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I have begun the publication of a fighting magazine for a Clean Peace and Social 
Reconstruction: a non-partisan, get-together organ of the coming Revolt. 

The first number contains a peace program upon which all radicals may unite; also 
it contains a sketch of a "California louse-ranch," a bit of local color from this roof- 
garden of the world. 

Also it contains the first instalment of a new book, "The Profits of Religion: An 
Essay in Economic Interpretation." This is a study of Supematuralism from a new point 
of view, as a Source of Income and a Shield to Privilege. It contains the facts, both 
ancient and modern, and it hews to the line. 

I have put my best into the magazine, and I think I have a right to ask that every 
radical will send me at once a request for a free sample copy. 

In addition, you may subscribe if you have that much faith in me. The price is ten 
cents per copy, one dollar a year, ten yearly subscriptions for five dollars. 


151 1 Sunset Avenue, Pasadena, California. 

An interpretation, at once 
scientific and eloquent, of poetry 
in life, and its relation to the 
poetry in literature. 


Editor of The Liberator 

Formerly Associate in Philosophy 

at Columbia University, Author of 

"Child of the Amazons" and Other 

Poems, etc. 

$1.25 Postpaid 

Offered by Charles Scribner's 

Sons through The Liberator 

Book Shop. 

What Every American Should Know — 

The Facts 

The facts about the war aims and peace terms 
of the warring nations are to be found in 

Approaches to the 
Great Settlement 

By Professor EMILY G. BALCH 
With an Introduction by NORMAN ANGELL 

A concise account of official and non-official discussion! relating to the settlement of 

the war beginning with President Wilson's Peace Note of December 12,1916; 

with a valuable bibliography. 

Price $1.50 net; at All Book Stores 

Publuhed by 

B. W. HUEBSCH, 225 Fifth Ave„New York City 


Editor, Max Eastman 

Managing Editor, Crystal Eastman 

Associate Editor, Floyd Dell 

Published Monthly by the 

Liberator Publishing Co., Inc. 

34 Union Square East, 

New York City 

Copyright, 191 8, by the Liberator Publishing Co., Inc. 

34 Union Square, New York. 

Application for entry as second class matter at the post office 

at New York City pending. 


Cornelia Barns 
Howard Brubaker 
Hugo Gellert 
Arturo Giovannitti 
Charles T. Hallinan 
Helen Keller 

Ellen La Motte 
Robert Minor 
John Reed 
Boardman Robinson 
Louis Untermeyer 
Charles W. Wood 

Art Young 

Subscription Rates: 
$1. 50 a Year. Half Yearly, 75 cents. Foreign, $2. 00. 

Rates on Bundle Orders and to Newsdealers on Application. 

In The Next Issue 

Morris Hillquit 

Will write on the International Situation 

John Reed 

Will continue his stories of the Bolsheviki and their Revolu- 
tionary Achievements, in which he took part. 

Alexander Trachtenberg, 

Editor of The American Labor Year Book, 

Will begin a new department: A Calendar of Social Revolu- 
tionary Progress in All Countries. 

James Weldon Johnson, a Negro poet, 

Will write on What the Negro is Doing for His Own Freedom 

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Orientation rotated and image size reduced from original. 


Vol. 1, No. 2 

April, 1918 


\\fE received from Mrs. William Lloyd Garrison in 
Boston, a subscription to The Liberator with these 
words, "We are glad to see the old name revived in such 
a good cause." 

Her message adds something that was needed to our 
courage, for it was with the diffidence of a deep admira- 
tion that we adopted the name of this magazine. Garri- 
son's Liberator was the greatest paper in the history of 
the United States ; and it was great not only because it 
concentrated a prophetic sacred fire against the sin of 
chattel slavery, but because it sounded the music of the 
love of utter liberty for all. Garrison was not very 
much like us, I think — not pagan, never idle-hearted, not 
determined, whatever he should achieve, to have humane 
pleasure while achieving it. He was a consecrated 
Christian spirit. To be imprisoned, and to be hounded, 
and wounded, and dragged through the streets of his 
city with a rope round his neck, a criminal agitator who 
dared to say that the Constitution of the United States 
was "a covenant with death and an agreement with hell," 
was not a special incident but almost a general symbol of 
his life. Morning and evening and noon and night he 
burned his energy for freedom. When all the nation's 
middle-class idealists were condemning human slavery 
but saying, as they will eternally say, "We must go slow 
— it is not yet time," he said, "The time is now." To de- 
plore an evil, yet lay the responsibility for its existence 
upon the dead and for its removal upon the unborn, was 
as intolerable to him as fifth to fire. He was quenched 
for a while; he was imprisoned in Baltimore. He had 
"libelled" a firm that shipped slaves to New Orleans, de- 
nouncing their act as "domestic piracy," and promising 
to cover them with "thick infamy." The paper in which 
he expressed his opinion was destroyed. When he was 
liberated he marched into the heart of the high, capital- 
istic, slave-defending territory, New England, penniless 
but resourceful as brave, and with his own hands and 
eyes set up and published those first fighting issues of 
the paper that freed the slaves. 

"I am in earnest — I will not equivocate — I will not 
excuse — I will not retreat a single inch — I will be 
heard." That was his address to the public. It 
was the first of January 1831. In thirty-five years the 
slaves were free, the Civil War was ended, and The 
Liberator suspended publication because its fiery course 
was burned through to the goal. There is no vivider 
story in the history of public print. There is no victor 
that excelled him. And yet he was greater than his vic- 
tory, he was larger of heart and brain than any fanatic 
possessed by a single wish. The width and gen- 
erosity of his thought, and his seeking love, are told — 
and told with clear poignancy for us in this day of nar- 

rowed and egotistic emotion — in the motto that opened 
the pages of The Liberator, 

"Our Country is the World — Our Countrymen arc 

The Supreme Atrocity 

\IfHILE our soldiers go over the sea to give their lives 
in crusade against the atrocities of Prussianism in 
Europe, a propaganda creeps under the ground among the 
Huns of our southern and middle-western states in favor 
of torturing with white hot irons as a substitute for the 
lynching and burning of negroes. It bore fruit of action 
in Estill Springs, Tennessee, on February 12th, when a 
mob of one thousand people, incited by the oration of a 
woman, chained Jim Mcllherron to a tree, branded and 
mutilated his body until he confessed to a murder, and 
then burned him to death. 

Two hundred and twenty-two negroes have been 
lynched or murdered by mobs in the United States in the 
past year. That is an average of more than one every 
two days. Only eleven of these have been murdered for 
alleged rape and attempted rape ; five for alleged murder. 
Twenty-eight have been lynched for crimes that in case 
of conviction by a jury would not entail the death 

If these things happened in one city, it would be a 
white man's terror, comparable to the worst days of the 
French Revolution, and exceeding the most extreme re- 
ports of Germany's invasion of Belgium. Such horrors, 
equalled only by the Turks' massacres in Armenia, are 
a part of the routine history of our country. It is neces- 
sary that we know this. It is necessary that we see this 
happen. The torturing at Estill Springs has not been 
investigated, but it followed an example set by the citi- 
zens of Dyersbiirg, Tennessee, in December, and upon 
that there is an authentic report. 

"The Negro was seated on the ground and a buggy- 
axle driven into the ground between his legs. His feet 
were chained together with logging chains, and he was 
tied with wire. A fire was built. Pokers and flat-irons 
were procured and heated in the fire. It was thirty 
minutes before they were red-hot. 

"Reports of the torturing, which have been generally 
accepted and have not been contradicted, are that the 
Negro's clothes and skin were ripped from his body 
simultaneously with a knife. His self-appointed execu- 
tors burned his eye-balls with red-hot irons. When he 
opened his mouth to cry for mercy a red-hot poker was 
rammed down his gullet. In the same way he was robbed 
of his sexual organs. Red hot irons were placed on his 
feet, back, and body, until a hideous stench of burning 
human flesh filled the Sabbath air of Dyersburg. 

"Thousands of people witnessed this scene. They had 
to be pushed back from the stake to which the Negro was 


chained. Roof-tops, second-story windows, and porch- 
tops were filled with spectators. Children were lifted to 
shoulders, that they might behold the agony of the victim. 

"A little distance away in the public square, the best 
citizens of the county supported the burning and tor- 
turing with their presence. 

"Public opinion in Dyersburg and Dyer County seems 
to be divided into two groups. One group considers that 
the Negro got what he deserved. The other group feels 
that he should have had a 'decent lynching'."* 

We must see this happen, because no one else will 
see it. No one will allow Himself to see it, save only those 
mobs that drink up the death and agony. Barely seventy 
years ago the sons and brothers that would be ours, 
marched away to give their blood as now for liberty 
and the rights of the oppressed; and is this the liberty 
they gave it for — to see these oppressed hunted through 
the country like rats, and without court or jury or the 
shadow of any memory of law, chained down and tor- 
tured to confession and death? Is this their victory — 
that the voice of our national government in the capitol 
of Lincoln, while we are pouring out the ancient sacri- 
fice again upon the fields of war, remains silent though 
the soul of everything we fight for, justice, liberty, legal- 
ity, every defense or form of right established of man 
since savagery, is ravaged within a day's march of 
Washington ? 

What Kind of Peace? 

pEACE has its evils no less than war. And those who 
have not merely suspended until the war's end a daily 
bath of Christian optimism, are poising their minds and 
their emotions now to see who the powers are that are 
moving toward peace, and what kind of peace they will 
bring. H. G. Wells, in an article in the New Republic of 
February 9 — the best he has ever written — has a word 
on this subject: 

"Our Tories," he says, "blundered into this great 
war, not seeing whither it would take them. In par- 
ticular it is manifest now by a hundred signs that they 
dread the fall of monarchy in Germany and Austria. 
Far rather would they make the most abject sur- 
render to the Kaiser than deal with a renascent repub- 
lican Germany. The recent letter of Lord Lansdowne, 
urging a peace with German imperialism, was but a 
feeler from the pacifist side of this most un-English 
and unhappily most influential section of our public 
life. Lord Lansdowne's letter was the letter of a peer 
who fears revolution more than national dishonor." 

Wells does not think, however, that this pacifist 
wing of the Tories is much to be feared. "It is the 
truculent wing," he says, "of this same anti-demo- 
cratic movement that is far more active. While our 
sons suffer and die for their comforts and conceit, 
these people scheme to prevent any communication 
between the republican and socialist classes in Ger- 
many and the Allied population. At any cost this class 
of pampered and privileged traitors intend to have 
peace while the Kaiser is still on his throne. If not, 
they face a new world — in which their part will be 
small indeed. And with the utmost ingenuity they 

•Report of the Nafl Ass'n for Advancement of Colored People. 

maintain a dangerous vagueness about the Allied 
peace terms, ivith the sole object of preventing a revolu- 
tionary movement in Germany, . . . 

It is not of final importance whether the pacifist or mil- 
itary group of these men just now is predominant. If, as 
Wells says, the anti-democratic forces have had their 
kind of war, they will certainly try to have their kind 
of peace. It will be an imperial, nationalistic and capi- 
talistic peace, a peace with wars already in its womb. 
It will matter little to the future of the world whether 
Germany plays a proud or humbled part in patching 
up such a peace. And the citizens of the world must 
beware of those men who seek it in all countries — in 
England as in Germany, the United States as England. 

We must beware of the powers who will try to con- 
vert the "World's Peace" into a special little arrange- 
ment with English Tories for the benefit of Ameri- 
can imperialism. A sufficient slogan for that purpose 
will be "The Rights of Small Nations in Central 
America, and The Internationalization of the Panama 

English Admiration 

HPHE English have an idea that we are entierly free 
from Tory imperialist forces, "In America," says 
Professor Gilbert Murray, "the problem is much 
simpler than over here, because you have no im- 
perialist party, no strong and ingrained habit of an- 
nexation to battle with; but we have, and most un- 
fortunately we have it in power both in the War 
Cabinet and in the London press, to say nothing of that 
curious congress of selected Generals and casual poli- 
ticians which issues manifestoes from Versailles." 

An epidemic of genuine admiration for us is the 
strangest thing that has struck England since 1914. 
Sick and suspicious of the amount of "moral idealism*' 
required to cover up the complex European motiva- 
tion of this war, her people have turned to us instinct- 
ively for a breath of pure air. They have idealized us. 
They look over to our shores somewhat as they did in 
the days of Sir Walter Raleigh for a new world. Lloyd 
George calls us "the greatest democray in existence." 
There are some incidents which might dampen their en- 
thusiasm a little; it is ascertainable in a glance at the 
chief metropolitan newspapers, for instance, that the 
anti-democratic, imperial and nationalistic forces of 
America are in full control of the press. 

They are not, however, in full control of the gov- 
ernment. And therefore there is truth in the opinion 
that America's war-policy represents a disinterested 
idealism for the world. The British government has 
been slowly coerced by the British Labor Party into a 
kind of blustering silence which implies half consent 
to an attempt at an internationalistic peace. But 
President Wilson has taken the lead even from the 
British Labor Party in this matter, and in his four- 
teen articles of January 9, and his message of Feb- 
ruary 11 softening the specific articles and strengthen- 
ing the world-principles, he has, in my opinion, laid 
down a challenge to British as well as American im- 

April, 1918 

Board man Robinson 

"This class of pampered and privileged traitors intends to have peace while tne ICaiser is still on Lis 

throne . . . They maintain a dangerous vagueness about tne Allied peace terms, with the sole object of 

preventing a revolutionary movement in Germany." — H. G. Wells. 

A Working- Class Peace 

TT is not only a World Peace that we want — not 
only a peace that shall be all-sided and per- 
manent from the standpoint of nations. We want a 
working-class peace — a peace in the settlement of which 
labor in every country shall play so strong a part that 
that peace will mean freedom. This is the significance of 
the conference of radicals and socialists and labor leaders 
in New York on February 16th, at which James H. Mau- 
rer, was elected to carry a message of solidarity to similar 
bodies in Europe. It was a notice to Samuel Gompers 
that if official American Labor is content to follow his 
clucking* and sit tinder his wing's, unofficial American 

labor is not. The program adopted was distinguished by 
an undiplomatic directness of utterance that gives hope 
of action, and by several concrete proposals not included 
in the President's program, nor that of the British Labor 
Party. We quote it here : 


1. Economic Freedom 

Economic opportunities should be open to all and on equal 


a. All international waterways should be open at all times,, 

under international guarantee. 


b. Free Trade should prevail. 

C. The ownership and control of all resources, public utili- 
ties, financial agencies and other economic opportunities 
should be vested in the people and their use open to all na- 
tions upon equal terms. 

d. No nation should be responsible for the investments of 
its citizens in any other country. 

e. No restriction should be placed upon voluntary migra- 

2. Political Liberty 

The right of self-determination should be guaranteed to all 
peoples including those in dependencies and colonies. 

3. Civil Liberty 

Civil Liberty including freedom of conscience, of speech, of 
the press, of language, of assemblage and of petition should 
be absolute in time of peace or war. 

4. Disarmament 

a. All standing armies should be disbanded and all existing 
navies abolished. 

b. Every form of military training and military service 
should be abandoned. 

c. The production of all forms of munitions or instruments 
of war should be forbidden either in private factories or pub- 
lic establishments. 

Bolshevik Problems 

l ENINE seems to be one of those reasoners in whom 
act follows conclusion with the same inevitability that 
conclusion follows premise. He believes that the class- 
struggle between laborers and the owners of machinery 
and land is absolute, and must issue in the expropriation 
of the owners, before the world can be free or demo- 
cratic. This being true he concludes that the "liberal" 
compromisers, the moderates, the menshevik socialists, 
who desire at the moment of victory to obscure and di- 
lute the class-struggle for the sake of more trivial and 
immediate benefits, are the worst enemies of freedom 
and democracy. Therefore, in a quite logical and imper- 
sonal manner he arrests them, suspends their pub- 
lications, and puts them in jail. He assumes that their 
hearts are right, and that when he has done what he has 
to do, they will be with him, so he assures them that "such 
measures are only temporary and when the acuteness of 
the situation is past all the persons arrested will be re- 
leased." At present, however, their lack of Marxian un- 
derstanding makes the goodness of their hearts a danger 
to liberty, and they must go. 

According to the press, he has in prison at the present 
time both Plekhanov, who is the father of Socialism in 
Russia, the original theoretician and editor-teacher from 
whom for forty years they have all been learning the 
basic principles upon which they act, and "Babushka" 
Breshkovskaya, the "grandmother of the revolution," and 
one of the few famous women of the world. I doubt if 
any other biography of these times will seem so pic- 
turesque and significant, to those who look back, as hers. 
All her life under the Czar she has been in jail for liberty, 

or escaping for liberty, or agitating for liberty and going 
back again to jail A woman, and a fighter — full of love 
and rebellion and great thoughts — she was for years a 
symbol to the American middle-class idealist of the whole 
revolutionary movement in Russia. Now she is in jail 
again — for liberty! And the American idealist finds it 
difficult to readjust his thoughts, and his admirations, to 
the novelty of that. She is in jail because her dream of 
liberty is now the old dream — the political and not the in- 
dustrial, the evangelical ideal and not the economic force 
that will make it real. At least so it seems to me. There 
is a risk in every temporary violation of personal liberty ; 
but in the cause of ultimate liberty for all, this risk must 
be taken. 

If "Babushka" feels hopeless of any reorganization 
under Lenine, hopeless of peace and food and productive 
labor for her people, her days are dark indeed; but if she 
can find in this strong, unscrupulously idealistic leader- 
ship any hope of those things — then I can not believe 
she is heart-broken to see her revolution go so far in vic- 
tory that she herself becomes a reactionary. For my 
part, if only I could be sure that hunger, and terror, and 
intervention of foreigners, and the uncanny behavior of 
money, will not be victorious over the spirit of the "Re- 
public of Soviets," I would be able to smile a good deal 
at the poignant incident of her imprisonment.* 

There is of course a more difficult question before Le- 
nine than this question of persons and moral principles. 
It is the old question that disturbs every picture of the 
social revolution painted on air by the city soap-boxer — 
the question, "Where does the farmer come into the 
class struggle?" Russia is not at large an industrial but 
a peasant country; it was only under Stolypin in 1907 
that the land of the peasant villages was taken out of 
common ownership and allowed Xo run the course of pri- 
vate property. Much of this land is not unjustly dis- 
tributed, and some of the peasants themselves own the 
acres that they work. They are not hired men ; they are 
not "proletarians." They have no one to "expropriate" 
but themselves. Peasants of this character, who are 
neither proletarians nor capitalists, though not numer- 
ous, are symbolic, perhaps, of an average attitude of the 
farmer towards the class struggle. They are the prob- 
lem for the Bolsheviki, in Russia, just as they are the 
problem for the Socialist in America. 

Now the moderate, Utopian, procrastinating kind of 
"socialism" preached by Babushka and Kerenski, and 
others of the right wing of the Socialist-Revolutionists, 
appealed to this average farmer. There was no class 
struggle in it. It was willing to "get along" with capi- 
talism, provided plenty of dreams were permitted of the 
restoration of the land to communal ownership. The 
Bolshevik idea of immediate confiscation in the interest 
of wage-workers, appeals directly only to hired men and 
to the poorest peasants — those who, although they own 
their land, are so much in debt that they are in practical 
wage dependence upon their creditors. The others must 

♦Since this was printed I have been told by Louise Bryant, 
who has just come from Russia with personal news of these 
events, that Babushka is not under arrest and has not been. My ar- 
gument is so cogent, however, that I am sure she will be if she 
is not careful! At any rate the story of her arrest is only an 
exaggeration of repressive measures that have been taken 
against "Socialists," and the necessity of these I have not 

April, 1918 

be won, if they are won at all, by argument and by appeal 
to their understanding and sympathy. 

It is interesting to see how wisely Lenine argues with 
them. Showing that the common ownership of the land 
can not be separated, as the Procrastinators would have 
it, from the overthrow of capitalism, he says : "The con- 
fiscation of all private ownership in land means the con- 
fiscation of hundreds of millions of bank capital, with 
which these lands, for the most part, are mortgaged. Is 
such a measure conceivable unless the revolutionary plan, 
by the aid of revolutionary methods, shall break down the 
opposition of the capitalists? Besides, we are here 
touching the most centralized form of capital, which is 
bank capital, and which is bound by a million threads 
with all the important centers of the capitalist system of 
this great nation, which can be defeated only by the 
equally well-organized power of the proletariat of the 

"The social-democratic mass movement in Russia has 
been going on for twenty years (if we count from the 
great strikes of 1896). Throughout this interval, pass- 
ing through the two great revolutions, there runsaveri- Even in England 
table red thread of Russian political history, this great 
question : Shall the working class lead the peasantry for- 
ward to socialism, or shall the liberal bourgeoisie drag 
them back into a conciliation with capitalism ? 

"The revolutionary Social-Democratic Party (Bolshe- 
viki) has all this time been fighting to remove the peas- 
ants from the influence of the cadets and has offered 
them, in place of the Utopian middle class view of So- 
cialism, only a revolutionary-proletarian path to So- 

practical details will appear in the experience of the mil- 
lions when they tackle the job." 

This article, which I quote from The New Interna- 
tional for February, was written by Lenine last May. But 
it reveals his keen understanding of the forces he now re- 
lies on. That the proletariat can lead the poorer peasants, 
as he predicted, has been confirmed by the course of 
events. TchernofT, a politician of the peasants, who was 
chairman of the Constituent Assembly dispersed by Le- 
nine, has since come over to the government. Martov, a 
leader of the Menshivik Internationals, has come over to 
the government. According to information we receive 
through sympathetic sources, the solidarity of the ex- 
ploited classes in Russia today is as complete as could be 
hoped by the most academic Marxian. The moderates, 
the reformists, are merely voices in the air — "like Spar- 
go's new party" ! The plain folks, the undistinguished, 
the workers of Russia are united in the determination 
to establish a socialist-syndicalist society, a republic of 
free labor. 

"Only the proletariat, leading on the poorest peasants 
(the semi-proletariat, as they are called in our program) 
may terminate the war with a democratic peace, may 
heal its wounds, and may undertake the steps toward 
Socialism that have become absolutely unavoidable and 
non-postponable. That is the clear demand of our class 
policy at present." 

Though so clear and positive of the next step, how- 
ever, Lenine is not without a sense of the fluidity of 
evolution. He is willing to let time help him. He is not 
an extreme dogmatist. 

"The peasants want to retain their small holdings and 
to arrive at some place of equal distribution," he says. 
"So be it. No sensible socialist will quarrel with a pau- 
per peasant on this ground. If the lands are confiscated, 
so long as the proletarians rule in the great centers and 
all political power is handed over to the proletariat, the 
rest will take care of itself, will be a natural outcome of 
the 'power of example' ; practice itself will do the teach- 
ing here. 

"The passing of political power to the proletariat, that 
is the whole thing. Then all the essential, fundamental, 
real points in the program of the 242 instructions become 
realities. And life will point out with what modifications 
this realization is to proceed. We should worry! We are 
not doctrinaires. 

"We do not pretend that Marx or the Marxians know 
every detail of the road which leads to Socialism. That 
would be folly. We know the direction of the road, we 
know what class forces will lead to it, but the concrete, 

P^ REVOLUTIONARY disposition in Great Britain is 
as startling as an accomplished revolution on the con- 
tinent. And though it has to dress itself in laboriously 
dispassionate language, and show no color of life or wine 
at any cost, still it is a great, slow, rending tank of a thing, 
and once it gets started a great many of the honorable 
British institutions will go under like milkweed. I can 
not feel social revolution when I read the report of the 
subcommittee of the British Labor Party on reconstruc- 
tion, but I can recognize it. I want to quote one para- 
graph of this report (published in this country by the 
New Republic) reminding the reader that the Labor 
Party is generally admitted to hold the balance of power 
in England, and is confidently expected by many to form 
the next government. 

"Unlike the Conservative and Liberal parties, the Labor party 
insists on democracy in industry as well as in government. It 
demands the progressive elimination from the control of indus- 
try of the private capitalist, individual or joint-stock; and the 
setting free of all who work, whether by hand or by brain, for 
the service of the community, and of the community only. And 
the Labor party refuses absolutely to believe that the British 
people will permanently tolerate any reconstruction or perpetua- 
tion of the disorganization, waste and inefficiency involved in 
the abandonment of British industry to a jostling crowd of sepa- 
rate private employers, with their minds bent, not* on the service 
of the community, but — by the very law of their being— only on 
the utmost possible profiteering. 

"What the Labor party looks to is a genuinely scientific re- 
organization of the nation's industry, no longer deflected by in- 
dividual profiteering, on the basis of the common ownership of 
the means of production; the equitable sharing of the proceeds 
among all who participate in any capacity and only among these, 
and the adoption, in particular services and occupations, of 
those systems and methods of administration and control that 
may be found, in practice, best to promote the public interest." 

It is safe to predict that this British revolution will 
not only move with a ponderous, slow, worming motion 
that is not inspiring to the emotions, but also that it will 



stagger a good deal, and carry a lot of old trees and rub- 
bish along on its back. The signs of a limp are already 
apparent upon page 4 of this report, where in the midst 
of the most earth-sweeping sentences that ever rocked 
the lordly island, is contained an earnest declaration in 
favor of a national minimum wage of 30 shillings — 
seven dollars and fifty cents — a week ! 

Mediation Versus Agitation 

TPHE President's Mediation Commission, which has 

smoothed down for the period of the war five labor 
disputes west of the Mississippi, makes a report upon 
the causes of "labor difficulties." The report is written 
with excellent clarity and literary art. It mentions the 
refusal of employers to deal with unions, the absence of 
regular "machinery" of mediation between employers 
and unions, a lack of mutual "understanding" between 
them, a feeling on the part of labor that wages ought to 
rise nearly as fast as the cost of living and that the 
eight-hour day is "an accepted national policy," auto- 
cratic acts of repression by employers, such as the Bisbee 
and Jerome deportations, the Everett incident, the Little 
hanging, and a resort by the employers to a charge of dis- 
loyalty when their employees are only demanding social' 
justice — as the principal causes of "labor difficulties." 

