The grasshoppers cheered. "Keep whirling," they said.The insolent sparrows called from the shed"If men will not laugh, make them wish they were dead."But arch were your thoughts, all malice displacing,Though the horse-killers came, with snake-whips advancing.You bantered and cantered away your last chance.And they scourged you, with Hell in their speech and their faces,O broncho that would not be broken of dancing.
"Nobody cares for you," rattled the crows,As you dragged the whole reaper, next day, down the rows.The three mules held back, yet you danced on your toes.You pulled like a racer, and kept the mules chasing.You tangled the harness with bright eyes side-glancing,While the drunk driver bled you—a pole for a lance—And the giant mules bit at you—keeping their places.O broncho that would not be broken of dancing.
In that last afternoon your boyish heart broke.The hot wind came down like a sledge-hammer stroke.The blood-sucking flies to a rare feast awoke.And they searched out your wounds, your death-warrant tracing.And the merciful men, their religion enhancing,Stopped the red reaper, to give you a chance.Then you died on the prairie, and scorned all disgraces,O broncho that would not be broken of dancing.
Souvenir of Great Bend, Kansas.
The Prairie Battlements
(To Edgar Lee Masters, with great respect.)
Here upon the prairieIs our ancestral hall.Agate is the dome,Cornelian the wall.Ghouls are in the cellar,But fays upon the stairs.And here lived old King Silver Dreams,Always at his prayers.
Here lived grey Queen Silver Dreams,Always singing psalms,And haughty Grandma Silver Dreams,Throned with folded palms.Here played cousin Alice.Her soul was best of all.And every fairy loved her,In our ancestral hall.
Alice has a prairie grave.The King and Queen lie low,And aged Grandma Silver Dreams,Four tombstones in a row.But still in snow and sunshineStands our ancestral hall.Agate is the dome,Cornelian the wall.And legends walk about,And proverbs, with proud airs.Ghouls are in the cellar,But fays upon the stairs.
The Flower of Mending
(To Eudora, after I had had certain dire adventures.)
When Dragon-fly would fix his wings,When Snail would patch his house,When moths have marred the overcoatOf tender Mister Mouse,
The pretty creatures go with hasteTo the sunlit blue-grass hillsWhere the Flower of Mending yields the waxAnd webs to help their ills.
The hour the coats are waxed and webbedThey fall into a dream,And when they wake the ragged robesAre joined without a seam.
My heart is but a dragon-fly,My heart is but a mouse,My heart is but a haughty snailIn a little stony house.
Your hand was honey-comb to heal,Your voice a web to bind.You were a Mending Flower to meTo cure my heart and mind.
Alone in the Wind, on the Prairie
I know a seraph who has golden eyes,And hair of gold, and body like the snow.Here in the wind I dream her unbound hairIs blowing round me, that desire's sweet glowHas touched her pale keen face, and willful mien.And though she steps as one in manner bornTo tread the forests of fair Paradise,Dark memory's wood she chooses to adorn.Here with bowed head, bashful with half-desireShe glides into my yesterday's deep dream,All glowing by the misty ferny cliffBeside the far forbidden thundering stream.Within my dream I shake with the old flood.I fear its going, ere the spring days go.Yet pray the glory may have deathless years,And kiss her hair, and sweet throat like the snow.
To Lady Jane
Romance was always young.You come todayJust eight years oldWith marvellous dark hair.Younger than Dante found youWhen you turnedHis heart into the wayThat found the heavenly stair.
Perhaps we must be strangers.I confessMy soul this hour is Dante's,And your careShould be for dollsWhose painted hands caressYour marvellous dark hair.
Romance, with moonflower faceAnd morning eyes,And lips whose thread of scarlet prophesiesThe canticles of a coming king unknown,Remember, when you join himOn his throne,Even me, your far off troubadour,And wearFor me some trifling roseBeneath your veil,Dying a royal death,Happy and pale,Choked by the passion,The wonder and the snare,The glory and despairThat still will haunt and ownYour marvellous dark hair.
How I Walked Alone in the Jungles of Heaven
Oh, once I walked in Heaven, all aloneUpon the sacred cliffs above the sky.God and the angels, and the gleaming saintsHad journeyed out into the stars to die.
They had gone forth to win far citizens,Bought at great price, bring happiness for all:By such a harvest make a holier townAnd put new life within old Zion's wall.
