A WILLIAMS ANTHOLOGY A Collection of the Verse and Prose of Williams College 1798-1910 COMPILED BY EDWIN PARTRIDGE LEHMANJULIAN PARK EDITORS OF THE LITERARY MONTHLY1910 INTRODUCTION The present work owes its existence to a conviction on the part of itseditors that much material published by past Williams undergraduatesin past and present literary periodicals of the college, deserves aresurrection from the threatening oblivion of musty library shelves. That this conviction has been justified by the quality of the verseand prose herein published, the editors believe; and they thereforesubmit this volume to the public without undue fear as to itsreception, adding only the caution that its readers remember alwaysthe tender age of the writers of these pages. The purpose of the editors was to collect material which might beadjudged to possess real literary merit; but in some cases in whichthe historical interest attaching to the production, either by reasonof its subject or by reason of the fame attained in later years by itsauthor, is obvious, this rule has been waived. Among such exceptionsmay be cited that of the Resolutions addressed to President Adams bythe students, and copied herein from the pages of the _Vidette_. Thematter has been arranged in the order of class seniority, with twoexceptions. It has seemed fitting to the editors to begin the workwith that immortal song, "The Mountains"; the second exception is thatof the series of biographical sketches entitled "Nine WilliamsAlumni, " which for obvious reasons were published as a whole. The editors burrowed through all files of the college publicationswhich the college library contains, files which are reasonablycomplete. In such a mass of material, some ninety volumes, it will beastounding indeed if some creditable work has not been passedinadvertently over. If such a mistake has occurred it is at leastpardonable. The editors fear only the presence of some unworthy matterin this volume, a sin of commission and hence vastly more heinous. In going over the works of their academic ancestors the editors havebeen struck by several very interesting facts. The literary quality ofthe poetry, as all will recognize, has made a steady advance, untilthe last six years of the _Lit_. Have seen the magazine second tonone, for verse at least, in the intercollegiate press. Dutton, Westermann, Gibson, Holley, all of the same collegiate generation--theyare names which are widely known and which have brought the collegerenown of a nature which, ordinarily, she is apt to obtain rather byathletic than by intellectual means. It is striking, too, to noticehow the college poetry has changed during the seventy years of itsexistence, as the present compilers have known it. There are specimensof the "poetry" of the early days included herein, which find a place, as is intimated elsewhere, not so much for their intrinsic merit asfor the interest attaching to them in other directions; and as for theprose of the _Quarterly_ and the _Vidette_, it was, indeed, like theessays of the college press to-day, carefully written and with adegree of that indescribable something called "style"; but sophilosophical, heavy, and devoid of any human interest that we cannotimagine the average student going through the magazine at a sitting as(despite all reports to the contrary) is done with the college papersto-day. An interesting light on the alteration in undergraduate problems thathas gradually come about is furnished by a reading of Mr. Mabie'sessay included herein. At the time of its production Mr. Mabie saw theneed of a greater degree of organization among the students, in orderthat the college might thereby become more of a community. Howdirectly opposed the present-day cry is! Student organization hasto-day so spread and so wound itself about the very life of thecollege, that it threatens to hide the intellectual aims for which thecollege exists. The editors venture to express the opinion that, hadMr. Mabie written when they are writing, his essay would perhaps havehad a different tone. The college has indeed much to be proud of in its literature andjournalism--for it has been enriched with names like Bryant, Prime, Franklin Carter, Mabie, Stoddard, Scudder, Alden, Gladden, G. L. Raymond, L. W. Spring, G. Stanley Hall, H. L. Nelson, G. E. MacLean, Cuthbert Hall, Isaac Henderson, Bliss Perry, F. J. Mather, Rollo Ogden:many of them are represented here; and we are glad for the collegethat their fame had its beginnings, even if often modest, in ourstudent publications. For the purpose of embodying the literary history of the college ascompletely as possible in one volume, the compilers have added anappendix containing the names of the editors of the _Literary Monthly_for the twenty-six years of its existence. For the same purpose, theyquote below a chronological sketch of the various publications, whichappeared in the _Gulielmensian_ of the class of 1908. The presenteditors cannot vouch for all the facts there set forth. "So far as is known, the earliest periodical published by Williamsundergraduates was _The Adelphi_, a bi-weekly, of which the firstissue appeared August 18, 1831, and the last June 21, 1832. Aftertwelve years _The Williams Monthly Miscellany_ was started in July, 1844, and continued until September, 1845. After another lapse ofseveral years, _The Williams Quarterly Magazine_ was founded in July, 1853, and continued publication until June, 1872. Meantime, April 13, 1867, _The Williams Vidette_ had been started, and in 1872, the older_Quarterly_ was merged into it. The _Vidette_ was publishedfortnightly until June, 1874, when it, together with _The WilliamsReview_, a tri-weekly, started in June, 1870, was united to form thefortnightly _Williams Athenoeum_, the first issue of which appearedOctober 10, 1874. In May, 1881, another fortnightly, _The Argo_, wasstarted, which, with _The Athenoeum_, appeared in alternate weeksuntil April, 1885, when the two gave place simultaneously to _TheWilliams Literary Monthly_ and _The Fortnight_. Two years later, April, 1887, _The Fortnight_ was reorganized into _The WilliamsWeekly_. In 1904 _The Williams Weekly_ became _The Williams Record_. "Volume I of the _Gulielmensian_ appeared in the early spring of1857. " To these must be added two more, whose existences have begun since theabove was published. A humorous monthly, _The Purple Cow_, first sawthe light in the fall of 1907 and has since prospered. Two volumeshave appeared of _Coffee Club Papers_, containing productions readbefore the meetings of that body. The first volume bears the date of1909 and the second of 1910. Every class on its graduation publishesits _Class Book_ and these sometimes attain a degree of literarymerit; hence any review of the literary interests of the college wouldbe incomplete without at least mention of them. * * * * * And now the editors have done their task. It has been pleasant work;may the results prove as pleasant to those before whose literarypalates they are spread. It remains only to thank the alumni for theirloyal financial support through the subscription blanks sent out inJune, and the library staff of the college for the generosity withwhich more than the ordinary facilities of the library have beentendered. THE EDITORS. _Williamstown, Massachusetts, November 1, 1910_. A WILLIAMS ANTHOLOGY THE MOUNTAINS WASHINGTON GLADDEN '59 O, proudly rise the monarchs of our mountain land, With their kingly forest robes, to the sky, Where Alma Mater dwelleth with her chosen band, Where the peaceful river floweth gently by. _Chorus_. The mountains! the mountains! we greet them with a song! Whose echoes, rebounding their woodland heights along, Shall mingle with anthems that winds and fountains sing, Till hill and valley gaily, gaily ring. The snows of winter crown them with a crystal crown, And the silver clouds of summer round them cling; The autumn's scarlet mantle flows in richness down; And they revel in the garniture of spring. _Chorus_. O, mightily they battle with the storm-king's pow'r; And, conquerors, shall triumph here for aye; Yet quietly their shadows fall at evening hour, While the gentle breezes round them softly play. _Chorus_. Beneath their peaceful shadows may old Williams stand, Till suns and mountains never more shall be, The glory and the honor of our mountain land, And the dwelling of the gallant and the free. _Chorus_. _Quarterly_, 1859. ADDRESS OF THE STUDENTS OF WILLIAMS COLLEGE TO THE PRESIDENT OF THEUNITED STATES From the _Hampshire Gazette_, Northampton, Mass. , July 25, 1798 Sir, --Though members of an infant Institution and of littlecomparative weight in the scale of the Union, we feel for the interestof our country. It becomes every patriotic youth in whose breast thereyet remains a single principle of honour, to come forward calmly, boldly, and rationally to defend his country. When we behold, Sir, agreat and powerful nation exerting all its energy to undermine thevast fabrics of Religion and Government, when we behold theminculcating the disbelief of a Deity, of future rewards andpunishments; when we behold them discarding every moral principle anddissolving every tie which connects men together in Society, whichsweetens life and renders it worthy enjoying; when we behold thembrutalizing man that they may govern him, --as friends to Humanity; assharers in the happiness of our fellow-men, as Citizens of the world, our feelings are deeply affected. We commiserate the fate of ourEuropean Brethren; we weep over the awful calamities of anarchy andatheism. But when we behold this Nation, not contented with its vast Europeandominions, but endeavouring to extend its Colossean empire across theAtlantic, every passion is roused; our souls are fired withindignation. We see that their object is universal domination; we seethat nothing less than the whole world, nothing less than theuniversal degradation of man, will satisfy these merciless destroyers. But be assured, Sir, we will oppose them with all our youthful energyand risk our lives in defence of our country. Untaught in the school of adulation, or the courts of sycophants, wespeak forth the pure sentiments of Independence. We give you ourwarmest approbation. We behold with true patriotic pride the dignifiedconduct of our Chief Magistrate at this alarming crisis. We are highlypleased with the moderation, candor, and firmness which have uniformlycharacterized your administration. Though measures decisive andenergetic will ever meet with censure from the unprincipled, thedisaffected, and the factious, yet virtue must eternally triumph. Itis this alone that can stand the test of calumny; and you have thisconsolation, that the disapprobation of the wicked is solid praise. At this eventful period our eyes are fixed upon you, Sir, as ourpolitical Father, and under Providence we rely on your wisdom andpatriotism, with the co-operation of our national Council, toperpetuate our prosperity; and we solemnly engage, that, while ourGovernment is thus purely and virtuously administered, we will give itour whole Support. These, Sir, are the unanimous sentiments of the Members of WilliamsCollege, who, though convinced of the evils of War, yet despise peacewhen put into competition with National Freedom and Sovereignty. Signed by a Committee in behalf of one hundred and thirty Students ofWilliams College-- DAVID L. PERRY. SAMUEL COWLS. SOLOMON STRONG. SILAS HUBBELL. _Committee_. WILLIAMS COLLEGE, June 19, 1798. THE SWALLOW From the Italian of T. Grossi by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 1813 Swallow from beyond the sea! That, with every dawning day, Sitting on the balcony Utterest that plaintive lay! What is it that thou tellest me, Swallow from beyond the sea? Haply thou, for him who went From thee and forgot his mate, Dost lament to my lament, Widowed, lonely, desolate. Ever then, lament with me, Swallow from beyond the sea! Happier yet art thou than I, -- Thee thy trusty wings may bear, Over lake and cliff to fly, Filling with thy cries the air, Calling him continually, Swallow from beyond the sea! Could I too!--but I must pine, In this dungeon close and low, Where the sun can never shine, Where the breeze can never blow, Whence my voice scarce reaches thee, Swallow from beyond the sea! Now September days are near, Thou to distant lands will fly, In another hemisphere; Other streams shall hear thy cry, Other hills shall answer thee, Swallow from beyond the sea! Then shall I when daylight glows, Waking to the sense of pain, 'Midst the wintry frosts and snows, Think I hear thy notes again-- Notes that seem to grieve for me, Swallow from beyond the sea! Planted here upon the ground, Thou shalt find a cross in spring; There, as evening gathers 'round, Swallow, come and rest thy wing. Chant a strain of peace to me, Swallow from beyond the sea! _Vidette_, 1871. MARTIAL, BOOK X EPIGRAM 23 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 1813 Oh fortunate Antonius! o'er whose head Calm days have flown and closed the sixtieth year, Back on this flight he looks and feels no dread To think that Lethe's waters flow so near. There is no day of all the train that gives A pang; no moment that he would forget. A good man's span is doubled; twice he lives Who, viewing his past life, enjoys it yet. _Quarterly_, 1865. EXEGI MONUMENTUM TO MELPOMENE "Horace, "[1] Ode 30, Book III. E. C. BENEDICT '21[2] I've a monument reared more enduring than brass, Which is higher than pyramids built by the kings, Through the rains and the tempests, unharmed, it shall pass, And the wear the corrosion of centuries brings. For, not all shall I die, but my greater part still Shall survive from the grave, and my fame shall increase Long as virgin and priest on the Capitol Hill Shall ascend to their altars in silence and peace. Where once Daunus of deserts and rustics was king, Where swift Aufidus roars, in my praise shall be told That, though humble in birth, I was foremost to bring Into Italy's songs the Greek music of old. Then, Melpomene, take to thyself all the pride Of the glory thy merits so justly declare, And now freely of Delphian laurel provide A fresh coronal wreath to encircle thy hair. _Athenoeum_, 1875. [Footnote 1: The Melpomene of Horace was, I suppose, the Greek muse ofsinging, not the muse of tragedy, nor a general muse. ] [Footnote 2: Died 1880. ] THE SCULPTOR TO HIS STATUE JOHN J. INGALLS '55[1] "Thou silent, pallid dream, in marble stone! No rare, sweet phantasie which my divine And all unearthly-mingled soul has thrown Around a glowing form, art thou, where shine, As garlands wove about a kindled shrine, The beauties of a godlike art and more Etherial thought fashioned to high design, But a remembrance of that unknown shore Where youth and love eterne on spirit pinions soar. "O'er the hushed vales and gulfy hills of Greece Night brooded on her darkly jewelled wing, Binding in drowsy chains of dewy peace Sweet birds, white flocks and every living thing, And lapsing streams which to the forest sing. Beneath that pillared fane which guards the place Where spirits twain sleep in the charmed ring, I slept after the banquet, and the rays Of a past heaven flashed on my soul's astonished gaze. "The emerald isles that sail a silver sea, Caverned by plumy groves of sunny palm, Broke on my startled vision suddenly; When as but quickly parted, sweet and calm, That long forgot yet ever haunting psalm Floated from lips that flew to greet me home. A meteor flamed; I woke in rude alarm; Above me orbed the temple's sullen dome; Around me swam the early morning's starless gloom. "Of that fair dream thou art the memory, My genius, in its wildest fancy, bound And petrified to immortality! A holy presence seems to hover round The deep, perpetual loveliness, as crowned With angel radiance, and plumed for flight, Thy pinioned sandals spurn the flowerless ground, Striving to gain that far Olympian height Towards which in rapturous awe upturns thy longing sight. "Why are thy parted lips so dumb and cold? Else with my eager arms about thee thrown And folded in thy soft embrace, had rolled The Lethean tide of love, in which, unknown And all unheeded in their state, had flown The future and the past, merged in that sea The present, whose far deeps are felt alone By the pale diver, reaching breathlessly Through pearled and coral caves concealed from mortal eye. "Oh, shape divine! Such madd'ning grace must have A soul, a consciousness of love and life Though tombed in pallor, with no epitaph But silence! What mighty spell with power rife Can wake thee into Being's passion strife? Yet if there be such, let it rest unsought; For every boon thou couldst from breath derive I would not wrest from thee that higher lot, The need of deathlessness, thou pale, embodied thought! "Great poet souls and people yet unborn Shall lay their speechless homage at thy feet, And still thy life be in its rosy dawn, Whose eve eternity alone shall greet. While I, to whom thy changeless smile were sweet As heaven, long mingled with earth's vilest mould, Shall be forgot! What wealth of fame can mete The loss of love? None, none! Thy fate is cold, But oh, what starry treasures might it not unfold!" He ceased. A lambent halo seemed to play About her head, as lightnings round the moon; Her marble tresses streamed in golden spray-- A tremor throbbed along her limbs of stone, And sky-hued veins with life's warm pulses shone. One thought of wordless love beamed from her eyes, Then, gently floating from her shining throne 'Mid blushing smiles half drowned in tearful sighs, She faded slowly heavenward through the sunset skies. _Quarterly_, 1853. [Footnote 1: Died 1900. ] OPPORTUNITY JOHN J. INGALLS '55 Master of human destinies am I; Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait. Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late, I knock unbidden once on every gate. If sleeping, wake; if feasting, rise before I turn away; it is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach every state Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, Seek me in vain and uselessly implore; I answer not, and I return no more. The date of first appearance of this sonnet is not known to theeditors. It is extracted here from Professor A. L. Perry's_Williamstown and Williams College_, (1899), and of it Dr. Perryremarks "Ingalls also wrote a notable sonnet on 'Opportunity, ' whichwill no doubt survive, for it has a fine form and considerableliterary merit, though godless in every line. " AUTUMN JAMES A. GARFIELD '56[1] Old Autumn thou art here! upon the Earth And in the heavens, the signs of death are hung; For o'er the Earth's brown breast stalks pale decay, And 'mong the lowering clouds the wild winds wail, And, sighing sadly, chant the solemn dirge O'er summer's fairest flowers, all faded now. The Winter god, descending from the skies, Has reached the mountain tops, and decked their brows With glittering frosty crowns, and breathed his breath Among the trumpet pines, that herald forth His coming. Before the driving blast The mountain oak bows down his hoary head, And flings his withered locks to the rough gales That fiercely roar among the branches bare, Uplifted to the dark unpitying heavens. The skies have put their mourning garments on And hung their funeral drapery on the clouds. Dead Nature soon will wear her shroud of snow And lie entombed in Winter's icy grave. Thus passes life. As hoary age comes on The joys of youth--bright beauties of the spring, Grow dim and faded, and the long dark night Of Death's chill Winter comes. But as the spring Rebuilds the ruined wrecks of Winter's waste, And cheers the gloomy earth with joyous light, So o'er the tomb, the Star of Hope shall rise, And usher in an ever during day. _Quarterly_, 1854. [Footnote 1: Died 1881. ] IN THE FOREST ANON. We lie beneath the forest shade Whose sunny tremors dapple us; She is a proud-eyed Grecian maid And I am Sardanapalus; A king uncrowned whose sole allegiance Resides in dusky forest regions. How cool and liquid seems the sky; How blue and still the distance is! White fleets of cloud at anchor lie And mute are all existences, Save here and there a bird that launches A shaft of song among the branches. Within this alien realm of shade We keep a sylvan Passover; We happy twain, a wayward maid, A careless, gay philosopher; But unto me she seems a Venus And Paphian grasses nod between us. Her drooping eyelids half conceal A vague, uncertain mystery; Her tender glances half reveal A sad, impassioned history; A tale of hopes and fears unspoken Of thoughts that die and leave no token. "Oh braid a wreath of budding sprays And crown me queen, " the maiden says; "Queen of the shadowy woodland ways, And wandering winds, whose cadences Are unto thee that tale repeating Which I must perish while secreting!" I wove a wreath of leaves and buds And flowers with golden chalices, And crowned her queen of summer woods And dreamy forest palaces; Queen of that realm whose tender story Makes life a splendor, death a glory. _Quarterly_, 1856. CORSICA ANON. A lonely island in the South, it shows Its frosted brow, and waves its shaggy woods, And sullenly above the billow broods. Here he that shook the frighted world arose. 