PLEIADES CLUB YEAR BOOK 1910, by THE PLE­IA­DES CLUB, N.Y.; Book De­signed by R. S. AMENT.

P R O E M

WITHIN the portals of this
book abound,

Woven with beaten gold, the
thoughts profound,

That stir the soul to ecstasy and
bring

The Poet’s flights of fancy on the
wing

To falter at thy feet. Here may
they reach

The silent chambers of thy heart,
and teach

That this, our only mission, is
to send

To thee a heart-throb, Comrade,
Brother, Friend!

G. Warren Landon.

THIS · EDITION · DE · LUXE · IS · LIMITED
TO · SIX · HUNDRED · COPIES
OF · WHICH · THIS · IS
No. 38

W h a t I s A r t?

by Henry Tyrrell.

Illustration by Dan Smith.

“A criticism of life,” says Matthew Arnold.

“The rhythmic creation of beauty,” says Edgar Allan Poe—defining the art of lyric poetry.

“The end of art,” says Victor Cousin (combining Plato and Aristotle), “is the expression of moral beauty by the assistance of physical beauty.”

But apply these and other bromidic definitions to the art and literature of to-day—measure them up against the Sunday newspaper, or “Peter Pan” at the theatre, or picture exhibitions of the Independent Artists and the followers of Matisse—and assuredly there is something wrong, either with the definitions or with the art.

Then turn to Emile Zola, and take from him this following dictum, which comes very close to being invulnerable:

“A work of art is a bit of nature seen through a temperament.”

This takes in all the schools, as well as the fiery, untamed spirits who would break away from schools altogether. Art is always the same; temperaments differ and become warped. The academician’s temperamental glass is ruled off into formal geometrical patterns, and he sees nature as a kind of problem in perspective. The rabid “impressionist” looks within himself, and away from nature, and “sees things” which don’t exist for anyone else. The true artist gazes straight out upon nature, and forgets himself, and art comes to him “as easily as lying.”

“What the poet writes.

He writes: mankind accepts it if it suits,

And that’s success. If not, the poem’s passed

From hand to hand, and yet from hand to hand.

Until the unborn snatch it, crying out

In pity on their fathers’ being so dull,—

And that’s success, too.”

M u s i c

by Arthur Farwell.

Illustration by Dan Smith.

“Music is a woman,” said Richard Wagner. We may well go further and say: Music is a mother. It is by no mere chance that the Germans speak of Frau Musica. The devotion of Music to humanity, in its varying, growing and innumerable needs, is the eternal and utter devotion of a mother to her child. Music is ever present, ever watchful, ready to sing to man, whatsoever his need, whether of consolation, of courage, or of love. Nor does she forsake him in his evil hour, when none but darker passions can touch his heart. She will go with her children to the deepest depths, and if thus terrible has become their need, she will yield to them her heartbroken sympathy even in their hate and their lust.

Music will make all sacrifice for men. At the cost of fearful pains of growth, she will change her nature with their growing, or even their perverse needs. Let her living sons but call upon her to forsake her earlier nature to sympathize with the broader and deeper consciousness which they have wrung from life in their battle with circumstance, and unhesitatingly she responds. She will indulge a prodigal Strauss or a Debussy, even to his own harm, and she yields her best only to him whose sympathy has made him one with the deep and simple heart of humanity.

In America’s present need of songs breathing the freedom and courage of the New World, Music, the all-mother, is present and watchful, and will stand by her latest son until he is full grown and strong.

L i t e r a t u r e

by Carter S. Cole.

Illustration by Dan Smith.

If it were pro­posed to give, in a brief state­ment on this sub­ject, even a suc­cinct ac­count of the whole field, or the simp­lest sort of scien­tif­ic re­view, there would be lit­tle room for anything else to appear in this volume. In fact, one deservedly famous frankly avowed that he would not attempt to say anything on the subject unless he had given the matter at least a month’s careful consideration, and yet it is much more than likely that the clientele for whom this particular book is especially designed would not take the trouble to read an article that had been prepared after such prolonged and ponderous thought.

The one thing that has characterized all literature, even before the art of printing was known, no matter what may be the definition of the word, is this: Whatever has pith, human interest, originality and action, however slowly it may have worried its way through the tired or befuddled brain of those persons whose privilege it is to see the matter before publication, will be quick to catch the eye of an ever alert public.