Each chose a far-off planet for his home,Speaking of love and mercy, truth and right,Envied and cursed, thorn-crowned and scourged in time,Each tasted death on his appointed night.
Then resurrection day from sphere to sphereSped on, with all the POWERS arisen again,While with them came in clouds recruited hostsOf sun-born strangers and of earth-born men.
And on that day gray prophet saints went downAnd poured atoning blood upon the deep,Till every warrior of old Hell flew freeAnd all the torture fires were laid asleep.
And Hell's lost company I saw returnClear-eyed, with plumes of white, the demons boldClimbed with the angels now on Jacob's stair,And built a better Zion than the old.
. . . . .
And yet I walked alone on azure cliffsA lifetime long, and loved each untrimmed vine:The rotted harps, the swords of rusted gold,The jungles of all Heaven then were mine.
Oh mesas and throne-mountains that I found!Oh strange and shaking thoughts that touched me there,Ere I beheld the bright returning wingsThat came to spoil my secret, silent lair!
Fifth Section
The Poem Games
An Account of the Poem Games
In the summer of 1916 in the parlor of Mrs. William Vaughn Moody; and in the following winter in the Chicago Little Theatre, under the auspices of Poetry, A Magazine of Verse; and in Mandel Hall, the University of Chicago, under the auspices of the Senior Class,—these Poem Games were presented. Miss Eleanor Dougherty was the dancer throughout.The entire undertaking developed through the generous coöperation and advice of Mrs. William Vaughn Moody. The writer is exceedingly grateful to Mrs. Moody and all concerned for making place for the idea. Now comes the test of its vitality. Can it go on in the absence of its initiators?
Mr. Lewellyn Jones, of the Chicago Evening Post, announced the affair as a "rhythmic picnic". Mr. Maurice Browne of the Chicago Little Theatre said Miss Dougherty was at the beginning of the old Greek Tragic Dance. Somewhere between lies the accomplishment.
In the Congo volume, as is indicated in the margins, the meaning of a few of the verses is aided by chanting. In the Poem Games the English word is still first in importance, the dancer comes second, the chanter third. The marginal directions of King Solomon indicate the spirit in which all the pantomime was developed. Miss Dougherty designed her own costumes, and worked out her own stage business for King Solomon, The Potatoes' Dance, The King of Yellow Butterflies and Aladdin and the Jinn (The Congo, page 140). In the last, "'I am your slave,' said the Jinn" was repeated four times at the end of each stanza.
The Poem Game idea was first indorsed in the Wellesley kindergarten, by the children. They improvised pantomime and dance for the Potatoes' Dance, while the writer chanted it, and while Professor Hamilton C. Macdougall of the Wellesley musical department followed on the piano the outline of the jingle. Later Professor Macdougall very kindly wrote down his piano rendition. A study of this transcript helps to confirm the idea that when the cadences of a bit of verse are a little exaggerated, they are tunes, yet of a truth they are tunes which can be but vaguely recorded by notation or expressed by an instrument. The author of this book is now against instrumental music in this type of work. It blurs the English.
Professor Macdougall has in various conversations helped the author toward a Poem Game theory. He agrees that neither the dancing nor the chanting nor any other thing should be allowed to run away with the original intention of the words. The chanting should not be carried to the point where it seeks to rival conventional musical composition. The dancer should be subordinated to the natural rhythms of English speech, and not attempt to incorporate bodily all the precedents of professional dancing.
Speaking generally, poetic ideas can be conveyed word by word, faster than musical feeling. The repetitions in the Poem Games are to keep the singing, the dancing and the ideas at one pace. The repetitions may be varied according to the necessities of the individual dancer. Dancing is slower than poetry and faster than music in developing the same thoughts. In folk dances and vaudeville, the verse, music, and dancing are on so simple a basis the time elements can be easily combined. Likewise the rhythms and the other elements.
Miss Dougherty is particularly illustrative in her pantomime, but there were many verses she looked over and rejected because they could not be rendered without blurring the original intent. Possibly every poem in the world has its dancer somewhere waiting, who can dance but that one poem. Certainly those poems would be most successful in games, where the tone color is so close to the meaning that any exaggeration of that color by dancing and chanting only makes the story clearer. The writer would like to see some one try Dryden's Alexander's Feast, or Swinburne's Atalanta in Calydon. Certainly in those poems the decorative rhythm and the meaning are absolutely one.
With no dancing evolutions, the author of this book has chanted John Brown and King Solomon for the last two years for many audiences. It took but a minute to teach the people the responses. As a rule they had no advance notice they were going to sing. The versifier sang the parts of the King and Queen in turn, and found each audience perfectly willing to be the oxen, the sweethearts, the swans, the sons, the shepherds, etc.
A year ago the writer had the honor of chanting for the Florence Fleming Noyes school of dancers. In one short evening they made the first section of the Congo into an incantation, the King Solomon into an extraordinarily graceful series of tableaus, and the Potatoes' Dance into a veritable whirlwind. Later came the more elaborately prepared Chicago experiment.
In the King of Yellow Butterflies and the Potatoes' Dance Miss Dougherty occupied the entire eye of the audience and interpreted, while the versifier chanted the poems as a semi-invisible orchestra, by the side of the curtain. For Aladdin and for King Solomon Miss Dougherty and the writer divided the stage between them, but the author was little more than the orchestra. The main intention was carried out, which was to combine the work of the dancer with the words of the production and the responses of the audience.
The present rhymer has no ambitions as a stage manager. The Poem Game idea, in its rhythmic picnic stage, is recommended to amateurs, its further development to be on their own initiative. Informal parties might divide into groups of dancers and groups of chanters. The whole might be worked out in the spirit in which children play King William was King James' Son, London Bridge, or As We Go Round the Mulberry Bush. And the author of this book would certainly welcome the tragic dance, if Miss Dougherty will gather a company about her and go forward, using any acceptable poems, new or old. Swinburne's Atalanta in Calydon is perhaps the most literal and rhythmic example of the idea we have in English, though it may not be available when tried out.
The main revolution necessary for dancing improvisers, who would go a longer way with the Poem Game idea, is to shake off the Isadora Duncan and the Russian precedents for a while, and abolish the orchestra and piano, replacing all these with the natural meaning and cadences of English speech. The work would come closer to acting, than dancing is now conceived.
The King of Yellow Butterflies
(A Poem Game.)
The King of Yellow Butterflies,The King of Yellow Butterflies,The King of Yellow Butterflies,Now orders forth his men.He says "The time is almost hereWhen violets bloom again."Adown the road the fickle routGoes flashing proud and bold,Adown the road the fickle routGoes flashing proud and bold,Adown the road the fickle routGoes flashing proud and bold,They shiver by the shallow pools,They shiver by the shallow pools,They shiver by the shallow pools,And whimper of the cold.They drink and drink. A frail pretense!They love to pose and preen.Each pool is but a looking glass,Where their sweet wings are seen.Each pool is but a looking glass,Where their sweet wings are seen.Each pool is but a looking glass,Where their sweet wings are seen.Gentlemen adventurers! Gypsies every whit!They live on what they steal. Their wingsBy briars are frayed a bit.Their loves are light. They have no house.And if it rains today,They'll climb into your cattle-shed,They'll climb into your cattle-shed,They'll climb into your cattle-shed,And hide them in the hay,And hide them in the hay,And hide them in the hay,And hide them in the hay.
The Potatoes' Dance
(A Poem Game.)
"Down cellar," said the cricket,"Down cellar," said the cricket,"Down cellar," said the cricket,"I saw a ball last night,In honor of a lady,In honor of a lady,In honor of a lady,Whose wings were pearly-white.The breath of bitter weather,The breath of bitter weather,The breath of bitter weather,Had smashed the cellar pane.We entertained a drift of leaves,We entertained a drift of leaves,We entertained a drift of leaves,And then of snow and rain.But we were dressed for winter,But we were dressed for winter,But we were dressed for winter,And loved to hear it blowIn honor of the lady,In honor of the lady,In honor of the lady,Who makes potatoes grow,Our guest the Irish lady,The tiny Irish lady,The airy Irish lady,Who makes potatoes grow.
"Potatoes were the waiters,Potatoes were the waiters,Potatoes were the waiters,Potatoes were the band,Potatoes were the dancersKicking up the sand,Kicking up the sand,Kicking up the sand,Potatoes were the dancersKicking up the sand.Their legs were old burnt matches,Their legs were old burnt matches,Their legs were old burnt matches,Their arms were just the same.They jigged and whirled and scrambled,Jigged and whirled and scrambled,Jigged and whirled and scrambled,In honor of the dame,The noble Irish ladyWho makes potatoes dance,The witty Irish lady,The saucy Irish lady,The laughing Irish ladyWho makes potatoes prance.
"There was just one sweet potato.He was golden brown and slim.The lady loved his dancing,The lady loved his dancing,The lady loved his dancing,She danced all night with him,She danced all night with him.Alas, he wasn't Irish.So when she flew away,They threw him in the coal-bin,And there he is today,Where they cannot hear his sighsAnd his weeping for the lady,The glorious Irish lady,The beauteous Irish lady,WhoGivesPotatoesEyes."
The Booker Washington Trilogy
A Memorial to Booker T. Washington
I. Simon Legree
A Negro Sermon. (To be read in your own variety of negro dialect.)
Legree's big house was white and green.His cotton-fields were the best to be seen.He had strong horses and opulent cattle,And bloodhounds bold, with chains that would rattle.His garret was full of curious things:Books of magic, bags of gold,And rabbits' feet on long twine strings.BUT HE WENT DOWN TO THE DEVIL.
Legree he sported a brass-buttoned coat,A snake-skin necktie, a blood-red shirt.Legree he had a beard like a goat,And a thick hairy neck, and eyes like dirt.His puffed-out cheeks were fish-belly white,He had great long teeth, and an appetite.He ate raw meat, 'most every meal,And rolled his eyes till the cat would squeal.His fist was an enormous sizeTo mash poor niggers that told him lies:He was surely a witch-man in disguise.BUT HE WENT DOWN TO THE DEVIL.
He wore hip-boots, and would wade all dayTo capture his slaves that had fled away.BUT HE WENT DOWN TO THE DEVIL.
He beat poor Uncle Tom to deathWho prayed for Legree with his last breath.Then Uncle Tom to Eva flew,To the high sanctoriums bright and new;And Simon Legree stared up beneath,And cracked his heels, and ground his teeth:AND WENT DOWN TO THE DEVIL.
He crossed the yard in the storm and gloom;He went into his grand front room.He said, "I killed him, and I don't care."He kicked a hound, he gave a swear;He tightened his belt, he took a lamp,Went down cellar to the webs and damp.There in the middle of the mouldy floorHe heaved up a slab, he found a door—AND WENT DOWN TO THE DEVIL.
His lamp blew out, but his eyes burned bright.Simon Legree stepped down all night—DOWN, DOWN TO THE DEVIL.Simon Legree he reached the place,He saw one half of the human race,He saw the Devil on a wide green throne,Gnawing the meat from a big ham-bone,And he said to Mister Devil:
"I see that you have much to eat—A red ham-bone is surely sweet.I see that you have lion's feet;I see your frame is fat and fine,I see you drink your poison wine—Blood and burning turpentine."
And the Devil said to Simon Legree:"I like your style, so wicked and free.Come sit and share my throne with me,And let us bark and revel."And there they sit and gnash their teeth,And each one wears a hop-vine wreath.They are matching pennies and shooting craps,They are playing poker and taking naps.And old Legree is fat and fine:He eats the fire, he drinks the wine—Blood and burning turpentine—DOWN, DOWN WITH THE DEVIL;DOWN, DOWN WITH THE DEVIL;DOWN, DOWN WITH THE DEVIL.
II. John Brown
(To be sung by a leader and chorus, the leader singing the body of thepoem, while the chorus interrupts with the question.)
I've been to Palestine.WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?I saw the ark of Noah—It was made of pitch and pine.I saw old Father NoahAsleep beneath his vine.I saw Shem, Ham and JaphetStanding in a line.I saw the tower of BabelIn the gorgeous sunrise shine—By a weeping willow treeBeside the Dead Sea.
I've been to Palestine.WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?I saw abominationsAnd Gadarene swine.I saw the sinful CanaanitesUpon the shewbread dine,And spoil the temple vesselsAnd drink the temple wine.I saw Lot's wife, a pillar of saltStanding in the brine—By a weeping willow treeBeside the Dead Sea.
I've been to Palestine.WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?Cedars on Mount Lebanon,Gold in Ophir's mine,And a wicked generationSeeking for a signAnd Baal's howling worshippersTheir god with leaves entwine.And …I saw the war-horse rampingAnd shake his forelock fine—By a weeping willow treeBeside the Dead Sea.
I've been to Palestine.WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?Old John Brown.Old John Brown.I saw his gracious wifeDressed in a homespun gown.I saw his seven sonsBefore his feet bow down.And he marched with his seven sons,His wagons and goods and guns,To his campfire by the sea,By the waves of Galilee.
I've been to Palestine.WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?I saw the harp and psalt'ryPlayed for Old John Brown.I heard the ram's horn blow,Blow for Old John Brown.I saw the Bulls of Bashan—They cheered for Old John Brown.I saw the big Behemoth—He cheered for Old John Brown.I saw the big Leviathan—He cheered for Old John Brown.I saw the Angel GabrielGreat power to him assign.I saw him fight the CanaanitesAnd set God's Israel free.I saw him when the war was doneIn his rustic chair recline—By his campfire by the sea,By the waves of Galilee.
I've been to Palestine.WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?Old John Brown.Old John Brown.And there he sitsTo judge the world.His hunting-dogsAt his feet are curled.His eyes half-closed,But John Brown seesThe ends of the earth,The Day of Doom.And his shot-gun liesAcross his knees—Old John Brown,Old John Brown.
III. King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba
(A Poem Game.)
"And when the Queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon, …she came to prove him with hard questions."
Men's Leader: The Queen of Sheba came to see King Solomon.
Both Leaders: We will be king and queen,
Congregation: We were the oxen.
Congregation: We were the swans.
Men's Leader: King Solomon,King Solomon.
Women's Leader: The Queen of Sheba asked him like a lady,
Men's Leader: King Solomon made answer to the lady,
Congregation: We were the ponies.
Men's Leader: King Solomon he asked the Queen of Sheba,
Women's Leader: The Queen of Sheba answered like a lady,
Both Leaders: You shall bring spice and ore
Women's Leader: The Queen of Sheba asked him like a lady,
Men's Leader: King Solomon made answer to the lady,
Congregation: We were the chieftains.
Men's Leader: King Solomon he asked the Queen of Sheba,
Women's Leader: The Queen of Sheba answered like a lady,
Men's Leader: King Solomon,King Solomon.
Both Leaders: King Solomon he kept the Sabbath holy.
Congregation Rises and Joins the Song:…. "Glory."We were his people.
How Samson Bore Away the Gates of Gaza
(A Negro Sermon.)
Once, in a night as black as ink,She drove him out when he would not drink.Round the house there were men in waitAsleep in rows by the Gaza gate.But the Holy Spirit was in this man.Like a gentle wind he crept and ran.("It is midnight," said the big town clock.)
He lifted the gates up, post and lock.The hole in the wall was high and wideWhen he bore away old Gaza's prideInto the deep of the night:—The bold Jack Johnson Israelite,—Samson—The Judge,The Nazarite.
The air was black, like the smoke of a dragon.Samson's heart was as big as a wagon.He sang like a shining golden fountain.He sweated up to the top of the mountain.He threw down the gates with a noise like judgment.And the quails all ran with the big arousement.
But he wept—"I must not love tough queens,And spend on them my hard earned means.I told that girl I would drink no more.Therefore she drove me from her door.Oh sorrow!Sorrow!I cannot hide.Oh Lord look down from your chariot side.You made me Judge, and I am not wise.I am weak as a sheep for all my size."
Let SamsonBe comingInto your mind.
The moon shone out, the stars were gay.He saw the foxes run and play.He rent his garments, he rolled aroundIn deep repentance on the ground.
Then he felt a honey in his soul.Grace abounding made him whole.Then he saw the Lord in a chariot blue.The gorgeous stallions whinnied and flew.The iron wheels hummed an old hymn-tuneAnd crunched in thunder over the moon.And Samson shouted to the sky:"My Lord, my Lord is riding high."
Like a steed, he pawed the gates with his hoof.He rattled the gates like rocks on the roof,And danced in the nightOn the mountain-top,Danced in the deep of the night:The Judge, the holy Nazarite,Whom ropes and chains could never bind.
Let SamsonBe comingInto your mind.
Whirling his arms, like a top he sped.His long black hair flew round his headLike an outstretched net of silky cord,Like a wheel of the chariot of the Lord.
Let SamsonBe comingInto your mind.
Samson saw the sun anew.He left the gates in the grass and dew.He went to a county-seat a-nigh.Found a harlot proud and high:Philistine that no man could tame—Delilah was her lady-name.Oh sorrow,Sorrow,She was too wise.She cut off his hair,She put out his eyes.
Let SamsonBe comingInto your mind.
——————————————————————— | The following pages contain advertisements | | of other books by the same author | | which appeared in the 1918 copy. | ———————————————————————
By the Same Author
A Handy Guide for BeggarsNew Edition. Cloth, 12mo, $1.25
"The Handy Guide for Beggars" is an introduction to all Vachel Lindsay's work. It gives his first adventures afoot. He walked through Florida, Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Kentucky, in the spring of 1906. He walked through New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and on to Hiram, Ohio, in the spring of 1908. He carried on these trips his poems: "The Tree of Laughing Bells", "The Heroes of Time", etc. He recited them in exchange for food and lodging. He left copies for those who appeared interested. The book is a record of these journeys, and of many pleasing discoveries about American Democracy.
This book serves to introduce the next, "Adventures While Preaching the Gospel of Beauty". In the spring and summer of 1912, Mr. Lindsay walked from Springfield, Illinois, west to Colorado, and into New Mexico. He was much more experienced in the road. He carried "Rhymes to Be Traded for Bread", "The Village Improvement Parade", etc. As is indicated in the title, he wrestled with a theory of American aesthetics. "Christmas, 1915", the third book in the series, appeared, applying the "Gospel of Beauty to the Photoplay". The ideas of Art and Democracy that develop in the first two books are used as the basic principles in "The Art of the Moving Picture". Those who desire a close view of the Lindsay idea will do well to read the three works in the order named. Further particulars in the pages following.
The Congo and Other PoemsWith a preface by Harriet Monroe, Editor of the 'Poetry Magazine'.Cloth, 12mo, $1.25; leather, $1.60
In the readings which Vachel Lindsay has given for colleges, universities, etc., throughout the country, he has won the approbation of the critics and of his audiences in general for the new verse-form which he is employing, as well as the manner of his chanting and singing, which is peculiarly his own. He carries in memory all the poems in his books, and recites the program made out for him; the wonderful effect of sound produced by his lines, their relation to the idea which the author seeks to convey, and their marvelous lyrical quality are quite beyond the ordinary, and suggest new possibilities and new meanings in poetry. It is his main object to give his already established friends a deeper sense of the musical intention of his pieces.
The book contains the much discussed "War Poem", "Abraham Lincoln Walksat Midnight"; it contains among its familiar pieces: "The Santa FeTrail", "The Firemen's Ball", "The Dirge for a Righteous Kitten","The Griffin's Egg", "The Spice Tree", "Blanche Sweet", "Mary Pickford","The Soul of the City", etc.
Mr. Lindsay received the Levinson Prize for the best poem contributed to 'Poetry', a magazine of verse, (Chicago) for 1915.
"We do not know a young man of any more promise than Mr. Vachel Lindsay for the task which he seems to have set himself."—'The Dial'.
General William Booth Enters Into Heaven and Other PoemsPrice, $1.25; leather, $1.60
This book contains among other verses: "On Reading Omar Khayyamduring an Anti-Saloon Campaign in Illinois"; "The Wizard Wind";"The Eagle Forgotten", a Memorial to John P. Altgeld;"The Knight in Disguise", a Memorial to O. Henry; "The Rose and theLotus"; "Michaelangelo"; "Titian"; "What the Hyena Said"; "What GrandpaMouse Said"; "A Net to Snare the Moonlight"; "Springfield Magical";"The Proud Farmer"; "The Illinois Village"; "The Building ofSpringfield".
————
Comments on the Title Poem:
"This poem, at once so glorious, so touching and poignant in its conception and expression … is perhaps the most remarkable poem of a decade—one that defies imitation."—'Review of Reviews'.
"A sweeping and penetrating vision that works with a naive charm….No American poet of to-day is more a people's poet."—'BostonTranscript'.
"One could hardly overpraise 'General Booth'."—'New York Times'.
"Something new in verse, spontaneous, passionate, unmindful of conventions in form and theme."—'The Living Age'.
Adventures While Preaching the Gospel of BeautyPrice, $1.00
This is a series of happening afoot while reciting at back-doors in the west, and includes some experiences while harvesting in Kansas. It includes several proclamations which apply the Gospel of Beauty to agricultural conditions. There are, among other rhymed interludes: "The Shield of Faith", "The Flute of the Lonely", "The Rose of Midnight", "Kansas", "The Kallyope Yell".
Something to Read
Vachel Lindsay took a walk from his home in Springfield, Ill., over the prairies to New Mexico. He was in Kansas in wheat-harvest time and he worked as a farmhand, and he tells all about that. He tells about his walks and the people he met in a little book, "Adventures While Preaching the Gospel of Beauty".
For the conditions of his tramps were that he should keep away from cities, money, baggage, and pay his way by reciting his own poems. And he did it. People liked his pieces, and tramp farmhands with rough necks and rougher hands left off singing smutty limericks and took to "Atalanta in Calydon" apparently because they preferred it. Of motor cars, which gave him a lift, he says: "I still maintain that the auto is a carnal institution, to be shunned by the truly spiritual, but there are times when I, for one, get tired of being spiritual." His story of the "Five Little Children Eating Mush" (that was one night in Colorado, and he recited to them while they ate supper) has more beauty and tenderness and jolly tears than all the expensive sob stuff theatrical managers ever dreamed of. Mr. Lindsay doesn't need to write verse to be a poet. His prose is poetry—poetry straight from the soil, of America that is, and of a nobler America that is to be. You cannot afford—both for your entertainment and for the REAL IDEA that this young man has (of which we have said nothing)—to miss this book.—Editorial from 'Collier's Weekly'.
The Art of the Moving PicturePrice, $1.25
An effort to apply the Gospel of Beauty to a new art.
The first section has an outline which is proposed as a basis for photoplay criticism in America; chapters on: "The Photoplay of Action", "The Intimate Photoplay", "The Picture of Fairy Splendor", "The Picture of Crowd Splendor", "The Picture of Patriotic Splendor", "The Picture of Religious Splendor", "Sculpture in Motion", "Painting in Motion", "Furniture", "Trappings and Inventions in Motion", "Architecture in Motion", "Thirty Differences between the Photoplays and the Stage", "Hieroglyphics". The second section is avowedly more discursive, being more personal speculations and afterthoughts, not brought forward so dogmatically; chapters on: "The Orchestra Conversation and the Censorship", "The Substitute for the Saloon", "California and America", "Progress and Endowment", "Architects as Crusaders", "On Coming Forth by Day", "The Prophet Wizard", "The Acceptable Year of the Lord".
For Late Reviews of Mr. Lindsay and his contemporaries read:
'The New Republic': Articles by Randolph S. Bourne, December 5, 1914, on the "Adventures While Preaching"; and Francis Hackett, December 25, 1915, on "The Art of the Moving Picture".
'The Dial': Unsigned article by Lucien Carey, October 16, 1914, on "The Congo", etc.
'The Yale Review': Article by H. M. Luquiens, July, 1916, on "The Art of the Moving Picture".
General Articles on the Poetry Situation
'The Century Magazine': "America's Golden Age in Poetry", March, 1916.
'Harper's Monthly Magazine': "The Easy Chair", William Dean Howells,September, 1915.
'The Craftsman': "Has America a National Poetry?" Amy Lowell, July, 1916.
[End of original text.]
Biographical Note:
Nicholas Vachel Lindsay (1879-1931):(Vachel is pronounced Vay-chul, that is, it rhymes with 'Rachel').
"The Eagle that is Forgotten" and "The Congo" are two of his best-known poems, and appear in his first two volumes of verse, "General William Booth Enters into Heaven" (1913) and "The Congo" (1914).
As a sidenote, he became close friends with the poet Sara Teasdale and his third volume of verse, "The Chinese Nightingale" (1917), is dedicated to her. In turn, she wrote a memorial verse for him after he committed suicide in 1931.
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From an anthology of verse by Jessie B. Rittenhouse (1913, 1917):
"Lindsay, Vachel. Born November 10, 1879. Educated at Hiram College, Ohio. He took up the study of art and studied at the Art Institute, Chicago, 1900-03 and at the New York School of Art, 1904-05. For a time after his technical study, he lectured upon art in its practical relation to the community, and returning to his home in Springfield, Illinois, issued what one might term his manifesto in the shape of "The Village Magazine", divided about equally between prose articles, pertaining to beautifying his native city, and poems, illustrated by his own drawings. Soon after this, Mr. Lindsay, taking as scrip for the journey, "Rhymes to be Traded for Bread", made a pilgrimage on foot through several Western States going as far afield as New Mexico. The story of this journey is given in his volume, "Adventures while Preaching the Gospel of Beauty". Mr. Lindsay first attracted attention in poetry by "General William Booth Enters into Heaven", a poem which became the title of his first volume, in 1913. His second volume was "The Congo", published in 1914. He is attempting to restore to poetry its early appeal as a spoken art, and his later work differs greatly from the selections contained in this anthology."