The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Broadway Anthology
by Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: The Broadway Anthology

Author: Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton

Release Date: February 21, 2005 [EBook #15120]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROADWAY ANTHOLOGY ***




Produced by Ted Garvin, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net.

The

Broadway Anthology

BY

EDWARD L. BERNAYS

SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN

WALTER J. KINGSLEY

MURDOCK PEMBERTON



NEW YORK
DUFFIELD & COMPANY
1917

Copyright, 1917
BY DUFFIELD & COMPANY


VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY
BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK

Acknowledgment is due to the New York Evening Post, Sun, Times, Tribune, the Boston Transcript and the Wilmarth Publishing Company for their kind permission to reprint some of the matter in this volume.

CONTENTS


EDWARD L. BERNAYS

ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN
THE BARITONE
PATRIOTISM
THE PILLOW CASES
BETTER INDUSTRIAL RELATIONS
THE PRIMA DONNA
PRESS STORIES
THE DISTRIBUTION OF CREDIT
TEARS
PHOTOGRAPHS


SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN

THE THEATRE SCRUBWOMAN DREAMS A DREAM
THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MUSICAL COMEDY STAR
THE STAR IS WAITING TO SEE THE MANAGER
THE JESTER
IN A CAFE
TO A CABARET SINGER
IN THE THEATRE


WALTER J. KINGSLEY

LO, THE PRESS AGENT
FIRST NIGHTS
THE DRAMATIST
TYPES
GEORGE M. COHAN
DAVID BELASCO
LO, THE HEADLINER


MURDOCK PEMBERTON

THE SCREEN
BROADWAY—NIGHT
MATINEE
PAVLOWA
THE OLD CHORUS MAN
BLUCH LANDOLF'S TALE
PRE-EMINENCE

EDWARD L. BERNAYS

ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN

He was a burly Dutch tenor,
 And I patiently trailed him in his waking and sleeping hours
 That I might not lose a story,—
 But his life was commonplace and unimaginative—
 Air raids and abdications kept his activities,
 (A game of bridge yesterday, a ride to Tarrytown),
 Out of the papers.
 I watchfully waited,
 Yearning a coup that would place him on the
 Musical map.
 A coup, such as kissing a Marshal Joffre,
 Aeroplaning over the bay,
 Diving with Annette Kellerman.
 Then for three days I quit the city
 To get a simple contralto into the western papers.
 Returning I entered my office; the phone jangled.
 The burly tenor was tearfully sobbing and moaning over the wire;
 Tremor and emotion choked his throat.
 This was his ominous message:
 A taxicab accident almost had killed him two and one half days ago;
 He had escaped with his body and orchid-lined voice—
 And not a line in the mornings or evenings!
 What could I do about it?
 Accidents will happen.

THE BARITONE

He was a wonderful Metropolitan singer.
 His name had been blazoned over these United States,
 And in Europe it was as well known.
 Records of him could be bought in the smallest hamlet;
 Nothing but praise had been shed upon the glory of his name.
 In May he was scheduled to sing in Chicago
 At a festival where thousands were to foregather
 To do praise to him and his voice.
 Two days before he left, he came to his manager's office
 With a sickly expression all over his rotund face
 And a deathly gasp in his voice.
 One thought he needed a doctor,
 Or the first aid of some Red Cross nurses.
 He was ushered into the private office
 To find out his trouble.
 This was his lament in short;
 A friend, in the hurry of the moment,
 Had procured tickets for him on the Twentieth Century
 Which demanded an extra fare of six dollars,—
 And he wanted to ride on the cheapest train.
 So we got him tickets on another road
 Which takes thirty six hours to Chicago and perhaps more,
 And the great singer, whose name has been blazoned over these United States
 And was as well known in Europe,
 Walked out contented and smiling like a young boy.

PATRIOTISM

The patriotic orchestra of eighty five men
 Was keyed to an extraordinary patriotic pitch
 For these were patriotic concerts,
 Supported by the leading patriots of the town,
 (Including a Bulgarian merchant, an Austrian physician and a German lawyer),
 And all the musicians were getting union wages—and in the summer at that.
 So they were patriotic too.
 The Welsh conductor was also patriotic,
 For his name on the program was larger than that of the date or the hall,
 But when the manager asked him to play a number
 Designated as "Dixie,"
 He disposed of it shortly with the words:
 "It is too trivial—that music."
 And, instead, he played a lullaby by an unknown Welsh composer,—
 (Because he was a Welshman)....
 The audience left after the concert was over
 And complimented itself individually and collectively on "doing its bit"
 By attending and listening to these patriotic concerts.

THE PILLOW CASES

The train was due to arrive at eleven that night,
 But owing to the usual delay it did not arrive until one.
 The reporters of the leading dailies
 Were still waiting grouchily on the station platform for the great star.
 For weeks his name had blotted out every bare wall,
 And the date sheets of his coming had reddened the horizon.
 Now he steps off the train, tired and disgruntled.
 What cares he for the praise of the public and their prophets
 Awaiting him impatiently at the station?
 It's a bed he wants—any bed will do;
 The quicker he gets it, the better for the song on the morrow.
 But in cooking the news for the public
 One a.m. is the same thing as noon day.
 So they rushed the star with these questions:
 "Not conscripted yet?..."
 "How do you like this town?..."
 "Will you give any encores tomorrow?..."
 "When will the war end?..."
 Ruthlessly he plowed through them,
 Like a British tank at Messines.
 The tenor wanted a bed,
 But Lesville wanted a story....
 On the platform patiently nestled were twenty six pieces of luggage,
 Twenty six pieces of luggage, containing more than their content,
 Twenty six pieces of luggage would get him the story, he had not given himself.
 Craftily, one lured the reporters to look on this bulging baggage,
 "Pillows and pillows and pillows ..." was whispered,
 "Tonight he will sleep on them."
 Vulture-like swooped down the porters,
 Bearing them off to the taxis.
 Next morning the papers carried the story:
 "Singer Transports His Own Bedding,"
 But the artist slept soundly on Ostermoors that night.
 The baggage held scores for the orchestra.