This is as true of science as of fiction: as universal in poetry as in prose. A single illustration will suffice: Quite recently a book, in many ways abstruse, appealing, apparently, to a limited class of readers, had just that touch of tenderness, that trail of truth, that caused a tremendous sale, and exhausted the edition in a remarkably short time.

It was once asked what part of a newspaper was most interesting; the answer from many readers and from many lands was practically the same: it depends entirely upon who does the reading. This is quite as true of literature in general as of one part. When we reflect for an instant we must acknowledge that in every thinker’s life there are periods that differ materially in the attitude towards reading; that some special line is apt to predominate, even in one who is known to be a general reader: it may vary with time, place, conditions—in fact, under almost all conceivable circumstances—but there is never a time when there are not more readers in any line than there are books worth while to meet their needs, or to satisfy their demands; in short, it is just as true to-day as before or since the thought was expressed in words—Brains are always at a premium.

T h e P l a y e r

by Dixie Hines.

Illustration by Dan Smith.

“All the world’s a stage,

And men and women merely players.”

The profession of the player is one of the oldest recognized and in its growth and achievement stands foremost of all the arts.

In its crudest form little is known, but as a profession it may properly date from the Chinese and Grecian periods, when players were chosen from among the infant slaves and trained to the art by masters, not unlike the painter and the bard.

To the immortal genius of Shakespeare does the world owe its inexpressible appreciation of the artistic development, realizing to the fullest degree the possibilities, and subsequently the mastery, of the art, placing it at once on the highest pinnacle of achievement and according to it the laurel of universal popularity.

To this genius is added that of others, each attaining a greater degree of appreciation, until to-day the art of the player encompasses the highest attributes of the allied arts.

The player is one who loves, and understands, nature. To do so he must feel, in the highest sense, the emotions of the artist, the poet and kindred spirits, because from each he must cull the choicest petals—the inspiration of the poet, that he may portray the character; the genius of the artist, that he may imbue it with life, and the passion of the bard, and to this the sympathy of a Madonna, the tenderness of an angel, the love of a mother and the strength of a giant.

The development of the art of the player records the development of civilization itself. The player and his art obtains wherever there is civilization. In its highest form it is at once Literature, Art and Music in harmonious arrangement. In its possibilities it is Religion, teaching the whole world by its power:

“I’ve heard that guilty creatures at a play,

Have, by the very cunning of the scene,

Been struck so to the soul, that presently

They have proclaimed their malefactions.”

The player, supreme in his art, is master of every emotion.

“Little Betty’s.”

Drawn by Nell Brinkley.

V e n e t i a n T w i l i g h t

by Carter S. Cole.

Illustration by Thomas Fogarty.

Y gondolier lazily makes his way,

Threading along, humming a song,

While glorious tints of a dying day

Fill me with rapture; and earth, sky, and sea,

In their aureole robes, are a mystery

Hidden from none, priceless, but free!

The swish of the oar in the dark, quiet stream,

Rhythmical, clear, soothing to hear,

Scatters the mist as a little moonbeam

Kisses the lips that are mine by right,

And caresses the form with its mellow light

For which I am yearning to-night.

This world is a place full of trouble and pain,

None of us know, why this is so;

In fancy, at least, when you suffer again,

Ride in my gondola, dismiss all care,

Hear the soft music that floats through the air,

At twilight, in Venice, so fair.

“My gondolier lazily makes his way,

Threading along, humming a song.”

B e s t  B e t s  o f  a  B a c h e l o r

by Dixie Hines.

Illustrations by Charles Roy Bowers and A. J. Bjornstad.

EAUTY is only paint-deep at times.

Only the brave can handle the fair.

A pretty girl envies but one girl—a prettier one.

Many a poor husband is created from a rich man.

While there is an engagement there’s hope—of liberty.

Men can persuade a woman to do anything she wants to.

Men can be classified; women cannot even be pacified.

A woman’s idea of happiness is to be ideally miserable.

A woman will break a heart as readily as she will crack a smile.

No married man ever was a fool without being told of the fact.

The grass widow is not alone in making hay while the sun shines.

A bachelor is a man who has given serious thought to matrimony.

Bachelors form their opinion of marriage by experience—of others.

There is nothing new under the sun except hat styles for women.

“A woman imagines she can cover up her imperfections by pointing out those of other women.”

Every girl would love to be a thing of beauty and a boy forever.

When a woman proves equal to all a man expects she is a sur-prize.