'Twas here he gained the strength the wing to plume, To swoop upon the Arno's classic plains, And drink the noblest blood of Europe's veins-- His eye but glanced and nations felt their doom! Alas! "how art thou fall'n, oh Lucifer, Son of the morning!" thou who wast the scourge And glory of the earth--whose nod could urge. Proud armies deathward at the trump of war! And did'st thou die on lone Helena's isle? And art thou nought but dust and ashes vile? _Quarterly_, 1857. LOOKING BACKWARD WASHINGTON GLADDEN '59 From one who belonged in a remote antiquity to the fraternity ofcollege editors, a contribution to this centennial number[1] has beensolicited. Perhaps I can do no better than to recall a few impressionsof my own life in college. Every year, at the banquet, I observe thatI am pushed a little nearer to the border where the almond treeflourishes, and I shall soon have a right to be reminiscent andgarrulous. At the next centennial I shall not be called on; this is mylast chance. I came to college in the fall of 1856. My class had been in collegefor a year, so that the vicissitudes of a freshman are no part of mymemory. I shall never forget that evening when I first enteredWilliamstown, riding on the top of the North Adams stage. TheSeptember rains had been abundant, and the meadows and slopes were attheir greenest; the atmosphere was as nearly transparent as we are aptto see it; the sun was just sinking behind the Taconics, and theshadows were creeping up the eastern slopes of Williams and Prospect;as we paused on the little hill beyond Blackinton the outline of theSaddle was defined against a sky as rich and deep as ever looked downat sunset on Naples or Palermo. I thought then that I had never seen alovelier valley, and I have had no occasion to revise that judgment. To a boy who had seen few mountains that hour was a revelation. On theside of the picturesque, the old way of transportation was better thanthe new. The boy who is dumped with his trunks at the station near thefactory on the flat gets no such abundant entrance into Williamstownas was vouchsafed to the boy who rode in triumphantly on the top ofJim Bridges' stage. The wide old street was as hospitable then as now; if the elms weresomething less paternal in their benediction their stature was fairand their shade was ample; but the aspect of the street--how greatlychanged since then! There were two or three fine old colonial houses, which are standing now and are not likely to be improved upon; butmost of the dwellings were of the orthodox New England villagepattern, built, I suppose, to square with the theology of the ShorterCatechism, or perhaps with the measurements of the New Jerusalem, thelength and breadth and height of which are equal. The front yards wereall enclosed with fences, none of which were useful and few of whichwere ornamental. The broad-shouldered old white Congregationalmeeting-house stood at the top of the street in Field Park; it was thegoal of restless Sophomores for several hours every Sunday, and it wasalso the goal of all ambitious contestants for college honors. GriffinHall was then chapel, museum, laboratories, and recitation-rooms;East, South, and West Colleges, with Kellogg Hall, on the Westlawn, --"factories of the muses, " in Lowell's expressive phrase, --stoodforth in their naked practicality much as they stand to-day. LawrenceHall library, in its earlier, wingless character of colossal ink-pot, Jackson Hall[2] and the little magnetic observatory, still standing, completed the catalogue of the college buildings. The faculty of that day can be recalled without difficulty: PresidentHopkins, whose clear and venerable name no eulogy of mine shall heredisfigure; his stern-faced but great-hearted brother Albert; Emmonsthe geologist; Griffin, Tatlock, Lincoln, and Chadbourne, whosucceeded Hopkins in the presidency; Bascom, the only survivor to-day, and Perry, the best-known of them all. I have taken no pains torefresh my memory of the faculty of 1856, but I am confident that hereare no omissions. It will be somewhat less easy for undergraduatesto-day, writing so many eventful years after their entrance, to recallthe names of their teachers. One only of our memorable nine is now inservice, and long may he serve the community! All these were ranked asprofessors; there had been tutors and instructors before our days, butnone in our time. The _Gul_ of those days was a four-page sheet containing in briefestform the membership and official lists of the various fraternities andassociations; it sold for ten cents a copy. The only other collegepublication was the _Quarterly_, a solid magazine of about one hundredpages. None of the fraternities then existing, I think, possessed achapter-house; their rooms were in more or less obscure quarters, overstores or in private houses. There was quite as much rivalry betweenthem then as now, and poorer spirit. There was also an Anti-SecretConfederation, of which General Garfield in his time was the leader;it mixed freely in college politics and was no less clannish than theother fraternities. The absence of chapter-houses and the less fullydeveloped social life of the fraternities left room for a strongerclass feeling and perhaps a more sympathetic college spirit thanexists to-day. The smallness of the classes and the absence of theelectives, too, aided the cultivation of class feeling; the classesranged from forty-five to sixty, and the whole class was held solidlytogether during the whole course, all reciting in the same room threetimes a day from the beginning of freshman year to the end of senior. College singing was hearty and spirited, but our repertoire waslimited. I recall many evenings of blameless hilarity on the benchesunder the trees in front of East College. For more ambitious musicalperformance we had our "Mendelssohn Society, " whose concerts were notprobably so classical as we then esteemed them, but whose rehearsalsgave us not a little pleasure. Athletics had hardly a name to live. Now and then a football was mysteriously dropped into the West Collegeyard, and kicked about in a very promiscuous fashion; the freshmen andsophomores generally had a match of what was by courtesy calledbase-ball. The only intercollegiate contest of which I had anyrecollection, and as it seems the first ever to take place, was a ballgame at Pittsfield between Williams and Amherst. Amherst was thechallenging party, and the college by vote selected its team with muchcare and went forth to the contest with strong hopes. The game was notlacking in excitement. It was none of your new-fangled, umpire-riddenmatches: the modern type of base-ball had not, of course, beeninvented. Foul balls were unknown, the sphere could be knocked towardany quarter of the earth or sky; runners between bases could be peltedwith it by any of the outfielders. I think that the score stoodsomething like 60 to 40, and it was not in favor of Williams. It was amelancholy company that trailed homeward after this contest past theLanesboro pond; but since then I understand that times have changed. [Dr. Gladden has embodied his college reminiscences more fully in hisrecent volume _Recollections_, wherein is told also the story of "TheMountains. " (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1909. )] _Literary Monthly_, 1893. [Footnote 1: October, 1893. ] [Footnote 2: Demolished in 1908. ] TO THE MOUNTAINS OF WILLIAMSTOWN ON THE INTRODUCTION OF THE NEW RAILROAD ANON. Ye guardian mountains of the western world, Enthroned like monarchs of primeval days! Ye that hold lofty converse with the stars, And bind your shaggy brows with clustering clouds As if with wreaths of laurel! ye that count Your years by thousands, and your bosoms robe With all the pageantry of Autumn's gold, And lull your sleep of ages with the wild And murmurous drone of woodland waterfalls, And multitudinous song of windy groves! What spell hath bound ye now? what lethargy O'ercomes your ancient power? that undisturbed Ye slumber on, as if ye heeded not The piercing shriek from yonder fuming car, Which saith that even here presumptuous man Has dared intrude upon the green domain, Which ye inherited when Time was born. Awake! arise! are ye forever dumb? Let Greylock, most majestic of your band, Stand up and shout aloud to Audubon, Until from peak to peak the sound rolls round, Until yon mountain that o'erlooks the west Takes up the cry, of vengeance upon him Whose strange devices break your long repose. In vain! ye are indeed forever dumb, Obedient to the will of Destiny, Who sits enthroned among the stars of heaven, And unto man's inquiring vision points Toward the westering sun forevermore. Such is the law that rules the universe;-- Planets and systems, e'en the sun himself, Around one common point progressive move. And thus a few millenniums more shall man Proclaim the march of mind, and when ye pass Into oblivion with your weight of years, When galaxies and suns are quenched in gloom, Th' unshackled soul of man, itself a star Lit by the smile of God, shall wing through space, The destined heir to immortality. _Quarterly_, 1859. THE YELLOW JASMINE FRANKLIN CARTER '62 Ye golden bells, that toss your heaven-born fragrance On air around, And know to make the most harmonious music Without a sound! Ye fragile flowers, whose delicate, dear tendrils Upward do climb, Reveal to us the sweet, mysterious secret Of love sublime! Entwining with your gentle cunning fingers The ragged tree, Ye leave behind ye crowns and chaplets wondrous, Of jewelry! Not pearls nor diamonds of a radiance peerless, Not amethyst. When softly swaying on the human bosom, Or flexile wrist, Can add to life and beauty lustrous splendor, With grace divine, As when ye wreathe on gnarled oak and holly Your trailing vine! Oh, love of God! in gracious ways unnumbered, With gentlest touch, Thou teachest men and pitifully showest Of patience much! We pray, dear Father, teach thine erring children This lesson meet-- To climb through fragile, earth born, human tendrils To life complete. _Quarterly_, 1871. AFTER DINNER SPEECHES FRANKLIN CARTER '62 According to common opinion Americans are the nation most addicted tospeechmaking. Laboulaye makes a good point by representing the son ofa leading character in "Paris in America" discovered by his fatherbefore a large audience, in the full tide of political speech, andmaintaining afterwards to the old gentleman that it is the commonpractice among all the boys to make a speech on every possibleoccasion, that they may thus fit themselves for public life. In New York, which tends rapidly to become the center of activity formost of the important influences of our country, there are every yearmany dinners, anniversaries, and assemblies, at which oratory of anephemeral nature finds expression and attention. All thenationalities, all the religious and literary societies, all theclubs, all the distinguished foreigners, and all the leading andfollowing colleges, must have a dinner, and every dinner must have atleast a dozen speeches. Most of these speeches are more eloquent tothe opinion of their authors than to the minds of their hearers. It certainly is one of the best moral illustrations of the first lawof motion that in spite of all the heroism necessary to endure such avolume of speech, the patient public seems (if we may judge from theincrease in volume) every year more and more willing to sit at thetables and listen to this flow of sound. Perhaps this patience is onlyapparent, for competition for an opportunity to speak is said to belively. Possibly every one of the thousands who listen is secretlycomparing the eloquence of the speaker with his own skilful ability, and not quite calmly biding the time when he shall enrapture, wherethe present speaker wearies and annoys. Yet not every speech made on those occasions is dull. Now and then thehappy mingling of fun and sense really lifts the company out of thetiresome monotony. Were it not for these addresses beautiful and rare, we can believe that dinner speeches would be abandoned, or exchangedfor a single oration from one competent to delight. For the distinguishing mark of the dinner speech should be that itamuse not in the rough, coarse way of the demagogue, but in thesubtle, fine way of the man of culture. The dinner speeches with which the readers of this paper are perhapsmost familiar, those made when the alumni of a noble college gatheraround the table of their alma mater, ought to be characterized by thebroad sympathy, the quick insight, the flexible grace and the genialhumor of the thoroughly educated man. Although to make fine dinnerspeeches can never be an aim worthy of an earnest man, yet to have thepower and culture from which such a speech usually comes, is thehighest aim in a literary regard that any man can have. It is ashort-sighted and one-sighted earnestness that despises the wit andbanter of society, and affects the isolation and grandeur of purethought. The mountain summit is too far removed from the walks of mento make it possible for the recluse to wield all the influence thathis powers may entitle him to exert. The metaphysician less than thepoet, the country minister less than the successful lawyer, is theautocrat of the dinner-table. Because Williams and Yale have produced great and useful men, it doesnot follow that their commencement dinners are always marked by thefinest flow of wit and wisdom, nor that pioneers in civilization whobring great honor to their alma mater should always and everywherespeak for her. Dinner-speaking is a fine art, not one for which menneed absolutely European travel and study, but one which is nevermastered except by those who love and perhaps know how to reach allthe beautiful thoughts of every age and clime. It is the culturedgentleman of social experience, who may or may not be a man of greatability, but who knows how to weave the poetic and humorous andcommonplace into beautiful or grotesque forms, that delights andsurprises a dinner company. Social experience and good abilities willnot alone make the successful speaker. Underneath and back of all mustbe the gentleman. A lawyer, though of splendid position, can illafford to say at the festal table of his alma mater, "Harvard takesgreat poets and historians to fill her vacant professorships; mycollege takes boys, who have proved their qualifications by gettingtheir windows broken. " Those who go deeper than the surface willperhaps surmise that Harvard has had better material to work upon thansome colleges; not perhaps material of finer abilities, but materialthat has been more under the influence of sweetness and light. Possibly her graduates are as superior at making dinner speeches asare her trustees in choosing professors. A gentleman must make the happy dinner-speech, for only he canperceive the proprieties of the situation. He will neither improve theoccasion to give the corporation advice as to the management of thecollege, nor try to point out to a company of Unitarians the superioradvantages of the orthodox faith, nor exhibit to invited guests therags of his alma mater's poverty. He may, perhaps, avoid thecommonplace by so doing, but he will certainly transgress the rules ofpropriety. The commonplace at a dinner, repeated every year under sonearly similar conditions, cannot be avoided, but can be transformedby the art of the master. What could be more difficult than the duty of presiding at the dinnerof the New England Society and rehearsing the threadbare story of thelanding of the Pilgrims and dilating upon it in such a way as toentertain New Englanders, who ever since their childhood have heardthe declamations of Webster, Everett, Winthrop, and the rest, aboutthat heroic band? Yet by a mixture of shrewd wit and eloquence Mr. Choate, a Harvard graduate, went over again, last year, at thesixty-fourth anniversary of the society, the main facts of thehistory, and dwelt upon the relations of New Englanders to New York, making a speech that, printed, fills ten octavo pages but which theaudience found charming from beginning to end. This, like every other fine art, has something cosmopolitan in it. Iteschews the local and narrow, refuses to belong to any sect or party, and appeals by the widest culture to men of culture. The dinnerspeeches of our own Bryant are thus liberal and catholic. So werethose of Mr. Everett in the main, though one discovered the superbactor now and then arranging his robe or making use of his splendidpresence and reputation to draw attention to himself. Of course, whensuch a man comes as a guest into a company somewhat foreign in thoughtand life to his own belongings, he can neglect the rules that goodbreeding imposes on those who compose the homogeneous circles andbecome narrow. But he must be narrow by praising not his own methodsbut the unexpected excellence of life found among his hosts--thus, while apparently dwarfing himself, he throws the dignity of his ownreputation and history over that which he eulogizes and reallyexhibits the truest catholicity of spirit. To do this and perfectlyconceal the satisfaction that one has, because he can do it, wasperhaps difficult for Everett. Most men who heard him pardoned thefailure. It was easier for Dickens. His life was in some sense lesssplendid but more real. The amusement and good feeling which it is always the aim of thedinner speaker to create, were largely the aim of Dickens' life. Thehumor, the knowledge of human nature, that he always had at command, were employed in his writings and daily thoughts to enliven and cheermen. No wonder then that his speeches are models of breadth andsweetness and appositeness, and that good judges regarded him whenliving as in this department of expression unrivalled. He who is so guided by the love of letters engrafted on the love ofman as to give constant and ample expression to these motives, will beneither a reformer without grace nor a scholar without manliness. Giveto such a man a flow of animal spirits and a dash of wit, and heshould be not unapt to entertain even when poised on the dangerouswing of an after-dinner speech. _Review_, 1870. THE STUDENT COMMUNITY HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE '67 A very interesting and significant feature of university life in theearly days was the great part played by students in the scholasticcommunity. They were not only included in the group described by theword "faculty, " but they were charged with administrative andexecutive functions. The movement toward self-government, which hasalready borne fruit in many of our colleges, is in no sense a moderninfluence; it is a return to a condition widely prevalent in the earlyhistory of university organization. Not only did the students share, through various deliberative bodies, in the determination of thegravest questions of academic policy, but, in many cases, theexecutive head of the university was not only chosen by them but wasoften one of their number. The rector of the Italian universities wasin most instances a student, often under twenty-five years of age. Therector of the University of Paris, who was charged with the gravestadministrative functions, took precedence of the archbishop, and satat times in the royal councils with princes and nobles, was originallyelected by the student communities, and was often a very young man;and yet Paris was essentially a university of professors. Bologna, which was a university of students, was governed directly by thegeneral assembly of undergraduates. Whether governed by students or bymasters, --alumni as we should say, --these historic institutions wereessentially democratic, and the student seems on the whole to havebeen the most important figure; not only because at the beginning heformed the constituency for the popular teacher, but because laterwhen these throngs of students formally organized he had the largestshare of privileges and for a long time the controlling voice in themanagement of affairs. "Universities, " said Professor Croisat at the centenary of theUniversity of Montpellier in 1889, "do not come into the world with aclatter. What we know least about in all our history is the precisemoment when it (Montpellier) began. " It is impossible, in manyinstances, to fix the date of organization of many of the foremost ofthe older institutions; they were not made, they grew. There was adeep necessity for their existence in the intellectual and spiritualcondition of the times, and they sprang into being here and there, inItaly, France, Spain, and England, in response to that need. They werenotable, at the beginning, not for academic calm, but for turbulenceand vitality; for they were not universities of science, they wereuniversities of persons. The differences of scholastic rank were notvery sharply defined. In early days, whenever the university body wasformally addressed by Pope or Emperor, the students were named in thesame sentence as the masters. It is unnecessary to recall here the changes in condition which haveseparated the student class sharply from the teaching body anddivorced it almost entirely from governmental functions. What issignificant for the purpose of this article is an apparent dispositionin many quarters to recede from the extreme position of entireexclusion of the student body and a tendency to move in the otherdirection. That tendency may become very marked and lead to a veryradical change of policy in the government of colleges, a change soradical as to be revolutionary in its effect. It is certain that thegovernment of colleges, like that of states, must from time to timeundergo marked modifications if it is to remain vitally representativeof, and harmonious with, the growing and changing life of the college. In healthy institutional life there is free play and interaction ofall the forces that go to make up the organic life, and a certainflexibility is involved in all growth. The student community, is, after all, in most institutions the prime object of interest. A fewfoundations exist for the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, instruction being incidental; in most institutions, however, instruction is the foremost and absorbing function, and the student'swelfare is, therefore, the controlling factor. In western colleges, where the edge of hunger for knowledge has not yet been dulled byopportunity, it is not an unknown thing for a committee of students towait on a president or chancellor and announce the failure of someprofessor to prepare himself for recitations by fresh study of hissubject. It would be well if students in eastern colleges wouldsometimes put on a similar boldness; they would help heads of collegesout of very trying difficulties with well-meaning but incompetent orindolent professors. Undergraduate popularity is often illusive andunstable, but undergraduate perception of incompetency is often verykeen and discriminating. But whether admitted to, or excluded from the government of thecollege, the student community plays a part not always recognized inits educational influence and work, and many men receive moreinfluential impressions from the atmosphere in which they live and themen with whom they associate during their college career than fromtheir instructors. Nothing is so pervasive as an atmosphericinfluence, and, in its way, nothing is so important. It is significantthat foreign students rarely speak of Oxford without commenting on itsatmosphere; something in the air of the old town which, althoughintangible in its operation, is a positive factor in the educationalresult. Specific courses of instruction are less numerous than in manyother places, and such instruction as is offered is often defective inmethods and spirit; but the life of the place is adjusted tointellectual work; the library facilities are great, the traditionswhich seem to be part of the very structure of the colleges areliberalizing and make for generous culture. In such an air it is easyto study by one's own impetus and to develop in ourselves the passionfor perfection. Culture is so different from training or favoring theacquirement of knowledge that it is so often totally lacking in menwho have carried both processes to great length; it is indeed rarelyconveyed, though it may be greatly aided, by definite instruction. Itcannot be said of the great mass of college graduates that they aremen of culture. Culture comes, in a sense, by indirection, a manabsorbs it and furnishes the conditions for its growth, but he cannotreceive it directly from his teachers. There are, in every college, teachers, who stimulate culture in students not so much by reason oftheir scholarship as by reason of their attitude toward what theyknow. For culture is always a personal quality; a ripeness which comesfrom the generous enrichment of a man's nature by contact with thebest things. In certain atmospheres men ripen, as in certain othersthey remain hard and unaffected. The atmospheric quality of a college is determined largely by thecharacter and traditions of undergraduate life. If that life hasgenerous ideals, sound impulses, and traditions which appeal to theimagination, the atmosphere will do as much for many men as the formalinstruction they receive. It will inspire self-respect, firmambitions, and general dignity and nobleness of nature. Men will bedrawn together by the sympathy of aspiration, rather than by merecongeniality of habit, and their daily association will have aneducational influence of the most lasting kind. It is this associationwhich often leaves its mark on men who have failed to make right useof the opportunities for specific instruction which surround them. Acollege education is complete, so far as any provisional education iscomplete, only when the student receives the strong impress of bothteachers and associates; when instruction is competent and vital, andundergraduate life is wholesome, generous, and aspiring. It is a significant fact that when a group of men develop creativegifts in later life it will generally be found that theirundergraduate life together discovered strong sympathetic aspirationswhich bound them together and gave their intercourse a verystimulating quality. The action and reaction upon each other of agroup of young men of generous aims are peculiarly delicate andinfluential, affecting the very sources of individual strength andimpulse. Such influences are intermittent and irregular; it would be a greatgain if they could become continuous and, in a flexible sense, organic. Student life has been, at times, highly organized andpenetrated by intellectual impulses. Colleges differ greatly in thisrespect, but in American institutions the student life of to-day doesnot anywhere near realize its rich possibilities. Its interest inathletics is so great