sudden overwhelmed by the passion of life; my humanity awoke again, and
I longed for life, for life however stern, painful, hardwrung from peril
and deprivation, for life snatched with bleeding hands out of the fanged
jaws of the universe. I stood irresolute, the handle of the door in my
hand, for I know not how long. The swaying of the ship became less
regular, and the sounds of her straining, wrenched framework sickened
me. I stepped over the threshold--the ship gave a last long trembling
lurch from which it seemed she could not right herself; there rose a
mighty hissing roar and the shriek of the steam from the hold, louder
cries from the deck, the lights went out. I stumbled in the dark and
fell, striking my head, and something warm and wet trickled down my face
as a huge silence settled down upon me, swift and gentle as the wing of
a great brooding bird, and I was very peaceful and very happy, for was I
not being rocked--no, I was swinging, "letting the old cat die" in the
big backyard at Carsonville, Illinois. No, it was better than that--I
was dying, for the dark was shot by flashes of golden light, throbbing
and raying painfully from my head, and then everything ebbed quietly,
gently away.
FOOTNOTE:
[88] Copyright, 1909, by Doubleday, Page and Company.
CHARLES HANSON TOWNE
Charles Hanson Towne, poet of New York's many-sided life, was born at
Louisville, Kentucky, February 2, 1877, the son of Professor Paul
Towne. He left Kentucky before he was five years old, and he has been
living in New York practically ever since. Mr. Towne was educated in
the public schools of New York, and then spent a year at the College
of the City of New York. He was editor of _The Smart Set_ for several
years, but he resigned this position to become literary editor of _The
Delineator_. At the present time Mr. Towne is managing editor of _The
Designer_, one of the Butterick publications. With H. Clough-Leighter
he published two song-cycles, entitled _A Love Garden_, and _An April
Heart_; and with Amy Woodforde-Finden he collaborated in the
preparation of three song-cycles, entitled _A Lover in Damascus_,
_Five Little Japanese Songs_, and _A Dream of Egypt_. His original and
independent work is to be found in his three volumes of verse, the
first of which was _The Quiet Singer and Other Poems_ (New York,
1908), a collection of lyrics reprinted from various magazines;
_Manhattan: a Poem_ (New York, 1909), an epic of New York City; and
_Youth and Other Poems_ (New York, 1911), a metrical romance of
domestic happiness, with a group of pleasing shorter poems.
_Manhattan_ is the best thing Mr. Towne has done so far. The poem is
the life of the present-day New Yorker, the rich and the poor, the
famous and the infamous, from many points of view. The poet has turned
the most commonplace events of every-day life into verse of
exceptional quality and much strength. As the singer of the passing
show in New York City, Mr. Towne has done his best work.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (March, 1910); _The Forum_ (June,
1911); _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (December, 1912).
SPRING[89]
[From _Manhattan, a Poem_ (New York, 1909)]
Spring comes to town like some mad girl, who runs
With silver feet upon the Avenue,
And, like Ophelia, in her tresses twines
The first young blossoms--purple violets
And golden daffodils. These are enough--
These fragile handfuls of miraculous bloom--
To make the monster City feel the Spring!
One dash of color on her dun-grey hood,
One flash of yellow near her pallid face,
And she and April are the best of friends--
Benighted town that needs a friend so much!
How she responds to that first soft caress,
And draws the hoyden Spring close to her heart,
And thrills and sings, and for one little time
Forgets the foolish panic of her sons,
Forgets her sordid merchandise and trade,
And lightly trips, while hurdy-gurdies ring--
A wise old crone upon a holiday!
SLOW PARTING[90]
[From _Youth and Other Poems_ (New York, 1911)]
There was no certain hour
Wherein we said good-bye;
But day by day, and year by year
We parted--you and I;
And ever as we met, each felt
The shadow of a lie.
It would have been too hard
To say a swift farewell;
You could not goad your tongue to name
The words that rang my knell;
But better that quick death than this
Glad heaven and mad hell!
OF DEATH
(To Michael Monahan)
[From the same]
Why should I fear that ultimate thing--
The Great Release of clown and king?
Why should I dread to take my way
Through the same shadowed path as they?
But can it be a shadowy road
Whereon both Youth and Genius strode?
Can it be dark, since Shakespeare trod
Its unknown length, to meet our God;
Since Shelley, with his valiant youth,
Fared forth to learn the final Truth;
Since Milton in his blindness went
With wisdom and a high content;
And Angelo lit with white flame
The pathway when God called his name;
And Dante, seeking Beatrice,
Marched fearless down the deep abyss?
