H A New Earth! WOW can one refrain from rhapsodizing as the full bloom of the joyous Spring bursts into being? April is inconstant, whimsical-sunshine and showers alternate with a provoking disregard for human inconveniences. But with May, balmy days bring a pleasant lethargy that makes one feel as if to drift on and on through this world so golden, this world so subtly perfumed, so exquisitely flowered, were worthy of being made life's highest wish. But then a little closer application to the details of the great movement, a more intimate contemplation of the processes by which the change has been wrought, and one is shamed by the dauntless industry of bird and bud and put to the blush for a laziness all out of keeping with the advancing progress of Nature's beautiful work. All the little songsters of the forest are hard at the task of home-building, while the little green shoots drawing unstintedly upon the reserve measure of their forces, are lending themselves to the transformation of the landscape. A few weeks ago and fields were dull; trees angular and formidable in their crude, unornamental strength-not even was there snow to glint with the sun's sparkle. But now soft green, the grass covers over the unattractive brownness; thick foliage rounds out the graceful forms of the tree children of the forests; here and there a glade is fragrantly purple with a multitude of violets, eager-eyed or skyey-blue with a million demurely bonneted heads of modest Quaker ladies. Oh, the breath of the fresh air in the Spring-time! Messages of the gracious goodness of a greater spirit freight the gentlest breezes; Nature's generosity to mortals sings its dear songs in the sprightly brooklet. One stands in awe before this demonstration of the powers and 66 In an American magazine, "The Critic and Literary World," to wit, there has been going on for the last two months what the editor describes, in the choice language of our transatlantic cousins, as a symposium on the slump in poetry." The collocation of these words "symposium," "slump," "poetry." would in itself be sufficient to demonstrate that the discussion was not uncalled for, since. both by precept and example, it shows the falling away in taste which has given rise to this lament. One's first inquiry, however, is why this cry should have been raised in America. To use the language affected by our contemporary. we were not aware that poetry ever was much on the boom there. Has America really added one to the great poets of the world? The answer must be negative, unless a place beside Homer, Shakespeare, Milton, and Dante, is claimed for Edgar Allan Poe, William Cullen Bryant, or Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. There is a gentleman called Frederick Lawrence Knowles who contributes to the symposium a little essay which evidently is meant to be final. A friend of his has made more than $30,000 from verse alone, and who can talk of a slump after that? He is a great poet who contributes occasional verse to the newspapers, who makes humorous rhymes, and composes lyrics for the librettos of comic operas, to say nothing of his magazine verse and published books. We can very well imagine this bard opening his letter-bag in the morning and reading with great satisfaction the orders that come in for poetry; so many songs for a new comic opera, a few lines for the leading newspaper, and several feet for a popular magazine. A happy bard one would think him, but alas! even his bed is not one entirely of roses. In spite of all this indisputable success he has his own grievances and worries; as for instance, that "his name is unmentioned in Miss Rittenhouse's recent vol ume on Younger American Poets, or even in Stedman's Encyclopaedic Anthology.' To a man of his eminence this neglect must be disgusting. The true laurel in America is the almighty dollar, and after it has been bound round his brows by the publishers it is most arrogant of these paltry anthologists to omit him from their roll of fame. There are others besides this commercial gentleman who deny that there is any slump in verse. A test question proposed to be set to pessimists by one contributor, is, "What do they really know about the poetry of Woodberry, and Moody, and Edith Thomas?" It would appear that these are the names of three illustrious poets who might as well be living on another planet for all that we know on this side of the Atlantic of what we presume to be their deathless verse. But the allusions form a most perplexing element in this "Symposium on the Slump." For example, one of the writers, Richard Burton his name, remarks in a most casual manner: "If the poet deal with homely, simple humanity, like Riley, or if his note be strongly social or socialistic, like Markham's, he still gets some hearing." Now who is Riley and who is Markham? or are these but pseudonyms for our old friend Mrs. Harris? They well might be for aught we know. In dead earnest, our reason for mentioning their names is to show the exceedingly low standard which is set up by those who presume to be guides and critics. The contributors to this symposium, with one or two brilliant exceptions, give no evidence whatever that they know what fine poetry is. Wordsworth used to say that a great poet must make and educate his own audience. The herd of minors, so loudly exalted, owe their popularity mainly to the fact that they are not pioneers but merely followers of an old convention-not voices, but echoes only. The true voice appears but seldom, and when it does appear is so strange and new that it almost invariably fails to attract attention. But if the owner of it be a true poet, then slowly and steadily he will conquer his own allotted territory in the world of art. Looking back at the history of literature, how easy is it to see that a great poet has appeared scarcely once in a hundred years, and that the period between looks now like an arid waste, though at the time it produced in abundance popular versifiers who no doubt imagined they were going down the ages to immortality. We are afraid that this dictum will sound strange and foreign to those who have taken part in the contro versy. The statement should rather have been in these terms-that each of these little bards had his boom and was not aware of the slump that awaited him. Patriotism if nothing more demands that we take exception to the ironical tone that invests this criticism of American literary conditions