BETTER INDUSTRIAL RELATIONS

He was the head of a large real estate firm,
 And his avocation was seeking the good in a Better Industrial Relations Society.
 They were going to have an exhibit in their church building,
 At which it was to be proved
 That giving a gold watch for an invention
 That made millions for the factory owner
 Was worthwhile.
 But they needed a press agent
 To let the world and themselves
 Know that what they were doing was good.
 I was chosen for the work,
 But the head of the large real estate firm
 Thought that half a column a day was too little
 To record the fact that a cash register company
 In which he owned stock
 Had presented a medal to an employee who had remained with them
 At the same salary for fifteen years.
 So he had me fired.
 And the Better Industrial Relations Exhibit was a great success.
 And many of the morning and evening newspapers
 Ran editorials about it.

THE PRIMA DONNA

She had been interviewed at all possible times,—
 And sometimes the interviews came at impossible ones;
 But it did not matter to her
 As long as the stories were printed and her name was spelt correctly.
 So we sent a photographer to the hotel one day
 To take pictures of her in her drawing room.
 He was an ungentle photographer
 Who had been accustomed to take pictures of young women
 Coming into the harbor on shipboard, and no photograph was complete
 Without limbs being crossed or suchwise.
 But she did not mind even that,
 If the pictures were published the next day.
 He took a great number of her in her salon,
 And departed happy at the day's bagging.
 A great international disturbance reduced all the white space available
 And no photographs were printed the next day
 Of the prima donna.
 And when I met her at rehearsal, she said very shortly:
 "Je vous ne parle plus" and looked at me harshly.
 Was I to blame for the international situation?

PRESS STORIES

Though bandsmen's notes from the street below resound,
 And the voices of jubilant masses proclaim a glorious holiday,
 I painstakingly pick out words on the typewriter,
 By fits and starts, thinking up a story about the great Metropolitan tenor.
 The typewriter keys now hold no rhythmic tingle.
 But the local manager in Iowa wants the story.
 He has engaged the great tenor for a date next March
 When the Tuesday musicale ladies give their annual benefit for the Shriners.
 He wants the concert to be such a success,
 That his Iowan town will henceforth be in the foreground
 Of Iowan towns, as far as music is concerned.
 So he has wired in for this tale about the singer,
 A story about his wife and baby, and what the baby eats per diem.
 And though the call is to the street below,
 Where jubilant masses proclaim the holiday,
 I must finish the story about the tenor's wife and baby
 To put the Iowan town in the foreground, as far as music is concerned.

THE DISTRIBUTION OF CREDIT

The Irish prize play had come back to Broadway.
 Where to put the credit? On the astute manager
 Who saw in it
 A year of Broadway, two of stock, eternity in the movies;
 Or the League of Public Spirited Women
 Banded together to uplift the Drama—
 That was the question stirring dramatic circles and the public.
 It had failed in its first run of three weeks at an uptown theatre
 Miserably,
 Despite glowing reviews in all the dailies.
 But this come-back
 At a Broadway theatre, with electric lights, and transient crowds
 That would save it—
 Was the universal verdict.
 During the first week there was a tremendous fight
 Between the two factions for the
 Distribution of credit, and some critics said
 The League of Public Spirited Women was responsible
 For bringing the play back, because they had bulletined it,
 And others said it was the astute manager.
 But no audience came to the play after the second week.
 And it went to the storehouse.
 No one fought any longer for
 The distribution of credit.

TEARS

Beads of perspiration on a hot summer's afternoon,
 A hurry call from the Ritz,
 Thoughts of plastering the city in half an hour,
 With twenty-four sheets and large heralds,
 And a page or two in all the dailies....
 She sat in a sumptuous suite at the Ritz,
 Discussing with her husband,
 Who had just returned from the beagles in South Carolina
 Her new pet charity;
 And she had called me in at this very moment,
 Because she had struck a snag.
 This was her charity:
 She related with tears in her eyes,
 What was she to do about it?
 She received no response from the American public.
 The poor assistant stagehands of the Paris theatres
 They were out of work—destitute—
 The theatres closed—and all the actors at the front.
 But what could be done for them, the poor Paris stagehands?
 That was her query.
 And tears welled up in her eyes, as she spoke
 While her husband chased the Angora from under the sofa—
 I sat and discussed the question.
 And tears came to my eyes,
 But my tears were wept for another reason.

PHOTOGRAPHS

I had ordered the photographs of the prima donna.
 They are lovely and beautiful to behold and they are printed before me in magazine.
 Her madonna like face sheds radiance on the prospective box-office patron;
 He is dazzled by her sun-like head of hair;
 He loses his heart and his pocket-book when he glances on them.
 I felt happy that I changed photographers.
 I felt that my discovery of a new artisan of the sensitized plate
 Would bring glory and money to many.
 I sit by the rolltop desk and pull out again the objects of my praises.
 The telephone bell rings and awakens me from my reveries,—
 It is the voice of the beautiful prima donna herself;
 But the melodious notes the critics have praised are changed.
 There is a raucous, strident tone in the voice;
 It sounds like the rasping bark of the harpies.
 "How dare you use those terrible photographs?
 "What do you mean by insulting my beauty?"
 There is a slam down of the telephone receiver,—
 I turn to my work of writing an advertisement about the prima donna's voice.

SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN

THE THEATRE SCRUBWOMAN DREAMS A DREAM

When morning mingles with the gloom
 On empty stage and twilit aisle,
 She comes with rag and pan and broom
 To work—and dream awhile.
Illusion's laughter, fancy's tears,
 The mimic loves of yesternight,
 On empty stages of the years
 Awake in the dim light.
She cannot sweep the phantoms out—
 How sweet the sobbing violin!—
 She cannot put the ghosts to rout—
 How pale the heroine!
Oh! valiant hero, sorely tried!—
 'Tis only dust that fills her eyes—
 But he shall have his lovely bride
 And she her paradise!
And she—the broom falls from her hands,
 And is it dust that fills her eyes?—
 Shall go with him to golden lands
 And find her paradise!—
The morning wrestles with the gloom
 On silent stage and chilly aisle,
 She takes her rag and pan and broom
 To work—and dream awhile!

THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MUSICAL COMEDY STAR

The lady cannot sing a note,
 There is a languor in her throat
 Beyond all healing,
 She does not act at all, it seems,
 Except in early morning dreams—
 She lacks the feeling.
Her feet are pretty, but methinks,
 The weighty and phlegmatic Sphinx
 Could trip as lightly—
 And yet she is a regular,
 Serene and well established star
 Who twinkles nightly.
And Solomon for all his stir,
 Had not a single jewel on her,
 Nor did his capers
 Procure him even half the space
 For publication of his face
 In ancient papers.
Her gowns, her furs, her limousines
 Would catch the eye of stately queens
 In any city—
 She cannot sing, or dance or act,
 But then I have remarked the fact—
 Her feet are pretty.

THE STAR IS WAITING TO SEE THE MANAGER

A moment since, the office boy,
 Invisible as Night itself,
 Reposed on some dim-curtained shelf
 And tasted peace, without alloy.
Secure from all the day's alarms,
 Of boss and bell the very jinx,
 He gazed immobile as the Sphinx
 On pompous front and painted charms.
Now out of interstellar space,
 Beyond the sunlight and the storm,
 Appears that lightning-laden form,
 That toothful smile, that cryptic face.
Whence came he, who that breathes can tell?—
 He was so hid from mortal eyes,
 Perhaps he fell from paradise,
 Perhaps they chased him out of hell.
But now his heels show everywhere,
 A dozen doors are opened wide,
 He stands before, behind, beside,
 He fills the ether and the air.
Far quicker than a wink or beck,
 Far sleeker than a juvenile,
 He barely tops the giant smile
 That wreathes his forehead and his neck.
Oh! sudden gold evolved from dross!
 Who wrought the shining miracle?
 What magic cast the dazzling spell?—
 The star is here to see the boss!

THE JESTER

All the fool's gold of the world,
 All your dusty pageantries,
 All your reeking praise of Self,
 All your wise men's sophistries,
 All that springs of golden birth,
 Is not half the jester's worth!
Who's the jester? He is one,
 Who behind the scenes hath been,
 Caught Life with his make-up off,
 Found him but a harlequin
 Cast to play a tragic part—
 And the two laughed, heart to heart!

IN A CAFÈ

Her face was the face of Age, with a pitiful smudge of Youth,
 Carmine and heavy and lined, like a jester's mask on Truth;
 And she laughed from the red lips outward, the laugh of the brave who die,
 But a ghost in her laughter murmured, "I lie—I lie!"
She pressed the glass to her lips as one presses the lips of love,
 And I said: "Are you always merry, and what is the art thereof?"
 And she laughed from the red lips outward the laugh of the brave who die,
 But a ghost in her laughter murmured, "I lie—I lie!"

TO A CABARET SINGER

Painted little singer of a painted song,
 Painted little butterfly of a painted day,
 The false blooms in your tresses, the spangles on your dresses,
 The cold of your caresses,
 I'll tell you what they say—
 "The glass is at my lips, but the wine is far away,
 The music's in my throat, but my soul no song confesses,
 The laughter's on my tongue, but my heart is clay."
Scarlet little dreamer of a frozen dream,
 Whirling bit of tinsel on the troubled spray,
 'Tis not your hair's dead roses (your sunless, scentless roses)
 'Tis not your sham sad poses
 That tell your hollow day—
 The glass is at my lips, but the wine is far away,
 The music's in my throat, but my soul no song discloses,
 The laughter's on my tongue, but my heart is clay.

IN THE THEATRE

Weep not, fair lady, for the false,
 The fickle love's rememberance,
 What though another claim the waltz—
 The curtain soon will close the dance.
Grieve not, pale lover, for the sweet,
 Wild moment of thy vanished bliss;
 The longest scene as Time is fleet—
 The curtain soon will close the kiss.
And thou, too vain, too flattered mime,
 Drink deep the pleasures of thy day,
 No ruin is too mean for Time—
 The curtain soon will close the play.