Where Plutarch went, and Socrates,
Browning and Keats, and such as these,
Homer, and Sappho with her song
That echoes still for the vast throng;
Lincoln and strong Napoleon,
And calm, courageous Washington;
Great Alexander, Nero--names
That swept the world with deathless flames--
I need not fear that I shall fall
When the Lord God's great Voice shall call;
For I shall find the roadway bright
When I go forth some quiet night.
FOOTNOTES:
[89] Copyright, 1909, by Mitchell Kennerley.
[90] Copyright, 1911, by Mitchell Kennerley.
WILLIAM E. WALLING
William English Walling, writer upon sociological subjects, was born at
Louisville, Kentucky, March 14, 1877. When twenty years of age he was
graduated from the University of Chicago with the B. S. degree; and he
subsequently did graduate work in economics and sociology for a year at
the same institution. Since 1902 Mr. Walling has been a resident at the
University Settlement in New York. He has contributed to many of the
high-class magazines, but he is best seen as a writer in his two books,
entitled _Russia's Message_ (New York, 1908); and _Socialism As It Is_
(New York, 1912). The first title, _Russia's Message_, is one of the
authoritative works upon that race; and it has been received as such in
many quarters. And the same statement may be made of his excellent
discussion of socialism. Mr. Walling is a member of many political and
social societies. He has an attractive home at Cedarhurst, Long Island.
In the early spring of 1913 the Macmillan Company will issue another
book for Mr. Walling, entitled _The Larger Aspects of Socialism_.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (August 6, 1908); _Review of Reviews_
(August, 1908); _The Independent_ (May 16, 1912).
RUSSIA AND AMERICA[91]
[From _Russia's Message_ (New York, 1908)]
Russia, like the United States, is a self-sufficient country; more than
a country, a world. Like the new world, the Russian world forms an
almost complete economic whole, embracing under a single government
nearly all, if not all, climates and nearly all the raw products used in
modern life; both countries are large exporters of agricultural
products, both are devoted more to agriculture than to manufacturing
industry. Both of these worlds are composed largely of newly acquired
and newly settled territory; though both are inhabited by very many
races, in each a single race prevails numerically and in most other
respects over all the rest, and keeps them together as a single whole.
As the result of the mixture of races and the recent settlement of large
parts of both countries, their culture is international, world-culture,
unmarked by the comparatively provincial nationalistic tendencies of
England, Germany, or France. We may look, according to a great German
publicist, Kautsky, to America for the great economic experiments of the
near future and to Russia for the new (social) politics.
America is essentially a country of rapid economic evolution, while
Russia is undeveloped, economically and financially dependent. America
is the country of economic genius, a nation whose conceptions of
material development have reached even a spiritual height. The great
American qualities, the American virtues, the American imagination,
have thrown themselves almost wholly into business, the material
development of the country. Americans are the first of modern peoples
that have learned to respect the repeated failures of enterprising
individuals with a genius for affairs, knowing that such failures
often lead to greater heights of success. They have learned how to
excuse enormous waste when it was made for the sake of economics lying
in the distant future. They can appreciate the enterprise of persons
who, instead of immediately exploiting their properties, know how to
wait, like some of our most able builders that, foreseeing the
brilliant future of the locality in which they are situated, are
satisfied with temporary structures and poor incomes until the time is
ripe for some of the magnificent modern achievements in architecture,
in which we so clearly lead. All three of these types of men we admire
are true revolutionists, who prefer to wait, to waste, or to fail,
rather than to accept the lesser for the greater good.
So it is with Russians in their politics. There seems no reason for
doubting that the near future will show that the political failures
now being made by the Russians are the failures of political genius,
that the waste of lives and property will be repaid later a
hundredfold, and that the hopeful and planful patience with which the
Russians are looking forward and working to a great social
transformation promises the greatest and most magnificent results when
that transformation is achieved. Already the political revolution of
the Russian people, though not yet embodied in political institutions,
is becoming as rapid, as remarkable, as phenomenal, as the economic
revolution of the United States.
FOOTNOTE:
[91] Copyright, 1908, by Doubleday, Page and Company.