generally and American poets in particular. For Mr. Knowles we do not trouble to take up cudgels. For the bard who has made $30,000 by verse-writing we have no reserve of patience to expend. Miss Thomas is talented; if the English editor has never read any of her verses, it might be well to have somebody send him a copy of "Cassia;" really it would not injure his acute sensibilities in the least to read one or two of the poems. Regarding Mr. Moody and Mr. Woodberry, we wonder that the controlling spirit of so important a journal as the "Academy" is not just a little timorous in confessing to his ignorance of what these two writers have achieved. While, when it comes to Mr. Riley and Mr. Markham, the assumption of obscurity is obviously far-fetched. Naturally, we do not expect the proverbial English humor to understand the homely wit of our Hoosier poet, who is more essentially American than any other writer that we have, but we heretofore gave English editors credit for being better informed upon current literary topics. Not for any one of these writers do we claim immortality, not for any of them do we claim universality. Nor do we place ourselves in the false position of indorsing the great "symposium on the slump in poetry.' But we do ask this question: Who are the English poets writing to-day who will, years hence, be placed side by side with Milton in the ranks of the truly great? One might answer that Mr. Swinburne is likely to be remembered in a succeeding century. But the Poet Laureate, for instance, ah, there we have an example. Much as we admire the gentle scholar Austin, we can but reflect that as Laureate after Tennyson nothing could prove more conclusively that England, at least, has all the slump in poetry that her worst wishers could desire, a slump most lamentable, of which the less said, perhaps, the better. Are we to infer that the eminent editor whose pleasant little joke is doubtless very relishable, had we the proper penetration with which to view it, is merely exercised over the fact that he has a slump to bewail and we haven't? Of course, we were never so great as he, therefore the fall that is, is far less disastrous in its results. G Schiller Festivals ERMANS all over America celebrated with enthusiasm, tempered by a becoming reverence, the one hundredth anniversary of the death of Friedrich von Schiller, which occurred on May 9. In Philadelphia there was a five-day festival; in New York and Chicago, the celebration lasted three and four days respectively. The chief features of the entire commemoration included concerts, parades and productions of various of the Schiller dramas. On Sunday, May 7, an assemblage numbering many thousands, chiefly GermanAmericans from Philadelphia and vicinity, gathered in Fairmount Park, around the bronze statue of Schiller, which stands near Horticultural Hall. The pedestal of the statue was heaped high with the floral offerings of admirers, many of them representative of some episode in the German poet's work or symbolic of events in his own life. A stand had been erected close to the statue, and about this the great concourse arranged itself, the numerous German singing societies being placed in separate groups, with their individual banners flying over each. Addresses were made, eulogistic of the best-loved of the German poets, and some of Schiller's own songs were rendered, "The Song of the Grave," "Reiterlied," from "Wallenstein's Lager." and "An die Kunst." On Monday evening a performance of "Wilhelm Tell" was given at the Academy of Music, while on the evening of Tuesday, May 9, the anniversary day proper, the celebration reached its height with a concert of many voices, including also a presentation of "The Bell" and addresses by Professor Learned, of the University of Pennsylvania, and Professor Kuno Francks, of Harvard. Wednesday and Thursday nights witnessed the first complete performance of "Wallenstein" ever attempted in America. On Sunday the New York singing societies gathered in Carnegie Hall. The programme included solos and chorus singing by 800 voices, with addresses by Mayor McClellan and George von Skal, editor of the "Staats-Zeitung." Representatives of the German, Austrian and Swiss Legations at Washington were present, among them, Baron Speck von Sternberg. A torch-light parade of some 6000 Germans was the feature of Tuesday's celebration and was followed by a reception and luncheon at the Savoy Hotel. In the parade two floats, the one made to represent "The Camp of Wallenstein," the other illustrating the poem "The Bell" attracted much attention. The Chicago commemoration was inaugurated some two weeks prior to the anniversary, with an elaborate presentation of "Wilhelm Tell" at the Auditorium. On Saturday, May 6, the Theodore Thomas Orchestra gave a concert, and on Tuesday there were appropriate ceremonies held about the Schiller monument, in Lincoln Park, while on the evening of the same day a picturesque rendition of "The Song of the Bell" was given. It is proposed to publish a book as a permanent memorial of this last Festival, the large German population of Chicago and the approbation already expressed by many of them seeming to warrant this method of procedure. Reports of the commemoration of the centenary in Germany tell of the intense enthusiasm that has prevailed in all the German and Austrian cities. Though Goethe is held to be the greatest of the German literary geniuses, there is no doubt about the fact of Schiller's being the most generally and genuinely loved. Both great and small, the common people and the aristocracy alike, look upon him with the same tender eyes. They know and understand his work; they appreciate and comprehend the great personality that lives in the work, the spirit that shines through it. Goethe has never touched the hearts of the people, never inflamed their enthusiasm as has this friend whom he, too, loved with admiration and an exceeding tenderness. The Veteran Author and the Young Critic I N the "Editor's Easy Chair" (Harper's for May) Mr. Howells, under the guise of Eugenio, would seem to be voicing certain small annoyances of his The youthful critic, and our veteran author is apparently convinced that in most cases the critic is young, has evidently been giving Mr. Howells some uneasy hours, though just why he should blazon forth this uneasiness we scarcely see. We are all well aware that it is extremely soothing to the pride of an author to