{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_sha256": "fab9d6bd81928529c8664cc8ae1dadee77265fb0dc961afb5df8abf4782f1b43", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaar/issues/1899/12/15_01/bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaar/issues/1899/12/15_01/bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c001", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c001", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[33]", "page_fin": "[33]", "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.1", "titre_corps": "Night-Wind", "titre_sommaire": "Night-Wind", "signature_source": "Beatrix Demarest Lloyd", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "[33]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.1", "debut_caractere": 56, "fin_caractere_exclue": 461, "texte": "Night-Wind\nBeatrix Demarest Lloyd\nBy\nTike some great pearl from\nUpheld by unseen hands\nAn offering to adorn a\nThat some dependent princelin\nThe moon slow rises into\nThe pulseless air with\nN<ra/ quickens' neath her\nThe still-poised midnight\nWith jealous haste he d\nAnd by his right forbids\nTo note her beauty and\nThen up on lover's wings\nImpatient for the joy of\nAnd to the earth are wafted down his sighs."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[33]", "page_fin": "35", "image_debut": 1, "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.2", "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": 1, "page_imprimee": "[33]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.1", "debut_caractere": 463, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1709, "texte": "Comments\nthe one article in the\nfirst number of EAST AND WEST\nJ. which attracted the most atten-\ntion was Miss Edwards's \" The\nEclipse of Poetry.\" This very interest-\ning and suggestive essay elicited not only\nconsiderable praise, but at least one com-\nplete refutation as well. Miss Edwards\nclaimed, it will be remembered, that po-\netry was dead, and that its demise was\ndue to the coldness, not of critics, but of\nthe unappreciative world at large. Our\ncorrespondent, on the other hand, will\nhave it that poetry is not dead, but sleep-\ning, and that whatever indignities have\nbeen done to the Muse are not to be laid\nat the door of the much-maligned public,\nwhich is just as eager as ever it was to\nwelcome the true poet and to accept his\nwares. In support of his contention, he\ninstances the enormous popular success\nof \" Cyrano de Bergerac\" and of Mr.\nMarkham's Lucretian poem, \" The Man\nwith the Hoe.\" Now in this contrariety\nof opinions, dear readers—and here we\nare about to make our point—lies the\nmaking of an excellent controversy. And\nthat is just what we want for this depart-\nment of EAST AND WEST—a good, lusty,\nself-supporting controversy on this or\nany other subject of equal literary inter-\nest. If anyone has such, let him bring"}, {"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "34", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3806, "texte": "it forward. If he would enter the lists\nas challenger or in defence of a favorite\ntheory, this arena, well-sanded and\nspacious, with seats for an infinite num-\nber of spectators, is at his pleasure and\ndisposal; provided only, of course, that\nhe will recognize us as mouthpiece\nfor both parties, umpire, and stage-man-\nager, with power to declare contests\nclosed at discretion, and to bring on a\nnew attraction when the old shall have\nproved wearisome.\nThe essay on \" American Literary\nCommonplace,\" in this number of EAST\nAND WEST, is certainly suggestive; and\nin spite of its rather cynical and pessimis-\ntic tone, which we by no means endorse,\nwe are glad to present it to our readers as\nat least a partial expression of our own\nviews. There is one important considera-\ntion to be borne in mind while reading it,\nconcerning a matter which the author\nhas neglected to cover quite adequately.\nIt is that the problem of the commonplace,\nhowever important sociologically and\neconomically, and, however interesting\nthrough the laws—imitation, supply, and\ndemand, etc.—involved in its production,\nis, after all, only secondary, except as it\nbears upon and influences the production\nof real literature. Taken by itself as a\ncurious modern phase of the economical\nproblem—and so the writer seems rath-\ner inclined to take it—it bears about the\nsame relation to the destinies of true art\nthat the liquor problem and the question\nof a \" dry Sunday \" bear to ethics. What\nwe are interested in as lovers of let-\nters, is always the best that is doing at\nthe present day; and in our hands criti-\ncism should be the instrument to unearth\nit. If we turn our attention for the mo-\nment with the author to a study of the\ncondition of the commonplace as an ele-\nment in the pen and ink activity of to-day,\nit is simply because we feel that by a rea-\nsonable recognition of two standards in\nmodern writing, and by putting the com-\nmonplace upon an honest commercial\nbasis, stripped of all illusions and false\nartistic pretensions, we shall not only\nlighten the task of criticism, but also at\nthe same time do the greatest possible\npresent service to the true literature and\nthe sincere literary endeavor of the period.\nThat there are those we faithfully believe;\nand we refuse to let the immense mass of\nmodern commonplace discourage us, ©r\nblind us to the fact that now, as ever,\ndo men produce books born of hon-\nest inspiration and of aspirations for\nmore than money and cheap popular ac-\nclaim.\nLast year all three awards, in the Cen-\ntury prize literary competitions for col-\nlege graduates, were made to Bachelors\nof Arts (how charmingly modern femi-\nninity wears the old scholastic distinc-\ntion!) from girls' colleges in the East.\nThe announcement to this effect caused\nsome astonishment and carried wide-\nspread chagrin to the breasts of college\nboys. This year the tables are partially\nturned. Again, to be sure, it is a girl,\nMiss Marion Warner Wildman, of\nWestern Reserve University, who car-\nries off the palm for the prize poem, \" A\nHill Prayer;\" but the prizes for the es-\nsay and the short story go, respectively,\nto Mr. Henry Justin Smith, of the Uni-\nversity of Chicago, for \" The Poetry of\nWilliam Blake: An Opinion,\" and to\nMr. John M. Oskison, of Leland Stan-\nford Jr. University, for \" Only the Mas-\nter Shall Praise.\" Incidentally it is in-\nteresting to note that the scene of success\nhas shifted from East to West.\nIs there any real significance in the fact\nthat the prize poem has now, twice run-\nning, been submitted by a girl? The\nworld's greatest poetry, with but few ex-\nceptions, has, of course, been written by\nmen. How is it then, that, from our uni-\nversities which may justly be deemed the\nhorticultural hotbeds of American letters,,\nthe experience of the wide world for ages"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "35", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 8, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1211, "texte": "should be reversed? Are our coming\npoets to be all Sapphos, Mrs. Brownings,\nand Christina Rossettis? Or is it that a\ndying out of the male line from Homer\nand Milton is to put a premium on po-\netesses ? The truth seems to be that at the\nage at which our young poets are here\nsubmitted to competitive test, a fair and\nfinal judgment cannot be made. Up to a\ncertain point and up to a certain age, the\nwoman has the advantage over the man,\nin the possession, by virtue of her sex, of\ncertain qualities which go to the fashion-\ning of good verse, and which share in the\nearlier maturity of womanhood. She is\nnaturally endowed with feeling for music,\ndelicacy of touch, fineness of sentiment—\nall the graces that we call \" poetic.\" The\nhigher qualities of poetry, on the other\nhand, strength, depth, and directness of\nthought and feeling, these are more dis-\ntinctively masculine and of correspond-\ningly later development. So that while\ncollege boys are struggling ordinarily\nwith structure and the difficulties of self-\nexpression—those of them, that is, who\nare not ashamed to whirl the wall-flower\nMuse—their academic sisters, six to one,\nare gaining full acclaim for their graceful,\nfinished versifying."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "35", "page_fin": "35", "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Nectar", "titre_sommaire": "Nectar", "signature_source": "Clarence Urmy", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "35", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 1213, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1680, "texte": "Nectar\nClarence Urmy\nBy\nIn a golden bowl I brew\nLeaf of rose and violet dew,\nAnd the essences of things\nNatal to Pierian springs:\n(Bird-song, brook-song, breeze a-blow,)\nSweets that in dream-gardens grow;\nSpray that leaped the harbor bar\nAmorous of the twilight star;\nBubbles of delight that float\nFrom a seraph's liquid note;\nBloom from Joy's low-bending bough;\nCupid, drop a kiss and now,\nSweetheart, here's a health to thee,\nDrink the draught, Sweetheart, with me!"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "36", "page_fin": "42", "image_debut": 4, "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "The House of Voiceless Cries", "titre_sommaire": "The House of Voiceless Cries", "signature_source": "W. C. Morrow", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "36", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3333, "texte": "The House of Voiceless Cries\nW. C. Morrow\nBy\nIT was about an hour before sunset\nthat my heart, suddenly chilled\nwith the terror that filled me,\nstopped its beating as I gazed up-\non a wonderful house standing\njust within the edge of the forest that\nskirted the city on the south. The\nstrangeness of my fear lay in the fact that\nI had often seen the house before, and\nhad never found terror in its aspect.\nHad not abundant experience made me\nknow that every sudden impression like\nthis proceeded from a substantial source,\nand demanded an intelligent response in\nmy conduct, I might have put aside this\nsudden and almost overwhelming sen-\nsation.\nMany a time had I seen this queer\nhouse, but never before had its singular\nface stared and screamed at me in that\nstrenuous way. Nor had it ever oc-\ncurred to me before to note a singular\nresemblance between the front of the\nhouse and a human face. But here it\nwas upreared before me, not only a\ngigantic human face, but one with eyes\nstaring, and mouth stretched to the ut-\nmost in the act of screaming voicelessly\nin unspeakable terror. I had seen the\nfronts of houses somewhat similarly de-\nsigned, and that there was nothing strik-\ningly original in this one. There was no\nporch. The entrance, flush with the\nwall, would have been commonplace had\nit not been for a grooved pilaster on\neither side, supporting an ornamental\narchitrave above the door. Higher were\ntwo round windows, and between them\nand the door was a narrow rectangular\nwindow, doubtless to light the stairs\nwithin. Perhaps, had I stayed to reason,\nI should have reflected that the low posi-\ntion of the sun, and the effect of its rays\nstriking athwart the front of the house,\nproduced an illusion that transformed\nthe house-front into a screaming human\nface; for the door was certainly thrown\nin deep shadow, and the flutings in the\npilasters were brought out with uncom-\nmon sharpness, giving them the appear-\nance of the perpendicular wrinkles that\nare formed when the mouth is opened\nwide; and perhaps, too, I should have\nreflected that from the same cause the\nleft side of each round window was cast\nin a curious crescent shadow, giving the\nwindows the appearance of eyes turned\nto the right toward me. But I saw only\na black, wide-open mouth, wrinkled\ndown the sides, and terror-rounded eyes\nstaring in agony toward me. And I saw,\nwhat I had never observed before, that\nthere were arched copings above the\nround windows, and that they were now\neyebrows raised in the general expres-\nsion of appealing terror, and that streaks,\nlooking to me to be tears, but no doubt\ncaused by the rains in washing the dust\nfrom the arched copings, ran down the\nface of the house. The one thing that\nabsorbed me now was an overwhelming\nsense of duty to answer the silent cry.\nWithout any further thought I opened\nthe gate, passed up a short, gravelly\nwalk, and tried to open the door. It was\nlocked. On the right was an old-fash-\nioned bell-pull, which I exercised so vig-\norously that I could hear the faint tinkle\nof the bell half smothered in the rear.\nPresently the door was cautiously un-\nlocked, and then opened a few inches.\nAn old woman's sharp, hard, suspicious\nface peered out at me. The look of ap-\nprehension upon it—the apprehension\nthat guilt may inspire—was not needed\nto lend strength to my courage."}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "37", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 30, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3572, "texte": "\" What do you want ? \" she querulous-\nly asked.\n\" I want to enter,\" I answered, putting\nmy hand upon the door.\nShe instantly tried to close it, but I in-\nterposed a shoulder, and forced my way\nwithin. She stood back, eying me in\nfear.\n\"It has come at last! \" she moaned.\n\" I knew it would; I knew it would! \"\n\"Come,\" said I, taking her by the arm\nand leading her into the drawing-room,\nthe door of which was immediately near;\n\" let us go in here and talk it over.\"\nShe obeyed, but began to sob whin-\ningly and to complain.\n\" Now,\" said I, forcing her into a\nchair, and seating myself directly in front\nof her, \" what have you to say for your-\nself?\"\n\" Oh, nothing, nothing,\" she moaned.\n\" And I have kept it so long, so long!\nHow did you find it out ? \"\n\" From the cry,\" I answered.\n\"The cry! You heard it?\" she\ngasped.\n\" I saw it,\" I explained.\nShe seemed not to comprehend my\nwords, but sat all the time looking stead-\nfastly and warily into my eyes, like a\ntrapped animal pondering means of es-\ncape.\n\" Now,\" said I, \" make whatever\nexplanation you can, and make it as\nquicklv as possible.\"\n\" Oh,\" she pleaded, \" I meant no\nharm! I know you are an officer of the\nlaw, and I knew the people would sus-\npect and tell. I am not to blame. Be-\nfore God I am not to blame! Do you\nunderstand that? The judge will be-\nlieve me when I tell him everything. It\ncouldn't be helped. I did the best I\ncould, and now—\" She was rapidly be-\ncoming excited. Her head turned aim-\nlessly from side to side, and she looked\nat all the objects in the room one by\none as she complainingly proceeded.\n\" —And now it must all go for nothing!\nWon't you have mercy on me? I will\nshow you the room, and you may see\nfor yourself. I have nothing to conceal.\nDo you understand that? Nothing\nwhatever to conceal.\"\nAs she thus rambled on in a half-dement-\ned fashion I noted the native elegance and\nrefinement of manner that lay beneath\nher stumbling exterior. It was now evi-\ndently a matter of patience and tact on\nmy part to arrive at the heart of the mys-\ntery that I felt must be haunting the\nhouse. While listening, to every one of\nher disjointed words for a ray that would\nlight my way to further action, I gave\nalert attention to any other possible\nsound that the depths of the house might\nyield. Only a dead silence filled it.\nWas she entirely alone? Why had she\njumped to the erroneous conclusion that\nI was an officer of the law? What was\nthere to conceal that the law should not\nknow? Why should she be excusing\nherself, and protesting her innocence?\nAnd there was that within me which still\nhad an ear for a cry for help, the source\nof the silent cry that had issued from the\nface of the house.\nI must have been giving too much\nheed to that, and too little to the mean-\ningless speech of the woman; for all at\nonce, with a suddenness that found me\nunprepared, she sprang upon me with a\nknife, the cold metal of which, as she\nstruck with all her might, I felt upon my\nbody; and at the same moment I saw her\nswallow something that she slipped into\nher mouth. Large and strong though I\nwas, the suddenness and fierceness of the\nblow and of her impact upon me sent me\nto the floor. With incredible agility she\nleaped back, threw up her arms, and ex-\nultingly shouted:\n\" I knew how to reach your vitals, you\ndog—and my own! O God! \" she add-\ned, falling rigid to the floor.\nThe poison that she had swallowed\nmust have had a marvellously quick ac-\ntion ; for, by the time I had recovered\nmy feet and knelt beside her, she was in\na convulsion that meant instant death."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "38", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3792, "texte": "In another moment she was dead, her\neyes staring wide at the ceiling, and her\njaw drawn down into a striking sem-\nblance of the door in the house. There\nwas this, then, that I had done: I had\ncaused the death of a woman, who, be-\nfore taking her own life, had sought\nmine, and had died believing that the\nthrust which went only through my\nclothes and chilled my skin had been\nfatal.\nI rose in profound perplexity and dis-\nmay, and a clamorous conscience began\nto make demands. The silence that now\npervaded the house was terrifying be-\nyond all endurance. I strained every\nhearing nerve for a sound. There was\nonly a vast, all-absorbing silence. But\nthere were duties to be discharged. The\nastonishing conduct of the woman had\nonly lent strength and substance to the\nsilent cry from the face of the house.\nI drew forth a bunch of keys from the\ndead woman's belt. The carpet was\nsoft and thick, so that my cautious foot-\nsteps gave out no sound. I left the\ndrawing-room, and closed the door.\nThen I began to explore the house.\nThere was but one habitable room on\nthe ground floor, and that was now\nguarded by the dead; the others were\nbare of furniture, and contained only\ndust and rubbish.\nI proceeded quietly up the stair, paus-\ning at every step to listen. It seemed a\nsingular thing that the tragedy in the\ndrawing-room, with its accompanying\nloud speech from the desperate woman,\nhad roused no activity in the house.\nWas this a mystery of life, or of death ?\nIn the upper hallway I listened as I pro-\nceeded slowly, deciding to try none of\nthe closed doors unless I should hear a\nsound; and then if no sound came, to try\nthem all.\nSoon I heard the low, soft crooning of\na woman's voice within a room. I si-\nlently tried the door. It was locked.\nWith infinite patience, to assure silence,\nI tried the keys until I found one that\nunlocked the door. Then I softly\nopened it, and looked within. Sitting\non the floor, facing a window, and with\nher back toward me, was a woman. Her\nhair, long, black, and wild, almost com-\npletely hid her body, but I could see that\nshe was clad in a coarse gown. The\nfloor was bare, except for a disorganized\nassemblage of rags about and under-\nneath the woman. There was no article\nof furniture in the room; there was noth-\ning whatever except a tin platter, which\nheld some fragments of coarse food, and\nbeside it a tin cup. The woman was\nswaying forward and backward, holding\nsomething in her arms that I could not\nsee; and to this she was crooning, in a\nsingularly gentle and melodious voice:\n\" Go to sleep, go to sleep, little one.\nBorn in a prison, with the sound of\nchains and your mother's voice to soothe\nyou—ah, dearest one, life is dreary, so\ndreary! But when the sun shines, the\nbirds sing in the trees; and when it sets,\nwe lie down in our rags and dream. But\nsome day they will come, my dearest,\nthey will come. And knows they\nwill—sh—! we must whisper that. Oh,\nthe years that we have been here, my little\none, my precious! And she is so proud,\nso proud! Will you be as proud as\nyour grandmother, dearest? Now, now,\ngo to sleep, go to sleep. If I hadn't for-\ngotten how to sing, I would sing you a\nlullaby; but the song is in my heart, my\ndearest, and so are you, and there you\nmay nestle together. Yes, they will\ncome, they will come. I say that ten\nthousand times a day. It is for saying it\nthat she hates me, little one. It is to\nhear me say it, and to beat me for saying\nit, that she slips into the room so softly,\nso softly! But how can they come, my\ndearest? How will they know? I do\nnot cry out, for that would mean a beat-\ning with the chain—for saying they will\ncome I am beaten merely with a stick.\nBut I do not need to cry out, my dearest;\nfor a cry goes forth from my heart that\nsome day will be heard to the ends of the"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "39", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 30, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3664, "texte": "earth; and then, my dearest, my little\none, there will come great armies, with\nbanners and drums and cannon, and they\nwill take the house by storm, and bring\nus forth into the light and life of the\nworld. Omy little one, my precious,\nsleep, sleep, sleep! Are you not in my\narms, the arms of your mother? And\nthe cannon will blaze and roar, and a\nmighty shout will ascend to heaven.\nThen the walls of this prison will come\ncrashing down, and our deliverers will\nseize us in their strong arms and bear us\naway, away, to liberty and fife!\"\nFrom the gentlest manner the woman\nhad now grown excited, and was sway-\ning wildly as she sat.\n\" They will come, they will come! \"\nshe cried, half laughing, half crying, and\nwholly hysterical.\nI drew nearer, going to one side, that\nI might see her child; I found that it was\na doll, made of the rags of the pallet.\nThe woman was now pressing it to her\nface, and wetting it with her tears. I\nwalked round in front of her, and quietly\nsaid:\n\" They have come.\"\nShe started violently, and looked up\ndazed and frightened into my face.\n\" I have come,\" I said, with the kindest\nmanner, \"to take you away to liberty\nand life.\"\nShe clutched the doll close to her\nbreast, and gazed at me in startled si-\nlence ; and then I saw again, as her lower\njaw dropped and her eyes strained to\ntheir utmost width, a singular resem-\nblance to the face of the house. And\nwhat a strange picture she made! A\nyoung and beautiful woman, her every\nfeature a refined and youthful duplicate\nof the ones that lay stark in the chamber\nbelow; eyes in which the innocence and\npurity of childhood were touched with\nthe softening grace of womanhood; a\nmanner that showed inherent pride\nstruggling through a haze of humilia-\ntion and despair. And so the mystery\nof the house that cried out without a\nvoice had been solved—a mother whose\npride, stronger than her humanity, had\nconcealed and guarded here a lunatic\ndaughter, lest the law should reach forth\na hand to seize the shame and send forth\na voice to proclaim it; a mother who had\ngone out of the world with murder in her\nheart and suicide on her soul, when, as\nshe thought, the law had thrust a shoul-\nder in at the screaming door.\n\" Come,\" I said, extending a hand.\nShe slowly disengaged one of her\nhands, and gently, yet tentatively, laid\nit in mine.\n\" Rise,\" I said, and she weakly com-\nplied. As she did so she forgot the in-\nstinct of shame that had made her keep\nsomething concealed, partly with the\nrags, and partly with the wretched skirt\nthat she wore; for the ominous clanking\nof a chain drew my glance to the floor,\nand there I saw the body of the shame\nitself. The young woman was chained\nto the floor, into which a staple had been\ndriven to receive one end of the chain,\nthe other being padlocked to one of her\nankles; where it encircled her ankle the\nskin was discolored a purplish hue, from\nnumerous old bruises.\nAs she stood in silence, breathing fast\nunder the inspiration of wonderful things\nthat were stirring her soul, I found a key\nthat fitted the padlock, and so released\nher. Then, taking her by the arm, and\nspeaking reassuringly, I led her to the\nwindow, through which the red rays of\nthe setting sun were streaming:.\n\" That is the world,\" I said; \"it is life\nand liberty. Come with me.\"\nI had never ceased to deem it an evil\nfortune in my life that the house which\nI so much dreaded should stand in the\nedge of the forest that skirted the city\non the south; for it was in this forest that\nI liked to stroll alone, and the road that\nran past the front of the house was the\npleasantest of all. It is true that I had\nnever again seen upon its human face"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "40", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3653, "texte": "that terrible voiceless cry for help that\nhad greeted me some years before,\nthough I had looked upon it at the same\nhour of the afternoon, when the rays of\na low western sun, striking athwart the\nfront, brought out the wrinkles of the\nfluted pilasters, and cast a crescent\nshadow upon one side of each of the cir-\ncular windows; but the house tugged at\nmemories that were tragic and melan-\ncholy ; and there is enough of sadness in\nthe things we meet, without linking to\ntheir potency the sadness of things that\nwe have left behind.\nBut here I was again, approaching the\nhouse, and conscious of the fact. In a\nlittle while I should turn a bend in the\nroad, and thus come face to face with the\nhouse. I should study the grotesque\narchitectural fancy that unwittingly had\nmade it in the fashion of a human face,\nand again I should ask what could have\nbeen the strange power that had put the\nexpression of a cry for help into it, or\nimplanted within me, for that juncture\nalone, a capacity to receive it. And the\nstrange old woman whose knife had left\nupon my body a spot that forever would\nfeel cold—it was better to turn from her\nto the brighter side, and behold my\nlovely young charge, made so by my ap-\npointment as her guardian, gradually\nemerge from the cloud that had envel-\noped her mind, and, under kindly and\nintelligent care, stand forth eventually\nin the full radiance of competent woman-\nhood. It was better still to think of her\nrecent happy marriage to my best\nfriend's son, and of the bright and beauti-\nful home that she had made, and of the\nwarm sweet place therein that should\nforever be mine when it pleased me to\ngive up the lonely life that I had always\nled.\nI recalled the one great secret that lay\nbetween her and me, and the odd turn\nthat it took one day, before she had loved\nand married. She had been perfectly\nrecovered for months, when she came to\nme in the strangest, most shamefaced\nway, and asked me if she might trust me\nto the end of the world—trust not alone\nmy silence, but my sympathy as well.\n\" That is a useless question, my dear,\"\nI protested. \" Worse than that, it im-\nplies a lack of the full confidence that I\nthought existed between us.\"\n\" No, no, my dear old friend,\" she\ncried, kissing away the look of trouble\nthat likely she saw creeping into my\neyes. \" No, no, not that; but what I\nhave to say, what I have to ask of you,\nis so—so silly, so—so childish—I—l\nfear, my friend, you will not think me as\nwell as you would like.\"\n\" Oh, but you are perfectly well, my\ndear! \" I declared. \" Nothing that you\ncould \"\nShe closed my mouth with her warm,\ndimpled hand.\n\" But it is so, so foolish! \" she de-\nclared, hiding her face in my shoulder.\n\" Possibly it would seem foolish to any\nbut me,\" I said. \" But remember who I\nam, and remember that you may trust\nmy silence and sympathy to the end of\nthe world.\"\nShe drew her arms about my neck,\nand with her face still hidden in my\nshoulder, she made her confidence.\n\" You remember, dear friend, the poor\nold rag doll that I loved so well when—\nwhen I was not myself ? \"\n\" Yes.\"\n\" Did you ever know what became of\nit?\"\n\" No; I had never thought about it.\"\n\" Well\"—and she buried her face\ndeeper—\" you will forgive me, won't\nyou, when I confess that I have kept it\nby me all this time, concealing it from\nall, even you? You can't imagine what\na solace it was to me, and how much it\nhelped me to get well and strong. I am\nwell and strong now, and my poor pet\ndoes not belong to my present life; but\nit has been my faithful companion and\nfriend; it has filled an aching emptiness\nin my heart. I want to bury it now, my\ndear friend; and I want to bury it at the"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "41", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 30, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3788, "texte": "place where my sufferings were so great,\nfor there it belongs, and there the last of\nit will perish and disappear with all the\nrest. Will you go and help me, dear\nfriend, and not think me foolish, or weak,\nor ill?\"\nYes, I would go, and go we did. It\nwas I that dug the small grave in the\nweed-grown garden behind the house,\nand it was she that put flowers on the\nmound and wept while I waited. It was\nshe that wrote upon a board, which she\nplaced at the head of the grave, the name\nof her doll, with her own surname added.\nBut all that was before she had been\nfully sobered by love and marriage. And\nthis is getting far from the day about\nwhich I was writing just now, the day\nthat had started this train of memories.\nI had expected to find the house, aban-\ndoned since the day of the tragedy, now,\nwith battered windows and an air of de-\ncay, wearing its customary common-\nplace aspect; but instead of that, the mo-\nment I came upon it after passing the\nbend in the road I was startled out of all\nself-command to behold again the mouth\nwide open, and sending forth its voice-\nless cry for help, those strange, forbid-\nding wrinkles down the sides, the wide-\nstaring eyes turned toward me, and\ntraces of tears down the agonized face.\nI did not even pause to consider the time\n—an hour before sunset—nor the effect\nof the level sun-rays striking athwart the\nfront. I saw, or rather felt, only the ter-\nrified silent appeal for help that shone in\nevery lineament of the hideous visage;\nand without reflection, I went straight\nforward and pushed open the yielding\ndoor.\nI paused within the threshold, for ex-\ncited voices sounded on the floor above.\n\" This is a frightful deception that you\nhave practised upon me! \" I heard the\nfamiliar voice of a man exclaim—the one\nman in all the world most strongly\nbound by every sacred obligation to for-\nbear, to understand, to be patient.\n\" Yes, yes, it is true, so true, so true! \"\nmoaned the dearest of all voices in reply.\n\" But I could not help it, I really could\nnot. I meant no harm to you, but you\nhave been kind to me, and my conscience\nwill not permit me to hide the truth from\nso noble a man, so good and kind a hus-\nband. Yes, it was here that my baby\nwas born, here in this room, and we slept\non a pile of rags.\"\nWith a bound I went up the stair, to\nexplain the hallucination, for it was clear\nthat my poor ward had relapsed, and\nthat she was living again the terrible\ndays of the rags and chain; but before I\ncould arrive upon them, she said some-\nthing that turned me to stone where I\nstood.\n\" I must confess everything,\" she con-\ntinued, half sobbing. \" I never loved\nyou. It was my guardian that I loved\nwith all my soul, with all my heart; and\nI married you because you loved me, and\nhe did not.\"\n\" And who was the father of your\nchild ? \" her husband asked, with a sin-\ngular cruel hardness for which I could\nhave slain him.\n\"My deliverer, my guardian! \" she\nanswered aloud and triumphantly.\n\" Who but he could have been ? It was\nhere, in this room, that he came to see\nme as I nursed it; it was here that he\nfound me chained ;it was from this room\nthat he led me out into the world, into\nlife and liberty. And when our poor\nbaby died we brought it to this house, he\nand I; and he dug the grave, and we laid\nour baby away, and I put flowers on the\ngrave. Come, let me show you.