It isn’t nearly so hard to be a fool over a widow as not to be one.

Every woman secretly admires the wisdom of the man who flatters her.

A woman may conceal her faults, but a decollete gown is less deceptive.

The blush of a bashful girl is a flush that takes any hand—and heart.

“The cup of happiness” with men of experience has a siphon on the side.

Every woman has a horror of old age, but not so much as of young death.

Women are never satisfied. First they want a voter and then they want a vote.

Some men are born to trouble, while others merely achieve it by marriage.

There is but one kind of love, yet every woman has a different idea about it.

Men, manners and morals change, but woman, never—from the changeable.

A man may be “out front” at the opera and yet be able only to “see back”—if he is with her.

Every woman expects a man to think for her, and then she reverses his opinion.

When it comes to singing the praises of another, most women have a sore throat.

Man’s principal safeguard against matrimony is that widows are made, not born.

Many a promising housekeeping career has been ruined in an unpromising stage career.

Men have found many antidotes for a woman, but the surest of all is another woman.

A woman spends one-half of her time telling lies for men and the other half to them.

Women often know a man is in love with them when the man never discovers the fact.

Men often find it necessary to choose between the inconstant and the unattractive woman.

A woman keeps a man running all the time—first it is after her and then it is from her.

If women did not know that men could overcome their resistance they would seldom resist.

There are two ways in which a woman may win a man: Her own brilliancy and his inanity.

When a man is at the feet of woman it is pretty sure that another woman threw him there.

Every woman wants a man to be real devilish before marriage and real angelic afterwards.

Anyhow, there was one woman who was never jealous. Adam didn’t have troubles about that.

A woman imagines she can cover up her imperfections by pointing out those of other women.

Some men are born wise, some achieve wisdom by experience, and some just don’t marry.

Two kinds of women make trouble in the world—those that are married and those that are not.

There is but one class of women who are not interested in the fashions and they are the dead ones.

The philosopher said a woman could not argue—he was too wise to say that she could not talk.

The reason so many men find marriage unattractive is because life was so attractive before marriage.

It isn’t a hard matter for a woman to make a man love her. The difficulty is in making him keep it up.

A woman can make up two things at the same time—her face and her mind; but her face lasts longer.

The world has no sympathy to waste on those reckless enough to wed when both have been married before.

If a man does not tell a woman he loves her she thinks him impossible; if he does, he knows himself foolish.

When a woman says that all she wants is what she deserves she really means she deserves all she wants.

When a girl reaches that uncertain age and is yet unmarried, she is often worse than she paints herself.

Sometimes there is more truth than sentiment when a man tells a woman a thing is as plain as the nose on her face.

No one has ever yet discovered why a woman is afraid of a mouse and tackles a six-foot man with confidence.

A woman will start a flirtation in fun and then wonder why a man won’t follow her when she gets serious.

If a man wants to make a fool of himself he can find many opportunities, but the surest way is over a woman.

Men and women both agree that it is inadvisable to live without each other and impossible to live with each other.

Whether a married man pities or envies his bachelor friends depends entirely upon how long he has been married.

If a man really wants to start something with himself, let him try to love a woman just as a woman wants to be loved.

The best way to find out what a girl who is in love with a man thinks of woman suffrage is to find out what he thinks.

A man may escape the measles, or automobiles, or even being indicted, but no man has ever been known to escape a widow.

No woman ever told a man she hated him without meaning it; some women have told men they loved them and meant it.

Rather than a man should be right and belong to another woman, a woman would have him wrong and belong to her.

The reason widows are so attractive to men is because they will allow themselves to be taught things they already know too well.

A girl will gaze for three hours and a half at the moon and then wonder why she hasn’t time to sew a button on her brother’s vest.

The happiest man is he who will take a woman’s protestations like he does a dose of medicine—with celestial faith in the giver.

When a woman fails to see an opportunity to be generous to another woman it is not necessarily a sign of defective eye-sight.

Don’t misunderstand a man when he tells a woman she is sweet enough to eat—maybe he is thinking of the forthcoming restaurant-check.

Between the ages of sixteen and thirty a woman is a general practitioner in the field of love; after that she is satisfied to become a specialist.

A man is willing to worship at the shrine of a woman with whom he is in love until he meets another woman—then he changes his religion.

The question will never be settled between women as to which will win a man quicker, a pair of silk stockings or an ability to bake a good cake.