Thus the indictment contained in this report is against 
the employers almost absolutely and without qualifica- 
tion. The labor union principle of collective bargaining, 
and the eight hour day as a universal standard, are em- 
phatically recommended to the government both for war 
and peace, 

I suppose that no more can be asked of a "mediation" 
commission, no more can be recommended to a middle- 
class government. I can not help wondering, though, how 
these men feel — Felix Frankfurter, William B. Wilson, 
John H. Walker, and the others — going through a terri- 
tory that is rife with revolutionary understanding, a ter- 
ritory in which hundreds of agitators with as much brains 
and equilibrium as they have, could give them facts and 
figures of the increasingly unequal distribution of wealth 
which is dividing this country, and never even allude to 
it as a contributing cause of "industrial difficulties." 
When they recall those first paragraphs of the report of 
Frank Walsh's commission, which neglected to say any- 
thing at all about specific grievances, or about testimo- 
nies or the evidence of witnesses, and simply quoted out 
of the United States census the underlying facts of our 
capitalistic feudalism as the cause of labor's unrest, they 
must feel a little trivial, these commissioners of media- 

They know well enough that "labor difficulties" are 
not caused by, nor cured by, the matters of their discus- 
sion. And I don't mind their keeping their knowledge in 
their pockets — for the purposes of the moment. But I do 
mind their alluding to those who — for larger purposes — 
choose to say what they know, as "fanatical" and "des- 
tructive" "extremists." Industrial unionism and the pur- 
pose of working-men to supplant capitalists in the con- 
trol of industries and their profits, is not fanatical ex- 
tremism. It is not destructive. It is the only plan in the 
world constructive enough to cure "labor difficulties," 

and conserve to human society the benefits of machine 
invention and the factory system. 

Members or Not 

T AST Summer, discussing some resignations from the 
socialist party, I said that I had enough faith in the 
pro-war and anti-war socialists to believe they would 
soon be working together along the main highway of in- 
dustrial liberation. In certain cases I think my faith was 
ill-placed. Upper-class patriotism seems to act upon some 
minds a good deal as upper-class money acts.. But in other 
cases loyalty to the underlying purpose of the class- 
struggle has not wavered. 

Rose Pastor Stokes has gone so far as to apply for 
membership, or remembership, in the party. 

"I left the party," she says, "because I considered 
dangerous the party's attitude toward America's partici- 
pation in the war ; but the crisis created by the St. Louis 
resolution is past, and the present immediate danger is 
an imperialistic peace which, I believe, only a unified and 
strengthened international Socialist movement can pre- 

Well, it was dangerous, as some of the members are 
quite well convinced. But we suspect it was heartening 
to the revolutionary minority in Germany, and did its 
part towards strengthening in all countries those who 
will insist upon internationalism whenever the time 
comes. The Socialist Party adopted "The Majority Re- 
port," denouncing and resisting the war, but it acted upon 
the "Minority Report," which accepted the war as a fact, 
and sought to win out of it all the progress possible. Per- 
haps this divorce of profession and practice, under the 
circumstances, was the best way to promote what we all 
desired — encouragement of the spirit of social revolution 
all over the world. At any rate the crisis begot by our 
reiteration of principles, is past, and as Rose Pastor sees 
truly, the problem of preventing imperialism in the peace 
terms is before us all. It is the only problem about 
which we can do anything just now. And if we are 
agreed in doing, we are agreed enough. 

Max Eastman. 



You are trusted of millions. 
These grass-blades your smooth acres bear — 
The dust-motes dancing in a slant of sun across the 

silence of your book- walled- room — 
The driven rain-drops of a torn, wild night — 
Are not so many as the human souls that sleep 
In trust of you, 
Do you feel their white faith through the night? 

Ruth R. Pearson. 



Pink Dogwood 

DABY hands, wide spread, 

Reach for the golden April sun; 
Then brush my cheek and, touching me 
With groping tenderness they bring 
In sudden, breathless, yearning pain, 
The agony of spring. 

To A Japonica Tree 

HPHROW your red kisses to the laughing sun, 

Drop them upon the warm and sleeping earth, 
Strain to the wind with your unquenched desire — 
There is no fragrance in your hot-lipped fire; 
You give too eagerly, oh, wanton one! 

Live Oak 

T IFE is so still and simple when I lay 

My head against your bark and rest and feel 
Your mighty strength, too great for consciousness — 
Night is above you, and the milky way; 
Around your foot the drowsy violets nod; 
I wonder — do men mean this when they say 
"The love of God"? 

Beulah Amidon. 


V/fUSIC and the dancing of young women 

Is like the flow of water over rocks 
And along shallow places. 
The flow and bubbling of water 
And the swaying movement of trees. 

Music and the dancing of young boys 
Is like the play and sparkle of light 
On a moving surface of water; 
The playful sparkle of sunlight 
And the hopping movement of birds. 

Music is a group of young women 
Running before the wind 
A group of young women 

Laughing and calling as they run with the wind. 

And their gestures as they run, 

Are like slender branches 

Bending to the wind. 

r John Storks. 



A FOREST of sharp skeletons flame-seared 

They stand above the hill, the ancient trees, 
A waste of broken trunks the shells have cleared 
Of swaying branch and leaf and woodland ease. 

So still they are, the Spring shall turn aside, 
Summer shall never touch their blackened sleep. 
They know — they know earth's laughing heart has died, 
The ancient trees, whose roots have pierced so deep. 



{Exhibition of paintings at Macbeth Galleries, Jan.-Feb., 1918.) 

\XfHERE do such visions live that come to thee 

And make thy clear eyes gleam with heavenly light? 
What golden messenger of mystery 
For thee withdrew the curtain of our night? 
Who led thee forth beyond the stars, the sea, 
Behind the wind? Does Beauty sleep or wake? 
Is she a maiden loved most tenderly 
By dawn and silence, tree and brooding lake? 
Is she a bird, a breath? O, Wanderer 
Along the unpathed meadows of the mind, 
In shining places thou hast come on her, 
Who bade thee lift the eye-lids of the blind. 
In thy translucent imagery they trace 
The glory and the wonder of her face. 

Ruth Pickering. 



Q MOTHERS of the world, poets of the world, 

How long will you go in travail with the world's 
children ? 
Bearing them in your bodies, 

Giving them drink, giving them rest on your bosom; 
Chiding them into goodness, 
Guiding them into wisdom and beauty; 
Knowing how they stray into folly, 
Yet never wearying of hope, of love, — 
How long, 

Mothers of the world, poets of the world, 
How long is your patience? 

Miss Smith 

MISS SMITH never heard 

Of the Massacre of Ludlow. 
But she has many books on "The Great War" — 
As if there were no more than one great war! 


rjO you remember that night, 

How we sat together on the stone wall in the rain 
and dark? 
Huddled and cold and bedraggled like two sparrows — 
We had no mind for the wet, sheltering in each other's 
arms — 

Last night I was feeling hate toward you 

When suddenly I remembered us there in the dark on 

the wall, 
Side by side, so little, in the dark . . . 

Helen Hoyt. 



China's Paintings 

TN China, in her great days, every person deemed worthy 
of social recognition was a painter. To be unable to paint 
in that empire, was almost what it is to be illiterate among 
us. And the consequence of this universal and honorific 
rivalry in art, was a more refined perception and a 
greater maturity of taste and technique than has ever 
existed elsewhere. The great quiet paintings of the old 
Chinese masters may with good reason be said to be the 
greatest paintings in the world. And this is one of the things 
that our brassy western civilization will gradually wake up 

to, when the league of nations has made the world round. 

A friend who owns some of these pictures has offered to 
let us reproduce copies of them in The Liberator. And al- 
though their soft low harmonies of color will be lost, they 
will still retain their supreme excellence — a kind of perfect 
magnificence in the very position of objects, and a sublime 
rhythm with which the eye and mind move through and 
among them. These qualities — primary qualities as philosophy 
calls them — of shape and motion, seem to endure in their 
hold upon the love of men longer than others that are more 
personal and exciting. 

The two paintings on these pages are not by a very old, 
nor by a very famous Chinese painter. They are by one, 

April, 1918 


Chin Yuan, who lived in the sixteenth century A. D. And 
I have chosen them to begin with, because they are so much 
like the paintings of some very modern artists of ours. They 
have the same bold undetailed presentation of a strong piece 
of the artist's experience. And yet they retain a great deal 
of the old impersonal grandeur, and may serve as a kind of 
bridge to carry us back to the earlier ones. To these earlier 
masters Chin Yuan would perhaps seem a little immature. 
And I suppose our western moderns, with their self- 
conscious breaking-away from literal and photographic 
representation of things, their new scorn of certain 
laws of perspective and anatomical structure which imply 
that they are only copying nature, would seem immature to 

them too. As long ago as the fifth or sixth century they had 
got all through feeling self-conscious because they were free. 
They would never even think of copying nature, or obeying 
any "laws" that a camera, or a doll-factory, has to obey. 
Their ideal was to create a thing as original as nature and 
all her laws, in every picture. Their assumption of crea- 
tive freedom was so serene that I imagine the law of gravita- 
tion would seem to them a crass impertinence. , . . 

I write with a vast uneducation about these matters, but I 
love some of the paintings so much that, even at the risk of 
offending the more eagle-eyed experts of art, I will make 
free to say from time to time what I think and feel about 
them. M. E. 



The Terrorist 

Translated from the Russian by 
Vladimir Lossieff 

"r\ID you hear ? Berezovitch is going to Russia !" 

"Berezovitch ! What are you talking about ? Well ! 

And in five minutes all the colony, consisting of Russian 
Jews, mostly workers, who at six o'clock met at the dinner 
table of the Russian boarding house, were discussing the 
subject of Berezovitch leaving for Russia. 

"Who is this Berezovitch?" I, a newcomer, asked of my 
neighbor at the board. 

But he, raising his voice and addressing the whole com- 
pany, remarked: 

"Gentlemen ! Comrades ! Here is one who does not know 
Berezovitch! I will tell you about Berezovitch. You see 
. . . But — here he is himself — what is the use of me talk- 
ing about him?" 

I turned my eyes to the door; a young man of about thirty 
entered the room. He was short, yet his figure was stooped ; 
his suit was far from new; his face — it was not remarkable 
— not 'handsome, but forceful. To tell the truth, I was dis- 

"This is Mr. Berezovitch !"— everyone tried to introduce 
him at once. 

"Wait . . . My comrades . . . Only imaginary Berezo- 
vitch. I — I must admit at last that I am not Berezovitch!" 

If, at that moment, a bomb would have come through the 
open window, it could not, I think, have had greater effect 
than those few words. 

"What? What does it mean — 'imaginary' Berezovitch?" 
my neighbor asked him. 

"It means 'imaginary/ Only here, in America, am I a 
tailor by the name of Berezovitch— but in Russia I was a 
Goldman, because that is my real name; Berezovitch — it was 
only my name abroad. . . . 

"Now I can tell you everything. I am not Berezovitch. 
I am not a deserter; I am — but please do not be afraid, I 
am — a terrorist. Not a 'bomb-thrower/ or however you call 
them, but, perhaps I am a plain murderer ; yet— I think— I am 
not. Now I am going to Russia. I am going to free Russia 
to give myself up to the hands of Justice, because my 
conscience does not permit me to hide myself any longer. I 
am going with pleasure, now, to face trial. You know, now 
things are changed. . . . 

"I was living in Odessa. And in the year 1905 at Odessa 
there was a pogrom. The leaders of the 'vigilantes/ as such 
hands are called in this country, were members of the police 
force. They went with the 'black hundreds' and when they 
found a Jew they beat him, killed him — shot him to death. 
I am not a poet. I cannot describe it very well — my business 
is to make clothes. But, to suffer — every man can suffer — 
and I have suffered much, I think enough for a thousand 

Note. — Vladimir Lossieff Is one of the 166 members of the 
I. W. W. Indicted last September and now in the Cook County 
Jail, Chicago. He was born in Russia, and has been in America 
since 1912. He was Secretary of the Conference for the Keturn 
of Exiles, which was instrumental in securing the release of 
Leon Trotzky by the British government last year. He waa 
editor of the I. W. W. Russian newspaper published in Chicago, 
He is 22 years old. 

"I was not in the 'Protection Group— the ones that or- 
ganized to fight back. I am ashamed to recall it, but it is a 
fact; I did not go out with the others to resist. My mother 
wept and feared I might be killed; ray father— his heart was 
weak — said he was afraid he would die while I went to fight 
for others; anyhow, I did not go, but not because I was a 

"Well, when they were busy breaking into our house we 
were in the garret. We kept still. I was peering out of a 
window and saw, with my own eyes, that the leader of the 
murder-band was the chief of police of our district — and he 
was in the front. His name was Biely and I knew him. 
This Biely shot about like a madman. . . . And then to our 
dismay the children— our neighbor's children— began to cry. 
. . . And he shot into the windows, the walls and in the 
air, just shot. . . . And the children were in the yard under 
a moving van. And Biely chased them out of their place. 
They ran. . . . They were so cute, so nice— two little 
angels— you never saw better children. And what do you 
think? Did his hand tremble . . .? No! He killed those 
two little ones as though they were not angels but rabbits. 

"And I wished at that moment to kill Biely. But how? 
What could I do, unarmed, against them; all drunk and — 
that is the main thing— with revolvers? But it is better not 
to think of what happened that day. It was hard, but I 
decided to keep still so as to have a chance to avenge later. 
Time passed. Many things happened that year. . . . But 
I did not forget him — the chief of police. Every night, be- 
fore sleep came, I reminded myself: 'Chief Biely is not pun- 
ished yet. And you, you must do that !' 

"So I was looking for him; what do I mean 'looking?' I 
did not eat good, I did not sleep well, because I had a prob- 
lem: to kill the murderer, but not to suffer for it. Why 
suffer ? Jewish blood was shed in plenty without mine. And, 
besides, I did not want to part with my life for only killing 
a dirty snake. 

"And I followed him as a good detective might do. Finally 
I caught him on the sea wall at night. He walked and 
smoked, but I walked and wept. Well, in short, I shot him— 
in his head— I shot him and cried out: 'This is to you for the 
pogrom, murderer ! By this God pays you with my hand/ 

«I fled— it was very dark. I threw my revolver into the 
sea, took a boat and went home. 

"The next morning the papers reported that Biely com- 
mitted suicide, because it was found that he was short in the 
government money. Afterward they said that some unknown 
convict, against whom he had testified, killed him. Soon 
they did not write about him at all. ..." 

Berezovitch stopped. Evidently, even to remember the 
past was painful. 

"No one knew that I was connected, closely connected, 
with the case. Only once our neighbor — will you believe me, 
she cried out both eyes for her little angels and now she is 
absolutely blind— asked me: 'You know Biely is killed! 
God has avenged my little ones. Maybe you know some- 
thing about it?* But I said 'No/ and she believed. 

"To my surprise, about a month later, the district attorney 
called me to his office. I did not like that. 'What do I know 
about Biely? 1 'Did he have any sins?' 'What do I know?' 
Good ! Well, I told him all that I knew of Biely for it was 
on my heart. I told him about the children and other things; 
well, everything but the night upon the sea-wall. 

April, 1918 


" 'I will arrest you/ said he. He was polite and used 

"What for? Why?' 

" 'You know too much.' 

"What do you mean — I know much? Everybody knows 
that ! You ask my neighbors. You ask the shoemaker who 
lives in the basement. It wasn't me who saw everything — 
everybody saw it!' 

"Well, the district attorney thought it over a while, then 
he shook my hand and said, 'All right. You sign a paper 
that you will not go away. Sign here, please/ 

"I signed— and thought 'will not go away ! It means that 
I must go away/ And — as further thinking of staying there 
only wasted time, I left Russia on the second day. What else 
shall I tell— I came here, not as Goldman but as Berezovitch, 
whom no one knows or has any interest in. 

"But now, when there is freedom and justice — real jus- 
tice — when workmen and not the legal wolves of the cruel 
rich sit in judgment; I have decided to go to the commis- 
sioner of justice— yes, to him, and say, 'I have killed— try 
me with all the authority of the law !' 

"And now, comrades, you know all — I have no need to 
hide myself. ..." 

By that time tears came from his eyes. They fell in big 
drops on his plate. He had forgotten the food set before 

The three Swedish girls that waited on us at the boarding 
house looked at him tenderly. They did not understand much 
Russian, but from the phrases they could pick out they 
thought Berezovitch an unequalled hero. 

"You are a good man and we all love you." With those 
words my neighbor went up to "imaginary Berezovitch" and 
kissed him. This was 'the signal for an ovation. 

"Berezovitch! Goldman! You are the man! You 
are. ..." 

"Comrades," thus began the man who first gave us the 
news of Berezovitch's expected departure, "Comrades, I re- 
peat, we are here only forty — but it could be two hundred. 
Tell me; who first gave you place and welcome when you 
came abroad ? Berezovitch ! Tell me ; who helped you with 
money and words of cheer when you were in need? He it 
was, Berezovitch! Did he not give his bed to anyone who 
had no money for rent ?" 

Cries of "Yes! Yes!" came from many. 

"Who fixed your clothes, and so well they looked as new? 
Berezovitch ! Who sent his last pennies to the war-prisoners 
in Germany ? Berezovitch ! He was for us all — an adviser, 
a 'good uncle' and a fine comrade. We cannot be at his trial, 
but we must help him. We cannot judge him; but never- 
theless it is our duty to give him a diploma, a recommenda- 
tion. And that of the best kind. Let us write one— everyone 
will sign it — and he will go on trial with it. Let them know 
who Berezovitch is. Let the commissioner knowl" 

Someone brought paper. Soon one was writing. . . . 

"The bearer of this," someone dictated, "tailor Berezo- 
vitch, but in reality Goldman from Odessa" — and added, 
"while being abroad, which, we, the undersigned ..." 

Berezovitch sat in silence. ... In his eyes there was 

Tulsa, November 9th 

[Editor's Note: — In this story of persecution and outrage at 
Tulsa, Oklahoma, told in the sworn statement of one of the 
victims, there is direct and detailed evidence of one of the most 
menacing by-products of the war. Here in Tulsa, as in Bisbee 
and Butte and Cincinnati, patriotic fervor was used by employ- 
ers with the connivance or open co-operation of local officials, 
as a mask for utterly lawless attacks upon workingmen who 
attempted to organize for better conditions. This false resort to 
loyalty on the part of certain war profiteers is emphasized in the 
recent Report of the President's Mediation Commission. These 
cowardly masked upper-class mobs, calling themselves "Knights 
of Liberty" and mumbling hypocritical words about "the women 
and children of Belgium," will not succeed in terrorizing the 
labor movement of America, nor will they tend to make it more 

(\N November 9, 1917, seventeen men, taken from the cus- 
^ tody of the city police of Tulsa, Oklahoma, were 
whipped, tarred and feathered, and driven out of the city 
with a warning never to return. 
In a letter dated December 21, a resident* of Tulsa, writes: 
"I think it is only fair to say that the bottom cause of this 
trouble locally was that a few men, presumably belonging to 
the I. W. W. came into the oil fields something like a year 
ago and were meeting with considerable success in getting 

oil-field workers— especially pipe-line and tank builders— to 
fight for better wages and shorter hours. 

"Not long after the outrage was committed in Butte, Mont., 
on the crippled I. W. W. leader (Frank Little), the home of 
J. Edgar Pew in this city was partly destroyed by some kind 
of explosion and Mr. and Mrs. Pew narrowly escaped being 
killed. The news agencies at once published it as a dastardly 
act of the I. W. W.'s.t Mr. Pew is the vice-president and 
active manager of the Carter Oil Co., which by the way, is 
owned and controlled by Standard Oil and is one of its largest 
producing subsidiary companies. A few weeks after the 
Pew home incident, an explosion followed by a fire partially 
destroyed an oil refinery that is located at Norfolk, Okla. 
This property was under the Carter Oil Co. management 
Two men lost their lives in this accident. The news agencies 
without exception (so far as I know) exploited this as an- 
other I. W. W. outrage." 

From this point we take up the story in a sworn statement 
made by the secretary of the Tulsa local. 

•Names of Informants are withheld for reasons of oaf ©ty. 
The names are in possession of the National Civil LibertUB 
Bureau, 70 Fifth Avenue, New York, which has the case in nana. 

t Several men are now reported in the press to he under 
arrest In Oklahoma for dynamiting the home of Mr, P<iw *nd 
the oil rennery,none of whom have any connection whatever 
with the I. W, W, 



"On the night of November 5, 1917, while sitting in the 
hall at No. 6 W. Brady Street, Tulsa, Okla. (the room leased 
and occupied by the Industrial Workers of the World, and 
used as a union meeting room), at about 8:45 P. M., five men 
entered the hall, to whom I at first paid no attention, as I 
was busy putting a monthly stamp in a member's union card 
book. After I had finished with the member, I walked back 
to where these five men had congregated at the baggage- 
room at the back of the hall, and spoke to them, asking if 
there was anything I could do for them. 

"One who appeared to be the leader, answered 'No, we're 
just looking the place over.' Two of them went into the 
baggage-room flashing an electric flash-light around the room. 
The other three walked toward the front end of the hall. I 
stayed at the baggage-room door, and one of the men came 
out and followed the other three up to the front end of the 
hall. The one who stayed in the baggage-room asked me if 
I was 'afraid he would steal something.' I told him we were 
paying rent for the hall, and I did not think anyone had a 
right to search this place without a warrant. He replied that 
he did not give a damn if we were paying rent for four places, 
they would search them whenever they felt like it. Presently 
he came out and walked toward the front end of the hall, and 
I followed a few steps behind him. 

"In the meantime the other men, who proved to be officers, 
appeared to be asking some of our members questions. Short- 
ly after, the patrol-wagon came and all the members in the 
hall — 10 men — were ordered into the wagon. I turned out the 
light in the back end of the hall, closed the desk, put the key 
in the door and told the 'officer' to turn out the one light. 
We stepped out, and I locked the door, and at the request of 
the 'leader of the officers/ handed him the keys. He told me 
to get in the wagon, I being the nth man taken from the hall, 
and we were taken to the police station. 

"November 6th, after staying that night in jail, I put up 
$100.00 cash bond so that I could attend to the outside busi- 
ness, and the trial was set for 5 o'clock P. M., November 6th. 
Our lawyer, Chas. Richardson, asked for a continuance and 
it was granted. Trial on a charge of vagrancy was set for 
November 7th at 5 P. M. by Police Court Judge Evans. 
After some argument by both sides the cases were continued 
until the next night, November 8th, and the case against 
Gunnard Johnson, one of our men, was called. After four 
and a half hours' session the case was again adjourned until 
November 9th at 5 P. M., when we agreed to let the decision 
in Johnson's case stand for all of us. . . . 

"Johnson said he had come into town Saturday, November 
3d, to get his money from the Sinclair Oil & Gas Co. and 
could not get it until Monday, the 5th, and was shipping out 
Tuesday, the 6th, and that he had $7.08 when arrested. He 
was reprimanded by the judge for not having a Liberty Bond, 
and as near as anyone could judge from the closing remarks 
of Judge Evans, he was found guilty and fined $100 for not 
having a Liberty Bond. 

"Our lawyer made a motion to appeal the case and the 
bonds were then fixed at $200 each. I was immediately ar- 
rested, as were also five spectators in the open court-room, 
for being I. W. W.'s. One arrested was not a member of 
ours, but a property-owner and citizen. I was searched and 
$30.87 taken from me, as also was the receipt for the $100 
bond, and we then were all placed back in the cells. 

"In about forty minutes, as near as we could judge, about 
11 P. M., the turnkey came and called 'Get ready to go Out 

you I. W. W. men/ We dressed as rapidly as possible, were 
taken out of the cells, and the officer gave us back our pos- 
sessions, Ingersoll watches, pocketknives and money, with the 
exception of $3 in silver of mine which they kept, giving me 
back $2787. I handed the receipt for the $100 bond I had 
put up to the desk sergeant, and he told me he did not know 
anything about it, and handed the receipt back to me, which 
I put in my trousers pocket with the 87 cents. Twenty-seven 
dollars in bills was in my coat pocket. We were immediately 
ordered into automobiles waiting in the alley. Then we pro- 
ceeded one block north to 1st Street, west one-half block to 
Boulder Street, north across the Frisco tracks and stopped. 

"Then the masked mob came up and ordered everybody to 
throw up their hands. Just here I wish to state I never 
thought any man could reach so high as those policemen did. 
We were then bound, some with hands in front, some with 
hands behind, and others bound with arms hanging down 
their sides, the rope being wrapped around the body. Then 
the police were ordered to 'beat it/ which they did, running, 
and we started for the place of execution. 

"When we arrived there, a company of gowned and masKed 
gunmen were there to meet us standing at 'present arms/ 
We were ordered out of the autos, told to get in line in front 
of these gunmen and another bunch of men with automatics 
and pistols, lined up between us. Our hands were still held 
up, and those who were bound, in front. Then a masked man 
walked down the line and slashed the ropes that bound us, 
and we were ordered to strip to the waist, which we did, 
threw our clothes in front of us, in individual piles — coats, 
vests, hats, shirts and undershirts. The boys not having had 
time to distribute their possessions that were given back to 
them at the police stations, everything was in the coats, 
everything we owned in the world. 

"Then the whipping began. A double piece of new rope, 
^ or % hemp, being used. A man, 'the chief of detectives, 
stopped the whipping of each man when he thought the vic- 
tim had enough. After each one was whipped another man 
applied the tar with a large brush, from the head to the seat. 
Then a brute smeared feathers over and rubbed them in. 