that in this single field it may be said to befairly well organized and fairly effective in securing the end forwhich it works; but in no other field is a similar activitydiscoverable, unless it be in that of journalism. One of the mostinteresting features of the intellectual and moral revival now goingon in France is the notable change that has come over student life, achange shown in a revival of song, of old student customs, ofsolidarity of feeling, and of a generous enthusiasm for the commontraditions and views. May not American students learn something fromthis contemporary illustration of the possibilities of organizedstudent life? _Literary Monthly_, 1893. SELF-MADE MEN I. --B. PRATT ALFRED C. CHAPIN '69 There are themes which no man can cope with. There are times whenthose ordinarily confident shrink back at the thought of grapplingwith the mighty issues that lie before them. There are minds of astructure so singularly complex and unique, that one leaves the studyof them impressed only with a deep, abiding sense of his inability tofathom them. We have in our midst one such, the penetration of whosemanifestations and phenomena is well calculated to baffle the mostzealous investigator. Reared among the rugged hill-sides and verdantvales of Williamstown, his character and oratory bear the evidentimpress of his nurturing. If to Elihu Burritt belongs the title of"The Learned Blacksmith, " not less to William Pratt is due that of"The Eloquent Wood-sawyer. " Though he cannot, like Elihu, claim aknowledge of eight languages, he can at least use the one of which heis master, in a manner at once astounding and gratifying. No son ofWilliams needs to be told who he is; yet for the benefit of thoseunacquainted with his genius and oratorical ability, we will endeavorbriefly to sketch his early career before enlarging upon the grandertriumphs of his later years. The subject of the present article was born not far from the year1810. Whether or no any comet or other unusual heavenly phenomenonheralded his entrance upon the scenes of earth, is not recorded. If, however, the astronomical appearances which are said to accompany thebirth of the mighty ones of the sons of earth are gauged with anydegree of fairness, there should have been at least six large cometsand any number of meteors distinctly visible. His early life glided bygently as the placid Hoosick, by which he frolicked. Several desperateattempts were made by various misguided individuals to educate him. From all these, however, he escaped unscathed, with the wings of hisgenius unfettered. At what precise period he began to exhibit symptomsof that highly original and forcible eloquence which he now possesses, we are unable to state. We presume that his first efforts wereco-existent with the commencement of his career as a wood-sawyer. Certainly, at present, he is rarely filled with the divine afflatusexcept when plying his saw. He is unlike Shakespeare, as he oftenrepeats. One utterance--"Ottah"--the coinage of his own brain, seemsto be the attempt of his daring and unschooled genius to strike outnot only into new lines of thought, but even to find a mystic mode ofexpression. This term is evidently a portion of a language whollydiffering from our own. It is at once a noun, adjective, and verb, and, in the full flood of his eloquence, it changes from the one tothe other with astounding rapidity. The extreme versatility of his genius renders it peculiarly difficultto give any adequate idea of his oratory. He is equally bold in theexpression of his sentiments on any subject. Perhaps for conveniencein consideration we may roughly divide his oratory into wood-pile andconversational eloquence. Specimens of his genuine wood-pile eloquence, though by no meansuncommon, are yet not easily accessible to the biographical compiler. Very few of his sayings have ever found their way into print, and whenthus presented they are of necessity shorn of much of their strength, and deprived of the impressiveness which they derive from the orator'sgesticulation and delivery. We will, however, endeavor to present ourreaders with a few, selected at random, from discourses on variousoccasions and subjects. It is morning. A group of students, just before going into recitation, cluster around Bill in the hope of getting a speech from him. Heremains deaf to their entreaties till the bell sounds, when withuplifted hand and glaring eye he thus addresses them, in a voiceaudible for about half a mile. "Go in and take your secretary, persecuting yourself with thedandelions and robes of righteousness. All the life, all the music, and the blood and electricity rolling over the mountains with theelements of pietude spread all over the fundament. Ottah!! R-R-R-RoseOttah! Rack-a-tack. " As might be surmised from a perusal of this effort, his peroration israrely in keeping with the main portion of his oration. In fact, theclose of all his speeches may be said to be very similar, beinginvariably "Ottah, " or some variation of it. Occasionally the exuberance of his genius leads him into the error ofcrowding together metaphors to the detriment of perspicuity. When, forexample, he says: "The waters of heaven descending on the breast-bones of the women; andthe youthful Moses, sitting on the back-bone of eternity, sucking thepap of time, " we feel that there is a redundancy in the expression. Some specimens of his remarkable verbal and figurative power inconversation are forcible in the extreme. It is said, with what truthwe know not, that on one occasion the venerable head of thisinstitution ventured to "tackle" him in a religious argument. Bill, after listening with a deference which was evidently a tribute ofrespect to the Doctor's position rather than an acknowledgment of thecogency of his reasoning, settled the question by an interrogatory:"Dr. Hopkins, do you suppose I'm goin' to believe that when I die I'llgo up and sit on one of those clouds with my legs hangin' over?" We infer from the above that his religious belief is somewhat vague. Soon after the marriage of Charles, Bill's son, the heir apparent ofthe Pratt estates, Bill was asked how Charles' wife was getting along, whereupon he was pleased to remark that he believed she was "underconviction. " Since then the conviction has become a certainty, andBill is a grandfather. Commenting on the appearance of his grandchild, he has been heard to say: "She's a pretty child. I say she looks likeCharles. Charles says she looks like me. " There are few scenes that abide longer in the student's recollectionthan those in which Bill is the central figure. It not infrequentlyhappens that, when a number of lovers of fun are gathered around himas he vigorously brandishes axe or saw, one of them, willing, for thesake of drawing him out, to make a martyr of himself for the publicgood, addresses him. On such occasions a conversation, something asfollows, occurs: Student--"Bill, what do you think of the constitutionality of theconfiguration, esthetically considered?" No reply is elicited from Bill, but a scornful "Ottah, " as he puts ona new stick and continues his work. Student, (not discouraged)--"Really, Bill, I should like your opinionon that point. " Bill, (having finished his stick)--"You ain't no kind of a man. Youhain't got no elements, no justice of earth. When I see these youngmen and the monument of liberty imported from Long Island for thebenefit of the rising generation, Ottah! Rolling Ottah!! Rang Dang! DuDah!!!" Of course a rebuke so scathing and sudden as this, never fails toannihilate its object. Being assured by the rapturous applause whichever succeeds his efforts, that he has made a good hit, Bill suddenlybecomes as impenetrable as Gibraltar, and saws vigorously. If, at a time like this, "the Professor, " _alias_ "Niobe, " havingsnatched a few moments from his professional perambulations in searchof "_Coffee_, " steps forward, signalizing his debut with theinterrogatory: "Do ye think I'm a common laborin' man?" naught iswanting to complete the student's bliss. "The Professor" is by no means as varied in his accomplishments asBill, his only quotable utterances being the one already given andanother, supposed to be severely sarcastic: "How lang has he been_so_?" He, however, has, in the recesses of his brain, a dim idea thatBill is weak, viewed from an intellectual standpoint, while Bill hasan equally indistinct belief that "the Professor" has very littlefurniture in his upper story. How far either of them is wrong ourspace does not permit us to say. Both have a supreme contempt forstudents, regarding them as effeminate cumberers of the ground. In thepresence of Bill, "the Professor" does not appear to advantage. Beingentirely unable to compete with him in a war of words, he is usuallyforced to betake himself to dancing; which, compared with oratory, isfrivolous. Occasionally the adversities of life seem to press upon Bill withpeculiar force, rendering him extremely dejected. At such times, though his flow of language does not forsake him, he is without thatcheerful aspect and spontaneous expression ordinarily socharacteristic. No longer does he cause the campus to ring with hishearty vociferation, but he grumbles very like an ordinary mortal: "I tell yer now I don't believe no man ever got rich sawin' wood. Itell yer it's hard work to saw wood all day and car' it up two pa'rstairs on yer back. I've sawed wood mor'n thirty years. You ask Mist'rTatlock, if yer don't believe it. Mist'r Tatlock's nice man. Thereain't no temptations about him. I sawed last night till twel' o'clock, an' it's hard work. Say, that feller up in that room gin eight dollarsfor that cord o' wood, an' it ain't good for nothin'. It's all full o'the Ottahs in the lucination of the veins. " In the fall, Bill, for a season, abandons wood-sawing for the lighterand more refined occupation of stove-blacking. While engaged in thisprofession he never fails to assert his profound and lastingconviction that, like sawing, it does not offer a broad and easy roadto opulence. His execution of whatever work is given him in this lineis at once artistic and masterly, showing that excellence in oratoryis not incompatible with an aptitude for the fine arts. His outfit iseminently complete and choice. In order that he may fail in no portionof his work, he usually carries with him a stock consisting of: 1. About 35 brooms, carried in a large sack. These are useful inputting on the finishing touches, and ensuring an unapproachablelustre. 2. Brushes of various kinds, comprising shoe-brushes, hat-brushes, clothes-brushes, hair-brushes, tooth-brushes, nail-brushes, shaving-brushes, and sometimes, a stove-brush. These are useful inmany respects, the shoe-brushes and hair-brushes being instrumental indoing the heavy and plain work, while the shaving-brushes andtooth-brushes are extremely handy in doing justice to the filagreework and ornamental portion. 3. A platform, or dais, on which to place the stove. 4. A stick, curiously carved, to beat out of pipes. 5. Cloths, of various sizes and patterns, to wipe the poker and thelegs of the stove. 6. Oil-cloths, for emergencies. 7. One large bottle or jug with a stick in it, and two smaller ones, all filled with mysterious decoctions whose composition and propertiesare known to Bill alone. 8. A sponge. 9. Small boxes containing a dingy powder. 10. A wheel-barrow, on which Bill vainly attempts to carry the rest ofhis goods. We have been thus minute in describing his equipment, knowing him tobe at the head of his profession, and hoping that any youth aspiringto celebrity in it, who may chance upon these pages, will profittherefrom. We regret to be obliged to state that there are some soutterly out of sympathy with the cause of art, as to assert that thegreater portion of Bill's utensils are useless; and that by muchputtering he loses time without improving his work. These persons weare inclined to class among those zealous but unthinking lovers ofsimplicity, whose misdirected reformatory efforts in other departmentsof life are so well known. As might be expected, Bill treats thesesacrilegious innovators with the contempt they so justly merit. Werean officious stranger to try to convince an artist that one colorwould answer all his purposes as well as a greater number, would thesuggestion of the untutored interloper cause the artist to waver inthe sternness of his faith? And shall the subject of this sketchrevolutionize his mode of stove-blacking at the promptings of anuntaught spectator? It would be by no means surprising if such nicety of execution as thatto which we have alluded tended to draw his attention from rhetoricalthemes. Yet, spite of this apparently necessary result, some of hisgrandest and most startling flights of oratory have had theirinspiration from incidents connected with stove-nigrification. Billhas, as it were, soared on the legs of the stove, like Perseus onMercury's sandals, to unexplored realms of space and thought. At suchmoments the stove-pipe becomes to him a magic telescope, through whichhe peers far into the unfathomable depths. There are times when, through the influence of passion, he for alittle time lays aside his oratorical embellishments. We remember onesuch occasion. He had just finished sawing a pile of wood, when astudent, who was looking from a window, told him there was one stickwhich he had not sawed, and taunted him with intending to purloin it. Instantly his countenance became livid with rage, his lips separated, showing a fine dental formation, and he exclaimed in pureAnglo-Saxon:-- "You're a liar. You lie. " The student, perceiving from Bill's descent to the vernacular ofcommon men that his ire was roused, abjectly and unqualifiedlyapologized. "Well, " said the orator, threateningly, "you'd better take that back. I've sawed wood more'n thirty year, an' no man ever 'cused me o'stealin'. " Then gradually becoming good-natured, he added, "Crucifixin' yourself in the observatories of life in the gray dawnover your jewelry. No sir, I never stole nothin'. _You_ do. You'dsteal if you wan't afraid to. Ottah!" We regret to be obliged to chronicle one incident that would seem toindicate something of malevolence. The impartial historian, however, must not shrink from the full performance of his duty. Another of the notables of this region, of sable lineage, called, onaccount of a peculiar propensity to split two-inch planks with hishead, "Abe Bunter, " not long since honored the students of thisinstitution with a series of calls for the purpose of soliciting moneyto purchase for himself a bovine, to replace one providentially takenfrom him. His success may he inferred from a remark let fall by Bill, accompanied by a demoniac chuckle: "Say, old Abe Bunter's round with an inscription, an' he hain't got acent. " Like all great men, Bill has his eccentricities. Fresh meat, and, indeed, meat of any kind except pork, he abominates. Beefsteak, especially, is an object of indescribable aversion. Untold wealthwould not suffice to induce him to partake of it. This repugnance isdue partly to a fear of being choked with bones, and partly to a scornof its tenderness. The physical weaknesses of students he attributesentirely to their consuming so much of it. Viewed from his standpoint, perhaps students are effeminate, for he possesses the strength ofbrass, and an amount of endurance astonishing to contemplate. His ordinary working-hours are from six in the morning till six atnight; but, when business presses, he rises, like the virtuous woman, while it is yet night, and brings down on his devoted head theanathemas of various students by commencing his day's sawing undertheir windows at the moderately early hour of one A. M. He is a livingproof of the utter and irreclaimable falsity of the idiotic doggerel: "Early to bed, and early to rise, Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. " Last summer, however, during the heated term, he was obliged to comedown to the limit of ordinary mortals, as he feared that the influenceof the sun's rays would bring about a degeneration of the Ottah andVerdigres in the brain, and result in an explosion of the blood-veins. By careful sanitary precautions he was enabled to avoid this fearfulmalady and preserve his physical well-being. He can, and will, for the comparatively slight sum of twenty-fivecents, hold his breath for five minutes. He, himself, asserts that hecan do it for seven minutes, but that the doctor advised him againstdoing so, as it might produce a fusion of the Ottahs. His costume is at once serviceable and unique. It usually consists offrom two to five shirts, and three pairs of pantaloons. He never wasknown to wear the same hat or pair of boots all day. Occasionally hedons a vest, and, at rare times, a coat. In stature he is below themedium height; nevertheless, his appearance is eminently imposing andprepossessing. His countenance is rather oblong, and wears anexpression that is a singular mixture of profound gravity and fearfulearnestness. His eyes resemble those of some species of fish, and areset under curiously wrinkled brows that nearly conceal them. .. . Suchis Bill Pratt, honest, cheerful, and industrious, the maligner of noman. His sturdy figure long holds a place in the memory of everystudent; his photograph decorates every student's album. Without himour college would be incomplete. Esteemed by all for his unfailingintegrity and industry, laughed at by all for his oddities, he remainsever the same. We trust that the day is far distant when he will beamong us no more, and when the college walls shall cease to echo hischaotic and ungovernable eloquence. _Quarterly_, 1869. ATTIS ANON. Fair Phrygian Attis, loved of Cybele, Fired with the service of her awful shrine, Had wandered far before his restless soul Along the gleaming sand-line of the beach. At last he came to a deep shaded nook, Where giant trees thick wreathed with twisting vines Clomb the steep hills on every side but one, And rimmed the sky with a green fringe of leaves. But toward the south wide open to the shore It seemed a lap, wherein the sun and sea Together lay warm in each other's smiles. Down the steep sides a little babbling brook Leapt with low laughter, fleeing from itself, Then, wid'ning out into a lucid pool, Crept slowly seaward through low banks of fern. Here, stretching his bare limbs upon the sward, He watched the water falling down the rocks. His jetty hair, curled loosely on his head, Fell down upon his shoulders glistening white, The rounded symmetry of breast and limb, And the rich color of his sensuous lips Almost belied the down upon his cheek. No uncouth garments hid his perfect form, Nor marred its grace, but, naked like the gods, The ruddy sunlight bathed him in its glow. So, as the day sank down the golden west, And the long index shadows toward the east Seemed telling of the morn that was to rise, A band of nymphs came past him where he lay Half-hidden in the grass, and to the pool Rushed with sweet rivalry and little screams To feel the water cold around their limbs. They saw him not, nor dreamed that mortal eyes In that lone glen were looking on their play. Soon they passed on, save one who near the bank Had lain to rest till sleep stole eyes and ears. Then Attis rose and would have sought the shrine But when he saw the sleeper he stood still. He was too young to know the power of love When mighty Cybele from his far home-- His home, which lay beyond the heaving sea, And which to think of even yet would bring The bitter tears into his dark-lashed eyes, -- Had brought him as a priest into her fane, And bound him by an oath of dreaded wrath To be hers only, hers forevermore. But years had passed since then, he was a man, And man's strong passion drove into his cheek The ruby symbol of its first felt power, As leaning o'er he gazed upon the nymph. She moved a little under the hot glance That burned from Attis' eyes upon her face, And seemed about to wake. Quick he drew back, Walking away a few steps towards the beach, Then turned to take one last look ere he went; She had not woke, her head lay on her arms, And her face looking toward him seemed to smile. He could not go, he dared not longer stay, But stood and wished, and feared, and let his wish Conquer his fear; returning step by step Again he bent above her. Then, at last, The wrath of scorner Cybele forgot, He thought of nothing but his newfelt love. Sudden she raised the lids, and her full eyes Looked straight upon him. Attis laid his hand Upon her arm to stay the flight he feared, Saying, "Fear not, 'tis only Attis, I, And 'tis my love that holds me here by thee. " She smiled back on him and her hand in his Thrilled with a touch that maddened through his veins; He bent down over her and all his soul Slid through his lips in one long burning kiss Which lovers only know. Lo, Cybele, Her chariot, lion-drawn, grinding the sands, Stood awfully before them. Not a word Came from her lips, but her great angry eyes Dark with the wrath and vengeance of the gods Gloomed forth a hate no mortal could endure; Pale Attis looked in them but once, and then In frenzied madness fled along the shore. _Quarterly_, 1871. COLLEGE FRIENDSHIPS CHARLES CUTHBERT HALL '72[1] My other self, my bosom friend, Thy faithful arm in mine enwinding, Let us fare forth amid the trees, Each in the other comfort finding. For though our boyhood be so near, Yet have we tasted grief and fear. I feel upon my heart the weight Of things unknown, the dread of living, And thou, dear friend, canst strengthen me By thy heart's wondrous gift of giving; So, when life's strangeness frighteneth me, In perfect trust I turn to thee. Thou dost not scorn my foolish fear, Nor e'er upbraid my dreamy thinking; Thou dost not brand me with contempt Because of all my frequent shrinking. Thou art a tower of strength to me, So let me walk awhile with thee. Not all our hours are hours of dread: We know the hours of splendid hoping; When life's ongoing ways shine clear, And vision takes the place of groping; In those Great Hours I seek for thee To walk amid the trees with me. How hath God made our lives as one, Knitting our fortunes up together In comradeship that welcometh The clearing or the lowering weather-- The joy or pain--heart answering heart! Are we not friends till Death us part? Then mount with me the rugged hill And let our thoughts go seaward soaring, Until in fancy's ear there sound The chime of surf, the tempest's roaring; And, by the sun-glint on the sea, We trace the years that are to be. My other self, why bound by death The compass of our friendship's reaching? Why doubt the promptings of our hearts, Or falsify our spirits' teaching? Must not the friends beneath the sod Still walk amid the trees of God? 1903. _Literary Monthly_, 1909 [Footnote 1: Died 1908. ] LORRAINE--1870 ANON. I Sweetly the June-time twilights wane Over the hills of fair Lorraine, Sweetly the mellow moonbeams fall O'er rose-wreathed cottage and ivied wall. But never dawned a brighter eve, Than the holy night of St. Genevieve. And never moonlight fairer fell, Over the banks of the blue Moselle. Richly the silver splendor shines, Spangles with sheen the clustered vines, And rests, in benediction fair, On midnight tresses and golden hair. Golden hair and midnight tress, Mingle in tender lovingness, While the evening breezes breathe upon Marie and Jean, --and their hearts are one! "The spell of silence lifts at last, Marie, the saint's sweet day is past! "Her vesper chimes have died away, Where shall we be on Christmas day?" With answering throb heart thrilled to heart, Hand met hand with sudden start. For in each soul shone the blessed thought, The vision fair of a little cot, Nestled beneath the lilac spray, Waiting the blissful bridal day! Low bowed in tearful silence there, Their hearts rose up in solemn prayer, And still the mellow lustre fell Over the banks of the blue Moselle. And still the moonlight shone upon Marie and Jean, --and their hearts