching, hunger, nakedness,\nvertigo, indigestion, and many other in-\nconveniences \"; and such an outlay will\nnot, cannot, should not be expended for\nno reward. More has been said than can\nbe proved of the impossibility of crushing\ngenius. We hear only of the cases where\nit rises superior to circumstance, not of\nthose saddened singers \" who die with all\ntheir music in them.\"\nOf course, as with the critics, Master\nPoet himself is not wholly blameless.\nThere is a certain style of composition for\nwhich all that is necessary is the nerve,\nand its followers are heard for their much\nspeaking. They succeed just because\npeople are so indifferent; like the famous\nstatesman who opposed Charles Brad-\nlaugh because \" a member of Parliament\nshould believe in some God or other,\"\nthey have a vague acquiescent feeling that\na century should have some poet or other.\nRival poets, less successful but not neces-\nsarily more deserving, can only stand by\nand cast in their teeth the memorable ut-\nterance of Mrs. Stevenson to the pig of\nVailima—\" Gr-r-rr! nobody loves you I\"\nand do not contest the laurel-wreath, be-\ncause nobody would watch the tussle, and\nthe wreath is only paper anyway.\nSo the sparrow who with bow and ar-\nrow killed Cock Robin, when run to earth,\nproves to be the amiable reader after all.\nHe conducts a most sophistical self-de-\nfence, pretending that the Spirit of the\nAge put him up to it. We are told we\nare too hurried for poetry; we are too\nold, too blase; we have lost the child-\nheart. Says one of the poets a genera-\ntion with long, dull ears forced into\ndeath and obscurity—Richard Realf:\nThere is no little child within me now,\nTo sing back to the thrushes, to leap up\nWhen June winds kiss me, when an apple bough\nLaughs into blossoms, or a buttercup\nPlays with the sunshine, or a violet\nDances in the glad dew. Alas ! Alas !\nThe meaning of the daisies in the grassf\nI have forgotten.\nYet how strange that we dotards,\ncynics, materialists, or whatever melan-\ncholy thing we call ourselves, have de-\nlighted to be held in leading-strings by\nStevenson and Haggard, Kipling and\nHope, Weyman and Doyle, who appeal to\nnothing if not to the imagination and\nsentiment of the young heart! It seems\nonly literature written in rhyme and\nmetre, with each line beginning with a\ncapital, which is unpopular. One shud-\nders to think what oblivion would have\nswallowed up those charming fables and\nsketches of Olive Schreiner's, which have\nattained so well-deserved a name and\nfame, had she not cunningly disguised\ntheir poetry in the typographical cloak of\nprose!\nIt is obvious that we can live without\npoetry. The scattered faithful who still\nworship at the fountain where Pegasus\nleft his foot-print will so wince at such a\nstatement as mistakenly to imagine their\nwincing alters matters. But it was a\npoet himself who reminded us that we\ncan live without everything but cooks.\nWe have seen that nations can live with-\nout religion; that is, they can in a man-\nner support a kind of existence; they have\nlived without ideals, and not been vio-\nlently unhappy; for that matter, they have\nlived without all the luxuries of life,\namong which poetry must relentlessly be\ncounted. But it is equally obvious that\nthese people were all savages and semi-\nsavages, not a race reared on luxury,\nwhose fathers lived in luxury before\nthem, and whose sudden drop into desti-\ntution is a graver matter than the savage's\nstinted existence. Spiritual, mental, or\nmaterial poverty sits comfortably only on\nthose who never knew anything better."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.19", "texte": "Holbein\n\nOur race was reared on poetry. From\nthe starry legends of the twilight ages to\nthe great sunburst of Shakespeare's\ngenius, from the great systems and satel-\nlites of succeeding centuries, even to the\nfarthing rushlights of our own, the \" light\nthat never was \" has always glimmered\nabove our heads; and surely life has been\nthe brighter, and we have been the better,\nfor it. Mallock, with his usual acute-\nness, has reminded us that \" the use of\npoetry is not to make us admire the poetry\nof poems, but discern the poetry of life.\"\nThat light is there now, only our backs\nare bent with stooping away from it.\nSancho Panza, the soul of honesty, con-\nfessed that when he was digging he for-\ngot all about his Teresa. It is so with\nus; we have been digging, and have for-\ngotten all about the lady of our soul. Or\nperhaps we have a sensitiveness over be-\ning teased about her. It may be that we\nhave stooped too long; it may be that po-\netry is as unrepeatable an episode in hu-\nman history as folklore, with which it\nholds so many affiliations. Yet if so,\nwhat mind with the power to consider\nbut will regret it ? and what heart where-\nin still lurks a half-shamed love for the\nunpopular goddess but ought to cherish\nthe weakness instead of crushing it ?\nThere is a significant incident related\nin the account by Andrew Lang, in his\nsketch of the young Pretender, of the\nbattle of Falkirk: \" What might have\nbeen a victory was lost through trop de\nzele on the part of the pipers. When the\ncharge began, they threw their pipes to\ntheir boys and went in with their clay-\nmores. Consequently, the rallying mu-\nsic could not be sounded, and, in the dark-\nness of a tempest, the scattered clans did\nnot pursue their victory.\"\nWhether the fault be with the over-\nzealous pipers, or the unheeding combat-\nants, shall not we too miss the rallying\nmusic if the last strain suddenly ceases?\nWe need poetry, whether we want it or\nnot, whether we can drag along somehow\nwithout it or not. For, had not its rai-\nson d'etre been portrayed with more pierc-\ning truth, as well as grace and beauty, by\na poet in a poem than in any struggling\nattempt to render it in prose, it would have\nno raison d'etre:\nCome, Poet, come!\nA thousand laborers ply their task,\nAnd what it tends to, scarcely ask,\nAnd trembling thinkers on the brink\nShiver and know not what to think.\nTo tell the purport of their pain,\nAnd what our silly joys contain ;\nIn lasting lineaments portray\nThe substance of the shadowy day;\nOur real and inner deeds rehearse,\nAnd make our meaning clear in verse—\nCome, Poet, come / for but in vain\nWe do the work or feel the pain,\nAnd gather up the evening gain,\nUnless, before the end, thou come\nTo take, ere they are lost, their sum ;\n\nHolbein\nRobert Jermain Cole\nBy\nAk, well he bribed our\n~Wko pictured all men levelled by his glance.\nS<? flattered, the destroyer\nAnd Holbein lives forever"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.20", "texte": "East & West\n\nAn Epitaph\nArthur Ketchum\nBy\nClose-folded to the mountain's heart,\nLet him sleep well, sleep long.\nThe voices of a thousand pines\nShall be his slumber song.\nO'er him shall ferny greennesses\nA dauntless verdure set,\nTo comfort him, till warm rains wake\nApril's first violet.\nHere to the tired child of change.\nThrough days that shall not fail,\nShall come the summer's last Farewell,\nThe steadfast spring's All hail!\nAnd he shall fear no evil thing j\nWhen warrior winds awake\nI think their mighty hosts will pass\nMore gently for his sake.\nSo, girt by listening forests,\nAnd hushed by breathless song,\nStill dreaming down the pilgrim years,\nHe shall sleep well and long.\nHis was the wanderer's wilding heart,\nThat loved not bonds and bars—\nWildness to wildness ! Rest! while burn\nThe watch-lights of the stars."}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.21", "texte": "Youth's Heritage\n\nYouth's Heritage\nAnne F. Wilson\nBy\nrHE September sunlight was\njust touching the tops of the\nwestern hills. The world\nbelow was* still damp and\ncold with early dawn. Two hours be-\nfore, Aunt Delight Severance had parted\nher scanty curtains, with fingers trem-\nbling anxiously; and had looked out\nupon a still moon-lighted world. Reas-\nsured, she had sunk back to sleep fitfully\nuntil daybreak. Now she was dressing\nwith eager haste. The world after a\nhundred years had grown a little distant\nto her; but to-day it drew nearer, with its\nthronging interests, its quizzical occa-\nsional glances at a past which had been\nfor years her sole inheritance, but which,\ntoo, had latterly grown strangely dim.\nTo-day she was eagerly alert for\nthe celebration of a holiday. Already\ndressed, she stepped into the low-ceiled\nkitchen, where her grand-niece, with her\ngray hair tightly plaited into curling pins,\nstood before the stove.