"After they had satisfied themselves that our bodies were 
well abused, our clothing was thrown into a pile, gasoline 
poured on it and a match applied. By the light of our earthly 
possessions, we were ordered to leave Tulsa, and leave run- 
ning and never come back. The night was dark, the road 
very rough, and as I was one of the last two that was 
whipped, tarred and feathered, and in the rear when ordered 
to run, I decided to be shot rather than stumble over the 
rough road. After going forty or fifty feet I stopped and 
went into the weeds. I told the man with me to get in the 
weeds also, as the shots were coming very close over us, and 
ordered him to lie down flat. We expected to be killed, but 
after 150 or 200 shots were fired they got in their autos. 

"After the last one had left, we went through a barbed- 
wire fence, across a field, called to the boys, collected them, 
counted up, and had all the 16 safe, though sore and nasty 
with tar. After wandering around the hills for some time — 
ages it seemed to me — we struck the railroad track. One 
man, Jack Sneed, remembered then that he knew a farmer in 
that vicinity, and he and J. F. Ryan volunteered to find the 
house. I built a fire to keep us from freezing. 

"We stood around the fire expecting to be shot, as we 
did not know but what some tool of the commercial club had 
followed us. After a long time Sneed returned and called 

April, 1918 


to us, and we went with him to a cabin and found an I. W. 
W. friend in the shack and 5 gallons of coal oil or kerosene, 
with which we cleaned the filthy stuff off of each other, and 
our troubles were over, as friends sent clothing and money 
to us that day, it being about 3 or 3:30 A. M. when we 
reached the cabin. 

"The men abused, whipped and tarred were: Tom Mc- 
Caffery, John Myers, John Boyle, Charles Walsh, W. H. 
Walton, L. R. Mitchell, Jos. French, J. R. Hill, Gunnard 
Johnson, Robt. McDonald, John Fitzsimmons, Jos. Fischer, 
Gordon Dimikson, J. F. Ryan, E. M. Boyd, Jack Sneed (not 

"This is a copy of my sworn statement and every word is 

In answer to special inquiry the writer added to his state- 
ment as follows : 

"It was very evident that the police force knew what was 
going to happen when they took us from jail, as there were 
extra gowns and masks provided which were put on by the 
Chief of Police and one detective named Blaine, and the 
number of blows we received were regulated by the Chief 
of Police himself, who was easily recognizable by six of us 
at least. 1 ' 

The above account is substantiated at every point by a 
former employee of The Federal Industrial Relations Com- 
mission, who at the request of the National Civil Liberties 
Bureau made a special investigation of the whole affair. His 
report names directly nine leaders of the mob, including five 
members of the police force. 

The part played by the press in this orgy of "Patriotism" is 
illustrated by the following excerpts from an editorial which 
appeared in the Tulsa Daily World on the afternoon of 
the 9th : 


"Any man who attempts to stop the supply for one-hun- 
dredth part of a second is a traitor and ought to be 
shot! . . . 

"The oil country can take care of its own troubles. It does not 
need the I. W. W. . . . 

"In the meantime, if the I. W. W. or its twin brother, the Oil 
Workers' Union, gets busy in your neighborhood, kindly take 
occasion to decrease the supply of hemp. A knowledge of how to 
tie a knot that will stick might come in handy in a few days. It 
is no time to dally with the enemies of the country. The un- 
restricted production of petroleum is as necessary to the winning 
of the war as the unrestricted production of gunpowder. We are 
either going to whip Germany or Germany is going to whip us. 
The first step in the whipping of Germany is to strangle the 
I. W. W/s, Kill them, just as you would kill any other kind of 
a snake. Don't scotch 'em; kill 'em. And kill 'em dead. It is 
no time to waste money on trials and continuances and things like 
that. All that is necessary is the evidence and a firing squad. 
Probably the carpenters' union will contribute the timber for 
the coffins." 

Our Cover Design 

TS a drawing by Frank Walts, of Miss Anita Loos, the film- 
playwright. Its use does not imply that Miss Loos en- 
dorses our opinions, but only that we endorse her picture ! 

Art Young 
RIDGEVILLE, N. H.— George Turnip, a leading 
citizen of this town, was given a birthday dinner 
today in honor of his sixty-third birthday. Mr. 
Turnip, who is a bachelor, made a strong speech in 
favor of military training for every male citizen over 
nineteen and under sixty-three years of age. 


A USTRIA proposed the following towns as a north- 
western frontier for Ukrainia: Wydozowskyesee, 
Prushany, Kamietslitowsk, Wysekelitowsk, Meshiret- 
schei, Radzyn, Pugaszce, Krasnostau, and Sroezeberz- 
szyn. These natural fortifications ought to ensure the 
Ukrainians against any attempt of foreigners to interfere 
in their affairs. 


A FIDDLE is a strange thing 

To walk with under sky — 
O the fiddle knows what it wants to sing 
But never do I. 

And when I take it in my hands 

It starts to sing — but why? 
Perhaps the riddle understands, 

But never do I. 

Annette Wynne. 





October 23, 1917. 

"T AM a doomed man/' said Alexander Kerensky from the 
* tribune of the Council of the Russian Republic on October 
13th, "and it doesn't matter what happens to me . . . ." 

Doomed indeed. Tuberculosis of the kidneys, of the lungs, 
and they say tumor of the stomach. Extremely emotional, 
strung to an almost hysterical pitch, the awful task of riding 
the Russian whirlwind is wearing him down visibly. 

"Comrades!" he said at the Democratic Assembly, "If I 
speak to you like this, it is because the cross I carry, and 
which forces me to be far from you, is so terribly heavy!" 

At the time of this writing, October 23, Kerensky. is alone, 
as perhaps never leader has been alone in all history. In the 
midst of the class-struggle, which deepens and grows bitterer 
day by day, his place becomes more and more precarious. 
Things are moving swiftly to a crisis, to the "lutte finale" 
between bourgeoisie and proletariat — which Kerensky tried 
with all his strength to avoid— and the "Moderates" disappear 
from the stormy scene. Kerensky alone remains, stubborn 
and solitary, holding his way .... 

The revolutionary democracy says that he has "sold out" 
to the bourgeoisie and the foreign imperialists. The bour- 
geoisie and the reactionary foreign influences — with the 
British Embassy at their head— accuse him of having "sold 
out" to the Germans. Upon him is concentrated the hatred 
of both sides, as upon a symbol of Russia torn in half. 
Kerensky will fall, and his fall will be the signal for civil 

The familiar villifications are heaped upon him; he is 
everything from "traitor" to "corruptor of children." A 
common tale, reprinted weekly in the newspapers, is that of 
his separation from his wife, and approaching marriage with 
a well-known variety actress — or even that the actress is liv- 
ing in the Winter Palace. One of the former Ministers, 
whose apartment was next to Kerensky's, says that he was 
kept awake all night by the Premier singing operatic arias — 
and adds that Kerensky sleeps in the gold and blue bed of the 
Tsar Alexander III, which is a very wide bed .... 
People repeat that Kerensky is surrounding himself with 
imperial pomp, and I have been told how, while speaking at 
the Moscow Conference, he kept two officers standing at 
salute until they fainted— a myth which has been exploded 
by every eye-witness. But the most widely-spread accusation 
is that "he is just trying to make a name for himself in 
history." And if that is Kerensky's fell design, he has suc- 

In all the multitudes of revolutionary leaders there is not 
one with Kerensky's personal magnetism, his dramatic fac- 
ulty of firing men. I first saw him at the Democratic Assem- 
bly, where he marched into the middle of the great Alexan- 
drinsky Theater, in the midst of an immense hostile crowd 
firmly convinced that he was implicated in the Kornilov affair, 
and swept them off their feet by his passionate speech. At 
the opening of the Council of the Russian Republic I again 
heard him, and twice more, raising himself and his audience 

to heights of emotion, collapsing utterly afterward, and the 
last time weeping violently in his seat. A tall, broad- 
shouldered figure as he stood there, in his utterly plain brown 
uniform, rather flabby around the middle, with flashing eyes, 
bristling hair, abrupt gestures, and swift, resonant speech. 
What did he say? Nothing very concrete, except once when 
he bitterly denounced the Bolsheviki for provoking blood- 
shed, Otherwise vague defenses of himself, generalities 
about the necessity for disorder in the country to cease, 
about defending the revolution, about free Russia .... 
A man of moods, nervous, domineering, independent, of 
fearful capacity for work under frightful physical handi- 
caps, absolutely honest but with no real fixity of purpose — 
as the leader of the Russian Revolution should have. And 

We had many appointments to see him at his office in the 
Winter Palace. Always at the last moment he would sud- 
denly be taken ill, or busy — with meetings of the Govern- 
ment, the War Council, deputations from the front, from the 
Caucausus, Siberia, visits of the Allied Ambassadors, or a 
delegation like one we saw — reactionary priests objecting to 
the separation of Church and State .... 

Finally one day we penetrated as far as the private bil- 
liard-room of the Emperor, an immense chamber paneled in 
rose-wood inlaid with brass, where in a corner beside the 
Gargantuan rose-wood billiard table, below the shrouded 
portraits of the Tsars, was the plain desk at which he worked. 
The military Commissar for the Russian troops in France and 
Salonika was striding up and down, biting his nails. It ap- 
peared that the Minister-President was closeted with the 
British Ambassador, hours late for all appointments .... 

Then, just as we were about to give up, the door opened 
and a smiling little spic-and-span naval adjutant beckoned. 
We entered a great mahogany room, lined with heavy Gothic 
book-cases, in the center of which a stairway mounted to a 
balcony above. This was the Tsar's private library and re- 
ception-room. I had time to notice the works of Jack London, 
in English, on a shelf, when Kerensky came toward us. As 
he shook hands he looked into each face searchingly for a 
second, and then led the way swiftly across to a big table 
with chairs all around. 

On his high forehead the short hair bristled straight up 
like a brush, grey-discolored. His whole face was greyish 
in color, puffed out unhealthily, with deep pouches under the 
eyes. He looked at one shrewdly, humorously, squinting as 
if the light hurt. The long fingers of his hands twisted 
nervously tight around each other once or twice, and then he 
laid them on the table, and they were quiet. His whole atti- 
tude was quizzically friendly, as if receiving reporters was 
an amusing relaxation. When he picked up a paper with 
questions on it, I noticed that he put it within an inch of 
his eyes, as if he were terribly near-sighted. 

"What do you consider your job here?" I asked him. He 
laughed as if it tickled him. 

"Just to free Russia," he answered drily, and smiled as if it 
were a good joke. 

"What do you think will be the solution of the present 
struggle between the extreme radicals and the extreme reac- 
tionaries ?" 



"That I won't answer/' he shot back swiftly. "What's the 

"What have you to say to the democratic masses of the 
United States?" 

"Well . . ."he rubbed his chin and grinned. "What am 
I going to say to that ?" His attitude said, do you think I'm 
God Almighty? "Let them understand the Russian democ- 
racy," he went on, "and help it to fight reaction — everywhere 
in the world. Let them understand the soul of Russia, the 
real spirit of the Russian people. That's all I have to say to 

I then asked, "What lesson do you draw from the Russian 
Revolution for the revolutionary democratic elements of the 

"Ah-hah." He turned that over in his mind and gave me a 
sharp look. "Do you think the Revolution in Russia is over, 
then? It would be very short-sighted for me to draw %w 
lesson from the Revolution." He jerked his head in emph- 
asis, and spoke vehemently. "Let the masses of the Russian 
people in action teach their own lesson. Draw the lesson 
yourself, comrade — you can see it before your eyes !" 

He stopped and then began abruptly: 

"This is not a political revolution. It is not like the French 
revolution. It is an economic revolution, and there will be 
necessary in Russia a profound revaluation of classes. And 
it is also a complicated process for the many different na- 
tionalities of Russia. Remember that the French revolu- 
tion took five years, and that France was inhabited by one 
people, and that France is only the size of three of our pro- 
vincial districts. No, the Russian revolution is not over- 
it is just beginning!" 

I made way for the Associated Press correspondent, who 
had the usual Associated Press prejudices against common 
peasants, soldiers and workingmen who insisted upon calling 
one tavaristch — comrade. 

"Mr. Kerensky," said the Associated Press man, "in 
England and France people are disappointed with the Revo- 

"Yes, I know," interrupted Kerensky, quizzically. "Abroad 
it is fashionable to be disappointed with the Revolution 1" 

"I mean," went on the Associated Press man, a little dis- 
concerted, "people are disappointed in Russia's part in the 

I remember it was the day after the news reached Petro- 
grad of the great defeat of the Italians on the Carso; for 
Kerensky immediately shot back, with a grin, "The young 
man had better go to Italy !" 

The Associated Press man tried again. "What is your ex- 
planation of why the Russians have stopped fighting?" 

"That is a foolish question to ask," Kerensky was annoyed. 
"Russia started the war first, and for a long time she bore the 
whole brunt of it. Her losses have been inconceivably greater 
than any other nation. Russia has now the right to demand 
of the Allies that they bring to bear a greater force of arms." 
He stopped and stared for a moment at his interlocutor. 
"You are asking why the Russians have stopped fighting, and 
the Russians are asking where is the British fleet — with the 
German battleships in the Gulf of Riga?" Again he ceased 
suddenly, and as suddenly burst out again. "The Russian 

Revolution hasn't failed and the Revolutionary Army hasn't 
failed. It is not the Revolution which caused disorganiza- 
tion in the army — that disorganization was accomplished 
years ago, by the old regime. Why aren't the Russians 
fighting? I will tell you. Because the masses of the people 
are economically tired — and because they are disillusioned 
with the Allies !" 

The Associated Press man tried a new tack. "Do you 
think it would be advantageous to bring American troops 
to Russia?" 

"Good," remarked the Premier off-hand, "but impossible. 
Transportation ..." 

"What can America do which would help Russia the most ?" 

Without hesitation Kerensky answered, "Send us boots, 
shoes, machinery — and money'' 

Abruptly he stood up, shook hands, and before we were 
out the room he went quickly across to a desk piled high 
with papers, and began to write . . . 


November 25, 19 17. 

It is just a month since I wrote the first part of this article. 
Kerensky saw the truth : but he could not gauge the excitation 
of spirit, the deep trouble of the slow-moving Russian masses. 
He thought the radical democratic program could be worked 
out slowly, by means of Constituent Assemblies and such- 
like, after the victorious end of the War which would have 
made "the world safe for democracy." The idea of Social- 
ism, or a Proletarian State, subsisting in the imperfect 
capitalist world of today, was to him inconceivable. 

The Bolshevik peace cry had swelled into a chorus which 
drowned every other sound. It was at this time that a promi- 
nent American visiting Russia said to me, "There is only 
one real party in Russia — the peace party." 

But Kerensky defied the Bolsheviki, and commenced the 
struggle which ended when he fled, alone and in disguise 
from the battlefield where he had been defeated. 

By that act he lost whatever popularity he had retained 
among the revolutionary masses ... He hardly realized 
this, for after a silence he addressed to Russia an open 
letter in which he said: 

"Be citizens, don't finish with your own hands the country 
and the revolution for which you have struggled these eight 
months ! Leave the fools and traitors ! Return to the people, 
return to the service of the country and the revolution I 

"It is I, Kerensky, who say this . . . 

"Pull yourselves together]" 

In that hysterical communication may be discerned all the 
traits of Kerensky's character — the incomprehension of the 
movement, sympathy for the people, absolute and utter dis- 
belief in the revolutionary method, nervous bitterness, 
wounded pride ... He could not then have grasped — and 
cannot now — the fact that the masses of poor people he loved 
and gave his life to help have turned away from him. At the 
moment he counts actually less in Russia than Bryan does at 



A Visit to the Russian 

"'T^HE bearer of this, John Reed, known to the 
* Cultural-Publicity office of the Political Depart- 
ment of the Ministry of War as a member of the Ameri- 
can Socialist Party, is authorized to proceed to the active 
army to gather information for the North American 
Press ...... 

"Observation: To the Commissar belongs the right to 
recall agitators and propagandists." 

Surely never stranger passport carried correspondent to 
the front, opened all doors, made the commandant of the 
Baltic station set aside a separate first-class compartment for 
the "American Mission/' as he called us. An Orthodox 
priest, bound on volunteer priestly duty to the trenches, 
humbly begged the honor of travelling in our company. He 
was a big, healthy man, with a wide, simple Russian face, a 
gentle smile, an enormous reddish beard, and an insatiable 
desire for conversation. 

"Eto Vierno! It's true!" he said, with the suspicion of a 
sigh. "The revolution has weakened the hold of the church 
on the masses of the people. Some say that we served the 
old regime — that we 'blessed the gallows' of the revolutionary 
martyrs. But I remember in 1905, when thirteen sappers 
were executed for mutiny, no priest would administer the last 
rites. How could we speak consoling words to a man about 
to be murdered? 

"Some have lost all faith, but the great masses are still 
very religious — even though extreme revolutionaries. On 
the caps of the reserves used to be a cross and the words, 
( Za verou, tsaria, i otechestvo' — For faith, tsar, and father- 
land.' Well, they scratched out the 'faith' along with the 
rest. ..." He shook his head. "In the old text of the 
church prayers God was referred to as 'Tsar of Heaven/ and 
the Virgin as 'Tsarina/ We've had to leave that out— the 
people would't have God insulted, they say. ..." 

We went on to speak of his work in the armies, and his 
face grew infinitely tender. 

"During regimental prayer the priest prays for peace to 
all nations. Whereupon the soldiers cry out, 'Add "without 
annexations or indemnities !" ' Then we pray for all those 
who are travelling, for the sick and the suffering; and the 
soldiers cry, Tray also for the deserters!' Simple-minded 
children ! They think that God must grant anything if it is 
included in a regular prayer by a regularly ordained priest. 
Woe to the priest who refuses to pray the soldiers' prayer !" 
He mused for a moment. 

"But the soldiers are not pious when they are not in danger. 
It is only before an attack that they come crowding to me 
to confess themselves, often weeping, who beg me to pray 
the good God for their souls. We Russians have a proverb — 
The Russian man won't cross himself until it thunders/ " 

We talked of the great Church Congress at Moscow, the 
first since Peter the Great, with its convocation of the 
Patriarchs of Constantinople, Athens, Alexandria and Jeru- 
salem, the Metropolitans of the Russian cities, the Arch- 
bishops from Japan, Persia, Roumania, Turkestan, all in a 
ferment of democratic revolt; and of the innumerable Rus- 
sian sects — Doukhobors, Molochani Baptists, Diendicki or 

"Holers," who must have a hole in the roof of their taber- 
nacle for the Holy Ghost to descend through. Williams, 
my American companion, told of a Volga peasant, who at- 
tributed the ills of Russia to the sinful practise of crossing 
oneself with three fingers — he being an Old Believer, and 
using only two. . . . And the priest explained to us how 
the rites of the Orthodox Church were designed to symbolize 
different stages in the life and passion of Christ, and how no 
woman, even a girl-child being baptized, was permitted at 
the altar. 

At every station the train made a long halt to allow the 
passengers time for many glasses of tea and a great gulping 
of food, in the cheerful, steamy clatter of crowded waiting 
rooms. In between times utter strangers, officers and civil- 
ians, drifted in, and our converse was of curious matters. 

The evening papers announced that Martov and the 
Mensheviki-Internationalists had formally broken with the 
Tseretelli-Lieber-Dan group, because of their "hesitating 
policy of compromise." 

"Tseretelli, Dan, Lieber, Gotz, and Tcheidze are the 
Girondins of our time," said one young captain who spoke 
French. "And they will share the fate of the Gironde. I 
am with them," he added. 

The priest lived in Tashkent, in the Trans-Caspia, where 
he had a wife and five children. He told about the singular 
institution of the Thieves' Bureau, where persons who had 
been robbed could go and recover their property by paying 
its value, less 20 per cent, discount for cash. A thin little 
school-teacher described the Thieves' Convention held in 
Rostov-on-Don this summer with delegates from all over 
Russia, which despatched a formal protest to the Govern- 
ment against the rapacity and venality of the police. And a 
fat polkovnik spoke of the Convention of German and Aus- 
trian Prisoners of War, in Moscow, which demanded the 
eight-hour workday — and got it ! 

Rumor had it that the armies at the front would leave the 
trenches and go home for the feast of Pakrov, the first of 
October — then only four days off. Each one was concerned 
about this immense threat of dissolution. . . . The priest 
had been present at two meetings of regimental Soviets, where 
bitter resolutions had been passed. Some one had the official 
newspaper of the Eighth Army soldiers' committees, with an 
obscure account of military riots at Gomel. The Lettish 
troops were also stirred up. What if the millions of Rus- 
sian soldiers were simply to stop fighting and start for the 
cities, for the capital, for their villages? The old polkovnik 
muttered, "We are lost. Russia is defeated. And besides, 
life is so uncomfortable now that it is not worth living. Why 
not finish everything?" With whom the French-speaking 
officer, revolutionists by theory, debated hotly but courteously. 
The priest told a very simple Rabelaisian story about a sol- 
dier who seduced a peasant girl by promising that her child 
would be a general. . . . 

It grew late, the lights were dim and intermittent, and 
there was no heat in the car. The priest shivered. "Well," 
he said finally, his teeth chattering, "it is too cold to stay 
awake!" And with that he lay down just as he was, with- 
out any covering but his long skirts, and immediately fell to 
snoring. . . . 

Very early in the morning we awoke, stiff and numb. The 
sun sparkled through the frosty windows. A small boy came 
through with tea — chocolate candy in place of sugar. The 
train was poking down across rich Estland, through white 

April, 1918 


birch forests glorious with yellow autumn foliage like bright 
flame; sometimes clumps of sombre pines, with the birch 
leaves breaking through as if the whole woods were on fire; 
long, gently-rolling waves of opulent farm-land, yellow wheat 
stubble, emerald green grass still, and the pale blue-green of 
miles of cabbages; and immense farm-houses set in the midst 
of barns, the whole covered with one great thatched roof, on 
which thick moss was growing. On the slow rises of country, 
huge gray-stone windmills, weathered and mossy, whirled 
their agitated sails. Along the track marched a new road- 
bed, with the ties in place at many points, and piles of rails. 

Before the revolution no effort had been made to con- 
struct this badly-needed track — since March, however, the 
Russians had completed twenty-six versts of it; but the 
Germans, in the one month since the fall of Riga, had built 
more than thirty miles. 

Soldiers began to thicken, at all stations, in barns and 
farm-houses far seen; gigantic bearded men in dun coats, 
boots, peaked caps or shaggy shapkis, almost always with a 
touch of red somewhere about them. Patrols of Cossacks 
rode along the roads deep in black mud. Military trains, all 
box-cars with masses of men on top and inside, clanked past 
with broken echoes of mass-singing. The Red Cross flag 
made its appearance. At Valk an excited sub-officer said 
we must go up into the town and get passes before proceed- 
ing further. The conductor announced that the train would 
leave in three minutes. 

"You will be arrested! You will be arrested!" cried the 
sub-officer, shaking his finger at me. But we sat still, and no 
one ever again spoke of passes. 

At Venden, beyond which no trains go, we disembarked in 
a swirling mob of soldiers going home. A sentry at the door 
was tired of examining passes and just motioned us wearily 
through. No one seemed to know where the Staff head- 
quarters was; finally an officer, after some thought, said he 
thought the Staff had retired to Valk. "But you don't want 
the Staff," he added, "the Iskosol is in charge of things here." 
And he pointed to the town's chief building, formerly the 
Convention of Justices of the Peace, where sat the "Iskosol," 
or Central Executive Committee of the Soldiers' Deputies. 

In a large bare room on the second floor, amid the clack 
of busy stenographers and the come-and-go of couriers, depu- 
tations, functioned the nerve-center of the Twelfth Army, the 
spontaneous democratic organization created by the soldiers 
at the outbreak of the Revolution. A handsome young lieu- 
tenant, with Jewish features, stood behind a table, running 
his hand through his gray-streaked hair worriedly, while a 
torrent of agitated complaint beat upon him. Four delega- 
tions from the regiments in the trenches, mostly soldiers, with 
a couple of officers mixed in, were appealing to the Iskosol 
all at once; one regiment was almost without boots — the 
Iskosol had promised six hundred pairs and had only de- 
livered sixty; a very ragged private spokesman for another 
committee, complained that the artillery had been given their 
winter fur coats, but the cavalry was still in summer uni- 
form. . . . One sub-officer, a mere boy, kept shouting an- 
grily that the Iskosol buzzed around a good deal, but nothing 
seemed to be accomplished. . . . 

"Da, da!" responded the officer vaguely, "Yes, yes. S 
chass, s chass. I will write immediately to the Commissar- 
iat. ..." 

On a little table were piled heaps of pamphlets and news- 
papers, among which I noticed Elisee Reclus' "Anarchy and 

the Church." A soldier sat in a broken chair nearby, reading 
aloud the Isvestia— official organ of the Petrograd Execu- 
tive Committee of the All-Russian Soviets — about the forma- 
tion of the new government ; and as he declaimed the names 
of the Cadet ministers, the listeners gave vent to laughter 
and ironical "hoorah's." Near the window stood Voitinsky, 
assistant Commissar of the Twelfth Army, with his semi- 
military coat buttoned up to his chin — a little man whose 
blue eyes snapped behind thick glasses, with bristling red 
hair and beard; he who was a famous exile in Siberia, and 
the author of "Smertnikif a book more terrible than "Seven 
Who Were Hanged. ..." 

These Comissars are civilians, suggested by the revolu- 
tionary Commissars of the French revolutionary government 
in 1793; chief representatives of the Provisional Government 
at the front, appointed by the Government with the approval 
of the Soviets. 

In precise, short sentences Voitinsky explained that mili- 
tary operations were not his province, unless he was con- 
sulted; but he had just that day come to Venden at the request 
of a general to decide a question of tactics. 