were one! II Six red moons have rolled away, And the sun is shining on Christmas day. Over the hills of fair Lorraine-- Heaps of ashes and rows of slain. Where merrily rang the light guitar, The angry trump of the red hussar Flings on the midnight's shrinking breath, The direful notes of the Dance of Death! Underneath the clustered vines, The sentry's glittering saber shines. Over the banks of the blue Moselle, Rain of rocket and storm of shell! Where to-day is the forehead fair, Crowned with masses of midnight hair? A summer's twilight saw him fall, Dead on Verdun's leaguered wall. Where, alas! is the little cot? Ask the blackened walls of Gravelotte! Under the lilac broods alone A maid whose heart is turned to stone. Who sits, with folded fingers, dumb, And meekly prays that her time may come! Yet see! the Death-god's baleful star! And War's black eagle screams afar! And lo! the Christmas shadows wane Over the hills of sad Lorraine. _Quarterly_, 1873. IN ANSWER "S. " And thou didst idly dream, Or, careless of thy action, think, To cast a veil o'er all the past And weld anew the broken link? Vain thought to weave anew the bond That thou didst ruthless sever; Know friendship often turns to love, But love to friendship never. And love ne'er dies but when some hand Too careless of their mimic strife, Slow cleaves its tendrils from their hold, And hurls them down bereft of life. And love once fled can ne'er return, Nor in its stead can friendship stand, Nor twine again the tendrils frail, Nor e'er unites the broken band. _Athenoeum_, 1875. THE MYSTIC "TROUBADOUR" An early memory of my earliest youth. There came into the village I called home A traveller, worn and faint. His garments held The alien dust of many a weary march; None but a child would e'er have thought the man A thing to look at twice, much less adore. But unto me, child that I was, the look In his large pleading eyes seemed so divine, The massive brow so free from thought of earth, The curves of his sad mouth so tremulous With more than woman's love and tenderness, And in each word and act such gentleness, That the quaint thought possessed and held my mind, That by some strange hap an angel soul, As penance for some small offense in heaven Had been compelled to traverse in this wise Our darkened world. And not alone his look Which made his rusty vesture fine, nor yet Alone the birds which fluttered round him as He were a friend, led to the same belief-- But he with other men had naught in common. They called him fool and idiot, jibed at him And at his rags, and mocked his lofty air So far above his low condition. And yet unto their jeers he never word Replied, nor ever seemed to know that they About him crawled; but fixing his great eyes Upon the sunset slopes, while mirrored in His face was seen the battle in his heart Of hopes and fears, he rather breathed than spoke Such words as these, except that his had soul: "At length, O weary heart, it seemeth me The rest is near. The air seems full of promise; My eyes are fixed on what they cannot see; My ears are filled with whispers not quite heard. All things seem waiting as to hear good news. The western breeze hath messages for me; The western hills lean down and beckon me. It must be, sure, because, it _must_ be so, That just beyond those hills, O heart, there doth Await us both the rest we long have sought. " They told him that the world was round, and so It could not be that all this journeying Should e'er do more than bring him back to us, If he through weary years should persevere. "I know, " he quick replied, "the world is round To railroads and canals, and yet I do Believe, " and, voicing o'er his hopeful creed, And striding on, he soon was lost to view. We heard of him as passing through the towns To west of us; but soon he was forgot By all except myself and one poor maid Whom much love led astray. And soon she paid The debt of Nature, not as doth befit Such payment dread, but, maddened by cold looks, She, sporting with dank grasses in a pool, Gave back to God the life His creatures scorned, And breathed in death moist prayers to heaven. Never Since then hath any mention of the man Reached me. Nor have I ought on which to rely Except a dim remembrance. Yet in me A fixed belief hath taken root, and grows With growing years, --that, far beyond those hills I' the west, upon high plains, among his peers, The fool hath long been deemed philosopher. _Athenoeum_, 1876. BALLADE OF THE HAUNTED STREAM EDWARD G. BENEDICT '82 Like some fair girl who hastes to meet her swain, Yet hesitates each step with maiden fear, So the still stream glides downward to the main, Pausing at times in fern-set pools, --and here, Where bend the willow branches to the clear Deep pool beneath, and where the forest hoar Seems whispering old tales of magic lore, They say by night the fairies dance in glee, And on the moss beside the curving shore The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry. From beds in purple buds where they have lain Until the mystic midnight time drew near, To chimes of hare-bells and the far-off strain Of forest melodies, the elves appear In all the gorgeousness of goblin gear. With brilliant dress the golden-beetle wore, With scarlet plumes the humming-bird once bore, They come in troops from every flower and tree, And 'round the fairy throne in concourse pour, -- The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry. Yet mortal eyes see not the goblin train Whose bells sound faintly on the passer's ear, -- Who dares attempt a secret sight to gain Feels the sharp prick of many an elfin spear, And hears, too late, the low, malicious jeer, As long thorn-javelins his body gore, Until, defeated, breathless, bruised, and sore, He turns him from the haunted ground to flee, And murmurs low, as grace he doth implore, "The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry!" ENVOI Sweet mortal maid, that fairy world of yore Has vanished, with the midnights that are o'er; Yet come and sit beside the stream with me, That I, beholding thee, may say, "Once more The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry. " _Argo_, 1882. INDIAN SUMMER VILLANELLE HERBERT S. UNDERWOOD '83 When the forest flames in crimson and gold, While the sinking sun seems a molten mass, And a beautiful blaze is all the wold, The sumach flashes, a banner unrolled, And yellow-clad boughs glow like burnished brass, When the forest flames in crimson and gold. What secrets the listening leaves are told, As strollers along worn wood-paths pass, And a beautiful blaze is all the wold! In the gay, glad light grow wooers bold, For there's brightness e'en in the dark morass, When the forest flames in crimson and gold. And when she is gently coaxed and cajoled, The hues find mirrors in cheeks of the lass, And a beautiful blaze is all the wold. But still is there one who remains e'er cold In the glow of the Indian summer; alas! When the forest flames in crimson and gold, And a beautiful blaze is all the wold. _Athenoeum_, 1883. GONDELIED "LICHEN" O'er the deep sighing sea, Mirrored as dreams of thee, Stars watches keep. Wavelets laugh soft and free, Calling my love to me; The world's asleep. Far from the day's dull care, Into the moonlight fair, Our boat shall speed; Songs floating on the air, Haste we with music rare, Where Love would lead. Life's but a transient dream; All things that are or seem, Breathe but a day. Come, eyes that on me beam, Leave what ye sorrow deem, While yet ye may. _Fortnight_, 1886. IN HOLLAND BROWN RONDEAU SANBORN GOVE TENNEY '86 In holland brown she stands to greet Me as I come adown the street, The sunlight falling on her hair Leaves warm caresses gently there-- A picture with true grace replete! The roses twining round her feet Breathe gentle fragrance rare and sweet, She sings a merry rustic air-- In holland brown. O years that fly so swift and fleet! O storms that 'gainst her window beat! Keep her from harm and tears and care! That future years may find her where In days of June we used to meet, In holland brown. _Fortnight_, 1886. HYLAS SANBORN GOVE TENNEY '86 Many years have left their shadows on the pathless flow of time; Many bards have with soft music sung their lays of ancient rhyme, Since the day when rosy Hylas plunged into Scamander's wave, Since the am'rous Naiads bore him where no human arm could save. On the waves swift Argo rested; scarce a ripple stirred the sea, While across the Dardan meadows sighed the breezes soft and free; Then the sun, in golden splendor, sank into a sea of flame, Darkness o'er the blue hills rested; yet no fair young Hylas came. For the water nymphs had loved him, when they saw his beauty rare, And with yielding lips caressing, they entwined him with their hair, Till they bound him, still entreating, with this soft and silken chain, Till they drew him 'neath the waters, whence he ne'er should come again. Then the moon, a crescent jewel, edged the clouds with silver light, While they sped like shallops sailing, swift-winged messengers of Night. And the stream, dark-hued and somber, sighed in surges on the shore, Gently sighed among its rushes, "Hylas! Hylas!" o'er and o'er. Yet no voice replied in answer, tho' the sighing louder grew, Tho' with sorrow bowed the flowers and their tears were drops of dew; No sweet echo breaks the silence, tho' the heart may hope and yearn, O'er the stream a realm of quiet, on the shore the empty urn. _Fortnight_, 1886. THE 'CELLO SAMUEL ABBOTT '87 The mellow light steals o'er its silent strings, That catch the sound of some far sylvan strain; Such fantasie as thrills the poet's brain, Or Morpheus, floating 'neath the pale stars, brings. And list! Divinely, on its own sad wings, It sings a wondrous pitiful refrain, Methinks some soul with aching grief is lain-- That moans and dies with broken murmurings. The voice is hushed, the lights are low and spent; The dancers bid farewell, with tired feet. Too few, I ween, this thing of wood has meant A tenth part what its harmony, so sweet, Has told to me. 'Mid joy, the sorrows greet The wanderer, their hearts by weeping rent. _Fortnight_, 1887. MILLET'S "ANGELUS" ELBRIDGE LAPHAM ADAMS '87 Dim, distant, tinkling chimes, That summoned men in olden times To pray the Virgin grace impart; Ye solemn voices of a day gone by, Whose mystic strains of melody Alike touched peer and peasant's heart: Your music falters in the fleeting years, Yet still comes faintly to our ears, Saved by a master's cunning art. _Literary Monthly_, 1885. A SUMMER AFTERNOON HENRY D. WILD '88 In the country, with a soft, calm, hazy afternoon to keep you company!To feel that Nature and yourself have moods in common, for you arelazy and Nature is lazy, too, and blinks sleepily at you from filmy, dreamy eyes that open and shut with your own in a sort of drowsyrhythm. What more delightful than to yield yourself entirely to thepresent mood and wander off somewhere, aimless except to see and feel?The trim soberness of the dusty road with its gray windings and vistasof sand-ruts becomes less matter-of-fact at length, and so you leaveit to itself, and seek a path that leads to the heart of Nature andfar from ways of men. Down grassy slopes and over little hillocks thatpique your curiosity by shutting out the view of what is coming next;now skirting the edge of a furrowed potato-patch, and now saunteringdown cool lanes of corn, listening to the breezy lisping of the long, green leaves that flap you softly in the face; now across a moist spotwhere a spring bubbles forth, apparently only to nourish a family ofcowslips, and so on and on until you break the stillness of a shadywood as your feet keep alternate time among the heaps of leaves whoserustling is varied by the occasional noise of crackling twigs. Thedamp air, freshened by contact with trickling drops and oozy bogs, andperfumed with spicy cedar, soothes and cools. Yonder lies prostratesome mighty giant of the forest, victim of a ruthless storm, grim withdecay and raising a vertical base of black sod and tangled roots tornfrom the earth where a gaping wound shows its former place. Here arock, moist with swamp-sweat, lichen-covered and set in moss. There aclump of thick-grown cedars, deep shelter for the timid rabbit. All isnoiseless, breathless. Not even the squirrel chatters, for it is notlong past noon. But farther on comes a dull, low murmuring, scarcelyto be heard at first, so nicely does it fit this gentle monotone ofsilence, yet soon filling the trembling air with overtones that riseand fall and swell again in varying chords. It is the river. A fewsteps more and you are there, and beside the stream in a fragrant bedof ferns, with one hand caressing the delicate tresses of themaidenhair, and the other dipped among the ripples, you give yourselfup, half dozing, to thoughts of the long ago and the far away thatseem to float up from the past along the dim windings of the stream. The sun makes dancing spots of dark and light between the flutteringleaves, and throws a changing shadow upon yon deep pool, where a grandold beech, festooned with clematis, leans its gray trunk far over asif to bless the stream whose waters, bubbling swiftly over the pebblesa little higher up, calm themselves here to rest in peace. Thewood-thrush sends its plaintive, solitary note of silver-globuledmelody from the inmost forest. No other sound, save when a wagon nowand then rolls its quick rumble across a bridge, and then is gone likesome self-conscious intruder. But luxury like this is the very thiefof time. Before you are aware the waves of heat have ceased to form athrobbing air-hive for humming insects, and the cool of early twilighthas come on, attended by lengthening shadows. And so home again alongthe dewy fields, while an orchestra of crickets chirps a happy endbeneath the summer stars to the day that is done. It is in ways likethis that poets renew their souls, the old their youth, and wearyhearts, in sweet release from care, gain strength for life. _Literary Monthly_, 1887. QUESTIONINGS GEORGE L. RICHARDSON '88 There are strange complications in it all, This life of ours--had I fourfold the wit That as his share to any man doth fall, I fear me that I could not fathom it. This sorrow bringing laughter, and joy tears, Conflicting things we cannot understand; This constant longing for great length of years, That brings but weary limb and feeble hand; Eyes that are dim, and saddened, lowly life; These hot-waged wars, squalid with cries of pain, This joy in contest and this thirst for strife, In which both suffer, and there is no gain; Strong love that ere long turns to stronger hate, Sin leading into good, good into sin-- In very truth do lambs with tigers mate. The world is wide, and strange things are therein. _Fortnight_, 1887. ON BRYANT'S "THANATOPSIS" GEORGE LYNDE RICHARDSON '88 A great thought came to a great singer's heart, Out of the grandeur of the changeless hills-- A thought whose greatness e'en in our day fills Men's minds with nobler feeling. All his art He lavished on the poem that he wrought, That it might be, through all the years of time, An inspiration, to all men, sublime, And nor for fault of his hand come to naught. So it hath been. The singer lieth dead; His words live on. And still the mountains stand, And all men say who know them, in that land-- And through all ages, it will still be said-- Not gold that perisheth, from deep-hid veins, They give us, but the thought that aye remains. _Literary Monthly_, 1887. SUMMER SONG[1] TALCOTT M. BANKS '90 Come, friend scholar, cease your bending Over books with eager gaze; Time it were such work had ending, -- Well enough for rainy days. Out with me where sunlight pours, Life to-day is out of doors! Busy? Pshaw! what good can reach you Frowning o'er that dog-eared page? Yonder rushing brook can teach you More than half your Classic Age. Banish Greeks and Siren shores, Let your thoughts run out of doors! Rest we here where none can spy us, Deep in rippling fields of grass; Scented winds blow softly by us, Lazy clouds above us pass; Higher yet my fancy soars-- All my soul is out of doors! _Literary Monthly_, 1888. [Footnote 1: Copyright, 1907, by T. M. Banks. With permission. ] THE BACKWARD LOOK[1] TALCOTT M. BANKS '90 Once on a bright October day, I took the road whose winding track Leads up among the hills away Across Taconic's shaggy back, Leaving the valley broad and fair For barren heights in upper air. At last I stood upon the crest; The ruddy sun was sinking low, And all the country to the west Lay flooded with a golden glow-- A fairyland of misty light, Unsullied by the touch of night. I turned, and lo, a sudden change Had swept across the valley's face. The shadow of Taconic's range Had fallen on the lovely place; And darkness followed thick and fast Behind the shadow as it passed. Since then the changeful years have flown Till now once more I seem to stand Upon the mountain top alone, And look abroad upon the land. But all before is gray and dim, Half-hidden in the cloud-wrack grim; While in the Berkshire valley stays The light that dawned in happier days. _Literary Monthly_, 1893. [Footnote 1: Copyright, 1907, by T. M. Banks. With permission. ] SERENADE ARTHUR OLIVER '93 If all the stars were gems, love, And all those gems were mine, I'd give them in exchange, love, For that dear heart of thine. But, since the stars so bright, love, Are neither gems nor mine, What can I do, but sigh and rue My luckless lot, and pine, And gaze on high, where night winds sigh, Across thy lattice vine? If all the little birds, love, That twitter 'mid the dew, Could sing in words and tell, love, The love I bear to you, They would not end their song, love, The night's long vigil through; But all the wings that morning brings Would soar amid the blue, And float along on waves of song, With carols sweet and new. _Literary Monthly_, 1893. OLD TRINITY FREDERICK D. GOODWIN '95 Placed 'midst the city's busiest life, Not a stone's throw from the deadly strife Of the metropolitan mart, Old Trinity stands; her spire, like a hand, Points ever upward; her chimes demand From the hardened world a heart. Clustered around her, buried, lie Many whose names can never die, Founders of their country's weal: Patriot churchmen, statesmen, soldiers, There they sleep who were its moulders; Sculptured stones their deeds reveal. Trinity's self was new-born with the nation; Springing from ashes of desolation, She helped to forge posterity. Now she looks from her chosen station, At pageant, starvation, begg'ry, ovation, Results of her sons' prosperity. Within, away from the din and crowd And the mendicants' cries and the laughter loud, Of Pleasure in hand with Youth, Is the silent yet eloquent reign of Peace And the utterance of words which shall not cease While the earth has a place for Truth. When peal on peal the organ's voice Calls the assembled to rejoice For blessings unsurpassed, Or when its milder tones tell Grief, Then e'en Death's triumph is but brief, Old Trinity's charm but half is grasped. Far sweeter it is in the twilights glim, When the symbolled altar is growing dim, And the wayward shadows dart, To watch the golden light stream in Each lofty window, as though all sin At its entrance must depart. Saints' and martyrs' pictured graces, Illumined by these heavenly traces, Shine in blue and saffron and red; But in the sun's last traces, above their faces, Beam the eyes which no might from the soul effaces, And the Christ's mock-crowned head. _Literary Monthly_, 1894. TWO TRIOLETS OF AUTUMN KARL E. WESTON '96 'Neath fading leaves and dreary skies, A late-born rose burst into bloom And gazed about with sad surprise, 'Neath fading leaves and dreary skies; Let fall from Summer's bier, it lies In Autumn's pathway 'mid the gloom Of fading leaves and dreary skies, A late-born rose, burst into bloom. Beside the ever restless sea Fair Autumn stands. With beckoning hand She hails the passing days, which flee Across the ever restless sea, -- Their sealed ears hearing not the plea Which sea-winds waft from that fair land Beside the ever restless sea, Where Autumn stands with beckoning hand. _Literary Monthly_, 1894. NANTUCKET ARTHUR KETCHUM '98 Adrift in taintless seas she dreaming lies, The island city, time-worn now, and gray, Her dark wharves ruinous, where once there lay Tall ships, at rest from far-sea industries. The busy hand of trade no longer plies Within her streets. In quiet court and way The grass has crept--and sun and shadows play Beneath her elms, in changing traceries; The years have claimed her theirs, and the still peace Of wind and sun and mist, blown thick and white, Has folded her. The voices of the seas Through many a soft, bright day and brooding night Have wrought her silence, wide as they, and deep, And dreaming of the past, she waits--asleep. _Literary Monthly_, 1897. THE GYPSY STRAIN ARTHUR KETCHUM '98 It comes with the autumn's silence, When great Hills dream apart, And far blue leagues of distance Call to the Gypsy-heart. When all the length of sunny roads, A lure to restless feet, Are largesses of goldenrod And beck of bitter-sweet. Then the wand'rer in us wakens And out from citied girth, To go a-vagabonding down The wide ways of the Earth. _Literary Monthly_, 1898. THE SONG OF THE CAVALIERS JAMES B. CORCORAN ex-'01 When our sabers rattle merrily against our lances' butt, And our bugles ring out clearly in the coolness of the dawn, You can see the guidons waving as the ranks begin to shut, And the morning sun beams forth on the sabers that are drawn. Then the bits begin to jangle and our horses paw the air, When we vault into the saddle and we grasp the bridle-rein; Of danger we are fearless and for death we do not care, For we fight for good Don Carlos and the grim grandees of Spain. So to horse and away, At the break of day, With never a thought of fears; For Spain and the right We'll die or we'll fight, Sing ho, for the cavaliers! As we gallop through the villages or through the sylvan glades, Merry maid and buxom matron smile and wave as we ride by; There are broken hearts behind us as well as broken blades, For the cavaliers are gallants till the war-notes rend the sky. But when summer breezes waver and grow cold with news of war, We gird our good swords closer and we arm us for the fight; Maid and wine cup fade behind us, lance and helmet to the fore, And we wheel into our battle line for Carlos and the right. So to horse and away, At the break of day, With never a thought of fears; We'll die or we'll fight, For Spain and the right; Sing ho, for the cavaliers When at last the brazen bugles ripple out the ringing charge, We rise up in our stirrups and we wave our swords on high, The dust clouds rise beneath us, and the demons seem at large-- The cavaliers are charging in to conquer or to die. Grim death may claim his victims from out our whirling ranks, Our plumes may be down-trodden in the grimy, bloody sod: The cavaliers will meet their fate without a word of thanks, But they've died for good Don Carlos, for old Spain, and for their God. So to horse and away, At the break of day, With never a thought of fears; We'll die or we'll fight For Spain and the right; Sing ho, for the cavaliers! _Literary Monthly_, 1897. RECOMPENSE CHARLES P. PARKHURST '98 At dawn he toils the steep to gain the flower, The lure that beckons from the height afar; Noon wanes to eve, the bloom has fled, but lo! High in the purple night there gleams a star. _Literary Monthly_, 1897. CERVERA AT ANNAPOLIS HENRY R. CONGER '99 They crowded round to see him, great and small, The conquered admiral of a conquered fleet, Shorn of his glories, thrown from his high seat, Great by the very greatness of his fall. Hope, honor, fortune, lost beyond recall, Greyhaired and bitter-hearted; doomed to meet His country's censure, sharper than defeat; His foeman's pity--that was worst of all. He heard them faintly, as one hears, amuse, Amid his vision voices far away That call him from sad dreams to sadder day; For he was