M'lle New York  

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American decadent movement

M'lle New York (1895 - 1899) was a periodical co-edited by James Huneker and Vance Thompson.

M'lle is short for mademoiselle.

See also

M'lle New York - Volume 1, Issue 1 - Volume 2, Issue 10 - Page 47

COPYRIGHT 1895, BY M'LLE NEW YORK, PUB , CO. 1 Mie New York FORTNIGHTLY No. 1. Vol. I. Til AUGUST ID PRICE 70 CENTS SUBSCRIPTION $ 2.00 A YEAR PUBLISHED BY THE MLLE NEW YORK PUB.CO. ENTERED AT THE POST- OFFICA IN NEW YORK 43 SECOND CLASS MATTER ह Power ) OFFICES 100 NASSAU STREXT AND 256 WEST TWENTY THIRD STREET, NEW YORK : Vance thompson, editor ; Tbomas Fleming and T. = Powers, artists 1i 1 i1 1 The mob -- that gloriousclientage of Shakespeare - is dead ; it has become the “ public." It is not merely a juggle of words . This change goes to the root of things. Once the poet and the mob wrought together. Oh , this divine mob of the early centuries ! It had a fine force of instinct ; it was ignorant and it avowed it ; and by this very avowal it attained a high state of intellectual receptivity and appreciation. The mob and Peter the Hermit made the crusades ; the mob and Luther the Reformation , the mob and Shake speare made the drama, ds the mob and Villon made the French language--but the mob has become the public and the poet is its lickspittle . Poets ? They are the helots -many of them the drunken helots ---of the magazines. The public The public is made up of individuals who have opinions -- they even pronounce opinions; they read the newspapers ; they have a sullen and irreconcilable hate for the extraordinary ; they believe in philanthropy (the most selfish of vices) and in education (the monstrous fetich of this thoughtless century ); there are millions of them ; they walk beneath the eternal stars and fondle each other ; they are given in marriage and taken in adultery : they beget children ; they read the newspapers ; they have opinions; they are the public. The public It corrupts the language it has inherited from the mob and the poets ; it has debauched the stage to the level of Mr. Richard Watson Gilder's poetry and looks upon the drama merely as a help to digestion, a peptic or aperiative ; not content with having vulgarized literature and arts, it has begun to " popularize" science- your boot-maker has theories of the creation and your tailor argues the existence of God ; counter-jumpers play at atheism ; lawyers and pedagogues are flattered at reading in the Astor Library that Moses was only a “ medicine man” and Christ a politician. The public This grotesque aggregation of foolish individuals pretends to literary taste ; it has its painters, its playwrights, its authors ; that part of it which reads the male blue- stocking, William Dean Howells, looks down upon that part of it which reads the female blue stocking, Richard Harding Davis ; that part which reads Richard Harding Davis looks down upon the part which reads Laura Jean Libby ( why , in Heaven's name ? ), and the readers of Miss Libby look down in turn upon the readers of the Police Gazette. M’LLE NEW YORK is not concerned with the public. Her only ambition is to disintegrate some small portion of the public into its original com FOREWORD ponent parts -- the aristocracies of birth, wit,learning and art and the joyously vulgar mob . . 2 a Lena's father and mother with three children, one older and one younger than Lena, came to New York and went to live in Ludlow street, a little below Hester , when she was six years old . They took two rooms, one having windows opening on the tenement court, the other an inside room without light; and they let the dark room to three boarders, men who came over on the ship withthem . The father rented two sewing-machines, and he and his wife, the two older children, and the three boarders, began making clothing for the man who had rented them the machines. Lena helped at first, pulling threads, and in a little while did some of the hand sewing. But her father learned that nearly all the families in the neighborhood sent at least one child to school, that there might be a member who could speak English ; and so it wasdetermined to sendLena to school. This wasnot decided upon until itwas found that BY WHOM theyounger sister,four anda half years old, could pullthreads andmightsoonbetaughtto do THE OFFENCE the rough sewing Lena had done, and that Lena herself, by beginning at daylight and working till school-time, and workingafter school until dark , could still toilfive or six COMETH hours a day on the sweater's task , andthus her labor was not fully lost to the family . Lena learned rapidly to speak, read, and write English -- so rapidly that her father EDWARD W. would have taken her from school when she was eight years old but for the further ad TOWNSEND vantage of having one in the family with sufficient knowledge of figures to keep a check on the sweater. This outweighed the immediate gain of another pair of hands always in (Author of “ Chimmie Faddenthe workshop-home to help in the constant, endless battle against eviction and starvation. and Other Stories ” ) These were the reasons Lena was not taken from school untilshe was ten years old. Then she returned to the all -day work with the other members of the family and the three boarders; eight toilers in the one room which had such daylight as struggled through the murky court. The schoolroom had been so overcrowded that the Health Board was always com plaining to the School Board, which complained to the Aldermen, who complained to the Legislature, which sent Investigating Committees, which wrote illuminative Reports which enlightened no one because they were not read ; but that swarm of toiling men, women , andchildren in one small room , where five of them slept and all ate , was worse than any thing Lena ever endured at school. The life was hideously repulsive to her. She rebelled. Her father tore his beard and cursed the day when he had been so blind a fool as to allow a child of his to be taught to despise her station, to imbibe wicked, extravagant notions, unfitting her to do in silence and without complaint all that her strength permitted. That was her lot in life. How else were they to live? He wept aloud. Why should Lena rebel that so many of them worked and ate and slept in but two rooms? Why should she reproach him with the boarders while her sisters did not ? How else did their neighbors live ? So Lena toiled on , sullenly silent, rebellious only within . In summer the hours were cruelly long; all worked from daylight to dark , dumb, sombre, hopeless, through the sweltering days; men , women , and children half naked in the torture of the heat. But when not a ray of daylight remained to guide another stitch , Lena would leave the others gasping at the open windows, or in the poisonous court, or in the reeking street littered with withered children and foul gar bage, and hurry to the river front, where boys and girls, not much older than she, met in wayward freedom , breathed fresh air, danced on the dock, and drank beer when There was one young man -- ferret-faced,, coward -eyed - who often had money . He gave Lena scarf- pins and other valuable trinkets which he told her to pawn; and she would do so and divide the money with him . She did not know at first thathe was a thief, but she guessed it when she saw that at a signal from the lookout, warn ing them of a policeman's approach , he would slip like a rat into the river and disappear under one of the wharves. One night, she was not quite fourteen years old then , Lena did not go home. It was two weeks before the oldest sister learned, and told her father, that Lena had taken up with a pickpocket, not of their race . It came of her being educated beyond her class; made dissatis fied with her lot among her people! The father spoke, dry-eyed and solemn, as one who pronounces doom : henceforth there was no sister Lena, and it was to be as if there never had been . But the mother's work was splashed with tears for many amma w 2x days, altho'sgh she did not mention that child - her brightest, her fairest, her best beloved -ever again. Lena and Bat the pickpocket lived in many places, but always west of the Bowery, for she wished not to meet any of her people, and she knew they never went further west than that thor oughfare. Sometimes they left the city hurriedly and went to live across one of the rivers, where Bat would hide in their rooms for days. At such times Lena would pawn the trinkets and clothes Bat had given her, and when the money she got in that way was gone, if Bat had word from New York that he could not yet leave his hiding, Lena wouldgo to the big stores and steal. Once, when there was a great parade on Fifth avenue, Bat took Lena with him by devious west- side ways to Washington Square. He skulked like a wolf about the lower side of the square until the police were called away from the protection of his prey to clear the avenue for the parade. Then he slipped suddenly , stealthily , into the crowd on the end of the avenue, and was soonpassing stolen booty to Lena, following close, her heart throbbing. Besides taking the stuff he passedto her, Lena's duties were to signalat the approach of the police, to watch the men Bat robbed, and if any gave alarm before Bat was at a safe distance she was to pretend to faint close to the victim , thusdrawing around him a denser crowd, so that he could not give pursuit. They worked along the lower end of the avenue, and in spite of the strain and excitement of this terrible hazard, some vagrant perception of Lena's, unenlisted in the main purpose of her mind, thrilled at the rare spring beauty of the square, at the blissful peace suggested by the calm and stately old houses, which then were settings for such loveliness as she had not dreamed woman could express. She had never seen , never fancied anything like this. Once the tense tragedy of the seconds slipped wholly from her mind as her furtive gaze was caught and fasci nated by the picture at an open window of a fair, pure-browed girl, joyous with the stirring pomp of the passing pageant. Suddenly , asLena gazed, shesawthatradiant young face pale with shock as an officer gripped the shoulder of a white-faced thief in the crowd; and that same instant the outcast's glimpseof Paradise was ended by Bat's signal to her toescape. Bat was sent away to prison for a long time. When he was sentenced Lenahad tried to kiss him good -by, but he had cursed her for her stupid inattention which had resulted in his arrest. Lena left the court - room penniless, for of course all that the pawn -shops yielded had been given to Bat, and she could not steal, as the police were watchingher closely. Something drew her to the Chinese restaurant in Mott street which she had frequented with Bat. She thought it was hunger, and because she couldget credit there; but when Chung, the proprietor, brought her tea and food she could not eat. Yet she was racked by appetite, a tumult of bodily demand, a horrible, unsatiated craving! “ The habit is on you . You wantee pipe," said Chungthe experienced, observing. “ Yes, my God, opium ! ” the girl gasped, clutching the Chinaman in sudden , fierce joy at the understanding of her desire. “ Chung velly good man . Him give you pipe all you wantee, and plittee clo ', heap plittee clo ' . " Chung said this to her some hours afterward. For a year Lena was one of the white slaves in Chinatown. She and the other white slaves, as they visited each other to smoke opium and languidly discuss their chances of “ lasting " much longer, would laugh sometimes at the stories that their owners had guards on the outskirts of “ Nothing could drive us away from here -- away from the pipes -- but the Morgue wagon ," they would say as they laughed. Lena did not seem to be “ lasting. " Chung observed this with oriental equinimity, and told her one day, when she said she could not get up to dress, that shehad to ; she must go, for he had another slave. Lena protested feebly . Then he beat her, and she said she would go. Some of the other girls helped her to dress and she dragged herself away. She was going to some friends, shesaid. It was just such a bright spring day as that on which Bat had been arrested. In her half torpor she longed to see again that beautiful, fresh, green square, and the quiet, peaceful old homes. Perhaps, too , she would see that pure- browed girl who looked as the angels must look . She tried to hurry but could not, and it was dark when she reached Washington Square. She was very tired and weak, but when she stoppedto rest the police ordered her to move on . She crossed the square slowly, pain fully ; and the young French and Italian mothers, out in the open there with their babies, sighed and looked sorrowfully after her when they had seen her face in the flashes of the electric lights. More slowly, more painfully, Lena dragged herself up the avenue to the house where she had seen the beautiful girl, and now when she saw its windows closed and shaded she moaned, and wandered on aimlessly . But when she had walked a few blocks further all her strength had ebbed and she staggered against a stately, churchlike building -staggered and sank down, and died . Two men turning toenter the building held the skirts of their coats aside that they should not touch the poor,huddled figure. They were going in to a meeting of the Board of Foreign Missions to urge the sending forth of more men to teach in distant lands the gospel of Jesus Christ. 1 1 D 3 KNUT HAMSUN Last year in Copenhagen I was talking with a journalist whom I have known lang syne. " When you go to Paris," said he, “ you must meet Hamsun ." And I asked him whether he meant the man who wrote “ Sult,” for that was a book much talked of in Germany once upon a time, when all of us were younger --- dear Lord, we were all of us five years nearer youth. “ Ay, " said my friend, " Knut Hamsun ." He wrote me an introduction on the obverse of his visiting - card. A few months later I called at Hamsun's little furnished room up three pairs of stairs in one of the smart houses of the rue de Vaugirard. We did not say much to each other -- this great shock- headed Norwegian and I-for he had no French and I can not speak the Norse tongue. But we shook hands a great many times and nodded like Chinese mandarins, repeating the name of our common Danish friend. It may be that the fact that I do not know the man renders my appreciation of his books more just. In artistic appreciations it is well to eliminate the personal equation . There is no neces sary accord between talent and character. I wish I had never known Paul Verlaine ; had never lent him five francs ; had never helped him up the hospital steps ; had never con fused my love for " La Sagesse " with pity for this old satyr's bodily ills. And so I do not regret the insignificance of my acquaintance with Knut Hamsun. The man may have vices; his books have none. An unknown genius ! There is a rare esthetic satisfaction in loving the books which five years hence the world will love. Hamsun's first book, " Sult," was published five years -- nearly six years - ago . In the Scandinavian countries and in Germany one began to talk of the man and his work. The Berlin critics, I remember, attacked him with extraordinary bitterness. He was accused of plagiarism --- that unanswerable accusation ; he was laughed at, as though Juvenal were right and poverty indeed made one ridiculous. In his native land, Norway, his fate had been much thesame. “ Hunger ” had been published anonymously (and in weekly numbers) in a little Norwegian newspaper. The critics cried him down. " He is imitating Arne Garborg,” they said . In Heaven's name Arne Garborg ! — this ultra Norwegian translation of Walter Scott -- in Heaven's name! “ He is imitating Dostoiev sky, " said they. In Heaven's name Dostoievsky ! -- this strenuous, epileptic Russ of whom in those days he had never heard. And so criticism groped blindly, with a certain angry impatience. Perhaps all this was natural enough in those days. It may be you and I would have made the mistake of seeing in this confused and cryptic personality only a conglom eration of foreign influences. Indeed I can imagine the reviewer cutting the pages of one of his books -- " Sult," or " Redaktor Lygne," or " Ny Jord . ” In the first place he would be taken by the immense interest of the deeds done, the lives lived , the sweep of the story. And then the characters would impress themselves upon him insistently, im placably, until his interest in them became morbid , impatient, flagrant. Eh, bien- in the end the author with an ironical smile closes the door and leaves the stupefied critic kick ing his heels on the door- step. This is the key-note of Knut Hamsun's work --mystery , the insoluble riddle, the unanswerable enigma. Surely this is not mere literature ; my dear fellow, it is your life and mine. In your sky and mine the rainbow hangs no prismatic promise -- there is only a sneering interro gation -mark ; there is only the old algebraic sign of an unknown quantity. Ay, our only knowledge of life is in terms of x. This much Knut Hamsun said in his enigmatic He angered the simple folk and they exiled him from Norway. The complex man is always an exile. Even though he treads the soil of his own country, still is he an T. exile . This Norwegian savage --- he is half a savage -- fook refuge in the solitude of Paris. For the last two years he has starved in that three-pair-back in the rue de Vaugirard. A savage, I said. Dear Lord, how should the man be other than a savage ? His fight for life has been fierce and incessant ; it is still a savage struggle; he has known hunger — not the hunger you and I feel in June for the grapes of November --but the brutal craving of the man who fills his belly with the North wind. Could he have written " Hunger ” had he not known these things ? It is the Jeremiad of an empty belly. There is nothing in this book but famine -no analysis of causes,no psychology of the effects of hunger on different temperaments ; one only sees how this one man has been dragged down, brutalized , transformed by hunger, hunger, hunger. How did the hero live before this befell him ? Why was he in such want? There is no answer to these questions ; it is hunger without a commentary. With starvation come hallucinations ; the empty belly troubles the brain ; these cerebral disturbances Knut Hamsun has studied in himself; he has written them down pitilessly as Poe might have done. For he had lived his book ; a “ tramp” in the streets of Christiania ; looking for work as a farm -laboror in Minnesota and Wisconsin ; waiter in a New York restaurant near the water's edge ; before the mast on an Italian freighter ; man of letters ( who could not speak French) in Paris ; he has lived his book . I see Knut Hamsun now — as I saw him that day in his shabby chamber —a big, gangling, awkward man, shock- headed, with an angular, Yankee-like tace, out of which stared impenetrable gray eyes. In five years the world will talk of him. [Hamsun's four novels are Sult ( 1890), Mysterier ( 1892 ) , Kedaktor Lygne ( 1893 ) , Ny Jord ( 1893) -- P. G. Philipsen, Copenhagen ; German translation , Albert Langen , Leipsic and Paris. He has in preparation a novel, “ Pan," and a volume on the life and habits of the American. FORFAITURE. PAR EMILE VITTU . 을 도 Le poète déchu de son trone immortel Et martyr ingénu de quelque amour infame Est plus vil que le preux qui parjura sa lame, Que le pretre apostat qui profana l'autel. Son mal est sans retours. Car son forfaitfut tel Qu'il échappe aussi bien a la pitié qu'au blame. Le regard dans le vide et le néant dans l'ame Sous un ciel sans pardon il languit, criminel. Et son Ami, l'ami de son caur, frère d'armes Qui partagea sa foi, ses luttes et ses larmes, Se détourne à pas lents et l'abandonne là. O toi : bon chevalier à la loyal armure, De grace! arrete -toi. Regarde ma blessure Et du fer de ton glaive acéré guéris-la. Freuna ܪܪ ° This little Pantomime is called the Repentance of Pierrot - but that isn't its name. When he comes home intoxicated Columbine is properly angry with him ; but he blows out the candle and drinks whiskey in Madison Square ; the devil very sensibly comes up through a man -hole and pulls Pierrot down to hell ; in hell there are poets, painters, women, and district attorneys ; bu Pierrot escapes, and after wandering through the bleak land of purgatory, is welcomed in Heaven, where he reads “ The Shorter Catechism ," and repents. PANTOMIME ! 1 在 。 Leonardo C 80 | For I Tomato ( ) TIT Ini ( 77 D JOWERS पा BLACK MUSIC BY CHARLES EU GENE HAMLIN 1 q1 NOTICED on entering the Metropolitan opera -house that night that there was an unusual air about the auditorium and the audience. The lights were dimmer than at a Wagnerian representation, and I could not make out the nature of the heavy drapings that hung from the walls, though the impression I gathered was that we were seated in a world of palms, evergreens, and boughs. Almost insensibly I thought of a tropical scene, and the opening notes of the overture sent a troop of pictures of life in a sunny land dancing through my mind. What imagery there was in that music, and how the scene changed and touched on different emotions . The coloring was masterful, and I almost persuaded myself that new, or at least long unused, instruments produced it . Yes, that rich effect of the strings could not have been obtained without the aid of the lovely and mellow viola di gamba ; that intense piping tone must come from a giant oboe, and that rare organ tone must be produced by a bass flute. Now they are playing together, and the other instru ments are silent. I am reminded of the strange, weird, and pathetic tones I heard one lonely night at college, when three negroes, who had tramped to Cambridge from the South and buffeted round town, found themselves under the windows of our homelike hall and lamented. Music was their tongue. Their “ massa ” was indeed “ in the cold, cold ground . ” It was the first time I heard that song, and truly it touched me. Am I hearing it now ? If I were not in the Metropolitan ; if it were not an unwritten law not to play despised American music in that place sacred to antiquity and its worshipers ; if --if - My God, it is that heartfelt melody, as dramatic in its truthfulness as Isolde's liebe's tode. And Signor De Vivo stands there like one in a trance . Old Propriety fidgets away. Wonder what he will write. But I do not care. Don't think he knows music when he hears it. He doesn't like this. Ah, but Mascagni was a great fellow after all . He freed us from dragons, gods and goddesses, and princes and princesses of the past, who die to waltz time. He taught us that the opera with a past was getting as tiresome as the woman with a past. He gave us the opera with a present, to indulge in metaphor which you will understand . And this surely is an opera of our own times, perhaps of yesterday in action , but of to - day in music, and of a life near enough truly to enlist our keenest sympa thies. That's the point! That's the point! Drown old Rigoletto in the bag with his daughter ! Throw La Somnambula into a perennial hypnotic trance ! Chuck Il Trovatore into the fiery furnace with Meshach, Shadrach, and Abednego, and let him grill ! Pardon this excited and disjointed account of the impressions this new opera makes on me. One can't stop to think out new emotions when they stir T.FM him as if he were a lute. Yes, old Max Nordau was not so far from right when he called us fin de siecle degenerates. We were nearly fin de siecle fools and but for this new composer we should be trying to get new emotions out of the same material we had been using for years. Here is a man who gives us new ma terial . Yes, new voices, idiot, and new ways of presenting them . You noticed the new effects in the orchestra ; now that the lights are turning up you see the house is decorated with palms and brush to create a sympathetic atmosphere, for the scene on the stage is tropical. You see the curtain is made of gauze hangings, and as they gradually dissolve the spectator is thus carried by the music and the changing view from the real into the poet's world —not hurled into it in the ridiculous, old -fashioned way. The overture introduces the scene so systematically that we are not surprised when the curtain rises on a moon-lit forest view with the waters of a lagoon stretching away in the distance, and reflecting the twinkling stars overhead. We are not surprised to find a band of negroes chanting in their rustic chapel in the depth of the woods, as picturesque as druids. The composer has prepared us, and now his music shows us in another way the tragic story of the negro , and now his nobility, pathos, and sweetness of character. That majestic figure whose tones and measures con vey a touch of the supernatural could represent none but one of the greatest and most awe-inspiring characters our literature ever recorded. Dred, the almost superhuman prophet of his people. Why, the grandeur of this man and the strangely novel and intensely pathetic utterances of his followers dwarf in dramatic interest the Egyptian priest of Eduard de Reszke and the blacks of “ Aida.” Ah, but they are blacks of another country. What's the difference, hairsplit ter ? Was “ Aida” repulsive because its characters were blacks ? These educated negro voices are a rare treat. Did you ever hear Sisserretta Jones, the black Patti ? The programme says the ne groes in this opera descend from a long line that were educated under the best masters in France and Italy, and have long sung in American opera because their voices have been developed from long training into exquisitely sweet and resonant organs. Why, how can that all be, I asked, looking again at the programme to see what the opera is. Ah ! I see. Here is the story : “ DRED " A Romantic Opera in Four Acts BY ANTONIN DVORAK ( Who was the musical emancipa tor of the negro , and taught him how to win respect and equal rights through art) Composed in 1895 Produced at the Metropolitan in 1995 Then, you know, I wake up. Fing THE SPIDER Morning came in through the curtains, mocking, taciturn , and gray. Uneasily I turned on my pillow. The gray light crowded in persistently. I called Elise. dozing by the fire in a steamer-chair. She started up and came to the bedside. " Is it morning ? " I asked querulously. She drew the curtains apart, and daylight flooded the room —broad daylight, flaring and contemptuous. It brought out the shameless lines of the bronze faun on the book -case and whitened the eyes of the Congo warrior on the writing- table. Kiku, the Japanese spaniel, came out of her little bamboo house and yawned, stretch ing her graceful back and firting her feathery white tail . " Make me a cup of tea, Elise,” I said . She wore a long white-and-yellow robe, and her narrow, pale feet were hid den in lamb's -wool slippers. As she passed between me and the window her slender figure was silhouetted against her woolen robe. She lit the spirit- lamp ; the pale-blue flame spurted up and bathed the brass kettle ; soon the water hissed against the hot lid and then the steam rose, wonderfully white against the arsenic- green wall . She sliced a bit of lemon and laid it in the bottom of a teacup --a dull-black porcelain , which is Pi- se -yao, or the “ Cup-of- Hidden-Color.” Then she put into the cup a palmful of tea. And over all she turned the steaming water. “ Drink this, dear,” said Elise. Her voice was weary, for she had been watching for three nights. There were purple shadows round her eyes. “ But the spider !" I cried. “" My God ! the spider - see ! ” A spider, all white and yellow , with fluffy feet - like lamb’s-wool — clung to the edge of the cup ; it looked up at me out of purple-shadowed eyes --- Oh, God ! a spider, striped with bars of venomous yellow, sprawling on its innumerable woolen feet, and moving, moving – " Don't, dear, don't,” said Elise. " There is nothing - see, there is nothing." Nothing ? and the spider sprawling there on the rim of the cup, shadowy in the fumes of the tea, its eyes in mine -- nothing! It was then I first distrusted Elisé. Why did she lie to me ? O ! when a woman lies I hurled the cup across the room and it shattered against the wall . “ I have killed the spider," I cried. “ God help me! ” The little spaniel whimpered. “ Yes, " said Elise, with false, unwomanly fervor. “ Yes, darling, you have killed the spider. See it is dead now on the floor. Shall I make you another cup of tea ? I am so sorry, dear -- there, lie still - I will make you another cup. There (a kiss] , the spider is dead ." Would you not have believed her, trusted her, as I did ? For man is but a fool when he loves a woman. She stroked my hair with her little thin , blue hands as she turned away, and my heart was full of love for her -my soul was in the movement of her white-and -yellow robe ! I felt something on my neck, on my face -- the woolen feet ! Oh God, the woolen-footed thing, all white and yellow ! The spider -- on my face, my mouth, my eyes — the woolen feet ! “ Take away, Elise -- you devil ! ” I cried . “ Take it away- you devil to put it on my face — take it away !” I clutched at the thing, but it fought in my fingers like air, only I could feel the bars of white and yellow . I fought it to the foot of the bed, throttling it. spider with purple-shadowed eyes. A spider yellow -barred. It was the soul of a spider hanged for an unspeakable crime. It was strong as God and fought me with its eyes. “ Elise ! ” I called. “ Help me ! The spider !” She cried aloud, and in my soul I knew it was a cry of vengeance, and shuddered. But I fought desperately, as a doomed gentleman should fight. They were both fighting me now -- they stared at me with blue- lidded eyes -- they fought me with innumerable woolen feet and impalpable thin hands. I made the sign of the cross and prayed to God. And now see how gracious God is. When I spoke His name I clutched her throat and in His name I bade the devil depart from her. There was a gurgle in her throat .as the devil went out of her. She lies on the floor. She is very white and thin and small. But her face is almost black, and her tongue lolls out on her cheek. Therefore I know she was a female fiend, sent to snare my soul. I have read many books ; I know. And when I made the sign of the cross I banished forever the spider. God ! Oh, God ! It is here -- the spider ! the spider ! Save me, Elise ! Save me ! Elise ! Elise ! 6 () مم I am the fool of Pampelune, The consort of the vagrom moon

Wefare together, she and I, In vague and vast complicity . Thefour winds are our clarions

With the blown night our signal runs Across the world. The risen dead ( Long dead, long risen ) troop for us ; Their shrouds have rotted shred by shrea, Theirfaded souls are dolorous And gaunt from going to and fro Along the inhospitable skies , We meet the question in their eyes The anxious eyes that question so -- And bid them ask the cryptic suns. Ho ! irony -- the cryptic suns ! I am thefool of Pampelune, The consort of theflying moon

Wefare together, she and I, In reticent complicity. VANCE THOMPSON . 7 THE DOOMED REPUBLIC The essential instincts of humanity do not change much . Each generation invents a new nomenclature —that is all . Certain racial habits of thought preponderate now and again, and give a vogue to certain terms. This age has laid an unusual stress on the word socialism . By way of contrast it italicizes the phrase aristocracy. But they are both world -old ; as old as envy and pride ; as old as the instinct for justice and the desire for supremacy. They are as eternal as human inequality. Ever since men herded together some among them have been stronger, more intelligent, happier than others. And always the dower of the more feeble has been that of admiration and envy; while to the strong, pride, contempt, and pity come naturally. The strong majority always rules; always the feeble majority submits. The myth of Cain and Abel is the antique symbol of aristocracy and socialism . We of this generation and of this republic have new terms of definition —that is all . The old world is the same ; the same instincts stir under the human skin; across the two classes the same average is struck . The socialist is theally of Abel ; he has joined the " forlorn hope" of the weak against the strong ; he takes his place among the oppressed who cry out on the oppressor, among the powerless, who waste themselves in hate against the powerful. And the aristocrat ? If he be no more than an aristocrat of wealth he can not escape his world -old duty. He is destined by his very aristocracy to defend and pity and despise the feeble, to oppress and triumph by the sheer, proud weight of his superiority. The foundersof this republic, influenced by the fatuous optimism of Rousseau and the liberty -lovers of the end of the last century believed that they had found the solution of the old antagonism . They believed that socialism and aristocracy - I use the modern phrases -- were converging toward a point of ideal union . Here in this new republic human society was to reach its highest degree of development. Why was it that their calculations miscarried ? What wrecked this dream ? Why is it that this mirage of a democracy -- a solidarity of the old antagonisms of the weak and the strong - still cheats the present generation as it cheated the last ? I do not think the answer is far to seek. The makers of the republic believed in the monstrous fallacy that all men are born free and equal. They believed that, left to themselves, men could and would live on a common basis ; that aristocracy was an artificial condition ; that the majority of the feeble were equal in the great equation of life to the minority of the strong. They believed that the altruistic sentiment was natural to man. They did not know —as you and I know -- through what æons of savagery it had been developed. Man is an animal naturally good ; all men are born free and equal --- on these frightful sophisms this republic is built. The antique world knew only the aristocracy of force . But this aristocracy of the warriors could not last long. The instrument of physical force was far too simple. This turbulent struggle of muscle against muscle was primitive, elementary. It was inevitable that men should invent the gods, that Elias should confront Ahab, the priest out-face the warrior. It was the modern antagonism of socialism and aristocracy under a different name. Christianity made a curious and subtle attempt to break down the barriers between the two classes —aristocrat and socialist, oppressor and oppressed, strong and feeble, proud and envious. It proclaimed that all men were brothers and equal before im Women urmat unan Tothin't 7 God . It enacted the strange, altruistic law of love. It set up a new aristocracy. It overthrew the aristocracy of warriors and priests and citizens. It brought in the moral aristocracy. With the new aristocracy of the martyrs came the new ideals of love, pity and respect for the weak. In the beginning it was a movement of infinite promise. It failed because it was based on the monstrous fallacy that man is a creature naturally good and that all men are brothers and equal. You will observe that Christianity proclaimed only that all men were equal before God. Before each other ? No ; the old doctrine of obedience to Cæsar was emphasized ; render unto God the things which are due to God and to Cæsar the things which are due to humanity at large. The result was inevitable. Aristocracy asserted itself under the name of theocracy. Servitude and feudalism were consecrated anew. The old antagonism went on. Chris tianity became a moral aristocracy which was not moral. Its end was inevitable. Again the terminology was altered. The intellectual revolution, which in this country resulted in the republic and in France led to the Reign of Terror, took place. It threw down all the old aristocracies- that of force, that of royalty, of the priesthood, the nobility. It proclaimed the supremacy of right over might. Accepting the Christian dogma that all men are equal before God, it went a step further and affirmed that all men were equal before the law. Again the old error. These men, founders of republics, were brave and altruistic; Their error was none the less deplorable. They were deceived by the beautiful dream of the equality of men into denying the necessity of any aristocracy. They had the mag nificent but fatuous ideals of the early Christians. Their error was not illogical. It proceeded legitimately from the eighteenth -century belief that man was an animal naturally good. Science has written out this belief. Man - as you and I know -began in a stateof infinite baseness and ferocity; he is still bad; he may become better, but that lies in the realm of conjecture. But with sublime sophism the founders of this republic declared all men free and equal. They banished inequality by law . The intellectual aristocracy which had brought about the revolution was overthrown; a new aristocracy took its place; the old antagonism remained. To- day an aris tocracy of moneyand politics confronts a socialism asweak, as envious, as numerous as ever. Science married itself to industry, commerce , finance and begot the great for tunes, the plutocracy. At the same time universal suffrage created the political aristoc racy. The helpless, envious majority are still ridden, but they are permitted in theory ) to pick their riders. But the minority of the strong has been recreated and by the laws of life has become an organic group -- an aristocracy. Plutocracy and ballotocracy ; it is a defect of loose thinking to assume that they are any more legitimate than the old aristocracies they have superseded -or any less necessary. It is a shabbier aristocracy than that of force. It is infinitely better adapted to modern conditions. The old aristocracy struggles against it in vain. It begs for alli The prince weds the oil-king's daughter, but the old regime is doomed . The church blesses the new unions as it blessed the old revolutions. The aristocracies unite under the new banner —that is all. Cain's flag carried by a new standard -bearer. Since aristocracy and socialism are inherently antagonistic, one can only take sides. He indeed has little choice. His birthright is among the strong or the weak. Antique heredities plot the curves of his life. The aristocracy built upon the fact that all men are not equal in fortune is equally illogical and will have its day. . There remains the aristocracy founded on the fact that all men are not equal in intellect. This aristocracy ruled now and again for a little while. It established the subtle religions of the Orient, the arts of Greece, the legislation of Rome, the morality of Christianity ; it played its part in the founding of this republic. But its dominance has always been of short duration. Hated by the old aristocracies, it has been suspected by the people. Minority and majority have united against it . Neither party has been willing to submit to the arbitration of the aristocracy of intelli gence. The logic of events, however, seems to point to the domination of this new aristocracy. At present there are an armed plutocracy and an industrious and envious democracy. They are the results of the monstrosity of universal suffrage, but they are merely replica of the older organizations of society. The signs of the times indicate that the intellectual hierarchy will again come into power ; as formerly, it may be for a little time only. However, one may look forward with a measure of hopefulness, for its short reigns have always been beneficent. sh 20 Oui ho KEEP OFF THE GRAS MÄLLE NEW YORK S 787 HE is all feminine, this New York of ours—the Helen of cities . At night when the supper candles are lurching in the sockets, and the dancing is over and done with, this sweetheart city gives you one kiss Dor' bien, p'tit rat ! Bonne nuit, M'lle New York ! It is perfumed, this good- night kiss, with wines and spices, birds and truffles, and over sea fruit, with the light incense of Bakchar tobacco, the fervor of champagne, and the exultant sweetness of chartreuse ; withal something personal, feminine, perverse, wherein the cantharides of desire ficker faintly—all in this good- night kiss of M'lle New York. Oh, you know her very well at night, this laughing city , high-colored, decollete, with warm flesh, rose-white and red- gold in the gaslight. Have you kissed her good-morning ? She is haggard at daybreak, Mölle New York. The rouge and powder are smeared on her frowsy face ; the dishevelled hair seems scant and coarse ; the throat you thought so white is pallid yellow ; the lips are swollen with sleep and wine. She gapes and yawns, stirring with amorous unrest. Even a woman finds one man who loves her - one whom her first kiss does not disgust ; why not M’lle New York ? Ho ! lover of this Helen of cities . The housetops are reddening to the dawn ; a sea bred wind rides down the foul odors of street and alley ; the squares are desolate, the tall haggard city crowding down on them - bleakness in the streets , gray houses and blank distances, an oppressive lack of color, save where a forgotten street- lamp sputters feebly or the electric lights shine white and wan in deserted shops. A tired cab -horse goes up Broadway, his head between his knees ; the cabman drowses on the box ; inside the “ fare " is asleep, with one knee on the window ledge ; a cable- car passesBon jour, M'lle New York ! TOP Eh ! saperlipopette -- b jour, l' petit rat ! M'lle New York is awake. You have indulged in the innocent depravity of her morning kiss. Now ring the bell and bid your man bring you a tooth- brush and a glass of water. 100 Maury 02 STEP 8 REY DEL REY | AU CHAT NOIR 21 South Fifth Avenue and 551 West Broadway Half Block North of Bleecker St. L. Fifth Avenue Stages Pass the Door 1 AN EXQUISITE WHISKEY FINEST TABLE D’HOTE FINE NATURAL FLAVOR WITH WINE, 50 CENTS Lunch, - 12 to 3 P. M. Dinner 5 to 9 P. M.

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THE MOST DELIGHTFUL AND BEST AP POINTED RUSSIAN AND TURKISH BATHS IN 义 NEW YORK V V SV V V V V V V V Open Day and Night AN ADMIRABLY MANAGED AND WELL EQUIPPED HOTEL IS ESTABLISHED IN CONJUNCTION WITH THESE BATHS COPYRIGHT 1895, BY M'LLE NEW YORK PUB. CO . 9 -k Mile New York FORTNIGHTLY Vol. I. No. 2. nia AUGUST 23 , 1895 cccc inny Price 10 Cents SUBSCRIPTION $ 2.00 A YEAR ENTERED AT THE POST-OFFICE IN NEW YORK AS SECOND CLASS MATTER PUBLISHED BY THE M'LLE NEW YORK PUB.CO. OFFICES 100 NASSAU STREET AND 256 WEST TWENTY - THIRD STREET, NEW YORK : : : ris as 1 Vance Thompson, editor Tbomas Fleming and T. = Powers, artists 1Fleming Democracy is bankrupt. And the world turns to the new hypocrisy of science. And what has science done for this generation ? What one of her promises has she kept ? She has hunted God out of heaven, but she has not been able to kill in man a thirst for the infinite. She has pushed further out and ever further the shining circle of knowledge; always far beyond gloom the old deeps of irritating conjecture, of anxious ignorance. There is always the tragic hope, the difficult unknown. Surely life is none the easier because science has emptied heaven of God . We have lost a definite form of life and are thrown back into the dolorous and vague. Yet even men of letters march ahead of this charlatan, beating the tom -tom , crying “ Great is science ! ” Renan predicted that there will come a day when the useless artist will give way to the savant. In its second intention this prediction amounts to the statement that as science has destroyed God it will destroy the sense of the beautiful. Do you believe this ? It is one of the intellectual hypocrisies of the day. The an tithesis is plain. Science explains and art creates ; science decomposes and art com poses ; science destroys illusion and art perpetuates it. Science has destroyed the God who animated nature ; now it is destroying nature itself, leaving only the play of force and matter. The rainbow was the harp of Iris -- illusion ! It was a bow God placed in the heavens -- illusion ! It was a curious-patterned curtain of sun-shot mist -- illusion ! Science has decided it is a combination of petty , infinite vibrations. You loved a woman The psychologist has resolved your love into nerve-excitations. Science slays the illusion. Is Renan entirely wrong in forecasting a time when men will find it as puerile to believe in the existence of material or spiritual beauty as they find it now to believe in Dante's God ? And if this be true, will not art disappear ? There is no art which is not serious. When faith is dead art will die. There will remain only those who play with appearances for amusement's sake -dressing fairy tales for mocking spirits. The scientist will be the only intellectual aristocrat, dictator of facts. But facts are not truth , and where will truth be ? Ah, my dear fellow, science decomposes the harmony of the universe, but it does not destroy it . It reduces the soul to its simpler elements, woven of sensation and movement, but it explains neither sen sation nor movement nor the curious weaving together. Infinite molecular vibrations, the scientist says wisely ; but you are much wiser, for you say, “ The rainbow still hangs in the sky.” The rainbow , shifty - tinted like a lizard's back, hanging in the sky is true for you, far truer than the molecular vibrations of the scientist. The astronomer measures the movement of the spheres; for you their harmony is still the truth. More -your truth is the greater. As fast as science discovers new ground the poet plots the curves of a new illusion . What science calls true to - day, tomorrow is the divine lie of romance. Science quarries the marble ; art chis els it into the image of God. - LEADER 14 A GIRL Ter. 10 LIGHTS IN THE FOG - The twilight of an age-old generation ; the gray falls night and day in this drab present. A gray twilight, crowding down oneveryside, insistent and impia cable. We stroll like one in the reek of a London fog, half stifled, timorous, half amused --so one strolls through the reek of a London fog, looking for landmarks; on his coat the orchids wither ; he sees the lamps flare street- lamps painting red smears along the fog ), girls in the fog deliciously unreal, distorted by wet garments; so one gropes in Regent street and hears the sound of wheels brayingover the asphalt ; cabs pass dimly – A gray -drab age, woven of innumerable noises and silver silences,stretched round us, over us, close to us, like the pale blanket of a London fog, so pale, insistent, and implacable. Last night the orchids withered on my breast as I wan dered in the gray world. And in the dusk I saw the cab lamps flare. And in the twilight girls went flickering, win somely unreal, distorted in wet garments. I heard the noise of the " L " trains grinding in the upper air ; the feet and little feet that went nowhither, passing everywhere ; the sound of voices, street cries, and cabs in the street. “ Man, man , this is not real, ” God said, “ cover your cyes and dream , for that is true." The dreams I summoned came, so blate and pale and fool ishly arrayed -- like ghosts of mad women laughing together ; dreams white and gray . 66 The room was full of firelight; the mirror shone with the red flames of the candles -- little hot, red, sensual tongues of flame. I opened the piano and played till out of the music came the truth in a dream -the gold of the Rhine, imperious, the splendor of one great sin , imperious, trailing away like gold pieces sinking in the great waters. And then the music shaped a little jeering song of the Paris streets, and through the songI saw a sexless face, blue with the morphine, and heard Yvette sing, I peux plus dormir ; des qu'il fait noir I'vois grouiller un tas d ' choses dans l ' sombre, Des chauves-souris des grands yeux d'ombre, Puis des rats comm ' dans l'Assommoir, Alors j ' prends 1 ' flaçon qui console, Vite une piqure et ca m' remet. C'est d ' puis c' matin ma troisième fiole Dire que j ' pourrai dormir jamais ! La morphin '! Mais c'est un peu d' reve, Un peu d'oublil! L'oubli c'est tout. Thevoice screamed feebly through the smoky hall. The blonde lights fell in dust of chrysoprase on her thin hair and darting neck . In Montmatre — Such a gray dream ! Once I saw Pan gambling at five-stones with a naked nymph. Her limbs were very long, small-boned, andslender and comely ; her eyes were slant, like an Egyptian girl's, but she was a Greek nymph. In a pale-green brake full of the faded shadows Puvis paints ; the light sown through the poplars dappled her shoulders leprously as she squatted there gambling with Pan. They played at five stones, for a Greek artist scratched it all for me on the bronze coverof a mirror - case - ages ago for me. Last night — but when was night and when was day ? Last night the Marquise signed to me as she passed --- so —with her fan. I followed . Itwasdark, but I couldhear the creaking of her silken undergarments - faint and intimate, whispering of strangefervors. I followedher whispering gar ments. Followed -I came to an iron door set in the hillside. I beat on the door . Little jeering laughter curled round the lintel like whimpering flames. I leaned my face against thedoor and cried to her -- Oh, little mocking face set in yellow hair, and little mouth all red Behind the iron door. The gray present, insistent, implacable, full of vehemence and noise, presses on every side ; one goes blindly, as in the reek of a London fog. SALOMÉ THE" HE renascence of the silent drama is only a few years old ; probably the most notable contribution made to modern panto mime is the “ Salome” of Mr. Charles Henry Meltzer, with which Loie Fuller has inflamed Paris. A marvellous little play - a tragic idyll -- in which Sa lome dances in the electric lights to the undoing of John the Baptist. The play is in four acts and aprologue. Herodias is ill at ease , for Herod , the tetrarch, has fallen un der the influence of John the Baptist and threatens to put her away. And Salome comes, still a child ,; with all the white and rose fragilities of girlhood she dances with the children . Herod sees her and a passion for the child burns in him . Herodias has found her weapon . She forces the child to dance again and the tetrarch's eyes shine with impatient passion . Salome dances - frightened, wondering. John the Baptist looks on and determines to save her from her destiny. Again the girl is forced to dance -- in anguish and terror. As she sinks to the ground Herod seizes her in his arms. John the Baptist interferes and is led away by the guards. The girl begs for the prophet'slife and the tetrarch makes a con dition . Dazed with grief, half mad, she dances, dances. AgainHerod seizes her and she surrenders herself to save the prophet's life . And at that moment Herodias enters bearing the head of John the Baptist. Sa lome falls as one dead . This is but a meagre skeleton of the play ; it can give you little idea of this poem without words; once Once I knew a girl in Paris, a great, wicked, blonde girl, ofextreme beauty, and Iloved her years ago ; last summer, in Dr. Fleury's laboratory , I saw blonde bones swaying. " Tiens! Tis the skeleton of Fifine, " he said . Fifine was of extreme beauty and wicked , but the skeleton was futile. oming ให้ 参 擊 多 // WAGNERIAN POETS AND PAINTERS Wagnerism , as M. Teodor de Wyzewa and other subtlecritics have pointed out, does notconsist simply in admiring the works of Richard Wagner. Indeed, there is much in Wagner's dramas and writings that is not admirable. The works are what they are examples of an artistic theory, and this theory on which Waagner laid unceasing stress calls for the fusion ofall forms of artin a common intention. It is an interesting question how far theWagnerian spirit has entered into the works of modern poets, painters, and men of letters. The poets weknow . Stephane Mallarmé, forinstance, this bizarre poet who for the last twenty years has published incomprehensible poems in obscure reviewsunder his high -sounding pseudonym . Him we know and his dark rival, Adore Floupette, and their school of imitators, Wagnerolaters and pessimists . It was not long ago that men instructed in letters saw no indignity in asking whether Mallarmé was a fool or a mystifier. But that is past. No one to -day questions the place of Mallarmé as an artist of high and delicate attainments. He is master of his art Un art bien elaboré Et du vulgaire abhore His belief, like that of the Parnassians, was that the thoughts and images commonly called poetical may be better expressed in prose, and that it is not the business of poetry to translate landscapes, morals, and obvious sentiments into torturedlanguage. And the poet'sbusiness,then ? Itwas to evoke in the soulmusicalemotions, different from those music can evoke. " Recognizing the kinship between certain syllables and certain emotions, M. Mallarmé has endeavored to perfect this poetic language. He has tried to build a symphony of words, in various modes, rhythms, and sonorities. Over all he places the musical development. And for this very reason he chooses banal subjects, so that not even the most eviscerated thought may clog the march of the melody. I have compared him with the Parnassians, but there is a wonderful difference -Wagnerian. Let me illustrate this. You know Paul Verlaine, this golden , vagrom man , who sings as unpremedi tatedly as Burns sang ; who playson wordsas anaif guitarist teases the strings, and he is of Parnassus. It is the note of the school -- improvisation . The Parnas sians improvise ; Mallarmé composes. Leconte de Lisle, Villiers de L'Isle Adam , Mendes -all improvisers, wantoning with chance attractions by the way, charmed by the incidental. Mallarmé develops his melody according to a definite plan. A conscientious logic creates the theme with —but nothing more —its necessary expansion. Neither a painter nor a musician, he has chosen with extreme felicity the images, rhythms, and sounds most adequate for hissubject. “ Les Fleurs " -- it is the adagio of a romantic sonata or one ofBach's preludes. Clearly this poet is aproduct of the Wagnerian theory, Of theWagnerists of this country Mr. James Gibbons Huneker is the most hier archal, and here is a subject made to his hand. One other suggestion : Mallarmé, like Wagner, sees all things as symbols. A hospital? It is thet'te of man . A bell ringer ? The poet, clamant for the ideal. And a rose is Herodias. Other poets have believed that poetry should be pure music, but Mallarmé believes that it should signify something and indeed create a mode of life. Create a life ? Poetry, art of rhythms and sound, ought, being a music, to create emotions; emotions are inseparable from the ideas that provoke them ; grief and pleasure do not exist ; there are only sad or joyous emotions. Therefore, in poetry the poet must give not only the emotions but their causes. The emotions evoked by syllables - a are so delicate and tenuous that they require the adjunct of precise ideas. Mallar mé's theory is that the object of poetry is emotions justified by the subjects . And, as one has said , his theory is quadrate with Wagner's theory of art. But the painters ? To be sure there is Puvis de Chavannes, whose work is in the Wag nerian spirit. Unfortunately it is not in the academies that one finds Wagnerian art orart of any kind. The painters, since they began to live like other folks and love their own wives to the neglect of their neighbors' wives, have given up all concern for art ; like the agitated Hebrews they are interested only in the laws of supply and demand. Naturally they do not create works of art, for which, in a democratic society , there can never be a demand. Theyemploy the process — de sign and color -but they have given up artistic work . They do not, in Wagner's strenuous phrase, create life. To create life —it is the duty of art. You remember the Master's argument, which is indeed a page from Schopen hauer. The world in which we live and which we call real is in truth merely a creation of our souls. The soul can not go out of itself, and the phenomena which it believes exterior to itself are but itsown ideas. To see, to understand, is to create appearances and, therefore, to create life. Art creates consciously . Painters descriptive and anecdotal; but this is mere literature. But recall a painting of the symphonist RembrandtRubens ; , whoseintense color schemes sug gest attimes a real vision of life ; or Watteau's sad elegancies, gracious as the andante of certain of Mozart's quatuors. It is evident that emotional painting is no new thing, that there were generals before Agamemnon. To-day, however, the artist faces a new problem . The way is not simple. The old masters have proved that painting may be descriptive of real sensations or suggestive of real emotions. But paintingcan not be both. To-day the necessity of choice is greater than ever - a choice which is distinctly in the line of Wagner's art. Degas has chosen ; he describes ; he represents the things he sees, and he is creating life. Puvis has chosen . Between them are the artists who deform their descriptions in the vain hope of making them poetic. InFrance Wagner'sinfluence has been more widely felt than in any other country - you see it in Manet and Cezanne, in Monet, even in Cazin -- this simple, though rather coarsely sentimental painterof grays -in Odilon Redon's landscapes of fantastic desolation and even in the cruel and bitter visions of Felicien Rops. The Wagnerian spirit is there, but one sees it as through a glass darkly. NORDAU If you happen to be born in a little Magyar town, Where the student flicks the Jew and the trooper rides him down, Then a modest hate of man is not wholly out of place And the high gods mayforgive you for a bitterness of race. But its little then one knows Of the golden life that goes In the world where God gave sunlight and the artist gave the rose. And when you walk abroad from the little Magyar town A new world — like the trooper - rides your old ideals down. Andyour little copper counters, when you test them , do not ring, Andthe warrantof the Beschdin is an unregarded thing. • If you ask the men you meet, “ What's the latest thing in dyes ? ” “ What's the newest thing in white-goods ?” they will stare with troubled eyes. “ Has science weighed the sunbeam ? ” They will tell you — who but they ? — Of the sculptured stones of Chartres and the chansons of Bellay. They have news of Botticelli and Piero Cosimo, Ofthe word that Plato whispered they converse as they go Of the subtle moods of music and the wayward moods of art, Of the dream that came at twilight and the hope that will not part. But " What's the great equation of the Ego and I am ' ?” And “ What's the weight of sunbeams ?” and “ What's the price of ham ? " They walk on toward the morning and the stars are young and glad, While you glower on a mile- stone and whisper, “ They are mad !" Man, man, who cares or knows? In the golden life that goes In the world where Godgave sunlight and the artist gave the rose. 12 Pierrotplayed a practical joke on his father, the moon . Disastrous was the consequence. He fell far, far into this mundane life, with its hot and cold fits of domesticity, its joy, ambition , love, and death . In the end he was weary of life. PANTOMIME r W rg S ar IBINوها 12 ITIN MË Aguard ( 16 Set ... rlebeder. Powens - - - Do you ? SCALPEL OR " La critique n'a qu'un droit,” said Victor Hugo , " le droitde se taire . " BRANDING - IRON ? The critics have never been of this opinion ; to -day they talk more than ever . Literature is merely the servant of criticism ; it furnishes subjects and pretexts for critical —soi-disant critical — articles. Criticism is every man's trade; young men do not write love verses in these days; they write essays on Ibsen . It is the age ofcriticism . And I - moi, qui vous parle -- am a critic who does not believe in the Hugoan theory of holding one's tongue. In London a few months ago I tried to dignify my tradebyreferring to the science of criticism . Science, quothal I AM THE CHAMOIS OF THE ALPS An English novelist laughed derisively when I used the phrase. To his mind criticism is merely a matter of personal spleen or individual appreciation. I myself IPPINK THE MOUNTAIN DEW. have been a victim of the theory of personal criticism . Even now I recognize that JAG ANP ParqLY LEAPFROE JAG Je phrasecorAnatole France ---must be largely a matter of temperament. It may be account one's - of a . DO that I can make plain the difference between the old criticism , which is futile, and the new ; that I may be able to justify my use of the word " scientific " in connec tion with what the dull people fancy is merely a pastime or a gentle art of making enemies. The old criticism was not complex. For instance, Addison, the father of English criticism , had a large body of readers. In discussing Milton's “ Paradise Lost " he virtually said : “ This book pleases me because it conformsto a certain stand ard of epic poety which I have made by comparing passages in Homer and Virgil; therefore it will please the people whousually agree with my judgment, as it has pleased not only me, but other respectable authors. This genre of criticism has not quite gone out. The reader of newspapers and periodicalsis familiar with it. He has read the bibliographies, the reportsof theatrical performances, the impressions of art exhibitions. The average art or dramatic criticism is made up in almost equal parts of middle - class opinions, uncertain axioms of the craft, and personal prejudices. In the critic it presupposes a degree of familiarity with the subject, a good memory, a mind open to artistic impressions, and a certain sympathy with the tastes of the average sensual man and the average sentimental woman . This is criticism of a very primitive order. It serves its ephemeral purpose, but it is absolutely without permanent value. Critics like George Moore, Anatole France, Jules Lemaitre, Dr. Brandes, George Bernard Shaw, are argumentative or appreciative; they write charming or grotesque dissertations, and they are always futile. The first step – a distinct step—toward scientific criticism was made by Henri Taine. It is epoch -making, his preface to the “ History of English Literature." Therein he explains his method. Bluntly put, his method is a sort of dialectic, passing from the work of art to the man who produced it, from this physical man to his soul, and then to the causes of his psychological state. In other words, he looks upon history as a psychological problem ; of all historical documents, the mostimportant is the work of art —book, picture, marble, music —and the most significant is that which has the highest artistic value. Taine sums uphis method in a sentence : “ I intend to write the history of a literature and seek in it the psychology of a people. " Literature then is a department of moral science. The critic considers the work of art, not in itself, but as the sign of the man or people he is studying. The book is merely the algebraic sign of the race. The new criticism claims to be a science. From relics of the stone age the antiquary reconstructs a civilization ; from certain manifestations of certain minds the critic passes to the minds themselves and the group they represent. The manifestations which he studies -pictures, books, music, monuments, statues —have one common characteristic : they are aesthetic; they all tend to be beautiful and excite emotion. Atthis point the new critic parts company with the old . He analyzes them , not to see how nearly these manifestations attain beauty , but ratherhow they realize the beautiful and in what they are original and individual. In the end he is able to establish a parallel series of psychological particulars. II A work of art -made up of images vivid and precise asin sculpture, or vague Tand ideal as in music —has the one aim of creating emotion. But this emotion -the plering aesthetic -differs from others in this, that it is not translated into acts, but is an end to itself. For example, a novel consists of a series of written phrases designed to represent a touching spectacle ; the emotion that one feels in reading it, or when one has read it, is an end to itself. The emotion one gets from reading the author's account is more feeble than that one would have experienced in watching the actual events; it is, in addition, a passive emotion, provoking neither acts nor atendency to action . One can not rush to the aid ofthehero when murder is being done in the thirteenth chapter; if hemarries happily the pleasure one feels is without practical consequences. Now the first duty of the critic who endeavors to extract from a book -from several books of the same author -psychological data , is to determine the nature and peculiarity of the work, the emotion excited, the means employed. Here is the problem : what emotions does the author excite and what means does he use ? What does he express and how does he express it ? Nor is it difficult to classify these emotions. The system -makers are wrong ; the aesthetic emotions do not belong to a special class, separate from the ordinary emotions ; the aesthetic emotion is merely the passive formof its corresponding ordinary emotion. The emotion of beauty is no more aesthetic than that of fear. Beauty is but one note on the gamut of art. The sad, the terrible, the strange, even the grotesque and hideous, belong to the same family as the admirable, the gracious, the comely, the beautiful. The essentialquality of aesthetic emotions is that they are but feeble indices of joy or pain . · The emotions which come from “ The Twelfth Night ” and “ Hamlet ” do not differ greatly save in tone, timbre, force. Each of them keeps intact the element of excitement, but the feelings of grief or mirth, which would in real life accompany this excite ment, remain inert - fictive and innocuous. And so “ Hamlet," the “ Symphony in C Minor, " Rembrandt's "Good Samaritan ," Puvis' “ Bellum , " the cathedral of Tours, the “ Divine Comedy ," give the shock of tragedy, but not the wound. And art then -the definition projects itself -is the creation in the soul of a life powerful but sterile, without action or grief -a life of aesthetic emotion . In his analysis the scientific critic maydesignate the passive emotions of a work of art by the coefficients of the ordinary emotions. He speaks therefore of the mystery, the truth , the horror, the compassion , the despair or encouragement, of a work of art. He is merely making use of coefficients. Thus Poe has horror and curiousness; Zola, sympathy and hopeless ness ; Mozart, serenity and comely gaiety . And from these primary data the critic passes to the more complex , until in the end he has disentangled from the creation the soul of the creator. The work of art in itself is sterile and fictive ; it is to the critic a means of knowing the soul of its author, the soul of the men of his day and race. Scientific criticism is concerned not with the work of art, but withthe psychological and social con dition of which it is the algebraic sign. III Better, you say , the joyous, vagrom men , who have intellectual adventures among masterpieces, who vapor and are unconcerned ? You may be right, but still it is pleasant to know that there is justification for the high seriousness of the phrase, “ the science of criticism ." For in these days we are all critics -and most of us are inutile. . | MINEW YORK > VENUSSVTCZREN P JAMES GIBBONS HUNEKER - Embarcardere The hot hush of noon was stirred into uneasy billows by the shuffling of sandals over the Des grands Mysteres, marble porches ; all Rome was speeding to the spectacle in the circus. Abrave day, the wind Madone et miss perfumed, the sky a hard blue, and the dark shadows cool, caressing. Thousand -colored Diane- Artemis, awnings fluttered and fainted in the breeze; the hearts of the people on the benches were gay. Sainte Vigie De nos orgies, Diocletian, the imperial master, had baited the trap of the day's sport with Christians. Living, Dame tres lasse palpitating, human, Christian flesh was to be sacrificed, and the gossips spoke in clear, crisp, De nos terrasses, sentences as they enumerated the deadly list and dwelt upon certain names with significant Sois l ' Ambulance emphasis. The multitude followed with languid interest the chariot races, the gladiatorial De nos croyances ! displays; even a fierce duel 'twixt two tawny -skinned, yellow -haired barbarians evoked not a LAFORGUE. single cry , Rome was in a killing mood and thumbs were not upturned. The imperial monster gloomed as he sat on high in his gold and ivory tribune and spoke not ; his eyes were sullen with satiated lusts and his heart was flint in his bosom . As the afternoon waxed and waned the murmur of the people modulated clamorously, and one voice shrilled forth, “ Give us the Christians!" The cry,was taken up by a thunderous chorus that sang the antiphony of hate until the earth trembled and Diocletian smiled. The low doors of the iron cages adjoining the animals opened, and a dreary group of men , women , and children pushed to the centre of the arena ; a quarter of a million eyes, burning with the anticipation of slaughter, watched them . Shouts of disappointment and yells of disgust arose. The Christians did not present to the experts promise of a lasting fight with the lions. A sorry crew they were, huddled together with downcast eyes, their lips moving in silent prayer as they awaited the animals. In the fierce onslaught that followed nothing could be heard but the grunts and growls of the beasts. A whirlwind of sand and blood, a fierce, brief battle of keepers armed with metal bars heated white, and the lions retired to the cages with dripping jaws and gorged bellies.' The sand was hastily upturned, while the bored multitude listlessly witnessed the interment of the mangled bones of the martyrs. It was all over within the quarter of the hour. Rome was not yet satisfied, and Diocletian made no sign . Wofully had the spectacle failed to tickle the epicurean palate of the mob. It had been so often glutted with butchery that it longed for more delicate devilries -new depths of death . Then a slim figure, clad in clinging garments of pure white, was led to the imperial tribune, and those about Diocletian saw him start as from å wan dream . Her bronze-colored hair fell about her shoulders ; her eyes recalled the odor of violets; and she gazedat Diocletian, but saw him not, for she was full of the vision of Jesus Christ and Him crucified. She was a fair child ; her brow was a tablet as yet untouched by the stylusof sin , and the populacehungered for her. Fresh incense was thrown in the brazier of coals that glowed before the garlanded statue of Venus, two flutes intoned a languishing Lydian measure, and the maiden gazed upon the ground and trembled. A venerable man of impassive countenance and habited as a priest, addressed her thrice, but her eyes never wandered , neither did she speak. She refused to prostrate herself and worship Venus, and, angered at the insult offered to the beautiful Foe of Virginity, Rome screamed and hooted and demanded that she be given over to the torture. Diocletian watched . A blare from trumpets, like a brazen imprecation, and the public pulse pounded furiously as a young man, with only a strip of white linen about his loins, was draggedto the Venus. A goodly youth to look at- slender, lithe, olive -skinned, with black curls clustering over a broad brow , and eyeballs blood -streaked, and his mouth made a blue mark across his face. He looked threateningly at Diocletian as he monotonously intoned his answers to the interrogations of the priest. The multitude surged with pleasure and breathlessly awaited the punishment of the contumacious Christians. Sturdy brutes seized them and stripped them of their garments ; but they stood unabashed, for they saw the gates of Paradise open and Diocletian's eyes were a deep black . Urged by strong hands the maid and youth were bound together with withes. Then the subtile cruelty of the torture seized Rome's fancy. The pair knew eachother as betrothed, but separated by the Son of the Carpenter of Galilee, who had filled their souls with a light which was never before on land or sea. She looked into his eyes andsaw the bloody figure of Jesus Christ and Him crucified, and he moistened his parched lips. The sun blistered their tender skins and laughed at their Christ, as the Venus in her cool grot sent them wreathedsmiles bidding them love and worship her and forget their pale God. And the two flutes made dreamy music. Quivering, almost strangled, they fought the flesh , andthe vastsilent multitudequestioned them with its glance. Suddenly Diocletian rose to his feet, rent his garment, and in the purple shadows of the amphi theatre a harsh, prolonged shout went up. That nightat his palace the Master of the World could not be comforted, andthe Venus was carried about Rome and great homage was accorded her. In their homes the two flute players unceasingly wept ; they well knew the power of music and its conquering evil. a VERLAINESQUE You see MUOTOUUU An ape of Barbaree In a jacket of gilt brocade Gambols before her. She Walks indolently, arrayed In garments fair to see . Behind her with pompous pace Struts an ell-long negro dwarf, Holding high as his sootyface Her train and trailing scarfArm -weary with silk and lace. Ever the eyes of the ape Dote on her wool-white throat; His wanton eyes on the shape Ofher wool-white shoulders gloat. And often the negro dwarf Lifts higher than need be The trailing train and scarf : Although arm -weary, he Lifts furtive his burthen bright, To see, to see, to see For ( ribald rogue ! ) all night The dwarf dreams lawlessly. She mounts the marble stairs Between the onyx walls. She neither knows nor cares , Trudge, little animals ! VANCE THOMPSON. C C. PiFleming POLITE LETTERS Mysticism is the mode. Tolstoi, Huysmans, Maeterlinck --even Jean Richepin . But then Richepin is one of the uncommon persons and never has been himself. In his youth he was breathed upon by Victor Hugo and there has always clung to him an air of rhetorical pretention. Since then a fever has consumed him — the intermittent fever to be someone else. By turns he has been a little Hugo, a more vicious Mendes, a more brutal Zola, a Coppee equally bourgeois, and now he is as mystic as Mallarme, but banal. A foolish correspondent asks me why / object to Mr. Richard Watson Gilder's habit of printing his verses in “ The Century, " when I print my own poems in " M’lle New York." He is indeed a foolish correspondent. Mr. Gilder prints his be cause they are his own ; Iprint mine because theyare good. The formulae of modern mysticism are very easily mas tered. Be simple, with the simplicity ofPanurge'ssheep - but for this you must read Rabelais ; indulge freely in archaic refrain ; begin every stanza with “ Oh ! ” or “ O ” ; multiply by three or seven, they are the mystic numbers. In chief, remember that you must make yourself a little child if you would enter the kingdom of the mystics. By the way Mr. Henry Norman, an estimable person who went round the worldand married on his return an equally estimable person , who journeyedin breeks through the Karpathians, is now the literary editor of the “ Daily Chronicle " of London. The other day he devoted an idiotic article --though estimable he is almost an idiot - to Emile Verhaeren, the Franco- Belgian poet. In this article he accused M. Verhaeren of being a mystic. Probably the next thing you hear from him will be that Armande Sylvestre has joined the heavenly choir or that George Moore is on the way to Damascus. Another correspondent asks me why I permit Mr. Fleming to caricature the Jew and — two queries in one —-why I permit Mr. Hamlin to laud the negro. Why ? It is a matter of pure prejudice. You prefer port, I prefer sherry ; it is futile to debate questions of personal taste. And so I may prefer one odor and you another ; discussion is equally futile. You will rarely find a man who likes both the odor of heliotrope and that of the garden -rose. Three partsof French verse isonly prose, cadencedand rhymed, butprose. The introductionof " freeverse, " as it is called, was an attempt on the part of the young poets oftheday to find apoetical vehicle . And it is not in accord with the genius of the French language. The “vers . libre ” which has fascinated all the young poets (one may except Henri de Regnier ) is American in genesis and development. It was Viele -Griffin, an American,who has elected to write in French, who carried over the aesthetic formulae of Walt Whitman . He ... wrote them down - on a classic papyrus, to be sure —and young France acclaimed them . The form , then , of modern French verse is exotic . In addition the poets arealiens. There are the two Americans, Stuart Merrill and Viele-Griffin ; the Greek, Jean Moreas; the Netherlander, Emile Verhaeren ; MarieKrysinski, the Jewess; Gustave Kahn, the Jew ; Jose Maria de Heredia , the Cuban Mulatto - it is an invasion more terrible than that of the Prussians, menacingnot the territory , but the language, of France . The Romans of the decadence saw their literature invaded and dislocated by the barbarians. It was the beginning of the end of the empire. Charles Wesley prayed in the hymn, “ 0 , Lord ! the dark Americans convert. ” This is the aim and end of " M'lle New York .” It is not too much to say that modern French verse is in a measure a creation of Walt Whitman . In a much larger measure it is true that modern French literature is a creation of Edgar Allen Poe. It was in France that Poe found the native country of his genius. Here he was overshadowed by flatulent rhymesters like Longfellow and Lowell and all the vapid inanities of —God save the mark ! -American literature. He hadgenius, and the man of genius is always an alien in his own land. The critics made moral gestures at him ; the people read Bryant and Whittier and other half-forgotten worthies . In France he found his true glory . To him is due the vitalprinciple in the work of Banville and the Par nassians, Leconte de Lisle, de Goncourte d'Aurevilly, Villiers de L'Isle Adam , Huysmans, and many other illustrious men from Baudelaire to Verlaine. He gave France an artistic conscience. Himself a master of the short prose tale , he made possible that greater master, deMaupassant. In two hundred years America has produced two men of genius —both she has disowned . I object to Mr. Richard Harding Davis because he is essentially bourgeois and ridiculous. His appeal is to the suburban mind - the commuters' intelligence. He walks abroad and shows himself — which is not a proof of his wit. He has written books which demonstrate that he is a formidable imbecile. arr .. a 7While in England and America there is very little literary activity, in the unre garded corners of the earth new writers are coming to the front. Who has concerned himself with Italian letters in late years ? And yet there are D'Annunzio and Negri. Spain , Holland, Swedenhavefelt the new impulseinliterature and now there has come out of insignificantPortugal a writer whose work must be taken into serious consideration. Portugal? Whenone has said Camoens one has said almost all. Some of us have readJoao de Deus, a poet who has written wonderful , perfect lyrics. But Joao de Deus is old now . LastMarch his countrymen celebrated the sixty-fifth anniversary of his birth. His writing days are over. The man of theday in that disregarded little country is Eugenio de Castro. His latest volume has achieved an extraordinary success. Before that he was chiefly knownby “ Interlunio," which appeared,I believe, in 1891. Far more ambitious is the new work, " Belkiss, Queen of Sheba, of Axum , and of Hymiar ", ( Francisco Franca Amada, Coimbra ). It is a dramatic poem in prose, if one may use an awkward phrase. It is written in a style which suggests the Flaubert of “ Salambo " - plastic, vibrant, marvellously colored. There is occasional extravagance, and attimes the volubility of youth is given full rein , but when all is said there remains a work ofhigh power, distinction , and exquisitelyric quality . A word of wisdom from Mr. Apthorp : " Art, the noblest blossom of every age ,' is always aristocratic. Democratic art is a contradiction in terms. " In de Castro's drama, Belkiss, the young queen of Sheba, loves Solomon , whom she considers the wisest and mightiest of kings, though she has never seen him . She proclaims aloud her love for him . Hidrad, the dethronedking of Edom , is a pretender to her hand . He assures her that Solomonis unworthy of her love. " You are his enemy," the youngqueenreplies,“ Solomonispowerful, just, and tender." “ Ay, so strongthat he has had to call on Egypt to aid him in conquering Guezer ; so justthat hehasusurped therights of his brother Adonijah ; so tenderthat heleft the Queen Vaphrestodie of desertion and despair ."