THOMPSON BUCHANAN
Thompson Buchanan, novelist and playwright, was born at New York City,
June 21, 1877. Before he was thirteen years of age his family settled
at Louisville, Kentucky; and from 1890 to 1894 he attended the Male
High School in that city. Being the son of a retired clergyman of the
Episcopal church, it was fitting that he should select the University
of the South as his college, and in September, 1895, he reached the
little town of Sewanee, in the Tennessee mountains, and matriculated
in the University. He left college without a degree in July, 1897, and
returned to his home at Louisville, where he shortly afterwards became
police court reporter for the now defunct _Louisville Commercial_. Mr.
Buchanan was connected with the _Commercial_ until 1900, save six
months of service as a private in the First Kentucky Volunteer
Infantry during the Spanish-American War. He saw service in the Porto
Rico campaign with his regiment and, after peace was declared,
returned to his home and to his position on the paper. In 1900 Mr.
Buchanan went with _The Courier-Journal_; and during the same year he
was dubbed a lieutenant in the Kentucky State Guards. In 1902 he left
Colonel Watterson's paper for _The Louisville Herald_, of which he was
dramatic critic for more than a year. The year of 1904 found Mr.
Buchanan in New York on _The Evening Journal_, with which he was
connected for four years, when he abandoned journalism in order to
devote his entire attention to literature. Mr. Buchanan's first book,
_The Castle Comedy_ (New York, 1904), a romance of the time of
Napoleon, which many critics compared to Booth Tarkington's _Monsieur
Beaucaire_, was followed by _Judith Triumphant_ (New York, 1905),
another novel, set in the ancient city of Bethulia, with the Judith of
the Apocrypha as the heroine. His dramatization of _The Castle Comedy_
was so generally commended, that he decided to desert the field of
fiction for the writing of plays. His first effort, _Nancy Don't
Care_, was met with a like response from the public, and the young
playwright presented _The Intruder_, which certainly justified belief
in his ultimate arrival as a dramatist, if it did nothing more. The
play that brought Mr. Buchanan wider fame than anything he has done
hitherto was _A Woman's Way_, a comedy of manners, in which Miss Grace
George created the character of the wife with convincing power.
_Marion Stanton_ is quite unfortunately in love with her exceedingly
rich, but bored, husband, Howard Stanton, who seeks the society of
other women, one of whom happens to be with him when his motor car is
wrecked near New Haven at a most unseemly hour. The New York "yellows"
are advised of the accident and they, of course, desire details--which
desire precipitates the action of the play. "Scandal," in type the
size of an ordinary country weekly, is flashed across the "heads" of
the big dailies, extras are put forth hourly, a family conference is
called at the home of the Stantons, a rich young widow from the South
is regarded by the papers as Stanton's partner in the accident, and a
very merry time is had by all concerned. The way the woman took out of
her difficulties is unfrequented by many, although it should have been
well-worn long before _Marion_ made it famous. The drama was one of
the authentic successes of 1909, and it certainly established its
author's reputation. A novelization of _A Woman's Way_ (New York,
1909), was made by Charles Somerville, and accorded a large sale, but
how infinitely better would have been a publication of the play as
produced! Quite absurd novelizations of plays are at the present time
one of the literary fads which should have been in at the birth and
death of Charles Lamb. _The Cub_, produced in 1910, a comedy with a
mixture of melodrama and farce, was concerned with a young Louisville
newspaper man, "a cub," who is assigned to "cover" a family feud in
the Kentucky mountains. That he finds himself in many situations,
pleasant and otherwise, we may be sure. A celebrated critic called
_The Cub_ "one of the wittiest of plays"--which opinion was shared by
many who saw it. _Lula's Husbands_, a farce from the French, was also
produced in 1910. _The Rack_, produced in 1911, was followed by
_Natalie_, and _Her Mother's Daughter_, all of which were given stage
presentation. Mr. Buchanan spent most of the year of 1912 writing and
rehearsing his new play, _The Bridal Path_, a matrimonial comedy in
three acts, which is to be produced in February, 1913. None of his
plays have been issued in book form, but, besides his first two
romances and the novelization of _A Woman's Way_, two other novels
have appeared, entitled _The Second Wife_ (New York, 1911); and
_Making People Happy_ (New York, 1911). That Thompson Buchanan is the
ablest playwright Kentucky has produced is open to no sort of serious
discussion; with the exception of Mr. Dazey and Mrs. Flexner he is,
indeed, quite alone in his field. Kentucky has poetic dramatists
almost without number, but the practical playwright, whose lines reach
his audience across the footlights, is a _rara avis_. Augustus Thomas,
the foremost living American playwright, resided at Louisville for a
short time, and his finest drama, _The Witching Hour_, is set wholly
at Louisville, although written in New York, but Kentucky's claim upon
him is too slender to admit of much investigation. Mr. Buchanan has
done so much in such a short space of time that one is tempted to turn
his own favorite shibboleth upon him and exclaim: "Fine!"