\n\" Good-mornin', Ellen,\" she said,\nbriskly. \" It's a real pretty day, ain't\nit? I did think yest'day was a weather\nbreeder, 'twas so pleasant; and I dono'\nhow many times I woke up in the night\nand looked out to see if 'twas stormin'! \"\n\" Well, I hope you got some sleep be-\ntween whiles, Aunt Delight,\" her niece\nanswered. \" It's goin' to be a hard day;\nyou ought to be rested up to be ready for\nit.\"\n\" Wal, I am, Ellen. I don't know, I'm\nsure, when I've felt so brisk. 'N I'm real\nhungry.\"\nThey breakfasted in hurried silence,\nAunt Delight craftily feigning a hunger\nshe did not feel. The others were too\nbusy to notice her guile. The luncheon\nwas packed, the big gray horse was har-\nnessed to the- open wagon, Esther and\nLeroy were already seated. Aunt De-\nlight was tying her bonnet-strings with\nunready fingers. Suddenly, the girlish\nfeatures which had been hers years ago\nseemed to confront her from the narrow\nglass. There were the big dark eyes, the\nolive cheeks, the rings of black hair, and\nthe crimson mouth, all framed by the\nquaint bonnet. Then the illusion faded,\nand the tiny, frightened face of an old,\nold woman looked out at her again. She\nturned from the glass, catching her breath\nsharply at the sight of her lost youth.\nLeroy at the door was shouting:\n\"Ma! Ma! I've got just about sick of\nwaitin'. It's always the way. You get\nme up, an hour before there's any need,\nto get the horse ready, and then you ain't\nready yourself.\"\n\" Well, my son, you ain't ever hurt\nyourself a-gettin' up early; and, I don't\npresume likely you have this mornin',\"\nhis mother answered in even tones from\nwithin. \" Aunt Delight ain't ready yet,\nand we're both of us goin' to take all the\ntime we want.\"\n\" Yes, I be ready,\" Aunt Delight an-\nswered, as she stepped carefully down\nover the door-sill. She stopped to twist\nup a little old-fashioned nosegay of\n\" Southern-wood\" and \" ladies' de-\nlights.\" Then Leroy ran for a chair, and\nhelped her carefully into the back seat\nbeside Esther. Mrs. Swan hurried out\nwith the big picnic basket and clambered\nunaided in beside Leroy, and the party\nwas off.\nIt was one of those rare days when the"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.22", "texte": "East & West\n\ndeparting Summer pauses for a moment\non her way to leave one gracious memory\nthe more. The roadsides were gorgeous\nwith late golden-rod and asters; here and\nthere a swamp maple flamed forth with\nan early scarlet. The air was pungent\nwith the smell of burning pine woods, the\nwind was at once a caress and a chal-\nlenge. A violet haze veiled the hills, and\nhesitated above the waters of the lake. It\nwas a day which pleaded for a tender,\nbackward look, not wholly of regret and\nwistful yearning, not at all of amusement\nor contempt; but a glance, brave if re-\ngretful ; hopeful if sad.\nThey climbed rolling hills where the\ncornstalks were browning under the yel-\nlow sunlight; where the White Moun-\ntains, half lost in the distant west, rose\nto meet them. They rattled down into\ndamp hollows where the ferns were with-\nered and brown. And, as they travelled,\nthey came into the long procession tend-\ning westward; a procession of people,\nwho, with covered baskets and holiday\nfaces, were calling a halt in busy lives to\nspeak together of the past. At last they\ndipped into the wooded hollow, where\nstood the little white school-house, with\nthe pine before its door; they crawled up\nthe sandy hill with the crest of a moun-\ntain rising in their faces.\nAs they reached the top, Aunt Delight\ncaught her breath. The village lay be-\nlow. It had always seemed the most\nbeautiful spot in the world to her. To-\nday the elm-shaded streets—there had\nbeen no elms, only poplars in the old days\n—the unruffled lake, the brooding moun-\ntain were as fair as ever. As they rum-\nbled over the stone bridge, and down the\nshadowed street, Aunt Delight peopled\nthe houses with the occupants of twenty,\nof forty, of sixty, years before. She was\ncareless of perspective, but she gained the\njoy of the home-comer.\nThe open wagon drew up at the long,\nplain \" Town-house.\" There Aunt De-\nlight got down, with her own quaint pre-\ncision, to meet a world of congratulations\nand warm surprise. From this side and\nfrom that voices exclaimed:\n\" Well, if here ain't Aunt Delight\nSeverance! \"\n\" Why, Aunt Delight, I didn't expect\nyou'd git out such a long ways to the\nCentennial.\"\nThe speakers were the grandsons and\ngranddaughters, great-grandsons and\ngreat-granddaughters of her girlhood\nfriends and neighbors. Some of them\nwere elderly men and women now, and\nmost of them were strangers to her; but\nAunt Delight greeted them with imper-\nsonal cordiality. She moved into the hall\nin the midst of a company alert to do her\nhonor, eager to listen to her interpretation\nof the noble, though simple and unre-\ncorded past that had been hers. The\nrelics ranged along the walls, curiosities\nto them, were full of another interest to\nher. As she answered their questions,\nher little spare figure in the thin black\nsilk and fringed shawl straightened; her\nface, under the old-fashioned bonnet, was\ntinged with a wintry pink; her eyes\nglowed with a soft, sunken fire.\n\" I never seen one of them,\" an elderly\nwoman commented, touching a rotary-\ntopped stove, gingerly. \" What was\nthey made to turn like that for, Aunt De-\nlight?\"\n\" Wal, you see they couldn't more'n\ntwo holes git over the fire to once,\" ex-\nplained the old lady eagerly. \" An' if\nyou was a-bakin' of pies two of 'em\nwouldn't git baked at all. So they'd turn\n'em this way, every now and then,\" giv-\ning the top a little spin, \" and they'd all\ngit done. Mother hed one of 'em that\nshe brought when she come from Har-\nvard, Massachusetts. I never knew what\nbecome of it, though.\"\n\" I never could see how they got all\ntheir work done,\" some one commented.\n\" It's all we can do now, with all the mod-\nern improvements we have.\"\n\" Wal, we cal'lated to work all the\ntime/' said Aunt Delight, reminiscently.\nThe notes of the church bell, sounding"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.23", "texte": "Youth's Heritage\n\nthrough the still air, broke in upon her\nspeech. The little company about her be-\ngan to disperse.\n\"Of course you're goin' up to the\nchurch to hear the speakin', Aunt De-\nlight? \" said one of her best-remembered\nfriends. \" Why don't you come right\nalong with us ? \"\n\" I don't presume I'd better, Alice. I\ntold Ellen I'd wait for her here. She\nwent with Leroy to find a place for the\nhorse; and then she was goin' to do some\narrants to Farrar's store.\"\nThe two women, who* were lingering\nbeside her, just glanced at each other.\n\" Farrar's store \" had dispensed rum and\nmolasses, salt fish and calico, to the\nWaterbridge of sixty years before.\n\" No, I guess I'll set down here and\nwait for Ellen. This looks like a real\ncomfortable seat, don't it ? \"\n\" Well, we'll see you at the church\nthen. The speaker is goin' to be real\ngood. Did you know he was old Captain\nProctor's grandson ? \"\nAunt Delight sank into the straight-\nbacked chair with a sigh, realizing for the\nfirst time that she was tired. She closed\nher eyes to shut out the confusion. The\npast was loud in its appeal to her. The\nsoft dream-world in which she had been\nliving for years, a world shut into the\ntrivial round of every day, had vanished.\nThe merciful veil, like the violet Septem-\nber haze, shutting off the circling moun-\ntains, had lifted all at once to the east-\nward. She saw the hills where her life\nrose; and the sight brought with it an\nexquisite pain and sense of loss. She\nhad drunk from the flowered cups, and\nhad smiled across their rims into eyes\nnow veiled for years. This very rusty\npillion, perhaps, had carried her along\nwood-screened bridle-paths. Fingers,\nsoft and rosy, scarred and work-worn,\nrigid, free from work at last, had wrought\nat the yellow samplers, had striven clum-\nsily over the dingy copy-books, fingers\nthat had clasped hers in fellowship. The\ntragedy of the inanimate outlasting the\nanimate, moved her half-unconsciously;\nthe loneliness of herself, sole survivor of\nher day beside these mute, pathetic me-\nmorials, wrung her heart numbed with\nmuch living. She rested her head\nagainst the back of the chair, and tried\nto control the quivering of her lip.\nSuddenly a high voice, light and care-\nless as a bird-note, pierced through her\nreverie.\n\" What deliciously funny old men,\nGuy! Just look at their collars and ties\n—what did they call them—stocks ?\n-cravats? Aren't they too absurd for\nanything! When did they live, anyway ?\nOh yes, ages ago! ' Deacon Eliakim\nHowe, 1775-1829'; 'Captain Hiram\nProctor, 1780-1837.' It's hard to realize\nthey ever lived, isn't it ? \"\nThe words cut clear and keen through\nAunt Delight's musing. At their echo\ncame the boyish face of Deacon Eliakim\nHowe when he had taught the winter\nschool, and she had been his big girl pu-\npil. He was not Deacon then, and had a\nfondness for lingering near the back seat\non the girls' side in leisure moments.\nAnd Deacon Howe had been dead for\nyears—fifty perhaps, and they had called\nhim \" the old Deacon \" before he died.\nThe light tone hurt her. She felt as if\nsome dear and sacred thing were being\nspoken lightly of. The gentle heart grew\nhot. She wanted to tell the speaker how\nmuch those deliciously funny old men\nhad borne and done; how they had grown\nold in their prime, smoothing the path for\ngenerations to come. She wanted to say\nsomething that should make those smil-\ning lips grow grave, that light voice\nquiver. Instead she closed her lips\nclosely. The past was hers; a legacy of\nnobility, of resolve, of high endeavor that\nno age could take away, that no time\ncould tarnish.\nThe light voice went on:\n\" Oh, but Guy, look! What a hand-\nsome man! And what a fine portrait!\nCan you see who it is ? Oh, yes! ' Dr.\nRichard Warren, who Died at his Post in"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.24", "texte": "East & West\n\nthe Small-pox Epidemic of 1804.' You\nseldom see so handsome a man.\" And\nthe speaker turned carelessly away.\nBut Aunt Delight had risen and con-\nfronted the picture, trembling. The\ndark, compelling eyes met hers with the\nstrength, the tenderness of life. The\nhair, waving loosely back, the firm lips,\nthe resolute chin; she had known them\nall. She had known them, but she had\nalmost forgotten, in the flood of eighty\nyears. The wrinkled, yellowed silhou-\nette had not reminded her of the rich\nbrown of the hair, the red of the cheek.\nBut she remembered it all now. Where\nhad the picture come from ? She had not\nknown of its existence, she who, most of\nall, should have had its comfort through\nthe obliterating years.\nBeneath the picture hung saddle-bags\nand a worn gauntlet. Aunt Delight\nstretched out a pitiful knotted finger, and\nsmoothed the glove tenderly. She trem-\nbled from head to foot with the inward\nrush of old memories. For fifty, for\neighty years, she had been true to a mem-\nory. She had never forgotten; but time\nhad mercifully numbed her grief, and\ndrifted the snows of eighty winters over\nthat far-away autumn, when life had\nbeen all joy and then all sorrow. The\neyes looked almost as keen, almost as ten-\nder, as if the years of parting had never\nbeen. The old familiar trappings held\nall the pathos that recent bereavement\ngives. She rested her cheek against the\nrusty gauntlet with a little half-sob.\nSuddenly, her niece's brisk voice\nstartled her.\n\" Why, Aunt Delight, where have you\nbeen! I've been lookin' everywheres for\nyou. Ain't you all tired out? I'm\nafraid it's goin' to be too much for you,\nseein' so many people and all. But there,\nyou stood your birthday party so well, I\ndon't know as this will hurt you. Do you\nthink you feel well enough to go up to the\nchurch and hear the speakin'? Because,\nif you don't, I just see Mis' Phillips, and\nshe asked me to have you come into her\nhouse, and lay down if you got tired out.\nWhat do you think about it ? \"\n\" I guess I ain't partic'ly tired, Ellen,\"\nMiss Severance answered, quietly. \" I've\nben restin' here. Seein' of so many peo-\nple kind o' dazed me.\"\n\" And no wonder! \" answered Ellen,\nheartily. \" I hain't looked at the exhibi-\ntion hardly a mite, and I feel real muddled\nup myself. Well! Well! Aunt De-\nlight; what's that behind you there?\n' Standin' Stool which belonged to Dea-\ncon Amos Carter.' Well, I suppose\nstandin' stools was in use when you was\nyoung, Aunt Delight? but I declare I\nnever see one before.\"\nAunt Delight hardly glanced at the\nmovable wooden pen where the babies of\nher day had tended themselves. It was\nblackened with time and with the print of\ntiny moist fingers, and the wooden rail\nwas etched by sharp teeth. But Aunt\nDelight did not notice these things. In-\nstead she saw Deacon Amos Carter's big\nkitchen, dusky save for the flaring fire;\nlight, warm, and sweet with homely\nodors. She and Dr. Warren were linger-\ning at the door, loath to leave the fire-lit\nwarmth for the October dusk without.\nShe could almost hear Deacon Carter's\njovial laugh, as he said:\n\" I've just been tellin' Martha that see-\nin' as we wa'n't goin' to need the old\nstandin' stool no more, and the children\nwas fitted out, we'd better give it to De-\nlight and Doctor for a weddin' present.\nYou'll find it lots of help takin' care of\nthe little doctors, Delight.\"\nShe could almost feel the hot blood in\nher cheeks. And that was eighty years\nago. She only answered her niece:\n\" Yes, Ellen, they used 'em consider-\nable.\"\n\" Now, Aunt/5 Ellen went on, briskly,\n\" We've got to be goin' up to the church.\nThat is if you think you'd ought to go.\nI'd rather you'd stop into Mis' Phillipses.\nShe said she'd leave the key under the\nthermometer, so't we could go right in\nany time. I'm afraid you're gittin' too"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.25", "texte": "Youth's Heritage\n\ntired. Your voice sounded real trem-\nbly.\"\n\" No, Ellen, I'd rather go,\" said Aunt\nDelight, stoutly. \" I presume likely\nthere'll be a good many things said that\nI wouldn't miss for quite a sum of money.\nI can rest up when I git home.\"\nAn usher met them at the doorway, and\nescorted them to reserved seats far up\nin front. Aunt Delight, however, did\nnot notice the little attentions which ear-\nlier in the day would have pleased her.\nShe did not heed the curious and friendly\nglances which were fastened upon her\nfrom all sides. Her eyes saw only nar-\nrow bridle-paths, thick woodlands, low-\nceiled kitchens, with their bygone plen-\nishings, and men and women now among\nthe shadows.\nMeanwhile the orator of the day was\nspeaking, describing a past of which he\nknew no more, gray-haired man as he\nwas, than the veriest child. Aunt De-\nlight was unheeding, living in her world\nof memory. Suddenly some words\ncaught her attention. She listened with\nstrained eagerness for a name which she\nlonged, yet dreaded to hear. The speak-\ner was saying:\n\" I hardly need speak of those who\nhave gone forth from us to make the\nname of Waterbridge a known one, a\nbeneficent one. We point to certain hon-\norable, certain well-known men with\npride, and say, ' They belong to us.' The\nknown are in truth a goodly company;\nbut the unknown are not less so. They\nhave stayed among their native rocky\nhills, laboring with the simple, yet com-\nprehensive, ambition of rearing their\nfamilies comfortably, and in the fear of\nGod; in the hope that at last Earth, their\nnourice-mother, would take them back to\nherself not without honor. Their names\nare forgotten even among us, but their\nwork lives on: in the wilderness they have\nreclaimed, in the roads they have built,\nin the schools they have founded, in the\nchurches they have dedicated to their\nfathers' God, in the quiet dignity and no-\nbility of the old town which welcomes us\nto-day.\n\" One of these obscure names I must\ncall back to you. This does not appear\nin the list of the world's heroes; but it\nshould never be forgotten here. He laid\nhis rich gifts of knowledge and skill at\nour feet without grudging and without\ngain. He stood by us in our hour of\ndread and danger, and left us only at the\nlast imperative call.\n\"It is of Dr. Richard Warren that I\nspeak. You have all seen his picture in\nthe Hall to-day. This portrait I discov-\nered in Massachusetts in possession of\nthat branch of the family, and I brought\nit with me in order that you may form a\npicture of him in your minds. Do you\nknow the story of his brief life? He\ngained his medical education against\nalmost overwhelming odds, working by\nday on the farm, at the forge, studying\nby night. When larger opportunities\nopened before him he made a brilliant\nname for himself in English hospitals.\nHe came back, and dedicated his life to us.\n\" In less than two years his offering\nwas called for. He went in and out of\nhouses where the dread scourge raged.\nHe nursed the sick, he solaced the dying,\nhe buried the dead. He faced prejudice\nand even violence with his wonderful new\ncure. He spent himself, he poured out\nhis whole glad, strong life for our fathers,\nand through them for us. And at last,\nwhen the plague was almost spent, he\ndied, alone, untended. With hushed\nbreath, with hearts thrilled with the no-\nbility, the possibility of manhood, we\nspeak his name.\"\nOnce again Aunt Delight lived in the\ndark days of the pestilence, days when\nduty to her invalid mother and her lover's\ncommand alone kept her from his side.\nThe nightly breathless run to the top of\nthe hill; the heart-breaking suspense un-\ntil she saw the signal light, that told her\nall was well with him; the last night,\nwhen, instead of the gleam in the cottage\nwindow, she had seen a flaring torch-light"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.26", "texte": "East & West\n\nin the hollow, and a slender figure, not his,\ndigging a shallow grave: all came back\nto her as she listened. The ferns had\nsmelled rank and dead in her nostrils; one\nlow band of pale yellow had lingered in\nthe west; the north wind had beaten and\nbuffeted her. She had turned blindly—\nshe could not remember what had hap-\npened next. She had wandered far, it\nseemed, wrenched by the wind, dry-eyed\nand still; had wandered on into years\nwithout mark or mile-stone, years that\nhad dragged along until the wound had\nceased to ache—and even that had been\nlong ago.\nAunt Delight was silent and ab-\nsorbed through the neighborly picnicing,\nthrough the toasts that followed. She\nwas overwhelmed in the flood of mem-\nories that had come surging back. Even\nthe bustle of starting failed to rouse her.\nThe weather had changed. The sky was\novercast, a cold wind filled with damp-\nness blew strong from the south. The\nwayside flowers, and the solitary flaming\nmaples had lost their morning glow. The\nride dragged endlessly. The disillusion-\nment that follows a holiday, the vague re-\ngret that the first autumn days bring, a\nsense of the irrevocableness of the past,\ntouched them all. Even Leroy, the\nhealthful, prosaic little animal, was silent\nwith an unanalyzed discontent. He\nroused once to say, with a quizzical\nglance at his sister:\n\" Say, Ess, did that picture of Dr. War-\nren remind you of anybody ? \"\nEsther flushed up to her pretty blonde\nhair.\n\" I ain't sayin' that Frank Ames looks\nas well as that,\" the boy went on. \" For\nhe don't. But there's a sort of a like-\nness. But say! that Dr. Warren must\nhave been a corker if what the man said\nof him was true.\"\n\" Sh! Leroy,\" his mother said, softly.\n\" Aunt Delight's tired. Don't bother her\ntalkin'.\"\nAunt Delight was tired, body and soul.\nShe had reached out through the isolation\nof years for the past and had grasped its\npain, had taken it full of its past force\ninto her heart. She had found herself\nstanding uncompanioned in the waste of\nthe years. The future held nothing for\nher, the present was empty, the past was\n—where? A fear as of a child alone in\nthe darkness laid cold hands on her heart\n•—a fear of the days to come. She had\nwakened from the peaceful, numb calm\nthat had been hers for years, a calm full\nof trivial pleasures, free from griefs and\ncares—into the full stress of living again,\ninto a loneliness such as her hundred\nyears had never known. She was tired,\nbody and soul.\nIt was dark when she woke from her\ndreamless sleep in the little chamber, lead-\ning out of the farm-house kitchen. She\ntried to remember where she was, what\nshe had been doing; but she met only a\nblank wall of forgetfulness. She rose\nmechanically, and crossed the dusky\nkitchen to the lighted sitting-room be-\nyond. To her dazzled eyes, the room\nwas empty save for a young man who sat\nby the table with his head bent over a\nbook. He looked up as she entered.\nHis forceful dark eyes met hers. The\nmists of memory cleared and revealed\nwhat she had been groping for. The\nfirm chin, the dark hair waving back from\nthe high forehead, were just as ever.\nShe stepped forward eagerly in spite of\nthe strange languor that hindered her.\n\" Where have you ben, Richard ? \" she\nasked, breathlessly. \" It's ben sech a\nlong time sence I've seen you. Oh, yes;\nI remember, it was the sickness; and I\nmust have ben sick too.\"\nFrank Ames rose from his-chair, his\nhandsome face troubled.\n\" Good-evening, Aunt Delight,\" he\nfaltered. \" Did you have a good time to-\nday?\"\nMrs. Stone hastened to her Aunt's side\nand clasped her hand. Aunt Delight\nstood erect, with her lips trembling. She\ncast an appealing look into her niece's\nmotherly face."}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.27", "texte": "The World-Play\n\n\" What's the matter, mother ? \" she\nsaid. \" It's ben so long sence Richard's\nben here, and now he don't seem glad to\nsee me. Hev I ben sick, mother? It\nseemed to me that I was old, and every-\nbody I knew was dead, and I was so lone-\nsome. It's hard to realize when you're\nyoung, that anybody can be old like that,\nain't it? But I can't understand why\nRichard don't seem glad to see me.\"\nFrank Ames glanced at Esther, who\nwas crying softly. Then he stooped and\ntouched Aunt Delight's wrinkled cheek\nwith his lips.\n\" I can't say how glad I am to see you,\nDelight,\" he murmured. Then he and\nEsther stole out hand in hand into the\ndusk.\nThe wind, pungent with the scent of\nburnt-out fires, blew strong through the\nopen door. The room was silent save\nfor the insistent night sounds. Aunt\nDelight leaned heavily against her niece's\narm with a happy sigh.\n\" I'm so glad it was only a dream,\nmother,\" she said. \" I was so lonesome,\nbut now it's all right.\"\nAnd Aunt Delight spoke truth.\n\nThe World-Play\nRichard Burton\nBy\n\"And all the men and\nThe entrance-price you willy-nilly pay,\nSit with your kind, take pleasure, if you may,\nOr puzzle at the meaning of the play.\nCOMEDY\nThe humors of the Time, the painted show\nOf character, the Attic salt of wTit;\nNow, laughter lilts its high, now, tender woe\nFor a pale moment o'er the stage must flit,\nTo make the main plot merrier; maids and men\nTeach life is sweet and love may come again.\nMELODRAMA\nSee how the Swashbucklers swagger,\nHark to the villain's dark cry!\nMuch is a-doing and many are ruing!\nInnocents, destined to die,\nHaply, with thrust of a dagger.\nEvil frustrate and virtue tried and true,\nRomance, adventure, sleight, and derring-do,\nThe earth's wide passions served up hot for you!\nFARCE\nSee the buffoon's fat cheeks ballooning out!\nThwack! the lath sword descends, guffaws are rife,"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.28", "texte": "East & West\n\nMidst gallery gods, with many a boorish shout\nOf approbation. Yet, 'tis part of life,\nAnd honest, too—the grammarless crude heart\nOf one's own kinsmen, and this stir-about\nIs wholesome, though it lack the soul of art.\nTRAGEDY\nSlow evolution to a fateful close;\nDeepest of dramas, knocking at our soul;\nGlints of the gay, but gloom that spreads and grows\nTowards some sardonic end, the gruesome goal\nOf all the light, the motion, and the glee\nPranked out high-heartedly;\nBehind man's quest and woman's sacrifice,\nBravery and risk and lure of ardent eyes,\nQuieting the stir,\nMingling mold-odors with love's sweetest myrrh,\nForever looms and glooms the sepulchre!\nEPILOGUE\nGreat Watcher of the whole, the motley shift\nOf play and counterplay, sole Critic, who\nMust understand, because Creator too;\nPrompter and Playwright both: the curtains lift\nAnd fall, while joy and sorrow interweave;\nWe know full well what time to smile or grieve,\nNo more: the ultimate meaning's shut from view.\nThe world-play, act by act, moves on and we\nAre shaken by its moods—mirth, anguish, mystery!\n\nThe New York Theatre: A Foreword\nGeorge C. D. Odell\nBy\nW' TOW many New Yorkers would\ntolerate the suggestion that\nM M their theatre is provincial? Yet\nwhat other idea can be gath-\nered from reading the announcements\nfor the coming season at our leading\nplayhouses? Only one or two serious\nefforts of American writers are prom-\nised; in all other cases it is clearly as-\nsumed that the legend \" Latest London\nSuccess \" will be the surest highroad to\nNew York favor. We might as well be\nManchester, or Birmingham, or Liver-\npool, for any evidence we offer of a\ndeclaration of dramatic independence.\nSeemingly, we still go to the theatre to\nlearn what England and (occasionally)\nother nations think of life. What Amer-\nican manager reads an American play?\nIn such circumstances the theatre can\nnever be a vital force. If a large part\nof this foreign product could justly be\nheld as a model for aspiring playwrights,\nif only it were humanly true, all might"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.29", "texte": "The New York Theatre\n\nyet be well and an American drama\nmight even now be building in the secret\nplaces. Our writers for the stage could\nnever be utterly discouraged if they saw\nheights to be scaled by patient endeavor.\nBut the best, the most intellectual, in the\nforeign drama is exactly what we never\nget; Ibser and the younger Germans are\npractically unknown to our boards. Our\nimported drama is largely silly farce or\nsentimental or \"smart\" comedy; some\nof the greatest successes of recent years\nhave ranked in literary quality with the\nnovels of the late Mrs. Southworth. Our\nambitious young writers, seeing this out-\nput—\" The Cuckoo,\" \" Zaza,\" \"Lord\nand Lady Algy,\" \" His Excellency the\nGovernor \"■—soon discover that emula-\ntion is not a matter of cloud-scaling, but\nof plunging into depths of vulgar inan-\nity. Men of parts take their energies\nelsewhere; the residuum largely writes\nnoisy farces for music-hall favorites. The\nart of Congreve and Sheridan has degen-\nerated into an affair of the scissors and\nthe paste-pot.\nThe blame comes largely upon the\npublic. When a people looks to its\ndrama purely for diversion, no self-re-\nspecting artist can use the drama as a\nmeans of expression; the novel, the\nmagazine, and the newspaper, even, thus\nbecome the enemies of the stage.\nAbroad, especially on the continent of\nEurope, the theatre of a country means,\nat its best, a national theatre, a vehicle\ntor the exploiting of national character,\nnational customs, national ideals. Much\nthat is unworthy creeps in; but this is\nthe conception of the functions of a the-\natre prevalent in Germany, France, Italy,\nand the Scandinavian countries; and it\nis in these countries that really serious\nplays are written to-day. Empty cachin-\ntiation is not the be-all and the end-all\nof the drama there; Mr. Conried's the-\natre in Irving Place, so opposed in spirit\nto the dramatic habitudes of Broadway,\nis typical of what I mean. But this con-\nception of the drama has not yet begun\nto take root in the American mind; we\ndo not look to the stage for inspiration\nor for suggestion. We speak of the the-\natrical business, as if the matter ended\nwith commerce, and, being a commercial\nnation of large ideas, we surrender all\nour theatres and all our actors into the\nhands of a theatrical trust who are, by\nthe very irony of fate, just the people\nleast able to arouse us to a realization of\nour sodden condition.\nBefore this consummation, devoutly\nto be deplored, there was a moment of\nhope for a national and therefore a living\ntheatre. For a brief spell it seemed as\nif the American dramatist—that plant of\nsickly and retarded growth—were to\nspring into full flower. Mr. Bronson\nHoward had written, in \" Young Mrs.\nWinthrop \" and \" The Henrietta,\" plays\nthat seemed actually to reflect our own\nsocial conditions; Mr. Thomas had pro-\nduced \" Alabama \" and \" In Mizzoura \";\nMr. Gillette's war plays had depicted for\na younger generation the sorrows of a\nbygone time; Belasco and De Mille were\nthe best liked of Lyceum playwrights.\nOther men were coming forward. It\nwas seen that our national characteristics\nafforded a rich field for humor or for pa-\nthos. But with the forming of the \" syn-\ndicate \" all this was changed; the mar-\nket, so many theatres and companies,\nmust be supplied quickly with ready-\nmade wares. The cable invited to Lon-\ndon and Paris and Berlin; the American\ndramatist went back to his native ob-\nscurity. There was not time to consider\nhim. To-day the aspirant practically\nknocks in vain at the doors of our the-\natre ; for him there is no room at the top.\nThis is worse than the \" Frohmanizing \"\nof all our young actors, by so much as\nthe creator is more important than the\ninterpreter; this is to dry at its source\nthe living stream of the drama. Of\ncourse, Mr. Howard and Mr. Gillette\nhave made their hearing and keep it; but\nno manager would bother with an un-\nknown writer. The theory seems to be"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.30", "texte": "East & West\n\nthat it is much better to invest money\nin elaborate scenery than in plays still\nuntried; the managers owe nothing to\ntheir public or to their art. Besides, how\ncan a commercial manager be expected\nto know a good play when he reads it?\nIt is much easier to buy a successful play\nby cable.\nAnd yet, curiously enough, it is becom-\ning more and more difficult to find plays\nenough to go around. Mr. Charles Froh-\nman is said to be sometimes at a loss for\ntried material in which to employ his nu-\nmerous \" stars \" and companies. He and\nthe others are feverishly \" cornering \" the\nforeign market, and the intelligent ob-\nserver, by reading the theatrical adver-\ntisements of a London spring, will know\nwhat to expect in New York the follow-\ning September and October. The man-\nagers insist that all plays by American\nwriters—except, of course, hack-work\nunder contract—is bad; they never re-\nflect that these plays are bad because in-\ntelligent workmen are driven from the\nfield.\nThe English visitor to New York who\nrecently insisted on seeing an American\nplay, called for exactly the one com-\nmodity his hosts could not supply. The\nAmerican eagle screams loudly for pro-\ntection to American industries of all\nkinds; personally, I shall be glad when\nprohibitive duties are laid on foreign\nmachine-made work like \" Zaza\" or\n\" His Excellency the Governor/'\nWho goes to the theatre for ideas?\nWho goes for sweet pictures of human-\nity, such as one gets from Shakespeare\nand Dickens and all writers who have\nbeen near the people? What does our\ntheatre offer, except stock notions, stock\nphrases, sentimental platitude, or inane\nfrivolity? For one \" Trelawney of the\nWells,\" how many \" Phrosos\" and\n\" Lord and Lady Algys \" do we see ? Far\nbe it from us to plead for Ibsen and the\nintellectuals exclusively or even largely;\nthe stage looks toward a larger morn, of\nrich human insight and sympathy, of\nShakespeares and Molieres yet to be.\nOnly let our stage here in America begin\nto be of us and for us; let it use its own\nmaterial from the rich soil about it. Give\nour dramatists a chance to use their own\neyes and free themselves from the rickety\nbugbear of English tradition. Only thus\ncan be developed among us a theatre of\nwhich we as a nation can be proud. As\nit is, why should we provincials be edified\nby the spectacle of a stage absolutely de-\npendent for subject-matter on the veriest\nhacks of London and Paris ?\nThis is the most crying need for the\nendowed theatre prefigured in the vision\nbeatific of Mr. Hapgood and Mr. Archer.\nIn New York it would be an open door\nfor the American dramatist, where all\nshould have an equal hearing before com-\npetent judges, and where those found\nworthy might hope for a pathway to pop-\nular approval. Money could be taken\nfrom the account of scenery and cos-\ntumes and risked on the production of\nuntried plays. Literature and the drama\nmight again be wedded. In such a the-\natre we should hope to see the classics\nand frequent performances of the mod-\nern plays now proscribed by the syndi-\ncate—Ibsen, if you please (though not\ntoo much of him), Maeterlink, Suder-\nmann, and the rest. But our own writers\nshould be first freed from paralyzing\nconditions, and they should teach us to\ncare most for what is at home. There\nwill be the true life of the drama and\nthere will be a stimulus for other branch-\nes of art.\nBut this process, even at best, we must\nexpect to be slow. A drama is not made\nby merely wishing for it. There will be\nmany failures and few successes at first.\nWe must induce men of ability to write\nfor the stage, and a trained body of dram-\natists, even then, we shall not soon\nhave. Old conventions, old fetters will\nwith difficulty be shaken off. But how\ncan you learn to swim if you never go\ninto the water? Our writers must have\na chance. The public, too, must be edu-"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.31", "texte": "Reviews\n\ncated, and the actors; the former to think,\nthe latter to practise self-abnegation.\nated, and the actors; the former to think,\nIf Americans only cared!\nMeantime, having thus set forth its\nviews of the theatres of New York, EAST\nAND WEST stands waiting for what shall\ncome. The immediate present offers the\nproduction of an interesting experiment\nin collaboration by two American drama-\ntists—the most important 'production\n(from our point of view) for the last five\nyears. Aside from this, our Colossus\nmanager, bestriding the Atlantic, offers\nus, as we have said, all the latest London\nnovelties. Some of these will be good\nand many of them will be bad; but all\nwill find a large and a pleased public.\nFor what is good we shall be thank-\nful ; the rest we, personally, shall try to\navoid.\n\nReviews\n(As this first number of \"East and IVest\" went to press before the appearance\nof the AuWnn lists of the publishers, the editors have merely selected for notice here\nsome of the more interesting novels and books of short stories, of the past season.)\n\nNEW NOVELS BY MR. WARNER\nAND MR. HOWELLS.\nTHAT FORTUNE. RAGGED LADY.\n\nHarper & Bros.\nThe simultaneous appearance of\" That\nFortune \" and \" Ragged Lady \" makes\nsomething approaching an occasion in\nour contemporary literature. Mr. War-\nner and Mr. Howells are among our fore-\nmost representatives in a field that still,\nhowever, awaits the American master,\nand have, because of their serious, sin-\ncere pursuit of the profession of letters,\nthroughout long lives, made themselves\nfirmest pillars of the literary tradition in\nthis country.\nIn \" That Fortune \" Mr. Warner is the\nshrewd, kindly philosopher of old, look-\ning out upon life broadly, sweetly, and\npoetically; a mentor with wit, humor,\nand pen making him a worthy succes-\nsor in our generation to Dr. Holmes.\nThis most recent novel sets forth that\nconflict between worldliness and high\nideals which is ever on for youth. Philip\nand Evelyn, born into very different con-\nditions of life, have this in common, that\nboth were isolated in childhood from\nouter influences, and reared in the pure,\nbracing altitudes of romance and abstract\nideas. They were thus, the dishonest\nmillionaire's daughter and the country\nlad, equally imbued with an idealism, de-\nvotion to the beautiful and true, which\ncarried them triumphant through the\nconflict, causing them instinctively to\ncleave to the good, as Mr. Warner would\nhave us see it, and safe to each other's\narms. For thus does Mr. Warner, in\ngood old fashion, make the poetry of\nright in the world work justice for itself.\nIf we owe much of our pleasure in\n\" That Fortune\" to the personal ele-\nment projected by the author into the\nbook, through which we view the pas-\nsages of life presented, and to the easy\nlittle asides, disquisitions on a thousand\ntopics, new or old, we must be prepared\nto forego this particular form of pleasure\nin turning to Mr. Howells and his\n\" Ragged Lady.\" Mr. Warner is the\ncritic, Mr. Howells the creator. Mr.\nHowells strives to make a frieze, a fresco\nof life as he sees it, and then, he himself\nwithdrawing from his work, leads us to\nthe spectacle. We are to be equally with\nhimself the philosopher; he merely pre-\nsents the text.\nThe reason why so many of us find"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.32", "texte": "East & West\n\nhis work not altogether to our personal\nliking lies simply in the choice of a field\nfor his researches. To study the com-\nmonplace, the mean in life, has been his\nconstant occupation, just as if the essence\nof humanity could be most clearly and\ncompletely viewed through the still, shal-\nlow waters of the everyday varia-\ntions being but ripples to obscure. We\nfeel, many of us, that the elemental hu-\nman is deep in every condition of life,\nand to be found in far greater range and\nrichness, depth and beauty amid the\nstress of the unusual—in the prince and\nin the pauper, rather than in the peasant\nand the burgess. Romance, not the dead\nlevel of actuality, is the true revelation of\nhuman nature.\n\n\" Ragged Lady,\" needless to say, is a\ntypical study in the commonplace. The\nmaterial is not promising; the canvas is\nvery narrow, the observation very mi-\nnute. The difficulty in art so opposed to\nthe impressionistic, so different from the\neasy, broad sketches in which Mr.\nWarner covers the whole social range,\nis, while rendering the detail, to keep the\nproportion of the whole. That Mr.\nHowells succeeds in this is beyond all\nquestion. The sketch of Mrs. Lander,\nthat awful picture of the vulgar, selfish\nwoman, grows more painfully life-like\nwith each succeeding touch. But here\nMr. Howells;s real triumph is in his\nheroine, Clementina. In her he some-\nhow succeeds in gilding the common-\nplace in fiction with some of the glory it\npossesses in real life. To present a\nheroine who has no ideal characteristics,\nwho can neither converse nor think, who\ntalks a strange dialect—and here Mr.\nHowells very inartistically over-em-\nphasizes a detail—but who is still charm-\ning and capable of enrolling us among\nher many admirers, is an achievement.\nFor the average male in literature ex-\npects the Woman Wonderful—particu-\nlarly in intellect and her ability to cope\nwith man in his own field—just as the\naverage female will have her Prince\nCharming: each oblivious in this imagi-\nnative sphere, that in the work-a-day\nworld of prose, love goes by no allotment\nof the heroic, in beauty, strength, or in-\ntellect. In short, Clementina is not the\nsort of girl whom we should expect to\ncarry us captive through a novel, though\nit is well we should know that nothing is\nmore likely than this in the strange mys-\nteries of flesh and blood. That Mr. How-\nells can so present in fiction some hint of\nthose subtle influences and affinities that\nplay fast and loose with so many of our\nintellectual ideals, is no small thing to\nhave compassed, even though it does not\nproduce the really great art that stirs and\nstimulates.\nIt is an interesting fact that both Mr.\nWarner and Mr. Howells, philosopher\nand artist, viewing the world from dif-\nferent coigns, should see it so much the\nsame. For both it seems a good world,\na happy place, on the whole, despite trials\nand crosses. In \" That Fortune \" Mr.\nWarner says of Philip: \"He did not\neven know that when he became very\nold, the world would seem to him good\nor bad according to the degree in which\nhe had become a good or a bad man.\"\nThat, therefore, now, the philosopher\nshould not cry out utterly against man-\nkind; and the realist not see the evil\ncompletely overshadowing the good,\neven if not necessarily a convincing ar-\ngument for a cheerful optimism, never-\ntheless throws a pleasant light upon the\nnatures of the two men the burden of\nwhose song might be:\n\" God's in his heaven—\nAll's right with the world.\"\n\nThe Macmil-\nlan Company.\n\nRICHARD CARVEL.\n\" Richard Carvel\" is a very pleasant\nstory, quite justifying that high pogular\nopinion which has made it the success\nof the summer season. The theme is\nold, the setting more or less new. And\nthese, with a manner perfectly simple and\nintelligible, give Mr. Churchill's book the"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.33", "texte": "Reviews\n\nchief requirements demanded of a popu-\nlar novel. The story is the eternal one\nof love and adventure in their commonest\nromantic phases, and the last century set-\nting is happily chosen.\nAll this is very far from saying that\n\" Richard Carvel\" is a great book. In-\ndeed, this idea would hardly have en-\ntered one's mind save for the exagger-\nated praise of certain critics whose enthu-\nsiasm outruns their discernment. It is\ndistinctly a novel ala mode. It is not one\nof those books which happen irrespective\nof the world's work or thought at the\ntime, original, inimitable, and isolated.\n\" Richard Carvel\" was written because\nother stories of the same sort are being\nwritten and eagerly read to-day. It rep-\nresents the prevailing literary fashion of\nthe present, which is to rehabilitate some\npicturesque past period in a cloak of fic-\ntion. It is the local color method moved\nback from the present to the past; and\nthe interest still lies obviously, and to the\nevident exclusion of anything approach-\ning great art, very much less in the char-\nacters portrayed, who, with their stories,\nare stereotyped, than in interesting and\nunfamiliar conditions of life. The slight,\npretty tale of Richard Carvel and Dolly\nManners is almost crushed by the erudi-\ntion of the author, who has read widely\nand well for his task of distancing his\ncompetitors, by giving fuller measure\nand variety of stage settings, properties,\nand persons. This he has certainly done.\nMost novelists of his class are content\nwith one complete, carefully studied set\nof scenery. Mr. Churchill gives us two,\nand of historical lay figures, not one, but\na dozen. It cost Cooper two novels to\npresent Paul Jones and George Wash-\nington. Mr. Churchill puts them both\nwith endless others into a single volume.\nThis is said less in dispraise of \" Rich-\nard Carvel,\" than of the critics who claim\nfor it \" an enduring place in literature/'\netc., and who will leave a hundred thou-\nsand credulous readers in great perplex-\nity when it shall have run its course and\nfallen gracefully back for the next. Ay,\nin perplexity, and with a wavering faith\nin the real worth of literature, the great\nexamples of which are so very mortal, so\neasily turned out, two or three a season,\nand then forgotten. \" Richard Carvel \"\nis a good book of its kind—a kind that\ngives us no insignificant share of what\npleasure we get from reading—better\nthan the average, perhaps. But it is not\na great book, like \" Henry Esmond \" or\n\" Peg Woffington,\" stories with an old\nsetting, truly, yet' in which this setting is\nproperly subordinated, as it always is in\nlife and true art, to the personalities of\nmen and women, and the vital interest of\na deeply human story.\n\nTHE FOWLER.\nBy Beatrice Harra-\nden. Dodd, Mead & Co.\nA novel like \" The Fowler\" is more\nthan ordinarily difficult to criticise quite\nfairly. Miss Harraden has aimed higher\nthan her strength could reach, and the\nfailure, already accentuated by the suc-\ncess of an earlier work, is brought into\nstill stronger relief by the possibilities\nof greatness inherent in the characters\nwhich Miss Harraden attempts to por-\ntray. Theodore Bevan, the Fowler, the\ntype of evil, the spirit of pessimism; Brian\nUppingham, the type of good, the spirit\nof optimism; and Nora Penhurst, the\nprey of the Fowler, and the beloved of\nBrian—these are the three significant\ncharacters of the book, and the story is\nthe story of Nora's struggles under these\ntwo influences.\nIn her subjection to the Fowler the\nreader does not feel the sense of fear, of\nrecoilment, and yet of inevitability that\nmakes the greatness in Hawthorne's por-\ntrayal of Chillingworth. We are told of\nthe fascination of the Fowler, but we do\nnot feel it, and we finish chapter after\nchapter, wondering why the strong-\nminded heroine ever fell into his toils.\nBrian Uppingham is, on the whole, far\nmore satisfactorily portrayed, though he,\ntoo, is not quite convincing. But, worst"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.34", "texte": "East & West\n\nof all, having failed to take advantage of\nthe material offered by such antipodal\ncharacters, the author allows a mere de-\nvice, and a very evident and hackneyed\none at that, to be the final cause of Nora's\nescape from the net of the Fowler. We\nare left in doubt as to whether Brian\nwould have overcome Theodore Bevan,\nwhether virtue or evil would have pre-\ndominated, had not the villain—strangely\ncarelessly, be it said—missent his diary\ncontaining a record of his evil designs into\nthe very hands of Nora Penhurst.\nWe congratulate Miss Harraden on\nhaving aimed somewhat higher than\nusual. That itself is worth while, and\nrecognition of it constitutes high praise\nfor this present day, when, indeed, people\nwho write, ordinarily do not aim at all,\nsave at some well-riddled bull's-eye of\npopularity.\n\nTHE GREATER INCLINATION.\nBy\nEdith Wharton. Charles Scribner's\nSons.\nThere are three admirable stories in\nMrs. Wharton's volume—the first three\n\" The Muse's Tragedy\" is interesting\nand suggestive almost faintly remi-\nniscent, it is so convincing—in its cu-\nrious probing into the morbid myste-\nries of genius and love, literature and life.\nIt is delicately done. \" A Journey \" is\na masterpiece in the school of De Mau-\npassant. It is simple, direct, true, and\nterrible. It deserves to live as a brilliant\nexample of its kind. \" The Pelican\"\ngains over its fellows in having humor\nand lightness. It contains excellent sat-\nire, with a flavor of burlesque.\nThe remainder of the volume does not\nbear out its early promise. The whole is\na study of human nature in its less usual,\noften its yellowest phases. But the first\nstories had a certain distinction which\nsaved them to literature. The rest, un-\nless, possibly, we except\" Souls Belated/'\nare unjustified in presentation by good\nart or interesting psychology. In con-\nelusion, the constant hard, light, occa-\nsionally flippant reference to grave so-\ncial crimes with their attendant circum-\nstances—and here we would cite the story-\nlast referred to—gives a note of vulgarity\nalmost, indeed, inseparable from such\nsubjects, except when treated far differ-\nently, in their profoundest human as-\npects, by the great moral masters of lit-\nerature.\n\nMEN'S TRAGEDIES.\nBy R. V. Ris-\nley. The Macmillan Company.\nIn a preface which arouses hopes not\ndestined to be fulfilled, the author of\n\"Men's Tragedies\" lays down the dictum\nthat \" life is but a realized fiction.\" How,\nthen, we wonder, could he ever have fol-\nlowed this preface by a work of fiction\nwhich gives a false impression of life?\nAnd we ask this with all the more regret\nbecause there are many passages which\nwould seem to indicate that the author\nreally knows what is most worth while in\nmen's actions.\nThere are nine stories in the book, and\nthrough each one runs the same motif of\nshattered ideals; and in every case it is\nsome deed in which an impure man or an\nimpure woman is involved, that leads to\nthe final tragedy. Thus the impression\nthat the reader must receive will be that\nin this world the pure and the lofty-mind-\ned have no place. Whether they love, or\nhate, or sneer, or care, or kill, they seem\nto go through life isolated, and not help-\nful to their fellow-men.\nFor the same reason that these stories\nare untrue to life, they lose in interest\nconsidered merely as stories. It was a\ngreat mistake of the author to put in one\nvolume nine articles of fiction so nearly\nalike in plot and treatment. Nor do the\nstatements in the preface that \"each of\nthese tales has an intention,\" and that\nthey are \" studies of intensity,\" lead us to\nchange our opinion, for analytically and\npsychologically they offer little that is\nnew."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "V", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.35", "texte": "EAST & WEST ADVERTISEMENTS\n\nTHE AUDIT COMPANY\nOF NEW YORK\nEQUITABLE BUILDING, 120 BROADWAY\nOFFICERS\nActing President,\nAUGUST BELMONT\nVice-President,\nWILLIAM A. NASH.\nConsulting- Engineers,\nWM. BARCLAY PARSONS, F. S. PEARSON,\nSecretary and Treasurer,\nEDWARD T. PERINE.\nManager,\nTHOMAS L. GREENE.\nChief Consulting Auditor,\nSTEPHEN LITTLE.\nDIRECTORS\nAugust Belmont, A. J. Cassatt,\nFrederic P. Olcott, Marcellus Hartley,\nJames Stillman, Charles R. Flint,\nWilliam A. Nash, George Coppell,\nJoseph S. Auerbach, G. B. M. Harvey,\nGeorge G. Haven, John I. Waterbury,\nGeorge W. Young.\nFORD, BACON & DAVIS.\nADVISORY COMMITTEE\nOF STOCKHOLDERS\nW. Bayard Cutting,\nWalter G. Oakman,\nA. D. Juilliard,\nHenry W. Poor,\nLouis Fitzgerald,\nT. Jefferson Coolidge, Jr.,\nCharles S. Fairchild,\nGustav E. Kissel,\nIsaac N. Seligman,\nE. R. Chapman.\nMakes Examinations for Purchasers and Vendors, and Makes Periodical Audits for\nIndividuals, Firms, and Corporations.\nIssues Certificates as to the Correctness of Accounts Examined or Audited.\nTakes General Charge of Systems of Manufacturing and Mercantile Bookkeeping and\nFurnishes Expert Criticism thereon.\nSimplifies Systems of Accounting, thus Insuring Reduced Expenses.\nMakes Engineering Investigations, with Appraisals of Values.\nRenders All Services Confidentially.\n\nJ. & W. SELIGMAN & CO.\n. . . BANKERS ...\nMills Building, 21 Broad Street, New York\nISSUE LETTERS OF CREDIT FOR TRAVELERS\nPayable in any part of Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia and America\nDRAW BILLS OF EXCHANGE ON AND MAKE TELEGRAPHIC TRANSFERS\nOF MONEY TO EUROPE AND CALIFORNIA\nSELIGMAN BROTHERS, London\nSELIGMAN FRERES & CIE., Paris\nSELIGMAN & STETTHEIMER, Frankfurt\nANGLO-CALIFORNIAN BANK, Limited, San Francisco, Cal.\nBUY AND SELL INVESTMENT SECURITIES"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "VI", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.36", "texte": "EAST & WEST ADVERTISEMENTS\n\nSIMON BORG & Co.\nBankers\nINVESTMENT SECURITIES FOR BANKS,\nCORPORATIONS AND TRUST ESTATES\n20 Nassau Street New York\n\nTHE PLAZA BANK\nFifth Ave. and 58th St., N. Y.\nCapital, $lOO,OOO\nPresident\nMcMaster\nW.\nV ice-Pres iden t\nA. Newbold Morris\nDirectors\nH. B. Hollins\nJohn Jacob Astor\nB. Beinecke\nAugust Belmont\nJohn E. Borne\nAddison Cammack\nRichard Delafield\nStuyvesant Fish\nJoseph Larocque\nHenry Marquand\nW. McMaster Mills\nA. Newbold Morris\nHermann Oelrichs\nJoseph Park\nSurplus, $lOO,OOO\nMills\nCashier\nCharles W. Parson\nEdward E. Poor\nF. B. Poor\nJohn L. Riker\nCharles Scribner\nWilliam H. Tillinghast\nGeorge Frederick Vietor\nHarry Payne Whitney\n\nGeorge Coppell Gerald L. Hoyt\nDallas B. Pratt Arthur Coppell Herbert Coppell\nMaitland, Coppell & Co.\n22 and 24 Exchange Place\nNEW YORK\nOrders executed for all Investment Securities. Act as\nagents of Corporations, and negotiate and issue Loans.\nBills of Exchange, Telegraphic Transfers,\nLetters of Credit,\nON\nMessrs. Smith, Payne & Smiths, London, Messrs.\nMallet Freres & Cie., Paris, Banco Nacional\nde Mexico, and its Branches.\nAgents for the Bank of Australasia, the British Guiana\nBank, Demerara. etc., etc.\n\nNew York Security\nand Trust Company\n44 & 46 Wall Street, New York\nCapital, $1,000,000.00 Surplus, $2 000,000.00\nCHARLES S. FAIRCHILD, President\nWM. L. STRONG, Ist Vice-Pres. ABRAM M. HYATT, 2d Vice-Pres.\nOSBORN W. BRIGHT. Secretary ZELAH VAN LOAN, Ass't-Secretary\nReceives deposits subject to sight drafts, allowing\ninterest on daily balances, and issues certificates\nof deposit bearing interest. Acts as registrar\nand transfer agent of all stocks and bonds. : : :\n\nTHE NATIONAL n,KT\nPARK BANK 0 ew\nCapital, $2,000,000 Surplus, $3,000,000\nPRESIDENT\nEDWARD E. POOR\nVice-President\nSTUYVESANT FISH\nGEORGE S. HICKOK\nCashier\nVICE-PRESIDENT\nRICHARD DELAFIELD\nVice-President\nALBERT H. WIGGIN\nEDWARD J. BALDWIN\nAss't Cashier\nDIRECTORS\nJoseph T. Moore\nGeorge S. Hart\nCharles Scribner\nEdward E. Poor\nAugust Belmont\nFrancis R. Appleton\nGeorge S. Hickok\nHermann\nStuyvesant Fish\nCharles Sternbach\nEdward C. Hoyt,\nW. Rockhill Potts\nRichard Delafield\nJohn Jacob Astor\nGeorge Fred'k Vietor\nOelrichs\n\nContinental\nTrust Company\nOF THE CITY OF NEW YORK\nTelephone : 1309 Broad\nCapital, $500,000 Surplus, $500,000\nOFFICERS\nOTTO T. BANNARD PRESIDENT\nWILLIAM ALEXANDER SMITH ISTVICE-PRESIDENT\nGORDON MACDONALD . . 2ND VICE-PRESIDENT\nWILLARD V. KING SECRETARY\nHENRY E. DABOLL TREASURER\n\nHENRY A. SIEBRECHT\nHENRY A. SIEBRECHT, JR.\nSIEBRECHT & SON\n409 Fifth Avenue\n. . . NEW YORK\nRose Hill Nurseries, New Rochelle, N. Y. Newport Branch, Newport, R. I.\nTropical Nurseries, Trinidad, W. I."}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "couv. 3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.37", "texte": "The Macmillan Company's New Books\nTHE NEW NOVELS\nVIA CRUCIS\nA Romance of the Second Crusade. With 12 full-page\nillustrations by Louis LOEB. Cloth, crown Bvo, $1.50.\nNEW NOVELS BY F. MARION CRAWFORD\nSARACINESCA\nIllustrated Edition. Illustrated by ORSON LOWELL. In\ntwo volumes. Sateen, Crown Bvo, $5.00.\nMr. Crawford's latest work and one which many of his admirers consider his best, in illustrated editions.\nYOUNG APRIL\nBy EGERTON CASTLE, author of \" The Pride of Jennico.\"\nIllustrated by WENZELL. Cloth, i2mo, $1.50.\n*' By the author of tha bewitching romance, 'The Pride\nof Jennico.' Tribune.\nHENRY WORTHINGTON, IDEALIST\nBy MARGARET SHERWOOD, author of \" An Experiment in\nAltruism, A Puritan Bohemia,\" etc. Cloth, i2mo, $1.50#\nThe novel is a strong one, practically certain to arouse\nwide discussion.\"—Chicago Tribune.\nMr. Zangwill's THEY THAT WALK IN DARKNESS. Ghetto Tragedies. Cloth. $1.50.\n\"Ghetto Tragedies\" covers a wide range of production, for it contains specimens of the realistic storv as'well\npoetic, imaginative story. . . . As in \" Dreamers of the Ghetto,\" Mr. Zangwill'iscontinually rha££wh?ilSLSL\nNow we are in the wards of the hospital for the incurables in East London now in the streets of iprnJFiem 11,\nEast Side of New York, while the concluding scene of the title story ?akes P\"a« in the Vatican of Rm ™ Vet aU thl\nscenes unite to give a vivid picture of the tragedy and the poetry and the dreams of Israel of to-day.\nMY LADY and ALLEN DARKE\nBy CHARLES DONNEL GIBSON. Cloth, i2mo, $1.50.\nStirring and dramatic. A fascinating picture.\nBEN COMEE\nA Rogers' Rangers. By M. J. CANAVAN. Illus*\ntrated by GEORGE GIBBS. $1,50.\nBased on history, vivid and intense.\nSOLDIER RIGDALE\nHO'MV^\"*l HOW HE SERVED MILES STANDISH- BEULAH D,X, author of - Hugh\nTT r , .. , Cloth, Bvo, $1.50.\nHUGH GWYETH was described as engrossmgly interesting,\" well-written and stirring\" (Phila. Press), etc.\nLITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY\nBy MAURICE HEWLETT, author of ''The Forest Lovers.\"\nT- T Cloth, i2mo, $1.50.\nThe Forest Lovers \" proved so fascinating that further\nwork by Mr. Hewlett is eagerly.waited for.\nTHE DEVELOPMENT AND CHAR.\nACTER OF GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE\nBy CHARLES HERBERT MOORE, Ph.D., Harvard Univer-\nsity. New edition. Fully revised, with new illustra-\ntions. Cloth, Bvo, $4.50 net.\nAMONG ENGLISH HEDGEROWS\nBy CLIFTON JOHNSON. Introduction by HAMILTON W.\nMABIE. Illustrated from original photographs.\nCloth, crown Bvo, $2.00.\nTHE FAVOR OF PRINCES\nBy MARK LEE LUTHER. - Cloth, i2mo, $1.50.\nA tale of the time of Louis XIV. with Dumas' own spirit\nmd dash. Mme. de Pompadour, the Due de Choiseul,\nRousseau, etc., are characters.\nNEW ILLUSTRATED BOOKS\nLETTERS FROM JAPAN\nModern Life in the Island Empire. By Mrs. HUGH FRASER.\nSuperbly illustrated. Two vols., Bvo, $7.50.\n\" Simply captivating.\"—Evening Post.\nDIOMED\nrhe Life, Travels, and Observations of a Dog. By JOHN\nSERGEANT WISE. With over 100 illustrations by J.\nLINTON CHAPMAN. Cloth, i2mo, $2.00.\nMRS. ALICE MORSE EARLESS HOME AN\nCHILD LIFE IN COLONIAL DAYS\n'rofusely illustrated. Cloth, crown Bvo, $2.50.\nHOME LIFE IN COLONIAL DAYS\nIllustrated by photographs. $2.50.\nk?r , Home Life in Colonial Days \" Mrs. Earle touched a very fascinating phase of American history As in\nlat book she described with unequaled 4 completeness, fairness, and suggestiveness\" {Boston Herald) the customs\nin?\" period S & mothers, So in another volume she has illustrated and described the \"Child Life\" of the\nVEW AND POPULAR BIOGRAPHIES, ESSAYS, ETC\\\nABRAHAM LINCOLN: The Man of the People\ny NORMAN HAPGOOD, author of '* Essays on Literary Statesmen,\" etc. Illustrated. Cloth, $2.00\nDRAKE AND HIS YEOMEN\nof tlifruCha-ra(^ and Adventures of Sir Francis Drake, as Told by Sir Matthew Maunsell His\nQV/ 1 RCnMS h Forth Much the Narrator's Private History. By JAMES BARNES, author of\nYankee Ships and Yankee Sailors,\" etc. Illustrated by CARLTON CHAPMAN. Y J Cloth i2mo, $2.00.\nOLD CAMBRIDGE\nTHOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. The first of the\nat,l?nal Studies in American Letters,\" of which Prof.\nWoodberry is general Editor. Cloth, $1.50.\nbend for circular offorthcoming volumes.\nHEART OF MAN\nBy GEORGE E. WOODBERRY, author of \"The North Shore\nWatch,\" etc. Cloth, $1.50.\n\"Very attractive pages, . . • loftily ideal.\"\n—The Nation.\nSEND FOR THE NEW ANNOUNCEMENT LIST\nTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY, NEW YORK"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "couv. 4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991115-01.1.38", "texte": "\"Rrentano's New \"Rooks\nThe Standard Operaglass\nBy CHARLES ANNESLEY, with a Prelude by JAMES HUNEKER, Containing the Detailed\nPlots of 123 Celebrated Operas, with Critical and Biographical Remarks, Dates, etc.\nAn exceptionally valuable hand-book for all music lovers. i2mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.50.\nA Silent Singer\nA Collection of Eleven Short Stories by CLARA MORRIS. They are studies full of pathos,\nhumor, and ingenious literary invention. All are of sustained and noteworthy\ninterest. They will be read with pleasure by the thousands who have admired the\nhistrionic ability of this distinguished actress. i2mo, cloth, illuminated, $1.25.\nThe Shellback\nBy ALEC. J. BOYD. A thrilling story of life on the sea in the last generation, and\ngives a vivid picture of conditions that are fast vanishing. MORGAN ROBERTSON, the\nwell-known writer of sea tales contributes an introduction. Illustrated. i2mo,\ncloth, $1.50.\nCashel Byron's Profession\nBy G. BERNARD SHAW. A clever and whimsical study of English social life. There\nhas been no desirable edition hitherto issued in America. The work fairly bristles\nwith wit from beginning to end, but the utmost good sense lies at the bottom of the\nstory. i2mo, $1.25.\nRomances of the Old Seraglio\nBy H. N. CRELLIN, with 28 illustrations by STANLEY L. WOOD. Stories that are\nwonderfully well told, some of them absorbing in their nature, and all stirring up the\nimaginative faculty in no small degree. i2mo, illuminated cover, $1.25.\nOne of Cleopatra's Nights\nBy THEOPHILE GAUTIER. Translated by LAFCADIO HEARN.\nThe stories have been admirably chosen, and within limited space they give the reader a\nclear view of the many-sidedness of Gautier's genius, . . . and may justly be ranked among\nthe most remarkable literary productions of the century.—N. Y. Sun.\ni2mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.50.\nMichael Dred, Detective\nBy MARIE and ROBERT LEIGHTON. A thoroughly interesting detective story, written in a\nclever manner; the reader is hardly liable to put the book down before finishing.\nIllustrated. i2mo, cloth, $1.25.\nWhat Makes a Friend? In Friendship's Name\nTwo volumes compiled by VOLNEY STREAMER.\nThese dainty little volumes contain selections from the writings of wise men in all ages of\nthe world on the subject of friendship. It is a string of pearls, and the compiler has laid a wide\nreading under contribution in forming it. Every reader will find some favorite quotation or one\nto be made a favorite to cling to the memory forever.—Chicago Times.\nBound in white parchment covers. Boxed, each, $1.25.\nBRENTANO'S, 31 Union Square, New York\nTHE CHELTENHAM PRESS, New York"}]}