In Babylon, high Babylon, What gear is bought and sold? All merchandise beneath the sun That bartered is for gold; Amber and oils from far beyond The desert and the fen, And wines whereof our throats are fond-- Yea! and the souls of men! In Babylon, grey Babylon, What goods are sold and bought? Vesture of linen subtly spun, And cups from agate wrought; Raiment of many-colored silk For some fair denizen, And ivory more white than milk-- Yea! and the souls of men!... In Babylon, sad Babylon, What chattels shall invite? A wife whenas your youth is done, Or leman for a night. Before Astarte's portico The torches flare again; The shadows come, the shadows go-- Yea! and the souls of men! In Babylon, dark Babylon, Who take the wage of shame? The scribe and singer, one by one, That toil for gold and fame. They grovel to their masters' mood The blood upon the pen Assigns their souls to servitude-- Yea! and the souls of men! Dinner à la Tango BY EDWIN BJÖRKMAN (American critic, born in Sweden 1866) It is after eight o'clock in one of the smaller dining-rooms of a fashionable New York hotel. The middle of the room is cleared for dancing. At one end a small orchestra is working furiously at a melody that affects the mind like the triple-distilled essence of nervous unrest. Every table is occupied by merry groups of men and women in evening dress. Above our heads are strung almost invisible wires, to which are attached colored lanterns, gaudy mechanical butterflies, and huge red and green toy balloons. Just as we enter, a stoutish, heavy-faced chap with a monocle slaps the next man on the back and cries out: "We must be gay, old boy!" The open square in the middle is filled with dancers. They trip and slide and dip. They side-step and back-step and gyrate. They wave their arms like pump-handles, or raise them skyward, palm to palm, as if in prayer. There are among them young girls with shining faces full of inarticulate desire; simpering young men with a leer lurking at the bottom of their vacant stares; stiff-legged and white-haired old men with drooping eyelids; and stern-jawed matrons with hand-made faces of a startling purple hue. But on every face, young or old, bright or dull, there beams a smile or clings a smirk, for the spirit of the place demands gaiety at any price. On the tables are strewn gaily trimmed packages that open with a report, and yield up gaily colored paper caps. Rubicund gentlemen place the caps over their bald spots, while women pick the big butterflies to pieces, and put the fragments into their hair until they look like barbarous princesses. Men and women drink and dance, feast and flirt, sing and laugh and shout....