"My job," he said, "is to build a military machine which 
will retake Riga. But conditions here are desperate. The 
army lacks everything — food, clothes, boots, munitions. The 
roads are awful, and it has been raining steadily for two 
weeks. The horses of the transport are underfed and worn 
out, and it is all they can do to haul enough bread to keep us 
from starving. But the most serious lack at the front, more 
serious than the lack of food and clothes, is the lack of boots, 
pamphlets and newspapers. You see, since the revolution the 
army has absorbed tons of literature, propaganda, and has a 
gnawing hunger; and now all that is cut off. We not only 
permit, but encourage the importation of all kinds of litera- 
ture in the army — it is necessary in order to keep up the 
spirits of the troops. Since the Kornilov affair, and 
especially since the Democratic Congress, the soldiers have 
been very uneasy. Yes, many have simply laid down their 
arms and gone home. The Russian army is sick of 
war. ..." 

Voitinsky had had no sleep for thirty- six hours. Yet he 
fairly radiated quick energy as he saluted and ran down the 
steps to his mud-covered automobile — bound on a forty-mile 
ride through the deep mud, in the shadow of the coming rain- 
storm, to judge a dispute between officers and soldiers. . . . 

Growling and grumbling the regimental delegations went 
tljeir way, and the Jewish subaltern, whose name was Tumar- 
kin, led us into another room and passed around cigarettes, 
while he recounted the history of the Iskosol. 

It was the first revolutionary organization of soldiers in 
active service. 

"You see," said Tumarkin, "the row in Petrograd took us 
by surprise. Of course we knew that sooner or later . . . 
but it came all of a sudden, as such things do. There were a 
crowd of us revolutionists in the army — I myself was a 
political exile in France when the war broke out. 

"Well, in the revolution of 1905 there was established a 
Soviet of Workmen in Petrograd, and we tried to make one 
in the army, at various places. But the masses of the sol- 
diers were ignorant of Socialist ideas, and indifferent — so 
we failed then. Afterward we realized our mistake, and be- 
gan to work on the army; but in February, 1917, when 
things broke loose in Peter, we were scared. We thought 
they might send us to suppress the revolution. So we hastily 



met, about a dozen of us, and started to win over the 
army. . . . 

"News from Petrograd was rare and contradictory. Our 
own staff officers were hostile. We didn't know if the revo- 
lution was winning or not. . . . For a week we hurried 
from place to place, holding soldiers* meetings, explaining, 
arguing; and at every meeting we made the men pass a 
resolution swearing that they would face death for the revo- 

"On March 9, just eleven days after the outbreak in the 
capital, we got together a Soviet of the army in Riga — one 
delegate from each company, battery and squadron — three 
thousand in all. They elected an Executive Committee of 
sixty men, which began to establish communications with 
other revolutionary military organizations. Most of the 
time we didn't know even if there were any other bodies like 
ours, but simply telegraphed to 'Revolutionary Soldiers, 
Fourth Army* — like that. And for signature we made a 
code-word of the first three syllables of our organization's 
name — *Is-ko-sol." All the other Executive Committees call 
themselves 'Armikom.' 

"Three days after organizing we began to publish our 
paper, Russki Front. What a job it was, to educate, to or- 
ganize ! The officers didn't understand the revolution — they 
had been trained to a caste apart; but there was no killing 
of officers in this army. Only expulsions. . . . Before we 
left Riga the Russki Front had a circulation of 25,000 among 
the soldiers, and 5,000 in the city ; to support it we proclaimed 
a Contribution Day for the Soldiers' Press, and raised 58,000 
roubles. ..." 

The Iskosol is only one typical manifestation of the im- 
mense fertility of representative organization, a thousand 
times duplicated, which pervades Russian military and civil 
life now. It is primarily the organ by which the soldiers of 
the Twelfth Army take part in the furious new political life 
of the country; but in the chaos left by the break-down of 
the old regime, it has been forced to assume extraordinary 
functions. For example: The Iskosol fulfills the duties of 
commissariat department ; it attempts to reconcile differences 
between officers and men; conducts primary and secondary 
schools among all bodies of troops in repose or reserve ; and 
in certain cases, like the retreat from Riga, where the com- 
manding staff was utterly demoralized, takes actual command 
of the troops. Its members are scattered throughout the 
army, sent from place to place during engagements, encour- 
aging, inspiring, leading. . . . 

Beneath it is an intricate system of committees—in each 
company, regiment, brigade, division, corps — half political, 
half military, and all elected by the soldiers, with represen- 
tatives in each higher committee — the whole finally culmi- 
nating in the Little Soviet of Soldiers' Deputies, one delegate 
from each regiment, which meets about once a month — and 
the Big Soviet, five from each regiment, whose sessions are 
less frequent, and whose Executive Committee, elected every 
three months, forms the Iskosol. The Iskosol has three dele- 
gates in the Central Committee of the All-Russian Soviets 
at Petrograd, and one man attached to the Army Staff. 

But that is not all. The passion for democratic expres- 
sion and the swiftness of revolutionary events has given 
birth to other organizations. Three months ago, when the 
Iskosol was elected, there was very little bolshevik sentiment 
in the Twelfth Army; but since the Kornilov affair the 

masses of soldiers are largely bolshevik. Now the Iskosol 
has no bolshevik members, and the Iskosol is predominantly 
abaronetz— in favor of continuing the war to victory. So 
forty-three regiments have formed a new central body of 
bolshevik delegates, called the Left Bloc, which also has 
representatives in Petrograd. 

And then there are the Letts. There are nine Lettish regi- 
ments in the army, the most desperate fighters — since they 
are fighting for their own homes, and the great majority of 
these are revolutionary social democrats. Although repre- 
sented in the Iskosol, they have their own central body also, 
the "Iskolostreel," or Central Committee of the Lettish 
"Streelniki" — Sharp-shooters. Over the Iskolostreel is still 
a higher body, the "I skolat"— Central Committee of the Lett- 
ish Soviet of Soldiers, Workers, and Landless Farm-workers. 
As all over Russia this district or province Soviet is fed by 
innumerable small Soviets in every village, town and city, 
and has its delegates in the All-Russian Central body at 
Petrograd. The landless farm-laborers, however, who are a 
real agricultural proletariat, in Estland replace the peasants 
of the other Russian provinces; and the Russian Soviet of 
the district is composed only of soldiers, as there are neither 
Russian workmen nor Russian peasants in Livonia. 

There is still another organization, called the Nationalist 
Bloc, composed of Poles, Lithuanians, Ukrainians, Finns and 
various others of the fifty-seven peoples of Russia whose 
purpose is to agitate for separation of various degrees. . . . 

And it is a characteristic of this extraordinary complex, 
multiple system of elective organizations, working feverishly 
and often at cross-purposes, that it throws off among its other 
forms of expression a prodigious amount of literature. The 
Iskosol publishes Russki Front, the Soviet another paper 
called Bulletin of the Soldiers' Delegates; from the Left 
Bloc comes Golos XII Armia; the Nationalist Bloc has its 
own organ; the Iskolostreel runs the daily Latwju Strehl* 
neeks; and before the fall of Riga there were besides three 
papers of as many Social Democrat factions, one of the 
Socialist Revolutionists, and a fifth of the Populist party— 
besides all the regular pre-revolutionary journals of Riga; 
and most of these have again sprung up in the little 
Lettish towns among the gun positions. Added to all these 
are the Petrograd papers, especially Gorky's Novaia Zhizn 
and the Bolshevik Soldat and Rabotchi Poot, and all the 
others whose endless names escape me, which are poured into 
the army zone by the hundreds of millions. 

And all this terrible eagerness for self-government and 
for self-expression is working as much in all the Russian 
armies, everywhere along a thousand miles of front, among 
twelve million men suddenly free from tyranny. . . . 

Tumarkin was telling us how the Iskosol sent its own dele- 
gates to Baku for oil, to the Volga to buy or commandeer 
wheat, up into Archangelsk Government for timber, and 
how it ordered guns and ammunition from the big munitions 
works in Petrograd. Just then the door opened and a 
frowzled head peeked in, followed by a dirty, bearded face. 
"I am lost!" groaned Tumarkin. Immediately the room 
seemed full of sullen-looking soldiers; spokesmen of delega- 
tions began. 

"I represent," said he of the face, "the cooks of the 26th 
Division. We haven't any more wood — the soldiers want us 
to tear down the farmhouses to make fires for cooking their 
meals " 

The next soldier elbowed his way to the front, spurs clink- 

April, 1918 


ing. The horses of the cavalry were dying of hunger. No 
hay. . . . Tears welled up in his eyes ; he had seen his own 
horse fall down in the road. . . . 

"Here !" cried the unhappy Tumarkin, holding out a paper 
to us. "This is a proclamation we printed in the Soldiers' 
Press the day Riga fell. The shells were bursting around the 
office while we set type. Volunteers pasted it up on the walls 
and posts all over the city " And he was swallowed up. 

The proclamation was in German. 

"The Executive Committee of the Russian Soviet 
of Soldiers* Deputies of the Twelfth Army to the 
German Soldiers. 
"German Soldiers! 

"The Russian soldiers of the Twelfth Army draw your 
attention to the fact that you are carrying on a war for 
autocracy against revolution, freedom and justice. The 
victory of Wilhelm will be death to democracy and free- 
dom. We withdraw from Riga, but we know that the 
forces of the revolution will ultimately prove themselves 
more powerful than the force of cannons. We know 
that in the long run your conscience will overcome every- 
thing, and that the German soldiers, with the Russian 
revolutionary army, will march to the victory of free- 
dom. You are at present stronger than we are, but yours 
is only the victory of the brute force. The moral force 
is on our side. History will tell that the German prole- 
tarians went against their revolutionary brothers, and 
they forgot the international working-class solidarity. 
This crime you can expiate only by one means. You 
must understand your own and at the same time the 
universal interests, and strain all your immense power 
against imperialism, and go hand in hand with us— 
toward life and freedom!" 

Outside it was raining, and the mud of the streets had been 
tracked on the sidewalks by thousands of boots until it was 
difficult to walk. The city was darkened against hostile 
aeroplanes; only chinks of light gleamed from shutters, and 
blinds glowed dull red. The narrow street made unexpected 
turns. In the dark we hurtled incessant passing soldiers, 
spangled with cigarette-lights. Gose by passed a series of 
great trucks, some army-transport, rushing down in the black 
gloom with a noise like thunder, and a fan-like spray of ooze. 
Right before me someone scratched a match, and I saw a 

soldier pasting a white paper on a wall. Our guide, one of 
the Iskosol, gave an exclamation and ran up, flashing an 
electric torch. We read: 

"Comrade soldiers! 

"The Venden Soviet of Workmen's and Soldiers* 
Deputies has arranged for Thursday, September 28, at 
4 o'clock in the park, a MEETING. Tavaristch Peters, 
of the Central Committee of the Lettish Social Demo- 
cratic party, will speak on: 

" 'The Democratic Congress and the Crisis of Power/ " 

The Iskosol man was sputtering. "That meeting is for- 
bidden," he cried. "The commandant has forbidden it!" 
The other man spat. "The commandant is a damn bour- 
geois," he remarked. "This Peters is bolshevik," argued 
our friend. "Meetings are not allowed in the zone of war. 
That is the rule. The Iskosol has forbidden this meeting." 
But the soldier only grinned maliciously. "The Iskosol too 
is bourgeois," he answered, and turned away. "We want to 
hear about this democratic Congress." 

At the little hotel the proprietor, half hostile, half greedy- 
frightened, said that there were no rooms. 

"How about that room ?" asked our friend, pointing. 

"That is the commandant's room," he replied, gruffly. 

"The Iskosol takes it," said the other. We got it. 

It was an old Lettish peasant woman who brought us tea, 
and peered at us out of her bleary eyes, rubbing her hand and 
babbling German. "You are foreigners," she said, "glory to 
God. These Russians are dirty folk, and they do not pay." 
She leaned down and hoarsely whispered: "Oh, if the Ger- 
mans would only hurry. We respectable folk all want the 
Germans to come here!" 

And through the shut wooden blinds, as we settled down to 
sleep, we could hear the far-off thud-booming of the German 
cannon hammering on the thin, ill-clad, underfed Russian 
lines, torn by doubts, fears, distrust, dying and rotting out 
there in the rain because they were told that the Revolution 
would be saved thereby. . . . 

[Note. — The second part of this article, which will appear next month, 
carries on the story of this eager and spontaneous self-government, show- 
ing it at work in the rank-and-file of the army. We see those "thin, ill- 
clad, underfed Russian lines," striving to understand their situation, and 
trying, in the face of many impossibilities, to save the Revolution.] 


T WAS the crucified, 

I was the one who died, 
I it was hung on a tree 
And suffered agony. 

Into my flesh thorns were driven, 
Veins and temples, swollen, riven, 
I it was who died, 
I was the crucified. 

I was the crucifier, 
Mad with lust and blood-desire, 
Hung my soul upon a tree, 
Gave it gall in agony. 

Annette Wynne. 

TF we had gone once more beyond the hills 

Where the west wind blew softly and the birds 
Twittered their tiny passions, and the sun 
Mellowed our rapture beyond thoughts of words; 
If we had walked again along the trail, 
White in the moonlight, its caressing sands 
Soft for our feet ; if we had caught the frail 
Bright bloom of poppies in our beating hands, 
And dared life's call with eager, joyous breath, 
We might have smiled more bravely back at death. 

Rose Henderson. 



THE LIBERATOR, April, i 9 i 8 
Vol. I., No. 2. 


Centerfold art 

reduced in size and skewed left 

in this pdf version 

Art Young 


A Diadem of Snow 

A Play in One Act by Elmer L. Reizenstein 


Nicholas Romanoff 
Mrs. Romanoff 
The Envoy 
Mrs. Oshinsky 

The scene is laid in Tobolsk, Siberia. 
The time is the present. 

A room furnished in execrable taste. To be sure, the table, 
the several chairs, the sideboard and so forth all belong to 
the genus furniture (just as Mr. LaFollette and Mr. Elihu 
Root both belong to the Republican Party) but there the kin- 
ship ends. It is apparent that we are confronted with the 
handiwork of the Russian representative of some American 
easy-payment home-furnishing company. The only object in 
the room which does not merit instant annihilation is a much- 
battered samovar, which seems to be seeking in its memories 
of better days, a refuge from its present associates. On the 
walls are several framed placards, bearing in multi-colored 
Russian characters the legends: "Home, Sweet Home!" 
"Try, Try Again/* "Life is Real, Life is Earnest/' and other 
sentiments of like import. But the most conspicuous object 
on the walls is a wretchedly executed crayon enlargement of 
a man's photograph. It is hideously framed in gilt and pro- 
fusely draped with black crepe. The face, from the snaky 
hair to the long, straggly beard, is unbelievably vicious. The 
more erudite among the audience immediately recognize the 
beloved features of the late lamented Grigory Rasputin, but to 
the million it is just a bad picture of an ugly man. 

There are windows in the rear wall, a door in the left wall 
and two doors in the right wall. It is evening in late Novem- 
ber and dusk has already fallen. On the table is a large kero- 
sene lamp, already lighted. The table is set for three. 

A moment after the rise of the curtain, someone knocks 
sharply on the door at the left. Obtaining no response, the 
person knocks again. There is another brief pause, then the 
door opens and an untidy woman, wearing an apron over a 
wrapper, enters. 

The Woman (calling to someone outside). Come right 
in, grand-daddy! I guess she's in the kitchen gettin' supper 
ready. She always leaves everything till the last minute. 

(A man enters. He is, apparently, in the last stages of 
decrepitude. He has a flowing white beard, flowing white 
hair and enormous smoked spectacles. He wears a huge 
overcoat and leans heavily on a stout cane.) 

The Man (In a feeble voice). A thousand thanks. 

The Woman. Sit down ! I'll call her for you. You don't 
seem to have any too much voice of your own. 

The Man. You are very good. 

The Woman (calUng). Mrs. Romanoff! Oh! Mrs. 
Romanoff ! 

A Shrill Voice (from the right). Veil? 

The Woman (in sing-song tones). This is Mrs. Oshin- 
sky ! There's an old man here to see you ! 

Copyright, 191 7, by the Author, 

The Voice (irritably). Veil, all right! He should vait! 

(The speaker has a marked German accent.) 

Mrs. Oshinsky. She says you should wait. 

The Man. Thank you. 

Mrs. Oshinsky (eyeing him curiously). If you've come 
to collect on the furniture, I might as well tell you, you won't 
get a kopeck. All the money her old man brings in — and 
Gawd knows it ain't much!— goes into prayers for him I 
(She points a finger of scorn at poor Rasputin. The man 
involuntarily raises his head.) And she a married woman! 
If it was me, my Petroushka would give me a crack over the 
head, that's what he would give me. But her man! (She 
snorts with contempt.) He lets her walk all over him. (Her 
curiosity gaining the ascendency again.) Did you say you 
was from the baker's? (Sharply, as he does not reply), Say, 
you ain't deef, too, are you? 

(One of the doors at the right opens and Mrs. Romanoff 
enters. She wears an all-encompassing gingham bungalow 
apron. Her hair is in disorder and she wipes her red face 
with the back of her hand.) 

Mrs. Romanoff (sharply to the man). Veil, vot do you 

Mrs. Oshinsky. He's hard of hearin.' He knocked at my 
door by mistake. I told him that if he was after money, he 
might save himself climbin' the stairs, but he — 

Mrs. Romanoff (sweetly). Dots very kind of you, Mrs. 
Oshinsky. I'm not surprised dot you took him for a bill 
collector. I guess dot's all vat efer knocks at your door. 

Mrs. Oshinsky. Well, at least, they never find me on my 
knees, sayin' prayers for a rotten — 

Mrs. Romanoff (white with rage). Get out of my house! 

Mrs. Oshinsky. Who wants to stay in your house? It 
ain't no place for a decent woman! 

(She makes a long nose at the unoffending Rasputin and 
goes out. Mrs. Romanoff, inarticulate with rage, stamps her 
foot violently.) 

Mrs. Romanoff (recovering speech). Veil, who are you 
and vat do you want? (Before the man can reply), I've 
got no money for charidy! Go to the semstvo. They give 
money away like vater. Everybody with a pain in his little 
finger can get five rubles — ten rubles — fifty rubles. A fine 
country — 

The Man (in a whisper). Are we alone? 

Mrs. Romanoff (in astonishment) Are you drunk or vat? 

The Man (mysteriously) Sh! (He tip-toes to the win- 
dows and pulls down the shades.) 

Mrs. Romanoff (shrilly). Are you crazy? 

(The man, without a word, removes his overcoat and 
sheds his wig, his whiskers and his goggles, revealing the 
dapper figure and amiable features so dear to every Ameri- 

Mrs. Romanoff (in utter bewilderment). Von Bernstorff ! 

Bernstorff (kissing her hand). Your royal highness! 

Mrs. Romanoff. Aber, es ist nicht moglich. How come 
you here to Tobolsk? 

Bernstorff. I have come from Berlin, expressly to see 
your majesty. 

April, 1918 


Mrs. Romanoff (with a sigh). Ah, Berlin! Berlin! Ven 
shall I see you again ! (She wipes her eyes.) 

Bernstorff. I am overjoyed to find your majesty in good 
health. I was profoundly — 

Mrs. Romanoff (coming out of her reverie). But, Bern- 
storff ! It is not safe for you to be here ! 

Bernstorff (with a smile). My disguise has allayed all 

Mrs. Romanoff (nervously). But if you should be found 
here — 

Bernstorff. I am prepared for every emergency. (He 
draws a book from his right-hand coat pocket). A book by 
Liebknecht! (He draws a book from his left-hand coat 
pocket.) A book by Maximilian Harden! (With a wink.) 
I am a Social-Democrat seeking refuge in free Russia. Ah, 
your majesty, a member of the Imperial Diplomatic Corps is 
equal to anything. 

Mrs. Romanoff (still worried). It is a great danger — 

Bernstorff. Danger ! What is danger to me ! To me who 
have come out of America alive ! But do not alarm yourself, 
your majesty. I have traveled unmolested from the German 
frontier. No one has detained me, not one has questioned 
me. If there were any spies following me — 

Mrs. Romanoff. There are no more spies in Russia. 

Bernstorff (in utter amazement). No more spies! Have 
they gone mad, your Russians? Do they think, then, that 
freedom means that one can do whatever one likes? 

Mrs. Romanoff. Yes ! Think of it, Bernstorff, to do what- 
ever one likes ! Even I — an empress ! — they force me to do 
whatever I like ! It is a terrible responsibility — a terrible 
responsibility. You, who have only to obey, cannot realize 
it 1 Ach ! It makes my head to schwim ! 

Bernstorff. Ah, your majesty, I cannot find words to 
express my grief at seeing you like this — in these hideous 

Mrs. Romanoff (bristling). Hideous? Why are they hid- 

Bernstorff (taken aback). But, surely — 

Mrs. Romanoff (huffily). You do not like our furnish- 
ings? Veil, that is a matter of taste. They please us — 
Nicholas and I. 

Bernstorff. A thousand pardons. I was — 

Mrs. Romanoff. You think because this room is not furn- 
ished in the manner of the Imperial Palace in Berlin, that we 
must be miserable here? Veil, you are wrong! All my life 
I have lived in great, gloomy rooms — in my father's palace 
in Hesse, in that terrible Winter Palace in Petrograd, in 
Moscow, in Tsarskoe-Selo. Always other people have chosen 
the bed I slept in, the table I ate from, the carpet I walked 
on — everything ! My very tooth-brush even ! Always other 
people ! Here, at least, we have chosen things to please our- 
selves. Perhaps to you they are not beautiful, but to us 
they make a home! (Laying her hand solemnly on Bern- 
storff' s arm.) The first home, Bernstorff, that we have ever 

Bernstorff (utterly amazed). But — but surely, your 
majesty, you are not happy here! Only a moment ago, I 
heard you subjected to unbelievable insults by a common 
woman 1 If I had dared — 

Mrs. Romanoff (interrupting). Ah! You mean Mrs. 
Oshinsky ! A harmless, lazy busy-body. In the Winter Pal- 
ace, Bernstorff, there were five hundred busy-bodies — only 
they were not harmless. Here, I can tell my friend from my 

enemy. I know who — (A great spluttering is heard from 
the room at the right.) Gott in Himmel! Meine linsen 
suppe ! 

(She rushes out of the room. Bernstorff, sits with knitted 
brows, his growing bewilderment plainly shown on his face,) 

Mrs. Romanoff (re-entering). Ruined! My beautiful 
lentil soup is ruined ! That comes of sitting here and schnat- 
tering ! 

Bernstorff (explosively). It is not possible that these — 
these menial domestic duties — cooking — and — and — are per- 
formed by your majesty ! 

Mrs. Romanoff (looking at him in surprise). Who should 
do it then? The girls are all in Petrograd, studying — what 
do you call it? — type-setting and dressmaking and — God 
knows what ! 

Bernstorff (almost inarticulate). But your servants! 
Where are your servants ? Is it possible that this rabble that 
calls itself a government does not supply you with the means 
to retain servants? 

Mrs. Romanoff (smiling). Do you think Nicholas would 
permit me to keep a servant? 

Bernstorff (utterly incredulous). You mean his maj- 
esty — ! (He stops on the very verge of apoplexy.) 

Mrs. Romanoff. Among freemen, he says, there are no 

Bernstorff. I do not understand ! In America, they talk 
much about democracy, but this — ! 

Mrs. Romanoff. I do not understand either. I do not un- 
derstand the Russian people. I have lived many years among 
them, but I do not understand them. (Solemnly) They are 
not like the Germans, Bernstorff. 

Bernstorff. No ! (shaking his head) God pity them ! 

Mrs. Romanoff. I do not understand Nicholas, either. 
With him, too, I have lived many years, but I do not under- 
stand him. Do you know, Bernstorff, he is beginning to 
read ! At his age, he is beginning to read books — not holy 
books, mark you — but — (Her voice drops to a whisper.) 
Tolstoi — and Kropotkin — and Maxim Gorki ! (A neighboring 
clock strikes six.) Six o'clock! He will be home soon. (She 
begins removing her apron.) 

Bernstorff. All this that you have told me — (He notices 
suddenly that she is clad in deep mourning and becomes 
greatly alarmed.) You are in mourning! Has there been a 
bereavement? The Czarevitch — ! (He stops in dismay.) 

Mrs. Romanoff. No, no! My Aliosha is well, Gott sei 
dank ! 

Bernstorff (greatly relieved). Not one of the royal prin- 
cesses, I hope. 

Mrs. Romanoff. No, it is for my Rasputin ! For Grigory ! 
(She points to the picture.) My poor Grigory! 

Bernstorff. Ah yes ! A very clever man ! 

Mrs. Romanoff (weeping silently). A saint, Bernstorff, 
a saint ! 

Bernstorff. Undoubtedly ! If he were still alive — 

Mrs. Romanoff. No, No! He is happy, up there among 
the angels ! He is freed from a world too base to understand 
him. (She weeps copiously.) 

Bernstorff. From a strictly religious viewpoint, no doubt, 
there are as your majesty suggests compensations for his 
untimely end. But, nevertheless, it is to be regretted that at 
this juncture his political genius — 

Mrs. Romanoff (sadly reproachful). Ach, Bernstorff, 



Bernstorff, how can you talk of politics and of that holy man 
in one breath ! It is desecration ! 

Bernstorff. I must respectfully disagree with your maj- 
esty. My Imperial Master has invested welt-politik with the 
sacredness of religion. The operations of the Imperial Ger- 
man Government are political manifestations of the Will of 
God. And it is a sacred political mission that brings me here. 

Mrs. Romanoff (mildly surprised). You come to Siberia 
— to Tobolsk — on political business? 

Bernstorff (nodding gravely). On political business of 
the most vital concern to your majesty. 

Mrs. Romanoff (shaking her head). No, no! I have no 
interest in politics. I never understood them and I never 
shall. I have time only for my cooking and my prayers. 

Bernstorff. When your majesty hears the nature of my 
errand — 

Mrs. Romanoff. It does not matter ! For Grigory' s sake, 
I tried to understand all that buzz-buzz-buzz at the Winter 
Palace — but now Grigory is among the holy saints and I — 
(She breaks off, wiping her eyes.) 

Bernstorff (with great deliberation). Your majesty, I 
have come to restore Emperor Nicholas II. to his throne ! 

Mrs. Romanoff (with a startled cry). Ach Gott! Vat are 
you saying! 

Bernstorff (nodding solemnly). Yes! 

Mrs. Romanoff. But — but it is not possible! 

Bernstorff (drawing himself up proudly). To the Im- 
perial German Government, all things are possible ! 

Mrs. Romanoff. But how — ? (She stops in bewilder- 

Bernstorff (smiling). Your majesty need not concern 
herself with the modus operandi. The best brains in the Ger- 
man Foreign Office— that is to say the best brains in the 
world— have applied themselves to the organization of the 
machinery which will accomplish the restoration. All that 
it is necessary for your majesty to do is to place implicit 
trust in me. Could anything be easier ? 

Mrs. Romanoff (half to herself). To go back there— back 
to Petrograd— back to the Winter Palace— back to— (She 
covers her eyes and shudders.) 

Bernstorff. Your majesty — 

Mrs. Romanoff (not heeding him). I thought I was free! 
I thought — I thought — (She looks up suddenly at Rasputin's 
picture.) Yes, Grigory! Yes, my saint! It is the will of 
God ! I will do it ! 

Bernstorff (with a cry of relief). Ah! I knew your 
majesty — ! 

Mrs. Romanoff (as before). I will do it! For Aliosha's 
sake ! For my Aliosha. It is his birth-right ! He was born to 
rule, Grigory said. And he shall rule ! He shall rule ! 

(She falls into an ecstatic silence, her hands clasped, her 
eyes raised. Suddenly the tramping of heavy boots and the 
sound of a man whistling "Poor Butterfly" out of key, is 
heard at the left.) 

Bernstoff (in alarm). Is someone coming? 

Mrs. Romanoff (restored to herself). Ach Gott! Der 
Nicholas ! I had forgotten all about him. He must not find 
you here, Bernstorff ! I must prepare him ! Go quickly to the 
kitchen there. 

Bernstorff. You will point out to him — 

Mrs. Romanoff. Yes, yes ! Quick, he is coming ! Do not 
come until I call you ! 

(Bernstorff goes hastily into the kitchen, taking with hi™ 

the appurtenances of his disguise, but leaving behind the two 
books. Mrs. Romanoff busies herself at the table. The door 
at the left opens and Nicholas Romanoff, erstwhile Czar of 
All the Russias, enters. He wears a fur cap, a heavy over- 
coat with a fur collar, thick gloves and high rubber boots. 
He carries a large wooden snow-shovel. His cheeks are 
bright with health and his shoulders are broad and straight.) 
Romanoff (kissing his wife). Well, old lady! Another 
day's work done ! (He removes his gloves.) 
Mrs. Romanoff (nervously). You are late. 
Romanoff. Do not scold me for that. I stopped at Pet- 
koff's shop. 

Mrs. Romanoff. Why did you do that ? We have already 
too much food in the house. 

Romanoff, But wait until you see what I have bought! 
(He fishes in his coat pocket and produces a paper package.) 
Some young onions! (He fishes in the other pocket.) And 
a pickled herring! Tcha ! the juice has run! That Petkoff 
is not liberal with his paper! (He licks his finger.) Ah! 
Excellent! This will go nicely with your lentil soup, little 
mother. (He removes his cap and overcoat, talking all the 
while. He wears a long workingman's blouse.) If I were to 
describe to you my appetite, you would not believe me. Hard 
work ! That is the best sauce ! Do you know what I said to 
Gobloff, the foreman? "Gobloff," I said, "every shovelful 
of snow in the cart is a spoonful of lentil soup in my belly." 

Mrs. Romanoff (sharply). There will be no lentil soup in 
your belly to-night ! 

Romanoff, (his face falling). What do you say? No len- 
til soup? 

Mrs. Romanoff. The soup is spoiled. 

Romanoff (swallowing a lump). Spoiled! (With a great 
effort he recovers his cheerfulness.) Well, well ! That can 
happen, too! (Patting her shoulder.) Come, come, little 
mother, the world cannot stop because our lentil soup is 
spoiled! (Very solemnly.) It is God's punishment for my 
greediness ! 

(He seats himself and begins removing his boots. Mrs. 
Romanoff watches him nervously, not knowing how to di- 
vulge the disturbing news.) 

Romanoff (looking up). Where is Aliosha? 

Mrs. Romanoff (relieved by the interruption). He is on 
the street, playing with the boys. (She goes to the window, 
worried.) He should not be out after dark. (She peers anx- 
iously out of the window.) 

Romanoff. He is a good boy. No harm will come to him. 

(In his stocking feet, he goes toward the kitchen door. 
As he nears the door, Mrs. Romanoff turns and sees him. 
She utters an exclamation of alarm.) 

Mrs. Romanoff. Nicky! Vere are you going? 

Romanoff (apologetically). I was going for my slippers. 
I thought I should find them, in their accustomed place, by 
the kitchen stove. 

Mrs. Romanoff. Yes, yes ! They are there ! But I shall 
get them for you. 

Romanoff. No, no ! I must fetch my own slippers. (He 
makes a movement toward the door.) 

Mrs. Romanoff (sharply). Are you verrickt? To walk 
in your stocking feet around ! Do you want to get a splinter ? 
You stay right here ! (She goes hastily into the kitchen.) 

Romanoff. You think of everything, little mother ! (He 
walks toward the table, picks up one of the empty soup plates 
and shakes his head sorrowfully.) Spoiled! Well, well! 

April, 1918 


(He puts down the plate with a sigh. Mrs. Romanoff enters 
with the slippers.) 

Mrs. Romanoff. Here are the slippers ! 

Romanoff. You are a saint, little mother! (He puts on 
the slippers with a sigh of satisfaction.) Ah! That's fine! 
As warm as toast ! The snow is very cold ! But it is a good 
cold — a dry cold! It is not like the cold of the dungeons in 
the Fortress of St. Peter and St. PauL I must read to you 
Kropotkin's description — 

Mrs. Romanoff. Nicky, I have something to tell you — 

Romanoff. Now now ! An empty stomach is a bad list- 
ener. Wait until my belt is tight. Then you can tell me what 
Mrs. Oshinsky said to you and what you replied to her — 

Mrs. Romanoff. It has nothing to do with Mrs. Oshinsky. 

Romanoff. Well, well, whatever it is, it will not spoil. 
Where is Aliosha? We must hasten! To-night we are all 
going to the Trotzky Theatre. If we do not arrive early, 
all the seats will be taken. 

Mrs. Romanoff (firmly)* We cannot go to-night! 

Romanoff (protesting). But we must! They are show- 
ing Charlie Chaplin in "Laughing Gas." It is the last night ! 
Everyone is talking about it ! Kanowsky, the cart-driver, 
swears that he laughed until the tears ran. He is not lying. 
You can see the streaks on his face. And Gobloff ! Do you 
know what Gobloff told me? (Impressively.) He went last 
night with his family and his wife's mother — Marya Petrov- 
na — actually burst a blood-vessel laughing! (Solemnly.) 
They had to send for a doctor ! 

Mrs. Romanoff. Nicky, it is no time for foolishness ! It is 
no time for eating! There is something — something — 

Romanoff (impressed by her solemnity). What is it, 
little mother? Have you had a vision? 

Mrs. Romanoff (nervously). Yes! A vision! 

Romanoff (excitedly). A saint has appeared to you? A 
holy saint? 

Mrs. Romanoff (shaking her head). No, not a saint, 
exactly. Listen, Nicky — 

Romanoff. Not a saint? An angel, then? 

Mrs. Romanoff (impatiently). No, not an angel! 
(Sharply.) Be still and listen — 

(A scuffling and a confusion of voices is heard outside the 

Mrs. Romanoff (alarmed). Aliosha! 

(She hurries to the door and opens it. Mrs. Oshinsky en- 
ters dragging Aliosha by the collar. The boy's face is 
streaked with dirt and tears, his clothes are in disorder and 
his stockings are full of holes.) 

Aliosha (pleadingly). Mama! Mama! 

Mrs. Oshinsky (shaking him) FI1 mama you, you little 
devil ! 

Mrs. Romanoff (furiously). Take your hands off him! 
Take your hands off ! 

Mrs. Oshinsky. Not until he gets what's coming to him ! 

(She raises her hand to strike the boy, but he slips out of 
her grasp and takes refuge behind his mother.) 

Mrs. Romanoff. How dare you raise a hand to my boy, 
you verdamnte — 

Mrs. Oshinsky. Your boy's a loafer, that's what he is — 
a little good-for-nothing bum ! 

Mrs. Romanoff. Another word and I'll scratch your face ! 

Romanoff (soothingly). Tcha, tcha! Little mother! 

Mrs. Romanoff. Hold your tongue! 

Mrs. Oshinsky (with a sarcastic laugh). Gawd! The 

way she bosses you ! You ain't a man — you're a worm ! 

Mrs. Romanoff. Do you know to whom you are talking? 
To your emperor — to your ruler! (To Romanoff, who is 
about to interrupt.) Keep your mouth shut! 

Mrs. Oshinsky (with a snort of contempt). Ruler! He's 
a hell of a ruler, he is I He can't even rule his own wife. 

Romanoff (before his wife can reply). There is but one 

(He points his finger upward. The women are visibly sub- 

Romanoff (quietly). What has he done, my Aliosha? 

Mrs. Oshinsky. What's he done? He's given my Vanka 
a bloody nose, that's what he's done ! 

Romanoff. That was wrong, Aliosha ! 

Aliosha (protesting). But, papa — 

Mrs. Oshinsky. There's not a better boy in the Tobolsk 
than my Vanka. He's a blessed little lamb— 

Mrs. Romanoff. Your Vanka is a little sneak, that's what 
he is ! He deserves six bloody noses 1 

Mrs. Oshinsky (belligerently). If you call my Vanka a 
sneak, I'll — 

Romanoff. No, no ! Aliosha was wrong. To strike a 
fellow creature is to strike God's image. Come, Aliosha, tell 
Mrs. Oshinsky that you have sinned; ask her forgiveness. 
(Aliosha does not answer.) You see ! He is dumb with re- 
morse ! 

Mrs. Oshinsky. Remorse, me eye ! He's as stubborn as a 
pig. It's no wonder, though, considerin' the Dutch blood 
that's in him. 

Mrs. Romanoff (fuming). Donnerwetter ! Das ist aber 
ein bischen zu viel ! 

Romanoff (hastily interfering). No more harsh words! 
We all live together in sorrow and sin. What does it profit, 
then, that we judge one another? The great Judge sees all 
and understands all. (Putting his hand on Mrs. Oshinsky's 
arm.) Go then, Olga Ivanovna. Aliosha has learned his 
lesson. Let there be peace between us. Go and may God bless 
you ! 

(Mrs. Oshinsky looks at him, is about to reply, stops and 
looks at him again. Romanoff retains his calm, untroubled 

Mrs. Oshinsky {explosively) . Aw ! You give me a pain ! 

(She goes out quickly, slamming the door behind her.) 

Mrs. Romanoff (bursting out). Of course! Make a fool 
of me ! Take her part against me ! Your own wife you stand 
there and make a fool of ! 

Romanoff. Little mother — 

Mrs. Romanoff. Ach ! Schon wieder little mother ! Im- 
mer little mother, little mother! You care much how they 
insult me — 

Romanoff (spreading his hands). But, little mother — 

Mrs. Romanoff. Never mind! I heard enough! (Turn- 
ing to Aliosha.) Why do you fight in the streets like a peas- 
ant ? Is that how you were brought up ? 

Aliosha. But, mama, the boys — 

Mrs. Romanoff, De boys ! De boys ! Fifty times already 
I told you, you shouldn't play with those boys. But you don't 

Aliosha (tearfully). But, mama, its no fun playing alone. 
In the Winter Palace, I never had anybody to play with and 
I used to be so lonesome. And now, when there are boys to 
play with, you won't let me. (He bursts out crying.) 

Mrs. Romanoff (melting). Ach! Mein arraes Kind. 



(She takes him in her arms.) You shall play with anybody 
you like. (Sharply.) Look at your face! Were you playing 
in a pig-pen ? Und your stockings ! There was not a hole in 
them this morning! Do you think I got nothing to do but 

Aliosha. I couldn't help it, mama ! 

Mrs. Romanoff. Couldn't help it ! Vy do you fight ? 

Romanoff (gravely). Fighting is wrong, Aliosha. Come 
here to papa, (Aliosha goes to him and sits on his knee.) 
Why did you fight with Vanka ? 

Aliosha. I'll tell you all about it, papa. We were playing 
revolution — 

Romanoff, Revolution? 

Aliosha. Yes. We always play revolution. Jaakov is 
always Kerensky because he's the biggest and he can lick 
any of us. 

Romanoff. But Kerensky is not big. 

Aliosha. I know. But everybody wants to be Kerensky 
and if we didn't let Jaakov he'd lick us. 

Mrs. Romanoff (indignantly). The bully! 

Aliosha. And I always have to be you, papa. 

Mrs. Romanoff (brightening). You see! Even the boys 
recognize the born ruler! 

Romanoff (with more understanding). And how do you 
play your game? 

Aliosha. First they make me adjucate. 

Romanoff (quietly). Abdicate, Aliosha. 

Aliosha (doubtfully). The boys all say adjucate. 

Romanoff. And then? 

Aliosha. Then if I have any money, they take it away 
from me. 

Mrs. Romanoff (angrily). They steal your money? 

Aliosha. It's not stealing. (Importantly.) It's confiscat- 
ing the crown property. Then they lock me in the cellar — 
we make believe the cellar is Tsarskoe-Selo — and they give 
me bread and water. 

Mrs. Romanoff. It is impossible 1 They dare not do such 
things ! 

Romanoff (stroking the boy's head). And it is always 
you they lock in the cellar? 

Aliosha. Yes. They never let me play anything but Czar. 
I told them it isn't fair. I told them it's not my fault that 
you're my papa, but they — 

Romanoff (covering his face with his hands). My poor 
Aliosha ! 

Mrs. Romanoff (sharply). Dumkopf! You have made 
your papa cry! 

Aliosha (bewildered). But, papa, I didn't mean to! 
(Pleading.) Papa, papa, forgive me ! (He bursts into tears.) 

Romanoff (soothing him). No, no! It is nothing! It is 
nothing, Aliosha ! And now — and now tell me why you 
fought with Vanka. 

Aliosha. Because when I was in the cellar to-day, wait- 
ing for them to let me out, Vanka came in — he had run away 
from the others — and he said if I gave him three kopecks, 
he'd start a counter-revolution. So I punched him in the 
nose — the little sneak! 

Mrs, Romanoff (greatly troubled), Ach Gott! 

Romanoff (kissing the boy's forehead, his eyes gUstening 
with tears of joy). Ah! Aliosha! Aliosha! (Bravely.) But 
fighting is wrong. Do you know what our great Tolstoi says, 
Aliosha? He says — 

Mrs. Romanoff (irritably). Is this a time to talk Tolstoi? 

Romanoff (submissively). Mama is right! After supper 
we will talk. Go now, Aliosha, and — and wash your face. 

Aliosha. Yes, papa. (He goes toward the kitchen.) 

Mrs. Romanoff. Not in the kitchen t Go in the bedroom ! 
And don't come till I call you I 

Aliosha. Yes, mama. (He goes out at the upper door.) 

Romanoff (shaking his head, tenderly). Little Aliosha! 
(He looks after him, dreamily.) 

Mrs. Romanoff. Sit down, Nicky, and pay attention to 
what I have to say. 

Romanoff (meekly). Yes, little mother. (He seats him- 
self on the chair on which Bernstorff has left his books.) 

Romanoff (rising, in surprise). Hello! Books! (He 
picks them up. Mrs. Romanoff utters an exclamation.) 

Romanoff (examining the titles in amazement). Lieb- 
knecht! Harden! (Gazing at his wife, incredulously.) 
Little mother, have you — ? 

Mrs. Romanoff (in despair). Ach, it is no use! He 
should speak for himself. (She goes to the door of the kitch- 
en.) Come in, please ! 

(Romanoff looks at her in amazement. Bernstorff enters.) 

Romanoff (in bewilderment) . Von Bernstorff ! Johann! 

Bernstorff (making profound obeisance). Your majesty! 

Romanoff. No, no ! Johann ! I am Nicholas Romanoff, a 
Russian citizen. 

Bernstorff (protesting). I cannot permit your majesty — 

Romanoff. Not majesty ! Romanoff, Johann ! Or Nicho- 

Bernstorff. I would not presume — 

Romanoff. Presume 1 It is not presumption to call a man 
by his name! It is — it is courtesy. But sit down. 

(They seat themselves. There is an embarrassed silence.) 

Romanoff (suddenly). Is this the vision of which you 
spoke, little mother? 

Mrs. Romanoff (shortly). Yes. 

Bernstorff (in astonishment). I beg your pardon! 

Romanoff. It is nothing. Well, Johann, I am glad to see 
you again. It is many years since we met. We did not think 
then, that our next meeting would be in Siberia — like this ! 

Bernstorff (with just the right inflection). Alas! We 
did not! 

Romanoff. No. We seemed secure in our high places then 
— you and I. We did not dream that we would be shorn of 
our power — 

Bernstorff (expostulating). But — I 

Romanoff. But there is one above — one who knows all. 
One who watches and waits. (Changing his tone.) But, I 
am glad, Johann, that you have turned to me in your hour 
of exile — 

Bernstorff. This is — (Turning to Mrs. Romanoff.) 
Has not your majesty explained — ? 

Mrs. Romanoff. I have explained nothing. 

Romanoff (smiling). It does not need an explanation. 
I am not a child. I understand everything. These books — 
they are yours, are they not ? 

Bernstorff. Yes, but — 

Romanoff (with a self-satisfied smile). Aha! Just as 
I thought. The books betray your secret, Johann. (Holding 
up the books.) Liebknecht, Harden! — You have caught the 
fever ! And they have exiled you ! Well, what else could 
you expect? 

Bernstorff (with a show of irritation). Your majesty 
has entirely misapprehended the situation — if you will pardon 

April, 1918 


me for presuming to say so. These books are merely — merely 
what our enemies are so fond of calling camouflage. 

Romanoff. Camouflage? What is camouflage? 

Bernstorff. It is the science of making a thing appear to 
be something which it is not. 

Romanoff (enlightened). Ah! You mean diplomacy! 

Bernstorff. No, your majesty. Diplomacy is not a 
science; it is a fine art, the chief principle of which is that 
while a straight line may be the shortest distance between 
two points, no true artist ever draws a straight line. But 
these are abstractions in which, as a practical man, I take but 
little interest. What concerns me now is to impress upon 
your majesty that far from being an object of imperial dis- 
favor, I come here an honored emissary of my emperor, en- 
trusted with a diplomatic mission of the utmost importance. 

Romanoff {amazed). You come to Siberia on a diplo- 
matic mission ! 

Bernstorff (nodding.) Yes, your majesty. A mission of 
extreme delicacy which I cannot help believing has been 
placed in my hands in recognition of my amazing success in 
America. My imperial master — 

Romanoff (interrupting, interested). Tell me, how is 

Bernstorff (solemnly,) The All-Highest is enjoying his 
usual imperial ill-health. 

Romanoff (nodding sympathetically). I know. It's in 
the blood. (Confidentially.) Too much intermarriage, 
Johann. It's not good. Gobloff — (explanatorily) — he's the 
foreman of my gang — Gobloff was telling me only yesterday 
about a cousin of his who married her uncle — 

Bernstorff. Sire ! 

Mrs. Romanoff. Ach, Nicky ! How you talk ! 

Romanoff (looking from one to the other). What have I 

Bernstorff. Your majesty must forgive me, but I cannot 
remain passive while my emperor is likened to a — a member 
of the laboring classes. 

Romanoff. Come, come Johann! Don't be too hard on 
Willy. We musn't find fault with him because he is not a 
workman. It is the fault of his education. (He goes on plac- 
idly, ignoring Bernstorff' 's apoplectic attempt to interrupt.) 
Look at me ! You know what I was five years ago — a year 
ago for that matter. I had no appetite, I could not sleep, I 
had a cough. And now ! Ask the little mother how I eat ! 
And when I get into my bed at night, not even a bomb could 
wake me up. As for my health — (He rises, walks to Bern- 
storff and doubles his arm.) Feel that! 

Bernstorff (stiffly). I would not presume! 

Romanoff. Nonsense. It is only a man's soul that is 
sacred. Feel ! 

Bernstorff (feeling the arm gingerly; with conventional 
politieness) . Superb ! 

Romanoff (resuming his sent). A year ago, it was as soft 
as a stewed rabbit ! Hard work, Johann. That is the secret 
of happiness and the secret of health ! Do you know what 
is the most beautiful sight in the world? A snow-bank dis- 
appearing under your shovel ! (Gravely.) If it doesn't snow 
tomorrow, there'll be no work the next day. It seems to me 
the winters are growing milder. Have you noticed it, Jo- 

Bernstorff (with unconscious grimness). Not in Germany. 

Romanoff. Well, perhaps not. Perhaps it only seems so 
because I am out-doors, instead of in the Winter Palace. 

Mrs. Romanoff (shaking her head; half aloud). It is 
hopeless ! 

Romanoff. What is hopeless? 

Bernstorff (hastily). Your majesty, if you will permit 
me to explain — 

Romanoff (absorbed in his own thoughts)* Johann, 
has Willy ever thought of going to work ? 

Bernstorff (drawing himself up). I must ask your maj- 

Romanoff. It might be the making of him, Johann. He 
is not without his qualities. (Thoughtfully.) And yet — and 
yet, he would not make a good workman. He is too much the 
dilettante. He has never taken anything seriously — except 
himself. To the good workman, the work is everything, 
himself nothing. 

Bernstorff (with drawn lips). Your majesty, I can no 
longer delay acquainting you with the object of my visit. 
(Slowly and impressively.) I have come to restore your 
majesty to his imperial throne. 

(Romanoff gives him a scared look and then bursts into 
uproarious laughter.) 

Romanoff (the tears streaming down his cheeks). Hear 
him ! Hear him, little mother ! They have made a jester of 
him in America ! (He notices that the others are grave and 
silent.) You do not laugh, little mother? 

Mrs. Romanoff (in a choking voice). It is no laughing 

Romanoff (sobered) . No laughing matter ? 

Bernstorff (significantly). I am in earnest, your 

Romanoff (becoming frightened). In earnest? 

Bernstorff. Yes, your majesty. 

Romanoff (crossing himself). Holy Father! He has 
gone mad ! 

Bernstorff (volubly). Everything is arranged. I, my- 
self, have been in Petrograd and have personally examined 
every detail of the machinery which will accomplish our pur- 
pose. The plan is simplicity itself. A week from today all 
the members of the Provisional Government will meet in the 
Duma Building. At a given signal, the building will be 
blown up, three regiments of picked German troops, disguised 
as Cossacks and armed with machine-guns, will clear the 
streets, your majesty will address from a balcony a selected 
gathering which will hail you with wild enthusiasm, six 
newspapers which we have purchased will announce the 
restoration, a million pounds of bread will be distributed to 
the populace, two or three thousand of the more ardent revo- 
lutionists will be publicly executed, as an indication of your 
majesty's firmness. There will be — 

Romanoff. Enough ! These are the evil dreams of a de- 
generate ! 

Bernstorff (haughtily). They are the carefully formu- 
lated plans of the German Foreign Office. 

Romanoff (raising his voice). That is the same — (He 
stops and covers his eyes with his hands, then continues 
sadly, without a trace of anger.) You are living in a dead 
age, Johann. You are talking of things that are no more — 
of things that happened when Nicholas second was Czar of 
Russia. (He bows his head sadly.) 

Mrs. Romanoff (with a cry of sympathy). Nicky! (She 
takes his hand.) 

Bernstorff (misunderstanding him). Do not be dis- 
heartened your majesty! You have but to place yourself 



entirely in my hands and within the week you will again be 
Nicholas second, Czar of Russia. 

Romanoff (Slowly). Johann, tell me, why have you come 
to me? 

Bernstorff (pityingly). Perhaps I have not made myself 
clear. (He speaks slowly and deliberately.) I have come to 
restore — 

Romanoff, Forgive me, if I am stupid. I am not a dip- 
lomat and these things are not easy for me to understand. 
But you will be patient with me. Tell me, then ; you wish — 
that is to say, Willy wishes — that there should be an emperor 
in Russia? 

Bernstorff (beginning to explain), Certainly; we wish 
to restore — 

Romanoff (raising his hand). You wish an emperor. 
And all the means whereby an emperor may be obtained are 
in readiness? 

Bernstorff. Everything ! I assure your majesty you need 
have no fear — 

Romanoff (as before). Yes, yes! I do not doubt it! 
What I wish to know is why you come to me — to me, Nicholas 
Romanoff, Russian citizen, residing in Tobolsk? 

Bernstorff (in utter astonishment). To whom else 
should we come? 

Romanoff. Are there not millions of other workmen in 
Russia? Why do you not go to them? Or better still, why 
do you not make yourself emperor? You have all the neces- 
sary qualities. I have none. 

Bernstorff (with the pitying patience which one displays 
towards the very old, the very young and the weak in intel- 
lect). Your majesty is the ranking member of the ruling 
family of Russia and — 

Romanoff. I am Nicholas Romanoff, member of the In- 
ternational Union of Snow-Shovellers and Junk-Dealers, 
Local No. 2,7. (Suddenly.) Even if I wanted to, it would be 
impossible for me to accept. (He fishes in his pocket, pro- 
duces a little book and hurriedly turns the pages.) Here is 
it! By-law number eleven. "Unless endorsed by two- 
thirds of the members, no member of the union shall be per- 
mitted to hold a political office of any kind." (He hands the 
book triumphantly to Bernstorff, who puts it down with a 
suppressed exclamation of disgust.) 

Mrs. Romanoff (impatiently). Veil, suppose they did 
put you out of the union? 

Romanoff. What ! when I have just paid a year's dues in 
advance. Ten rubles is not to be sneezed at! And, above 
all, to betray the union ! No, no ! You had better go else- 
where, Johann. 

Bernstorff (beginning to let his impatience show). It is 
impossible ! There is no one but your majesty who can lay 
claim to the title ! It is your divine right ! 

Romanoff (solemnly). Don't be blasphemous, Johann. 

Bernstorff (staggered) . Blasphemous ! 

Romanoff. You must be careful how you speak of God. 
To me God is God, and not a clerk in the German Foreign 
Office. Do you think that if God chose kings, he would have 
chosen me — or Willy? You might as well call God a fool 

Mrs. Romanoff (shocked). Ach, Nicky. 

Bernstorff. I cannot pretend to enjoy your majesty's 
pleasantries — 

Romanoff. Ah, Johann, to the Philistine, the truth is al- 
ways a pleasantry. (As Bernstorff is about to speak.) Say 

no more. Let us talk of something else — of cooking or gar- 

Bernstorff (bursting out). Does your majesty not un- 
derstand that I am offering him an opportunity to return to 
Petrograd ? An opportunity that will never come again ? 

Romanoff. And why should I return to Petrograd? 

Bernstorff. Surely you do not wish always to live here. 

Romanoff. Why not? In Petrograd I was only an em- 
peror, here I am a man. 

Bernstorff. It is unbelievable! No man, with such an 
alternative, would choose to live in exile ! 

Romanoff (with a sad laugh). Exile! (He rises delib- 
erately, walks to the window and raises the shade.) Come 
here, Johann! 

Bernstorff. (trembling). Your majesty would not be- 
tray me ! 

Romanoff (with his first touch of bitterness). Betray 
you! No, you are safe here! This is not Wilhelmstrasse ! 
(In his usual tones.) I wish but to show you something. 

(Bernstorff hesitates, then goes to the window. Mrs. 
Romanoff covers her eyes.) 

Romanoff (taking Bernstorff' 's arm). Look there, beyond 
the church. Do you see that great wooden building, that 
looks like a monstrous coffin? 

Bernstorff. That barracks, you mean? 

Romanoff. Yes, that barracks. Do you know what it was 
used for, that barracks — in the days when Nicholas second 
was Czar of all the Russias? It was there they housed the 
exiles — the Siberian exiles, the exiles on their way to the 
mines, the exiles on their way to torture, to starvation, to 
death. Two hundred thousand exiles have warped those 
boards with their tears — two hundred thousand in the reign 
of Nicholas second, last of the Romanoff dynasty. Two hun- 
dred thousand ! And now I am here — an exile ! And I can- 
not look out of my window without seeing that barracks. 
Johann ! (He draws Bernstorff away from the window and 
points solemnly upwards. There is an impressive silence.) 

Bernstorff (fighting down everything resembling sen- 
timentality) . Your majesty is not the last of the Romanoffs ! 

Romanoff. What do you say ? 

Bernstorff. I say that you may speak for yourself, but 
you cannot speak for your heir — for the Grand Duke Alexis ! 
You cannot throw away his empire. 

Romanoff (troubled). Aliosha! 

Mrs. Romanoff (roused). Yes, Nicky! It is his birth- 
right. Grigory said he was born to rule. For his sake, Nich- 
olas, we must go back. 

Romanoff. For his sake ! He is happy here ! 

Bernstorff. He is a child ! 

Romanoff (passionately). And do you think I was never 
a child! (With sudden determination.) He shall speak for 
himself. * 

Mrs. Romanoff (alarmed) . What are you going to do? 

Romanoff. He shall decide. (He calls into the bedroom.) 
Aliosha ! 

Aliosha's Voice. Yes, papa! 

Bernstorff. It is folly ! 

Romanoff (solemnly). All men are fools in the sight of 

(Aliosha enters and stops short at seeing a stranger.) 

Bernstorff (kissing his hand). Your royal highness! 

Aliosha (shrinking from him). Papa, why does everyone 
mock me ? 

April, 1918 


Romanoff (in a voice trembling with emotion). Aliosha, 
this gentleman wishes to know whether you — 

Bernstorff (interrupting). I wish to know whether you 
want to become Czar of all the Russias? 

(Aliosha looks at him, his lip trembling.) 

Romanoff. Answer, Aliosha. 

Aliosha (reproachfully). You said I could become a 
horse-doctor ! 

Bernstorff (desperately). I will restore you to your royal 
station — to your beautiful palace in Petrograd — 

Aliosha (with a cry of fright). No ! Don't make me go 
back to the Winter Palace ! Mamma ! Mamma ! Don't let 
him take me back to the Winter Palace ! (Sobbing hysteric- 
ally he buries his face in his mother's lap.) 

Mrs. Romanoff. No, no, mein liebchen! You shall stay 
here ! You shall not go to the Winter Palace ! (She com- 
forts him.) 

Romanoff (extending his hand). Goodbye, Johann! 
(Bernstorff with a word goes towards the kitchen.) Not 
that way ! This way ! 

Bernstorff (stiffly). My disguise — 

Romanoff. You do not need a disguise. You are safe! 
(Slyly.) Perhaps if you tell them who you are, they will 
make sure that you get safely across the frontier. 

Bernstorff (at the door). If your majesty should re- 
consider — 

(Romanoff stops him with a gesture.) 

Romanoff (taking his hand). Goodbye, Johann! A safe 
journey — and pleasanter thoughts! Take a fraternal greet- 
ing from Nicholas Romanoff to Wilhelm Hohenzollern. Tell 
him that when the day comes— not the Day of which he 
dreamt — but the day that will come — he will find here in 
Tobolsk food and shelter and a wooden shovel. (Detaining 
Bernstorff j who is fidgeting angrily.) Tell him that empires 
rise and empires fall, kings are born and kings die — but in 
Siberia there is always snow ! (Instinctively he glances to- 
wards the window.) Aha ! (He releases Bernstorff' s hand 
and goes to the window.) Look at it! Fine, big flakes! 
That means business ! 

(He stands there oblivious of everything but the falling 
snow. Bernstorff throws him a look, half of pity, half of 
envy and goes out as the curtain falls.) 

April Fool! 

A NYBODY who knows what the Germans should do with 
their Russian peace ought, in pure humanity, to tell. 
The general impression in Germany seems to be that the 
thing has a brick under it. 

''THE Steel Trust made 518 million dollars profit in 191 7. 
It is gratifying to know that the Government will get all 
of this — except most of it. 

npHE COUNTRY GENTLEMAN has discovered the silver 
lining to the war cloud — war means thrift and thrift 
means more marriages. Killing off the world's young men to 
promote matrimony is an idea that has all the charm of 

HpHE New York Court of Appeals has sustained the right 
of saloonkeepers to refuse to serve negroes. At last the 
Mason and Dixon line has been rubbed out and we are a 
united people. 

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY trustees have agreed to a ref- 
erence committee of nine to consider the conduct of fac- 
ulty members. An entering wedge which may in the end 
overthrow the doctrine of the divine right of Nicholas Mur- 
ray Butler. 

CAYS the New York Times: 

Almost as much desired as the man who can bring out 
some guaranteed remedy for the U-boat evil is the man 
who can and will guarantee to increase the interest of the 
average retail store employe in his or her job. 

The good old Times always puts the country's welfare first. 

'TVHE Republican National Committee has put its foot upon 
all traces of progressive thought, while the old guard in 
Congress fights against Baker and government ownership of 
railroads. The G. O. P. is commendably determined to die 
that the nation may live. 

llflLLIAM H. TAFT says the war must go on until Ger- 
* * many is beaten to her knees. Memorandum to the Ger- 
man people: Your government may try to put this over on 
you as American doctrine to discredit President Wilson. Mr. 
Taft's opinion is of interest chiefly to Mr. Taft. He was 
relieved of public responsibility by almost unanimous con- 

\17HAT has become of the old-fashioned man who thought 
that the cause of the Allies, democracy and civilization 
depended upon the re-election of Mayor Mitchel ? 

r PHE Treasury Department's appeal to workingmen to buy 
securities says that if we win, American machinists will 
be busy for years, but if we lose, the German machinists 
will be busy. If this is McAdoo's idea of what it is all about, 
"thank God for Wilson \" 

A NTI- VACCINATION postcards have been declared un- 
mailable. What is Mr. Burleson's opinion on free verse? 

A ND the Bacon-Shakespeare controversy ? 

Howard Brubaker. 




\/fY heart is sick because of all the eyes 

That look upon you drinkingly. 
They almost touch you with their fever look ! 
O keep your beauty like a mystic gem, 
Clear-surfaced — give no fibre grain of hold 
To those prehensile amorous bold eyes ! 
My heart is sick ! O love, let not my heart 
Corrupt the flower of your liberty ; 
Go spend your beauty like the summer sky 
That makes a radius of every glance, 
And with your morning color light them all ! 


HpHEY would have made you like a pageant, bold 

And nightly festive, lustre-lit for them, 
And round your beauty, like a dusky gem, 
Have breathed the glamour of the pride of gold; 
And you would lie in life as in her bed 
The mistress of a pale king, indolent, 
Though hot her limbs and strong her languishment, 
And her deep spirit is unvisited. 

But I would see you like a gypsy, free 
As windy morning in the sunny air, 
Your wild warm self, your vivid self, to be, 
A miracle of nature's liberty, 
Giving your gift of being kind and fair, 
High, gay and careless-handed everywhere! 

Max Eastman. 

From Washington 

Compulsory Military Training 

O EN ATE Bill No. i is now slumbering in the Senate Com- 
mittee on Military Affairs. Senator Chamberlain, whose 
hands are very, very full of trouble just now, tells the cor- 
respondents periodically that he intends to have his bill re- 
ported out one of these days and submitted to the wisdom of 
the Senate. Will it pass the Senate? Will it pass the House? 
Would it be signed by the President? Let us see. 

Around the capitol the attitude toward the Chamberlain 
bill for compulsory military training is rather cautious and 
tentative. Secretary Baker, in his annual report, came out 
definitely against the adoption of compulsory training as a 
"permanent policy" until after the war when, as he sug- 
gested, we might find that we didn't need it With the elec- 
tions looming up ahead of them, scores of congressmen and 
not a few senators have followed his example. When you 
ask them how they stand on the question they say solemnly 
that "we must wait and see how things shape up after the 

But every day the propaganda for universal military train- 
ing grows stronger and stronger. There are people, of strong 
emotion, who think that Congress will never dare to fasten 
that hateful, Old World system upon the American people. 
That idea is silly. Congress will dare to do anything that 
the press of the country bids it to do. Your congressman 
is a veritable Lionheart when he has the newspapers with 
him; you saw him the other day beard even the President 
on a fuel order and swagger to his seat ! 

There are also people, likewise of strong emotions, who 
say that the American people will never stand for it. But 
that is nonsense also. The American people, it should be 
clearly understood, will stand for anything. Prussians are 
a bit more orderly about it and Bavarians a shade more 
meek, but there is absolutely nothing in our recent history to 
indicate that we are a peculiarly turbulent or disorderly, or 
pacifist, or even politically active, people. Australia, 

with a labor movement much more aggressive and forward- 
looking than our own, submitted to compulsory military 
training ten years ago; why should anybody assume, off- 
hand, that we won't? 

There is a third group, those who believe that Mr. Wilson 
will not let the peace conference get out of hand, that he 
will manage things in such a way that we shall all be spared 
compulsory military training. That may be, and The 
Liberator, I have no doubt, will be the first to congratulate 
the President and the country upon such an outcome. But 
there are, I submit, just a few difficulties in the way. It 
is barely possible that the peace conference will get out of 
hand, that a commonplace, patchwork sort of agreement may 
be reached instead of the brilliant New World solution that 
we dream of. 

Furthermore, as Washington well knows, Mr. Wilson has 
a way of yielding unexpectedly when he thinks best. He 
might conceivably yield on this. The only place in which 
he has definitely expressed his opposition to universal mili- 
tary training is in a letter to Secretary of War Garrison, 
written several years ago. He has given no definite pledge 
to the American people on the question at any time. 

And finally, suppose that after all the president's brilliant, 
above-board diplomacy, putting Lloyd George firmly in 
his place, teaching the very Cecils how to think and the 
German Liberals how to grow, suppose that after all his 
extraordinary exertions the best that can be extorted from 
the peace conference is partial disarmament all around. 
How many have stopped to figure out just what our contribu- 
tion toward that partial disarmament would be? When that 
time comes the militarists and their newspaper organs arc 
going to propose that we offer, as our share, the abandon- 
ment of part of our huge naval program. For us to give up, 
for example, the entire third year construction of our huge 
three-year building program, would be a showy offering on 
the altar. And it would allow us — this of course is the 
point— it would allow us to save out for ourselves our mod- 

April, 1918 

est, harmless little scheme for six months military training 
on a universal basis! 

Politics will play a part in the dicision that is reached on 
that point. Along about that time the country will be facing 
a presidential election. Mr. Wilson may or may not be a 
candidate, but Mr. Wilson's policies will be an issue. The 
Republicans, engineered by a Penrose-Weeks-Roosevelt 
combination, representing American business, expansion- 
after the war, New Republic efficiency and universal mili- 
tary training, will make the fight of their lives. What will 
the Democrats do? Will they make a sharp cleavage and 
oppose universal military training? They might, but if Mr. 
Wilson's influence prevails, their tactics may easily be dif- 

Mr. Wilson — speaking of him now as a vote-getter — 
is not the sort of politician who gives you a clear-cut issue, 
as between black and white. He likes to close in on his 
opponent's platform, he adopts it and qualifies it, reducing the 
issue to one between black and a rather admirable gray. If 
those tactics are followed in 1920, then both parties will have 
practically embraced compulsory training — or completely 
evaded it! — and the opponents of that "drilling, tramping 
foolery" as Wells calls it, will be driven to the Socialist 
party with all that that means of immediate political strength- 
lessness. The main differentiation between the Republicans 
and Democrats might be that whereas the former stood out 
for an efficient whale of a system of compulsory training, 
frankly modelled on the only efficient system of the sort in 
the world, the Jeffersonian democrats, would argue for a 
harmless Swiss system with plenty of pseudo-democratic 
features attached ! 

But in either case American capitalism would get what it 
wants, the beginnings of a compulsory regimentation of 
American manhood for military purposes, for domestic peace, 
for industrial control. 

Senate Bill No. 1 will probably slumber where it is through 
the remainder of this Congress. When the third session of 
this Congress — the short session — opens on the first Monday 
in December, if there are signs that the war is settling down 
for another long strain, the Chamberlain- Weeks crowd may 
resort to Senator New's proposal to register all boys when 
they reach nineteen, begin to train them and draft them 
when they reach twenty-one. It is not very popular but they 
may succeed in working up enough newspaper hysteria to 
put that or something like it through the Sixty-fifth Con- 

But the main fight is coming in the Sixty-sixth Congress 
when the Republicans will control the entire House of Rep- 
resentatives, ousting Dent from the chairmanship of the 
military affairs committee and putting — of all people! — 
Julius Kahn of California in his place. If, in addition, the 
Republicans succeed in electing a Republican senator from 
New Jersey (which they have demonstrated they can easily 
do), and if they defeat Lewis of Illinois, James of Ken- 
tucky (whose state recently went Republican), Walsh of 
Montana (who is a sick man and not hard to beat), and 
Thompson of Kansas (a Republican state) they will control 
the Senate as well. 
But more of that, later. 

Charles T. Hallinan. 
Washington, D. C, February 20, 191 7. 



The American Labor Year Book, 1917-18. Edited 
by Alexander Trachtenberg. $1.25 net; cloth, 60 
cents paper. Rand School of Social Science, New 

TN the quietest way, a work of tremendous importance has 
come to birth in this Year Book of American Labor. 
The facts of the recent American labor struggle, which 'in- 
clude the Mesaba Range strike, the Bayonne massacre, the 
Bisbee deportation, the Mooney case, the murder of Frank 
Little, the passage of the Railway Workers' Eight-Hour Law, 
etc., and the exact situation of the labor unions with regard 
to the government since the entrance of the United States 
into the war, all this domestic history is set against a back- 
ground of labor and socialist progress and defeat all over 
the world. A review, candid, complete and authoritative, of 
the situation in which we are peculiarly interested, it is the 
book we have always wanted. 


A Short History of England, by G. K. Chesterton. 
$1.50 net. John Lane Co. 

Utopia of Usurers, and Other Essays, by G. K. 
Chesterton. $1.25 net. Boni and Liveright. 

JS G. K. Chesterton a reactionary or a radical? How can 
he be a Catholic and a fighting democrat at the same time ? 
Why does he hate eugenics and state-ownership, and despise 
prison reform and woman suffrage? Why does he make 
such a fuss about beer? What is he driving at anyway? 
Those who know the answer to the above questions will find 
it unnecessary to read the following remarks. 

G. K. Chesterton is one of the exponents of a mode of 
revolutionary thought which is older than Marxian socialism, 
which in all of its phases and sects numbers millions of ad- 
herents, and which has made a profound impress upon revo- 
lutionary history. In one of its phases, under the leader- 
ship of Bakunin, it engaged in a struggle with the new 
Marxian doctrine which tore the First International to 
pieces. In a later phase, as the I. W. W., it split American 
Socialism in two and gave sensational expression to some of 
its most vital energies. Yet this mode of thought is not ex- 
clusively Anarchist or Syndicalist, or even extremist. All 
the clergymen who read this magazine — of which I am told 
there are a large number — are probably enrolled under its 
banner, and Tolstoi was one of its great leaders. It is not 
a movement, but a philosophy, bearing a peculiar relationship 
to that which underlies scientific socialism. It has been gen- 
erally either hostile to or contemptuous of the aims and 
methods of the Socialist movement, and it still competes as 
formidably as ever with Marxian socialism for the soul of 

It cannot be described in a phrase, except perhaps by say- 
ing that it really is revolutionary in its essence, which 
Marxian or scientific socialism is not. It will be remembered 
that the Marxian theory was rooted in Hegelian evolution- 



ism, and is hence evolutionary in spirit. But those two 
words have become so obscured by much use that the best 
way of indicating the very real and profound chasm which 
divides the energies of the movement to which we all belong, 
is perhaps to say that half of the vital intellects of this cen- 
tury, as of the last, do not, and cannot, and will not believe 
in economic determinism. They refuse it credence, not be- 
cause it is economic, but because it is determinism. They 
can, and must, and do believe in free-will. 

We are to come back to G. K. C. But first a word about 
Evolution : Under the sanction of pragmatism it is perhaps 
permissible to consider the theory of Evolution, not in its 
sacrosanct aspect as Truth (for Truth with a capital T has 
been thrown into the philosophical rag-bag) , but in its more 
mundane aspect as a notion about the nature of change. In 
that light it appears as the most discouraging theory ever 
invented by the mind of man, except perhaps Calvinian Pre- 
destination, its forerunner in another field of thought. It is 
no accident that the most unconvertable of all the opponents 
of Socialism is the village Darwinist. Think for a moment 
of the Darwinian theory, not as the most valuable contribu- 
tion ever made to scientific speculation, but as a guide to 
ordinary human thought. To some hardy, youthful minds, 
the Darwinian vista of millions of years, with their slow, im- 
perceptible "evolutionary" changes, was undoubtedly inspir- 
ing ; but its general effect was to make Change appear to the 
human mind something brought about by vast natural forces 
operating over huge periods of time— a thing utterly beyond 
mere human power. If we were workingmen, we tried to 
get cheer out of the thought that we had climbed upward 
from the savage (or perhaps down from the simian) that we 
had railroads and public schools and republics, and were in 
fact the Heirs of All the Ages. If we were employers, we 
applied to ourselves the happy phrase about the survival 
of the fittest, and put off the murmurings of workingmen 
against a 16-hour day, etc., with some consolatory reflection 
that the struggle for existence was a universal and inescapable 
law of nature. In either case, if the mist of determinism had 
settled upon our minds, there was nothing we could do about 
it except wait until vast natural forces operating over a huge 
period of time had brought about something better. 

Marx and Engels, parallel with and precedent to the Dar- 
winian achievement in biology, formulated an economic 
interpretation of historical events which for the first 
time put the age-long hopes of the working-class upon 
a sober, realistic basis. But if we consider the theory 
of economic determinism with regard to its spiritual effects, 
we find, if we are candid, that it tended after its first inspirit- 
ing excitements, to cloud the mind with the same spiritual 
inertia. The habit of identifying oneself with a "struggle" so 
ancient as to make its momentary destinies trivial, the loss of 
the sense of personal responsibility both as to one's oppressors 
and oneself, reliance upon vast historical processes, sub- 
missive acceptance of present fate, together with an eager 
friendliness toward apparently hostile forces, a fatuously 
cunning opportunism which sought to encourage the powers 
of evil to distend themselves in order that they might the 
sooner burst — these were, and still are, among the spiritual 
effects of the belief in economic determinism. It is vain 
to dismiss them as popular misconceptions ; a movement lives 
or dies by the results of the popular conceptions, mis- or not, 
of its doctrine. And it is no accident that in Germany, 
where Marxism has most of all flourished in the working- 

class mind, the Socialist movement has most of all lost its 
capacity for revolutionary action. 

The ordinary human mind does not seem to be able to 
keep an idea in its place. The place of such ideas as those of 
Darwin and Marx is in the field of scientific speculation — 
the field, that is to say, where knowledge and not will is 
required. There, determinism is true. In the field of action — 
thanks be to the pragmatism, which has set us free to say this 
— determinism is mere mischievous nonsense. After we have 
acted, we may, if we have leisure, speculate upon the natural 
forces which inevitably determined our action; but at the 
moment of action we must conceive ourselves free to act. 
If a revolutionary movement is to act successfully, it must 
undoubtedly act along the lines of economic predestination; 
but if it is to act at all, it must exist in a world in which 
there is such a thing as free-will. The discovery of Marx, 
which gave the revolutionary movement knowledge, at the 
same time inhibited its will, by taking away its freedom. 

It was in instinctive resistance to this loss that the early 
Anarchist movement rose, and under Bakunin gave battle to 
Marx. It was pretty much defeated and maintained itself 
thereafter chiefly through a long line of brilliant and in- 
spiriting individualists — such as, in this country, Thoreau, 
Emerson, Whitman, Emma Goldman, who testified to the 
superiority of the human will over its environment. It is 
significant that from first to last they maintained toward 
the State an attitude of suspicion, contempt, or overt hos- 
tility — in contrast to the determinists, who were busy trying 
to use the State for their own purposes, encouraging it to en- 
large its functions (just as later they applauded the great 
Trusts). Then the last embers of Anarchism kindled the 
fringes of the labor movement into the flame of a world- 
wide syndicalism. And observe that the State is, in the 
Syndicalist plan, dispensed with — perhaps too summarily: 
but it is possible for the Syndicalists to conceive of a real 
change, a real revolution, in human affairs. 

"Christian Socialism" is thus a product of the same ten- 
dency of mind precisely because the philosophy of Chris- 
tianity is generally — save in the Calvinistic sects — a free-will 
philosophy. Christianity is a religion founded upon the mem- 
ory of one of the greatest changes that ever took place on 
earth — and on the hope, not quite lost sight of in its revised 
dogmas, of a greater change. It is interesting to note it was 
a Catholic priest who made the observations and experiments 
upon which the mutation-theory was founded — a theory 
which upsets the Darwinian conception of step-by-step prog- 
ress. A good Christian wants to believe in miracles. And a 
good Christian who happens to be a revolutionist wants to 
live in a world where the miracle of revolution is possible — 
where the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand. Not for him the 
cut-and-dried universe of Marxian determinism! And not 
for some millions of other excellent people who, I am sure, 
would gladly take their places behind the first barricade of 
the Revolution. Professor Milyukov, it is said, sat in a 
balcony and watched the Petrograd mob go against the 
machine-guns. "It will all be over in half an hour," he said. 
He knew too much to believe that a mob could suddenly 
overthrow the solid tyranny of Tsar ism. But the mob didn't 
know. And so it went and did it. Since then we have 
learned that the success of the Russian revolution was, for a 
lot of reasons, inevitable, predestined, economically deter- 
mined. And that is when the theory is useful — to historians, 
afterward, in explaining how things happened. But for about 

April, 1918 


twenty-four hours what was needed was Christian courage 
and the faith that is beyond knowledge. 

It is characteristic of this mode of thought, however, that 
it does not wait for the Revolution, but rather continually 
creates revolutionary forms of action, some hopeless and 
some fruitful, out of its ever-youthful energies. The move- 
ment — which includes the single-tax program — for the crea- 
tion or restoration of a small peasant (or as Mr. Chester- 
ton genially prefers to say, "pleasant'*) holdings of land, is 
one which has already begun to bear fruit in almost every 
European country. Not less ambitious, and very similar, is 
its newest outgrowth, Guild Socialism — an off- shoot of Syn- 
dicalism, arriving in the same way at the supercession of 
capitalist production, but frankly intending to restore to 
labor the chief of its medieval virtues, the ancient virtue of 
handicraftsmanship. In this intention it is more far-seeing 
than Syndicalism, which has not been able to imagine away 
our present mode of machine production. It will be noted 
that the mind which is free from the obsession of the Present 
is free to conceive a restoration of the Past. To the determinist 
there is something at once sacrilegious and wasteful in this 
attempt, which he describes as "setting back the clock." To 
the free-willist, however, this is no clockwork universe. 
Going back to the path from which we wandered a few hun- 
dred years ago may be the most progressive thing to do — 
particularly if we have wandered into a bog. 

There is then a scattered but philosophically related set 
of efforts now being made all over the world, outside the 
Socialist movement, to remould the world nearer to the heart's 
desire. The chief practical difference between these efforts 
and those of Socialism is that they aim at restricting and if 
you please abolishing capitalism, rather than fostering it; 
and the same thing is true with regard to that creature of 
capitalism, the modern State. They regard State capitalism, 
as we do, as the logical outcome of present-day affairs; but 
precisely because it is the logical outcome, they propose to 
prevent it. They call it, in H. Belloc's phrase, the Servile 
State, and their chief anger against us Socialists is on the 
ground that we have been these many years engaged — oh, 
with the best intentions ! — in helping our masters forge the 
fetters for an industrial slavery. 

Well, we have now bounded G. K, Chesterton, I think, on 
all sides. He hates capitalism, distrusts the State, fears In- 
dustrial Slavery, wants labor to get back the mastery of its 
tools and the people to get back the land taken 
away from them in the middle ages, sees no reason why 
these things should not be done at once, and prefers to live in 
a universe in which such a revolution is possible. His "Short 
History of England," intended for working-people, is a vivid 
account of the way in which the workers were robbed by the 
middle-class of their land and their tools. The other book is 
a collection of weekly articles from the English Labor news- 
paper, the London Herald, in which he tells us why as a 
revolutionist he will have no truck with many of the more 
pleasantly progressive (and to him all the more dangerous), 
features of the modern capitalist State. 

Ordinarily I am still so much under the spell of the 
Evolutionary Myth that I can't help feeling, as the 
heir of all ages, that I am pretty well off. But Mr. Ches- 
terton tells me that I have in fact been robbed of 
my patrimony. My folks, no longer ago than the middle 
ages, had things which I have not — taken away from them 
by force in the fourteenth and succeeding centuries by the 

ancestors, as it were, of Mr. Rockefeller. It really makes me 
feel quite differently about the matter. I had intended to 
confiscate Mr. Rockefeller's property, on broad sociological 
grounds, some time in the next hundred and fifty years. But 
now I want the family property back right away ! Particu- 
larly I want back those guilds which Mr. Rockefeller's an- 
cestors destroyed much in the way his hired thugs break up 
an I. W. W. local to-day. 

These books should secure for Mr. Chesterton the attention 
he deserves from the working-class movement in America. 
It is difficult to say which has stood most in the way of his 
acceptance here, his wit or his Catholicism. If it is the 
latter, these books furnish Mr. Chesterton's own defense — a 
very aggressive defense, it should be said. So much the 
better for us. We have been so nourished upon Protestant 
myth in our school histories that even our later thinking is 
colored with adolescent prejudices. We need to be reminded 
that Luther was not our liberator — indeed, according to the 
Marxian view it was the middle-class that he liberated — from 
any sense of responsibility toward the workers. We need 
to be told again that Protestantism was the preface to the 
devil-take-the-hindmost school of economics, and that what- 
ever may have been the shortcomings of the Catholic Church 
in our own times, it has never yet given its sanction to capi- 
talist ethics. We all know, of course, that Catholic working- 
men can fight as fiercely for their rights as Atheists; but 
we need Mr. Chesterton to point out that in doing so they 
do not cease to be good Catholics in the strictest sense — that, 
as Chesterton wrote in a splendid sonnet about a strike at 

"It were better for such men as we, 
And we were nearer Bethlehem, if we lay 
Shot dead on scarlet snows for liberty — 
Dead in the sunlight upon Christmas Day." 

And if it sticks in our scientific gullets that Catholics believe 
in miracles, Mr. Chesterton will retort: "But Atheists be- 
lieve in queerer things — they believe in Eugenics." And in this 
retort I think we come to the heart at once of our impatience 
of — and our real need for — the Chestertonian philosophy. 

Chesterton is regarded as reactionary because he does not 
believe in a great variety of what we may call Modern Im- 
provements. Eugenics is in his view partly an extreme ex- 
pression of the desire of the idle rich to manage the lives of 
the poor, a kind of prurient meddling for meddling's sake ; and 
partly the slave-owner's naive and unscrupulous scheme for 
getting a better breed of slaves. The same attitude of ex- 
treme suspicion of the rich, and their intellectual and politi- 
cal hangers-on, explains his views on such matters as Sanita- 
tion, Prison Reform, Drink and Woman Suffrage. In one of 
his most eloquent outbursts he denounced the proposal to 
give doctors the power to make parents have their little girls' 
hair cut short in the interest of cleanliness and health. He 
pointed out that this meant the hair of poor little girls, not 
of rich little girls. And he asked, Why not cut off their 
heads? And when it was very pertinently inquired how he 
thought the lice-problem ought to be dealt with, he replied, 
Abolish capitalism. Similarly, he is not interested in making 
prisons more humane, because he is convinced that they will 
be more humane only in order to contain more humanity, 
and that there will be more mercyuin the prison on condi- 
tion that there is less justice in the court. As to drink, he 
thinks that (a) beer is good, and (b) that the capitalists 
want to deprive the workers of it in order to make more 



efficient machines out of them. And as to Woman Suffrage, 
he is opposed to it on the same ground that Emma Goldman 
is opposed to it — as a bourgeois fal-lal. I happen to think 
that he is measurably wrong on all these points, but I do 
think he is right in his distribution of emphasis. After all, 
what I want is Revolution, rather than, let us say, clean 
streets. . . . The point of view of a man who turns up his 
nose at modern improvements, and believes in miracles, is 
particularly significant just now. We can learn from him a 
new — or an old — way of thinking of which we stand very 
much in need. Floyd Dell. 

Vachel Lindsay 

The Chinese Nightingale, and Other Poems, by 
Vachel Lindsay. $1.25 net. The Macmillan Co. 

T TOO have my claim upon the gratitude of posterity. It 
has just occurred to me that I am — how shall I say it? — 
responsible in a way for the emergence of the singular, 
startling and impressive poetic phenomenon which we know 
as Vachel Lindsay, Perhaps I ought to pause here to define 
that phenomenon with some exactness. The fact is 
that poetry has been in a bad way these last few 
centuries. When Homer smote his bloomin' lyre, 
it was popularly understood that poetry was an art which 
addressed itself to the ear. But more and more the race has 
turned for the satisfaction of its musical sense to the specific 
art of music, leaving poetry to be assimilated as best it could 
by the eye. It was precisely as if people should stop going 
to concerts, preferring to buy the scores of the new musical 
performances and read them over at home. Yes! there are 
people who pretend to love poetry, and who yet refuse to hear 
anyone read it aloud. And perhaps there is some excuse for 
them: for so far has the race lost its sense of verbal music 
that most people do not know how to read poetry aloud. Par- 
ticularly the atrocities perpetrated by a generation of "elocu- 
tionists" here in America have caused sensitive souls to avoid 
the threat of a "public reading" as the plague. . . . Into 
this situation Mr. Lindsay has come, as one who knows how 
to read poetry, and who can write poetry so that it must be 
heard. He addresses the ear, and teaches us again the almost 
lost art of listening to poetry. It begins to become again 
under his influence a social and not a solitary enjoyment — a 
communal ritual of beauty, akin in its spiritual effects to 
mass-singing and to common (or communal) prayer. 

The first thing necessary to this rejuvenation of poetry is 
the re-discovery of the voice. Mr. Lindsay has a rich and 
powerful voice, trained in propagandist oratory, with a 
background of public school recitation and church-singing, 
which with some judicious memories of Negro preaching and 
Salvation Army tunes, has been fully capable of startling 
and charming away our deafness. But there was a time 
when that voice of his, so far as poetry was concerned, was 
yet silent. And his own poems, so frank and obvious and 
irresistible in their rhythms, had not been written. In fact, 
the thunderstorm and rainbow of oral poetry which we know 
as Vachel Lindsay did not exist. Instead, there was a young 
man whom we called Nicholas, who lived in Springfield, 111., 
and who used to come up to Chicago now and then and give 
us queer little books printed at his own expense, decorated 
fancifully by himself with drawings of moons and ships and 
censers, in the midst of which upon close inspection one 

found fanciful and delicately-woven little lyrics. I do not 
mean to disparage their artistic worth, for I remember some 
of them as rarely beautiful. But they had an effect of shy- 
ness, which was reiterated when Mr. Lindsay upon solicita- 
tion recited some of them. He did so in a monotonous mauve 
whisper. You may not believe this, but it is true. 

At this point, enter upon the scene Mr. G. K. Chesterton, 
in the shape of his sonorous poem about Don John of Austria, 
and Mr. W. B. Yeats, in the form of certain of his theories 
about the reading of poetry, both long housed in my excellent 
memory. Some of us, I remember, had tried to recite Yeats' 
poems to the music noted in the appendix to his book, and had 
experimented for ourselves with methods of recitation in- 
tended to give to the spoken words their proper rhythmic 
values in pure human speech. And Chesterton's poem, so 
full of magnificently broad rhythmic effects, was delightful 
because it carried within itself as it were the directions for 
its recitation. . . . Well, I told Nicholas about Yeats' 
theories; and he replied, I believe, after a silence, with 
further argument against the saloon. But 

One summer night we were all sitting beside the embers 
of a driftwood fire on the shore of Lake Michigan, and the 
rhythmic lapsing of the waters on the sand set us to saying 
poems aloud. When it came his turn, Nicholas, in a tone 
that hardly carried above the soft falling of the foam, 
whispered to us something like this : 

"My sweetheart is the girl beyond the moon, 

For I have never been in love with woman — 
Aspiring always to be set in tune 

With one who is invisible, inhuman. ..." 

Then it was my turn, and I began with 

"Dim drums throbbing in the hills half heard," 

that pounding stanza with its noise of a crusading army on 
the march, with its 

"Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold, 
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold" 

with all its trampling hoof-beats, jingle of armory, lumbering 
of cannon, down to the sea-fight. You remember 

"Don John is calling through the smoke and the eclipse, 
Calling with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips, 
Trumpet that sayeth 'Ha! 
Domine gloria!' 
Don John of Austria is shouting to the ships" 

A crowd of excursionists, far out on the lake, thinking 
we were addressing them, answered with a happy shout. . . . 
Nicholas was silent and thoughtful, and retired into the ob- 
scurity of Springfield, 111., and I went to New York, and 
never saw Nicholas again. But a year or so later I heard a 
sound in the West which grew momentarily louder, drowning 
finally the noise of the European war. It was Nicholas — 
or rather a new personage, Vachel Lindsay — coming across 
the continent reciting "General William Booth Enters Into 
Heaven," and other poems. 

"Booth enters boldly with his big bass drum* 
(Are you washed in the Blood of the Lamb?") 

"The banjos tinkled, and the tambourines 
J ing-jing- jingled in the hands of queens!" 

"Fat black bucks in a wine -barrel room, 
Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable, 
Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table, . . . 

April, 1918 


Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom. . . . 
Boom, boom, BOOM. . . . 

"Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking, 
Listen to the quack-horn, slack and clacking!' 

"Give the engines room, 
Give the engines room. . . 

And in the midst of all those plangent, noisy rhythms, 
moments, beautiful as unexpected, of quiet, starry loveliness, 
notes of clear, happy laughter, sudden poignancies that bring 
tears to the eyes — lovely, laughing, poignant rhythms, I 
mean, not words only. In the main, truly enough, as obvious 
and "catchy" as ragtime, but none the less (and perhaps all 
the more) artistic because of that. Mr. Yeats has a delicate 
ear, and he liked these poems so well that he turned over a 
sum of money awarded him as a prize, to Mr. Lindsay, 
which reminds me of my thesis: that Chesterton and Yeats, 
via myself, awoke that voice and beat out the time of those 
first poems. I dare say Vachel remembers it differently, and 
perhaps we had less to do with it than I think; and if he 
wants to repudiate my account and set the public right, I 
offer him the pages of The Liberator for that purpose next 
month. But I can't help thinking that a noble sorrow must 
have filled his breast there on the beach when Don John's 
shout reached the excursion steamer, and that as he took the 
train to Springfield he said to himself : "After all, is it not the 
business of the poet to be heard?" And, "By Heaven, I shall 

I wish everybody could hear Vachel recite those poems. I 
have been learning lately, in a Jacques-Dalcroze class of 
eurhythmies, how stiff, constricted and comparatively ex- 
pressionless my body is; and most people could learn that 
about their voices by listening to Vachel Lindsay. 

Most of the poems in this new volume I have heard him 
recite — I can hear his voice now, unrolling the quaint and 
vivid tapestries of the "Chinese Nightingale." It is my 
favorite among all his poems. And, aside from rhythm, in 
which it is various and alluring, it touches so far, I think, 
the peak of his poetic feeling, at the end, when the "gray, 
small" bird, adjured to remember the battles and carnivals, 
the pomp and glory of ancient times, replies vaguely out of 
the mist of memory 

" 'One thing I remember : 

Spring came on forever . . . " 

There are poems which I have to laugh at even while I 
enjoy them, like "This My Song Is Made for Kerensky," 
with its college-yell pattern : 

"Moscow and Chicago! 
Come let us praise battling Kerensky, 
Bravo! Bravo! 

Comrade Kerensky, the thunderstorm and rainbow, 
Comrade Kerensky, Bravo, Bravo!" 

About all that can be said for that, in spite of some good 
phrases in it — "prophet of the world-wide intolerable hope" — 
is that you can let your voice out on it. And when it comes 
to "poem games" like "King Solomon and the Queen of 
Sheba," my sole enjoyment is in the imaginary picture I get 
of fat dowagers and shy, repressed young things, gathered 
together* under Mr. Lindsay's commanding eye, and finding 

themselves — quite against their wishes and much to their 
astonishment — singing: "We were the sweethearts'* — and 
enjoying it. It is doubtless good for them, and I hope Mr. 
Lindsay keeps it up, but I'll be darned if I'll read any more 
such stuff. Vachel's humor is a commodity for which I have 
no appetite. 

Next to the Nightingale poem I like best "The Ghosts of 
the Buffaloes." In dignity of idea and feeling, it seems to 
me the best of his poems since "The Congo," giving as it 
does some curious and not to be defined sense of the im- 
permanence of reality. It is a work in which the author's 
exploration into the philosophy of Buddhism has really served 
him well. But again I remember Vachel reciting it, being 
a whole headlong charge of Indian ghost-kings, making the 
midnight grand with the cry "A-la-la!" — a red god show 
himself, with body like bronze (even in his funny boiled 
shirt!) — terrible eyes and catamount cries and all, a whole 
band of "scalp-hunters, beaded and spangled and bad, naked 
and lustful and foaming and mad, flashing primeval demoniac 
scorn, blood thirst and pomp amid darkness reborn" : calling 
up for us his hearers the 

"Power and glory that sleep in the grass 
While the winds and the snows and the great rains pass" 

And better still — well, to my mind Niagara Falls is some- 
what inferior to Vachel when he is being a whole herd of 
buffaloes — thousands abreast, a scourge and amazement, he 
sweeps to the west, with black bobbing noses, with red rolling 
tongues, coughing forth steam from his leather-wrapped 
lungs, stamping flint feet, flashing moon eyes, pompous and 

owlish, shaggy and wise 

"Tide upon tide of strange fury and foam" 

And he does it with his voice. If I were the Victor or 
Columbia or Edison phonograph company, I would make 
records of about twelve of his things and add to my income 
with a good conscience. And if I were a millionaire I would 
put one in every American home. We need to know that 
the nature of poetry is akin to the nature of dancing — the 
manifestation of a natural human impulse to create rhythmi- 
cal beauty, and to create it with some part of our physical 
being. In the last few years we have seen America recover 
(to an extent), the use of its legs, in dancing. And I 
cherish the hope that the race will eventually recover the 
use of its voice, in poetry. F. D. 

War As It Should Be 

The Tree of Heaven. A Novel, by May Sinclair. 
Macmillan. $1.50 net. 

'TpO encompass within the pages of a rather slender book 
a whole family of characters, and their dependent rela- 
tives — to slice off not one period of their lives, but to carry 
them from birth to death — to place them in a generation 
when event and "movements" come pell-mell one after the 
other with such rapidity that not even the most alert can 
realize them all — and on top of all this to analyze each indi- 
vidual's reaction to the most bewildering force in all history, 
the war — this is the task May Sinclair has set for herself 
in her new book, "The Tree of Heaven." And it is too tre- 
mendous a task. The effect is trivial and hasty. 

The ash tree in the garden of the Harrison home, in whose 
shadow Michael, Dorothy, Nicky, and John play as children, 
and from under which the three boys march to death in 



France — is the one stable and unifying thing in the book. 
Around the tree, in mad orgy, dance militant suffrage, free 
love, futurist art, Irish nationalism, pacifism, and the new 
poetry, until when the sound of the bugle is heard, they stop 
suddenly dead still. For "honor," "freedom," "love of coun- 
try" are something high and sacred, and the papier-mache 
idealisms of the children's earlier years collapse utterly. 

With never a question of why or what for, the whole host 
of characters set out to find the Holy Grail through this 
great war for freedom. Except one — Michael, the poet and 
individualist. And the pressure which British society brings 
to bear on him, the baleful eyes of his family and friends fol- 
lowing him, the way he is haunted and hounded into the mob, 
is very real. At length he succumbs because of some Scotch 
melody (God knows why) and his brother's death. But even 
his going forth is at the last unintelligible. Of course, May 
Sinclair has him discover as soon as he enters the trenches 
that there is something more precious than beauty, for which 
all his life he has been seeking. 

Well, one can forgive her this vague hypocrisy, as long as 
it is unconscious. If you think you're fighting for an ideal 
it makes little difference I suppose whether you actually are 
or not — and an Englishman facing "the ultimate reality" on 
a parapet may feel the same exaltation in dying for love of 
country, as a member of the Red Guard fighting for indus- 
trial communism. 

But when the author, through the letters of Michael, urges 
handing out this spiritual stuff to the fighters as they are 
handed out rum before going over the top — ! 

The growth of spiritualism since the war is suggested in 
the character of Veronica, the illegitimate adopted child, 
who sees visions, and understands everything in some occult 
way, and comforts those who lose their sons and lovers in 
the war. 

The British perhaps need this clairvoyance as an antidote 
to despair, perhaps the Germans need it, but the French see 
the sharp outlines of things as they are ; and the Russians too, 
with something added, a desire for change. Nobody knows 
what we shall see when we draw more closely to it. 

May Sinclair has done her bit for England — there is noth- 
ing in the book to discourage recruiting. But she has not 
done her bit for literature. And one looks back with regret 
on her careful study of Rickman in "The Divine Fire" and 
the sombre passionate interpretation of "The Three Sisters" 
against a primitive background of field and moor. Apparent- 
ly one cannot hide in the dark and create out of one's mind 
living personalities and situations so long as the war flashes 
over the world. Every make-believe is an empty gesture 
while the stupendous actuality faces us. We have to watch 
and wait, until "psychic distance," as Croce says, comes with 
the passing of time, and emotion can be remembered in some 
tranquility. R. P. 

A New Writer 

Where Bonds Are Loosed. A novel, by E. L. Grant 
Watson. $1.50 net. Alfred A. Knopf. 

HpHIS novel arrives just as we are going to press — too late 
for review, only in time for this hasty warning to 
our readers not to miss it if they want to read a devilishly 
interesting novel with some psychology absolutely unpre- 
cedented in fiction. More about it later. F. D. 

Negro Poetry — A Reply 


I do not question Mr. Dell's estimate of my work in 
"Fifty Years and Other Poems," because not only a critic 
but even the average reader has the right to say whether or 
not he likes what an author has written. But I do disagree 
with the theory of poetic art which Mr. Dell laid down in 
reviewing my book in the March issue of The Liberator. 

He said, "Politically — and socially — a Negro looks like 
anybody else to me. But if there is no peculiar way of cast- 
ing a vote, there is nevertheless a peculiar way of writing 
poetry. Or — to fall back frankly upon dogma — there ought 
to be." In a word, Mr. Dell's contention is that a Negro 
poet should confine himself not only to Negro themes but to 
what is traditionally known as Negro phraseology and speech. 
He feels that there is, or ought to be, something inherent, 
something in the blood that should urge and compel him to 
do so. This may be good dogma, but I do not think it is a 
good theory of criticism. Such a theory would disallow the 
achievements of Dumas, whose grandfather was a West 
Indian black, and of Pushkin, whose grandfather was a full- 
blooded African. 

Such a theory produces a state of mind that precludes just 
criticism, and also leads one into errors. For example, Mr. 
Dell has evidently been impressed with the music and poetry 
of the old Negro "spirituals" — their poetry is often startling 
in its imagery — and he thinks that the Negro poet might well 
go back to them for inspiration. He quoted a stanza from 
one of the poems in which I praise these same "spirituals." 
When in that stanza I say that the notes of "Go Down 
Moses" stir the blood like a trumpet-call, Mr. Dell feels that 
I am not true to myself, that I am merely imitating. He 
thinks it was Sir Philip Sidney who used a similar line, and 
that it was natural for such a line to come to the mind of a 
tired military man — "He had gone into battle at its bidding, 
A trumpet-call was as familiar to him as a factory-whistle or 
a motor horn to us. He may not have been a good musical 
critic, but he wasn't making up an effective phrase out of 
memories of things read in books written two hundred years 
ago by people with different customs, traditions, and ideas. 
When he spoke he revealed his race, color and previous con- 
dition of servitude pretty unmistakably. And this is what 
Mr. Johnson doesn't do, and that is why I don't like the first 
part of his book." 

Now, I admit that I know there once lived a poet named 
Sir Philip Sidney; whether he wrote about something stir- 
ring him like a trumpet-call I do not know. I confess that I 
have never been waked to battle by a trumpet-call, but I have 
heard trumpets and I know how their tones affect me. And 
I know also that away back in the dark days of slavery some 
unknown Negro slave whom I am sure never heard of Sir 
Philip and who, too, had never been waked to battle by a 
trumpet-call sang to "Steal Away to Jesus," the best known 
of all the old "spirituals," the following words: 

"My Lord he calL me, 

He calls me by de thunder, 

De trumpet sounds within-a my soul, 

I ain't got long to stay here." 

It was not because he knew I had never been waked by 
a trumpet-call that led Mr. Dell into thinking that I was 

April, 1918 


imitating, but the fact that I was not using 
Negro idioms and rhythms. 

And this absence of traditional Negro 
idioms and rhythms even in the poems with 
a racial theme in the first part of my book 
causes Mr Dell to say, "I might not go so 
far as to assert that this is a fault in Mr. 
Johnson. But I do feel it is a misfortune 
for us. The poems are so far lacking in 
self -revelation." The Negro in America 
has achieved, or been placed, in a certain 
artistic niche. When he is thought of 
artistically, it is as a happy-go-lucky, sing- 
ing, shuffling, banjo-picking being or as a 
more or less pathetic character. The pic- 
ture of him is in a log cabin — and I am 
not denying that a Negro in a log cabin is 
more picturesque than a Negro in a Harlem 
flat; a like comparison, however, may be 
drawn regarding the white man. Negro 
dialect is the natural instrument for voicing 
that phase of Negro life, but the poet finds 
it is too limited for any higher or deeper 
notes. It has but two main stops, humor 
and pathos. 

Will you pardon me if I quote several 
stanzas from the first poem in my book: 

"This land is ours by right of birth, 
This land is ours by right of toil; 
We helped to turn its virgin earth, 
Our sweat is in its fruitful soil. 

Where once the tangled forest stood,— 
Where flourished once rank weed 

thorn, — 
Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood 
The cotton white, the yellow corn. 


To gain these fruits that have been earned, 
To hold these fields that have been won, 
Our arms have strained, our backs have 

Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun. 

That banner which is now the type 
Of victory on field and flood — 
Remember, its first crimson stripe 
Was dyed by Attucks' willing blood. 

And never yet has come the cry — 
When that fair flag has been assailed— 
For men to do, for men to die, 
That we have faltered or have failed. 

Then should we speak but servile words, 
Or shall we hang our heads in shame? 
Stand back of new-come foreign hordes, 
And fear our heritage to claim? 

No! stand erect and without fear, 
And for our foes let this suffice — 
We've bought a rightful sonship here, 
And we have more than paid the price." 

Those lines do not voice the traditional 
Negro of the plantation and the levee, but 
they do voice, however inadequately, the 
vanguard of the American Negro of to-day. 
Nor would it be possible to put what those 
lines attempt to voice into traditional Ne- 
gro idioms and rhythms. In those lines I 
was striving to voice a group whose aspira- 
tions are more vital, even if they them- 
selves are less picturesque, than the tradi- 
tional group. 

Mr. Dell thinks it is the business of the 

(Continued on page 43) 

Thinking People Are Reading the 


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Where Bonds Are Loosed, by E. L. Grant 
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A remarkable novel, and a splendid start 
for the year's fiction. See notice in book 
review section of this issue. 

The Wife and Other Stories, by Anton 
Chekhov. $1.50 net. [Macmillan]. 

An eagerly awaited new volume of the 
Garnett translations. Five incomparable 
Volumes have appeared already, and one 
hopes the series will never end! 

The Tree of Heaven, by May Sinclair. 
$1.60 net. [Macmillan]. 
See review in this issue. 

Under Fire, by Henri Barbusse. 

The soul of all the armies of France finds 
a great and terrible voice in this book. 
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The Rise of David kevinski, by Abraham 


Stark convincing realism — a groping 

young Jewish idealist becomes an American 

Business Man. [Harpers]. $1.60 net. 

Marching Men, by Sherwood Anderson. 

The tramp of aroused workers resounds 
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American labor leader. [Lane]. $1.50 net. 

King Coal, by Upton Sinclair. 

This book is a torch guiding us through 
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[Macmillan]. $1.50 net. 


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New Poetry 

Tamburlaine and Other Verses, by John 
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The "strange clamor of change" is in 
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See review in this issue. 

Renascence and Other Poems, by Edna 
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Approaches to the Great Settlement, by 

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The Willy-Nicky Correspondence: Being 
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$1 net. [Knopf]. 
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Political Ideals, by Bertrand Russell. 