where he would be could he choose, At peace beneath the waters of the bay, Where all his ships lay silent with their crews. _Literary Monthly_, 1898. THE ANSWER DWIGHT W. MARVIN '01 I wondered why the western hills were always smiling so, Until one evening when the heavens were like a fiery sea; For, as the Sun crept down the sky amid the sunset-glow, He paused upon the western hills, and kissed them tenderly. _Literary Monthly_, 1900. ONE OF THE PLODDERS HARRY JAMES SMITH '02 Through the gathering gloom of a summer evening a young man walkedwearily up the dusty road toward the Waring farmhouse. In each hand hecarried a brimming pail and as he stepped along the milk in themflopped softly against their tin sides. Out from the white streak ofsky behind his figure stood strongly relieved in silhouette, large, stooping, dispirited. The whole attitude was one of extreme fatigue, though for the silence and automatic movement of him you might almostthink him a piece of ambulatory mechanism. Once or twice, to be sure, he turned his head, perhaps to look off over the cultivated fields andto calculate the labor still to be put on them, or possibly to draw asort of unconscious, tired satisfaction from these encouraging resultsof so many weary hours. At any rate his pace never altered. Overheadthe large maple trees reached their glooming branches in a mysterious, impenetrable canopy that rustled softly in the dusky silence. For thenight was still, despite the squeaking of katydids and the distantpeep of frogs. Along the sides of the road as it stretched on aheadlike a brownish ribbon and vanished under the farther trees, ran stonewalls, low and massive, and sharply hemming in the dusty highway fromthe cool, green fields beyond. David Waring was not consciously aware of anything in the world, buthis whole body was alive to the anticipation of the near end of hisday's work. A few minutes more and he should have set the milk intothe coolers, thrown off his overalls, and washed himself in coldspring water--and then he could drop into a chair on the quiet porchand take his ease. Quite unexpectedly just ahead of him a young woman stepped out fromthe shadow of a tree and sprang lightly into the road. "Hello, David!"she said, waiting for him to come up to her. "You look as tired as aplough-horse. What's the matter?" "Well, I am, Janet. It doesn't hardly seem as if I could push one footahead of another. Here I've been working all day long, and only justdone at eight or nine o'clock. " "Poor boy, " answered the girl. "Come and sit down a few minutes whileI talk to you. I didn't go round to the house because I knew yourfather and mother would be off at meeting. " David needed no urging. He placed the pails of milk by the roadsideand together the two sat down by the stone wall. "I'd let you put your arm around me if you didn't smell so cowy, " saidJanet with a little laugh. "That's not my fault, " he answered. "Somebody's got to milk the poorold beasts, and I don't know who would if I didn't. That doesn't makeme like it, though. Oh Janet, when I feel as tired as I do to-night Iget terribly sickened with all this humdrum life on the farm! It'sjust work, work, from morning till night and when you get done you'retoo tired to read or talk or do anything but just go to sleep like abig ox. If it weren't for father's and mother's sakes I believe I'dquit the old place in a minute. If I could only go off somewhere--anywhere, only to be out of sight of the farm!" "Well, I like that, Mr. Waring, " said the girl, with a look halfindignant, half smiling. "Is _that_ the only thing that keeps youhere? I guess perhaps it's time for me to go home now. " "Oh, Janet, don't take it that way! You know what I mean. I'm justsick and tired of the whole business, and I wish to goodness I couldthrow it over. By the way, I suppose you know my brother's coming homefrom Yale to-morrow. It's almost two years since I've seen him exceptfor a week or two. I guess he'll have changed some; his letters soundso, anyway. " "That's just what I came down to ask you about. I heard it yesterdayand I'd be awfully glad if you two would come up to supper day afterto-morrow--that's Sunday. I'm so anxious to see him because I knowhe'll have lots to tell us about college and the city and things likethat. Oh, David, I get tired too of always staying here in the countryand teaching school forever, when there are so many things to learnand so much to see off there in the world. That's what Loren can tellus about. It'll be next best to getting off somewhere one's self. " During the course of the conversation the streak of white in the westhad turned to gray and the night was rapidly closing down. The girljumped to the ground; "Good-night, " she said, as she started away, "I'll see you both Sunday, --sure, now!" David picked up his milk-pails and completed the work of the day. Alittle later he had seated himself on the porch. He felt discontentedand unhappy though he could not have told exactly why. But one thingwas evident--he was not anticipating Loren's home-coming with muchpleasure. He felt, in fact, a certain reluctance, or rather timidity, about meeting this younger brother of his who knew so much and talkedso much, and seemed to enjoy himself so thoroughly. He anticipatedkeenly the difference that two years must have brought between them, and dreaded the time when they should be put side by side once moreand compared. For David, too--the older of the boys by a year--hadexpected to go to college and till the time came had never doubted theexpediency of it. But, as is so often the case, that merry-makingforce in human affairs that we call Circumstance--or is itProvidence?--had it fixed up otherwise. Mr. Waring had suddenlylighted upon chronic poor health as a daily companion on the walk oflife, and his time was so much engrossed therewith that David seemedcalled upon--nay, impelled--to become the main-stay of the farm; Lorenwas still too young; financial affairs were far from encouraging; Mrs. Waring looked constantly to her older son for advice and assistance;in short, the golden gate of the future seemed to be drawing to, without any voluntary effort of his own. Yet he had often recalledsince then the night--that breathless night in August four yearsago--when he and his dearest ambition had had their last battle, andhe had forced it to cover. "Loren shall have the best chance I cangive him, " he had said to himself, with his teeth gritted, "and Godhelp me to stick it out here on the farm!" Thus it was, that, asusual, Dame Circumstance had won out by a good margin. And now Loren had been two years at Yale and was coming home for thesummer. Loren had learned a vast deal at college; among other scrapsof intelligence he had discovered that his family were a littleoutlandish, and that Melton was altogether too slow a place for arational being like himself to exist in except, at the best, for a fewsummer weeks. His latest letter, received only yesterday, was acharacteristic one, and David had unintentionally resented its tone ofbreezy self-assurance: ". .. I suppose I shall show up at fair Melton, "it had read, "about 2:35 on Saturday, unless, that is, I happen to geta few days' invite to New York. Of course David will be down to meetme and bring my trunk up. " The words were innocent enough, but theyhad insinuated their way into his mind and rankled there like an evilthing. "Yes, _of course_ I will be down, " he said to himself somewhatbitterly; "of course I will, that's to be expected. And bring up histrunk for him; yes, that's just what I like--the chance to fetchLoren's trunk, and I like his way of taking it all for granted, too. " The mental transition to the matter of Janet's invitation was anatural one. He began to wish that she hadn't been in such a hurryabout giving it. What could she want of Loren? He wasn't anything toher. Why did she have to be all the time hankering after new friends?"New friends!" With a slight internal start David realized that onlythree years ago Loren had never been away from home. "New friends!"Why, Janet had known them both ever since the old days of skip-ropeand hide and seek! What more natural than that she should want to seeher old play-fellow again? Why should _he_ complain? Hadn't she saidonce, "I love you, David, " and wasn't that enough to make him trusther? A little way down the road he heard the step of some one approachingand in a moment the shape of a man grew visible through the darkness. He turned, opened the gate, and stepped to the porch. In his hand hecarried a suit-case. This he set down heavily and approached the door. David sprang to his feet. "Why Loren, is that you? We weren'texpecting you to-night. " "Well, how are you, old boy?" cried the new-comer. "It's bully good tosee you again. No, I didn't expect to get up to-night, but therewasn't much doing at college and I didn't get my invite, so I thoughtI might as well come on home. Where are the folks?" "Out at meeting just now, but they'll be back in a little while. Sitdown, you must be tired. " Loren took a chair and sunk into it with a sigh of comfort. "You'reright I am. I tell you it's hard work to walk a mile and a half with asuit-case. And all the time you were just sitting comfortably out hereon the veranda listening to the katydids. " He drew out his pipe andlit it. "Well, how are all the folks? Same as usual?" "I guess so. Father's failing a little, and mother worries a gooddeal, but keeps pretty well. " "That's good. They must be mighty glad to have one of us at home tolook after things. Lord, but I've often imagined you outdoors drivingaround in the open air and enjoying life when I've been plugging upfor some beastly exam. But, apropos of the health bulletin, etc. , isJanet Manning here still, or has she gone off to college?" "No, she's teaching school at the Corners. I saw her a minuteto-night, and she invited us up to supper there on Sunday. " "Good! That's something like. Shall be much charmed to see the littleschoolma'am again. She's a slick little girl--at least she used to be. In my opinion she's wasting her time up here in the woods. Why, thatgirl's got ability, and I call it a shame for her to bury herself inthe country just for her mother's account. But say, isn't that a wagoncoming?" The two went down to the gate and stood there waiting for the buggy todraw up. When Mr. And Mrs. Waring were out, David took the horse tothe barn and unharnessed in the dark. Then he reentered the house, andwithout saying anything more than "Good-night, " went up to his room. II It was late in the afternoon of an August day. From the high gablewindows of the barn the yellow sunlight shot through the dusty air ina long, straight shaft and rested on the lower part of the haymow, gilding every dry wisp with a temporary and fatuous splendor. Elsewhere in the barn it was already half dark. On one side the hayrose up in a tremendous heap almost to the roof, where it vanisheddimly in the dusky shadows. Opposite were the cow-stables, five ofthem in a row, each occupant munching her cud contentedly and now andthen giving vent to a soft, self-satisfied low. From one of the stallscould be heard the rhythmical squirt of milk against the milking-pail, for David was engaged upon his evening work. On a rickety chair nearthe hay-loft sat Janet, holding a timid little barn cat in her lap andstroking it nervously. She was speaking in a voice that betrayedconsiderable agitation. "Well, I'm just going to leave it with you to decide, for I'm notready to do it myself. But it does seem to me that it's the chance ofa lifetime. It's just a question of whether I shall always stay onhere teaching district school, or see a little of the world and have achance to go on studying. " She stopped, and a moment of strained silence ensued, broken only bythe sound of the milking. David pressed his head against the flank ofthe cow and choked back something in his throat. Then he managed tospeak. "Of course, Janet, " he said, with an attempt at composure. "I can seehow it must attract you--this opportunity of going off to college, andI don't mean to put anything in your way. Such questions a person hasto decide for one's self, and I don't see how I can give you anyhelp. " "Yes, there you are again. You just won't say yes or no; but I am sureall the time that you don't really want me to go. You'd like to keepme here at home, just an ignorant, stupid country girl. Why don't youwant me to make something of myself, David? I know I've got ability, and you know it as well as I do, but it isn't of any use to me here. Wouldn't you feel proud of me if I went off and did something worthwhile?" David could not answer at once. He sat with his eyes shut, his kneespressed rigidly against the pail, and against his head he felt thewarm, throbbing pulse of the animal in front of him. Upon his mind apicture was forcing itself with cruel insistence. It was the Janet ofa year hence, well-dressed, sedate, intellectual, with all her newcollege interests to talk of; and side by side with this he sawhimself--what would _he_ be? Just the same as ever, only a little moreawkward and out of date, and when he talked it would be of--yes, hiscows, and the new pig, and the price of potatoes! It was Loren whowould be suited to her then; it was they who would sit under the treestogether and the farmer could go about his chores. The impossibilityof her continuing to love him struck him with a new pang ofconviction, and he felt helpless before it. "Why don't you say something, David?" asked the girl, rapping her footon the floor and unconsciously pulling the kitten's fur. "You're notangry with me, are you?" David saw that he must speak, and he determined to dissimulate nolonger. "No, Janet, but can't you see how it must look to me? How canyou expect me to be happy over it? Do you suppose, dear, that youcould feel toward me, after a year at college, just as you do now?Don't you see how it would separate us and you'd have all your newfriends and studies to take up your time and I'd just be ploddingalong here in the woods like a clod of turf? How could you ever keepon loving me? Don't you see, Janet, how it sort o' breaks my heart tosay yes?" The jets of milk shot into the pail with an angry rapidity. The bar ofsunlight lay almost horizontally now across the upper emptiness of thebarn, transforming the thick-hung cobwebs into golden draperies andaccentuating the twilight gloom below. Janet threw the kitten out ofher lap and, jumping from the chair, walked nervously to the windowand looked out absently upon the meadow below. "Well, I supposed it would come to that, " she said, with someindignation in her voice. "It's nice to feel that you can't trust meout of your sight. Don't you think that if you really loved me as yousay you'd be as glad as I was that I could get a better education? Butof course, if you're afraid to trust me, why, I suppose I can give itup. " The strain of decision had been a hard one for Janet, and she was nowon the verge of giving way under it. Her shoulders shook, and she puther face in her hands. David heard her sobbing softly. "Janet, " he said, "if you think that this is going to be a valuablething for you, I'm not going to say a word against it. You know thatevery wish I've got is for your good, and that's God's truth. If youthink it's best to go, I'm going to try to think so too, and I'll doeverything I can to make you happy. " Janet had left the window and came toward him, a joyful smile breakingthrough her tears. "You are a dear, good boy, and I love you, " shesaid, and allowed him to kiss her. He held her long in his big armsand his own eyes filled with burning tears. He could not banish the thought that this might be the last time. III The gray desolation of a March afternoon brooded out over the widemeadows, out over the dim woods beyond, and still on to thehalf-visible hills in the distance, where it merged itselfimperceptibly into a low, lead-colored sky. Though the rain was notfalling, everything dripped with the damp. In front of the Waringfarmhouse the road, wallowing with fat mud, stretched off in a dirtystreak under the glistening limbs of the maples. The door of the houseopened and David came out. His mother followed him anxiously. "David, I hope it isn't bad news, " she asked, laying her hand lightlyon his shoulder. "Can't you tell me about it?" "Not now, mother. It's nothing very unexpected; I'll tell you later, but I'd rather wait a little while. " He pushed open the gate andstepped out into the road, his heavy boots sinking in to half theirheight. The mother watched him with strained attention as he set off towardsthe barn. There was a sort of savage aimlessness in his gait. Hisshoulders were bent forward, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and he looked neither to the one side nor the other of the road. Atthe barnyard gate he seemed to hesitate a second, then turned in, andthe small, gray-haired woman on the step sighed and went back into thehouse. David strode deliberately through the yard and out of the gate on theother side--the one that opened on the sloping meadow behind the barn. Not a living thing was in sight. A chill, white fog had slowly settledover the land, obliterating outline and color, toning everything downto a monotonous sameness of appearance--a flat, unrelieved vacancy. David walked on mechanically, unmindful of any destination or definitepurpose; a dumb bitterness wrung his heart, and, in comparison withthat, all that was external and objective seemed unaccountable. Involuntarily he thrust his hand into his coat and drew out a letter. He had read it twice already. * * * * * "My dear David, --I hardly know how I am to tell you what I know I musttell you--and if not now, certainly before many more weeks pass. Letme admit then first of all that you were right in your anticipation ofwhat college life would do for me. It _has_ changed my ways of lookingat things more than I can tell you, and things that once seemed verybeautiful to me are so no longer. This was inevitable and we need notregret it, for I know that the aggregate enjoyment of life has beenincreased, at least potentially. You may know that your brother Lorenspent part of his Christmas vacation here, and he has just been hereagain for a flying visit. Need I tell you the result, David? I thinkyou foresaw it long ago, and I cannot of course feel sad that thingshave come about in this way, though I realize that for a time, atleast, it may be hard for you to understand it. But there are manyinterests we have in common, he and I; I know that you will seesometime that we were made for each other and that you will be happywith us in our great happiness. "I doubt whether this news will much surprise you, for I know, fromthe tenor of your latest letters, you have noticed a change and havebeen suspicious of the truth. .. . " * * * * * Ah, yes, he had noticed it and had had suspicions; but to have it cometo this, and so suddenly--it was more than he could bear. His throatached and his hands were wet with perspiration. He looked up into thesky and saw nothing there to help him--nothing but a roofless expanseof drizzling gray fog. Not a bird chirped in the distance. The brookdown below him ran on silently without an audible ripple. Everythingwas silent and motionless. If only a cow would low or a hen wouldcackle back in the barnyard, life would be a bit more tolerable. Itwas as if all the world had become soulless and dead. How he had loved her! . .. No other thought could find entrance in hismind . .. And now, it was all over. She belonged to some one else andhad left him without a thought, almost, of the pain it was going tobring him. "Hard to understand!" She was wrong: he had understood itfrom the first, and far better than she. Had he not told her so thatafternoon when they sat together in the barn? But understanding itmade it no more easy to bear. He wondered whether he could bear it. Heseemed so cruelly alone with his sorrow. The silence seemed shoutingat him. Suddenly, without knowing why, he looked back to the barn. A littlefigure, wrapped in a plaid shawl, was coming towards him: it was hismother. A sharp thrill of tenderness ran through him. "Poor littlemother, " he said softly, "you are longing to help me, " and, somewhatashamed of the way in which he had left her recently, he turned andwalked back to meet her. "Come with me to the barn, " she said, and together they returned, silently, each timid of the other. Entering the building they sat downon the hay, side by side. "Read that, mother, " he said, and handed herthe letter. She glanced it through, and then, taking his hand in hers, faltered gently, "My poor boy! I can guess what it must mean to you. " He put his head down in her lap and sobbed like a child, while shestroked his hair and face and spoke shy words of sympathy. "David, " she said, "it was for your father and me that you gave upcollege. Perhaps you think we don't appreciate it, because we neversay much. I know what it has cost you and how nobly you have stuck toyour duty, and you know that in God's sight whatever may come of ityou have done the kindest thing. " "Oh, but mother, that doesn't make it any easier to lose Janet. Shewas so much to me, and we were going to be so happy together. " "Hush, little boy, you mustn't take it so hard. Perhaps some dayyou'll see that it was for the best. " The afternoon light was fading and the rain was beginning to fallsoftly outside. In the dimming light the two continued sitting theretogether, hardly speaking a word, for what comfort could words bring?And slowly a vague peacefulness began to fall upon his heart under thegentle touch of his mother, and rising, he kissed her silently andwent out to his work. _Literary Monthly_, 1902. THE ENDITING OF LETTERS STUART P. SHERMAN '03 "Now for enditing of Letters: alas, what need wee much adoe about a little matter?" In a letter to Miss Sara Hennel, George Eliot writes that "there arebut two kinds of _regular_ correspondence possible--one of simpleaffection, which gives a picture of all the details, painful andpleasurable, that a loving heart pines after . .. , and one purely moraland intellectual, carried on for the sake of ghostly edification inwhich each party has to put salt on the tails of all sorts of ideas onall sorts of subjects. " These two classes embrace, perhaps, the greatbulk of letters, but George Eliot says there is a third class to whichher correspondence with Miss Hennel belongs--one of _impulse_. Strictly speaking, all of the letters which really belong as such toliterature come under this last head. The result of a perfect fusionof the two other styles, they exhibit a sparkle, a pungency, andlightness of touch, which take the curse from mere gossip, supple thejoints of intellectual disquisition, and mark unmistakably theepistolary artist. The letter-writer, no less than the poet, is born, not made, and his art, though for the most part unconscious, is noless an art. The expression of every sentiment, the choice of everyword, however random it may seem, is determined for the born enditerof epistles by a sense of fitness so exquisite that its niceties ofdistinction escape analysis and only its more general principles canbe enunciated. The most vital of these principles is pretty generally observed. Thackeray perceives it when at the close of a delightful letter toMrs. Brookfield he exclaims, "Why, this is almost as good as talk!" Hewas right: it was written talk. If read aloud with pauses for thecorrespondent's reply, the perfect letter would make perfectconversation. It should call up the voice, gesture, and bearing of thewriter. Though it may be more studied than oral speech, it must appearno less impromptu. This, indeed, is its essential charm, that itcontains the mind's first fruits with the bloom on, that it exhalecarelessly the mixed fragrance of the spirit like a handful of wildflowers not sorted for the parlor table but, as gathered among