  • It does not matter," the queen answers, “ in spite of all I love him and shall be his. "

However, the words of Hadrad have impressed the young girl. And in addition Zophe samin , the old priest andsavant ,who has instructed her since her childhood , urgesher to put no confidence in the Jewish king. But inthe insomnolent nights she dreams of the kissesof Solomon --of Solomon, who loves women as she loves precious stones. And Belkiss follows her destiny. Her love was aform of humility, a ravished and ecstatic mode of genuflexion. The Admiral of Solomon's fleet bears her tidings of Solomon's glory, his wisdom and beauty . Omens and the outcry of the court - nothing will stay her, andshe sets out for Jerusalem . There her fate is accomplished . She is one among the splendid women whom Solomon loves as she loves precious stones. In the last act of this truly remarkable drama she has returned to the palace of Sheba. Youth is dead and dreams are dead ; there is only knowledge of good and evil. My objection to William Dean Howells is based not so much upon his intellectual priggishness as upon his moral snobbishness. I do not wish to rage against him as though he were the beast of the Apocalypse, but he and Gilder ( the Misses Gilder ) and that ilk are the chief defect of American literature. While Mr. Howells merits one's habitual indignation, Mr. Gilder is undoubtedly the worse of the two. Ihave never known a man so uniformly nul. In Germany the notable event in letters is the organization of the Pan Society, Founded in Berlin a few months ago, its aim is, byaccording an equal care to all forms of art, to prepare the way for a multiple and organic artistic life . * All formulae and doctrines are abandoned at the outset. Individuality, at any cost - the antithesis of Richepin's chameleonic theory -is the end to be attained. This, by the way, is the note of young Germany, in politics as inletters, in art as in the conduct of life. Nietzsche haslaid franticemphasis on it : Lang- behn , the mysterious and sterile author of “ Rem brandt, Educator," about which there was so much pother five years ago, twanged the same string ; Karl Kuechenmeister, the first of German critics in this day, discusses the question with admirable force in “ Der Kampf um die Persoenlichkeit." You sug gest that it is only a step from individ- ualism to nihilism . Unquestionably. I once heard Prince Krapotkine define nihil- ism as “ absolute individualism - the negation, in the name of individual liberty, of all obligations imposed on the individual by society , the family , and religion .”. The trend of modern thought toward individualism is notwithout significance. The Pan society has issued a review , which is undoubtedly themasterpiece of periodical literature. Two numbers have already appeared. It is published partly in Germanand partly in French. Among the foreign contributors are Whistler, Garborg, and Vallaton. 8 E PAN 18 95 WHITE MUSIC AND --JEWISH The musical conductors of New York are singularly incompetent. Mr. Walter Damrosch has industry and ambition ; he has written an opera which is a singularly fine imitation of real music ; he is an accomplished accompanist on the piano ; but it would be sheerflattery to callhim asecond-rate conductor. Ms. Seidl wasWagner's private secretary once upon a time. With this inhis favor it was quite natural that New York should accept him at Mr.Krehbiel's valuation. Mr. Krehbiel has an instinct -an intuition - for mediocrities. But you and I will have none of Mr. Seidl. He is but a poor , serious creature, tangled and confused inWagnerian formulae and tradition. He does not interpret because he himself has not understood. Franz van der Stucken in certain -but he is away to where the beer is better . Boston hasEmilePauer, who is asort of human , or inhuman, metronome. What a wonderful field is here for a man of genius! Neither Mr. Seidl nor Mr. Damrosch can compose a programme; neither of them is acquainted with the trend of modern music. Theydo not know , as you and Iknow , that Wagner said not the last word but the first. But leave all that aside . Take one instance of Mr.Damrosch's iniquity. Wishing to give hisprogramme "variety, "he agrees with hiseminentrival, Mr.Bial,that theremustbe a little German, a little French, a little Russian . So he writes in Tschaikowsky's name and that of Rubenstein as repre sentative Russian composers. Tschaikowsky, this tenth-rate and prolix musician, who had neither musicianly breeding nor personal and racial inspiration ; Rubenstein , a heterogeneous compound of vulgar Italianism and German processes, deformed in the stealings, who echoed that echo, Raff; who was a man of talent, but, like every Jew , withoutgenius or originality, Mr. Damroschsimply does not know music from the Rubensteiner imitation. Hehas left unregarded the true school of Russian music, which has in these days renewed the traditions of the race and applied to Sclavonic melody the resources of modern musical art. Of Glazounow , Rimsky-Korsakow , and Balakirew he has given us nothing, This magnificent music, known this decade to Paris and Berlin, is still unknown in New York and London, these capitals of Suburbia. Bitter andtender, naive and complicated, spiritual and scasual, violent and mystic -- dear Lord ! none of this. Are there not Tschaikowsky and the Jew ? In regard to German and French music, Mr. Damrosch preserves the same attitude. Not Cesar Franck , but Gounod ! Mr. Damrosch is impossible. LUNAR LITANY Eucharistie De l'Arcadie , Qui fais de l'æil Aux cours en deuil, Ciel des idylles Qu'on veut steriles, Fonts baptismaux Des blancs pierrots Dernier ciboire De notre Histoire, Vortex - nombril Du Tout-nikil, Miroir et Bible Des Impassible, Hotel garni De l'infini, Sphinx et Joconde Des defunts mondes O Chanaan Du bon Neant, Neant, La Mecque Des bibliotheques, Lethe, Lotos, Exaudi nos. J. LAFORGUE. a Belgium produces violinists and organists. Its art was strongly influenced by, Italian church music --- influenced, but not dominated — and in later days Wagner's influence has changed without controlling it. Indeed, Belgian music, by living on terms of fellowship with its neighbors, has retained in a large measure its ownindividuality. An admirable illustration is Dr. Ad. Samuel's“ Christus, " which was given three times atGand a few weeks ago . M.Boyer writes to “ M’lleNewYork ” : “ Christus’is an extremely remarkable work -amystic idyll if you likethe phrase, or a lyric mystery. Dr. Samuel describes it as a mystic symphony .It is composed for orchestra,chorus, and organ. Its theme, of course, is the life and death of Christ. The influence of Wagner--it is only the influence - is strongly per ceptible in Dr. Samuel's work. There is something of the fervor andmysticism of the early church in * Christus,' something of Parsifal. I can not at this writing attempt to analyze the music; it it lacks the indefinable quality which makes the masterpiece, it is, asI havesaid , remarkable. Its success has been very great. Incidental causes may have contributed to this success. Dr. Samuel is a Jew . Christus is understood to be his artistic recantation, his ‘ ninth symphony ,' as it were. It has been said that he has joined the Catholic Church and that Christus ' is his public profession of faith . This may not be true, but it is thenews of the day. " M. Boyer's letter, it should be added , was written in French . A practical symbol : The cruel cannibal takes his place above the others of his tribe ; after having dragged his prisoner from the box where he had lain , closely confined, he grips the poor wretch with hands and knees. He smiles a confidential smile, as one who should say, “ You observe my might ; I handle him as I please. " He raises his shining sword , the edge so fine it would have cut a 'Aying rose-leaf, and, while his left hand clutches the victim's throat almost to strangulation, the right handpasses the blade - gently, oh, so gently ! ---- across the abdomen of the unfortunate captive ; gently and slowly that the poor wretch may feel the shining agony sink inch by inch into his flesh. The prisoner cries aloud, a dolorous cry that rises and falls ,piteous, interminable Andso, bent over his violoncello, from which he draws plaintive, marvellous sounds, he seems to be a cruel savage in the act of martyrizing a missionary. AND PAINLESS EXTRACTING FILLING OF TEETH WITHOUTGAS ! AU CHAT NOIR 21 South Fifth Avenue and 551 West Broadway TZETU Half Block North of Bleecker St. L. WITHOUT Puma Fifth Avenue Stages Pass the Door GOLD CROWN DENTAL PARLORS . 63 West 22nd Street, Alloperations positively painless. GOLD ,CROWNS & BRIDGE WORKA SPECIALTY . TEETH WITHOUT PLATES. $ 5 PER TOOTH. FULL SET OF TEETH , $ 6. FINEST TABLE D’HOTE WITH WINE, 50 CENTS Lunch , 12 to 3 P. M. Dinner, - 5 to 9 P. M.

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FIRST FORTNIGHT IN SEPTEMBER, 1895 Price 10 Cents SUBSCRIPTION $ 2.00 A YEAR ID Pork Mile New York ဝင် 000000 phia Wayne There was a king of Thule, Immaculate, Who spent the daytime duly In affairs of state, By night though , long and truly And till quite late, He wept at the metempsychosis Of lilies, asphodels, and roses, And the ranunculus bulbosus. But woman , lovely and mammiferous, He looked upon as quite pestiferous. He was a curious king of Thule, But I may state That he was thought to be - and truly - Immaculate " TEPOWERS Vance Tbompson, editor Tbomas fleming and T. = Powers, artists PUBLISHED BY THE M'LLE NEW YORK PUB. CO . OFFICES 100 NASSAU STREET AND 256 WEST TWENTY- THIRD STREET, NEW YORK ::: " I wear my hat as I please, indoors or out ” ; it is one of Walt Whitman's insolent phrases. There is here a great æsthetic principle ; indeed, it is the only principle of æsthetics worth remembering. The artist who wears his hat indoors or out as he pleases is always in the right. There is no other formula worth tuppence. The artist who tries to please his audience or his critics is given up forthwith to the devil of commercialism , which lies in wait for such folk. The artist who works to please himself, and solely to please himself, may inadvertently achieve immortality. The other, who truckles to the present and kisses the toe of His Holiness the Zeitgeist, will never achieve anything more durable than a bank account. The high and distinguished work has always been accomplished by men who were ardent in egotism . The man of genius is always insolent. He says, “ I hate crowds, people, universal suffrage. I love only my art and myself -my health, my liver, my brain. I do not like other people's wit. My own wit amuses me ; my own genius astonishes me. " The man of genius naturally falls into this attitude. It is native to him. His cult is the ego ; love, suffering, sacrifice, aspiration, death, are to him merely material for poems, pictures, bric - a -brac. Tullia's death gives her father the fine excitement which makes for artistic creation. The artist is great in a degree commensurate with his egotism . When he realizes the unspeakable silliness of mankind and his own intellec tual loneliness he is far on the road to immortality. Then his audience does not interest him and his critics do not disturb him. He tilts his hat at any angle he pleases ; he wears it indoors or out. It may be that his work remains futile, that he never finds artistic expression - Production is not everything. To the barren artist, as to the barren woman, the pleasure is none the less because it does not end in creation, And in these days, so shockingly democratic, the only gentlemanly pleasure left is intellectual vanity. Be vain, oh my joyous brothers in art ; be vain of your heads and hearts and livers ; vain of your viscera, for you are not as other men are. Autolatry - it is the artist's religion . The true artist must learn the lesson of humility and, like a little child, kneel down and worship himself. Thus he gains intellec tual security. He has no concern with the anxieties of the day. He need not ask him self whether he will be an evolutionist, neo - Kantian or neo- Pagan, a Tolstoist or a mystic of the new Fiesole. The intellectual seditions of the day do not disturb him . Reverently and serenely he worships himself ; he is both priest and altar ; he is an autolatrist. LEADER It is well ! wiewu o w Tofleming... 18 There is an old Latin proverb to the effect that to the vulgar the unknown is always A VICTIM magnificent. In these more Flippant days the unknown is merely a matter for laughter. The OF DEVIL vulgar person reasons that what is unknown must be ridiculous. To the Englishman America WORSHIPPERS seems an absurd country . Mr. Ingersoll, who is intellectually vulgar, sees in an altar to the unknown God merely the ludicrous . The worship of the devil to many vulgarians and scientists seems equally a matter of mirth . Worship the devil ? It is absurd. But is it absurd ? M.Jules Bois, a distinguished French Jew , has written lately an admirable work on this strange cult of Satan worship. This book, “ Satanisme et la Magie,” has many facts in regard to the recent spread of this peculiar form of wickedness --- wickedness at once uncanny and (in spite of all) a trifle absurd. Perhaps he gives no undue importance to this cult, for life itself is but a grotesque and diabolical drama, human and inhuman. I wish to get at this fact, that to - day the devil is worshipped as earnestly, with a faith as naive and a devotion as entire as at any time in history. And if Satan be indeed the son of the pale and sombre divinities of Hades, he has, like them , altars and rites. In Paris I attended a service of midnight praise to the devil. It was a service of grewsome horror. In a darkness troubled withpale- green lights they chanted the litany of Satan ; this terrible litany, which I dare not put in English for you ; litany of the exiled prince " on whom God wrought such wrong . " Here in New York , among the flippancies and commercial gentilities of a malignantly respect able city , there are men who are abject in the same faith. They worship the devil. They claim the benisons he gave of yore - love, treasure, science, and immitigable power. And does the devil hear them ? You shall see. a a There came into my office the other day a tall, handsome, anxious man of thirty ; a man of good breeding and high intelligence. The story he told me, I tell you ; often in his own words, always in aspirit ofhonesty . Hebelieves that the influence which has wrecked his life is hell born . He has found that the methods used are those which the devil -worshippers have always chosen. These methods hedescribesin detail. I have been greatly interested in comparing them with similar experiences, of which history has kept record . Those who are interested in this matter I would refer to King James's excellent work on “ Demonology " ; Torrentius' curious comments on Hor., Epod ., lib., ode 5 ; Delrio Disquis, Mag ., lib. 2 , quaest. 9 ; and Apulicus Book of the Golden Ass, passim ; Remig. Demonalatriae, lib. 1 , cap . 14 ; Bodin ., Daemonoman ., l. 2, c. 14 ; Barthol. de Spina,quaest. de Strigib., Philippo Ludwigus Elich ., quaest. 10 ; Paracelsus in Magn. et Occul. Philosophia and Giov . Bapti. Porta,lib. 2, Mag ., Natur., cap. 16. And especially I would call your attention to the history of Zyti, a Bohemian, Mart., Delr., Disq., Mag., lib. 2, quaest. 6. It is virtually identical with the experience of the young man whose sufferings I am about to relate. The image of wax and wool, which the devil-worshippers who torment him make use of occasionally is no new thing . Ovid makes mention of it, andthe mischief done with needles is recorded in Hysipyle's epistle to Jason : Devovet absentes, simulacraque cerea fingit ; Et miserum tenues in jecur urget acus . On this point, too, consult the story of King Duff in Hector Boetius and (Bodin ., Daemon., , lib . 2 , cap . 8 ) the account by the French ambassador to England of certain pictures in wax of Queen Elizabeth found in adunghill near Islington . These corroborations and authentications, though of extreme interest, can not be given in detail here. However, for the benefit of those who are not familiar with the modern practices of devil -worshippers, it should be said that the rites are old as the cult. The present victim of their malignity is not the first victim ; it is not probable he will bethe last. Their power totrouble nature can hardly be questioned in these days and in theface of the evidence of ages. However, I may refer you again to Remigius and particularly to his elegant arguments, serving as preface to his “ Daemonálatria.” Consideration should be also givento the media magica — bones, flesh, herbs, blood, vapours, etc.- and the rites for gath eringthem . In this way much valuable information might be brought out and it might not be impossible to reconcile the practice of antiquity to the neoteric. The gathering of pieces of dead flesh , Cornel., Agrip ., de Occult., Philosoph ., lib. 3, cap. 42, and lib. 4 , cap. ult., has always been a simple method of summoning the devil. The preposterous noises, the licen tious dances and disconcerting gestures with which the devil-worshippers trouble their modern victim are of equal antiquity. The manner of their dancing is confessed in Bodin ., lib . 2 , cap. 4 , and in Remig , lib. 1 , cap. 17 and 18 . Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. Gen , iii ., 1. Y * Little save the phraseology has changed. Indeed, the old rites, as the victim has discovered, are performed under new names. The old power calls itself “ hypnotism ” and “ suggestion " ; and it is all diabolism . a a The victim is, as I have said, a man of high intelligence. He descends from a line of moral if not illustriousancestors. In his veins runs Puritan blood, heightened with the blood of the Covenanters. Nine years ago he was a person of extreme morality. He had wealth and position. Within a week he became an outcast, a rake, a social pariah , the victim of monstrous vices and impious desires. His moral character was filched from him . It need hardly be said that he fought against this, that he wrestled with Puritan fervour and determination against this, the evil influence . He fought desperately, with the courage of a doomed gentleman, with the strength of Saint Anthony. But they gathered round him ; they whispered Paphian matter in his ears; they hung lubricous words on his lips ; they stirred him with obscene and awful images. Here I quote from his written account: August 6 , 1895 . My Dear Mr. Thompson : The ordinary human mind would refuse to admit the possibility of the horrors I have undergone at the hands ofthis band, whose God is Satan and whose instrument of tortureis hypnotism . I am kept in a series of states, eachoneof which has its reigning horror . Sometimes I will be kept in a certain mental state for aweek at times dominated by obscene suggestions - crowded with vile thoughts, vile images, vile temptations ofevery sort. Then almost without warning a new state willcome in , probably one which will include pain -suggestion, as this has been inter mittent since January. Before that for fifteen months it was continuous. The pain -suggestion is of great variety. My spine was “ broiled " regularly for a time. They live in this country ; they pass as Spiritualists or Hypnotists ; they are men probably not entirely sane who are worshippers and servants of the devil. In addition to pain they suggest odours or smells. They have spared me somewhat in this particular, but I believe that with this power they can drive any man instantaneously insane. My mind has really been a prisoner since November, 1893. At that time, they have confessed, thirteen of them formed a chain of influences round me. They took an oath to ruin me morally and physically ; to degrade me to their own level of immor ality, to make of me a monument of their satanic power . I am never without a sense of obsession . While they torment me with infamous suggestions, they keep me sanethat I may be fullyconscious of the torture. At first I was able to escape from them into sleep. I hid myselfin the dark world of sleep. Then they devised a masterpiece for robbing me of this refuge. WheneverI would attempt to dozeoff there would come suddenly a feeling as though an immensescrew were being twisted into my diaphragm . So sudden , so excruciating , that I was tortured into full consciousness at once . And I would lie awake in fearful expectation. I knew the circle was formed and that new horrors were being devised to subjugate my soul to the devil. First sneering voices would cry at me, mocking myfaith and my God ! They told me of my powerlessness,'chained by suggestion, a scorpion in a circle of hypnotic fire . Theysaid it was for the joy they took in suffering that they stretched mysoul on the rack of uncleandelights. Then subtly, softly, they stifled mewith music,unholy, green music of flutes, profane and visionary music of silver flutes, music green, green —dear God! I gasped for breath. So subtle is green music. Through the green music as through a forest my soul went shrinking. Satyrs leered at me. I was blinded with the odourofblack roses. Dear God ! what monsters I have seen in the forests of green music! I have fled desperately, startled by obscene satyrs and deformed women ; legless and armless women rolled themselves past me with incredible swiftness ; girls stared at me with hungry eyes and cried to me, while I fled , stumbling, panting, through the forest of green , immoral music . In their endeavour to subjugate me they first robbed me of my money, then of my moralcharacter. I am , as you know , a manof some literary ability. So I had little difficulty in making money when I needed it. Three years ago they stopped that. They suggested to me banality of thought and turgidity of style. My writings became unsalable or almost so. Curiously enoughthey have left me the ability to make exactly $ 4.30 each week - enough to keep me from starvation and no more. It is a remarkable instance of diabolism to bebrought to light in these modern days. They took me, deliberately ruined my character, made me a common sensualist and an outcast from society, and then proceeded tokill me by the slow torture of physical pain , with every possible insult,publicdisgrace, and mental torture superadded. They have me in complete control. Any other man would commit suicide. Ilive, a mon ument to suffering. I believe that in a man of your character and capacities ( i. enthe editor of “ M’lle New York ” ) rests my strongest hope of relief. I do not believe that as a literary man you can possibly ponder a more deeply interesting sub ject than the ruin of ahuman soul, the attempted murder of a human being ( for there is very dangerous heart-suggestion ) а by hypnotism - nol diabolism .

So far the victim of this monstrous injustice may be permitted to speak for himself. The diabolical circle which holds him in fee — think of it, an immortal soul the devil's plaything ! relaxes none of its malignant power. Prayers can not touch them ; even God holds aloof. In the blackness of his awful doom-a blackness haunted with omnipotent deformities -- this man fights desperately - hopelessly. Is it absurd ? Or tragic ? Andit behooves thoughtful men to ask themselves what is to be done. Who will be the next victimofthisunholysociety whose God is Satan ? You may be the man. Surely the spirit of Cotton Mather is not wholly dead in this country. Every engine of the law should be put in operation to crush this black and diabolical conspiracy. It is notwholly impertinent to inquire whether Police Commissioner Roosevelt is aware of the existence of this dark anddangerousband of Satanists. Surely it is his business to know and surely it is his duty to destroythem and break up this impious pact. What is he going to do about it ? 1 19 THE BLASPHEMOUS AND AWFUL LITANIES SUNG BY THE DEVIL-WORSHIPPERS O exiled Prince, on whom God wrought such wrong, Who, conquered, still art impious and strong, O Satan, have mercy upon us ! Thou who dost know all, lord of all things below , Thou helper of mankind, leech of his woe, We beseech thee to hear us, o Satan ! Thou who by magic savest thepoor old bones of drunkards stumbling o'er the gutter-stones, O Satan, have mercy upon us ! Thou who on Death, thy leman old and true, Begottest Hope, thatfolly ever new , We beseech thee to hear us, o Satan ! Thine eye hath seen the veins, the rocky hold, Where the miser God hath hid his garnered gold. O Satan, have mercy upon us ! Thou who dost give a taste of Heaven above To thy poorest children —for thou givest them love, We beseech thee to hear us, o Satan ! Thou who dostput in the eyes and hearts of girls The lust of pleasure, joy ofgold andpearls, O Satan, have mercy upon us ! Lamp of the scientist, the exile's staff, His priest, who greets the hangman with a laugh, We beseech thee to hear us, o Satan. Adoptedfather of that race which He Chasedfrom the Garden with contumely, O Satan, have mercy upon us ! Then do the devil-worshippers ( blasphemers ! ) join in this prayer : Glory andpraise to thee, O Satan, both on the heights Of Heaven , where thou dost reign, and in the nights Of Hell, where thou dost dream in silent majesty. Grant that beneath the Tree of Knowledge, I Even soul of my soul—some day near thee may lie, Where the great branches ofthe Tree are spread, A house not built with hands, above thy head, BAUDELAIRE L'AMI DE LA NATURE I'crach' pas sur Paris, c'est rien chouett ' ! Mais comm ' j'ai une âm' de poèt ' , Tous les dimanch's j'sors de ma boît ' Et j'men vais avec ma compagne A la campagne. Nous prenons un train de banlieu ' Qui nous brouette à quèque lieu , Dans le vrai pays du p'tit bleu , Car on n'boit pas toujours d' champagne A la campagne. Ell' met sa rob' de la Rein ' Blanch '; Moi, j'emport' ma pip' la plus blanch' l'ai pas d'chemis', mais j'mets des manch ', Car il faut bien qu'l'éléganc règne A la campègne. Nous arrivons, vrai, c'est très batt ' ! Des écaill's d'huîtr's comme chez Baratt' Et des cocott's qui vont à patt', Car on est tout comme chez soi A la camp -quoi ! Mais j'vois qu'ma machin ' vous en .... terre, Fait’s -moi signe et j'vous obtempère, D'autantqu'j'demand' pas mieux qu'de m'taire ... Fautpas se gêner plus qu'au bagne, A la campagne. Paul VERLAINE. “ M’LLE NEW YORK .” Dear Madam ( sic ): I know you want the approbation ofa struggling but appreciative child ofthe art cult. I do so love that mixture of art and God, Melzer and Huneker, and someone who does not sign his name, but is continually in evidence as to what and how good he is. This last but most frequent ego, pre sumably the editor, is a true writer according to his God -given light. His insight as to humanity, God, love, French, poetry, philosophy, andall that sort of thing is truly beautiful. It has the air of being so true, because it breathes the writer himself. It is just a revelation of the advantages a man possesses who need only look into himself and find there all the above qualities. No one needs to agree with him , he is so sure of the truth, because he finds it all in himself and he believes in it. I am sure we needed just such a publication as “ M’lle New York .” At this age-end of the century pictorial and philosophical conundrums on matters of no moment are just what we want to pass the time away with . Life isso easy and time hangs so heavy on one's hands that to decipher the God - like artistic pictures and the high- grade emanations ofMelzer, Huneker & Co., to say nothing of the frequent French , is a true pleasure. I have admired Melzer so much, particularly during the periodhe wrote dramatic criticismsfor the “ Herald.” I am glad his shining pate has found a place on “ M’lle New York .” And Huneker, too . His criticisms in the “ Recorder ” and “ Musical Courier " have placed him on such a high plane. In time I am sure the womanly and tender heart of “ M’lle New York ” will find more obscure duffers to gather to her maidenly breast, but really she ought to marry —say , Mr. Common Sense. Perhaps in time she would give birth to Reason, and Melzer, Huneker, and the editor would get some wholesome nourishment. I fear “ M’lle New York ” in her maiden estate is undertaking too much. Herfoster children are weaklings and she spoils them by letting them say, without let or hindrance, what their little wills and untrained minds, brat-like, suggest. “ M’lle New York,” I fear you will die young. Ladies of your calibre who undertake the Kinder gärtnership of Melser, Huneker, the editor, and the French die of chagrin and disappointment. Yours sincerely, JAY ESEL. The Lambs' Club, August 21, 1895 . It is not forbidden to eat kosher lamb, but this seems to be tref. رب کا LAMBS 66 go BAA !!! 20 TThis little pantomime by Powers tells the story of Pierrot's love and jealousy and death. He slew the villain who had usurped his functions and Red. Justice pursued him and the law condemned him. Even lawyer Howe's pleading was vain . When Dr. O'Sullivan and the other physicians were done with him he went piecemeal to the moon. There he collected himself and took up the study of electricity before venturing again into this curious world . PANTOMIME LAW INUUTTU 21-22 діндер C. 011 bas 114 6888 eliu ༡༽ mg les kart his TE Ged, tru , Wh need 0.217 瓜 LL inery irtist τεκτή, ( een > for the T , 100. i time ther to fai wild get Powdas " part Is and Kinder 2. TALITHA CUMI The white monks chanted the “ Dies Irae " ; bells tolled in the belfry - “ Mary save us ! ” said Joel, the servant, and made the sign of the cross. u Shall one dance to the music of the death -knell ? " For it was the day of the village fete. The town hall was draped with tapestry -the tapestry of Smyrna, which is a cascade of violets, lilies, and roses. Flags flamed in all the windows. At the village inn there were stir and tumult. Maids and tapsters bustled. The great carts of the brewer rolled up, laden with casks. The barman arranged the tables on the pavement in front of the door. In the middle of the village square the carpenters were erecting a stage ; their songs rang over the noise of their hammers. Beyond was a merry - go round, with wooden horses, and, further on and everywhere, the flags swayed and belliedin the morning air .. Only the house of Jairus was morose. The windows were shut and dark, save wherea small light shone through the curtains of Ephraima's chamber, the wan and little light of wax tapers, the wan light that watches for the dead. There came the noble lord Zacharius. He wore a cap with a yellow plume, a grey doublet, bright with besants; one hand fretted his long moustaches, the other was on the hilt of his lled sword. He paused at the gates of the morose house and hailed Joel, the servant. “ Your master ? " “ My master, Lord Zacharius ? He has gone to find Jesus." " Jesus ? " “ Yes, my lord. This morning the end came. This morning she heard the swallows in the eaves and the carpenters in the square." " Eight days ago she danced a minuet in my castle -and your master has gone to Jesus? " “ Yes, my lord . " “ He is losing his time. How old was she ? " “ Sixteen years." " She was very beautiful - so slight and sweet, graceful as a jonquil —ah , what a Magdalen shewould have made for mymystery play ! ” “ Yes, my lord .” “She had the hair of an archangel —all dead now . Ah, death is cruel ! I shall write a poem in Latin .” “ Yes, my lord ." “ This poor Jairus ! Of what use is his wealth ? Death has broken his ramparts of emerald and sapphire and stolen his most marvellous jewel. And he has gone to find Jesus ? " “ Yes, my lord. Pray God he succeed . " “ Yes -ah, this poor Ephraima - poor little one! But I must go now . The players are coming to play my mystery of JosephSold by His Brethren . _ Oh, la ! You must not miss it. See, they are erecting the stage yonder in the square. There will be an orchestra and two dromedaries which an Asiatic merchant has lent me oh , la ! - you will see the king of Egypt in a velvet coat, surrounded by all his guards, then Joseph and all his brethren , the story of the dreams, and M'me Potiphar, who will recite the versesI have composed . " Wh - “ Yes, my lord . ” “ Oh, la ! there they are . " The players came in carriages gay with banners; they bore wreaths of laurel on their heads. They shouted to each otherand drank hugedraughts of Rhenish wine. Theywore grotesque costumes of red and green and saffron. Their cheeks were swollen with drink. Some of them beat noisily on drums, others rattled their spears. One carried a gilded sceptre and wore a zinc crown ; his garments were of an antique fashion. The people crowded about the carriages , cheering and laughing, for it was a goodly show . A beguin nun appeared on the balcony of the morose house. “ The nun is tired of saying paternosters, " said Joel, the servant, to himself. In other years it was Ephraima who stood on the balcony to watch the show - ah, well, fifteen days of tears and then one is forgotten ; earth swallows more than the bodies of the dead. Slowly Joel walked through the shining, jocund street. Baes stood at the tavern door polishing a pewter mug. “ You look hipped , Joel. ” “ Ephraima is dead .” “ Ay, I saw the priests go in at dawn, and the wax tapers shone - call they that an illumination ? Here is my tavern next to the house of death - ugh ! - shall I say to my guests, " Sit down, friends, drink merrily, there's a corpse next door ? ' A kill-joy , say I. Ego sum alpha omega, vita , via, veritas, primus et nouissimus. Heu ! nequam gens judaica ! Quam dira frendens vesa nia ! Plebs execranda . Quid justus hic promeruit Quod crucifigi debuit? O gens dampnanda ! *** ) And, to make matters worse, Jairus can not drape his house this year with his gallant banner purple with gold lions rampant. A kill-joy, say I. " " Jairus has gone to find Jesus. " “ I saw Jesus cure a paralytic one day. What magic! Upon my word, I could hardly believe my eyes. Here comes the crowd; I must tap another cask . " Joel, the servant of Jairus, went on through the press until he came to the middle of the square. There was a wrangle. The beggars were quarrelling with the players ; dear God! the halt and deformed, the crook -backs and tangle- legs, the blindwith red eye-sockets, the leprous with gangrened chins. One strummed a guitar and cried, “ Give the beggar wine or he dies ! ” One was in rags ; his hair was full of vermin . There was a monstrous ulcered hump on his back . High overhead he raised his hands; his voice was like a clarinet ; his eyes were the eyes of an angel flying from heaven to earth . “ It was yonder,” he cried , " bythe tavern of the Black Bull. Welay in the dust, dogs of misery. Jesus came. I offered to tell his fortune. I have been blind many years, but as he came near me my eyelids becameopaque, like silver, and when he touched the red eye-sockets with his fingers I saw . Dear God, I am drunk with joy ! See what a thing this man has done, my brothers. " The players mocked him and laughed, beating on theirdrums. “ He is a magician.” “ They will burn him , like the witch of St. Ives. " “ No. He will be crucified . ” Like a slave, on the slaves' gibbet." “ Bah ! He is no more a god than you were blind, charlatan ! Faith, there is not a lame man among you this cudgel can not make run like a rabbit. Faith , it would make yon dumb rascal cry like a peacock . " These things the players said , mocking, but the beggar cried aloud, “ Jesus will come and raisethe daughter of Jairus fromthe dead. " The players mocked him . He said, “ He has healed the mother - in - law of Saint Peter ." “ Hol Saint Peter's mother- in -law ! " “She was ill of a fever at the farm . The poor woman ! She lay in a bed with red taf feta curtains. Jesus did but touch her and she rose and put on her white cap and a petticoat of blue stuff and served the folk with fresh cheese and radishes and beer. I saw them ; they sat at a wooden table and ate and drank . There was a yellow muslin curtain across the window and through it I saw them as in an atmosphere of gold." But the players were in high anger ; they drove the beggars away and cursed them for anarchists and politicians, andcried : “ Come to the mystery play ! Come to the play ! Won derful costumes and beautiful women --oh, you shall see such women ! Come to the play ! We will present to the distinguished company the merry comedy of ' The Seven Deadly Sins' -we can play a comedy without pretending to be sons of David . Come to the play ! ” Far off one heard the noise of trumpets; the guilds came marching - the guild of the armorers, the guild of the saddle -makers, the guild of the silversmiths and goldsmiths, the guild of cobblers, the guild of the cloth -workers, and many other guilds. The crowd surged closer. A Jewcame forward, snapping his fingers under the nose of the beggar who had told the glory of Christ, and said : “ We'll kill him , your Jesus! Hein ? We will spit in his face ! Hein ? The hangman will flog him with whips! Hein ? As for you , rogue, we'll have the eyes out of your head.” The people cried, “ The Jew ! The Jew ! The Jew ! ” “ The Jew ! The Usurer ! Hi, forty - per -cent ! " An artisan struck the Semite, who fled to the players, crying, “ Save me, noble lords, from these cads ! " Then stones began toflyand Baes, the landlord , shouted , “ Have a care for my windows! Care for the glass ! Care for the glass ! " The beguin nun on the balcony fled into the death -chamber, making the sign of the cross, in her haste forgetting to close the window . The bells tolled in the belfry , a carillon for the dead ; the white monks chanted the “ Dies Irae " - bells tolled in the belfry -- M 64 The players and the beggars and the people wrangled ; when Jesus came. He was clad like the pilgrims; He wore a robe of grey stuff and bore a staff, from which hung, a hollow gourd ; a hat of brown felt hung at his shoulder ; round his white face and gilded beard there shone a wonderful light, clear, but verysoft. Jairus, in Oriental garments, a green turban upon his head, made a way for Jesus through the press. The rich jeweller bore an aigrette of diamonds in his silk turban ; his sash was satin , broidered with gold ; his boots of soft leather were scathed by the curved scimitar which hung at his side. Jesus raised his hand toward the wrangling mob : "“ Do not make all this disturbance. The girl is not dead ; she sleeps. " And suddenly a great silence fell upon the village square. Jesus passed through the gates of the morosehouse, followed by Saint Peter. A sun burned person, this saint, in a worn brown toga. It was a mansion of much magnificence ; pictures by distinguished painters were on the walls ; at the head of the first pair of stairs was an antique clock, very valuable ; they - In Christum Dei filium , mounted the stairs and came to the chamber of Ephraima. Jairus was in despair; he wept Factorum mirabilium , and, kneeling, kissed the hand of Jesus. He said, “Jesus, you have madethe leprous woman Ritum linquens gentilium, fresh as a rose ; you made light, as in a lantern, shine in the eyes of the blind; you have Ego credam . made the cripples dance a rigadoon for joy ; son of David, lay your hand upon my little blonde girl and give her again to life, and I will give you the best I have - Venetian gems, Mechlinlace, andmy Utrecht velvets —take all. " But Jesus entered the chamber, saying : “ Man, be it unto you according to your faith . Keep your riches and divide among the poor .They will not serve you to enter heaven ." The players and beggars gathered about the doorway of the mansion of Jairus the jeweller, clamorous; from the square came the noise of the merry -go -rounds and the cries of the hawkers and mongers. And all these noises entered the open window of the chamber where Ephraima lay. Her hair, still wet with thepale sweat of her deathagony, covered the pillow like dull gold, framing her face - a wax face with shut eyes . Her little hands were joined. On the white silk which covered her little, jimp body lay a crucifix set with diamonds. Already the slight hands were cold , the shut eyes sunken. On the table the wax tapers burned ; near them , among thephials of medicine, lay a prayer-book with beaten silver clasps. - . The beguin nun sat with folded hands and eyes downcast. Jesus approached the dead. He laid his hands upon the brow of Ephraima. And it was as though dawn had come with singing birds; it was as though by a mystic gesture he had evoked young spring. It was thus Ephraima awakened. The rose blood began to flow in her veins, staining the young face with life. Her little hands were raised toward Jesus as though they offered him a lily of prayer brought back from heaven . Life stirred under her young, round breasts. Then her eyes opened - radiant,strange, astonished. Dear God ! Her eyes did open . Dear God —the eyes that had seen the mystery at which the dead, lying under the bronze flags in the cathedral, stare evermore. a - TRUE LOVE ALLATS ears. Pune There wasonce a young girl of extreme beauty who was in love with a pig. Madly. Not one of those pretty little pigs which furnish such exquisite hams. No. An old pig, seedy, his bristles gone ; a pig for which the most improvident butcher would not have given tuppence. A ratty old pig. See ? And she loved it. It was really charming to see her, this young girl of extreme beauty, mixing the swill, the potatoes, the carrots, the bran, the crusts of bread. She rolled up her sleeves, for her arms were very beautiful. When she entered the barnyard, carrying the pail, the old pig came trotting on his old feet. He thrust his head into the swill up to his Theyoung girl of extreme beauty was very happy to see him so well pleased. When he had emptied the pail he went back to his sty without giving her a glance from his little, sticky eyes. Bah ! the dirty pig . Next day the same thing. Always the same thing . Now , the pig's birthday was coming. All week the young girl of extreme beauty racked her brains to think of a present to give the old pig. She could think of nothing. At last she said , simply, “ I will give him flowers." She went to thegarden andplucked the sweetest flowers and put them in her apron -her silkapron , pale pink, withcunning little pockets -and carried them to the oldpig. My God ! how savage the old pig was ; he growled and grunted . What the deuce should he do with roses and lilies and geraniums ? The roses pricked him . The lilies gave him the bile. The geraniums made his head ache. There was also clematis. The clem atis —he bolted it all like a glutton. Little as you may have studied the application of botany to the science of ali mentation , you should know that if clema tis is insalubrious for man, for pigs it is fatal. Now , the clematis which she gave her pig belonged precisely to this terrible species Clematis Porcinicida. The old pig died of it, after atrocious agony. Hewas buried in afield of cabbages. The young girl of extreme beauty poignarded herself on his tomb. ma a 22 পৰা , 10 SAN IN BROADWAY I walk in Broadway to andfro “ Dear ghost," I say to him , “ to and fro With the taciturn ghost of Edgar Poe. As you walked in Broadway long ago Girls idle for us when the lights Did the small girls idle for you and cry ? ” Are red on the pavements there o' nights. “ Ho ! the black stars swung in a yellow sky Girls sidle with strenuous eyesfor us, One night, one night-- and a woman came With gestures urgent and amorous ; Out of a harem of wind-blown flame ; But we mock them , pacing to and fro But the lips that she laid on mine were snow I and the ghost of Edgar Poe. Bitter as ice , ” says the ghost of Poe. I make the sign of the cross . VANCE THOMPSON. Sit! THE YOGHI A perverse Yoghi sat upon a hummock And sneered at the grim fate That oxydized the lining of his stomach And not that of his pate. PIERROT AND THE POET Pierrot passes the gallows where a dead And sun- dried poet dangles. “ The sum of the angles of a triangle," he said, “ Is equal to two right angles.” 4. THE DREAM OF A DECADENT JAMES GIBBONS HUNEKER Feeling a bit satiated with older forms of music I tried to keep a cigarette alight with my temperament, but the temperament not responding as fierily as I desired it, I yawned, turned my back on myself, and tried to kill time by playing the piano. Outside, the snow mocked at the earth for beingso big, heavy, and brown, and theearth mocked back by daubing every flake with dirt the moment it fell. “ No use," I said, “I can't endure Gotham to -day. I will press the button and let my astral soul do the rest." Then, suiting the action to the word , I pressed that symbol of eternity which is set forth in the holy “ Rig Veda ” (or in any other sacred turnout), and was instantly transported to Paris to the Theatre d'Art, leaving my earthly bodygazing at the combat of snow and sewer. I was not long in getting to the City of Earthly Delights and, dispensing with the slight formality of buying a ticket , I ensconced myself in one of the loges, quite unseen by the large party already assembled there ( for the astral body has no need of a tarn helm -it is visible or invisible at the will of its owner ), and waited for the mysterious rites to begin . You are familiar with some of the phases of the new art movement in Paris, where a band of bold spirits aim at not only a synthesis of the known arts, but also seek to discover new subtle arts calling into play all the senses, and giving them as a complete whole a sort of an artistic bath, wherein thesoul is submerged utterly and the senses deluged with intense delights. To such a performance I had hastened, for strange rumors had from time to time reached me in philis tine New York of the doings of this cenacle. Its members' names were all unfamiliar to me. I knew that it would be impossible for meto gain admission to the Theatre d'Art on a first performance of the mystery, even the police were deprived of their press tickets, soI had hazarded the bold experiment of astral projection. I was safe in the theatre, and with beating pulses awaited the commencement of the mystery. The theatre wasplungedintoanorange gloom ,punctured with tiny balls of violet light which blinkeddaintily andintermittently. The dominant odour of the atmosphere wasFlorida water with a florid counterpoint that reminded mesomehow of bacon and eggs. Understand me, I do not wish to jest. That was the melange which appealed to my nostrils, and though at first blush it seems hardly possible that the two dissimilarodours could ever be made to modu late and merge, yet I had not beenindoors ten minutes before thesubtility of the duet was plain to me. Bacon has a delicious odour, and, like a freshly cut lemon , it causes a premonitory tickling in the palate, and little rills of hunger in one's stomach. “ Aha ! " I cried (astrally, of course), “ Thisisa concatenation of the senses never dreamedof by Plato when he fashioned his republic.". Hush ! The languid lisp of those assembled about me drifted into little sighs and then a low , long drawn out chord in B flat minor, for octoroons, octopuses, quadroons,shofars, tym pani, and piccolo sounded ; immediately achorus of male soprani blended with this chord, but they sang the plain chord of A major, and the effect was one of vividity -- it was a dissonance, but a pianissimo one, and it jarred on myears in a way that made theirdrums warble. Then a low burbling sound ascended to me. The bacon frying," I thought, but I was mistaken. It was caused by the hissing of a sheet of carmine smoke which slowly upraised on the stage ; as it melted away the lights in the auditorium turned green and topaz, and an odour of jasmine and stewed tomatoes fell about me. My immediate neighbors seemed to be swooning, for they were nearly prostrate, with their lips glued to a rod that encircled the house. I grasped it and received a most delicious thrill that was probably electrical in its origin , thoughit was velvety pleasure merely to touch it and the palms of myhands ached exquisitely afterward. As I touched this rod I noticed a little mouthpiece to it, and thinking I might hear something, applied my ear to it. It became wet instantly. That was evidently not the use to which it was to be put. After inspecting.it again I put myfinger to it and cautiously raised its moist end to my mouth. “ Heavenly !" I murmured, “ what a place ! " and then, losing no further time in useless parleying with myself, placed myastral lips to the mouthpiece and took a long, strong pull. Gorgeous was the result. Gumbo soup,, as sure as I now write. Not your thin New York stuff, but the genuine old gumbo soupthat onecan't find outside of the State of Louisi ana, where old negro “ mammies " make it to perfection. a Just as I got the gumbo nocturne in my throat a shrill burst of brazen clangor from the orchestra roused me to what was going on on the stage. The steam had cleared away and 23 folie showed a rocky and woody scene, the trees all sky blue and the rocks a Nile green . The orchestra was playing alone, something that sounded like the prelude to “ Tristan.” But strange odour harmonies disturbed my enjoyment of the music, for so subtly allied were the senses in this new temple of art that a single smell, taste , touch, vision , or sound jarred on the meaning of the whole . The almost weird interfusion of the senses took my breath away, but full of gumbo soup as I was(and you have noidea howsoup discommodes one's astralstomach) I stuck bravely to my post, determined to get some clue tothe meaning of the new dispensation. The stage still remained bare, though the rocks, trees, and shrubbery changed their hues about every twenty seconds. Atlast, as a blazing vermillion struck my tired eyeballs, and the odour shifted to that of_decayed fish , cologne, and dried corn, I could stand it no longer, and, turning to my neighbor, I tapped him on the shoulder and politely said : " Can you tellme the name of the play, piece, morceau, symphony, stueck, odour, sonata , picture, drama, cooking,' comedy, or whatever you may call it, they are about to perform ? " The young“man 1 appealed to looked about into space -- I had foolishly forgotten that I was invisible -- clutched his throat, screan aloud “ Mon Dieu ! still another form of aural pleasure, " and was carried out full of vertiginous fits. Realizingthe folly of addressing humanity in my astral shape, I sat down in my corner and watched the stage. Still no traces of humanity ; the scenery had faded into a dullish dun hue and the orchestra was playing a Bach fugue for oboe, lamp- post ( transposed in E flat), and accordions in F. Suddenly the lights all went out and we were plunged into blackness that actually pinched , so drear, void, and black was it. A smell of garlic made everyone cough, and then , by asweep of somecurrent, we were saturated with the odour of white violets, the lights were tuned in three keys, violet, yellow of eggs, marron glace, and the soup supply shifted to whiskey sours. “ How subtle these contrasts are," hiccoughed my neighbor, and I acquiesced astrally. Then at last the stage became peopled with one person , a very tall old man with three eyes, high heels, and a deep voice. Brandishing his whiskers aloft, he muttered curiously : And hast thou slain the Jabberwock ? Come to myarms, my beamish boy ! O frabjous day ! Calloo , callay ! He chortled in his joy . " Alice in Wonderland " then was the mystery play and I had come too late towitness the slaying of the monster in its many-buttoned waistcoat. How gallantly the beamish boy" must have dealt the death stroke to the queer brute as the orchestra sounded the “ Siegfried " and * Dragon " motives, while the air was redolent of heliotrope. I greatly wonder what the po tage could have been at that crucial moment. My cogitations were interrupted by of a gallant appearing young knight dragging after him a huge carcase, half dragon and two thirds pig (the other three- thirds could not appear on account of temporary indisposition ). The orchestra gave up the “ Abattoir " motive, and instantly rose odours penetrated the air, the electric shocks stopped, and subtle little kicks were administered to the audience, who by by this time were almost swooning with composite pleasure. The scenery had begun to gravely dance to an odd Russian rhythm and the young manintoned monotonously this verse, making the vowel sounds sizzle with his teeth and almost swallowing the consonants : And asin uffish thoughthe stood , the Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, came whiffing through thetulgy wood , And burbled as it came, “ One! Two!” as through and through his vorpalblade went snicker snack , He left it dead , and with its head, he went galumphing back . The orchestra played the “ Galumphing " motive from the “ Ride of the Valkyrs," and the lights and odours were transposed toa shivering purple. Then carmine steam ascended, the orchestra gasped a gasp in C major ( for corno di bas setto and strings), a smell of cigarettes and coffee arose, and then I knew the great banquet of the senses was over. I pressed my astral button and flew wearily home, wearily and slowly, for I was full of soup and tone, and my ears and nostrils quivered with exhaustion. When I landed at the Battery it was just five o'clock. It had stopped snowing and an angry sun was getting ready to bathe for the night in the wet of the western horizon . Jersey was etched against the cold, hard sky, and as an old hand-organ struck up “ The Only Girl for Me " I threw my cap in the air and joined in ( astrally but joyfully) with the group of ragged children who surrounded the venerable organist with shouts, jeers, and dancing. Then I went home. REVERIE IN A ALLEGRO NON TROPPO. - All round Jena rise the green and vine-clad hills. TheSaale, that gentle, silver stream which rustled through the willows, whispering such wonderful songs to Goethe, MINOR FOR THE encircles it like the white arm of a woman . There are little wine-houses scattered among the hills that HARPSICHORD slope away to the Thuringian woods. Great brown girls pour the wine. Perhaps it is because it was so long ago, because it was part of the time of youth, all white and gold , that he looks back with a nostalgia for the greenSaxonwoods -- the scent of the grain fields and the acrid odour of the little inns in VANCE THOMPSON the hill country. And those great, brown, sombre women loom out of memory clothed in a strange fascination . The shining eyes and white shoulders, the violet powder and silks of the womenof to-day seem faded and common . The brown girls of Saxony ; their skirts of blue linsey -Woolsey stuff reached to their knees ; their hair, coarse and faded, like horse-hair, was coiled on their necks; they had the big shoulders and the strong, thick legs ofporters. Nowand again they laughed ---not at a joke, but at a kiss -- showing their strong, white teeth. They were hill women and slow of thought. Their eyes were heavy and sombre as those of cattle . The look in them was unquestioning. You do not see that look in the eyes of a woman of the world ; in her eyes there is always a chal lenge -an invitation or a refusal. ALLEGRETTO GRAZIOSO . - It is fourteen miles by the long, low road from Jena to Weimar. Where it winds through the flat country the road is lined on either side with shambling plum trees. They drop turgid fruit in the autumn weather. Long, long agoHeinewalked that road, a little pallid Jew , quivering with excitement, for he was on hiswayto visit Goethe. And as he walked the little Jewish poet rehearsed the things he should say -- the clever, wonderful speeches he should make. But when he came into the presence of the great, calm poet he stammered and wept and could only say, “ Sire, the plums on the Jena road are ripe.” And yetthat was worth saying. To-night the shambling treeson the Jena road are whispering together, and over Dornberg the winds whistle. Who walks the Jena road ... Schiller's room in Weimar town. Hesentaway the old caretaker and in the darkness sat downat Schiller's harpsichord and played. Ah, such a weazened, cracked , and melancholy little harpsichord! The worn keys were yellow as the teeth of horses. The hammers snapped as they plucked the tuneless strings. But he played - played very gently , little tinkling sonatas of Scarlatti and faded Italian minuets. Dainty as little blonde whom you hold on your knee while you tumble their gold curls -- but faded, only sad and faded minuets. Ah, that night he had kinship with ghosts and was not as other men are. Schiller's old writing -desk is still redolent with odours of decayed apples, but the names of the women he loved are forgotten . a ADAGIO, NON TROPPO.- The little village of Dorndorf is shabby and mean ; it crouches at the foot of a precipitous hill, as a girl might lie whimpering at your door. High over head is perched the old Castle of Dornberg: No man can climb the face of thecliff, buta footpath winds up round the shoulder of the hill. Hetook the hill-path ; his hound followed. He beat on the doors of the old castle; they were all fast - oak and iron, green rusted. He pushed back a rotting window and entered. His hound lay at the foot of the window and bayed . Dead, all dead ; a palace of the dead ; and ghosts came from the dusty hangings and led him from room to room ; the carpets fell in rotting dust beneath his footfalls. The rats had gnawed the faded furniture queer, little, faded chairs,all rose and tarnished gold of the time of Louis Quinze. On one chair lay a woman's glove -- a green riding -gauntlet; the rats had gnawed away the fingers, but the palm was wrinkledas though a woman's hand had shaped it a hundred years ago. She read Racine - see, the book is open at “ Esther. ” Hewaited there for her ghost to come back to her boudoir; it may be she came; something he saw ; a flash of eyes and powdered hair. He put her glove in his bosom -see , this green gauntlet which the rats have gnawed. a ANDANTE - UN POCO LAMENTOSO . - The tawny hound sprang on him for welcome and they went away . They found another hill-road that led toward Goena-such a small and foolish village inSaxony. They skirted the hamletand came again into the plain. A girl of thirteen sat on a knoll tending her geese. She was very small and calm and brown, and he sat by her and held her and kissed her, for the ghost of the Castle ofDornbergwas at his side and he was afraid . But the yellow tawny hound bayed at the geese. Hekissed the little goose -herd . And the sun went down dusty red among the trees –as in the pictures Monet paints. And he held the little girl close to him and talked, for the fear of ghosts was upon him . Aye, he had fear and was confused, like one who sees strange eyes shine in the night. Other kisses he will forget, but not thine, dear, calm child, not thine ! All this was long, long ago, but now that the gray is in his hair and inhis heart, he thinks of these things, as one who has been long dead thinks of wine and dances and woman's eyes. 2 - PAINLESS EXTRACTING FILLING OF TEETH WITHOUTGAS ! AU CHAT NOIR 21 South Fifth Avenue and 551 West Broadway TEL Half Block North of Bleecker St. L. WTEOUT PUTES. 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T OFFICES 100 NASSAU STREET AND 256 WEST TWENTY - THIRD STREET, NEW YORK ::: , 此时 w 1 Fleming Vance Thompson, editor ; Thomas Fleming and T. = powers, artists EC It may be true that patriotism was once the last refuge of the scoundrel. In these days it is quite too vapid to attract even the public rascal . Now and again a provincial lawyer has had himself elected President of the United States in order to escape paying his penuchle debts, and has done this by exploiting the Anglo-Hebraic thing, patriotism . The value of the patriotic cry is, however, growing steadily less. Men who know the pleasure of having definite ideas do not cultivate the mood of patriotism . The tendency of the modern organization of life is toward quicker and more inti mate communication . This may be deplorable. Indeed, to the man who wishes to live his own life --- to the man cerebral, imaginative, aristocratic, audacious -- it is deplorable. But the tendency exists and operates. Idiotic nations are united by steam and electricity to equally idiotic nations. The fences are down. The world is becoming one universal barn -yard. Every cock crows on his neighbour's dunghill. The cerebral, aristocratic, imaginative, audacious man girns and is dismayed. The uncritical person, hypnotized by the splendid vulgarity of universal suffrage and common brotherhood -the atrocious libel that all men are brothers ! —prattles platitudes. He quotes with undiscerning approval the Viscomte de Vogue's phrase, “ a passion for the planet, " and thanks God ( in whom he does not believe that he is “ cos mopolitan .” And the Anglo -Hebraic thing is fast dying out. Now patriotism served a purpose in the earlier organizations of life . It kept men apart. It herded the English creatures in one barn- yard. It preserved the inviolability of the German piggery. It made for a sort of broad individualism . To be sure a passion for one's country does not afford one much privacy. But it is better than browsing in an un ſenced world. While there is a certain measure of indignity in loving one's dunghill, still it is not absurd, but to cultivate an affection for a continent is at once absurd and futile. In a word : The mood of patriotism to -day is a mere affectation ; the duty of patriotism has ceased to be binding upon any man, because it is no longer necessary to keep men apart and the tendency of the democracy is to wallow in one stye. In addition , the mood of cosmopolitanism is a depressing reality. It is bringing about a solidarity of the undistin guished persons world over. And what is the individualist, the man who has a nice care for his own mental processes and his own sensations, the man who makes germ-cultures of the Ego —what is this man to do ? How is he to adjust his individual formulæ to this system imposed by the majority ? Not even Ludwig the Second of Bavaria —that flamboyant anarchist — could harmonize individualism and solidarity. The man who would follow the egoistic impulse and accomplish his destiny is thwarted at every turn. His last defence is down . Patriotism, that Anglo -Hebraic thing, which served him not wholly ineffectually, has had its day. He is in a parlous plight. If he escapes the desolating democracy, the devil of anarchy -which is very potent with such spirits — lies in wait for him. For this cerebral person life is at once too dirty and too sad, - LEADER oda TP THE AMERICAN ARTIST IN PARIS Kla 26 I am wayward and grey of thought to -day. My soul is filled with the clash THE and dust of life. I hate music. I hate this eternal blazoning of fierce woes and VALLEY OF acid joys on the orchestral canvas. Why must a composer be played ? Why must this tone -weary world be further sorely grieved by the subjective shrieks and SILENCE indecent publications of some musical fellow wrestling in mortal agony with his first love, his first crime, his first thought of the world ? Why, I ask , should music leave the page on which it is indited ? Why need it be played ? How many beauties in a score are lost by being translated into rude living tones ! How vulgar sound those climbing, arbutus-like arpeggios and subtile half tints of Chopin when played on that brutal, jangling instrument of wood and wire ! I shudder at the idea . I feel an Oriental jealousyof all those beautiful thoughts nestling in Chopin, Schubert, and Schumann's scores which are laid bare and dissected by the pompous pen of the music critic. The man that knows it all. The man that seeks to transmute the unutterable and ineffable delicacies of tone into terms of prose. And newspaper prose ! Hideous jargon , I abominate you ! I am suffering from too many harmonic harangues. I long for the Valley of Silence, Edgar Poe's valley , wherein not even a sighstirred the amber atmosphere. Why can not music be read in the seclusion of our own hearts Why ? must we go to the housetop and shout our woes to the universe ? Walt Whitman's “ barbaric yawp" over the roofs of the world has become fashionable, and from cable cars to symphonies all is a conspiracy against silence. Even at night dream - fugues shatter the walls of one's inner consciousness; and yet we call music a divine art ! I love the written notes, the symbol of the musical idea . Music, like some verse, sounds sweeter on paper. Palimpsest-like, I strive to unweave the spiral harmonies of Chopin, but they elude me as the sound of falling waters in a dream . Those violet bubbles of prismatic light he blows for us are too intangible, too dream haunted to be played. O for somemighty genius of colour who will deluge the sky with pyrotechnical symphonies! Colour that will love and lap the soul with iridescent and incandescent harmonies, and the harsh , brittle noise made by musical instruments will not startle our weaving fancy, Yet if Shelley had not sung or Chopin chaunted, how much poorer would be the world to -day. That is no reason whyschool children should scream " Life, like adome of many coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of eternity , or that tepid misses in their teens should murder the nocturnes of Chopin . Even the somnolent gurgle of the bullfrog as he signals his mate in the mud is preferable to music made by earthy hands. Let it be abolished. Electrocute the composer, imprison the players, and banish the music critic. Then let there be elected a supervisory board of trusty guardians, men absolutely above reproach . Intrust to their keeping all beautiful music and verse and prohibit the profane, vulgar, and gaping-curious herd from even so much as a glance at the treasures. Let the fat world go batten on Rider Haggard and Meyerbeer. For us, the few , the precious elect, the quintessential in art; but let no music be sounded throughout the land. Let us sit and think beautifully , tender and warlike, silent thoughts. a I HER FEET TAKE a HOLD ON HELL EUGENE WOOD I knew Rankin at the seminary before he was priested, a man with a white skin and eye-brows black as despair. Deep-blue eyes gloomed through the dusk of his long lashes. His face was oval, his fingers long and tapering, the nails pink and smooth with the smoothness of a girl's inner lip. How white his teeth were as they flashed in his seldom smiles. There was something about his fierce pity, his cruel asceticism , that made one careful about being seen too frequently with him. He was very beautiful, with the face of Saint Anthony of Padua. I have had mysuspicions about Saint Anthony of Padua. Also one fears a horse whose driver keeps the reins tense all the time. Sing ? He had a deep full voice with little raucous thrills in it which suggested a giant with a hairy breast and bulging biceps. His chaunting led the Decani side in the seminary choir when the psalter tossed like a ball of antiphony across the chancel. In his own bare cell he used to roll out the quaint melody of “ Cultor Dei memento " till one forgot its wild tune like the skirl of a bag-pipe and felt its virile dignity. He was not an Apist or a Papist. He did not hanker after Latin . He was Anglican to the bone and thence outward to his lily skin , and “ Cultor Dei memento” always got its English words thus : a

Ser went of Chint * meme Tan dew The fonts haplis mal Re - membru au a-new al In confirmation too #o yes, too At the seminary, there were men who believed almost nothing. There were men who believed almost everything. There were men who ostentatiously ate roast beef on good Friday. There were men who staggered from faintness toward the end of Lent. It is no hard guess to namethe party of Rankin . Hewas a Ritualist. One day a girl gave him a chasuble which she had embroidered against his ordination , a gorgeous thing of ivory -white brocaded satin with a bleeding Christ stark on its purple orphrey . She was a devotee, plain - featured, plain -garbed , but she had one little pride: she had graceful feet and these she shod divinely . Rankin could not keep his eyes from them . That night the man in the next room heard the cruel discipline swish ! swish ! as Rankin lashed his rebellious flesh . Ah, pitchfork Nature out of the door rudely and tell her never to show her face again . Lock the door and bolt the windows and stop the chimney and she leaks through the cracks in the floor. There must be the peck of dirt. Refuse the barnyard filth with its coarse but wholesome smell and a subtle mi asm arises which brings diphtheria and typhoid with it for company, There was no barn - yard filth at Rankin's door. He was tied to no girl that men should wink and nod and smile . After he was ordained he was curate of Saint Lucy's, a chapel of Eternity parish. The women doted upon him for a saint. The men admired him grudgingly. He was too beautiful, too eloquent, too spiritual-minded, too But not a breath , no, not a breath against him . Only there came to Saint Lucy's a throng of hysterical, ecstatic devotees, who worshipped him afar off. Somehow he lifted uptheir hearts. They never got nearer tohim than the confessional, where he was harder than iron to their darling sins. One day he resigned, to his vicar's deepest regret. The vicar was a good old soul with five children. Wouldn't he stay ? No. The rector had heard with amaze of Mr. Rankin's determination . He urged him to reconsider so rash a pur pose . His work had beenso blessed. Would he not at least remain for another month ? No. He must flee for his soul's sake. He got a parish away down in South Carolina, in the mountains, a God -forsaken place where no one would have said there were churchmen . As a matter of fact there was none till he came. His thundering oratory, his marvellous mysticism , which plucked lilies from the sand-heaps ofgenealogies, his ascetic self-denial, drew to him with the spell of a hypnotist thosewhining, snuff-dipping, slat-bonneted women , those moonlighting, brawling men with chin -beards adrip with tobacco juice. They could hardly spell out the words of the prayer-book, but they accepted him , candles, incense, chasubles and all, though thesewere rags of Rome to them , who were the very high-wines of Protestantism . There wasn't a decent shoe for miles. Maybe there was something in that. a Old CyMakemson's daughter came back from Charleston where she had gone to boarding-school. She was a dainty , foolish little thing, assweet as a wild rose and as useless. Plucked from the parent stem and she would wither in the bridegroom's hand. But she had the foot of Cinderella. Around it the leather -- oh , coarse and vile word ! -- leaned its face and strained itself to her ankle with passion . She came to the church . She saw Rankin . She threw herself at his head. He was dignity and purity. “ My daughter ” was the way he talked to her . He looked at her rose -leaf face and its lips that said , “ Kiss ! pm.in. 27 Kiss! ” and his heart beat on steadily. Her bosom rose and fell and he took no note of it. Rude lads that knew not what ached them could not look without choking and setting their teeth , In vain she writhed her hips,Nature-taught, notknowing why or what she did. Henever heeded. His eyes fell on her shoes. His face flushed . His trembling fingers traced the sign of the cross on his forehead and he fled brusquely. But not for long, notfor long. He often walked withher after that. One day in the main street of the little townall the old gossips peering through the crack of the window -shades saw him with her. His eyes glittered . His hands shook . His teeth set . He kept looking down as if seeking to pick up something. He stopped. She, prattling her inanities, trod on his fingers so that the blood came. Shewas all penitence and excitement. He said never a word. He gripped her parasol. She thought it was from pain . It was the pain that is all but a pleasure, and the pleasure that is all but pain . Then faintness seizedhim . There wasinhiseyessuchnoble sorrow , such remorse, suchagonythat the girl thought of the picture in the family bible of Guido's “ My God ,my God, why hast thou forsaken me? ” Of course she was to remain in the town. He could not help seeing her every day . If he had been thirty -eight instead of twenty -eight he might have gone on sinning and silent. The rough moun taineers would never have suspected. His confessor, asound-minded man, thought itwas onlya scruple. But Rankin was twenty -eight and at thatage a man is either demi-god or devil. He would not stand at thealtar of God a polluted thing, a guilty wretch holding his Redeemer between thumb and finger, a Redeemer who could not redeem though besought carefully and with many tears . Well, he killed himself with an overdose of chloroform . Some still remember him at the altar when the day comes round each year. Somesay, “ What a pity heshould have died so young ! ” think ing it was only an accident. It is a pity that he had to kill himself, but all things together I think he did wisely .