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Theatre Magazine_ (April; May, 1909); _The
American Magazine_ (November, 1910); _The Green Book_ (January,
1911).
THE WIFE WHO DIDN'T GIVE UP[92]
[From _A Woman's Way_ (_Current Literature_, New York, June, 1909)]
_Act III, Scene I. Mr. Lynch, the reporter, enters, joining General
Livingston, Mrs. Stanton's father, and Bob, Morris, and Whitney, all
of whom have had escapades with the winsome widow._
_General Livingston._ I represent Mr. Stanton, and I tell you,
sir, I do not propose to have him hounded in this damnable fashion
any longer. I shall hold you personally responsible.
_Lynch._ General, you're the fifth man who's said that to me since
three o'clock.
_General Livingston._ (_Sharp._) What!
_Lynch._ And if you do physically assault me, General, I shall
certainly land you in the night court, and collect space on the
story spread on the front page, sure--"Famous old soldier fined
for brutally assaulting innocent young newspaper man."
(_General Livingston stands completely dumbfounded, his hands
twitching, quivering with rage._)
_General Livingston._ (_Gasps almost tearfully._) Have you
newspaper men no sense of personal decency, personal dignity?
_Lynch._ Don't be too hard on us, General. During business hours,
our associations are very bad.
_General Livingston._ What do you mean?
_Lynch._ We have the name of the lady who was with Mr. Stanton in
his car at the time of his accident. We have learned all about the
trip and we have the woman's name. So I have come to give Mr.
Stanton a----
_General Livingston._ (_Interrupting._) Would the papers print
that?
_Lynch._ Would they print it? Well--(_Smiles significantly._)
_General Livingston._ Then I shall say nothing, but our lawyers
will take action.
_Lynch._ They'd better take it quick. You'll have fifty reporters
up here by to-morrow night. If Mr. Stanton refuses to say
anything, we will simply send out the story that the woman in the
car with him at the time of his automobile accident
was----(_Pauses, then with dramatic emphasis._) Mrs. Elizabeth
Blakemore.
_General Livingston._ (Starting back in amazement.) Good
gracious!!
_Bob and Morris._ (_Turn, face each other, absolute amazement
showing on their faces, speak together._) Well, what do you think
of that? (_Whitney alone is not surprised. The situation is held a
moment, then Stanton enters. He does not see Lynch at first._)
_Stanton._ (_As he comes on._) General, I wish to
apologize----(_Stops short, seeing Lynch._)
_General Livingston._ (_Whirling on Stanton._) Apologize!
Apologize! How dare you, sir! (_Losing his self-control._) My
great-grandfather killed his man for just such an insult----
[_Marion enters to save the situation. The reporter withdraws for a
moment, while the general informs her that Mrs. Blakemore must leave
the house at once. Marion demurs._]
_Marion._ Father, I told you once what concerns my own life I must
settle my own way. I don't want to appear disrespectful, but you
cannot coerce me in my own house. (_Walks past him to the door and
opens it._) Good evening, Mr. Lynch.
_Lynch._ (_Sincere tone._) I hope you will believe me, Mrs.
Stanton, when I tell you it is not a pleasure to me to have to
come on this errand.
_Marion._ Thank you, Mr. Lynch.
_Lynch._ I'd rather talk to Mr. Stanton.
_Marion._ Sorry, but----(_Her manner is pleasant and friendly, but
firm. Lynch evidently likes her and with a shrug he accepts
situation._)
_Lynch._ Then please understand my position, and how I regret
personally the question that, as a newspaper man, I must put.
(_Marion bows._) Bluntly, Mrs. Stanton, we have the name of that
woman.
_Marion._ Yes.
_Lynch._ And we are going to publish it unless it can be proven
wrong.
_Marion._ I'd expect that. Who is she?
_Lynch._ Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore. (_Lynch pronounces the name
regretfully. Marion stares at him a moment in amazement, then
throws back her head and gives way to a peal of laughter. The men
on the stage stare at Marion amazed._)
_Marion._ Oh, this is too good! Too good! Forgive me, Mr. Lynch.
