rcilessly at
the ridiculous bards of German Chauvinism, at Heinrich Vierordt, the
author of _Deutschland, hasse_, at the criminal poets who stir up hatred
with their false stories, and at Professor Haeckel. The dilettantism of
this review is extreme. Its weekly issues contain translations from the
French of Andre Gide, Peguy, and Leon Bloy, and reproductions of the
works of Daumier, Delacroix, Cezanne, Matisse, and R. de la Fresnaye:
(cubism flourishes in this Berlin review). The issue of October 24th is
devoted to Peguy, and contains, as frontispiece, Egon Schiele's portrait
of the man, who is honored by Franz Pfemfert, the editor, as "the purest
and most vigorous moral force in French literature of today." Let us
hasten to add, however, that, as is often the case on the other side of
the Rhine, they are carried away by their zeal in deploring his death as
of one of their countrymen, and in proclaiming themselves his heirs. But
the pride which admires is at least superior to the pride which
disparages.

The most important of these young reviews is _Die Weissen Blaetter_;
important on account of the variety of questions it deals with, and the
value and number of its contributors, as well as for the
broad-mindedness of its editor--Rene Schickele. An Alsatian by birth,
he belongs to those who feel most acutely the bitterness of the present
struggle. After an interval of three months _Die Weissen Blaetter_, which
almost corresponds to our _Nouvelle Revue Francaise_, reappeared in
January last with the following declaration, akin to that of the _Revue
des Nations_, at Berne. "_It seems good to us to begin the work of
reconstruction, in the midst of the war, and to aid in preparing for the
victory of the spirit. The community of Europe is at present apparently
destroyed. Is it not the duty of all of us who are not bearing arms, to
live from today onwards according to the dictates of our conscience, as
it will be the duty of every German when once the war is over?_"

By the side of these disinterested manifestoes about actual politics,
appear lengthy historical novels (_Tycho Brahe_ by Max Brod) and
satirical comedies by Carl Sternheim, who continues to scourge the upper
classes of German society, and the capitalists, for _Die Weissen
Blaetter_ is open to all questions of the day. But in spite of the actual
differences which must necessarily exist between a German and a French
review, we cannot but point out the frankly host