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THE BRIDE OF CHRIST MOURNETH FOR AN ANNULET By sacrilege far more to mourn Than any knife- stabbed Host. Mary Assumption weeps all day ; At night her oboe moan Crawls slenderly along the dark, Cool corridors of stone. Her sister nuns keep watch and watch Before the Sacred Pyx, By prayer and vigil to atone For all irreverent tricks, Which careless men and scoffers play With reckless spontaneity, And hurt God's feelings as he lies In biscuited Paneity. Some men sin lightly, fail to doff Their hats at a church portal ; Others steal Hosts to see if blood Will follow stabs —sin mortal. Under the altar- lamp's red star These pale nuns keep their wake. For crumbs of Precious Body lost They reparation make. Mary Assumption's narrow cell Wasflooded with goldenshine For Our Dear Lady, in whose arms Slumbered the Babe Divine, Stood by her pallet whispering : “ Weep not, but dance and sing ; . C'pon my little finger I Treasure that beauteous ring ." EUGENE WOOD. Share Mary Assumption weeps all day, Her tears are never dry. The Reverend Mother wonders how That girl can always cry. When January first comes round Although it is a feast - Mary Assumption eats nor sleeps For three whole days at least. For on that day Hefirst shed blood , First suffered pain and loss , Then first began the tragedy Which ended at the cross. A relic, sweeter than the Graal, Was then forever lost, si AN IMPRESSION M. DE LIPMAN There is a little, old - fashioned court leading off a pretentious new street. It is a cul-de - sac, and only two street-lamps, on crazy, slanting poles, intervene between the entrance and the bare, black brickwall beyond. Thefirst lamp stands nearly at the corner and throws its light upon a fashionable carriage inwhich a well-dressed man is seated. His nervous drumming on the pane betrays that he is waiting for something or someone . Between this lantern and the one beyond there are manyruts in the old street, and the houses seem to lean toward one another. They are low and rickety and smell of ageand of low people. A shabby house stands just beyond the second lantern . The first story is of little, old -fashioned brick and supports a wooden superstructure that seems ready to tumble to the roadway. Thereare two windows, dirty and blind except a patch in one pane. Behind that two bloodshot eyes, set in an almost green face distorted with grief, glare into the flickering lamp while a shadow swiftly moves along the oppo site side of the street. The carriage -door is heard slamming in the distance. The equipage containing the well-dressed man and the shadow rolls away , and the green face ispressed closer to the window -pane. Sigma Sorocli SKELETONS OF DEFUNCT THOUGHTS In the twilight, in the grey afterthought of day, they made music for me. They played the harmful little sinfonia for flutes in Giacomo Peri's “ Eurydice " , the second time very softly, like whispered scandal. Then Chopin - music of a consumptive, hectic, irritable, with strange pallors and shameful sincerities; wonderful music, languid , despairing, tuberculosal. When they were gone I lit my pipe and stared for a long time at this sheet of paper on which I write. Then I said : " I will articulate the skeletons of defunct thoughts." Disordered, haggard, they lay as they had fallen, dead thoughts. I stripped them of flesh and sinew . I articulated the shining skeletons. Here I hang them in my museum unea . dangling skeletons of defunct thoughts. I am weary, sick of the white woman's flesh, Of the scent of her skin and hair ; Green -sick for the hills of El Kaabesh And the black girls sprawling there. Oh, sick of her flesh and kisses, sick Of her hair all scented and yellow and thick . It was in Peri's little harmful sinfonia for flutes ; it was the nostalgia of errant Bacchus; green -sickness. The plastic arts confirm one in his personality ; the sweet and terrible Eros in the Vatican reminds one of West Twenty-eighth street ; Hoogstraaten's Jew in the Belvidere gallery recalls the first bill one did with Sam Lewis , they merely confirm one in one's individu ality. Music disengages one, sets one free from the pettiness of individuality. Personally one may have no love for the Berber country ; one may never have climbed the white Peak of Our Lady or crossed the Metidja on a mangy camel; one may be innocent of amours with the brown - black girls who sprawl there ; one may have an extraordinary love for white- fleshed women ; yet so subtly imperi ous is a little harmful sinfonia for flutes that it breaks down all the barriers of one's individual tastes and leads onewhere it will. For the time being everything is an illusion except the great stark fact of brown-black women sprawling and the nausea of the white woman's flesh. One makes little, vapid efforts to reinforce one's personality, but the music breaks them as a girl breaks eggshells.. Chopin's music is pulmonary. Its kiss is hot andfetid as thatof a consumptive harlot. It spits blood as it strains you to its lean breasts. Nightmares are often full of talent. 28 -- - ܗܝ= a's ఆ 19 . 22 3001 C swers ان کی = Powers ERS , M'lle New York is awake. You have indulged in the innocent depravity of. her morning kiss. Now ring the bell and bid your man bring you a tooth -brush and a glass of water. a TWO NIGGER Charles Cros and José-Maria de Hérédia ; of the two nigger poets of Paris one is dead, the other has decu..ed into immortality. POETS OF CHARLES CROS PARIS In the autumn of 1884— O, le bon temps, où nous étions si malheureux ; comme disait Mme. de Maintenon . One night , in the year 1884 , certain folk gathered at a sort of Bohemian club, held in an old house in the Rue VANCE THOMPSON de Rennes. In a big, naked room, on the first foor, these folk gathered weekly to drink beer and discuss æsthetics ; those who drank absinthe discussed philosophy. Charles Cros, with his crisp , curly hair and face tawn as a Lascar's , is there ; already far gone in drink he leans with one elbow on the table, reciting in his hard, high voice : There was a great white wall – bare, bare, bare ; Against the wall a ladder – high, high, high, And on the ground a herring red dry, dry, dry. He is dead now of drink, poor devil, this founder of a shadowy school of poets, author of “ Coffret de Santal, ” the nigger of Narbonne. He died in August, 1888. They wrapped him in a pine great-coat and buried him in a hole in the ground. He was bom in some little village near Narbonne ( Aude). " His mother was a Frenchwoman. His father was a negro from Algiers, a doctor, I believe, and a man of high standing at the court of Napoleon III. I do . not know when Charles Cros came to Paris. When I knew him he was forty years of age, a thin, spare creature, with a bush of kinkly hair, negro lips, and a long face like that of a horse. Je le voyais en blanc faux-col, Frais substitut aux dignes poses ; S'il n'était pas dans l'alcool, Comme il eut fait de grandes choses ! He was always in drink in those days, nor was the paper collar always white, but he did great things. He wrote wonderful, strange tales— " Interastral Letters” ; satire brutal as a blow in the face, the cruel “ Science of Love, " monologues which the young Coquelin (this ass !) recited in drawing -rooms; and extraordinary things, neither prose nor verse, like the “ Red Herring.” Shall one call it a poem ? Then it is the best-known poem in the French language. Your cabby knows it as well as your cocotte - it is so abjectly and diabolically imbecile. It is rhymeless verse, or rhythmic prose, and — le voici : a THE RED HERRING There was a great white wall —bare, bare, bare ; Against the wall a ladder –tall, tall , tall, And on the ground a herring red -and dry, dry. He came aholding in his hands —dirty, dirty, dirty, A heavy hammer and a nail — sharp, sharp, sharp ; He also had a ball of string - big, big, big. - - Forthwith he climbed the ladder —tall, tall, tall, And drove the pointed nail — rat- tat-tat, Into the great white wall — bare, bare, bare. He let the hammer fall — it fell,fell, fell ; He tied to the nail the string — long, long, long, To the string the herring red - and dry, dry. He got down from the ladder -tall, tall, tall, Picked up again the hammer — heavy, heavy, heavy, And went off somewhere else - far,far, far. Since then the herring red — and dry, dry, At the end of the piece of string - long , long, long, Balances gently so -forever -ever-ever. I have composed this history —simple, simple, simple, To put in a rage the folk -grave, grave, grave, And to amuse the children - little, little, little. Ofcourse,if you only know Charles Cros by this jest you will have a very false idea of his place in modern literature. He was a true poet, idealistic, naif, chaste - a virtuoso in versification. Here is another of his poems — but I will leave it in French . It is the description of a bourgeois interior — Sunday afternoon in a green -grocer's home -a synthesis of bourgeoisie. It has always reminded me of -oh, of many things ! —Reginald de Koven's music, photography, boiled beef, Renan's “ La Vie de Jesus,” W. M. Chase's pictures, plush neckties, R. W. Gilder's poems, rubber overshoes – oh, of many things ! " Joujou , pipi, caca , dodo.” Cire, avec un air étonné, " Do, ré, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do. " Les souliers de toute la troupe, Le moutardgueule, et sa sæur tape Car, ce soir même, après la soupe, Sur un vieux clavecin de Pape. Ils iront autour de Musard Le père se rase au carreau Et ne rentreront pas trop tard ; Avant de se rendre au bureau . Afin que demain l'on s'éveille La mère émiette une panade Pour une existence pareille. Que mijote, gluante et fade, “ Do, ré, mi, fa, sol, la , si, do. " Dans les cendres. Lefils aîné “ Joujou, pipi, caca , dodo." 21 --- -a JOSÉ -MARIA DE HÉRÉDIA This haunting verse of de Hérédia - it calls up the Song of Solomon, which was the song of Songs, with its vertiginous Oriental perfume and the lyric hallucination of hashish. Ah , the virtuosity of it ! It is ivory chiselled with a fine hand so that onemay see the forests ofColchis and Jason and Medea with the magic eyes. Perhaps one may get at it in this way : de Hérédia has the soul of a Cuban negro in the body of a Greek of the decadence. It is only lately that his poems were published, one volume; when one joumeys toward immortality it is well to travel with light luggage. Here and there, however, his sonnets had appeared in the public prints. I heard his name first from the lips of Villiers de L'Isle Adam . I have but to look away from the paper on which I write to hear Villiers's voice chaunting that wonderful sonnet of the Dead City, Carthage in the Indies. It haunts me now as it haunted me then when I cried it aloud to the stars shining down on the streets of Paris ; vertiginous in its music, lyric, hallucinate. À UNE VILLE MORTE Morne Ville, jadis reine des Océans ! Aujourd'hui le requin poursuit en paix tes scombres Et le nuage errant allonge seul des ombres Sur ta rade ou roulaient les galions géants. Depuis Drake et l'assaut des Anglais mécréants, Tes murs desemparés croulent en noirs decombres Et comme un glorieux collier de perles sombres, Des boulets de Pointis montrent les trous béants, Entre le ciel qui brule et la mer qui moutonne, Au somnolent soleil d'un midi monotone, Tu songes , O , Guerrière, aux vieux Conquistadors ; Et dans l'énervement, des nuits chaudes et calmes, Berçant ta gloire éteinte, O, Cité tu t'endors, Sous les palmiers, au long frémissement des palmes. It is wonderful music, is it not? One sees the dead sea plunging and, as in a wrack of clouds, the belching warships; and over all the infinite, awful peace of decay . Once I met this pompous negro, with the appetizing daughters and the millions of francs, but the story is hardly worth the telling. He came into Paris and wrote verse. He was a red radical in politics . I do not know that this is strange. Conservatism is essentially a gift of the white race . The strenuous negroes have always been in revolt, and it is an interesting corollary that the wonderful yellow race has always been on the side of protest - Karl Marx , Ricardo, Lasalle; the names are endless. De Hérédia ran against that beautiful Catholic figure, Villiers de L'Isle Adam, in the seventeenth arrondissement, at the elections to the Conseil Général of the Seine. This was about 1880 . And the negro revolutionist won by twenty- five votes. Here was family, faith, and aristocracy -in rags —against money and black blood . Is it any wonder that de Hérédia won ? They have made the Cuban negro an Academician ; he is as immortal as — Jules Lemaitre. But this is unfair ; de Hérédia is a wonderful poet and it is really worth while inquiring what has led him to the plush seat of the Academy. Some quality -- dominant, sterling, simple, evident, inevitable – the man must have. And I fancy it is the heroic attitude. One night Verlaine fished out of his glass of absinthe this phrase : “ The nigger? He has æsthetic heroism. ” That, I believe, is the measure of the man. Read him -- read those flawless sonnets, “ Diana, the Huntress," “ Hercules and the Lion , ” “ The Conquerors ,” “ New Spain " -emotional heroism. Add this : He is an impeccable master of the sonnet form . , He has the fingering of his instrument, as the pianists say. His virtuosity is tremendous. Not even Gustave Kahn, that inspired Jew, has made such haunting, syllabic music. As an example of his immense technique read the “ Lupercus,” which is merely a translation of Martial's famous whimper about the book trade. It is whitely impeccable. So the man has technique and the heroic attitude. His technique is hereditary ; there is in the negro, as in the Jew, a kinship with the simian type which the more evolved white race has lost. This nigger absorbs French verse as a monkey apes the gentility of a Frenchman. He has the barbarous faculty of rhythm. And so, with an imitativeness that is genius, in thirty years he has caught the spirit of French verse and refined it into thirty impeccable sonnets. And the heroic attitude ? The heroic attitude is always struck by the conquered. The victorious man never poses. He does not need to pose. And so these golden, heroic romances of the Dumasqueteer were written by a negro - as de Hérédia has sung of war. And always it is the protest of the black blood . Black and yellow - they protest against the social conditions and are socialists, anarchists, poets, red democrats ; always the protest. And in literature it is the same thing. It is the cry to heaven, the impassioned helot wandering at night in the fields by Sparta and striking the heroic attitude . Ah, it is a problem , this teasing problem of blood – Forget it and read Charles Cros, as I have read, as I have known, as I have loved ; and read José -Maria de Hérédia. But where's the nigger poet of New York ? THE KING'S DAUGHTER Along the marble piers That kiss the curled blue water Walks the king's daughter. ( The barefoot Cordeliers, Wine-bloated, garlic-scented, Call her demented Nell ! Oh ! she was a splendid creature - Not a blemish on one feature. Menelaus, Sparta's king, Was a blind, unworthy thing. So I flung roses 'neath herfeet In her chamber's still retreat, And I made his life a hell. Nell ! Nell ! Menelaus' soul was dapple ; Hers was rosy as an apple. Oh, that wild, delicious then ! Yes, I'd do it all again For those royal nights and days In that garden's fragrant bays, Ere Ilion's towers swayed and fell. Nell ! Nell ! Flexile then her arms, and vice - like ! Warm her breath, and quick , and spice-like. ... Trace a lie ! . .. or paint the air ! ... Follow fashion to its lair ! When she looked up and I looked down Huge clouds hung over old Troy town ! Each zephyr had a tale to tell. Nell ! Nell / Oh ! the war was long but regal ! She, the falcon, T, the eagle, From the towers saw them all That world ofgiants - sway and fall. In the sea -green glory of her eyes I shut out their maddened cries. When reeling Death those souls had quaffed How we on the tower laughed ! We knew heaven. I knew hell. Nell ! JOHN ERNEST McCANN. Thus has she been for years. ) Her gold hair streams behind her, And the tears blind her. Each time a galley nears Herfoolish, sad heartflutters ; Some cry she utters ! Then weeps such silly tears For the barks that, wreathed in garlands, Leftfor the far lands. Hers are strange, sickeningfears, Though the riven sunbeams glancing Set the waves dancing. But the cool, curved water sneers At her sorrow and repining, And the sun keeps shining. ALF. O'MEGA. NELL 66 Nell ! That is not a name to mutter ; That's a name to Ay and flutter O'er the very tops of trees ! There's not a breeze that sweeps the seas Around the golden isles of peace - The olden isles that once were Greece — That does not bear o'er every swell, Nell ! " Nell ! She was panther-like and supple, Long and slim ; her eyes a couple Of wild stars shotfrom on high, Leaving great gulfs in the sky, Till they danced in drunken joy In the head of Nell of Troy. Then I was Paris. She was —well, Nell ! 20* 34 1besz I am a young person of highly developed sensibilities, therefore the most THE emotional of all the arts exerts an influence over me which at times becomes positively maddening. Music is a powerful drug for my morbid system , but adrug DOUBLE -HEADED that does not always act with the same results. A narcotic, it sends me into a NIGHTINGALE dreamland whence questionable shapes emerge and terrify my withered soul into spasms of remorse. As an excitant it causes me to suddenly yell and scream in an astonishing manner, so that I have been remorselessly dragged from a symphony concert bya half-dozen men for shocking an indignant audience by my criesof joy and anguish . My doctors forbade me listening to music at all, and my family, a wealthy one, hired a detective to dog my footsteps and keep me away from music. Understand me, I am not mad, but there exists in my cerebral make-up an abnormal propensity for sound which torments as does thirst the drunkard . No morphine fiend ever so eagerly absorbed hisfavorite drugasI didsound . When I was young it manifested itself in a propensity to make queer noises, and as I grew older and learnedthe value of self-control and incidentally to separate ugly tones from pretty ones I developed a tremendous love for music, good music. I went through the whole gamut of composers. I studied abroad ; I played the piano, the organ , and even the xylophone. I loved all music from Bach to a vender of tomatoes shouting the name of his most esteemed vegetable through the streets. But I learned to become discriminating in my tastes. Somedays I loved Chopin and could endure none but the divine compositions of the Polish tone- poet. Then Jerome Hopkins's wild music would seize me in its fiendish grip and Iwould play the “ Wind Demon " until, exhausted by its musical flatulency, I would fall fainting to the floor. Mayhap Bach would strike my erratic fancy of a Friday or a Satur day. Luckless wightthat I am, I played fugues until the neighbourhood presented me unanimously with a dumb piano and begged me to click onin polyphonic silence . So, you see, I am a singular young man, a young man that, if he had lived, Edgar Allen Poe would have embalmed immortally in one of his supreme studies of mania. Tone was for me something tangible; it was full of meaning undreamt even by its composers. It said things to me that alternately made me blush or howl. Don't imagine I am a noisy maniac who makes himself obnoxious to his fellow -beings by humming Wagner motifs in the street - cars. Au contraire, I once nearly strangled a man in the lobby of the Metropolitan Opera House who persisted in whistling the “ fate " motif from “ Rheingold.” It cost my people a pretty sum before the affair could be hushed up. When I am in the mood I can listen with the most horrible intense delight to symphonic music. But I hear things that would frighten myfellow -auditors, so thatis why I am not a good music critic, for heneverhears anything. A composer tells his life in his work . Saint-Saens has said most shameful things in his music, and Wagner - I dare not say any more, for I feel that my foam -flecked utterances would be set down as the riotous ravings of a madman . So it came to pass that my malady having made me morbid I was watched jealously and zealously by an able -bodied man who followed me about and prevented me from assaulting piano-organs or German street-bands. He was a soothing, plausible fellow , and I had to exert great diplomacy and even Machiavelian cunningto throw him off his guard. Perhaps my family were right in having me guarded , but, with the cunning of my mania, I watched for mychance to elude my keeper and to secretly gloat over some fearful story that a few bars of music told me. I know my weakness and readily confess it. I know, for instance, that the " Couchee couchee " has little if any meaning to you, but to me it is a revelation. Within its succulent bars there lies a dormant secret an obscene secret so fearful that if I told it its composer would be dragged to the stake. One sullen, languorous day in August my madness again assailed me, but previous experience warned me to dissemble my feelings, so , as I walked with my keeper slowly up the Bowery, I drinking in the noise of the " L " road, he looking at every beer-sign in a sulky and thirsty manner, I suddenly said, in the most conventional style I could command, " My man, how would you like a beer ? " Helooked at me suspiciously, but I controlled my features and he said , after a pause , “ Very much indeed, sir." You see, I had always kept him at a distance. I took him by the arm and together we went into a gaily decorated place where flaming mugs of beer painted ondingy canvas informed the thirsty and footsore that a THREE -MASTED SCHOONERS ARE AT ANCHOR HERE ONLY 5 COPPERS ALSO OTHER NAVAL ATTRACTIONS We entered the place and ordered some liquid refreshment and I, with my heart thumping furiously against my ribs, waited for developments, for I had discovered that it was one of those establishments where the Muse of Harmony awaited in attendance on the devotees of Gambrinus. I had not long to wait. A queer- looking man who called himself “ Professor ” announced to a mere handful of auditors that Misses Laure and Boa, the double headed nightingale would do her famous song and dance. At the words of the professor my attendant looked grimly at me and said, “ Come, we must go ." But noticed bibulous lines about his mouth and eyes, so I assumed a complete air of indifference and answered : “ Very well ; but the beer is very good . " The beer was good, and as I looked perfectly amiable my man weakly remained anchored in his seat and soon had another schooner floating in his harbor. I fiendishly hugged my joy and bade my soul slumber a moment or two, for it would soon be sated with sound. Suddenly the door at the back of the platform opened and there advanced two very pretty octoroon girls, or, at least, they looked so, and both , gracefully bowing, began, without accompaniment of any sort, a sinuous, snaky movement in waltz rhythm. They both smiled and continually chatted to each other, and then, to my horror, I discovered that it was one womanonly, Monstrosity upon monstrosities, she had two heads, two sets of arms and limbs, and this duality in unity was smiling at me! My God, the hideous mockery of it all ! I was flirting with two women, two hearts that beat as one. I looked at my companion ; he was smiling . I looked at my empty schooner -glass and then at the girl -I mean the girls. No, it was not an alcoholic nightmare ; it was a pair of veritable women , united together by some jest of nature that outdid the Siamese twins in physiological freakishness. The dance ceased and the ladies advanced toward me and said in sweet unison, “ Shall we sing for you a duet ? ” My attendant was too stupefied by the novel specimen of femininity facing him to remonstrate and then began one of the most novel duos imaginable. It was the grand duo from “ Semiramide " for alto and soprano, and she sang it with taste and in very good voices. The runs were fluently executed and the whole composition was given in the most highly flavored operatic style. I sat still, but my blood was boiling with emotion ill suppressed, and I literally drove my nails into my hands to keep from screeching at the top of my lungs. But by a mighty effort that drove all the blood back from my head to my heart I sat still and murmured at the con clusion of the duo : “ Brava, bravissima ! " Then, emboldened by my success at restraining my mad desire for butchery, I mounted the platform and entered into conversation with the ladies. I discovered that they had studied with Marchesi and La Grange in Paris and that the only quarrel they ever indulged was about the respective merits of their two teachers. 21 Naturally, the soprano head sided with Marchesi, while the alto head swore by La Grange. Oh , it was all too deliciously horrible ! My attendant's suspicions were completely lulled, so that when Ibegged for some more singing, he said in a voice that waspositively emotional with schooners, “ Yesh , sing, sing, all four of you." They sang again . Never shall I forget the scene as long as my memory lasts. The setting sun drifted inthrough a bilious-yellow haze of smoke and dust; the room , with its coarse , shabby occupants, was glorified by rifts of canary colour that even a Henner never could catch on canvas. ° Laure and Boa stood with their arms lovingly intertwined and they sang in sweetly modu lated tones “ They're After Me" and " O ! Mio Fernando " as a joint duet, and then the old mania surged in me. Music, incarnate fiend that it is, whispered horrible surmises in my ear. The room became an ochre lake and I was swimming in it . “ Now , at last ! ” I cried , “ at last I will strangle music forever and banish eternally from their noise -dinned life the true cause of the conspiracy against silence ! " With a bound I clutched the double-headed nightingale by her necks. The rest was silence . 9999pop999991 OBSCURITY PORTUGUESE Thou dost suffer dolorously - To see me ignored , obscure ... -On thy pale cheeks POEMS OF EUGENIE I see pass — Luminous processions of tears. DE CASTRO Weep no more, dear one, rejoice ! - Let thine eyes sing joyously ! -The great flames die apace, -- Long in the ashes glows the coal. ENGLISH BY V. T. O my cold child ! come, warm thee At the fire of my pride: -I know a strange flower -- Which has no perfume, save at night! Weep no more ! - Months and years roll by - Ere the stars' light reaches earth : My poems, dear one, are the brothers of the stars! (FROM SYLVA ) - BAL MASQUÉ - my My air is joyous -As a supper of young men ;-My eyes brighten –When they meet the loved eyes ; -- My mouth sheds smiles - On friends and hardly friends But soul is sad —As the wench whose lover is to hang. I am like the nurse-maids, buxom and gay , - Who saunter in thepark - With paralytic children (FROM SYLVA ] OMENS - - When I was born, there was a cry of fire –In my parish -And in the house across the way, a ruined gamester -Opened his veins ; when I was born. A little sister came withme - From Nothing into Life, - Had she not died, they had been less , - The cruelties of this profound sea . But the twin God gave me - Died very soon , - Died ill born ...-And in my parish there was cry of fire With such omens, with such presage,-To what future should I look ? -Hates, torments, woes and wrecks, - Those which have come and those which come apace ... (FROM INTERLUNIOJ A BOUTET - SUGGESTIONS FOR The most disconcerting sign of the times is the promiscuity of admiration. A CONVERSATION Art, like yacht-racing and divorce, is littlemore thana diversion fortherich. The result is that pictures, poems, books, marbles, music are admired because they ON ART have been produced by certain people whom society has accepted. Probably there is nothing under the white stars quite so absurd as this grandfatherless American society, made up of persons whoma Kentish gentleman -farmer or an Aberdeenshire laird would refuse to recognize in daylight. And yet these persons, grandfatherless, crossed with Jewish bankers and Virginia convicts, set the fashions of this country, in breeks and books, accent and art, underclothing and understanding. If there were a hierarchy here to direct this åbsurd and heterogeneous society it would not be so bad. Left to its grandfatherless self, however, itfancies it may possiblyfind salvation in the promiscuity of its artistic admiration. It fancies that by admiring everything it displays a certain well- bred and artistic ease . I met an ass the other day who had been groomed into a sort of aspect of gentility , and he said to me, " Ah, yes, I am eclectic . I admire everything good in all the schools and fields of art. I have just bought a Chase. " And the creature had ; he had absolutely bought one of Chase's pictures. He hung it over against a little grey , faded, hopeless Cazin -and boasted of his catholicity. " I did not look at his books; I could not; but I will wager there is a copy of Mr. William Winter's theatrical ejaculations next to his first edition of “La Sagesse." You see , this person is a monstrous dilettante. In other words, an imbecile and a coward. He is an imbecile because he awards his versatile praise and grandfatherless cheques to the newspaper idol of the hour; a coward because he dare not stand by his personal whim . What we like in writers is their resemblance to ourselves. We see our own amours in Felicien Rops's uncanny etchings. A girl pinches up a satyr in clay for us and we love it because we, too, have howled to the yellow moon in greennights. After all, inart we love only what is sib to us. If Wagner suggests definite emotions to you it is only because you have seen life from the Wagnerian view - point. Art, likethe naif butpicturesque God of the Jews, is jealous. One cannot sincerely admire Chase and Degas; Gilder and Shakespeare; Davis(RichardHardingDavussum nom Oedi pus) and de Maupassant; Augustus Thomas and Ibsen . The thing_is absurd. And yet this is the attitude of the American person of importance. Fearing he may fail to admire the right thing he admires everything, Pusillaninous,is it not? Adebauch of prudence, the inquietude of the unin structed person . You and I - if we do nothing else —worship our own idols and are unashamed. If we admire Mallarmé it is because our souls are synchronous with his. If we laugh at Howells it is because we do not wear plush neck -ties. If we love Cesar Franck it is because we love God. We are sincere and amiable and implacably honest. We love Poe for his virtuosity, not because we wouldpose as eclectics. We take from Whitman what is kin to us—the stark smell of human, foolish, general flesh. We love Grétry when he is spontaneous and heroic aswe love de Heredia when he is habituate and heroic. Welove Offenbach when he is a pimp as much as we loveHaydn when he is pastoral and patriarchal. Thepallid, anatomical virginities of Fra Angelica are not alien to us, nor the little, symbolical, intuitive figuresdrawn by Jules Cheret --- Jules Cheret, who has translated the mad and morbid joy of nocturnal Paris, joy infinitely artificial, born in sombre and empty hearts, of the fumes of alcohol and aphrodisiac gestures. And thus our admirations are various and composite, but not by reason of any plague of grandfatherless fashion. Our admirations are all strung on one thread. One ideal cuts across them all. We admire in publicwhat we honestly, sin cerely , and inevitably like in private. We may pose in public, but it is only because our personal preferences have given us the cue. Mon ami, do not imagine that promiscuity of admiration is a sign of wit or culture. It is, in truth , merely a mark of the groping and grandfatherless person. The dilettante is the NUMUZ chief defect of modern civilization . Like what you please and stand by it starkly because you do like it . The rest is all mint and anise and cummin . - - a 1 PAINLESSAND EXTRACTING FILLING OF TEETH WITHOUTGAS ! AU CHAT NOIR 21 South Fifth Avenue and 551 West Broadway Half Block North of Bleecker St. L. Fifth Avenue Stages Pass the Door TEETH THOUT here gla donna GOLD CROWN DENTAL PARLORS. 63 West 22nd Streer. Alloperations positively painless GOLD ,CROWNS & BRIDGE WERKA SPECIALTY. TEETH WITHOUTPLATES. $ 5 PER TOOTH . FULL SET OF TEETH , $ 6. FINEST TABLE D'HOTE WITH WINE, 50 CENTS Lunch , - - 12 to 3 P. M. Dinner, 5 to 9 P. M. EXTRACTIONS OF TEETH ABSOLUTELY PAINLESS.

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AND LADIES' ROUND HATS AND BONNETS AND THE DUNLAP SILK UMBRELLA 178-180 Fifth Avenue, between Twenty-second and Twenty-third Sts., New York 181 Broadway, near Cortlandt St. , New York on Palmer House, Chicago v v 914 Chestnut St. , Philadelphia ACCREDITED AGENCIES IN ALL PRINCIPAL CITIES - " "--" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " - "----" - - " the Lafayette Place Baths 18 Lafayette Place - " " -- " " ------------------- FOR GENTLEMEN THE MOST DELIGHTFUL AND BEST AP * POINTED RUSSIAN AND TURKISH BATHS IN * NEW YORK V V V V V V V V V V V V V V v Open Day and Night AN ADMIRABLY MANAGED AND WELL EQUIPPED HOTEL IS ESTABLISHED IN CONJUNCTION WITH THESE BATHS 1 -- OPYRIGHT 1895 BY M'LLE NEW YORK MijeNowYork FORTNIGHTLY Vol. I. No. 5 FIRST FORTNIGHT IN OCTOBER , 1895 Price 10 Cents SUBSCRIPTION $ 2.00 A YEAR PUBLISHED BY M'LLE NEW YORK OFFICES 100 NASSAU STREET AND 250 WEST TWENTY- THIRD STREET, NEW YORK ::: Vance Thompson editor P... Tbomas Fleming and T. = Powers artists James Gibbons puneker associate editor THE CZAR AND THE CHRO MATIC SCALE JAMES GIBBONS HUNEKER Vance Thompson wounded me to my nerve-pulp by speaking slightingly of Peter Illitsch Tschaikowsky. To him other Russians with slenderer gifts were more truly representative. I shall not deny him , nor shall I proclaima pacon to the memory of the great dead Russian, but I who have fought so valiantly for the cause of musical Little Russia feel sadly theaffront this man Thompson has put upon me. I too love all the curious ganglionicmusic of the new crowd. I went toa tone dinner given for my benefit bya young pianist. The menu was curious, the flavours appetizing. Formerly I had a sweet tooth for musical food and the whipped syllabubs of Mendelssohn, the lovely but rich sauces of Chopin I indulged in to theimminent peril of my soul's digestive organs ; then I took warn ing and Bach at the same time and feasted on heavier andmore substantial viands. My soul grew stout and polyphonic and, finding Schumann too light a nourishment, I betook me to Johannes Brahms, whose very name portends ponderosity. From Brahms toTschaikowsky and Stcherbatcheff is but astep and my eye, the true eye of a musical glutton, glowed with greed at the spread set before me. There were strange dishes daintily fashioned by cooks with such curious sounding names as Balakireff, Liadow ,Stcherbatcheff, Arenski, Glazounow , Rimsky-Korsakoff, Cesar Cui, Borodin, but no Rubinstein ; Anton Rubinstein , because of his Semitic blood and Teutonic affiliations, is not a Russian among these Russians, for he wears his blouse tucked in his trousers, a sure sign of Occidental sympathies. The others go with blouse hanging without, symbolical of the old Russianhatred for the West, its civilization , its musical scale . The Czar and the Chromatic Scale is the watchword of the Neo -Russian com poser, and while he is a product of an illegitimate union of Robert Schumann and the Slav, hevainly seeks to conceal this paternity. A trackless and unexplored coun try this, whichthe critical traveller may not explore too rashly, for it is full of yawning harmonic precipices, melodies that are at once heavenly and hideous, as is the mouth of a pretty woman with one missing front tooth ; and ideals mountainous but full of rugged surprises and dazzling vistas. My young pianist, whosetouch is spiri tuallycrisp, played for me somevariations by Paderewski, the Paderewski of the Beckoning Hair. But the Polish charmer is civilized as compared to that hero of the Steppes, Stcherbatcheff. He is аa musical Gogol who wouldcreate another Taras Bulba if he dared, yet contents himself writing small dangerous things for the piano. Who eats of his music is made mad, as are the devourers of mandrake. Bitter- sweet is it with rhythms that lull you and poison you . A valse of his that I tasted made my brain whirl. In my arms I helda bewitching creature with a false red mouth , and our dance was vertiginous. Chromatic nightmares murdered our love, and then I knew that Stcherbatcheff is to be feared . Come listen to Cesar Cui's Marionette Dance. How comes it thesenortherners, enveloped in gloom , ice and vodka, yearn for Spain , sunny, smiling ? Did you ever hear Tschaikowsky's Capriccio Italien ? It is Russian icícles melted into fantastic shapes by Neapolitan fire and terpsichorean fury. The Russian loves to dream of the South . Even Heine wrote “ Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam . " Liadow's exquisite miniatures, so full of the spirit denied to dwellers on this side of the Ural mountains, I love; andBalakireff's grotesque Fantasy Orientale “ Islamey, " with its superhuman technical effects, I swallowed smoking hot. But what prose master may describe the horrible beauties of modern Russian music ? “ Going to the people " is the phrase affected by the Slavophile for twenty -two years. It is in the music, it has Tolstoyed the literature. From the great White Czar to the most brutal peasant besotting his brain with vodka the cry rings ominouslyclear, “ We are going to the people ." It isthe cry of the Cossack , and it echoes in Western ears with an uncanny sound. 'Ware the Muscovite, 'ware his Czar, and 'ware his Chromatic Scale . It is Slav against Celt, Slav against Teuton, and may hell take the hindmost. Dean لو جی LOC 38 Flening . quid AN INTERLUDE FROM THE MYSTERY PLAY WHICH IS LIFE VANCE THOMPSON SCENE : South station stands Bonus Angelus , in fair white gar ments and folded wings , very white . North station stands Malus Angelus, altogether in red, and upon his wings are gules, very bright. East station stands Humanum Genus, being quite naked, and on his brow a chrism -cloth , very white. On the west station, Voluptas. And on the wooden wall of the plafond shall be written

Gravis sors , et dura Hic reliqui plura, Sed submale cura Des ! Quel domage ! Qui pert la sue chose purque n'enrage ! And right and left thereof two men shall stand , bearing torches that the writing may be seen. The people of the Interlude shall be

HUMANUM GENUS , which is mankind , BONUS ANGELUS, MALUS ANGELUS , VOLUPTAS, PRINCESS MARY , LORD KYRIOS , and musicians which shall play on instruments. HUMANUM GENUS DICAT

This night I was of woman born , Fecble and naked , loin and limb . Helpless I stand here, hurt and dim . Minc eyes are in this prying morn

In shame I stand here , for Isee How couthless and how bare I be . I stand and study full of thought

All naked am I save this thing, The chrism - cloth my head has got In token of its christening. And whence this comes I know not

nay

, Nor who hath bound it on my brow In token that my lips shall pray, A reason for my neck to bow ; I know not. Hast Thou done this thing In token of Thysuffering , Lord Kyrios ? Orwas it done By evil men, who bound it on My head to be an abject sign ? Butit is hard against my brain , Andmy slow thoughts are warped with pain By this white chrism -cloth of mine. I am made out of earth ; and time Wove all the filmy threads of me Out of the phosphorous and lime And motion ; so no end can be. Yousee my nakedimage here, Outline of face and limb, but I ass out beyond it , shift and change, And have no biding -place, but range The whole world as I live and die . My body lives in dying

flame,

That is no one thing and the same, But evermore a shifty chain Of forces linked to loose again

This is my body , phosphor, lime, And motion , evenas it was born

Li Pos 1 Its actions go beyond me into time, And rust the iron and ripen the blown corn . Being thus, who hath knotted now This chrism - cloth upon my brow ? I am closed in a chamber made of glass, Wherein I see unstable, flickering things, Which burn like candles and then pass Backinto darkness ; there is noise of wings, And then unsteadily they come again With inconsistent flames; then die away. These are my thoughts. And so my brain Is a closed chamber, narrow , opaque, grey . I am closed in aa chamber and the walls Are builded of thick shadows, palpable ; But ever thorough them a river falls, Making a tinkling noise, as silver fell On a stone floor ; this river runs alway And, leaning over it, I see therein Bright images that scatter thin And vanish ; for they will not stay . These are mythoughts; the walls about MyEgo that doth bar me in And shut all others out. BONUS ANGELUS DICAT : Withtrailing wings and folded feet And hands, I come from Christ the King And Princess Mary, who in sweet, Glad prayer kneels for you , and I bring A torch into the darkness, bid Theriver run to crystal where Lord Jesus' name that hath been hid Shall shine out brightly. Kneel in prayer ! This do I unto thee, for round Thine head the chrism -cloth is bound In token that Lord Jesus made Thee out of water, fire, and clay For His abiding- place ; and laid His love upon thee. Kneel and pray ! Thy ways grope down unsteadily To noise and darkness and the sea ; Lord Christ hath let a ladder down From His bright battlements to thee, Where thou goest stumbling like to drown ; The Princess Mary leans upon The battlement, and swings afar A lantern brighter than a star To guide thy footsteps,happy one! Clutch thou in prayer the ladder bar, And as thou goest I shall be With strong wings, looming under thee. MALUS ANGELUS DICAT : Out of blown storms and antique night, Where all dead things are whirled in sleep That hath no rest, and wait the light Of aa new birth -time; from the deep Of buried yesterdays, where drift the lost Things that were never ; from the shoreward tossed Things that may be -- I come to thee . The light upon my wings thine eye may see In shifting gules; and on my face The shadow . Listen now a space : All that is actual is past Ere yet thou knowest that it has been ; A tremulous reflection cast Uponthe water - gone half seen ; Aswift impressionfled , so fast That thou shalt only seem to hear The rush of passing wings, nor mark How it poised, flame- like, sharp and clear, Against the circumstatent dark . And this thy life is, and shall be : Movement and dissolution , and the change Of images to shadowy imagery ; Weaving of thine ownself a strange And shifty - patterned ribbon ; so In the dark house of thee shall pass Thy life away . The walls are glass And on themshadows flit and go. Life drowses in this narrow house Where faint impressions troop ; I rouse And startle the dull sense to see The wonder of the things that be. No forms abide, but ere they pass And that which is is that which was, I paint the perfect moment -hand Of woman, perfect for a space ; Some instant symphony offace Or rainy woodland ; or the strand Wave-worried ; or the sudden cry Of love made perfect, cre it die; Hope at full tide or passion spilt At hottest ; hollow woods where lie Flowers pale and sweet to death ; the lilt Of bird notes in a plangent strain These things are once and not again. They pass. What matter, tho ', if but They are ? Life is so little, shut In narrow walls. And while all fades, The best is a quick pulse, a sense Of hard life ringing thro' the shades; A girl's face lambent; the intense Strange dyes the Tyrian craftsman made ; Or faces cut in bronze and jade ; Strange odours subtiler than pain ; The ardent beating of the brain For rise of song -birds: These shall be Unto thee. Rise and follow me Through lowlands warm with lusty springs ; The light of gules is on my wings. - 39 35 BONUS ANGELUS DICAT : Peace, Angel, to thine hardihood ! Whyshould hecovet worldly good, Since Christ and His fair company Walked clothed upon with poverty ? The world's weal, be it low or high, Doth pass like waters at the flood, But Heaven's worth is and bideth ay, Where Lord Christ sitteth bright as blood , Lord Kyrios ! Divicias etpaupertas ne dederis in d’ne. Humbly Hewent in hodden -grey, And plucked the unripened grain to eat ; The sandals bound upon His feet Were cut with stones of many a way So humbly did He fare. Think thou On thine own end, O soul; yea, now The flames of hell are crackling higher For hope of it, and hot desire ; Thinkon the day when men shall lay Thy body closely under clay And thy soul hies to the judgment-seat. Homo memento finis et eternu non peccabis. MALUS ANGELUS DICAT : Brief, brief and little is the life of men , A little space for going to and fro ; Yea, to and fro and up and down, and then The day chills and the sudden sun is low ; A little space of life, but set therein Are things of splendid beauty ; here and there They look up in their splendour unaware : A tragic passion in a well -known face, A light sown thro' the eagle's wings aslant, Strange spices blown across a barren place, Girls eyes all hollow with unhallowed want; White pillars where a crimson curtain lies And lamps flare ; or a warrior's dying eyes -- These things are for thee. Follow me. Nay, wouldst thou build thyself a fane shut in With strait stone walls, the holy tomb of thee, To keep thy dead self from the life of sin ? A faneandtomb and painted curiously , Black crosses crowned with thorns and rose mary . HUMANUM GENUS DICAT : I will go with thee even now ! Tho' speaking thus a bitter pain Wakes angrily about my brain And questions me; for on my brow The chrism -cloth is bound. And I Know not who did to me this thing. Perchance malign men saw me lie In sleep unborn and made a ring Of this white cloth about my brow ; A token of His suffering. BONUS ANGELUS DICAT : E'en to this I bring you , unto Him The star of focussed rays ; O , see How beautiful He is among the dim , Grey years ! The Man - lover of Galilee ! The bleeding face and hands and feet ; The hanging body, and the thorns Pressed in the forehead ; and the sweet Lips crying unto God ; the scorns Of mocking men ; the Cross in the bleak night Of day ; the Chosen People and the kiss Of cursed Judas ; and the Mountain , bright With God and desolate with memories Of sins unfallen and of pitiful men ; And at Hisfeet the golden Magdalen : Oh, pitiful! Lord Kyrios, crucified Between two thieves, for you He died ! [ There pipes up music .] [Cometh a young man in red garments and gold who playeth a rebec : his name being Voluptas.] VOLUPTAS DICAT : Lo, Lust- in -Love am I. I go forth under the black sky When lamps leap beckoning within The window -nooks ; and in the street There is no noise of passing feet; Only blown laughter and the din Of far-off strings, the singers beat Making wild music, shrill and sweet. I pluck the curtain back and see Her face anhungered -and leap in And in a hurryof swift kisses she Lets fall her hope of God unwittingly . Lo, Lust -in -Love amI, Heir of my brother, Love-in -Lust, Who liethdead -as I shall lie, Ashes of love and ashen dust. Yet ere we die ! Oh, ere we die ! MALUS ANGELUS DICAT : Let us go forth , my son . HUMANUM GENUS DICAT : I will go forth with thee, even now Torches and wine ! And womens songs Sung shrilly ! And plucked roses bound Upon my hair ! Battles and wrongs And shouts of men ! [ Music pipes up.] Pardon, Lord Christ. I go into the mart-place, among men , But when the gauds are seen and priced , I shall comestraightway to Thee then , Lord Kyrios, into Thy service, Christ ! 17. ఈమ A DRESDEN SHEPHERDESS V. T. - a Next to the Congo warrior on my writing -table stands a little Dresden shep herdess, one pink foot aimed archly at the ceiling. And the wicked look in her blue eyes ! Once upon a time it was many years ago, when there was no grey in my hair -we were friends; more than friends, it may be —Lord forgive me for the sins of my youth ! She wasyoung and, I believe, innocent when we met. Had I never seen her it may be her life wouldhave been as quiet and pure and uneventful as that of her happier sisters. But I do not know - ah , frailty, thy name is Dresden china ! - even when I knew her first her innocence was very complicated; she was like an Eve who had read Schopenhauer. I was taking a short cut through Drury Lane and, as I hastened on , caught a glimpse of her in thewindow of a pawnbroker's shop. She posed there on one foot, coy, ingenuous, holding out her skirts withsomething of thecoquetry that came to the Countess Eve when she attained to fig leaves. Her candid , brighteyes laughed at me ; her ridiculous rosebud of a mouth made ready a kiss for me and I bought her for ten and sixpence, lawfulmoney of the realm ; though in those days I wasa poor man and am , in truth , little better to-day . A Dresden shepherdess with golden garters andblue-and -white parasol; she had marched out of Watteau's painted Arcady ; Lancret dreamed of her in pastel. It was five years ago of a winter's night that I brought her home to these same dark chambers. I installed her as ikon and mistress. Taro -San, the Japanese spaniel, paid her homage. For methere came years of wandering; for her there were only the coign of the mantelpiece, the glitter of thefirelight in the mirrours, the coming and going of peo ple - the men and women who inhabited these dark chambers of mine, while I was wool-gathering up and down the earth. She watched them all -a trifle cynically , perhaps, for we used to have bouts of cynicism , sheand I, and spit upon humanity. She watched them all and was always on her guard. Careful! " she would whisper to herself, “ I must look naive now. Careful, they are watching me, I must appear ingenuous. " So they never suspected how bitterly the Dresden shepherdess sneered at their follies, their hopes and kisses and prayers. They thought her a simple, artless country maiden. Fools! She and I had whispered confidences that would have blanched their faces. Fools ! One night we drugged our cigarettes with haschish , she and I, and went away into a land of yellow skies. We came upon Silenus, asleep under a green brake, gurgling in his drunken sleep. She stirred him with her parasol. Ah! I shall never write the fearful, uncleanbabble of Silenus, dreaming in the brake. But we know , she and I. One night we danced, while Pan blew on his piercing pipes a melody in five tones ; a satyr caught her in his arms and danced with her, his hoofs pashing in the soft turf ; and —but I shall never write the wild words he cried in her ear. We know , she and I. One night we walked through a great, sad city , empty and vague, wrapt in the shadows ofspires and convents ; only the bells of Mechlin chimed softly now and then . There was silence in the desert squares and narrow streets. In the churches the dead bishops rotted under the white and black marbles. Three Magi stepped down from the triptych where Rubens had imprisoned them and reasoned with us of the life to come. That night we were very sad. Onenight we were caughtup in a crowd of brown,nude women, all shrieking, all mad in the hot Eastern night; the torches dripped fire upon us ; the hill-stones cut our feet ; allmad, all shrieking, we swept to the feast of Priapus ; and – We know , she and I. Fools ! They thought her shy and artless. They have come and gone in these dark chambers of mine, round which the noise of London roars. Tell me the tale of the years, my shepherdess ! To-morrow the faded furniture goes to the auctioneer's shop. To-morrow we fare forth , you and I -there is a pot of gold buried under the rainbow ! - to Rainbowland. Tell me of the women who bathed in these mirrours, like nymphs bathing in the silver pools of Arcady. Ah, I see ghosts in my old mirrours- white, splendid, sinful women bathed there in the pride of their beauty and shame. Thefirelight glitters among the pale ghosts. But we fare forth to Rainbowland, little shepherdess, you and I. 36 The hearts ofcertain women are as a vast cathedral. Thereare its gorgeous high altars, its sounding, Entbehren Sollst gloom , its lofty arches, and perhaps in an obscure niche burns a tiny taper before the votive shrine. And many passthrough life with this taper unlighted, despite the pompandceremonial ofthe conjugal comedy. Du, Du sollst Otherscarry in the little chapel of their hearts a solitary glimmering lamp of love that only flames out Entbehren with death . A grand piano, itsburnished ivory teeth gleaming in the candle-light, stood near the openwindow , JAMES and at it one lounged and idly preluded Schumann-like harmonies that questioned the night. Outside a veiled GIBBONS fumidity, behind which lurked thunderous prospects; the air was still with languorous anticipation, and HUNEKER the month of the year was April. He would not have been human and an artist to have withstood the dumb depression of the moment. Snatches of heavily brocaded harmonies of Chopin, mute interrogations of Brahms, and furtive glitterings of Liszt vibrated through the chamber. One sultry chord, persistently repeated and unresolved , told the temper of him who played. It was a sober apartment; a half score of wax taperssang with a bunch of tuberoses a sweet duo. A few chairs, some music scattered about, a tall book -case, gaunt and shadowy in the background, and apolished floor made the ensemble of an artists living-room . The playing grew morevague and the night without more menacing., Then the first eight or ten bars of the prelude to “ Tristan und Isolde forced into shape on the keyboard and -hush ! a delicate knock at the door. He harshly called, “ Entrez ! ” She was without a wrap, her head enveloped in a tiny filmy burnous. She faltered , then movedto him as moves a sleep-walker, "I know that it iswrongbut , I - how can I help it ? I have come to you -- andyou ? ” She paused, her face illuminated by love-doubt. His voice was muffled when he answered her, " Pray be seated,madame. " She divined his reluctance : '“ We leave to -morrow , and you must play for me once more. " “I could have called at your hotel, ” he replied gently. Impetuously she cried : “ I have risked much to be near you, to hear you play ; yet you stand coldly, and after yesterday – Ah, you forget ! ” "I do notforget," he replied. She moved toward him ; his reserve vanished and he advanced with both hands outstretched. " Dearest, it is madness. See, itis late;you will bemissed, and the night bodes a storm . Play ! I would play for you if Paradise threatened and hell yawned rather than refuse you ." " Play ! " she cried.

  • Play for me Chopin , but do not come near me. " He shivered , and their eyes kissed , hers burninglike misty -green signals of love and sorrow ; then he faced the night for a moment, and turning to the piano began without preluding:

It wasthe Second Impromptu of Chopin, the rarely heard one in the key of F sharp, major mode. As he struck the octave in the bass the approaching storm muttered in the west, the wind soughed sobbingly into the room , and the flame of the wax tapers flickered faint messages to the tuberoses. She on the couch sighed softly. The magic of Chopin enveloped them as the plaintive theme broke the air into melodic ripples. It sang her intodepths of dreams, anterior to which lurked other dreams - dreams with soft-sounding syllables, dreams that lapped her consciousness into the golden gloom of drugged slumber, dreams opal-tinted and music-melancholy beyond compare. She swooned and then swam outto theinfinitewith bold, blissfulstrokes, for he was playingwith rare cunningtheclosing choral-like measures of the first part of the Impromptu . The moan without deepened into a roar, then came a vermilion flash followed by a crash of thunder. The lights were extinguished ,all but one, swayed feebly in the rush of the wind, and the tuberoses listened thirstily to the plash of the new -born rain . He had begun the D majorsection of the Impromptu ; the rythmical swing ofthe bass seemed a proud spirit defying destiny, and the massive chords, with virile assertive tones, blended with the night and roared answer to the thunder's bellow . They rose to a crescendo, they dominated all, for the man within was storming out his resolves and passions on the keyboard . The fury increased toa sheer height of tone; then , melting away into a mereecho, it almost fainted. His soul chased hers and together they followed the enigmatic tones of that modulation whichis an abysm betwixt fragrant meads, andmenaces them that gaze its depths. The lovely F major part glimmered in the air. Come back to me, to the first of all ; Let us learn and love it over again . Let us now forget and now recall, Break the rosary in a pearly rain , Andgather what we let fall. “ Browning, ” she softly mused, " and life. ” The plot thickened, the harmony grew denser -a musical palimpsest lay before them , and as they strove to unweave its meaning they shuddered at the gulf. Weary and panting in spirit they stared askance and questioned the future. “ Not that,” the music implored. Then burst that delicious cascade of silvery scales. They coruscated, they foamed, they boiled with melodic laughter. It seemed as if God was with the world and he and she heard the lark trilling to the dawn as hand in hand they mounted in their dizzy flight. Their naked , unabashed souls groped in the azure and they carolled that song whichis as old as eternity . They fell through space into fathomless twilight, and the piano sang the echo-like refrain of the first motif. It was the swan -song of their hopes. The heavy-scented night spoke softly to their hearts; a nightingale dimly piped in the distance, and with velvety clangour the music ceased. He remained at the piano. She rose. Without were odours and starlight. The two drank each other's gaze withthe thirst of lost souls. Then she went into thenight, and the other one, staring at the tuberoses, heard their perfumed murmur, “ Entbehren Sollst Du, Du Solíst Entbehren .” a Das 100 HALA G 효 Ver BILLS Mit Powers95 32 A CHASE m mm 3 SHINNECOCK HILLS . BY CHASE CAST A SHORR. BY REINHARDT 37 to!!!!! UNA AND THE LION BY CHURCH JOAN OF ARC BY F. V. DUMONT When you walk in Fifth avenue, you see to right and left of you the shops of the picture -dealers THE ART AND ART and the picture-framers. The picture-dealers and the picture-framers live in houses and havewives, who indulge inthesterile infidelities of diamonds, and children - litters oflittle, unbaptizedchildren. They ISTS OF NEW YORK dine, and winedribbles through them ; they smoke andbreed andexport gold -- incidentally they frame pictures andsell them to theGoyim . You have walked in Fifth avenueand youhave seen these BEING A STORY OF Kippured picture-dealers and picture-framers. But did you know that there were hundreds of painters who toil along, year in and year out, saying, “ Let us paint and paintily paint, lest peradventure the BABIES AND BOILED picture-framers starveand their wives die, moaning for diamonds.". And they paint. And their pictures BEEF are hung in the Academy and in Fifty -seventh street west, in the framesthe picture- framers have made. The price -marks are plainly printed inthe catalogues andpasted on the gilt frames - BY VANCE THOMPSON Dear Lord ! It is all such a monstrous, intolerable farce — Last yearI came awayfrom theAcademy, arridedwith a monstrousmirth; thelaughter which will not downchurned my brisket. I thought of the Morans and little Morans-a whole nursery of them-painting away like mad, inspired by boiled beef and cabbage, and urged to disinterested activity by thoughts of the starving picture-framers ; of Bolton Jones & Brother and ChampneyWells & Wife, of Gilbert Gaul & Camera, and other hard -working firms -- all savagely determined that thepicture-framers must not starve. Saperlipopette ! Can you not imagine the chaste, beatific domesticity of that studio where a husband and wife sit among babies and mutton -chops and paint and paint and paint ? “ Darling , won't you fill in this figure while I changethe baby ? ”. “ Yes, dearest, if you'll have Bridget come up and finish thistree .” Oh, it is monstrous, monstrous! But why not Bridget ? Is it fair to leave her name off the catalogue? The advertisement should read : “ An exhibition of the pictures of Mr. Painter, Mrs. Painter, and the Painter cook will be held, ” etc. I would rather see the cook's pictures; indeed , I curiously desire to see the cook's pictures. Baby and boiled beef art! There is a " ring ” of picture-framers, which has whipped into line amob of painters to assist it in the business of forcing on the public — and in art matters the public is notoriously ignorant-the commercial canvases of the Morans, Chases, Dolphs, Gauls, Cranes, Beckwiths, and all the other shamelessly industrious tradesmen . What chance has an artist ? How can a valid, vital work of art make its way into these pawnshops of art ? American artists ? There are two of them , Whistler and Sargent ; what the devil should they do in this gallery ? By a sort of victori ve on the ous personal assurance they havecraned themselves above the dead inlevel theirof own this shoppy mediocrity. They are exiles and without honour 197 land , even as were those two artists in verse , Poe and Whitman , exiled from among their contemporaries, unregarded in the country of their birth. Art in America to succeed must be the art of Church and Chase , Longfellow and Gilder -- so smug, so shoppy, so inoffensive, so absolutely commonplace, so intolerably useless that it servesthepicture- framers and the book binders. Youmay remember that Aristophanes in one ofhis farce-comedies, when the name of Euripides comes up, cries, " Bring forth the chopping-block ! " I, too, SR am in an uncritical mood. Andindeed it isimpossible to write in a phlegmatic, judicial manner of the painters of New York , so rotten are BY CHURCH theywith sham art,so broad -arrowed with mediocrity, so shameless in their postures before the picture- framers. Think for amomentof the Moran fac tory. There are Mr. and Mrs.Moran - Mr. Moran paints ochre mountains and his wife puts in the little figures ; and the young Morans, nephews and cousins, all at it busily painting little figures or ochre mountains. Is it monstrous, or merely ludicrous ? And the Jones Brothers manufacturing landscapes and bastard Tademas; Ken yon Cox stencilling backbones on nudefigures prepared by his pupils ; Hamilton Hamilton, who paints impos sible women and in order to showthat they have feelings, makes them drool at the mouth -dear Lord ! is this American art ? Let us see. Here in New York one is usually referred to Chase. The man bulks large. He strikes society attitudes. He believes, with Richard Harding Davis, that all that it takes to makea gentleman is a valet, a plush necktie, and a fur coat. Thissavour of a gentility hasgiven him an immense vogue in the Harlem flats and South Orange villas. In order to support the fur coat and the valet and the plush necktie he " takes pupils. ” Horrible! Think of dining on a girl pupil, roasted with mint sauce, andhaving cold cuts of her with pickles, for supper -and then for relaxation painting og ga SPRING BY IRVING WILES THE LADY AND THE TIGER .

VA op atwinni TE POWER A BUCK IN MID -GALLOP BY WILL H. LOW AMERICAN ART TOP A REVERIE. BY HAMILTON pictures. And his pictures are so insolently commonplace, so abjectly horizontal, that they are the picture-tramer's delight. Surely one is not to take this man, whose brain is ossified in smug gentilities, who paints like a haberdasher, as the type of the American artist. Of the older crowd a few other awful examples - the drunken Helots of the craft -- have survived and are still marketable : Winslow Homer, a newspaper illustrator turned painter-“ The Cliffs, " eh ? - and Elihu Vedder, an overrated draughtsman who is merely a draughtsman and perks ; Robert Blum , who isas uniformly nulas Chase, and remindsoneof an empty portmanteau pasted over with the labels of many foreign hotels; and Kenyon Cox, who stencils backbones on the allegorical putty of nude female figures . Then there are thenewer crowd, which has broughtthe pains taking flatulency of the Munich school,andthe newest crowd, which has the hysteria of the French school without its inspiration , its extraordinary contortions, without its animation. And it is all the shabbiest sort of commercialism ; new and old they nibble atthe Yom Kippured herring of the picture-framers. It is quite impossible to take American “ art seriously . The machine -madeanecdotes of Brown, Moeller, Donaghy, Ward ; the coloured photographs of Gilbert Gaul —whose work_is an unclean pretense of painting, a smirking camera derie ; Irving. Wiles's studio-painted landscapes and papier-mache females ; Carroll Beck- " BABY. ” BY MARY J. CASSATT with , that wholesale Munich portraitist of grey -coated personages posing against umber backgrounds; Wyatt Eaton , a creation of “ The Century, a Gildered creature who teaches the youth of the Cooper Institute how to draw portraits with a T -square; Walter Shirlaw , who began as an engraver - you know the engravee's " swish ! " - and has never learned to draw a straight line: George Brush, whose highest ideal is a squaw squatting on arug :Smedley, another of thefinickingMunich illustrators—is onetotake them seriously ? Upon my word I shall not take them at all ; not even with a syringe . The Franco-Americans are just a trifle more exasperating and a trifle more absurd. Their rigidities are more theatrical. They smirk more flagrantly at the picture-framers' wives. There are Bridgeman , a smirking simulacrum of Gerome; Pearce, with his peasant girls; Weeks, who went to Algiers as a Cook's tourist and has had ever since a teasing ambition to be Benjamin Constant; Ridgeway Knight, who paints painty, cows and thick -legged virgins because Dupre did; Swain Gifford , whomimographscedars,probably because Judas hanged himself on an elder ; the chromo-venetians, Gedney Bunce, Hopkinson Smith -who builds sewers and writes books, as well and Coleman ; Coffin's patent marines and Rehn's tin waves - PURE GAUL Wome THE MORAN FAMILY TEP DONAGHY'S NEW ONE PRUNEHURST By THE ' LI Delacroix painted standing; Ingres used to sit down to paint. In this mere statement there is, I think, a brutal criticism of the two men's work. Whatpasses for American art is produced by men in a sitting posture. And yet I wrong an honourable word . Art - the only indestructible sublimity -has nothing to do with this dirty traffic in coloured canvases . Art can not live in concubinage with commercialism . The business of making wooden nutmegs is not art. Here the painting and selling of pictures isa grotesque “ green -goods ” game. The painters and picture-framersare in league against the unspeakable millionaire. The solemn infamies of Munkacsy, Bouguereau, Meissonier, and Gerome are unloaded on the extremely millionaire mil lionaires, such as Rothschild , Judas, and Baron Hirsch . The lesser American millionaires are fobbed off with Chases and Cranes and Churches. But it is alla part of the same game. Indeed, leaving out Whistler and Sargent, Ameri maybe summed up in babies and boiled beef, photographs and fur coats, valets and pupils, picture framers' cheques and the ob scene comforts of domesticity . can " art " FORR BODINGS OF SPRING . BY BRUCR CRANE DICTIONARY TE ? READY FOR THE REAL ESTATE AGENT. BY CHASE D -22 42 TEP NOTHING . BY J. G. BROWN SUNLIGHT, BY JOSEPX A. BOSTON 35 家 The sullen , tropical sun awoke, parched and fevered. The vapours LA JOIE DE rose from the piteous earth in supplication, but, weknew , in vain. Men VIVRE moved aroundwith the loathing listlessness of sated lust. Even the hum of insect life was hushed, anticipating high noon . Not a soul abroad, as DR . HAMILTON I crossed the quadrangle of the bigWest Indian hospital, save a leper WILLIAMS squatting in the shadow of a sick van, preparing the condiments for my morning's curry. " Anything special, Robinson ? ” “ Nothing out of the common , sir , ” replied the head nurse. Nothing out of the common ; the same seething, festering, swarming ruck of decom posing, disintegrating humanity. Men and women who had loved not wisely were melting down into a sanious pus grumous with osseous debris, mainly nasal. Pourers out of Rhine wine, guzzlers of B. and S. or plain rum , were in furious altercation with olive-colored, blood-flecked phantoms, or else saving their water to be tested for albumen. A general rottenness was working out its own cure by losing even the cohesion which differentiates putrid flesh and bone from dust and ashes. (It is not our bodies for the mostpart that rot here up north .) Our atmosphere, foetid and greasy from countless open sores and the changing of poultices and other dressings, gave one a sense of fatness on the tongue and palate. A dull foreshadowing of coming headache suggested I had been inhaling death just long enough to warrant a brandy cocktail and the name of breakfast. “ Good morning, Robinson .” “ Beg pardon, sir , butwould you take a look at thenew arrival in the insane ward ? " Just thena shriekofthesuddennessandduration of a lightningflash, and suchan one as didnotfallupon my car but rather swept through it, and that with such rapidity as to leave me but a memory when I would have seized and questioned its present intensity, almost froze the blood in my heart. I know the sensation in that region for the moment was distinctly that of cold and retardation : a weird sensation enough. " I am accustomed to it already, sir," said Robinson superiorly. “ The devil ! " said I. The ward, small, barred and bolted, spotlessly clean, and bare, with a dismal suggestiveness of disinfectant, flooded with sunlight, was full of crazy people. I couldn't absolutely swear they were daft though ; at least not from their conversation, for I have heard much worse from artists, spinsters who had missed their chance, reformers, preachers, and the general rabble of one- ideaed freaks, table d'hoters, and medical experts, but somehow or another they differed from the usual run of articulately speaking sons of men in that they looked like corpses talking. I had just butenteredwhen again that shrill and tympanum -perforating scream , whereat the whole crowd of crazy folk set up a jabber, jabber, jabber, indignant, interrogative, and remonstrant, varied here and there by looks of laughing, silent, wondering mystification . I can't exactly give the key it struck (I mean the scream ), not reading music fluently, my studies in that direction being confined to three short lessons years ago upon the mandolin, but no saw -grinder ever reached so high . In a corner of the room , rightathwart a well-barred open window , was a bed , anti-luxurious as a fervent Trappist's. The bed wasunoccupied, for the patient sat squatting on his hunkers on the narrow window -ledge. Gaunt, spare almost to the diaphanous, angular, Calvinistic, white-haired, dark -hued, thin -bearded, naked, save for a loin - cloth , blind with corneal opacities, long of limb and preternaturally longitudinal of hand and fingers was the grave and elderly Hindoo seated on the ledge. This was the man. Every limb, his head and whole body, every muscle in its every fibril, not a nerve but was electrical and quivering with excitement. The arms outstretched -he didn't move from the ledge —the very hands spoke, advanced, retired , frenzied in activity , called out, admonished, encouraged, guided, warned, implored. “ Pearl of my soul, cometo me. Light of my life, the evil one is upon thee. Woe is me! Jhansi, thy mother, too calls. Ah, but the cobra killed her. Ram , Ram , must thou too be taken , pride of Inde ? Oh, rush to the left; haste fast, you feet of topaz! Courage, fear not, my song of the morning. No ! No! No ! There ! No! There ! There ! My God ! He crouches for the spring ! Be appeased, O Shiva, thou shalt have the bullock though we starve. Ya ! Ya ! The brute is surely blind, the spring has missed ! Now then , beloved, once more haste fast, within my bosom , rush , and rest — there, at last ! " And now his voicing died gradually away in gentlest purring of endearments and sweet susurrus, and the old man's hands, so spare and frail, behaved as if, enfolded by them , lay some little babe of love. And then came peace, and sleep, and sweet oblivion'; but not for long, for again the cur dling shriek, and all as before, and ever in rhythmical recurring series did the tortured creature rave at early dawn, through blinding light of day and sombre evening, and through the lonely watches of unrestful night. My cocktail and mycurry went untasted. - WHEN BADGER MEETS CON AN ESSAY IN AMERICANESE MARMADUKE HUMPHREY > kar When a woman is not pretty she ought to be intellectual . Or, at least, good. But when a woman is not good as to looks, as to convolutions, nor even as to morals, she is certainly a rather hard -boiled bad egg, to use the most flattering litotes. A certain industrious street -walker was neither Venus nor Minerva, nor yet Juno. Her only fitness for her calling was her absolute lack of ethic conceptions. An opium steeped Chinaman was as welcome prey to her as the most aristocratic driver of a beer wagon . She was known to fame as “ Slab -sided Sal, ” an unpretentious name, namely, yet one that was almost coy with flattery. As I have been trying to say, Sal was no beaut. And Sal was tired, dead tired. And Sal was hungry — and t’irsty —especially t'irsty. All her gent friends gave her the optic frappé ; all the passers- by deserved their names —they passed by. Sal had walked for hours up and down that gaudy paradise, the Bowery, where they have been known not only to “ say such things,” but to do such things as hayseeds and slumming chappies and would- be realistic novelists. Leer as she would, wink as she would, jostle as she would, guy as she would, simper “ Good evenin ' , dear,” as she would, none of the mob would make it hearts. Theyall passed . Sal was growing horribly, sickeningly faint, desperate. She was indeed a dizzy blonde. Finally she left the Bowery and turned into Hester street. Even the greasy Polish Jew hawks had no eye for her. She shuffled humbly and observingly along and climbed a rickety stairway gaspingly to the top floor and entered a dismal, grimy little cubby-hole -her boudoir -- the lair of the scarlet woman ! She lit a deep-furrowed stubby candle. It also was a thing of the gutters -- but that is only a joke, ong passong, to show my facil ity. The faint candle was more complimentary to the room than the searching daylight, but even its tallow flattery had too large a job on and blinked and sputtered wearily. Sal sank cautiously on the none too snowy, all too drunken -legged bed in utter weariness and cried as any tired woman, good, bad, or indifferent, has a right to cry, especially in her cups -- in her hiccups. But Sal cried because she was compelled by bitterest poverty to stay sober. O, grinding Necessity ! You are the mother of brats indeed ugly. All but Invention --- and doubtless you kidnapped her. It sometimes happens in real life , outside of the world of fiction, that landlords want their rents collected and oust those constitutionally opposed or unconstitutionally unable to pay it. Sal had been warned the last time if she didn't cough up the rent to-morrow she would have to throw up her room . Desperate needs demand desperate deeds. Sal hastily doffed the shabbiness she wore and donned her one luxury, an ancient walking gown, a relic of better days —or nights — a street- walking gown that contained all the harshest hues of an unsuccessful rainbow with none of its gradations. The noise in Chatham Square of the cable cars, the horse cars, the two elevated railways, and the shrieking carts sounded like a soothing lullaby compared with the noise that dress made. But she donned it with orchestral effect, and taking one last dip into the powder-box and one last swipe of red paint, she fared forth seeking whom she might allure. She was fairly iridescent with powder now, and the deep — well-laid ! -blush on her cheeks be tokened renewed courage. All things come to him who waits, or to her who keeps on walking. Sal had not measured the length of the Bowery more than three times when Fate assumed a rather sickly distortion meant for a smile. Sal met her old friend, Choey, the Con. They had bunked together often, and buncoed together oftener, in the good old days when street walking paid, and frequent and dead-easy hayseeds came to town for greener goods than rural pastures afforded. But Fortune's favour is as short-lived as a Chicago marriage, and Choey, grown insolent as Cæsar, forbore to pay the protecting police their full commission . So they decided to uphold the majesty of the law. After a few years of stripes and actual labor, the surfeited penitentiary yawned like Jonah's whale and belched Choey forth , penniless, cynic, eager once more to do with a will whom his hands found to do. He had just now struck the Bowery, well clothed, thanks to the prison -keeper's generosity, but sadly out of pocket. All day he had laboured in vain to turn a dishonest penny. He had finally managed to pick one pocket in a crowd around the window of a “ Museum of Anatomy for Gents and Adults Only.” But the purse contained only a single greasy bill, and that of the smallest possible denomination , now that shin -plasters are out of vogue. Yet the money . was beautiful for all its filth and all its microbical possibilities. How pleasant it is to get disease germs through money ! Oh, beautiful death ! When Choey and Sal had parted years before each was in great prosperity, and each, in the present despair, looked upon the other as a rich find and easy picking indeed . Full many a time, and oftener, they two had worked the “ badger game ” on timid humanity from the great unsophisticated regions up- town or over against Hackensack, and it was now with mingled sensations of joy for Auld Lang Syne and of hope for New Right Now that they embraced with a yell disconcerting even to the blasé Boweryite. After a moment of hilarious greeting Choey seized Sal's arm and hustled her into a side street -- it happened to be Hester — and they renewed old memories with exagger ated fondness and mutual flatteries and joint pretenses of present prosperity. Then he offered to get something wet and go with her to where she lived, and she consented re luctantly after hinting vainly to the evasive and luckless Choey that there were better places. So he entered a dungeon- like hole in the wall and emerged thence with a glass of whiskey. Fifty cents' worth of Bowery whiskey is considerably more imposing in bulk and more thoroughly lightning- like in effect than twice that amount of Canadian Clu you doubtless know . It was with vague misgivings that Choey stumbled up the numerous and irre sponsible stairways to Sal's sky- parlor, and he whispered to himself, “ Hully Gee ! Buncoed ! " when Sal ushered him into her room. Facilis ascensus Averno —sed retro ! Choey felt himself “ in for it ” rather than “ in it ,” but decided to make the best of a bad matter with a good grace. Besides, it was late, and a night's lodging might be hard to find elsewhere. When the candle was lit and the bottle had blessed two glasses and Sal flung herself with bony excruciation on his lap, Choey thought he could see a wad of money in her stocking and felt that he was possibly in the presence of well- disguised genius after all . So on with the revel ! Neither noticed the uneasy constraint of the other. Each attempted to disguise his own under roystering exaggeration . On with the revel ! Let joy be unrefined ! They had not whooped it up long when there was a startling smash on the door and Sal stepped into the hall to adjust a little difficulty with a disturbed neighbour underneath who was afraid her drunken husband would be awakened to renewed violence if the noise from above did not cease. The request for more circumspect silence was not couched in particularly courteous English and was accompanied with threats to dent Sal's face and kick her head off. Whereupon that insulted lady very promptly con signed her visitor to a well-heated place several flights below even the cellar and slammed the door in her face. While Sal was gone Choey had dexterously emptied into her whiskey the contents of a little phial he carried in his pocket. Knock -out drops ! When the unsuspecting lady returned she asked Choey to lower the window and relieve the stifling air . While he was arguing with the refractory sash, with back turned toward her,' Sal neatly enriched Choey's whiskey with a judicious admixture from a bottle sitting on the table and ostentatiously marked " sweet oil. ” Knock -out drops !! When Choey returned unsuspiciously to the feast, each with exaggerated and enticing fondness insisted that the other " drink deep for luck," and, setting the example with well-feigned ardour, each Aung into his throat the dangerous poison. It was not long before a sharp drowsiness began to settle down on the horrified twain . A quick sense of realization and a pang of disgust at the other's ungrateful perfidy smote each. Each gave vent to a wild “ Et tu , Brute !" in Bowery brogue ended in a vile Bowery oath. Then Choey, hardly able to stiffen his rag-like legs, drove his fist with cruel vicious ness into Sal's breast, hurling her limp body against the door thunderously. She, fain to respond in kind, seized a large water-pitcher and raised it high to smash it over Choey's bullet-head. But even as it hurtled toward him he collapsed and sprawled supine along the bed. And the pitcher dropped from Sal's relaxed hand as she toppled lifelessly and prone across Choey's motionless body. The last fling of the expiring tallow left them in the same position. The first sneaking stealth of prying dawn found them unmoved. a MÄLLE NEW YORK EVERY FORTNIGHT 7 Mirqiang Plening The Posters of “ M'lle New York ? " Well, here they are. Some are by Powers, the rest by Fleming. Succulent symphonies in colour, brave nudes and crackling linear epigrams, we admire them —“ Mlle New York” herself admires them . So we give them to you en masse, knowing thatyou will rejoice thereat as do There will be some more bye and bye, camerados and good folk. we. Flagg My foryour Theming THE NEW FORTNIGHTL the Celebrated WHY NOT to Sohmer make the baby fat ? For the thin baby is delicate, and is not half so cunning. Give the thin baby SCOTT'S EMULSION PIANOS ARE THE BEST OF COD -LIVER OIL WITH HYPOPHOSPHITES Warerooms: 149-155 E. 14th St., New York CAUTION . The buying public will please not confound the SOHMER Piano with one of a similarly sounding name of cheap grade. Our name spells S - O - H - M - E - R Scott's Emulsion is as easy a food as milk . It is much more effective in making thin babies fat , and they like it. If all the babies that have been made fat and chubby and well by Scott's Emulsion could only tell their story to the mothers of other sickly babies ! There wouldn't be enough to go round. WHAT IS MORE attractive than a pretty face with aa fresh , bright complexion ? For it use POZZONI'S POWDER . DON'T be persuaded to accept a substitute . TOURS TO THE SOUTH Via PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD Two very attractive early- autumn tours are announced by the Pennsylvania Railroad Company. They include the battle- field of Gettysburg, picturesque Blue mountains, Luray caverns, the natural bridge, grottoes of the Shenandoah, the cities of Richmond and Washington and Mt. Vernon . The tours cover a period of ten days, and will start from New York in special trains of parlor cars on September 24 and Octobor 8. Round -trip rate, including all neces sary expenses, fifty - five dollars from New York, fifty-three dollars from Philadelphia , and proportionate rates from other points. For detailed itinerary apply to ticket - agents or to tourist-agent, 1196 Broadway,N.Y.; or Room 411 , Broad- street station , Philadelphia. ALL DRUGGISTS 50 CENTS and $ 1.00 SCOTT & BOWNE NEW YORK Kenney Rich . Furs Urbana Wine Company Gold - Seal Champagne Importer and maker of Arnold,Constable g Co. For Sale by all Leading Wine Dealers and Grocers Madison 24 East Twenty-third Street • Square Post-office : Urbana, N. Y. OUR COMPLETE WINTER EXHIBIT NOW READY FOR INSPECTION . AN EN TIRELY NEW DEPARTURE IN JACKETS, SEALSKIN OR PERSIAN LAMB : : : : MEN'S WEAR We advise an early attention to all garments re Cartwright & Warner's Autumn and Winter quiring alteration to the present style of fashion, which UNDERWEAR widely differs this year from the preceding one. 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FLEMING SCHILLER & CARRICK مدد د کھ کد IE ARE GOLD CROWN DENTAL PARLORS . 63 West 22nd Street, Alloperations positively painless. GOLD ,CROWNS & BRIDGE WORK A SPECIALTY . TEETH WITHOUT PLATES . FULL SET OFTEETH ; $ 6. PRINTERS OF MLLE NEWYORK 56 w 23 ST EXTRACTIONS OF TEETH ABSOLUTELY PAINLESS . WE DO JUST AS WE ADVERTISE ! CALL 1 BE CONVINCED'. GOLD CROWNDENTAL PARLORS . 63 WEST 22nd STREET. 41 COPYRIGHT 1805 BY M'LLE NEW YORK THE NEW YORK PPUBLIC LIBRARY Mij:New YorkASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS FORTNIGHTLY Vol. I. No. 6 LAST FORTNIGHT IN OCTOBER , 1895 Price 10 Cents SUBSCRIPTION $ 2.- A YEAR PUBLISHED BY MÄLLE NEW YORK OFFICES 100 NASSAU STREET AND 250 WEST TWENTY - THIRD STREET, NEW YORK ::: Eing 1. Fleming vance Thompson editor (CNAM ) 23 Thomas Fleming and T. = Powers artists James Gibbons buneker associate editor 9 God alone has the right to be a misanthrope; for man there is only misogyny. The attitude of the laugher-down of women is unusual, to be sure, but it is unusual merely by reason of the genuflective humility of the average man. In these days the penultimate science of the average man is gynolatry; his ultimate science is distrust of God. Here in the United States the worship of woman is carried to ludicrous lengths. The hen has been told so often that she can crow that she despises her natural function of laying eggs. In no country in the world are there so many hens able to give an imitation — tenuous and absurd, but recognizable- of the crowing of the cock. To be sure, it is not the lusty cock's crow. But then it is not a barn -yard cackle. “ Do you hear me crow ? ” I hear a disquieting noise. “ And I lay no eggs —-cockadoodledoo !” Then are you neither cock nor hen, but a useless and mitigable nuisance. And perhaps in these days when the hens hold conventions and their fritinancy disturbs the ears of thoughtful men it may not be superfluousto iterate the old truth that woman is physically, mentally, and morally inferior to man. She bears a certain resemblance to themasculine type. She is, indeed, an undeveloped man. Her place in “ the scale of human life ” is midway between the adolescent and the virile. As a matter of fact, her entire physical constitution — fine skin, frail bony structure, beard less face, feeble voice- is nearer to that of the boy than the man. This is no place for consideration of the physiological proof of this statement. The proportion of red to white blood -corpuscles; the caudal vertebræ , resembling those of the embryo or the ape ; her very method of breathing, which is thoractic and not from the diaphragm ; the shape of the head, like that of a child or a Kafir; the grey substance of the brain , lighter than in man - on all these points and a dozen others the craniologists, biologists, and anthro pologists have spoken with authority. Woman's physical inferiority to man is a fact beyond question . Her physical structure is that of a lower animal.. In her man may see —and it is an interesting study - many of the characteristics of the stages in his development through which he passed on his way from apehood to his wonderful manhood. She is indeed an interesting study, this adolescent animal with the great white (not grey ) brain, the phlegmatic senses and the dulled finger-tips ! But what a damnable noise she makes at this century's end ! Women have succeeded as courtesans; in this ancient but dishonourable profession for women they have attained their only success. In letters, painting, science, music, sculpture —nothing. When with simian — the feminine is nearer the simian than the masculine — ease they imitate the gestures of an artist one must always look in the background for a man. Behind Georges Sand loom the pitiful figures of Jules Sandeau, de Musset, Chopin ; behind George Eliot one sees the bearded face of Lewes ; and so, when a female novelist deteriorates or improves, takes up new subjects or dons a new manner, one need but say lightly, “ Eh, bien ? She has taken a new lover. ” In letters, art, science —nothing. Her one success has been in the most ancient, though least honourable, profession for women . She can not even touch a musical instrument as can a man. She can not even make an omelet as deftly. The reason for her failure in these minor arts is akin to that for her failure in the higher. This white brained animal, with the infantile disproportion of red and white corpuscles, is adapted to only one end. She can not play the piano with those dulled finger-tips, under the LEADER skinof which lurks feminine fat —- all subtile impressions are lost on them . Her hand is slower than that of man to obey the nervous impulse -- the message travels more slowly from the white brain to the insensitive fingers. She is shut out of the arts by the plain physical fact that sight, hearing, touch, taste, smell -all her senses --- are less highly developed than those of man . Shorter of sight than man, with the sense of hearing duller and slower, with imperfectly developed organs of taste, smell, and touch - surely it is neither to her credit nor her discredit that she has failed in all the higher fields of artistic and intellectual achievement. She has to do her work with imperfect instruments. There is no shame in her inferiority. A male child is inferior in certain stages of its growth to a woman. You will say that there are many men who proclaim that woman is the equal of the ܀ man . Why not ? Does one tell the child one loves of its inferiority ? So many reasons, too, there may be for saying the thing which is not. Half the charm of love consists in flattering the loved one —her adolescent beauty or her adolescent intel lectuals. Then it pleases the woman whom one wishes to please. The acknowledge ment is a weapon against the rival. And, again, the modern, uncritical American man is a wooer who pushes flattery to the point of abjectness. It is cheaper to acknowledge woman's equality than buy diamonds and orchids. But the great, grim God of Truth laughs down these lying pretences. Physically inferior, mentally inferior, she is for these very reasons morally inferior. She has not, to be sure, the flamboyant vices of men, but she has her own, individual and more serious. Your physiologist will tell you one irrefragable reason for this inferiority to which I need not advert here. In the man of normal constitution the loss of fifteen ounces of blood produces syncope ; the loss of five and a half ounces monthly during a period of twenty- five years would enfeeble him to imbecility. Sorotic women argue that man and woman started equal ; that it is only man's tyranny which has degraded woman in the scale of life. So be it. Perhaps this is as good a way as any other of satis fying the feminine mind. It begs the question by acknowledging the very inferiority at issue. And when will woman overtake man in his ascent? A and B start from a given point ; A travels at a speed of ten miles a day ; B travels at a rate of six miles a day ; when will B overtake A ? Ah, my brothers, let us have done with this absurd gynolatry. She is a wonderful animal, white-brained and amourous, made for fondling joys and disquieting nights, shaped to fulfil a certain necessary function ; man should protect her as he does his young, for, like them , she is adolescent, irrational, imperfectly developed ; man should love her, but howmonstrous it is to worship her ! Have done, my brothers, splendidly masculine, masters in philosophy, science, commerce, industry, mechanics, masters in arts and letters, have done, have done ! You have lent her your tail -feathers, and when she has mounted the dunghill and cackled you have cried mendaciously, “ Why, she crows as well as any cock of us all !” Tush ! Tush ! The flattering lie is stale now. Kiss her and coddle her, feed her immature flesh and cover her undeveloped bony structure with gay and riant robes, but have done with the foolish, flattering lie . She is beginning to take it seriously. She, who is man's complement, his shadow , his utility, and the bond that binds him to the lower animals, half believes that she is like man, splen didly masculine, wonderfully God- like. You suggest that it is only the old hens and sterile —those who can not fulfil their function —who crow ? Perhaps you are right. But your suggestion is not remedial. Labouchere advises, “ Slay all women over forty years of age " ; this, however, is only a makeshift. In you lies the remedy —have done with your genuflexion ; mount the dunghill, my magnificent brothers in masculinity, and flap your wings and crow. The hen has a right to cackle only on one occasion —when she lays an egg ; she never has аa right to crow, and by reason of imper fect thoractic development she never can crow. - 62X27 4 LOVE In antique, anonymous nights The apoplectic Cosmos dropped A little world ; far down the heights Ofspace it rolled and stopped. It waited errabundyears For the hymeneal boon ; It weltered in nebulous tears Till the Cosmos dropped a moon . The apoplectic Cosmos, ho ! LO ove, love, love - do, mi, sol, ! Form BIE FRUSTRATE JAMES GIBBONS HUNEKER O the misty plaint of the Unconceived ! O crystal incuriousness of the unborn monad ! The faint swarming downward toward the light and the rending of the sphere of hope, frustrate, inutile. I am the seed called Desire ; I am he, I am she. Wewalk , we swim , we totter, and we blend. Through the ages I lie in the womb of Time; I am sweated by Fate into the Now. On pulsing terraces, under a moon blood -red, I dreamed of the mighty confluence. About me were my kins folk . Full of dumb pain we pleasured our centuries with anticipation . We watched as we gamed away the hours. From Asiatic plateaus we swept to Nilotic slime. We roamed in primeval forests, vast and arboreally sublime, or sported with the behemoth and listened to the serpent's sinuous irony. We chattered with the sacred apes and mouthed at the moon, and in the Long Ago we wore the cara pace and did forthright things on coprolitic sands -sands stretching into the bosom of the earth, sands woven of windy reaches touching the sun . We lay with the grains of corn in Egyptian granaries and saw them fructify under the smileof the sphinx. We buzzed in the ambient atmosphere, gaudy dragon -flies or whirling motes in full cry after humming-birds. Then from some cold crag we launched with wings of fire-breathing pestilence and fell fathoms, under the sea to war with lizard - fish and narwhal. For us the supreme surrender, the joy of the expected. With cynical glance we saw the Buddha give way to the Christ. We watched protoplasmically the birth of planets and the confusion of creation . We saw horned monsters become gentle ruminants and heard the scream of the pterodactyl in the tree- tops dwindle to child's laughter. We heard , we saw , we felt, we knew , and yet we were unconceived , unborn. Yet hoped we on, for every monad has his day. One by one the septillions and millions, the quintillions and billions, disintegrated from the central parent mass and floated into formal life. And we watched and waited . Ours was to be the crowning triumph. Our evolution had been the latest delayed until, heartsick with longing, many of my brethren wished for annihilation . At last I was alone, save one. The time of my fruition was not afar. O for the moment when I should realize my opal dreams! I saw this last one swept away, swept down the vistas toward life, the thunderous surge of passion singing in her ears. A soul was about to be born. O that my time would come! At last, after vague alarms, with overwhelming torrents of rutilant fires, I was summoned . The hour had struck ; eternity was left behind and eternity loomed ahead, implacable, furrowed with Time's scars. I hastened to my love, to that other monad, the only one in the vast basin of the cosmos that must unite with me. I tarried not and throbbed as I ran in the race . The moments were precious ; a second meant aeons, and, crashing into the light, I furiously sought forher, for the one. Alas ! I met her not. We turned the sharp corner of the Possible and were lost to each other forever. Of what avail my travail ? Of what avail my countless cruel preparations ? O Chance ! O Fate ! I am one of the accursed silent multitude of the Frustrate ! TAVERN LIFE Let us eat, lads, drink and merrily drink As long as there's wine to share, For its ten to one when we cross the brink We shall find no taverns there. Eat, drink, and kiss if the lass be fair, And take the sun o' the weather, For a wise manfears there's an end of the years And the dancing-girls together --- An end of it altogether ! Never a tavern where glasses ring, Never a light-foot girl to sing With a kissing mouth, and take herfling An end of it altogether. There are , I think , in modern Italian letters only three writers whom one need FOREIGN watch with any alert expectancy. Dr. Michaelo Kerbaker, professor of Oriental LETTERS languages in the university of Naples, has made valuable researches in Buddhistic literature. At once a philologian and a poet, his translation of the first act of the “ Mricchaka - Tika * is a masterpiece . Then there is that strange, artificial, and ITALIAN yet impassioned school-mistress of Motta - Visconti, Adda Negri. She is - and this is often the case - WRITERS an ardent anarchist in her politics, and in her verse a fero cious classicist. It would be useless to expect from her any high accomplishment, but she represents a phase of literary life in Italy which it would be unwise to over look . She represents the attitude of peasant Italy - profile of a poet, eyes of an anarchist. D'Annunzio is lord of Italian letters to -day. I wish very much to interest you in his books. I dare say the best way to do it would be to tell you something about the man . It was only a few years ago that his reputation crossed the Alps. My fugitive acquaintance with him ( my more satisfactory acquaintance is with his books) dates from the first-night of Mascagni's now famous little opera. On the spur of the moment I could not tell you even the year. I fancy, it was in July of 1890. A few weeks later we foregathered in Florence. I remember a breakfast at which D'Annunzio played the part of agreeable rattle -but, indeed, he was scandal ously young then , and I was little better. He was born in 1864 -a capital year for wines and men -on a brigantine which was storm -harried on the Adriatic. He was put to school when he was nine years old ; at fifteen he discovered ( the golden lad !) that he was a poet. He wrote a volume of verse - “ Primo Vere " which his complaisant papa hadpublished. The volume is now a bibliographic treasure. I never saw the book ; D'Annunzio says it was rubbish . Marc Monnier in the “ Swiss Review ” criticized the little volume at length . He concluded by saying : " If I were this lad's school-master, I should crown him with laurels and flog him ." When D'Annunzio was twenty hewent to Rome, where he studied and wrote and disgraced himself with amours. He published two volumes ofverse , in which he celebrated —with Roman insolence - the joys of the flesh . The “ Intermezzo di Rime " has Swinburne's impeccable syllabic beauty , Swinburne's abject love for rose white flesh . Success came to him tumultuously, as it came to Byron ; as it came to that poor, futile creature, Mascagni. Early in the eighties, while we in Germany were prostrate before Ibsen - most dramatic of pedagogues ! -and they in France were watching the dawn of Idealism , in Italy there was only D'Annunzio, a soli tary, hectic, flamboyant figure in the arid desert of letters. His first prose, I believe, is of the year 1884. Since then he has written book after book , novel after novel. His best works are “ Giovanni Episcopo " (1892 ); “ L'Innocente " (1892 ), which, by the way , is now appearing in the “ Neue Deutsche Rundschau " ; and the “ Trionfo della Morte " ( 1894 ). From him one may expect much -this blond, blue -eyed, square- shouldered, high-browed fellow of thirty -one, in whom there stirs such tremendous Latin energy, in whom there is such artistic zeal, white and strenuous as an electric light. He chisels words as Flaubert did, as Walter Pater; he has de Maupassant's immense clairvoyance ; as well, he has no little of Balzac's power of Turgenev's power ---of questioning souls. No writer of to -day, unless it be Strindberg , has quite his keen scent for moral anomalies, for the subtle crimes that lurk indark corners of the mind. BOYESEN AND BRANDES Professor Boyesen's death is a distinct loss to what passes for American litera ture . I have, I must confess, no very high opinion of his fiction. But in a country singularly provincial he stood for the ideal which the Comte de Vogué calls “ a pas sion for theplanet." He brought Scandinavia and the magnificent Norse literature home to a people which was battening on Howells. It was something ; it was much to have been theforerunner of Bjoernson, the John -the -Baptist of Ibsen . A few months ago I reviewed his “ Essays on Scandinavian Literature " in “ The Commercial Advertiser. " The review called forth this letter : Columbia College, New York, Juue 12, 1895 . Mr. Vance Thompson. My Dear Sir : I have just read some fifty or sixty reviews of my “ Essays." I hope you will not object to my telling you that yours has given me the greatest pleasure. With the excep tion of that of my friend Mabie, it is the only one which betrays a previous knowledge of the subject. Allow me to compliment you on your extraordinary acquaintance with contemporary literature and to thank youfor the fair-mindedness with which you have treated my volume. I see that your estimate of Brandes differs somewhat from mine ; but I surely do not yield to you in admiration of his splendid critical equipment. Only I can not but regret the wildly anarchistic tendencies of his latest books, which, in my opinion , are subversive of all morality and, moreover, inconsistent with his professed belief in evolution. II know Brandes personally and he strikes me as a bitterly disappointed man. Now I prefer to judge him by his period ofsanity and unbiased judgement,and with all my liberality and aversion for dog matic criticism I can not but deplore such work as his essays on “ Luther," " Nietzsche,” etc. Renan, anticipating the frailties of old age, and the impaired powers incident upon physical decay, beggedmostearnestly to bejudged by the work ofhis sane and healthy manhood; and I think that the best service a critic can do an author who, like Brandes, has passed his prime, is to make allowance for the unhappy circumstances which have clouded his vision and distorted his judgement. Thanking you again for your able and sympathetic review , I am, Very sincerely yours, H. H. Boyesen. Professor Boyesen's opinion of the latter -day Brandes is that of the average man. I fancy, however, that Brandes, indifferent egotist that he is, would hardly be ready to accept the excuse of failing powers and physical decay. Indeed, I can almost imagine him saying with St. Simon, “ My self-esteem has always grown in proportion to the harmI have done my reputation ." Dr. Brandes is one of the few great critics in this critically poverty -stricken age. It is not too much to say thathe is the highest personification of international criticism . No one has comprehended the genius of divers literatures quite so well. There is a reason for this. Georg Brandes belongs to that wonderful race which, having no country of its own , is at home in all countries. He is a Jew born in Denmark . This minusculous Denmark was merely the vantage-point from which he surveyed England and Germany,France and the white Northland. He has called himself a “ Dane, extremely Danish , " but this was “ blague." In his greenyouth he was a Frenchman , a fantastic Frenchman, aristocratic, sceptical and bitter, lucid and impetuous, lyric and melancholy, as though the "“ Ecclesiastes "” were set to the “ Intermezzo . " Then he fell under Darwin's in fluence and that of Herbert Spencer. His strange, chameleonic Jewish blood took on a British frigidity. The mood passed and Germany claimed himuntil, disappointed of a professorship, he went backto Danish habits of thought. The laststate of this manhas been one ofanarchy. Prof. Boyesen urges that it is not significant of the man at his best. To my mind this anarch is the soul of Georg Brandes. This wandering Jew of literature ! His naked soul has wandered ceaselessly ; it has worn the antic garments of France and suits of English gentility ; it has sought a home in Germany and Norway, Denmark and Greece; and there is no rest for the wan dering, naked thing. “ The naked stars grinned overhead, and he saw that his soul was bare. " Oh, this I havefelt, and this I have guessed, and this Iheard men say, And this they wrote that another man wrote of a carl in Norroway. Could there be any other end than sheer anachy ? Any other end than the autolatry into which the man has fallen ? But even this mood he got from Nietzsche. From oneof the essays to which Professor Boyesen objects (“ Det Moderne Gjennembruds Moend " ) I translate a passage in which there is Brandes's latest credo. "I have spoken of Nietzsche because it seems to me that the belles - lettres of the North have been steeped in the ideals of the last decade long enough. The same old doctrines have been exploited to satiety : certain doctrines of heredity, a little Darwinism , the emancipation of woman, the utilitarian morale,freethought, the cult ofthe people. As to the education of ourliterati, the moment seems to be near at hand when the line marked by the French review , des Deux Mondes,' will become the culmi nating point of their culture. Noone, even among the best of us, seems to see that true culture begins precisely on the other side of the 'Revue des Deux Mondes ', - at the point of untrammelled personality, original, fecund in ideas. The intellectual development of the North lands has been rapid enough. We have seengreatwriters , who began in naive orthodoxy, get out of their orthodoxy.. Thiswithout doubt is very respectable, but when they show themselves incapable of going further, it is, after all, not much . " Dr. Brandes mocks this emburgessed hypocrisy, which plays at daring by criticizing the Augsburg confession. And his last wordis a plea for independence in thought, hardy self -esteem ; for the Nietzschean attitude; and his voice is the voice of one crying, " Anarch and Autolatrist, I am illustriously Myself ! " This wandering Jew of literature ! After all, he has only clothed himself in Nietzsche's cast-off clothing. Unhappy one, he has been doomed never to be himself. His is thefatal faculty of assimilation -- which Sir. A. Sullivan has, which Mendes has, and Kahn, which Marx had, and Lasalle — that faculty of decorating and vulgarizing science, philosophy, the arts ; the Jewish faculty of being other than oneself. An intellectual outlaw , Brandes is the personification of international criticism , As far as Professor Boyesen's objection goes, I believe that Dr. Brandes is quite as much himself decked in Nietzsche's garments as he was when he posed as a sober British moralist. - Eugenio de Castro, this extraordinary young poet of Portugal, has published a THE QUEST new poem , and of it one can only say that it is worthyto rank with his own OF SAGRAMOR “ Belkiss." " Sagramor " is the history of a Soul. It is told in seven lyric symbols, introduced by a prologue in prose. Each symbol represents one of the illusions which cheat the soul in its quest for happiness; the sports of Love; the power of Wealth ; black care, which rides behind the spurring horseman; the mirage of Glory; the futilehope in Science and the vain hope in Faith ; hope in the compassion of Nature, herself unhappy ; hope in Death, which will not come. All these Sagramor has known. Each has cheated him in turn . As he weeps and is cast down, theretroop beforehim —wailing their satiety ,moaning withinappeasable hunger for they know not what - the phantoms of Sardanapalus, of Belkiss, and of Solomon , Cleopatra, Caligula, and Giles de Rais, Fra Gil de Santarem , Ludwig II., and Baudelaire. And Sagramor, too , cries his woe - the woe of this worn generation, so immensely sad, immensely ignominious, immensely miserable ; the woe of sated eyes and nocturnal lips. In vain he summons the old illusions; they vanish , fictive and shadowy. Love ? Has he not loved ? “ Kisses; vertiginous and mad - On the mouth roses which flower - In the heart red wounds, which gape.” Riches ? “ What shall one gain for gold ? There's no vendue ofhappiness." Travel? “ The earth is little.” Glory ?" " But they saythe world will have an end . ” The cry of Science is meaningless and the voice of Death is without consolation . Hear now the seventh voice, which is the voice of Life : “ I, it is I, who am Death , - All-conquering, mother of Mystery , – The secret mother ; but choose not me - Pass on ! Away ! I have fear of theel I, it is I, who am Life! -Powerless to die.-- Thou shalt live, aeons of years —It is suffering enough. " Then other voices, innumerable voices, anonymous voices : “ Ask ! All pleasures, the subtlest and rarest — Wilt thou be king ? Or a star ? -Answer ! Ask what thou wilt ! " _ “ I do not know , I do not know ! " I do not know-and this, too , is the burthen of this sated and indifferent century . - The long, dry summer grasses leaned, Unstirred by anywandering wind, Unbrushedby lasy wing Of any fluttering thing. There was no murmuring Abroad in all the quiet air ; Thetwitter of no bird, Nestward flying, there was heard ; Nocricket fiddled anywhere; The dead day drowsily Slipped toward the tideless sea ; Buthighin heaven went one black cloud On which a jeering devil rode And laughed consumedly, T. promise ... THE BAFFLED ENTHUSIAST PHILIP HALE After I left the porter's lodge I walked along lustily under trees that muttered “ We are so old, so old ! ” and I soon saw the house of Mr. Galahad Hyslip, set in a fair landscape. High , supreme September noon ; an English lawn; a non chalant, white peacock , dazzling, stupid, chaste ; an old garden with boxed paths; and there were the yellow fleabane, chequered meadow -saffron , the bladder catch fly, purple starwort, naked crocuses, passion flowers, crimson rudbeckia, rue, and Guernsey lilies. Doves cooed and were not ashamed. Thin smoke crawled skyward out of an iviedchimney. There wasthe pungency of smouldering wood. The sun loafed in an indifferent sky. Peace ! Peace ! I gave the letter of Dr. Forbes -Winslow to the hall -boy and I was shown the way to a cool room with heavy, burgess furnishings. " Mr. Hyslip will be down soon . Will you use everything at your pleasure ? " There were half a dozen paintings on the walls of the low -studded room two or three conventional family portraits; an elderly, bewigged gentleman held a tome as though he might drop it, afraid of a purple-tasseled curtain and a rising thunder -cloud ; a rakish cavalier, with sword and watery eyes; an admirable copy of Rembrandt's “ School of Anatomy" ; a picture of the first autopsy - the physician and the girlish corpse (I have forgotten the name of the painter). This was the only picture of woman in the room . Mad for books, I looked at the titles ofthose within easy reach . There were the writings of Tarnowsky, Gyurkovechky , Moreau of Tours, Ball, Moll, Laycock , Binet, Roubaud, Descuret, Tardieu. There was a superb copy of “ Geneanthropeia,” by Jo. Benedictus Sinibaldus, Rome, 1642, the first edition . There were the four volumes of Martin Schuriger, printed in Dresden in the first half of the eighteenth century. There were rowsandrows of surgeons' reports and large atlases. On the sarcophagal centre -table was an envelope addressed to Mr. Hyslip, and it also bore the address of a Sheffield cutlery firm . By it were two little books, both by Hadrian Beverland,that prodigy of unhappy learning. One was the famous “ Peccatum Originale. " The otherwas that Dodo -book, horrid in cynicism and unhallowed erudition, “ De Stolatae Virginitatis Jure," 1679. I had never before seen the little book and I opened it at random . On the third page are these words : “ Quicquid agunt, cogitant, coquunt, somniant, aut precantur, tendit omne ad efferatam libidinem , ab Eva concitatem , haud tralatitia voluptate sedandam ." And as I read a whitish - bluish voice spoke close to my ear, “ I am delighted to see you. The letter of Dr. Forbes-Winslow was not necessary - we were not so intimate as he gives out ,but I welcome all Americans; I have long admired your surgeons and your detectives. They must be fine fellows. In London , you know , they are bunglers. " Holy Virgin ! Could this man of gentle breeding and gracious carriage be "Jack the Ripper ? " I was prepared to meet a man of education, strong convictions, and considerable reserve force , but never did I dream of such manlygentleness as was revealed in the face and the bearing of Mr. Galahad Hyslip - let us forget the vulgar nickname in the mouths of prudes and flippant persons and the low and the debased . His forehead was porcelain in its whiteness, and chestnut locks adorned a shapely head. His eyes were of kindly blue. A commanding nose without aggressiveness ; a mouth betraying generous impulses and sincerity . Of figure, slender and finely proportioned, with hands and feet delicate, yet without suspicion of effeminacy ; the impression made was that of a courtier of the olden time before the name was synonymous with sycophant and debauchee. " Lunch is served, they tell me. Will you not join me ? We can then talk perhaps more freely. And we walked together to another room . I say we د. مي 45 a walked , although I did not hear his steps on the inlaid floor, and yet as I glanced at his feet I saw that he wore walking-boots. But Mr. Hyslip was gentle in everything. How beautifully he carved the birds ! Firmly , tenderly, exactly , and without ostentation. They quivered once, with delight, recognizing the skill of a master. I could not withhold a compliment, a silly speech, for I was not yet at ease. He thanked me in simple fashion, “ Yes, carving is one of my few accomplishments. But I carve now only for my guests.” He ate no meat. “ For some years, " he said, “ I have been a vegetarian .” “ But you are not related to the Vegetarians of China ? " I asked, hardly knowing what I said, or perhaps moved by the cursed spirit of American humor. “ I have never been in China," he answered, “ there has been so much for me to do in London . " Neither did he drink wine, except to pledge me. “ You will find me an odd person , I fear. Even milk is abhorrent to me. " And then he talked delightfully. Let me recall some of the conversation , without the questions and answers of the reporter's interview . Not that he insisted on monologue. He asked much concerning America ; he busied himself hospitably about my journey, but I only put down here his sayings of permanent interest. “ Yes, it is true that some of the semi- educated have compared me with the Marquis de Sade ; he had not mastered his profession , and then he was so shock ingly immoral. Even my good friend Dr. Krafft-Ebing has fallen into this error ; but he assures me that the mistake will be corrected in the next edition of his invaluable work , which, by the way, will be dedicated to me. No, I am a disciple of no school. I acknowledge no master. Whatever I have done, of whatever worth it may be, viewed artistically, of whatever benefit to the world at large, it is my own. “ You will admit that there is to -day a healthier tone in English society, par ticularly since the overthrow of Gladstone and those damned Radicals. I admire Gladstone as a religious writer and like to think of him debating as to whether man is intrinsically immortal or merely immortalizable. “ No, I am not much interested in modern belles - lettres. French novels are to me so much export literature. The instrumentalists et al. are so many babblers and chatterers. As for the realists, the surgeon is your true realist. I have not read Ibsen's plays. Maeterlinck wrote prefaces to mystical thoughts of Ruysbroeck and Novalis, and they are of solace to me in my retreat. Oh, I forget Laforgue - Jules Laforgue --whose " Lohengrin ' should be read by every young man of worthy ambition. The books yousawin the drawing-room are chiefly books of reference of a professional nature. My library is up-stairs. There I keep the books dear to me, the books that have influenced me : ' The Early Christian Fathers , especially Saint Augustine's “ City of God '; ' The Adventures of Jacques Sadeur'; " The Revelations of Antoinette Bourignon '; ' The Theatre of God's Judgments' ; and, above all, Thomas á Kempis, who teaches self -denial. Self -denial, the one thing to be sought, and if the unfortunate have not the courage to practise self-denial they must be helped , even though the assistance may seem cruel. “ I am fond of Treasure Island '; there's no woman in it. “ Puvis is to me the painter, as Palestrina is the one musician . “ I live here quietly, seeing very few persons. The Dean dines with me occasionally, but I am tired easily and like to be alone. By the way, when you deal thirteen cards for a stock in Patience and start with one to build from , do you then put down three cards and add to both ends, or put down four and add only as from eight to seven , or king to queen ? “ I was much interested in surgery when I was a lad. One day I read a sentence by Hadrian Beverland beginning, ' Quicquid agunt, cogitant' -- you know Latin , of course ? That moment II consecrated myself to my mission ." This is Philip Hale. Condemned by the cruel tsar, Chance, he inakes exquisite and fluted prose for musical mediocrities in the drab town of Boston. He is a genius harnessed to a newspaper, Beauty mated in inky commerce with the Beast. Some strange, tepid night he will unfold his so norous wings and whirr his way to New York, to " M'lle New York , " and then his incomparable voice shall short in ivory -moulded tones for them that wander on the house- tops. Butalas,hedrags sul len anchor now in drab Boston tmun . a

