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chine control were bringing together at last those two divergent lines of thought, romanticism and realism; they were tending to reunite and concentrate man's mental energy in the pursuit of the mastery of the difficulties of existence, to harness that vast reservoir of power, the imagination, to the problems of living, to make man “romantic about reality."

of

This scientific spirit and the machine discipline, by their very nature, were engendering a world-order of peaceful co-operation based on a socialised effort to understand and master these difficulties of living, and had there been time the process might have had a logical develop. ment. But the combination mediævalism and high technical efficiency without the cultural practices of modern life, as it existed in Germany, was an element too unstable, a misunderstanding of the world too vast-it precipitated the process into a catastrophe. Still the result is equally sure it is only immeasurably hastened by the grim horror of war. For the life-and-death struggle of the battle-lines is compelling under pain of extinction the application of our whole energy and imagination, our whole effort and thought, to the grasping of the forces of the material world for the achievement of power, to the co-ordination and cooperation of the energies of mankind everywhere for social solidarity and effectiveness, brotherhood and strength. The struggle is demanding the quick concentration of romanticism-imagination and desire -upon the problems of reality, it is achieving, as it were over night, the healing of that schism in man's thought that through the ages has baffled him, made his efforts futile and kept him a stranger in his own home, the world.

It is not that we would forego romanticism, that we would renounce the cultivation of the beauties of the

imagination. It is that we would bring the inspiration and joy of the romantic into our daily task, that we would illuminate the generally drab paths of our humdrum work with the fire and beauty of desire, that we would pursue with a song the lure of the greatest adventure the world has to offer the overcoming of the conditions of a hostile environment for the betterment and happiness of the race. And once we achieve the deflection of fifty-one per cent. of our mental capacity over to the world of reality, once we harness imagination to work, desire to effort, we will become irresistible, no hostile menace can stand before us, and the world will flock to our banners. Such has been the case with the world's great men-they have have been eminently sane. And such will be the case with the new world-order that is upon us the order of social co-operation under the guidance of the men of inherent power, the workers and teachers who with heart and brain and hand strive to make the world a fit dwelling-place for man-and strive to make man fit to move, dominating and like a god, in his natural home, the world.

These thoughts have been called forth here by two recent books of literary criticism. For, as the world thinks and moves, so it finds expression in its literature-the literature of the imagination and that of criticism. Last month, under Chronicle and Comment, Professor Stuart P. Sherman's critical volume, On Contemporary Literature, was discussed at some length. Professor Sherman is that most curious of critics who, while believing that "truth is a personal and private matter," talks with fearless inconsistency of the "aim of the human organisation" and on the basis of this "truth" (whatever it may be, though we venture to say it can be neither personal nor private) affects to evaluate the work of his

contemporaries. Professor Sherman is a shining illustration of the attempt to create values and standards in the super-real world of idealism— the only result is hopeless confusion. But enough of this the dead past can do its burying as well to-day as in our poet's time. There is another book of literary criticism, just issued, that belongs to a different category. It is Some Modern Novelists, by Helen Thomas Follett and Wilson Follett. These authors see with a clear vision the trend of thought and the social changes that are in process to-day; their book is a modern book.

Some quotations from the Folletts may be interesting. Of that world of super-reality, of romanticism and idealism, which "art" is popularly supposed to infest, and which man has painstakingly and perversely elaborated in his effort to dodge the responsibilities of being alive, these authors write:

How can we for an instant put up with the notion of literature as simply an escape from the actual, a cloister of quiet and release? How, especially, can we find any. thing but a mockery in the sentimentalism that infests so much of our English literature, and nearly all of our American fiction -that sentimentalism which, as Meredith pointed out, is but the opposite face of pruriency, and which may be defined as the childish and spoiled desire to have our cake and eat it too? In this latter respect, our sentimentalism, we are a cynical people. In business, in politics, we are always dron. ing about the need to be practical, to "face the hard facts of life"-whereas in our education, our religion, our novels and dramas and paintings, those facts are precisely what no consideration could hire us to face.

All these fashions of sundering art from life are fashions of belittling both-how cynically, it takes a decade and a war like the present completely to disclose to us.

