In books like _La Physique de l’Amour_, _Le Chemin de Velours_, the series of _Promenades Philosophiques_ and _Epilogues_, we have an entirely different kind of intellectual activity—lettered, it is true, but with that incisiveness and clarity of style and thought which mark French prose as the finest in the modern world. In these books problems of philosophy, of morals, of everyday conduct and national and international affairs, problems of music, of painting, of all the arts and sciences, are discussed with a brilliance and an originality not always palatable to the gloomier and duller elements of French society. One must not ask for too clear a definition of M. de Gourmont’s philosophy. He is just sufficient of a mystic to enjoy being misunderstood, and of a nature so ironical that his most innocent-looking statements are traps for the unwary. He is an individualist—true to his type of culture. Perhaps if he were very closely questioned he would smile and say that he belonged to the “tradition des libres esprits.” In addition to these many works, of so diverse a character that they might well be the result of the labours of several men rather than of one, he has written several novels, one or two of which at their appearance were the literary sensation of the hour; he has devoted much time to the study of aesthetic questions and has published two or three volumes on the subject; beyond all this he has produced a modern French rendering of Aucassin and Nicolette, a translation from the Spanish and a couple of original plays! And in his little flat on the rive gauche, not far from St. Sulpice, among his books, he still writes every day words of encouragement for anxious Paris, still finds time to observe and reflect and to let the rest of the world know what is happening in France. Words Out of Waking HELEN HOYT In the warm, fragrant darkness We lay, Side by side, Straight; And your voice That had been silent Came to me through the dark Asking, _Do you smell the lilacs?_ You, half in sleep, Speaking softly,— Indistinctly. Then it seemed to me, A sudden moment, As if we lay in our graves, And you were speaking across From your mound to mine: In the springtime, Speaking of lilacs,— With muffled voice through the grass. Who Wants Blue Silk Roses? SADE IVERSON The battlefields are very far away: No friend of mine fights on them—and no foe. I have not sickened at the battle stench, Nor seen the tragic trenches where men die. I am a woman, walking quietly, And fond of peace and place and fireside cheer, Yet here, afar from strife, the grey Uhlans Have battered down my door, let in the rain, And put me out, purse-empty, on the street.