There was a long pause after this -statement concerning the first awakening to the necessity and the responsibilities of a life -mission. We had talked of many, many things and the shadows were a lengthening. I might never see him again . Should I dare to ask the question ? It escaped my mouth before I had framed it carefully so as not to offend. “ One murky night," said Mr. Hyslip , “ I went to the city in the pursuit of my calling. I shall never forget that night. Not superstitious, not easily perplexed, I felt while in the station aforeboding of evil. Twas nearly cock -crow before Í foundin a wretched boozing -ken a creature in need of assistance, so it seemed to me. But it was aNew Woman, and for the first time in my professional experience I found no field wherein to operate ." Mr. Hyslip was agitated, but he did not rebuke my thoughtlessness. There were ebon tones in his voice, ebon spotted with flaming scarlet and angry red, as he told of his bitter disappointment. " Pardon me, " he said, “ but it is my hour for resting. Mynights were so long disturbed that the physician advises sleeping in the day until I amstronger. Another time you will come and chat with me and I'll show you my collection ; it is at least unique. " Without the doves were cooingand were not ashamed. The nonchalant, white peacock still stood, dazzling, stupid, chaste. The air was still surcharged with the pungency of smouldering wood. " Thin smoke still crawled skyward out of an ivied chimney. Peace ! Peace ! And I was loath to quit the charmed scene . ONE IN THE CROWD From matin chime to even bell, Now up, now down, He wanders through the town ; Eventhe blindbeggar knows his footsteps well. His face is void, preoccupied With some vague thought That evermore, half-caught, Eludes him as he stares, eyes opened wide, Unwatchful of the passing show And of the throng That, hurrying along, With jostling elbows bump him as they go. Through trodden mud his steps he plies - Fate's humble tool. Andyet this wide-mouthed fool Walks with his head among the spangled skies ! A. L. M. GOTTSCHALK REGINA POPULORUM She was a queen , such as a queen should be, Who dragged a jewelled flood of rich brocade Over the tesselated floors, inlaid With hued stones, haughtily. And as she walked she went in regal guise, Unconscious, sowing heartaches and numb rain ; Upon her carven lips a calm disdain , Indifference in her eyes. Nor looked she at the tinselled troubadours, Whose slender fingers flittingly caressed The tense strings into love tunes ; she possessed Her thoughts for paramours. And she, the queen — ' twas thus the legend ran Who could have set her small foot, silken -shod, Upon the necks of the elect of God, Cared for no living man. Then , as men sometimes do, her knights grew wild For frenziedjousts, and many a bright blade brake, Spattered with blood and brains, forher love's sake. Andyet she never smiled Till, frighted at the sea of tossing crests, The clarion's blare, or the steel's strident ring, Her ape, a noisome and outlandish thing, Cowered, grinning, between her breasts. A. L. M. GOTTSCHALK - 46 a a At nine o'clock the sun set. A dull mist spread along the earth ; a few stars pricked the sky : THREE NIGHTS two hourslater onesaw thelight of the moon. I wandered through the woods, my gun in a shoulder strap. My dog followed at my heels. I lit a fire, the light of which went glimmering through the OF IRON branches. It was not cold . " It is the firstnight of iron , ” I said to myself. The hour and the place filled me with a curiously FROM THE NOR troubled joy. WEGIAN OF KNUT A toast, О men and beasts andbirds , a toast to the silent night in the woods, in the woods ! A toast to the shadowsandthevoices of thegodsamongthe trees ; a toast to the serene and HAMSUN simple delights of the great silence which caresses my ears ; a toast to the green leaves and the yellow leaves. V. T. Let us drink to the noise of life , I hear the quick breath - a dog snuffs the earth . A joyous toast to the cat who crouches to leap on the sparrow in the shadows, in the shadows. A toast to the earth , to the stars and the half-moon - ho, to the stars and the demi- lune! I rise and listen . Noone has heard me. I sit again by the fire. My thanks to the silent night, to the night of peace, to the mountains and the sounds ofthe sea which flood my heart. And to my life, thanks, to my breath ; for the boon of living this night, my thanks. Hark to the East and the West --hear, then , it is the eternal God. A thread of light from the fire shines in myeyes. I hear the oars of a skiff troubling the water. An aurora -borealis glides out of heavento the north, far to the north . Oh, by my immortal soul, I give thanksthat it is I, even I, who amseated in this place. Silence. A pine cone falls heavilytoearth. A pine cone has fallen, think I. The moonishigh. The fire has spread to the branches and half consumed them . The hour is late and I go homethrough the night. The second night of iron . The same tranquility and serene weather. My soul speculates ; mechanically I select a tree andstretch myself at its foot, my cap over my eyes, my hands under my head. And I look at the flames. I see a glint of flame from my fire. I reflect on what I have done. But why stare into the glint of flame ? Aesop, my dog, lifts his head, his ears thrown forward ; he hears a step. A moment later Eva comes . "I am pensive and sad and black, " I say , and she, in sympathy, makes no answer. " I love three things," I say, “ the dream of a love I had once and you and the black pine forest, here where the heart of earth beats ." " And which do you love the best ? " “ The dream . " For a little while silence . Aesop knows Eva ; he lays his head on her knee and looks in her face. I murmur : " Today I met agirl on the highway. She was on the arm of her lover. The girl stared at me curiously andcould hardly keep from laughing as I passed. " “ What was she laughing at? " Eva demanded . " Undoubtedlyshe was laughing at me. Why did you ask that ? " “ Did you know her ? " “ Yes.' I bowed to her. ” " And she didn't know you ? " " No. But why do you question me in this way ? It is unkind. You will not make me tell you her name ? " I murmur again : “ What made her laugh ? Of course , she is a coquette, but why did she laugh ? In God's name, what did I do ? " Eva replies : " It waswicked of her to mock you." " No, it was notwrong of her," I cry , " you must not blame her. She did nothing wrong. She was right to laugh atme. Keep quiet and leave mein peace, do you hear ? " Then Eva is silent. I glance ather face and, incontinent,repent my harsh words. I fall at her feet and take her hands in mine. “ Go home, dear,now . It is you , you , you I love the best. How could I love a dream ? It was a foolish jest. It is you, you I love. And now go, dear. " And Eva went away. The third night of iron , night of extreme anxiety . If it were only cold ! But no ; a stifling heat lingersnow the sunhas gone. ' I arrange my fire. “ Eva, theremightbea certain pleasure in being dragged by the hair. Even tortureis not all pain . Thusa man mightbedragged by his hair through valleys and over mountains, and if by chance someone should ask him , " What is the matter ?! he would answer joyously, ' I am being dragged by the hair, and if someone should ask him , ' Can I not aid you ? Can I not rescue you ? ' he would answer, ' No.' and if someone should ask , " Can you endure it ? he would answer, “ Yes, I can endure it, for I love the hand that drags me.' Eva, do you know what hope is ? " A pause. a " Yes, I think I know . " “ You see, Eva, to hope is a strange thing, yes, a singular thing. Some morning, one may be passing along the highway and one may hopeto meet someone, some dear one. Now ,does one meet her ? No. Why not ? Because she was busy this morning; because she walked by another road » “ I knew an old blind Lap in the mountains. For fifty -eight years he had seen nothing and he was seventy years old. He imagined that little by little he was regaining his sight; that if no ill chance befell in a fewyears he would be able to see the sun . His hair wasstill black , but his old eyes were entirely white. Seated under his tent we smoked, and he told me all he had seen before hebecameblind. He was hardy and robust, without sensibility, with health of iron . Hope sustained him . When I made ready to go he followed me out of doors and pointed out the different directions. ' Yonder is the south , there is the north ; you go by yonder path , and when youhave gone so far you turn to the left and Quiteright,'said L. And the Laplaughedaloud, adding, ' Well,for fifty yearsIhave not seen it, but I see better every day, always better.' And he entered his tent, his eternal tent, and seated himself by the fire, full ofhope that some day he would see again the sun ." . “ Eva, it is wondrous strange -hope! 1 even hope I may forget the girl I met this morning on the highway Whydo you say these things ?” " It isthe third nightof iron . I promise to be another man to -morrow , Eva. Leave mealone now . You will not know meto-morrow when I come. Ishall laugh and kiss you, dear. Think, there is only one night more ; in a few hours I shall be another man . Good night, Eva. " Good night. ” The rim of fire-light narrowed ; the brown of the night crept up , blotting the stars ; the white half -moon shone, wonderfully alone. I watched her - a passion for her stirred in me and I blushed . " It is the moon ! " I whispered hotly. “ The moonn !” She drew my heart to her. I know not how long I lay. A strange wind blew over me. The wind called to me and my soul replied. I felt my soul go out of me; it was clasped by invisible arms to an unseen breast ; in the silence. My soul passed —a grey silhouette among the tree - stems. It was long, long before the strange wind bore it back to me. Now all things are changed for me, be it for good or evil. My life is inflamed and a great melancholy broods over it Until the three nights come again . SUR UN PORTRAIT DE LA JOCONDE Un beau jeune homme, aux reins féconds, au cour puissant, Sait faire éclore au flanc de la femme qu'il aime Un baiser plein de vie, un enfant, un poème De chair blanche où circule et bouillonne le sang. Toi, sans espoir de fruit, fleur de beauté suprême ! Tu t'es fanée aux bras du Vinci vieillissant; Quel désir fugitif, quel regret innocent Fit de ta lèvre obscure un palpitant problème ? Dans les glaciers du rêve et leur stérilité Rêvais-tu des bonheurs de la maternité ? ... Dedaignais - tu les sens et leur banal délire? ... Qui sait ? . . . Tu souriais au prince du pinceau ; Et cet instant dota l'univers d'un sourire Qui t'enorgueillira plus longtemps qu'un berceau . MAURICE CARTUYVELS

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After Wagner the deluge? No, Johannes Brahms.Aswellpraise in golden enthusiasmsthe beer A BRAHMSODY which comes from the Fatherland. Brahms andbeer ; Wagner and wine. It is a pretty alliteration , but it is strained and will not hold water. Wagner, the high priest of the music-drama; a great scene-painter intones. Brahms, awrestler with the Dwellers onthe Threshold of the Infinite; a musical philosopher, J. G. H. a Kant, a Schopenhauer; but ever a poet. Remember that, a poet. “ Bach, Beethoven , and Brahms," cried Von Bulow ; but he forgot Schumann. The molten tide of passion and extravagance that swept over intellectual Europe threescore years ago bore on its foaming Crest Robert Schumann. He was first cousin to the prince of romancists, Heinrich Heine ; Heine, who dipped his pen in honey and gall and sneered and wept in the same couplet. In the tangled , rich underwood of Schumann the young Brahms wandered. There he heard the moon sing silvery, and the leaves rustle rhythms to the heartbeats of lovers. All German romance, phantasy, passionwas in Schumann , the Schumann of the Papillons and the Carneval. Brahms walked as did Dante, with the Shades. Bach guided his footsteps ; Beethoven bade him glance aloft at the star of classicism . And Brahms had for his legacy polyphony, form , and masterful harmonies. In hismusic the formulist finds perfect things. Structurally he is as great as Beethoven, perhaps greater. His architectonic issuperb . His melodic contentis his own as he strides in stately pomp in the fugued Alexandrines of Bach. Brahms and beer -no . Brahms and Browning: Brahms and Freedom ; Brahms and Now . The romantic infant of 1832 died of intellectual anemia , leaving the world as a legacy one of the most marvellous groupings of genius since Athens's sky carolled azure glances to Pericles. Then came the revolution of 1848, and araceof sewermensprang upfrom themud. Flaubert, his face turned to the past, his feet to the future, gazed sorrowfully at Carthage and wrote an epic of the bourgeois. Zola and his gang delved into moral cesspools, and the world grew aweary of the stink. Chopin and Schumann, faint, fading flowers of romanticism , were put in albums wheretheir purple harmonies and subtle sayings are pressedinto sweet twilight forgetfulness. Even Berlioz, whose orchestral ozone -true Berliozone - revivified the scores of Wagner and Liszt ; even mad Hector, with the flaming locks, sounded garishly empty, brilliantly superficial. The New Manhad arrived. A short, stocky youth played his sonata in C, his Opus I., for Liszt, and the Magyar of Weimar returned the compliment by singing in archangelic tones his own phantasy in B minor, which he fondly and futilely believed a sonata. Brahms fell asleep , and Liszt was enraged. But how symbolical of Brahms to fall asleep at the very onset of his career, fall asleep before Liszt's music. It is the new wearied of the old, the young fatigued by the garrulities of age. It is sad; it is wonderful. Brahms is of today. He is the scientist turned philosopher, the philosopher turned musician. If he were not a great composer he would be a great biologist, a great metaphysician. There are passages in his music in which I detect the philosopher contemplating his navel, the true symbol of eternity Brahms dreams of pure white staircases that scale the Infinite. A dazzling, dry light floods his mind, and you hear the rustling of wings -wings of great, terrifying monsters ; hippogrifs of horrid mien ; hieroglyphic faces, faces with stony stare, menace your imagination. He can bring down within the compass of the octave moods that are outside the pale of mortals. He is a magician , spectral at times, yet his songs have the homely lyric fervour and concision of Robert Burns. Agroperafter theuntoward, Ihave shuddered at certain bars in his F sharp minor sonata and wept with themoonlit tranquility in the slow movement of the F minor sonata . He is often dull, muddy -pated, obscure, and maddeningly slow . Then a rift of lovely music wells out of the mist; you are enchanted and cry, “ Brahms, master, anoint again with thy precious melodic chrism our thirsty eyelids !" Brahms is an inexorable formulist. His four symphonies, his three piano sonatas, the choral works and chamber music —are they not all living testimony to his admirable_management of masses ? He is not a greatcolourist. For him the pigments of Makart, Wagner, and Theophile Gautier are as naught, Like Puvis de Chavannes, he is a Primitive. Simple, flat tints, primary and cool, are superimposed upon an enormous rhythmic versatility and a strenuousness of ideation . Ideas, noble, profundity embracing ideas, he has. Hesays great things in a great manner, but it is not the smart, epigrammatic, scarlet, flashing style of your little man. He disdains racial allusions. Heis a German ,but a planetary Teuton. Youseek in vain for the geographical hints, hintings that chain E -Grieg -ious Grieg to the map ofNorway. Brahms's melodies are world-typical, not cabinned and confined to his native breweries. Thislargeness ofutterance,lack of polish, and a disregard for the politesse of his art do not endearhim to the unthinking. Yet, what a master miniaturist he is in his little piano pieces, his intermezzi. There he catches the tender sigh of childhood or the faint, intimate flutterings of the heart stirred by desire. Feminine, he is asis no woman ; virile, as few men . ' The sinister fury, the mocking, drastic fury of his first rhapsodies -- true soul tragedies -how they unearthed the core of pessimism in our age. Pessimist? Yes, but yet believer ; a believer in himself, so a believer in men and women. He reminds me more of Browning than does Schumann. The full -pulsed humanity, the dramatic ---yes, Brahms is dramatic , not theatric - modes of analysis, the flow , glow , and relentless tracking to their ultimate lair ofmotives is Browning; but the composer never loses his grip on the actualities of structure. After Chopin,Brahms. Hegivesus a cooling, deepdraught in exchange forthesugared wormwood, the sweet, exasperated poison of the Polish charmer. A great sea is his music, and it sings about the base of that mighty mount we call Beethoven. Brahms takes us to subterrene depths ; Beethoven is for the heights. Strong lungs are neededfor the company of both these giants. Brahms, the surgeon whose scalpel pierces the sores of modern soul -maladies. Bard and healer. Beethoven and Brahms. 90

NOSOPHILIA Her face was full of accents. There were rhythmic lines upon the brow which spoke of finely ordered, harmoniously marshalled thoughts. Her eyes were small, and a glance at her ears showed the A NORDAU HEROINE lobes undetached. Their shape proved without peradventure that she disliked ,even hated,music. There was nothing remarkable about the face but its accentual versatility. Odin noticed two harsh lines that furrowed either side of the nose. And the nose, slightly flattened, was curved beak-wise. The nose of a predaceous bird. She had a habit of inflating her nostrils, when animated, until her nose looked like that J. G. H. of a wooden rocking-horse. The figure and carriage betrayed a strong will and much courageousness. Then she had little movements, bird -like, as she preened her neck. She was not vain , but was passionately jealous. Odin married her and together they counted white nights. The morning of their marriage the woman put her hands on the man's shoulders : “ You mean this, Odin ? ” she said drily. “ It is much to me. ” And then she wound about him, but did not kiss him. He was affectionate and told her to comfort herself. She did not answer, but plunged her face into his neck. Long inhalations, passionate inhala tions she took , and he stood confused, trembling. She was so unlike other women he had known. As the weeks merged into months he noticed with alarm his wife's curious taste for odours. She filled their rooms with scent-bottles and spent the day arranging and fussing over them . He joked her about it ; but she looked sad, so he refrained. One day he found her reading a French story by Huysmans, “ A Rebours.” Odin could not speak French , but he felt jealous without exactly knowing the reason. She grew every night more tender. It seemed to Odin she was becoming strange. Always reserved, she would sit for anevening without uttering a sound, flacon in hand, inhaling some perfume. She saw but few , and startled her husband by telling him that she knew people merely by their odours. Once she said, " I smell your brother," and a momentlater he entered the house. Thatnight Odin dreamed of vampires; vampires that gazed at him with the inscrutable eyes of his wife. He became oppressed by her manner of embracing him . It stifled, it repelled him, and soon he feared bed -time. If she would not so eagerly , so strenuously, sniff at his neck ! It was unwomanly ; it was unnatural. Her passion for odours grew apace. She emulated Huysman's degenerate hero, Des Esseintes, in costly experiments. Her life went into her nostrils, and the breath of her nostrils was odours ; odours penetrating as iris, odours full of dumb music, inarticulate passion. She would roll by the hour over a rug saturated with tuberose, and Odin was reminded of a cat. He grew thin, and his wife feline. Her eyes half closed, her muzzle, instinct with tremulousness, seemed to search for new smells. Odin began to stay away of nights. He was not a drinking man, but he foresaw dissipation if the strain lasted much longer. Naturally healthy -minded, he abhorred the abnormal, and when a friend advised him to read Max Simon Nordau's “ Degeneration,” he refused. Having a discussion about varying types of degenera tion at his club, he bought the ponderous, tiresome tome. There was much that bored him , much that he did not look at, but one passage set him reading about Baudelaire and his passion for perfumes, and then the truth came upon him unawares. His wife was a degenerate. She had a morbid, a horrible love of odours. She wasa nosophile, a thing that divined the world about her by her scent, as does the dog. This intoxication , hideously subtile, was deadly, dulling, and supremely dangerous for her soul's welfare. Had he not read the Fathers of the Church ? Had not Saint Augustin, had not the Holy Ambrose warned women publicly from the pulpit against the corrupting evils of perfume ? Perfumes, the most villainous ally of Satan ! Oh, why had he been so blind ! If she married him for his own peculiar personal odour, wasit not possible that shemight discover a man whose scent would be more alluring? Odin grew madly jealous when he thought of his barber. Then he resolved to watch. But it was fruitless of result. His wife continued as passionately in love with his neck, his hair, and she gave no hint of change. The household was neglected , and bills from perfumers and chemists rolled in. Odin noticed that she grew cool when his hair was not heavily perfumed, and his vanity often got the better of his good taste. One day the mistress of a club friend died . No onewas at the funeral but the bereaved manand Odin. The leavetaking from the body was most affecting. Odin's friend loved the dead woman and Odin himself was fond of her. He kissed her brow and threw a spray of tuberose on her breast before the coffin -lid was closed. That night he stayed late at the club anddrank deeply with his friend. It was two o'clock when he let himself into his hall, a little the better for wine, and then he went up-stairs assilently as his befogged feet would allow him. When he entered his room , it was lighted by two gas-jets and on the bed his wife sprawled in joyless pose. Odin undressed slowly, reluctantly. This loveless union was becoming a martyr dom. What if he escaped it, what if he boldly confessed to his wife the utter misery of their marriage! Ah ! he was brave this night. The funeral and the champagne had given him hysterical courage. In his underclothing he stepped to the bed and touched her head. She at once sat up, staring at him with strange eyes. Her glance was disheartening. The expression narcotized, and through Odin's mind there flashed the idea that she might be an eater of drugs. One look at her nose curving with pride and passion told him she was the vic tim of something infinitely more sensual, more hopelessly enslaving, than opium. “ Come to me, Odin , ” she moaned. “ I am mad for you, mad for your face, your sweet odour. ” The man was nauseated . The thing was too horrible to last longer. She noticed his gesture of repulsion, and with a bound like a leopard's she threw herself on him, and he toppled over on the bed. Winding her long, ape-like arms about his body, she pressed her nose upon his neck. “ Tuberosei Oh, devil, you have been with a woman ; I smell her; pig !" she screamed, and she bit into his jugular vein, tearing and rending the flesh like a wild beast, blinded with blood, ferocious and growling. They were both cold when the police broke into the house twenty-four hours later. 45 the Celebrated WHY NOT Sobmer to make the baby fat ? 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AND LADIES' ROUND HATS AND BONNETS AND THE DUNLAP SILK UMBRELLA 178-180 Fifth Avenue, between Twenty -second and Twenty-third Sts., New York 181 Broadway, near Cortlandt St. , New York of artist Palmer House, Chicago w 914 Chestnut St., Philadelphia ACCREDITED AGENCIES IN ALL PRINCIPAL CITIES J. & W. Nicholson & Co., Ltd. London · Finest • Old Tom and Dry Gins FLEMING SCHILLER & CARHRICK . ARE THE SS as on PRINTERS OF MLLE NEWYORK 23 ST Raoul- Duval, Stevens & Hall 63 Pine Street, New York se SOLE AGENTS 49 COPYRIGHT 1895 BY MLLE NEW YORK CORPORATION THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY Mujer Now YorkASTOR, LENOX AND TILDENFOUNDATIONS 4 FORTNIGHTLY Vol. I. No. 7 FIRST FORTNIGHT IN NOVEMBER, 1895 Price 10 Cents SUBSCRIPTION $ 2.00 A YEAR PUBLISHED BY M'LLE NEW YORK CORPORATION 20 رای OFFICE 256 WEST TWENTY - THIRD STREET, NEW YORK : : : OVE ir وس Tbomas fleming and T. = Powers artists Vance Tbompson editor James Gibbons buneker associate editor THE GOAT, THE GREEN COCK , AND THE WOMAN WITH NOC TURNAL EYES V. T.Sans a O you , my joyous brothers in art ; to you who love art faithfully, excellently, inevitably, and are unabashed ; to you greeting and these words: It is not well that the goat and the green cock should enter the fair garden of art. The goat is no degenerate satyr, but the devil himself, as appears by confes sions in the “ Daemonolatriae " of Remigius ( lib . 1 , cap. 14 ) and in Delrio's “ Disquisition on Magic " ( lib. 2, quaest. 6 ) . It has been proved, moreover, by King James of Blessed Memory andmany others, that the green cock is no other than Satan. Butthe devil has also power, as Saint Andrew shows, to appear in the guise of a young woman of extreme beauty. At these times he is most to be feared. It was of such a devil-woman that Eumenes asked, “ Why, she is a woman, is she not? ” But Memnon made no answer. Against the goat and the green cock and the woman with the oblique look it were well to shut the gates of the garden of art ; for they are but manifestations of the devil. It was as awoman, with an insolent, serené face, limpid eyes, and a large, cruel mouth, that the devil appeared to the great Dutch painter, Torrentius, and betrayed him. And when the painter was given over to the torture and his paintings were burned in the market-place of Treve, the devil vanished, leaving an abominablesmell of sulphur. So wonderful this woman is ! So insidious are the temptations of the Most Low ! She smiled with Priapian eyes at Rembrandt; she posed in frivolous infamy for Fragonard and Boucher; she perverted the senile years of Badouin. Then she laid aside allgrace and reticence that the cold Briton , Rowlandson, might love her. Ferocious, violent, frenetic dear Lord ! in what frightful postures she danced in the eyes of the startled Briton . A gross, ventripotent figure, contorted by monstrous gestures --surely this was no woman, but the veritable spirit of evil, which is no strange thing, for there is a like instance in Eusebius, which King James confirms. If you study Rowlandson's pictures you will discern that it is not a woman hepaints, but a white- and - pink animal shaped like a woman. This, I fancy, is additional evidence, for it is a commonplace of the schoolmen that the devil, while he can fashion a human body, is powerless to inform it with a soul. It is not without significance that learned men believe that this same devil was the Priapus worshippedin the antique world to the damnation of many souls. It is probable, too, that Herodias was no true woman, but a manifestation of the devil, such as appeared to Saint Anthony and in later years deluded many painters and writers. This devil whispered into the ear of Glatigny the "Joyeusetes du Vidame de la Braguette " and pointed out to Delvau the way to Eleutheropolis or to Lampsacos. This devil, cunningly disguised as a woman of Paris, sang to Theodore Hannon "“ Les Rimes de Joie and taught Felicien Rops the lines of uncanny, soulless female faces. This devil guided Rodin's chisel and tempted the great master, Degas. Inthe Middle Ages the devil was wont' to appear monstrously ; to Saint Romualdus he showed himself as avulture ( which is his true nature) and to Evagrus as a clerk and to others as a goat ora green cock. Bodinus saw him once as a man in decent black , booted and spurred. Of late years Verlaine saw him as a goat. Israel Zangwill, who is an unbeliever, records a recent manifestation of Satan in which he appeared as half Yankee and half satyr. But these are all rare. In none of these guises now does the Most Low attempt to enter the fair garden of art. The devil's guise to -day is that of a woman , serene and insolent, with immitigable and exceptional eyes and a mouth overlarge. She passes, and in the garden of art the white roses wither. Dear Lord ! Among the white roses, this face, terrible in its authentic and animal reality ; this face, at once contemporary and Byzantine, at once an allegory and a synthesis; this face of indolent flesh, with nocturnal, secret eyes; this face that is at once an incantation , a cry , a menace, and an invitation to furtive satanic rites ; this face, ironic, scatalogical, disquieting, and implacable —the face of a woman incriminated with magic ; this face, tellingof mandragora and philtres and black masses, celebrated in obscene nights -- of green woods and the impious cries of satyrs and extinguished torches ; this face, in which are written ardent sorrows and impossible joys— the au dela of evil ! Whether the devil comes in the shape of goat or green cock or sorceress with strident eyes ,the gates of the garden of art should be made fast against him . Lest the fair white roses wither ! .دیا 30 - - INwriting ofthe symbolists it is necessary to mention only, Stephane THE TECHNIQUE Mallarme. I say this with a full knowledge of Rene Ghil, whosebooks I read very faithfully once upon a time. Nor need it here be any ques OF THE tion of MauriceMaeterlinck and his dark followers ; nor of William SYMBOLISTS Sharpe, who is merely an inerudite translator. Ghil, like Verhaeren, is of Flemish origin and claims Spanish blood . His work is, in a large VANCE THOMPSON measure , aneuphuistic elaboration of Mallarme. His euphuism led him to expand Rimbaud's famous theory of the colour of the vowels - A black , E white, I red, U green , O blue. He found their tone equivalents. For him the organ is black , the harp white, the violins blue, the brasses red, and the flutes yellow . He went even farther and assigned to each consonant its hue and tone. All of which is inutile and fictive. Nor is there any occasion for attempting an estimate or description of the poetic work of StephaneMallarme, this high artist, so indifferent to modernity . It would be impossible to add anything to what Paul Verlaine has written in “ Les Poetes Maudits " and " Les Hommes d'Aujourd'hui." Indeed, my purpose in this article is very simple. I wish only to give as clear an explanation asI can of the symbol as Mallarme uses it. Mr. George Moore in his “ Confessions of a Young Man " touches upon the matter, but darkly and inadequately. As far as Iknow no helpfulanalysis has yet been made. Mr. Sharpe is quite abroad, and Mr. Moore halts. Inthe first place, one must get away from the antique meaning of the word symbol, for it is evident that all literature is symbolic. Indeed, in a wide sense of the word, Shakespeare is an impenitent -- and in the sonnets an immoral -symbolist. Mallarmehas narrowed the meaning of the word. With him symbolism is at oncea mode of thought and a form of expression . His theory of poetry is a plain matter, an Hellenic commonplace. It is the duty of poetry - art of sounds andrhythms -to create emotions. Now the emotions, it is evident, are inseparable from their causes, from the ideas which evoke them . Pleasure nor grief exist abstractly , there are pleasant ideas or grievous ones. There must then be a nice adjustment between the emotions and the syllables and rhythms chosen to evoke them . The emotions Mallarme wishes to excite are those of intellectual joy, of subtile speculation, the extreme joy of thought about thought. The symbol is his motif which he develops, logically and inevitably, through premeditated syllables, evocative of certain emotions. Take, for instance , his “ Faune." A faun in the glowof an antique afternoon saw light nymphs, loving and joyous. They fled . And the faun is sad ; it was a dream - gone forever. But he understandsthat all things seen are merely dreams of the soul. He summons again the mad and loving phantoms. He recreates their forms; their hot kisses stain his lips ; he would fain clasp the fairest -and again the vision vanishes. But how vain would be regret ! For when he will he may recall the riant nymphs, phantasies of the soul. This is at once Mallarme's philosophy and mode. Poetry is an art as complex , as subtile and difficult as the art of music. For a man unlearned in the art of music to admire Beethoven is an affectationand imper tinence. Why should the uninstructed person pretend to judge the equally elaborate art ofpoetry .? It is absurd. Mallarme writes for the savant in this beautiful art. Here and there a precise word,premeditated, logical,'necessary for the develop ment of the motif; for the rest syllables purely musical. " A noble poet is dead. Regrets? But what then is the death of a man but the vanishing of one of our dreams. Men , whom we believe real, are but the triste opacite deleurs spectres futurs. Butthe poet, beyond his vain physical existence, lives for usa high ,imperishable life. The poet is a solemn agitation of words; the death of a poet purifies our fiction of him . " He wrote this of Gautier. CHA

427X6 Sin a Another symbol : “ In a desolate cloister cell an old monk transcribes patient writings. He has lived ignorant and chaste ; he copies an ancient manuscript, it may be some naif romance of Alexandria, in which two laughing children meetand kiss timidly . And desire creeps into the empty, idle soul of the good monk.. He summons the lovers to live for him their moods of tenderness and passion. And forthwith he comes to be himself this young and happy lover." This is from the prose for " Des Esseintes. ” Is it a souvenir or a dream ? Perhaps a fantastic hyperbole of a far -off recollection. The monk wishes in his cell to live the young and splendid life of love. And he lives it. He walks with the riant girl in familiar gardens. Touched with love, he sees a transfigured world . The flowers are larger ; great lilies nod enchanted. He wanders in a radiant dream . Then love passes and the miracle is finished. He dreams again that he is a poor old monk ; vainly he criesto the riant girl. He bends againover his parchments, a phantom irked by an obscure destiny . He waits until this dream too shall be effaced, when the black pall falls and death is.

Mallarme published this sonnet a few months ago : Surgi de la croupe et du bond Le pur vase d'aucum breuvage D'une verrerie éphémère, Que l'inexhaustible veuvage Sansfleurir la veillée amère Agonise, mais ne consent, Le col ignoré s'interrompt. Naif baiser des plus funèbres, Je crois bien que deux bouches n'ont A rien expirer annonçant Bu, ni son amant ni ma mére Une rose dans les ténèbres. Jamais à la même chimère Moi, sylphe, de ce froidplafond ! It may be that in some such way as this he approached his symbol: There is on the table a vase, delicate, fragile, in which lately the flowers stood radiant. The poet perceives it. He considers its exquisite form , daintily turned ; the shapely flanks, which seem to throb. He observes the neck rising gracefully to end in sud den interruption. Sadly the poet muses that no flower is there to console his bitter vigil. And here, I take it, is the point of poetical departure. Why, then , can he not find in himself, the poet, this flower which he desires? Can Can he not by his sovereign will evoke one flower ? No doubt by his very birth he is condemned to this inefficiency ; an antique hereditary inertia cumbers him . No doubt his parents neglected to dower him with this power of evocation ; neglected to drink at the fecund spring of chimera ; and now the spring is dry. The poet agonizes and in vain . Thevaseis empty. For him there is only sad vacuity, empty ; and his re volt is empty. He cannot summon the dead .