Then, of that change in the direction of man's interest, of that growing determination to face and master the seriousness of living, as it is re

flected in our modern fiction, these authors say:

The only fiction which remains tolerable at all is that which speaks in a clear voice to some direct human needs created or reemphasised by the war; the only standard of criticism worth raising is the sum of those very needs. Art must be, as never before, a ministry to need; criticism must be, as never before, the quick response of need ministered to, the indifferent silence of need ignored or travestied.

And of the ideal of the art of fiction to-day:

Among all our various actual and possible ideals, there is obviously one element in common: call it the sense of community, the social conscience, human solidarity. It is the thing that craves some form of human understanding, that will be always trying to cross or break down the innumerable barriers of race, of creed, of class, to increase the feeling of kinship among the members and groups of the human guild. It gives us our democracy, our sociology, our general disposition to abolish the misunderstandings that keep the weak degraded, the powerful haughty . . . this perception that, despite our various artifices of creed and class, we are after all a world full of creatures in the same boat, fleeing from the same storm, and certainly doomed unless we pull together.

I wish I could go on quoting from the Folletts' book. These authors have synthetic minds, a grasp of the great drifts of thought that express themselves in their various saliences through the work of the modern novelists. They have a definite standard of truth, an objective and a correct standard-the standard of human needs-by which they observe our modern fiction. Their conclusions are interesting and stimulating, although it is inevitable that some readers will disagree with some individual criticisms. Some Modern Novelists is a genuine contribution to the literature of criticism.

G. G. W.

THERE are persons for whom the art of the opera (if we may call it an art) is a negligible consideration. Many musicians affect a fine scorn of this phase of music. Their attitude savours of artificiality. Opera is not and never can be the dignified medium of expression that the symphony is, but this fact should not persuade us against accepting opera as a necessary and sometimes supremely beautiful form of musical entertainment. There are not lacking critics who would accord a higher rank to Wagner's Tristan than to all the symphonies of Beethoven and Brahms put together. It is obvious that opera merits a serious consideration. Unfortunately, it is oversusceptible to adulterations, and it is taken advantage of by materialism and superficiality. No wonder that its gold becomes so easily tinsel, that its glowing, delightful colours wear thin and threadbare and tawdry and meretricious.

that spiritual radiance we call Genius. This impalpable, galvanic, propulsive force departed from the Metropolitan with the departure some years ago of Olive Fremstad and Arturo Toscanini. We do not find it there now in the smallest degree. By no stretch of amiable intention can it be credited to Geraldine Farrar. This woman is to the highest degree clever, but her gifts are external, they do not emanate from within. Caruso, of course, is out of the question. Ten years ago he was the greatest voice of our age. To-day he is a dramatic impertinence. Martinelli might accomplish more than he does if his surroundings tended toward earnestness of purpose. As it is, he remains crude, a logical representative of a system wherein operatic art is bared of all adornment, of all enticement, of, in a word, that so precious and necessary thing, Illusion.

The present writer does not place the blame for this state of affairs upon the Metropolitan management; he places it upon the New York public. Mediocrity is supported in this city to so overwhelming an extent that the most virile enthusiasm sucThe cumbs to discouragement. musical public of this city accepted the dismissal of a Fremstad, perhaps the most sheerly beautiful of all Isoldes, and listened to her successor with avidity. It accepted the departure of Toscanini, perhaps the greatest conductor that ever lived, and enthused over his successor, Bodanzky, a man of limited emotion and feeble dynamic force. It seems to possess no tenacities of judgment, no loyalties, no fine discriminations. Had it not been for the sensational success of Galli-Curci, it would probably have failed to support the Chicago Opera Association, although this or

ganisation possesses what the Metropolitan does not possess and has not possessed for years-a great, roman. tic tenor, Lucien Muratore, a man whose magnetic personality and vibrant voice effect a combination that has not been heard in this city since the departure of Jean de Reszke.

The Chicago Opera Association has supplied us with a something we had almost despaired of securing—individual genius of a compelling, indescribably satisfying nature.