thefields, haphazard, with here a violet, there a spice of mint, astrawberry blossom from the hillside, and a sprig of bittersweet. Thisis the opportunity for the clergyman to show that he is not alltheologian, but part naturalist; the farmer that he is not allploughman, but part philosopher. This is the place for little buds ofsentiment, short flights of poetry, wise sermons all in three lines, odd conceits, small jests rubbing noses with deacon-browed moralities;in short, for every fine extravagance in which the mind at playdelights. Sickness and sorrow, too, and death, if spoken of reverentlyand bravely, must not be denied a place. So we shall have a letter nowall grave, now all gay, but generally, if it be a good letter, partgrave, part gay, just as the mingled threads are clipped from the websof life. That such a letter cannot be written with white gloves goes withoutsaying. The first requisite is freedom from stiffness. The realm ofgood letters is a republic in which no man need lift his hat toanother. It is hail-fellow well met, or not met at all. So when thehumble address their superiors, or when children write to austeregrandfathers, they suffer from an awkwardness of mental attitude whichis the paralysis of all spontaneity. Before the indispensable ease canexist, certain relations of equality must be established. But thereare some whose fountains of speech, in letters as in conversation, lieforever above the line of perpetual snow. They never thaw out. Boundby a sort of viscosity of spirits, that peculiar stamp of theAnglo-Saxon temperament, they are incapable of getting their thoughtsand emotions under way; with the best will in the world, genuinewarmth of feeling, minds stocked with information on all subjects, they are never fluent. The man with no ear must not hope to be amusician, nor the man with no fluency a letter-writer. Yet this is notall. You will find some at perfect ease in conversation who, touchingpen to paper, exhibit the affected primness commonly ascribed to themaiden aunt. They have not learned that this is a place where wordsmust speak for themselves without comment of inflection, gesture ofthe hand, or interpreting smile. Here to be unaffected one must takethought. As on the stage a natural hue must be obtained by unnaturalmeans, so in the writing of letters one must a trifle overdo in orderto do but ordinarily. A word which rings on the lips with frankcordiality will stare coldly from the written page and must beheightened to avoid offense. This is a license requiring the exerciseof moderation and the utmost tact. Not all expressions suitable forconversation need reinforcement in black and white. In speaking onefrequently raps out a phrase whose literalness one's eyes warn thelistener to question. These must be toned down or glossed. An exampleof the toned down variety, which illustrates as well men's fondnessfor assailing their friends with opprobrious epithet, is offered byDarwin when he writes, "I cannot conclude without telling you that ofall blackguards you are the greatest and best. " If Darwin had beentalking face to face with Fox, he would doubtless have called him ablooming blackguard outright. A writer in a journal of psychology points out the strong psychic linkexisting between a certain short expletive of condemnation and arefractory collar-button. These words seem to come at times chargedwith the very marrow of the mind, and, if the letters of a man whooccasionally indulges in them be wholly purged of them, the letterslose one of their most distinctive characteristics. The point to bemade is, that the personal word is all-important, that till the factis related to the writer, it is dead. If we want news, we can consultthe dailies; but in letters facts are little, ideas about factseverything. That is to say, all events, especially the more trifling, should be shown through the colored glass of the writer's personality. What concerns you is not what happened, but what relations thehappening bears to you and your correspondent. When once the personal vein is struck, nothing is so easy as to find atheme for a letter. The materials are only too plentiful if the eyesand heart are open to receive them. Stevenson wrote that he scarcelypulled a weed in his garden without pondering some fit phrase toreport the fact to his friend Colvin, and we may be sure that the weedwas not allowed to wither, but when it was transplanted, flourishedagain and reached its destination in a veritable Pot of Basil. Nogreat events are necessary; the plainest incident, the morning'sshopping, is as good as a Pan-American exposition for ideas tocrystallize about, since exactly in proportion as an event is embeddedin opinion, comment, and feeling, must its value as an epistolary itembe rated. While the born letter-writer is driving a nail or polishinga shoe, a thought apropos of his occupation or of stars, perhaps, drops complete and perfect like ripe fruit in an orchard. It matterslittle; seen through the eyes of a friend, all homely things areinvested with an extrinsic interest and a new glory not their own. . .. By the very nature of the composition a mean man cannot possiblywrite a good letter. When we cast about for a perfect exemplar of theepistolary style, we must of necessity look among the high-souledmen--Cowper, Lamb, FitzGerald, Hearn--for where else shall we find oneto stand the test of self-revelation? Happily, one of the blithest, manliest, completest spirits of our times was a matchless writer ofletters--Stevenson. Aching for absolute honesty of style and makingclearness almost synonomous with good morals, he has given us in theVailima collection and in the two larger volumes of his correspondencean almost unexampled self-revelation. The man Stevenson is _in_ them, "his essence and his sting. " The grip of his hand and the look of hiseye lose none of their force in the transparent medium through whichthey are constrained to pass. Knowing that a man who constantly giveshis best finds his best constantly growing better, he never hoardedhis ideas for publication, but poured his intellectual riches into anote to a friend as freely as if each line were coining him gold. Itresults that the lover of Stevenson would almost prefer to give up allthe romances rather than the letters. For they feel that in thiscorrespondence, besides finding the qualities which distinguish theother works, they have met face to face and known personally theromancer, the essayist, the poet, and above all the man who, ridden byan incubus of disease, spoke always of the joy of living, the man whoknew hours of bitterness but none of flinching, the man who grappledwith his destiny undaunted, and, when death hunted him down in a SouthSea island, fell gallantly and gazing unabashed into "the bright eyesof danger. " Stevenson approached close to the beau ideal of epistolary art. Whenwe and our friends have achieved it, distance will be annihilated andthere will be no such thing as separation. We shall draw from ourlittle box a small white packet, and, though Nostradamus may offer usevery secret of magician or alchemist in exchange for it, we shallrefuse offhand. How shall he lure us with a shadow, a ghostlyvisitant, savoring of the pit and summoned only by the mostmarrow-freezing incantations? Here in our hand is a mysterious, morepotent charm, bringing us the warm, human personality of the man. Weare not spiritualists, yet here sealed in the white packet is anincorporal presence. Given but a mastery of the twenty-six signs andtheir combinations, and lo, the heart of our friend served up inBoston bond! Then, as for enditing of letters, we shall rise up andcall them blessed who have made "much ado about a little matter. " _Literary Monthly, 1901. _ GREYLOCK MAX EASTMAN '05 This whole, far-reaching host of ancient hills That all thy kingdom's rugged boundary fills, Yields thee unrivalled thy supremacy. 'Tis not by chance that they thus kneel to thee; Those scars, that but increase thy grandeur, tell Of battles thou hast fought--and hast fought well, For, conquered at thy feet, two giants lie Who once did dare their sovereign to defy. When earth with sea, and earth with earth, and sea With sea, all mingled, fought for mastery, Then didst thou meet thy foes, and by thy might Didst win, and since hath kept, thy regal right. _Literary Monthly_, 1901. TO SIDNEY LANIER MAX EASTMAN '05 Thy name is not the highest in thy art, Though music sweet thou singest in thy songs That unto thee alone of all belongs, Uplifting Love in every burdened heart; Thou hast not left us perfect poetry; But thou hast left by far a greater thing, A poem such as man did never sing-- Thine own brave life, a lifelong victory. _Literary Monthly_, 1902. THE LIFTING OF THE CLOUDS SHEPARD ASHMAN MORGAN '06 All day long a reeking mist had been rolling across the valley, attimes all but obscuring the Peak where it rose between its pair offlanking hills. Sifting clouds had surged and seethed in the Cleft, asthose who dwelt in its vicinity called the interval between the twohills and the loftier and more distant Peak, and rose now and thenbarely enough to reveal the greater mountain, but never yet had quitecleared the summit. The mist had slimed the whole world with a coatingof wet, and when the wind chanced to set the bare limbs of the treesto swaying, the drops would spatter on the ground and scarcely beabsorbed, so waterlogged was the earth. Mrs. Trent rolled up her knitting in a napkin, picked a few stray bitsof yarn from her black dress, and stepped to the window. She lookedout across the valley toward the Cleft to see if perchance the cloudswould open enough to permit her a view of the Peak. Not once, but manytimes that day had she arisen from her work to search for a glimpse ofthe mountain, but every time she had failed. "No, it's hidden, still hidden, " she murmured half aloud. "It is hardto be shut up here with my thoughts, --with such thoughts. I wish theclouds would lift and let me see the Peak. Then I am sure that thingswould not seem so dark. If I could only get one glimpse, I would feelalmost, yes, almost as though Doctor McMurray had been here and hadtold me he was sorry. " She stood looking out the window for a time, but the clouds onlygathered more heavily in the Cleft and the Peak remained shrouded inthe mist. At last she turned wearily back toward her chair, and wasabout to resume her knitting when her ear caught the sound of wheelspausing before the house. She hastened across the room toward the doorand threw it open with a gesture of fear, as though she had beenanticipating the coming of unwelcome visitors and now had reason tosuppose that they had arrived. The tremor of suspense, however, quickly passed, for she saw outside no less a person than DoctorMcMurray himself. "Doctor, " she called, "put your horse in the barn and come in. It doesmy heart good to see you. " Presently the door opened and the old minister's face appeared, thatface which had looked in at every house in the valley whenever troublebrooded there, and always had brought with it good cheer and hope fornow close upon half-a-century. "A wet day, Mrs. Trent, a wet day. But seems to me there are signs ofclearing. It is always much pleasanter to look for fair weather thanfor foul, don't you think so?" Mrs. Trent nodded. "Doctor McMurray, " she said, "I was almost afraid to go to the doorwhen I heard you drive up; I thought the lawyers might be comingalready. " "The lawyers?" he echoed, "What, can they be troubling you again?" "Yes, I got a letter from the district attorney's office yesterdaysaying that he would send a couple of men out to-day. " "I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Trent, for I know it will be hard foryou to go over the thing again. I had hoped that when your husband'strial was over they would let you alone. Now that poor Jacob has paidthe biggest price a man can pay, it seems that common decency ought tokeep them from worrying you about the matter any more. " "Well, " she said, clasping her hands and looking absently out thewindow, "I presume they want to make quite sure. Mrs. Withey's case iscoming up again the first of the week, you know, and there must be nomistake. " "But I can't see how there can be any mistake, " exclaimed the doctor. "At Jacob's trial everything was so clear, his guilt was so fixed, that there seemed no chance for a mistake. Mrs. Trent, it looked tome, prejudiced in favor of your husband as I was, that there could beno doubt that Jacob gave old Mr. Withey the arsenic and that Mrs. Withey was his equally guilty accomplice. I think this second trialmust only be a repetition of the first, and that Mrs. Withey must befound the murderess of Andrew Withey, just as Jacob Trent was provenmurderer. " Mrs. Trent leaned forward in her chair. Her hands were clenched andevery muscle in her frail body was drawn tense. The look in her eyesstartled the good doctor, and, thinking that he had recalled tooharshly the ugliness of her husband's crime, hastened to make amends. "Mrs. Trent, " he said, "I am sorry that I spoke so. It was cruel ofme. " "No, no, " the woman answered thickly, "I am used to that, it doesn'tshock me to hear so much about Jacob now. But tell me, doctor, tellme, are you sure she will not get off? Will they treat her as they didJacob?" "What, Mrs. Trent, you surely wouldn't wish trouble to any fellowcreature if it could be avoided, would you?" "Doctor McMurray, " replied Mrs. Trent in a very low voice which seemedto come from her inmost soul, "Doctor McMurray, that woman robbed meof my husband, of Jacob, and then led him to a murderer's grave. Thatis so. Do you know, now that so many weeks have gone by since theytook Jacob away, sometimes I feel that he is true to me somewhere, andthat she, that woman, was the one who led him on to do wrong. You askme if I would see any fellow creature suffer. I answer no; but I saytoo that that woman has no claim to be fellow creature to any humanbeing. She robbed me of my husband. " For a time the two sat in silence. The rain continued to drip, dripfrom the eaves, and the Cleft was still clogged with mist. Then theold doctor broke the silence. "I am afraid we do wrong, Mrs. Trent, in brooding over these troublesof ours. Heaven knows you have provocation. There seems to be no doubtbut that your husband gave arsenic to old Mr. Withey, and it seems themore grievous when we think that the natural ailments of the old manmust soon have hurried him across the Great River in any case. It isalso true that he did it for the love of a woman whose youth andbeauty he conceived to have won him heart and soul. But, Mrs. Trent, it is also a fact that we are here to live above these things, hard asthey may seem, and to forgive those who do us ill. " Mrs. Trent rose from her chair and stepped toward the window whichlooked out toward the Peak. Her hands, which she had folded behind herback, worked convulsively. "The Peak, " she said at last. "The Peak is covered with clouds; Icannot see. Forgive--forgive her? All is cloudy, I cannot see. " Doctor McMurray, being no common man, said not a word. He softly roseand took his stand beside Mrs. Trent at the window. For some time thetwo stood looking out over the valley, watching the heavy, leadenclouds as they banked themselves up against the opposite hillside. Therain continued to trickle from the eaves, the only sound audible abovethe breathing of the man and woman. At last Doctor McMurray broke thesilence. "It seems to me the clouds aren't lying quite so low on the hills asthey were. I wouldn't be surprised if it was going to clear up. " Mrs. Trent looked at the old man for a moment, and saw his meaning. "Perhaps, " she said doubtfully, "perhaps. " Doctor McMurray moved away from the window and began to draw on hisovercoat. "Why, you're not going, doctor?" exclaimed Mrs. Trent with a note ofdistress in her voice, as her eye took in his action. "Yes, I'm sorry, Mrs. Trent, but I must look in at old Mr. Gebhart'son the way down. The poor man has stomach trouble, I believe--they sayit's just the same thing that Mr. Withey had--and I think he'll belooking for me. " "Doctor, you're so kind, " Mrs. Trent interjected. "You're alwayskeeping an eye out for the unfortunate. But look here. I've got somemedicine out here in the pantry, some Epsom salts, which they used tocome and get for old Mr. Withey. They used to tell me it did him a lotof good. I wish you could wait till I get a little for Mr. Gebhart. " Mrs. Trent hastened from the room, and Doctor McMurray heard hermoving pans and bottles on the shelves as though she were in search ofthe medicine. Suddenly the sound ceased; he waited a minute or two, pacing uneasily up and down the room, with the thought of the sick oldman heavy upon his mind. At last he called: "Mrs. Trent, can't I help you? Don't trouble if you can't find iteasily. " No answer reached his ears for a moment. Then Mrs. Trent emerged fromthe pantry walking unsteadily, as though she carried a terrificweight. Doctor McMurray was at her side in an instant, and led her toa chair. "Tell me, " he urged, "what is it? What is the trouble?" Mrs. Trent covered her face with her hands, and her slender figurebent silently before the strength of her emotion. "Look, " she moaned at last; "go and look for yourself. There are twoof them, two. " Doctor McMurray obeyed. He went into the pantry, and there on a shelfstood two wide-mouthed bottles, very much alike save that one hadnever been opened. He looked at them in silent wonderment, not knowingfor the instant what message they conveyed. He picked them up and readthe labels; then he had an inkling of what they meant, for one wasmarked "Arsenic, " the other "Epsom Salts. " He went back to Mrs. Trent. "You think there has been a mistake?" he said softly. Mrs. Trent raised her head from her hands. Her voice was strained andunnatural as she answered: "I know there has been a mistake, and I know that I made it. " "Tell me why. " "It is very simple. They sent up from Mr. Withey's that last night forsome Epsom salts in a great hurry. I knew there must be some greatneed, so I rushed to the pantry. Jacob wasn't at home. I reached tothe top shelf and pulled down a bottle, one of those bottles. In myhurry I didn't look at the label, but poured the little white crystalsout in a paper, and they took them away. Then I put the bottle back inits place and went on with my work. In the morning I heard Mr. Witheywas dead. " "But the arsenic--the arsenic, " interposed the doctor. "How did it getthere?" "Heaven knows; you remember Jacob used to get it once in a while tokeep his horses in condition. I presume he got a fresh bottle of itabout the same time I got some more Epsom salts, and they were bothput up there on the top shelf together. It is all too plain. I got thebottles mixed and opened the wrong one. " "And so Jacob was innocent?" "Yes, and I could have saved him if I had known in time. Oh, Jacob, Jacob, " she moaned, compressing a world of remorse into the words. "And it was my mistake--my mistake!" "Then Mrs. Withey is innocent, too, " said Doctor McMurray. "Don't youmake it out so?" Mrs. Trent looked up sharply. It seemed as though she had for themoment forgotten her lesser trouble in the new consciousness of thegreater. The mention of the other woman's name brought back all theprofound sense of wrong which she knew she had suffered at her hands. "Mrs. Withey--innocent!" she gasped. "Yes, she is innocent, and you have the power of saving her life. " "Doctor McMurray, that woman robbed me of my husband--both of his loveand of his memory. " Mrs. Trent was in deadly earnest. "But--she is innocent, and you can save her from a wretch's death, "the old man repeated. "Save her--her, who stands in my mind for all that I ought to hate?" "Mrs. Trent, " Doctor McMurray said in a low voice, "you ought to hateno-one, not even if he uses you as Mrs. Withey has used you. If wekeep on hating the clouds will never lift. " Mrs. Trent rose heavily from her chair and labored from her windowthat she might look out across the valley toward the Peak. Her voicewas hoarse as she answered: "Oh, I'm afraid the clouds will never lift. The hatred of that womanis like a fog which closes in upon my soul, and shuts off every beamof sunshine. I can't see through it, and the heaviness of it chokesme. The clouds will never lift. " The old minister came up beside her, and stood looking for a time outtoward the Peak. The mist which all day had hung so low around thefoot of the hills had risen appreciably, and now the Cleft itself wasbeginning to clear, revealing the dark base of the Peak itself. Asingle ray of sunshine shot out of the west and struck straight intothe Cleft. "Look, look, Mrs. Trent, " exclaimed Doctor McMurray. "The Peak isbeginning to show. Don't you think the weather will clear? Ah, it mustclear, it must before they come, before the lawyers come. Tell me, doyou not think it will?" Mrs. Trent's face was very pale. Her eyes gleamed very large andfeverishly bright from beneath her lashes, as they searched theopposite side of the valley. For some moments she kept silent, and forthe second time that afternoon there was no sound in the room save thelabored breathing of the man and woman. At last there became audiblethe slowly increasing creak of a carriage, and the splashing of ahorse's hoofs through the sea of mud in the roadway. Doctor McMurrayheard, and he knew that Mrs. Trent heard also. "Mrs. Trent, " he said softly, "Mrs. Trent, are the clouds lifting? Canyou see the Peak?" Still the woman kept silent. The sounds of the wheels grew momentarilylouder, the voices of men talking broke in upon them, and then thecarriage stopped before the door. "Mrs. Trent, " pleaded the doctor for the last time, "tell me, can yousee the Peak?" He heard the men climb out of the carriage and come up to the door, then a loud knock. Mrs. Trent at last broke her silence. "Doctor McMurray, " she said, speaking quite softly, "Doctor McMurray, do you see? The Peak is clear. All the clouds have lifted!" _Literary Monthly_, 1905. THE FROST KING CHARLES HENRY BRADY '06 When the weary sun, his day's course run, Sinks into the western sea, And the mountains loom in the growing gloom With far-off mystery, When the shadows creep o'er plain and steep With stealthy tread and still, And the fettered stream to its icy dream Is left by the sleeping mill, From the frozen north I then lead forth My swiftly flying bands, In close array on the track of day, As she flees to other lands. From the wintry zone where the forests groan 'Neath burdens of dazzling white, And the tempest's roar as it strikes the shore Turns daylight into night, My armies throng and we march along In the light of the peeping stars, Which smile with glee at our chivalry And the shock of our mimic wars. For when earth and deep in a shroud of sleep Lie peaceful and still below, Supreme I reign in my airy domain, The monarch of ice and snow. _Literary Monthly_, 1095. UNTIL HE COMETH GEORGE BURWELL DUTTON '07 THE CHARACTERS AHASUERUS, the Wandering Jew. ANSELM, a holy monk. A band of travellers, --merchants, peasants, soldiers, who stop at themonastery over night. Monks of the monastery. The time is the twelfth century, a Christmas eve. The place is the great hall of the monastery of St. Cuthbert. The roomis a large one, with cold stone walls and a heavy-beamed ceiling, lighted by flaring torches. The rear wall is broken by a massive oakendoor leading to the courtyard of the monastery, and two rudely glazedwindows. On the right an open doorway leads to the chapel and to oneside of the doorway is a shrine to the Virgin and Child, before whichsome candles burn with wavering flames. On the opposite side of theroom is a huge fireplace with a blazing log fire. The wind is roaringoutside, and even blows through the rude hall in great, gustydraughts, while a fine powder of snow sifts in through crevices ofwindows and door. SCENE I. [The travellers, with some of the monks of the monastery, areseated before the fire. The Jew, bent, gaunt and gray-bearded, standsto one side, unrecognized, muttering to himself indistinctly. He hasevidently just entered, for the melted snow still gleams from hisclothing. The company disregard him, conversing among themselves. ] A SOLDIER. Now, by Our Lady, 'tis a raw cold night-- I mind me when on such a night I lay Unsheltered in the trenches facing Mons In Flanders. A MERCHANT. Hem! Sir Longbeard tells a tale. List, all! THE SOLDIER. By Holy mass-- THE MERCHANT. Ho! Hear the oaths! They 're thick as-- THE SOLDIER. Hark ye! Hush thy meddling tongue! A PEASANT. A quarrel! Mark them! A MONK. Shame! On such a night When angels fill the air, and voices sweet, Mysterious, sing their golden songs of peace-- On this glad night to quarrel? THE SOLDIER. Why, to-night-- THE MONK. On such a night was Christ, our Saviour, born, While all the earth was wrapped in sacred peace. This is the holy eve, and on the morrow, With solemn chant we shall observe the birth Of that sweet Christ-child whom we worship all. THE SOLDIER. Then I'll not quarrel--my hand upon it. There. THE MERCHANT. Nor I. And here's my hand, good soldier. There. [The company is silent for a moment, while the wind moans in the greatchimney. ] THE MERCHANT [crossing himself]. Hark to the wind. Meseemeth that it wails Like some lost soul. THE SOLDIER. Some say it is the soul Of that accursed Jew who crossed our Lord When he was on his way to Calvary, And was condemned to wander ever more Until the Christ a second time should come. [The faces grow solemn, in the fire-light, and the voices arelowered. ] THE MONK. The Jew! Oft have men seen him bent and worn, When darkness fills the earth, still wandering, Still living out his curse. THE PEASANT. List! Hear ye not? THE SOLDIER. Again that mournful wailing of the wind. THE PEASANT. How came he by the curse? THE MONK. Know, when our Lord, Full weary, bore his cross to Calvary, He paused a moment, resting, but this Jew, Ahasuerus--cursed be the name-- Reviled the Saviour, and commanded him To move away. Whereon our blessed Lord: "Because thou grudgest me a moment's rest Unresting shalt thou wander o'er the earth Until I come. " THE SOLDIER. Ah, would I had been there-- The cursed Jew! An arrow through his heart Had stopped his babbling! THE PEASANT. And had I been there, He would have felt the weight of my great fist Ere he had spoken twice. [The Jew mutters indistinctly to himself in his corner. ] THE MERCHANT [in a low voice]. Dost hear the man? Old gray-beard murmurs. THE SOLDIER. How! Is he a Jew? THE MERCHANT. See how he cowers when we look at him. THE MONK. He is no Jew. On this thrice-blessed night No Jew would dare seek shelter in Christ's house. THE PEASANT. Yet they are daring--and men tell strange tales Of bloody rites which they perform apart. THE SOLDIER. May God's high curse rest on their scattered race! [The Jew flashes a quick glance upon them, and then looks down again. An unusually strong gust of wind sweeps through the hall, and strangemoanings are heard in the chimney. ] THE PEASANT. Lost souls! Oh, Mother of Christ! THE MERCHANT. They wail in pain. THE MONK [making the sign of the cross]. 