And finally read this sonnet : Une dentelle s'abolit Dans le doute du Jeu suprême A n'entr'ouvrir, comme un blasphème, Qu'absence éternelle de lit. Cet unanime blanc conflit D'une guirlande avec la même, Enfui contre la vitre blême Flotte plus qu'il n'enselevit. Mais chez qui du rêve se dore, Tristement dort une mandore Au creux néant musicien , Telle que, vers quelque fenêtre, Selon nul ventre que le sien, Filial on aurait pu naltre. A lace curtain ; this is the subject, the symbol, the motif, the poet's point of departure. He sees the lace curtain hanging at his window . It suggests to him a nuptial couch . Then he perceives there is no bed under the lace ; this to him seems a blasphemy; futile lace stretched across the pale and empty window. He watches the white, monotonous conflict of vague lines on the shadowy window -panes, but he can not recover that fugitive impression of a nuptial couch. But now the Dream comes and effaces his regret: because in the soul of him who knows the Dream , a lute wakes eternally : because in the secret soul of him the magic mandora of phantasy wakes evermore. What matters then the absence of a bed under this lace ? The poet conceives himself delivered of the Dream , child of this phantasy which dwells ever in the soul. The curving contour of the lute-- is it not the royal womb where grows, safe from the exasperations of daily existence, the intimate life, the patient, immortal life of art ? And this lace, fluctuant, vague, is indeed the sumptuous curtain of a bed truly real —bed where the poet himself is born . To turn one of Mallarme's golden symbols into even barren and sodden prose is at once difficult and absurd . It is as though one were to write out in drab wordsa Cesar Franck sonata. My whole attempt has been to expose, in a slight measure, Mallarme's technique -- his method of using the symbol." The familiar object is his point of departure ; he passes thence to its poetical intention. And again : His thematic development is carried on by certain chosen , premeditated words ; for the rest there is only syllabic colour and syllabic tone. THE PRAYER OF MAURICE MAETERLINCK ( ENGLISH BY V. 1. ) Lord, like a woman is my soul afraid , See Thou, O Lord, what I herein have made With mine own hands, the lilies of my soul And of mine eyes, the heaven of my heart. Have pity, Lord, on my great misery, I have lost the palm and I have lost the ring. Have pity on the prayers I send to Thee The poor prayer- flowers, which in a vase I bring. Have pity on the evil of my mouth, On my regrets have mercy ! In the drouth Of fever send white lilies, Lord, and sow Roses, all roses, where the marsh -plants grow '. My God ! the ancient flights of doves, that part, Yellow the heaven of mine eyes. Have dole And pity on the loin -cloths. Lord, they do Encompass me with gestures, vague and blue. THE GHOST OF A TURTLE A FABLE FOR NAUGHTY NURSES Why should an etiolated Lark alone be naif ! Let us all be naif. Let us be Hump. erdincked and rejoice with childish laughter at Purple CowsandChortling Turtles, J. G. H ES," said Goo Goo, " I am sure that he will be here in a moment. I saw his little mottled head and staring green eyes peering into the chamber through a crevice in the portal.” The speaker, an intellectuallooking child ofsome four or five summers, was standing with his back to a large blazing fire of cannel-coal in an old , lofty wainscoted chamber. He was attired in a Fauntleroy suit of brown velvet. A Scotch cap with a peacock feather was perched jauntily on a head of bonny brown curls, but the sunny face was disfigured by a cigarette which Goo Goo puffed at nonchalantly, displaying a pudgy brown hand covered with diamonds. He had the pose of a young man thoroughly self- satisfied . A very , very old lady in a very , very high baby -chair sat in front of him . She toyed in an infantile manner with the rattles and blocks heaped up on the tray before her. She was not a nice old lady to lookat, for she was withered, toothless, and without a hair on her shining skull; but her little black eyes were very brilliant and intelligent. She glanced at Goo Goo in a very apprehensive manner. Suddenly she screamed, “ Take that rattle away. I hate that rattle. " “ There, there," said Goo -Goo soothingly, “ Be a good old lady and Nursey will bring up some broth for Maddy . " [Maddy was her name.] “ I hate broth , I won't have broth . Ocky broth ! " [Ocky means something nasty.) Goo Goo was amused. Blowing a delicate column of smoke from his chiselled, caporal-tainted lips, he chuckled softly to himself and then sang a little song something like this : Iwish I werea Goo-Goo, A naughty little Goo-Goo, I'd spill the broth Andscorch the moth By the light of the bilious moon . He gravely hopped on his little legs to his queer crooning and fell down, so fast did he whirl about. “ I feel gizzy ," he said, rising austerely . “ What's gizzy mean, Goo Goo ? " asked Maddy in a pale, choked voice. “ Gizziness," sagely answered the bad little boy, " is a combination of giddy and dizzy. Lewis Carroll, my old friend Lew , said that it was easier to say all at once , the way I do. I heard it first from a big girl of seven ” (Goo -Goo's chest swelled ) " who wouldn't play with me because II believed in hell. She said only common people believed in heli. I don't now , Maddy. " " Oh,Goo Goo, it won'tcome back to- night,will it ? Pleasekeep it away ; that'sa good, dear lad . ” “ Oh, I don't know . Why ? " said Goo -Goo boldly . “I am not afraid of it. I am sure that just now I heard its little scratching walk , a walk that sounds like a cockroach treading upon lump-sugar. There, do you hear it ? ” Maddy beat her little table passionately with her rattle. “ I hate it ; put it in the bath -tub; let it read the newspapers. I amgoing to be bad and I don't care if you do call Nursey." Goo Goo seemed puzzled. He threw his cigarette into the fire and with apoker dug viciouslyat the big lumpsof coal in the open grate. The fire-light fellupon his grave, calculating face, aface already linedwith care. Little wrinkles were forming about his baggy eyes. He was indeed a sad young dog. He sat down beside a table and, touchinga bell, he ordered of a liveried servant somebrandy -and -soda. When it came he put it down at a gulp. This revived him ,and turning towardMaddy he said most severely : “ Maddy , you're an ocky old lady and I shall call the Turtle." Maddy shrank back in terror, whispering hoarsely , “ Why, Goo -Goo ? ” “ Because, " he sternly replied, “ because you can't tell me the name of the animal that gives us milk . " Maddy turned her tortured gaze on her naughty inquisitor; wrinkles, deep ening into longitudinal furrows, corrugated her bald pate. For a moment her wandering, feeble mind pursued and seizeda clue, but it led to nothing. Sadly she shook her head, and big tears began to roll down her withered cheeks. “ Turtle, Turtle, comein ,”yelled Goo-Goo. “ I know , I know , Iknow ," screamed Maddy. “ Well, what is it Quick Quick ! "" " I won't't tell te you you."" “ Turtle , " bellowed Goo -Goo. 52 “ Oh, please, Goo Goo. I will be a nice, good old lady. I promise never totell you a ghost story again. I will tell you the name of the animal that gives us milk . It is Blah Blah ." Goo Goo looked disgusted andangered . “ How did you find it ? ” he demanded suspiciously. “ Who told you ? Quick ! Answer me, you senile idiot.” “ Ah, no one, Goo Goo," pleaded the miserableold lady, droppingher blocks onthe floor and, in her anguish, almost choking herself with her newrubber rattle. Goo -Goo's face became brutal. He turned suddenly, ran to the door and, opening it, called out, “ Turtle, Turtle, come here , " and then, simulating great fear, he retreated slowly, saying in a gruesome whisper, “ Oh Maddy, I'm so frightened. I really shall cali Nursey. Do you hear that teeny scratch ? That's the Turtle. But oh, Maddy dear, it's not a live Turtle. It's dead -dead. It's the ghost of a Purple Turtle coming totake ocky Maddy away to the Boogies." But Maddy did not hear her tormentor. Her eyes bulged out until they flapped idly in the breeze caused by the draught of the open fire. Then her parched , cracked tongueprotruded, and with a pitiful gasp her poor old skull fell on the play -table of her lofty baby-chair. Maddy was dead. At first Goo Goo was annoyed. Heshook the dead Nurse's shoulder, saying, “ Wake up, Maddy. There isn't any Turtle's ghost. I was only paying you back for the times you scared me with Bogie stories. Why, Maddy, do you know that you are dead ? How jolly ! Maddy will soon be a Skellack ! Maddy, you look like a Skellack . " ([Skellack means Skeleton , of course.] Thendid this gifted urchin dance a delirious dance of joy. He grew up and became a great actor, a marvellous portrayer in Ibsen's sorrowful dramas. As “ Little Eyolf " he was justly acclaimed a supreme artist. But he never forgot Maddy and the ghost of the Purple Turtle. VILLON’S PRAYER ( PARIS, 1462) Father of all the high and low , Listen to me in my darkest day. Thy wrath in my soul sweeps to and fro, Cleaving the thistles of Time away. All my crimes and regrets you know : Of them to you I have nothing to say ; But ere I from your dominions go, Teach me, I beg of you, how to pray. Father of all, where keen winds blow , My lifeless body shall turn and sway Before springflowers shall bud and grow Through April showers to fragrant May. Send one thought to appease my woe Erethe hangman's ribbon shall pinch myclay; And ere I from your dominions go, Teach me, I beg of you, how to pray. Father of all, in pity bestow One glance at my soul, all torn and grey. The gutters of Paris are filled with snow' , Whiter than that poor soul's decay. A dog once bit me ; yet, did I not throw Meat at him after a moment's delay ? So ere I from your dominions go, Teach me, I beg of you, how to pray. L'ENVOY Father of all, they stand in a row , Each of my crimes, in proper array. Oh, ere I from your dominions go, Teach me, I beg of you , how to pray. JOHN ERNEST McCANN THE ARCHI TECTURE OF NEW YORK V. T. 1 IN F all the arts architecture is in the most deplorable state. A little real poetry, a few real paintings, a half dozen pages of prose -these the century has produced. The sculptor, since there has grown up a demand for his work, has ceasedto be artistic. The architect of the day is merely a well-paid builder . His business is to toady to his patron and collect percentages from masons and iron -mongers. The buildings he erects are monstrous andservile parodies. He rakes thedust-bins of the past for ideas. Gothic arches and Anglo -Saxon windows, bastard loggias out of the worst Florentine period , timbered ceilings and plastered walls —all incoherent as the fancies of a pregnant woman . Fifth avenue, above Fiftieth street, is a madman's parade. Heterogeneous masses of brick and stone and metal, impudent, shining monstrosities, shoulder each other. Here some matador of finance has built himself a mansion and has capped it- hisimagination could go no higher —with the gilt dome of a synagogue. A bit further on is a crapulous conceit in red brick and white stone, fenced off with machine-made ironwork. Yonder bulks a circular half tower, Saxon, with Renaissance mullions and a smart litre round its belly . And you go on from iron skeletons stuffed with enamelled bricks to obsolete churches with infundibular spires till your brain whirls and your eyes dance . In the lower part of the city you are confronted by the disconcerting ugliness of the high office buildings, where mezzanine windowssmirk betweenrows of_square holes. You pass under a Byzantine arch into a hall, and among the Early -English pillars you see a Yankee spitting tobacco -juice on a Venetian mosaic floor. I know of but one building in New York which approaches architectural unity, which is at once reasonable in its adaptation of means to an end and comely in design. This is the Herald Building. One may quarrel with the minor decorations - indeed, I quarrel with them every time I go down Broadway. Yet so reasonable is the scheme, so absolute is the artistic synthesis that it shines like a gooddeed in a naughty world. Let us see . The genesis of the Herald Building was probably in some such mental process as this : The building is to house a newspaper, and it should be typical of daily journalism ; this means, or should mean , light, radiation. It must stand open to the world. Here is to be no mystery and no pretence of mystery. It must be frank as a mirror, wherein the passing events throw their ephemeral shadows. It must be public as a reading-desk , whereon the scroll of history is unrolled day by day that all men may read . This, then , was the initial idea. How admirably it has been carried out you have but to walk in Broadway to know . A fabric of glass and iron , frank as a lighthouse - again and again is struck the dominant note, light, light. The caprice of Gog and Magog, the caprice of owls, winking modern electric eyes — these are charmingly imagined. They fit the home of Ephemera, who mocks us with tragedies in a paragraph and epics in a “ scare -head . " لرن( IC 产 - 31 BE 23 53 Here, then, is a building in which Bacon's advice, “ Let use be preferred ," has been followed ; it not only serves its purpose, it proclaims it ; and it is as logical, inevitable, and characteristic of this age as are the windows of Le Mans of the Early Renaissance. In addition it has the rare distinction of being suitable not only to the New York climate, but to the lights of an American sky. Which is a very differentthing. Enfin , it is theonly reasonable building in New York City. There is picturesqueness, Igrant you, in Minetta Lane, inBleecker street, in Essex street, in that quarter beloved of Mr.Edward Townsend, Mulberry street and the lands thereby. But it is not picturesqueness of structure. These tenements are but meaningless boxes of brick and iron. Often bricks hive wonderful hues of red ; always the houses overflow with filth and squalour and alien beauty of rotting humanity. But there is no architectural comeliness to be desired . When you first enter New York you are impressed by its uncouth regularity, its depressing monotony of mood. On better acquaintance you are disconcerted or amused by the pretentious architectural absurdities cropping out here and there among the rows of buildings which represent absence of ideas. But in later days you find one feature which differentiates New York from all other great cities, which makes it incisively and importunately individual, which gives it a pictur esqueness incurably its own. The iron modernity of the elevated roads - this is New York. This is the century of iron. The art of the smiths of the sixteenth century is lost. The iron flowers blow no more in the hothouses of the forge. No patient smith beats the white metal into marvellous faces of men or formsof women with beckoning hands. This is the age of iron utility. Mile after mile the twin iron posts dot the street ; overhead the shining rails run, two and two, together always. And how graceful the structure is ! It is adequate for its purpose and no more. There is not an ounce of superfluous decoration. Athing trulyAmerican -lean and arachnean , fitted to do its work, fitted to donothing else. Were it not for the bastard Swiss chalets which some monstrous ass has devised for stations it would be the most perfect, because the most typical, structure of the day. At night it is all beauty, implacable in its appeal as the moonlit waterways of Venice . Seen from above you get only half its complex charm - you see only those shining worms, crawling lustfullyone afterthe other, crawling with shining, unsatisfied eyes and puffs of white breath . Wandering in the streets you recognize its entire beauty, at once modern and fantastic, commonplace and mystic. Atrain passes, glimmering, with light, wreathed in smoke which shifts from red and saffron to uneasy blues and greys, whirring with noise that racks the nerves like absinthe ; then for a momentthere is onlythe naked , spidery ironwork overhead casting, gaunt patterns on the pavement; again the cruel rush and that immiti gable thing, reeking with fire and tumult, roars by. Churlishly beautiful, naked, obdurate, insistently useful, flagrantly modern, the "L" road is at once the symbol of New York and аa comment on the century. - MIT DE PROFUNDIS DOCTOR HAMIL TON WILLIAMS MERGING from the shelter of a pine- bordered gorge and reaching the level of a drear mountain plateau, I was forced to leave the saddle and with arm drawnthrough the reins searchwith my feet --light of moon or stars was none —for the bridle -path which crossed a stretch of moorland. Half up the slope of a mountain range some miles ahead was a starving woman , dying in childbirth. The rushing wind gave substance to the utter blackness of the night, and I seemed to stemin my doubtful onward course endless unrolling billows, voluminous from some ocean darkness. Needlessto say there was nothingvisible, when presently , with a wrench, I came to a standstill, as one surprised with foot about to overstęp aprecipice or faced by some sudden and hurtful obstacle in the dark. Right in front of my face, and on a level with it, just at the distance one will hold a book when reading, there glared a pair ofhuman eyes. Naught else, apparently , but a fringe of forehead and of lower eyelid . The pupils, fixed in speechless horror, seemed dilated to their limit, whilst above and below them , as well as on either side, was what we call the white , but what was here a dusky saffron -green flecked withblood. The skin between the eyebrows was of the coarsest texture and, deeply furrowed, drippedwith a sweat of blood which clotted onthe matting hair of lid andbrow . Whencecame the lightthat fell upon this apparition is not for me to say ( it didn't come through, that much, at least, I felt), though rippling effects of lessening and increasing radiance gave the suggestion of lambent flames flickeringupon it from below . But yetbelow was nothing to be seen . Every now and then a gleam fromperhaps a moreambitious flame outlined a nose massive but withered , long, curved as a hawk's beak, and with dilated, up -drawn nostrils. Not merely flesh and bone and blood, but the very principle of life and thought froze with horror at the sight, and in an instant ( for there was no sequence of detail in apprehension ), my hands and arms on the moment hadgoneup, as if in attitude of warding, becoming fixedin the rigidity of a cataleptic ; but avert my gaze I could not. A shriek had died unborn within mylips, which lay patent, formy rigid breast refused the sound -producing utterance. An equal stiffening of the hips and knees was that alone, perhaps, which kept me from falling prostrate. And now it seemed as if my whole corporeal beingwas in some fearsome manner all embraced. At first itwas as ifin hideous, familiar way , arms of the sinuous suppleness of a python had worked their intertwining round my abhorrent neck and waist, whilst my legs were wooed by the caresses of an octopus's tentacles. But not for long, for absolutely substantial and obnoxious to the sense of touch as was the spectral presence, it was less flesh and bone or aught within approach ofsuchlike density, but rather in character some dense mephitic vapour susceptible of impenetration without loss or breakof continuity ; and now I foundthat I was all enwrapped within it save for my head, which gazed in terror on those hellish eyes. I felt the hair of myhead to stand up, whilst the skin of my flesh crept all over me in asort of vermicular motion. Withal, as if in surfeit of horror, there grew upon me a frightful sense that by a gentie, slow -measured, but resistless force. I was being compressed, crushed into the narrowest compass by a monstrous all embracing. Could I but have shrieked out one wild, despairing yell of helpless protest, I mighthave perished with content, but at best myfrenzied effort was an inarticulate uhl uhl uhl and all was dark and void and mute oblivion, but not for long, though I know not how I took the measure ofduration . With returning consciousness came a sense of lessening compression and of return tomy former volume. The fearsome horrorof the glaring, eyeballs came not back again , but wouldto Heaven it had, or any other devilry , rather than my new -found anguish . As a squeezed sponge, relieved of the closing hand-grasp, drinks in with greedy thirst the neighbouring moisture, even so did every open skin-pore of my expanding form suck in the vapourous presence ofthe spectral form till it were in very fact flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone - nay, more, the mind or conscious being that looked through the dreaded eyes had become in some mysterious way so intimately united, I will not say precisely blended , with mine ownthat whilst their operations were distinctly separate in the main , I knew , not alwayswithout weighing it, how far 'twas Ithat thought and not the spectre. And oh , what stormsof thought, what furious gusts, now hot with the fiercest incandescence of hell's black noon, now cold as thesalt, grey wintry blasts eating their hearts out, raging within the circuit of their polar prison -pen ! We seemed at times to speed in company an endless flight of thought deep into the bosom of the boundless wastes of night, which stretch beyond the Pleiades ; at other times we circled in delirious maze vertiginous wherein my conscious being seemed at length to sink despairing, listless, unresisting into simple being . Andnow was peace profound and quiet, the silence of unborn time before the mind that made them called forththe myriad and resounding choirs of the celestial spheres harmonious. But all was dark whenpresently a sob andalow ,piteous drool, asif of plaintive wailing, andthat from beyond the boundaries ofmy being, whichstrangely, somehow ,had againcome to embrace but me alone. “ Ah, fear menot, but pity, not I, thy master foe, but abject slave, not fit to loose the latchets of thy shoon. Yet pray, I beg thee, prayl'Am WhoAmformeone instant's glance upon themostcompas sionate face of Mary's son . " Andwiththese words returned that fearsome sense, a compression allembracing. My entire being in complete periphery was all enclutched and grasped within a vice of which the former sense was but the feeble shadow . “ God of mercies,” was the fierce outburst of the spectral presence, “ did I speak of prayer ? Son of Adam , tell me truly —tell me, tell me, tell me - didst thou catchthat word, that word which of itself assumes that hope exists ? My God, my God , thou hast not, then , forsaken me, and all for His sweetsake. " Just then the dire compression gave surcease and a calm fell upon it which I, too, equal shared , and it continued 50 " Oh, marvellous change andmerciful, till now ( I know not whether yestere'en it was or whether countless acons have elapsed since I put off the bonds of flesh, for to the disembodied are no temporal successions) I had not known whether I wasnot amongst the myriad legionsof the damned , though this I trulyfeel, I didnot hate my Maker asthey do ; butnow , sublime of mercy, I can, amidmypurgatoria! anguish, await in peace the comingof the beatific vision of the Crucified . Compared with minethy soul is as the virgin whiteness of the drifting snowswhich weave a halo round the crest of Ararat. But take and mark thy lesson, too , O son of Adam . Thy thoughts are notas mine, nor yet can be, for all the hampering limitations ofthe flesh , and it were bootless effortto seek to makethee feel and think and know even as I may. Yet mark and learn and of thy utmost inwardly digest . Once was I as thou , a living man, who hadmycause upon the earth. Now , loosened of my mortal coil, not hell and the depths enhold me, nos yet the spacious havens of the blessed , but doomed am I to expiate the temporal sanction of my pardoned sin as David did his lust of Bethsabee. The vain philosophies may idly searchhow that material fires, if matter be they, shall hurt the shrinking, disembodied soul. But, oh,thewoethat comes ofdesire, resistless yet unsatisfied, and, oh, the hate of that foul, vapourous dust which yet doth build an adamantine barrier between my soul andthe one end and author of its being ! " Somehow it seemed to me as if all utterance of articulate speech did now cease, or that, at least, which passed with me as utterance, and that instead therewas in strangest manner mirrored before my mind objectively the spectre's story. Plunged in the middle depths of some vast lake of pitch or molten lava lay slumbering restlessly a human soul all lost to conscious being savesuch as flickered up to meet the phantom visitants in sleep. But by degrees this semi-conscious being woke to think I am , and then a strong, imperious trinity of questionings would say, “ What,where, and why am I? " Andits wholebeing wouldshrink within itsnarrowest limits, abhorrent of itsdire surroundings, and as the lava depths of Etna stir before eruption, this soul would stir, reacting and returning on itself in search of some response. When forth from out the silent darknessof the void would comea faintly luminous phosphorescent haze which, steadily approaching nigh and slowly still more nigh, would now on clearer vision outline the goodly sun of ours with its revolving and attendant spheres. But one, the humblest, would at length compel exclusive gaze, theEarth, and, wrapt in spell, the soul's surexcitation would take pause, butto resume asnearer still and still more nearwould come the planetary home of Adam's race . Andthe soul which firstshowedof adull black,mottled with grey, wouldsomewhat lighter grow , and as the near approach of earth would outline now the oceans,continents, and towering altitudes of mountain peaks from a dull glow the thinking being warmsout incarnadine. Then againcame pause and fiercestfinity of gaze and wrapt attention . For the toiling multitudes and busy marts and warring throngs and battlemented walls of each beleaguered city came now in view successively with the revolving globe, when, lo ! the planet seemed to labour as in travail and the sphere's song became a groan andthe soul blazed with mad excitement as the scene showed the portals of a temple, anda crowd of scowling priests who tendered money toa low -browed man and quickly following wasa sight which limned the selfsame man who led a multitude with swords and clubs. Then came a face which none may,daredescribe,unworthy,whohas not seen its sweetest majesty .Andthe low -browedman ,a clink of silver pieces audible as he moved, stepped out from amid the multitude and kissed him , saying, “ Hail, Rabbi!” Whereupon the dark profound wherein the soul lay cabined became at once one raging main of mountain billows centrifugal. And a roar, thunderous, volcanic, wherewith was blent a wild , demoni acal scream , rang forth from out its depths, “ Then I am Judas that did sell myGod ! For what ? For what? ” All that the ancients feebly fable of doomed Enceladus writhing under Etna wereempty trifling here by way of illustrative imagery. On mountainous upheaval came rebound, and the Stygian waves, calmed at length , outspread , and left it possible to pierce the dark profound with glance intense and interrogatory: When behold that human soul,which on my earlier vision fell, of a compass and extension susceptible of being embraced within the confines of a human form , showed huge, expanding, swollen, of a bulk enormous, monstrous as a world in eruption. Buteven now recoil centripetal was far advanced and, well within the confines of an eyelid's pause, that soul had fallen within the limits of before and lay faintly distinguishable in its gloom and grey in seeming calm to recommence anon in recurring series the awful cycle of its agonies. Thus far by mirrored story, when again the plaintive drool and the voice beseeching spoke , “O son of Adam , henceforth forget me not in morning orison or evening, for the great mercy of'I Am Who Am has moved me from the dark profound of purgatory wherein the denizen knows not it is saved and where the prayers of Christians maynot reach to upper regions where wemayawaitincalm , profound, sustained and succoured by the good of earth, the day , however distant, of the Blessed Vision ! " A famine-feveredcreatureinthe pangs oflabour layin amountainhovel alldeserted till a wandering, beggar, seeking food and shelter, found her. She died before the physician summoned could have reached her side. Perhaps as well, for the would -be rescuer was himself the prey of pneumonia when found in mutteringdelirium , prostrate , on his way of mercy, his horse dying of exposure . The poor mother hadusedher dying strength to pour the saving water on the new -born babe, and with her latest gasp hadsaid , Thy will be done ! " And the beggar, just returning, said, “ Amen ! ” adding, “ May the souls of all the faithful departed, through God's mercy , rest in peace ! ” man GYNOLATRY J. G. H. HEAP science calls it gynolatry. The man reverences the woman and he is accused of masochism . Every spontaneous natural feel ing is sneered at and labelled with an impertinently scientific name. The new womandoesnot really exist except in theparagraphs of the national curse of America- the funny man . The only woman inferior to God-like, bragging man is the strong -minded woman . She is a bad imitation of a poor model. Man is not woman's superior; he is only her equal, and in physical, constructive frugality he is considered by eminent authorities to be her inferior. Vulgar, brutal, imperious in his petty desires, he is all knobby superficies, coarse rugosities. He fancies because he is the coupling -pin of the universe that he is also the motive power which propels the cosmial freight down the tracks of time. He mountsthe dunghill of egoism and loudly crows at the sun while his despised mate makes history in her nest . Man is the rude, unchiselled ; woman the finished, the accomplished. Man projects, woman fructifies. MotherEarth , mark her femininity, breeds and brews. The woman is your only artificer . Of what avail your epics, your sym phonies, your pictures, prose, and statues, O man, if woman inspired them not? Is it not better to be the Great Suggestress, as Walt Whitman called her, than the petty , pretty, and laboured imitation of aa marvellous original? Why should woman compose when she is music itself ? Why should she write when she is the miraculous poem of poems? Yet Sappho burned lyrics into every Greek , and her fame is as enduring as that Leucadian mount from which she leapt for love of Phaon . Woman, from the womb to the tomb you are thetrue rulers of the destinies of our race . Mothers, sisters, wives, and harlots, how your subtilebrains -brains unlike man's in rude strength but finer spun in texture - animate all creation ! For you we war and work , sorrow and smile, yet you are called the inferior sex. Rather is man the inferior, with his harshly carved frame, absurd skeleton , narrow pelvis, shoulders out of all proportion, and ill- protected viscera. Is he as exquisitely made for the great demands of life ? Is he rathernotthe mereHelot, theprovider of food , the hewer of wood and drawer of water for his more finely fashioned mate , whom nature decreed as the maker of men and women ? Pooh ! for your talk about corpuscles and grey matter. Womanis the cleft and centre of creation. Without her the planet would shut up shop and go out of business. Pooh ! for your crazy talk about tactilesensibility. She playsthe piano and violinwith feminine feeling, not as a man . It is different, but who wishes it the same ? She even excels at man's favourite game of vice, and he is, after all, the only gynolatrist. Boastful, weak , selfish, sensual, avaricious, mean, spiteful man , a very ape in his tricks of imi tation, led by his nose —for his nose tells his pampered belly of the good cheer spread before him by woman- a coward, afraid to sleep alone, he drags woman into a distasteful compact which he calls a sacrament; yet at the toss of a petticoat he sins eagerly and hotly. Where is his bravery ? Why, he only fights because of his conceit, and christens that conceit patriotism . And this brawling, boozing creature, vainer than the peacock , bawls of unchastity and hounds a woman to the gutter for his sin —not The editor of “ M'lle Neze York " publishes this study in hys teria because it is at once an exam ple and a warning. Perhaps it is not a pretty picture - this picture ofa man in genuflective posture, with heatedeyes and broken breath - but it is true to the day. It is a common type. You know , as I know , many of these men who see none of the high beauty of life, none of life's magnificent endeari our ; who are blindto the immiti gable glory of artandscience,and for whom this sacred world is one vast bawdy-house. Such men walk rver in the shadow of the sexual fact. Art to them is merely a breeder's comment. They prate of Sappho because she wasa harlot who sang, not because she zvas a poet whose leisure was lit by amours. And so this latest gynolatry is based upon all that islowest in the nature of man and in that of woman . Woman is exalted above man solely because she is more salacious thanıman. An example and a warning - I do not like this attitude of the modern man , as he kreels at the feet of a woman with fondling hands and eyes blazing with un clean fire. It is too dirty and too sad. The Editor hers. His lust is love and he speaks proudly of Necessity being the mother of Lubricity, but awoman must remain pure, must suffer in silence even though her heart is breaking with the longings of maternity. The slums for naturalwomen , the club houses for arti ficial man. No, man is not woman's superior, mentally, physically, or morally ; he merely happens to be born with harder muscles. He has terrorized her from the start. It hasbeen might against right. And yet, with all this, woman remains sovereign of all she surveys. Man goes mad about her, obeying uncon sciously the behests of that passion which makes for eternity -- a child is your only true immortality. So sophisticated, so tin - souled have we become, that we would fain turn our backs on the very well-springs of life. Nature, kind mother of all, revenges herself on our abnormality. She simply watches and waits, knowing fuli well that man will come sneaking back to woman, to beenfolded in great, warm , consoling arms, and that the mockwoman in bloomers will die out, for she can not breed alone. Soall things are regulated , and the sun and moon smile, and child's laughter is heard in the fields. 53 a T one time, in speaking of that beautiful artist in words, Charles Baudelaire, A BRUNHILDA Victor Hugo said, “ Il avait crée un nouveau frisson ” ; and Algernon Charles Swinburne, whilom poet laureate in the court of Her Majesty , Circe, uttered OF THE a fragrant variation on the Hugo theme in his large-moulded ode, “ Ave Atque BOWERY Vale, ” after the death of the unhappy composer of “Fleurs du Mal. ” In these latter days, to thrill us exquisitely, a very great artist is needful, and his JAMES method must be moving and novel, else the shrug of ennui follows at the heels of banal effort. A Sara Bernhardt is not born often, nor is a Pachmann, with his dainty, GIBBONS devilish touch, always with us. Glutted with sensation , gorged with culture, we turn our HUNEKER subtly-weary eyes toward a new dawn, be it ever so brutal, only that it has a glimmer of the light ofmodernity from afar. Swinburne has grown grey in Phallic service ; Sara, the divine, is hitching peril ously near the brink of morbid hysteria ; Walt Whitman is dead. Where shall we look for the new thrill ? For Yvette Guilbert comes not to us for some moons. The thrill is midway in our mortal life, as Dante Aligheri, Esq., late of Florence, would have it. The thrill is that finest of all thrills, a feminine one. It is an epos in a petticoat ; enfin , have you seen Maggie Cline sing ? A bearded and local wit once said that the performance of a song at the hands of Miss Cline was great art, but this is but a half truth and, like all half truths, misleading. In Maggie Cline there is such a palimpsest of possibilities that I greatly fear that we of this generation will never decipher it . Only a modern Boswell, gifted with the critical acumen of two such widely divergent but cultured minds as those of the late Albert Wolff and the late Walter Pater, could hope to unfold to the world the result of their many seasons of critical garnering. As Whitman was agreat natural force, an impulse in our native literature, so Maggie Cline, the exponent of muscularity in song, is in the art world, though it must be admitted that her art is more elusive than that of the Bard of Camden . In her personality is focussed the Hiberno- American life, an exotic type of the East Side, and grafted on a rare, racy personality. Her art, sublimated as it is, is the very antithesis of Sara Bernhardt's; their methods are poles asunder, but the outcome is the same new thrill is given , a new sensation gained -a dim vision of novel artistic potentiali ties is gleaned. What are the characteristics of the new Cline school? The question is not altogether an easy one to answer. Like Sara Bernhardt and Paderewski, she has a great temperament, but so subtly blended are the processes of the creative forces in her art that they at first elude analysis. The public merely sees a tall, strapping, handsome woman, with a pair of mag nificent grey eyes, a winsome chin, and a brace of eloquent arms. She strides to the footlights with the easy assurance of one who has veni-ied, vidi-ied, and vici-ied ; then she nods familiarly to the chef d'orchestre , hugely smiles to the populace, and with this preface plunges at once in medias res. At the magic of her voice the sights and. sounds of the present fade, and you are straightway transported to Eldridge or Hester street and witness with beating heart and brain on fire the downfall of that good man and true, the doughty Donovan or the epical fracas at McCloskey's. All disputes as to whether Miss Cline's art is synthetical or analytical are bootless. She is a great colourist, a female Makart, whose palette burns with the most glowing pigments. She' paints for you a picture superb in vitality, instinct with rhythm , the perspective most cunningly treated, and, in the totality of massed effects, simply supreme. She aims not at details which divert, but goes straight to the heart of her subject and handles it with a directness, breadth, and vigour that ranks her with such gigantic though dissimilar artists as J. Lawrence Sullivan and the late messer Michel Angelo. The central hub of her gift is a brutality that shivers the shallow lacquer of your conventionality as a thunderbolt fuses a lead gutter-pipe. From this hub radiate spokes that give her work its imaginative lift and, I had almost written, grandeur. Has Miss Cline, then , no finesse ? Is her art merely sublimated and picturesque pugilism ? Ah me, if I could but dilate on the wonderful art for art's sake in her virile, vocal technique, the complete and absolute sinking of self in her portrayal of lowly life, of her subjugation of all femininity! What fruitful themes they would indeed be ! But I must leave to future generations this grateful task. It taxes my critical powers to merely shadow forth the surfaces of her wondrous art. One is forced to believe in the Karmic philosophy when witnessing Miss Cline's , singing, for it is vocalism made visible. What Roman gladiator has projected his heroic personality through the ages into the frame of this Brunhilda of the Bowery ? Her a imperious sweep of arm as she gives the coup de grace to Donovan must surely bring before you vividly the wide, sandy arena, the yelling throng, and the empurpled, imperial monster glooming high in his ivory tribune. There is blood, dust, death , and noise, and a life ebbing quickly on the crimson -spattered floor. No Swinburnian “ Dithyrhambs,” no Shelleyan “ Nightingale Nocturnes," no Paderewskian performance of heroic " Magyar Polonaises ” can ever stir nerves as Maggie Cline with one of her death -dealing, barbaric gestures. The amplitude of her nature is expressed in her very feet ; her physique is informed with quivering love of slaughter. She is a daughter of bloodshed and annihilation, a warrior with a Worth train. There are blemishes, to be sure, on her art —even the Sun is spotted . For instance, I can not admire her tone production. It is lusty, full of colour, but in the emission is faulty. Then, too, the adoption of a full evening dress detracts somewhat from the complete illusion her art should produce, besides violating the dramatic unities. Needless, also, is the vulgar clangour mechanically produced in the wings while she depicts the fight in the McCloskeymansion. These extraneous aids are blots on the otherwise perfect picture. Miss Cline is too great an artist to need resort to such palpably artificial means. She fights with her face; her nose, with the nostrils slightly flattened , is the very incarnation of lust for blood ; her carriage is in itself a belligerent demonstration . I beg of you, therefore, Miss Cline, to give us with your perfect diction those great pictures, throbbing with East - Side humanity, uncorseted, uncabined, and unconfined. Then will we sing of you as sang the great yawper over the roofs of the world, Walt Whitman, of women : “ They are tann'd in the face by shining suns and blowing winds ; Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength ; They know how to swim , row , ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike, retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves ; They are ultimate in their own right —they are calm , clear, well-possessed of themselves. ” Miss Cline is the perfect flowering of the Walt Whitman ideal of womanhood, and her fin - de - siecle art is inthe main inimitable. She is hopelessly untranslatable in terms of prose ; Swinburne alone could para phrase her ! " O strong -winged soul with prophetic Lips hot with the blood -beats of song ; With tremour of heart-strings magnetic ; With thoughts as thunder in throng ; With consonant ardour of chords That pierce men's souls as with swords And hale them hearing along." Maggie Cline is a feminine microcosm of Hiber nian histrionic and lyric art, and her name will thunder down the ages as loudly as it roars now in the index. vs. Fleres The Celebrated WHY NOT Sohmer make the baby fat ? For the thin baby is delicate, and is not half so cunning. Give the thin baby SCOTT'S EMULSION PIANOS ARE THE BEST OF COD -LIVER OIL WITH HYPOPHOSPHITES Warerooms: 149-155 E. 14th St., New York CAUTION . The buying public will please not confound the SOHMER Piano with one of a similarly sounding name of cheap grade. Our name spells — S - O - H - M - E - R Scott's Emulsion is as easy a food as milk . It is much more effective in making thin babies fat, and they like it. If all the babies that have been made fat and chubby and well by Scott's Emulsion could only tell their story to the mothers of other sickly babies ! There wouldn't be enough to go round. WHAT IS MORE attractive than a pretty face with a fresh, bright complexion ? For it use POZZONI'S POWDER . DON'T be persuaded to accept a substitute. TOURS TO THE SOUTH Via PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD Two very attractive early- autumn tours are announced by the Pennsylvania Railroad Company. They include the battle-field of Gettysburg, picturesque Blue mountains, Luray caverns, the natural bridge, grottoes of the Shenandoah, the cities of Richmond and Washington and Mt. Vernon. The tours cover a period of ten days, and will start from New York in special trains of parlor cars on September 24 and Octobor 8. Round -trip rate, including all neces sary expenses, fifty -five dollars from New York, fifty-three dollars from Philadelphia, and proportionate rates from other points. For detailed itinerary apply to ticket- agents or to tourist-agent, 1196 Broadway, N.Y .; or Room 411 , Broad -street station, Philadelphia. ALL DRUGGISTS 50 CENTS and $ 1.00 SCOTT & BOWNE NEW YORK Kenney Rich -Furs Urbana Wine Company Gold- Seal Champagne Importer and maker of Arnold, Constable of Co. For Sale by all Leading Wine Dealers and Grocers 24 East Twenty-third Street • Madison Square Post-office: Urbana, N. Y. OUR COMPLETE WINTER EXHIBIT NOW READY FOR INSPECTION . AN EN TIRELY NEW DEPARTURE IN JACKETS, SEALSKIN OR PERSIAN LAMB : : : : MEN'S WEAR We advise an early attention to all garments re Cartwright & Warner's Autumn and Winter quiring alteration to the present style of fashion, which UNDERWEAR widely differs this year from the preceding one. The in Natural Wool, Silk and Wool, and Camel's Hair new things in collarettes and capes, imported direct or made and designed by ourselves, complete an incom HALF HOSE parable assortment of rich fur goods. in Natural Wool, Cashmere, and Merino NEW STYLES IN GOLF AND BICYCLE HOSE Wholesale Department SKINS AND TRIMMINGS FOR TAILORS AND Broadway & 19th oft. MAKERS OF ROBES ET MANTEAUX : : : NEW YORK BOKER'S BITTERS, A SPECIFIC AGAINST DYSPEPSIA, AN APPETIZER , AND A DELICACY IN DRINKS DUNLAP & Co CELEBRATED HATS COPYRIGHTED AND LADIES' ROUND HATS AND BONNETS AND THE DUNLAP SILK UMBRELLA 178-180 Fifth Avenue, between Twenty -second and Twenty-third Sts., New York 181 Broadway, near Cortlandt St., New York on om Palmer House, Chicago v V V V V V v 914 Chestnut St., Philadelphia ACCREDITED AGENCIES IN ALL PRINCIPAL CITIES J. & W. Nicholson & Co. Telephone 8-18th Street Ltd. London SCHILLER FLEMING & CARNRICKS Finest 1 -PRESS 256 WEST TWENTY - THIRD STREET • NEW YORK • Old Tom and Dry Gins Fleming, Schiller Eu Carnrick are the printers of. SOLE AGENTS M'lle New York Raoul-Duval - Stevens -& -hall . 63 Pine Street - New York • 57 COPYRIGHT 1895 BY MLLE NEW YORK CORPORATION New York 9 Top TT FORTNIGHTLY Vol. I. No. 8 LAST FORTNIGHT IN NOVEMBER, 1895 Price 10 Cents SUBSCRIPTION $ 2.00 A YEAR THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY ASTOR , LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS R PUBLISHED BY M'LLE NEW YORK CORPORATION OFFICE 256 WEST TWENTY - THIRD STREET, NEW YORK ::: Themin Ironines .... Dance Cbomnion toitorThomas Fleming art editor JamesGibbonsbuneberagenciateeditor THE FIRST TOLSTOIST V. T. It wasyears ago —so many years ago that it seems part of another life that I climbed the steep path to the grey and sombre city of Assisi. Nighthad fallen , a sudden, opaque Italian night, blotting the stars. A high wind, dust laden and hot, rode down the abrupt hill. Here and there a light shone through narrow windows, coldly and without invitation . I shall never forget this first impression of Assisi, wind -swept, grey, desolate. In other days I saw it bathed in immitigabic sunlight. The green hillside was jocund with the laughter of children. The tripartite church which burrows into the hill, and houses such mar vellous Cimabues, shone with splendid summer. But the first impression was true. Assisi is old, inexorably old, hopelessly old ; a grey and visionary city of the past. I have always loved Saint Francis of Assisi —this vagabond saint, tender, mystic, fantastic. Hepreferred music to philosophy. Etmoi, aussi. He conversed with birds. He was a socialist and the first Tolstoist. There in the village square hegave his cloak to a beggar man , who was cold; and a little farther on , in divine self-forgetfulness, he gave his other garments to other coldbeggar men , until he stood quite naked to the winter air. He was a gentleman by birth and a loyal aristocrat. Therefore he stripped himself for the sakeof thebeggar men. A manof the people could not have done this thing, He had no passion for political economy. My admiration for Saint Francis of Assisi is without reserve. He was a perfect saint. And to him the wild birds whistled confidences. When Bartholomew of Pisa passed the wild birds were morose . “ He defied the world and even his father for love of this woman , against whom , as against death, we do all shut thedoor; - and despite thespiritual court and his father, he did wed her truly , and then from day to day did love her more ; -- and she, widowed of her first husband for eleven hundred years and more, forsaken , obscure, had waited unsought of anyone until hecame. " And this true bride was Poverty, widowed of Christ eleven hundred years and more. Day by day Saint Francis did love her more, because to her lovers she gives the pleasures which are eternal. . He had no passion for political economy. He hated sadness, which is an invention of the devil. The gifts his bride brought to him were the pleasures which are eternal because they are real -- the sweetness, charm , and tranquil beauty of life . The chief enemies of poverty are property and intelligence. On these Saint Francis waged unceasing war. He recognized that these werethe begetters of sadness, which is the Babylonian evil. To possess nothing,to learn nothing - this is the infallible rule of happiness. The good saint took from the rich and gave to the poor, but he did not ask permission of the rich. He said that money belonged of rightto the devil, and it was the duty of every good Christian to let it go to the devil. He had no love for science or intelligence. He who pardoned all, who fed the savage highwaymen and blessedhisunkindest enemies, had no pity for Pietro Stacchia, doctor of laws. Said he to the doctor of laws: “ Suppose that you have wit enough and memory enough to apprehend everything; that you know all languages, the course of the stars and all the rest ; what reason have you for boasting ? One little, minor devil knows more than all men put together. There is, however, one thing of which this devil is incapable and which is the glory of man-- that is , to be good and obey Jesus. Go away . " And the doctor of laws went away . Another time he said : “ Man, man , what would you with books, when your heart is within you and about you are stars andflowers and birds ! ". Whenhis order was ten years old it possessedbut one book, the New Testament. One day there camea beggar woman tohim , and since he had nothing else he gave herthe book andbade hersell it and get bread . About him were the stars and flowers and birds. 33 He was a sculptor, a scavenger, a wandering singer. He held that it was man's dutyto be gay, and that gaiety may be attained only by living for others. He is dead, long dead. For six hundred years and more hisdivine mistress, Poverty, has been a widow , obscure and desolate, and no man finds her beautiful as to be desired . Tolstoi has looked at her wistfully , but from afar. The science which Saint Francis despised has had in these latterdays its revenge. That learned Israelite, in whom thereisguile, Lombroso, dubs the holy man a mad man , easily, indifferently, as a journalist might refer to a politician. Dr. Bournet, a calmer scientist, refutes the charge. He wandered over the white roads of Italy, astrolling saint and singer. He played with the grey wolves. To his friends, the birds, he recited nait legends which he had invented to please them . He had white and subtile intimacieswith nature. . • Hepreferred music to philosophy. The immitigable sunlight falls on Assisi, all gold, but the splendour passes and opaque night blots the stars. Then you see that this is a grey and naked city, desolate, obscure, empty — Not a city , but a symbol. C و .... SHE DRUNK FROM THE CHALICE She drunk from the chalice of Pleasure And reigned but as Beauty can reign, And then when exhausted the measure She drunk from the chalice of Pain . She drunk from the chalice of Joyance And dressed her white neck very low , Till even her joy was annoyance ; She drunk from the chalice of Woe. She drunk from the chalice of Laughter And joined in the plaudit of cheers. She flirted, coquetted ; but after She drunk from the chalice of Tears. She drunk from the chalice of Sorrow , For Love had been kindled too late ; Blanched, lorn, and alone, on the morrow She drunk from the chalice of Fate. LEON MEAD Gurur زوج THE INNOCENT YELLOW DEVIL DICK WOOD - It was the third night Leone had been delirious. The first night her vågaries had reverted to childhood's days. Days when clover grew only to be made into wreaths and bracelets for little girls to wear. A great deal of the first night was spent in plaiting. And while the delirious woman's fingers sped in and out, now over, now under, she hummed a childish air — keeping time with erratic twitchings of her small foot, which made it difficult for Brod to keep the cover in its proper place. And Brod watched and hoped . Poor old Brod. Faithful Brod. Faithful to the woman who hadalready caused him no end of trouble and some happiness. Faster and faster flew the convulsive fingers. Longer and longer grew the imaginary chain of clover-blossoms until it wasready to deck the browof the imag inary little girl, who was noneother than Leone's childish self. And when it was finished and Brod -poor, slow Brod - really imagined he could smell the fragrant blossoms, she made him let her get up and stand in the middle of the room . Then she placed the wreath upon her brow and burst into a childish treble of song : “ ' Twas whispered one morning in Heaven How thelittle white angel May Sat ever beside the portal , Sorrowing all the A convulsive tremor passed over her frame. Rushing over to where Brod sat in awful despair, she knelt down and pillowed her head in his lap, sobbing, “ Mamma, I can't sing. They're laughing at me." The second night it was worse. Worse for Leone and worse for Brod. All the second night Leone juggled imaginary balls and passed through hoops with aglass of water balanced on her forehead. And when the act was finished , and the audience applauded,she wouldkiss her hands and pause for breath . Thenthe juggling would commence again and the hoops be gonethrough. And Brod, gazing with aching eyes, murmured, “ She never told me that." Onthe third day the doctor told Brod to humour her. Humour her! What else had he been doing ? Certainly not sleeping, as his glassy eyes bore pitiable testimony. The strain was telling. And now it was the third night and Leone was up and dressed. Brod thought she must be improved. She called him by name. Humouring a woman may be easy. Humouring a delirious woman may also be easy ,but Brod thought not. It was Leone who spoke: " Brod, I want to tell you something: Promise me, sweetheart, you won't do anything rash and don't blame me. I couldn't help it. It is not my fault,but there is aconspiracy, a conspiracy, Brod, to kill you . The Chinamen are at the bottom of it all. Theywanted to flirt with me and I wouldn't let them . So they told methey would kill you and get me and keep me. Let us fly. Fly, Brod ! Fly ! If they catch you they'll kill you and cut you up and smoke you in their opium - pipes. Coo-Ee said so . Coo -Eé can cook .” So Brod humoured her as the doctor told him and went to аa European hotel and took a room . The Chinamen followed them there. So they went to another - and another—and another -and took rooms. Every place they went the Chinamen followed until Brod's eyes looked like those of one who has smoked the dope. Then something within himsnapped and he realized the time had come to quit humour ing, so he argued : “ Listen, Leone ! It's me, Brod. Don't you know me? Think , girl! Try to think . It's Brod talking to you and he says you have been sick. Š -i-c-k , sick . Understand? You are better now . You will be all right to -morrow . There are no Chinamen . It is all a dream . " " O Brod, they are coming! They are coming ! ” “ Nonsense ! ” “ Brod ! ” “ Now, listen . There are no Chinamen .” “ Are you sure ? " " I am . ” “ Brod, you are lying. Don't lie to me, no, not to me. Don't do it. Look out of that window and you'll see a yellow devil standing just across the street.” Dragging her to thewindow , he made her look also . The street was deserted . “ Come," said Brod, “ let us go home. " “ Let us go home," echoed Leone. As they left thehotel Brod said aloud, “ Thank God, it is all over now . Sleep ! " As they turned the corner they ran plump into a Chinaman. It would be funny if it wasn't so damned sad. un 59 9 “ M'lle New York " and some of her admirers dined together the other night. There were THE CURIOUS some good things said at table, original, borrowed, or stolen and( like the children gypsies steal ) disfigured to prevent recognition. The Curious Impertinent made these heterogeneous notes ; they IMPERTINENT'S are published in a spirit of humility. Doctor William J. O'Sullivan, whowasdetected while NOTES appropriating a witticism of Longinus, excused himself very neatly : “ You living writers collaborate with each other," said he, “ why may not I collaborate with the dead ? ” This was the mood, though the Curious Impertinent knew it not, which dominated “ M’lle New York's ” dinner -table. Mr. James Gibbons Huneker s'autopsiant avec du Chopin was but a shame less plagiarist of dead men's emotions, and Doctor Hamilton Williams' reminiscences of Homeric drinking-bouts in the British army were unconscious echoes of Rabelais. Here are the Curious Impertinent's notes. “ What we like in writers is their resemblance to ourselves.” “ God help those who like Richard Harding Davis ! " 1 66“ Even Richard Harding Davis would gain by not being a fool.” “ “ M’lle New York ' is planting cuttings of futurity . " “ If one in ten takes root it is well. " “ There is no man so superstitious as the scientist. He looks upon ptomaines as a street-walker does upon black cats . ” “ Fleming, who expresses reverie with line, has gone back to Kranach . Per spective is a cheap trick of the draughtsman who cannot draw. " n “ Cultivation of the Ego is monotonous. " " Not if the Ego be worth cultivating. " “ Jewish children are more intelligent than ours. At the age of puberty, how ever, they are less intelligent -- they lose as they grow . They are at once nearer to nature and the ape ." “ Only the ignorant man is happy." " It is the old problem in Voltaire's ‘Good Brahmin . ' He was unhappy, the good Brahmin, because he did not have a simple spirit. There was anoldbeggar woman, bigoted, foolish , poor ; and she was happy. They asked the good Brahmin, “ Would you like to be this old woman ? ' and the Brahmin said, 'No.' And yet the good Brahmin was wrong. After all, what is all this pother about? To be happy.. Then it makes no difference whether one is a wit or afool. The contented beggar knows he is content. The man whoreasons can never be sure that he reasons well. Probably Richard Harding Davis is happier than the wisest man living. " “All loving women have large mouths and long hands. " " The narrow -hipped woman is the chief danger to American civilization . " “ The American Jewess is the highest type of modern female beauty -- espe cially if she has a strain of white blood . "

    • Is it not true that after the third cross generation ceases ? "

“ Unquestionably . This is the last word of science as it was the first word of God. For He in His wisdom decreed that the wonderful Jewish blood should be kept pure and set a bound beyond which the process of miscegenation could not go. Thus negro blood and white will not mix beyond the third cross. For instance, keeping on thefemale side, the mulatto will breed, the quadroon will breed, but the octoroon is sterile. It is the same with the Jewish race. This seems to me the strongest proof that God has set apart this marvellous people for a high destiny. Shut between 42X276 these narrow walls of generation the race has been kept pure and has gathered force for its ultimate purpose —thatof ruling the world ." “ All the great artists are Jews. " " What fine creatures their women are ! " " To sleep at night is an act essentially bourgeois and ridiculous. I sleep by day becauseit is useless to show myself to the philistines." “ The man who lives in America and pretends to be anything but a philistine is also ridiculous. We are all philistines. We may be incoherent philistines - that is the best we can do . " 66 a “ The law should permit marriages only between persons of wealth and social position ; journalists and actresses should have to content themselves with love -- it's good enough for them . " I do not know that I think a great deal of the Curious Impertinent's notes after all. I print them , however, because he is a pleasurable person andplays a good game of billiards. THE END OF THE WORLD HELEN LEAVENWORTH HERRICK Once upon a time a beautiful Soul dwelt within a commonplace Body. The Soul was often sad and lonely, for it felt the need of love, and the Body was too busy with material affairs to spend any time in love -making. So it chanced that one night, while the Body slept, the Soul wandered away and when it returned in the morning it heard the Body say : “ Never have I had such a peaceful night ! My rest has always been disturbed before by dreams so vivid they seemed a part of my waking life. But last night there were no dreams. Mysleepwas like a living death. It is better that it should be so . After such a night of absolute repose I awake refreshed and vigourous. I can work harder and make more money than when the visions of the night led me to think of other things than money - getting." When the Soul heard the Body rejoice it grieved sorely and felt sadder and lonelier than ever. Night after night it left the Body to sleep undisturbed, and at last it stayed away weeks at a time. ButtheBody never missed it. And yet, in the rare intervals of the Soul's returning, the Body felt the throb bing of newlife and would murmur questioningly : “ What troubles me so strangely to-day ? Ah, I know , there was a poem I began, a picture I intended to paint, a song that echoed through my heart, seeking its way to the world, long, long ago, in the early times when dreams came to me. These are the memories of unborn things that haunt menow. And –there were prayers too , in those days. I have not prayed of late . To-morrow I must begin anew . I must finish my poem and my picture, I must give my song the breath of life. And to God I will give the little He asks, faith and love and prayer. " But when the morrow came the Body had so much to do, so many sordid, earthly claims to fulfil, eating, drinking, breadwinning and the hoarding of gold , the noble resolves of yesterday would be forgotten or put off until anothermorrow . And the Soul, once again discouraged , would once again take flight. The years rolled on and the poem remained unwritten ; the canvas blank , the song -unsung. - One night many Souls met and talked together. Each had the same story of neglect andindifference to tell of the Bodies to which they belonged . They wept and sighed as they spoke, but in their lamentation there was no note of censure, only the vastness of immortal pity . Suddenly a discord rang through the melancholy minor of their plaint.A Soul, stronger, yet less divine than his fellows, cried aloud : “ Why mourn ? Why waste ourselves on clods ? They ignore our presence, they do not feel our absence. Their eyes are blinded by the glitter of earth's dross; they do not see the gifts we offer. When we leave them for a time they do not know that we have gone. When we return they have no welcome for us." Then why return ? ” The listeners shivered at the icy blast of a truth. They answered with words of infinite compas sion for their indifferent charges. But in the murmur of sorrowful voices there sounded chords of dissent, and these grew louder, more powerful, until at last, in a vibrating harmony of agree ment, the Souls passed from pity to despair and fromdespair — to resolve. Then shadows crept across the moon, the Cloud King marshalled his armies, and their dusky shields hid the light from the world . The winds gathered and shook the trees, sparing neither blossom nor fruit, andthe rain came,darting its silver lances into the sodden earth . The Bodies trembled and said : “ This is a storm of storms. The harvest is ruined . How shall we live ? " But they knew not that the elements raged in sympathy with the revolt of the Souls. A new day dawned, bright but cold , and the Bodies forgot the storm of the night and went their way as of old , eating, drinking, breadwinning, and hoarding gold . But no poems were written, no pictures were painted, no statues were fash ioned , and no songs were sung, There were relics of the days when beautiful dreams cameto mortals, master pieces of Art, in literature, in painting, music, and sculpture. But as time went on the dust of neglect buried these legacies of the Souls and soon they, like their givers, were forgotten . Once a child said : “ Mother, I have found an old book in the garden , where I was digging for gold, and it speaks of Art. What was Art, mother ? " But his mother could not answer and the book was lost ; so perished the shadow of a hope. Then, since their eyes ever looked earthward, the sense of vision became obscured to the Bodies; their hands, ever seeking the treasures of the earth , grew calloused and claw -like. Their forms, bent by much stooping towards things earthly , grew distorted and unwieldy. As Art had been forgotten, so was God forgotten . It was but another step on the road to the inevitable end. With no hope, no faith , nobelief in a higher life, the virtues deserted the Bodies, and what had been men and women became mere brutes. Yet another century -- another hundred years of increasing degeneration ! What eyeless, earless, insentient things were these that crawled over the earth ? Another cycle and another phase. The power of motion was lost ; at last, even the Spirit of Life fled in dismay,and shapeless stones crumbled into nothingness in an unpeopled world. TheEarth thrilled with the delight of unrestrained power , the mountains trem bled with unholy laughter. Thenthe Sea arose in fury from its infinite depths, gazed hungrily upon the Earth, and burst its bounds. The hills andfields clustered about the mountains, the lakes and streams joined forces with the Sea. There began a battle, wilder, more pitiless, more awful than any the world had yet known. Earth and Sea fought for supremacy, but, equal in power, neither conquered, so that at the end of their warring nothing had been accomplished save the destruction of all things that had been. And thus the world that was born in chaos in chaos ended . a A WHITE DAWN Man, deprived of the society of good women , becomes egoistic and brutal: in their presence he contents himself with being wicked. AND TURNER'S SUNSET One morning I saw the dawn come over London town ; a dawn of white desolation fell upon the streets. It was long before the autumn sun came with VANCE THOMPSON splendid hints of yellow and the day broke and London was awake. In this white interval I wandered inquietly. I wastired of the culture of the Ego —this flippant mock -culture of the man who rounds God up in an epigram . I was weary of the brutality of roaring nights whenwomen capered on the table amid wine- glasses and voiceless men trolled music -hall catches. I said : “ I will bathe myself clean in the tepid society of women as in a warm bath. They shall tell me of Sir Frederick Leighton's latest picture and of the Oratorio Society. Perhaps they will sing a Tosti ballad ; and their gentle voices, the sweet reticence of their quiet gowns, the modest serenity of their eyes shall shame the evil spirits out of me. " These things I said in the white prelude of day, wandering the London streets. How far away this heaven seemed ! Acons and acons separated me from five o'clock tea . It seemed to me a tragedy then ; I can hardly laugh at it now . I look back through the years and see thatstained, shamed soul, abroad at dawn, strik ing repentant attitudes and knowing that there was no hope, no salvation until after noon tea. I thought of all those serene and saving women , stretched slimly in their beds, sleeping with smiling faces and folded hands and feet. I yearned for the bene diction oftheir eyes, the chrism of their pardoning hands. Unclean ! Unclean ! An unclean soul, walking the white dawn, praying. “ I will wear a white rose to -day, " I said , and the shop - girl pinned one in my buttonhole. Then I turned into Piccadilly. I took a cab. Inconti nent, I regretted what I had done. There is something unholy and nocturnal about a cab. It hints of boisterous kisses and girls who caper on tables among the wine glasses. I regretted that I had not walked. I leaned far over the apron that the afternoon air might blow the pestilence from me. “ And here," I said, as the cabcut away into Ken sington , “ I walked this morning in the white dawn. " But now a great hope was within me--the hope of that one who looked across the bounds of Purgatory and saw white wings glint, so near to him wasHeav en , and that one knew that he should enter, and no sin enters there . As I got out of the cab I whispered to myself a line from an old book , “ And the leprosy fell from him , and he was clean .” @

Tileming There were four women there when I entered. The three greeted me very coldly, the fourth lifted her eyebrows and smiled. I remembered how they had lain slimly in their beds at dawn with smiling faces and folded hands and feet. I sat near the one who had lifted her eyebrows and smiled, for I did not know her very well and was uncomfortable. The first dip into salvation is precious cold. Slowly , but definitely , I felt the influence steal GI you this morn over me. I wanted to sit at the piano and play “ The Lost Chord .” I began to perceive that Tennyson was a truly great poet. “ Alma Tadema" suggested visions of supreme beauty . To have one's portrait painted by Millais I felt would be life's crowning joy: Little Tosti ballads sang themselves to me. As in a premonitory dream I saw myself passing in thechurch -parade,with umbrella andprayer -book, a neat thingin greenleather “ I have done the things I should not have done, ” I said unconsciously, and the. woman , with lifted eyebrowsmiled , at me. “ Is that the reason you have not been near me for ages ? ” she said. “ I was very near morning. " “ This ing ? " I told her of the white dawn and the shamed, stained soul of a man, ardent in penitence, at her door. I told her of the prayers the soul of the man sent up to the white figures sleeping slimly in the shut house. “ I thought you had forgotten me," she said . " No, but I have forgotten what I said to you ." “ It was foolish , " she said . “ But I meant every word of it then , as I mean it now and forever. " “ Don't you think it is a trifle ab surd ? “ Perhaps perplexing would be the better word , I suggested. She wrinkled her brows and stared at her foot -a pretty foot, in favour of which her gown had relaxed a little of its reticence . Then she looked up and our eyes met. “ Did you mean it ? " she asked. “ I meant it then, I mean it now, I shall mean it forever . " “ Will you have another cup of tea ? " “ No, thank you . “ They say that all Turner's pictures are fading, ” she said after a while. “ Yes, the ' Sunset ' in the National Academy is bleach ing , " I replied. “ I shall go and see it some day," she said . " It is fading very rapidly . " " Perhaps I had better go to -morrow . "

  • An early afternoon light is best, " I suggested.

“ At two o'clock . " 64 eming " Cabby, drive like the devil ! ” I said. Ah, there is nothing quite so joyous as a cab, cutting along, as the night-lamps begin to wink in the evening streets ! What a scent of merry humanity lurks in the cushions! How each jar of the hood shakes down the riant ghosts of kisses ! I tossed a white rose into the road as the cab whirled toward the Circus. “ I will wear an orchid to-night, my dear, " and the shop - girl pinned a great, arach nean, gleaming flower in my buttonhole. Then I turned into Piccadilly. a

  • So

This is Horr Greitner , who loves chess, has a stack of high ! Mpper East Side THE SHOFAR The Shofar blew at sunset. It was creamy September time and the day was BLEW AT Yom Kippur. We walked up Lexington avenue to the synagogue at Seventy second street. It was then the ram's-horn sounded, and I said to Esther, “ Let usgo SUNSET within ." She refused, urging that Greitner's was a better place to worship . be it ,” said I, and we slowly crossed to Third avenue . Early as it was, the big JAMES GIBBONS cafe was crowded. Not a Gentile was to be seen . Ata table near us sat a group that mocked its race , its religion . Beer was drunk with Yiddish wit on the side, HUNEKER and ham sandwiches were munched to the sound of irreverent laughter. I looked at Esther . Her eyes blustered, but she did not forget to taste her stein of Wurz burger. “ O Jerusalem , how hast thou fallen upon evil days! " I murmured, and ordered morebeer. Later a rabbi entered and ate and drank as a man should who has worked hard and faithfully . Esther stirred uneasily. " If,” I said ironically, " you prefer to go to Shool we will leave this Ghetto, go forth and cleanse our souls of sin .” The girl fell to studying me. “ Tell me why you have followed me so persistently when you should be with your own people. Why do you love the Hebrews — love them and yet mock them ? ” she questioned. I would have answered her, but the bill of fare stared at me reproachfully. I handed it to Esther and she forgot her query. Pig's knuckles and sauerkraut were commanded of the waiter with theredside-whiskers. Then I madeeyes at my companion . “O Esther, daughter of Judea, singer ofsweet cantillations, despiser of Christians, lover of diamonds, do you not know that I am fascinated by your face because in it there lurks the sorrowful story of the Semite ? You turn your long , full throat and your C's in his chest,and serves Tom profile evokes hot, sultry nights and the few largestars of Palestine. We are tonic amber liquid to the soul thirstyandsorrow -laden of the loafing at ease on a craningroof, andthe gabbleof thestreetsbelowreachesus muted as the music of the Shawmn. O Esther, your brow is ablaze with strange jewels and the cunning stuffs of your attire blind me with colour and perfume. I hold your Oriental hand, browned by the sun and dirt. You are a true Eastern , and you say, "Goi, thou lovest me wherefor ? " " Esther interrupted me, “ What sort of diamonds did you say I wore on my head, dearest ? ” “Never mind," I replied in anger. " You were a splendid mass of fire, and I adored you, adored your crisp , ebon curls , worshippedyour slender hips, and maddened for your cruel, carmelion -lipped mouth .” “ Harry, do order more beer,” said Esther, dreamily regarding a monstrous hat near by. I did so and resumed : “ You loved me not, Esther. You loved another. He was a cantor in the synagogue, a man of sonorous voice, whose black beard seemed saturated with bass tones and whose stride was that of a pawnbroker. You loved him , Esther -- pray do not contradict my phantasy - and Iwas madly jealous. I knew that a poor soldier, one of the hated legionaries, a Teuton, blond -haired and guttural of speech , could have but little hope of winning such a fair, fierce flower of Jerusalem , but I hoped on . Presently you stirred restlessly and said , “ Attila, art thou of consequence in thy native land ? Hast thy father granaries and breweries in profusion ?' ' Aye, Esther, that he hath, and some day, may it long be deferred, all will be mine, thine if thou will it so.' Then take me, Attila, for wife,' you answered. ‘ But the cantor, what of him ? ' I suspiciously asked. ' Pooh ! Attila, he is not as rich as you.' Suddenly a deep voice broke the air with the opening measures of the "Kol Nidrei' and you started from my arms and rushed to the edge of the parapet, crying , ' It is Baruch ! It is his voice ! Hi, Baruch ! Up, up, Baruch, to your Esther !' and— ” “ Harry, will you please stop your nonsensical talk ? You have been shouting so that everybody in Greitner's is staring at you. I do so hate your stupid Jewish stories. You are worse than Zangwill and his old -clothes men. Oh, there goes Mrs. Jacoby ! Isn't shepretty ? And what a sweet body she has on ! ” I looked at Esther, her shell- like com plexion, her exquisitely carved nose, her soft , large, Oriental eyes and their sweep ing regard — O‘Adonai, is this the woman of Judea ? Is this feminine capricious, nerved creature to be the mother of a race of law -givers, wise men , artists, and poets ? O Jael and Rebekah ! O Hagar! O Miriam and Deborah! O all ye mighty -thewed, great daughters and she whose cry of filial joy signed the death Warrant! Jeptha's daughter and brave Judith , how have thy shadows waned 1 62 TIP in these days of grey ! Not even Delilah is left norJezebel, but atuning down of heroic, tender womanhood to low - pitched, flat, stale, frivolous dolls that study fashion -plates, amble, jig , and feel not the glories of their race and even deride it openly in public places. “ Harry, do you know that I'm hungry again ? And do get the waiter to fetch more beer." I spoke then to Esther of our approaching marriage. Her eye kindled and her bosom heaved as I enumerated thenumber of presents we were likely to receive. “ Do you know , dear," she said , her lovely eyes swimming with pleasure, “ do you know I think it is great fun to marry a Gentile ? It will be so talked and gossipped about, and then only think of the newspapers Herr Greitner, he of chess and chest high C's fame, came up just then and I intro duced him to Miss Dinkelspiel. The long room of the cafe was by this time crowded with a chatting , chaffering crowd of people, soon to be “ mypeople ." I eagerly watched the writhing picture with its vibratile hues, its ugly flat faces and beaked noses, its vulgar good nature, itsgrossness, itsabsenceof spirituality; and itsairofYankee sofalsely graftedupon it . Esther was eating againandí lighted a cigar. The door hardly remained closed a minute. Family parties came in saluting friends and I heard Stein, Berg, Baum , and Cohn mentioned many times -- those names symbolic of German tyranny and Hebraic submission . And how the Jews were mocked by the Jews! How the Day of Atonement with its sacrificial ceremonies was sneered_at! It was tremendous, this decaying nation flouting itself on its own tomb. Jerusalem filling its belly with the good things of earth.Judea material, rich , cursed by prosperity, untouched by persecution, doomed . Judea rotting to the very core. Judea without a country. Judea with out its Jehovah. Esther bade me pay the reckoning. She yawned and her beauti ful eyes were red and sleepy. Wewent out into the creamy September night and slowly walked up Third avenue. Reaching Eighty -second street we turned moon ward . As we passed the little “ Shool " on the north side just west of Lexington avenue I ran up the steps and peeped in the window . Ah, there were a few faith ful left, then , to worship the God of Abraham , Isaac, and Jacob. Esther called to me in irritable accents, and as I went down the steps the Shofar blem . THE SPIDER ' Twixt painted ceil and space below I swing and sway ; And what her lover knows I know , ' Tween night and day, Whatpasses when the day is done, Whathappens when the night's begun. When the pale dawn creeps in I hide Far up above; In cobweb shelter Iabide, Ashamed of love ; Of love andof its passioning, And of my own sad fashioning, But in the amorous, clinging dark I sway and swing : I note the night- lamp's tiny spark, Isee the sting Of kisses, red upon her breast There, where she lies at rest. MARIE PETRAVSKY AT THE CASCADE V. T. a The little Paris which one finds here and there in odd corners of New York is refreshingas an absinthe gommee to one who has the nostalgia of the Boulevards. Verily you shall take a man and bray him in a mortar, but if he has seen the rain glimmering on the asphalt pavements and the slim girls silhouetting in the electric lights he willdream of Paris as you drive the pestle home. Andherewe are - Totoand Titi, Fouse et Fifine ! Elevated railroads go over our heads. The mud of unsavoury streets is splashed upon our pointed leather boots. Coffee is served to us in cups instead of glasses. We are sick for the Moulin Rouge. It is the nostalgia for ankles, for high -keyed laughter, for dance and song, Pschult ! Lolo ! Encore, Titi ! Let us all go merry mad together. Garcon de biere ! Houp- la -la -la ! Saperlotte ! Little one, kiss your grandpapa, zum , zum , zum , zoom ! There's a little Paris in New York -Dieu merci ! There are French restaurants and cafes without end. One may dine at table d'hote for twenty - five cents or for $ 1.50. A French dinner of the same excellence is cheaper in New York than in Paris. But after one has dined ? Then comes in the crape -covered end of the evening for the man who loves neither billiards nor the heated propriety of the theatres nor the boom -de -ayish hilarity of the music - hall. Sunday is the dismalest day of all. There is not even the American substitute for Parisian gayety . You idle through a long dinner with Elise . Elise was a French governess once upon a time. Now she is simply Elise, a small-footed, quick -eyed Elise, with a touch of rice powder and rouge. “ We go to the Cascade," says Elise, dropping iumps of sugar into her flaming cup of cafe cognac . “ What the mischief is that? " you ask. Elise taps out a waltz with one small foot and hums, “ Houp-la-la , zuni, zim , zoom ! ” which is encouraging. You turn out of Sixth avenue. There is an old brown - stone house with high steps and broad windows. There is a dingy saloon in the basement. Everywhere is an air of dejection . The house is dark as the inside of a black cat-not a glimmer of light anywhere. “ Come," says Elise , giving a disrespectful flip to your ear and running up the steps. The outer door is ajar. You push on into the vestibule and ring. A small panel in the second door shoots back and a matronlyyoungFrenchwoman takes apot shot at you. “ Tiens, c'est toi,” she says,smiling at Elise, “ and monsieur ? " “He is mine,” says Elise , with asense of proprietorship . And that is only the beginning of the troubles of the man who finds Paris in New York . The plump doorwoman smiles you a welcome. You follow _Elise into a hall, and through the hall to what was once the drawing-room of the old mansion. The rear wall has been knocked out; a roof has been spread over the garden ; at the farther end is a stage ; in the middle space aretables, and mensmoking cigarettes and lightfoot girls drinking grenadine — * Dame! Little one, this is worth a kiss. Kiss me! Yes, grandpa !. Houp -la -la -la -la-zim - zum -zoom ! The drawing-room- with the rearwall knocked out - hangs like a balcony over the garden . It has its little round tables ; its papas, mammas, babies, sweethearts; its bottles of red wine, glasses of coffee, eau eucre, thimbles of brandy. Down below , in the garden under the glass roof, are more papas, mammas, sweethearts, babies. The stage is a little affair, five or six feet deep, ten or twelve feet wide. It isframed in wonderful papier-mache rocks. To the left a red curtain cuts off a dressing-room . To the right is a piano at which sits a stern young man with a red -flannel rag round his throat. Ta-ta - tim -ta -ta -to- bim -bom ! - he is the orchestra. Elise leads you to the little round table next to the dressing -roon The red curtain bulges and sways with delightful proximity. A little, smart, fiery man, with a black moustache and a large stomach, bounces up behind the pianoand shouts, “ Mesdames and messieurs, M'lle Comme-Ca of the Parisian theatres ! ”* All this in the French of Marseilles. The red curtain of the dressing -room collapses andhangs limp. A moment later M'lle Comme-Ca whirls down to thefootlights with a little shriek -a tall, thin woman, all paint and powder and eyes and violet tights and yellow hair. Some times a straight white gown hangs to her knees ; not often ; as a usual thing it is circling about her elbows. Mille Comme-Ca dances . “ Pste! ” says Elise. Do you remember that whistling call?.The waiter comes and Elise decides to drink soda water and you humour her. What sirope ? Grenadine ? And he brings you two glasses of the pink and sticky stuff. You light a foul-smelling French cigarette . You watch M’lle Comme-Ca capering on the stage - Sunday night in New York ? Tush, tush ! It is Paris, and you are young, and Elise is beautiful and - “ B'soir, m'sieu ! ” It is your barber, the accomplished Henri. He smiles at you under the waxiest of moustaches. The plump youngwoman is his wife; the plumpyoungbaby is theirs ; they deposit the baby - it is asleep - on a bench that runs along the wall and turn to watch Mille Comme-Ca. It is all as it should be. There is a new eruption on the part of the young man at the piano ; he plucks out a tune that goes ti- ting -ti -ti-ting- ting- ti, and Mölle Comme- Ca makes a naughty grimace and sings: C'est sa famille Lui toutentiereentre en criant, Vous avez detourne c'tt enfant, “ Va falloir epouser noť fille." Un mois apres j'etais marie Et c'est comm ' ca que j'suis éntre , Dans sa famille. a a a om . 63 a In addition to your barber there are many people of his class, from wig-makers to dancing-masters. Itis an audience of trades-people. The furriers of Clinton place, the varnish -makers of Fourth street, the artificial-flower makers of Sullivan and Bleecker streets, the die-cutters who live as far west as Eleventh avenue. Probably one-half are Parisians -you can tell a Parisian as far as the range of your eyeglass. The others are men from the provinces, but they are quite at home in the cafe chantant. The men in the provinces aremerry in their own way, and that, like the wayof the Boulevards, isthe way of a glass and a girl. The young swells run to flaming scarfs and unduly pointed boots. They have the newest jokes -not always the nicest ones for the girls withrollingeyes. Good, honest girls are these, in spite of the fact that their eyes roll and they cross their trim ankles conspicuously . They work hard enough six days out of the week ; he would be a terrible “ reformer " who objected to these harmless Sunday coquetries, albeit they are Parisian . There are dozens of children -youngsters in arms, youngsters sleeping on benches, youngsters precociously sipping wine and criticising M’lle Comme-Ca. The placid bourgeois women laugh at Mille Comme-Ca's wickedest words and naughtiest oeillades. For wewho go to the Cascade of a Sunday nightare not unco guid and hardly pretend to be . “ Mesdames et messieurs, M. Bufignac ofall the Parisian theatres .". This time the stern young pianist makes the announcement. The black little Marseillais has disappeared behind the red curtain . He swears terrible Southern oathsback there. At last he comes out dressed as a countryman -blouse, red nose , wooden sabots, and all. He is timid , he informs the audience, so timid -- j'avais tellementé peur-- and he tells the story of his adventure with one of the bravest of the Norfolk Howards. Then , with much dancing, he sings another topical song, but that was not a nice one. “ Pouf! ” says Elise. “ You shall buy a bottle of the Widow Clicquot." Thatthing you do and find it pleasanter than grenadine. But you reflect sadly that even the best of French folk like sweet wines. You like them dry and witha tang. “ And you shall give me a cigarette , ” says Elise . " Mon dieu, my dear friend, but I am happy ! I wonder what is the next thing on the programme? The waits are too long. Do you like this wine? Ah, grandpapa, I have drunk in Chaumont. You know Chaumont, where the green hills are and the chestnut trees and the vines ? La, la, but I was a good young girl ! He was in the post -office. You know they have built a new railway station at the foot of the hili. Mamma says the smoke comes up to the windows of our house. Oh, this poor Chaumont! Some day I shall go home. Yes - oh , ce drole ! ' The drole was a pasty young man who had been whispering confidentially to the pianist. He was, like the rest of us, one of the audience, but he was volunteeringto sing a song. came down to the footlights fumbling his low -crowned hat and smiling fatuously. Then in a fine tenor voice he sang certain songs -wild horses couldn't drag the titles of them from you. But you laughed ; of course you laughed and pounded the table, and Elise shouted unwise approbation : La, la , la , la , la, la , Tourne et tourne et tourne en vain Therese mord a la grappe Dans la vigne a son voisin . Come, it's a nice song, a pastoral song, all about the vineyards. They keep the young man singing until there is a noise and stir up in the balcony and everyone sees a red wig bobbing and begins to applaud. Hole ! Hola ! Houp- la ! ' The jolly little woman under the red wig ! Men have died and worms have eaten them --- for love of her. Eyes hath she, and they are black ;teeth , and they are white ; red tights, and they are plump; a red -and - yellow skirt, and it is fluttering. As she comes down from the balcony and goes joking through the tables the fiery impresario calls out in an agony of enthusiasm , “ Mesdames et messieurs, M’lie Lili-patte-en - l'air from all the European theatres ! ” Screw your glass in your eye, get your cigarette well alight, lean back Tim -tom -bim -bom -zim -zoom ! As the pianist banged out thesechords Lili turned an airy somersault and was on the stage. One an'- a - two - an'- a - three ! Peste, the little one can dance! It is a fluttering, languid phantasy of eyes and ankles and lingerie. One - an ' - a - two --- an'- a - three ! Do you want the head of John the Baptist on a charger? The music goes slowly. One --a -- two - a - three ! It is like the circling of a bird with a broken wing. Zoum ! The small woman is feet up in the air and then a riot breaks out in the piano and she, with snapping eyes and black hairflying, dances the maddest dance of the mad South . You andElise and the whole pack of us are cheering ; the glasses rattle on the tables - bravo ! M’lle Lili, permit me to inquire with undisguised concern , do you want the head of Elise on a charger ? A woman with musical glasses, a juggler, other women who sing and dance, men who tell comical stories -- but all these things are written in the chronicles of the music-halls. “ P'tit gran pere — " " Well, Elise." “ Do you think cold fowls and olives and another small bottle would do ? ” “ Yes, Elise. "

  • Pste, garcon ! ”

The air is blue-grey with the smoke from cigars and cigarettes, the gaslights show against it like smears of yellow paint. It has gone twelve o'clock. “ The fowlis excellent, Elise, but whydotheyleave theblue pin - feathersin it? ” “ Itis our fashion . Ah, you have eaten the fowls of Chaumont, beautiful, white, tender. They TEP a feed on the chestnut meal. Oh, when I think I shall never see Chaumont again I could tear my hair out! But I was happy there. He was in the post -office . " “ Shall we go , Elise ? " “ Saperlipopette ! Weshall dance, " said Elise, “ la -la -la -zim -zoum !" The waiters whisk the chairs and tables away; the stern young at the piano takes a long drink of brandy, adjusts the red -flannel rag round his throat. There is a waltz. Every one dances, save a few of the oldsters, whobeam approval. Oh, a decorous dance, of course. The dust rises in clouds under the rhythmic feet. Smoke and dust and gaslight, flying skirts and rougey kisses caught on the sly. It has gone one o'clock , saperlotte ! It has gone two,gone three o'clock . The little glasses of brandy are high in the head . Elise has thrown her hat aside. One strand of her soft hair has fallen downand circles herthroat like a brown snake. The colour in her cheeks shines through thepowder. The trill of her laughter runs an octave high. Zipp! Her slim foot shoots up and your hat goes whirling among the rafters . Ah ,Elise, were you really good — in Chaumont? To be sure there is a little Paris in New York . But, after all, it only serves to sharpen the nostalgia for the Boulevards, the homesickness for thegreyasphalt and the slightgirls silhouetting in the electric lights. SYMBOLS My palace is of smoke and rain , And from the window I look forth And see a blurred, tumultuous train Glide through a tunnel to the north, Beaconed by lantern -lights of blood. My palace is of storm and flood, And through the window -panes I see The white stars miming oracles To the dead sand and sleeping sea — Stars sign and cry aloud like bells. My palace is of black basalt. The stars which mimed in the blue vault Have passed with dark, averted cowls . I see the city's fitful light ( Lamps winking like the eyes of owls ). Men, mad with dreams, shout to the night. VANCE THOMPSON Usey 64 the Celebrated WHY NOT