The Metropolitan has, in recent years, not only failed to do this, but it has apparently made no effort to supply this city with pre-eminent personalities. The present writer is abso lutely ignorant of the inside workings of the Metropolitan management. He insinuates nothing, he merely proclaims the facts as they appear on the surface. The Metropolitan's tardy re-acceptance of that authentic, exquisite artist, Olive Fremstad, cannot cancel the fact that we are indebted to the Chicago Opera Association for the revelation of the first really fine French tenor that New York has known since Saleza. The rôles of Romeo, Faust and Don Josethe last the most appealing and poignantly picturesque rôle in all opera-have remained dormant in this city entirely because of the fact that we have had no one of sufficient histrionic grace that inimitable something of poetic savoir faire-to

parallel the unforgettable impersonations of the past. Muratore has done this thing; under his gracious witchery of gesture, of exquisite, symmetrical poise the past lives again. In watching him we are watching Romance, Romance come down over long centuries, and out of old strange lands and legends. His Romeo is, for the present writer, the most beautiful performance on the operatic stage of to-day.

The writer assumes no responsibility for recording a prevalent rumour to the effect that the Metropolitan has done all it could to impede the success of the Chicago Opera Association. If this is so, it suggests a dastardly condition of affairs in the operatic activities of this city. The Chicago Opera Association possesses three artists of a quality so superior to anything possessed by the Metropolitan that no comparison is possible. Galli-Curci, the unique Mary Garden and Lucien Muratore are artists in the true sense of that muchabused word. They are artists because they fulfil the essential function of art to vivify, to enrapture, to win us away from reality and lead us captive into the long time ago. We can think of no one at the Metropolitan capable of exerting this magic influence. We can even fancy that the Metropolitan might look upon such notions as objects for surreptitious ridicule.

C. L. B.

THIS month THE BOOKMAN appears in a slightly changed dress. We like it, many friends of the maga

With Becoming Modesty

zine who have been consulted like it too -we hope you all will like it. Indeed without exception every change that has been made was first suggested by some subscriber or friend either personally to the Editor or by mail-it has been most gratifying that so many people have shown such a really helpful interest in the development of the "new" BOOKMAN, for hardly a week goes by that we do not receive some suggestions for enlarging the usefulness of the maga zine. And from all these ideas we have put into effect those that from the point of view of our immediate problems seem the most practical at the present time; other changes that have been suggested will appear later as the opportunity for their adoption presents itself, and indeed many changes have been incorporated in the past months that may have generally passed unnoticed, as they were not of the obvious character of the present innovations. We have decided to give THE BOOKMAN a new sub-title: A Review of Books and Life. It is the same "Bookman” that it has always been, but to call it a "Review" is more in keeping with the seriousness and dignity of its effort to interpret the books and the life of the times. The type of the text matter, too, has been changed with these same considerations in mind. This new type is known as "Bodoni," a very recent development of the printer's art, considered to be very attractive, dignified and with character, yet graceful and readable to a high degree. Not all printing establishments are equipped with

Bodoni type; indeed, we know of no other magazine that has yet taken advantage of this latest achievement of typography.

Our Study Service

Then we are beginning a most important service for the study of THE BOOKMAN in schools, colleges and clubs, which we believe also will prove of real interest and help to all our readers. This new department, appearing for convenience in the advertising sec. tion, will consist (as it does this month) of questions, suggestions and outlines based on the discussions and comments in the current issue. News items of the literary world, literary questions and current literary production, the broad problems of our modern life, the revaluation of the classics of literature and the new light upon them that it is the function of a literary magazine to furnish

-all these are some of the aims and ideals of this new service to BOOKMAN readers. Indeed in our schools and study courses so often the consideration of literary themes is made so dry, so unrelated to modern interests, so foreign to the warm, human spirit of desire, of idealism, of the craving to know of life, to experience for ourselves the vagaries and the adventures through which our nature is struggling upward toward the light, that the wonder is that the interest in literature does not die of dry rot and inanition. A truly alive literary magazine must revitalise the old in the light of modern living needs, must infuse into the new the warm contact with the earth from which we all gain our vigour and our joy of living-such is the aim of our magazine and such the aim of our new study service.