\"\nAll eagerness and excitement, her eyes\nblazing, and her soft beauty sharpened\nand hardened, she swept past me, her\nhusband following, his step leaden, his\njaw dropped, and his face the hue of\nashes. I followed them weakly. How\ncould I disclose myself now, since she\nhad made the declaration of her affection\nfor me? How could Ibe sure that her\nconduct at this critical moment would be\nof a kind that, with my explanations,"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "42", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3510, "texte": "would reassure her husband, to whom\nshe had been married for so short a time ?\nWhat in all the world could I do but fol-\nlow them unseen now, and stand ready\nto serve her in need to the end of the\nworld ? And there uprose the one secret\nbetween her and me, the secret of the\ndoll's funeral, the one secret that her hus-\nband had never shared. How could it\nbe explained to him now, when his heart\nwas broken, his idol shattered, by her\ndeclaration of her love for me? And\nhow would it be possible in her presence\nto straighten out the strange tangle that\nher words had made, when she would\nstand beside me to protest its truth?\nI followed them into the weed-grown\ngarden at the rear of the house, and stood\namid the concealing shrubbery while she\nshowed him the grave. There were now\nbut dried skeleton stems of the flowers\nthat she had thrust into the soft earth,\nand the little mound had sunk; but, as\nthough it had been written in the indel-\nible ink of the Fates, shone black and\nbold the name that she had written on\nthe head-board.\n\" This is the grave of our baby,\" she\nmoaned, falling upon her knees beside\nit; \"and that is the name of my little\none written by my own hand upon the\nboard.\" And then she fell to sobbing\npiteously.\nA look of unspeakable anguish twisted\nthe young husband's face into a mask.\nDid he understand that she was dement-\ned? Ought not he to have suspected it\nwhen she doubtless began her confession\nat their home, and then brought him to\nthe house to disclose the evidence? Is\nit true that youth is all folly, impatience,\nand recklessness?\nI could bear the strain no longer.\nWhy had the silent cry from the wide-\nopen mouth of the house summoned me\nif there was no duty for me to perform ?\nOnce before I had felt the courage to re-\nspond; once before I had shown the tact\nto succeed. My duty then was done.\nThis was one infinitely more awful, more\ndangerous, but— I walked straight up\nto him and cut the line of his far-set\nvision. He looked at me blankly a mo-\nment, and then started.\n\" You see that she is ill,\" I said; \" do\nnot be misled.\"\nUpon hearing my voice the stricken\ngirl rose, and there could be no mistak-\ning the unveiled light and gladness that\nfilled her face, and shone as a radiance\nabout her. As he stood looking from\none to the other of us, hard, cold, and\nunyielding, he saw her approach me with\na smile upon a face that had been pinched\nwith anguish before ; he saw her place\nher arms about my neck and nestle her\n• face in my shoulder, and sigh with the\ncontent of a child that had been lost and\nwas now found. And he heard her say,\nas she looked up into my face and\ncaressed my cheek:\n\"My lover, my deliverer, my hus-\nband !\"\nHe and I were looking steadily at each\nother, and the fathomless reaches of hell\nwould not have measured the depth of\nthe gulf that lay between us.\n\" You are my father's friend,\" he fin-\nally said, in a small, distant voice; \" and\nwhatever may be true, or whatever may\nbe false, you have been friend, and\nhenceforth must continue to be. I had\nbrought this to kill her and myself here,\"\nhe added, producing a revolver, \" after\nshe should have shown me the evidence\nthat she promised. Your intrusion has\nsaved her life.\" And treating with\nscorn my demand that he stay and hear\nthe truth, he stalked wearily into the\nhouse, and closed the door. To this day,\ncalm and contented, as I sit beside her\ncouch and listen for the wing-beats of\nthe day that shall come and seize her in\nits flight, she does not know how he died."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "43", "page_fin": "43", "image_debut": 11, "image_fin": 11, "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "In the Orchard", "titre_sommaire": "In the Orchard", "signature_source": "Charlotte Lowry Marsh", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "43", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 31, "fin_caractere_exclue": 517, "texte": "In the Orchard\nCharlotte Lowry Marsh\nBy\nOh little, sweet love, mine own little love,\nWhen the apple-boughs were a-blowing\nDid the pink-blushed petals drifted above\nSet your own cheeks a-glowing?\nCame there a sunbeam all unaware\nThat, tangling itself in endeavor\nTo kiss, little love, your bonny brown hair,\nWas caught there forever and ever ?\nDid a little wild bird sing low in your ear\nThe secret of song revealing,\nThat made the melody tender and clear\nInto your voice come stealing ?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "43", "page_fin": "52", "image_debut": 11, "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "American Literary Commonplace", "titre_sommaire": "American Literary Commonplace", "signature_source": "C. M. Francis", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "43", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 519, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1366, "texte": "American Literary Commonplace\nC. M. Francis\nBy\nT would require a very wise man to\ndefine precisely the nature of the\ncommonplace in any art, and in\nliterature the task is especially dif-\nficult, the whole matter being of the inti-\nmately subjective, non-disputandum sort.\nEveryone knows that the superfluous\nbook is published and that it engages the\nattention of the poor, tired human mind;\nand almost everyone will declare that the\nhuman mind is somewhat the worse for it.\nBut, unless he is a very absolute person,\nlike Mr. Carlyle or Mr. Ruskin, he will\nnot take it upon himself to say where the\nline of exclusion should be drawn. In an\nexalted and aristocratic mood, one is apt\nto feel a pang at the multiplication of\nliterary commonplace, but after all is not\nthis the point of view of Alice's carpen-\nter, who \" wept like anything to see such"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "44", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3984, "texte": "quantities of sand \" ? Carlyle and the car-\npenter, it seems to me, had much in com-\nmon. Were that inspired curmudgeon\nliving in the United States to-day how he\nwould tear his adjectives over the excess\nof printed things! How his German\ncompounds would fly! \" Back to thy\nyard-stick, thou kicker-up of word-dust,\"\nhe would say to some hard-working liter-\nary man. \" Thinkst thou that an uphol-\nsterer made the heavens ? Is there an auc-\ntion of the stars? World-sickness from\ninfinity of jabber such as thine \"—and so\nforth. But we cannot all be Carlyles, and\nsome of us are not sorry, for looking at\nthings from the pedestal of the absolute\nhas its inconveniences. The more practi-\ncal and comfortable persons down on the\nlevel realize that since the majority of\npeople are commonplace, the majority of\nbooks should be commonplace also; and\nthey accept the fact in a philosophic tem-\nper.\nIt is not then with the design of mount-\ning any Delphic tripod that the present\narticle has been undertaken, but with the\naim of viewing so far as possible in a rig-\nidly objective manner certain aspects of\nliterary commonplace. At first sight this\nmay appear a rather unpromising field;\nbut this is merely because of its novelty,\nthe dull and the commonplace and the\nusual being precisely the things that men\navoid writing about, lest they catch the\ncolor of what they work in. Certainly the\nmost common form of literature, the bulk\nof what is sold and read, deserves analysis\nas well as the exceptional and striking.\nOf course this is viewing literature in an\nordinary and not in an idealistic way; but\nthe latter is wholly unsuitable for our\npresent practical purposes.\nThe man who describes, however\nroughly, the most common forms of lit-\nerature in his own day and in his own\ncountry does a needful work. If he can\nshow what kinds of writing are read by\nthe greatest number, he does something\ntoward explaining what so many sociolo-\ngists insist on calling the social mind.\nThe psychology of the crowd cannot be\nunderstood without some very careful\nstudy in this field. How does the social\nlaw of imitation apply to it, for instance?\nHow far may repetition go without\nwearying the mass of readers, and are\nthere any ideas or situations that invari-\nably please, irrespective of the form in\nwhich they are expressed? We are\nstudying men in masses nowadays, and\nliterary criticism will have to lay aside\nits supercilious absorption in the excep-\ntional if it keeps abreast of things. What\nwould our descendants learn of the intel-\nlectual pleasures of the great body of\nAmericans to-day by reading fifty years\nfrom now a history of literature, modelled\non those in use at present ? A few promi-\nnent names, a fanciful description of some\ntendency or clique or school, and many\nlong and eloquent tributes to great works\n—matters which concerned only a small\nfraction of the reading public, and these\nfor only a small fraction of their reading\ntime. It would tell them nothing of the\npopular taste and offer no means of com-\nparing the prevalent literary standard\nof one age with that of another. The\nstudy of the usual in literature is essen-\ntial to an understanding of literary ten-\ndencies.\nTo the producer for the present literary\nmarket such a study has, of course, an im-\nmediate practical value; for if a man\nwants to sell a certain class of goods, he\nmust first ascertain what characteristics\nthe goods actually sold have in common.\nThis purely practical view is taken, if not\navowed, by the majority of writers in the\nUnited States to-day. Artistic ideals have\nnothing to do with the matter. It is the\nproduction of salable goods for a definite\nmarket. Commonplace writings are not\nthe unintentionally dull work of men who\nhave a mistaken view of their own talents.\nThey are done with deliberate purpose\nand often by those who are capable of bet-\nter but less remunerative work. The pro-\nduction of literary commonplace is a gain-\nful occupation whose outlook from the"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "45", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 31, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4007, "texte": "economic point of view is exceedingly\npromising, since the market widens with\nthe cheapness of publication and with\nthe extension of common-school educa-\ntion. New classes of half-educated con-\nsumers will come in to swell the demand\nfor what is inferior in literature, just as\nthe opening up of Africa has swelled the\ndemand for cheap and tawdry articles of\ncommerce. There has never been a time\nwhen financial success was so easy to the\nliterary man as at present, and it will be-\ncome easier still in the future. There is\na growing demand for inferior goods, and\nmen may earn an honest living by making\nthem, whether they are candy cupids or\nsoap-box Sapphos or short stories for a\nsyndicate.\nBut there is one kind of literary com-\nmonplace which owes its success not to\nits qualities, but to its source. It is carried\nalong by the momentum of the author's\nreputation. In regard to this a word is\nneeded by way of admonition to unsuc-\ncessful competitors. The younger man\nwho has not yet made his name is apt to\nchafe when he sees his elders waxing fat\non the proceeds of words which could not\nby their own worth make their way into\nthe cheapest corner of the field of print.\nHe forgets the poetic justice of it. Let\nhim once call to mind how these same\nauthors had to work and wait before they\ncame into their kingdom, and he will not\nbegrudge them any of the joys of despot-\nism when they have reached the throne.\nFor my part, I never read a supremely\nfoolish interview with a well-known au-\nthor without a warming of the heart; and\nwhenever I hear the chink of good gold\ncoins on his triumphant counter in ex-\nchange for worthless wares, I glory in\nthe delicious equity of it. As an instance\nof the sort of thing that a man is en-\ntitled to say by virtue of his literary rank,\nnote the following remarks which a\nprominent writer made to the question\n\" What do you fear most ? \" propounded\nby an enterprising interviewer who pub-\nlished the answers in a magazine:\n\" I should say that the greatest number\nof us most fear poverty and death. . . .\nYoung people fear death more than their\nelders. ... I think that as we grow\nolder we fear death less, while our fear of\nmaterial loss increases. . . . Regard-\ning the effect of fear upon the character:\na great pressure of fear might, I think, re-\nsult in caution; if enduring too long, per-\nhaps in timidity and cowardice. . . .\nYou know there are things which we\nfear for others but which we do not fear\nfor ourselves. We fear these things for\nothers because we believe they may be\nwanting in the foresight which we sup-\npose we ourselves possess abundantly;\nthat they may be incautious; that they\nmay not think and act as we should think\nand act in their place.\"\nIt is easy to ridicule the childishness of\nit and to sneer at the public for taking it\nseriously. Nor is the case at all excep-\ntional. The silly sayings of prominent\nmen are gathered with infinite pains and\nread with eagerness. The reason for it is\nobvious, and the moral justification com-\nplete. The passage just quoted, for in-\nstance, sprang from the brain of a man of\ndistinction and of acknowledged talent,\nand the public is interested in that brain\neven when it is in absolute repose. He\nhad done strenuous work in the past, and\nthere was a time when he was underpaid\nfor some of the best of it. Now he has\nfairly earned the right to say as foolish\nthings as he likes. It is a triumph of\nprestige for a man to be able to print an\nessay to the effect that fear results in cau-\ntion and, if enduring, may lead to cow-\nardice. It is time's way of redressing the\nbalance of his early days. So viewed, it is\nboth reasonable and right. In trade,\ngoods are first judged by their quality, af-\nterward by their label. In the literary\nfield the same law obtains, and the man\nwho could not find a publisher for some\nof the best work of his brain, may, after\nhe has made his mark, almost obtain\nspace-rates for his snores. Thus in the\nlong run things are evened up."}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "46", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4083, "texte": "Such is the philosophic attitude toward\ninterviews like this. It is one of the most\nadmirable forms of commonplace. It is a\nsort of reprisal on the public, and the\ncelebrity who publishes it often does so\nwith conscious irony. Shall there be no\nprivileges of preeminence? Nobility ex-\nempts as well as obliges: and a writer of\nthe first rank has earned any profits that\nmay accrue to him through the medium of\nliterary flunkyism. Therefore, let all\nwho wear the hodden-gray of literature\ndeliver themselves from envy and unchar-\nitableness. Rank is merely petrified opin-\nion, but it has its logical consequences.\nThe only question worth asking is wheth-\ner it is rank based on achievement or on\ninheritance, on divine right or on wind.\nOne should thank his stars for an aris-\ntocracy of talent, whenever he sees a sign\nof it, and for all the privileges that it con-\nfers, when he sees the right man enjoying\nthem. So runs our little moral.\nBut this form of literary commonplace\nis a thing apart and governed by its own\nlaw—the law of the dynamics of success.\nIt is enjoyed not on account of its hack-\nneyism, but in spite of it. It may and of-\nten does fall short even of the meagre re-\nquirements of current literature. It has\nfar less social significance than that great\nmass of writing which is loved for the\nvery reason that it is dull and undeviat-\ning and ceaselessly iterative. The im-\npressive social fact is that the average\nAmerican writer sinks his originality and\nmerely supplies certain classes of goods\nfor the market: short stories which are\nlittle mosaics of well-tried situations and\nphases; impressionist sketches imitated\n(judiciously, of course) from the French;\nplays confined to traditional grooves in\ndialogue, business, and plot; and poems\nwith a deliberate dash of unintelligible-\nness to counterfeit depth. These are the\nwritings which are chiefly in need of\nanalysis. Their most striking feature is\nthe closeness of their resemblance to each\nother. In no other country in the world,\nwhich ranks with ours in intelligence and\nwealth, is there so much that is essentially\nidentical in pure literature. The general\nlevel of what is written elsewhere may be\nhigher or lower, but the diversity is in-\nfinitely greater there than here.\nA priori this is just what we should\nexpect of a young democracy too much\nabsorbed in life to give the best of itself\nto any art. Our triumphs are economic.\nIn that field we are alert, resolute, and en-\nterprising beyond all others. That is\nwhere our heart is and where our best\nqualities are displayed. At the end of\nthe year in which we fought the war with\nSpain, we found not only that our withers\nwere unwrung, but that we had distanced\nevery other nation in the development of\nour industries and in the increase of our\nforeign trade. As a people we are primar-\nily business men, and since we have spe-\ncialized along this line, it is most natural\nthat we should show this bent when we\nattempt other things. The economic mo-\ntive leads always to the study of demand.\nWe should therefore expect to find our\nwriters business men first and literary\nmen afterward. We should expect to see\nthem surveying the literary market in a\ncool, conservative business spirit, and\nadapting their goods to its needs with a\nruthless suppression of any little pen-\nchant for self-expression they may hap-\npen to have. They want success, and suc-\ncess at once; not the mere pleasure of\nplanting in a few minds a big unmarket-\nable thought. And what better business\nreason is there for hoping success for a\nbook than the presence in it of the very\nthings that have already won success.\nHence it comes that a people which in\nsome respects is more vigorous in its in-\ndividuality than any other, is in literary\nmatters the most conventional and imita-\ntive. The industrial ideal has given us\nliterary artificers, not artists.\nThe short story seemed ten years ago to\nbe an exception to this rule, and there\nwas, in fact, a distinctive flavor in sev-\neral of the short stories written by Ameri-\ncans at that time. Since then the few."}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "47", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 31, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4116, "texte": "readers, who appreciated this distinctive-\nness, have read American short stories in\nsufficient numbers to be able to generalize\nwith some assurance. At the rate of five\na month, and this is a low estimate for the\naverage consumer, six hundred short\nstories would have been read—a very fair\nbasis for induction. Let anyone ask him-\nself what proportion of them showed any\nnovelty either in motive or in execution.\nThey fall into certain groups, and in each\nof these groups the stories apparently\nmight have been written by the same per-\nson. A complete classification is impos-\nsible without a somewhat painful review\nof the whole six hundred, but certain\ntypes stand out prominently. The local\ncolor group is especially conspicuous, and\nthe humorous stories in this class are the\nmost striking in their machine-made uni-\nformity. Here a humorous effect is\nsought by the use of quaint or grotesque\nexpressions. They are not as a rule char-\nacter studies, but merely the development\nof incidents in dialect. The characters\nare sketched roughly and with reference\nto some salient trait, and the incidents are\nselected from a limited number of ob-\nviously comical things. The dialect car-\nries the story. Not long ago fully fifty\nper cent, of the American short stories\nwere of this sort, in which not the au-\nthor's art, but his note-book was predomi-\nnant. A few pioneers had happened to\nemploy dialect in a legitimate way as\nsubsidiary to their artistic aims. Their\nsuccess had the undesired effect of found-\ning what proved to be an actual \" hain't\"\nand \" d'ruther \" school, in which dialect\nwas not the means, but the end. In pro-\nportion to the amount of effort expended\nupon it, this has been one of the most\nlucrative lines of commonplace in recent\nfiction, for the selling feature was con-\nspicuous and easy of imitation. Uncle\nSilas and his cider barrel, Miss Eu-\nphemia's cat, the Deacon's courtship, the\ninevitable dialogue between the two old\nNew England ladies, etc., underwent\nmany variations, but in essentials were\nrepeated by the thousands. The average\nreader was as well pleased with the medi-\nocre as with the best. The literary econo-\nmist perceived this and turned out iden-\ntical stories with the ease and mechanical\nprecision of a huge factory. We had lit-\ntle essays in kodak realism from every\nState in the Union. Simple variations in\nexternals cheated the reviewers, and they\nsaid solemn things about local color, as if\nthat were an artistic ideal all by itself.\nThey spoke of sectionalism and subtle\ntendencies and close observation at first\nhand and other profound matters, without\nstopping to consider whether nine-tenths\nof the stories in the local color group were\nnot fashioned after existing models with\nonly such variations as a prudent busi-\nness man would feel constrained to intro-\nduce. And if the reviewers were de-\nceived, think of the average reader. To\nhim the crudest kind of reproductive de-\nvices have the effect of realism—devices\nin literature which correspond to that of\nintroducing a real threshing-machine or a\nlive baby on the stage. Essential novelty\ndispleases him, if he notices it at all. Su-\nperficial novelty is his delight, but he must\nbe standing on good solid familiar ground\nto enjoy it. The homely language, the\nobvious humor, and the grotesque inci-\ndents of the local-color stories appeal to\nhim. In other respects there must be\nidentity with what he is used to. Long\nafter the few active-minded persons have\ngrown weary, he continues to enjoy.\nVery familiar facts, these, and yet\nwriters on American literary tendencies\nfail utterly to see their significance. In\nthe first place, this attitude of the popular\nmind is what gives the commonplace in\nliterature its prompt success. As a result\nof it the commonplace is the most promis-\ning financial field for the literary man\nto-day. It tempts men into it who have ca-\npacity for better things. It puts a premi-\num on compilation as opposed to compo-\nsition. It completely reverses the artistic\ncanon and requires that a man shall not\nthink what he has to say and how best to"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "48", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4008, "texte": "say it, but what people wish to have him\nsay and in what form they expect him\nto say it. It draws ten commonplace\nbooks from him instead of one good one.\nHe writes badly not because he lacks liter-\nary talent, but because he possesses busi-\nness sagacity. He writes with a divided\nmind, the better half of it being on the\npublic.\nIf, instead of pounding away at realism,\nromanticism, nationalism, provincialism,\nand other mystic matters, the critics\nwould study the commonplace in connec-\ntion with the peculiar imitativeness of the\nAmerican literary man, they might make\nmore plausible forecasts of our literary\nfuture. The sanguine see all sorts of\nglorious things in prospect—a truly na-\ntional literature, a literature of native\nforce and distinctiveness, following some-\nhow in the wake of national expansion.\nTheir reasoning is simple. By acquiring\nthe Philippines we shall attain national\nself-consciousness; and, national self-con-\nsciousness once attained, it follows as the\nlight the day that we shall produce great\nwriters. It is not convincing. Nor is\nthere much comfort to be had from the as-\nsurance of others, that because we have\ngone so long without great men we are\nbound to have them soon. \" About time\nfor a genius,\" they say, more wistfully\nthan wisely. \" The ingrained idealism of\nthe American nature needs clear and com-\nmanding expression,\" says Mr. Hamilton\nMabie. It needs it, therefore it will get\nit, is the essence of his argument.\nSuch dream-language makes very little\nimpression on one who has studied the\never-widening domain of the common-\nplace in American literature. There is\nevery reason to think that the iterative\nquality will increase rather than diminish.\nBesides the constant additions to the num-\nber of half-educated consumers already\nmentioned, there is the fact of specializa-\ntion to be reckoned with. The specialist\nis an important factor in the literary de-\nmand and a factor that obstructs artistic\nprogress. By the law of probabilities, if\nyou hear of a man merely that he is a\nhighly trained, skilful, and successful\nspecialist in some one line, you have a\nright to presume that he is lacking in\nother lines. In general culture, even in\nthe art of enjoying life, there is an ante-\ncedent probability that he will be below\nthe average. If his success is due to ex-\nceptional talent, nature is economical and\nexacts pay from some other part of him.\nIf it is due to exceptional industry, one\nfaculty is probably developed at the ex-\npense of others. This is safe as a general\nstatement, though the exceptions are\nnumerous and obvious. Now the time of\na man's life, during which he may devote\nhimself to learning how to live and how to\nenjoy, is being cut down every year.\nWith the disappearance of the American\ncollege, which is inevitable, technical\nwork will probably begin at the age of\neighteen. Of course a young man may\ntake \" culture studies \" in the university,\nbut competition will prevent many from\ndoing so. Every succeeding decade\npromises to drive the technical studies\ndown a peg nearer to the years of infancy.\nWe Americans are too shrewd econo-\nmists not to appreciate the importance of\nthe division of labor, and we will carry it\nas far as any other people in the world.\nAt all events the lengthening and narrow-\ning process in education is certainly on\nthe increase with us, and it will as cer-\ntainly lower the literary standard.\nThe very fact that we are a strong and\nprogressive nation points the same way.\nA community cannot remain strong and\nprogressive without intense specialization\nin the industries and professions. Indus-\ntrially we owe our superiority to this\ncause. Note M. Levasseur's recent com-\nparison of the industrial methods em-\nployed here and there in France. At the\nsame time a high degree of social uni-\nformity is essential to a democracy like\nours. We hear much of the evils of ar-\nraying class against class. Decisive and\nharmonious social action is an element of\nnational strength; but you cannot make"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 31, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4024, "texte": "men think uniformly for purposes of poli-\ntics and think differently for purposes of\nart. Here, then, are the conditions of the\nfuture: A narrower education, beginning\nearlier in life; a larger body of specialists\nin all industries and professions; a social\nmass with greater homogeneity in thought\nand feeling; a nation with a splendid\neconomic record behind it and absorbed\nin plans for economic triumphs in the fut-\nure. What will the literary man do with\nthese promising materials? The proba-\nbility is that he will exploit them along the\nline of least resistance; and then as now\nthe promptest and surest road to success\nwill be by way of the commonplace. What\nis there that should raise the standard?\nThe overflow of men's lives will be even\nscantier than at present. The more dis-\ncriminating taste that comes from think-\ning over books will be found among a\nsmaller proportion of the people. For\nthese, of course, the real works of art will\ncontinue to be produced, and the weight\nof their influence may be sufficient to im-\npose some of them on the crowd. But the\ndaily literary consumption, the great mass\nof what is read, will have fewer artistic\nqualities than at present.\nEven now the popular demand is so\nuniform, that it would be a feasible plan\nto establish training-schools for literary\nproducers. It is by no means as unprac-\ntical as it seems. Compare the qualities,\nfor instance, which one hundred short\nstories of the second rank have in com-\nmon. Their elements are not indefinable,\nnor is their mechanism especially com-\nplex. There is nothing about them to\nlead you to say that one author could not\nhave written this or the other that. A\ncareful recombining of the elements with\nan avoidance of anything like verbal\nplagiarism would, I believe, give a re-\nsultant story quite as good as any in the\nlist. It would probably find a publisher,\nsince it would have about it those remi-\nniscences of success which a publisher al-\nways values. Artistic gifts, of course, are\nuntransmittable, but the production of\nliterary commonplace can be taught just\nas surely as the making of any other ar-\nticle can be taught. Vanity alone pre-\nvents a man from telling others how he\ncame to succeed in it. He could call the\nyouthful aspirant to his knee and tell him\nmany things that would help him to\nachieve the same results.\nIt is dishonest to discourage the man\nwho wants to earn his living by writing.\nThe whole field of hackney ism lies open\nto him. It is infinitely hospitable. There\nis always room for one more, and it pays.\nTo the majority of readers literary com-\nmonplace is the breath of their life. They\nbuy it from day to day in increasing quan-\ntities. They will pay for it pretty nearly\nall that is asked. From their standpoint\nthe note of imitation against which the\ncritic warns the young is precisely the\nthing to be preserved. The critic warns\nthe young man from the point of view of\nthe few and possibly of posterity; but the\nyoung man is apt to have his eye on the\nmany and on the present, and in such a\ncase who can honestly tell him that the\noutlook is discouraging? No young man\nsufficiently normal to be at large, should\nfind anything discouraging to his chances\nof success when he surveys the printed\nmatter bought and sold in the United\nStates to-day.\nThere are two classes of literary\nworkers: the transmitters and the trans-\nmitters. With the former this paper has\nno concern. They are the men whose\nminds leave an impression on what\npasses through them. Their function is\nto please the few by a force that is ele-\nmental and beyond analysis. The trans-\nmitters, on the other hand, leave things\nexactly as they find them. They are\nneeded by society for purposes of repeti-\ntion. They are nature's hectographs.\nAs such their office is most useful, for in\nthe earlier stages of instruction iteration\nis necessary. They supply the kindergar-\nten material for the less advanced. In\nthis country the demand for their work\nis on the increase, for as time goes on"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3984, "texte": "there is an increase in the number of those\nwho are at the kindergarten stage. In\nliterature as in farming, the extensive,\nrather than the intensive, system of cult-\nure prevails in a new country.\nThe young man whom the critic dis-\ncourages should bear this in mind. So\nfar as ideal success is concerned the critic\nis probably right. No amount of industry\nwill make him one of the transmuters,\nand he may as well recognize from the\nstart that the identification of genius with\na capacity for taking pains, is a fiction in-\nvented as a solace for the meanly en-\ndowed. But as a transmitter of tame,\nfamiliar things his prospects are good,\nand he is justified in disregarding the\nwarnings of his elders. If he is without\nany especial talent there is just one warn-\ning to which he should give heed. It is,\nAvoid the pose and cleave unto the plati-\ntude. The pose is not profitable in the\nlong run; the platitude is always profit-\nable.