Sohmer sta make the baby fat ? For the thin baby is delicate, and is not half so cunning. Give the thin baby SCOTT'S EMULSION PIANOS ARE THE BEST OF COD -LIVER OIL WITH HYPOPHOSPHITES Warerooms: 149-155 E. 14th St., New York CAUTION . The buying public will please not confound the SOHMER Piano with one of a similarly sounding name of cheap grade. Our name spells — S - O - H - M - E - R Scott's Emulsion is as easy a food as milk . It is much more effective in making thin babies fat, and they like it. If all the babies that have been made fat and chubby and well by Scott's Emulsion could only tell their story to the mothers of other sickly babies! There wouldn't be enough to go round. WHAT IS MORE attractive than a pretty face with a fresh , bright complexion ? For it use POZZONI'S POWDER . DON'T be persuaded to accept a substitute. TOURS TO THE SOUTH Via PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD Two very attractive early -autumn tours are announced by the Pennsylvania Railroad Company. They include the battle- field of Gettysburg, picturesque Blue mountains, Luray caverns, the natural bridge, grottoes of the Shenandoah, the cities of Richmond and Washington and Mt. Vernon. The tours cover period of ten days, and will start from New York in special trains of parlor cars on September 24 and Octobor 8. Round-trip rate, including all neces sary expenses, fifty- five dollars from New York, fifty -three dollars from Philadelphia , and proportionate rates from other points. For detailed itinerary apply to ticket-agents or to tourist-agent, 1196 Broadway, N.Y .; or Room 411, Broad-streetstation , Philadelphia. ALL DRUGGISTS 50 CENTS and $ 1.00 SCOTT & BOWNE NEW YORK Kenney Rich Furs Urbana Wine Company Gold - Seal Champagne Importer and maker of 24 East Twenty -third Street « For Sale by all Leading Wine Dealers and Grocers Post-office: Urbana, N. Y. Arnold ,Constable g Co. Madison Square OUR COMPLETE WINTER EXHIBIT NOW READY FOR INSPECTION . AN EN TIRELY NEW DEPARTURE IN JACKETS, SEALSKIN OR PERSIAN LAMB : : : : We advise an early attention to all garments re quiring alteration to the present style of fashion, which widely differs this year from the preceding one. The new things in collarettes and capes, imported director made and designed by ourselves, complete an incom parable assortment of rich fur goods. MEN'S WEAR Cartwright & Warner's Autumn and Winter UNDERWEAR in Natural Wool, Silk and Wool, and Camel's Hair HALF HOSE in Natural Wool, Cashmere, and Merino NEW STYLES IN GOLF AND BICYCLE HOSE Wholesale Department SKINS AND TRIMMINGS FOR TAILORS AND Broadway & 19th ftof . MAKERS OF ROBES ET MANTEAUX : : : NEW YORK BOKER'S BITTERS, A SPECIFIC AGAINST DYSPEPSIA, AN APPETIZER , AND A DELICACY IN DRINKS QUTALITE EXTRA }}UNLAP & Co CELEBRATED HATS COPYWANTED . AND LADIES' ROUND HATS AND BONNETS AND THE DUNLAP SILK UMBRELLA 6 గణ గణ గణ గణ 178-180 Fifth Avenue, between Twenty-second and Twenty- third Sts ., New York 181 Broadway, near Cortlandt St. , New York alebo Palmer House , Chicago " 914 Chestnut St., Philadelphia ACCREDITED AGENCIES IN ALL PRINCIPAL CITIES J. & W. Nicholson & Co. Condon Telephone 8-18th Street Ltd. SCHILLER FLEMING JÁ CARNRICK: Finest -PRESS 256 WEST TWENTY - THIRD STREET · NEW YORK • Old Tom and Dry Gins Fleming, Schiller & Carnrick are the printers of SOLE AGENTS M’lle New York Raoul-Duval- Stevens-&Hall • 63 Pine Street - New York • VRIGHT 1805 BY MLLE NEW YORK CORPORATION 65 Didwinter 'Pumber THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY MijeNew How YorkASTOR, LENOX AND ILDEN FOUNDATIONS FORTNIGHTLY Vol. I. No. 9 DECEMBER, 1895 Price 10 Cents SUBSCRIPTION $ 2.00 A YEAR PUBLISHED BY MÄLLE NEW YORK CORPORATION OFFICE THE STEEPLE BUILDING 40 WEST THIRTEENTH STREET, NEW YORK ::: Tuleming Tbomas Fleming art editor , Vance Tbompson editor James Gibbons buneker associate editor A NIGHT SCENE G. HENRY PAYNE There was a step on the stairs ; then silence. She could feel that someone was coming up ; she crouched in the corner and waited. A moment passed ; she thought it was hours. Again she heard a noise ; this time it sounded like suppressed breath ing. She could feel the Presence outside the door; the knob turned . The candle flickered out ; again the knob turned, and then the door opened noiselessly . She could not see the figure that entered , but a coldness was sent into the room that left no doubt as to the coming. Her limbs trembled with cold , and it seemed as if all her blood had turned into ice, except -- except where It, the Mystery of the Womb, was ; and there was a warm , glad feeling, an almost definite sensation of the Joy of Life. For a moment the visitor and the coldness were forgotten in the ecstatic contemplation of the unconscious joy of the Unborn . “ The Child . " No one had spoken ; it wat not the voice of man ; it was a Voice that cried to her heart. It brought her back to the coldness of the room and the deathly dark, to herunwelcome guest. She could feel that he was coming near her -- “ The Child . ” It was the Voice of the Demander. It rang like the hangman's knell ; it snapped the cords that bound her to hope. The Child . " The Voice was nearer. God of pity ! Could she yield up that which was not only hers, but of her ? She knelt at the feet of the Demander, but in the darkness she knew her prayers were of no avail. She muttered the words that had been taught her in childhood and hoped against hope the old spell had not gone out of them . Over her head the Demanderstretched his hand. She could feelthe weight on her heart, though the touch was not perceptible. She could hear-- fond wretch, amorous of the unknown ! -she could hear the cry of anguish from the Womb, from the innocent, non -individual mass that was not only hers, but of her ; she could hear the Child's protest against the fate that would soon claim it. Must all end thus -- all the joy and hope and suffering and participation -- all end thus ? And the old prayers were impotent. “ The Child . " The Presence has laid its demand upon the Unborn . God of pity ! Will It take from her that which is of her ! The Unborn is the Born . But how cold are the bodies of the two. 46 ТЕР 66 a а 斯 - It is no easy matter to be famous when one bears a name which is spelled STANISLAW Przybyszewski and is pronounced Pchibichefski. The handicap is formidable. And yet this unspeakable Pole_is making a noise in the world. He writes PRZYBYSZEWSKI in German. The reviewsof the Fatherland are publishing his portrait and learned discussions of his work . He isindeed a notable man . He stands in the forefront V. T. of the new movement in German letters -individualism . He has written mono graphs, a novel, and a play, which is to be produced, I observe, in Berlin this season . He seems to be a strange, vagrom , irresponsible sort of man. For a while he was a student of medicine. For a while he edited a socialistic journal in German Poland. Now he has given up all regular modes of life. In the winter he may be met in some of the smoky taverns of old Berlin . He is a ferocious noctambulist, a presti digious pianist, who plays Chopin with a sort of diabolical intimacy -- think ! - on the cracked pianos of second - rate taverns ; this inspired Sclav, reeking with alcohol and nicotine. But when the summer comes he goes awayto his wife's home in Norway and writes marvellous books. The first of his books I have been able to get is the Psychology of the Individual, " which deals with Chopin and Nietzsche and Ola Hansson ( Berlin , 1893) . Less a book than a brochure, it is an admirable introduc tion to Przybyszewski. It has for theme the conflict between the modern soul and the great Unconscious -the struggle between the individual and matter. “ That which distinguishes the individual to- day, " he writes, “ is the sentiment of being placed outside of the daily interests of the crowd ; the supreme sentiment of feeling his instincts perish and feeling little by little the source of his powers dwindle; thehistory of the individual becomes thusthe sad monograph of fettered desires and stifled instincts, the history of the slow crumbling of mountains, disintegrated by precipitous waters. Thence comes that dangerous yearning for something beyond - vainbeating of a bird's wings, scaling the infinite. This infinite yearning has still one distinctive mark : a consciousness of the inefficacy of all such efforts - the lucid consciousness that the yearning for something beyond is but a lure. ... And so the spirit reaches the conviction that all its search is vain and that, notwith standing all its endeavour, it will never rise above itself. . . . From this it is that comes the feverish quest for pleasure. But this morbid hunger for pleasure lacks the simplicity which came from the early play of primitive forces. The actual individual replaces the naif joy which came from the exercise of his instinctive powers by a subtle quest for the bewildering. All life thus becomes a mere question of attaining an exciting state of bewilderment. “ The decadent individual - his nerves inapt for their work, at dolourous ten sion —raises himself to the mysterious frontier where pain and pleasure are as one ; where the two, combining, give a destructive sense of enjoyment, an ecstatic satis faction of getting out of one's self and above one's self. Thoughts and acts take on destructive forms, become manias; over all the exhausted atmosphere hangs the hint of a coming storm —the dolourous vibrations of delirious but impotent lust; the hectic flush of a hysteria of the senses. " Human nature fighting mysteriously against the implacable forces which hem it in- this vain struggle in a twilight of semiconciousness -is the theme of all these lyric monologues. His heroeshave no precise reality. His women are not human beings; they are personified sex ; they are Astarte or Isis or the Great Prostitute. " In the beginning there was Sex. Out of Sex there was nothing, and in it everything was. " This is the beginning of the “ Mass of the Dead , " a sinister poem of drunken ness and decadence. “ AndSexmade itself brain --- this masterpiece of lust -whence was the birth of the soul. " Then Przybyszewski pictures largely, in great cosmic symbols, deco rated with passionate and mystic fervours, the singular combat between the growing brain and the Sex, from which it would fain be free . I can not translate the poem here -in a journal which is read by pale, slender hipped girls in convents. 7 a - Sofgras 42 THE SCULPTRIX A slight grey woman , she stood alone, In the great grey world alone, And she said : “ I will fashion my hidden dream In a synthesis of stone." She wrought by day in the facile clay, In the night she fashioned clay, Till her ideal stood, in its stark white mood, Wonderful as young day. " Oh, it's here in the marble," she said ( and smiled ), “ Is Love's dream " (and she smiled ) ; For the baby's arms crept round her neck And– " You are Art and Love, my child .” ES THE LONELY GIRL'S LOVER A Gypsy tale, heard in Transylvania by Wistocki; told in French by Professor Elie Reclus, anarchist and scientist ; the English by V. T. There was a young girl, a beautiful girl. She had neither father, nor mother, nor brother, nor friend. All were dead. She lived in a cabin at the edge of a wood. She never went to see anyone ; no one ever came to see her. Once as night was falling there came a fine man. He opened the door: From afar I come, from very far away . I can go no further. I must sleep . " Said the girl “ Well, I will give you something to cover you . To-morrow you shall eat and drink . " Already the man had stretched himself on the floor : “ I am going to sleep. It is a long time since I slept. " The girl asked : “ —How long since you slept, tell me ? " “ — My dear, in a thousand years I have slept but once. " And the girl laughed: “ — Bah ! You joke." The otherwas already asleep. Atdawn the traveller woke. He looked at the girl : “ --I say, but you are pretty ! Do you want to keep me a week ? ” “ With pleasure." One night as they slept together she woketrembling: " Oh, the evil dream ! You were pale, dear man , and all cold . We rode in a silver coach . You blew a horn . And the dead trooped ; they followed us in crowds. You were the king. You wore a long cloak . " " —Bad affair, that, " said the man . He leaped to his feet. Dearest, I must go. It has been long, too long, since anyone died . I must go. ” And the girl wept: Do not go ! Stay with me, stay ! ” “ I must go -God guard you ! She weptmore bitterly : At least tell me your name." " I will not tell you my name. Who hears my name must die." “—Let comewhat will, I wish to know who you are ? " You wish it ? You wish it ? Well then, I am the king of Death ." The girl paled and trembled . She fell dead. 27 The thick curtains were drawn. In the chamber there was only the light of POSSESSION the night-lamp, feebly persistent. She lay with her young heab on my arm . A shudder ran through her sleep , and she cried aloud . I wokeabruptly . V. T. “ Thereissomethingthere-something. Look,,in the foldsof the curtain - the flutter of evil wings ! ” There was nothing but the night-lamp, feebly persistent in the anxious night. Inquiet myself, I hushed her terror and with avid lips we drank the enchantment of life -drunkenness of love and sleep. A blue and heavy sleep fell upon us, cool as linens, heavy and blue " He touched me with his hands -- I felt his bony hands on my flesh ! " I too had seen the hands, the evil, mocking hands stretched toward me ; and in the folds of the curtain the black eyes shone. But the phantom vanished ; it fied from our kisses. There was a chill in our kisses, as though mouth groped for mouth through a veil. Our lips were weary and chill. A light slumber fell upon us -a thin and peevish sleep, striped with fever ; our arms and legs moved perversely , as though in fearof anchylosis. But still it was sleep. ... There was a gurgle in her throat, and a faint, horrible sound came through her teeth ; her great eyes opened and stared at me, mad, terrified “ He was here, between us ; he pushed away your arms, and on my face I felt a monstrous, formless kiss. " I too had felt on my face the touch of impure lips; and the curtains were moving, tremulously, mockingly. Yet once again our mouths grew together, but our lips were cold, as though fear had sucked them bloodless ; and our embraces were weak and distant, as though the phantom lay with folded wings between us. The pale night-lamp flickered in the sepulchral darkness; with anxious eyes we questioned the darkness ; we questioned the dim silence - ... Bitter regret of our golden dreams obsessed us ; bitter regret and the dreams all gold. “ The shadows are sinister in this dark chamber. " “ At God'sfeet kneel the nights and days, expectant. He bids each go forth to its appointed task. There are nights which work the ruin of eager lives." “ Tear down the curtains that a little of blue heaven may shine in- quench that flickering, shameless light — " " It was death that entered here, through the folded curtains, and henceforth there is death in us , forevermore, forevermore. " TED] TSP It was a troubled night - Mile after mile NOCTAMBULISM he walked the streets of the haggard city. Always ahead of him -- indefinite, mystic - floated agilded virgin -at times he saw only a glint of white wings and her fervid hair, ali gold -then for a moment he would see her exceptional eyes ; so he knew that she was the Mother of God's choice -- the mystic Mother of the World's Salvation -- and he followed her through the streets of the hag gard city - But he could not pray . TEP HISTRIO MASTICISMS DOCTOR HAMILTON WILLIAMS Sooner or later all flesh returns to dust. We speak of this as a retrograde metamorphosis. It is essentially the reduction of a body highly organized and complex to its elementary units. Midway are encountered some weird suborgan isms which long-suffering jurymen recognize as ptomaines. With such as these expert criminals who canafford to hire expert testimony poison their victims, not with rough -on -rats. This leads me to the view that the learned counsel who do the hiring, in fact, lawyers as a class, are products of the retrograde metamorphosis of society. Nature, endowing man with arms, leaves the tongue to woman ; but Cicero and Joe Choate, who have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdoms of the earth , cast down their arms and wag the unresting tongue. “ Such gentleness, a clemency so unwonted and unheard of, so universala moderation united with abso lute power, wisdom so incredible and almost divine, it is impossible for me to pass over in silence.” He must have felt awfully bad over that impossibility, must Cicero, when thanking Caesar in the senate for the pardon of Marcellus. “ This tyrant will not leave us even our thoughts free"; he nudges Atticus. Choate, suffering from the engorgements of a sluggish liver and the putrefactive auto-intoxi cation of defective peristalsis, where he should have swallowed a blue pill and a dose of salts and staid at home, goes out to dine with decent people and vomits up his bile upon the table-cloth . A fee it was hewanted and not a feed, and had he had it he would have found impossibilities as well as Cicero . So much for two of the lawyer class. For the rest -- I have never tried holding my pen and holding my nose at the same time. Selah . How is it we hear so much about the nude in art and see so little of the nude in artists ? Do they lack the courage of their convictions ? Do they simply dread the pleurisy resultant from exposure and a sudden chill ? What a bitter jest upon their trans cendental mouthings on the human form divine were that supplied by Brown's spinal curvature, Jones's rachitic tibiae, and the Falstaffian pot-belly of beer-guzzling Robinson in an hypothetical life - school promenade adown the avenue. And then on general principles we must draw a veil over the undraped possibilities of the Misses Brown, Jones, and Robinson. Faugh ! My gorge rises at them , rises at the lie which runs through the warp and woof of every manifestation oftheir salacious, prurient, and brazen strum petry . Art, indeed . Dirt, I say. Pay- dirt, as the miners call it. Fleming ! Why people die has ever been to me a standing puzzle. There is the further difficulty that so very many people do get born. “ Had I seen him but a day sooner, ” sighs the blatant and flamboyant quack, the rawboned and gawky Hippocrates from Painted Post or Four Corners, just graduated from the tail of an ambulance, “ It's all over, doctor, ” screams the sister-in - law with gleeful exultation, almost rushing into the arms of some omniscient old apoplectic coming belated from a dinner-party . “ Twins! Twins ! ” Whereat omniscience all but frowns in disapproval of the perverse and all too previous parturiency . is TheAntiquarytook down his Powhatan pipe, filled it with thirty-year - old THE ANTIQUARY Perique, lighted it with flint and steel, and leaned back in his teak -wood chair to smoke. On atabourettebyhisside stood anivory mugwithpewter lidand AS A SEER stained -glass bottom ; an ivory mug, fashioned from a section of an elephant's tusk hollowed out, into which he pouredfrom time to time from a leathern bottle small DICK WOOD doses of rare old port. The Antiquary's port was notto be sneezed at. A sup was enough to tingle the finger-tips . So he supped and supped until his finger-tips tingled to the tickling- point. If the Antiquary had but possessed a planchette it would surely have written. But as he possessed no such instrument of magic and his finger -tips still tingled, he took up a Chinese fiddle, a sam - san , and smoked, supped ,and sawed . P - u - f- f. P - u - 1 - f. Sputter! sputter! shrieked theexpiring pipe, staccato, with all the agony of a grand finale . The Antiquary grimaced and spat nicotine. The great bluestone, with the light behind it in theTurkish lamp above, glowed like a railway signal-lantern on a wet night. The Antiquary'seyes wereclosed. He was peering into the bluestone with the rapt gaze and the third eye of a seer. Spiritualists, and those mediums who can nottell after four o'clock say this eye is located in the centre of the forehead ; spiritists and those mediums who can not tell before four o'clock say it is located in the top of the head. The only medium I ever knew who could tell at all said it was located in the pit of his stomach, and no doubt he was right. One thing was certain, the Antiquary could and did see the bluestone. And he saw more . He saw the stone begin to revolve, shooting out arms of pale light which caught at everything and clung to nothing. He saw the bluestone spin toward its centre like the magic circles of a bicycle advertisement. He saw the thing reverse and open out like the picture in a kaleidoscope. Where there had been shooting rays of pale light flashed strips, curves, and crescents of brilliant colours. He saw these things group themselves on a maroon background in a design more wonderful and of greater beauty than the Persian rug or the Ashantee cloth he had that day priced . For he was a true Antiquary and always priced, whether he bought orno . He sawJoseph's coat, Indian shawls, Oriental hangings, and Tu nisian sashes until his seer's soul was surfeited . Then beneath and across a Moorish arch the size of an ordinary centre -back stage-entrance he beheld a curtain strung. An ashes -of-roses curtain , worked in threads of old gold. An undulation , graceful and sinuous as a serpent's glide, rippled o'er the cloth from behind at about the height of a woman's hand. He wondered what was beyond the veil. And then the curtain was pulled back , and on a draped pedestal he beheld a copper vase burnished to a more beautiful tint than the purest gold. Long -necked and slender of body, it sported acute -angled arms akimbo at its sides. Altogether, it so excited his pride of conquest he was on the point of asking its price. But he refrained, for he knew that would break the seer's circuit. Every time the curtain was pulled back he saw something new . Now a Benares bowi, now a sheik's scimitar, and manyother things of which only an Antiquary knows. Surely with such a feast he should have been satisfied. But it was even not so . It troubled him what might or might not be behind the curtain . What caused the undulation ? The graceful glide beyond the veil ? His curiosity dwelt no more with curios. He watched the curtain . Once it stuck , and an extra tug was neces sary . A corner flew up, and he caught the flying glimpse of a pretty pink foot with well-turned ankle, to say nothing of -somethingelse. For several times he waited patiently, hoping the curtain would give way entirely . In that he was disappointed. So, the curios having lost their interest, he arose and unlocked a drawer of his Japanese cabinet and took therefrom a certain sum in United States dollars. Throwing his Spanish cloak around him , he hurried out into the night. For he was a true Antiquary. SA Litanies of Ercady- Psycbe to Syrinr. Psyche (Soul)slave to Aphrodite ( bother of Passion ), beseechetb Syown escape from goatish Pan (Sensuality ) to sare berReed of the river, Sedge of the mere, Syrinx, white Votaress of Dian, moaning still, “ Ai, ai ! ” still a quiver, Wildered with thy sudden fear, Throbbing in thy wild affright; Unto thee in the morning chill, Weak as thy wavering leaves that shiver, Bowed as are thy dead plumes sere, Worn and weary I bend my flight. Onymph of the reeds, from the hunter's will The bird of the broken wing deliver. Hear, 0 Syrinx ! Hear ! By thy tremour when the brute Deity in soft pursuit Startled thee with stealthy tread ; By that nameless panic-dread When behind thy flying Clattered close the learny biOf his hoofed foot- alls ; t.Throbbing breast and angrAnd the mingled m moriesOf his brutish in famies —His foul fingers' sacrilegeOf thy purerobe's bennanWhen thy streaming hair aBy his clutch's ravishmentThe hot panting of his breCarrion with the scent of Slavering grin and bestfulAnd within thy helpless ea:Leprous call and shamefulLike insidious poison pourCoursing quick through eveCurdling, though it tould 2YAZATED co

Psycbe ( Soul) , wbo bath by ber former folly become bonde 69 1 ) ,beseecbitb Syrinr (Child of Mature) by the memory of ber ality ) to sare ber from the evil desires of ber cruel mistress.

behind thy Aying feet ed close the larny beat hoofed foot,alls ; by ing breast aid anguished eye, Fre mingled na mories brutish injanies pul fingers' sacrilege pure robe's pennant edge, thy streaming hair was rent clutch's ravishment ot panting of his breath, on with the scent of death , ring grin and iustful leer, within thy helpless ear us call and shameful word, nsidious poisoa poured, ing quick through every vein, ing, though it : ould not stain , The pure ichor of thy blood ; By thy stupor when the flood, Pathless, wide, before thee rolled, And thy heart within grew cold ,, And thy limbs in palsied fear Shook like wintry sedges sere Rooted on the river bank, And thy fair head, drooping, sank Downward on thy bosom bare, A broken plume, and all thy hair Floated, leaf-like, to the wind, Making music, to the mind Of prick -eared Pan beyond compare Sweeter than all thy beauties were ; So come, O nymph,and succour me, Hearken to my litany. Hear, 0 Syrinx ! Hear ! MARION M. Miller PE . ! CARE Titlemine THE CONVENT SPOON V. T. a A green -eyed woman, with long, indolent legs and narrow thighs, lounged on a sofa, smoking a cigarette. A fat baby played noisily about the floor. The man watched her furtively , studying her small breasts and long neck , the small head crowned with wealth of pale hair. “ Open a bottle of beer, ” she said, “ and give me another cigarette, my dear . " When he had served her hes at again and studied her, curled there like a cat, drowsy and well content. Her feet and hands were long and slender ; her teeth were white — he noticed how white her teeth were, for her large red mouth was half open as she let the cigarette -smoke drift about her face. She put her face into the pillow and breathed deep and hard. " God ! How I love it ! she said. “ Pine - there are pine -needles in the pillow . " In a few minutes she lay over on her side and stretched herself, like a woman weary with pleasure. "Give me another beer, dearie," she said ; “ and won't you have a drink ? Try the whiskey. There's a siphonover there too." “I should prefer a cup of coffee," the man said. She raised herself on her elbow and called , “ Nellie ! Nellie ! ” An old woman , very fat, laboured in, smiling, rosy , familiar . “ Get some coffee, " she ordered, and the old woman went out. In a little while the coffee was brought; the man stirred it slowly . “ For God's sake ! " said the woman , and laughed. “ What is the matter ? " “ For God's sake, " she said , “ if you haven't got my convent spoon ! " He looked at the heavy, silver thing in his hand, with its shallow bowl and twisted handle, curiously carved. Then he deciphered the name “ Isabel Gosse " in faint Italian script. He looked at the woman , her indolent arachnean body out stretched, and met her eyes, green with unhallowed fervours -beautiful, intimate, sinister eyes. “ It's my convent spoon ," she said with a little ripple of laughter, as a cat might purr. “ I don't know how I ever kept it all these years. I had three of them -three spoons and three forks and three knives. You know we had to provide all our own things — sheets and pillows and all that. I don't know how I ever kept that spoon ; but I have. When anyone gets the convent spoon it's always luck , dear. O God ! I wish I were back there again ." She curled up till her face almost touched her knees, and sobs shook her slender body. “ I wish I were dead ,” she said . " If it wasn't for baby I'd have killed myself long ago . I swear to God I would! And I will some day. A friend of mine took my revolver away the other day ; but I'll kill myself yet ! How would you like to havetoidentifymein themorgueto-morrow ?' Oh,you don'tknow what itis! Men can't understand. My whole life has been suffering and shame andmisery ." For quite a time she lay there sobbing, crying over and over again , “ O God! God ! God ! " The baby had fallen asleep on the floor, its face smeared with chocolate ; her cries wakened it, and it began to wail dismally: The woman caught it in herarmsand hugged it to her little breasts, crooning, " Mother's joy ! Moth er's darling ! ” Then she took it into the next room and laid it in the bed. “Go to sleep, mother's angel,” she said, and sang to the child : “ East side, west side, All around New York . " The child wailed noisily , nervously . “ Will you go to sleep, you little devil ? Well, don't then ! Nellie ! Nellie ! Can't you take this little beast into the kitchen with you ? Well, take her then, and don't give me any back talk . " She came back into the room where the mansat idly stirring the coffee. She lit a cigarette and perched on the arm of his chair, winding her long, slender arms round his neck. She kissed his hair again and again, slowly ,burrow ingly. Then she slid downinto his lap, and her eyes blazed at him “ Isn't it a lucky spoon , " she whispered, “ dear , dear, dear ? " Her great red lips fastened on his mouth. Faintly , from the kitchen , the man heard the noise of the wailing baby. 70 M The billboard said it was the opening night. I had no trouble, although the THE THEATRE clock -handspointedat eight, in buying an aisle seat close to the stage. The OF FAIR theatre was large, austere. There was no roof, for constellations, ordered geo metrically, blazed above my head ,and these stellar figureswerechanged at regular WOMEN intervals by Someone. Their light would now be purple, now yellow , now scarlet. The audience paid no attention to these perturbations and permutations in the sky. PHILIP HALE Each person read diligently a programme, although I heard talking in the boxes. Benignant Lydia Pinkham sat alone in one of these and looked across at President Cleveland and Mr. Dana, who were discussing mooted points of literary style. I recognized some in theaudienceby their resemblance to their portraits. Íhus I noticed Gautier and E. P. Roe, Montaigne and Catulle Mendes, P. T. Barnum and Mr. Bok. Mr. Richard Harding Davis was head usher, and he was dressed in the exploring suitworn by him when he blazed his way through the virgin forests of the Champs Elysees. I looked at my neighbour. It was Thomasine, whom I had not seen for many years , and when I lastsaw her she was in her coffin under the high pulpit of the Old Church. I remember the slow procession of the boys and the girls of the Sunday-school; the sight of good Deacon Kingsley as he stroked pathetically his nose ; the smell of fresh varnish and flowers. Thomasine was seventeen when she died . She was not changed ; she was still slight and pale and maidenly. She turned a little and murmured, “Oh, it's you. I thought you would come. I have been waiting for you for some time." And then she looked eagerly at her programme. The air was heavy with musk, and I noticed two large, smoking urns, fed constantly with aromatic drugs. The air was hot to stifling . There was a queer whirring. The curtain descended. The stage was empty, but chairs of all shapes and all periods waited in a semicircle. The leader ofthe orchestra took his place, but he faced the audience. A thin man , with a patch MG over his right eye, he coughed horribly and used no score. He was clad in russet leather, which had not been polished for some weeks. An enormous brass key dangled by a string from his neck . He beat time with aа handless arm . Instru ments were on thefloor -clarinets, bassoons, fiddles, flutes, lyres, little cymbals, an oboe, a kissar, a galoubet, and a takigoto; and there were instruments I had never seen before. There wereno players to play them , yet the instrumentsgave forth mellifluous sounds in obedience to the handlessarm , sounds that seemedaro matically drugged, or, at the liveliest, swooning, Now this was passing strange , and I was about to inquire into the cause when a dazzling light struck my eyes. It was the splendour of nude Helen of Troy, radiant in her nudeness. Thus did she speak to those who gazed upon her and wondered : “ It is true, you see, that I am the most beautiful woman of the world. My mouth is little, my neck is long and very white ; from my breasts they made cups for the service of the mannish Diana. Nor do I lack one of the thirty imperative requisites of beauty . See for your selves: three things are white, three things are black, three things are red, three things are narrow , three things are wide -but why enumerate them . Constantine Manasses gave a catalogue raisonne of my_intimate charms; I wonder who told him . It must have been Astyanassa, my French maid, who taught me so much . Ah, I shall never be able to replace her ! But why do they lie so about me ? I loved Theseus, I married Menelaus, but I never had five husbands, nor did I go to a violent death. Nor did I run away with Paris, but I remember him well. He and I once appeared in tableaux vivants, ' The Siege of Troy , and the old men in the front row , Priam , Antenor, and Ucalegon, talked so loudly about my beauty that I lost my balance and fell from the practical wall. Why, I was nearly sixty years old when I first met Paris, but I was well preserved . Many have admired me, but the one I could have really loved was Marlowe. Why did he not wait for me ? Am I not fairer than the punk who grinned when she saw him stabbed ? " And then Christopher Marlowe, who sat just behind me, asked the way to the ( இந்த 8Hesu GWLADIM URAVARS 225 35763 " சார்பாலை stage -door. The handless arm waved, and as Helen pouted and took her seat Jeanne Darc entered on a bicycle and in bloomers. “ Yes, I was a new woman long , long ago , but I never knew what ailed me until I read a chapter by Doctor Icard on religious delirium

he cites my case at length ; and so , instead of sending me to an alienist they burned me.

Can you tell me who wrote my life for Harper and Brothers ? Of course , they expurgated it , but I shall bring out a full and complete edition . ” A high staccato voice squeaked , “ Mes -sa - li-na ! ” An elderly yet flamboyant and bulbous matron in widow's weeds, prudishly clad ; not an inch of flesh below her insatiable mouth was visible. Ablack band covered even her chin . Her hands were concealed by black mitts. Arrogant were her teeth

blue spectacles perched on

a pasty nose. “ was I the victim of political scandal,” she wheezed out greasily . “ ' Tis true I married Silius, the dear boy , but my husband knew it. Tacitus and Juvenal wrote nasty things about me, but they did not believe in women's rights. Why, even you , Helen, couldn't have stood Claudius. His table manners were shocking, and on the most inopportune occasions he would fall asleep. I did go to the slums, but only to relieve the poor, degraded creatures. Misunderstood and abused, often exhausted by my unremitting labours, I anticipated the music -hall reformers of London . " Poppaea admitted that she had bathed in ass's milk . “ The men had no right to advertise the fact for business purposes. There were better cosmetics by which I ensnared Nero and affected seriously his tone- production . " Then came a troop of women , wondrous in their beauty . Arlotta danced the dance that enflamed Robert, Duke of Normandy. Ele phantis showed her picture -books. Dejazet explained why she always slept supine. Thais and Lais, Lamia andRhodope, Tullia and d'Ara gona, Imperia, Isabella di Luna, Cora Pearl exchanged agreeable reminiscences. Diana swore that Acteon never saw her, for she never bathed . Zoleikha cried in a loud voice, “ There is another side to that Joseph story. The Arabians and the Rabbins knew that he sat in my lap. Why did his father's ghost appear and bite his fingers' ends? " There was a shout of admiration, for Balkis , Queen of Sheba, opened her languorous mouth . “ And why should you believe that my legs were covered with hair like that of awild ass, or that Solomon planned a trick for my discomfiture ? Look, is not the story a lie ? " But Helen smiled and said , “ Oh , I know how you got rid of it . Astyanassa showed me a safe way . Why did I discharge that girl ? ” Expectantsilence reigned. The stars blazed asif they wouldfain look nearer. “ The-o -do - ra . ” She was very small and very pale, with lively, piercing eyes. Geese followed her andpecked amorously at her quivering, faultless thighs. “ I once snubbed a society reporter named Procopius. How the fellow abused me in print! Now , ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission I will do the turn that so delighted the audience at Byzantium .” But the handless arm waved her imperiously to a seat. She twitched upon it ; the geese huddled about her. Throbbing, palpitating music. By her gait the Goddess was revealed. “ Like Ulysses,Ihave known many towns and many men. Greatis my punishment, for I must perforce appear in ‘ Tannhauser' and sing the strains of Wagner. Shall I never get rid of this knight? He was a bore when he was in the Horsel. And that song of his ! It was bad enough before he kept transposing it higher." 71 Cleopatra was flushed and angry . “ You have seen Fanny Davenport, you now see me. Come, is there the slightest resemblance ? Wine was my drink in the mad days. Do you think that I would have recommended an extract of malt ? " And Elizabeth, Queen of England,laughed. “ They say I was a prude. Do you remember what Bassompierre saw ? " Someone snuffed the stars. A meteor flashed across the sky. There was the moaning of lawless wind. The urns shot forth madding odours. The handless arm beat deliriously ; the instruments leaped into the air in sonorous frenzy ; the hand less arm at the climax , loosened, flew toward the excited sky. There was a portentous hush . And lo, a little, dark woman , with black hair and a beautiful smile, stood in the glare ofthe footlights. The headless gentleman across the aisle applauded noisily until he was removed by an usher. The music was in passion riven, systaltic rhythm . The noble dames on the stage waxed hysterical. The little , dark woman, with black hair and a beautifulsmile , turned and scanned them anxiously. She saw there neither Atthis, nor Telesippa, nor yet Megara. There was a melancholy, caressing cry, " Oh, Sappho ! ” The stars now shone balefully, and they were watching nearer. White arms were stretched toward her, but, again facing the audience, she looked steadily at Thomasine, whose face was corpse - like save for scarlet lips. And I grew faint. “ Come with me, Thomasine, " I whispered ; " this is no place for you." ButSappho,with her beautiful smile, held her. As I fled for air the music wailed in wild longing. Outside thesleet restored me. I would have gone back to my seat, but I could not find the theatre - door. Nor have I been able to find it since that night, although I have sought for it and with tears. a M Mehill After her sickness the neighbours whispered that Santuzza would never be the buxom wench she was SANTUZZA'S before Turriddu's death . She fell in a dead faint when she heard the news, and only Lucia's careful nursing savedher .She brought intotheworldaverypretty babygirl,withits mother's eyes and its father's CHILD features . They called the child Emma after Santuzza's mother. Santuzza went to live with Lucia, the mamma of the dead man and the one to whom she first confided her trouble. The afternoon after the duel Alfio gave Lola, his flirting wife , a terrible beating and then went away. Lola was so ashamed JAMES GIBBONS at the affair that she, too, got together her goods and trudged off without one thought of foolish Turriddu ,whose bodylay yonder in the graveyard. Talk of the affair gradually died out; occasionally HUNEKER a tipsy villager would troll out Turriddu's favourite drinking -song ora teamster hum Alfio's whip cracking ditty. The authorities took no steps to arrest Alfio, although Mamma Lucia lodged a complaint. The gossips conceded that itwas tit for tat, and, while hard on the two women wholoved him , it served Turriddu right. He would have killed Alfio if he had tampered with Santuzza. And so eighteen years passed and the summers were hotin Sicily . Emma, the daughter of Santuzza and Turriddu, grew up afine, strong maiden , with fiercely black hair and eyebrows, dark -blue eyes, red -lipped, and of a proud,, haughty carriage, " as if she were a princess instead of Turriddu's bastard ,” said the neighbours, who bore her a grudge for her beauty. She helped her grandmother and sang the livelong day. Her mother, a sickly, sallowwoman , hadlittle to say to anyone. She avoided her neighbours, she never went to church, and she talked but little, even to Emma. Lucia was an old , nut-brown, shrivelled woman , with a bright eye and cheerful tongue, and brought up Emma as carefully as she knew how . Above all, she waswarned that men weredangerous creatures, and the girl grew tofear them . One day she asked her mother about Turriddu, and Santuzza gave the girl a look thatdrove her to silence. Emma was fond ofsinging inchurch. She always went to mass and vespers with her grandmother and her voice was the loudest and freshest in town . Once on a Sunday night, when the cicada had begun its song to the stars, a woman with a worn, passionate face trudged into the village and knelt at the church -door. As Lucia came out with Emma the dusty stranger stared at both women as if she saw ghosts. Lucia made the sign of the Jettatura, for the woman had the evil eye. Emma asked her grandmother who the funny-looking, thin creature was. “ Never youmind, damsel. She is not good . ” More she refused tosay, and Emma wondered . Late that night sheheard the sound of voices. Her mother was talking in shrill tones to Lucia, and both women seemed excited. Emma wondered vaguely why “ Lola " should trouble her kin. Then she fell asleep and a dreamed that she was singing in a long, white dress in a theatre, just like the picture in a paper that she much treasured. Onesummer ayoung lord came down to live near the village . Thatis, everyone thought he was a lord, for he dressed in white linen and did nothing. He wandered about listlessly and was always hunn ming. No one knew his name, and so he was called the Englishman, although he spoke Italian without a foreign accent. He was always singing and whistling. His landlady, a great gossip, said that at home he didnothing but make funny markson funny-looking, lined paper, and whistledto himself as he ate and drank , Everyone liked him , for he was liberal. He often spoke toEmma, but shenever answered him , for she had been taught by Lucia not to speak to men ; it was amortal sin and a grave offense against the Christ-child . The young man wondered at her silence and admired her beauty greatly. He heard her singing in church one Sunday morning and his cheeks flushed. Heasked his hostess about Emma, and the long story which she gave him did not bore him in the least. The next day he went to call on Lucia and parleyed with her for an hour. Santuzza was called and listened with bent head to the young man's eagertalk. Hewent away looking dejected andwandered off to the back of the house. After he left the women had another excited conversation, and high words might have been heard by Emma if she had been at home. The grapes had never tasted so fine and the morning air was a caress on the cheeks. Emma was on a ladder, throwing bunch after bunch into a basket below and trilling like a lark . Thesky made her happy when she saw bits of its bluethrough the vines and her heart beat fast with life . “ Emma, Emma, I want to speak to you ! ” She thrilled with fear and joy . She knew the voice well. It was the young Englishman, the handsome lord whose glances made her cheeks hot. But she looked coldly down on him and never a word shesaid . “ Emma,” hecontinued, in almost passionate accents,“ Ihave spokento yourgrandmotherand mother about you . You have a glorious voice. Youare beautiful. You must be a singer in the opera --in my opera. I am not an English lord. I ama poor Italian composer. Come to Milan. I will get you taught. You are too wonderful to pass your life with the clods of this village. Comewith me. Tell your grandmother, tell Santuzza youmust go. " Theman's face glowed with expectation ; he loved her -- he loved her voice. For answer she threw a bunch of grapes straight in his face and then, scrambling down the ladder, she ran like a wounded animal straight ahead and disappeared. The composer murmured, “ I'll get her after all. ” In a hedge, sobbing violently, with her head on her hand, sat Emma. Her dream could come true after all. She had a voice ; she could see the wonderful Milano, of which she had heard so much ; she could see and be ofthat great world which she longed for. How she hated her birthplace, howshe disliked the people, and how she shivered when she thought of Santuzza, even of her poor old Lucial When Emma arose an hour later her mind was made up . A great change came over her. She had never been garrulous. She became taciturn. She attended to her simple duties as if in a trance . Herpeoplecould not make it out. Likesimple-minded folk , they never believed that the youngman would speak to her alone. Besides, he had gone away and the episode was almost forgotten. The autumn waned to winter and Emma became stranger. She hardly ever sang, but sat during the long, cold evenings and looked into the dark shadows. Santuzza questioned her with her faded glance, but the girl'seyes were pure and the mother only sighed. Even the sharp looks of Lucia discovered not Emma'ssecret.' In the spring theyoung mancameback , looking sick and worn they heard, but he seldom stirred from within doors, and they saw him not until a hot day in May when the village turned out to see the mountebanks who had come to play their merry pranks and get a few “ lire " from the savings of the rustics. The players had pitched their acting -booth on the village green and, grouped on benches, sat the Sicilian folk all agape. The only music was the shrill fife and the tam -pam ofabig drum beaten by a dark, middle-aged man, who scowled at the instrument as he dealt it vicious whacks. When the curtain parted the old play of faithless Columbine began . The clown made the town roar. Hewas such a funny fellow , this clown. Every time he stuckhis tongue out the big drum resounded and the laughter was overwhelming. Emma sat and stared her soul out of her eyes. It was a stage, a real stage, and she would standon one like it, perhaps one bigger, and sing, and then people would not laugh , but huzza and cry “ Brava ! Brava !” Two brightspots burned like red planets on her cheeks. Her relatives sat ahead of her. Theclown told the audience that he knew he was loving a coquette, but he would win her yet. Hark, there she comes! Just then a hot hand stole into Emma's and she never budged . She knew by instinct that it was the young man who touched her tremulously, lovingly. Her throat swelled, but she never ceased gazing at the stage. Her heart beat as loudly as the big drum and she felt happy. She knew that he wouldcome back after all. The play went on and the bass -drummer cast lowering glances at the Columbine, who, pretty and young, gaily disported with the Pagliaccio. Then the drummer looked at theaudience from under his dark eyebrows, and his glance shifted from bench to bench until it rested upon Santuzza. He shivered and then hit his drum a savage blow that made the Columbine start and the Pagliaccio stare . The play went on . Emma's hand was still held by the stranger. He put his mouth to her ear and whispered, “ I love you ! You will come? " Suddenly the Columbine shrieked. The dark man whobeat the big drum had jumped on theplatform and, seizing the clownby the throat, hadthrown him violently to the floor. “ Wretch ! ” he cried to the tremblingwoman. “ This has gone far enough. Get you gone, else I will give you a beating ! ” The audience applauded . The woman , giving a frightened glance at her husband, sneaked away, while the dark man turned and savagely kicked her prostrate lover. Then the curtains were violently pulled together and ahum and chatter began in the crowd outside. Emmaturned with blazing eyes to the young man at her side and whis pered , “ He should have killed her ! ” And Santuzza whispered to Lucia, " It was Alfio who beat the drum . " Then everybodyhurried homeward. Emma disappeared the next day. One day, down in Milan, a wealthy man said to the genius, “ Give her to me and you shall be celebrated ,” and the young man consented, for he loved his art better than this woman . Cavalleria Rusticana " set all Europe on fire with its intoxicating music, and the girl who played the betrayed Sicilian girl was proclaimed marvellous. But the composernever conducted when she sang, and in her heart she cried forthat coolafternoon in the vineyard. She is now fat and famous. Down in Sicily an old woman sits and thinks of Turriddu and of Emma, who was Santuzza's child . a SA ABOUT “ M’LLE ” AND HER POSTERS The latter first. We haven't room to reproduce them all ; but here are a few, not necessarily the best either : tastes differ. If you've seen them in the original you know their colour-schemes. pleming 1946 York We've been besieged with requests for them. We couldn't supply you all ; hadn't enough. So we make you this propo sition : We will give as a premium a set of six of our Posters to anyone sending us $2.00 for a year's subscription to “ M’lle New York .” Extra Posters may be had (while they last) for twenty - five cents each . They are worth that now and will soon be worth more. The scarcer the costlier. BACK NUMBERS . 66 . . No. 1 $ 1.00 2 -50 3 .25 Nos. 4, 5 , 6, 7 , and 8, at 10, .50 $ 2.25 NEXT YEAR If you have five friends who can appreciate “ M’lle New York ” get $2.00 from each of them, send us their names and the $ 10.00, and we put you down for a year's subscription and the Posters. And then - well, watch us grow . Volume II . opens with the best artists and wri ters we can find ; and we'll grow a little in size as well. Send us $2.50 and we will send you these eight numbers, and your name will be placed on our sub scription -list to the end of the first volume. $2.00 more enables you to take advantage of the Poster offer also, and THE NEW pays your way to the FORTNIGHTLY beginning of the fourth. 9.Fleying TAS Finest Table d'Hote With Wine, 50 Cents Open on Sundays See Sign of the Black Cat AU CHAT NOIR Albert HESSE, Proprietor 21 SOUTH FIFTH AVE. Un Ragout de Chat Noir NEW YORK GRPMENTS KEPTIN REPPIR FOR 1/2 YEARS FREE OF CHARGE . FRENCH TAILORS OUR LATEST CREATION MADE TO ORDER : FASHIONABLY DESIGNED .415 GOTHIC TRIMMED. SWELL OVERCOAT. Fleming Schiller & THE MARLBOROUGHT" Carnrick WORTH * 40 are the Printers of OVERCOAT DOUBLE “M’lle New York” OILSVT AND Brochures Catalogs, etc. 56462E BREASTE Topicos FINISHED WITH THE GRACEFUL NETHERLANDS FACINGS , AND SAMPLES CLIVEDON" SLEEVES , CUT FROM EASY IMPORTED MELTONS, KERSEYS ,BEAVERS, SELF CHINCHILLAS, OXFORDS , ELYSIANS , SMEASUREMENT MONTEGNACS AND OTHER STYLISH LINED THROUGHOUT BLANKS FOREIGN FABRICS IN LEADING SHADES . WITH SILK , SATIN OR FOUR OWN OUR OWN IDEAS FINEST QUALITY OF SYSTEM ) WIDE SLOPING SILK VELVET COLLAR , CLOTH AND PURE SENT A VERY NEAT EFFECT . SILK - VELVET (BYMAIL COLLAR UPON (1 25,27 29 ANN STR . LONE POOR WEST OF NASSAU GOODS THOROUGHLY NEW YORK . SHRUNK AND COLORS FAST. COHEN & CO POPLAGATIONE Steeple Building 40 West Thirteenth Street New York 73 S PUBLIC THENew NEW LIBRARY YORK York ASTOR LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS FORTNIGHTLY Vol. I. No. 10 LAST FORTNIGHT IN JANUARY, 1896 AD al 2107 Price 10 Cents AOD or 101 SUBSCRIPTION $ 2.00 A YEAR 2x COPYRIGHT 1895 BY HE M'LE NEW YORK CORPORATION PUBLISHED BY MÄLLE NEW YORK CORPORATION . OFFICE THE STEEPLE BUILDING 90 WEST THIRTEENTH STREET, NEW YORK : : : T = Powerge G Vance Tbompson editor Tbomas fleming art editor James Gibbons buneker associate pritou a . The artists and the poets have taken childhood as a symbol of purity. The triumph of the Saints would be incomplete without the babies with puffed cheeks and white wings frequenting the clouds. Kin to the angels ? These terrible little animals, in whom are all the vices, whose first instincts are toward cruelty , deceit, and perversity ; they are hardly sib to the white brotherhood. The baby --- every baby, yours as well as mine - is a monstrous brute, cruel, stupid, perverse. Its first instinct is to inflict pain. From year to year the child lives through all those transformations by which the race of men passed on its way from primal life to complex, altruistic civilization . At first it is a sort of soft and Aabby mollusk ; it vomits, sleeps, fills itself again, utterly unconcerned with exterior life. As soon as it can walk it tries to kill, to murder, to dominate ; a bully where kittens, flies, puppies, or younger children are concerned, it is, like all beasts of prey, a coward before the strong. The boy has all the instincts of the barbarian. Shaking his wooden sword, he harks back atavistically to that period in the history of the young race when warriors fought each other for food or women . The little girl in the same way lives again the old life of her slavish origin . Unconsciously she returns to the epoch when , a sick and furtive animal, she could only escape the cudgel of the healthy male by pleasing him with submissive and sensual coquetries. And so she is avid for ribbons and gewgaws and bright bits of metal. She makes little joyous cries. She grimaces and poses with perverse coquetry. She is an atavistic recurrence of the female slave soliciting the attention and good will of her master. As she grows older she plays with her dolls as the slave played with her young when her master was at war. She is gluttonous, deceitful, untruthful. She lies. She tricks. She weeps copiously to escape punishment. However, if an eye is kept on her she obeys orders better than a boy. But, unwatched, she can not be trusted. Sent to school, she pretends to study, perhaps does study, but she is never instructed in any of the subjects with which she has coquetted. The boy revolts, grumbles, defies his master, but he learns. These two barbarous lives run in parallel lines. The girl has all the vices of the antique slave and concubine. The boy, half soldier, half brigand at heart, cheats his fellows if he fears them, beats them if they are feeble, cringes to the rich and strong. A boys' school is an exhibition of the life of the Huns. At the convent the little girls play LEADER with each other the comedy of enticing and placating men. These are the angels — Blessed beings, symbols of purity and innocence, loved of the poets and painters inept in thought. What a monstrous lie this is ! It is not until forty that a man can school himself into virtue. No woman under thirty would dare to tell her thoughts.. Little by little during the years man —if his life is not too troubled and his passions are not too stormy – teaches himself how to live. He comes to recognize how base are the instincts of primi tive man. First in others, then in himself, he sees what wrong the passions work. He knows his own weakness and is indulgent to others. Familiarity with animal passions has demonstrated their insipidity . He is less ready to sacrifice his conception of right in order to satisfy them. He is on the road to sane and vigourous virtue. Of this the child knows nothing. Bestially he follows the instincts of the primal , animal and the anthropoid. As a matter of fact the wicked are those who never grow old. You see them in the taverns and houses of sensuality, in the gaols and prisons — still children , giving full sway to those instincts for vice out of which the grown man has educated himself. These are the angels. a - F 7 74 The British creature is very gross. At best he is merely a more civilized THE PRINT German. His art, when it is original, is always coarse. There is much of the brute in it . FLEMING I need hardly tell you I have been looking over the print Fleming gave me. GAVE ME It is an excellent copy of Rowlandson's “ Staircase," that picture in which there is such magnificent drawing, such strenuous action and bold characterization, and, withal, such immense vulgarity. It is very English. I have had portions of it V. T. redrawn for “ M’lle New York . " The picture in its entirety , however, it would be impossible to reproduce in a journal which is read by maidens of sixty and blithe, but innocent, girls. You will find it, however, in any of the libraries and, if you are an artist, you will pardon the grossness ofthe theme for the sake of the admirable craftsmanship. You may remember that there is a sinuous staircase twisting up into adome. Up the staircase passes a gala crowd as to some Georgian ball. Buta cursed dog has got into the crowd and first one trips and then another, until men and women are swept downward, head over heels, in indecorous con fusion. _ (From a study of thepicture one may constate certain “ documents,” to use the Zolaistic term ; as, for instance, that in the reigns of the Georges the British female creature did not wear underclothing ; also that they wore plumed feathers at evening receptions ; also that the very young men had begun to go without powder, and that snuff-taking was universal.) I should not have adverted to this drawing were it not for the fact that Rowlandson, to my mind, has never quite had his due. He was no more ribald than Hogarth and he was quite as good a draughtsman. In addition he had an extraordinary fund of humour. To be sure, his humour was indecent and ferocious -perhaps it was rather an animal gaiety - but it was very real. Rembrandt, as you know , left a number of drawings in which there was a grim and awful lubricity. There is much of this in Rowland son's work. Women hurtling down a staircase, women whose garments are dis . ordered by the wind; women in every posture ridiculous and degrading; this was one side of Rowlandson's libertinage. A very different side is seen in that mar vellous drawing where the girls lie, astonished at the dawn. In one coloured print you see a naked acrobat bending himself double in a hoop, to the droning of a barrel-organ ; in another a learned doctor passes while a woman, her clothes up gathered , perches like an ape on the head of a man who blows a horn . You will sk me the meaning of this, and I can not answer. Doubtless one might read into it some stuprate symbol. What I would get at is that this second manner of Rowlandson is marked by an incoherent realism . His figures are out of life, but, jumbled into strangely libidinous groups, comic in their very unreality. And over all is this uncouth English merriment, massive, ventripotent, brutal, ordurous. I do not think that Rowlandson's soul wasinfamous; it wasmerely English. The slim , white, gracile nudities which pleased the frank Greeks had no meaning for him . For him there were suggestionsof erethism in great, bloated women romping in a bar- room ; for him there was atrocious charm in blowsy women of title tumbling down a staircase. The appeal of the Most Low must be very insidious to tempt the Latin, but totheBritish creatureit must be made grossly, broadly, shamelessly. And so I see in Rowlandson an artist who is intensely and typically English. The beautiful spirit of Purity which has inspired so manyincomparable works of art, whichbrooded overFra Angelico and Gruenwald , Roger Van der Weyden and Mem ling of_Bruges, as it broods now over Puvis de Chavannes, has never inspired one great English picture. The British creature is myopic. When he passes from the intimate realism of Hogarth and Rowlandson he ceases to create. And, again , his realism has only been vital when it has been complicated with ordure and clementary lust . The print Fleming gave me suggested these vagrom thoughts. 627X24 பரயாய் tint Titleining ... HH DID MR . WILKINSON HANG THE GHOST ? CHARLES EUGENE HAMLIN "The next five minutes will be the most exciting time in my life," said Mr. Wilkinson to himself, as he calmly surveyed the dark and cloudy midnight sky fromhislibrary window . The immense lawn that stretched from the feudal- like Wilkinson castle to the woods that fringed the Hudson was an ocean ofdarkness, and the treesbeyond formed an inky background curtain that seemed to have banks of black clouds for a changing fringe. Mr. Wilkinson followed the move ments of the second - hand on his watch with the same cool and smiling look he had been known to wear as he read the ticker quotations in Wall street when he made half a million one day and allowed his wife to find it out the next in the newspapers. Two minutes after twelve, " Mr. Wilkinson observed . " On a dark night it takes me exactly three minutes to walk across the lawn and thread myway through the orchard to the grave. Therefore, if in three minutes the moonshines through the clouds I shall have the pleasure of beholding my ghost on the one hundredth anniversary of his first appearance." “ I may as well confess to myself," Mr. Wilkinson added reflectively , that I should be greatly disappointed if under these circumstances the ghost should refuse to appear and talk with me . " With the satisfied air of one who knows his ground thoroughly Mr. Wilkinson advanced to the door, the happy smile on his thin lips and an eager, absorbed look in his eyes denotingthe approach of a moment of supreme happiness. No other sign indicated thatMr. Wilkinson was undertaking an unusual occupation. As he was within a fewfeet of a grove of immense trees themoon suddenly lighted up the scene and revealed a short distance from Mr.Wilkinson a formless thing that stood on the grave where the body of the murdered Dutch giant, Diederich Dustane, had been buried a century ago. Undoubtedly at that moment Mr. Wilkinson had a very severe struggle between pride and curiosity . The former won. Taking his watch in his hand, Mr. Wilkinson carefully looked at the minute and second hands. “ Good !” he ejaculated. “ I calculated the time of my arrival to a second . Indeed, I must congratulate Clock & Sons on the accuracy of their timepieces . Mr. Wilkinson then cleared his throat. Taking off his hat, headvanced with a little more dignity than usual toward the mysterious object, which began to reveal the outlines of a human figure. " You will pardon me, " began Mr. Wilkinson , “ if I take the pleasure of introduction on myself . I am Mr. Frank E. Wilkinson of the present century ; by occupation a stock -broker; by birth half Dutch on my mother's side and half Yankee on my father's side. Pardon the intrusion of personal explanations, but as the situation is somewhat novel, I am forced to say that I long debated the propriety of my addressing you first since I am not half Dutch, while you are anancestor. I trust that you will appreciate my embarrassment, and will not, therefore, impugn my motives in - er - er - calling on you ." There was no reply. With increasing ceremony of manner and a perceptible tone of anxiety in his voice, Mr. Wilkinson began again : " I have approached you with the respect I felt due you ; I now beg to remind you that I caninsist on my rights. Still, it would distress me to be obliged to call your attention to the fact that you, according to thelaws of all nations, are my guest. Eser --the fact is you are on my land . You will thus perceive that courtesy demands from you an acknowledgement of my hospitality toyou." Again there was no reply, and the shape appeared to expand and take ona threatening attitude. Mr. Wilkinson experienced a feeling of indignation. His manner was as cool and ceremonious as ever, although he could not conceal his disappointment and a rapidly growing sense of injury. With deliberation and 75 - - precision of utterance , in order that his words could not be mistaken , Mr. Wilkinson said : “ It pains me to insist on my rights. But unless you explain your presence on my property, I shall exercise my rights and arrest you ." Again there was no reply , although Mr. Wilkinson fancied that he saw a look of astonishment creep overthe face of the apparition . It is to be regretted that at this juncture Mr. Wilkinson lost his temper and terminated this interesting and unprecedented line of argument. But with great deliberation and marked emphasis of feeling Mr. Wilkinson said : “ Damn your Dutch dullness.” Then , with a slightly aggrieved tone of voice, Mr. Wilkinson continued

" Perhaps I stated my feelings ratherstrongly . Yet, can you not see what a remarkable opportunity you have of being the first ghost on record to accept authoritatively—authoritatively, I say -an official invitation from a man of flesh and blood to enter into communication with him and settle for all time perplexing questions about ghosts. " Ofcourse there was no reply,and being a man of action, resolution , and his word, Mr. Wilkinson proceeded immediately to execute a plan he had rapidly evolved on the spot. Seizing the remaining rope of an old swing that hung from a neighbouring limb, Mr.Wilkinson made à noose and threw it over a branch so that the rays of the moon would cast a shadow of the loop over or near the ghost's shoulders. “ If," reasoned Mr. Wilkinson with a smile, " an actual noose can bind a man of flesh and blood, why should not its shadow bind a ghost ? I have no doubt, " he addedwith a pardonable smile , " that my reasoning is correct." Then , with a little dexterousmanoeuvring, Mr. Wilkinson managed by holding the noose in his hand to cast its shadow exactly around the shape's neck . did so Mr. Wilkinson observed with what sounded like a chuckle, “ Anyhow , if I can't tow your ghostship along , I'll start your stumps . I'm talking United States now , and mean business. " Then Mr. Wilkinson moved the noose toward him . Wonder upon wonder ! The immense cavernous cyes of the ghost bulged

a look of anger appeared on its face; but the apparition swayed toward Mr.Wilkinson, raising its arms. “ Hurrah !" shouted the now excited man , “ I've caught a ghost." Butat that moment, asluckwouldhaveit, the moonwentunder a cloud, and in his jubilation Mr. Wilkinson did not notice it in time. He backed off step by step, holding the noose in front of him , intending to go as far as the rope would allow in order to frighten the ghost into submission and speech . But after Mr. Wilkinson had taken ten steps the moon reappeared and Mr. Wilkinsonstood as oneparalyzed. To be sure he was now standing under a tree where the moon could not throw a shadow of the noose in his hand, but the ghost had vanished, and with it the ghostly noose. My God ! " ejaculated Mr. Wilkinson . " If a real noose can hang a man Oh ! have I missed the opportunity of a lifetime and killed the ghost ? " Then Mr. Wilkinson told me the story and asked me this question , which I can not answer and refer to you

Did Mr. Wilkinson hang the ghost

? It is a ghostly conundrum . Nicht wahr ? 66 a THE USURPER H. MAZEL co The Woman led us to the holy Ideal. “ Dethrone it ! ” she said. And we obeyed her. She added, “ Worship me ; I am the Ideal.” And we worshipped her. One night there came a ship, filled with warriors cuirassed in gold. A woman lay in wait for them. She watched them pass along the marble quays, their robes trailing. She, going before them , opened the doors; and from hall to hall they passed, till they came to the chamber where the Basileus, in cope and tiara, slept onhis throneof gold, beside another throne of gold, empty because it was reserved for the Most High Beautiful thrones, in truth , upheld by lions and unicorns, all bronze . “ Ecce homo, ” she said. And one of the warriors drew near and laughed and plucked the white beard . But he opened his eyes, theold man - fulguranteyes ; and the golden lions roared, and the unicorns, all bronze, lifted their heads. And the warriors, cuirassed in gold, fellupon their knees and worshipped the old man , because he was God. But the woman said, “ Are you fools or cowards ? " And denuding her impurity, she said again , “ This is the reward of him who shall slay the old man ! Then a great negro ad vanced, followed by others emboldened, toward the Phantom in the white cope. But of a sudden this one lifted his hand , and the cope which was white became black . And the warriors, cuirassed with gold, fell upon their knees and worshipped the old man , because he was God. But she said, “ I know all that. If you kill him I swear I will perform the same prodigies.."” Then, for they were curi ous, they rushed upon the Phantom ; they gouged out his eyes ; they broke his teeth ; they cut off his nose and ears; they tore out his hair. Then the woman approached the throne, in truth a fair throne ; and the lions of gold roared, and the unicorns lifted up their heads, all bronze ; and on the steps of the throne she gave herself to all, because all had killed . And the warriors, cuirassed in gold, having played with her, fell upon their knees and worshipped her, because she was God ! ANACREONTIC (Choriambi from a Hymn to Eros) A lover with a lover's grace, and gloving with love's tenderness; A cup of wine,a soft embrace, a formofsupple slenderness; A quick -drawn sigh, a long -drawn " kiss, a sudden soft forgetfulness, A gasp, a clutch , a moment's heaven and then a sweet re gretfulness. R. V. W.A. COMPLAINTE - EPITAPHE La Femone, Mon amie ; Pastels Mortels Qu'on ' blame Un fou Sº arance, Et danse. Silence. Lui, ou ! Coucou . JULES LAFORGUE She had stopped playing. MUSIC I waited and waited and waited , but there wasn't a sound. No, the divinity that had been hacking at my ends for the past two weeks would play no more that G. HENRY PAYNE night. I tried to imagine her closing the piano and then unloosening her hair, then unbuttoning a shoe, then removing a jacket or unlacing a corset, preparatory to stepping into the land where she would dream of those wild, weird compositions of hers. For she must dream of them . No mar, no woman, could play as she does and dream as do ordinary mortals. Especially that phantasy that she had been playing these last three nights. The mad, wild run that carries one down over massive boulders like a torrent, splashing, dashing headlong from height Ah! quels to height, through crags and falls, with its tumultuous, maddening roar- and then Appels! suddenly all quiet, as if one had met the Maker andhad paused, half humbly, half apologetically , and then ending in a plaintive note of repentance. I have tried to play it myself -- and I can play. I tried to play it with the tone, Mies gammes ! the wildness that she does, but my version sounded more like a babbling brook than a rushing torrent, ending more like a child's atonement than a sinner's expiation . I wonder who she is. This is the fourteenth day since I first heard her, and I have asked myself that question a hundred times each day. I have watched for her for hours, but she never goes out. Then I have gone up-stairs on pretense ; but the cadaverous little wretch, with his bluish -grey beard and yellow eyes, who seems to be her keeper, always barred me out. I have played back to her when she was in a plaintive mood, but her answer was always hopeless, always in that wild, despairing key, always in G. I wonder why she always answers me in G. But to -night she appealed to me. Those last two bars were for me ; she meant them for hope. Is she young ? Is she old ? No! A woman who can play as she does will never be old . I will answer her ; I will write – but how get the communication into her hand ? Perhaps the old wretch is her husband.. But what of that ? She can not care for him , and I - I understand her. I sat down and wrote, “ Will you marry me ? ” She would understand. Then I folded the note, blew out thelight, and went up -stairs. The rooms were all dark and silent. There was not even the sound of breathing. I knocked . No answer. I knocked again, louder. Then I waited. I thought I could hear my heart beating. My body was in a cold sweat, yet my face was burning. I tremblingly raised my hand to knock a third time, when the harsh voice of the man , coming from the bottom crack of the door, rasped out : " Go away ! " I tried to speak, but could not. “ Go away ! " I turned the knob of the door. I could hear him breathe harder as he said : you come in I will kill you. " " I want to see you," I replied. “ Go away !”" “ I must see you . " I was shivering from head to foot and felt as though I were about to swoon . I threw myself against the door ; but it was locked . " Then I waited . I heard him move away and then come back . He turned the lock almost noiselessly . I shook off the fright and faced myself for the attack . He opened the door softly . I saw the flash of steel and caught his arm as it descended. I grabbed him by the throat, and he wound himself about me as we struggled in the doorway. He fixed his teeth on my nose and bit clean through the bone. I could stand it no longer ; I wrenched the knife from him and jabbed it into his side. There was a gurgle and he was dead. His legs and his arms were en twined about me and his teeth were still in my nose. I cut his jaw open , and as he dropped to the floor the blood streamed downmy face. I lit the light and there - There on the floor was she —naked and dead. Her face was fair and young, and her reddish hair hung in clusters. Across a white throat was a long red mark, and the whiteness of her breast was partly hid den by the streams of warm blood. I kissed the lips, drawn downward in sorrow , and then plunged the dagger into her dead murderer's heart. Then I went back to my room and played the weird phantasy just as she played it ; but I will never play it again.

  • If

CE she o O 0-6° Titleming 11 fore - 77 M 20W T W MUNCH , THE NORSE ARTIST . Edvard Munch , who studied both in Munich and Paris, is known fairly well on the continent, but so far as I know there is only one of his works - a sketch in coloured chalks — in this country . In his native land he has never been appreciated. The journals of Kristiania assert that he offends public morality. His pictures are refused admittance to the galleries. I have seen many of his pictures, it is true, which should not be shown toyoung girls. It would be a trifle absurd, however, to confine art withinthe limit ofthe young person's imagination. If you can imagine Rowlandson blended with Puvis de Chavannes in equal proportions you will have a fair idea of Edvard Munch . His art is at once spermatozoidal and spiritual. He pictures violent, dishevelled lovers astray in black forests -creatures primeval in the ferocity of their passion ; he pictures death andthe horrors of the tomb -- all this with immense force and urgency. I have redrawn from a woodcut in “ La Revue Blanche " this whimsical black -and -white, which is typical of Edvard Munch only in his whimsical mood . The painter himself has put into words his interpretation of the drawing. I stopped and leaned against the balustrade, almost dead with fatigue. Over the blue -black fjord hung clouds, red as blood -- as tongues of flame. My friends passed on , and alone. trembling with anguish, I listened to the great, infinite cry of nature. THE BISHOP AND THE LORD V. T. Mary Magdalene had hersurname of magdalo a castell : and was borne of right noble lynage and parentes : whiche were descended of the lynage of kynges : And her fader wasnamed Sirus and her moder eucharye : She wyth her broder lazare and her suster martha possessed the castel of magdalo: whiche is two miles fro nazareth : & bethanye the castel whiche is nygh to Iherusalem and also a grete parte of Therusalem . whichealthisethyngesthey departedamongetheym insuchewysethat marye had the castelle magdalo., whereof she had her name magdalene : And lazare had the parte of the cytee of Iherusalem : and marthahad to her parte bethanye. Legenda Aurea of Jacobus de Voragin , Second English Edition , Caxton (1493 ) f. 184, ver . 80. The towers of Magdalo are the confidents of the sky. All red they are , when the red twilights fall; they are sombre in storm ; in the gold daylight, gold. SlowlyMary Magdalenepaced the terraceof her palace. Below she saw the village, where the little girls passed , white-robed, with missals in their hands, and beyond, the harbour, where the great ships spread their gaudy sails : while the sea , all yellow , purred like an indolent tiger-cat. But Mary Magdalene is sad. See, dear God ! how beautiful the woman is. Her flesh is of ermine and satin , her hair all gold. She leans on the balcony : the balcony is monstrous with griffins made in iron : and watches a ship drop anchor in the harbour. Ahigh ship, exultant with music. The music floats up to her from the hautbois harsh and the tambourines ; but the sound of the flutes is subtle, voluptuous, and sad. Music lascivious, enervate, hallucinate : The bayaderes dance with naked feet, ecstatic , hieratic : she remembers the dance of the bayaderes. Their coral anklets clattered ; over their impassioned heads they waved their hands, 1

clicking their blackened nails ; they danced : Even the bishop of St. Ives, her fatuous lover, looked at the dancing girls a long, long time and smiled with his red - lipped mouth ; the bishop of St. Ives : It was in the great hall of Magdalo,

superbly tapestried with leather of Cordova, on which the griffins ramped and centaurs : In the bronze candelabra flamed the tapersof yellow wax ; Magdalene sat among her lords : The dancers whirled among the marble pillars, onyx and malachite ; they whirled and shouted, lascivious priestesses of an unholy bac chanal; with unspeakable pantomime they danced : their lascivious eyes lighted up the dark corners of the soul : supple as serpents, snakes rose and supple, among carnal flowers, strangely beautiful : fruit of the damned, dear God i exaudi nos !

