BLACKWELL FAMILY Poems translated by ALICE STONE BLACKWELL SUBJECT FILE Alice S. Blackwell Printed He has achieved success who has lived well, laughed often and loved much; who has gained the respect of intelligent men and the love of little children; who has filled his niche and accomplished his task; who has left the world better than he found it, whether by an improved poppy, a perfect poem, or a rescued soul; who has never lacked appreciation of earth's beauty or failed to express it; who has always looked for the best in others and given the best he had; whose life was an inspiration; whose memory a benediction. E M. Touchette[*Verses, Etc.*] The Womans Journal x 3 Park st CONTENTS NEW YORK, MAY 20, 1905 TOPICS OF THE DAY: President Roosevelt to the Chicago Strikers. . 731 Teamsters' Side of the Strike . . . . . 732 Count Cassini Replaced. . . . 733 American Views of French Neutrality. . . . . 733 Administration Differences on Railroad Control. 734 Club-Women's Replies to Mr. Cleveland, . . . . 735 Enemies of the Pure-Food Bill. . . . . . . . . . 736 Mr. Choate's Home-Coming . . . . . . . . . 737 Commercializing Niagara . . . . . . . . . . . . . 737 Underfed School Children . . . . . . . . . . . . . 738 LETTERS AND ART: Shaw's Impeachment of Shakespeare . . . . . . . . 739 Significant Tendencies in American Fiction . . . . 740 The Friendship between Chateaubriand and Madame Récamier . . . . . . . . 741 The Revolutionary Spirit in French Literature and Art. . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . 742 SCIENCE AND INVENTION: The Disappearance of the Soil. . . . . . . . 743 Modern Medicine in Antiquity. . . . . . . . . 743 The Mechanical Effects of Polishing . . . . . . 744 Real Fire-Proof Scenery . . . . . . . . . . . . . 744 How the Earth has Solidified . . . . . . . . . 745 Spider-Silk from Madagascar. . . . . . . . . . 745 The Balance of Births and Deaths. . . . . . . . 746 Mixed Races of Europe . . . . . . . . . . . . . 746 THE RELIGIOUS WORLD: The Religions of New York . . . . . . . . . . . 747 The Church and the Public School. . . . . . . 747 New Phases of Zionism . . . . . . . . . . . . 748 The First Composite Madonna . . . . . . . . . 749 Fear and Hypnotism in Revivals . . . . . . . . 750 FOREIGN COMMENT: Neutrality and French Neutrality. . . . . . . . . 751 The Comedy of Parliamentary Office. . . . . . . 751 The New Transvaal Constitution. . . . . . . . . 752 A Persecuted Ambassador. . . . . . . . . . . . 753 The European Scheme to Exert Pressure upon the United States . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 754 MISCELLANEOUS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 758-764 ================================================= Vol. XXX., No. 20. 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The story of this school, its phenomenal growth: its remarkable equipment, twelve buildings, attractively grouped in college fashion, forming a miniature village: its unique subdivision into eight groups of girls: its training in homemaking and social graces: its development of special talents: its provisions for pleasure, sight seeing and study of our National Capital - can only be told fully in our catalogue. Address Box 144, Forest Glen, Maryland. Expenses $500 to $625. Miss C. E. Mason's Suburban School of Girls The Castle, Tarrytown on Hudson, N.Y. An ideal school. Advantages of N.Y. city. All departments, Special courses in Art, Music, Literature, Languages etc. For illustrated circular V, address Miss C.E. Mason LL.M Camp Ossipee for Boys Send for circular statement of personnel, equipment references: unexcelled opportunity for college and preparatory school tutoring. Near to Mt. 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GATEWAY OF THE ANCIENT FORTIFIED CITY OF DIARBEKIR The inscriptions and stone cannon-balls are commemorative of the Armenians' perpetual fight for existence. SONGS OF EXILE Hymns and Poems Through Which the Armenians Have Cried Out Against Their Persecution By Alice Stone Blackwell In the time of bitter grief among the Armenian people, readers of The Survey may like to look into their thoughts and aspirations as revealed in their poetry. For among the people of many nationalities that have been flung into the American melting pot, the Armenians have one of the most interesting and heroic histories. The Armenians are Aryans and of pure Caucasian blood. James Bryce wrote of them, many years ago: "They are a strong race, not only with vigorous nerves and sinews, physically active and energetic, but also of conspicuous brain power. Among all those who dwell in western Asia they stand first, with a capacity for intellectual and moral progress, as well as with a natural 257258 The Survey, December 4, 1915 tenacity of will and purpose, beyond that of all their neighbors - not merely of Turks, Tartars, Kurds and Persians, but also of Russians. "Thus they have held a very important place among the inhabitants of Western Asia ever since the sixth century. If you look into the annals of the East Roman or Byzantine Empire, you will find that most of the men who rose to eminence in its service as generals or statesmen during the early middle ages were of Armenian stock. So was it also after the establishment of the Turkish dominion in Europe. Many of the ablest men in the Turkish service have been Armenians by birth or extraction. The same is true of the Russian service." Lamartine calls the Armenians "the Swiss of the East." Dulaurier compares them to the Dutch. Dr. James I. Barton, of the American Board of Foreign Missions, and former president of Euphrates College in Turkey, says: "I know the Armenians to be, by inheritance, religious, industrious and faithful. They are the Anglo-Saxons of eastern Turkey. They are not inferior in mental ability to any race. I say this after eight years' connection with Euphrates College, which has continually from 550 to 625 Armenians upon its list of students, and after superintending schools which have 4,000 more of them." Like evidence has been given by a long list of Americans who have taught in the missionary schools and colleges in Turkey - Dr. Cyrus Hamlin, the Rev. Frederick D. Greene, Dr. Grace Kimball, Dr. Lyman Bartlett and many others. From a large acquaintance among the Armenians in this country, extending over more than twenty years, I can bear personal testimony to their worth. Among them, as among all other nationalities, there are all sorts of persons, good, bad and indifferent; but Lord Byron wrote with truth: "It would perhaps be difficult to find in the annals of a nation less crime than in those of this people." The native home of the race is a mountainous region of western Asia, lying around Mount Ararat, and containing the sources of the Tigris, Euphrates and Araxes rivers. According to tradition, it was the site of the Garden of Eden. The Armenians have lived there since before the dawn of history. Christianity is said to have been preached in Armenia early in the first century by the Apostles Thaddeus and Bartholomew. It is historic fact that in A.D. 276 the king and the whole nation embraced Christianity, under the preaching of St. Gregory, called "the Illuminator." The Armenian national church, in its doctrines and services, may be roughly described as half-way between the Greek Church and High Church Episcopalianism. Some of its early hymns breathe a poetic devotion, like the following by St. Gregory of Narek (born 951, died 1011): The Christ Child "The lips of the Christ Child are like to twin leaves; They let roses fall when he smiles tenderly. The tears of the Christ Child are pearls when he grieves; The eyes of the Christ Child are deep as the sea. Like pomegranate grains are the dimples he hath, And clustering lilies spring up in his path." As a Christian nation whose lat has been cast beyond the frontiers of Christendom, the Armenians have had to suffer constant persecution - in early times from the Persian fire worshippers; in later centuries, from the Mohammedans. Their country has been invaded successively by the caliphs of Bagdad, the sultans of Egypt, teh khans of Tartary, the shags of Persia, and the Ottoman Turks. All these invasions were accompanied by fierce persecutions and great barbarities; but the Armenians have held tenaciously to their faith for more than fifteen hundred years. In the middle of the fifth century Armenia had already lost its national independence. It was ruled by feudal chiefs and princes who were subject to the King of Persia. The Persians at this time were aiming at the conquest and conversion of the world. In A.D. 450 the Persian king called upon the Armenians to embrace fire worship; and upon their unanimous refusal, he invaded their country with a vast army. The battle was fought on the plain of Avarair, under Mount Ararat. The much smaller force of the Armenians was defeated, and their leader, Vartan, was killed. But the stubborn resistance offered by men, women and children convinced the Persian monarch that it was impossible ever to make fire worshippers of the Armenians, and he gave up the attempt. This battle was the Armenian Marathon, and the national songs are full of allusions to it. The Armenian mountaineers of the Caucasus still drink the health of Vartan at their festivals, and wreathe his portrait with red flowers on the anniversary of the battle. In the minds of the common people, all sorts of picturesque superstitions cluster around Avarair. A particular kind of red flowers grow there, which are found nowhere else, and it is believed that they sprang from the blood of the Christian army. A species of antelope, with a pouch on WOMEN WORKING IN THE FIELDS NEAR HARPOOT The city is 4,500 feet above sea level; the buildings of the flourishing school may be seen in the middle ground. Songs of Exile 259 supposed to have acquired this peculiarity by browsing on grass wet with the same blood. It is also believed that at Avarair the nightingales all sing, "Vartan, Vartan!" Geographically, Armenia is the bridge between Asia and Europe' and for centuries the Armenians acted the part of Horatius, and "kept the bridge," driving back wave after wave of invasion from Asia. Alone among the Asiatic peoples, they gave aid and comfort to the Crusaders, acting as their guides and supplying them with provisions. One of the most popular Armenian poets, Raphael Patkanian (born 1830, died 1892), recalls these services in his Complaint to Europe "Have you forgotten, Europe, how the dart Of the fierce Persian pointed at your heart, Until, on that dread field of Avarair, Armenian blood quenched his fanatic fire? "Have you forgot the fell and crushing blow Prepared for you by Islam long ago? We would not see your desolation then, Burning of cities, massacre of men. "Two hundred years Armenia, bathed in blood, Withstood that great invasion's mighty flood. Europe was safe, our living wall behind, Until the enemy's huge strength declined "Have you forgotten, Europe, how of yore Your heroes in the desert hungered sore? What then could strength or force of arms avail, Had we not fed your hosts, with famine pale?" Armenia, an Asiatic Poland, was long since divided between Russia, Persia and Turkey. The Armenians have suffered oppression in all three, but the worst persecutions have been in Turkey. Protection was guaranteed to the Armenians by the principal European powers, under a treaty signed nearly forty years ago; but the mutual jealousy of the European nations has prevented the pledge from being kept, and the history of the Armenians for many years past has been one long tragedy. The chronic condition in Turkey was well described by one of the best Armenian poets, Bedros Tourian, the son of a blacksmith of Scutari, who died of consumption in 1872, at the age of twenty. At the time of his writing, the Christians were forbidden by law to possess any weapons, while their oppressors were fully armed: New Dark Days "The centuries of bloodshed Are past, those cruel years; But there is still one country Whose mountains drip with tears, Whose river banks are blood stained, Whose mourning loads the breeze, A land of dreary ruins, Ashes, and cypress trees. "No more for the Armenian A twinkling star appears; His spirit's flowers have faded Beneath a rain of tears. Ceased are the sounds of harmless mirth. The dances hand in hand; Only the weapon of the Koord Shines freely through the land. DOMESTIC LIFE IN ARMENIA SPINNING OUT OF DOORS GRINDING FLOUR BAKING BREAD]260 The Survey, December 4, 1915 SIEGE OF THE CITY OF VAN The Armenians, aided by the Russians, successfully repulsed the Turkish attack last spring; later were forced to flee, and now the ruined shell of the city is held by Russian forces. "The peasant sows, but never reaps; He hungers evermore. He eats his bread in bitterness, And tastes of anguish sore. Lo! tears and blood together Drop from his pallid face; And these are our own brothers, Of our own blood and race! "The forehead pure, the sacred veil Of the Armenian maid, Shall rude hands touch, and hell's hot breath Her innocence invade? They do it as men crush a flower, With no compunction stirred; They slaughter an Armenian As they would kill a bird. "O roots of vengeance, heroes' bones Who fell of old in fight, Have ye all crumbled into dust, Nor sent one shoot to light? Oh, of that eagle nation Now trampled by the Koord, Is nothing left but black-hued crows And moles with eyes obscured? "Give back our sisters' roses, Our brothers who have died. The crosses of our churches, Our nation's peace and pride! O Sultan, we demand of thee And with our hearts entreat- Give us protection from the Koord, Or arms his arms to meet!" Many of the Armenian poems breathe high spirit and courage, like the lines to Liberty, by Michael Ghazarian Nalbandian, who was born in 1830 and died in 1866, of lung disease contracted in a Russian prison: Liberty "When God, who is forever free, Breathe life into my earthly frame- From that first day, by His free will, When I a living soul became- A babe upon my mother's breast, Ere power of speech was given to me, Even then I stretched my feeble arms Forth to embrace thee, Liberty! "Wrapped round with many swaddling bands, All night I did not cease to weep And in my cradle, restless still, My cries disturbed my mother's sleep. 