If ever the fact that there are no marriages in Heaven is generally believed by women, half of the preachers will be obliged to seek other employment.

If a woman were obliged to express a preference, she would choose the man who pleases but does not love, to the man who loves but does not please, her.

Women are said to be more “clean-minded” than men. Men might meet feminine competition if they resorted to the stratagem of changing their minds as often.

The greatest disappointment after marriage comes to a man when he realizes that his wife does not look like the models in the shop windows during a white-goods sale.

A man can protect himself from the things said about him by the women who don’t love him. It’s the things said about him by the woman who does love him that keep him worried.

Women, says a sage, are like books: No man can judge the inside by what is displayed on the outside. It is a poor rule that won’t work both ways. Women are unlike books: When one has finished with a book it can be closed up.

Drawn by E. M. Ashe.

T h e M i s s i n g R h y m e

by Henry Tyrrell.

Illustration by E. V. Nadherny.

HE trouble was, no word would rhyme with month.

And that was why my lovely birthday sonnet,

Meeting this obstacle, was wrecked upon it.

“Oh, fairest day of springtime’s fairest month”—

Thus I began, and there I stuck at “month.”

Her birthday is the first of May.

“Dog-gone it!”

I cried, “I can’t go on, now I’ve begun it—

Unless, perchance, I write of May the one-th.”

Then went I to my lady love, with all

The story of my tenderness and trouble—

Explained how words in Poetry must double,

And how my sonnet’s sweetness turned to gall

Because I couldn’t find a rhyme for “month.”

She laughed, and lithped the answer—“You’re a dunth!”

“She laughed and lithped the answer—‘You’re a dunth!’”

T o H i s H e a r t

by Richard Le Gallienne.

O many times the heart can break,

So many ways—

Yet beat along and beat along,

So many days.

A fluttering thing we never see,

And only hear

When some stern doctor to our side

Presses his ear.

Strange hidden thing that beats and beats,

We know not why,

And makes us live, though we, indeed,

Would rather die.

Mysterious, fighting, loving thing—

So sad, so true!

I would my laughing eyes some day

Might look on you.

A K i l l i n g

by Wm. B. Green.

Illustration by Harry C. Edwards.

A shot rings out in the forest’s side;

Its signal of death strikes the Moose King’s heart,

And the Indian hunter views with pride

How his skill as a hunts­man has won its part.

But the Shadow that falls
on the ground below

Foretells the time
when he, too,
shall go.

A shot rings out in the forest’s side;

Its signal of death strikes the Moose King’s heart,

And the Indian hunter views with pride

How his skill as a hunts­man has won its part.

But the Shadow that falls
on the ground below

Foretells the time
when he, too,
shall go.

N a m i n g  t h e  B a b y

by John Harrison.

Illustration by Kingston Hengler.

My hair is gray, but not with years,

Nor grew it white in a single night,

As men’s have grown, from sudden fears—

But gray all the same,

Just over a name—

A name for the baby;

Which I wish to remark,

And my language is plain—

Or may be

Ornate—if I try to explain

The trouble, anxiety,

Crass contrariety,

Strain on one’s piety—

He wouldn’t be quiet—he

Cooed to satiety—

(Cute little one)—

Yes—it was pitiful,

In a whole city-full

Name he had none.

“Now let there be a merry time throughout all Christendom,

For the mother set her foot down—and the boy’s named

‘TOM!’”

Cousins to right of us,

Uncles to left of us,

Gran’ma in front of us,

Mentioned a hundred;

Neighbors, and friends as well,

Aided the din to swell,

Talked, until out of breath,

And, when the dinner-bell

Rang, they all wondered.

A simple child,

That cries and holds its breath,

And kicks with either nether limb—

What shall we call him? S’ death!

Wait till he’s seven.

Now glory to that wife of mine, from whom all glories are:

Add “Hallelujahs” freely, for I’m not particular;

Now let there be a merry time throughout all Christendom,

For the mother set her foot down—and the boy’s named

“TOM.”

Drawn by R. F. Zogbaum.

T h e  R a c k e l t y  -  S n a c k e l t y  -  G  a  g  e  l  t  y  -  G  u  z

by Anthony H. Euwer.

Illustration by the Author.

HE awfullest thing that ever yet wuz

Is the Rackelty-snackelty-gagelty-guz,

That don’t eat nothin’ but little boys—

A crunchin’ their bones with the terriblest noise.