But the soul of Mary of Magdalo was not in this pagan festival. Far it fled ; forthe music, like an April wind, scattered the cantharides of desire. Dreams fluttered, like butterflies, about her soul. Again she saw the church. The candles burnedforGod . And in the dusk , behind a veil of incense, shone the great Christ of St. Ives, with a bloody brow and wounded breast, the naked arms spread on the cross . All in white the choir -boys chanted : Quem quaritis in sepulchro, O Christicola ! Jhesum Nazarenum crucifixum , O cælicola ! When evening fell the air was verysoft in Magdalo, and Mary went abroad with the people of her court. She was borne in a Litter . By her side her lords rode, making their horses caracole for mirth. They talked gaily in the soft evening as they passed through the streets. From afar came the twitter of guitars, plucked under ladies' windows. Theypassed the gates of the city and Juridics turnedtowatch the purple twilightfadeonthe towers and belfry . Then of a sudden they saw the shepherds tending their flocks. Among them stood a man in white linen : This was Jesus. Au clair de la lune Mon amiPierrot, Filons en costume, Presider la -hart ! Ma cervelle est morte, Que le Christ l'emporte ! Beons a la Lune, La bouche en zero . JULES LAFORGUE For Mary Magdalene he shone like the first star. He approached very slowly, under the branches where the little birds trilled their evening prayers; he caressed the lambs; so slowly he approached. Pale and beautiful he walked among the trees, his naked feet shunning the daisies. For Mary thegrove where Jesus walked became a cloister ; the troubled leaves sang litanies. All her blood fled to her heart; she waswhiter than marble. ForMary it was asthoughJesus himself officiated at mass ,all resplendent still with the mystic splendourof the Host. He blessed, likethe bishop, but without jewelsonhis fingers and without the pomp of the chasuble royal with orfrays. For Mary the shepherds were the levites and the sheep a procession of the saved souls ofmen and women . Jesus drew near the gentlemen . They were silent. But Mary cried aloud , for on the ivory brow of Jesus she saw drops of blood as if the thorns had been bound again upon the head of the sweet Prophet. Jesus disappeared in thegrey night among the hawthorne-trees, all grey. Slowly they returned to Magdalo. Andthat night Mary sobbed in her scented bed, but in her heart there was a tender joy , wonderful. THE WEB OF FATE A weaver wove a webfrom the hair of a Virgin , And those who wore the garment knew no sin . I am purer than the First Mother,” boasted the Maiden , And she stalked up and down the earth, vain of her vanity. “ See !” cried the pink Youth, “ I have no Virgin's mantle ; Let us sport where the rushes grow thickest by the river.” Lo, the Maiden cast the weaver's garmentfrom her, And from that time there was sin . WENTWORTH SALVIN ΑΝΑΓΚΗ. One night in the year * 84 -upon myword, I am getting old ! I shall follow Prince Hal's advice and, after certain reformations, live cleanly in grey hairs. Well, one can't always be young, and it's a devil of athing to have been young once. Eh, golden lads? Ay, a devil of a thing. And now I abdicate ; my reign of youth is over ; to you is the scepter , my dear fellow — to you, who are young, a lover of women, a drunkard of rhymes. To me is the twilight, the writing- table, and the fireplace. You shall love and rule and kiss manywomen , and youshall dream golden, splendid rhymes. I, in the twilight, summon the ghosts of womenwho were kissed too much, and sing over the old rhymes, threadbare now . On the whole, I think it is quite as pleasant! But it is well to have known the heroic candours and been ravished by the splendid banalities of eager youth . One's twilights are less tedious. One night, in the autumn of '84 ,I say, certain folk gathered at a sort of Bohemian “ cercle ” held in an old house in the Rue de Rennes. In a big , naked room on the first floor these folk gath ered weekly to drink beer and discuss aesthetics ; those who drank absinthe discussed philosophy. Charles Cros, with his crisp , curly hair, and face tawn as aLascar's, was there ; already far gone in drink, he leaned, withone elbow onthe table, reciting in a hard, dry voice his last monologue -one Coquelin had just made IMPRESSIONS famous in drawing- rooms. His hands, already senile, trembled with alcoholic fever. OF VERLAINE I dare say he is dead now , this founder of a shadowy school of poets, this author of the “ Coffret deSantal. ” The harsh voice ceased ; hisheadfell onthe table. From the dozen or more throats came howls of applause. Ah, what a crowd -this VANCE THOMPSON company which now belongs to the twilights of the past ! Ahalf-dozen shirts in BIBLIOGRAPHY the crowd were fairly clean ; the rest were Verlainesque. And what rhymes were shouted over the wine and beer ! The rhymes of young poets, in whose visions POESIES Poems saturniens ( 1867) women are always undraped and disport an unusual luxury of “ seins nacreux " Les fetes galantes (1869) and “ hanches opulentes. " La bonne chanson ( 1870) Romances sansparoles ( 1874) Hark ! Upon my word, as though it were yesterday I can hear that devil of Sagesse (1887) Art Poètique, *° de " Paris moderne " a Gascon , Fernand Icres, intoning in a barbarous accent: (Nov.82 ) Sa chevelure et sa poitrine, Jadis et Naguere (1884 ) A moner ( 1888) Faisaient monter ama narine Parallelement (avec frontispice de Rops) D'etranges parfumsirritants. ( 1890 ) Epigrammes ( 1894) Elle avait seize ansmais son buste, Tout a la fois souple et robuste, PROSE En portait vingt en verite. Les poetes maudits ( Corbiere, Rimbaud et Mallarme, premiere serie ) ( 1884) Louise Leclercq, nouvelle, suivie :Le There were women there, too . One I remember vaguely through the smoke Poteau, PierreDuchatelet et deMme of innumerable twilights. This was Marie Krysinka, a Polish Jewess, who pounded A ubin (un acte) Les Memoirs d'un veuf melodramatic music out of the piano and was a poetess whose peculiar passion was Mes Hopitaux ( 1894 ) corpsesandsnow . She usedtohold “ Thursdays ” in her little apartment up five Biographies litteraires publices dans les Hommes d'aujourd'hui: Leconte de pairs of stairs in the Rue Monge. Iheard afterward that she married an Archaeol Lisle, Francois Coppee, P. Verlaine, Villiers de l'Isle - Adam , J. Richepin , ogist - or was it a manufacturer of wooden toothpicks ? Something of the sort. Armand Silvestre, Ed. de Goncourt, Inthe corner Verlaine glowered over his fifth glass of absinthe, whispering to Sully - Prud homme, Leon Dier x , Rollinat, Ste himself. phane Mallarme, Arthur Rimbaud, The Cafe du Chalet had its day . L. Vanier, A. Baju , Charles Cros, Xavier de Ricard, Albert Merat, Jose Maria de Heredia , Andre Lemoyne, Then the young poets of the day, led , if I remember, by Emile Goudeau, Anatole France, Raoul Ponchon, A. migrated to the Cafe de l'Avenir, in the Place St. Michel; the tavern is now Theuriet, La fenestre, Rene Ghil, etc. A utobiographie ( 1895) known to the newer crowd -Signoret and the like -as the Tavern of the Golden Sun. I was one of those who subscribed a fund to fur THEATRE Les Uns et Les Autres Comedy in one nish that “ soussol, " where such famous Sunday nights act, Vaudeville, May 21 , 1891. were passed. Eheu, fugaces, anni labuntur - a decade and more ago. We were all worshippers of Verlaine. We had read “ Sagesse. " We had lent the poetfive franc pieces ; had bought him absinthe ; had helped him up the hospital steps when his diseases were too many for him . It is something to be proud of, for in those days it was a distinction to appreciate the greatest of French poets —this battered , old Verlaine. Anatole France, who, since then , has written a beautiful fable of which Verlaine is the hero, in those days did not dare to intro duce the name in his bourgeois articles. That sombre Bonheur Barbey d'Aurevilly , un oder eine angenterian P.H. 77 - T and vindictive Creole, Leconte de Lisle, had, a few years before, denounced Paul Verlaine as an employee of the Commune, in the gentle hope of getting him shot. Even Coppee, this gentlest of poets, sneered at him . George Moore, who had just gone to London ,echoed these sentiments in a book he wrote about that time “ The Confessions of aYoung Man." Mr. Moore has since reçanted. You can not judge the George Moore of to -day by his opinions in that book. Eh , bien , some of us, however, carried the oriflamme of Verlaine. These were Charles Vignier, Gustav Kahn, a maker of impeccable verse, Charles Morice - to name only thosewho have achieved fame. A score or more went down under the iron feetof life, and their names shall never be written ; the songs and singers are dead. He sat among us there, this old man, with the dirty neckerchief and the ribald and unclean speech. And is it thus I remember him ? No. I remember him best when , with his glowing eyes half closed , he recited some new sonnet or unforeseen verses —splendid as goldencoins. His face was like the mask of Socrates, with its high cheek -bones and simian mouth ; the nose was flat, camous,broken ; the great bald head covered with knobs like a battered helmet ; a draggled beard hung about the checks and chin ; the ears were flat and large. The eyes, those deep - set, dreamy, intolerably vague eyes, glowered at one from beneath rugged, square -hewn brows. This was Paul Verlaine, as you might have seen him any day, slouching along the street or lounging over a marble -topped table in the Cafe Francois Premier. Or at other times you might have seen him sitting in his bed in some foul mansarde, an old man, grimy and drunk, in a greasy night-cap and abominable linen ; George Moore saw him thus, once upon a time, blaspheming. Degas, the great painter, has recorded an impression of Verlaine in one of his most famous pictures, “ The Absinthe Drinker." Verlaine is sitting at a tableover an opalescent glass of absinthe ; near by sprawls awomanof the streets, wretched, tipsy , pitiable. Itiswell that thisimpression should be recorded. In this poor, great poet there was much of Walt Whitman's fine humanity . He, too, might have sung : The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck ; The crowd laughs ather blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink at each other — Miserable ! I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you ! He was a very gentle poet, and in all the world's misery there was nothing alien to him . SUR L'HERBE L'abbe divague. - Et toi, marquis Tu mets detraversta perruque. -Ce vieux vin de Chypre est exquis. Moins, Camargo, que votre ruque. - Ma flamme ...- Do, mi, sol, la , si. -L'abbe, ta noirceur se devoile. -Que jemeure, mesdames , si Je ne vous decroche une etoile. - Je voudrais etre petit chien! -Embrassons nosbergeres, l'une Apres l'autre.-Messieurs,eh bien ! -- Do, mi, sol . - He! bonsoir, la lune ! PAUL VERLAINE, Fetes galantes Je suis venu, calme orphelin , Richede mes seuls yeux tranquilles, Vers les hommes des grandes villes : Ils nem'ont pas trouve malin . A vingt ans un trouble nouveau Sous le nom d ' " amoureuses flammes " M'a fait trouver belles lesfemmes : Elles ne m'ont pas trouve beau, Quoiquesans patrie et sans roi Et tres brave, ne l'étant guere, J'ai voulu mourir a la guerre : La mort n'a pas voulu de moi. Suis - je ne trop tot on trop tard ! Qu'est-cequejefais dans cemonde ? O vous tous, ma peine est profonde ! Priez pour le pauvre Gaspard. P. V. He had a face vizard - like, unchanging, made impudent with the use of evil deeds. But the eyes were those of the penitent thief turned toward Him on the middle cross. I would rather talk of his books. He was the greatest poet of this generation . His life was a tragedy of passion ; his work is a shadow of his life. Once I called him a Socratic Pierrot; Morice approved the phrase and made it classic. There were two men in Verlaine - Socrates and Pierrot; Saint Francis of Assisi and the Marquis de Sade. Even in age, when his pale soul wasfatigued by the years, he was still like the saint and the mountebank , a child . Life excited and irritated him ; then fatigued he wept like a tired child. The tears and laughter -these are his poems. He had dreams, horribly beautiful, in which Bonus Angelus wrestled with Malus Angelus. These, too , are his poems. Poor, wandering, vagrom child , all dabbled with sin ; now that he is dead, he strives and prays in Purgatory, but in the end he shall see God face to face. I would rather talk of his books. He lived feverishly . He was a lover of life . Life as it is he loved - the gust of pleasure andthe fear of pain , the idolatry of appearances, the make-believe of virtue; he loved even life's mediocritics. He had a horror of sin even when he sinned. The defunct symbols of the Pardoner haunted him . The pendulum of his life swung between riot and renunciation, from the hair - cloth to the cloth of “ How do you write ? " I asked him . “ En fievre, " he said . He recorded his impressions of life frankly , and since he hadan innate sense of harmony, musically. Dear Lord ! how musically . Words languid, gold . Gorputzaren 62 cajoling, tender, enervant; words that were caresses -his art was at once subtle, refined, difficult, and inveterately young . His was the subtle simplicity of the Middle Ages. Huysmans, with fine clairvoyance, saw that he was sib to Villon. His individuality was dominant and insistant, as of some great soul of the fifteenth century . He had a profound, incurable, and salutary egotism . In his youth he was seduced by the virtuosities oftheParnassians. The real Verlaine appeared in the “ Romances sans Parole, ” in “ Sagesse, " and in certain miraculous poems of “ Jadiset Naguere." . The “ Poemes Saturniens," which ap peared in 1867, are purely Parnassian. Fluent verse, ardent, sombre, mad, it was impeccably fashioned. But the chef-d'oeuvre of this school —du bois, du bois et encore du bois -- is “ Les Fetes Galantes.” Here is the dream of a pure poet. The verse is formal; it hints of pose and powder and the Pompadour ; it is sceptical and frivolous, but very sincere. See, then , in a park de Watteau — perhaps in Rubens' “ Garden of Love ” – nonchalant girls lounge and whisper scandal, while overhead the new stars shine ; stately ladies pass, insolently beautiful ; the powdered Marquis nods to the silken abbe La lune blanche Luit dans les bois ; De chaque branche Part une voix Sous la ramee .. O bien -aimee. L'etang reflete, Profond miroir, Lasilhouette Du saule noir Ou le vent pleure ... Revons, c'est l'heure. Un vaste et tendre Apaisement Semble descendre Du firmament Que l'astre irise ... C'est l'heure exquise. VERLAINE With the “ Romances sans Paroles " he broke with the Impeccables. This was the troubled period of his life, the Rimbaud period of his life, which ended in the penitentiary of Mons. Il pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleure sur la ville - But why should I quote the verses which you have known , which you have loved, which you have whispered in the impenetrable hours ? After the “ Romances " came his book of penitence, thetriumphal book , the Wisdom of Paul Verlaine. Here, then, is “ Sagesse, " a white lily plucked out of the pashed mire of a dirty and inquiet life; here, then , is “ Sagesse," the most beautiful book of poetry written since " Les Fleurs du Mal. ” Sin had lost its savour. He knelt at the altar he had despised and prayed to the God he had mocked. He had speech with God, thus : Mon Dieu m'a dit : Mon fils, il faut m'aimer. But the penitent cried : Je ne veux pas ! Je suis indigne. Vous, la Rose Sur la seule fleur d'une innocence mi-close, Immense des purs ventsde L'amour, oVous, tous Qui moi, moi pouvoir Vous aimer ? Etes-vous fous, Les coeursdes saints, o Vousqui futes le Jaloux Pere, Fils, Esprit ? D’Israel, Vous la chaste abeille qui se pose God said again : Il faut m'aimer. Je suis Ces Fous que tu nommais. And then God makes plain the blessed Mystery of the Church , and the poor wretch , full of trouble and hope, sees a vision. Des Anges bleus et blancs portes sur des pavois. > Verlaine was not a man of letters. At the end of his “ Ars Poetica, ” after having laid down the laws of indecisive poetry , he says with divine disdain : “ All the rest is literature . " His own precepts explain his art : Que ton vers soit la chose envolee Que ton vers soit la bonne aventure Ou'on sent qui fuit d'une ame en allee Eparse au vent crispe du matin Vers d'autres cieux a d'autres amours. Qui va fleurant la menthe et le thym . C'est des beaux yeux derriere des voiles, C'est le grand jourtremblant de midi. C'est, par unciel d'automne attiedi, Le bleu fouillis des claires etoiles ! Verlaine attempted the impossible. He strove all his life to reconcile the Seven Deadly Sins and the three Cardinal Virtues. He wished to erect in the market- place of Gemorrah a statue of the Blessed Virgin . A weak and futile man , he wasemi nently human. He was simple and intense. 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COPYRIGHT, 1808, BY THE BLUMENBERG PRESS . FORTNIGHTLY . 81 NEW SERIES 2 Vol. 2 , No. 1 . Melipu or Fw York FIRST FORTNIGHT IN NOVEMBER, 1808. என THE NEW YORK T PUBLIC LIBRARY ASTOR , LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS A Price, TEN CENTS SUBSCRIPTION , TWO DOLLARS A YEAR . BNTERED AT THE POST OFFICE IN NEW YORK AS SECOND - CLASS MATTER. PUBLISHED BY THB BLUMENBERG PRESS. ...TFlening OFFICE : 19 UNION SQUARE, NEW YORK . Vance Thompson, editor ; T. fleming, art director ; James Gibbons Huneker, associate editor ארד GA M’lle New York is a light woman -- perhaps But she sees things and says them ; 'tis no ignoble function ; she sees the life of this country — the dull melancholiacs in the gray provinces ( the lean pessimists of Kansas and the West, the neurotic criminals ofthe New England countryside ), and she sees the paranoiac eddies of the cities - whirlpools of folie de grandeur. She sees the millionaires — these fatted tradesmen -and watches them , as they build hospitals and posture in the churches, bargaining with the pale God for their souls - or robbing on the highway ( They cant of religion and honesty ; they drag their female kind through the baptismal fonts and perfume them with in cense; their women --and it is for this very class of men that prostitution exists — they get more than their share of the world's supply of female chastity — they eat it as the lapping seas grind down the crumbling cliffs All this M’lle New YORK sees ; she sees the dark masses of mankind and LEADER recognizes the fact that most workingmen ( and the like ) are imbecile and but very slightly interesting. They, too, cant andcringe; they, too, are dirty and per verted, since they are controlled by bribery and the terrorism of money, instead of being kept in place by sworded and arrogant power. ( This is a commercial nation. Its commerce is built upon roguery ; its government is the handmaid of its dishonest com merce. John Jay Chapman has said : " The people of the United States are notably and peculiarly dishonest in financial matters." The ironic foreigner laughs at the American's word of honour. The highest compliment one can pay an American business man is to say that he is successfully dishonest. This nation worships Christ upon His cross — but with greater fervour it worships the two thieves on their crosses to right and left. Not Christ - but the thief on the cross . Always universal suffrage has preferred a galley- slave to the Son of God. ) And M'LLE NEW YORK sees the democratic hatred of the individual that is the chief mark of this drab, commercial civilization. Always democracy has irk somely groomed the rough -coated horse.. Always democracy has hated the in dividual; always it has made it its business to castrate the thinkers. ( Dear God !thecrownedand laureled eunuchs of Ameri can literature - professors with dandruff on the coat-collar, and bearded ladies, and the chaste, panteletted spinsters, and the little, hairy poets, all hungry and timid and all bought and sold A nation that is intellectually dishonest, that dare not think, that dare not speak its thought, that lies when it avers and deceives when it takes oath ; a nation that has trafficked so long in lies it knows not the truth - would not know it though it should float like the soap in its bath -tub. ( Every street leads to another street; to - day is but the vestibule of to -morrow ; out of democracy there will come_as always there has come--the strength and might of some puissant aristocracy. Already the sword is being ground, and it is a sword that thirsts for blood and sparkles with desire . ) It would be absurd to fancy that this cringing, gentility -mad civilization is to last very long; that it is the business of humanity to produce this huge mob always mediocre— of fat- witted and unviolent citizens. The actual ignominy of equality is not a permanent doom . The new day is edging up M'lle NewYORK sees what is and is not blind to the intimations of dawn . The social good is not the work of the masses , but the work of the few . It is only by the few and the superior that a nation counts in history and in the life of humanity. The hypocrisy of liberalism , the ignominy of democracy, the meaner baseness of socialism are futile and discarded modes of thought. Only in an aristocracy - an aristocracy of the sparkling sword and the dominant mind — is there a germ of progress, adesire of ascension. ( The artist's chief ambition , it should be to gain the hatred of fools. ) T. 82 LINGWOOD EVANS ANDHIS BOOKS, In one of his grave prefaces Mr. Lingwood Evans boasts of being a gentle man, but he bears,I observe, a plain point sanguine in his arms, which is a sus picious abatement. Perhaps it is a question of little moment. Mr. Evans was born in New York about thirty -five years ago. For the last ten years he has lived abroad. Since 1894 he has resided in Melbourne, Australia, and his books are published by McEwen & Evans, of that city. And his work, it seems to me, is coloured with Australian thought— the recklessness, fervour and ennui that make the poems of Lindsay Gordon strangely notable in modern literature. A strange and reckless poet, this Reckless and weary of life, as Cybele amid the felled pine trees and fierce trumpets ofthe castrate priests. A woodcut of Lingwood Evans lies on my writ ing table. 'Tis a strong and brutal face, with the jowls of a prize fighter. ( The hair of the man is red .) That he should have chanted sombre and violent strophes of revolt would seem reasonable; he has written " The Father of Livor," a book of strange fervours and shy and mystic impulses - a book so extraordinary that I hardly know how to describe it. Has he genius ? That dolorous flower (la plus belle fleur du mal, o Baudelaire !) of modern , sated life ? Yes, he has genius, very fine in quality and eminently individual. Compared with him the little creatures of the Bodley Head dwindle to mere dwarfs — and vanish, squeaking and gibber ing. His strength is that of the proud Belgian poets. He has scaled the heights of introspection . Read here : The cats of ebony and gold traversed the night, the night The cats of flame and ebony traversed my soul, Oh, God! From end to end, like tempests fierce and bright, Like tempests and the black winds blown abroad. I looked into the night Black, infinite, it ran in curves And spirals, up and up - the night ! Terror, like a cord hard round the throat, Silenced me ; no cry, no death gasp! Down the black spirals of the night they came; Sudden the cats of ebony and gold Squatted along my garden wall And held me with their eyes Silent, like patient madmen, all The cats of metal and of flame. Haggard - weary of effort, sullen, sad I stared into the eyes, the eyes Of the cats of ebony and gold - the eyes ! This excerpt is from “ The Father of Livor” ; it is one of the intermezzi of the prose story of the King of Torelore — a story at once close and consistent in its ironic realism . It is a study of democracy. Mr. Lingwood Evans writes as one who has gone down in the dark and greasy world of artisans and labourers . He knows their dull thoughts. He knows their insolence and their ambitions. The second intermezzo follows King Torelore's account of his first battle : A fool, a fool ; I wander through The Forest of Numbers, and, hallucinate, Mine open eyes see prodigies And my shut eyes the vertigoes of life. My brows are bloody, for, obstinate, I rammed the obstinate tree stems Gaunt trees in the clear earth The roots are lean and living scrolls ( I read the problems of the circling roots ) The gaunt trees charge the sky like lances ; And the rocks, the rocks quadrangular, Are blocks of fear and silence ! A fool, a fool, I read the text Of far- off laws — the poor debris Of what dead geometric universe ? And, overhead, the stars and stars, Myriad stars and white linen veils, That float ( the veils, the veils !) Round the gold Isis of the firmament. I am the fool of the Forest of Numbers. Hallucinate ! My bells chime out Primordial problems, definite and dead “ The Father of Livor " and “ The Avenue of Farthingales. " By VANCE THOMPSON . ... Illustrated by Pattin's drawings on wood . 42X 276 ap In entire good faith I may borrow from this poem one word to describe the poet : hallucinate. He is hallucinate, but since he creates these dreams voluntarily and gives them form , he is an artist. The artist is he who creates life. Perhaps no better definition could be found. Now the life created by Mr. Lingwood Evans is neither simple nor sweet. It is tumultuous ; it is chaos. For him , as for Hegel, the universe is an indefinite parallelism of contraries — the antinomy of being and non -being. He would not quarrel with Villiers de l'Isle Adam's theory that God created man in his own image — and vice versa. I may frankly admit that to those who shun thinking, Mr. Lingwood Evans offers slight entertainment. Not that his poems are cryptic. In every one I have read the thought is definitely shaped is, indeed, iterated and expounded even too deliberately. For instance : The desert of my soul is peopled with black gods, Huge blocks of wood ; Brave with gilded horns and shining gems, The black and silent gods Tower in the naked desert of my soul. With eyes of wolves they watch me in the night; With eyes like moons. My gods are they ; in each the evil grows, The grandiose evil darkens over each And each black god, silent Under the iron skies, dreams Of his omnipotence the taciturn black gods! And my flesh and my brain are underneath their feet ; I am the victim , and I perish Under the weight of these nocturnal gods And in the iron winds of their unceasing wrath . Pattin In this poem the symbol Aies like a flag. Its chief defect is its insistence and lack of reticence. I am not well enough acquainted yet with Mr. Lingwood Evans' work to pronounce a definite judgment upon it . Unquestionably “ The Father of Livor” is in the way of being a masterpiece. It is only natural that one should approach it with the diffidence that beset the early critics of Walt Whitman . ' Tis a book of metal and of blood. One would hardly imagine “The Avenue of Farthingales" had been written by the same pen , so dainty is it in its devices, rose-hued, fanciful — at times even impish — and delicate. From that first line “ Salve, Regina of the lilies, hail,” to thatlast pæan to the blue and fading moon , the poem is sweet and winsome as a nubile girl. Mr. Lingwood Evans has wit of a sort, if not humour, as when he writes the epitaph of a singing girl who killed herself for love, and exclaims : Had she but loved Sol, Fa or Si, Instead of me, instead of me ! and there is the same easeful indifference to the commonplace in What, no more rhymes to Luna ? ( Regrettable lacuna .) On the whole there is here a man of strenuous and many -colored genius. He need envy no man's nightingale or spring. Ut malo sanos Adscripsit Liber Satyris Faunisque poetas. 83 L'ARCHET. L'ARCHET. ( Out of the French of Charles Cros.) Of the lady's hair there was no dearth ; Gold as the grain in Autumn's girth It rippled down unto the earth . Elle avait de beaux cheveux, blonds Comme une moisson d'août, si longs Qu'ils lui tombaient jusqu'aux talons. Her strange, low voice you need must hark, It seemed the voice of a Serapharch ; Her eyes looked out from lashes dark. Elle avait une voix étrange, Musicale, de fée ou d'ange, Des yeux verts sous leur noire frange. He never feared a rival more While he traversed vale and shore, Bearing her on his horse before. Lui ne craignait pas de rival, Quand il traversait mont ou val, En l'emportant sur son cheval. For on all those of that cont’ree She had looked full haughtily , Until him she came to see . Car, pour tous ceux de la contrée, Altiere elle s'était montrée, Jusqu'au jour qu'il l'eut recontree. And love's strength smote her with such dole That for smiles and mockings droll , A sickness crept upon her soul. L'amour la prit si fort au coeur, Que pour un sourire moqueur, Il lui vint un mal de langueur. And mid her last caresses there : “ Make a bowstring of my hair To charm your other ladies fair. " Et dans ses dernières caresses : " Fais un archet avec mes tresses, Pour charmer tes autres maitresses. " Then with a long sweet kiss of woe She died ; and straight the knight did go And of her hair he made a bow . Puis, dans un long baiser nerveux, Elle mourut. Suivant ses voeux , Il fit l'archet de ses cheveux . A strange, little, negroid per . son , Charles Cros ; he was born at Fabrezan , near Narbonne ; he was a bitter and fantastic man , Je le voyais en blancfaux . col, Frais substitut aux dig Nes poses : S'il n'était pas dans l'alcool, Comme il eut fait de grandes choses ! His prose work isfantastic and negligible, but he has written a number ofpoems that the world will not willingly let die. A man ofkeen and cruel mind , he saw things and said them - like M'lle New York . Like a pauper blind and lone , On a viol of Cremone Played he, begging alms with moan. Comme un aveugle qui marmonne, Sur un violon de Crémone Il jouait, demandant l'aumone. And all who heard those sobbing strings Were drunk with joyous shudderings ; The dead lived in their quiverings . Tous avaient d'enivrants frissons A l'écouter. Car dans ces sons Vivaient la morte et ses chansons. The King was charmed and favored him ; He chanced to please the dark Queen's whim, And fled with her in the moonlight dim. Le roi, charme, fit sa fortune. Lui, sut plaire á la reine brune Et l'enlever au clair de lune. But each time that he touched it, so To play unto the Queen, the bow Reproached him mournfully and low. Mais, chaque fois qu'il y touchait Pour plaire à la reine, l'archet Tristement le lui reprochait. And at the sound of that death strain They died half-way adown the plain ; The dead took back her pledge again. Au son du funèbre langage, Ils moururent a mi-voyage, Et la morte reprit son gage. Took back her hair that knew no dearth , That, gold as the grain in Autumn's girth , Rippled down unto the earth . WILBUR UNDERWOOD Elle reprit ses cheveux, blonds Comme une moisson d'août, si longs Qu'ils lui tombaient jusqu'aux talons. A MARTYR TO ART, Being a Phantasy of the St. Botolph Club. By JAMES GIBBONS HUNEKER .

        • As the rill that runs.

From Bulicamé to be portioned Among the sinful women I am a music critic. Pity the sorrows of me and my tribe! I know full well that I have qualities of mind and body that would have enabled me to become a great painter, a great musician , a great poet, a great prose master, as great per haps as Lingwood Evans, a raconteur of vivid short stories or even a mandolin player of renown. But I am a music critic, nothing more. Pity the sorrows of me and my tribe! Early in life I contracted marriage with a millionaire - a young woman of Boston society who hated music. She adored me. She knew that I would make an admirable epic poet, a masterly pianist, but she preferred to do her duty to society and keep me to mine. So she married me and I became a music critic on an important daily. Pity the ! For years I had imbibed the writings of the school of art for art and scandal likewise, and there boiled within my breast the almost insane desire to burn my boats before me and retire into the thick of life . O to taste it, to quaff it in all its rankness! O the intoxication and fullness thereof ! O for the torrential joys of illicit whiskey ! O for the coarse drenching draughts of bock beer! Hol for the titillation of the deadly cigarette and the lips of the typewriter - lips disfigured by chewing gum and slang, butlips far sweeter to me, I swear to you, than Beethoven's Fifth orChopin's Aflat Bal lade. As you may readily infer I am a devout student of Walt Whitman. With Jean Richepin I should like to have been an acrobat, a conjurer, a pirate, a lover of tawny haired ladies of the Orient, upon whose orange colored skin flies lit with avid haste; whose noses were hooked, hooked by smelling much garlic. O glorious sun kissed garlic ! But I married a rich girl and became a music critic . Paul Verlaine ! Arthur Rimbaud ! Ah ! those are names to conjure with. To be a beggar poet, to let every newcomer pay for the absinthe, to have rheumatism , to be dirty, to weave perfect rhymes from out the mud, to dream dreams carved in ivory, with the sound of the flutes in the sky. Gods! to be a poet, what joy ! But I am only a dissecter of a noise with a tail to the end of it which people call a symphony. Then I begged, piteously begged , my wife to let me play at being composer. I picturedto her the delightof discovering a new, wondrous theme, then its feminine mate, contrapuntally wedding the pair, and O the joy of the working out section ! What development, what fertile ex pedients of counterpoint and fugue— here they come, there they go ; up, down, backward, forward, at it again - what fun to juggle with those burning ideas in living, moving tones ! I described to my stern partnerhow I should dress the different movements. What a richly brocaded mantle I should throw over the orchestra in the opening allegro ; with what cunning effects of old lace and em broidery upon embroidery I should deck the scherzo ! Over the adagio I would drape an indescribably coloured thing, all soft, clinging and fleecy and shot with purpleflecks. The last movement would be brave withjoyous greens and Beards ley yellows, and to the coda I would pin a superb scarlet sash. Such streamers and ribbons you have never seen . Talk about the orchestral colours of Berlioz ! wait until you see my new polonaise cut bias for military orchestra ! Madame, my wife, would then reprimand me curtly in this fashion : " Pray stop your nonsense and get to work on your analytical programme book. There is the symphony of Herr Absolamowski, which you have yet to analyze. ” O condole the woes of a wretched music critic and likewise those of his sorry tribe ! Leopardi said often that the highest climax of human joy was to have a bad attack of colic just as you were making love. The sound of the English horn affects me in that manner. It is the very dualism of pain and pleasure. Your hair and your resolutions may not be able to stand at the same time, but, like Amiel, I realize that the delicate blending of joy and sorrow produces a delightful morsel for mental degustation. I practiced the piano ten hours a day for two months. My wife visited a few legal friends in Colorado — she couldn't, how ever, get her decree — and when she returned she found me almost a pianist. She swore she would cut my allowance if I did not desist . I desisted , yet what su preme joy there is in being a pianist of power! How the soul storms and exults as the fingers play among the billowyarpeggio or storm the embattled chords of the lascivious and unresolved nineteenth ! What joy to thrill, what ecstasy to plant your fist on a Beethoven sonata and pin it wriggling to the keyboard until it ex hales its last juicy sigh ! Or to rush frantically across country, up the black and white beach of the key of A, land on a topB flat; then, while your audience shivers at the discord, roll grandly down in B flat major, and end at the base of the cliff or the clef of the bass! What intoxication to twiddle the fingers of scorn at the astonishment of the musically mediocre! But my wife dislikes noise. She is a Boston woman. So she makes me use a fountain pen and a practice clavier. Then I discovered her secret . I caught her writing an elaborate music criticism 84 in one of my note books, and at once planned a means of escape. I openly ad mired her stuff and begged her to go once to a Symphony concert at Music Hall and astonish fashionable Bach Bay with her erudition. My absence would be remarked and thus she could share my critical laurels. It took her sometime to be persuaded. She seemed suspicious, and only when I assured her that I should call for her did she consent. The Night of Splendor came at last . After bidding her to look as thoughtful as she could and not to flirt with M. Tim Adamowski, I sent her forth and the triumph was mine. I had a lovely time that Saturday night. Walter Pater de clare that success in life was to burn always with a gem -like flame. Well, I burned and so did the gems . I exchanged several for ready money and deter mined to live all my life in a few hours. Huysman's decadent hero tasted every form of virtue and vice he was capable of. But Des Esseintes was too deliberate for me. I had only three hours. " I am an American. I believe in a rapid tempo . I must needs compress into a few hours huge experiences ; but how to begin ? I was a boy when I married. I knew not, indeed loathed, vice. I never played billiards; coarse conversation sickened me. And I was in Boston !! I stole past MusicHall and caught the glint of Manager Comée's moustaches. The night was wet. I heard Tschaikowsky's E minor crashing through the long dark lane. My heart sank. It was the first concert that I had missed since the days of dear old Daddy Zerrahn. But I plucked up my heart from the morass of habit into which it was sinking and sped down Tremont street. Then like a flood swept over me the desire to live to live the life of the poet, the painter, the pianist, the tramp, the lawless lover of Walt Whitman's mothers of unborn generations. I called a han som and bade the driver to fetch up at the St. Botolph. Memories of the patron saint of the club St. Jago tortured me, but I held my thirst well in hand until I reached the club -house . Once inside those hospitable walls I knew that I was safe. I was alone and the revelry began. I pushed my imagination far out to sea and let it float whither it listed. It played some pretty pranks. I was a buc caneer, and sailed in soft, summer seas with dear, dead Robert Louis, and sawhis treasure isle . Then I was acting with Sarah , she as Roxane, I as Cyrano. She stabbed me in the nose with a bare Moorish bodkin . I found myself reciting original verse to Villon, Baudelaire, Edgar Poe, Swinburne, James Thomson, Verlaine and Lingwood Evans. They seemed confounded , and the vision changed to a dazzling circle of light and I became a little old man . A dead man. Urged by two strongarms I was pushed to the footlights and I faced an audience that was piled tier upon tier until it faded into the region of the lofty black plan ets. My dead ears were stunned by cosmical applause and my twofriends, Ricordi and Arrigo Boito , bade me bow . I heard screams of " Falstaffo ," but knew not what it meant. I had been dead so long. Boito must have been putting my name to his operas, for I heard the cries of " Verdi, Eviva Verdi!” Soon I was transformed to Paderewski, playing lemon - coloured nocturnes for impassioned spinsters. Next as the astral soul of Roosevelt I led my Rough Riders through the Heroic Polonaise of Chopin. The music merged into Liszt's " Preludes " and the spirit of Seidl seemed near. The drizzling rain beat against my forehead, but I pushed through a dreary court and reacheda dimly lighted door. Several men spoke to me, but I knew them not. I found myselfin a hall crowded with well dressed people, and when I reached a seat my dream dissolved like a cloud that tumbles seaward. Alas ! I could not escape the brass walls of my critical prison . Drugged with dreams I had gone mechanically to Music Hall. My wife was not there, she had left before the concert was half over. O the absurd agonies of absinthe and Othe skull appertaining thereto ! With shaking wrists I read what mywife had written , and rushed to the printing office, bought up the whole edition of the newspaper, paid off its second mortgage and gave the foreman of the composing room a solitaire diamond brooch for his wife . They live in Brookline. The Vanderbilts went to Egypt that winter , and as I could not face Mrs. Jack, Mr. Higginson or Bach Baywe went in the same party. I have sworn never to repeat what my darling, imprudent wife wrote that fatal night. It was the naked truth, but Boston abhors nudity in art or ink, hence my dismay. Dies Irae ! The time is out of joint. My allowance has been re duced and my colleagues refuse to speak to mesince the appearance of the awful paragraphs. We are a sorry lot ; the blasted, mildewed ears of corn in the granary of life . I am now with the Rothschilds and Sassoons shooting in the Balkans. But do not fail on that account to pity me and my tribe . PAN MOVES TO HARLEM . Slab-sided Sal.. An Inviolate Venus. A Harlem Europa .. A Study in Americanese. By MARMADUKE HUMPHREY . The most pathetic picture in the history of art is, I be lieve, that little masterpiece of the Dutch school the “ Donna Mondana" of Franz van Mieris. It is lost in the Uffizi, and it presents a weary demi-mondaine sunk away into a sleep of utter lassitude. Dim in the backgrounda wizen hag is selling her again , to a man who drops gold into the cup of herwithered palm. To one that can put away for the nonce the fundamental ethics of it all and realize how the life of sucha voluptuary grows soon into a hideous, fatal trade, a Siberian gold mine, from which there is hardly any escape, even for the few that have the courage and the will to wish an escape to such a merciful philosopher this picture is the purest pathos. He can justly make that magnificent boast: Hw mani nihil alienum a me puto. But the woman in the van Mieris picture is rich in satins, furs and jewelry. There is a pathos in real life deeper than hers, more ugly , deadly - dingy. Of all that scarlet procession ofthe priestesses of Ma terial Nature from the daughters of Moab, through the Grecian hetairai, the haremfavorites and the royal mis tresses of the French and English courts , even counting the child- slaves and the caged females of China, surely no priestess to use a mild word - has found a drearier lot than that of the lowest caste of the daughters of " Joy" in New York ; the wretches that must shun Broadway and play the scavenger along side streets where the men -folk are not connoisseurs nor the lights too frequent or too bright. 1 2 Of all bad women , the worst of the worst - not skipping even the Wiener worst (or the Frank forters ) —was surely the - well, be polite to the loidy and call her — the " creature" known below Fourteenth street as Slab - sided Sal, and not known anywhere else at all , at all , by any style or title whatsomever, though as for " style, " Sal was simply the limit - going backwards, and as for " title, ” even the most liberal fancy — the most Laura Bluejean Libbeyral fancy - couldn't have bestowed one on her. Sal was a biped without feathers — at least with out any but those bedraggled plumes that dis graced her disgraceful hat - so she may be accepted as one of us, on Platonic grounds, though Platonic matters had nothing to do with her make-up, which the same was both thick and gaudy, but futile withal. Certainly God did not make her ; so let her pass for a woman — not to insinuate, of course, that you would have done anything else but let her pass anyway. Now it fell about — things always fell about with Sal, and when she had " the price” she fell about, too — that on a certain balmy summer night she found never a victim that she could decoy , for all her technic. Her eyes caught hold of a man like a pair of coal tongs. But heshifted his glance. Her coy " Good evening, dear !” found the world gone deaf of a suddent. Her franker solicitation met only a grunt or a contemptuous sniff. She fastened on her prey as the women do along Piccadilly and hung to him with earnest pieadings. But he shook Hi Glen 9 %. I bec the the سر away and a gold 0.99 Ental vary gold the rest 7 in ile [ he 15 ng 110 ot in ad Ik Do her off. Or hurried away , Joseph - like. Or swore at her. She tried to pick a drunken man's pocket, but he caught her hand and flung it away with a wrenched wrist. She walked back and forth along the Bowery , Grand street , Thirteenth street, any old street, for hours , hours. She was hungry, sleepy , faint with discourage ment, and thirsty. Thirsty ? Hully chee ! She was so tired that she got an anguish in the neck — poor Sally usually got things where the giraffe had the croup. She was footsore, auch - likewise ouch ! And heartsore , too

heartsore with

a ghastly understanding of her degra dation. She was degraded below degradation, too ; homely — a queer word for Sally of Paradise Alley !—a queer word for that late and unlamented alley ! She was too ugly to earn a partner in sin . And she knew it, and it cut her little tin soul to the quick . Think of the fate of a woman knowing herself so well ! And it's oh , but she was fagged out ! She would have committed suicide if she could have chosen the means : drinking herself to death . At length , well up against midnight, she was wearied into a sort of stupor, and had drifted, without knowing it , out even into Harlem . She tottered miserably along, with no more volition than an automaton, till houses gave way to long stretches of parti-colored bill -boards, and these to shanties and goat hills and dark vacant lots. Her giddy mind was doing a brisk trade in reveries. She had metaphorically -for once — hit the pipe. What brains she had made a century run over the days of her childhood, when ignorance was a bliss , before knowledge was a blister. In that golden era her father never - well, hardly ever - came home drunk , ex cept, perhaps, on those seven days the toper recommends for intoxication . He was a good father, too , and often when she had pushed the can - or as the poet has somewhere said, " chased the duck " -he usually permitted her to remove the collar from the beer while he oiled the hinges of his thirst with a little anticipation. Then her mind — so to speak - recurred to her mother ! her sainted mother , whose name was on the police blotters enough times to make up for the times it was absent from the saint's calendar. She remembered, she remembered the house where she was born at. She recalled how her mother used to weep over the bruises she hadmade when she had tried to spoil the child by not sparing the broomhandle. How she was wont to soothe the blistered scars of the thrown hot water with her hotter tears. Sal's mind ran back over a career that was always lively , if never respectable. A few tears spilled across her penciled eyelids, and some of them bored through the dusty highway of her powdery cheeks, thus stirring up a new canal scandal. But Sal's tears were sweet to her for their very bitterness, as was the liver - or was it the heart ? -of oneof Mr. Stephen Crane's “ Black Riders.” ( Query : Does his title refer to the Tenth U. S. Cavalry, I don't know ? ] But Sal had one bitter -sweet with the sweeter half divorced

her bad pro fessional luck this night. She staggered disconsolately on, hardly seeing that she was in a dark and lonely street, where no man walked and no prey was ; where the houses were far and the street lamps few apart.

And now , what she had been seeking so long , for purely commercial reasons, took on a fascination , became a wild desire, a need. et

[ The genial and accommodating reader will please see stars here , indicating that the au thor has temporarily few the coop for another roost.) Now , it cameto pass that there was a man , a contemptible vagabone, a filthy tramp, too cowardly to steal and too lazy to beg prosperously. He was so irre deemably worthless that he could find nary a dog to love him and follow him. Worse yet — would you believe it ? —he couldn't find even a woman to love him . He was a bachelor by acclamation . Well , this day he was at the outskirts of New York , having ridden in now on 1 J.Bait JBand the unpalatial trucks of a freight train, and now disguised as a bag of coal on a flatcar . He shuffled about town at that hour when New York is really beautiful, meretricious possibly, but beautiful— the hour when twilight and lamplight and gaslight and electric light and moonlight and starlight and no light make a mellow pousse café of the town The time when the cityness of a great city is most patent and potent. The tramp— his pen -name or calaboose -nom de prune was " Muddy Wat kins” —went a -shuffling along, barked at and smelt of, but never bitten into, by the canine epicures of the metropolis. He was perforce a man " about town. Well, Muddy Watkins, celibate, inglorious, loafed the streets and found an unwonted bliss in ogling the fat wives and slim servant girls bustling at their marketing. He had beenlong on the road and his waysidedreams and haystack siestas had been much concerned with fair women and victorious amours. The woods where he lazed mocked him with their fitness for a revel with dryads. The streams at whose cool clearness he shuddered seemed always about to ripple away from some nymph blooming up like a released pond lily . (I speak figuratively here, just to raise my lore, for, if you had mentioned the subject to Mr.Watkins he would have thought you were referring to dried herring and calling it dryad for short, or as a labor -saving device -- a kindof vice he was positively vicious in. More and more liquorously did he eye the throng of feminine reality upon the streets till one flying Hollander, weighing some fifteen stone— however much that is — threatened to fall on him for jostling his frowsy Frau, and another gent ( short and wiry and notable for the fact that his chin took precedence over his other features ) threatened to t'ump ' im in de kisser if he t'run any more stares into his loidy frien '; see ? At length Muddy Watkins was sick of the questionable delights of Tantalus and he slunk away ominously wagging his shaggy head. Into a dark and lone some district he went, a district fit for the undisturbed slumbers of the policeman that was never there, or for the uncurbed pleasaunce of a satyr. There Alluvial Watkins, Esq. , waited and waited in the shadows. No women came his way, though ; only an infrequent man or a boy, now and then, too big, too little, to sandbag. After a few hours, however, of vigil, and just as despair was making a madman of him , he overheard the feetprints of someone approach ing with the cat-like tread of a shuffleboard . It was a lone, lorn woman . “ At last !” he thought, under his breath - oh , what a breath ! As she passes under the nearest street lamp you and I know her for the frantic Sal. But to the lurking Pan she looks very trim and gorgeous. When Sal lurched past the hiding place of the ardent Watkins he leaped from the gloom , clapped his great left hand over her mouth and swung his good right arm about herevil waist. Then he plucked her from the ground and ran with her toward the deeper wilderness. But Sal, in a fury of terror, managed to wrench his hand from her mouth now minus nota little rouge. And she spluttered a quick, “What t'hell's de matter wit choo ? ” His answer was a few rash, gruff words that reminded her of the plight of Persephone-- of whom she had never heard. After a moment of daze the situation flashed on her. The wild comicality of the proceeding in its entirety and the epic ludicrousness of such an attempt on such a woman was fairly sending a coal - snowstorm on Newcastle. She let out one great yelp of primeval laughter . Shrieks of hilarity followed it. And she wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him. Muddy Watkins had lived a life of surprises, mostly unpleasant. But this boisterous acquiescence where he had expected a fainting fit or wild outcry, this kiss instead of finger nails and teeth - this sent a shudder clean through him. It was evident that he had rapt a loose lunatic ! The thought scared himtill he was almost lunatic himself. With a sharp grunt of terror he wrenched himself from Sal's embrace, dumped her on the ground, and made for the horizon and police protection. As for Sal, hight the Slab- sided—when she recovered from the first shock of contact with an unnecessarily ( and enviably ) jagged boulder and found herself once more alone and completely unmanned, she fell to weeping bitterly. Marmaduke Humphrey. 32 The downfall of Zolaism - it is an abominable and uncritical phrase. Literary sincerity never goes for naught. The naturalistic revolt against the flatulency of a decadent romanticism was timely and effective. It served its purpose. To day its formulae are useless. It has left masterpieces - were they only “ Madame Bovary ," “Germinie Lacerteux " and “ L'Assommoir." Its effect cannot be estimated, but only the critically bankrupt would attempt to whistle it away. It remains amongthe things accomplished - like yesterday's sunlight. How blessed are we that are not simple men . Count Tolstoy doesn't play fair in the game. He has reached the three score and ten of Scriptures ; he has led, by his own acknowledgment, a rake helly life ; he has gambled, drank deeply and lived with harlots. His belly was POLITE his god. Then he ran the intellectual gamut of dissipation. He worshipped at the shrines of false gods, wrote great, gray , godless novels, won renown, LET family happiness, riches, love, admiration, applause and notoriety. So having TERS.. lived too happily he forthwith falls to railing at destiny, like the Englishman Mr. Krehbiel tells us of in his “ Music and Manners. " Quoting Haydn he writes : “ Mr. Brassey once cursed because he enjoyed too much happiness in this world . " Tolstoy , having tasted of everything, damaged his palate. Man pleases him not, nor does woman. In every bookof his later, lonesome years he gives away the secret of life's illusion , like the mischievous rival of a conjuror. It is not fair to the young ones who, with mouth agape, gaze at the cunning pictures limned by that old Arch -Hypocrite, Nature. The young man who has not had the courage to make a fool of himself some time in his career has not lived. Robert Louis Stevenson said this, and he said it better than I have. Away with your cynics ! Throw pessimism to the dogs! Let Tolstoy swear the inverted bowl of the firmament is full of ashes, full of burnt out stars ; we see the bravery of the cosmical circus , itsstreamers, its mad coursing through eternity. Hoop-la, they're off again ! Two wonderful young fools! Watch them love and languish ! Lives there a more glorious spectacle ? To the old , melancholy Seer in Russia love is an itching crime, art an enigmatic fizzle, life a burden . He has lived it all ; we have not. So huzza for the veins boiling with rich , red blood, the nerves a - tingle with desire ! We are young, foolish and gay . Let the devil pay the bills — for the present. Later we settle up and with interest. But that's our business. So out of our way, kill -joys, maw -worms, eunuchs and them that fear life ! What a cunning revenge is being enjoyed by M. Edmond Rostand and his “ Cyrano de Bergerac.” Anti-Semitism isrampant in France, yet all France has gone daft over a play by a Jew — Rostand has Oriental blood in his veins— and a play that exalts one of the symbols of the race - its mighty proboscis. Is Rostand a conscious or an unconscious humorist ? A young man , with a face that almost kills, writes novels for silly American girls, summer girls, in which the war correspondent always figures as a hero. He is depicted as being seven feet " high " and wearing a wonderful spine. Then a real war breaks outand the creator of fictive correspondents goes to it attired in an immaculate ducksuit, and hedoes everythingbut correspond. He writes of his feelings on board his yacht, the temperature of his ice chest, and the “sit " of the navy's uniform . He abuses a general because he does not look like a clubman, and in three months destroys the reputation of ten years. He is the war correspondent who does not correspond to his own ideals. A cherubic lad, known to fame as an earnest lover of the drama, goes forth pen in hand and wins a name as a veraciousand charming reporter of what happened at Santiago. His name is Davies, Acton Davies, and there you are . The last word in the German dictionary, the ultimate alphabetic out cry of that land of fat lutherism , is Zythera — the isle of Cythera, home of the pornographs of antiquity, symbol of the foul and scandalous In this country the Germans contribute most of the murderers and almost all the keepers of dives and brothels. She lay in the Hall of the Mirrors where, repeated in evanescent gestures, her person moved in NUPTIALS processional precision . She had disrobed to the accompaniment of soft, hidden music, and to the unconscious miming of the mirrors; something of fear and something of shame were in her heart as she ROYAL . pulled to her pretty chin the royal counterpane. It was the first time she had ever lain in a palace and the night seemed to hum with a thousand harps. It was the music and the beating of her heart that she heard , and she wondered most at the heavily scented atmosphere and smiled at the face that smiled down at her from the shining ceiling . Her plump body sank in relaxing curves ; the very couch seemed to embrace her. Then she heard footsteps and dared no longer gaze into the ironic mirror overhead . As the prince approached love loomed nigh. There was no tenderness in his eyes, and his young forehead was slightly wrinkled . It was his nuptial night; for him was waiting a fair girl, whose pulses leapt to the sound of his voice. But he had no words for her when he reached the royal bed that stood in the Hall of the Mirrors. His troubled gaze drove the blood to her heart, and when he sat beside her the music ceased and the mirrors grew gray and misty. She had waited for this moment since her birth ; their souls had been woven together by imperial decree, yet now they circled about each other like two tall stars in interstellar depths, bound for eternity to tread in the stately choric dance of the spheres, acons apart, and destined never to embrace. With outstretched , despairing arms she welcomed her image in the air above her, and her impassioned, sorrowful glance married her to her own soul. The prince told her in falsetto tones of his desire for rest, and she wel. comed him as one would a pet poodle ; beside his sleepy, escaping soul she lay in the Hall of the Mirrors, where, repeated in evanescent gestures, her person moved in processionai sadness. AND ALSO LOVE'S RENASCENCE . .... BY J. G. H. He sat in his club, in the pleasant, warm atmosphere of the dining room and wondered if Mrs. Jalbert would be hurt at his absence. Jalbert was not a fool. He was a clubman, but that was not bis fault ; he was born to it. But he strove to escape the life he had inherited by marrying Imogen Jalbert, his cousin . It had been a love match , and for a brief period their souls had clung and mounted on the spirals of propulsive passion and belief. The seven years that followed relaxed the tension , and this night he sat and wondered if he should ever return to their home. He was in the stress of a revulsion so keen as to almost evoke pleasure. He summoned to his imagination the shape of his wife, her glance so rich with meanings, her movements so veiled and trained . With a certain fullness of thought he recalled her magnificent abandon to his love, and he felt that if she could be in his presence now he would worship her again. With a leap his fancy harked back to the moment of their meeting, and the intervening years were blurred from his vision . Ah, those were royal days, and made for eternity ! Slipping away to the steeps of the present he started to his feet and called for his hat, his stick, and went away to a cab stand . Imogen was waiting at home, at their childless home, and he must see her once more and tell her that those five cold years had been a mistake, a grievous soul killing error . To recapture the first fine, careless rapture, to grasp at the straw of hope, to catch her in his arms and make her his ; that were indeed a triumph . O the joy of the primal passion ! O the fierce surge and thunder of the first embrace! Jalbert was maddened by the prox imity of his peril; he had all but lost Imogen . That morning he had left her carelessly and saw her eyes grow indifferent. Their souls were becoming unmeshed, the quotidian attrition of wills and love's blank iteration had worn away the plaits that at first had so strongly woven their souls into one passionate pattern. He ran up his steps and into his house ; on hungry footsteps he went. The place seemed deserted, and his hopes became hollow spectres of despair, and then he saw her on a couch asleep, her mouth wide open , a bored, weary expression on her face. She had not gone away; she had not killed herself; she was still that wraith of ennui, his wife, and his kindled love fell away from him like water from a sieve. Jalbert went back to his club. 87 THE CARNIVAL OF DESTINY. In the beginning of days men lifted their voices and cried to God : “ Dear Lord , see, then, how wretched are we upon earth ; make us happy, dear Lord . ” And God , the All- Pitiful, had pity on men and gave them gold. Ho! how it shone and glistened. And men sought for the gold and groped in the dark earth for it and were happy after their kind. But there were certain stark men , very agile, who ran busily after the gold and got it and locked it fast in oaken chests. The men who were neither stark nor agile, but were many, lusted for the gold and fought. Then did murder come upon earth , and it was murder so great that men called it war ; and the wounded and dying lifted up their voices and cried to God . And God, the All- Pitiful, saw how wretched were men upon earth and He had pity and sent them Love. And of a sudden there was spring on earth and in the hearts of men was spring, so sweet Love was. Men garlanded themselves with roses and laughter. And the burden of life was kisses. But this was only for a little while. With love came war - men warring for the woman and women warring for the man . In the train of love came hate and treachery, anger and cagerness, and the sin of the unclean word and the broken oath . Friend against friend, brother against brother, race against race, and there was no end to the wretchedness upon earth . And God, the All- Pitiful, had pity upon men and sent them Wisdom . And men began to wander lonely ; and they peered into the fastnesses of nature and sought the secret of things; and in their wisdom they doubted God and questioned His works, doubting — and were more wretched than ever. But they cried no more to God ; only they lifted their eyes to heaven and shook their white heads dubiously. And God, the All -Pitiful, bad pity on men and sent them Folly, and it abode with them ever more. a J.B. Cli Dan 2 HERMES Whether the dead be hid in sarcophagus of sculptured stone, laid in the belly of metal urns, or in the earth, or set up, gilded and painted blue, without brain or PSYCHAGÔGOS. viscera, wrapped round with linen bands I marshall them in troops and guide the march with my compelling wand. ( Out of the French of We fare by a fleet way that men cannot see . The harlots press against the Marcel Schwob. ) . . virgins and the murderers against the philosophers and the mothers against those who would not be with child and the priests against the perjurers. For they re By VANCE pent of their crimes, be it those they imagined in their heads or those they did with THOMPSON . ... their hands. And having never been free on earth, since they were bound by the laws and the customs, or by their own good heed, they fear the isolation and sus tain each other. She who slept naked in tiled chambers among men , consoles a young girl who died ere her wedding -night and still dreams imperiously of love. One who killed on the highway, his face foul with ashes and sweat, places his hand on the brow of a thinker, who wished to regenerate the world and preached death . The dame who loved her children, and through them suffered, leans her head on the breast of a harlot, who was wilfully sterile. The man clothed in a long robe, who persuaded himself to love his God and constrained himself to genuflections, weeps on the shoulder of the cynic, who, under the eyes of the citizens, did break all the oaths of the flesh and the spirit . Thus they help each other on the way, marching under the yoke of memory. Then they come to the bank of Lethe, where I marshall them beside the water that rolls on in silence. And some plunge into the water the heads that held evil thoughts, and others dip the hands that did evil. They rise again and, lo, the water of Lethe has quenchedall memory. Forthwith they separate and each to himself smiles, believing he is free. There's a swallow flying to Venice, And sick for a sight of the sea. O, wayfarer! O, swallow ! Fly light and low ; I would follow To the dim , blue isles of Venice, And the blue, dim sight of the sea . A LITTLE SONG. ... ... BY V. T. I am sick for the strange, new faces For the flags and the ships and the sea ; For the new, strange life and the singing; For the boatman's cry and the ringing Of bells in the windy places, And the windy foam on the sea . O, swallow , flying to Venice, And eager for the sight of the seal O, wayfarer! O, swallow ! Fly light and low ; I will follow To the dim , blue isles of Venice, And the blue, dim sight of the sea . THE MIRROR OF UNFAITH . J. G. H. I looked into my mirror the next morning. With a scared cry I again looked into my mirror. With brutish , trembling fingers I tried to cleanse the mist from my eyes, and once more I looked into my mirror, scraped its surface tenderly, but it availed not. There was no reflection of my features in its polished depths, naught but vacancy, steely and profound. There is no God, I had proclaimed ; no God in high heaven , no God with the world, no spirit ever moved upon the vasty waters, no spirit ever travailed in the womb of time and conceived the cosmos . There is no God and man is not made in his image ; eternity is an eyeless socket a socket that never beheld the burning splendors of the Deity. There is no God . O my God ! And my cries are futile, for have I not gazed into my mirror, gazed with clear, ironic, and with frantic gaze missed my own image ! There is no God, yet has my denial been heard in blackest Eblis, and has it not reverberated unto the very edges of Time ? There is no God, and from that moment my face was blotted out. I may never see it in the moving waters or in mirrors. I have denied God. I have mocked his omnipotence. I have dared him to mortal combat, and now my mirror tells me there is no Me, no image of the man called by my name. I have denied God and God has denied me. Thou has conquered, O Galilean ! The God, who whimpers in the skies ( the God !) Looked down upon the little men, Visored in hypocrisy, the men ; The little women, arrogant and chast The blatant children And the fouled lower kind akin, Saying : “ ' Tis the New Country " There came A voice as of flame and shameand iron (Iron of menace and warning !). And it cried : 'Ware the NewChrist ! He cometh not to save; Not peace, but blood. He dips the sacrament in blood. (Dear God! the wafer of His fesh in blood ! ) Lo ! He shall kill and He shall slay! His fiat shall go forth , signalling death Men's ways and days He slays and the new evil; He shall dip the new in blood till it be old (Crested andlordly, old in its bronze patina of blood) — 'Ware the New Christ ! The New Christ in the New World ! Red shall He stand His Saints are murderers And men with knives, And men who wear their visors up, And men who hate the lie ; His cross is the scaffold, and the electric chair, And the rope- the strangling hempen glory And the utter death in the gutter 'Ware the New Christ! God whimpered in the skies and on the earth, His creatures whimpered , spelling out their doom The doom long -woven in the loom of time ( the doom ) — The doom that is ashroud to wrap the nation Out of the womb of the years there comes The doom - 'Ware the New Christ! He is the slayer, not the slain ; The rain of His baptism of blood He sprinkles withtyrannic fingers Ihear the grinding of the swords, and He shall come 'Ware the New Christ ! MY COUNTRY ' TIS OF THEE (From “ The Father of Livor, " By Lingwood Evans of oste W PERCALINE, SATEEN, SILESIA, NUBIAN or NUBIANLinings of anykind, for Waist or Skirt, are Fast Blackand Will Not Crock. Positively unchangeable and of superior quality. Nothing else so fully satisfies the highest re quirements. Inexpensive enough for any dress. It is not enough to ask for " Fast Black dress linings, becausemany such that retain their color may crock the underclothing or discolor by perspiration. 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To then TEE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY lASTOR ,LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS fe uc 35 fath New han LEADER Away from the market and glory happenseverything that is great He is a fool who lays at the door of the men in power the social culpability of these states. The oppression of the plutocrats is due wholly to the apathy and indifference of the mob. The logical lover of the people should attack , not the men in power, but the docile mobs who put them there. These fat, unviolent creatures, who drink and smoke in the “ saloons,” or waddle diligently about business, who are given in marriage and taken in adultery, who whistle nigger songs and barter dirty stories for drinks, these it is who are responsible for the oppression and infamy of the day. Some of them were shot at Homestead — the rest only bleated. They are the eternal cowards, fat and unviolent, detestable and impious. It is upon them the altruist should train his guns. The good of the people has never come out of the people. Always it has been impressed upon them from without. The chief need of the hour is a strong man who can control this fat mass of democracy and mould it into some tolerable form . As long as the people has any thing to say in its affairs there is no hope for the people. The stupidity of universal suffrage! It is good only for one thing — to sustain a power already established and to con fer it on the unworthy. It has never reformed an evil. It perpetuates. It is the great conservator. And to - day this mob of fat, unviolent citizens waits for him who shall bridle it , saddle it, ride it with whip and bloody spur " I hear the grinding of the swords, and He shall come . ” And many an one who turned away from life only turned away from the rabble ; he cared not to share with them well and fire and fruit. And many an one who went into the desert and suffered from thirst with the camels, merely cared not to sit round the cistern with dirty camel-drivers. Behold the pale criminal bath Rodded ; from his eyes there speakoth the great contempte go THE GRAFT THAT FAILED . A study in New York life and language. was it . an A lead pipe cinch is a Ulyssesian thing to hunt for, but you want to be pretty sure that the other fellow doesn't hold the lead pipe. Talking about running dead up against it, youse had ought to of seen Slab Sided Sal when she was a amachoor at the badger biz. What ? Stop your joshing now ! You don't know what a " badger” is ? Ah, gwawn! Do you mean it ? Are you on the dead ? Well, I'll tell you a story — a fin de sickly romaunt of a rose. Are youse guys just plain farmers ? Or haven't you written anything on your tabulae rasae yet ? Does your cosmographical think-tank include the aureate memory of a fayre demesne known as the Bowery ? Some folk say that Jordan is a hard road to travel! Why, it was like chooting the choots alongside the Bow -wowery. But I was going to elucidate the gentle art of badgery. Well, Sal Sal was—in her way - she usually was in her own wayma artiste , and her steady - a very wobbly steady he was, too - hight and yclept and genommen Choey - he was a artiste, too. He was commonly called Choey the Con . You don't know what “ con ” is ? And yet they say that illiteracy is rare in this country! “ Con” is the Boweryese for confidence operator. Say, you mugs are as innercent as a gang of parsons on a slumming tour with a detective to pertect of them . A detectough! Wouldn't that kill you ? They pay a detective $ 40 to show them the sightsand he takes them into the Chinese theayter and theninto an opium joint specially faked up for the occasion — they hustle a lay-out in just before thepreachers come and shove it out of sight as soonas they go ! Say, Sal was great as the opium fiend - she looked it - Sal looked like almost anything that's a bit off. When the slumming party asked about how she came to this — they always ask how people came to this " -Sal useter pull a long face and tear ' em off a great string about how she was once a teacher in a Sunday school and if she only had $5 she'd reform and go back to her Bible class. She always got the five - if the detective hadn't strapped the party in advance. Truly, as Hooker wrote in his " Ecclesiastical Polity," " The search of knowledge is a thing painful, and the painfulness of knowledge is that which maketh the will so hardly inclinable thereunto" —though what that quotation has to do with the case I can't imagine. Can you ? But I was after teaching you how to play the badger game. It's a pleasant little diversion for families and a good substitute for cribbage or “ Authors. You know Sal, of course. With true Homeric spirit wegave her an epithet; as Achilles had his "wBostoßos, so Sal, the " Slab-sided ." Well Parallelopipe donal Sarah was a peach - one of the kind that lapses from the tree with a 8, 5, 6 before it is green and gets all nice and rotten before it is ripe. One night Sal and Choey thought the weather was good for badgery, so she traipses along various streets, throwing a largess of eyeliads at everybody who looked as if he had ever had a speaking acquaintance with a ten dollar bill. The man she was looking for must be small, too, for Choey was not very terrifying in his muscular get-up. It took her an hour or more to find a man who seemed at the same time small enough to be easily licked by Choey (plus a pair of brass knuckles) and prosper ous enough to be worth badgering, and green enough to be taken in, and com placent enough to be decoyed by such a woman as Sally. For, to speak the plain trut', Sally wasa lobster onlooks. It was not she of whom Kit Marlowe enquired through the mouth of his Dr. Faustus : Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships And burnt the topless towers of Ilium ? No, it wasn't Slab - Sided Sal's mug that inspired such frenzy, though he might have asked of her what he asked of the true original: Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. Sal could have done it, too ; one labiality from her osculators would surely have knocked out anybody, robust soever. Enteuthen Sally exelauneied enough parassangs to have given Xenophon's Ann a basis for her boasting, and she landed her fish at last and had little diffi culty in leading him (while seeming to be led) to a low saloon with a " family entrance " -ye gods! " family " entrance ! Sal's prey ordered drinks after drinks so lavishly that she deeply regretted having planned to collaborate with Choey in putting up a job on him ;for, of course, the moment Choey rushed in, and pretended to be her irate husband, Sally would have to stop drinking and pretendto be overcome with horror, shame andamaze, while Choey would threaten the dupe with murder and sudden death and finally blackmail him right up to the limit. It repented Sally deeply to have schemed against such manner of man as she had now in tow , for unlike most of Sally's finds, he was a regular tank. The others drank themselves dangerous or asleep or penniless long before Sally's chronic thirst had even begunto feel a slight dampness - many a police surgeon had advised Sally to have that thirst amputated, but she preferred the disease to the cure. Un mari ré Un mari cal Un mari ci Un mari trant. C'est un mari récalcitrant. ( La Périchole .) 627X4 To-night she saw her chance and she carped the diem. You might have thought t' e ocean was beer and that she was trying to outdo Thor with — Thing umbobljy's drinking -horn. Sal didn't do a thing to the liquor. She simply made a hospipe of her oesophagus. Her guy was so very handy with his dough and so v holesale with wet goods that she began to leer upon him almost affection atriy and to reciprocate his jollying and his caresses with a cordiality that was vinously sincere. He was a nice little runt, too , she mused ; and he must be a perfect gent from Fifth avenyuh, for she had never seen such large checks on any suit offered ready to wear at the Baxter street bazaars or offered in the piece by the Six Little Tailors. The waiter, too, seemed to approve of Sal's prey as a good thing that ought to be pushed along, not broken off short. Another reason for thinking the runt was one of the Four Hundred from Mackalleystir Ward - he gave the waiter tip for tipple — it was the second tip the waiter had ever had in his life, and he hid it in his shoe for fear the barkeep would demand a divvy. But all dreams of bliss must end, and when Sally heard the familiar sneaking tread of Choey on the stairs outside her heart had a throb - or was it a hic cough ?—of compassion for the poor little moke. He looked frail, too, and she promised herself that she wouldn't let Choey hurt him . Then Choey blurted in at the door, and gave a well -simulated look of horror and a cry with exclamation points stuck through it like pins: " Mé Gawd ! me wife !” There was a brief, blunt parley in which it transpired that Sally was Choey's beloved consort. He had feared that she was faithless to him - here he swallowed his Adam's apple — and he had watched her, and now - now , Gawdelper !—he had discovered her, he had corter in the act. Nothing but a bucket or two of belud could squinch his thirst for revenge. Choey was going it like the hero of a dime museum melodrama. The scenario of his Ibsene tragedy included a gradual modulation from bloodthirst, through inconsolable grief to a confession that his sorrow might succumb to the gold cure, and a promise that if the intruder would empty his pockets and lay down his rhino and his Rhinestones he would be allowed to carry home an un broken set of bones with him . But Choey had not even finished the first aria before a look of mingled under standing and deep pain passed over the face of the runt. His mienseemed to mean : " Such is fame! Here am I , the famous 'Unknown' of Williamsburg, just after putting Patsy the Pug to sleep in two rounds at the Pelican Club. Andthese sublime idiots do not know me, whom not to know argues one's self unknown.” That was what his mean seemed to mien, but what it said was simply this and nothing more : " Soy, does shoes guys tink I wus on’y borned chistiddy?” The great Unknown felt as Paderewski might ifsomeone should ask himif he were " musical and played some instrument. ” He rose with a bored air, jammed his chair back rippingly into the plaster, and his quick fist gave Choey the benefit of a twisting left hook right on that part of the jawbone which gives the cranium a seismic shock. And Choey sailed into the corner as parabolically and as limply as a tossed bolster. Sally saw that while fishing for suckers she had landed a shark ; but she went for him tooth and nail, only to feel his right arm sweep her back with a scythe- like swathe that smacked her head against the sharp end of a gas fixture and made her see at one glance enough comets to put Mrs. Herschel or Maria Mitchell out of business. The runt then wound one hand into Choey's pompadour and one into Sally's topknot, and after kicking both of them in the ribs until they vaguely felt that he had broken in several slats, he made a pair of castanets out of their two cocoanuts. Then he let their senseless bodies flop back against the wall, where they rested in mutual support like two limp meal bags. Then he laid on the table a card , reading : MARMADUKE HUMPHREY . . Mike McGourk " The Unnoan " Fetherwate Champeen of N. Y. Then he chucked his little hat over his left eye, spat eloquently across his undershot chin and went his way. In a half hour or so Sal and Choey came partially to what senses they had. Their heads rolled round on each other till their noses met. Then they drew back and looked at each other simply looked at each other. sx Once the souls of the children of charity,, tried beyond endurance, cried out CHARITY to God in mingled prayer and reproach . It was upon a sultry evening, when the storm that was gathering in the air SOULS. increased the suffering of their wounds and fever. They were pallid with pain, stretched out upon the cots which medical science had assigned to each , according to their malady . They were sad, very sad, for this was a holiday . With their thin white arms spread outside the coverings, they clasped in their transparent hands the simple toys which the rich pious patrons of the hospital had distributed among them . And their souls cried out to God : We are the children of misery , of scrofula and disease. We are the children of children . I, said one, was rescued from the cesspool where my mother, who was a half witted servant in a hostelry, had thrown me. And I, said another, am the soul of a child with an abnormal head, branded on the forehead with a scarlet birth mark . My father murdered my mother and then took his own miserable life. And still they lamented : We are the survivors of attempted abortions and infanticides. Our mothers are without name. Our fathers are among those whose days are passed in the tumult of life heedless of our woc. We are born with the mark of Cain upon our foreheads. And God heard their crics and came down among these tortured souls. He entered this home of unspeakable human suffering, and at his approach the air was filled with the odors of incense, and the martyr - children rose upright on their narrow couches like so many weary , white flowers. And their Lord said to them : I am here. have heard your supplication to be avenged against those who gave you birth . What punishment shall I mete out to them ? Then the infant- souls chanted in tones like the rustling of corn leaves, which the wind caresses : Glory to God ! Glory to God !-- who in his mercy shall pardon those who gave us birth , and in the end lead us safe to Paradise, where we may abide with them . FRANCIS JAMMES. Translated from the French by A. Lenalie. Ian But I would go, I know not where ; Out - far into the vacant night, Where no curse broods upon the air Away, in hurried fight. Far off the surging tide And endless wash of stricken souls That press with hollow laughing cries To shameful goals. The sound of many feet, The flaring faces drifting by, The wild lights of the monstrous street Wound me and terrify. What new sight curses me, That, crept apart, I pity them ? With hopeless love call out in tears Across Jerusalem ? WILBUR UNDERWOOD . What is the noiseless voice Was it not yesterday That speaks a breathless utter fear ? That, stung with passion and obscene, I shrink back , shuddering and appalled , I leaped with all that maddened throng, From these dim shadows here. Crowned with leafy green ? The fawn leaves wreathe me yet, But lo ! this wound deep in my side, These nail-prints in my feet and hands CUJUS ANIMAM As of one crucified. GEMENTEM . POLITE ... LETTERS ... Statues and public monuments, They have never done any harm ; even the worst of them add something to the slovenly squares and shabby streets; and though it be in a crude, unlovely way, they maintain in this shockingly democratic land some ideas of hierarchy and of the supremacy of talent. It looks as though anarchy would soon cover Europe with statues . The anarchists are the makers of statues, as they are the makers of saints. Caserio Santo was the real sculptor of the statue to Carnot, and the pale Angiolillo, who stabbed Canovas, dowered him with a statue — not bronze, for Spain is poor Strange, defiant lovers of death, these anarchs, who will bend the knee neither in the house of God nor in the house of Rimmon; who venerate the Madonna Anarchy with the faith that was given of old to her whose blue robe was 'broid ered with gilt stars and in whose arms the child lay smiling. They are sad and they are sincere and they are the martyrs of the faith. They pray — and an Italian stabs; they cry aloud —and on them and on their flesh and on their bones the Laws take vengeance. They are poor and hungry and cold, the piti able victims of love for their fellow men , martyred victims of an altruism that is neither to loose nor to hold. These lean and famished Christs, who die for love of the humanity that spits upon them and gives them hyssop and thorns ! There is so little good English written in these days! Since the invention of reading and the growth among the lower classes of the fatal habit of reading, the tendency in literature is to appeal more and more to the eye and less and less to the ear. The newspaper has come in with its flaring types, its clamour of pic tures ; its shameless makeshifts for the indolent thinker. And the beauty of words is unconsidered. Even poetry is written for the eye — not the ear. The verse writers trick their thoughts in spasmodically arranged lines, in the coarse spangles of dialects and slang, in any immodest posturing of syllables that will attract the eye - deboshed poets like Whitcomb Riley. I weep those dead lips, white and dry, On which no kisses lie, Those cyes deserted of desire, And love's soft fire. I weep thefolded feet and hands, Heldfast in linen bands : Still heart, cold breasts - for them my dole ; God hath the soul. ( A little song by V. T.) One may not approve of political bosses; one might not un willingly seeCroker and Platt and Quay and all the rest of them sent back to their kennels ; yet there is now and again a distinct public benefit in the victory of a boss — as when Quay's victory in Pennsylvania meant defeat for that whimpering, canting Peck sniff of politics, John Wanamaker. He and the hypocrites of his kind do more to degrade American life and politics and, as well, religion , than all the thieves and bullies of public life. 92 The Republic of Effick, which lies between the Blue Seas, made war upon the rotting kingdom of Livor. The president of the republic was a dark and His spirit was confused . His counsellors urged, “ This day we must give battle ," and other counsellors said , " It is better to wait , " and meanwhile the idle army rotted and the fever burned it . The president of the republic bit his fingers and knew not what to do. At last he said : “ I will retire to my own chamber and think upon this matter.” When he came to his own room , there sat his wife. She sat at a little table playing solitaire. When the president of the Republic of Effick spoke to her, a fit of epilepsy seized her and her poor , thin hands closed upon the pack of cards with a grip of iron as her nerves and muscles twittered and strained in the fit. A half dozen cards fluttered loose to the table and lay there face up . The fit of epilepsy passed out of the woman. She bent over the table and studied the cards and read them cannily , and told the president of the republic what the future should be and what he should do . Calm and stern and resolute the president of the republic returned to his counsellors and he said : " I have studied the situation and I have pondered and I have decided — it is better to wait . ” The army lay in the idle tents and rotted and the fever burned it -for this was the decree of the cards that fell from the hands of the epileptic woman . ( There are men of whom it is calumny to tell the truth. ) Lingwood Evans is almost the only American writer ( and he an exile ) who glorifies energy. He sings the pæan of the ecstasy of power. He exploits the salutary beauty of egotism . He has translated Schopenhauer's truckling and cowardly Will-Not-to - Be into a magnificent Will-to -Power. In one of his grave prefaces he describes a murder he saw done : " He drove the knife in so deep that hand and hilt dinted the fellow's flesh ... it was superb ; there was energy there. ” This poet, I fancy, holds the reasonable theory that there is noth ing good save the will-to - power, and nothing bad save weakness. This is excellent, intellectual seed , and I doubt not it will germinate. The modern maiden is almost irritatingly free from the fiercetempers which shook the women of former generations. The London Globe. Time was when the brains were out , the man died