'O mother!' in my heart I prayed, 'Unbind my arms and leave me free!' And even from that hour I vowed To love thee ever, Liberty! "When first my faltering tongue was freed, And when my parents' hearts were stirred With thrilling joy, to hear their son Pronounce his first clear-spoken word, "Papa, Mamma,' as children use, Were not the names first said by me; The first word on my childish lips Was thy great name, O Liberty! "'Liberty!" from on high replied The sovereign voice of Destiny: 'Wilt thou enroll thyself henceforth A soldier true of Liberty? The path is thorny all the way, And many trials wait for thee; Too strait and narrow is this world For him who loveth Liberty! "'Freedom!' I answered, 'on my head Let fire descend and thunders burst; Let foes against my life conspire, Let all who hate thee do their worst. I will be true to thee till death; Yea, even upon gallows tree The last breath of a death of shame Shall shout thy name, O Liberty!'" In consequence of chronic persecution, Armenians are now to be found scattered all over the world. Hence Armenian poetry is full of the laments of exiles. Some are by distinguished men, like The Wandering Armenian to the Cloud, by the late Archbishop Khorene Nar Bey de Lusignan: The Wandering Armenian to the Cloud "Cloud, whither dost thou haste away So swiftly through the air? Dost thou to some far-distant land An urgent message bear? "With gloomy aspect, dark and sad, Thou movest on through space. Dost thou hide vengeance, or has grief O'ershadowed thy bright face? "Did a wind come and exile thee Far from thy heavenly home, Like me, in homesickness and tears Across the world to roam? "like me, who wander now, my griefs Sole comrades left to me, While, yearning for my fatherland. I pine on land and sea? "Cloud, when thy heart is full of tears Thou hast relief in rain; When indignation brims thy breast, Fierce lightnings tell thy pain. "Through my heart too is full, my brow With painful thoughts oppressed, To whom can I pour forth the griefs That fill an exile's breast? "O cloud, thou hast no native land! Far happier thou than I. To north, to south thou floatest free, At home in all the sky. "But I, at every step, shed tears, In sorrow and in gloom. Each step away from mine own land Is nearer to my tomb!" Other popular songs of exile are by authors who are otherwise little known, like C.A. Totochian's poem: The Wandering Armenian to the Swallow "O swallow, gentle swallow, Thou lovely bird of spring! Say, whither art thou flying So swift on gleaming wing? "Fly to my birthplace, Ashdarag. The spot I love the best; Beneath my father's roof-tree, O swallow, build thy nest. "There dwells afar my father, A mournful man and gray, Who for his only son's return Waits vainly, day by day. "If thou shouldst chance to see him, Greet him with love from me; Bid him sit down and mourn with tears His son's sad destiny. "In poverty and loneliness, Tell him, my days are passed My life is only half a life, My tears are falling fast. Songs of Exile 261 "To me, amid bright daylight, The sun is dark at noon; To my wet eyes at midnight Sleep comes not, late or soon. "Tell him that like a beauteous flower Smit by a cruel doom, Uprooted from my native soil, I wither ere my bloom. "Fly on swift wing, dear swallow. Across the quickening earth, And seek in fair Armenia The village of my birth!" Some favorite songs are of unknown authorship, like The Wanderer "Oh, heavy hearted is the wanderer In foreign lands, who hath his country left! In gazing on the fever of his heart, Even the rocks with sorrow would be cleft. "When you on any man would call a curse. Say, 'Be a wanderer from my native land! And may your pillow be the mountain side, And may you sleep at night upon my sand! "'And, when you think upon your fatherland, May you from head to foot be full of pains! My heart is a cracked vase; in vain I pour Water therein; unfilled it still remains. "Each bird of heaven hath its companion found, I am alone and solitary still; Each stone is fixed and quiet in its place. I roll forevermore by vale and hill." Anonymous too is the song of the homesick Armenian girl: The Song of the Homesick Armenian girl "I was a quince-bush growing on a rock, A rocky cliff that rose above the dell. They have uprooted and transplanted me Unto a stranger's orchard, there to dwell. And in this orchard they have watered me With sugar water, that full sweetly flows. O brother, bear me back to my own soil, And water me with water of the snows!" The grief of the exile's mother has been voiced, among others, by Siamanto and by Daniel Varoujan, two of the most distinguished of the modern Armenian poets. Both of them were lately deported from Constantinople and are supposed to have perished. Varoujan wrote The Longing Letter "My mother writes: 'My son on pilgrimage, How long beneath a strange moon will you roam? How long a time must pass ere your poor head To my warm bosom I may press, at home? "'Oh, long enough upon strange stairs have trod Your feet, which in my palms I warmed one day- Your heart, in which my breasts were emptied once, Far from my empty heart has pined away! "'My arms are weary at the spinning wheel; I weave my shroud, too, with my hair of snow. Ah, would mine eyes could see you once again, Then close forever, with my heart below! "'Always I sit in sadness at my door, And tidings ask from every crane that flies. That willow slip you planted long ago Has grown till over me its shadow lies "'I wait in vain for your return at eve. All the brave fellows of the village pass, The laborer goes by, the herdsman bold- I with the moon am left alone, alas! "'My ruined house is left without a head. FORMER OFFICERS OF THE ARMENIAN STUDENTS' SOCIETY OF AMERICA Left to right, A. Chmichian (Harvard), when last heard from, a teacher at Aintab; R. Racoubian (Columbia) a teacher at Sivas, whose life is believed to have been forfeited; D. Loolejian (Yale), a teacher at Harpoot who has suffered extreme torture. VICTIMS OF SIEGE Refugees in the American mission compound at Van during the siege. Copyright by Underwood and Underwood262 The Survey, December 4, 1915 REFUGEES Pausing at the frontier town of Ikder on their way to Edgmiatsin, in the Caucasus. Sometimes for death, and always for the cheer Of my own hearth I yearn. A tortoise I, Whose entrails to its broken shell adhere! "'Oh, come, my son, your ancient home restore! They burst the door, they swept the larders bare. Now all the swallows of the spring come in. Through shattered windows, open to the air. "'Of all the goodly flocks of long ago One brave ram only in our stable stands. His mother once - remember, little son - While yet a lamb, ate oats out of your hands. "'Rice, bran and clover fine I give him now. To nourish his rich djak [1], of noble size; I comb his soft wool with a wooden comb; He is a dear and precious sacrifice. "'When you come back, his head with roses wreathed, He shall be sacrificed to feast you, sweet; And in his blood, my well-beloved son, I then will wash my pilgrim's weary feet.'" [1 A mass of fat which hangs down behind sheep of this breed, in place of a tail.] Still more striking is Siamonto's The Mother's Dream "Let me write now and tell you of my dream. It was upon the midnight of All Saints. Sudden before me your four brothers knelt; They wore no shrouds, no vestiges of flesh; Groping in darkness, with abysmal eyes. Weeping before their mother thus they came To tell their memories of other days. "'Mother, the dawning of the bygone days! We four together, from beneath the ground, Today have sought once more your little door To tap on it, companioned by the storm. Mother, be not afraid, no strangers are we! And, lonely in your slumber, wait at least And let us watch your face in death's dark night!' "'Mother, the holiness of bygone days! Out of my heart, 'neath our poor graveyard's earth, Mother, a flower of love for you has grown!' "'Mother, the sweetness of the bygone days! For you two jars with my salt tears are filled.' "'Mother, the happiness of bygone days! For you have burning roses, flowers of hope, Sprung into fiery blossom from my soul!' "'O mother, the heroic manliness Of bygone days! Out of my breast-bones now Two shields for your protection have been wrought.' "'Mother, your peerless beauty in the past! How many furrows now have marked your brow!' (Thus spake your eldest brother). 'All alone Under your roof-tree, how can you endure? These seven years, we seven times have tapped Upon your little door, but till tonight We never yet have found the door unclosed. What traveller do you await tonight? Behold, your fragile hut is tottering, Like to a heap of mouldering coffin-boards. See how the leaves, storm-rent, fall from the trees! The guiltless doves are dying in the brook, And still upon the threshold of your home, Mother, the black snakes lick our dried-up blood. The garden has no leaf, no fruit, no brier. THE CATHEDRAL AT EDGMIATSIN Parts of it date back to the fourth century. It is the seat of the Katholikos, or head of the Christian Armenian faith. At the present day the only native institution which has been preserved to the Armenian people is the church. We four together have been through the hut, And at the sight of us our broken swords Gave out once more a single flash of light. Empty the larder was, and in the barn A white lamb bleated, biting at its hoofs. Mother, the plenty of the bygone days! The love and pity of the bygone days! How can you live here in your empty hut, Here in your empty hut how can you live?' "'The four were mute; but when I spoke your name And sobbed tempestuously in my dream, They wildly, with bowed heads, began to weep. 'But still,' I said, 'your brother is alive. The little one, who did not see you die. It is for him alone I live today.' Then they burst forth, and poured upon mine eyes The terrible black tear drops of the dead. 'A brother, oh, we have a brother yet. A brother, oh, a brother in the world! Mother, the misery of coming days! Hereafter, how shall we to earth return? Now how, oh, how shall we to earth return?'" The poetic nature of the Armenians is seen also in their prose. Eghiche, an Armenian bishop of the fifth century, has left us a graphic history of the Persian invasion of A.D. 451, of which he was an eye witness. In the eighth chapter he describes the fortitude shown by the Armenian women, after the princes and nobles have been killed or carried away captive, and the country reduced almost to a desert. Writing nine hundred years before Chaucer, Eghiche says: "But I cannot enumerate all the wives of the heroes, both of those who were in fetters and those who had fallen in battle; for there are more whom I do not know than those whom I know. I know by name and by sight about five hundred; not only those who were the highest in rank, but many of low degree. All of them together, being kindled by a holy emulation, put on the same virtue of fidelity. They forgot even the name of the luxury belonging to their hereditary freedom, and became like men who have suffered from the beginning (Continued on page 276.) SONGS OF EXILE (Continued from page 262.) after the manner of peasants, and who have passed their lives in this world amid hardships. "The elder ones took upon themselves the greater endurance. They were comforted by the invisible force of the eternal hope, and accepted the heavy burden of bodily pain. For although each of them had had hereditary servants, there was now nothing to distinguish between mistress and maid. All wore the same dress, and all alike slept on the ground. Neither one made the other's bed. There was no distinction even in their food. All the mattresses were of the same dark color, and all the pillows were alike black. They had no special makers of spiced dishes, nor bread-makers set apart for service at table, but everything was in common. None poured water on the other's hands, neither did the younger ones offer towels to the elder. The delicate women had no soap, nor was oil offered to them for rejoicing. No costly platter was set before them, neither were cup-bearers found at their festivals. For none of them did an usher stand at the door, neither were the nobles called by them. "The bridal chambers of the young brides became dusty and dim, and spiders' webs were spun in their sleeping rooms. The high seats of their palaces were destroyed, and the vessels of their table service were in disorder. Their palaces fell, and the fortresses of their refuge crashed down in ruin; their flower-gardens dried up and withered, and the wine-bearing vines of their vineyards were torn up. With their eyes they saw the spoiling of their goods, and with their ears they heard of the sufferings of their dear ones. Their treasures were confiscated, and nothing at all was left of the ornaments of their faces. "The delicately reared women of the land of Armenia, who has been brought up in luxury and petted in costly clothing and on soft couches, went untiringly to the houses of prayer, on foot and barefooted, asking with vows that they might be enabled to endure their great affliction. Those who from childhood had been reared on oxen's brains and the choicest pieces of the deer, were now glad to eat vegetable food, like savages. The skins of their bodies, blackening, became dark, because by day they were sunburned, and all night they slept on the ground. The everlasting psalms were the murmurs of their lips, and their complete comfort was in the reading of the prophets. "The women paired off two by two, like the animals, as equal and harmonious, drawing straight the furrow of the kingdom, that they might react the harbor of peace without fail. They forgot their womanly weakness, and became brave males in the spiritual warfare. Doing battle, they fought against the cardinal sins; they pulled up and threw away their deadly roots. With simplicity they conquered guilefulness, and with sacred love they washed away the dark coloring of envy. They cut off the roots of avarice, and the death-bearing fruits of its branches dried up. With humility they trampled upon arrogance, and with the same humility they reached the heavenly height. With prayers they opened the closed doors of heaven, and with holy petitions caused the angels of redemption to descend. They heard good tidings from afar, and glorified God in the highest. "The widows among them became again as virtuous brides, and put away from them the reproach of widowhood. And the wives of those who were in fetters willingly restrained the physical appetites, and became partakers of the sufferings of the imprisoned saints. In their lives they resembled the brave martyrs in their deaths, and from a distance they became teachers of consolation to the prisoners. With their fingers they worked and were fed, and the pensions granted them by the court they sent year by year to their husbands for their comfort. They became like the bloodless cricket, which lives without food, by the sweetness of its song. "The snows of many winters melted, the spring arrived, the new birds came, life-loving men saw and rejoiced; but they could never see those for whom they longed. The spring flowers reminded them of their loving husbands, and their eyes longed in vain to see the desirable beauty of their faces. Their hounds died, and their hunting excursions were ended. No yearly festivals brought them from afar. The women looked on their dining places and wept; and they remembered them in all their assemblies. Many monuments were raised to them, and the names of each inscribed thereon. "But while thus upon all sides their minds were storm-beaten, the women did not retreat, or weaken in heavenly virtue. To outsiders they appeared mourning and sorrowful widows, but in their own souls they were adorned with heavenly love. They ceased to ask anyone who had come from a distance. 'When shall we see our dear ones?' The desires of their prayers to God were only that they might finish their course with courage, filled with heavenly love, even as they had begun." Armenian women are proverbial for their chastity, which makes the horrible treatment inflicted upon them in Turkey more grievous. Armenian poetry is not all sorrowful. There are many love poems, tender and passionate; many beautiful lullabies, often addressed to fatherless children; much patriotic poetry; and some fine poems upon general subjects. A good example of these last is The Bond, by Archag Tchobanian: "All things are bound together by a tie Finer and subtler than a ray of light. Color and sound and fleeting fragrances, The maiden's smile, the star-beam sparkling bright. Are knit together by a secret bond Finer and subtler than a ray of light. "Sometimes an urn of memories is unsealed Just by a simple tune, or sad or gay. Part of the past with every quivering note From its dark sleep awakens to the day, And we live o'er again a long-past life, Just through a simple tune, or sad or gay. "Flowers call back men and women to our thoughts; A well-known face smiles on us in their hue; Their bright cups, moved by the capricious wind, Can make us dream of eyes, black eyes or blue; We in their fragrance feel a loved one's breath; Flowers call back men and women whom we knew'" But nothing can call back the 800,000 Armenian men, women and children who have been done to death since last March. It is now fully established, by abundant evidence from unimpeachable American sources, that the Armenians in Turkey are being systematically exterminated. I would most earnestly urge the many able men and women of humanitarian sympathies who read The Survey to use their utmost influence with persons in power to stop the slaughter, in whatever way seems to them individually the most hopeful; and to apply their best intelligence to the problem how to make such cruelties impossible for the future. In the meantime, we can contribute to the relief fund; we can welcome such refugees as may escape to our shores; and we can give our warm sympathy to the many thousands of Armenians among us, who are heartbroken for the fate of their kindred at home. The Eagle and the Leaf (From the Spanish of Santiago Argvello, of Nicaragua. Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.) One day the eagle said, with pride: "None can soar up like me! Sick shivering and giddiness reign where I dare to go. My Adriatic is the air, my gondola the cloud. My canopy a background like purple satin's glow. "No other can soar up like me! Alone I have the power. When crawling worms are trembling with the icy chill of night. To pierce to skies inviolate, and find in fields of air A garden fair of morning stars, and from its flowers quaff light. "Oh, with my powerful pinions, on days of snow and storm. To cleave the mist in search of clouds that glow with evening, red- To drink the hot, consuming rays of sunshine fierce and bright, My talons on the sun's sharp disc, from which his beams are shed!" "He spoke, and looked once more upon his ornaments of power, An shook his wings as shakes a queen her mantle, royally. "No other can soar up like me!" Into the clouds he flew, Repeating ever as he rose, "No other can soar up like me!" "Who art thou?" "A dry leaf." "And whence?" "I come from far above." "And hast thou wings?" "Nay." Wingless leaf that on my path I find, Who has breathed into thee this breath which gives thee power to mount Yet higher in the ether than my sovereignty?" "The wind!" You hear it, O ye ragged men in yonder neighboring street! Take courage, all ye foolish ones! Be faint of heart no more. Ye ignorant! When o'er the earth a strong, mad whirlwind sweeps, Then higher than the eagles the dry leaves rise and soar!" Boston Sunday Herald July 22 1917Pagina Literaria. El Rayo. Madre haraposa" tu que a las puertas Vas con las manos siempre desiertas Y las concincias siempre dormidas; Tu que a la alforja de tu miseria Vas recogiendo los desperdicios Que en el naufragio de cada feria, Sobre las playas echan los vicios; Tu eres la hija del que en la guerra Se armo soldado: vibro su acero, Rodo en las luchas, se hundio en la tierra... Y hoy nadie sabe si fue guerrero. Tu eres la hermana del que en los dientes Del engranaje cayera un dia: Las ruedas fueron indiferentes; Pero los hombres mas todavia. Tu eres la vida del que, al castigo Del Sol, muriera sobre el arado. Hoy todas comen pan de tu trigo; Tu no lo comes...y el lo ha sembrado! Tu eres la hija, tu eres la hermana, Tu eres la viuda siempre en trabajo. Tu eres la madre que hara manana Una bandera de cada andrajo. En las entranas, como un consuelo, Guardas un hijo del muerto esposo. Nube de harapos: peinsa en el cielo; Pero en el cielo mas tempestuoso. No sera tu hijo tierno querube, Copa de mieles, ni flor de mayo... Madre haraposa: tu eres la nube; Y en las entranas tienes el rayo! JOSE SANTOS CHOCANO (PERU) Lightning. O reagged mother, holding out thine hand Forever at the doors, in sorrow deep, And seeing always bare and empty chests, And human consciences fast locked in sleep! O thou that goest gathering in the bag of thy sore poverty forevermore Leavings that in the shipwreck of each day Follies and vices cast upon the shore! Daughter art thou to him who went to war, Marched in the ranks and shed his blood unbought, Fell in the conflict, sank to earth and died- And no one now remembers that he fought. Sister art thou to him who fell one day Among machinery's tech, which crush and kill. The wheels were all indifferent to his fate, But human hearts were more indifferent still. Thou wast the life of him who at the plow Died, sunstruck, as he labored on the plain. Today all eat the bread his wheat has made. Thou dost not eat it - and he sowed the grain! Thou art the daughter and the sister poor, - The widow, always left with child unborn. Thou art the mother who of every rag Will make a flag, when breaks tomorrow's morn. Still, as a consolation, in thy womb A son of thy dead husband thou dost bear. A cloud of rags- its thoughts are of the sky, But of a sky where tempest fills the air. Thy son will be no gentle cherub soft, No honey-cup, no flower of May abloom. O ragged mother! Lo, thou art the cloud, And thout dost hold the lightning in thy womb! Version by Alice Stone Blackwell. The Eagle and the Dry Leaf By Santiago Arguello, of Nicaragua. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell One day the eagle said with pride: "None can rise up like me! Sick shivering and giddiness reign where I dare to go. My Adriatic is the air, my gondola the cloud, My canopy a background like purple satin's glow. "No other can soar up like me! Alone I have the power, When crawling worms are trembling with the icy chill of night, To pierce to skies inviolate, and find in fields of air A garden fair of morning stars, and from its flowers quaff light. "Oh, with my powerful pinions, on days of snow and storm, To cleave the mist in search of clouds that glow with evening's red- To drink the hot, consuming rays of sunshine fierce and bright, My talons on the sun's sharp disc, from which his beams are shed!" He spoke, and looked again upon his ornaments of power, And shook his wings as shakes a queen her mantle, royally: "No other can soar up like me!" Into the clouds he flew, Repeating ever as he rose, "None can soar up like me!" "Who art thou?" "A dry leaf." "And whence?" "I come from far above" "And has thou wings?" "Nay." "Wingless leaf that on my path I find, Who has breathed into thee this breath which gives thee power to rise Yet higher in the ether than my sovereignty?" "The wind!" You hear it, O ye ragged me in yonder neighboring street! Take courage, O ye foolish ones! Be faint of heart no more, Ye ignorant! When o'er the earth a strong, mad whirlwind sweeps, Then higher than the eagles the dry leaves rise and soar!" Spare The Nests. Luis G. Urbina (Mexico.) Is it a nest? It is a nest! See. 'mid the branches hidden, The light breeze rocks it: with their gold the sunbeams make it glad. Oh, know you what a nest is? It is that which most you cherish, What laughs with you happiness and mourns when you are sad. Is it a home? It is a home pure love's most holy refuge: There to the birds, together, warmth and sweet sleep night brings. The forest boughs are tossing, the sky grows dark-no matter! Being so great, the Lord above takes care of tiny things. These palaces among its leaves teh woodland shades and shelters; They are its fairest ornament, when in spring's gala dressed. The bird that through the fields of space flies freely in the sunlight Knows that he has a nook where in to fold his wings and rest. The nests are shrines of peace and love, - dear, holy sanctuaries, Wicked the hands which tear them down, with wantonness and jests! Oh, know you not that in this world no sadder sight can greet us Than dry and withered blossoms, or shattered, ruined nests? Version by Alice Stone Blackwell. MISS ALICE STONE BLACKWELL'S READING. On Thursday evening, December seven, the members of Spanish classes and others interested in the poetry of South America were given a real literary treat in the form of a lecture at Tower Court by Miss Alice Stone Blackwell on the lives and characteristics of a few of the most famous Spanish-American poets, and a reading of some of the poems by which Miss Blackwell has translated these poets' work. Miss Blackwell, as Miss Bushee remarked, is a woman possessing a vocation and an avocation. We had known her in her suffrage vocation, and we delighted in our new knowledge of her in her avocation, that of translating the works of Spanish-American poets. Only a few poets were discussed, but after a short introduction about each poet by Miss Blackwell, Mrs. Papasian read a poem or two, Miss Blackwell's translation of that particular poet's work. Najara, a poet who wrote in a French manner, musically and romantically, was the first discussed. Next a sonnet to Cervantes by Reuben Dario, the most famous of the South American poets, was read, and his symbolistic, pessimistic style clearly showed in that and other translated poems. Jose' Santos Chocano, that well known public figure and poet, wrote The Magnolia and The Lightning, and other stirring, South American nature poems, so foreigh to our ears in their conceptions. A beautiful reading of The Song of Hands by a Chilian poet convinced us that, as Miss Blackwell said, South America conceals literary material worth searching for and reading. [Handwritten note "Wellesley College News, Dec. 14 1916"]Antis See Their Emblem on Suffrage Quarters [picture NEW HOME OF THE WOMAN'S JOURNAL AND THE SUFFRAGISTS Here red roses, the official emblem of the anti-suffragist party are flaunted before visitors. The roses, great masses of red ramblers, climb over the sides of the mansion, which is the famous old Lucy Stone Blackwell home, in Boutwell street, Dorchester.] [Handwritten note: Boston Post July 25, 1916] The anti-suffragists declare that their official emblem adorns the new home of the suffragists in Dorchester. In fact, red-that color which arouses the ire of every good suffragist-abounds at the new suffragists' headquarters. Not only do great masses of red roses climb over the side of the spacious veranda, but in the garden red flowers abound. Red hollyhocks bloom from tall stalks, and other red flowers poke their blossoms above tall grass. A large basket of red tomatoes was yesterday the principal decoration in the kitchen, or is it the luncheon and tea room? ONE LONE ORANGE One lone orange, yellow as it must needs to be, was the only visible sing of the suffragist colors about the place. Even that looked forlorn and lonesome, standing, as it did, on a table beside a whole flock of tomoatoes. A Post reporter made all these discoveries yesterday when he hi(r)ed himself our to the famous old Lucy Stone Blackwell mansion atop Pope's Hill, in Boutwell street, Dorchester. The ohouse and its spacious grounds was once the home of those pioneers of suffrage, the parents of Alice Stone Blackwell - Henry Blackwell and Lucy Stone. There was started the first official organ of the suffrage advocates, and there has returned their present publication. The mansion is now the editorial rooms of the Woman's Journal. It is planned to make the house and its spacious grounds a general rendezvous for all suffrage enthusiasts. Already office furniture occupies many of the 17 rooms. In what was once the parlor are several desks. In another room, probably a sitting room, there is a battery of typewriters. Neither Miss Blackwell, nor Miss Agnes E. Ryan, nor the latter's husband, Henry B. Stevens, was at home when the Post man called. But the roses were, and the rest of the red flowers were, and so were the tomatoes and the lone orange. And so was a mouse, a real live mouse, that scampered across the main hallway as the Post man rang the bell. So fast did he move that his color was not determined. It is believed, however, that he was a gray mouse, and therefore a neutral one. The old mansion will make an ideal gathering place for the advocates of female voters. A 17-room house, it sits at the very top of Pope's Hill, overlooking Dorchester Bay and in the distance, Boston harbor. The house is almost hidden by trees and shrubbery. Flowers are there in abundance. They were planted, so 'tis said, mostly by the hands of Lucy Stone herself. And there may lie the starting of dissension. The red roses must go, of course. And so must the red hollyhocks and the other reminders of anti-suffragism. But will Massachusetts suffragists want rudely to tear from the gardens where they have bloomed for years the flower which Lucy Stone planted with loving hands? [Handwritten note: sp? Transcript Dec 6, 1916] And thus any and every leader of great movements sees whatever happens in its relation to his or her cause. For another example, Miss Alice Stone Blackwell (herself a poet, and translator of poets in other tongues, of no mean accomplishment, besides all the grim, controversial, incessant labor she has performed as suffragist leader), sees above all, in the latest triumph of that poet of Elizabethan quality, Mrs. Olive Tilford Dargan, first and foremost the suffragettism (detestable word!) of the author. "'The Cycle's Rim' is a little book of exquisite sonnets," says Miss Blackwell, "called out of the heary of a woman of genius by a great bereavement. It is in a class with Elizabeth Barrett Browning's 'Sonnets from the Portugese' and Alice Freeman Palmer's 'A Marriage Cycle,' in being the expression of a remarkable woman's most intimate heart. It is a curious coincidence that the three literary women who have given us, in poetic form, hte most beautiful and touching tributes to their husbands, have all been believers in equal rights for women. It should silence forever the slander that suffragists cannot love." there are sweetness, strength, unity, simplicity, vibrant life, thrilling truth, in these verses that are elsewhere to be found only in the sonnets of Shakespeare and his great contemporaries- as for instance: I am a tree that puts out little boughs Dreaming of harvest and a mellow moon; But Love, who owns me by my many vows, Comes nibbling nibbling, late and of and soon. I like his lips upon my tender leaves; 'Tis joy to make him feasts of honey-buds; But doubts come trembling, and a fear me grieves- I may stand barren in the laden woods. And Love himself some day may seek my shade, To find but bony branches waiting him. What shelter could I give him weary laid? What succoring fruit from any staring limb? Ah, Love, do not my harvest dream devour, Lest thou know famine in my barren hour. [Handwritten note: Boston Herald June 26, 1918] TO A STONE BY THE WAYSIDE (From the Spanish of Enrique Gonzales Martinez of Mexico; Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell) O mossy stone, thou pillow small and hard, Where my brow rested, 'neath the starlight's gleam, Where, as my weak flesh slept, my life soared up! I give thee thanks for giving my a dream. The gray grass gleamed like silver fair, bedewed By a fresh-fallen shower, with many a tear. A bird upon the bough his music sighed Beneath the twilight, hueless, thin and clear. Yearning I followed evenying's concert sweet. The shining ladder by a star-beam given I climbed, with eyes fast closed but heart awake, And so ascended to the heights of heaven. Like Jacob, There the marvel I beheld That in a dream prophetic glowed and burned. In the brief space for which my sleep endured; I sailed a sea, nad to the shore returned. O mossy stone, thou pillow small and hard! Thou didst receive, beneath the starlight's gleam, My aimless longing, my sad weariness; I give thee thanks for giving me a dream! [Handwritten note: Las Novedades Dec 3, 1916] A Voitive Urn By Ruben Dario. To Lamberti. This urn I chisel o'er the loved remains; A cool, sweet bloom of deathless immortelles Decking the carved band of the votive urn Whose top keeps dew from heaven's crystal wells; A passing lark, caught as it flew to sing Upon an olive branch amid the dale- Diana's statue in her native grove, Wrapped by the Muse of music in her veil. Fain, like a sculptor, I with loving care Would carve it from Carrara's marble rare, And place a lyre and cross my work above. My dream would be, when dawn fills heaven's deeps, To look upon a gentle girl that weeps, Shedding a teardrop full of light and love. Version by Alice Stone Blackwell Urna Votiva Por Ruben Dario. A Lamberti. Sobre el caro despojo esta urna cincelo: Un amable frescor de immortal siempreviva Que decore la greca de la urna votiva En la copa que guarda rocio del cielo; Una alondra fugaz sorprendida en su vuelo Cuando fuese a cantar en la rama de oliva, Una estatua de Diana en la selva nativa Que la Musa Armonia envolviera en su vuelo. Tail si fuese escultor con amor cincelara En el marmol divino que brinda Carrara, Coronando la obra una lira, una cruz; Y seria mi sueno, al nacer de la aurora, Contemplar en la faz de una nina que llora Una lagrima llena de amor y de luz. [Handwritten note: Las Novedades Oct 22, 1916] Mariposas Manual Gutierrez Najera (Mexico) Ora blancas cual copos de nieve, Ora negras, azules o rojas, En miriadas esmaltan el aire Y en los petalos frescos retozan. Leves saltan del caliz abierto, Como profuas almas de rosas, Y con gracia gentil se columpian En sus verdes hamacas de hojas. Una chispa de luz les da vida Y una gota al caer las ahoga; Aparecen al claro del dia, Y ya muertas las halla la sombra. Quien conoce sus nidos ocultos? En que sitio de noche reposan? Las coquetas no tienen morada! Las volubles no tienen alcoba! Nacen, aman, y brillan y mueren, En el aire, al morir se tranforman, Y se van, sin dejarnos su huella Cual de tenue llovizna las gotas. Tal vez unas en flores se truecan, Y llamadas al cielo las otras, Con Milliones de alitas compactas El arco-iris esplendido forman. Vagabundas, ?en donde esta el nido? Sultanita, que harem te aprisiona? A que amante prefleres, coqueta? En que tumba dormis mariposas? Asi vuelan y pasan y expiran Las quimeras de amor y de gloria, Esas alas brillantes del alma, Ora blancas, azules o rojas! Quien conoce en que sitio os perdisteis, Illusiones que sois mariposas? Cuan Ligero volo vuestro enjambre Al caer en el alma la sombra! Tu, la blanca, por que ya no vienes? No reas fresco azabar de mi novia? Te forme con un grumo del cirio Que de nino lleve a la parroquia; Eras casta, creyente, sencilla, Y al posarte temblando en mi boca, Murmurabas, heraldo de goces, "Ya cerca tu noche de bodas!" Ya no viene la blanca, la buena! Ya no viene tampoco la roja, La que en sangre teni, beso vivo, Al morder unos labios de rosas! Ni la azul que me dijo: poeta! Ni la de oro, promesa de gloria! Ha caido la tarde en el alma! Es de noche... ya no hay mariposas! Encended ese cirio amarillo... Ya vendran en tumulto las otras, Las que tienen las alas muy negras, Y se acercan en funebre ronda! Companeras, la cera esta ardiendo; Companeras, la pieza esta sola! Si por mi alma os habeis enlutado, Venid promto, venid mariposas! Butterflies Manual Gutierrez Najera (Mexico) Whether white as flitting snowflakes, Whether dark, or blue, or crimson, They adorn the air in myrids [handwitten] And amid the petals frolic. Lightly springing from the blossoms, Like the fleeing souls of roses, On the leaves, their verdant hammocks. They with winning grace sit swaying By a gleam their life is kindled And a drop at eve can quench it. They appear with dawn's first brightness, And before the dark they perish. Who knows where their hidden nests are Where they find repose at nightfall? The coquettes, inconstant, fickle, Have no home, no sleeping chamber. They are born, love, shine, and perish; In the air they change in dying, Pass away and leave no traces, Like the drops of some light shower. Some of them are turned to blossoms; Others, up to heaven summoned, With their million gleaming winglets Join to form the glorious rainbow. Where is then thy nest o rover? Where thy harem, wee Sultana? Who, coquette, thy favored lover? Where, o butterfly, thy death-sleep? Thus take wing, and pass, and perish, Th chimeras, love and glory, Those bright pinions of the spirit, Who knows when and where we lost you, Whether white, or red, or azure. Dreams like butterflies that glittered? Ah, how swift your bright swarms vanish, In the soul when falls the shadow! Why dost thou not come, thou white one? Wast thou not the orange blossom Of my bride? Ah me! I made thee Of the white drops from the taper That I carried at the altar Of my parish church in boyhood. Thou wast artless, chaste, believing; When thou on my lips didst tremble, Thou didst murmur, rapture's herald, "Now thy wedding night approaches!" She, the white one, she the good one, Comes no more; nor yet the crimson, Which I dyed in red-a live kiss On some rosy lips pressed sharply; Nor the blue, that called me poet, Nor the gold, that promised glory. In my soul the night has fallen; All the butterflies have vanished. Light that yellow waxen taper; Now the others will come thronging- Those with black wings, circling nearer, Dancing a funeral measure Comrades, now the wax is burning; Comrades, now the room is empty. If ye for my soul wear mourning, Come, O butterflies, come quickly! Version by Alice Stone Blackwell THE LAST SUNSET (From the Spanish of the Mexican poet Luis G. Urbinn. Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.) Topazes, amethysts and emerald deep Are fused in the imperial sunset's light, And black against the vivid hues of gold One royal pine stands out upon the hight. Upon the other side comes up the moon, A marble globe half darkened, overhead, Where in carpricious folds the mountain brows Their dense, luxurant tropic verdure spread. Like some rich fabric with a bordering fringe Of pearls and diamonds, now the sea lies fair; Reflecting all the sky's bright, mingled hues, It yields its dark blue mantle to the air. And in those deep and silent solitudes Far, far above us in the heaven o'erhead, Pensive and sad the evening star shines out, Fastened in glowing lace of ruby red. Dorchester, October 6, 1916. [Handwritten note: Republican, Oct 22, 1916] Sun and Moon (From the Spanish of Jose Santos Chocano (Peru) Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell Between my aged mother's hands gleam bright Her grandson's locks; they seem a handful fair Of wheat, a golden sheaf beyond compare- The sun's gold, stolen from the dawn's clear light. Meanwhile her own white tresses in my sight Shed brightness all around her in the air- Foam of Time's wave, a sacred glory rare, Like spotless eucharistic wafers white. O flood of gold and silver, full and free! You make my heart with gladness overrun. If hatred barks at me, what need I care? To light my days and nights, where'er I be, In my child's curls I always have the sun, The moon in my dear mother's silver hair! [Handwritten note: Boston Herald][Handwritten note: N.Y. Evening Post, Oct 21, 1916) ARMENIAN CRADLE SONGS By Alice Stone Blackwell (Contributed in aid of the Armenian Relief Fund, for which being to-day and to-morrow.) In the public schools of New York and other cities, there are many Armenian girls and boys. They are distinguished for their brightness. Often they win prizes. A teacher of art classes in one of our Boston settlements tells me that two little Armenian boys, although they come from a poor and ignorant home, do by far the best work of any of her pupils. At this time when the attention of the whole country is called to the sufferings of the Armenians in Turkey, and when a nation-wide appeal is made for the relief of the survivors, it may be of interest to get a glimpse into the hearts of these persecuted people through their cradle songs. The following are lullabies of unknown authorship that used to be sung in hte cities and villages now left desolate: PLAYMATES. O baby, in your little bed How beautiful you are! Whom shall I bring to play with you, Searching both near and far? For playmates I will bring to you The moon and morning star! "The nightingale, for love of the rose, cannot sleep the whole night long. He cannot sleep during the night, nor during the day until the evening. Go to bed and sleep sweetly, until the morning light comes, until the good light comes! Then my nightingale will wake again, my nightingale will wake again, with eyes half open and half closed." THE ORPHAN'S LULLABY. Sahak on the mountain, his father under the stone. The reeds thy cradle, the arching rock thy cover. May the south wind rock thee, may the dear little stars sing thy lullaby; may the wild ewe give thee milk, that thou mayest put out branches and blossom, that thou mayest grow tall! Lullaby, my child! Lullaby, my darling! Lilies on thy rosy face! Hushaby, my little one! Hushaby, my son! Let the singing wind pas over thy cradle! Let the wild ewe give thee milk, let the moon sing thy cradle song, let the sun be thy nurse! Hushaby, my darling, hushaby! Hushaby, my little one, hushaby! I sing the cradle song so that when you hear it, you may lie down and fall sweetly asleep. Go to sleep, my child, and grow-grow and become a great man; spread out and become a village! In the village where there is no great man, become the great man of that village. Become a great forest, burying your roots deep in the earth; plunge your roots down into the very depths of the earth, and may your trees with their branches cast their shadow everywhere! Hushaby, hushaby! The does have come. They have come, the does, they have come down from the mountains. They have brought thee sweet sleep, they have poured it into thine eyes, as large as two seas; they have put tee to sleep with a sweet slumber; they have satisfied thee with their sweet milk. Hushaby, hushaby! May the Lord give thee sleep! May Mother Mary grant thee peace; may Mother Mary grant thee peace so that thou mayest lie down and fall softly asleep! Of Mother Mary we will make thy mother, an of her only son thy protector. I will go to church to beg the saints to pray for us. Of the holy crucifix I will make a brother, that it may keep its arms stretched out over us forever. The next two songs were written by Raphael Patkanian, a distinguished poet of Russian Armenia (born 1830, died 1892). He was the son of poor parents, but his father and grandfather had both been noted for their poetical gifts. While at the University of Moscow he organized a literary club among his Armenian fellow-students, and from the initials of their names formed his own pen-name of Kamar Katiba. Many of his poems were written during the Turco-Russian War, when the Russian Armenians cherished high hopes for the deliverance of the Turkish Armenians from Moslem rule. CRADLE SONG. Nightingale, come leave our garden, Where cool dews the blossoms steep; With thy litanies melodious Come and sing my son to sleep! Nay, he sleeps not for thy chanting, And his weeping hath not ceased. Come not nightingale! My darling Does not wish to be a priest. O thou thievish, clever jackdaw, That in coin find'st thy joy, With thy tales of gold and profit Come and soothe my wailing boy! Nay, thy chatter does not lull him, And his crying is not stayed. Come not, jackdaw! for my darling Will not choose the merchant's trade. Wild dove leave the fields and pastures, Where thou grievest all day long; Come and bring my boy sweet slumber With thy melancholy song! Still he weeps. Nay, come not hither, Plaintive songster, for I see That he loves not lamentations, And no mourner will he be. Leave thy chase, brave-hearted falcon! Haply he thy song would hear. And the boy lay hushed and slumbered, With the war-notes in his ear. LULLABY. Awake my darling! Open those bright eyes, dark and deep, And scatter from thine eyelids the heavy shades of sleep. Sweet tales the angels long enough in dreams have told to thee; Now I will tell thee of the things thou in the world shalt see. Chorus. Awake, and open thy beauteous eyes, my child, my little one! Thy mother sees therein her life, her glory, and her sun. Thou shalt grow up, grow tall and strong, as rises in the air A stately plane-tree; how I love thy stature tall and fair! The heroes of Mount Ararat, their ghosts shall strengthen thee With power and might, that thou as brave as Vartan's self mayst be. A golden girdle for thy waist my fingers deft have made. And from it I have hung a sword-my own hand ground the blade. Within our courtyard stands a steed that, champing waits for thee. Awake, and take thy sword! How long wilt thou a slumberer be? Thy nation is in misery; in fetters, lo! they weep; Thy brethren are in slavery, my brave one, wilt thou sleep? No, soon my son will waken, will mount his champing steed, Will wipe away Armenia's tears, and stanch the hearts that bleed; Will bid his nation's mourning cease, and those that weep shall smile. Ah, my Armenian brethren, wait but a little while! Lo, my Aghassi has awaked! He girt himself with speed, And from his sword-belt hung the sword, and mounted on his steed. The Vartan referred to in this song was the leader of the Armenian army in the battle of Avariar, which was fought on the plain under Mt. Ararat in the year 451 A.D. The King of Persia had ordered the Armenians to embrace fir worship. On their refusal to renounce Christianity he invaded their country with a vast army. Their much smaller force was defeated, and Vartan was killed, but their stubborn resistance convinced him that it would be impossible ever to make fire worshippers of them, and he gave up the attempt. THE ARMENIAN ATROCITIES. Lord Bryce's report on the Armenian is just published. Its submstance has been printed and frequently commented upon in the Evening Post. The survivors of these terrible events are now on the verge of starvation. Women, formerly rich, have not a crust to give to their children. College graduates are eating spears of grass. Every day multitudes are dying. Contributions for the relief fund should be sent to Charles R. Crane, 70 Fifth Avenue, New York. Every one should help for the need is desperate, and on a colossal scale. The "Lullaby of Nazi," bu A. Aharonian, another Russian Armenian author, was written before these latest enormities, but it might have been called out by them: Oh, sleep, my little one; oh, sleep once more; Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept full sore. The blind wild geese flew, screaming mournfully, Across our heavens black, o'er vale and hill. Blinded they were among our mountains high. Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept my fill. The gale is moaning in the forests dark; 'Tis the lament of homeless corpses chill. Ah, many and many a corpse unburied lies! Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept my fill. Laden with tears, the caravan passed by, Knelt in the forest black, and stays there still. It was our land's calamities and woes! Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept my fill. Beads have I strung and on thy cradle bound To save thee from the foeman's evil eye. Oh, sleep and grow, my little one, make haste! Thou need'st not weep; my tears were seldom dry! My milk has frozen on they pallid lips; 'Tis bitter, and thou dost not want it more; With it is mixed the poison of my grief. Thou need'st not weep, for I have wept full sore. Oh, with my milk drink in my black grief too! Let it black vengeance in thy soul instill! Shoot up, my darling, grow to stature tall! Thou need's not weep, for I have wept my fill. "Sad Snow," written many years ago, an Armenian poem of unknown authorship, may fitly close this article. It is a lullaby for a martyred nation: SAD SNOW. What art thou. O thou light and fleecy snow? A flower, a coverlet, a winding-sheet?- That o'er Armenia's plains thou spreadest far, Unfolded white and wide, the sky to meet? Or art thou a white dove from Paradise, That, when it saw the Holy Virgin there, Shook down the snowy feathers from its wings To form a scarf upon her shoulders bare? Or com'st thou from the angels up above, Who sometimes seek their future fate to know Playing on high "To die or not to die" With roses white, whose petals(footnote) drift below? Or art thou downy cotton or soft wool That the north wind upon Armenia sheds, A pure and restful pillow to become Beneath our martyred sires' and brothers' heads? If 'tis a feathery scarf thou art, O snow, Be swaddling-bands and cradle soft as silk To children small who perished at their birth, Ere they had tasted of their mothers' milk! If thou art rose-leaves, pure and stainless snow, Oh, then bud forth, a fresh and dewy wreath, Upon the lowly and forsaken mounds Where slim Armenian maidens sleep in death! O mournful snow, fall thick and heavily, And cover mount and valley, rock and plain! Cover the graves, that through the days to come Unbroken their sweet slumber may remain! Those martyrs for their nation and the coross, Now and forever, silent and alone, In hope of immortality in heaven, Repose in death, with no memorial stone! [footnote: In Armenia they play "To die or not to die" with flower petals, as we play "He loves me, he loves me not."] EMANU-EL 320 Sansome Street, San Francisco, CAL. Vol. XXV-No. 15 February 21, 1908 (Two Dollars per Year) JEWISH CALENDAR 5668-1907-1908. Rosh Hashanah Monday, Sept. 9 Yom Kippur Wednesday, Sept. 18 1st day Succoth Monday, Sept. 23 Last day Succoth Monday, Sept. 30 Simchath Torah Tuesday, Oct. 1 1st day Hanukah Sunday, Dec 1 1908 Purim Wednesday, March 18 1st day Passover Thursday, April 16 7th day Passover Wednesday, April 22 Lag b'Omer Tuesday, May 5 Shaouth Friday, June 5 Fast of Ab Thursday, August 6 5669-1908. Rosh Hashanah Saturday, Sept. 26 Yom Kippur Monday, Oct. 5 1st day Succoth Saturday, Oct. 10 Shemini Atzereth Saturday, Oct. 17 Simehath Torah Sunday, Oct. 18 1st day Hanukah Saturday, Dec. 19 EDITORIALS. National Immigration Problems. Though the Russian Jew appears not by name in recent bills introduced in Congress by ambitious Senators and Representatives for the restriction of imspread attention at this time, is one that can not be treated tin Congress without giving due weight to the economic side of that question. The proposition to impose a ten-year test upon an immigrant instead of the present five-year test, seems wholly illogical and untenable. Desirable immigration proves itself to be so long before the expiration of five years, and so does undesirable immigration. Presumably a probationary term before naturalization is in the interest of good citizenship. Immigrants who have declared their intention to become citizens and therefore desire to become invested with the rights and duties of citizenship, should, by public examination, such as is conducted in our courts, prove themselves worthy of enjoying the former and capable of discharging the latter. This is a true educational test at which no one can cavil. But five years are a sufficient term of probation. If within five years an immigrant has not learned to read, write, and speak English, if he has not availed himself of the educational advantages afforded in this country to any person, he does not deserve to have the rights of citizenship conferred upon him. The ten-year term is a fallacy, most probably, like most unhealthy immigration restrictions, proposed in the interest of labor organizations, whose interest in the question is vital, but who do not always defend that interest with justice and good must be as clever as the two masters Schlegel and Tieck to render Shakespeare into a German that gives a faithful picture of the poet's genius, or one must be as distinguished a linguist as were the Ibn Tibbons, father and son, to claim complete mastery over both the language of the poet and that of the translator. But there is enough in the translation to bring out some of the gifts of Leavitt, and these gifts place him in the front rank of the poets of his people. There will be time to judge of his art when we will be privileged to read his poems in the original; in their translated form we can only judge of the poet's emotions, his temperament, his disposition, and what Miss Blackwell calls his characteristics. It may be said that the Russian Jewish poets in general have enabled their readers to obtain a glimpse of the psychological conditions environing the sorrowful problem of their people's existence. All literature is psychology, poetry is doubly so, because the poet's soul seeks to interpret the emotions it receives from its contact with the soul of the people. The Russian Jewish problem is one of politics and political economy, but in a wider sense it is a problem of the triumph of the ideals of humanity. Again that self same problem does not present the same aspect to the cosmopolitan as it does to the Jew himself. A sense of political justice may go as far as cham-Literature. Songs of Grief and Gladness, and Deborah. By Ezekiel Leavitt. With an Appreciation of Leavitt by Gotthard Deutsch, and a Foreword by the translator, Miss Alice Stone Blackwell. -Something of the passion which filled the remarkable poems of that greatly gifted woman, Emma Lazarus, is in Ezekiel Leavitt. Though of course with less literary art, the thrill that was in Miss Lazarus's The Banner of the Jew is also communicated, even through the medium of a translation, by such poems as "To my Nation" and "A Zionist Marseillaise." It is the passion of the Jew for his people that we find in the Old Testament. "May my right hand forget its cunning, ere I forget thee, O Jerusalem!" It is the passion of poor, sick, half-crazed Mordecai in Daniel Deronda, waiting there on the bridge till his young hero at last comes rowing toward him in the golden sunset light. It is the eternal lure of a forlorn hope, a well-nigh abandoned cause, the stream, it may be, half hidden for a while in the ground, then springing into larger life, upon which at last shall shine the stars of heaven. Take the little poem by Leavitt, "The Streamlet." It may be a trifle defective in form, but it is the proud assertion that injustice shall not always prevail, that "granite does not last for aye," that "continual dropping," even of a nation's tears, shall at last wear away the cruel rocks. Thus the Jew stands as the representative of the religion of sorrow, of terrible and undeserved suffering, and all this is in Mr. Leavitt's striking verse. Then there is Russia, because Mr. Leavitt is a Russian Jew, and he fully enters into the horror of the national tragedy. We learn that he was a professor of Hebrew at Kishineff before the massacre, but later escaped to this country. In the rather awful poem, "My Curse," he sets forth in vivid colors the terrors of these various destructions of tthe Jews, sometimes, alas! we have good reason to believe sanctioned, if not absolutely authorized, by government itself. Finally, we must believe that he is a real poet, with, perhaps, something too much of a poet's sensitiveness, and undue haughtiness, and, occasionally, an out-and-out arrogance. Surely nothing is gained by browbeating our possible readers! But as Keats could say defiantly, "I have not the slighest feeling of humility toward the public, or to anything in existence but the Eternal Being, the Principle of Beauty, and the memory of great men," which certainly does not look as if he could have been snuffed out by the severity of the Quarterly reviewer. So Leavitt says to his critics:- "My house is heaven, the angels are my friends; My comrades flowers, and birds that sweetly call. Loud-sounding praises do not make me glad, The critic's censure grieves me not at all." Perhaps this attitude is not quite human. Perhaps it is more than slightly arrogant; but let that pass! We may smile, -we, in our comfortable homes, with out calm enjoyment of freedom in action and in religion; but the man's songs, like Heine's, have been poisoned by the anguish and horrors he has known. He has eaten his heart out, and such men do not write jauntily, or, perhaps, treat the eternal verities gingerly. Of course, then, the general tone of these poems is sad, just as there is a wailing cry through all Russian literature, the minor note dominant in its music, and a terror like that of Vereschagin, in its paintings. But some of us who want to know what life is at its hardest and darkest, wo do not turn from the stories that end badly, or the pictures that truly portray a red horror, will find something of intense interest in these poems. Miss Blackwell's translations were made, we understand, from English prose versions, and rather aim, we should say, at a careful rendering of the poet's thought and its note of passions than the greatest possible verbal felicity. The following poem is, perhaps, as good an illustration as we can find, both of Miss Blackwell's skill in rendering and the poet's ardent belief in either an actual or metaphorical going back to Zion:- They tell me, "Give thy nation up, The ancient graves resign! Give us thy soul-then plenty, wealth, And greatness shall be thine." They tell me: "Think not to rebuild The city, proud and tall, Of whose old splendor there is left Only a crumbling wall. Dream not thy nation to arouse Out of its slumber deep. Behold, it has so many years Lain in a marmot's sleep!" False prophets, hush! Fie, charlatans, I swerve not from the goal. I will not give my honor up, I will not sell my soul. The path my fathers trod through life I follow, straight and clear; Should death demand me, I will mount The scaffold without fear. My God, my race, I will not change For gold or jewel's fires. More than a stranger's treasure house, A grave among my sires. Songs of Grief and Gladness and Deborah. By Ezekiel Leavitt. Translated from the Hebrew, Russian and Yiddish by Miss Alice Stone Blackwell. Press of the Modern View, St. Louis. 1907. This little book of verse is very interesting and possesses merit of a high kind. The writer had not chosen English originally for his medium, though he is not without a correct knowledge of the vernacular. The poems were written in Hebrew, Russian and Yiddish. They have been translated by more than one who saw merit in Mr. Leavitt's work. By far the greatest work of the translation is the work of Miss Alice Stone Blackwell, of Boston, who is favorably known for her ability as a translator of verse and her mastery of form. Many of the translations of Ezekiel Leavitt's poems first appeared in the columns of this paper. It is something of a pity that the Hebrew originals cannot find a market here. The verses must suffer by translation. A certain lucent simplicity and sense of value of words which characterize the original verses are necessarily lost in great part if not wholly in the translation. Leavitt's lyre does not strike, at any time, any very resonant or rousing note. He sings as he feels and, withal, somewhat artlessly. Yet his pathos and his humor, his resignation and discontent, all ring true, even through the awkward translations. There is merit-as there are defects-in each poem. The book was well worth publishing and amateurs or real poetry would do well to ahve copies on their shelves. One merit Mr. Leavitt possesses which places him in the forefront of the ghetto poets. He rarely whines. He has a robust sense of manhood. His faith in the New Dawn is unshakable. Above all, his work is clean. I select the following as an example of unstudied daintiness: "I love thee as a rose loves The dawn's first ray serene; I love thee as the birds love The shadowy forest green. Or as the snow-white lily Loveth, the whisper low And tender, of the Zephyr- I love thee even so. My young friend, my May-lily, I love thy fair eyes' light As a girl loves the luster Shed from the diamond bright!" One more quotation must suffice for this brief notice: "The forest whispers and the flowers bloom fair, The sky again is bright, of beauteous hue. Man's consolation, May, has come, but ah! My sisters and my brothers, not to you! You scarcely see the glory of the May, Your minds are barred from all these lovely scenes. Within the shops till late at night you sit, Bend double, ever playing the machines. You toil and toil, they take from you your strength, Your life-blood, your best years, in prison passed. You toil and toil, with no repose, no rest, Till in your coffin you are laid at last. But come it must-so I believe and hope- A fresh, new time, a fresh, new kind of May. Men will no more be animals and sheep, And you, too, shall rejoice in freedom's day. My sisters and my brothers, lose not heart! A time shall come that much to you shall bring; When nothing shall hear but songs of joy, Of grass and flowers-of Liberty and Spring." JACOB GOLDSTEIN. The Bond. [From the Armenian of Archag Tehobanian.] All things are bound together by a tie Finer and subtle than a ray of light. Color and sound are fleeting fragrances. The maiden's smile, the star-beam sparkling bright. Are knit together by a secret bond Finer and subtler than a ray of light. Sometimes an urn of memories is unsealed Just by a simple tune, or sad or gay. Part of the past with every quivering note From its dark sleep awakens to the day, And we live o'er again a long-past life, Just through a simple tune, or sad or gay. Flowers call back men and women to our thoughts; A well-known face smiles on us in their hue; Teir bright cups, moved by the capricious wind, Can make us dream of eyes, black eyes or blue; We in their fragrance feel a loved one's breath: Flowers call back men and women whom we knew. The summer sea recalls fond, happy hours; We in the sunset see our dead once more; In starlight holy loves upon us smile; With our own griefs the stormy thunders roar; The zephyr breathes to us a name adored; We in the sunset see the dead once more. All things are bound in closest unison Throughout the world, by many a mystic thread. The flower and lore, the breeze and reveríe, Nature and man, and things alive and dead, Are all akin, and bound in harmony Throughout the world, by many a mystic thread. ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. Dorchester, August 9, 1908. 20, 1905 exerts more e Hoosier. conservatism who comes unpopular strive to be geographical culties and classification under some specialized social finds most signal the ard the talk '!" in Mr. lending the in Franklin best policy medium of where more lard. Old laughter American own fathom pocket foot ability with the end material will live be a just, Graham sees any himself? Perhaps, after such comfort all of life be points of took forms and generational life. source of A taste phiment therefore since is entirely ." Philosophy a spite of to pro Does not personal human life yields-the the stock at bot eration to to any and unnaturally time as a whole the force, other race, Hence, people, LA DEFENSA San Antonio, Texas, July 28, 1918 11 Pagina de la Rima Human Wolves At first I called them "Brothers", with hands outstretched I met them; But from their thefts among my lambs I saw deep wrongs befall; And then the voice of brotherhood fell mute within my spirit. When I drew near to look at them, wolves were they, one and all! What happened after in my soul that used to walk so blindly, My poor sad soul which dreams and loves with tenderness today? How came it that I saw not in their tread the wid beasts' prowling, Nor in their eyes the instincts of slaughter and of prey? Since then I too, become a wolf, have left the true. straight pathway; I too, a wolf, have fallen, and rolled in mud and gore, And then in every one of them again I found a brother, And I drew near to look at them, and all were men once more! Version by Alice Stone Blackwell Los hombres lobos Primero dije "hermanos", y les tendí los manos; desupués en mis corderos hicieron mal sus rolos; y entonces en mi alma murió la voz de hermanos y me acerqué a mirarlos; ¡y todos eran lobos! ?Qué sucedía en mi alma que así marchaba ciegas, mi alma pobre y triste que suena y se encarina? ¿Como no ví en sus troncos las bestias andariegas? ¿Como no ví en sus ojos instintos de rapiña? Despuos yo, también lobo, dejé el sendero sano; después yo, también lobo, cal no se en que lodos y entonces en cada uno de ellos tuve un hermano Y me acerqué a mirarlos, ¡y eran hombres todos! R. Arevalo Martinez.México, (Séptima de la Magnolia, número 165), julio 31 de 1918. Miss Alice Stone Blackwell, Dorchester, Mass. Muy señora mía de mi alta consideración: Con la muy grata de usted fecha 21 del corriente, recibí tres bellas traducciones de poemas míos, y no sé qué admirar más en ellas, si la fidelidad de la versión o la fineza de ejecución que usted ha puesto en la obra.Ruego a usted que acepte mis agradecimientos por haber dedicado su numen al servicio del modesto mio, y le quedaré muy obligado si se sirve hacer llegar a mis manos las traducciones que aún conserva inéditas. La frase desleído en un halo de luna, vale tanto como perdido o desvanecido en la luz de los círculos que en algunas ocasiones rodean la luna, todo ello en un sentido intimo y vago.Es un canto que se desvanece. Me pasa lo mismo que a usted:leo el inglés, pero no lo escribo, y por esta causa me permito usar de mi lengua materna en estas lineas.Si va esta carta en máquina, es por no dar a usted la pena de descifrar mis jeroglíficos. Conocía bellísimas versiones de usted, algunas de poetas de mi patria; no es usted, por consiguiente, ninguna desconocida para mi; pero aprovecho la oportunidad presente para dar a usted mi parabienes cordiales por su simpática y noble labor poética.próximamente, en el mes de septiembre, le enviare mi libro PARÁBOLAS que entrará en prensa de un dia para otro. Soy de usted muy respetuosamente, su atento servidor que B.SS.PP. Literature greatest possible verbal felicity And tender, of the Zephyr - Album Puertorriqueño ALICE STONE BLACKWELL 1914 AND FINANCE Peabody, Houghteling & Co. (Established 1895) 10 So. La Salle St., Chicago petroleum "will diminish the profits of retailers." The writer says further: "Other incalculable factors are the high interest cost of new capital, and of ordinary loans to corporations and individuals; the depreciation of the idle plants or machinery, the increase in the cost of living, and the losses involved in the cessation of stock and bond business and other financial transactions. Much of the 'gain' shown above is gain to the producer and loss to the consumer, so that it offsets itself. Present indication are that our total foreign commerce is running at the rate of about $1,197,000,000 per annum below last year; and assuming a 10 per cent. margin of profit, this would involve a loss of nearly $120,000,000 per annum. However, for any twelvemonth period the shrinkage in out foreign trade does not seem likely to be more than half of the present shrinkage. The war increase in commercial failures seems to be at the rate of approximately $98,500,000 yearly. "Still no itemized account can ever tell the story; and those who wish to obtain some notion, however rough, of our net profit or loss may better judge from the August decrease in bank exchanges. This decrease was at the rate of $29,400,000,000 yearly; and net income in the United States available for personal expenses is equivalent on the average to about 6 per cent. of bank exchanges. Six per cent. of this loss in exchanges is $1,746,000,000, while the total income of the American people has been estimated at $26,000,000,000. "Nevertheless with four European nations virtually fighting - according to the common financial view, for the protection, if not the preservation, of our business institutions, we can afford to be cheerful in face of a rather substantial net loss." It is believed by many writers that our manufacturing industries will, on the whole, make gains. Some writers - for example, one in the Springfield Republican - are inclined to think that New England "may enjoy an industrial boom" in consequence of the war. He recalls how the great textile industries of New England practically had their origin in the Napoleonic wars: "New England's troubles during the Napoleonic wars, a century or more ago, resulted in the establishment of textile manufacturing in this section. The first cotton-mills in the Blackstone Valley were started earlier, but what diverted New England capital into the business on any considerable scale was first the embargo on commerce imposed by President Jefferson, which ruined almost flourishing New England merchant marine, and then the war of 1812-14 with England. Present conditions are enough like those of a century ago to suggest not very dissimilar industrial results. That is to say, the present general European war has destroyed foreign competition in the American market and brought to New England a special opportunity in supplying the domestic demand for manufactured goods. Manufacturing to-day is to be abnormally stimulated, perhaps, just as it was then. The war, evidently, means that New England may enjoy an industrial boom; but this will have a much wider basis than that of the infant manufacturing boom of a century ago if the American export trade to neutral countries can now be promoted by the development of an American marine and the establishment of American banking connections in neutral markets." RAILROAD DIVIDENT PROSPECTS Until the directors of the New York Central Railroad met in the second week of September, and declared the road's regular dividend, it had been felt in some financial circles that a reduction might be made. There had also been intimations that other roads might be compelled to reduce their dividends, in part because of war influences, in part because of the poor business and low rates that prevailed before "ALBUM PUERTORRIQUEÑO" 2 Alice Stone Blackwell. Those of us who read the "Woman Citizen" are familiar with the initials A. S. B and know that the brilliant paragraphs above this signature are from the pen of Alice Stone Blackwell, ardent suffragist and former editor of The Woman's Journal, which was consolidated with the Woman Voter and the National Suffrage New, over a year ago and continued as the Woman Citizen. But we know Miss Blackwell in the role of Liberator and poet? Some of us do! Many of us have read the little volume of 60 Armenian poems traslated in English - "and appreciated the novel way in which Miss Blackwell threw down" the gage of moral and intellectual battle on behalf of this tragically situated race, so pathetical unknown in their historical and cultural aspects to the people of America and the world. This volume was pubiished shortly after the massacre by the Turks of 200,000 Armenians sn 1896. Characteristically, it was chiefly to help these people to a place of freedom "that Miss Blackwell sought to make known their place in the republic of thought and letters, for the poet in her always has been made to serve the liberator; and the service was more remarkable because at that time we were not so generally aware of the persuasive power of a noble racial culture in the promotion of interracial amities." In contrast. and as proof of the wonderful versatility of Miss Blackwell's pen, we have her translations from the Spanih poets of Mexico, Nicaragua, Chile, Argentina and Perú - - "a world so romantic, so langourous, so tropical, and yet, oddly, so American." And these poems in the same radiant motive of world advancement, as those of the countries of Europe, opened a new avenue for delightful acquaintance between the peoples of North and South America. Geraldine Maud Froscher. Las personas que leen el periódico "Woman Citizen", están familiarizadas con las iniciales A. S. B., y saben que los artículos firmados con ellas son debidos a la brillante pluma de Alice Stone Blackwell, ardiente sufragista y fundadora de "The Woman's Journal", que luego tomó el nombre de Woman Citizen, y es el órgano de las feministas del Sufragio Nacional en los Estados. ¿Pero conocemos a Miss Blackwell como Libertador y poeta? Algunos sí. Muchos hemos leído el pequeño volumen de 60 poemas armenios, traducidos al inglés, y hemos apreciado el estilo original con el cual Miss Blackwell deshace prejuicios morales, y libra una batalla intelectual a favor de esa raza tan patéticamente desconocida en su aspecto cultural e histórico, por los pueblos americanos y mundiales. Este volumen fué publicado poco tiempo después del asesinato de 200,000 armenios, por los turcos en 1896. El objeto principal fué ayudar a esos pueblos a independizarse, por lo que Miss Blackwell pensó darse a conocer en la república de las letras, pues sus poesías habían versado sobre Libertad hasta entonces. El servicio fué más notable, porque en ese tiempo no estábamos enterados del persuasivo poder de una noble cultura de raza, en la promoción de las amistades mutuas. Como contraste, y como prueba de la maravillosa versatilidad de la pluma de Miss Blackwell, tenemos las traducciones de los poetas españoles de Méjico, Nicaragua, Chile, Argentina y Perú -- "un mundo tan romántico, tan lánguido, y aun estrambóticamente, tan americano". Y estos poemas, inspirados en el progreso del mundo, como los europeos, abrieron una nueva vía por el delicioso consorcio entre los pueblos del Norte y del Sur de América. [*July 25, 1918*] My Sister's Death LUIS F. CONTARDO (OF CHILE) Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell 'Tis like that eve which I shall ne'er forget! Earth is a shrine, when twilight shadows meet, And each wild lily is a censer sweet, Each star a golden lamp in heaven set. With mystic plaints upon the still air spread, A prayer war hovering o'er that valley lone, Breathed from the belfry, old and mossy grown, Which o'er the village roofs upreared its head. That sound was hushed. From the dark mountain steep A heron flew in silence, to alight Where the lake's reeds reposed, and slumberous bower. Peace resigned o'er all; and in the calmness deep Of the blue eve, her soul to heaven took flight, Uprising like the fragrance of a flower. Mortgages, selected by an organization, are backed by producing farms in the fer- of Central Texas. Yield They are in bond form, with attached payable through City Bank in New York. interesting, illustrated Booklet of offerings. are Your Protection Harrison Mortgage Co Fort Worth, Texas [*Boston Record, Sept. 27, 1918.*] The Complaint of Perriot By Juan B. Delgado, National Librarian of Mexico. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell. 'Neath my gay, powdered face that seeks to please, My sorrow is a visage grief-imbued; I laugh before the thoughtless multitude With a loud laugh, like Mephistopheles. Thou know'st not what I hide of pain or dread. I am a coffin - not a dark one, though! My virginal adornment serves to show I bear the vision that I dreamed of, dead. Art thou far off? What of it? I will be A lover who success can never know, The more disdained the truer. Who like thee, Dear, has inspired me? No one here below. If thou art bright and pale and far from me Was not the moon the bridge of Pierrot? MY STAR By Enrique Fernandez Granados of Mexico, translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell. Behold, how bright the heavens! Lift up thy limpid eyes; Which is the sta[r] I worship? Guess it, amid the skies! Not that with rays of azure, Nor that with rays of red, Nor that which seems bright tresses Of dazzling gold to spread. So white, so white that star is! Whence came it? No one knows. They say that from a lotus flower Beside the Nile it rose. Behold, the East 'tis leaving; It nears us in the skies. Post see it? Ah, how sweet it smiles, Bright shining in thine eyes! [H]OWARD G. RICHARDS, M.B., C.M. points out that neurasthenia, con- general impression, is not a new disease entirely by the conditions of modern life, men and women are subject to various of neurasthenia due to the influence of which are brought on psychic debilities, [n]ature reacts and they become irritable The most healthy of men may become neurasthenic. 12mo, cloth ; 75 cents Net, postpaid, 80 cents & Wagnalls Company 54-360 Fourth Avenue, New York City [?]ALFA GETS THE MONEY for your Interest, and the famous "Black Lands" of Mississippi and Alabama secure your principal. Your Life Insurance premiums go into our Farm Mortgages - why not your savings? SAFETY FIRST our rule - Interest and Principal Guaranteed. You need our illustrated booklet "Down South." Send for it - ask for booklet 1132-K. MORTGAGE SECURITIES CO. CAPITAL PAID IN $600,000. P.H. SAUNDERS, PRESIDENT - LEVERING MOORE, ACTIVE VICE PRES WHITNEY-CENTRAL BLDG. NEW ORLEANS."Not thy councils, nor thy kaisers, Win for thee the world's regard, But thy painter, Albrecht Durer, And Hans Sachs, thy cobbler bard". In introducing Armenian poetry to American audiences, I have many times quoted this stanza from Longfellow's poem on the ancient imperial city of Nuremberg. When all is said it is not the material splendor, but the thought life of a nation as expressed in the arts which endears that nation to the marching generations and gives it a place in world esteem. The Armenians are fortunate in having maintained this thought life throughout their long history, - fortunate in being, as Mr. H. F. B. Lynch has said, "One of the small number of nations who have shown themselves capable of the highest culture", but they are extremely unfortunate in the fact that this intellectual and moral accomplishment count for very little with the Occidental world because of the fact that it is practically unknown. We know ancient Egypt Judea, Greece, and Rome; we do not know ancient Armenia. Just as we know modern France, and Belgium, and Poland; and do not know modern Armenia. This fact cannot be emphasized too strongly. When educated men and women, graduates of the best colleges, come forward as they do after every lecture saying: This side of Armenian life is absolutely new to me. Why do we not get something of it in universal history?, - the situation is very serious indeed. The translations into English from ancient and modern Armenian poetry made by Miss Alice Stone Blackwell constitute one of the very best means of remedying this evil. Not only because their beauty persuades us to a knowledge of the heroism, [the power] elevation, delicacy and refinement of the Armenian spirit, [but] because some of them offer documentary proof in support, or in confirmation, of certain high claims concerning early Armenian civilization and Christianity . For instance: We are told, let us say, by Encyclopedia Brittanica, and by certain modern writers, that Armenia was the seat of an ancient civilization. This is a general statement and it makes on most people a very slight impression. But when we have before us Miss Blackwell's translation from the eighth chapter of Egiche's history, written in the middle of the fifth century, we feel the quality of that civilization; we see what it is like. Just as the woven tapestries of the European Middle Ages picture quite unconsciously the ideals, pursuits, pastimes and costumes of the peoples, so Egiche in that single brief extract embodies for us the Armenian civilization of the fifth century, and throws, by inference, a backward light upon the years that went before. We see palaces and their "high seats", and dining halls; we see ushesrs at the door and cup-holders at the festivals; we see breadmakers, and "special makers of spiced dishes"; we see courteous ceremonial,- the pouring of water from the carven ewers upon the hands of the diners, and "the younger offering towels to the elder"; we see hunting parties and their hounds; we see flower gardens and vineyards and animating all we feel the intellectual and moral character of these early Christians; their nobility and virtue; their conscious aim at spiritual perfection; their determination to preserve thier religion at any cost. We see thier martyrdom, also, and the devastation of their country, but no recantation: no surrender of idealism. Had the Armenians really a high order of civilization? Were they really permeated with what we would call a noble Christianity? Or was it only a barbarism, a paganism, at best crudely veneered? Egiche has answered that question incontrovertably, and has answered it in a literary form so beautiful that it will endure forever. Because I believe these translations to be the best credential the Armenian race has in America , I urged Miss Blackwell a year ago to get out a third edition , and with her usual generosity she did so , paying the cost of the publishing herself so that all the money returns might go to the Relief Fund. The book was gotten out at about Christmas time with the idea of making them accessible as Christmas gifts. A year has passed and another Christmas is approaching. In order to increase the sale the price has been reduced to $I.00. [It] The book contains more than a hundred poems ranging from the fifth to the twentieth century. The [work is] translations are of high literary excellence. In the circulation of these books there is an opportunity ofr Armenian patriotism. How far this has been neglected I leave you to judge from the fact that the great public library of the city of New York does not contain a single copy! This book should not only be in the libraries of the country, but in the hands of every influential American. It is a wrok too , for Armenians to enjoy and to study. Doctor Chambers who has had charge of the sale of these books until recently has been called abroad in the service. Orders [whoy] should be sent to Edward H. Chandler , Armenian Relief Committee, 3 Joy St. Boston [?ian] Register (8) [OCTOBER I0 I9I8 Columbus JOAQUIN CASTELLANOS (OF ARGENTINA) (Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell) He strove against the winds and waves of fate, His brow held high, though torn and bruised his feet. For years he roamed the seacoasts bleak of life; Lonely he found them, lone and tempest-beat; For there is loneliness amid vast crowds To him who through the midst of them must go Forever comfortless, forever sad, Filled with anxiety and bitter woe. When the huge condor rests on peaks of snow, When in his den the lion doth remain, None in the mountains or the forests dare Disturb his dream, or his retreat profane. Great and majestic rise the mountains high, In strength eternal, craggy, wild, and steep; They with their grandeur darken heaven itself, And it salutes them with its thunder deep. Storms wrap their vales in shade and shake their trees, But the white peaks, colossal and sublime, From tempests and from hurricanes are free. Only with men is greatness held a crime! . . . . . . . . The human race to all eternity Is a Columbus o'er the deep who fares, Still journeying towards an Eden far away, While an inferno in his thoughts he bears. Lost on the sea, he still commits himself With courage to the mercy of the gales. The ship that wafts him onward is the globe, And space, the ocean upon which he sails. In the mirage on the horizon line He sees a destiny immortal writ, And all his life is but a journey long Across this earth, unto the infinite— The infinite, the ocean of the worlds ! He sails and sails, by secret yearning driven, Seeking the far-off motherland of souls, The mystical America of heaven ! [*El Paso Herald, Aug. 4-5 1913[4]3*] WHAT MATTERS? By RAFAEL LOZANO What does it matter if our true love's hair Be bright with gleaming gold or dark as night? If Fate to us that happy fortune gives, What matters dark or bright? What matters it if black or heavenly blue Her eyes may be, who bears us company, If, as we pass along o'er life's rough road, No others do we see? What matters it that in a foreign tongue She speaks the word divine, our heart that stirs. If, when our journeying love draws near to her, She opens the doors of hers? What matters if her check be rosy red Or pale, toward whom our love concentered streams. If she is the beloved of our heart, She that awakes our dreams? What does it matter how she looks in truth, If we believe her beautiful to see? Then let us love her fervently and well. And give to her our soul; the star is she That guides us through the darkness of the night Across the desert's broad and arid plain, To the oasis where the palm tree grows, Whose shadow calms the ancient strife and pain. (Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell. Mr. Lozano, of Mexico City, is a son of Judge Rafael Lozano Saldana, of El Paso, and is an El Paso high school graduate).608 The Literary Digest for September 26, 1914 Why England and Germa[ny] Went to War The Official "White Papers" of Both Countries in Pamphlet Form Also the correspondence between the Kaiser Wilhelm and King The full text of the diplomatic respondence leading up to the given in the "White Papers" British Foreign Office and the Government, both of which were listed in The New York Times only newspaper in the world published them in full. These two important documents have been reprinted by The York Times in pamphlet form will be mailed to any address cents. This pamphlet is abso[lutely] essential to any one who wish[es] form an unprejudiced opinion relative positions of Germany Great Britain as to responsibilit[y] the war. The diplomatic corres[pond-] ence is complete and official. Mailed to any address. PRICE TEN CENTS Address: "White Papers" The New York Times Times Square, New York Occasionally the public interest to be served by the distribution of a pamphlet is so great that the newspapers owe it all the free advertising they can give. Such is the case with the full text of the White Paper of the British Foreign Office and the memorandum issued by the German Government, which THE NEW YORK TIMES has brought out in pamphlet form and is selling at ten cents. Everybody who wishes to form a coherent and unprejudiced opinion of the relations of the two great powers -- Great Britain and Germany -- should read the diplomatic correspondence. And no one who fails to do so has longer any intellectual right to express a cocksure opinion on the struggle. Here is a body of evidence of the most substantial character. It deserves the attention of every thoughtful citizen. Up to date nothing has thrown such a clear white light on the sources of the present desperate calamity as the full text of the diplomatic correspondence of the two powers, in whose leadership a large share of the civilization of the world rests. -- From an editorial in The Boston Herald, Aug. 28, 1914. PAGINA 12 REVISTA UNIVERSAL SEPTIEMBRE, 1918 El Aniversario de la Independencia de México (1810-1918) (Especial para la REVISTA UNIVERSAL) A la Corregidora Por MANUEL GUTIERREZ NáJERA AL viejo primate, las nubes de incienso; Al héroes, los himnos; a Dios, el inmenso De bosques y mares solemne rumor; Al púgil que vence, la copa morriña; Al mártir, las palmas; y a tí - la heroina - Las hojas de acanto y el trébol en flor. Hay versos de oro y hay notas de plata; Mas, busco, señora, la estrofa escarlata Que sea toda sangre, la estrofa oriental: Y húmedas, vivas, calientes y rojas, A mí se me tienden las trémulas hojas Que en gráciles redes columpia el rosal. ¡Brotad, nuevas flores! ¡Surgid a la vida! ¡Despliega tus alas, gardenia entumida! ¡Botones, abrios! ¡Oh mirtos, arded! ¡Lucid, amapolas, los ricos briales! ¡Exúberas rosas, los pérsicos chales De sedas joyantes al aire tended! ¿Oís un murmullo que, débil, remeda El brote friolento de cauda de seda En mármoles tersos o limpio marfil? ¿Oís? ¡Es la savia fecunda que asciende, Que hincha los tallos y rompe y enciende Los rojos capullos del principe Abril! ¡Oh noble señora! La tierra te canta El salmo de vida, y a tí se levanta El germen despierto y el núbil botón; El lirio gallardo de cáliz erecto; Y fúlgido, leve, vibrando, el insecto Que rasga impaciente su blanda prisión! La casta azucena, cual tímida monja, Inciensa tus aras; la dalia se esponja Como ave impaciente que quiere volar; Y astuta, prendiendo su encaje a la piedra, En corvos festones circunda la yedra, Celosa y constante, señora, tu altar! El chorro del ague con impetu rudo, En alto su acero, brillante y desnudo, Bruñido su casco, rizado el airón, Y el iris por banda, buscándote salta Cual joven amante que brinca a la alta Velada cornisa de abierto balcón. Venid a la fronda que os brinda hospedaje, ¡Oh pájaros raudos de rico plumaje; Los nidos aguardan; venid y cantad! Cantad a la alondra que dijo al guerrero El alba anunciando: ¡Desnuda tu acero, Despierta a los tuyos... Es hora... Marchad! Esta poesía, la última de Gutiérrrez Nájera, fué escrita para ser recitada al colocarse la primera piedra del monumento erigido a la Corregidora en el jardin de Santo Domingo, México. Monumento erigido en Querétaro, México, a la memoria de Doña Josefa Ortiz de Domínguez, "La Corregidora," heroína de la Independencia de México To the Wife of the Corregidor By MANUEL GUTIERREZ NáJERA FOR primates old, pale incense eddying round; For heroes, hymns; for God, the solemn sound Raised by the forests and the seas, with power; For the prize-wrestler, let the wine-cup be; Palms for the martyr; heroine, for thee Leaves of acanthus and the clover flower! Poems of gold there are, and silver notes; Stanzas I seek where crimson color floats, Stanzas of blood, such as the Orient knows; And, moist and living, warm and red to see, The trembling leaves outstretch themselves to me That sway in graceful nets upon the rose. Bloom out, fresh flowers! Arise from out the mould! Unfold thy wings, gardenia, chilled with cold! Buds, open! Myrtles, light your flame so fair! Ye poppies, let your rich skirts gleam and glow! Your Persian shawls, luxuriant roses, show, Spreading their glossy silks to greet the air! Hear'st thou a murmur, faint and cool and low, Like silver trains that softly sweeping go O'er marble smooth, or polished ivory white? It is the fruitful sap that upward flows, And swells the shoots, and breathes and burns and glows In all Prince April's buds, now ruddy bright. O noble lady! Earth sings unto thee The psalm of life; the plant, awake and free, The bursting bud, arise towards thee aloft - The iris bold, with flower erect and bright, The insect, shining, quivering and light, That breaks, impatient, from its prison soft. The lily chaste, a timid nun, perfumes Thine altars; filled with pride the dahlia blooms, Seeming a bird for eager flight soon bound. Daringly fixing to the stones its lave, The ivy, with festoons of curving grace, Jealous and faithful, wreathes thine altar round. The jet of water, - breaking on the air With lifted weapon, glittering and bare, With burnished helm and curling plume of white, And scarf of rainbow lustre - seeking thee, Leaps like a lover young, that eagerly Springs up to scale the window mounting light Come to the shade that offers welcome here, Swift birds of gorgeous plumage, without fear! Nests wait for your; come, sing here every one! Sing to the lark that to the warrior cried, Announcing daybreak: "Draw thy sword with pride, Awake thy comrades! 'Tis the hour. March on!" VERSION BY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL This poem was written to be recited by a young girl at the laying of the first stone of the monument erected to the Corregidora Dominguez in the garden of Santo Domingo, Mexico. [*Oct. 26, 1918*] [*Boston Record*] On a Fan (By Juan B. Delgado, National Librarian of Mexico. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell.) A butterfly this fan is, which took flight, Following a dream in vain through all the land. It comes at last, outwearied, to alight, And from its wanderings rest, within the white, Royal, five-petalled rose of your fair hand. chair, I left the place unshaven - I hope I'm not a craven, But I sort of like to wear a head beneath my hair! - Don Marquis in the New York Evening Sun. FOR CHILDREN, WOMEN AND MEN Send for Catalogue. Mail Orders Filled Sold Nowhere Else JAMES S. COWARD 264-274 Greenwich St., near Warren St., New YorkWITHOUT WORDS By RAFAEL CABRERA MY love shall be a silent exhalation Surrounding thee, as voiceless as the dew, Like mist impalpable above a river, Or like the air, transparent, calm and blue. Around thy pale head it shall be a halo, Within thy crystal tear a rainbow ray, Amid the waste ground of thy life a blossom, A gentle evening shining on thy way. Like to a longing that each hour comes freshly, Like to a wound that cannot cease to ache, An apparition that is ne'er contented, And an uneasiness for aye awake. . . . Of petty wishes and pursuits forgetful, Fixed on thee only, full of thee alone, 'Twill drop a sin on every bramble-thicket, A disenchantment on each rock and stone. Into a gorge its bitterness down pouring, 'Twill send it to be lost in the abyss, And it will sink within the darkest cavern Its mighty sorrow for a life like this. Was it a tear, it now shall be a dewdrop; If it were shadow, now a moonbeam white; Amid the empty vastness, something star-like; 'Mid mist and vapor, something like a light. And it shall make thee see, on thy short journey, Through all the griefs thy mourning soul that flood, As through the golden clouds of the horizon, That life is very sad, yet it is good. When for the last profound, mysterious slumber Thou shalt lay down thine head, all pale to see, My love, deep, quiet, mute and unrepining, Like a bright wake, a track of light still shining, Shall yet prolong thy life eternally! (Version by Alice Stone Blackwell) ENVY ———— By Salvador Diaz Miron of Mexico. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell ———— I know a reptile that pursues the shadow, Swift and aerial, which to earth is thrown By a bright bird of paradise, blithe soaring, A living rainbow, 'mid the blue alone. I know a greedy worm, in marsh-mire hidden, It for a butterfly is ambushed there— A free and variegated flower, displaying Two fluttering petals in the golden air. Hate of the dark scale for the shining feathers, The caterpillar's grudge, that ne'er can die! O petty warfare that is waged forever By all things crawling against all the fly! [*Boston Herald July 27, 1919*] [*Pan-American Magazine, September, 1918*] SIN PALABRAS RAFAEL CABRERA SERA como in efluvio el amor mío que envolverá tu ser calladamente, como niebla impalpable sobre un río y como el aire, azul y transparente. Será un halo en tu pálida cabeza, un iris en tu llanto cristalino, y una flor de tu vida en la maleza, y un manso atardecer en tu camino. Como ansia a todas horas renovada, como una herida sin cesar abierta, como una aspiración nunca saciada, y como una inquietud siempre despierta. . . . De mezquinos afanes olvidado, sólo lleno de tí, de tí suspenso, en cada breña dejará un pecado y en cada risco un desencanto inmenso; despeñará en un tajo su amargura que hácia el abismo rodará perdida, hundirá en la caverna más obscura su desconsuelo enorme de la vida; y si lágrima fué, será rocío; será rayo de luna si es tiniebla; algo, como una estrella en el vacío, algo, como una luz entre la niebla. . . . Y hará que mires en el corto viaje a través del dolor que tu alma llena como a través del oro de un celaje, que la vida es muy triste, pero es buena. . . . Y apacible, y profundo, y silencioso, cuando inclines, muy pálida, la frente, para dormir el sueño misterioso, él será, como un surco luminoso que prolongue tu vida eternamente. . . . July 19, 1919] The Nation The Workingman By LEONORA SPEYER (From the German of Richard Dehmel) WE have a bed, we have a child, My wife! And work have we, both you and I, And sun and rain and a wind-swept sky; Only a little thing lack we To make us free as the birds are free: Time, only time! When through the Sabbath-fields we go, My child, And over the ripe sheaves far and nigh The swift, blue swallow-folk flash by, What matter we lack a fine array, To make us gay as the birds are gay? Time, only time! Time only! We scent the coming storm, We folk! Only a slight eternity; My wife, my child, now naught lack we But that which through us thrives to gold, To make us bold as the birds are bold. Time, only time!