WALTER J. KINGSLEY

LO, THE PRESS AGENT

By many names men call me—
 Press agent, publicity promoter, faker;
 Ofttimes the short and simple liar.
 Charles A. Dana told me
 I was a buccaneer
 On the high seas of journalism.
 Many a newspaper business manager
 Has charged me
 With selling his space
 Over his head.
 Every one loves me
 When I get his name into print—
 For this is an age of publicity
 And he who bloweth not his own horn
 The same shall not be blown.
 I have sired, nursed and reared
 Many reputations.
 Few men or women have I found
 Scornful of praise or blame
 In the press.
 The folk of the stage
 Live on publicity,
 Yet to the world they pretend to dislike it,
 Though wildly to me they plead for it, cry for it,
 Ofttimes do that for it
 Which must make the God Notoriety
 Grin at the weakness of mortals.
 I hold a terrible power
 And sometimes my own moderation
 Amazes me,
 For I can abase as well as elevate,
 Tear down as well as build up.
 I know all the ways of fair speaking
 And can lead my favorites
 To fame and golden rewards.
 There are a thousand channels
 Through which press agency can exploit
 Its star or its movement
 Never obvious but like the submarine
 Submersible beneath the sea
 Of publicity.
 But I know, too, of the ways
 That undo in Manhattan.
 There are bacilli of rumor
 That slip through the finest of filters
 And defy the remedial serums
 Of angry denial.
 Pin a laugh to your tale
 When stalking your enemy
 And not your exile nor your death
 Will stay the guffaws of merriment
 As the story flies
 Through the Wicked Forties
 And on to the "Road."
 Laughter gives the rumor strong wings.
 Truly the press agent,
 Who knows his psychology,
 Likewise his New York
 In all of its ramifications,
 And has a nimble wit,
 Can play fast and loose
 With the lives of many.
 Nevertheless he has no great reward,
 And most in the theatre
 Draw fatter returns than he.
 Yet is he called upon to make the show,
 To save the show,
 But never is he given credit
 Comparable to that which falls
 Upon the slightest jester or singer or dancer
 Who mugs, mimes, or hoofs in a hit.
 Yet is the press agent happy;
 He loves his work;
 It has excitement and intrigue;
 And to further the cause of beautiful women,
 To discover the wonderful girls of the theatre,
 And lead them in progress triumphal
 Till their names outface the jealous night,
 On Broadway, in incandescents,
 Is in itself a privilege.
 That compensates
 For the wisdom of the cub reporter,
 The amusement of the seasoned editor,
 Shredding the cherished story
 And uprooting the flourishing "plant";
 Makes one forgive
 The ingratitude of artists arrived.
 They who do not love me
 I hope to have fear me;
 There is only one hell,
 And that is to be disregarded.

FIRST NIGHTS

August heat cannot weaken nor flivvers stale
 Our first-night expectance when the new season opens.
 Come on, boys and girls, the gang's all here;
 The Death Watch is ready in orchestra chairs
 Still shrouded in summer's cool slip pajamas,
 And the undertakers of stage reputations
 Are gathered to chatter about author and players,
 And give them and their work disrespectful interment
 By gleefully agreeing in that sage Broadway saying:
 "Oh, what an awful oil can that piece turned out to be!"
 It's hard when the Chanters of Death-House Blues
 Have to turn to each other and reluctantly murmur:
 "I'm afraid it's a hit—the poor fish is lucky."
 First-nighters are the theatre's forty-niners,
 Making the early rush to new dramatic gold fields,
 And usually finding them barren.
 Often must it madden the playwright to offer his ideals
 To an audience whose personnel would for the most part
 Regard an ideal as a symptom of sickness;
 To show sweetness and beauty and color
 To those whose knowledge of tints is confined
 To the rouge and the lip stick on dressers;
 To pioneer in playwrighting, to delve deep into mind,
 When all that the first-nighters ask is plain entertainment.
 How much of the great, wholesome public, hard-working and normal,
 To whom the final appeal must be made
 Frequents our first nights on Broadway?
 Costumers, friends of the author, and critics,
 Scene painters, all of the tradesmen concerned,
 Kinsfolk of mummers even to the third generation,
 Wine agents, hot-house ladies, unemployed players,
 Hearty laughers or ready weepers "planted."
 Most of them there prepare for a funeral;
 Their diversion is nodding to friends and acquaintances,
 And he or she who nods the most times
 Is thereby the greatest first-nighter.
 Some managers open to hand-picked audiences,
 Others strive to escape the regulars;
 But the majority seek for the standardized premier faces
 That really mean so little in the life of the play.
 Listen to the comments during intermission:
 "It doesn't get over!" "It's a flop!"
 "What atmosphere!" "An absolute steal!"
 "Such originality!" "Not a bit life-like!"
 "That author has a wonderful memory!"
 "He copped that lyric from Irving Berlin!"
 "He's as funny as a crutch or a cry for help!"
 "They grabbed that number in London!"
 "She's one of his tigers!"
 "From a Lucile model, my dear, but home-made!"
 "I can't hand him anything on this one!"
 "Some heavy-sugar papa backed the production!"
 "Isn't my boy wonderful!"
 "Yes, but my girl is running away with the piece!"
 "If you like this, you're not well!"
 "What could be sweeter!"
 "What large feet she has!" "His Adam's apple annoys me!"
 "She must get her clothes on Avenue A!"
 "They say she was born there!"
 "What an awful sunburn!"
 "Best thing in years!" "The storehouse for this one!"
 "Did you catch her going up in her lines?"
 "Yes, and he's fluffing all over the place!"
 "Splendidly produced, don't you think?"
 "I think the stage direction is rotten!"
 So I suggest the old Roman fashion of presenting,
 The artists, like gladiators crying:
 "We, who are about to die, salute you!"