have his books reviewed by an appreciative friend; at the same time, most persons recognize that this is not the readiest way to gain a just opinion, and even if it were, the plan would not be practicable for general usage. Yet Mr. Howells writes this, What Eugenio would really wish [and Eugenio, being interpreted, seems to mean Mr. William Dean Howells], would be to have each successive book of his given for review to some lifelong admirer, some dear and faithful friend, all the better for not being an acquaintance, who had liked him from the beginning and was intimately versed in all his work. Such a critic would know that Eugenio was always breaking new ground, and that he was never more true to this inherent tendency than when he seemed to be ploughing the same old furrows in the same old way. This is all very delightful, it contains one piece of interesting news at least, Mr. Howells takes pains to "break new ground," a very appreciable concession to Our most imposing modernity. Also American man of letters, if we except Mr. James, is not above liking demonstrative appreciation. But is Mr. Howells really in earnest when he writes, Some such reviewer, Eugenio thought, all journals pretending to literary authority ought to keep on their staff for the comfort of veteran authors, and for the dispensation of that more delicate and sympathetic justice which their case required. That the young critic has certain useful traits, the gracious occupant of the "Easy Chair" does not deny, They, if they alone are capable of the cruelties they sometimes practice, are alone capable of the enthusiasms which supply publishers with quotable passages for their advertisements, and which lift authors' hearts in pride and joy. It is their advantage that they generally bring to the present work of a veteran author an ignorance of all that he has done before, and have the zest for it which the performance of a novice inspires. Rather doubtful compensation, for they necessarily treat it as representative of his authorship. Whether this be a plea, couched in the suavity of a diplomat, with a touch of the clever satirist thrown in to keep it from appearing too serious, it is impossible to determine precisely, but the conclusion, at least, has the sound of a plea. What first gives an author his hold upon the reader is not the novelty of his theme, but a pleasing, it may be a painfully pleasing, quality which in its peculiar variation must be called his personal quality. It is the sense of this in each of his successive books which deepens his hold upon the reader, and not the style, or the characters, or the intrigue. As long as this personal quality delights, he is new whether he breaks new ground or not, or he is newly wel come. With his own generation, with the readers who began young with him, and have grown old with him, he is always safe. But there is danger for him with the readers who begin young with him after he has grown old. It is they who find his tales twice told and himself hackneyed, unless they have been trained to like his personal quality by their elders. This might be difficult, but it is not impossible, and ought not it to be the glad, the grateful, care of such elders? Fallacy of fallacies; in these days how many readers bother about personal quality? To-day the story's the thing, supply the story and appreciation is almost sure. If the veteran author desires popularity, an ephemeral thing at best, he must indeed break new ground. It will take more than appreciative friends to sustain him and to satisfy the cravings of his vanity. But why should the veteran author be so keen for the indiscriminate praise of a young generation? A Queen's Appreciation Where speech ceases, there music begins. I am one of the few poets who hold this opinion. Nearly all stop short with speech, incapable of even conceiving the existence of an instrument whose range surpasses their own. But I, notwithstanding my passionate love of language as such, of each and every language in which poets have sung and philosophers thought, and although some mere words have so powerful an attraction for me that I linger on them as it were with a caressing touch-in spite of all this, I yet feel that there are limits set to speech, barriers that it cannot pass, whilst music, untrammelled and unchecked, spreads itself out triumphantly in all directions, attaining to heights and depths which are—as far as the perceptions of the human ear are concerned-boundless and infinite. Music lends expression to that for which speech has no words, it shapes its course by paths along which speech is powerless to follow, it raises on its strong pinions the weary soul, whose utter lassitude can no longer find place for thought, much less than pay heed to the spoken word. There is perhaps no loftier mood than this, in which all thought comes to a standstill, in which the active, hard-worked brain is forced to rest at last, leaving the soul, no longer hampered by its earthly mechanism, free to soar alone. This very talented queen has also many valuable ideas on the subject of bringing up children. Her view that children should be reared in the country in preference to a city is full of interest. She writes: It is assuredly a great advantage for young people to be brought up in the country, in strict seclusion from the world. One gains a much higher culture from having more time for reading and reflection, and one's own nature can expand and develop with far more originality. Too early intercourse with the great world tends to fashion all individuals on the selfsame pattern, and they resemble one another just like so many pebbles on the sea-beach, which have their edges rounded off by rubbing up against one another, till one pebble can no longer be distinguished from the rest. And the range of thought grows wider, the capacity of emotion more intense, since one is not hurried on from one impression to another, but in the nearer life with Nature can dwell on joys and sorrows alike, and ponder undisturbed during the long winter evenings over all the great problems that will for ever attract and perplex the human soul. This should find many adherents among Americans, especially now that we have begun to migrate so generally into the less populated districts and have moved almost unanimously towards a cultivation of a better acquaintance with Nature in her more intimate aspects. We wonder if Carmen Sylva would not find much to |