\nThe advice of the more experienced\nwriter is likely to be lacking in frankness.\nIt assumes that an imponderable some-\nthing, which is called literary merit, is a\ndeterminant of success, and it ignores the\nbroad and promising field of literary en-\ndeavor in which this quality has nothing\nwhatever to do with success. In view of\nwhat is actually published it is preposter-\nous to dwell on the difficulties in the way\nof a young writer. The very negative\nside of him, the absence of those qualities\nwhich the few prize so highly, may be one\nof the chief elements in his success, by\nsmoothing his way and giving him a\nlarger audience. When he is fairly\nstarted he has little to fear from the critics.\nThe old-fashioned slashing criticism that\nslaughtered infants has passed away, and\nin the United States criticism is now al-\nmost motherly. The reviewer is a very\nbusy person with a memory impaired by\nthe habit of reading with intent to forget.\nThe familiar ring of things often escapes\nhim; at least he seldom analyzes a piece\nof work to find out what is new and what\nis copied from others. His attitude\ntoward American writers betrays a\npleased surprise that they should be able\nto write at all. The mere fact of print is\njustifying. If he can find nothing else\nto say for it, he will remark that the au-\nthor's attempt is praiseworthy, or that it\nis the sort of book that will no doubt\nplease those who are inclined to that sort\nof reading. Commonplace is seldom at-\ntacked on the ground of its commonplace-\nness. The only test of artistic power is\nthe solvent criticism that separates a work\ninto its elements. This test is not applied.\nAs an analytical chemistry it involves the\nuse of acids; and the acids of criti-\ncism are hard to handle, because the\nauthor squirms and the critic loses his\nhead.\nAmerican reviewers are, again, more\nconcerned with substance than with form,\nwith the moral lesson than with the ar-\ntistic quality— a fact which of itself lets\ndown the bars to mediocrity. External\npoints of likeness between writings are of\ncourse remarked. The resemblance in\nmotive of Kipling's \" Brushwood Boy\nand Du Maurier's \" Peter Ibbetson,\" for\ninstance, will not escape them; but the un-\nconscious reproduction of another's style,\nas in the case of the latter writer's imita-\ntion of Thackeray in long passages and\nalmost to the very phrases, is passed\nover with little comment. There is also\na schoolman's deference to authority in\nclassifying authors and in cataloguing the\nqualities of their work. Zola, for in-\nstance, is set down in the books as a real-\nist or as a naturalist. Reviewers, there-\nfore, will have it so, even when they are\npointing out the peculiar moral thesis that\neach novel is designed to prove, and show-\ning how those unfleshed allegories, the\ncharacters, are manipulated to prove it.\nThere is, in fact, very little American crit-\nicism, and the general result of the hap-\nhazard writing that often goes under that\nname is to place a premium on common-\nplace.\nOf the fact that unconscious imitation"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 31, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4020, "texte": "is singularly potent in American litera-\nture, there are many signs. Why are the\ncritical few always peering at the horizon\nline if the original writers are among us ?\nWhy do the most sanguine of them go on\nimporting their novelties from abroad?\nWhy all this talk about the great Ameri-\ncan novel which is always to come, and\nwhy this feverish applause of each young\nman of promise, who continues merely to\npromise? As to American plav-writing\nthe less said the better. To desire literary\nmerit in a play is to set yourself down as\na visionary person ignorant of what con-\nstitutes a good play. Literary common-\nplace is entrenched on our stage more im-\npregnably than anywhere else. Again,\nask any literary man to tell you how many\nmen in his profession really fit their words\nto their own thoughts. He will give you\ninstance after instance of success by com-\npromise, success by adaptation and imita-\ntion. The policy of magazines must be\nrespected; traditions observed. Self-ex-\npression is bad finance, unless one's talent\nis a very big one. Better write much and\nlive well than do the few fine things that\nwill not pay bills. Hence the man with\na little talent differentiating him from the\nrest of the herd, hides it and writes like a\nsophomore—writes on everything, cleans\nout his own stock of ideas, and falls back\non other people's; but always writes, for\nit pays him.\nThe writer of commonplace is gener-\nally an unconscious compiler. He in-\nvoluntarily reproduces what he admires\nor what he thinks others admire. Pres-\nent conditions make it hard for him to do\notherwise, for it is the day of over-much\nreading and of reading without fixity of\nattention. A hundred little ideas and\nphrases stay in the memory and are mis-\ntaken for one's own. One's skull be-\ncomes, in fact, a cave of echoes. People\nread beyond the capacity of their intel-\nlects. Only the strongest minds can re-\ncast the vast material that they work\nupon. Think of the enormous areas of\nprint that owe their existence to the ex-\nample of a single man of talent. Take the\nCharles Dudley Warner manner, for in-\nstance; how it dominates those columns\nwhose writers strain after what they con-\nceive to be the light, agreeable, semi-de-\ntached attitude toward men and things.\nThey grit their teeth and say, \" Now I will\nbe graceful and genial, but at the same\ntime thoughtful and world-wise.\" And\nthen with many \" by-the-ways \" and \" as-\nI-was-sayings,\" they fill up their little\ncorner of chat, or comment, or on-look-\ning, or view-pointing, with hesitating as-\nsertions of the self-evident, or elaborate\nrebuttals of the unbelieved; reproducing\ntheir prototype only in externals. The\nmere dilution of Mr. Warner affords the\nmeans of subsistence to many a worthy\nsoul.\nAnd a hundred similar instances might\nbe cited from current literature, but my\npurpose has been not so much to prove\nthe prevalence of the commonplace as to\npoint the way to a proper study of cer-\ntain of its aspects. The importance of\nimitation, both as a social factor and as an\ninfluence in artistic development, has not\nbeen appreciated. Socially speaking,\nliterary iteration is necessary, and the\nmen who follow it as a trade are useful\ncitizens. It will be as foolish to lament\nthe twentieth historical novel, by Mr.\nStanley Weyman, or the fiftieth serial\nstory by Mr. Marion Crawford, as to\nquarrel with the number of steel rails or\nschool arithmetics. Artistically speak-\ning, however, a higher standard would be\ndesirable, for it would spare trouble to\nthe few. Such a higher standard can\ncome only by way of a more careful an-\nalytical criticism which gives a warning\nto those who will heed it—the sort of crit-\nicism that while admitting the social ne-\ncessity of imitation makes the fact of imi-\ntation very clear. It will not keep the\ncommonplace writer from his own, but\nit will indicate his commonplaceness in a\nmanner that will prevent him from enter-\ning the wrong house. It will allow him\nno delusion as to the character of his"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 484, "texte": "clientele. It will show what is purely me-\nchanical and factitious in each new work,\nand explain how popular effects can be\nobtained. It will thus aid and encourage\nthe literary novice at the same time that it\ngives a useful hint to the excusably blase\nreader. The new critics will remember\nthe large number of very weary readers\nwho, incited by the halloos of reviewers,\nhave joined in uncomfortable stampedes\nin the past. They will spare them when-\never it is possible."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "52", "page_fin": "52", "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "A Karnak Cat", "titre_sommaire": "A Karnak Cat", "signature_source": "Henry Rogers Remsen", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 486, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1236, "texte": "A Karnak Cat\nHenry Rogers Remsen\nBy\nThere is a little story,\nThat often comes quite pat,\nOf a dear English lady, trusting,\nWho bought a Karnak Cat—\n\"Old terracotta, made of clay\nPoor Israel baked on that sad day\nWhen Pharaoh took their straw away.\"\nThe pride of all her household\nThis gem of olden time;\nHer friends pronounced it \"true antique,\"\nA poet made a rhyme\nAbout \"his ancient idolship,\"\nUntil one day it chanced to slip,\nAnd, falling, split from ear to hip!\n&\nAlas ! for all its sacredness!\nThe mould was plain enough,\nOf sham red terracotta\nWhere the paint was cracked and rough.\nAnd so the Karnak Cat was new—\nA thing of plaster, paint, and glue!\nI think it served her right, don't you?\nAh, yes,\nAnd yet\nDon't we nurse Karnak Kittens, too?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "53", "page_fin": "55", "image_debut": 21, "image_fin": 23, "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "The Influence of Gemini (Vignettes of Washington, No. I)", "titre_sommaire": "The Influence of Gemini (Vignettes of Washington, No. I)", "signature_source": "Guy Somerville", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 25, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3010, "texte": "The Influence of Gemini\n(Vignettes of Washington, No. I)\nGuy Somerville\nBy\nrHE Secretary of State in those\ndays was young and beautiful—\nsomething which has not been\nusual with Secretaries of State\nbefore or since. Also, he was fabulously\nrich, and a bachelor; and, if anything\nfurther be wanting to a complete under-\nstanding of his popularity in Washington\nsociety, I have only to add that he was a\ndevil by nature, and my very intimate\nfriend. This is the gospel of his entrap-\nment and reclaiming, of how he was\nobliged to forswear sack, and marry and\nrear little Secretaries of State for the\nfuture needs of his country, and keep a\nplace at Lenox.\nThat final Season was a late one—not\nthat the leaves remained unduly long\nupon the trees, but the diplomatic recep-\ntion at the White House did not take place\nuntil the middle of January, and in Wash-\nington the Season waits for this. At that\ntime, Madame Wassini had just begun\nto give \" things.\" Persons who did not\nlike Madame Wassini were wont to say\nthat her guests were not always either\nthe glass of fashion or the mould of form;\nbut, as that charming woman once told\nNesbitt—Nesbitt of Texas—when he\nsought to prune down her visiting list,\n\" To be good form, in these days, is not\nnearly so important as to be some one of\nsubstance; and, as for a glass of fashion,\nwho do you suppose, dear Mr. Nesbitt,\nwould dally with such a temperance\ndrink, when he can come here and have\nVeuve Clicquot? And, if he likes, he\nmay have it in a tankard.\" Which Nes-\nbitt did, and the next year he was the\nfloor leader of the House. But there was\nno nexus between these things.\nIt was at the Wassini's, and the night\nwas the third of March, that the Secre-\ntary of State saw first the handwriting on\nthe wall. He came to me when the feast\nhad gone the way of all feasts, and we\nwalked down Massachusetts Avenue arm\nin arm. Those were days when we were\nall agreed that the Secretary of State was\nthe Secretary, and when we called him,\nconsequently, \" Sec: \" for short, and not\nin thinly-veiled admiration of his chronic\ndryness.\n\" Sec,\" I said.\n\" Yes,\" he answered, absently.\n\" Give it a name,\" said I.\nHe started slightly, but was firm.\n\" Not another drop to-night,\" he said.\n\" There's a cabinet meeting in the morn-\n• jy\nin g.\n\" If you're not dry,\" quoth I, \" why do\nyou think ? \"\nThen he dealt me a sudden blow.\n\" Old chum,\" said he, \" I'm in love.\"\n\" If you have been so vulgar,\" said I,\n\" as to be carried away by the wife of the\nBrazilian Minister \"\nHe held up his hand protestingly.\n\" Not that,\" he said, with a shudder\nthat was faultless.\n\" Oh, well,\" said I, \" if it is the Bulgar-\nian Charge d'Affaires \"\n\" It is not,\" he said, \" the Bulgarian\nCharge d'Affaires.\"\n\" Let us drink,\" said I, nonplussed.\n\" Who ? in the name of the Continental\nCongress!\"\nThen he threw his cigar at the Vlbe-\nPresident's porte-cochere, and he told me\nthe thing's that follow.\n\" There are two,\" he said, \" and I do\nnot know which She is. Two maids drive"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3627, "texte": "out each afternoon on the road that leads\nto the Soldiers' Home, and they dress in\ngray, and are beautiful, and twins. Each\nafternoon, for some time past, I have by\nchance been riding somewhere in the di-\nrection of the Soldiers' Home. I do not\nknow who they are, or from where, but\nI am in love with one of them, and, as\nthey are exactly alike, it is, of course, im-\npossible for me to know which. Tell me\nwhich, and, if you like, you shall go to\nLisbon in the morning. I would say\nMadrid, but there are mobs; and the only\nother vacancy is Stockholm, which you\nwould not like, because you are a con-\nfirmed bachelor, and the people there\nmake matches.\"\nSaid I, thoughtfully, \" The maids are\nin truth much alike.\"\nHe started. \"You know them,\" he\nsaid. \" Tell me who they are and I will\nmake a vacancy at Paris.\"\n\" In a sort of a distant, far-reaching\nway they are almost friends of mine,\" I\nsaid, easily.\n\" Introduce me, and, if it be not for the\nAct of God, the Senate, or other hostile\ntribes, you shall have London.\"\n\" The one,\" said I, \" is Lady Stanford\nMerton, whose husband you may remem-\nber in connection with the reciprocity\ntreaty of a few years ago. It is his sec-\nond wife, and she has sent him to look\nfor the South Pole. The other is her\nsister, Miss Winthrop, of the Downs,\nBelsingham, Werts. Her first name is\nBella, and she is surnamed the Bad.\nBella-the-Bad: which sounds like a town\nin India.\"\n\"It sounds,\" said the Secretary of\nState, \" like the report of a mercantile\nagency. I think lam in love with the\nmarried one.\"\nI grew uncomfortable as to my collar\nand tie. \" I feel,\" said I, \" decidedly\nsticky. It is astonishing how sticky you\nget. I think you must be mistaken about\nits being Lady Merton. Sir Stanford is\nphenomenally jealous, and he has fought\neleven duels.\"\n\" Now,\" said the Secretary of State, \" I\nam quite sure. Here is where I turn in.\nMay I offer you a bunk ? You shall have\nthe mattress that is stuffed with Pan-\nAmerican protocols.\"\nBut I wouldn't, because the whole\nUnited States had slept on those proto-\ncols, and they were passing hard. So I\nwent on to the club; and that night, as I\nlaid me down to rest, I said a prayer for\nLady Stanford Merton, her immortal\nsoul.\nThe next time I saw him was after one\nof the Bachelors', while leaving La Was-\nsini at her house in lowa circle. Just\nacross the circle was the Merton resi-\ndence, and another carriage drove up as\nours clattered away, and the Secretary\nof State came out of it, and reached into\nit again, and took out Lady Merton and\nMiss Winthrop. I knew Lady Merton\nby the purple gown I had seen her wear\nthe evening before at the Blares' dinner;\nand I saw her go up the steps first\nand leave him at the bottom with the\nother.\nThere was a lamp upon the corner, and\nby its light, as I am a truthful man, and\nlive by the wits of my buried father, I saw\nthe Secretary of State bend low and kiss\nMiss Winthrop's hand. Not as a French-\nman or an Austrian might have kissed it,\nbut as only an American can, and an\nAmerican gentleman, and one very much\ncarried away.\n\"It will be in the ' Post' to-morrow,\"\nwhispered La Wassini in my ear, and I\ncould see she was shaking with laughter.\n\" Mon Dieu, the good Secretary! If it\nwere not such bad form, I would already\nthrow at him my slipper. Is it not\nVenus and the young Paris? \"\n\" He is giving her the fruit,\" said I,\npuzzled. But they took no notice, those\nthree across the way, and presently Miss\nWinthrop also went up the stoop, and\nboth ladies said good-night, and the Sec-\nretary raised his hat and the big door\nbanged and he left them.\nIt was in New York, the next week,"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "55", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 25, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3332, "texte": "whither all Washington had gone for the\nShow. La Wassini had three entries, all\nher own, and when at the end of things\nshe had as many ribbons, her glee was as\nthe glee of a child. Together we walked,\nthe morning after, down Twenty-third\nStreet; and there met us the Secretary of\nState, and his face was the face of a\ncherub who has discovered the store-room\nof the Seraphim, and stolen some of their\njam.\n\" All hail to thee, Benedick that is to\nbe,\" said I.\nHe laughed a little consciously, and\ncolored, seeing La Wassini. He had\nnever colored before, his whole life\nlong.\n\" It's secret,\" he said.\n\" Of course,\" said La Wassini.\n\" I hardly expected,\" I added, \" that\nyou would care to proclaim it just yet\nfrom the Monument.\"\n\" I am afraid,\" said he (and he gave\nme a black look), \" that you have looked\nover my shoulder, and seen my hand.\"\n\" Not nearly so plainly,\" broke in La\nWassini, \" as you have looked over a cer-\ntain other person's shoulder, and seen\nhand.\"\n\" At any rate,\" said I, \" I have never\ntouched \"\n\" Or kissed \"—broke in the Wassini.\nBut we both stopped because he looked\nso shocked.\n\"It was the Bachelors' claret,\" he\npleaded. \"It is insufferably heady. And\n—and Lady Merton has such a very nice\nhand.\"\nA light broke mercifully in upon La\nWassini and me.\n\" Lady Merton,\" said she, suddenly,\n\" has nothing whatever to do with it.\"\n46 T *\nI think,\" said I, though I was chok-\ning with laughter, \" that the Bachelors'\nclaret must have been Chambertin.\"\nWe saw a very strange look come over\nhis face.\n\" You mean \" said he, suddenly.\nTo play with him would have been the\nact of a Filipino.\n\"It was Miss Winthrop,\" we said,\nwith, I think, one voice.\nIt had been a dark sort of day, but just\nthen a big beam of sunlight shot through\nthe clouds, and by its light I saw that the\nSecretary of State looked very sick. For\na moment he stood there stunned in the\nbrilliant sunshine, and no one said a word.\nThen,\n\" How do you know,\" said he, quietly;\nbut I could see that his courage had gone\nfrom him.\n\" Bella Winthrop,\" said La Wassini,\n\" has no purple gowns. And then—\npeste!\" and she shrugged her shoulders.\n\"We were at school together at Beauvais,\nand she was very, very naughty.\"\nI laid my hand on the Secretary's shoul-\nder. I loved the man.\n\" Tell us the worst,\" said I. \" What\nhave you done ? \"\n\" Curse that wine,\" he said, with some-\nthing that has half laugh and half sob.\n\" I suppose I have asked her to marry me,\nbut I never knew it—never, till now.\"\nLa Wassini looked scandalized.\n\" Brace up, for Heaven's sake,\" I whis-\npered. \" There is Orlikoff, the Russian\nCharge, and he is coming this way.\"\nEven as I spoke, he joined us and bowed,\nand I knew he had heard my warning.\nBut the Secretary of State was saying,\nin an even tone, \" With pleasure, Mad-\name. It will be no trouble at all. Shall\nI get it at Altman's ? \"\nLa Wassini was as quick as he.\n\"You will get it,\" she said, laughing,\n\" if you do not get it at Altaian's.\"\nOrlikoff said, in his heavy Russian\nway:\n\" An affair of something to be sold and\ndelivered, not ? \"\n\" No,\" said I, \" you are wrong. It is\nan affair of something that has been sold\nalready, and there is no way to deliver it.\"\n\"I wonder what is it ? \" said the Sec-\nretary of State, unwarily.\nLa Wassini tapped him lightly on the\nsleeve.\n\" Tag,\" said La Wassini."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "56", "page_fin": "57", "image_debut": 24, "image_fin": 25, "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "Lines Written Among the Turrets of Milan Cathedral", "titre_sommaire": "Lines Written Among the Turrets of Milan Cathedral", "signature_source": "Percy Wallace Mackaye", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "56", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1608, "texte": "Lines Written Among the Turrets of Milan\nCathedral\nPercy Wallace Mackaye\nBy\nAmong the sky-paths of a sculptured forest,\nWhich, like a wilderness of darkling plumes\nUpon an ancient Lombard's smithied helmet,\nClothes the dim, cloistral mind of the cathedral\nIn far Milan, I lost my moonlit way.\nIn that domain of reconciliation\nBetween the earth and heaven, art has so wrought\nThat Fancy is a realm substantial\nIn mellow-gleaming marble; and Nature herself,\nWithin those vital integuments of stone,\nSeems to respire, and drink of her own breathings\nFrom the quick night-winds and the vivid stars.\nBreathless, I paused, and listened. Spires on spires,\nLike frozen cypresses, thronging the night,\nIn exquisite intricacy, threw down\nTheir shadows round my own. And thence I saw\nHow that aerial forest was enchanted.\nFar from a covert, hidden from the moon,\nSprang forth a silent-barking harpy, spurning\nThe cliff, from which he hung, with rabid heels;\nAnd still he drew no nearer, like a bough\nBy winds contorted, or a yawning stump.\nBut hush! O Beauty! Are the sylvan fauns\nChanged to bright angels in this skyey wood?\nNymphs to dim saints, satyrs to pensive knights,\nAnd Dian's spring to the sweet Virgin's shrine?\nFor, see! from yonder silent, spindling spire\nA creature has emerged, and there—and there—\nAnother—and a throng! a stellar people,\nSeraphs and winged dreams! The forest seems\nTo rustle. 'Mid its petrid firs of pearl,\nThe chiselled bark, parting, gives pale birth\nTo heaven's own host—this choir of quietness,\nWhere a star sings in every angel's ear\nPreludes of incommunicable prayer."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 11, "fin_caractere_exclue": 662, "texte": "Breathless, I paused, and knelt. Against the north,\nA form of wind and light-foot loveliness,\nStayed, by the eternal touch of art, upon\nHer swift ethereal way toward the peak\nOf Matterhorn—a form of grace, I say,\nTiptoe upon an ardent pinnacle,\nSpake to me where I aspired: \" Sweet youth, why art\nThou come to us? Say! dost thou yearn to be\nA voice in the eternal choir of quietness? \"\nAnd pressing hard my beating heart, I bowed.\n\" Descend, then, youth, to the bewildered world,\nAnd by this kiss I burn upon thy brow,\nWalk as a star through the murk noon of men,\nAnd love thy Love as God Himself loves Beauty.\"\nAnd with that kiss I came unto my love."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "57", "page_fin": "59", "image_debut": 25, "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "The Drama", "titre_sommaire": "The Drama", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 664, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2911, "texte": "The Drama\n\nTHREE RECENT COMEDIES\nPeter Stuyvesant, The Tyranny of Tears,\nMiss Hobbs\n\nIt is interesting to note that of the six\nplays which, perhaps, have thus far at-\ntracted the most attention during the\npresent season, three are dramatized\nnovels, while the other three are comedies,\nprimarily, of character. Reserving until\nlater all discussion concerning the signifi-\ncance (if any) of the almost simultaneous\nappearance of \" Becky Sharp,\" \" The\nOnly Way,\" and \"Children of the Ghet-\nto,\" we shall here attempt to point out the\nvalue of \" Peter Stuyvesant,\" \" The Tyr-\nanny of Tears,\" and \" Miss Hobbs.\"\nWe have called these three plays com-\nedies primarily of character, because it\nis in each case some foible in the charac-\nter of one of the important personages in\nthe play that is the prime basis for the\ncomedy element. In the first it is the\nheadstrongness of the old Dutch Gover-\nnor ; in the second, it is the selfishness of\nthe tearful Mrs. Parbury; in the third, it\nis the narrowness of the marriage-hating\nMiss Hobbs. They are, of course, all\nthree of them, comedies, in part, of situa-\ntion as well, while \" Peter Stuyvesant\"\nmight rightfully be considered also a his-\ntorical comedy of manners.\nJudging the play by Mr. Matthews and\nMr. Howard first from the point of view\nof the comedy of character, the decision\nseems to be that the authors have suc-\nceeded in creating, in the Governor of\nNew Amsterdam, a figure that is en-\ndowed with the qualities requisite for\nprovoking good-natured mirth. No vin-\ndictive laugh can be aroused by such a\ncharacter, for there is in it none of that\nhypocrisy, or hollowness of form, which,\nas Fielding long ago said, and Moliere\nand Sheridan long ago showed, alone\nmight serve fittingly as the object of ridi-\ncule. Mrs. Tisbet Bayard, Dr. La Mon-\ntagne, the various officers and councillors,\nand the two pairs of lovers, all are well\ndrawn, and would seem to assure suc-\ncessful comedy as the result of their\ncharacters being acted upon by that of the\nGovernor, and interacting one upon an-\nother. Yet it must be frankly admitted\nthat \" Peter Stuyvesant\" is not so inter-\nesting as might have been expected. The\nvarious personages are individually at-\ntractive or amusing, as the case may be,"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "58", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3980, "texte": "but they fail to combine well. The scenes\nlack vitality, and we do not follow the\nplot with real absorption. The fault may\nto some extent be ours. The life of\nBroadway surges around us, and the ex-\ncitement of a great city is, however un-\nconscious we may be of it, in our veins.\nWe are end-of-the-century New Yorkers,\nhaving little in common with the sedate\nburghers of an age long past. This is all\ntrue, and yet it seems easier to explain\nthe fact that \" Peter Stuyvesant,\" though\nvery enjoyable in parts, is not interesting\nthroughout, by calling attention to the\nlack of novelty in many of the situations,\nand to the obvious conventions several\ntimes employed.\nThere are certain indispensable stage\nconventions which, from their very hyper-\nobtrusiveness, like the purloined letter in\nPoe's tale, are little likely to be noticed.\nBut a playwright can afford to indulge\nonly very judiciously in the less inevi-\ntable conventionalities of dramatic con-\nstruction. The fundamental rules he\nmust observe, the crucial scene or scenes\n—the keynote to the play—what Sardou\ncalled the scene a f—must be well\nwrought; the psychological effect of the\nvarious incidents—their mirth-provok-\ning, their tension-causing or tension-re-\nlieving capacity, must all be taken into\naccount. But, beyond this, the great\ndramatist must strike out into the less\ncommon paths. He must be unwilling to\nlet any of his characters indulge in solil-\noquy that would have remained un-\nspoken in real life, in order to let dangle\nclearly before the eyes of the audience\ncertain threads in the woof of the plot.\nThis device, so fatal to dramatic illusion,\nis used in \" Peter Stuyvesant.\" And the\nplaywright who resorts to the familiar\nmoves in the old game of cross-purposes\nmust not wonder if some of the complica-\ntions appear artificial.\nThe plot is one of intrigues rather than\nof real life and passion.\nYet, despite a lack of originality and\nfinish in construction, and an insufficient\namount of real action, \" Peter Stuyve-\nsant \" was worth writing; it is a pleasant,\nwholesome American play that shows\nthe authors not gaining any great goal,\nit is true, yet pointing distinctly in the\nright direction.\nIt is interesting to compare a play like\n\" Peter Stuyvesant,\" at times imperfect\nin construction, with a play so close-knit\nas \" The Tyranny of Tears.\" Mr. Had-\ndon Chambers employs only six charac-\nters ; yet they suffice to keep the interest\nfrom flagging throughout the greater\npart of the four acts. There is absolutely\nno body to the piece, and it will probably\nsink out of sight as soon as the season is\nover; in the mean time it affords a few\npleasant hours, by means of its compact\nand natural action and its clever dialogue.\nIn one place, it is true, the naturalness is\nsacrificed to the compactness, and Mr.\nGeorge Gunning, the far-travelled and\nsomewhat cynical bachelor, asks the poor\nyoung typewriter to become his wife long\nbefore in real life there would have been\nany likelihood of his doing so. But with\nthis exception, Mr. Chambers shows ex-\ncellent workmanship from the point of\nview of the mechanism of play-writing.\nWe wish that all this skill and cleverness\nwere employed to less ephemeral ends.\nBy means of a certain amount of self-\ncontrol, all mention of the actors in\n\" Peter Stuyvesant\" and \" The Tyran-\nny of Tears \" has been avoided. The ob-\nject of this department is to study the\ndrama in itself, and though, of course, in\ndoing this a play's value for the stage—\nits \" actability \"—must be considered as\nwell as its more purely literary value, the\ngood or bad qualities of any individual\nactor need here not be taken into account.\nWe have, therefore, not alluded specific-\nally to the intelligent humor of Mr. Crane\nor the gentlemanly naturalness of Mr.\nDrew. In discussing \" Miss Hobbs,\"\nhowever, with any amount of fairness to\nourselves, it is impossible to omit mention\nof Miss Russell. If we were to say that\nMr. Jerome's is an unimportant play, ac-"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 9, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2144, "texte": "cording to all canons of dramatic art, the\nmany people who have found it one of the\nmost attractive of recent pieces would\nmarvel at our words. And yet it is great-\nly the charm of a young actress, and the\nwell-merited popularity of an old actress,\nto which the success of \" Miss Hobbs \"\nmay be attributed. Literary value, real\nthought, purpose, or result, there is none.\nPotentiality to amuse, a certain light\ngrace, a rippling stream of entertaining\nspeech—these are the substitutes offered\nus. Moreover there is skill in construc-\ntion; and, though we see an old stage\ntrick in the finding by Miss Hobbs of the\nbook in which is recorded the bet con-\ncerning herself, the good account to\nwhich later the incident is turned leads\nus to overlook the author's lack of con-\nstructive originality in having introduced\nit.\nWhat we are led, then, to expect from\nthese three recent comedies is this: For\nsome time, at least, the chief purpose of\nthe playwrights will remain one merely\nof amusement. The audience, after a\nday's hard work, will continue to go to\nthe theatre solely for pleasant relaxation.\nCleverly constructed bright plays will af-\nford this relaxation. Later it may dawn\nmore forcibly upon the public mind that\ncomedy can be significant as well as en-\ntertaining. National characteristics, na-\ntional events may then be more often in-\ntroduced; things worth ridiculing may\nlater be ridiculed, and we may in time\nhave our Sheridans, our Molieres, and\nour Augiers. There can be no art with-\nout significance, no great achievement\nin any branch of the drama unless there\nfirst be purpose other than one only of\namusement. There is here no idea of\ndidacticism or preaching, but of the in-\nherent lasting value of all great art. Un-\ntil the plays put on our stage present some\nessential significance of some kind,\nwhether national or universal, we cannot\nbe satisfied; yet in the mean time let us\ntake all the pleasure we can get from the\ngraceful, unimportant, amusing produc-\ntions of the present day. They are, at\nany rate, cleaner and brighter than much\nwith which we have had to put up in re-\ncent years.\n\nGeorge S. Hellman."