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A Short History of England, by G. K. 

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The department of literary criticism and 
gossip signed "Jacob Tonson 1 * which used 
to appear weekly in the London New Age 
was the most stimulating thing of the kind 
since Bernard Shaw quit being a dramatic 
critic. Some of the best of those articles 
are republished in this book, and they have 
not lost their savor. [Doran]. $2 net 

A Book of Prefaces, by H. L. Mencken. 

A swashbuckling attack on American 
Puritanism, and appreciations of Conrad, 
Dreiser and Huneker. [Lane], $1.50 net. 

The New Poetry, an anthology edited by 
Harriet Monroe and Alice Corbin Hen- 
One of the very best collections of re- 
cent verse. [Macmillan], $1.75 net. 

The Backwash of War, by Ellen N. La 

A masterpiece. [Putnam]. $1 net. 

April, 1918 

(Continued from page 41) 

Negro poet to do for the Negro what 
Synge did for the Irish of the Aran Is- 
lands. But the American Negro cannot be 
compared to the Irish, who live on an 
island practically to themselves, or even to 
the Negroes of Haiti, who live on an island 
wholly to themselves. The Negro in the 
United States is thrown into the whirl of 
American life, and, whether he wills or not, 
he must become a part of it. If he does 
not he perishes. So the traditional speech 
of the Negro cannot be kept a living force 
in American literature, for in spite of all 
we may do, it will pass. The best that can 
be done will be to preserve it as a literary 

Now as to the "lack of self-revelation" in 
my poems, I can only say that what I have 
put into book is what I feel and feel most 
deeply. Perhaps, as Mr. Dell says, I might 
have accomplished a greater artistic 
achievement had I kept to the Negroes of 
the plantation and the levee and put their 
quaint expressions into syncopated verse, 
but it would not have been self-revelation. 

It may be, after all, that what many 
are looking for, perhaps unconsciously, 
from the Negro poet is something not 
necessarily good, but something different, 
something strange, something novel, some- 
thing new. 

James Weldon Johnson. 

[Reviewer's Note.— I feel indebted, equally 
I am sure with the readers of this magazine, 
to Mr. Johnson for his eloquent and convinc- 
ing reply to my review. I only wish to protest 
that I did not want Mr. Johnson to adopt the 
conventional literary pose of the plantation or 
levee "darky," and I regret that my remarks 
so far misconveyed my meaning. And though 
the "traditional speech" of the Negro, so far 
as it consists in mere mispronunciation of 
English words, may well pass away, his speech 
as a reflection of the Negro soul (which I 
dogmatically find, even in Dumas), will hardly 
pass away; and if it should, American life 
and the whole world of art will be the poorer. 
But I do not think Mr. Johnson disagrees with 
me on this point. — F. D.] 

Book Notes 

"Three Best " 

Last month Floyd Dell cited Barbusse's 
"Under Fire," the completion of Nexo's 
four volume "Pelle the Conqueror" andthe 
commencement of a series of translations 
of the tales of Chekhov as the three chief 
literary events of the past year. An imposing 
trio. Without wishing to plagiarize from 
my positive confrere and having no inten- 
tion of treading on W. S. Braithwaite's sta- 
tistical corns, I would like to be similarly 
dogmatic. But in a more restricted field. 
I refer to the books of American poetry 
published during 1917. And I pick out an 
outstanding three. They are, in the order 
of their beauty, power and individuality, 
Robert Frost's "Mountain Interval," James 
Oppenheim's "The Book of Self" and Edna 
St. Vincent Millay's "Renascence." The 
three finest poems printed in American 
magazines during the year were "Snow," 
by Robert Frost; James Oppenheim's "Pre- 
lude" (to "Creation") and Amy Lowell's 
"Guns as Keys: and the Great Gate 
Swings!" The three worst poems were — 
But the field is too rich! L. U. 

A New Publisher. 

Philip Goodman, a new publisher, makes 
his debut with "Forty-Nine Little Essays," 
by H. L. Mencken; "How's Your Second 
Act," by Arthur Hopkins, and "A Book 
Without a Title," 'by George Jean Nathan. 
Volumes by Benjamin de Casseres and Don 
Marquis will follow. 

John Reed— Poet 

Five years ago more than a few of his 
friends regarded Jack Reed as a sort of 
sophisticated gypsy, a gentleman-adventu- 
rer, a combination of Christy Mahon, Jack 
London, Peck's Bad Boy, Don Giovanni 
and Don Quixote. That was before he be- 
came, in rapid succession, political re- 
porter, exposer of Republican chicancery, 
the best war-correspondent in America and 
first-hand interpreter of the Russian revo- 
lution. But there is another and even earlier 
John Reed to be considered — John Reed, 
poet. A collection of his verse has been 
published recently by the Hillacre Book- 
house under the title "Tamburlaine and 
Other Poems." It includes the fine lyric 
"Love at Sea"; that stirring poem, half- 
story, half-song, "Sangar," and at least half 
a dozen other notable pieces. If you are at 
all interested in catching a propagandist off 
his guard or observing a war-correspondent 
after office-hours, I can think of no better 
investment than this splendidly written and 
beautifully printed volume. L. U. 


I refer not to Conrad's story but to Miles 
Malleson's play which I reviewed over a 
year and a half ago in the Masses. Since 
that time, Malleson has written several re- 
markable little plays, a few copies of which 
are still on sale. One of them ("Black 
'EH") is one of the few readable studies 
and almost the only penetrating dramatic 
glimpse of the war. "The Little White 
Thought" is a fantastic scrap that might 
have been written by a joyful Evreinof. 
And "Paddly Pools," a little fairy play with 
the war as a background, is a poignant 
whimsy that reads like a blend of James M. 
Barrie and James Stephens. 

But I started to say something about 
"Youth." The Washington Square Play- 
ers have just produced it at the Comedy 
Theatre and most of the local reviewers, 
finding it hard to determine whether this 
three-act performance was a comedy or a 
tragedy, gave it the usual glib generalities 
that pass for dramatic criticism. The point 
of the play is that what seems tragic to an 
idealistic young man in the midst of sex 
preoccupations and perplexities is somehow 
comic to those experienced people who 
have solved their difficulties. Even the au- 
thor shares this feeling. Malleson begins 
by laughing at his hero and ends by laugh- 
ing with him. He shows in Hetherly's 
initial failure as a dramatist (and the first 
act rehearsal is a delicious piece of writing) 
the promise of his gradual success as a 
person. There is subtlety and satire, anger 
and bright snatches of poetry in these 
pages; they reflect the candor and curiosity 
of youth, its confusing doubts and elemental 
faith. In short, it is an almost perfect re- 
flection of its title. L. U. 


Horatio Alger and H. G. Wells make a 
curious combination, as one finds in a yarn 
entitled "The World and Thomas Kelly," 
originally published in the Saturday Even- 
ing Post and now appearing in cloth covers. 
Mr. Wells' sociological earnestness is most 
quaintly yoked with the naivete, the tradi- 
tional episodes, the jejune moralizing 
which satisfied us (if it did) at the age of 


How many of these 
books have you read? 

Test yourself. These are books you know you 
ought to read. You have heard all about them 
since childhood. You have heard so much about 
them that perhaps you think by now that you 
know them. Do you, actually? How much 
of your culture is camouflage? This is a 
good thing to find out about yourself. 

You cannot read books like these and remain 
the same person you were before. You can- 
not read Shakespeare, Dante, Tolstoy, Tur- 
genev, Shaw, Wilde, de Maupassant — and the 
score of other authors listed here — and remain 
unbenefited. These men are the great mak- 
ers of men. If you aspire to writing, you 
cannot fail to write better by reading them. If 
you aspire to public speaking, you cannot fail 
to make a better impression. If you aspire to 
nothing but living simply and thinking clearly, 
your living and your thinking cannot help but 
be broadened and enriched. 

The edition in which these books are printed 
— the Little Leather Library — is bound in full 
leather. The volumes are pocket size, so that 
you can read them while riding to and from 
work. Almost one million and a half of these 
volumes ' have been sold. That shows 
how convenient they are. How many of them 
have you not read? How many of them do 
you wish to buy now? Check them with a 
pencil now, and send for them. Your money 
will be refunded cheerfully, if they do not 
come up to your expectation. 


each, postpaid 

Note: Perhaps you have a friend in the army 
or navy. Send him some of these books. The 
men need pocket size volumes. // you purchase 

ten books, wc will give you a Kit Box in which 
they can be mailed by you. 

List of Titles 

Christmas Carol Dickens 

Essays Emerson 

Uses of Great Men 


Barrack Room Ballads 


Without Benefit of Clergy 

The Finest Story in the 
World Kipling 

Short Stories Maupassant 

Tales from the Arabian 

Dr. Jekyll and. Mr. Hyde 
Robert Louis Stevenson 

Fifty Poems of England 

Fifty Poems of America 

Rubaiyat of Omar Khay- 

Hamlet Shakespeare 

King Lear 


Merchant of Venice 

Romeo and Juliet 

Julius Ceasar 



As You Like It 

Midsummer Night's 
Dream " 

Rip Van Winkle Irving 

Sherlock Holmes Doyle 

A Doll's House Ibsen 

The Murders in the Rue 
Morgue Edgar Allen Poe 

The Raven and Other 
Poems Edgar Allen Poe 

Ballad of Reading Gaol 

Oscar Wilde 

Pelleas and Melisande 

Maurice Maeterlinck 
Speeches and Addresses 

Abraham Lincoln 
The Bear Hunt Tolstoy 
Sonnets from the Portu- 

Elisabeth Browning 
Dreams Olive Schreiner 
Comtesse de Saint Geran 

Alexandre Dumas 
Bab Ballads W.S.Gilbert 
Hiawatha Longfellow 

Friendship and Other 
Essays Henry Thoreau 
Socialism for Millionaires 
G. Bernard Shaw 
On Going to Church 

G. Bernard Shaw 
Memories of President 
Lincoln Walt Whitman 
The Ancient Mariner 

Samuel 7*. Coleridge 
Inferno Dante 

Speeches and Letters 

George Washington 
A Dream of John Ball 

William Morris 
Poems Robert Burns 

Carmen Prosper Merimee 
Confessions of an Opium 
Eater De Quincey 

Words of Jesus 
A Tillyloss Scandal Barrie 
Poems Robert Browning 
Mumu, etc. Ivan Turgenev 
The Last Days of a Con- 
demned Man Victor Hugo 


Dept. 1, 44-50 E. 23rd ST.. NEW YORK 




1 HIS is the book whose appearance in Germany made armed 
autocracy shrink and pale. They promptly put Liebknecht in prison 
and destroyed his book. This translation was made from a copy Lieb- 
knecht borrowed from his brother — the only copy obtainable. 
To know the mind of the boldest man in Europe — now in prison again 
because of his passion to make the world safe for democracy — 
You will read, at once, 



Dr. Karl Liebknecht 





Published b$ B. W. HUEBSCH, 225 Fifth avenue, New York 

eight. It now remains for someone to 
combine the literary manner of Theodore 
Dreiser with the philosophic outlook of the 
author of the "Elsie books." (And what is 
more, we have our eye on a certain popular 
young S. E. P. writer who seems to be 
aspiring to that achievement). 

"Downfall or Democracy." 

The materials of the famous report of the 
Industrial Relations Commission are to be 
brought to the attention of the public in a 
volume entitled "Downfall or Democracy," 

ritten by Frank P. Walsh, Chairman of 
the Commission, in collaborati6n with 
Dante Barton. It is to be published by B. 
W. Huebsch. 

A Book by Francis Hackett 

A volume of critical essays on modern 
writers by Francis Hackett — literary editor 
of the New Republic (and in its palmy days 
of the Chicago Evening Post), one of the 
most intelligent of our critics, and an ur- 
bane and brilliant writer in sympathy with 
the progressive and radical tendencies of 
present-day thought — will be published 
some time during the present year, we hope 
soon, by B. W. Huebsch. 

After Death? 

The latest issues of Everyman's Library 
include "Selected Papers of Philosophy," 
by William James, and Sir Henry Maine's 
"Ancient Law." (Dutton, 60 cents, cloth.) 
The former is stated to be published with 
the object of "helping those who are at 
present striving to solve the question of 
personality and survival which has been 
forced upon the attention of all thinking 
people at the present time." So that is what 

"thinking people" are thinking about at the 
present time? If so, "The Question: If a 
Man Dies, Shall He Live Again," by Ed- 
ward Clodd, a study of "primitive and per- 
sistent ideas of the soul" from the stand- 
point of modern psychology (Clode, $2 net), 
may shed further light on the subject. 

"Man's Supreme Inheritance: Conscious 
Guidance and Control In Relation to 
Human Evolution in Civilization/' by 
F. Matthias Alexander. With an intro- 
duction by John Dewey. 
Now, what would you think that book was 
about? Wrong. Guess again . . . Still 
wrong. We hastened to Brentano's, lured 
by^ an advertisement which began: "The 
Failure of Civilization and the Crisis of 
1914/' and which promised "a practical and 
tested system of conscious guidance and 
control of the human organism which meets 
all the needs of an advancing civilization." 
^Dutton, $1.50 net.) As part of an advanc- 
ing civilization we lost no time in looking 
into the pages of the book. We can't tell 
you just what it is about — we could try, but 
we would be wrong — we can only say it 
isn't what you think it is, whatever that may 
be. Tt's something else. 

Sentimental "Sammies." 

As between a war-book by Joyce Kilmer 
and one by Coningsby W. Dawson, which 
would you most hate to have to read? The 
publisher's lists suggest the question irre- 
sistibly. The Dawson book is called "The 
Glory of the Trenches" — of course. One 
can just see the dear, sweet, brave young 
litterateur a-glorying! On the whole — but 
no, it is too difficult to imagine reading 
either, even in jest. F, D. 


n^HERE was a youth 

Of hair uncouth 
And Greenwich Village fame 
He spelled his "through" 

And Sinjin was his name. 
He chanced to see 
One Saturday 
As he went out to sup 
The U. S. N. 
Desired men 
Of nineteen years and up. 


They all have gotta go to serve their country, 
She's calling for the fearless and the brave, 
She ain't a gonna stand no Huns' effrontery, 
She'll show 'em who's the ruler of the ivavel 

"This is a chanst 

For khaki pants," 

He said, "which can't be mist. 

I've had enuff 

Of Hunnish stuff — 

I'm no damn Pacifist." 

Thereafter he 

To lunch and tea 

Shook his Byronic head. 

When he was ast 

To a repast 

He sent regrets and said : 


( I guess I gotta go to serve my country," 
Et cetera, et cetera" 

The highbrow zone 

Where Sinjin shone 

Now knows him as before 

Though he prefer 

To sit a deux 

And talk about the war. 

He waves away 

With air distrait 

The artists' idle buzz 

He might have seen 

A submarine 

And heard a mitrailleuse! 


For Sinjin might have gone to serve his 

Only his head and heart and lungs were queer, 
Those army surgeons show such cross 

But one is much more comfortable here. 

Ruth Underhill. 


VTOW you have grown so very dear to me, 

Your touch is precious as new leaves, 
And your long look takes my thought wavering 
Off to the green hills... 
on this day of spring's return 
Let us break our way into the budded places ! 

Florence Ripley Mastin. 

April, 1918 



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Take the ordinary longhand letter s&s Elim- 
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The Liberator 4-18 



We make 


Bungalow Furniture 
Children's Furniture 

Louise Brigham Studios 

Northwest eerier of Greenwich Village, 8th Ave. and 13th St 

The last issue of the 



sold out in ten days ! 

Get the current issue 
before that's sold out 


Original and Translated 

IS Cents a Copy $2,50 a Year 

Address : 


7 Ea»t 15th St., (People's Home) New York 
Tel. Stuy. 7399 

A Coney Island Picture 

LAST night it stormed and the ocean 
spit far up on the beach huge cakes of 
ice, bits of driftwood glazed over with 
foamy crystals. All the next afternoon little 
waves whimpered on the sand and sobbed 
among the rocks of the breakwater. The 
lifeless body of a girl had been cast up the 
night before with the ice cakes and drift- 
wood. She was wedged between two cakes, 
her poor blue hands clutching one of them 
pitifully. And there was a little line of 
desperation frozen around her mouth, 

"She was poorly but neatly clad," was 
the newspaper report. "Eighteen cents 
was found in her pocket tied up in the 
corner of her handkerchief. Unidentified." 

That was all. It said nothing of the 
blister on her frozen heel as though she 
had walked — as we all have walked, to 
deaden the misery or to get warm. It said 
nothing of the many neat darns on her 
stockings — nothing of the thin cotton crepe 
underwear that was yellow because it had 
been washed and washed in the bathroom 
of a rooming house, and hung over the 
heater to dry. Poor little chemise, that 
never saw the bleaching sun or the wash- 
boiler I It said nothing of the gloveless 
hands that were so hard and stiff, nor of 
the pockets that bulged from burrowing 
into them to keep warm." 

It said nothing of these things. Perhaps 
"eighteen cents — tied up in the corner of 
her handkerchief" was enough. 

Dorothy Day. 

In the Day Nursery 

SHE struck the hands that only sought 
to learn, 
Fumbling with child insistence for life's 

She bruised the soul he hid from her; and 

Ah well, he cried a little. Here they 

The cause of tears; souls do not show 

the burn 
To furred Trustees. His body they could 

Was fit enough, so let the spirit be. 
Rule for such children must be harsh and 


What do you think to mold of childhood's 

You jeweled ladies, with your uplift game? 
You pull them out of what you term 

"the mire," 
And throw them to this prison in love's 

Yes, you are very generous to earth's 

Givers of both the nursery and the slum! 

Kathryn Peck. 


Our friend, Major F- 

— , writes us that 
when he said at dinner in Paris, "I wish I 
were not so busy tomorrow, I'd like 
to go to Rodin's funeral," the other five 
American officers at table inquired with one 
voice, "Who's Rodin?" Nevertheless there 
are probably a few of their countrymen who 
would like to be reminded of Judith Clau- 
del's "Rodin; The Man and His Work," 
with the great sculptor's meditations on art 
and nature. (Century, $5 net.) 


Stuyvesant 1963 and 5296 
32 Union Square 

(Room 810) 
New York, N. Y. 

Conventions, Hearings, 

Mass Meetings, etc. 
Reproduced Verbatim 

Winners of New York State 
Championship Cup for 1918 

Multigraphing, Addressing, Mim- 
eographing, Public Stenography, 


Criticized, Revised, Typed. Send for leaflet L. 
References: Edwin Markham and others. Established 1 890 



This great address, 24 pages, handsomely printed, 
sent on receipt of two 2-cent stamps. Annual mem- 
bership, $2.00, includes all publications, and "Unity,** 
official weekly organ. 

Free Religious Association of America, 

120 Boylston Street, Boston, Mass. 

The coming world- 
w i d e Democracy 


demands a neutral world-wide language for a per- 
manent understanding between races. And we have 
it — not a theory, but a fact I If you are a real demo- 
crat, why not investigate? N. Y. ESPERANTO 
SOCIETY, Room 207. 1400 BROADWAY. 


If you want for self or 
friends, a paper that 
combats all religious dogma. Send $1 for each 
subscriber A /^\|Y^C r rT/" 1 the hottest 
and get xWj-LN \J\D 1 1V^ paper pub- 
lished. Samples, four different, 10c Send today. 
1330 1st Ave., Seattle, Wash, r r\L £jM\ 

New Poetry. 

Among the new volumes of poems an- 
nounced by the publishers are "Towards 
the Gulf," by Edgar Lee Masters (Mac- 
millan, $1.50 net), "Rosas," a middling-long 
poem by John Masefield, in a special limi- 
ted edition (Macmillan, $1.50 net), "Love's 
Gift and Crossing,", lyrics by Rabindranath 
Tagore (Macmillan, $1.25 net), and "Rein- 
carnations," by James Stephens (Macmil- 
lan, $1.25 net). 

He Made the World Blush 

for Shame 

He was feared and worshipped, hated and loved. Alone he defied the world. 
He died as he had lived — in tragedy. But he left a heritage of literature 
that will live forever. No one can afford to miss the lesson it teaches 

WHAT strange power did Brann 
exercise over men? What was 
his mysterious influence that he 
could craze some people with hatred 
and hypnotize others with love? Why 
did one man give his own life that he 
might take the life of Brann? Why at 
his death did thousands upon thousands 
journey to his grave to pay him tribute ? 
Was he master of the passions of men 
that he could inspire both hatred and 

Who was Brann? 

"Child of the Devil!" one man called 

him. "Journalism's most Tragic 
and Pathetic Figure," Elbert 
Hubbard said of him. Brann was 
an iconoclast. He tore down the 
conventions of life — stripped off 
the cloak of hypocrisy and laid 
bare the blinding nakedness of 
TRUTH ! Nothing could stop the 
fury of his attack. When he 
wrote or spoke, the artificial bar- 
riers of society tottered, the sham 
draperies of Virtue fell, and the 
false pretenses of love and mar- 
riage stood exposed in their 
shame. Sins of the World — 
Mysteries of Heaven and Hell — 
he dared to assail all with unflinching independence. 
They tried to stop him — the press, society, political 
and financial powers reached out to him to pull him 
down. But nothing on earth could daunt him. He 
said : "I'd rather my babes were born in a canebrake 
and reared on bark and wild berries, with the blood of 
independence burning in their veins, than spawned in 
a palace and brought up bootlicks and policy-players." 
Pie was stopped finally. The bullet of an enemy found 
its mark and to the supreme power of death Brann 
yielded the life that no mortal man could control. 
And his weapon was — WORDS. 
Mere words — combinations of letters! But under 
his magic they burned like acid, seared like flames and 
cut like a whip. He attacked every fraud and fake in 
Christendom. With utter frankness he wrote down 
things as he saw them. 

Whatever your creed, your politics, your station in 
life, you MUST know Brann. Read what he has writ- 
ten. Feel the spell of his wonderful mind — learn his 
wizardry of words — study his mastery of language. 
You may be shocked — probably you will be startled — 
but as you read you will be made to THINK — your 
mind will come out of its lethargy and you will learn 

Elbert Hubbard 

«nirJ* "He saw through the 
B4&1U* hollow mockeries of 
society and religion. He was 
an Iconoclast — an Image 
Breaker. lie unloosed his 
tongue and pen in denuncia- 
tion of all and everything 
that appeared to stand be- 
tween the sunlight and his 
ideals. He was the Wizard 
of words — the Master of our 
Language, He took the Eng- 
lish language by the tail and 
snapped its head off for his 
own delectation and the joy 
of the onlooker." 

Brann, the Iconoclast 

to express YOUR thoughts in speech 
and writing. 

The most remarkable of Brann's 
writings have been collected and pub- 
lished in two volumes by his friends. A 
limited edition of these is now offered 
to the public at a very special ^ price. 
But you need send no money in ad- 
vance. Merely mail the coupon below 
and the two volumes each containing 
464 pages, will be mailed prepaid, for 
free examination. If you decide to keep 
them, send only $4.00, the small sum 
asked — otherwise return the books in 

five days. If, in the 900 pages of these books, you find 

only a few ideas that will help you on the road to suc- 
cess, if you find but a 

few chapters that hold 

you spellbound by their 

sheer audacity, you will 

be thankful for having 

sent for these books. 

Yet, there are thousands 

who eagerly read every- 
thing Brann has written, 

and who say he has 

given them an entirely 

new aspect of life. Over 

50,000 people already 

own these books — don't 

you at least want to see 

them and read a few 

chapters of Brann's 

writings ? Mail the cou- 
pon now as the present 

price must be increased 

when the volumes now 

on hand are gone. 

Send no money — just 

the coupon. Address 

Herz Bros., Publishers, 

Department 154, Waco, 


A Few of the Articles 

Our American Czars 

The Last of Our Liberties 

Evolution or Revolution 

Atheism and Orthodoxy 

The New Woman 

Apostle vs. Pagan 

Marriage and Misery 

The Meanest Man in America 

Going Forwards Backwards 

The Unwritten Law 

Dogmatism the Mother of Doubt 

Construction vs. Destruction 

Humbugs and Humbuggery 

Passing of the Stuffed Prophet 

An Infernal Fraud 

A Carnival of Crime 

The Mormons in Mexico 

The Seven Vials of Wrath 

Potiphar's Wife 

Speaking of Gall 

A Brazen Humbug 

A Crusade of Calumny 

Cyclones and Sanctification 

Credit and Prices 

Church and Stage 

Evidences of Man's Immortality 

Hypnotic Power of Her 

Our Public Panders 

Professional Failures 

Prayers for the Pagan 

The American Press 

The Iconoclast and the Clergy 

The Jury System 

Optimism vs. Pessimism 

The Seventh Commandment 

The Republic in Danger 


Gentlemen : Send me the two volumes of Brann, prepaid. I will 
either return the books in 5 days after I receive them or will 
send you $4.00. 



City State 

Note: The above refers to cloth bound edition. If you prefer half Morocco 
binding, change $4.00 to $10.00. 


The strength of the labor movement in England — 
The Attitude of English trade unionists toward American comrades — 
The radical changes in life and labor proposed by English workers — 
The war aims of the British Labor Party? 

PAUL U. KELLOGG, editor of the Survey, was 
present at the most epoch-making event in recent 
months, the Nottingham Conference of the British 
Labour Party. He found out the answers to these 
questions and many more. He watched social and 
industrial forces play their tremendous part in the war. 
He talked with men who are as powerful today in 
England as statesmen in high office — Robert Smiley, 
president of the Miners' Federation and chairman of the 
'Triple Alliance" of English railway workers, transport 
works and miners; Ramsey MacDonald, the leader of 
the Independent Labour Party; Camille Huysmans, 
secretary of the International Socialist Bureau. 

Read the corning issues of 


Journal of Social Progress 

112 East 19th Street New York City 

Price $3 a year With- the Liberator, $4 a year