'Tis but the wind--or on this night mayhap We hear the noise of vast angelic hosts That sob to see our Saviour come to earth, A simple Babe, to suffer and to die-- So brother Anselm tells. THE SOLDIER. And what knows he Of angels' doings? THE MONK [terrified. ] Still! Thou impious man! Hast thou not heard the fame of Anselm's name? A very saint on earth, his eyes behold Things hidden from mankind; his face doth glow All radiant from his visions. THE SOLDIER. Wretch that I am! Ah, woe is me to speak thus of God's saint. [The deep-toned monastery bell rings. ] THE MONK. Come, follow me. Below us in the crypt The pious brethren this night have set forth The sacred mystery of Jesus' birth; Shalt see the very manger where he lay. Make haste and come. [The company arise and pass out, all save the Jew. The monk, last, stares at the gaunt figure a moment, opens his lips to speak, thenshakes his head and departs. ] SCENE II. [AHASUERUS, alone. He looks around him, as if to see if anyremain in the room, then slowly moves toward the fireplace and holdshis trembling hands before the fire. ] AHASUERUS. Ah, God of Jacob! Hear the Christians talk. "Dog Jew!" "Accursed Jew!" I hate you all! Your Christ sits on his kingly throne this night-- But I am steadfast. How the very wind Doth buffet me and chill my aged bones! Ringed all about with enemies, I stand Unharmed--for by Jehovah's dreadful curse I live--nor can I die--until He come. How chill the wind sweeps through my withered frame While curses and revilings dog my steps-- My weary, ceaseless steps. Ah, God! To die! Have I not expiated yet my sin?-- To bear life's heavy burden o'er the earth, To wander from Armenia's distant hills, Through desert places now, and now through vales That flow with plenty; now through sordid towns, Until at last I reach the western seas; Then, ever homeless, to repeat my steps? Death were a blessing, yea, a gentle sleep-- To feel delicious numbness seize my limbs, Mine eyes grow heavy, and the weary flight Of immemorial time forever stayed In sleep, in dreamless sleep--would I might die! I am so weary, weary of it all. [He sinks down upon a bench, and is silent for a moment, in deepthought; a smile flits over his face, as at a pleasing memory, thenthe worn, hunted look returns. ] Faint shadows nicker 'round me, and at times Vague dreams of joy experienced long ago Beguile me for a moment, then I wake; Dim musings of that time when, yet a child, I prattled in the shade of Judah's hills And trod her leafy valleys aimlessly-- But that was long, long centuries ago. Sometimes I dream, that when God bade my soul To leave its blest abode and come to earth In this vile guise, all-terrified it prayed This trial and affliction to be spared; But all in vain. And now the curse of God Is on that soul. The darkness hideth not, Oh, Lord, from thee; night shineth as the day. What weariness unspeakable is mine! [He throws himself down on the bench in utter dejection. Suddenly helifts his head--footsteps approach. ] SCENE III. [Enter ANSELM. At first, not aware of another's presence, he kneels before the Virgin's shrine, and mutters a short prayer inLatin. Then he arises and advances slowly, absorbed in meditation. ] ANSELM. This is the eve--the sacred eve of Christ. The wind is wild, and stormy is the night, And yet methinks despite the elements A holy peace pervades the solemn world-- As when amid the hush of earthly strife The blessed Child was born. [The Jew groans to himself, and the monk starts, then looks withhalf-seeing eyes. ] A stranger! Peace be unto you, my son, And may God's holy calm be yours amid The strife and turmoil of the outer world. [AHASUERUS sits motionless. A bell sounds. ] The vespers ring. Come, join with me in prayer; Together let us reverence the God, The great all-Father, who sent unto us A little Child to lead us back to Him. [The Jew acts as if he does not hear, but the monk is already atprayer and does not notice. AHASUERUS gazes steadfastly into the fire, while all is silent but the crackling of the flames and the moaning ofthe wind. Then the monk arises. ] Pray, let me sit beside you; all alone My brethren left you? Let me play the host. [He sits down beside AHASUERUS; the Jew stares at him. ] You seem amazed, fair sir. AHASUERUS [slowly]. I am a Jew. [The monk starts, then sits down again, while the Jew regards himattentively. ] ANSELM. A Jew? AHASUERUS [bitterly]. "Dog Jew, " they call me. ANSELM. God forbid! Yet once I would have scorned thee like the rest. But, long years past, before I sought these walls, Adventurous I rode into the East And underneath the walls of Joppa fell A victim to the fever. Many days I lingered in its grasp, and when I woke To strength, I found a Jew had tended me. E'en then I scorned him, but with gentle words He heaped great coals of fire on my head. And then I dreamed a dream--upon a cross-- Two other crosses near--outlined against A dark and dreadful sky, I saw a man; And lo, it was a Jew--Christ was a Jew. With tears I sought mine host, and told the tale, And he was swift to pardon--he, a Jew. [AHASUERUS will not trust himself to reply, but gazes steadfastly intothe fire. From the adjacent chapel the low notes of an organ fall upontheir ears. ] ANSELM. You speak not. Ah, I wonder not at it. On such a night is meditation good, And soothing to the soul. The wind is high But cannot harm; the torches flicker low, While softly like a benediction falls The distant melody upon our ears; And in the silent watches of the night God's holy Spirit broods o'er all the world And bringeth calm and peace to all mankind. AHASUERUS [wildly]. For me there is no peace--I am the Jew Who, cursed of the Lord, must wander till He comes again. For me no peace, forever! ANSELM [starts]. Thou art that Jew! AHASUERUS [despairingly]. I am that Jew. Farewell. [AHASUERUS pulls his cloak around him and arises to leave. As hetotters toward the door the monk looks after him irresolutely, thenturns his eyes to the Virgin's shrine as if to seek counsel. ] ANSELM [whispers to himself]. Those eyes--still gaze--in mercy. A-a-h, methinks-- How sad they look! [aloud]. Ahasuerus! Hold! [ANSELM hastens after the Jew, and seeks to lead him back. AHASUERUSresists. ] AHASUERUS. Not so! I am accursed. Let me go! ANSELM. Forgive me, if I have offended thee, For I am weak--yet see; I pray you, stay. Without, the night is wild--and here is calm. AHASUERUS. The storm was e'er my lot. ANSELM. But now the calm Invites to rest. AHASUERUS [slowly]. To--rest? [He stands undecided, then submits to be led back to the fire. For amoment neither speaks, then AHASUERUS cries out. ] AHASUERUS. There is no rest For me, nor ever can be, for I Am curst of God. ANSELM. O miserere! Pray! Pray and with you I'll pray. --O, thou sweet Christ, Look down in pity on this erring one! We all like sheep have gone astray; O God, Thou shepherd of the flock, lead us to thee. AHASUERUS [whispers]. May God be merciful! ANSELM. O, holy Babe, That on this night did'st come to earth to seek Thine own, look down upon our need and grant Thy mercy. Holy Mother, intercede. AHASUERUS [brokenly]. Cease, cease. It is enough. O, not for me Is God's high mercy, --I am ever curst. ANSELM. God's mercy is not limited, O, no. His grace is all-sufficient, even for thee. All we are weak and sinful, He is strong. Oh, call upon His name, and He will come. [There is silence for a moment, save for the plaintive notes of theorgan. Suddenly AHASUERUS rises, tears coursing down his cheeks. ] AHASUERUS. At last, O God, at last, my hard heart breaks. I thank thee for these tears; the burden lifts-- Sing unto God, O brother, and rejoice! The darkness disappears, and lo, the light-- Behold, the Light! [As he speaks, a miraculous radiance fills the room; AHASUERUS slowlysinks down upon the floor, ever gazing heavenward in mute adoration, while the monk falls before the Virgin's shrine in prayer. There is asound of many feet from without, and the company of the earlierevening enter noisily, but drop on their knees in awe as they beholdthe miracle. AHASUERUS murmurs in a low voice hardly to beunderstood. ] AHASUERUS. Lord, comest thou--to me? [Then dimly, like a distant strain of music, a wondrous Voice isheard, and by some understood. ] THE VOICE. I come, Ahasuerus; lo, I come. Behold, I stand at the door, and knock; if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him . .. Behold, I come quickly. [AHASUERUS falls back, and a look of deep peace overspreads hiscountenance. The radiance fades away, and there remains only theflickering light of the torches, which are almost extinguished in thegreat gusts of wind that sweep through the room. Far above, the joyouschimes are pealing a welcome to the new day. ] _Literary Monthly_, 1905. THE MASK OF ADELITA GERALD MYGATT '08 To think that it all happened within a rifle shot of the greatest cityin America, in the very outskirts of New York--this was strange. Aromance of old Spain, tingling with the memory of times when menfought single-handed for the toss of a rose or the gleam from underthe black lashes of a _senorita_, or bled and died for the sake of ayellow silken scarf! That such a thing should have happened as it didseems preposterous, and yet, on second thought, it occurred sonaturally that at the time there was no idea of its being in the leastout of place in this prosaic New World. It was like a dream of thepast--and yet it was no dream. It was our Saturday half-holiday and Henderson and I were driving thestagnation of a week's confinement out of our lungs by a long walkinto the country. We were just starting back in the approaching duskwhen a round stone that I happened to step on turned under my foot. Itried to grin, and hobbled along for a moment; then I sat down at theside of the road. "It's my ankle. I don't believe I can make it, Fred. " "Make a try at it, old man. It's only a short mile to the railroadstation and there won't be any footing it from there. Perhaps walkingwill ease it up. " I got up, but after a few steps sat down again. "I'm awfully sorry, Fritz, but I simply can't do it. The thing hurtslike all time. " He stood still and looked about him. The road followed the curve of ahill, at the foot of which flowed a tiny brook. Ahead, it passedthrough a little colony of houses, perhaps twenty in all. The hamlethad an air about it that marked it from numerous others we had walkedthrough that afternoon. The cottages appeared brighter and there weregardens among them that seemed unlike the others we had passed. Nohotel or public house of any kind was to be seen. "I wonder what this place is, " said Henderson. "It doesn't lookespecially alluring. " I looked up from the task of rubbing my ankle. "No, " I commented, "it doesn't seem alluring, and I supposeninety-nine hundredths of the people that pass through here look at itthe same way. But to you, Fred, I'm pretty sure it would be ratherattractive, and I know that it would be to me with this beastly foot. " "What! Stay here all night? I guess not. " "If you only knew what it was, " I ventured. "Probably another of Washington's headquarters, or the site of theBattle of--. " "Wait a minute before you explode, and give me a chance. This is theSpanish colony. " "What?" "The Spanish colony. " "What Spanish colony?" "Of all things, do you mean to tell me that you never heard of it?" "I do. " "Well, " I said, "it's wonderful how much New Yorkers don't know aboutthemselves. This place was settled a long time ago by the fewSpaniards there were in this part of the country, and they've stucktogether ever since. I don't believe there are a hundred people in thecity that know about the place. Maybe it's on account of the war, whenthese people had to keep pretty quiet, but whatever it is, they arehere. I've been through here before and I've often wished that I couldhave stopped off. Now the Lord seems to have taken matters into Hisown hands. " If there was anything Henderson enjoyed it was tales and relics of theold Romance lands, and I knew it. Then there was my ankle, which wasthrobbing painfully. "If your old foot really is as bad as you say, " said Henderson, "why, we can put up here over night. To-morrow is Sunday, you know, and wedon't have to be back. " He spoke condescendingly, but I knew that if I suggested that afterall we might get back he would almost get down on his knees and pleadwith me. So I spared him the trouble. We started again toward thelittle hamlet. Henderson wanted to stop at the first house we came to, but I pulled him on. "Let's tackle that larger white one ahead there to the right, " Isuggested. "It looks to be the best of the lot--and besides, the lasttime I was through here I noticed a mighty pretty girl standing in thedoorway--one of those black-eyed story-book _senoritas_ you so doteon. " "I'm surprised at a man of your age and dignity noticing _senoritas_, "he laughed. Nevertheless he turned into the little garden and raisedthe iron knocker. The door was opened almost instantly by a short, rather stoutish man, well past the prime of life. There was nothing in his dress to markhim from the average middle-class New Yorker, but his face was swarthyand the hair that was not grey was glistening black. We explained ourdesires. "I am afraid you can find no accommodations, " he said, with but theslightest trace of an accent. Henderson said something to him in Spanish, and as he did so the manstared a moment, smiled, showing all his teeth, and then answered inthe same tongue with a flood of words that I could barely understand. Then he took our hats and bowed the way into a little parlor. "Will the _senor_ with the injured foot recline upon the sofa? I willbring in hot water to bathe it. We have a large room upstairs with abed for two, where the _senores_ may pass the night. " He took out alarge gold watch. "It is now quarter before six. Dinner will be servedat half after the hour. Till then the _senores_ may rest. I will bringthe hot water to your chamber. " Promptly at six-thirty Henderson and I descended the stairs. The restand a bath had done us both good, and even my ankle, though badlyswollen, had ceased to give much pain. From the house and from ourhost we had gathered much of interest. His family had come over someseventy-five years ago and had moved directly to the little house, which the widower Senor Lucas de Marcelo and his daughter Adelitastill possessed. Don Lucas himself was a jeweller, going in to thecity every day. We found him waiting for us at the foot of the stairs. "In but a moment dinner will be prepared, " he said. "If the _senores_will pardon me, I must go out to the kitchen. To-night is the bigdance, the _mascarade_, for which Adelita must dress. " He raised hisvoice. "Adela! Hasten, little one. " "I am coming, " called a clear girlish voice. Henderson and I waited in the little parlor. Back in the house wecould hear our host moving about among the pots and pans. Then fromthe top of the stairs there sounded a soft voice: "_Padre_--father!" Don Lucas dropped his work and stepped into the parlor. There was a swish, a click of high heels on the stairs, a flash ofred, with a momentary glimpse of white, and the girl stood before us. The father spoke: "_Senores_, my daughter. " She bent low and then arose, smiling as her father had smiled, showingthe white of her teeth. She was dressed all in red, from the roses inher black hair to her tiny, outrageously high-heeled Spanish slippers. The hair was parted in the middle and drawn back, giving an almostchild-like expression to the handsome face with its snapping blackeyes and full red lips. Under the dark wave behind each ear she hadeffectively pinned a cluster of rose-buds. Over her gleaming shouldersshe had thrown a scarf of the thinnest red silk, and a similar scarf, fringed with black lace, was drawn about her hips and knotted at theleft side. The heavily ruffled skirts fell within a few inches of thefloor, but as she turned they swung higher, showing her slippers and abit of red silk-covered ankle. In her hand she dangled a tiny blackmask. Her father looked at her proudly. "It is the dancing costume of the Old Country, " he explained. "It isin honor of the _mascarade_ to-night. " We passed into the little dining-room. Just before we sat downHenderson managed to whisper to me: "Whew! I guess you're right about the good-looking girl. " All through the meal he watched her covertly, and the moment he tookhis eyes from her face I noticed that she would glance over at him. Then the second he turned her way her eyes would drop and a dull redwould suffuse her face and neck. Whether Henderson noticed it or not Ido not know, but I did. When the coffee was brought in by Adelita ourhost opened a box of mellow cigars, and we passed out into the parlor. In the doorway the girl stopped her father and excitedly whispered inhis ear. "Please, " she pleaded, "you know you are old and do not like to stayso late, and he is young and big and could take as good care of me asyou. Please, _padre_. " "Would it be right?" he queried. Then he thought a moment. "Perhaps--" "_Bueno_, " she cried. "Good. Ask him, _padre_, please, please. " The old man smiled. Then he came over to where Fred and I werestanding. "Did you hear the girl, " he asked, "the little scamp? She thinks I amtoo old to take her to the ball--and too uninteresting. She wishes toknow if the _senores_ would care to go with her in my place. It wouldperhaps be interesting to you. " I guessed what she really wanted, so I spoke: "You go, Fritz. I'd like to, only my foot's too bad. " "I won't go without you, " he said. Here I took him aside and told him what I had seen at the table. "Now, " I said, "if you don't go you're a fool. And personally I'drather stay here anyhow and talk to the _don_. " "All right. I'll do it. " The girl was watching him, and as he spoke she smiled. Then she walkedover to him, put both her hands in his, looked up into his face andlaughed aloud, a cheery, rippling laugh. "For to-night, " she said, "you shall be my cavalier, _mi caballero_. "Then I heard him whisper in Spanish: "I will. And you shall be my lady. " After half an hour of bustling and sewing and rummaging in trunks, there appeared on the stairs some six feet of Spanish cavalier. I heldhim off at arm's length. "Well, old man, you look like a prince. You pretty near match theprincess. But where did you get that rig?" "Oh, the boots and the picture hat"--he nodded his head and thefeather moved majestically--"they belong to old Marcelo. He used towear 'em. They have had a masquerade ball here every year for the pastfifty years, more or less--Don Lucas couldn't quite remember. Theseboots"--they were patent leather with yellow tops--"fit as if theybelonged to me. This cape is an old one of the girl's turned insideout"--it was light yellow satin--"and the red sash is hers too. I tellyou, this is the best fun I've had in years. And isn't the girl aqueen though!" "Well, " I began--but here she came into the room. "It is time, " she said, "that we started, you and I. " Her fatherdescended the stairs. Adelita threw her arms about his neck and kissedhim. "Good-night, _Padre_--till later. _Buenas noches_. Good-night, _senor_. " This to me. "_Buenas noches_, Adela, " murmured the old man. "Good-night, _senor_. Take good care of the daughter. " The father and I passed into theparlor. She took Henderson's hand and led him out of the door. They did not goout of the gate, but turned through the little garden, past the house, and followed a narrow path that ran down the hill. As the grass washigh on either side he followed where she led, holding fast to thehand she stretched out to him. Suddenly as the path dipped down thehill she commenced to run. Henderson held back. She looked over hershoulder, laughing. "Are you afraid to follow?" she asked in Spanish. "No, little one, I am not, " he answered in the same tongue, "but I amafraid that with those high heels you will wrench your ankle. " "Oho, " she laughed, "I was born for this. " But she stopped and walkedslowly. The moon was just rising, big and red, as if it were autumn instead oflate spring. The girl drew in a deep breath. "Look at that, _Senor Federico mio_, look at that. " She still spoke inthe Old World tongue. Now they had reached the little brook that tumbled down through therolling valley. The girl spoke again. "Here the path is wider. You may walk beside me--if you like. " Sheglanced up from under her black lashes. "The hall is but a short halfmile down the stream here to the left. " They proceeded, walkingslowly, the brook purling and murmuring at their side. The girl drewin her breath again, deliberately and deep. "Smell the roses. It is the long arbor of Don Benito, through which wemust pass. Ah, it is wonderful. " The heavy musk of roses seemed literally to fill the bottom of thevale. With it was mingled the scent of the grass and of the fieldflowers. Over all hung the moon, yellow and near. "It is wonderful, " mused Henderson. She came close to him. "Remember, " she said, "to-night I am your lady, and you--you are mycavalier. Take care of the feather in your cavalier's hat, for here isthe arbor. " He bowed his head, and they passed beneath thesweet-scented array of blossoms and buds. Then, as they rounded acorner of the slope, there came to them from far down the valley thesound of music and the glint of lights through the uneasy leaves ofthe maples. "Hear it, " the girl cried, "hear it! They may be dancing. Let ushurry. 