If ever I see him floppin’ around

I’ll dig a big hole down into the ground

And crawl away in till he loses the scent,

Not even breathin’ until he has went.

I guess that’ll fool Mr. Guz all right—

But I hope he don’t come when it’s late at night!

“The awfullest thing that ever yet wuz

Is the Rackelty-snackelty-gagelty-guz.”

P a u l ,  t h e  P i a n o - M o v e r

OR,

GRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT!

A Tale of an Artistic Temperament

by Roy L. McCardell.

Illustrations by H. Methfessel.

CHAPTER I. MUSIC AND MYSTERY.

APA can stand no more! How, then, can I break this to him?” The speaker, a radiantly beautiful young girl, stood sobbing in the great musical emporium of Harry M. Daly & Co.

“Consider me a policeman and not a piano-mover.” As he said these words, Paul Postelwaite came forward with his hat in his hand. For all he knew the damsel in distress might be a carriage customer, and, besides, he was afraid if he left his hat in the shipping department a member of the firm might steal it.

“Oh, sir,” replied the beautiful young girl, “I saw a pianola advertisement some time ago which said: ‘With this instrument anyone can play the piano.’ And I, taking all my little savings, bought one for papa!”

“Yes?”

“It arrived to-day. Too late, I perceive that a pianola is an instrument from which music can only be extorted by the feet, and poor papa was run over by an electric car and lost both legs.

“As he said these words, Paul Postelwaite came forward.”

“It was all my little savings, as I have said. The firm will not take the pianola back, and my poor papa has no visible means of support.”

“But you can sue the street railway company for damages,” said Paul, soothingly.

“We threatened to do that, but the railroad company only said papa should consider he was sufficiently damaged and they did not see why he should sue for any more. However, they said we might bring the matter into court and they would see what they could do to his character.”

“Go home, little one,” said Paul Postelwaite, kindly, “and I will come around this evening and play the pianola for your papa myself.”

The foregoing will show that although Paul moved in musical circles he was neither a sharp nor a flat. His worst predilection was that he continually talked shop, for his last words to his distressed young confidant were, “Compose yourself!”

Paul Postelwaite had long resolved upon a musical career. He knew the pitfalls of the profession. On every side of him he saw and heard the unfortunates who played the piano to excess. A hater of discord, he resolved to save the victims of piano-playing from themselves. To this end he studied piano-moving.

Most pianos are bought on the instalment plan. Most payers for pianos bought on this plan fall behind in their instalments. It was Paul’s duty to call and take away the pianos of those who had been remiss.

He bore abuse and vituperation, not with stolid indifference but with the conscientious feeling that he was a public benefactor.

He had the reward of public appreciation. People afflicted by proximity to those who played the piano to excess no longer complained to the Board of Health. They ascertained if any payments were overdue on the instrument of torture, and then they sent for Paul.

Paul’s father had been a piano-maker. But he had been overtaken by misfortune. He made pianos for the big department stores.

But while he only made one grade of piano, he was compelled by the exigencies of his trade to stencil them with so many different names that he forgot his own. And one day, while suffering from loss of memory in this regard, he signed a name not his own to a check and was compelled to retire from business to Ossining-on-Hudson.

His father’s parting advice had been, “Never forget who you are, my boy!”

CHAPTER II. HARMONY IN A FLAT.

That evening, carrying with him a pair of wooden legs, as a pleasant surprise for the abbreviated parent, Paul called at the cosy Harlem apartment where dwelt the young girl who had so attracted his attention that morning.

As the young girl opened the door for him with a glad cry, Paul proffered the wooden legs. “These are for your father,” he said; “he has a heart of oak, I know, and now he will have legs to match.”

“Bless you, young sir,” cried the father of the girl. “This will place me on a better footing with the world! And should I die they will be a legacy for both of you. And now, thank gracious! I can play the pianola!”

“The grateful father adjusted the artificial limbs and was soon playing Handel with his feet.”

So saying the grateful father adjusted the artificial limbs and was soon playing Handel with his feet, extracting from the music chords of wood, as it were, of a timbre most surprising.

This was not all. Paul secured the old man a political position as a stump speaker, at which he was doubly successful, and how he stood on public questions is well known; his physical disability, of course, stood in the way of his ever running for office.

As for the daughter, Paul married her. There is no need to tell you her name. She is Mrs. Postelwaite now and that is enough.

They are still a musical family, and the pride of their home is a Baby Grand.