(_Goes off into another peal of laughter, turns to the men._)
Howard, Dad, all of you, did you hear that? What a splendid joke!
(_The men try awkwardly to back her up._)
_General Livingston._ Splendid! Haw! Haw!
_Bob._ Fine, he, he!
_Morris._ (_At head of table._) Ho, ho. I never knew anything like
it.
_Whitney._ I told Mr. Lynch he was on a cold trail.
_Lynch._ (_Grimly._) You can't laugh me off.
_Marion._ (_Struggling for self-control._) Of course not. But you
must forgive my having my laugh first. I'll offer more substantial
proof. (_Opens door, letting in immediately the sound of women's
talking and laughter which stop short as though the women had
looked around at the opening of the door. Calling in her most
dulcet tone._) Elizabeth!
_Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Her voice heard off stage._) Yes, Marion,
dear. (_An amazed gasp from the men. Mrs. Blakemore appears at the
door._)
_Marion._ Come in! (_Mrs. Blakemore enters, looks about quickly,
almost fearfully. Marion slips her arm about Mrs. Blakemore's
waist in reassuring fashion, laughing, but at the same time giving
Mrs. Blakemore a warning pressure with her arm._) Don't say a
word, dear. The greatest joke you ever heard! Come! (_Mrs.
Blakemore, following suit, slips her arm about Marion. They come
down stage to Lynch, their arms about each other's waist most
affectionately. The men are staring at them dumfounded. Marion and
Mrs. Blakemore stop opposite Lynch. Marion speaks gaily._) Mr.
Lynch, of the City News, may I present Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore?
_Lynch._ (_In amazement._) Mrs. Blakemore!
_Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Bowing pleasantly._) Glad to meet you, Mr.
Lynch.
_Lynch._ (_Repeating, dazed._) Mrs. Blakemore!
_Marion._ (_Gaily._) And you see she's not lame a bit from her
broken leg.
_Mrs. Blakemore._ What's the joke?
_Marion._ (_Taunting._) You would not expect, Mr. Lynch, to find
plaintiff and corespondent so friendly.
_Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Gasping._) Plaintiff! Corespondent!
_Marion._ Yes, dear. Mr. Lynch came all the way up from down town
to tell me that I am going to bring a divorce suit against Howard,
naming you as corespondent. Now wasn't that sweet of him? (_She
keeps her warning pressure about Mrs. Blakemore's waist._)
_Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Taking the cue._) This is awful! Horrible!
_Marion._ Now, dear, don't lose your sense of humor. (_To Lynch._)
Are you satisfied, Mr. Lynch?
_Lynch._ Forgive me. Mrs. Stanton, but you are so confounded
clever you might run in a "ringer." (_Reaches in his pocket,
brings out a picture, holds it up and compares the picture with
Mrs. Blakemore. Finally looks up._) Guess you win, Mrs. Stanton.
_Marion._ Thanks. (_Bows satirically._)
_Lynch._ Yes, you must be right I don't believe even you could put
your arm about the _other woman_. (_A suppressed, gasping
exclamation from the men._)
_Marion._ That observation hardly requires an answer, Mr. Lynch.
_Lynch._ Sorry to have disturbed you. Good night!
_All._ (_With relief._) Good night.
[_The flabbergasted reporter withdraws, but Marion still keeps her
arm about Mrs. Blakemore. When he re-opens the door, as if he had
forgotten something, he finds the picture undisturbed. Mrs.
Blakemore thanks Marion for her generosity, and goes out, followed
by the others._ "Good night, my friend," the widow remarks,
"you'll get all that is coming to you." _Stanton calls back Marion
who has also deserted the room._]
_Stanton._ Marion! Marion!
_Marion._ (_Enters._) Has she gone?
_Stanton._ Who?
_Marion._ Puss?
_Stanton._ Oh, she's not my Puss.
_Marion._ Not your Puss, Howard? Then whose Puss is she?
_Stanton._ God knows--maybe. Marion. I've loved you all the time.
I've been a fool, a weak, dazzled fool. I love you. Won't you
forgive me and take me back?
_Marion._ Take you back? Why, I've never even given you up. Do you
think I could stand for that cat--Puss, I mean--in this house and
me off to Reno?
CURTAIN.
FOOTNOTE:
[92] Copyright, 1909, by the Current Literature Publishing Company.
WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT