tful of pearls!" He spat even
more acridly upon the pave and turned away. "After all," he growled,
"Stendhal was right. Or was it Huysmans? No, it was neither. It was
Cambronne."

* * *

Though there has been little enough to encourage it, the world is
growing kinder; at least friendliness is increasing. Every other day we
read of some woman living pleasantly in a well appointed apartment,
supplied with fine raiment and an automobile, the fruit of Platonism.
"No," she testifies, "there was nothing between us. He was merely a
friend."

* * *

What heaven hath cleansed let no man put asunder. Emma Durdy and Raymond
Bathe, of Nokomis, have been j. in the h. b. of w.

* * *

THE TRACERS ARE AT WORK.

Sir: Please consult the genealogical files of the Academy and advise me
if Mr. Harm Poppen of Gurley, Nebraska, is a lineal descendant of the
w. k. Helsa Poppen, famous in profane history.

E. E. M.

* * *

Our opinion, already recorded, is that if Keats had spent fifteen or
twenty minutes more on his Grecian Urn, all of the stanzas would be as
good as three of them. And so we think that if A. B. had put in, say, a
half hour more on her sonnet she would not have rhymed "worldliness" and
"moodiness." Of the harmony, counterpoint, thoroughbass, etc., of verse
we know next to nothing--we play on _our_ tin whistle entirely by
ear--but there are things which we avoid, perhaps needlessly. One of
these is the rhyming of words like utterly, monody, lethargy, etc.;
these endings seem weak when they are bunched. Our assistants will
apprehend that we are merely offering a suggestion or two, which we hope
they will follow up by exploring the authorities.

* * *

Music like Brahms' Second Symphony is peculiarly satisfying to the
listener. The first few measures disclose that the composer is in
complete control of his ideas and his expression of them. He has
something to say, and he says it without uncertainty or redundancy. Only
a man who _has_ something to say may dare to say it only once.

* * *

Those happy beings who "don't know a thing about art, but know what they
like," are restricted to the obvious because of ignorance of form; their
enjoyment ends where that of the cultivated person begins. Take music.
The person who knows what he likes takes his pleasure in the tune, but