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "57", "page_fin": "59", "image_debut": 25, "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.10.1", "titre_corps": "THREE RECENT COMEDIES Peter Stuyvesant, The Tyranny of Tears, Miss Hobbs", "titre_sommaire": "THREE RECENT COMEDIES Peter Stuyvesant, The Tyranny of Tears, Miss Hobbs", "signature_source": "George S. Hellman", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 675, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2911, "texte": "THREE RECENT COMEDIES\nPeter Stuyvesant, The Tyranny of Tears,\nMiss Hobbs\n\nIt is interesting to note that of the six\nplays which, perhaps, have thus far at-\ntracted the most attention during the\npresent season, three are dramatized\nnovels, while the other three are comedies,\nprimarily, of character. Reserving until\nlater all discussion concerning the signifi-\ncance (if any) of the almost simultaneous\nappearance of \" Becky Sharp,\" \" The\nOnly Way,\" and \"Children of the Ghet-\nto,\" we shall here attempt to point out the\nvalue of \" Peter Stuyvesant,\" \" The Tyr-\nanny of Tears,\" and \" Miss Hobbs.\"\nWe have called these three plays com-\nedies primarily of character, because it\nis in each case some foible in the charac-\nter of one of the important personages in\nthe play that is the prime basis for the\ncomedy element. In the first it is the\nheadstrongness of the old Dutch Gover-\nnor ; in the second, it is the selfishness of\nthe tearful Mrs. Parbury; in the third, it\nis the narrowness of the marriage-hating\nMiss Hobbs. They are, of course, all\nthree of them, comedies, in part, of situa-\ntion as well, while \" Peter Stuyvesant\"\nmight rightfully be considered also a his-\ntorical comedy of manners.\nJudging the play by Mr. Matthews and\nMr. Howard first from the point of view\nof the comedy of character, the decision\nseems to be that the authors have suc-\nceeded in creating, in the Governor of\nNew Amsterdam, a figure that is en-\ndowed with the qualities requisite for\nprovoking good-natured mirth. No vin-\ndictive laugh can be aroused by such a\ncharacter, for there is in it none of that\nhypocrisy, or hollowness of form, which,\nas Fielding long ago said, and Moliere\nand Sheridan long ago showed, alone\nmight serve fittingly as the object of ridi-\ncule. Mrs. Tisbet Bayard, Dr. La Mon-\ntagne, the various officers and councillors,\nand the two pairs of lovers, all are well\ndrawn, and would seem to assure suc-\ncessful comedy as the result of their\ncharacters being acted upon by that of the\nGovernor, and interacting one upon an-\nother. Yet it must be frankly admitted\nthat \" Peter Stuyvesant\" is not so inter-\nesting as might have been expected. The\nvarious personages are individually at-\ntractive or amusing, as the case may be,"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "58", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3980, "texte": "but they fail to combine well. The scenes\nlack vitality, and we do not follow the\nplot with real absorption. The fault may\nto some extent be ours. The life of\nBroadway surges around us, and the ex-\ncitement of a great city is, however un-\nconscious we may be of it, in our veins.\nWe are end-of-the-century New Yorkers,\nhaving little in common with the sedate\nburghers of an age long past. This is all\ntrue, and yet it seems easier to explain\nthe fact that \" Peter Stuyvesant,\" though\nvery enjoyable in parts, is not interesting\nthroughout, by calling attention to the\nlack of novelty in many of the situations,\nand to the obvious conventions several\ntimes employed.\nThere are certain indispensable stage\nconventions which, from their very hyper-\nobtrusiveness, like the purloined letter in\nPoe's tale, are little likely to be noticed.\nBut a playwright can afford to indulge\nonly very judiciously in the less inevi-\ntable conventionalities of dramatic con-\nstruction. The fundamental rules he\nmust observe, the crucial scene or scenes\n—the keynote to the play—what Sardou\ncalled the scene a f—must be well\nwrought; the psychological effect of the\nvarious incidents—their mirth-provok-\ning, their tension-causing or tension-re-\nlieving capacity, must all be taken into\naccount. But, beyond this, the great\ndramatist must strike out into the less\ncommon paths. He must be unwilling to\nlet any of his characters indulge in solil-\noquy that would have remained un-\nspoken in real life, in order to let dangle\nclearly before the eyes of the audience\ncertain threads in the woof of the plot.\nThis device, so fatal to dramatic illusion,\nis used in \" Peter Stuyvesant.\" And the\nplaywright who resorts to the familiar\nmoves in the old game of cross-purposes\nmust not wonder if some of the complica-\ntions appear artificial.\nThe plot is one of intrigues rather than\nof real life and passion.\nYet, despite a lack of originality and\nfinish in construction, and an insufficient\namount of real action, \" Peter Stuyve-\nsant \" was worth writing; it is a pleasant,\nwholesome American play that shows\nthe authors not gaining any great goal,\nit is true, yet pointing distinctly in the\nright direction.\nIt is interesting to compare a play like\n\" Peter Stuyvesant,\" at times imperfect\nin construction, with a play so close-knit\nas \" The Tyranny of Tears.\" Mr. Had-\ndon Chambers employs only six charac-\nters ; yet they suffice to keep the interest\nfrom flagging throughout the greater\npart of the four acts. There is absolutely\nno body to the piece, and it will probably\nsink out of sight as soon as the season is\nover; in the mean time it affords a few\npleasant hours, by means of its compact\nand natural action and its clever dialogue.\nIn one place, it is true, the naturalness is\nsacrificed to the compactness, and Mr.\nGeorge Gunning, the far-travelled and\nsomewhat cynical bachelor, asks the poor\nyoung typewriter to become his wife long\nbefore in real life there would have been\nany likelihood of his doing so. But with\nthis exception, Mr. Chambers shows ex-\ncellent workmanship from the point of\nview of the mechanism of play-writing.\nWe wish that all this skill and cleverness\nwere employed to less ephemeral ends.\nBy means of a certain amount of self-\ncontrol, all mention of the actors in\n\" Peter Stuyvesant\" and \" The Tyran-\nny of Tears \" has been avoided. The ob-\nject of this department is to study the\ndrama in itself, and though, of course, in\ndoing this a play's value for the stage—\nits \" actability \"—must be considered as\nwell as its more purely literary value, the\ngood or bad qualities of any individual\nactor need here not be taken into account.\nWe have, therefore, not alluded specific-\nally to the intelligent humor of Mr. Crane\nor the gentlemanly naturalness of Mr.\nDrew. In discussing \" Miss Hobbs,\"\nhowever, with any amount of fairness to\nourselves, it is impossible to omit mention\nof Miss Russell. If we were to say that\nMr. Jerome's is an unimportant play, ac-"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 9, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2144, "texte": "cording to all canons of dramatic art, the\nmany people who have found it one of the\nmost attractive of recent pieces would\nmarvel at our words. And yet it is great-\nly the charm of a young actress, and the\nwell-merited popularity of an old actress,\nto which the success of \" Miss Hobbs \"\nmay be attributed. Literary value, real\nthought, purpose, or result, there is none.\nPotentiality to amuse, a certain light\ngrace, a rippling stream of entertaining\nspeech—these are the substitutes offered\nus. Moreover there is skill in construc-\ntion; and, though we see an old stage\ntrick in the finding by Miss Hobbs of the\nbook in which is recorded the bet con-\ncerning herself, the good account to\nwhich later the incident is turned leads\nus to overlook the author's lack of con-\nstructive originality in having introduced\nit.\nWhat we are led, then, to expect from\nthese three recent comedies is this: For\nsome time, at least, the chief purpose of\nthe playwrights will remain one merely\nof amusement. The audience, after a\nday's hard work, will continue to go to\nthe theatre solely for pleasant relaxation.\nCleverly constructed bright plays will af-\nford this relaxation. Later it may dawn\nmore forcibly upon the public mind that\ncomedy can be significant as well as en-\ntertaining. National characteristics, na-\ntional events may then be more often in-\ntroduced; things worth ridiculing may\nlater be ridiculed, and we may in time\nhave our Sheridans, our Molieres, and\nour Augiers. There can be no art with-\nout significance, no great achievement\nin any branch of the drama unless there\nfirst be purpose other than one only of\namusement. There is here no idea of\ndidacticism or preaching, but of the in-\nherent lasting value of all great art. Un-\ntil the plays put on our stage present some\nessential significance of some kind,\nwhether national or universal, we cannot\nbe satisfied; yet in the mean time let us\ntake all the pleasure we can get from the\ngraceful, unimportant, amusing produc-\ntions of the present day. They are, at\nany rate, cleaner and brighter than much\nwith which we have had to put up in re-\ncent years.\n\nGeorge S. Hellman."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "59", "page_fin": "64", "image_debut": 27, "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.11", "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": 27, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 2146, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3641, "texte": "Reviews\nSTALKY & CO. By Rudyard Kipling.\nThe Doubleday and McClure Company.\nFor an American, whose idea of Eng-\nlish school-life is derived largely from\n\" Tom Brown at Rugby,\" a comparison\nbetween Mr. Kipling's \" Stalky & Co.\"\nand Thomas Hughes's classic of immortal\nmemory, will seem inevitable. The Rug-\nby of those days, the days of Arnold and\nof Clough, was often accused of making\nmen prigs, and, through excess of moral\nand religious training, morbid and in-\ncapable of action. This may be partly\ntrue, and undoubtedly, in the case of an\nArthur Clough, too fine an edge was put\nupon the highly tempered blade with\nwhich the youth was expected to carve\nout his fortunes in the world. But, how-\never this may have been, it would be a\nvery unusual critic who should find in\n\" Tom Brown,\" the mirror of Rugby, any\ntrace of the mawkish and \" goody-\ngoody.\" The predominant note, that\nwhich has made it endure, is a fine and\nattractive manliness—a spirit of natural\nbreeding and nobility like nothing to be\nfound in this new exponent of English\nschool-life, \" Stalky & Co.\" Not only in\nthe academy of Mr. Kipling are the spirit-\nual ideals of honor and of chivalry abso-\nlutely lacking, but even on the purely\nphysical side of boyhood, when one would\nexpect to find Kipling supreme in the\nidealization of the hardy virtues, Dr. Ar-\nnold's boys seem far manlier than Butler,\nStalky, and McTurk. At Rugby there\nwas no end of foot-ball, cricket, and fight-\ning, with just enough of mischievous mis-"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "60", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4027, "texte": "demeanor to indicate truthfully the natu-\nral bent of boyhood for trouble. In\n\" Stalky & Co.\" there are sneers for the\ntraditional games of the Briton, and often\nin this long-sustained record of brutal\nfagging, mean-spirited and venomous\ntrickery, we long unspeakably for some-\nthing that never happens—a good, manly\nstand-up fight for the settlement of openly\nresented grievances. Guile is the chief\nlesson that Mr. Kipling teaches in these\nstories: the value of doing a thing cau-\ntiously and with the least possible open\ndeclaration of intention and motive. Ex-\npediency is the new Golden Rule, and be-\nsides, the highest moral teachings are a\nsort of rude justice the essence of which\nis revenge and reprisals, and a sort of be-\ngrudging, unsympathetic assistance of\nthe weaker party. In \" The Moral Re-\nformers \" the new morality is exploited\nvery clearly and on its highest plane.\nTwo \" crammer's rejections \" make life\nmiserable for little Clewer. At the in-\nstance of the clergyman of the school,\nand not through any love or deep pity for\nthe victim, who is a \" dirty little brute,\"\nNumber Five Study undertakes his res-\ncue. This is accomplished by a trick\nthrough which Sefton and Campbell, the\ntwo persecutors, are thrown into the\nhands of Stalky & Co., who proceed to ply\nthem with all the tortures that devilish\ningenuity and bitter bygone experience\ncan devise in a spirit of simple savagery\nmasking as a righteous visitation of jus-\ntice. The other great virtue with which\nreaders of Mr. Kipling are familiar in\nthe heroes of his other tales, is cleanli-\nness. This is seen in its constructive\nstages in \" An Unsavory Interlude,\" in\nwhich accusations of personal neglect are\nturned to the torment of the accusers by\nthe intrusion of a dead cat under the floor\nof one of the houses, all to the accompani-\nment of the foulest language in English\nsince the days of Swift. In short, the\nwhole atmosphere of the book is ugly,\ncompact of sheer brutality, vulgar coarse-\nness, and a spirit of malignant meanness\nthat do not show out in mere summaries\nof Mr. Kipling's plots. It is impossible\nto gain, without reading the book, a really\nadequate notion of the unyouthful boy-\nhood and precocious corruption of Mr.\nKipling's pictures of British school-life.\nTo argue in justification of these stories\nthat a young boy is an animal and that\nleft to himself or placed amid debasing in-\nfluences—and such are the influences ex-\nerted by masters like King and Prout—\nhe will remain an animal, developing up-\non that side, is to say nothing to the point.\nFor the child is father to the man, and\neach boj has in his nature a higher some-\nthing that needs but to be caressed to be\nawakened. In just one appreciable point\ndoes Mr. Kipling attempt to make us\naware of this fact, and that is in \" The\nFlag of Their Country.\" Here he en-\ndeavors to show a patriotism that is\nabove cheap display of shoddy sentimen-\ntalism and of calico flags, too sacred for\nprofaning speech. This ideal is very\nhigh and noble even in exaggeration that\ntranscends our comprehension and be-\nlief, as, for instance, when it is said of the\nUnion Jack: \"They had certainly seen\nthe thing before—down at the coast-\nguard station, or through a telescope,\nhalf-mast high when a brig went ashore\non Braunton Sands; above the roof of\nthe Golf-club, and in Keyte's window,\nwhere a certain kind of striped sweet-\nmeat bore it in paper on each box. But\nthe College never displayed it; it was no\npart of the scheme of their lives; the\nHead had never alluded to it; their fa-\nthers had never declared it unto them. It\nwas a matter shut up, sacred and apart.\"\nBut this patriotism bedded in shame-\nfaced, savage pride, is too fine a blossom\nfor the soil it springs from.\nOf course, these pictures are ideali-\nzations : they form a complete exposition\nof the training that Mr. Kipling deems\nnecessary for the British conquest of the\nworld. It does not need the poem with\nwhich the book opens to tell us that from\nthis peculiar moulding of the boy nature"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "61", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 9, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3767, "texte": "he believes is to be acquired that especial\nkind of character in the man, which alone\ncan accomplish the building of empires.\nNor does it need more than a knowledge\nof Mr. Kipling's imperialistic ideal, to\nmake the innate glory of a system fruit-\nful of such magnificent results, follow as\nan inevitable conclusion. Mr. Kipling\ngloats over the picture as he draws it with\nunctuous richness of slang, dirtiness, and\ncunning immorality. For is not the\nschool the microcosm of the colonial em-\npire? Are there not to be seen here in\nthe making, those particular qualities\nwhich we have learned to look for in the\nCecil Rhodes of imperialism—calculat-\ning aggressiveness, sublimated finesse,\ncontemptuous disregard for old-fashioned\nstandards of right and wrong, and a cyn-\nical unscrupulousness in the undeviating\nworking out of a heaven-appointed end?\nOld Rugby boys only recently raised a\nmonument to the memory of Tom\nHughes, who in reflecting the life of his\nschool became for Englishmen the em-\nbodiment of the virtues it represented.\nWhether or not a new generation of the\nEnglish will ever erect a monument to\nMr. Kipling, with the same love and ven-\neration, it is difficult to say. It is certain,\nhowever, that Mr. Kipling's monument\nwill partake in the general crumbling nat-\nure of the material welfare of his race for\nwhich he stands, and to which he here\nsacrifices in the bud, all the more per-\nmanent qualities of character which\nalone so far have made England great\namong nations.\n\nWRITINGS OF IDEALISTS\nTHE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT. By\nHamilton Wright Mabie. Dodd, Mead\n& Co.\nLETTERS OF EMERSON TO A\nFRIEND. Edited by Charles Eliot\n' Norton. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.\nTo the steadily continuing body of\nidealistic literature in America the latest\nwork of Mr. Hamilton Wright Mabie is\nno mean contribution, and deserves more\nthan a passing comment. Though the too\nfrequent use of the words \" Christ \" and\n\" God \" and \" divine \"make us fear lest\nthe author border too closely on \" the ser-\nmonizing of self-consecrated priests con-\ncerning mysteries no mind has clearly\ngrasped,\" there are many chapters con-\ntaining noble lessons nobly put; and\nthough the book presents no detailed\nscheme in structure, there is throughout a\nsimilar loftiness of tone and oneness of\npurpose.\n\" The Life of the Spirit\" has for its\nthesis the value of the spiritual in man's\nlife. Patriotism, courage, honor, helpful-\nness, friendship, beauty—these are among\nthe subjects with which Mr. Mabie deals.\nHis point of view is always the same.\nSeeing in religion, ground for belief in\nthe immortality of what is spiritual, and\nfinding in the results of modern science\nconfirmation rather than refutation of\nthis belief; confident that what is good\nin man must from the very logic of the\nuniverse be most permanent, Mr. Mabie\nis enabled to express views many of\nwhich, in spite of their lack of novelty\n(for Idealism is a single and ancient\ncreed, however numerous be its proph-\nets) will to the sceptic once more be sug-\ngestive, and to the sympathetic, once\nmore be inspiring.\nBy Idealism, whether used in reference\nto writers of literature or to men in the\nordinary walks of life, is meant not any\ncreed of visionaries and byword of prac-\ntical folk, but, rather, faith in the signifi-\ncance and permanence of noble qualities,\nand belief in a purpose toward good in\nthe universe, as evidenced by this perma-\nnence. This is an off-hand definition, al-\nlowing of modification and additions, but\nit suffices to show that Idealism is a creed\nfor the many rather than for the few.\nWhatever concerns the great idealists is\nof permanent interest, because they are\nidentified with what is most permanent\nin life; and in this way may be explained\nthe lasting regard for everything con-"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "62", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3880, "texte": "nected with Emerson, the greatest of our\nliterary idealists. The \" Letters to a\nFriend,\" recently edited by Charles Eliot\nNorton, are welcome in that they cast\nmore light on the character of a man we\nrevere. They are, most of them, notes so\nslight that the simple, clear style is seen\nlittle more than in outline; yet they con-\ntribute toward illustrating again Emer-\nson's views on friendship, so that even\nthrough the meagre substance of these\nletters we seem to hear him teach us once\nmore that \" the only way to have a friend\nis to be one.\"\nIn dealing in the same review with\nwritings of Emerson and of Mr. Mabie,\nwe are willingly associating the living au-\nthor with the great dead. It may, how-\never, be not amiss to suggest that while\nonly the intellectual few can be the literary\nexponents of Idealism, it is not alone to\nthe intellectual few that they must address\nthemselves. Christ made his teachings\ninteresting through parables, and hid the\nlaw in the poetry of imagery; the long\nline of great moral writers from Marcus\nAurelius to Maeterlinck made the beauty\nof their words or the sparkle of their epi-\ngram relieve the didacticism of their\nthought, and, above all, they made their\nappeal so humanly intimate that, however\ndiversified their audience, all felt them-\nselves personally addressed. From these\npoints of view of what may be called the\naccessories to idealistic literature, Mr.\nMabie will, we are confident, be willing\nto yield in rank to Emerson and others of\nhis superiors.\n\nRECENT SHORT STORIES\n\nSAND AND CACTUS. By Wolcott\nLeClear Beard. THE POWERS AT\nPLAY. By Bliss Perry. THE LION\nAND THE UNICORN. By Rich-\nard Harding Davis. Charles Scribner's\nSons.\nIf the short story is to be the literary\nform of the future, superseding the novel,\nas the novel superseded the written play\nin popular favor, it is natural that we\nshould take up each new volume in this\nclass eagerly, in the expectation of find-\ning the modern masterpiece. What this\nwill be like when we do come across it;\nwhat, indeed, is the real nature of the\nshort story, are matters in much dispute.\nOr, to give the question as it is ordinarily\nstated, does the short story exist as a\nform of art fundamentally different from\nlonger prose fiction, or is whatever differ-\nence there may be, a simple one of length ?\nOne thing seems certain; if the short\nstory is a legitimate form of art, it must\ndeal with the material common to all pre-\nviously recognized forms. It must treat\nof life and human experience dramatized,\nintensified, made typical, universal, sig-\nnificant. It is thus obvious that in this\nsense there can be no fundamental differ-\nence between the short story and other\nliterary genres.The only permissible\ndifference is one of treatment, and con-\nsists in the greater condensation or in the\nhigher degree of artistic selection de-\nmanded by the rigid exactions of length.\nThis puts the short story on a par with\nthe drama in a comparison with longer,\nfuller forms of composition. The real\nquestion seems to be whether the high de-\ngree of selection and condensation neces-\nsitated by the physical requirements of\nthe short story can be actually practised\nwithout impairing the importance and\nsignificance demanded of any work of art.\nAnd because we have great dramas, as\nwell as great novels and epics, there seems\nto be no reason why there should not be\ngreat short stories as well. Only, of\ncourse, the degree of artistic skill required\nis extraordinarily high, just as it takes\nthe master-hand to make great dramas.\nThe danger is that in seeking to gain in\nsmall compass the unity that exists in all\nart, and which is especially important for\nthe short story which depends for its ef-\nfect largely upon the totality of its im-\npression, the author is too likely to sub-\nstitute for the higher unity of novels and\nepics, the inferior, superficial unity of sin-"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "63", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 9, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3843, "texte": "gle, striking episodes and surface impres-\nsions. Indeed, this has become practically\nthe ideal of most modern short story\nwriters, and accounts for the almost uni-\nversal identification of the short story\nwith the sketch of local color in man and\nnature.\nMr. Wolcott Le Clear Beard's \" Sand\nand Cactus \" is a typical example of this\nlocal color realism. These stories deal\nwith the life and scenery of the South-\nwest—strange, colored, and violent. Mr.\nBeard is usually ingenious in his en-\ndeavor to parade his materials entertain-\ningly. But our curiosity is soon satisfied\nwith this rather monotonous, because\nprimitive and narrow, range of purely\nphysical savagery; and finding little in-\nsistance upon that \" one touch of nature,\"\nour interest flags at even the most\ninventions of the author.\nIn \" The Powers at Play,\" Mr. Bliss\nPerry comes closer to the ideal of the\nshort story, despite two or three bald fail-\nures such as \" Madam Annalena \" and\n\" The Incident of the British Ambassa-\ndor.\" In \" His Word of Honor \" and\n\" By the Committee \" we recognize the\ntrue artistic method and motif. The\npowers referred to in the title of the\nbook, are the external forces of destiny,\nwhich is neither more nor less than the\ncomplex of human action; and the inter-\nnal force of individual character deter-\nmining at once the degree of each man's\nsubjection to fate, and forming an in-\ntegral element in the common destiny.\nThese are the elements in all tragedy and\ncomedy, and they enter in a striking de-\ngree into \" By the Committee,\" which,\nwith its well-knit and logical construction\nand careful characterization is one of the\nbest stories we have seen for some time.\nA third writer who comes before us is\nRichard Harding Davis with \" The Lion\nand the Unicorn.\" Probably there is no\nother writer of short stories to-day so\ntalented as Mr. Davis. He has a wonder-\nful facility and a wide range. While hav-\ning no very deep or subtile knowledge of\nhuman nature, he has something more\nthan a surface acquaintance with the\nthoughts and feelings of various men and\nwomen. Yet his obvious lack of sincerity,\nhis continual striving after striking effect,\nmakes it impossible to give his work very\nserious consideration. He employs his\ntalents simply and solely in the writing of\npretty magazine stories, which he turns\nout with machine-like regularity and per-\nfection. Through all his work one feels\nthe repression rather than the expression\nof his powers. Each story is suggestive\nof a well-made, well-acted, and admirably\nstaged, but altogether artificial play. His\npeople are the play-actors of a highly\ntrained stock company, stepping out of\none set of parts into another as easily as\nthe author-manager shifts his sets of\nscenes. Everything smacks of the play\nand its conventions, and there is rather\nthe illusion of the stage than the convinc-\ning reality of life. And here, of course,\nthe man of letters is selling his birth-\nright. It seems a pity that a man who\ncan so cleverly simulate eloquence and\ndeep feeling in a story like \" The Man\nwith One Talent,\" should abandon trifling\nand give free rein to his powers, produc-\ning something less finished and harmoni-\nous perhaps, but with more of vitality in\nit. And Mr. Davis can do this if he\nwishes.\nA HISTORY OF LITERARY CRIT-\nICISM IN THE RENAISSANCE.\nBy Joel Elias Spingarn. The Mac-\nmillan Company.\nThis volume traverses a field which has\nhitherto been systematically ignored by\nhistorians of literary criticism. The\nmediaeval times were indeed dark ages in\nthe theory of art, but neither they nor\nthose of early Renaissance were so black\nthat their gloom was irradiated by no\nshaft of light. It is this fact that Mr.\nSpingarn demonstrates. His exposition\nof the surprising extent to which Italy\nwas the seed-ground and nursery of the\nthought of Philip Sidney, Boileau, and"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "64", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3661, "texte": "their immediate predecessors in England\nand France, stimulates here for the first\ntime a curiosity which, again, it is the first\nto satisfy.\nThe author offers a discussion of the\ntheory of poetry from its mediaeval be-\nginnings in the ascetic Christian Church,\nto its rehabilitation in accordance with\nthe dicta of the Stagirite.\nThe gap which long existed between\nthe Poetics of Aristotle and Horace's\nPoetica in antiquity, and the comparative-\nly modern Defence of Poesy of Sidney, is\nhere closed. The volume therefore takes\non a double aspect. In its opening pages\nit presents a picture of an attitude of mind,\nof a popular feeling toward literature,\nfor there was no criticism at the dawn of\nthe Renaissance. In its place there was\na consciousness that all fiction was to be\nregarded as subservient to theology and\nthe Church, that the criteria that litera-\nture was to be judged by, were purely\nmoral criteria. But the discovery of the\nPoetics of Aristotle introduced at once an\nentire change in the point of view. A\ncriticism was then set up with canons of\nits own. The evolution of literature be-\ncame a distinct science. From that point\nonward the author is concerned not with\nthe place of letters before the people, but\nwith a more technical subject—the suc-\ncessive modification of a specialized\nstudy, which was the legacy of Greece to\nmodern Europe.\nThe account of the rise and particular\nphases of scientific criticism in Italy is,\nindeed, the most novel feature of the\nvolume.\nA presentation of the theories of Italian\ncriticism, as a whole, has been a desidera-\ntum. Hence few of the persons in the\nsucceeding chapters are familiar. Tris-\nsino, Dolce, Cinthio, and Tasso are there,\nit is true, but the great majority of names,\nthough freely used by the critics of their\nday, are now forgotten in Tuscany itself,\nand the works for which they stood are\neven more obscure. In the interest of\nclearness, therefore, a topical rather than\na chronological order is observed in the\nexposition. The general theory of po-\netry in Italy, the theory of the drama and\nof the epic, and, lastly, the successful\nestablishment of the classical tradition,\nmodified as it was by the romantic spirit,\nare severally unfolded. The poetic the-\nory of the sixteenth century, in short,\nis reconstructed in its entirety.\nThe elucidation of the ideals of the\nItalian writers is followed by a similar\nexamination of the progress that they\nmade in France and England. Here, of\ncourse, the matter is in no sense new.\nThe distinctive feature is the interpreta-\ntion of French and English writers in ac-\ncordance with the spirit of their Italian\npredecessors, and, more strikingly, in the\ndemonstration of the dependence of the\nnorthern nations upon the Adriatic penin-\nsula. This has always been recognized in\nthe main with sufficient clearness.\nIn the case of Neo-Aristotelianism\nfrom Pelletier and Ascham to Boileau\nand Milton, it needs no heralding, but\nhow absolute and servile the dependence\nwas in many of its features, has not, per-\nhaps, been understood. The integration\nof the national movements, Mr. Spingarn\nmakes very plain. The indication of the\nprimacy in time of the Italian over the\nnorthern critics, in matters of detail, is, it\nshould also be said in passing, admirably\nsure, and, sometimes, as with the antece-\ndents of Sidney's thought, is very strik-\ning.\nIn dignity and power the book is\nworthy of the subject which it treats.\nThe scholarship is thorough and convinc-\ning, though the directness of the style,\ntogether with an unfailing emphasis\nupon essential points, tends to obscure a\nminute and careful grasp of unusual de-\ntail.\n\nJ. G. U."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "61", "page_fin": "62", "image_debut": 29, "image_fin": 30, "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.11.1", "titre_corps": "WRITINGS OF IDEALISTS", "titre_sommaire": "WRITINGS OF IDEALISTS", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "61", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 1504, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3767, "texte": "WRITINGS OF IDEALISTS\nTHE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT. By\nHamilton Wright Mabie. Dodd, Mead\n& Co.\nLETTERS OF EMERSON TO A\nFRIEND. Edited by Charles Eliot\n' Norton. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.\nTo the steadily continuing body of\nidealistic literature in America the latest\nwork of Mr. Hamilton Wright Mabie is\nno mean contribution, and deserves more\nthan a passing comment. Though the too\nfrequent use of the words \" Christ \" and\n\" God \" and \" divine \"make us fear lest\nthe author border too closely on \" the ser-\nmonizing of self-consecrated priests con-\ncerning mysteries no mind has clearly\ngrasped,\" there are many chapters con-\ntaining noble lessons nobly put; and\nthough the book presents no detailed\nscheme in structure, there is throughout a\nsimilar loftiness of tone and oneness of\npurpose.\n\" The Life of the Spirit\" has for its\nthesis the value of the spiritual in man's\nlife. Patriotism, courage, honor, helpful-\nness, friendship, beauty—these are among\nthe subjects with which Mr. Mabie deals.\nHis point of view is always the same.\nSeeing in religion, ground for belief in\nthe immortality of what is spiritual, and\nfinding in the results of modern science\nconfirmation rather than refutation of\nthis belief; confident that what is good\nin man must from the very logic of the\nuniverse be most permanent, Mr. Mabie\nis enabled to express views many of\nwhich, in spite of their lack of novelty\n(for Idealism is a single and ancient\ncreed, however numerous be its proph-\nets) will to the sceptic once more be sug-\ngestive, and to the sympathetic, once\nmore be inspiring.\nBy Idealism, whether used in reference\nto writers of literature or to men in the\nordinary walks of life, is meant not any\ncreed of visionaries and byword of prac-\ntical folk, but, rather, faith in the signifi-\ncance and permanence of noble qualities,\nand belief in a purpose toward good in\nthe universe, as evidenced by this perma-\nnence. This is an off-hand definition, al-\nlowing of modification and additions, but\nit suffices to show that Idealism is a creed\nfor the many rather than for the few.\nWhatever concerns the great idealists is\nof permanent interest, because they are\nidentified with what is most permanent\nin life; and in this way may be explained\nthe lasting regard for everything con-"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "62", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1513, "texte": "nected with Emerson, the greatest of our\nliterary idealists. The \" Letters to a\nFriend,\" recently edited by Charles Eliot\nNorton, are welcome in that they cast\nmore light on the character of a man we\nrevere. They are, most of them, notes so\nslight that the simple, clear style is seen\nlittle more than in outline; yet they con-\ntribute toward illustrating again Emer-\nson's views on friendship, so that even\nthrough the meagre substance of these\nletters we seem to hear him teach us once\nmore that \" the only way to have a friend\nis to be one.\"\nIn dealing in the same review with\nwritings of Emerson and of Mr. Mabie,\nwe are willingly associating the living au-\nthor with the great dead. It may, how-\never, be not amiss to suggest that while\nonly the intellectual few can be the literary\nexponents of Idealism, it is not alone to\nthe intellectual few that they must address\nthemselves. Christ made his teachings\ninteresting through parables, and hid the\nlaw in the poetry of imagery; the long\nline of great moral writers from Marcus\nAurelius to Maeterlinck made the beauty\nof their words or the sparkle of their epi-\ngram relieve the didacticism of their\nthought, and, above all, they made their\nappeal so humanly intimate that, however\ndiversified their audience, all felt them-\nselves personally addressed. From these\npoints of view of what may be called the\naccessories to idealistic literature, Mr.\nMabie will, we are confident, be willing\nto yield in rank to Emerson and others of\nhis superiors."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaar-1899-12-15-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaar_1899-12-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "62", "page_fin": "64", "image_debut": 30, "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=bmtnaar18991215-01.2.11.2", "titre_corps": "RECENT SHORT STORIES", "titre_sommaire": "RECENT SHORT STORIES", "signature_source": "J. G. U", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "62", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 1515, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3880, "texte": "RECENT SHORT STORIES\n\nSAND AND CACTUS. By Wolcott\nLeClear Beard. THE POWERS AT\nPLAY. By Bliss Perry. THE LION\nAND THE UNICORN. By Rich-\nard Harding Davis. Charles Scribner's\nSons.\nIf the short story is to be the literary\nform of the future, superseding the novel,\nas the novel superseded the written play\nin popular favor, it is natural that we\nshould take up each new volume in this\nclass eagerly, in the expectation of find-\ning the modern masterpiece. What this\nwill be like when we do come across it;\nwhat, indeed, is the real nature of the\nshort story, are matters in much dispute.\nOr, to give the question as it is ordinarily\nstated, does the short story exist as a\nform of art fundamentally different from\nlonger prose fiction, or is whatever differ-\nence there may be, a simple one of length ?\nOne thing seems certain; if the short\nstory is a legitimate form of art, it must\ndeal with the material common to all pre-\nviously recognized forms. It must treat\nof life and human experience dramatized,\nintensified, made typical, universal, sig-\nnificant. It is thus obvious that in this\nsense there can be no fundamental differ-\nence between the short story and other\nliterary genres.The only permissible\ndifference is one of treatment, and con-\nsists in the greater condensation or in the\nhigher degree of artistic selection de-\nmanded by the rigid exactions of length.\nThis puts the short story on a par with\nthe drama in a comparison with longer,\nfuller forms of composition. The real\nquestion seems to be whether the high de-\ngree of selection and condensation neces-\nsitated by the physical requirements of\nthe short story can be actually practised\nwithout impairing the importance and\nsignificance demanded of any work of art.\nAnd because we have great dramas, as\nwell as great novels and epics, there seems\nto be no reason why there should not be\ngreat short stories as well. Only, of\ncourse, the degree of artistic skill required\nis extraordinarily high, just as it takes\nthe master-hand to make great dramas.\nThe danger is that in seeking to gain in\nsmall compass the unity that exists in all\nart, and which is especially important for\nthe short story which depends for its ef-\nfect largely upon the totality of its im-\npression, the author is too likely to sub-\nstitute for the higher unity of novels and\nepics, the inferior, superficial unity of sin-"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "63", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 9, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3843, "texte": "gle, striking episodes and surface impres-\nsions. Indeed, this has become practically\nthe ideal of most modern short story\nwriters, and accounts for the almost uni-\nversal identification of the short story\nwith the sketch of local color in man and\nnature.\nMr. Wolcott Le Clear Beard's \" Sand\nand Cactus \" is a typical example of this\nlocal color realism. These stories deal\nwith the life and scenery of the South-\nwest—strange, colored, and violent. Mr.\nBeard is usually ingenious in his en-\ndeavor to parade his materials entertain-\ningly. But our curiosity is soon satisfied\nwith this rather monotonous, because\nprimitive and narrow, range of purely\nphysical savagery; and finding little in-\nsistance upon that \" one touch of nature,\"\nour interest flags at even the most\ninventions of the author.\nIn \" The Powers at Play,\" Mr. Bliss\nPerry comes closer to the ideal of the\nshort story, despite two or three bald fail-\nures such as \" Madam Annalena \" and\n\" The Incident of the British Ambassa-\ndor.\" In \" His Word of Honor \" and\n\" By the Committee \" we recognize the\ntrue artistic method and motif. The\npowers referred to in the title of the\nbook, are the external forces of destiny,\nwhich is neither more nor less than the\ncomplex of human action; and the inter-\nnal force of individual character deter-\nmining at once the degree of each man's\nsubjection to fate, and forming an in-\ntegral element in the common destiny.\nThese are the elements in all tragedy and\ncomedy, and they enter in a striking de-\ngree into \" By the Committee,\" which,\nwith its well-knit and logical construction\nand careful characterization is one of the\nbest stories we have seen for some time.\nA third writer who comes before us is\nRichard Harding Davis with \" The Lion\nand the Unicorn.\" Probably there is no\nother writer of short stories to-day so\ntalented as Mr. Davis. He has a wonder-\nful facility and a wide range. While hav-\ning no very deep or subtile knowledge of\nhuman nature, he has something more\nthan a surface acquaintance with the\nthoughts and feelings of various men and\nwomen. Yet his obvious lack of sincerity,\nhis continual striving after striking effect,\nmakes it impossible to give his work very\nserious consideration. He employs his\ntalents simply and solely in the writing of\npretty magazine stories, which he turns\nout with machine-like regularity and per-\nfection. Through all his work one feels\nthe repression rather than the expression\nof his powers. Each story is suggestive\nof a well-made, well-acted, and admirably\nstaged, but altogether artificial play. His\npeople are the play-actors of a highly\ntrained stock company, stepping out of\none set of parts into another as easily as\nthe author-manager shifts his sets of\nscenes. Everything smacks of the play\nand its conventions, and there is rather\nthe illusion of the stage than the convinc-\ning reality of life. And here, of course,\nthe man of letters is selling his birth-\nright. It seems a pity that a man who\ncan so cleverly simulate eloquence and\ndeep feeling in a story like \" The Man\nwith One Talent,\" should abandon trifling\nand give free rein to his powers, produc-\ning something less finished and harmoni-\nous perhaps, but with more of vitality in\nit. And Mr. Davis can do this if he\nwishes.\nA HISTORY OF LITERARY CRIT-\nICISM IN THE RENAISSANCE.\nBy Joel Elias Spingarn. The Mac-\nmillan Company.\nThis volume traverses a field which has\nhitherto been systematically ignored by\nhistorians of literary criticism. The\nmediaeval times were indeed dark ages in\nthe theory of art, but neither they nor\nthose of early Renaissance were so black\nthat their gloom was irradiated by no\nshaft of light. It is this fact that Mr.\nSpingarn demonstrates. His exposition\nof the surprising extent to which Italy\nwas the seed-ground and nursery of the\nthought of Philip Sidney, Boileau, and"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "64", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 13, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3661, "texte": "their immediate predecessors in England\nand France, stimulates here for the first\ntime a curiosity which, again, it is the first\nto satisfy.\nThe author offers a discussion of the\ntheory of poetry from its mediaeval be-\nginnings in the ascetic Christian Church,\nto its rehabilitation in accordance with\nthe dicta of the Stagirite.\nThe gap which long existed between\nthe Poetics of Aristotle and Horace's\nPoetica in antiquity, and the comparative-\nly modern Defence of Poesy of Sidney, is\nhere closed. The volume therefore takes\non a double aspect. In its opening pages\nit presents a picture of an attitude of mind,\nof a popular feeling toward literature,\nfor there was no criticism at the dawn of\nthe Renaissance. In its place there was\na consciousness that all fiction was to be\nregarded as subservient to theology and\nthe Church, that the criteria that litera-\nture was to be judged by, were purely\nmoral criteria. But the discovery of the\nPoetics of Aristotle introduced at once an\nentire change in the point of view. A\ncriticism was then set up with canons of\nits own. The evolution of literature be-\ncame a distinct science. From that point\nonward the author is concerned not with\nthe place of letters before the people, but\nwith a more technical subject—the suc-\ncessive modification of a specialized\nstudy, which was the legacy of Greece to\nmodern Europe.\nThe account of the rise and particular\nphases of scientific criticism in Italy is,\nindeed, the most novel feature of the\nvolume.\nA presentation of the theories of Italian\ncriticism, as a whole, has been a desidera-\ntum. Hence few of the persons in the\nsucceeding chapters are familiar. Tris-\nsino, Dolce, Cinthio, and Tasso are there,\nit is true, but the great majority of names,\nthough freely used by the critics of their\nday, are now forgotten in Tuscany itself,\nand the works for which they stood are\neven more obscure. In the interest of\nclearness, therefore, a topical rather than\na chronological order is observed in the\nexposition. The general theory of po-\netry in Italy, the theory of the drama and\nof the epic, and, lastly, the successful\nestablishment of the classical tradition,\nmodified as it was by the romantic spirit,\nare severally unfolded. The poetic the-\nory of the sixteenth century, in short,\nis reconstructed in its entirety.\nThe elucidation of the ideals of the\nItalian writers is followed by a similar\nexamination of the progress that they\nmade in France and England. Here, of\ncourse, the matter is in no sense new.\nThe distinctive feature is the interpreta-\ntion of French and English writers in ac-\ncordance with the spirit of their Italian\npredecessors, and, more strikingly, in the\ndemonstration of the dependence of the\nnorthern nations upon the Adriatic penin-\nsula. This has always been recognized in\nthe main with sufficient clearness.\nIn the case of Neo-Aristotelianism\nfrom Pelletier and Ascham to Boileau\nand Milton, it needs no heralding, but\nhow absolute and servile the dependence\nwas in many of its features, has not, per-\nhaps, been understood. The integration\nof the national movements, Mr. Spingarn\nmakes very plain. The indication of the\nprimacy in time of the Italian over the\nnorthern critics, in matters of detail, is, it\nshould also be said in passing, admirably\nsure, and, sometimes, as with the antece-\ndents of Sidney's thought, is very strik-\ning.\nIn dignity and power the book is\nworthy of the subject which it treats.\nThe scholarship is thorough and convinc-\ning, though the directness of the style,\ntogether with an unfailing emphasis\nupon essential points, tends to obscure a\nminute and careful grasp of unusual de-\ntail.\n\nJ. G. U."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "[33]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.1", "texte": "EAST&WE S T\nVolume I New York, December, 1899 Number 2\n\nNight-Wind\nBeatrix Demarest Lloyd\nBy\nTike some great pearl from\nUpheld by unseen hands\nAn offering to adorn a\nThat some dependent princelin\nThe moon slow rises into\nThe pulseless air with\nN<ra/ quickens' neath her\nThe still-poised midnight\nWith jealous haste he d\nAnd by his right forbids\nTo note her beauty and\nThen up on lover's wings\nImpatient for the joy of\nAnd to the earth are wafted down his sighs.\n\nComments\nthe one article in the\nfirst number of EAST AND WEST\nJ. which attracted the most atten-\ntion was Miss Edwards's \" The\nEclipse of Poetry.\" This very interest-\ning and suggestive essay elicited not only\nconsiderable praise, but at least one com-\nplete refutation as well. Miss Edwards\nclaimed, it will be remembered, that po-\netry was dead, and that its demise was\ndue to the coldness, not of critics, but of\nthe unappreciative world at large. Our\ncorrespondent, on the other hand, will\nhave it that poetry is not dead, but sleep-\ning, and that whatever indignities have\nbeen done to the Muse are not to be laid\nat the door of the much-maligned public,\nwhich is just as eager as ever it was to\nwelcome the true poet and to accept his\nwares. In support of his contention, he\ninstances the enormous popular success\nof \" Cyrano de Bergerac\" and of Mr.\nMarkham's Lucretian poem, \" The Man\nwith the Hoe.\" Now in this contrariety\nof opinions, dear readers—and here we\nare about to make our point—lies the\nmaking of an excellent controversy. And\nthat is just what we want for this depart-\nment of EAST AND WEST—a good, lusty,\nself-supporting controversy on this or\nany other subject of equal literary inter-\nest. If anyone has such, let him bring"}, {"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "34", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.2", "texte": "East & West\n\nit forward. If he would enter the lists\nas challenger or in defence of a favorite\ntheory, this arena, well-sanded and\nspacious, with seats for an infinite num-\nber of spectators, is at his pleasure and\ndisposal; provided only, of course, that\nhe will recognize us as mouthpiece\nfor both parties, umpire, and stage-man-\nager, with power to declare contests\nclosed at discretion, and to bring on a\nnew attraction when the old shall have\nproved wearisome.\nThe essay on \" American Literary\nCommonplace,\" in this number of EAST\nAND WEST, is certainly suggestive; and\nin spite of its rather cynical and pessimis-\ntic tone, which we by no means endorse,\nwe are glad to present it to our readers as\nat least a partial expression of our own\nviews. There is one important considera-\ntion to be borne in mind while reading it,\nconcerning a matter which the author\nhas neglected to cover quite adequately.\nIt is that the problem of the commonplace,\nhowever important sociologically and\neconomically, and, however interesting\nthrough the laws—imitation, supply, and\ndemand, etc.—involved in its production,\nis, after all, only secondary, except as it\nbears upon and influences the production\nof real literature. Taken by itself as a\ncurious modern phase of the economical\nproblem—and so the writer seems rath-\ner inclined to take it—it bears about the\nsame relation to the destinies of true art\nthat the liquor problem and the question\nof a \" dry Sunday \" bear to ethics. What\nwe are interested in as lovers of let-\nters, is always the best that is doing at\nthe present day; and in our hands criti-\ncism should be the instrument to unearth\nit. If we turn our attention for the mo-\nment with the author to a study of the\ncondition of the commonplace as an ele-\nment in the pen and ink activity of to-day,\nit is simply because we feel that by a rea-\nsonable recognition of two standards in\nmodern writing, and by putting the com-\nmonplace upon an honest commercial\nbasis, stripped of all illusions and false\nartistic pretensions, we shall not only\nlighten the task of criticism, but also at\nthe same time do the greatest possible\npresent service to the true literature and\nthe sincere literary endeavor of the period.\nThat there are those we faithfully believe;\nand we refuse to let the immense mass of\nmodern commonplace discourage us, ©r\nblind us to the fact that now, as ever,\ndo men produce books born of hon-\nest inspiration and of aspirations for\nmore than money and cheap popular ac-\nclaim.\nLast year all three awards, in the Cen-\ntury prize literary competitions for col-\nlege graduates, were made to Bachelors\nof Arts (how charmingly modern femi-\nninity wears the old scholastic distinc-\ntion!) from girls' colleges in the East.\nThe announcement to this effect caused\nsome astonishment and carried wide-\nspread chagrin to the breasts of college\nboys. This year the tables are partially\nturned. Again, to be sure, it is a girl,\nMiss Marion Warner Wildman, of\nWestern Reserve University, who car-\nries off the palm for the prize poem, \" A\nHill Prayer;\" but the prizes for the es-\nsay and the short story go, respectively,\nto Mr. Henry Justin Smith, of the Uni-\nversity of Chicago, for \" The Poetry of\nWilliam Blake: An Opinion,\" and to\nMr. John M. Oskison, of Leland Stan-\nford Jr. University, for \" Only the Mas-\nter Shall Praise.\" Incidentally it is in-\nteresting to note that the scene of success\nhas shifted from East to West.\nIs there any real significance in the fact\nthat the prize poem has now, twice run-\nning, been submitted by a girl? The\nworld's greatest poetry, with but few ex-\nceptions, has, of course, been written by\nmen. How is it then, that, from our uni-\nversities which may justly be deemed the\nhorticultural hotbeds of American letters,,\nthe experience of the wide world for ages"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "35", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.3", "texte": "Nectar\n\nshould be reversed? Are our coming\npoets to be all Sapphos, Mrs. Brownings,\nand Christina Rossettis? Or is it that a\ndying out of the male line from Homer\nand Milton is to put a premium on po-\netesses ? The truth seems to be that at the\nage at which our young poets are here\nsubmitted to competitive test, a fair and\nfinal judgment cannot be made. Up to a\ncertain point and up to a certain age, the\nwoman has the advantage over the man,\nin the possession, by virtue of her sex, of\ncertain qualities which go to the fashion-\ning of good verse, and which share in the\nearlier maturity of womanhood. She is\nnaturally endowed with feeling for music,\ndelicacy of touch, fineness of sentiment—\nall the graces that we call \" poetic.\" The\nhigher qualities of poetry, on the other\nhand, strength, depth, and directness of\nthought and feeling, these are more dis-\ntinctively masculine and of correspond-\ningly later development. So that while\ncollege boys are struggling ordinarily\nwith structure and the difficulties of self-\nexpression—those of them, that is, who\nare not ashamed to whirl the wall-flower\nMuse—their academic sisters, six to one,\nare gaining full acclaim for their graceful,\nfinished versifying.\n\nNectar\nClarence Urmy\nBy\nIn a golden bowl I brew\nLeaf of rose and violet dew,\nAnd the essences of things\nNatal to Pierian springs:\n(Bird-song, brook-song, breeze a-blow,)\nSweets that in dream-gardens grow;\nSpray that leaped the harbor bar\nAmorous of the twilight star;\nBubbles of delight that float\nFrom a seraph's liquid note;\nBloom from Joy's low-bending bough;\nCupid, drop a kiss and now,\nSweetheart, here's a health to thee,\nDrink the draught, Sweetheart, with me!"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "36", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.4", "texte": "East & West\n\nThe House of Voiceless Cries\nW. C. Morrow\nBy\nIT was about an hour before sunset\nthat my heart, suddenly chilled\nwith the terror that filled me,\nstopped its beating as I gazed up-\non a wonderful house standing\njust within the edge of the forest that\nskirted the city on the south. The\nstrangeness of my fear lay in the fact that\nI had often seen the house before, and\nhad never found terror in its aspect.\nHad not abundant experience made me\nknow that every sudden impression like\nthis proceeded from a substantial source,\nand demanded an intelligent response in\nmy conduct, I might have put aside this\nsudden and almost overwhelming sen-\nsation.\nMany a time had I seen this queer\nhouse, but never before had its singular\nface stared and screamed at me in that\nstrenuous way. Nor had it ever oc-\ncurred to me before to note a singular\nresemblance between the front of the\nhouse and a human face. But here it\nwas upreared before me, not only a\ngigantic human face, but one with eyes\nstaring, and mouth stretched to the ut-\nmost in the act of screaming voicelessly\nin unspeakable terror. I had seen the\nfronts of houses somewhat similarly de-\nsigned, and that there was nothing strik-\ningly original in this one. There was no\nporch. The entrance, flush with the\nwall, would have been commonplace had\nit not been for a grooved pilaster on\neither side, supporting an ornamental\narchitrave above the door. Higher were\ntwo round windows, and between them\nand the door was a narrow rectangular\nwindow, doubtless to light the stairs\nwithin. Perhaps, had I stayed to reason,\nI should have reflected that the low posi-\ntion of the sun, and the effect of its rays\nstriking athwart the front of the house,\nproduced an illusion that transformed\nthe house-front into a screaming human\nface; for the door was certainly thrown\nin deep shadow, and the flutings in the\npilasters were brought out with uncom-\nmon sharpness, giving them the appear-\nance of the perpendicular wrinkles that\nare formed when the mouth is opened\nwide; and perhaps, too, I should have\nreflected that from the same cause the\nleft side of each round window was cast\nin a curious crescent shadow, giving the\nwindows the appearance of eyes turned\nto the right toward me. But I saw only\na black, wide-open mouth, wrinkled\ndown the sides, and terror-rounded eyes\nstaring in agony toward me. And I saw,\nwhat I had never observed before, that\nthere were arched copings above the\nround windows, and that they were now\neyebrows raised in the general expres-\nsion of appealing terror, and that streaks,\nlooking to me to be tears, but no doubt\ncaused by the rains in washing the dust\nfrom the arched copings, ran down the\nface of the house. The one thing that\nabsorbed me now was an overwhelming\nsense of duty to answer the silent cry.\nWithout any further thought I opened\nthe gate, passed up a short, gravelly\nwalk, and tried to open the door. It was\nlocked. On the right was an old-fash-\nioned bell-pull, which I exercised so vig-\norously that I could hear the faint tinkle\nof the bell half smothered in the rear.\nPresently the door was cautiously un-\nlocked, and then opened a few inches.\nAn old woman's sharp, hard, suspicious\nface peered out at me. The look of ap-\nprehension upon it—the apprehension\nthat guilt may inspire—was not needed\nto lend strength to my courage."}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "37", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.5", "texte": "The House of Voiceless Cries\n\n\" What do you want ? \" she querulous-\nly asked.\n\" I want to enter,\" I answered, putting\nmy hand upon the door.\nShe instantly tried to close it, but I in-\nterposed a shoulder, and forced my way\nwithin. She stood back, eying me in\nfear.\n\"It has come at last! \" she moaned.\n\" I knew it would; I knew it would! \"\n\"Come,\" said I, taking her by the arm\nand leading her into the drawing-room,\nthe door of which was immediately near;\n\" let us go in here and talk it over.\"\nShe obeyed, but began to sob whin-\ningly and to complain.\n\" Now,\" said I, forcing her into a\nchair, and seating myself directly in front\nof her, \" what have you to say for your-\nself?\"\n\" Oh, nothing, nothing,\" she moaned.\n\" And I have kept it so long, so long!\nHow did you find it out ? \"\n\" From the cry,\" I answered.\n\"The cry! You heard it?\" she\ngasped.\n\" I saw it,\" I explained.\nShe seemed not to comprehend my\nwords, but sat all the time looking stead-\nfastly and warily into my eyes, like a\ntrapped animal pondering means of es-\ncape.\n\" Now,\" said I, \" make whatever\nexplanation you can, and make it as\nquicklv as possible.\"\n\" Oh,\" she pleaded, \" I meant no\nharm! I know you are an officer of the\nlaw, and I knew the people would sus-\npect and tell. I am not to blame. Be-\nfore God I am not to blame! Do you\nunderstand that? The judge will be-\nlieve me when I tell him everything. It\ncouldn't be helped. I did the best I\ncould, and now—\" She was rapidly be-\ncoming excited. Her head turned aim-\nlessly from side to side, and she looked\nat all the objects in the room one by\none as she complainingly proceeded.\n\" —And now it must all go for nothing!\nWon't you have mercy on me? I will\nshow you the room, and you may see\nfor yourself. I have nothing to conceal.\nDo you understand that? Nothing\nwhatever to conceal.\"\nAs she thus rambled on in a half-dement-\ned fashion I noted the native elegance and\nrefinement of manner that lay beneath\nher stumbling exterior. It was now evi-\ndently a matter of patience and tact on\nmy part to arrive at the heart of the mys-\ntery that I felt must be haunting the\nhouse. While listening, to every one of\nher disjointed words for a ray that would\nlight my way to further action, I gave\nalert attention to any other possible\nsound that the depths of the house might\nyield. Only a dead silence filled it.\nWas she entirely alone? Why had she\njumped to the erroneous conclusion that\nI was an officer of the law? What was\nthere to conceal that the law should not\nknow? Why should she be excusing\nherself, and protesting her innocence?\nAnd there was that within me which still\nhad an ear for a cry for help, the source\nof the silent cry that had issued from the\nface of the house.\nI must have been giving too much\nheed to that, and too little to the mean-\ningless speech of the woman; for all at\nonce, with a suddenness that found me\nunprepared, she sprang upon me with a\nknife, the cold metal of which, as she\nstruck with all her might, I felt upon my\nbody; and at the same moment I saw her\nswallow something that she slipped into\nher mouth. Large and strong though I\nwas, the suddenness and fierceness of the\nblow and of her impact upon me sent me\nto the floor. With incredible agility she\nleaped back, threw up her arms, and ex-\nultingly shouted:\n\" I knew how to reach your vitals, you\ndog—and my own! O God! \" she add-\ned, falling rigid to the floor.\nThe poison that she had swallowed\nmust have had a marvellously quick ac-\ntion ; for, by the time I had recovered\nmy feet and knelt beside her, she was in\na convulsion that meant instant death."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "38", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.6", "texte": "East & West\n\nIn another moment she was dead, her\neyes staring wide at the ceiling, and her\njaw drawn down into a striking sem-\nblance of the door in the house. There\nwas this, then, that I had done: I had\ncaused the death of a woman, who, be-\nfore taking her own life, had sought\nmine, and had died believing that the\nthrust which went only through my\nclothes and chilled my skin had been\nfatal.\nI rose in profound perplexity and dis-\nmay, and a clamorous conscience began\nto make demands. The silence that now\npervaded the house was terrifying be-\nyond all endurance. I strained every\nhearing nerve for a sound. There was\nonly a vast, all-absorbing silence. But\nthere were duties to be discharged. The\nastonishing conduct of the woman had\nonly lent strength and substance to the\nsilent cry from the face of the house.\nI drew forth a bunch of keys from the\ndead woman's belt. The carpet was\nsoft and thick, so that my cautious foot-\nsteps gave out no sound. I left the\ndrawing-room, and closed the door.\nThen I began to explore the house.\nThere was but one habitable room on\nthe ground floor, and that was now\nguarded by the dead; the others were\nbare of furniture, and contained only\ndust and rubbish.\nI proceeded quietly up the stair, paus-\ning at every step to listen. It seemed a\nsingular thing that the tragedy in the\ndrawing-room, with its accompanying\nloud speech from the desperate woman,\nhad roused no activity in the house.\nWas this a mystery of life, or of death ?\nIn the upper hallway I listened as I pro-\nceeded slowly, deciding to try none of\nthe closed doors unless I should hear a\nsound; and then if no sound came, to try\nthem all.\nSoon I heard the low, soft crooning of\na woman's voice within a room. I si-\nlently tried the door. It was locked.\nWith infinite patience, to assure silence,\nI tried the keys until I found one that\nunlocked the door. Then I softly\nopened it, and looked within. Sitting\non the floor, facing a window, and with\nher back toward me, was a woman. Her\nhair, long, black, and wild, almost com-\npletely hid her body, but I could see that\nshe was clad in a coarse gown. The\nfloor was bare, except for a disorganized\nassemblage of rags about and under-\nneath the woman. There was no article\nof furniture in the room; there was noth-\ning whatever except a tin platter, which\nheld some fragments of coarse food, and\nbeside it a tin cup. The woman was\nswaying forward and backward, holding\nsomething in her arms that I could not\nsee; and to this she was crooning, in a\nsingularly gentle and melodious voice:\n\" Go to sleep, go to sleep, little one.\nBorn in a prison, with the sound of\nchains and your mother's voice to soothe\nyou—ah, dearest one, life is dreary, so\ndreary! But when the sun shines, the\nbirds sing in the trees; and when it sets,\nwe lie down in our rags and dream. But\nsome day they will come, my dearest,\nthey will come. And knows they\nwill—sh—! we must whisper that. Oh,\nthe years that we have been here, my little\none, my precious! And she is so proud,\nso proud! Will you be as proud as\nyour grandmother, dearest? Now, now,\ngo to sleep, go to sleep. If I hadn't for-\ngotten how to sing, I would sing you a\nlullaby; but the song is in my heart, my\ndearest, and so are you, and there you\nmay nestle together. Yes, they will\ncome, they will come. I say that ten\nthousand times a day. It is for saying it\nthat she hates me, little one. It is to\nhear me say it, and to beat me for saying\nit, that she slips into the room so softly,\nso softly! But how can they come, my\ndearest? How will they know? I do\nnot cry out, for that would mean a beat-\ning with the chain—for saying they will\ncome I am beaten merely with a stick.\nBut I do not need to cry out, my dearest;\nfor a cry goes forth from my heart that\nsome day will be heard to the ends of the"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "39", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.7", "texte": "The House of Voiceless Cries\n\nearth; and then, my dearest, my little\none, there will come great armies, with\nbanners and drums and cannon, and they\nwill take the house by storm, and bring\nus forth into the light and life of the\nworld. Omy little one, my precious,\nsleep, sleep, sleep! Are you not in my\narms, the arms of your mother? And\nthe cannon will blaze and roar, and a\nmighty shout will ascend to heaven.\nThen the walls of this prison will come\ncrashing down, and our deliverers will\nseize us in their strong arms and bear us\naway, away, to liberty and fife!\"\nFrom the gentlest manner the woman\nhad now grown excited, and was sway-\ning wildly as she sat.\n\" They will come, they will come! \"\nshe cried, half laughing, half crying, and\nwholly hysterical.\nI drew nearer, going to one side, that\nI might see her child; I found that it was\na doll, made of the rags of the pallet.\nThe woman was now pressing it to her\nface, and wetting it with her tears. I\nwalked round in front of her, and quietly\nsaid:\n\" They have come.\"\nShe started violently, and looked up\ndazed and frightened into my face.\n\" I have come,\" I said, with the kindest\nmanner, \"to take you away to liberty\nand life.\"\nShe clutched the doll close to her\nbreast, and gazed at me in startled si-\nlence ; and then I saw again, as her lower\njaw dropped and her eyes strained to\ntheir utmost width, a singular resem-\nblance to the face of the house. And\nwhat a strange picture she made! A\nyoung and beautiful woman, her every\nfeature a refined and youthful duplicate\nof the ones that lay stark in the chamber\nbelow; eyes in which the innocence and\npurity of childhood were touched with\nthe softening grace of womanhood; a\nmanner that showed inherent pride\nstruggling through a haze of humilia-\ntion and despair. And so the mystery\nof the house that cried out without a\nvoice had been solved—a mother whose\npride, stronger than her humanity, had\nconcealed and guarded here a lunatic\ndaughter, lest the law should reach forth\na hand to seize the shame and send forth\na voice to proclaim it; a mother who had\ngone out of the world with murder in her\nheart and suicide on her soul, when, as\nshe thought, the law had thrust a shoul-\nder in at the screaming door.\n\" Come,\" I said, extending a hand.\nShe slowly disengaged one of her\nhands, and gently, yet tentatively, laid\nit in mine.\n\" Rise,\" I said, and she weakly com-\nplied. As she did so she forgot the in-\nstinct of shame that had made her keep\nsomething concealed, partly with the\nrags, and partly with the wretched skirt\nthat she wore; for the ominous clanking\nof a chain drew my glance to the floor,\nand there I saw the body of the shame\nitself. The young woman was chained\nto the floor, into which a staple had been\ndriven to receive one end of the chain,\nthe other being padlocked to one of her\nankles; where it encircled her ankle the\nskin was discolored a purplish hue, from\nnumerous old bruises.\nAs she stood in silence, breathing fast\nunder the inspiration of wonderful things\nthat were stirring her soul, I found a key\nthat fitted the padlock, and so released\nher. Then, taking her by the arm, and\nspeaking reassuringly, I led her to the\nwindow, through which the red rays of\nthe setting sun were streaming:.\n\" That is the world,\" I said; \"it is life\nand liberty. Come with me.\"\nI had never ceased to deem it an evil\nfortune in my life that the house which\nI so much dreaded should stand in the\nedge of the forest that skirted the city\non the south; for it was in this forest that\nI liked to stroll alone, and the road that\nran past the front of the house was the\npleasantest of all. It is true that I had\nnever again seen upon its human face"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "40", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.8", "texte": "East & West\n\nthat terrible voiceless cry for help that\nhad greeted me some years before,\nthough I had looked upon it at the same\nhour of the afternoon, when the rays of\na low western sun, striking athwart the\nfront, brought out the wrinkles of the\nfluted pilasters, and cast a crescent\nshadow upon one side of each of the cir-\ncular windows; but the house tugged at\nmemories that were tragic and melan-\ncholy ; and there is enough of sadness in\nthe things we meet, without linking to\ntheir potency the sadness of things that\nwe have left behind.\nBut here I was again, approaching the\nhouse, and conscious of the fact. In a\nlittle while I should turn a bend in the\nroad, and thus come face to face with the\nhouse. I should study the grotesque\narchitectural fancy that unwittingly had\nmade it in the fashion of a human face,\nand again I should ask what could have\nbeen the strange power that had put the\nexpression of a cry for help into it, or\nimplanted within me, for that juncture\nalone, a capacity to receive it. And the\nstrange old woman whose knife had left\nupon my body a spot that forever would\nfeel cold—it was better to turn from her\nto the brighter side, and behold my\nlovely young charge, made so by my ap-\npointment as her guardian, gradually\nemerge from the cloud that had envel-\noped her mind, and, under kindly and\nintelligent care, stand forth eventually\nin the full radiance of competent woman-\nhood. It was better still to think of her\nrecent happy marriage to my best\nfriend's son, and of the bright and beauti-\nful home that she had made, and of the\nwarm sweet place therein that should\nforever be mine when it pleased me to\ngive up the lonely life that I had always\nled.\nI recalled the one great secret that lay\nbetween her and me, and the odd turn\nthat it took one day, before she had loved\nand married. She had been perfectly\nrecovered for months, when she came to\nme in the strangest, most shamefaced\nway, and asked me if she might trust me\nto the end of the world—trust not alone\nmy silence, but my sympathy as well.\n\" That is a useless question, my dear,\"\nI protested. \" Worse than that, it im-\nplies a lack of the full confidence that I\nthought existed between us.\"\n\" No, no, my dear old friend,\" she\ncried, kissing away the look of trouble\nthat likely she saw creeping into my\neyes. \" No, no, not that; but what I\nhave to say, what I have to ask of you,\nis so—so silly, so—so childish—I—l\nfear, my friend, you will not think me as\nwell as you would like.\"\n\" Oh, but you are perfectly well, my\ndear! \" I declared. \" Nothing that you\ncould \"\nShe closed my mouth with her warm,\ndimpled hand.\n\" But it is so, so foolish! \" she de-\nclared, hiding her face in my shoulder.\n\" Possibly it would seem foolish to any\nbut me,\" I said. \" But remember who I\nam, and remember that you may trust\nmy silence and sympathy to the end of\nthe world.\"\nShe drew her arms about my neck,\nand with her face still hidden in my\nshoulder, she made her confidence.\n\" You remember, dear friend, the poor\nold rag doll that I loved so well when—\nwhen I was not myself ? \"\n\" Yes.\"\n\" Did you ever know what became of\nit?\"\n\" No; I had never thought about it.\"\n\" Well\"—and she buried her face\ndeeper—\" you will forgive me, won't\nyou, when I confess that I have kept it\nby me all this time, concealing it from\nall, even you? You can't imagine what\na solace it was to me, and how much it\nhelped me to get well and strong. I am\nwell and strong now, and my poor pet\ndoes not belong to my present life; but\nit has been my faithful companion and\nfriend; it has filled an aching emptiness\nin my heart. I want to bury it now, my\ndear friend; and I want to bury it at the"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "41", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.9", "texte": "The House of Voiceless Cries\n\nplace where my sufferings were so great,\nfor there it belongs, and there the last of\nit will perish and disappear with all the\nrest. Will you go and help me, dear\nfriend, and not think me foolish, or weak,\nor ill?\"\nYes, I would go, and go we did. It\nwas I that dug the small grave in the\nweed-grown garden behind the house,\nand it was she that put flowers on the\nmound and wept while I waited. It was\nshe that wrote upon a board, which she\nplaced at the head of the grave, the name\nof her doll, with her own surname added.\nBut all that was before she had been\nfully sobered by love and marriage. And\nthis is getting far from the day about\nwhich I was writing just now, the day\nthat had started this train of memories.\nI had expected to find the house, aban-\ndoned since the day of the tragedy, now,\nwith battered windows and an air of de-\ncay, wearing its customary common-\nplace aspect; but instead of that, the mo-\nment I came upon it after passing the\nbend in the road I was startled out of all\nself-command to behold again the mouth\nwide open, and sending forth its voice-\nless cry for help, those strange, forbid-\nding wrinkles down the sides, the wide-\nstaring eyes turned toward me, and\ntraces of tears down the agonized face.\nI did not even pause to consider the time\n—an hour before sunset—nor the effect\nof the level sun-rays striking athwart the\nfront. I saw, or rather felt, only the ter-\nrified silent appeal for help that shone in\nevery lineament of the hideous visage;\nand without reflection, I went straight\nforward and pushed open the yielding\ndoor.\nI paused within the threshold, for ex-\ncited voices sounded on the floor above.\n\" This is a frightful deception that you\nhave practised upon me! \" I heard the\nfamiliar voice of a man exclaim—the one\nman in all the world most strongly\nbound by every sacred obligation to for-\nbear, to understand, to be patient.\n\" Yes, yes, it is true, so true, so true! \"\nmoaned the dearest of all voices in reply.\n\" But I could not help it, I really could\nnot. I meant no harm to you, but you\nhave been kind to me, and my conscience\nwill not permit me to hide the truth from\nso noble a man, so good and kind a hus-\nband. Yes, it was here that my baby\nwas born, here in this room, and we slept\non a pile of rags.\"\nWith a bound I went up the stair, to\nexplain the hallucination, for it was clear\nthat my poor ward had relapsed, and\nthat she was living again the terrible\ndays of the rags and chain; but before I\ncould arrive upon them, she said some-\nthing that turned me to stone where I\nstood.\n\" I must confess everything,\" she con-\ntinued, half sobbing. \" I never loved\nyou. It was my guardian that I loved\nwith all my soul, with all my heart; and\nI married you because you loved me, and\nhe did not.\"\n\" And who was the father of your\nchild ? \" her husband asked, with a sin-\ngular cruel hardness for which I could\nhave slain him.\n\"My deliverer, my guardian! \" she\nanswered aloud and triumphantly.\n\" Who but he could have been ? It was\nhere, in this room, that he came to see\nme as I nursed it; it was here that he\nfound me chained ;it was from this room\nthat he led me out into the world, into\nlife and liberty. And when our poor\nbaby died we brought it to this house, he\nand I; and he dug the grave, and we laid\nour baby away, and I put flowers on the\ngrave. Come, let me show you.\"\nAll eagerness and excitement, her eyes\nblazing, and her soft beauty sharpened\nand hardened, she swept past me, her\nhusband following, his step leaden, his\njaw dropped, and his face the hue of\nashes. I followed them weakly. How\ncould I disclose myself now, since she\nhad made the declaration of her affection\nfor me? How could Ibe sure that her\nconduct at this critical moment would be\nof a kind that, with my explanations,"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "42", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.10", "texte": "East & West\n\nwould reassure her husband, to whom\nshe had been married for so short a time ?\nWhat in all the world could I do but fol-\nlow them unseen now, and stand ready\nto serve her in need to the end of the\nworld ? And there uprose the one secret\nbetween her and me, the secret of the\ndoll's funeral, the one secret that her hus-\nband had never shared. How could it\nbe explained to him now, when his heart\nwas broken, his idol shattered, by her\ndeclaration of her love for me? And\nhow would it be possible in her presence\nto straighten out the strange tangle that\nher words had made, when she would\nstand beside me to protest its truth?\nI followed them into the weed-grown\ngarden at the rear of the house, and stood\namid the concealing shrubbery while she\nshowed him the grave. There were now\nbut dried skeleton stems of the flowers\nthat she had thrust into the soft earth,\nand the little mound had sunk; but, as\nthough it had been written in the indel-\nible ink of the Fates, shone black and\nbold the name that she had written on\nthe head-board.\n\" This is the grave of our baby,\" she\nmoaned, falling upon her knees beside\nit; \"and that is the name of my little\none written by my own hand upon the\nboard.\" And then she fell to sobbing\npiteously.\nA look of unspeakable anguish twisted\nthe young husband's face into a mask.\nDid he understand that she was dement-\ned? Ought not he to have suspected it\nwhen she doubtless began her confession\nat their home, and then brought him to\nthe house to disclose the evidence? Is\nit true that youth is all folly, impatience,\nand recklessness?\nI could bear the strain no longer.\nWhy had the silent cry from the wide-\nopen mouth of the house summoned me\nif there was no duty for me to perform ?\nOnce before I had felt the courage to re-\nspond; once before I had shown the tact\nto succeed. My duty then was done.\nThis was one infinitely more awful, more\ndangerous, but— I walked straight up\nto him and cut the line of his far-set\nvision. He looked at me blankly a mo-\nment, and then started.\n\" You see that she is ill,\" I said; \" do\nnot be misled.\"\nUpon hearing my voice the stricken\ngirl rose, and there could be no mistak-\ning the unveiled light and gladness that\nfilled her face, and shone as a radiance\nabout her. As he stood looking from\none to the other of us, hard, cold, and\nunyielding, he saw her approach me with\na smile upon a face that had been pinched\nwith anguish before ; he saw her place\nher arms about my neck and nestle her\n• face in my shoulder, and sigh with the\ncontent of a child that had been lost and\nwas now found. And he heard her say,\nas she looked up into my face and\ncaressed my cheek:\n\"My lover, my deliverer, my hus-\nband !\"\nHe and I were looking steadily at each\nother, and the fathomless reaches of hell\nwould not have measured the depth of\nthe gulf that lay between us.\n\" You are my father's friend,\" he fin-\nally said, in a small, distant voice; \" and\nwhatever may be true, or whatever may\nbe false, you have been friend, and\nhenceforth must continue to be. I had\nbrought this to kill her and myself here,\"\nhe added, producing a revolver, \" after\nshe should have shown me the evidence\nthat she promised. Your intrusion has\nsaved her life.\" And treating with\nscorn my demand that he stay and hear\nthe truth, he stalked wearily into the\nhouse, and closed the door. To this day,\ncalm and contented, as I sit beside her\ncouch and listen for the wing-beats of\nthe day that shall come and seize her in\nits flight, she does not know how he died."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "43", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.11", "texte": "American Literary Commonplace\n\nIn the Orchard\nCharlotte Lowry Marsh\nBy\nOh little, sweet love, mine own little love,\nWhen the apple-boughs were a-blowing\nDid the pink-blushed petals drifted above\nSet your own cheeks a-glowing?\nCame there a sunbeam all unaware\nThat, tangling itself in endeavor\nTo kiss, little love, your bonny brown hair,\nWas caught there forever and ever ?\nDid a little wild bird sing low in your ear\nThe secret of song revealing,\nThat made the melody tender and clear\nInto your voice come stealing ?\n\nAmerican Literary Commonplace\nC. M. Francis\nBy\nT would require a very wise man to\ndefine precisely the nature of the\ncommonplace in any art, and in\nliterature the task is especially dif-\nficult, the whole matter being of the inti-\nmately subjective, non-disputandum sort.\nEveryone knows that the superfluous\nbook is published and that it engages the\nattention of the poor, tired human mind;\nand almost everyone will declare that the\nhuman mind is somewhat the worse for it.\nBut, unless he is a very absolute person,\nlike Mr. Carlyle or Mr. Ruskin, he will\nnot take it upon himself to say where the\nline of exclusion should be drawn. In an\nexalted and aristocratic mood, one is apt\nto feel a pang at the multiplication of\nliterary commonplace, but after all is not\nthis the point of view of Alice's carpen-\nter, who \" wept like anything to see such"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "44", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.12", "texte": "East & West\n\nquantities of sand \" ? Carlyle and the car-\npenter, it seems to me, had much in com-\nmon. Were that inspired curmudgeon\nliving in the United States to-day how he\nwould tear his adjectives over the excess\nof printed things! How his German\ncompounds would fly! \" Back to thy\nyard-stick, thou kicker-up of word-dust,\"\nhe would say to some hard-working liter-\nary man. \" Thinkst thou that an uphol-\nsterer made the heavens ? Is there an auc-\ntion of the stars? World-sickness from\ninfinity of jabber such as thine \"—and so\nforth. But we cannot all be Carlyles, and\nsome of us are not sorry, for looking at\nthings from the pedestal of the absolute\nhas its inconveniences. The more practi-\ncal and comfortable persons down on the\nlevel realize that since the majority of\npeople are commonplace, the majority of\nbooks should be commonplace also; and\nthey accept the fact in a philosophic tem-\nper.\nIt is not then with the design of mount-\ning any Delphic tripod that the present\narticle has been undertaken, but with the\naim of viewing so far as possible in a rig-\nidly objective manner certain aspects of\nliterary commonplace. At first sight this\nmay appear a rather unpromising field;\nbut this is merely because of its novelty,\nthe dull and the commonplace and the\nusual being precisely the things that men\navoid writing about, lest they catch the\ncolor of what they work in. Certainly the\nmost common form of literature, the bulk\nof what is sold and read, deserves analysis\nas well as the exceptional and striking.\nOf course this is viewing literature in an\nordinary and not in an idealistic way; but\nthe latter is wholly unsuitable for our\npresent practical purposes.\nThe man who describes, however\nroughly, the most common forms of lit-\nerature in his own day and in his own\ncountry does a needful work. If he can\nshow what kinds of writing are read by\nthe greatest number, he does something\ntoward explaining what so many sociolo-\ngists insist on calling the social mind.\nThe psychology of the crowd cannot be\nunderstood without some very careful\nstudy in this field. How does the social\nlaw of imitation apply to it, for instance?\nHow far may repetition go without\nwearying the mass of readers, and are\nthere any ideas or situations that invari-\nably please, irrespective of the form in\nwhich they are expressed? We are\nstudying men in masses nowadays, and\nliterary criticism will have to lay aside\nits supercilious absorption in the excep-\ntional if it keeps abreast of things. What\nwould our descendants learn of the intel-\nlectual pleasures of the great body of\nAmericans to-day by reading fifty years\nfrom now a history of literature, modelled\non those in use at present ? A few promi-\nnent names, a fanciful description of some\ntendency or clique or school, and many\nlong and eloquent tributes to great works\n—matters which concerned only a small\nfraction of the reading public, and these\nfor only a small fraction of their reading\ntime. It would tell them nothing of the\npopular taste and offer no means of com-\nparing the prevalent literary standard\nof one age with that of another. The\nstudy of the usual in literature is essen-\ntial to an understanding of literary ten-\ndencies.\nTo the producer for the present literary\nmarket such a study has, of course, an im-\nmediate practical value; for if a man\nwants to sell a certain class of goods, he\nmust first ascertain what characteristics\nthe goods actually sold have in common.\nThis purely practical view is taken, if not\navowed, by the majority of writers in the\nUnited States to-day. Artistic ideals have\nnothing to do with the matter. It is the\nproduction of salable goods for a definite\nmarket. Commonplace writings are not\nthe unintentionally dull work of men who\nhave a mistaken view of their own talents.\nThey are done with deliberate purpose\nand often by those who are capable of bet-\nter but less remunerative work. The pro-\nduction of literary commonplace is a gain-\nful occupation whose outlook from the"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "45", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.13", "texte": "American Literary Commonplace\n\neconomic point of view is exceedingly\npromising, since the market widens with\nthe cheapness of publication and with\nthe extension of common-school educa-\ntion. New classes of half-educated con-\nsumers will come in to swell the demand\nfor what is inferior in literature, just as\nthe opening up of Africa has swelled the\ndemand for cheap and tawdry articles of\ncommerce. There has never been a time\nwhen financial success was so easy to the\nliterary man as at present, and it will be-\ncome easier still in the future. There is\na growing demand for inferior goods, and\nmen may earn an honest living by making\nthem, whether they are candy cupids or\nsoap-box Sapphos or short stories for a\nsyndicate.\nBut there is one kind of literary com-\nmonplace which owes its success not to\nits qualities, but to its source. It is carried\nalong by the momentum of the author's\nreputation. In regard to this a word is\nneeded by way of admonition to unsuc-\ncessful competitors. The younger man\nwho has not yet made his name is apt to\nchafe when he sees his elders waxing fat\non the proceeds of words which could not\nby their own worth make their way into\nthe cheapest corner of the field of print.\nHe forgets the poetic justice of it. Let\nhim once call to mind how these same\nauthors had to work and wait before they\ncame into their kingdom, and he will not\nbegrudge them any of the joys of despot-\nism when they have reached the throne.\nFor my part, I never read a supremely\nfoolish interview with a well-known au-\nthor without a warming of the heart; and\nwhenever I hear the chink of good gold\ncoins on his triumphant counter in ex-\nchange for worthless wares, I glory in\nthe delicious equity of it. As an instance\nof the sort of thing that a man is en-\ntitled to say by virtue of his literary rank,\nnote the following remarks which a\nprominent writer made to the question\n\" What do you fear most ? \" propounded\nby an enterprising interviewer who pub-\nlished the answers in a magazine:\n\" I should say that the greatest number\nof us most fear poverty and death. . . .\nYoung people fear death more than their\nelders. ... I think that as we grow\nolder we fear death less, while our fear of\nmaterial loss increases. . . . Regard-\ning the effect of fear upon the character:\na great pressure of fear might, I think, re-\nsult in caution; if enduring too long, per-\nhaps in timidity and cowardice. . . .\nYou know there are things which we\nfear for others but which we do not fear\nfor ourselves. We fear these things for\nothers because we believe they may be\nwanting in the foresight which we sup-\npose we ourselves possess abundantly;\nthat they may be incautious; that they\nmay not think and act as we should think\nand act in their place.\"\nIt is easy to ridicule the childishness of\nit and to sneer at the public for taking it\nseriously. Nor is the case at all excep-\ntional. The silly sayings of prominent\nmen are gathered with infinite pains and\nread with eagerness. The reason for it is\nobvious, and the moral justification com-\nplete. The passage just quoted, for in-\nstance, sprang from the brain of a man of\ndistinction and of acknowledged talent,\nand the public is interested in that brain\neven when it is in absolute repose. He\nhad done strenuous work in the past, and\nthere was a time when he was underpaid\nfor some of the best of it. Now he has\nfairly earned the right to say as foolish\nthings as he likes. It is a triumph of\nprestige for a man to be able to print an\nessay to the effect that fear results in cau-\ntion and, if enduring, may lead to cow-\nardice. It is time's way of redressing the\nbalance of his early days. So viewed, it is\nboth reasonable and right. In trade,\ngoods are first judged by their quality, af-\nterward by their label. In the literary\nfield the same law obtains, and the man\nwho could not find a publisher for some\nof the best work of his brain, may, after\nhe has made his mark, almost obtain\nspace-rates for his snores. Thus in the\nlong run things are evened up."}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "46", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.14", "texte": "East & West\n\nSuch is the philosophic attitude toward\ninterviews like this. It is one of the most\nadmirable forms of commonplace. It is a\nsort of reprisal on the public, and the\ncelebrity who publishes it often does so\nwith conscious irony. Shall there be no\nprivileges of preeminence? Nobility ex-\nempts as well as obliges: and a writer of\nthe first rank has earned any profits that\nmay accrue to him through the medium of\nliterary flunkyism. Therefore, let all\nwho wear the hodden-gray of literature\ndeliver themselves from envy and unchar-\nitableness. Rank is merely petrified opin-\nion, but it has its logical consequences.\nThe only question worth asking is wheth-\ner it is rank based on achievement or on\ninheritance, on divine right or on wind.\nOne should thank his stars for an aris-\ntocracy of talent, whenever he sees a sign\nof it, and for all the privileges that it con-\nfers, when he sees the right man enjoying\nthem. So runs our little moral.\nBut this form of literary commonplace\nis a thing apart and governed by its own\nlaw—the law of the dynamics of success.\nIt is enjoyed not on account of its hack-\nneyism, but in spite of it. It may and of-\nten does fall short even of the meagre re-\nquirements of current literature. It has\nfar less social significance than that great\nmass of writing which is loved for the\nvery reason that it is dull and undeviat-\ning and ceaselessly iterative. The im-\npressive social fact is that the average\nAmerican writer sinks his originality and\nmerely supplies certain classes of goods\nfor the market: short stories which are\nlittle mosaics of well-tried situations and\nphases; impressionist sketches imitated\n(judiciously, of course) from the French;\nplays confined to traditional grooves in\ndialogue, business, and plot; and poems\nwith a deliberate dash of unintelligible-\nness to counterfeit depth. These are the\nwritings which are chiefly in need of\nanalysis. Their most striking feature is\nthe closeness of their resemblance to each\nother. In no other country in the world,\nwhich ranks with ours in intelligence and\nwealth, is there so much that is essentially\nidentical in pure literature. The general\nlevel of what is written elsewhere may be\nhigher or lower, but the diversity is in-\nfinitely greater there than here.\nA priori this is just what we should\nexpect of a young democracy too much\nabsorbed in life to give the best of itself\nto any art. Our triumphs are economic.\nIn that field we are alert, resolute, and en-\nterprising beyond all others. That is\nwhere our heart is and where our best\nqualities are displayed. At the end of\nthe year in which we fought the war with\nSpain, we found not only that our withers\nwere unwrung, but that we had distanced\nevery other nation in the development of\nour industries and in the increase of our\nforeign trade. As a people we are primar-\nily business men, and since we have spe-\ncialized along this line, it is most natural\nthat we should show this bent when we\nattempt other things. The economic mo-\ntive leads always to the study of demand.\nWe should therefore expect to find our\nwriters business men first and literary\nmen afterward. We should expect to see\nthem surveying the literary market in a\ncool, conservative business spirit, and\nadapting their goods to its needs with a\nruthless suppression of any little pen-\nchant for self-expression they may hap-\npen to have. They want success, and suc-\ncess at once; not the mere pleasure of\nplanting in a few minds a big unmarket-\nable thought. And what better business\nreason is there for hoping success for a\nbook than the presence in it of the very\nthings that have already won success.\nHence it comes that a people which in\nsome respects is more vigorous in its in-\ndividuality than any other, is in literary\nmatters the most conventional and imita-\ntive. The industrial ideal has given us\nliterary artificers, not artists.\nThe short story seemed ten years ago to\nbe an exception to this rule, and there\nwas, in fact, a distinctive flavor in sev-\neral of the short stories written by Ameri-\ncans at that time. Since then the few."}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "47", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.15", "texte": "American Literary Commonplace\n\nreaders, who appreciated this distinctive-\nness, have read American short stories in\nsufficient numbers to be able to generalize\nwith some assurance. At the rate of five\na month, and this is a low estimate for the\naverage consumer, six hundred short\nstories would have been read—a very fair\nbasis for induction. Let anyone ask him-\nself what proportion of them showed any\nnovelty either in motive or in execution.