THE DRAMATIST

I've put one over at last!
 My play with the surprise finish is a bear.
 Al Woods wants to read all of my scripts;
 Georgie Cohan speaks to me as an equal
 And the office boy swings the gate without being asked.
 I don't care if the manager's name is as large as the play's
 Or if the critics are featured all over the ash cans.
 I'm going to get mine and I'm going to live.
 A Rolls-Royce for me and trips "up the road,"
 Long Beach and pretty girls, big eats at the Ritz
 And the ice pitcher for the fellows who snubbed me.
 How the other reporters laughed
 When I showed my first script and started to peddle!
 "Stick to the steady job," they advised.
 "Play writing is too big a gamble;
 It will never keep your nose in the feed bag."
 I wrote a trunkful of junk; did a play succeed,
 I immediately copied the fashion;
 Like a pilfering tailor I stole the new models.
 Kind David Belasco, with his face in the gloom,
 And mine brightly lighted, said ministerially:
 "Rather crude yet, my boy, but the way to write a play
 Is to write plays from sunrise to sunset
 And rewrite them long after midnight.
 Try, try, try, my boy, and God bless you."
 Broke and disgusted, I became a play reader
 And the "yessir man" to a manager.
 I was a play doctor, too.
 A few of my patients lived
 And I learned about drama from them.
 How we gutted the scripts!
 Grabbing a wonderful line, a peach of a scene,
 A gem of a finish
 Out of the rubbish that struggling poor devils
 Borrowed money to typewrite and mail to us.
 It's like opening oysters looking for pearls,
 But pearls are to be found and out of the shell heaps
 Come jewels that, polished and set by a clever artificer,
 Are a season's theatrical wonder.
 Finally came my own big idea.
 I wrote and rewrote and cast and recast,
 Convinced the manager, got a production.
 Here am I young and successful,
 And Walter and Thomas and Selwyn have nothing on me.
 Press agents are hired to praise me.
 Watch for my next big sensation,
 But meanwhile I hope that that play-writing plumber,
 Who had an idea and nothing else,
 Never sees this one.

TYPES

They've got me down for a hick, bo,
 Sam Harris says I'm the best boob in the biz,
 And that no manager will cast me for anything else.
 Curses on my hit in "'Way Down East"
 That handcuffs me forever to yokels,
 And me a better character actor than Corse Payton!
 That's how it is they're stuck on types,
 And the wise guy who plays anything
 Isn't given a look-in.
 Listen to me, young feller, and don't ever
 Let 'em tab you for keeps as a type.
 It's curtains for a career as sure as you're born.
 Why, there's actors sentenced to comedy dog parts,
 To Chinks, to Wops, to Frenchmen and fluffs.
 There ain't no release for them.
 The producers and managers can see only one angle,
 And you may be a Mansfield or Sothern.
 It's outrageous that's what it is, that make-up
 And character acting should be thrown in the discard.
 You can sit in an agent's office for months
 Before a part comes along that you fit without fixin'.
 This natural stuff puts the kibosh on art
 And a stock training ain't what it used to be.
 Say, if ever I rise to be hind legs of a camel
 Or a bloodhound chasing Eliza, I'll kick or I'll bite
 The type-choosing manager.

GEORGE M. COHAN

Blessed be Providence
 That gave us our Cohan;
 Irreverent,
 Resourceful, prolific, steady-advancing
 George M.
 Nothing in life
 Better becomes him
 Than his earliest choice
 Of Jerry and Helen
 For father and mother;
 Bred in the wings and the dressing room,
 The theatre alley his playground,
 Hotels his home and his schoolhouse,
 Blessed with a wonderful sister,
 And in love with a violin.
 From baby days used to the footlights,
 With infrequent teachers of book lore
 In the cities of lengthy engagements
 Showing him pages of learning
 That he turned from to life's open volume,
 Acquiring indelible lessons,
 Loyalty, candor, clear seeing,
 Sincerity, plain speaking, love of his own,
 Passion for all things American.
 From Jerry, his father,
 Came Celtic humor, delight in the dance,
 And devotion to things of the theatre;
 From Helen, his mother,
 Depth, Celtic devotion to things of the spirit,
 Fineness of soul.
 Early he turned from his fiddle
 To write popular songs
 And tunes so whistly and catchy
 That the music of a child
 Enraptured the nation.
 Then followed comedy sketches,
 Gay little pieces that made public
 And player-folk chatter of Cohan.
 Later, essaying the musical comedy,
 He wrote "Running for Office,"
 To be followed by that impudent
 Classic of fresh young America,
 "Little Johnnie Jones."
 One followed another in rapid succession;
 His name grew a cherished possession,
 And ever his dancing delighted.
 His manner of singing and speaking
 Provoked to endless imitation.
 His personality became better known
 Then the President's.
 Always he soared in ambition
 And, becoming a lord of the theatre,
 He ventured on serious drama,
 And out of his wisdom and watching
 Wrote masterful plays,
 Envisaging the types of our natives.
 Truly a genius,
 Genius in friendship, genius in stagecraft,
 Genius in life!
 Even in choosing a partner
 He fattened his average,
 Batting four hundred
 By taking a kindred irreverent soul,
 Graduated out of the whirlpool
 That wrecks all but the strongest,
 Born on the eastern edge
 Of Manhattan,
 Sam H. Harris, man of business,
 Who to the skill of the trader
 Adds the joy in life
 And the sense of humor,
 Coupled with pleasure in giving
 And helping
 That Cohan demands of his pals.
 Together they plan wonderful projects,
 And the artist soul
 And the soul of commerce
 Are an unbeatable union.
 Best of all about Cohan
 Is his congenital manliness.
 He sees Americans
 As our soil and our air and our water
 Have made them;
 Types as distinct as the Indian.
 He follows no school,
 Knows little of movements artistic.
 A lonely creator,
 His friends are not writing men,
 Reformers, uplifters or zealots.
 He writes the life he has lived
 So fully and zestfully,
 And over it all plays like sheet lightning
 A beneficent humor.
 Growth is his hall-mark,
 Hard work his chief recreation;
 Not Balzac could toil with labor titanic
 More terribly.
 George M. Cohan,
 Excelling in everything—
 Beloved son, brother, father, partner, friend,
 Our best-beloved man of the theatre.

