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Here, by the winter fire,
Life is our own; Here, out of murk and mire,
Here is our throne.
Then let the wide world throng
To pomps and powers, And leave us with the love and song
Of lamplit hours.
Frank A. Lewis, who has served in
the American Field 0. Henry
Ambulance abroad, in the
writes to the PublishTrenches
ers' Weekly something about the need for books in the trenches:
For several weeks no reading matter could be located in the section to which I was attached. Finally, one of the boys received a copy of O. Henry's Options in a package from home, and an hour of insane jubilation ensued. The book was seized by indelicate hands and torn into segments, each part representing a story. The pages of each story were pinned to. gether. The original owner of the volume was selected to serve as Section Librarian. We pored over those stories until the print. ing actually wore off the pages. When The Head Hunter came me for the seventh time, the only thing I could be sure of was the title. But I didn't need to re-read it. I could have told that tale almost by rote.
East. A limited edition of Burke's London Lamps has just been issuedsongs that may not ineptly be called poetic versions of his stories in Limehouse Nights. A few of these verses originally appeared as chapter head. ings in Mr. Burke's earlier volume, Nights in London, and as the title suggests, they each deal with some aspect of London's ever-changing personality. Before quoting from London Lamps—we must give our readers a few. verses simply to arouse their desire for more
announce that a new volume of Mr. Burke's will shortly be issued under the title, Twinkletoes, a novel of a Limehouse dancer in which many of the characters of Limehouse Nights will reappear. Now for the verses from Lon. don Lamps:
Just to show you what we thought of books, Brentano's Paris store was the second place we visited on our first leave from the front—the first was a restaurant.
The day dies in a wrath of cloud,
Flecking her roofs with pallid rain, And dies its music, harsh and loud,
Struck from the tiresome strings of pain.
Her highways leap to festal bloom,
And swallow-swift the traffic skims O'er sudden shoals of light and gloom,
Made lovelier where the distance dims.
Robed by her tiring-maid, the dusk,
The town lies in a silvered bower, As, from a miserable husk,
The lily robes herself with flower.
And all her tangled streets are gay,
And all her rudenesses are gone;
And one more little poem that must be quoted:
THE LAMPLIT HOUR
Collecting is one of the “natural lines of defence" of the confirmed
amateur, and he has Japanese made a brave stand Colour Prints there, but the spirit of
intelligence has been invading this realm as relentlessly as it has every other, and the result has undoubtedly been a greater pleasure for the collector who has been will. ing to yield. Mr. Basil Stewart has now come forward with a little book On Collecting Japanese Color-Prints to clear up a subject which the amateur has always found rather obscure. He tells what prints are most worth acquiring and why, which ones should be avoided, and how to
Dusk—and the lights of home
Smile through the rain:
What though the night be drear
With gloom and cold,
One hand to hold?
ISHIYAMA TEMPLE, BY THE SHORE OF LAKE BIWA; FROM THE
“SIXTY-ODD PROVINCES" SERIES (FIRST EDITION). FROM "ON
detect counterfeits and reprints, and of the subject and the advanced gives some hint as to the prices works which make up its existing which should be paid. He gives a literature. Mr. Stewart quotes with short history of the art, describes approval the passage in the will of the process by which prints were Edmond de Goncourt in which he made, analyses the work of the disposes of the treasures that he has most important men of the school, collected during his lifetime: “My and interprets the puzzling charac- wish is that my prints, my curios, ters that are scattered so promiscu- my books—in a word those things ously across the surface of their pro- of art which have been the joy of my ductions. It bridges very competently life-shall not be consigned to the the gap between complete ignorance
cold tomb of a museum
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS. IN HIS ARTICLE IN THIS ISSUE, PROFESSOR
PHELPS SAYS YEATS “HAS DONE MORE FOR ENGLISH POETRY THAN
I require that they shall all be dis. Hugh Gibson's book, A Journal persed under the hammer of the auc from Our Legation in Belgium, now tioneer, so that the pleasure which in its fifth printing, has been transtheir acquisition has given me shall lated into French and will soon have be given again ... to some in publication by one of the large heritor of my own taste.” A notion Parisian publishing houses. Negothat is contrary to the modern spirit, tiations are also under way for a but, for all that, not without its Spanish translation of this same charm.
Word has just come of the death Foreign Minister Trotzky, of the of Dora Sigerson Shorter, whose name government that prevails in Russia is associated with the
at the moment of goDora S. earlier days of the at The Life of
ing to press, gave the Shorter,
tempt to bring into Leon Trotzky following sketch of Irish Poet English literature
his life in a conversasome of the colour and pictu- , tion with some of his friends a week resqueness
that is found in the or so before leaving New York to Gaelic literature of Ireland. Mrs. return to Russia: Shorter was born in Dublin, the daughter of Dr. George Sigerson,
I was born thirty-eight years ago in a
little Jewish colony in southern Russia, in who is remembered for his Bards of
the government of Kherson. When about the Gael and the Gall, translations fourteen years of age I entered the gyminto the original metres of poems nasium of Chernigov, and like most of the from the Irish. Dora Sigerson's work
impressionable youth of Russia soon beshows greater lyric gift than that of
came interested in the revolutionary move
ments. Here in America school boys seem her father, and, at the same time, a to spend most of their time in sports, basedesire to draw on the folk-lore of ball and football. In Russia, the boysher country. She has, therefore, left and the girls too, for that matter-use their behind her many ballads and lyrics History of Civilization, Marx's Capital,
leisure for reading books like Buckle's which breathe the spirit of Ireland. Kautsky's The Social Revolution, and our To her Collected Poems, published own great classics that throb with the pasin 1907, George Meredith contrib
sion of revolt. Our pastime is chiefly atuted an Introduction, praising the
tending underground Socialist meetings and
spreading the propaganda among working. poet's skill in metrical narrative.