\nThey fall into certain groups, and in each\nof these groups the stories apparently\nmight have been written by the same per-\nson. A complete classification is impos-\nsible without a somewhat painful review\nof the whole six hundred, but certain\ntypes stand out prominently. The local\ncolor group is especially conspicuous, and\nthe humorous stories in this class are the\nmost striking in their machine-made uni-\nformity. Here a humorous effect is\nsought by the use of quaint or grotesque\nexpressions. They are not as a rule char-\nacter studies, but merely the development\nof incidents in dialect. The characters\nare sketched roughly and with reference\nto some salient trait, and the incidents are\nselected from a limited number of ob-\nviously comical things. The dialect car-\nries the story. Not long ago fully fifty\nper cent, of the American short stories\nwere of this sort, in which not the au-\nthor's art, but his note-book was predomi-\nnant. A few pioneers had happened to\nemploy dialect in a legitimate way as\nsubsidiary to their artistic aims. Their\nsuccess had the undesired effect of found-\ning what proved to be an actual \" hain't\"\nand \" d'ruther \" school, in which dialect\nwas not the means, but the end. In pro-\nportion to the amount of effort expended\nupon it, this has been one of the most\nlucrative lines of commonplace in recent\nfiction, for the selling feature was con-\nspicuous and easy of imitation. Uncle\nSilas and his cider barrel, Miss Eu-\nphemia's cat, the Deacon's courtship, the\ninevitable dialogue between the two old\nNew England ladies, etc., underwent\nmany variations, but in essentials were\nrepeated by the thousands. The average\nreader was as well pleased with the medi-\nocre as with the best. The literary econo-\nmist perceived this and turned out iden-\ntical stories with the ease and mechanical\nprecision of a huge factory. We had lit-\ntle essays in kodak realism from every\nState in the Union. Simple variations in\nexternals cheated the reviewers, and they\nsaid solemn things about local color, as if\nthat were an artistic ideal all by itself.\nThey spoke of sectionalism and subtle\ntendencies and close observation at first\nhand and other profound matters, without\nstopping to consider whether nine-tenths\nof the stories in the local color group were\nnot fashioned after existing models with\nonly such variations as a prudent busi-\nness man would feel constrained to intro-\nduce. And if the reviewers were de-\nceived, think of the average reader. To\nhim the crudest kind of reproductive de-\nvices have the effect of realism—devices\nin literature which correspond to that of\nintroducing a real threshing-machine or a\nlive baby on the stage. Essential novelty\ndispleases him, if he notices it at all. Su-\nperficial novelty is his delight, but he must\nbe standing on good solid familiar ground\nto enjoy it. The homely language, the\nobvious humor, and the grotesque inci-\ndents of the local-color stories appeal to\nhim. In other respects there must be\nidentity with what he is used to. Long\nafter the few active-minded persons have\ngrown weary, he continues to enjoy.\nVery familiar facts, these, and yet\nwriters on American literary tendencies\nfail utterly to see their significance. In\nthe first place, this attitude of the popular\nmind is what gives the commonplace in\nliterature its prompt success. As a result\nof it the commonplace is the most promis-\ning financial field for the literary man\nto-day. It tempts men into it who have ca-\npacity for better things. It puts a premi-\num on compilation as opposed to compo-\nsition. It completely reverses the artistic\ncanon and requires that a man shall not\nthink what he has to say and how best to"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "48", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.16", "texte": "East & West\n\nsay it, but what people wish to have him\nsay and in what form they expect him\nto say it. It draws ten commonplace\nbooks from him instead of one good one.\nHe writes badly not because he lacks liter-\nary talent, but because he possesses busi-\nness sagacity. He writes with a divided\nmind, the better half of it being on the\npublic.\nIf, instead of pounding away at realism,\nromanticism, nationalism, provincialism,\nand other mystic matters, the critics\nwould study the commonplace in connec-\ntion with the peculiar imitativeness of the\nAmerican literary man, they might make\nmore plausible forecasts of our literary\nfuture. The sanguine see all sorts of\nglorious things in prospect—a truly na-\ntional literature, a literature of native\nforce and distinctiveness, following some-\nhow in the wake of national expansion.\nTheir reasoning is simple. By acquiring\nthe Philippines we shall attain national\nself-consciousness; and, national self-con-\nsciousness once attained, it follows as the\nlight the day that we shall produce great\nwriters. It is not convincing. Nor is\nthere much comfort to be had from the as-\nsurance of others, that because we have\ngone so long without great men we are\nbound to have them soon. \" About time\nfor a genius,\" they say, more wistfully\nthan wisely. \" The ingrained idealism of\nthe American nature needs clear and com-\nmanding expression,\" says Mr. Hamilton\nMabie. It needs it, therefore it will get\nit, is the essence of his argument.\nSuch dream-language makes very little\nimpression on one who has studied the\never-widening domain of the common-\nplace in American literature. There is\nevery reason to think that the iterative\nquality will increase rather than diminish.\nBesides the constant additions to the num-\nber of half-educated consumers already\nmentioned, there is the fact of specializa-\ntion to be reckoned with. The specialist\nis an important factor in the literary de-\nmand and a factor that obstructs artistic\nprogress. By the law of probabilities, if\nyou hear of a man merely that he is a\nhighly trained, skilful, and successful\nspecialist in some one line, you have a\nright to presume that he is lacking in\nother lines. In general culture, even in\nthe art of enjoying life, there is an ante-\ncedent probability that he will be below\nthe average. If his success is due to ex-\nceptional talent, nature is economical and\nexacts pay from some other part of him.\nIf it is due to exceptional industry, one\nfaculty is probably developed at the ex-\npense of others. This is safe as a general\nstatement, though the exceptions are\nnumerous and obvious. Now the time of\na man's life, during which he may devote\nhimself to learning how to live and how to\nenjoy, is being cut down every year.\nWith the disappearance of the American\ncollege, which is inevitable, technical\nwork will probably begin at the age of\neighteen. Of course a young man may\ntake \" culture studies \" in the university,\nbut competition will prevent many from\ndoing so. Every succeeding decade\npromises to drive the technical studies\ndown a peg nearer to the years of infancy.\nWe Americans are too shrewd econo-\nmists not to appreciate the importance of\nthe division of labor, and we will carry it\nas far as any other people in the world.\nAt all events the lengthening and narrow-\ning process in education is certainly on\nthe increase with us, and it will as cer-\ntainly lower the literary standard.\nThe very fact that we are a strong and\nprogressive nation points the same way.\nA community cannot remain strong and\nprogressive without intense specialization\nin the industries and professions. Indus-\ntrially we owe our superiority to this\ncause. Note M. Levasseur's recent com-\nparison of the industrial methods em-\nployed here and there in France. At the\nsame time a high degree of social uni-\nformity is essential to a democracy like\nours. We hear much of the evils of ar-\nraying class against class. Decisive and\nharmonious social action is an element of\nnational strength; but you cannot make"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.17", "texte": "American Literary Commonplace\n\nmen think uniformly for purposes of poli-\ntics and think differently for purposes of\nart. Here, then, are the conditions of the\nfuture: A narrower education, beginning\nearlier in life; a larger body of specialists\nin all industries and professions; a social\nmass with greater homogeneity in thought\nand feeling; a nation with a splendid\neconomic record behind it and absorbed\nin plans for economic triumphs in the fut-\nure. What will the literary man do with\nthese promising materials? The proba-\nbility is that he will exploit them along the\nline of least resistance; and then as now\nthe promptest and surest road to success\nwill be by way of the commonplace. What\nis there that should raise the standard?\nThe overflow of men's lives will be even\nscantier than at present. The more dis-\ncriminating taste that comes from think-\ning over books will be found among a\nsmaller proportion of the people. For\nthese, of course, the real works of art will\ncontinue to be produced, and the weight\nof their influence may be sufficient to im-\npose some of them on the crowd. But the\ndaily literary consumption, the great mass\nof what is read, will have fewer artistic\nqualities than at present.\nEven now the popular demand is so\nuniform, that it would be a feasible plan\nto establish training-schools for literary\nproducers. It is by no means as unprac-\ntical as it seems. Compare the qualities,\nfor instance, which one hundred short\nstories of the second rank have in com-\nmon. Their elements are not indefinable,\nnor is their mechanism especially com-\nplex. There is nothing about them to\nlead you to say that one author could not\nhave written this or the other that. A\ncareful recombining of the elements with\nan avoidance of anything like verbal\nplagiarism would, I believe, give a re-\nsultant story quite as good as any in the\nlist. It would probably find a publisher,\nsince it would have about it those remi-\nniscences of success which a publisher al-\nways values. Artistic gifts, of course, are\nuntransmittable, but the production of\nliterary commonplace can be taught just\nas surely as the making of any other ar-\nticle can be taught. Vanity alone pre-\nvents a man from telling others how he\ncame to succeed in it. He could call the\nyouthful aspirant to his knee and tell him\nmany things that would help him to\nachieve the same results.\nIt is dishonest to discourage the man\nwho wants to earn his living by writing.\nThe whole field of hackney ism lies open\nto him. It is infinitely hospitable. There\nis always room for one more, and it pays.\nTo the majority of readers literary com-\nmonplace is the breath of their life. They\nbuy it from day to day in increasing quan-\ntities. They will pay for it pretty nearly\nall that is asked. From their standpoint\nthe note of imitation against which the\ncritic warns the young is precisely the\nthing to be preserved. The critic warns\nthe young man from the point of view of\nthe few and possibly of posterity; but the\nyoung man is apt to have his eye on the\nmany and on the present, and in such a\ncase who can honestly tell him that the\noutlook is discouraging? No young man\nsufficiently normal to be at large, should\nfind anything discouraging to his chances\nof success when he surveys the printed\nmatter bought and sold in the United\nStates to-day.\nThere are two classes of literary\nworkers: the transmitters and the trans-\nmitters. With the former this paper has\nno concern. They are the men whose\nminds leave an impression on what\npasses through them. Their function is\nto please the few by a force that is ele-\nmental and beyond analysis. The trans-\nmitters, on the other hand, leave things\nexactly as they find them. They are\nneeded by society for purposes of repeti-\ntion. They are nature's hectographs.\nAs such their office is most useful, for in\nthe earlier stages of instruction iteration\nis necessary. They supply the kindergar-\nten material for the less advanced. In\nthis country the demand for their work\nis on the increase, for as time goes on"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.18", "texte": "East & West\n\nthere is an increase in the number of those\nwho are at the kindergarten stage. In\nliterature as in farming, the extensive,\nrather than the intensive, system of cult-\nure prevails in a new country.\nThe young man whom the critic dis-\ncourages should bear this in mind. So\nfar as ideal success is concerned the critic\nis probably right. No amount of industry\nwill make him one of the transmuters,\nand he may as well recognize from the\nstart that the identification of genius with\na capacity for taking pains, is a fiction in-\nvented as a solace for the meanly en-\ndowed. But as a transmitter of tame,\nfamiliar things his prospects are good,\nand he is justified in disregarding the\nwarnings of his elders. If he is without\nany especial talent there is just one warn-\ning to which he should give heed. It is,\nAvoid the pose and cleave unto the plati-\ntude. The pose is not profitable in the\nlong run; the platitude is always profit-\nable.\nThe advice of the more experienced\nwriter is likely to be lacking in frankness.\nIt assumes that an imponderable some-\nthing, which is called literary merit, is a\ndeterminant of success, and it ignores the\nbroad and promising field of literary en-\ndeavor in which this quality has nothing\nwhatever to do with success. In view of\nwhat is actually published it is preposter-\nous to dwell on the difficulties in the way\nof a young writer. The very negative\nside of him, the absence of those qualities\nwhich the few prize so highly, may be one\nof the chief elements in his success, by\nsmoothing his way and giving him a\nlarger audience. When he is fairly\nstarted he has little to fear from the critics.\nThe old-fashioned slashing criticism that\nslaughtered infants has passed away, and\nin the United States criticism is now al-\nmost motherly. The reviewer is a very\nbusy person with a memory impaired by\nthe habit of reading with intent to forget.\nThe familiar ring of things often escapes\nhim; at least he seldom analyzes a piece\nof work to find out what is new and what\nis copied from others. His attitude\ntoward American writers betrays a\npleased surprise that they should be able\nto write at all. The mere fact of print is\njustifying. If he can find nothing else\nto say for it, he will remark that the au-\nthor's attempt is praiseworthy, or that it\nis the sort of book that will no doubt\nplease those who are inclined to that sort\nof reading. Commonplace is seldom at-\ntacked on the ground of its commonplace-\nness. The only test of artistic power is\nthe solvent criticism that separates a work\ninto its elements. This test is not applied.\nAs an analytical chemistry it involves the\nuse of acids; and the acids of criti-\ncism are hard to handle, because the\nauthor squirms and the critic loses his\nhead.\nAmerican reviewers are, again, more\nconcerned with substance than with form,\nwith the moral lesson than with the ar-\ntistic quality— a fact which of itself lets\ndown the bars to mediocrity. External\npoints of likeness between writings are of\ncourse remarked. The resemblance in\nmotive of Kipling's \" Brushwood Boy\nand Du Maurier's \" Peter Ibbetson,\" for\ninstance, will not escape them; but the un-\nconscious reproduction of another's style,\nas in the case of the latter writer's imita-\ntion of Thackeray in long passages and\nalmost to the very phrases, is passed\nover with little comment. There is also\na schoolman's deference to authority in\nclassifying authors and in cataloguing the\nqualities of their work. Zola, for in-\nstance, is set down in the books as a real-\nist or as a naturalist. Reviewers, there-\nfore, will have it so, even when they are\npointing out the peculiar moral thesis that\neach novel is designed to prove, and show-\ning how those unfleshed allegories, the\ncharacters, are manipulated to prove it.\nThere is, in fact, very little American crit-\nicism, and the general result of the hap-\nhazard writing that often goes under that\nname is to place a premium on common-\nplace.\nOf the fact that unconscious imitation"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.19", "texte": "American Literary Commonplace\n\nis singularly potent in American litera-\nture, there are many signs. Why are the\ncritical few always peering at the horizon\nline if the original writers are among us ?\nWhy do the most sanguine of them go on\nimporting their novelties from abroad?\nWhy all this talk about the great Ameri-\ncan novel which is always to come, and\nwhy this feverish applause of each young\nman of promise, who continues merely to\npromise? As to American plav-writing\nthe less said the better. To desire literary\nmerit in a play is to set yourself down as\na visionary person ignorant of what con-\nstitutes a good play. Literary common-\nplace is entrenched on our stage more im-\npregnably than anywhere else. Again,\nask any literary man to tell you how many\nmen in his profession really fit their words\nto their own thoughts. He will give you\ninstance after instance of success by com-\npromise, success by adaptation and imita-\ntion. The policy of magazines must be\nrespected; traditions observed. Self-ex-\npression is bad finance, unless one's talent\nis a very big one. Better write much and\nlive well than do the few fine things that\nwill not pay bills. Hence the man with\na little talent differentiating him from the\nrest of the herd, hides it and writes like a\nsophomore—writes on everything, cleans\nout his own stock of ideas, and falls back\non other people's; but always writes, for\nit pays him.\nThe writer of commonplace is gener-\nally an unconscious compiler. He in-\nvoluntarily reproduces what he admires\nor what he thinks others admire. Pres-\nent conditions make it hard for him to do\notherwise, for it is the day of over-much\nreading and of reading without fixity of\nattention. A hundred little ideas and\nphrases stay in the memory and are mis-\ntaken for one's own. One's skull be-\ncomes, in fact, a cave of echoes. People\nread beyond the capacity of their intel-\nlects. Only the strongest minds can re-\ncast the vast material that they work\nupon. Think of the enormous areas of\nprint that owe their existence to the ex-\nample of a single man of talent. Take the\nCharles Dudley Warner manner, for in-\nstance; how it dominates those columns\nwhose writers strain after what they con-\nceive to be the light, agreeable, semi-de-\ntached attitude toward men and things.\nThey grit their teeth and say, \" Now I will\nbe graceful and genial, but at the same\ntime thoughtful and world-wise.\" And\nthen with many \" by-the-ways \" and \" as-\nI-was-sayings,\" they fill up their little\ncorner of chat, or comment, or on-look-\ning, or view-pointing, with hesitating as-\nsertions of the self-evident, or elaborate\nrebuttals of the unbelieved; reproducing\ntheir prototype only in externals. The\nmere dilution of Mr. Warner affords the\nmeans of subsistence to many a worthy\nsoul.\nAnd a hundred similar instances might\nbe cited from current literature, but my\npurpose has been not so much to prove\nthe prevalence of the commonplace as to\npoint the way to a proper study of cer-\ntain of its aspects. The importance of\nimitation, both as a social factor and as an\ninfluence in artistic development, has not\nbeen appreciated. Socially speaking,\nliterary iteration is necessary, and the\nmen who follow it as a trade are useful\ncitizens. It will be as foolish to lament\nthe twentieth historical novel, by Mr.\nStanley Weyman, or the fiftieth serial\nstory by Mr. Marion Crawford, as to\nquarrel with the number of steel rails or\nschool arithmetics. Artistically speak-\ning, however, a higher standard would be\ndesirable, for it would spare trouble to\nthe few. Such a higher standard can\ncome only by way of a more careful an-\nalytical criticism which gives a warning\nto those who will heed it—the sort of crit-\nicism that while admitting the social ne-\ncessity of imitation makes the fact of imi-\ntation very clear. It will not keep the\ncommonplace writer from his own, but\nit will indicate his commonplaceness in a\nmanner that will prevent him from enter-\ning the wrong house. It will allow him\nno delusion as to the character of his"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.20", "texte": "East & West\n\nclientele. It will show what is purely me-\nchanical and factitious in each new work,\nand explain how popular effects can be\nobtained. It will thus aid and encourage\nthe literary novice at the same time that it\ngives a useful hint to the excusably blase\nreader. The new critics will remember\nthe large number of very weary readers\nwho, incited by the halloos of reviewers,\nhave joined in uncomfortable stampedes\nin the past. They will spare them when-\never it is possible.\n\nA Karnak Cat\nHenry Rogers Remsen\nBy\nThere is a little story,\nThat often comes quite pat,\nOf a dear English lady, trusting,\nWho bought a Karnak Cat—\n\"Old terracotta, made of clay\nPoor Israel baked on that sad day\nWhen Pharaoh took their straw away.\"\nThe pride of all her household\nThis gem of olden time;\nHer friends pronounced it \"true antique,\"\nA poet made a rhyme\nAbout \"his ancient idolship,\"\nUntil one day it chanced to slip,\nAnd, falling, split from ear to hip!\n&\nAlas ! for all its sacredness!\nThe mould was plain enough,\nOf sham red terracotta\nWhere the paint was cracked and rough.\nAnd so the Karnak Cat was new—\nA thing of plaster, paint, and glue!\nI think it served her right, don't you?\nAh, yes,\nAnd yet\nDon't we nurse Karnak Kittens, too?"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.21", "texte": "The Influence of Gemini\n\nThe Influence of Gemini\n(Vignettes of Washington, No. I)\nGuy Somerville\nBy\nrHE Secretary of State in those\ndays was young and beautiful—\nsomething which has not been\nusual with Secretaries of State\nbefore or since. Also, he was fabulously\nrich, and a bachelor; and, if anything\nfurther be wanting to a complete under-\nstanding of his popularity in Washington\nsociety, I have only to add that he was a\ndevil by nature, and my very intimate\nfriend. This is the gospel of his entrap-\nment and reclaiming, of how he was\nobliged to forswear sack, and marry and\nrear little Secretaries of State for the\nfuture needs of his country, and keep a\nplace at Lenox.\nThat final Season was a late one—not\nthat the leaves remained unduly long\nupon the trees, but the diplomatic recep-\ntion at the White House did not take place\nuntil the middle of January, and in Wash-\nington the Season waits for this. At that\ntime, Madame Wassini had just begun\nto give \" things.\" Persons who did not\nlike Madame Wassini were wont to say\nthat her guests were not always either\nthe glass of fashion or the mould of form;\nbut, as that charming woman once told\nNesbitt—Nesbitt of Texas—when he\nsought to prune down her visiting list,\n\" To be good form, in these days, is not\nnearly so important as to be some one of\nsubstance; and, as for a glass of fashion,\nwho do you suppose, dear Mr. Nesbitt,\nwould dally with such a temperance\ndrink, when he can come here and have\nVeuve Clicquot? And, if he likes, he\nmay have it in a tankard.\" Which Nes-\nbitt did, and the next year he was the\nfloor leader of the House. But there was\nno nexus between these things.\nIt was at the Wassini's, and the night\nwas the third of March, that the Secre-\ntary of State saw first the handwriting on\nthe wall. He came to me when the feast\nhad gone the way of all feasts, and we\nwalked down Massachusetts Avenue arm\nin arm. Those were days when we were\nall agreed that the Secretary of State was\nthe Secretary, and when we called him,\nconsequently, \" Sec: \" for short, and not\nin thinly-veiled admiration of his chronic\ndryness.\n\" Sec,\" I said.\n\" Yes,\" he answered, absently.\n\" Give it a name,\" said I.\nHe started slightly, but was firm.\n\" Not another drop to-night,\" he said.\n\" There's a cabinet meeting in the morn-\n• jy\nin g.\n\" If you're not dry,\" quoth I, \" why do\nyou think ? \"\nThen he dealt me a sudden blow.\n\" Old chum,\" said he, \" I'm in love.\"\n\" If you have been so vulgar,\" said I,\n\" as to be carried away by the wife of the\nBrazilian Minister \"\nHe held up his hand protestingly.\n\" Not that,\" he said, with a shudder\nthat was faultless.\n\" Oh, well,\" said I, \" if it is the Bulgar-\nian Charge d'Affaires \"\n\" It is not,\" he said, \" the Bulgarian\nCharge d'Affaires.\"\n\" Let us drink,\" said I, nonplussed.\n\" Who ? in the name of the Continental\nCongress!\"\nThen he threw his cigar at the Vlbe-\nPresident's porte-cochere, and he told me\nthe thing's that follow.\n\" There are two,\" he said, \" and I do\nnot know which She is. Two maids drive"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.22", "texte": "East & West\n\nout each afternoon on the road that leads\nto the Soldiers' Home, and they dress in\ngray, and are beautiful, and twins. Each\nafternoon, for some time past, I have by\nchance been riding somewhere in the di-\nrection of the Soldiers' Home. I do not\nknow who they are, or from where, but\nI am in love with one of them, and, as\nthey are exactly alike, it is, of course, im-\npossible for me to know which. Tell me\nwhich, and, if you like, you shall go to\nLisbon in the morning. I would say\nMadrid, but there are mobs; and the only\nother vacancy is Stockholm, which you\nwould not like, because you are a con-\nfirmed bachelor, and the people there\nmake matches.\"\nSaid I, thoughtfully, \" The maids are\nin truth much alike.\"\nHe started. \"You know them,\" he\nsaid. \" Tell me who they are and I will\nmake a vacancy at Paris.\"\n\" In a sort of a distant, far-reaching\nway they are almost friends of mine,\" I\nsaid, easily.\n\" Introduce me, and, if it be not for the\nAct of God, the Senate, or other hostile\ntribes, you shall have London.\"\n\" The one,\" said I, \" is Lady Stanford\nMerton, whose husband you may remem-\nber in connection with the reciprocity\ntreaty of a few years ago. It is his sec-\nond wife, and she has sent him to look\nfor the South Pole. The other is her\nsister, Miss Winthrop, of the Downs,\nBelsingham, Werts. Her first name is\nBella, and she is surnamed the Bad.\nBella-the-Bad: which sounds like a town\nin India.\"\n\"It sounds,\" said the Secretary of\nState, \" like the report of a mercantile\nagency. I think lam in love with the\nmarried one.\"\nI grew uncomfortable as to my collar\nand tie. \" I feel,\" said I, \" decidedly\nsticky. It is astonishing how sticky you\nget. I think you must be mistaken about\nits being Lady Merton. Sir Stanford is\nphenomenally jealous, and he has fought\neleven duels.\"\n\" Now,\" said the Secretary of State, \" I\nam quite sure. Here is where I turn in.\nMay I offer you a bunk ? You shall have\nthe mattress that is stuffed with Pan-\nAmerican protocols.\"\nBut I wouldn't, because the whole\nUnited States had slept on those proto-\ncols, and they were passing hard. So I\nwent on to the club; and that night, as I\nlaid me down to rest, I said a prayer for\nLady Stanford Merton, her immortal\nsoul.\nThe next time I saw him was after one\nof the Bachelors', while leaving La Was-\nsini at her house in lowa circle. Just\nacross the circle was the Merton resi-\ndence, and another carriage drove up as\nours clattered away, and the Secretary\nof State came out of it, and reached into\nit again, and took out Lady Merton and\nMiss Winthrop. I knew Lady Merton\nby the purple gown I had seen her wear\nthe evening before at the Blares' dinner;\nand I saw her go up the steps first\nand leave him at the bottom with the\nother.\nThere was a lamp upon the corner, and\nby its light, as I am a truthful man, and\nlive by the wits of my buried father, I saw\nthe Secretary of State bend low and kiss\nMiss Winthrop's hand. Not as a French-\nman or an Austrian might have kissed it,\nbut as only an American can, and an\nAmerican gentleman, and one very much\ncarried away.\n\"It will be in the ' Post' to-morrow,\"\nwhispered La Wassini in my ear, and I\ncould see she was shaking with laughter.\n\" Mon Dieu, the good Secretary! If it\nwere not such bad form, I would already\nthrow at him my slipper. Is it not\nVenus and the young Paris? \"\n\" He is giving her the fruit,\" said I,\npuzzled. But they took no notice, those\nthree across the way, and presently Miss\nWinthrop also went up the stoop, and\nboth ladies said good-night, and the Sec-\nretary raised his hat and the big door\nbanged and he left them.\nIt was in New York, the next week,"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "55", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.23", "texte": "The Influence of Gemini\n\nwhither all Washington had gone for the\nShow. La Wassini had three entries, all\nher own, and when at the end of things\nshe had as many ribbons, her glee was as\nthe glee of a child. Together we walked,\nthe morning after, down Twenty-third\nStreet; and there met us the Secretary of\nState, and his face was the face of a\ncherub who has discovered the store-room\nof the Seraphim, and stolen some of their\njam.\n\" All hail to thee, Benedick that is to\nbe,\" said I.\nHe laughed a little consciously, and\ncolored, seeing La Wassini. He had\nnever colored before, his whole life\nlong.\n\" It's secret,\" he said.\n\" Of course,\" said La Wassini.\n\" I hardly expected,\" I added, \" that\nyou would care to proclaim it just yet\nfrom the Monument.\"\n\" I am afraid,\" said he (and he gave\nme a black look), \" that you have looked\nover my shoulder, and seen my hand.\"\n\" Not nearly so plainly,\" broke in La\nWassini, \" as you have looked over a cer-\ntain other person's shoulder, and seen\nhand.\"\n\" At any rate,\" said I, \" I have never\ntouched \"\n\" Or kissed \"—broke in the Wassini.\nBut we both stopped because he looked\nso shocked.\n\"It was the Bachelors' claret,\" he\npleaded. \"It is insufferably heady. And\n—and Lady Merton has such a very nice\nhand.\"\nA light broke mercifully in upon La\nWassini and me.\n\" Lady Merton,\" said she, suddenly,\n\" has nothing whatever to do with it.\"\n46 T *\nI think,\" said I, though I was chok-\ning with laughter, \" that the Bachelors'\nclaret must have been Chambertin.\"\nWe saw a very strange look come over\nhis face.\n\" You mean \" said he, suddenly.\nTo play with him would have been the\nact of a Filipino.\n\"It was Miss Winthrop,\" we said,\nwith, I think, one voice.\nIt had been a dark sort of day, but just\nthen a big beam of sunlight shot through\nthe clouds, and by its light I saw that the\nSecretary of State looked very sick. For\na moment he stood there stunned in the\nbrilliant sunshine, and no one said a word.\nThen,\n\" How do you know,\" said he, quietly;\nbut I could see that his courage had gone\nfrom him.\n\" Bella Winthrop,\" said La Wassini,\n\" has no purple gowns. And then—\npeste!\" and she shrugged her shoulders.\n\"We were at school together at Beauvais,\nand she was very, very naughty.\"\nI laid my hand on the Secretary's shoul-\nder. I loved the man.\n\" Tell us the worst,\" said I. \" What\nhave you done ? \"\n\" Curse that wine,\" he said, with some-\nthing that has half laugh and half sob.\n\" I suppose I have asked her to marry me,\nbut I never knew it—never, till now.\"\nLa Wassini looked scandalized.\n\" Brace up, for Heaven's sake,\" I whis-\npered. \" There is Orlikoff, the Russian\nCharge, and he is coming this way.\"\nEven as I spoke, he joined us and bowed,\nand I knew he had heard my warning.\nBut the Secretary of State was saying,\nin an even tone, \" With pleasure, Mad-\name. It will be no trouble at all. Shall\nI get it at Altman's ? \"\nLa Wassini was as quick as he.\n\"You will get it,\" she said, laughing,\n\" if you do not get it at Altaian's.\"\nOrlikoff said, in his heavy Russian\nway:\n\" An affair of something to be sold and\ndelivered, not ? \"\n\" No,\" said I, \" you are wrong. It is\nan affair of something that has been sold\nalready, and there is no way to deliver it.\"\n\"I wonder what is it ? \" said the Sec-\nretary of State, unwarily.\nLa Wassini tapped him lightly on the\nsleeve.\n\" Tag,\" said La Wassini."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "56", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.24", "texte": "East & West\n\nLines Written Among the Turrets of Milan\nCathedral\nPercy Wallace Mackaye\nBy\nAmong the sky-paths of a sculptured forest,\nWhich, like a wilderness of darkling plumes\nUpon an ancient Lombard's smithied helmet,\nClothes the dim, cloistral mind of the cathedral\nIn far Milan, I lost my moonlit way.\nIn that domain of reconciliation\nBetween the earth and heaven, art has so wrought\nThat Fancy is a realm substantial\nIn mellow-gleaming marble; and Nature herself,\nWithin those vital integuments of stone,\nSeems to respire, and drink of her own breathings\nFrom the quick night-winds and the vivid stars.\nBreathless, I paused, and listened. Spires on spires,\nLike frozen cypresses, thronging the night,\nIn exquisite intricacy, threw down\nTheir shadows round my own. And thence I saw\nHow that aerial forest was enchanted.\nFar from a covert, hidden from the moon,\nSprang forth a silent-barking harpy, spurning\nThe cliff, from which he hung, with rabid heels;\nAnd still he drew no nearer, like a bough\nBy winds contorted, or a yawning stump.\nBut hush! O Beauty! Are the sylvan fauns\nChanged to bright angels in this skyey wood?\nNymphs to dim saints, satyrs to pensive knights,\nAnd Dian's spring to the sweet Virgin's shrine?\nFor, see! from yonder silent, spindling spire\nA creature has emerged, and there—and there—\nAnother—and a throng! a stellar people,\nSeraphs and winged dreams! The forest seems\nTo rustle. 'Mid its petrid firs of pearl,\nThe chiselled bark, parting, gives pale birth\nTo heaven's own host—this choir of quietness,\nWhere a star sings in every angel's ear\nPreludes of incommunicable prayer."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.25", "texte": "The Drama\n\nBreathless, I paused, and knelt. Against the north,\nA form of wind and light-foot loveliness,\nStayed, by the eternal touch of art, upon\nHer swift ethereal way toward the peak\nOf Matterhorn—a form of grace, I say,\nTiptoe upon an ardent pinnacle,\nSpake to me where I aspired: \" Sweet youth, why art\nThou come to us? Say! dost thou yearn to be\nA voice in the eternal choir of quietness? \"\nAnd pressing hard my beating heart, I bowed.\n\" Descend, then, youth, to the bewildered world,\nAnd by this kiss I burn upon thy brow,\nWalk as a star through the murk noon of men,\nAnd love thy Love as God Himself loves Beauty.\"\nAnd with that kiss I came unto my love.\n\nThe Drama\n\nTHREE RECENT COMEDIES\nPeter Stuyvesant, The Tyranny of Tears,\nMiss Hobbs\n\nIt is interesting to note that of the six\nplays which, perhaps, have thus far at-\ntracted the most attention during the\npresent season, three are dramatized\nnovels, while the other three are comedies,\nprimarily, of character. Reserving until\nlater all discussion concerning the signifi-\ncance (if any) of the almost simultaneous\nappearance of \" Becky Sharp,\" \" The\nOnly Way,\" and \"Children of the Ghet-\nto,\" we shall here attempt to point out the\nvalue of \" Peter Stuyvesant,\" \" The Tyr-\nanny of Tears,\" and \" Miss Hobbs.\"\nWe have called these three plays com-\nedies primarily of character, because it\nis in each case some foible in the charac-\nter of one of the important personages in\nthe play that is the prime basis for the\ncomedy element. In the first it is the\nheadstrongness of the old Dutch Gover-\nnor ; in the second, it is the selfishness of\nthe tearful Mrs. Parbury; in the third, it\nis the narrowness of the marriage-hating\nMiss Hobbs. They are, of course, all\nthree of them, comedies, in part, of situa-\ntion as well, while \" Peter Stuyvesant\"\nmight rightfully be considered also a his-\ntorical comedy of manners.\nJudging the play by Mr. Matthews and\nMr. Howard first from the point of view\nof the comedy of character, the decision\nseems to be that the authors have suc-\nceeded in creating, in the Governor of\nNew Amsterdam, a figure that is en-\ndowed with the qualities requisite for\nprovoking good-natured mirth. No vin-\ndictive laugh can be aroused by such a\ncharacter, for there is in it none of that\nhypocrisy, or hollowness of form, which,\nas Fielding long ago said, and Moliere\nand Sheridan long ago showed, alone\nmight serve fittingly as the object of ridi-\ncule. Mrs. Tisbet Bayard, Dr. La Mon-\ntagne, the various officers and councillors,\nand the two pairs of lovers, all are well\ndrawn, and would seem to assure suc-\ncessful comedy as the result of their\ncharacters being acted upon by that of the\nGovernor, and interacting one upon an-\nother. Yet it must be frankly admitted\nthat \" Peter Stuyvesant\" is not so inter-\nesting as might have been expected. The\nvarious personages are individually at-\ntractive or amusing, as the case may be,"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "58", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.26", "texte": "East & West\n\nbut they fail to combine well. The scenes\nlack vitality, and we do not follow the\nplot with real absorption. The fault may\nto some extent be ours. The life of\nBroadway surges around us, and the ex-\ncitement of a great city is, however un-\nconscious we may be of it, in our veins.\nWe are end-of-the-century New Yorkers,\nhaving little in common with the sedate\nburghers of an age long past. This is all\ntrue, and yet it seems easier to explain\nthe fact that \" Peter Stuyvesant,\" though\nvery enjoyable in parts, is not interesting\nthroughout, by calling attention to the\nlack of novelty in many of the situations,\nand to the obvious conventions several\ntimes employed.\nThere are certain indispensable stage\nconventions which, from their very hyper-\nobtrusiveness, like the purloined letter in\nPoe's tale, are little likely to be noticed.\nBut a playwright can afford to indulge\nonly very judiciously in the less inevi-\ntable conventionalities of dramatic con-\nstruction. The fundamental rules he\nmust observe, the crucial scene or scenes\n—the keynote to the play—what Sardou\ncalled the scene a f—must be well\nwrought; the psychological effect of the\nvarious incidents—their mirth-provok-\ning, their tension-causing or tension-re-\nlieving capacity, must all be taken into\naccount. But, beyond this, the great\ndramatist must strike out into the less\ncommon paths. He must be unwilling to\nlet any of his characters indulge in solil-\noquy that would have remained un-\nspoken in real life, in order to let dangle\nclearly before the eyes of the audience\ncertain threads in the woof of the plot.\nThis device, so fatal to dramatic illusion,\nis used in \" Peter Stuyvesant.\" And the\nplaywright who resorts to the familiar\nmoves in the old game of cross-purposes\nmust not wonder if some of the complica-\ntions appear artificial.\nThe plot is one of intrigues rather than\nof real life and passion.\nYet, despite a lack of originality and\nfinish in construction, and an insufficient\namount of real action, \" Peter Stuyve-\nsant \" was worth writing; it is a pleasant,\nwholesome American play that shows\nthe authors not gaining any great goal,\nit is true, yet pointing distinctly in the\nright direction.\nIt is interesting to compare a play like\n\" Peter Stuyvesant,\" at times imperfect\nin construction, with a play so close-knit\nas \" The Tyranny of Tears.\" Mr. Had-\ndon Chambers employs only six charac-\nters ; yet they suffice to keep the interest\nfrom flagging throughout the greater\npart of the four acts. There is absolutely\nno body to the piece, and it will probably\nsink out of sight as soon as the season is\nover; in the mean time it affords a few\npleasant hours, by means of its compact\nand natural action and its clever dialogue.\nIn one place, it is true, the naturalness is\nsacrificed to the compactness, and Mr.\nGeorge Gunning, the far-travelled and\nsomewhat cynical bachelor, asks the poor\nyoung typewriter to become his wife long\nbefore in real life there would have been\nany likelihood of his doing so. But with\nthis exception, Mr. Chambers shows ex-\ncellent workmanship from the point of\nview of the mechanism of play-writing.\nWe wish that all this skill and cleverness\nwere employed to less ephemeral ends.\nBy means of a certain amount of self-\ncontrol, all mention of the actors in\n\" Peter Stuyvesant\" and \" The Tyran-\nny of Tears \" has been avoided. The ob-\nject of this department is to study the\ndrama in itself, and though, of course, in\ndoing this a play's value for the stage—\nits \" actability \"—must be considered as\nwell as its more purely literary value, the\ngood or bad qualities of any individual\nactor need here not be taken into account.\nWe have, therefore, not alluded specific-\nally to the intelligent humor of Mr. Crane\nor the gentlemanly naturalness of Mr.\nDrew. In discussing \" Miss Hobbs,\"\nhowever, with any amount of fairness to\nourselves, it is impossible to omit mention\nof Miss Russell. If we were to say that\nMr. Jerome's is an unimportant play, ac-"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.27", "texte": "Reviews\n\ncording to all canons of dramatic art, the\nmany people who have found it one of the\nmost attractive of recent pieces would\nmarvel at our words. And yet it is great-\nly the charm of a young actress, and the\nwell-merited popularity of an old actress,\nto which the success of \" Miss Hobbs \"\nmay be attributed. Literary value, real\nthought, purpose, or result, there is none.\nPotentiality to amuse, a certain light\ngrace, a rippling stream of entertaining\nspeech—these are the substitutes offered\nus. Moreover there is skill in construc-\ntion; and, though we see an old stage\ntrick in the finding by Miss Hobbs of the\nbook in which is recorded the bet con-\ncerning herself, the good account to\nwhich later the incident is turned leads\nus to overlook the author's lack of con-\nstructive originality in having introduced\nit.\nWhat we are led, then, to expect from\nthese three recent comedies is this: For\nsome time, at least, the chief purpose of\nthe playwrights will remain one merely\nof amusement. The audience, after a\nday's hard work, will continue to go to\nthe theatre solely for pleasant relaxation.\nCleverly constructed bright plays will af-\nford this relaxation. Later it may dawn\nmore forcibly upon the public mind that\ncomedy can be significant as well as en-\ntertaining. National characteristics, na-\ntional events may then be more often in-\ntroduced; things worth ridiculing may\nlater be ridiculed, and we may in time\nhave our Sheridans, our Molieres, and\nour Augiers. There can be no art with-\nout significance, no great achievement\nin any branch of the drama unless there\nfirst be purpose other than one only of\namusement. There is here no idea of\ndidacticism or preaching, but of the in-\nherent lasting value of all great art. Un-\ntil the plays put on our stage present some\nessential significance of some kind,\nwhether national or universal, we cannot\nbe satisfied; yet in the mean time let us\ntake all the pleasure we can get from the\ngraceful, unimportant, amusing produc-\ntions of the present day. They are, at\nany rate, cleaner and brighter than much\nwith which we have had to put up in re-\ncent years.\n\nGeorge S. Hellman.\n\nReviews\nSTALKY & CO. By Rudyard Kipling.\nThe Doubleday and McClure Company.\nFor an American, whose idea of Eng-\nlish school-life is derived largely from\n\" Tom Brown at Rugby,\" a comparison\nbetween Mr. Kipling's \" Stalky & Co.\"\nand Thomas Hughes's classic of immortal\nmemory, will seem inevitable. The Rug-\nby of those days, the days of Arnold and\nof Clough, was often accused of making\nmen prigs, and, through excess of moral\nand religious training, morbid and in-\ncapable of action. This may be partly\ntrue, and undoubtedly, in the case of an\nArthur Clough, too fine an edge was put\nupon the highly tempered blade with\nwhich the youth was expected to carve\nout his fortunes in the world. But, how-\never this may have been, it would be a\nvery unusual critic who should find in\n\" Tom Brown,\" the mirror of Rugby, any\ntrace of the mawkish and \" goody-\ngoody.\" The predominant note, that\nwhich has made it endure, is a fine and\nattractive manliness—a spirit of natural\nbreeding and nobility like nothing to be\nfound in this new exponent of English\nschool-life, \" Stalky & Co.\" Not only in\nthe academy of Mr. Kipling are the spirit-\nual ideals of honor and of chivalry abso-\nlutely lacking, but even on the purely\nphysical side of boyhood, when one would\nexpect to find Kipling supreme in the\nidealization of the hardy virtues, Dr. Ar-\nnold's boys seem far manlier than Butler,\nStalky, and McTurk. At Rugby there\nwas no end of foot-ball, cricket, and fight-\ning, with just enough of mischievous mis-"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "60", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.28", "texte": "East & West\n\ndemeanor to indicate truthfully the natu-\nral bent of boyhood for trouble. In\n\" Stalky & Co.\" there are sneers for the\ntraditional games of the Briton, and often\nin this long-sustained record of brutal\nfagging, mean-spirited and venomous\ntrickery, we long unspeakably for some-\nthing that never happens—a good, manly\nstand-up fight for the settlement of openly\nresented grievances. Guile is the chief\nlesson that Mr. Kipling teaches in these\nstories: the value of doing a thing cau-\ntiously and with the least possible open\ndeclaration of intention and motive. Ex-\npediency is the new Golden Rule, and be-\nsides, the highest moral teachings are a\nsort of rude justice the essence of which\nis revenge and reprisals, and a sort of be-\ngrudging, unsympathetic assistance of\nthe weaker party. In \" The Moral Re-\nformers \" the new morality is exploited\nvery clearly and on its highest plane.\nTwo \" crammer's rejections \" make life\nmiserable for little Clewer. At the in-\nstance of the clergyman of the school,\nand not through any love or deep pity for\nthe victim, who is a \" dirty little brute,\"\nNumber Five Study undertakes his res-\ncue. This is accomplished by a trick\nthrough which Sefton and Campbell, the\ntwo persecutors, are thrown into the\nhands of Stalky & Co., who proceed to ply\nthem with all the tortures that devilish\ningenuity and bitter bygone experience\ncan devise in a spirit of simple savagery\nmasking as a righteous visitation of jus-\ntice. The other great virtue with which\nreaders of Mr. Kipling are familiar in\nthe heroes of his other tales, is cleanli-\nness. This is seen in its constructive\nstages in \" An Unsavory Interlude,\" in\nwhich accusations of personal neglect are\nturned to the torment of the accusers by\nthe intrusion of a dead cat under the floor\nof one of the houses, all to the accompani-\nment of the foulest language in English\nsince the days of Swift. In short, the\nwhole atmosphere of the book is ugly,\ncompact of sheer brutality, vulgar coarse-\nness, and a spirit of malignant meanness\nthat do not show out in mere summaries\nof Mr. Kipling's plots. It is impossible\nto gain, without reading the book, a really\nadequate notion of the unyouthful boy-\nhood and precocious corruption of Mr.\nKipling's pictures of British school-life.\nTo argue in justification of these stories\nthat a young boy is an animal and that\nleft to himself or placed amid debasing in-\nfluences—and such are the influences ex-\nerted by masters like King and Prout—\nhe will remain an animal, developing up-\non that side, is to say nothing to the point.\nFor the child is father to the man, and\neach boj has in his nature a higher some-\nthing that needs but to be caressed to be\nawakened. In just one appreciable point\ndoes Mr. Kipling attempt to make us\naware of this fact, and that is in \" The\nFlag of Their Country.\" Here he en-\ndeavors to show a patriotism that is\nabove cheap display of shoddy sentimen-\ntalism and of calico flags, too sacred for\nprofaning speech. This ideal is very\nhigh and noble even in exaggeration that\ntranscends our comprehension and be-\nlief, as, for instance, when it is said of the\nUnion Jack: \"They had certainly seen\nthe thing before—down at the coast-\nguard station, or through a telescope,\nhalf-mast high when a brig went ashore\non Braunton Sands; above the roof of\nthe Golf-club, and in Keyte's window,\nwhere a certain kind of striped sweet-\nmeat bore it in paper on each box. But\nthe College never displayed it; it was no\npart of the scheme of their lives; the\nHead had never alluded to it; their fa-\nthers had never declared it unto them. It\nwas a matter shut up, sacred and apart.\"\nBut this patriotism bedded in shame-\nfaced, savage pride, is too fine a blossom\nfor the soil it springs from.\nOf course, these pictures are ideali-\nzations : they form a complete exposition\nof the training that Mr. Kipling deems\nnecessary for the British conquest of the\nworld. It does not need the poem with\nwhich the book opens to tell us that from\nthis peculiar moulding of the boy nature"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "61", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.29", "texte": "Reviews\n\nhe believes is to be acquired that especial\nkind of character in the man, which alone\ncan accomplish the building of empires.\nNor does it need more than a knowledge\nof Mr. Kipling's imperialistic ideal, to\nmake the innate glory of a system fruit-\nful of such magnificent results, follow as\nan inevitable conclusion. Mr. Kipling\ngloats over the picture as he draws it with\nunctuous richness of slang, dirtiness, and\ncunning immorality. For is not the\nschool the microcosm of the colonial em-\npire? Are there not to be seen here in\nthe making, those particular qualities\nwhich we have learned to look for in the\nCecil Rhodes of imperialism—calculat-\ning aggressiveness, sublimated finesse,\ncontemptuous disregard for old-fashioned\nstandards of right and wrong, and a cyn-\nical unscrupulousness in the undeviating\nworking out of a heaven-appointed end?\nOld Rugby boys only recently raised a\nmonument to the memory of Tom\nHughes, who in reflecting the life of his\nschool became for Englishmen the em-\nbodiment of the virtues it represented.\nWhether or not a new generation of the\nEnglish will ever erect a monument to\nMr. Kipling, with the same love and ven-\neration, it is difficult to say. It is certain,\nhowever, that Mr. Kipling's monument\nwill partake in the general crumbling nat-\nure of the material welfare of his race for\nwhich he stands, and to which he here\nsacrifices in the bud, all the more per-\nmanent qualities of character which\nalone so far have made England great\namong nations.\n\nWRITINGS OF IDEALISTS\nTHE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT. By\nHamilton Wright Mabie. Dodd, Mead\n& Co.\nLETTERS OF EMERSON TO A\nFRIEND. Edited by Charles Eliot\n' Norton. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.\nTo the steadily continuing body of\nidealistic literature in America the latest\nwork of Mr. Hamilton Wright Mabie is\nno mean contribution, and deserves more\nthan a passing comment. Though the too\nfrequent use of the words \" Christ \" and\n\" God \" and \" divine \"make us fear lest\nthe author border too closely on \" the ser-\nmonizing of self-consecrated priests con-\ncerning mysteries no mind has clearly\ngrasped,\" there are many chapters con-\ntaining noble lessons nobly put; and\nthough the book presents no detailed\nscheme in structure, there is throughout a\nsimilar loftiness of tone and oneness of\npurpose.\n\" The Life of the Spirit\" has for its\nthesis the value of the spiritual in man's\nlife. Patriotism, courage, honor, helpful-\nness, friendship, beauty—these are among\nthe subjects with which Mr. Mabie deals.\nHis point of view is always the same.\nSeeing in religion, ground for belief in\nthe immortality of what is spiritual, and\nfinding in the results of modern science\nconfirmation rather than refutation of\nthis belief; confident that what is good\nin man must from the very logic of the\nuniverse be most permanent, Mr. Mabie\nis enabled to express views many of\nwhich, in spite of their lack of novelty\n(for Idealism is a single and ancient\ncreed, however numerous be its proph-\nets) will to the sceptic once more be sug-\ngestive, and to the sympathetic, once\nmore be inspiring.\nBy Idealism, whether used in reference\nto writers of literature or to men in the\nordinary walks of life, is meant not any\ncreed of visionaries and byword of prac-\ntical folk, but, rather, faith in the signifi-\ncance and permanence of noble qualities,\nand belief in a purpose toward good in\nthe universe, as evidenced by this perma-\nnence. This is an off-hand definition, al-\nlowing of modification and additions, but\nit suffices to show that Idealism is a creed\nfor the many rather than for the few.\nWhatever concerns the great idealists is\nof permanent interest, because they are\nidentified with what is most permanent\nin life; and in this way may be explained\nthe lasting regard for everything con-"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "62", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.30", "texte": "East & West\n\nnected with Emerson, the greatest of our\nliterary idealists. The \" Letters to a\nFriend,\" recently edited by Charles Eliot\nNorton, are welcome in that they cast\nmore light on the character of a man we\nrevere. They are, most of them, notes so\nslight that the simple, clear style is seen\nlittle more than in outline; yet they con-\ntribute toward illustrating again Emer-\nson's views on friendship, so that even\nthrough the meagre substance of these\nletters we seem to hear him teach us once\nmore that \" the only way to have a friend\nis to be one.\"\nIn dealing in the same review with\nwritings of Emerson and of Mr. Mabie,\nwe are willingly associating the living au-\nthor with the great dead. It may, how-\never, be not amiss to suggest that while\nonly the intellectual few can be the literary\nexponents of Idealism, it is not alone to\nthe intellectual few that they must address\nthemselves. Christ made his teachings\ninteresting through parables, and hid the\nlaw in the poetry of imagery; the long\nline of great moral writers from Marcus\nAurelius to Maeterlinck made the beauty\nof their words or the sparkle of their epi-\ngram relieve the didacticism of their\nthought, and, above all, they made their\nappeal so humanly intimate that, however\ndiversified their audience, all felt them-\nselves personally addressed. From these\npoints of view of what may be called the\naccessories to idealistic literature, Mr.\nMabie will, we are confident, be willing\nto yield in rank to Emerson and others of\nhis superiors.\n\nRECENT SHORT STORIES\n\nSAND AND CACTUS. By Wolcott\nLeClear Beard. THE POWERS AT\nPLAY. By Bliss Perry. THE LION\nAND THE UNICORN. By Rich-\nard Harding Davis. Charles Scribner's\nSons.\nIf the short story is to be the literary\nform of the future, superseding the novel,\nas the novel superseded the written play\nin popular favor, it is natural that we\nshould take up each new volume in this\nclass eagerly, in the expectation of find-\ning the modern masterpiece. What this\nwill be like when we do come across it;\nwhat, indeed, is the real nature of the\nshort story, are matters in much dispute.\nOr, to give the question as it is ordinarily\nstated, does the short story exist as a\nform of art fundamentally different from\nlonger prose fiction, or is whatever differ-\nence there may be, a simple one of length ?\nOne thing seems certain; if the short\nstory is a legitimate form of art, it must\ndeal with the material common to all pre-\nviously recognized forms. It must treat\nof life and human experience dramatized,\nintensified, made typical, universal, sig-\nnificant. It is thus obvious that in this\nsense there can be no fundamental differ-\nence between the short story and other\nliterary genres.The only permissible\ndifference is one of treatment, and con-\nsists in the greater condensation or in the\nhigher degree of artistic selection de-\nmanded by the rigid exactions of length.\nThis puts the short story on a par with\nthe drama in a comparison with longer,\nfuller forms of composition. The real\nquestion seems to be whether the high de-\ngree of selection and condensation neces-\nsitated by the physical requirements of\nthe short story can be actually practised\nwithout impairing the importance and\nsignificance demanded of any work of art.\nAnd because we have great dramas, as\nwell as great novels and epics, there seems\nto be no reason why there should not be\ngreat short stories as well. Only, of\ncourse, the degree of artistic skill required\nis extraordinarily high, just as it takes\nthe master-hand to make great dramas.\nThe danger is that in seeking to gain in\nsmall compass the unity that exists in all\nart, and which is especially important for\nthe short story which depends for its ef-\nfect largely upon the totality of its im-\npression, the author is too likely to sub-\nstitute for the higher unity of novels and\nepics, the inferior, superficial unity of sin-"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "63", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.31", "texte": "Reviews\n\ngle, striking episodes and surface impres-\nsions. Indeed, this has become practically\nthe ideal of most modern short story\nwriters, and accounts for the almost uni-\nversal identification of the short story\nwith the sketch of local color in man and\nnature.\nMr. Wolcott Le Clear Beard's \" Sand\nand Cactus \" is a typical example of this\nlocal color realism. These stories deal\nwith the life and scenery of the South-\nwest—strange, colored, and violent. Mr.\nBeard is usually ingenious in his en-\ndeavor to parade his materials entertain-\ningly. But our curiosity is soon satisfied\nwith this rather monotonous, because\nprimitive and narrow, range of purely\nphysical savagery; and finding little in-\nsistance upon that \" one touch of nature,\"\nour interest flags at even the most\ninventions of the author.\nIn \" The Powers at Play,\" Mr. Bliss\nPerry comes closer to the ideal of the\nshort story, despite two or three bald fail-\nures such as \" Madam Annalena \" and\n\" The Incident of the British Ambassa-\ndor.\" In \" His Word of Honor \" and\n\" By the Committee \" we recognize the\ntrue artistic method and motif. The\npowers referred to in the title of the\nbook, are the external forces of destiny,\nwhich is neither more nor less than the\ncomplex of human action; and the inter-\nnal force of individual character deter-\nmining at once the degree of each man's\nsubjection to fate, and forming an in-\ntegral element in the common destiny.\nThese are the elements in all tragedy and\ncomedy, and they enter in a striking de-\ngree into \" By the Committee,\" which,\nwith its well-knit and logical construction\nand careful characterization is one of the\nbest stories we have seen for some time.\nA third writer who comes before us is\nRichard Harding Davis with \" The Lion\nand the Unicorn.\" Probably there is no\nother writer of short stories to-day so\ntalented as Mr. Davis. He has a wonder-\nful facility and a wide range. While hav-\ning no very deep or subtile knowledge of\nhuman nature, he has something more\nthan a surface acquaintance with the\nthoughts and feelings of various men and\nwomen. Yet his obvious lack of sincerity,\nhis continual striving after striking effect,\nmakes it impossible to give his work very\nserious consideration. He employs his\ntalents simply and solely in the writing of\npretty magazine stories, which he turns\nout with machine-like regularity and per-\nfection. Through all his work one feels\nthe repression rather than the expression\nof his powers. Each story is suggestive\nof a well-made, well-acted, and admirably\nstaged, but altogether artificial play. His\npeople are the play-actors of a highly\ntrained stock company, stepping out of\none set of parts into another as easily as\nthe author-manager shifts his sets of\nscenes. Everything smacks of the play\nand its conventions, and there is rather\nthe illusion of the stage than the convinc-\ning reality of life. And here, of course,\nthe man of letters is selling his birth-\nright. It seems a pity that a man who\ncan so cleverly simulate eloquence and\ndeep feeling in a story like \" The Man\nwith One Talent,\" should abandon trifling\nand give free rein to his powers, produc-\ning something less finished and harmoni-\nous perhaps, but with more of vitality in\nit. And Mr. Davis can do this if he\nwishes.\nA HISTORY OF LITERARY CRIT-\nICISM IN THE RENAISSANCE.\nBy Joel Elias Spingarn. The Mac-\nmillan Company.\nThis volume traverses a field which has\nhitherto been systematically ignored by\nhistorians of literary criticism. The\nmediaeval times were indeed dark ages in\nthe theory of art, but neither they nor\nthose of early Renaissance were so black\nthat their gloom was irradiated by no\nshaft of light. It is this fact that Mr.\nSpingarn demonstrates. His exposition\nof the surprising extent to which Italy\nwas the seed-ground and nursery of the\nthought of Philip Sidney, Boileau, and"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "64", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaar18991215-01.1.32", "texte": "East & West\n\ntheir immediate predecessors in England\nand France, stimulates here for the first\ntime a curiosity which, again, it is the first\nto satisfy.\nThe author offers a discussion of the\ntheory of poetry from its mediaeval be-\nginnings in the ascetic Christian Church,\nto its rehabilitation in accordance with\nthe dicta of the Stagirite.\nThe gap which long existed between\nthe Poetics of Aristotle and Horace's\nPoetica in antiquity, and the comparative-\nly modern Defence of Poesy of Sidney, is\nhere closed. The volume therefore takes\non a double aspect. In its opening pages\nit presents a picture of an attitude of mind,\nof a popular feeling toward literature,\nfor there was no criticism at the dawn of\nthe Renaissance. In its place there was\na consciousness that all fiction was to be\nregarded as subservient to theology and\nthe Church, that the criteria that litera-\nture was to be judged by, were purely\nmoral criteria. But the discovery of the\nPoetics of Aristotle introduced at once an\nentire change in the point of view. A\ncriticism was then set up with canons of\nits own. The evolution of literature be-\ncame a distinct science. From that point\nonward the author is concerned not with\nthe place of letters before the people, but\nwith a more technical subject—the suc-\ncessive modification of a specialized\nstudy, which was the legacy of Greece to\nmodern Europe.\nThe account of the rise and particular\nphases of scientific criticism in Italy is,\nindeed, the most novel feature of the\nvolume.\nA presentation of the theories of Italian\ncriticism, as a whole, has been a desidera-\ntum. Hence few of the persons in the\nsucceeding chapters are familiar. Tris-\nsino, Dolce, Cinthio, and Tasso are there,\nit is true, but the great majority of names,\nthough freely used by the critics of their\nday, are now forgotten in Tuscany itself,\nand the works for which they stood are\neven more obscure. In the interest of\nclearness, therefore, a topical rather than\na chronological order is observed in the\nexposition. The general theory of po-\netry in Italy, the theory of the drama and\nof the epic, and, lastly, the successful\nestablishment of the classical tradition,\nmodified as it was by the romantic spirit,\nare severally unfolded. The poetic the-\nory of the sixteenth century, in short,\nis reconstructed in its entirety.\nThe elucidation of the ideals of the\nItalian writers is followed by a similar\nexamination of the progress that they\nmade in France and England. Here, of\ncourse, the matter is in no sense new.\nThe distinctive feature is the interpreta-\ntion of French and English writers in ac-\ncordance with the spirit of their Italian\npredecessors, and, more strikingly, in the\ndemonstration of the dependence of the\nnorthern nations upon the Adriatic penin-\nsula. This has always been recognized in\nthe main with sufficient clearness.\nIn the case of Neo-Aristotelianism\nfrom Pelletier and Ascham to Boileau\nand Milton, it needs no heralding, but\nhow absolute and servile the dependence\nwas in many of its features, has not, per-\nhaps, been understood. The integration\nof the national movements, Mr. Spingarn\nmakes very plain. The indication of the\nprimacy in time of the Italian over the\nnorthern critics, in matters of detail, is, it\nshould also be said in passing, admirably\nsure, and, sometimes, as with the antece-\ndents of Sidney's thought, is very strik-\ning.\nIn dignity and power the book is\nworthy of the subject which it treats.\nThe scholarship is thorough and convinc-\ning, though the directness of the style,\ntogether with an unfailing emphasis\nupon essential points, tends to obscure a\nminute and careful grasp of unusual de-\ntail.\n\nJ. G. U."}]}