DAVID BELASCO

King David of old slew the Philistines;
 Our David has made them admirers and patrons;
 He has numbered the people
 Night after night in his theatres.
 Will he ever, I wonder, send forth for the Shunammite?
 Many there be who would answer his calling,
 For he has shown ambitious fair women
 To acting's high places.
 As Rodin in marble saw wondrous creations
 To be freed by the chisel,
 So Belasco in immature genius and beauty
 Sees the resplendent star to be kindled
 At his own steady beacon.
 Too varied a mind for our comprehension,
 Too big and too broad and too subtle
 To be understood of the bourgeois American
 Whom he has led decade after decade
 By a nose ring artistic.
 Capable of everything, he has worked
 With the ease of a master, giving the public
 Marvelous detail, unfailing sensation and poses pictorial;
 Preferring the certain success to arduous striving
 For the more excellent things of the future.
 Like David his forebear, a king but no prophet,
 Amazingly wise in his own generation.
 A wizard in art of the everyday,
 Lord of the spotlight and dimmer,
 But nursing the unconquerable hope, the inviolable shade
 Of what in his dreams Oriental
 He fain would do, did not necessity drive him.
 His the fascination of a great personality.
 Who knoweth not him of the clerical collar?
 Hair of the sage and eyes of the poet,
 Features perfectly drawn and as mobile
 As those of the inspired actor;
 With speech so much blander than honey
 And insight that maketh his staged stumbling in bargains
 Cover the shrewdness of a masterly trader.
 None better than he knoweth the crowd and its likings,
 As to using the patter of drama artistic,
 That's where he lives.
 With incense and color and scenery
 He refilleth the bottle of art so that the contents
 Go twice better than in the original package.
 Thanks be to David for joy in the playhouse.
 Wizard, magician, necromancer of switchboards,
 He hath woven spells from the actual,
 Keeping ideals and ideas well in the background.
 Like Gautier, these things delight him:
 Gold, marble and purple; brilliance, solidity, color.
 He can stage Tiffany's jewels but not Maeterlinck's bees.
 Deep in his soul there are tempests
 Revealed in the storms of his dramas—
 Sandstorm and snowstorm, rainstorm and hurricane.
 That nature revealed in its subtle reactions
 Would show in its deeps the soul of an Angelo
 Subdued to success and dyed by democracy.
 Opportunism hath made him
 An artistic materialist.
 One work remains for David Belasco,
 And that is to stage with patient precision
 A cross section in drama of his own self-surprising,
 Making the world sit up and take notice
 With what "masterly detail," "unfailing atmosphere,"
 "Startling reality" he can star David Belasco.

LO, THE HEADLINER

I was not raised for vaudeville.
 Father and mother were veteran legits;
 They loved the Bard and the "Lady of Lyons."
 I was born on a show boat on the Cumberland;
 I was carried on as a child
 When the farm girl revealed her shame
 On the night of the snowstorm.
 The old folks died with grease paint on their faces.
 I did a little of everything
 Even to staking out a pitch in a street fair.
 Hiram Grafter taught me to ballyhoo
 And to make openings.
 I stole the business of Billy Sunday
 And imitated William Jennings Bryan.
 I became famous in the small towns.
 One day Poli heard me—
 He's the head of the New England variety circuit.—
 "Cul," he said, "you are a born monologist.
 Where you got that stuff I don't know,
 But you would be a riot in the two-a-day.
 Quit this hanky-panky
 And I'll make you a headliner."
 Well, I fell for his line of talk
 Like the sod busters had fallen for mine.
 Aaron Hoffman wrote me a topical monologue;
 Max Marx made me a suit of clothes;
 And Lew Dockstader wised me up
 On how to jockey my laughs.
 I opened in Hartford;
 Believe me, I was some scream.
 I gave them gravy, and hokum,
 And when they ate it up I came through
 With the old jasbo,
 Than which there is nothing so efficacious
 In vaudeville, polite or otherwise.
 The first thing I did I hollered for more dough,
 And Poli says:
 "That's what I get for feeding you meat,
 But you are a riot all right, all right,
 So I guess you are on for more kale."
 I kept getting better.
 I got so's I could follow any act at all
 And get my laughs.
 And he who getteth his laughs
 Is greater than he who taketh a city.
 At last the Palace Theatre sent for me
 And I signed up for a week.
 They kept me two.
 I am a headliner;
 I stand at the corner of Forty-seventh Street
 And Little Old Broadway;
 Throw out my chest,
 Call the agents and vaudeville magnates
 By their first names.
 I am a HEADLINER with a home in Freeport.

MURDOCK PEMBERTON

THE SCREEN

From midnight till the following noon
 I stand in shadow,
 Just a splotch of white,
 Unnoted by the cleaning crew
 Who've spent their hours of toil
 That I might live again.
 Yet they hold no reverence for my charms,
 And if they pause amid their work
 They do not glance at me;
 All their admiration, all their awe,
 Is for the gold and scarlet trappings of the home
 That's built to house my wonders;
 Or for the gorgeous murals all around,
 Which really, after all,
 Were put in place as most lame substitutes,
 Striving to soothe the patron's ire
 For those few moments when my face is dark.
 Yes, men have built a palace sheltering me,
 And as the endless ocean washes on its stretch of beach
 The tides of people flow to me.
All things I am to everyone;
 The newsboys, shopgirls,
 And all starved souls
 Who've clutched at life and missed,
 See in my magic face,
 The lowly rise to fame and palaces,
 See virtue triumph every time
 And rich and wicked justly flayed.
 Old men are tearful
 When I show them what they might have been.
 And others, not so old,
 Bask in the sunshine of my fairy tales.
 The lovers see new ways to woo;
 And wives see ways to use old brooms.
 Some nights I see the jeweled opera crowd
 Who seem aloof but inwardly are fond of me
 Because I've caught the gracious beauty of their pets.
 Then some there are who watch my changing face
 To catch new history's shadow
 As it falls from day to day.
 And at the noiseless tramp of soldier feet,
 In time to music of the warring tribes,
 The shadow men across my face
 Seem living with the hope or dread
 Of those who watch them off to wars.
In sordid substance I am but a sheet,
 A fabric of some fireproof stuff.
 And yet, in every port where ships can ride,
 In every nook where there is breath of life,
 Intrepid men face death
 To catch for me the fleeting phases of the world
 Lest I lose some charming facet of my face.
 And all the masters of all time
 Have thrummed their harps
 And bowed their violins
 To fashion melodies that might be played
 The while I tell my tales.
 O you who hold the mirror up to nature,
 Behold my cosmic scope:
 I am the mirror of the whirling globe.

BROADWAY—NIGHT

I saw the rich in motor cars
 Held in long lines
 Until cross-streams of cars flowed by;
 I saw young boys in service clothes
 And flags flung out from tradesmen's doors;
 I saw some thousand drifting men
 Some thousand aimless women;
 I saw some thousand wearied eyes
 That caught no sparkle from the myriad lights
 Which blazoned everywhere;
 I saw a man stop in his walk
 To pet an old black cat.

MATINEE

They pass the window
 Where I sit at work,
 In silks and furs
 And boots and hats
 All of the latest mode.
 They chatter as they pass
 Of various things
 But hardly hear the words they speak
 So tense are they
 Upon a life they know begins for them
 At 2:15.
Within the theatre
 The air is pungent with the mixed perfumes,
 More scents than ever blew from Araby.
 And there's a rapid hum
 Of some six hundred secrets;
 Then sudden hush
 As tongues and violins cease.
The play is on.
There is a hastening of the beat
 Of some six hundred hearts.
 There're twitches soon about the lips,
 And later copious tears
 From waiting eyes;
 But all this time
 There are six hundred separate souls
 The playwright's puppet has to woo,
 To win, to humor, or to cajole,
 Until, with master stroke
 Of Devil knowledge,
 Or old Adam's,
 He crushes in his manful arms
 The languid heroine
 And forcing back her golden head
 Implants the kiss.
And then against his heaving breast
 The hero feels the beatings of six hundred hearts
 In mighty unison,
 And on his lips there is the pulse
 Of that one lingering kiss
 Returned six-hundred fold.

PAVLOWA

I was working on The Daily News
 When I first heard of her,
 And from that time
 Until the day she came to town
 I longed to see her dance.
 The night the dancer and her ballet came
 The Desk assigned me to my nightly run
 Of hotels, clubs, and undertakers' shops;
 I was so green
 I had not learned
 The art of using telephones
 To make it seem
 That I was hot upon the trail of news
 While loafing otherwhere.
 How could I do my trick
 And also see her dance?
 So I left bread and butter flat,
 To feast my eyes, which had been prairie-fed,
 Upon this vision from another world.
I'd seen the wind
 Go rippling over seas of wheat;
 I'd stood at night within a wood
 And felt the pulse of growing things
 Upon the April air;
 I'd seen the hawks arise and soar;
 And dragon-flies
 At sunrise over misty pools—
 But all these things had never known a name
 Until I saw Pavlowa dance.
Next day the editor explained
 That although art was—art,
 He'd found a boy to take my place.
 The days that followed
 When I walked the town
 Seeking for some sort of work,
 The haze of Indian Summer
 Blended with the dream
 Of that one night's magic.
 And though I needed work to keep alive
 My thoughts would go no further
 Than Pavlowa as the maid Giselle ...
 Then cold days came,
 And found the dream a fabric much too thin;
 And finally a job,
 And I was back to stomach fare.
But through the years
 I've nursed the sacrifice,
 Counting it a tribute
 Unlike all the things
 That Kings and Queens have laid before her feet;
 And wishing somehow she might know
 About the price
 The cub reporter paid
 To see Pavlowa dance.
And then by trick of time,
 We came together at the Hippodrome;
 And every day I saw her dance.
 One morning in the darkened wings
 I saw a big-eyed woman in a filmy thing
 Go through the exercises
 Athletes use when training for a team;
 And from a stage-hand learned
 That this Pavlowa, incomparable one,
 Out of every day spent hours
 On elementary practice steps.
 And now somehow
 I can not find the heart
 To tell Pavlowa of the price I paid
 To see her dance.

THE OLD CHORUS MAN

He's played with Booth,
 He's shared applause with Jefferson,
 He's run the gamut of the soul
 Imparting substance to the shadow men
 Masters have fashioned with their quills
 And set upon the boards.
 Great men-of-iron were his favored rôles,
 (Once he essayed Napoleon).
 And now, unknowing, he plays his greatest tragedy:
 Dressed in a garb to look like service clothes,
 Cheeks lit by fire—of make-up box,
 He marches with a squad of sallow youths
 And bare-kneed girls,
 Keeping step to tattoo of the drums
 Beat by some shapely maids in tights,
 While close by in the silent streets
 There march long files of purposed men
 Who go to death, perhaps,
 For the same cause he travesties
 Within the playhouse walls.

BLUCH LANDOLF'S TALE

When I was old enough to walk
 I rode a circus horse;
 My first teeth held me swinging from a high trapeze.
 About the age young men go out to colleges
 I trudged the sanded vasts of Northern Africa,
 Top-mounter in a nomad Arab tumbling troupe.
 I was Christian, that is white and Infidel,
 So old Abdullah took me in his tent
 And stripping off my white man's clothes
 Painted me with dye made from the chestnut hulls,
 Laughing the while about the potency of juice
 That would prove armour 'gainst some zealot's scimitar.
 Four camels made our caravan
 And these we also used for "props."
 When we played a Morocco town
 The chieftain met us at the hamlet's edge
 Asked of Abdullah what his mission there,
 Then let us enter
 He leading our caravan to the chieftain's hut,
 Where we sat upon the sand
 The thirty odd of us
 Surrounded by as many lesser chiefs.
 The hookah solemnly was passed around
 And then the hamlet chief would speak;
 "Stranger, why have you forsaken home
 And drawn believers after you,
 You bear no spices, oil, or woven cloth,
 No jewels nor any merchantry?"
And then Abdullah:
 "True, Allah's precious son,
 We trade in naught men feed their bellies on
 But we have wares to thrill brave men,
 To make your youth see what use bodies are,
 To make your women blush
 That they have no such men."
"What are these magic wares?"
"Why we have here an Arab youth
 Who seems possessed of wings,
 Jumping three camels in a row."
"So! In this very village there's a lad
 Who jumps four camels
 With half the wind it takes you, telling of your boy."
Scoff followed boast and back again
 Until the chief arose,
 Saying to the lesser chiefs
 That they should call the local tribe
 To meet beside the caravanserai
 Before another sun went down
 To see if these vain wandering men
 Could do one half the deeds they boasted.
So we met at sundown,
 Our brown men stripped
 Except for linen clouts.
 We tumbled, jumped, made human pyramids,
 And whirled as only Dervish whirl.
Then as a climax the village boy essayed
 To span the four trained camels
 Who at Abdullah's soft-spoke word
 Moved just enough apart to make the boy fall short.
 And then our sinewed lad would make the leap,
 The camels crowding close together
 At another soft command.
 Our lad making good his jump,
 The populace would grant our greater skill;
 A goatskin filled with wine,
 And honey mixed with melted butter
 Was offered us within the caravanserai.
 Then we moved out beyond the town
 And pitched our tents of camels' hair,
 Rising before the sun to face the friendless desert wastes
 Until we reached another habitation on the camel trail,
 I (who played the dumb boy of the tribe
 Lest my Christian tongue betray me)
 Trudging behind with all the salary—
 Chasing the desert after two new sheep,
 Our net receipts for that Moroccan one-night stand.
Now twice each day within the Hippodrome
 I, a buffoon in absurd clothes,
 Strive to make the thousands laugh;
 And when my act is done
 There comes the tread of camels' feet,
 Followed by Slayman Ali and his Arab troupe,
 Who tumble, jump and build pyramids
 Before a canvas Sphinx upon a painted desert....
 When I saw Slayman last
 He was a boy
 Chasing the sheep with me
 Beneath Morocco's moon.
 Tell me, where dwells romance, anyway?
 In Manhattan, or Arabian, nights?

PRE-EMINENCE

I once knew a man
 Who'd met Duse,
 (Or so he said)
 And talked with her;
 As she came down a windy street
 He turned a corner
 Headlong into her.
 "I am so sorry," Duse said,
 "I was looking at the stars."
My envy of that man
 Withstood the years
 Until one day I met a Dane
 Who'd talked with Henrik Ibsen:
 This man, with head bowed to the wind,
 Was walking up a Stockholm way
 When 'round the corner came the seer,
 And he plumped into him.
 And that great mind
 Whose thinking moved the world
 Surveyed my friend
 Through his big eyes
 And slowly spoke:
 "Since when have codfish come to land?"
With all the awe
 One has for those who've known the great,
 These two I've envied
 Until the other day
 When blundering 'round behind the scenes
 I stepped upon Pavlowa's toe.
 





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Broadway Anthology
by Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROADWAY ANTHOLOGY ***

***** This file should be named 15120-h.htm or 15120-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/1/2/15120/

Produced by Ted Garvin, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net.


Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
https://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
https://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at https://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org


Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit https://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including including checks, online payments and credit card
donations.  To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.


Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.


Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     https://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.