on

a changé tout celam now he is made the editor of a London newspaper. Only one quite brainless could have put forth this libel. There is not a word of truth in it. Our women are just as fierce and hot and destructive of temper as ever women were. The modern American maiden is often so shaken by fierce tempers that unobservant way farers have mistaken her for an aspen tree . As to the modern maidens of LondonI should like to introduce the editor of the Globe to a very modernmaiden of St. John's Wood, whose fierce temper kicked out the entire side of a brougham . It was my brougham , too . Top Doctor Maginn used to say ( leading an honest bachelor life in Fleet prison ) that the next best thing to a really good woman was a good -natured one. He knew nothing about it. The best woman in the world is the ill - tempered woman — the jade full of angers and Greek fire. To live with her is perpetual sherris. It is like riding a mettlesome, full horse that fights snaffle and spur and yet carries you to your journey's end. Love, my children, is merely the spark struck out by the contact of two ill - tempered personalities. Not even the palest, most equable , best- natured girl should despair. Some day she, too, may kick the whip -side out of a hundred guinea brougham . WHERE THE BLACK MASS WAS HEARD. I am not a diabolist. I am a Roman Catholic. I have read Huysmans and I do not believe he ever saw half they say he did. Yet I, and in steady, sober Phila delphia, have seen things, have heard things, that would make mad the group of Parisian occultists. I dislike publicity, but Vance Thompson has asked me to relate the story, and so I mean to give it , names and all, with the faint hope that it may serve as a warning to amateur astrologists, callow devil worshippers and all the younger generation affected by the writings of impious men, charlatans and scoundrels. More than tenyearsago I was the organist of a Roman Catholic church in the lower part of my city-Philadelphia. I had studied the instrument in Germany, believed in God and his only prophet, Johann Sebastian Bach . I played and pedalled fugues on week days for my own pleasure and on Sundays executed with unction easy masses by Bordoni, Mercadante and Haydn ; my choir was not an ambitious one. The stipendium was small, the work light and the two priests of the establishment goor fellows. One, a German, Father Oelschläger, was the rector. His assistant was an Irishman with French blood in his veins. His name — shall I ever forget his name and face ?--was Father Drady ; Moreau Drady, in full . He was crazy about music and occultism. The former he made no secret of, the latter I only discovered after a long acquaintance. Drady came to the organ loft when I practiced week days and sang a little and feasted much on Bach chorales. Urged often to visit his room , I did so, and he showed me rare black letter missals and later the backs of a number of old books whose titles I could not decipher. I am no Latinist, yet I knew these volumes were written neither in Latin nor Greek. The characters I had never seen before, and when I remarked their strangeness , Father Drady smiled and even laughed as I quoted Poe, “ the volumes of the Magi– in the iron bound meiancholy volumes of the Magi. " Music led us to discuss religion , and my friend astonished me by his erudi tion . His sensitive features would become illuminated when he spoke of the strange tales of the Talmud " Oh, myGod !" he would cry with a patibulary gesture. " Why hast thou not youchsafed us more light?" and then would beg for Bach, and on the mighty stream of the D minor fugue his harassed mind seemed to float and find comfort. As time wore on he grew morbid, morose, reticent and devoted himself to his dull duties with a fanaticism that was almost harsh. The parishioners noticed it , and his reputation for saintliness increased. His confessional wasalways crowded and his sermons remarkable for the acerbity, the awful pictures he made of the sufferings of the damned and of the relentless ness of God's wrath. His superior, good natured and fat Father Oelschläger, bade the other to look at the cheerful side of the question, to believe more in God's mellowness and sweetness, and would quote Cardinal Newman's " Lead, Kindly Light" and certain comforting texts from scriptures, and then drink his beer and smoke his pipe. But the ascetic temperament of Drady barred all attempts at palliation or attenuation of the God of Hosts, of the God who laid low the pride and shame of Sodom and Gomorrah. Life to him was a sore to be cleansed, a cancer to be extirpated, and he confessed to me one night after rehearsal that he had almost doubted God's existence and courted suicide after reading Renan's " Vie de Jesus." I suggested change of scene, less strenuous labors, above all plenty of the world, the theatre and athletics. All advice availed not, and I saw that Father Drady was fast becoming a monomaniac. His sermons during the hot summer were devoted to the personality of the devil, to his corporeal exist ence, to his daily presence in the marts of mankind, and so constantwas his harp ing on this themethat Father Oelschläger had to forbid him the subject. " Es ist so warm mein kind! Why then do you hold forth on hell ? Let the poor people hear more of the crystal rivers, the green meads of Judea. It will be more season able.” Drady frowned, but obeyedhis superior. With the autumn and winter his habits became more secretive, his visits to me less frequent and his air of detachment most melancholy. Advent saw him a mere wraith of a man, worn by speculation, devoured by an interior flame, a flame that was wasting his very soul to thinness and despair. He seldom conversed with me, although I watched him anxiously and occasionally interrogated him regard ing his health . At last I spoke to his associate , but encountered an easy -going, philosophic spirit, which assured me Father Drady was going through what most young priests should. He was at the period of unfaith, was nettled by doubt, and afterhe had wrestled with Satan, won the good fight, he would again become normal. This seemed consoling, but vague . The day before Christmas I promised my mother that I would not send a substitute to play the midnight mass at the church. She was pious and I respected her wishes, for I loved and revered her. Our church was the only one in Philadelphia where the old - fashioned mass at twelve o'clock Christmas eve was cele 93 brated - perhaps you recognize it now ? It is located near the prison, and my journey was a long one, for I lived uptown. I ate a six o'clock supper and went to bed, telling mymother to arouse me at quarter before eleven. I wishedto be fresh for the early service. By eleven I was out on the street, and took a Tenth street car bound south . I reached the church in time, and soon the solemn High Mass began. My choir had with elaborate care prepared Cherubini's mass, and despite the poor organ, the extra chorus and much enthusiasm made some effect. The congregation was attentive, and Father Oelschläger delivered a short, happy sermon , urging his flock to rejoice at the birth of the Babe of Bethlehem , Jesus the Infant Christ uncrucified, but newly born into a world of toil and sin for our redemption. At the consecration of the host the good rector's beaming faith was most edifying. He was served by Father Drady, a melancholy deacon indeed. " Ite Misse Est" pronounced, the faithful dismissed, I was overjoyed at the release, for I was tired. The choir chatted about the service, the singing, and at last I was alone. I placed the music books back in the tall Gothic cupboard, shut up the manuals of my instrument and put on my overcoat. It must have been half past one, perhaps quarter of two, and I relished the prospect of my arrival home, where my dear, good mother would be awaiting me with a warm breakfast, and then once more to bed, for I had to play the regular half past ten o'clock Christmas mass for the benefit of the sleepy ones, who loved their couch better than their Christ. Father Drady met me at the bottom of the choir loft steps. He was dressed for the streets, his eyes were blazing, and as he took my arm his fingers were vise like. “ Will you come with me?" he asked. I was startled. I explained that I would not have much rest, nor should he waste his sleeping time on the dismal cold streets; besides, I was hungry. I feared that he was about to deluge me with more of his studies in the customs of the early Gnostics, and to be quite frank, I was worn out and not in a receptive humor for such untoward cryptic wisdom. Any other time- " Will you come with me?" he reiterated , and the clutch on my arm became oppressive. "Where ? ” I asked, for I hated to affront a friend. " Will you come with me?" By this timethe church was quite empty , and I pushed out into the street. It was dark and it was snowing hard. We walked toward Eleventh street, and as we neared the corner I heard the lucky sound of a horse car — there were no trolleys then. I excused myself and ran, caught the car ; the priest following, sat down beside me. I paid both fares, and as I had nothing to say we preserved a sad silence. The mean light, the deserted streets, the lonely car and the muffled strokes the horses hoofs on the snowgave me a chill of the soul. I looked sideways at Father Drady. He was reading a big parchment covered book , which I saw by the dim lamplight was entitled " Le Satanisme," by Jules Bois. I was shocked. A priest fresh from the holy sacrifice of the mass devouring the awful blasphemiesthat I was sure were in the grewsome volume, alarmed my piety. Presently he saw me and shut its leaves. " There are curious things in it, my dear friend,” he muttered, and his voice came from across a waste of sorrow . “ Curious things; but you are a believer, are you not ? ” he eagerly re peated. “ I am ," I replied devoutly , and I crossed myself. He fairly jumped at me, his eyes wide open and full of devouring flames. " Will you come with me? " : he almost screamed, and for the fourth time. " Spruce street,” called out the con ductor, and rather than let my half mad companion alone — he must surely have been mad — I left the car with him, the conductor gazing after us with smiling eyes. He took us for belated revellers. We walked slowly down Spruce street to Fourth, up Fourth, past Locust, to Willings Alley, and then I stopped. " Saint Joseph's Church is not open yet; they do not have Christmas service until five o'clock . " For the last time my com panion whispered, “ Will you come with me?" and pushing past me struck three times on the big doors. A small postern gate opened at once and we entered the vaulted passageway. I trembled with the strangeness of the adventure and held fast to Drady ,for it was pitch black, and while † heard soft footfalls beside me the footfalls of an unknown man – I could not see my hand before my face. We must have traversed a long court or inclosed yard, for the wind blew freely about me and I heard it playing on the housetops like a balloon in distress. Yet it felt as if issuing from a sepulchre, and my heart went to my empty stomach . Even in my growing terror I craved for coffee. Its aromawould have made me strong for this inhuman cruise. We went down eleven steps — I counted them — my conductors on either side of me. Dampness and malodors warned me of our prox imity to some ancient cellarage, some forgotten cata combs, wherein Father Drady expected to give me a sacerdotal surprise, a revival perhaps of an antique and early Christian ritual. I feebly applauded his in tentions, but wished he had chosen some other time and that the surroundings had been less sinister. When I saw the devil I found him earnest, thorough, deep, solemn ; he was the spirit of gravity - through him all thingsfall. M. Jules Bois is one of the clever young Hebrew writers of Paris. If he should walk into your drawing room , clad in the blue cloak of a Galilean fisherman, you might easily mistake himfor one of the early disciples this young paleJew with the mystic eyes. Savits Cry Hagain '15 , At last we paused, went down another flight of steps -- this time I didn't count them , for the cold was intense, and it was with positive relief that we suddenly ar $ 102 rived in a dimly lighted and warm chapel. It was empty, devoid of pews, of 4 6 8 chairs, of furnishings of any sort, exceptat the upper end, where was reared what appeared to be a small votive altar. Before it swung a lamp of Byzantine work douts 9 12 17 manship, in which burned a solitary tongue of yellow fame. The lampswayed -rhythmically, and on the altar were two tall tapers, lighted and perfumed. And then my eyes rested on the spot where the tabernacle, surmounted by the gold cross , should have been. Judge of my consernation when I saw , saw as distinctly as I see the pen which traces these letters, a huge bronze serpent, with glisten ing, overlapping, metallic scales. The eyes of this python were almost feminine, and their regard gentle, reproachful and voluptuous. My knees bent beneath me and my face was wet with fright. " You are a believer, then ?” crooned a dull voice in my ear . It was Drady. He had thrown off his outer wrap and was in a black soutane. He was white with emotion and said in tenderest accents : " Listen ; be my friend. Do not desert me at the crisis of my life. It is to be my first mass, my first three o'clock mass. My deacon is already at the altar. Be the solitary worshipper. It will be a low mass -remember, a low mass!” He spoke clearly, rapidly, sanely, and seeing that I had something more than a lunatic to deal with , I removed myovercoat and knelt “ I knew it long ago that down near the altar just as Father Drady ascended its steps , his assistant holding the devil would play me a the end of his black canonicals. If it had not been for the apparition of the ser trick . Now he draggeth me pent I might have fancied that I was assisting at the lonely, pious vigil of a unto hell ; art thou going to parochial curate. But the eyes of the serpent devoured mine and I had nonefor hinder him ? " the two silhouetted figures that went through with febrile velocity the familiar “ On my honour, friend,” pantomime of the mass. It was low mass, and from the Introit to the Preface the Zarathustra answered , “ what space was scarcely appreciable. I heard mumblings, and the air grew chillier as thou speakest of does not the celebrants moved and bowed or extended arms. The air grew colder and exist ; there is no devil nor seemed to become denser and tenser. It vibrated like the wires of a monstrous hell. Thy soul will be dead zither, and my temples throbbed as if in the midst of a magnetic storm . I felt that even sooner than thy body; I was nearing a great catastrophe, that God had abandoned his universe to its henceforward fear nothing." wicked will , and that I must sob, or scream , or pray, or die , or be damned forever, or — the tap of the silvery little bell was as if a sweet summer air had swum over my agitated soul. It was the bell that announced the solemn moment when God became man, when the divine spirit, by the miracle of transubstantiation, become flesh and blood. In an ecstasy of faith, ofawe, I plunged on my face and adored and wept, and a mighty wind swept from the altar with strange moanings and lamentings, and the lights were extinguished , yet therewas a luminows fog, which enfolded us, and in it I saw the great serpent, symbol of wisdom, symbol of eternity, reared spirally aloft , and beneath it-o, beneath it!—was the Beatific Vision. In swelling nim bus of flame stood the mother of God, and holding the hand of Him, of the Infant, Jesus, born but three hours, and—0, the horror of it !—not my Christ, not our Christ, not the Christ of the Christians, but a Christ from some foetid Hell, sent to seduce us , curse us, destroy us ! My eyes almost burst from their sockets, and the humming of hell's loom roared about me as I met the gazeof the Woman. And now her eyes were the serpent's eyes, and on her head was the crown of hell and its multiple kingdoms. She was naked, and set against her full breasts were sharp swords. She was Mater Malorum , and her breath sowed discord , lust and cruel red murder. I yearned to pronounce the name of the mother of God, to bid this blinding vision, this damnable vision , vanish , but my tongue was like wet twine and my sight blistered by the Pageantry of Satan, of Satan and his Dam . And as I struggled the silvery little bell tapped once more, and in a fading perspective I saw the Madonna and the Child give me such a sweet, beseeching glance that my heart dissolved within me, and I cried aloud, my tongue snapping in the roof of my mouth : " Mary, Mother of God, preserve us from the Devil and all his Works. ” A withering streak of light struck my eyeballs, and I glimpsed the serpent falling to The first nation among earth with distended jaws, whilst two priestly figures reeled off the altar steps, and whom these infernalpractices in the brassy clangour of despair we fell, all three, on our backs, and swooning were found were the Chal- blackness shut down upon us like hot smothering velvet. deans, qui contemplatione It was still dark when solicitous hands lifted me to my feet; my coat was creaturarum cognovit Crea- thrown about my shoulders, and I was hurried in shivering gloom to the street. torem , said Sir Walter The other one disappeared at the little postern gate, and parting on the outside, Raleigh. with damp, hot hands, and face plastered with hideous passion, the priest said to me, in a cracked voice: JAMES GIBBONS " You have seen my God, the only true God of Hell, of Heaven and of HUNEKER . Earth !" 94 THE ATHANASLAN CREED . There was a woman went up and down The gaslit streets of the sordid town, And , “ Dear God !" the woman prayed one night , " Hast Thou safe -guarded me aright ? " I came from Thee a baby soul , “ Moon white, snow white , blown moon and snow " Nor have I lived in this world long , “ Yet day and night my life drifts low " Into deeper shame and sadder wrong . " Dear God ! I know the kiss and the blow “ And all things evil - and my soul " Is flecked with infamy and dole. “ Dear God ! I cry to Thee this night , “ Hast Thou done right ? Hast Thou done right ?" ' Twas high in heaven the dear God heard Her prayer ( the piping of a bird ) , And as the chill wind drifts abroad The Word came down to her from God

" A little wool white soul I sent “ You down from heaven's white battlement, " And gave you home and hearth and kin " And love to cradle your life in “ Gave to you lips to kiss your face " And baby lips to grope for grace " And comfort at your breasts — I gave " The little hands to grope and save. " From the bricked streets , the city's throng , The sneering clamour of the town , She cried

" Dear God , my life drifts down " To darker shame and harsher wrong " Down, down, I drift — the blow is past " And there are only kisses now “ Burned kisses on the mouth and brow " How long must the fierce kisses last ? “ How'long, dear God, how long ? Is there " No death to come when called by prayer ? " How long, how long, Lord God ?” ' Twas high In heaven the dear God heard her cry , And underneath His feet the throne Rang as when iron beats on stone

" Is there not Christ ? Is there not One ? " Have I not given you My Son ? “ Kneell as that sainted Magdalen , “ Who knelt and found her Saviour then ! " Lo , up from the sordid town there came The woman's urgency, like flame “ The Christ ? Your Son ? Dear God, in prayer " I kneeled down at His cross and spilt “ My shame and agony and guilt " As Mary spilled the spikenard there ; " I raised my eyes that I might see “ The Christ's face and the pardon - God ! “ There was no Christ, no cross for me, " Only the Christ made Man tuby By VANCE THOMPSON . a4a THE VICTOR DIES.. From East and North the vanquished Spent hosts of Night have fled, And none may heed his honor For she, their queen, is dead. And none may help the wounded, Half blind in death's distress, And none may raise the fallen, For close their fell foes press. The proud, pale stars crowd panting Into their still retreats , And swing the cloud - barred gates to That guard their city streets. Through moon - kissed keep and castle Echoes the sentry's tread ; Through halls white whispers wander, Breathing- " Queen Night is dead." And from the last, lone outpost Far in the hard won west Spurs in the last survivor With shattered sword and crest. And now across the heavens The conquering armies sweep ; And now they seize the bastion ! And now they storm the keep ! Now fall the last gates crashing ! And Night's once proud array Lies fettered in the dungeons Of their new sovereign - Day. By RALPH SOMERVILLE. The maker of a great style, a lyric poet who selected as an instrument the " other har mony of prose, " a master of characterization and the creator of several imperishable volumes, Gustave Flaubert at the close of his century is a more formidable figure than ever. Never was the life of a genius so barren of content - never had there been, seemingly, such a waste of force. In forty yearsonly four completed books, three tales and an unfinished volume; a sort of Satyricon and a lexicon of stupidity - what else is " Bouvard et Pécuchet" ? The outlay of power was just short of the phenomenal, and this Colossus of Croisset - one falls into super latives when dealing with him — this man tormented by an ideal of style, a man who formed a whole generation of writers, is only now coming into his kingdom . In his correspondence the most facile, the most impersonal, the least impassable of artists; in his work he is most concentrated, objective and reticent. There never has been in French prose such a densely spun style, the web fairly glistening with the idea. But of opacity there is none. Like one of those marvellous tapestries woven in the hidden East, the clear woof of Flaubert's motif is never obscured or tangled . George Moore declares “ L’Education Sentimentale” as great a work as " Tristan und Isolde." It is the polyphony, the magical crossings, recrossings, the interweaving of the subject and the long, elliptical, thematic loops made with such consum mate ease that command admiration. Flaubert wasabove all a musician, a musical poet. The ear was his final court of appeal, and to make sonorous cadences in a language that lacks essential richness — it is without the great diapasonic undertow of the Anglo -Saxon was short of the miraculous. Until Chateaubriand and Victor Hugo's time the French tongue was rather a formal pattern than a plastic, liquid collocation of sounds. They blazed the path of Flaubert, and he, with almost Spartan restraint and logical mind made the language richer, still more flexible, more musical, more polished and precise. The word and the idea were indissolubly associated, a perfect welding of matter and manner. Omnipresent with him was the musician's idea of composing a masterpiece that would float by sheer style, a master piece unhampered by an idea. The lyric ecstasy of his written speech o'ermastered him . He was a poet as was De Quincy, as was Pater, as was Poe. It was the modulation of his style to his themes that caused him inconceivable agony. Where a man of equal gifts, but of less exacting conscience, would have calmly written and at length , letting style go free in his pur suit of theme, Flaubert sought to overcome the antinomianism of his material. He wrote " La Tentation de Saint Antoine," and its pages sing with golden throats; but transpose this style to the lower key of “ L’Education Sentimentale” and we find the artist maddened by the incongruity of surface and subject! In "MadameBovary, " with its symphonic descriptions, Flaubert's style was happily mated, while in the three tales he is absolutely Aawless. Then came " Bouvard et Pécuchet,” and here his most ardent lover feels the sag of the superb stylistic curve. The book is a mound of pitiless irony, yet but a mound, not a living organ ism .Despite its epical breadth there is something inhuman, too, in the Homeric harmonies of " Salammbo.” With the young wind of the twentieth century blowing backward in our face it is hardly necessary to pose Flaubert academically. His greatness consists in his not being speared by any literary camp. The romanticists claimed him . They were right. The realists declared A PROSE MASTER OF FRANCE . JAMES GIBBONSHUNEKER . that he was their leader, and the extreme naturalists 95 , the men of manure and mediocrity, cried up to him , “ O Master!" They were all wise. Something of the idealist, of the realist is in Flaubert, but he was never the doctrinaire. Temperamentally he was a poet. Masked epilepsy made him a pessimist. With a less cramped milieu he might have accomplished more, but he would have lost as a writer. It was his fanatical worship of form that ranks him as the greatest artistin fiction theworld has ever had. Without Balzac's invention, without Turgenev's tenderness, without Tolstoi's broad humanity, he nevertheless outstrips them all as an artist. It is his music that willlive when his themes are rusty with the years; it is his glorious vision of the possibilities of formal beauty that has made his work classical. Youmay detect the heart beat in Flaubert if your ear is finely attuned to his harmonies, A despiser of the facile triumph, of the appeal sentimental, he reminds one more of Brahms than Wagner; a Brahms informed by a passion for rhetoric. There are pages of Flaubert that youlinger over for the melody, for theevocation of dim landscapes, for the burning hush of noon. In the presence of passion he showed his ancestry . Hebecame the surgeon, not the sympathetic nurse, as is the case with most of his contemporaries. He studied the amorous malady with great, cold eyes. His passions were all intellectual. Hehad no patience with conventional sentimentality. And how clearly he saw through the hypocrisy of patriotism , the false mouthing of politicians ! A small literature has been modelled after his portrait of the discontented demagogues in “ L'Education Sentimentale.” The grim humour of that fa mous meeting ofthe " Club of Intellect” set Turgenev off into huge peals of laughter. It is incredibly lifelike. A student of detail, Flaubert gave the imaginative lift to all he wrote. His was a winged realism, and in " Madame Bovary ' we are continually confronted with evi dences of his idealistic power. Content to create a small gallery of portraits he wreaked him self in giving them adequate expression , in investing them with vitality, with characteristic coloring, with everything but charm . Flaubert has not the sympathetic charm of his brother at-arms, Ivan Turgenev. In private life a man of extraordinary magnetism , his bonze- like suppression of all personal traits in his books tells us of his martyrdom to a lofty theory of style. He sacrificed his life to art, and an unheeding, ungrateful generation first persecuted and then passed him by. It is the very tragedy of literature that a man of robust individuality, handsome, flattered and wealthy, should retire for life to a room overlooking the Seine, near Rouen, and there wrestle with the seven devils of rhetoric. He subdued, made them bond slaves, but wore himself out in the struggle. He tried to extort from his instrument music that was not in it. What he might have done with the organ -toned English language after so triumphantly mastering the technique of the French keyboard_a genuine pianoforte key . board - we may imagine. His name is one of the glories of French literature, and in these timesofscamped workmanship, when the cap and bells of cheap historical romance or the evil smelling weed of the dialectnovel are choking fiction , thefigureof the great Frenchman is at once a refuge and an evocation. THE UNIVERSE IS IN YOUR CORONAL OF HAIR . May I breathe long, long time the perfume of your tresses, plunge my face eagerly in them , as one o'ercome with thirst drinks from a cool spring, and waft them with my hands like a fragrant handkerchief that fills the air with its sweet presence. Could you but know all that I see ! all my emotions; all that I divine in this, your hair ! My soul drifts out upon its fragrance as that of others upon the wings of music. Your hair - it evokes a vision of sails and masts ; great seas whose storm waves drive me towards balmy climates, where the sky is bluser and deeper the air heavy with odorous fruits and foliage, and the emanations of perfumed bodies In the ocean of your hair (dear God, your hair !) I catch glimpses of a harbor echoing with grief-laden song ; filled with hardy men of all nations, and vessels of all shapes silhouetting their fine, intricate lines against a vast expanse of sky where dwells unending warmth . In the indolent caresses of your locks I recall the languors of slow hours passed upon a divan in the stateroom of the steamer ( rocked by the lazy swell of the harbor), among the flowers and the chilled water jars. Wrapped in the shining meshes of your hair I breathe the odors of fragrant tobacco mixed with opium ; in the dark night of your tresses I see the infinite azure of the tropics blaze out anew ; I revel in the incense of their velvety masses, Let me linger in the heavy strands of their sombreness. When I kiss your supple and rebellious hair I seem to encompass the memories of the Past. BAUDELAIRE. MR . CROSBY In “ War Echoes" Mr. Ernest Howard Crosby has made an eloquent and not unpoetic plea for peace. His ideal is the old Galilean ideal of humility and fatuous equality. He still believes - in this day !—in the platitudes of Thomas Jefferson. Almost all those who preach the gospel of the smitten cheek and prattle the catch -words of equality and altruism are hypocrites; Mr. Crosby seems to be sincere- sincere as Tostoi- pitiably sincere ; he is a dupe of the monstrous doctrine that the meek inherit the carth - that old slave- cant of a civilization that is, one may trust, definitely past. Mr. Crosby has read Lingwood Evans; has he read that other masterful Australian, Henry Lawson ? We fight like women and feel as much, The thoughts of our hearts we guard Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch, The sneer of a fool hits hard ; The treacherous tongue and the cowardly pen, The weapons of curs, decide They faced each other and fought like men In the days when the world was wide. The world is getting narrower , but not yet need we abandon ordinary modes of speech in order to bleat like lambs. 56 AND MR . JAMES. After the crabbed and involved polyphony of " In the Cage” —hard reading for the most fanatical James -ite — the new volume containing two stories came like a whiff of the eternal verities. In " The Two Magics” Mr. Henry James has found himself, has emerged from his strenuous battle with syntax and the smell of dried apples and has floated us far on the firin pinions of his delicate, subtle imagination. Never in the history of the supernatural has such a story been written as “ The Turn of the Screw . " Hawthorne would have envied it, it makes clumsy the allegory of " Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," and the magic lantern slides of Kipling's East Indian “ bogies ” are coarse by comparison. Never have I read such a tale of unrelieved horror. Guy De Maupassant's " Horla ” is the merest fringe of the awful when set against the moral gloom of “ The Turn of the Screw. ” All other stories of apparitions become at tenuated in its presence. Mr. James' magnificent New England conscience and his equally magnificent art are the factors in the creation of a dread imagining which concerns the soul poisoning of two lovely children by two depraved spooks. Anything more morbid would be hard to conceive. Yet the treatment is never morbid ; it is uplifting, almost comforting, and comfort the reader needs in the terrifying flashes of an evil beyond that the writer gives us. Just what is the lesson of the master in this powerful allegory I cannot pretend to say. Immensely moral it is as is " What Maisie Knew, ” only Maisie herself would be aghast at the subterrene depths revealed in the nature of little Flora and Miles. The other " Magic ” is called " Covering End, ” and is in Mr. James' happiest manner. The touch is a Meredithian stoccato, while the gayety, ingenuity and wit make one sorrow for a stage so in bondage to mediocrity that it refuses tribute to such a master of high comedy as Mr. Henry James. The great American novel may not yet be written , but the great American novelist is in existence ! Tourette Hisbet Boykin This is a book of curious self -revelation. It was written by Lau rette Nisbet Boykin. She was a womanwho had studied and loved and glittered ; then neu rasthenia laid her on her bed, and for a year she died a little each day. In the drift of monotonous hours she studied herself - and of her moods and fancies she made this strange book, which is a hybrid of plant and ghost. Read here: " It interested me to watch the rhythms of sickness, its musical inter vals of mood, its action and reaction . The beautiful laws can be studied in a sick room as well as out under the anti septic sky. I observed that — Half an hour after breakfast every morn ing I waxed cheerful. Half an hour before dark every afternoon I waned sad . In the morning I thought What a handsome and amiable world ! How succulent with nitro genous food ! And, as another invalid once said, my bones felt sweeter to me. In the afternoon I thought How difficult it is to live ! Howsad are thein exorable conditions of this, our life, feeding, as it does, upon toil and pain and death ! And then my bones would grate. Thus I would de vise a chromatic scale of pain - color, in cluding all my shades of discomfort. There was the scarlet pain, a red -hot agony ; steel-blue pain , which was incisive like a knife ; gray pain , a leaden ache; black pain that stood for a bruised feeling ; green pain, a deathly sensation ; in digo pain, which I presume must have been the blues, col lected to the region of the spine ; violet pain , or an exquisite tender ness to touch ; irides cent pain , felt in the changeful flutter of the heart. Everything is relative ; and these ridiculous chromatics practiced upon a vi brating nervous sys tem , gave me more stimulusthanmanyawearying pleasure. At other times pain awakened the sensibilities of the heart, and I would “ THE ANNALS feel myself dissolving with compassion to OF AN IN ward those who suf- VERTEBRATE . " fered . I heard the march of the great army of pain - bearers sounding down Time; and myheart warmed to my comrades with an almost cosmic sym pathy. They, like me, had accepted the or der of life. They and I knew, at last, that the secret of all things is Pain. A sense of un mitigated loss bore down like the rain , blotting the color out of every thing. · I was, indeed ,, alto gether accustomed to spinning my shroud, for I was born ancient and sad . As a child I had been literally haunted by my own ghost. Now and then I slipped from my bed and walked round the room to try my strange, new feet. My surprise was great to find that the same body which had ached so long now felt flexible, alive and sweet, I moved with a touch of that audacious suavity which Alex ander Salvini infuses into the role of Cirullio . I was wood and steel. But no longer a violin ! No longer a dag ger! As to my mind, it was clarified and at peace. In a word I was poised , for the first time in my mistaken exist ence I was pure Greek. I deified the body. It filled me with happy animality to feel the blood sweeping warm ly and evenly under the skin . Where was my spirituality, my nonsense, my festered egoism ? What had be come of my host of symptomatic vagaries ? They had flown out of the window ." A sad and won derful book — such pages as only a wom an in whose life there was a daily beauty could write and with al a singularly subtle Since woman came into study of moods and existence she has had too nerves and pain . little joy. - PERCALINE, SATEEN, SILESIA, NUBIAN or NUBIANLinings of anykind, for Waist or Skirt, are Fast Black and Will Not Crock . Positively unchangeableandof superiorquality. Nothing else so fully satisfies the highest re quirements. Inexpensive enough for any dress. 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The thirst for study is an aristocratic thirst. With the family appears the desire for property. That desire must be killed—if we are to live up to our Jeffersonian professions of democracy. Liberty, equality — we must favor drunkenness ; we must propagate an unpre cedented democratic debauch ; we must stifle genius in the cradle - then we shall have reduced all to a common denominator ---then , indeed, we shall have complete equality. Only slaves are equal - only drunken slaves are free. The slaves should have chiefs. Complete obedience, complete impersonality , complete equality - he- slaves and she-slaves, glorious in equality. Every thirty years or so the chiefs would give the order for turmoil Then should the slaves fall upon each other and rend and gnaw and LEADER. destroy-up to a certain point That of not boring themselves. Ennui is an aristocratic pleasure. Free and equal? Only slaves are equal. Only drunken slaves are free. It is not often that I pay any attention to the criticisms that are passed upon my work. I have got into a habit of seeing things, as best I can, through a monocle, and saying them, as best I can, in English words. The other day however, I talked with a man whose words carry weight. He is a sound man and a broad man, and when he offers you a criticism it is usually worth taking home with you. He said : " In M'LLE NEW YORK it seems to me there are two distinct tendencies -- you praise anarchy and you uphold imperialism . I do not think that you have really worked out your theory — whatever it is.” “ But my approbation of anarchy, " said I, “ is purely sentimental. You admire the missionary who goes abroad-on $ 1,500 a year -- to save souls. And doubtless he is a good little creature, this hired altruist, who loves his fellow-men for so much a month . I have met many of them—I know them — they are abso lutely inoffensive personally — but — " They work for the happiness of others, and working for the happiness of others is always a crime— it is the historic crime—it is the crime for which One You remember St. Simon's fatu Altruist was nailed to a cross. Your paid missionary does it in the mere way of ous dream of a scientific organiza tion of society — that is, an organi- making a living. He may put up with a few discomforts. What do they amount sationconforming tothe lawsof to ? No more than you and I undergo in our devious ways through life. ” political economy, or the science of " Well ? " said the sound man. acquiring riches. " Well, ” said I , “ you admire the missionary? ” Well He nodded. We have it. " And I temper my cynicism with a sincere and amazed admiration for the anarchist . I believe he is the only true man on earth — the only man who is honest with himself. He thinks that our organization of society is foul and cruel and bad, and he wastes himself in a futile effort to destroy it. These poor Christs of anarchy! They are like that other Christ who wrecked himself on the sins of the world. He too saw that the organization of society, which is called civiliza tion, is base and unjust and bad. He sympathized with the weak and the injured. Like Luccheni and Caserio, like Spies and Henry, he hated the oppressor - and he struck . They were feeble blows, if you will , futile blows. God knows the world went on quite as it had gone before. Our civilization to - day is the very same civilization against which the white Christ did inutilely protest. Perhaps we are a trifle more hypocritical — but that is all. Still do we hang our Christs on scaffolds - still do we lay them in the grave. The world is no better and the world is no worse . It is as it has ever been. The rogue preys upon the fool, and the coward gives the wall to the bully. We are all hypocrites, time- servers, op portunists. Honesty ? Strip human nature to the skin and you'll not find a clean square inch . Our few honest men we hang or crucify. Why? Because they are 98 comine on er dupes of an altruism that is neither to hold nor to bind , and in the present organi zation of society altruism is a crime." This I said to my friend, who is a broad man and a sound man, and he asked me why I advocated imperialism , if I believed all this. The question is worth an answer. I recognize, as does every thinking man , that democracy is a failure -- that these United States are a monstrous illustration of the failure of democracy. The LE VIOLONEUX . fatuous phrases that the makers of the American constitution filched from soppy sentimentalists like Rousseau and Mirabeau are quite meaningless to -day. Not Levioloneux du village even the most listless demagogue-- neither McKinley nor Croker nor " Silver qui a un jaquet trop court voit aux vieilles Dollar” Smith ; not one of their employers , be it the shrewd Whitney, Hanna, the images, anthropomorph, or the eczemic Morgan – believes that all men are born free and et un chaperon a ruban de velours, equal . They know, as you and I know , that every man is born to an heritage , le violoneux rase a face rubiconde you to your heritage and I to mine. They know that berthrights and privileges et nes rouge qui reluit, are inequal. They know that there has never existed a niore effective system of mene le cortege des danseurs de ronde slavery than that which exists to-day. derriere lui. This so-called Christian organization of society is as base and vicious a one as ever existed —- baser than any other, perhaps, by reason of its very hypocrisy. ļl y a toute la troupe It is not a democracy. It is not even a tolerable aristocracy. It is the rule of the des galopins au gai babil Petit Poucet et Riquet a la Houppe dollar - and sets above us vulgarians like Hanna and Morgan and men of that qui tirentles basquesdesonhabit. stamp. You cannot do away with inequality. Il y a Peau d'Ane et Cendrillon qui porte sur l'epaule une souris, Life is conditioned in inequality , even as music is conditioned in silence. et toute la foule des pieds mignons The dream of the honest anarchist—this pitiful Christ !—is futile as blown en souliers gris. smoke. One thing he has seen--that our civilization is a vulgar tyranny, an im Il y a Scaramouche qui souffle en sa posture and a hypocrisy. He would fain destroy it. Up to a certain point I flute, agree with him -- our organization of society is absurd, dirty, sad and inefficient. Polichinelle qui tend sa tabatiere But at this point we part company-very courteously I wave farewell to Krapot- Pierrot qui fait la culbute kin and Octave Mirbeau , to Elysée Réclus and many another honest man . I see et Colombine qui rajuste sa jarre tiere. no use in destroying our present civilization . Its successor would be equally sad and dirty. One step in advance would be to reform it . How ? Merely by taking Et comme ce maroufle off the disguise-stripping off the dirty rags of democracy-coming out honestly d'Arlequin qui merite vingt coup de trique and frankly to give the lie to the absurd founders of this republic. This is no passe adroitement sa pantoufie democracy. This is no republic. ' Tis a mere vulgar, financial tyranny. Now, I entre les jambes du joueur de would send the Morgans and Hannas back to their shops , send the Crokers to musique, their kennels, send weaklings like McKinley back to their self- respect, send all le pauvre racleur de violon these ill - bred, nauseous vulgarians back to the holes they have crawled from—to qui perd l'equilibre befoul the public highway. And it is only by establishing an imperialistic govern s'etale de tout son long, et toute la bande eclate de rire ment, strong, self- centred, sworded, arrogant, unjust, brutal — disdaining all -Tristan Klingsor. hypocrisy—that an end can be put to this squalid tyranny of the money- grabbing rogues. The anarchist says : ' Tis a dirty civilization . " " True, my brother ." " Let us destroy it " No, my brother -- let us organize it into a gentlemanly tyranny - let us take it out of the hands of the trading and bargaining vulgarians and give it to him The extremest cruelty is foster who carries a sword. Then we shall have gained something, my brother." ing the good- for- nothing at the ex “ And what shall we have gained ?" asks the anarchist-this poor Christ of pense of the good . the gutter ! " Honesty, at least , and a gentlemanly, well- ordered life. To-day we are ruled by weaklings, rogues, demagogues, vulgarians, shop -keepers--better, I say, the strong man. 'Tis better to be scourged by Attila than to be eaten alive VANCE THOMPSON . by parasites. " I hear the grinding of the swords, and he shall come. 66 a THE SLEEP LARKS. All day in exquisite air The song clomb an invisible stair, Flight on flight, story on story, Into the dazzling glory. There was no bird, only a singing. Up in the glory, climbing and ringing, Like a small golden cloud at even , Trembling ' twixt earth and heaven . I saw no staircase winding, winding, Up in the dazzle, sapphire and blinding, Yet round by round, in exquisite air, The song went up the stair. KATHARINE TYNAN . OF : : : : THE SHADOW To the harsh , sacrificial tones of curious shells wrought from conch let us worship our blazing parent planet! We stripe our naked bodies with ochre and with woad, and lament the decline of our god under the rim of the horizon. O sweet lost days when we danced in the sun and drank his sud den rays! O dread hour of the coming of the Shadow , the Shadow whose sinister wings drape the world in gray ; the Shadow that sleeps ! Our souls slink behind our shields ; our women hide in the caves ; the time is near and night is our day. Softly, with feet of moss, the Shadow stalks out of the South . The brilliant eye of the Sun is blotted over , and with a remorseless mantle of mist is the silvery cusp of the new moon enfolded . Follow fast the stars, the little brethren of the sky, and like a huge bolster of fog the Shadow scales the ramparts of the dawn. We are lost in the blur of doom , and the long sleep of the missing months presses heavily upon our eyelids. We do not rail at the coward Sun - God who has fled, fearing the Shadow , but creep noiselessly to the women in the caves. Our shields are cast aside, unloosed are our stone hatchets, and the fire lags low on the hearth . With out, the Shadow has swallowed the earth ; the cry of our hounds stilled as by the hand of snow . The Shadow rolls into our caves, our women and children sleep, our brain is benumbed by its ca resses, it closes the porches of the ear, and gently strikes down our warring members. Supine, routed, we rest, and above all , above the universe, is the sleep of the Shadow. Gul JAMES GIBBONS HUNEKER . 99 Here is the pistol, here is the man Reason it out between you two. Who gave the signal when life began ? Who shall answer when life is through ? THE MAN WHO WOULD . It is easy to die, and men have died , Questing the whimsies overhead , But no man knows ( for all ghosts have lied ) Whether man be better alive or dead. By all means use sometimes to be alone, Salute thyself. There you have death at your finger-end Why do you query and prate to me! If the secret you must know , dear friend, Why, open the door - go forth- and see. -V . T. UNHANDKER CHIEFED PETEY ” AND : : HAMLET. Some day I shall write the story of Pietje Sno . I was in Brussels when they buried him , and the scene haunts me. Pietje Sno — which is as though one should say the " unhandkerchiefed Petey” —had no profession. His character was vague. He gained his livelihood by theft and roguery. He was the pride of the quarter of Marolles — a hercules, a bully, a drunkard, a tyrant, the terror of the police, the joy of the foul and turbulent quarter of the Rue Haute. Stendhal would have loved him and Nietzsche approved. He was married, this individual, and when he was in drink he used to beat his wife as though she were flax. One night last April he reeled home and thrashed her with peculiar and particular virtuosity. She waited until he was asleep and then emptied a bottle of vitriol in his ear. Had she ever seen Hamlet ? Did she know that story " extant and writ in choice Italian " ? That " knavish piece of work ” ? ' Tis strange to come upon that crime, repeating itself in a dingy garret in Brussels town. And so Pietje Sno died , screaming horribly, and his little, beaten wife was taken away to prison. Perhaps the murder was banal - I am no connoisseur in crime— but the funeral of the victim was epic. The quarter rose to do honor to its dead hero . From tav ern and estaminet they flocked — these gloomy, pale -faced drunkards of Teniers. Where you and I saw a mere cynic ruffian , a truculent bully and brutal thief, the quarter of the Marolles saw a hero of the people, a type of the unconquerable spirit that denies. The whole suburb subscribed a fund to bury him in state. Thousands followed the hearse, men and women and children ; it was not a funeral, it was the triumph of a conqueror. They sang and danced and laughed. The huge mob rolled through the streets, enormous in its gaiety, turbulent and joyous. It was a kermess and a carnival. Cursing, howling, laughing, it stormed along - cheering its dead hero, hissing the police on which he had so often wreaked the vengeance they dared but dream of. Pietje Sno was He who Rebelled, and the mob, which is the Eternal Outlaw , did him homage. I saw Victor Hugo buried; 'twas a form — a pageant - nothing; but the funeral of Petey — this murdered bully borne to his grave by a fierce mob of ruffians, thieves, drunkards, poisoners, harlots and bad husbands — was Homeric. Had a thousand of them but had his savage and reckless prowess, they might have sacked Brussels that day in the joyous sunlight. Y7. Florence, Italy, November 21, 1898 . Vance Thompson : Sir - Doubtless you will not read this letter, since you scorn to read the lubrications of woman's pen . But as I have learned to do many things without hope of return , I may as well endeavor to do a little justice to two master minds of modern days; that is, in respect to your young readers. 17 . THE WOMEN WHO WRITE. : : Both George Eliot and George Sand were ignoble and cordial girls ; they had talent, but it was quite barren, until fructified by the men of their intimacy. I quite agree with my correspondent that no man does good work without the silent collaboration and beneficent sym pathy of a woman . Every good page a man writes should be in scribed to a woman. Equally true is it that when a woman writes you may be sure that there is a man be hind her — and a very self- sacrific ing one. Woman is a charming and incon sistent little animal, and in accord ing her a soul man has endowed her with many of his own finer qualities. During the last thousand Since, when you penned the following : “ But are there any women writers ? Behind George Eliot the brain and beard and inspiration of George Lewes ; behind George Sand her lovers who made her books " -- you cannot have been aware of certain facts. First, that George Lewes himself undertook to write novels, and having produced three, which all fell flat, he contented himself afterwards in trying other literary ven tures, some of which made sad inroads on the funds of his “ wife," George Eliot. As for George Sand, most people who do not ignore women altogether are in possession of the common knowledge that she produced her masterpieces after her household had retired for the night. True, her first novel was a partnership affair. But her second — if my memory is faithful - was written while she was away from Paris ; and her partner, when shown the MS. on her return , Te 100 - was so surprised at the genius it gave evidence of that he refused to share in the spoils. To those who are interested in the progress of the race , and hence in the advancement of woman , it would at once be painful and in teresting to see behind the curtain of the past

to note what tireless feminine fingers, what patient, enduring womanly hearts, what meek , submissive, gentle minds have been placed at the disposal of the lordly , monopolizing person termed man

and very interesting and very painful to

mark the ways and methods by which he has remunerated this untiring, diffident helpmeet. To be sure it is matter of Biblical record how the Genesis Adam rewarded his Eve , after he had tasted the apple so highly recommended (by some other man ) as an eye -opener. (I have learned to read my Bible with wideopen eyes.) Heaven hasten the day when the women will learn to stand up for and aid each other with the same unselfish devotion they have exercised toward man ! for until they have learned this lesson they will continue to go to the wall in much the same thriftless fashion in POND'S Extract . man . years she has been growing more and more human . She has discou ered that love is not alone the peo pling of the world . She has devel oped a heart and is in the way of acquiring a brain which is nearly as fine an instrument as that of For many a day , however , I believe her rather tepid mind will have to be fructified with masculine pollen . When women write, said Heine, they have one eye on the paper and the other on a man . The woman who writes, said Al phonse Karr , is guilty of two sins

She increases the number of books and decreases the number of Women . I am not one who makes mali cious , saucy and ill -natured jests about women . They have given me the few happy moments of my life. To please them is my humble duty. They are the dear objects of my oc cupations and regrets. Car après tout le reste est vain ! -The Editor . the future as in the past . M. Vw Everyone has more than one reason for not living. It is only in moments of pitiless self analysis that one recognizes how sound and valid his reason is ; if, at such moments, he is a strong man, he takes himself into a corner and dies ; if he is a weak man he distrusts his analysis. Indeed, these moments of self- inspection are so rare that few people ever come to a knowledge of the reasons they have for not living. But the reasons exist. They may be no more heroic than ennui. It is all one. I knew a Ger man student who killed himself for thrift's sake ; he felt that the equation of life was not worth working out ; the exertion was disproportionate to the result. Said he : “ In the end, after the long equation is worked out, one finds that the answer is, “ zero equals zero ; ' it is not worth while.” He died, and they buried him in a low- lying meadow by the Saale. I have never faced my reason for not living, and, I daresay, you - fearful of its implacable logic have never envisaged your own. But one man's reason has been made plain to me. Three nights ago he told it to me as we paced the midnight streets — to and fro and to and fro , under flickering street lamps, in a night warm with the coming spring and soft with unshed rain . Three nights ago. And this morning I read in the newspapers the account of his death. He had asphyxiated himself with gas in his room in a lodging house. He was a poor gentleman ; so poor, indeed, that he had to borrow the money to hire a lodging A MATTER where he might die. Should I have lent him the money ? I thought so that night as we paced the gray streets, to and fro. This morning I do not know. And yet, there was the OF river, and it is better to die in bed, and he needed money for other things — but I do not know. The city should provide lethal chambers for those who are confronted with reasons LOGIC . for not living ; the responsibility is too heavy for one man to bear. Perhaps I was right, but I do not know . I had met him a half dozen times before that night. The first time we were fellow passengers on a French liner from Marseilles to Naples. I have forgotten how we hap pened to speak to each other. Wemet again in Naples, and found , I dare say, a certain pleasure in the meeting. I remember we went to a theatre together, and afterward played billiards for half a crown a game. Then I saw no more of him for a time. He was travel ing with a courrier, and I do not like cour riers. He drank champagne, and I prefer still wines, so we did not hit it off together, and parted. Two years ago I came upon him in London, and we had luncheon together at the Café Royal, and parted with a certain kindly feeling. Then, three nights ago, he touched me on the shoulder as I turned out of Twenty - third street into Broadway. He looked wofully shabby, and I was sorry for him. We went into a hotel and drank some whisky and water. " Shall we get a bit of supper ? ” I asked. “ I've just dined , " he said. He filled his pipe, while I lit a cigar, and then we went out and walked up Fifth avenue. I intended to ask him where he came from , but forgot it, and as he was in a taciturn mood, we walked on in silence. After passing three or four streets I decided to leave him. " Come and dine with me to -morrow , " I said ; " there are a half dozen places where one can dine well in this city. ” " Thank you , " he said , “ but I shan't dine to morrow, don't you know ; I'm going into train LG ing." “ Ah, into training, " I remarked vaguely. “ Yes,” said he. We walked on a bit. I was wondering what he was going into training for, and whether the game was worth a good dinner. " Well, luncheon , then ," I said. “ D - n it ! " he retorted , impatiently, “ I shall not eat to -morrow . I say, can't you be reason able ? I wish you'd walk a bit with me. I want to talk to some one or other. Lord knows how I happened to meet you, but you're the only man in this city I know. And we've always been friends in a way.” " Yes," said I , " in a way. " 1.Fi.. le was a Lodging ht as we was the I do not reasons as right, e fellow we hap a certain We went played en I saw 3 travel ke cour efer still her, and him in er at the i kindly " Then let us walk a bit and talk . Have you a match ? My pipe is out.” “ Do you smoke when you're in training ?" “ Yes, I smoke and drink and sleep on a bench in the park ," he replied. " Are you stoney ? " I asked. “ I haven't a blessed penny, " he replied, cheerfully, puffing at his pipe, “ I spent my last dime do you call it ? -- for a package of tobacco, and very good tobacco it is. Why do you smoke cigars? They'll hurt you in the end. Better keep to a pipe. " " Don't you want to borrow some money from me? " “ No, why the deuce should I want to borrow money from you ? I've had trouble enough in getting rid of what I brought with me. It has taken me six weeks. I had no sooner spent what money I had than I remembered I had a watch and chain. So I sold that and began spending all over again. Then my sleeve buttons and shirt buttons, a couple of coats — it has taken me quite a while. Fortunately I got rid of all my luggage at once by incurring a hotel bill I could not pay. They turned me out and kept my trunks. ” " Is it a wager?" I asked. “No wager, " he replied, " merely a little account I have to settle — with my self." “ Turned ascetic? " “ No, again ; but I expect to die in a few days. Indeed, I must die. ” I looked at him closely ; he did not seem to be jesting, and clearly enough he was not in drink. I let him go on without interruption. He had got his con versational gait, as it were, and talked fluently, with a nice care for words, as though he wished both to interest me and please himself. " But it is not easy to die. One cannot walk into a chemist's shop and say, 'A half ounce vial of death, ' and then go quietly into a corner and drink the stuff. One has to reckon with oneself. Oneself is sure to rise to points of order and question of personal privilege. One must detach oneself from the angry needs of life. One must make existence uncomfortable. One must mock the belly by dining on the north wind and irritate the nerves with alcohol and tobacco. When one's physical complacency is routed, one feels oneself more loosely attached to life. The detachment is easier. One is willing to die out of sheer impatience of physical discomfort. One may have excellent reasons for dying and yet find himself hampered by hereditary instincts toward living. " My interest slackened after a bit. I knew him for a man who would not keep an acquaintance walking the streets at midnight while he gasconaded about death, but it was getting late, and I asked him bluntly when he intended to put an end to his life. “ In two or three days, ” he said ; " as soon as the brute is worn down into docility - into a mood in which he will not quarrel strenuously at being detached . Personally I am not a coward, of course, but I seem to be intimately interwoven with the brute. I must wear him down until he is willing to part.” " You are quite serious?" " In intention ? Quite serious. ” " How do you intend to do it?” " In the river." “ Don't you think the brute could be more easily persuaded to die in bed? " “ I daresay you are right. I could bring him to it easier. He revolts at the thought of the river. I believe you are quite right. " ached me nty -third wofully went into ater. sked. igar, and avenue. me from , on mood, three or ," I said; one can In the Morgue to - day is the body of an Englishman educated at Ox ford for the Anglican priesthood, who died of alcoholism last night in the prison of the West Side Police Court. He was twenty -seven years of age, and was arrested on Wednesday on Eighth avenue for begging. He was sentenced by Magistrate Mott to six months in the workhouse. He suddenly be came very ill last night, and Dr. Christian , of Bellevile Hospital, was sent for to attend him . When he was at the point of death Welling ton murmured : “ Let us pray. " Those were his last words. In this way I came to lend him the small amount of money which secured him a room in a lodging house -- with gas - last night. There was no bravado in his talk . He was calm and self- contained. But I did not believe for a moment that he intended to put an end to his life - until he told me the reason he had for not living. Then I wondered that he was pacing Fifth avenue at my side - that he was not already a corpse, awash in the dragging tides of the river, or lying blue and throttled in a Bowery lodging house. Once while he was speaking I touched his arm , to make sure he had clung to life this long. Other men have had better reasons, it may be, for not living, but his pressed with relentless and implacable logic for immediate action. Three nights ago. Well, to-day we have carried his body to the morgue. I and two other people on this earth will know that the man is really dead; scores of people will expect to meet him and call him by name, and a certain wonder will grow as the years go by: I have written this morning to the two people who should know; and of us three not one, I daresay, could say whether the man has done well to die. 01519 I think it was right, and yet — I do not know. dine to mto train tely. ing what ether the 7, " I shall be reason

. I want

nows how only man ways been VANCE THOMPSON . one. Admitting the hesitation , for his own delving into the newly discovered intric- His blood, fired by the contact, fairly emotions were not strange to him, he was acies of his science he was writing treatises swamped his professional attitude, which firm that it did not arise from any fear that about the condition of the poor or hunt- had been weakened by drawing on the un he would be led into a cheap, romantic ing up and scoiding a neglectful injured due hardness. Still he answered: and unprofessional act. The very idea of who had avoided him , fearing the extra “ He may and he may not." killing a patient or allowing him to die fee. She put her hand into his : through neglect seemed so much of a col- We left him with an absorbing ulna. A " Doctor, do as you will. If he must die, ored calcium light and the trappings of the careful workman, that he was, and a sure let all be done first. My strength is gone The patient was in too serious a --- you go on ; you are my friend - you will condition to be moved again, and was ac- always be.” ANAESTHETICS. cordingly quartered in the house, which The tears were in her eyes. was but following traditions. It was there He raised her hand and kissed it pas that Mrs. —entered into his plans with sionately. an ease that contrasted pleasantly with his She did not protest. previous experiences with housekeepers. stage that to prove to himself ( an uneasy The patient attended to and the scientific conscience will have the strongest proofs) tension - he really believed it was scien- The operation took place the next day. that the idea had arisen by extraneous tific - eased, once more there burst on him suggestion he brought up and had before the love -lady. The transition, abrupt, was him his age, his character and his love ; and also painful , and in the easing of that pain ' Twas two days later. The door of the although it must be inferred that the last he rushed to extremes that his better coun- house closed with a harshness that did not looked askance at the other two, and the sellors would have regarded with trem- betoken a high regard for the occupants. other two seemed somewhat shocked at the bling and fear. The doctor had even forgotten his over company in which they found themselves, He had never loved—it was an old and shoes. His mind-men in passion believe and nodded their heads in a much disturbed blind argument- why should he not love it is the mind -- had all been resolved into and very sage manner, and though still now ? That a past freedom from heart a thought. more, the doctor was not a little amazed bindings should give him a particular right He entered the office in much the same himself when he saw the vast difference in to love now was not to him a fallacy. And manner in which he had left the patient's internals and externals between his famil residence. For two days the patient had iars he nevertheless proceeded coura been under the influence of drugs, for two geously with his examination, which ended This is not meat for days he had been by the side of the lady, as an examination so conducted naturally would end. In dismissing the trio he lin little people or for fools. for two days his arm had touched hers, often her hand came in contact with his gered regretfully over the departure of his -TheBook of the Sages. to- night would see the crisis. Either he love. There was no doubt the lady had must make the sacrifice or the unconscious possessed herseli oi as much of him as his patient would. The doctor, you see, had a age and character would permit. And now further - reasoning from the other side conscience. that they were alone, and thatthe two did she love ? That was the justification lieved He rang the tension the bell. quickly Then it was , loudly partly -it fear re safeguards-- ha! he admitted that they were safeguards ! -had gone he yielded it gave him what he wanted, the stand of the knight errant . Wasshe not in need that reflection might weaken the reso himself up to a moment of glorious illu lution . sion and felt a younger blood pulse through of him that loved her, that would free her “ Telephone the Rev. Mr. to come these the vagaries of the moral man . his arms, fire his limbs and make purpose at once." for his life . It was yet an hour before he would make The second order was : The awakening was harsh. He had his wonted call , but the patience that had “ Ask Mrs. M- to come here." hung his profession on the rack and sent made him a loveless man and a self-sus “ Mrs. M- -, will you marry me?” simple sex away in the dismissal of age taining one had gone, and we mustfollow The woman's lips were pressed tightly and solitary role of lover. The chorus of him now, heated, with heat that camefrom the Eumenides could not have been more the heart, though yet not unnerved to his together for a second. She opened them fearful than the jangling of the bell duty and his love - principally his love. “ A patient, sir." Morel had grown weaker, and Mrs. The fire had gone out A patient forsooth ! A patient – a thing Morel, with that curious strength thatfrail of him and there was left to cut and slash , to scrape, to scold, to women gather in a sick room , had grown only smudgy soot and a plaster, to feed pellets to , to pour oil on calmer, more spiritual, and there was a and to pour balm into -- Bah ! was he never nice dignity in her solicitous movements foul smell. to meet life except with the scalpel. A about the room that went more toward up moment later he had forgotten his love- setting the doctor than had all her previous womanly and weak dependencies. “ Do you think you will have tooper; phereof the scene: partly, as though not to disturb the atmos ate ?" she asked. There was a beautiful " A merrie tale cometh “ When, doctor ? " hardness to her voice — that strained, cold " Now-at once - I have sent for the never amiss. " Sir T. tone that fascinates by reason of the fact minister." More. that it is but the cover of a luxuriant soft She half closed her eyes to intensify the ness. gaze. He ran his finger along the stylo- face . She was reading every line in his phonyrgens, looked down in the throat, the poor lady stood in the library; he had and thensaid: “ Yes, if you wish .” not even given her a courteous farewell- " It will be dangerous." in the interests of a splintered ulna be- She put her hand-it trembled - on his The man was dead. The assistant drew longing to a person who could boast of a long breath and said : the full complement of bones inside the " Can he recover without the operation ?" " He has fooled science . " skin, but of not a single one outside. " No." " He has fooled me." It was the grim , Now don't make the mistake. It wasn't His voice was harsh, harsher than he disrespecting humor that lies beyond the science. He liked the boy's face , and from that moment the case interested him if it most intense passions well controlled, and had been a splinter of wood in a finger recognizing it the doctor regretted it with instead of a shattered ulna. That you can This is a little story of the saying . But with it he felt a thrill ; a see is not the scientific, and since the mat the arachnean fascination new power seemed to have come, a new arena was opened to him, a new weapon ter is under discussion we might as well of the female. admit right here that the doctor was not a given to him ; he saw suddenly , almost great surgeon. Undoubtedly he was the with exultation, the Beauty of Cynicism. most efficient in the town , undoubtedly he In anæsthetizing the moral nature he was the “ bestfor miles around, ” but con- had ever imagined all possible restraint had killed it, and though the new nature answered as well to the conventions, from sidered for I ampositively a lover of- and greatness I regret of allto kinds- say it, could “ Would makeheit. recover if he survived the the man had gone out that of him which he was not a distinguished man in his pro- operation ?" Her arm touched his ; the was of soul. fession . People interested more than did side of her body was close to his. their ills , and when he should have been The insensate man before him was lost. G. HENRY PAYNE.

arm. a 102 OF : : : It was the hour of the Intermittent Minotaur, and the city, shaken with dim THE CITY dismay, prepared the victims. Twelve beautiful virgins were silently saluted , from palace and from pave, as with heads enveiled and arms meekly folded they moved in solemn , sacrificial tread toward the harbor. No sound save suppressed VAGUE ALARMS. sobbing met their ears, and the faces of them that stood in the street were gray with grief. Twelve beautiful virgins, daughters beloved and maidens of rare blood, this was the ransom demanded by the Intermittent Minotaur, and each year new virgins walked to the waters , the shining waters of the harbor, and thus passed from the eyes of their people. As the time approached a low wailing, as if from the tongues of a storm cloud buried beneath the horizon , filled the heart of the city with mortal fright ; the wailing became a mighty clangor, and the sky was the color of brass, all yellow, all shining. Now the dumb depression, the vague alarms of the morning, gave way to outright madness. The highways were filled with men and women, tumbling and running like the sea, and screaming at the dread portents overhead . The air was thick, and the rising gale blew sand and slime before it , and the soul of mankind was oppressed, for it was thus the Minotaur made his intermittent visit; it was thus he made the bellies of the brave grow cold and cowardly, and so he swept away the ransom, the precious ransom of maiden bodies and maiden souls. The hollow roar of the tempest increased and crashed upon the housetops, and no sign was made by the virgins as they shivered and sank upon the marble and waited the coming of the bridegroom. They were twelve, and fair and slender, and enveloped in the cruel, circling mist they saw advancing with incredible swiftness a mighty ship, whose prow, shining like fire , split the boiling waters. The virgins rose and ranged themselves, and said one to the other : " The gods be praised for aman !" and they lifted up their voices and sang the hymn of welcome to the Intermittent Minotaur, and when the storm passed, gone were the twelve beautiful virgins from the City of Vague Alarms, and their memory was hallowed evermore to the sound of delicate fluting. J. G. H. Un soir , au bord de la riviere, A l'ombre des noirs peupliers, Pres du moulin de la meuniere, . Passait un homme de six pieds, Il avait la moustache grise, Le chapeau rond, le manteau bleu , Green grew the reeds and pale they were, Dans ses cheveux, soufflait la bise C'etait le Diable ou le bon Dieu. And all the sunless grass was gray ; The sluggish coils of marsh-water Dripped thickly over root and stone ; In the deep woods there was no day, SYMBOLS . No day within them , shine or sun, Only the night alway . And ever more the cypresses Against the cold sky rocked and swung, The lurching of the high, black trees , Their sprawling black tops tossed and flung Against the sky. She made a hut Of dripping stone and wattled clay And the small window-space was shut With woven reeds, green and gray. VANCE THOMPSON . The comely stars paced soberly In the blue gardens overhead, And morn and eve the housing sky Shifted in blue and gold and red ; But She who dwelt in the stone hut Knew not these things ; on gathered knees She leaned her face, her thick hair shut Her from the stars and trees. Belus sat at his Steinway grand and his slender, troubled fingers failed to follow the quick drift of his mind. He played the “Waldesrauschen ” of Liszt, but he murmured this : " After all, it's only a question of time when they all find me out. Zora, now-well , she'll get over it ! What a woman ! What a voice! She lacks soul ; if she stays with me long enough I will weave her one!" He laughed, and shifted , by an almost unconscious harmonic cut, to the F minor nocturne of Chopin. With the upward curve of his thoughts the music grew more joyous, and bits of a Schubert Impromptu, with boiling scales and flashes of clear sky, fol lowed. The window facing Belus looked out upon the Park. There was the golden gleam from thegreat erect synagogue and beyond the placid toy lake with its rim ofmoving chil dren. The trees swept in a great semi-circle and just on their outer verge was the drive. The glow of the afternoon , the purity of the air and the glancing metal on the passing car riages made a gay picture for the pianist. He was not sitting at ease as his eyes rested gracefully on the green foliage. He was disquieted, and the interrogative note in his music betrayed mental turbulence. A certain fineness of features, a distinction of carriage and Razly large brown eyes, set under a square forehead and on either side of a straight nose, gave Belus the air of an interesting man. His expression was complicated ; he had not the frank gaze of the artist, nor did he meet his friends without a certain reticence. A veiled manner , in which were implications of moroseness, gave him the name of being hard to make out. But he was not. At least the women said so, and his frankness with them brought a hearty response. It led him to lengths, and finally experimentings, and this day he was “ No man may play tag with his soul and win in the game." wondering if there was a logical escape possible, when Zora came in without knocking. He was heartily glad to see her, and told her so. The girl - tall, dark, narrow-hipped and broad in the bust - gave him back his kindness with her eyes. They were superb, not only in the setting, but in the changeful coloring. Belus saw green, then gray , then blue, and knowing the signals, he kissed her and led her to the instrument. Zora had stood absolutely passive when embraced, and the flash of fire across her face told Belus of another tropical outburst - the sort he had grown to wear as an easy fitting glove. “ I've not come to sing, but to say good -bye. ” Her countenance wore a bitter A WEAVER expression, but her tones were even and restrained . He started . “ Zora, are you leaving, and before the season has begun? ” “ Because I am tired of seeing your pleasure in attempting to torture me— " The musician laughed, and lighted a cigarette. That set the girl cough OF ing, and finally she, too, faughed. “ Let me ring for coffee and a cordial, ” said Belus. They drank the brandy first. Presently Zora was smoking and sipping her coffee. “ I want you to promise me one thing before you go," he begged ; " promise to see my wife and say good SOULS.. bye. She will think it strange if you do not." His companion flushed, and stirred about the room uneasily. " Your wife !” she echoed . " Your wife - listen to me, Herman. When I first married you I believed in the infallibility of married happiness. When I discovered I had married a surgeon — don't stop me yet — a surgeon of women's souls -- I allowed you to persuade me to divorce you . The situation would have been unbearable if I had not. Now that Dorothea - Mrs. Befus , is dissatisfied I am going, for surely she must suspect that I, too, was once Mrs. Belus. " For the first time in his life the pianist seemed disconcerted. Jour d'allegresse " I swear to you, I swear by my love for— " " Dorothea ?-- ” “ No, my love for you, Zora, that I have told her nothing. She suspects nothing, nothing, nothing." Mrs. Belus Et jour d'amour, came in through the hall door without knocking. All of his pupils had this habit, a habit he Fraternelle kermesse, could not alter. She was charmingly gowned, the dominating note being heliotrope. She Tout est rose, smiled on the pair, and asked in a sweet voice : " Do I disturb your lesson, Herman ? ” Tout flamboie, “ No, ” he answered, and then boldly took her to Zora and said : “ I wish no longer to deceive C'est la joie, L'apotheose ! you, my dear. This young lady is my divorced wife. ” Both women blushed, and the air hummed with suspense. Breeding won the day. Dorothea put out her hand to the other and Zora grasped it. Then, as if one powerful idea had smitten the sympathetic chords of their natures, they turned their backs on the man, and slowly walked to the door. As they passed out Belus called to his second wife : “ Dora, will you be back soon ?” His first wife looked over her shoulder and smiled — the smile of a significant life. Belus stared at the empty doorway, then upon the moving children by the toy lake. He was not alone long, for he went to the piano and played one of Liszt's Consolations — the one in D flat. J. G. H 9 103 AN ENEMY . The eagle in his eyrie Hangs to hear ; The blue-tipped heron wary Flies in fear ; The squirrel clings close and fast To th' elm -bole ; And the sly, red fox slinks past To his hole ; A timorous, silent shadow Flits the doe ; And the panting hare i ' th ' meadow Crouches low ; The grey wolf in the furze, With sullen eyes, Mid stones and bracken burrs, Brooding lies ; Wild ducks sail to the edges Of the pool; The fish sink into the sedges, Dark and cool; All hushed and watchful lie, Sullen, subdued ; A man comes whistling by, Goes through the wood . A TOI. All white and warm she lay, and round her face The midnight of her hair gloomed sleepily ; The drift of billowly pillows made a place Where man might droop and find it good to be; And her sweet eyes were curtained with pale lids, Wherein the blue veins groped like th’ grape- vine's spurs; A small mouth fluttered — as the rosebud rids Itself of dew - and the small mouth was hers. a At all the windows the new dawn peered in And yawning, sleepy wrens chirped pweeps! pweeps! pweeps ! I wakened at the early morning din And kissed her hair and said , " My dear heart sleeps. " BALLADS OF :: From the concentrated and enthusiastic work of Paul Fort one derives a predominant impression, expressed in one word, leaving a limitless white margin around it for the won derful faculties not to be conveyed in precise terms. Singer-man of all, the most graciously endowed with word- music. Already has he sung of all in all . Where are his limitations ? How may one pen in a single line the picture of this youth of six - and- twenty years ? I believe , indeed , there is no other contemporary writers so difficult to sketch. We find in him an undefined capacity for surprises. The only certainty is that we are sure to receive them. He has the temerity not to confine himself to special lines. This in itself is original. May it not be as a concession to custom that he has given to his whole song the unique style of the ballad, till he is known as the “ man of ballads” ? Certainly it is not because his range is limited. A great vagabond is he - believing that to him belongs the universe. He dwells now in the harbors, now in the stars ; he grasps every subject; his distracting flight seems at times erratic; his impulses and his soarings suggest an excessive fervor. Then with equal ardor and tenderness he humbles himself at the foot of a blade of grass ; again , a gentle woman at mass softens his heart; he reaches to the mountain heights ; he embodies the forest that the setting sun inflames and the deeps that infinity enwraps ; like a young god, he surveys the whirling world complacently; the artistic charm of its levels or its convexities enchant him , exalt him, force him to weep, laugh and smile, for he is even humorous also , as is due to all great spirits. It is unreasonable, say you ? No ; a superior logic and reason - I am most tempted to say gigantic - pervades the ungovernable amplitude and this disquieting versatility. He has not raised himself to these heights, or broadened out, by an effort of will or pride. Otherwise he would have stranded like many others . But he has the exceptional gift of possessing a sensitiveness equal to his intelligence. It is this peculiar sensitiveness which buoys him up like wings : with the aid of this sup port he makes no experiments. Behold the secret of the power of Paul Fort, as of the generation we acknowledge to have arisen in numbers, filled with health vigor, protected from the artificial and the eccentric by this powerful ele ment of truth, strength and simplicity in art. It is purely a cerebral imagination which is false ; if you are sincere enough to transcribe your true impressions, your work will bear the stamp of human interest which we ought cer tainly to see again in the modern French writers. There lies the most living point of the literary period which seems to be opening out, and which will, I hope, ex pand at the beginning of the next century and which Paul Fort will have been one of the pioneers to inaugurate. It PAUL FORT. 104 is no longer a question of the individual ; it is a question of the masses ; it is no longer necessary to grimace to amuse dotards or enervated women ; there are new growths to nourish and edify with virile examples — to charm by pure, simple song. I believe truly that in Paul Fort the ancient soul of France will be reincarnated , in all its purity ; generous, ar dent, careless, distracted with fair longings — ignoring the conception of beauty which has lately arisen in Italy, re ligious and malignant, bold and broad to the point of li cense, with scintillations and nervous terrors of his Sa tanic Majesty, or his shade - in fine, spirituelle, witty and homespun. That which is truly admirable in him is his lack of self consciousness— 'tis the voice of a child , singing. He disre gards effect, rhetoric and prosody — even versification. There is not two cents' worth of literature in it. It is a candid, earnest soul that chants in the language it best knows. The rhythm is unaffected ; he has no fear of it , and attains the most harmonious results. Nothing is forced ; it is written as it emanates, often with an awkwardness that would be execrable were it conscious ; but it is never that. ' Tis the language of the people or of the gods, according to his sub ject, without evident effort. Its sincerity is almost brutal, and the charm of it is as delightful as it is original. There is but one more observation to make concerning this child touched by the fairy's wand ; it is that he will attain . He has sufficient genius to hold himself well in hand, and will know how to direct his natural im pulses. fA + A At RENÉ BOYLÈSVE ; the Englishby A. LENALIE . R Just now he is infinitely sensitive, infinitely sincere ; he has force, variety and fervor ; the field of his activity seems unbounded, for he loves mankind—not a type of man, nor a group of men, but man himself, the creature of God, as he sees him — and he who possesses this love may hope to at tain. There's nothing so good for the Baby's Skin as Carbolated Talcum Powder EXCELLENT TOOTH POWDER PURIFIES See that your drug gist gives you . youwant to own best Writing Machine on market YOU WILL GET A THE Fehr's CALIGRAPH FORGOTEN Baby Powder TEUTONIC A CONCENTRATED LIQUID EXTRACT OF AND COMPOUND TRANICE It's not only the GALA original ( it has been commended by phy sicians for nearly forty years ), but ſt is put up in paste board boxes. THESKIN BEWARE ! Hoga its simplicity and unsurpassed wearing qualities distinguish it as the TYPEWRITER " STANDS AT THE HEAD " FORCONVALESCENTS BECOMMENDED NURSING AND MOTHERS PRESCRIBED ANDTHOSE BY ALL SUFFERING TEUTONIT LEADING PHYSICIANS meDOU SEND FOR ILLUSTRATED BOOKLET A VALUABLUTE AT ALL DRUGGISTS AND GROCERS SLIESMANNSSONS BREWING CO BROOKLYN -N - Y VANCE THOMPSON , Editor FOR BABIES of Talcum Powders ADULTS. put up in tin boxes . Želius,Jehr. Never Scientific analysis shows there is dan ger of lead poisoning Two kinds,plain and perfumed. All drug gists keep it . Sam ples free by mail. JULIUS FEAR, Pharmaceutist Hoboken , N. J. KEN hoboken PATAINLYSESTTHEPRESSING TAKA THAT Copies of our “ Caligrach Bulletin " and illustrated Catalogue mailed free on application . THE AMERICAN WRITING MACHINE Co., HARTFORD , CONN., U. S. A. The Artist is THOMAS FLEMING, JAMES GIBBONS HUNEKER, Associate Editor. Mlle New York is entered at the Post Office in New York City as second -class matter . To be had only at all news stands, Ten Cents a Copy. .. له )) ء مع



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