men in the city and peasants in the coun. Mrs. Shorter had a command of try. technique, and that feeling for con I was no exception to the rule. The revo
lutionary cause gripped me early in life and notation essential in a ballad writer;
has never relaxed its hold. There was in. while her sense of the supernat deed a great deal of work to do. When ural enhances the weirdness of her I was little more than twenty years old, ballads.
the Russian Revolution blazed up into a
mighty flame. Most of the young people In the lyric, Mrs. Shorter was like
of Russia with any education were enlisted wise distinguished: her poem, Ire in the fight against the unspeakable Czaristic land, found a well-deserved place system, determined to put an end to the in the Oxford Book of English
wrongs it inflicted upon the long-suffering
Russian people. Verse, as one of the most mov
My university education was interrupted, ing tributes to the poet's native
for I soon plunged deep in the work of land. Her powerful Vagrant Heart propaganda, which left no time for any. is of particular interest to-day,
thing else. I continued, however, to apply when
myself to the study of sociology, political women in England have
economy and history and soon became a won the vote. There will be a convinced Marxian Socialist. When the shadow across many an Irish heart Russian Social Democracy split up into two for the passing of Dora Sigerson
sections on the issue of tactics I did not Shorter.
identify myself with either the Mensheviki or the Bolsheviki, but continued to work
for the general cause, for the overthrow of When I shall rise, and full of many fears, Czarism and the cause of Socialism. Since Set forth upon my last long journey, lone, the division in the Party was not based on And leave behind the circling earth to go fundamentals, but only on a difference of Amongst the countless stars to seek God's opinion as to the method to be applied in throne.
gaining the same ends, I used all my efforts
to effect a reconciliation between the two When in the vapourish blue I wander, lost, wings. However, I leaned strongly to the Let some fair paradise reward my eyes radical side. In other words, I was a Hill after hill, and green and sunny vale, Menshevik of the extreme left, or a nearAs I have known beneath the Irish skies. Bolshevik.
country in Europe practically was closed to me, and so I turned my gaze across the Atlantic, and arrived at Ellis Island at the end of December, 1916.
Here in New York I lived with my wife and two children in three rooms in a Bronx tenement, wrote for the Novy Mir, the Russian Socialist daily and spoke at So. cialist meetings. I do not expect my stay here to be very long, however, for a revolution is bound to break out in Russia in a short time, and as soon as that happens I shall hasten to my home country and help in the work of Russia's liberation.
My book The Bolsheviki and World Peace expresses in full my convictions on the world war. It is the result of wide and deep study and the programme laid down there is the only solution that I can to the problems that confront humanity.
This personal account is particu. larly interesting in comparison with the illuminating estimate of Trotzky, of him and all his works, published elsewhere in this issue.
My ability as a speaker and as a writer soon drew me into the very centre of So. cialist activity. I wrote for the party press, composed pamphlets, and carried on per sonal propaganda chiefly among the city populations.
Naturally, I did not escape the general fate of Russian Revolutionists. I was ar rested and imprisoned, and as I did not give up my work for the cause after my release I became what the Russian author. ities called an “illegal” person, and had to live under an assumed name.
My first jailer was called Trotzky, and the idea occurred to me to take his name.
When the Revolution broke out in full force in 1905 I was made president of the first Soldiers' and Workingmen's Council in Petrograd to succeed the first incumbent to that position. I remained president un: til the defeat of the Revolution, when I was arrested and sent to imprisonment and exile in Siberia. From there I succeeded in making my escape, and went to live in Switzerland.
In Switzerland I founded a Socialist pa. per called Prada (The Truth), which was published both in Russian and in German. I also established an international news service for the dissemination of truthful news of current political and revolutionary events in Russia.
In 1910 I went to Germany, where my revolutionary activity incurred the displeas. ure of the Prussian authorities. I was ar. rested and sentenced to imprisonment, but escaped. Three days before the outbreak of the present war found me in Vienna. On the advice of Dr. Adler, the Austrian Socialist leader, I left Austria-Hungary, and was in Servia when that country was in. vaded by the Austro-Hungarian troops, and was present at the Servian parliament, the Kuptchina, when the vote for the first war credits was taken.
I returned to Switzerland, and was later summoned to Paris to edit the Russian So. cialist paper there. When a Russian divi. sion of troops mutinied and killed the general, I addressed a severe letter of criticism of the French Government to Jules Guesde, a Socialist member of the cabinet, for the savage punishment that was meted out to the Russian troops. This so dis. pleased the French Government that I was ordered out of France. I then went back to Switzerland, but Switzerland feared complications with the Czaristic government and would not let me in. I then turned to Spain. Spain would not have me either. I was detained at Barcelona, where I was to be deported to Cuba, where I knew no one, and where I should have found my. self completely stranded. Later the Spanish Government decided to let me go where I pleased, provided only I left Spain. Every
The late William Frend De Morgan's last novel, The Old Mad House, ap
pears to have the en. De Morgan's gaging qualities of his Last Novel Alice-for-Short and
Somehow Good and it is of a more comfortable length, though it will be nearly seven hun. dred pages when issued this spring. There is a triple romance: Fred Cartaret's with Nancy (nicknamed “Elbows," not because of any physical singularity, but because of something “cornery” about her personality); the love affair of Nancy's sister, Cintra, and Charles Snaith's mance with Lucy, a real beauty. The "De Morganish” haunted house and mysterious disappearance are here. Fred Cartaret's uncle goes to look house which
had been a private lunatic asylum. The caretaker leaves him a moment, and he is never seen again. As in Somehow Good, there is built up for the mystery a sense of something sinister and intriguing, which pervades all the author's casualness and fidelity to life. The romance and the char. acters are developed within the aura