'Sh! Now we are getting too near. We must mask. Here, _senor_, help me with my mask and I will do the same for you. Thank you. Stooplower, please. There, now it is right!" They proceeded. "I wonder whatCarlos will say to this. He will be surprised when we unmask. Untilthen he will not know me--nor you either. " She lowered her voice. "Itold him that my costume was to be that of a shepherdess. " They were close to the hall now. A turn brought them to a wider pathwhich led directly to the building. Up the steps and into the throngof masks they passed, the girl now holding tight to the man's arm. Theorchestra was playing a waltz and the pair swung into the whirl, dancing fast and gracefully. The music stopped; a man in the costumeof a Spanish sailor came up and asked for the next. The girl lookeddown, then glanced quickly up and pointed silently to the tallcavalier at her side. The sailor bowed and passed on. Then the musicstarted again. "I cannot speak, you see, " the girl panted as they swept around acorner, "or they would know my voice. Of course--oh look, there isCarlos. He must be looking everywhere for me. " A tall man, clad in the helmet and boots of a Spanish militaryofficer, stood in the center of the floor, intently watching eachcouple as it passed. Adelita he followed closely with his eyes, as ifperplexed. Then he shook his head. "He does not know me, " she laughed. But at the end of that dance he strode up to her and bowed. "May I have the honor?" She said nothing, but inclined her head. Then they waltzed off. Henderson stood at the side watching the whirling crowd. The vividreds and yellows and greens of the costumes blended harmoniously in aswirl of color that seemed a part of the music, the laughter, and thesplendor of the night. Just then the couple passed, the man talkingintently, the girl with her head bowed, saying nothing. As the danceended, Henderson was about to go up and accost an attractive lookingshepherdess, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around, surprised. It was the tall officer whom Adelita had called Carlos. "Stranger, " he said in English, "why have you made my Adela, Senoritade Marcelo, try to hide from me? Do you think, although she has notspoken, that I could fail to know her? Do you think I would notrecognize her even if she came in a black cowl and robe? Who are youthat have dared speak to her as you have? I have watched her--and you. Hear me, interloper, I will not have you dance with her or speak toher again. The rest of the house is yours--and welcome. " He wasanswered in Spanish. "With my compliments, mind your own business. When I need advice Ishall come to you, and not before. Who are you--and pray, who am I?" "I--I am Senor Carlos Gerardo, " he answered in the native tongue. "Howdo I know you? Bah! I know every man in the room. You heard what Isaid about Adelita. Now remember. " Henderson turned on his heel and walked directly over to where thegirl stood, talking with the shepherdess. Adelita looked down as hecame up and tapped the floor nervously with the toe of a red slipper. Her face was flushed. "May I have this dance?" he asked. "Surely. " They swung off to the tune of a catchy American popular air. Few ofthe dances had been Spanish. He waited, and at last she broke thesilence. "Carlos danced with me and tried to get me to speak, but I would not. Nevertheless he knows me, and is angry--very angry. But it will do himgood. He--he said he was going to speak to you. " "He did, " put in Henderson dryly. "Is it the custom here to allow noother man to dance with one's friends?" "No, " she said, "it is not. But he--Carlos is very jealous. " After the dance the officer came up to Henderson again. "You heard me, " he muttered. "I cannot bear with this. " Again Henderson turned on his heel and again he asked her for the nextdance. She had it with the sailor, but promised him the one after. It was warm inside, so after their waltz Fred and the girl went out ona little balcony which hung low over the brook. The moon was high inthe heavens, and shone softly through the whispering leaves. From upthe valley a gentle breeze brought the heavy scent of the roses. "It is so hot inside, " the girl said, her voice so low that it seemedpart of the night, "and out here it is so cool and--and wonderful. "Again she came close. "For to-night you are my cavalier, and I am yourlady. Oh, if to-night could but be every night. You are so big andkind and--different. " "And you, " he said, with the romance of it mounting to his head, "youare more than different. If to-night only _was_ every night. Forto-night you are my lady. " A shadow darkened the doorway behind them and a long arm shot out forHenderson's neck. Surprised, he turned blindly. It was Don Carlos. Quick as a flash Fred hit him full between the eyes, and with theother arm tried to loosen the hold on his throat. There was no sound;the girl stood breathless. Again he struck and the hand at his throattore away. There was a flash of steel in the hand of the Spaniard--butthe blow never fell. The girl stood between them, her arms spreadapart, her eyes flashing. "Carlos, " she said slowly, "if you ever strike a blow like that, beeternally cursed by me. You fool! Know you not that I was playing withyou? How I hate you! Go!" She stamped her foot. "Go, I say. " He turned with bent head, and without a word passed into the building. As he disappeared, the girl sank back, her face white, almost greyish, against the red of her dress. "Hold me, _senor_, " she said weakly. "I am not well. Could--would youtake me home--to my father?" Without a word Henderson picked her up bodily and stepped off thelittle low balcony into the grass. Not until they reached the arbordid she speak. "Thank you. I think I can walk now. " He set her down and she smoothed her rumpled skirts. Then theyproceeded together slowly. Silently they followed the path which a fewhours before they had so gaily trod, and silently they ascended thehill. The old man and I had not yet gone to bed when they entered the house. She came in laughing. "Is it not early, my angel?" he asked. "It is but little pastmidnight. " She smiled. "Yes, _padre_, it is early--but I--I thought I would return. " Late that night, as Henderson and I lay in bed--he telling me thestory of the evening--we could hear the girl in the next room, sobbing, sobbing as if her heart would break. It made Hendersonuneasy. "I'd like to do something, " he said. "The scoundrel! He ought to bewhipped. " I grunted and tried to get to sleep, but it was useless. Fred wastossing restlessly, and the girl in the other room was still sobbing, sobbing. Suddenly there sounded a whistle, low but clear. The sobbingceased. The whistle sounded again. We heard a quiet step and the noiseof an opening window. "_O Carlos mio_, " she breathed in the mother tongue, "I knew you wouldcome. " "Adela _mia_, " he called softly, "my angel, I hoped you would be hereand--and you are. " "You have been so long, " she sighed. "Henderson, " I said, "if you have any decency, go to sleep. " We rolled over and closed our eyes, while unknown to us the breezewafted up the heavy night odor of the roses and the yellow moon slowlymoved toward the western heavens. _Literary Monthly_, 1906. THE AWAKENING WILLARD ANSLEY GIBSON '08 When March has tuned his willow pipes, The robins in the rain Take up the song with plaintive notes And sing the sweet refrain. Then April, sleepy child of Spring, Awakes, to music yields, Goes dancing 'cross the fields. The modest buds, once red and brown, Burst forth in plumes of green, And interlace the barren boughs With wreaths of vernal sheen. The old sun-dial beside the walk Takes heart for sunny day; But half-awake marks sleepy hours By light through spring-time haze. When March has tuned his willow pipes, The children passing by Kneel down and pluck the early flowers, And smile, they know not why. _Literary Monthly_, 1906. THE BROOK RELEASED WILLARD ANSLEY GIBSON '08 I'm coming, I'm coming, The miller has lifted The gates that have bound me; At last I am free, And where the grey sands O'er my courses have drifted My swift happy waters Shall hurrying be. Like hearts that unburdened From grief come to weeping, And smile 'mid their tears At old sorrows past; So my sunny waters, The white rapids leaping, From dark fearsome valleys Come singing at last. I'm coming, I'm coming, The children shall love me; The beeches, the willows, The golden elm trees That close by the village Are drooping above me, Shall float on my billows Their last withered leaves. The grey flocks shall meet me, The meadow larks greet me, And oft the shy new moon, In veiled halo lace, Through bare tangled branches, In sad brooding shallows, Shall trail her cloud tresses, Shall bathe her pale face. I'm coming, I'm coming, O hearken, sad-hearted, My sweet singing voices Shall teach you by day; And in the night's darkness The stars gently mirrored, All borne on my current, Shall mark you the way. Dark mountains may tower, Dark valleys may lower, But follow, sad-hearted, Come smiling, light-hearted, Come fare to the river; His Hand in the forest Has marked the true way. _Literary Monthly_, 1907. THE GARDENER SONNET WILLARD ANSLEY GIBSON '08 She told me of her garden, all the flowers, Of hallowed lilies and the glories bright, Frail tinted cups filled with the morning's light; The primrose drooping for the evening hours. She spoke of hedges, hawthorns, and the powers Of weeds and frost in April, and the blight Of birds and children; prayed her blossoms might Not so allure them to her paths and bowers. And I turned silently upon my way, And sought His untrod forests and the hills, My free companions of no guile nor art-- Their holy strength is more than rocks and clay; I sought the comfort loneliness instills: Dear Christ! She spoke her own vain, selfish heart. _Literary Monthly_, 1910. NOCTURNE WILLARD ANSLEY GIBSON '08 Over the hills Softly the slumber light Seems to me creeping, Stealing with twilight, While the world sleeping Breathes in the lower light Prayers for its loved ones Over the hills. Stars watch, and the fire glows, Fading it goes, fainter it glows, Lips of vain speaking silently close-- The breath comes, but the breath goes. Some mothers stifled lie, Sobbing till life is gone; Some fathers bitter die In their remorse ere dawn; Stars watch, and the fire glows-- Something comes, something goes. Far in the night Beckon the locust trees, Whispering, calling, And from their drooping leaves White blossoms falling Float on a magic breeze, Far in a phantom world, Far in the night. Clocks chime and the night goes, Slowly it goes, brighter it grows, Tired hands folded rest in repose-- The breath comes, but the breath goes. Some watchers on the hill Wide-eyed await the dawn; Some workers in the mill Wearying are toiling on; Clocks chime, and the night goes-- Slowly it lighter grows. _Literary Monthly_, 1910. THE HIDDEN FACE BERNARD WESTERMANN '08 The moon hath a hidden face and fair, -- Never we gaze on its features calm; She gazeth afar on the star-lit air, On star-lighted regions whose breath is balm; But never, ah never, her glance doth show To the world of men in the deeps below. O love, do you know that there dwells in thee A hiddenest spirit that dreams alway, And never the world can her features see, Of the spirit that shunneth the earthly day? Only I know that she lives, to rise Some day, some night, in your love-lit eyes. _Literary Monthly_, 1906. MODERN THOUGHT AND MEDIEVAL DOGMA SONNET BERNARD WESTERMANN '08 Are we but truants from a parent stern-- Whose strait commands with fear we long obeyed, Till, gladdened by the sunlight, far we strayed, And lingered by the woodside and the byrne, The bird's sweet passion at the sun's return, The flower's grieving at his sight delayed, With wistful, long-pent love, to watch and learn, Till evening come, and we turn home dismayed? Or have we grown unto our fuller seeing, The manhood of our days, when evermore Our Father speaks and, punishment decreeing, Is high and silent from his sapphire door? Forever past, the childhood of our being: He stoops to reason who but spake before. _Literary Monthly_, 1908. THE GOBLIN KING A BALLAD BERNARD WESTERMANN '08 Beside the grim, the grey, cold sea I heard a goblin call to me; Beneath a rock, beside the water, He cried, "Go pray thy lady daughter To bring some wine to me. "For coldly runs the salt, salt tide, And I am prisoned fast and long, And I was wont to feast and song, And roaming through the woodland wide. "For coldly runs the salt, salt tide, And I am wont to have my will, And he that brooks it fareth ill, When I may roam the woodland wide. "Of old, of old I roamed the wood, Of old I dwelt in lordly state, Before they came, the black-heart brood, To make me thus disconsolate. "For coldly runs the salt, salt tide, And stones are hard that prisons be; Yet here in daily hope I bide, That one will hear and come to me. "They came with drums and dancing fire, And wreaths and chants and incense sweet; They stole away my heart's desire, That was all fair and lithe and fleet. "And coldly runs the salt, salt tide; Alone they bound and prisoned me, Nor may I taste of aught beside, Though well I know the sweets there be. "A thousand gnomes brought golden urns, With red, red wine and crystal filled; And all my couch was flowers and ferns, And whatsoever maid I willed. "But coldly runs the salt, salt tide, And men ride up the high, white road. And many a goodly maid beside-- Nor ever glance to my abode. "The bee sucks sweetness all the day, And dwells in flowers from morn to night; But never, never need he stay, And never feels he gloom nor blight. "But coldly flows the salt, salt tide, And I am weary of my breath; Though all the world is fair beside, And yet I taste nor life nor death. "In feasts we sat at silken boards, Endraped with silver gossameres, And 'round me sat my bearded lords, And maidens served whose sires were peers. "And coldly runs the salt, salt tide; I loved too well and she was fair, And here in bondage dire I bide, Who never thought to know despair. "I hate the stone, I fear the water; I dread the grey, the moaning sea; I pray thee bid thy lady daughter To fetch some wine to me. "For coldly, coldly, runs the tide; And all the foam is salt and strong; And here, athirst and cramped, I bide, And I have waited, waited long. " _Literary Monthly_, 1910. OUT OF THE HARBOR STANTON BUDINGTON LEEDS ex-'08 Across the breadth of many memoried years I catch a whiff of strong, salt air Light-hearted blowing of the gentle wind, And all the swaying of the sad and silent sea; On high a golden star, bright, peerless, free, In endless space confined, -- And light as laughter 'gainst my cheek, star-lit with tears, A wavy lock of sweet brown hair. The star wove silver webs across the ways Carved by the wind, a half-breathed sigh, That spoke in ripples. "O Heart's Delight, " I cried, "The skiff comes for me now across the water. " And, as I bent to kiss her, Love's fair daughter, She barely breathed, "Good-night, " And some musician blended Chopin with her phrase: "Good-bye, Love's youth, Youth's love, good-bye. " _Literary Monthly_, 1907. SUCCESS STANTON BUDINGTON LEEDS ex-'08 The deep, dark clouds are yonder massed, And rain has drenched fields drear and dun, But o'er the farthest hills at last I see the sun! _Literary Monthly_, 1905. ON THE "CHANT D'AMOUR" OF BURNE-JONES ROGER SHERMAN LOOMIS '09 Mysterious damozel in white, White like the swans that glide upon the pool below, Who art thou that with fingers light Playest upon those ivory keys such music low? O winged youth in dreamful thought, With eyelids weighed with utter sweetness, who art thou, With garments by the breezes caught, Whose hands with drowsy motion ply the bellows now? The youth and damsel answer not. But thou, O listening knight-at-arms, thou mayest tell Who are these minstrels mild, and what The strains that here outside this quiet city swell. The youth with languid moving wrist In puissance may with any of the gods compare; No marvel thou must stay and list, For 'tis the Song of Love breathes on the evening air. Know by the calm her lips disclose, By the fine shades and faery lustre of her eyes, The damsel is the queen of those Whose names are written Beatrice in Paradise. While yon still towers in sunset lie, Her face oblivious of all else I'll ponder long. My body thrills with ecstasy! My heart beats with the rhythmic pulsing of the song! _Literary Monthly_, 1906. THE MANY ROADS HORACE HOLLEY ex-'10 The north road, the south road, Highway, byway, There never was a road men trod That did not lead them home. The east road, the west road, Your way, my way, Men's tangled footprints end in God, Through Arcady or Rome. _Literary Monthly_, 1907. BEAUTY HORACE HOLLEY ex-'10 Her beauty lies upon her face As sunlight masks the barren sea; A fitful, accidental grace Which time shall ruin utterly. Not like the Beauty all divine (The "house of God, " the poet saith), Which is the craftsman-soul's design, Its majesty supreme in death. _Literary Monthly_, 1908. PREFERMENT AND THE FOOL HORACE HOLLEY ex-'10 The Fool was sitting by his half-built sod house. This was the seasonof building, for the sun shone; and moreover presently would come thebitter unending rain of winter, when it were better to be abidingsafely at home. Nevertheless the Fool sat happily idle, for he never_could_ get enough of the sunshine, though he rose with the sun in themorning and wistfully watched it set at night. Now he was twirling adandelion between thumb and finger, and gazing out across the valleyto the running hills of the north country. It so happened that theFool's house was on a cross-road, and presently, as he was a-sittingat his ease, along came the King of that land, with a great cavalcadeof soldiers and retainers. And because on their brazen shields andhelmets the sun was reflected more brightly than from yonder peak, theFool turned to gaze at them as they wound past. In sooth, had it notbeen for that, he would never have given them a glance at all, nothaving much curiosity about the things other people love to gape at. Beside the King rode the King's Favorite, a very goodly man, one whowas closest of all to the King's ear and heart. Plainly enough couldthe Fool see, even though he was only dreamily a-looking, a brightgolden figure seated upon the saddle with the King's Favorite. This, as all men know, was Preferment, and a sudden wistful longing seizedupon the Fool's heart, that he had never known the like of since thetime he had cried for the moon. His jaw dropped, and his eyes grewmisty. In a little while the troop was by, gone around the hill, butthe Fool could not forget them, and many new desires tugged at hisheart. "Why, " he wondered, "doth not Preferment live with me? Am I not as fita man as the King's Favorite?" And he stretched out his long legs andlooked at them. As long as the Fool was occupied with dreaming and laying the sods onhis house, or hunting for the dun deer of a moonlit night, he wascompany enough for himself, turning his fancies over and over in hismind, as the wind bundles the clouds about the sky; then when he hadarranged his conceptions to his taste, he was free to admire themundisturbed, until a new fancy happened along to displace them; justas the wind leaves off driving the clouds at sunset, and in the westthere is a sweet tableau for men to look at, till night blots out thescene. So the Fool was usually well content to be alone. But when, asnow, he was perplexed by any problem that disturbed his simplecheerfulness, he had to seek some other and wiser man for counsel, notbeing one of those men, more mind than heart, who unravel problemswith as much accuracy and equanimity as a skilful weaver plies hisloom. So that evening, with the moon sending his shadow out ahead of him, the Fool walked overfield to the cave of the Wise Man. Timidlyapproaching, he peered through the entrance and found the Wise Mansitting still and alone, gazing into the ashes of a flickering fire. "Please, " said the Fool anxiously, "why does Preferment ride with theKing's Favorite and never with me?" The other did not stir for a long while, but after the Fool hadshifted several times from one foot to the other, beginning to despairof an answer, the Wise Man spoke. "Because, " he said slowly, still looking into the fire, "thou hastnever desired him to. " And, having spoken, he kept silent, and after alittle the Fool turned away. "I never desired him to?" he muttered over and over to himself. "Whatdoes that mean?" And he stood stock still and looked about forexplanation; but none was vouchsafed by the moon, or the bushes, ornight itself, the customary adviser of the Fool's doubts and queries. "How is this?" he said again. "Did the King's Favorite, then, desirehim? And will Preferment come if he be wanted? And how does one askhim?" All this was inexplicable to the Fool and he took courage to return tothe cave. "Tell me, " he asked of the Wise Man, "did the King's Favorite wantPreferment more than I? And how does Preferment come if he is wanted?" The Wise Man nodded gently to himself. "Aye, " he muttered, "so it is, so it is. " The Fool gazed in amazement at this, but because he thoughtall Wise Men are somewhat mad, he waited and did not run away, as hisheels advised. "Listen, " the Wise Man began again, "this man has so wanted Prefermentall his life that he has given up everything that is dear to him. Hehas crushed underfoot every dream and vision save this alone, to beseen in the company of Preferment. " The Wise Man turned and lookedabout at the Fool. "He has no sod house, --no days afield and by thebrook. He never heard the night-song of the wind or the winter-rune ofthe pine. Nothing of all these things that you love has he had. " The Fool's eyes were round with amazement. "No sod house?" But theother was sunk into a reverie and gave no answer. The Fool stood firston one foot, then on the other, then with his old smile he turned andskipped away. As he returned through the night, walking, hopping, orrunning, as the need came to him, he crooned to himself a song he hadonce made up. "My lips are a-tremble with a grave little song. I care not if the wide world hear. ' Its words happened forth as I dreamed and trudged along. I care not if the wide world hear. "It has not worth nor weight, it is neither sweet nor strong. I care not if the wide world hear. For I sing it to myself when the great doubts throng And I care not if the wide world hear. " That was all, but he hummed it with great content, beating time withone hand; and as for the King's Favorite, for all that Prefermentrideth on the pommel of his saddle, I doubt not he never sang such asong to himself, or took such pleasure in the singing. _Literary Monthly_, 1907. THE IMMIGRANTS HORACE HOLLEY ex-'10 Upon mine ear a deep, unbroken roar Thunders and rolls, as when the moving sea, Too long asleep, pours on th' resisting shore Full half his cohorts, tramping audibly. Yet here's no rushing of exasperate wind, Booming revolt amidst a factious tide; Nor hateful shock on toothed reef and blind, Of foaming waves that with a sob subside. No! but more fateful than the restless deep, Whose crested hosts rise high but fall again, I hear, in solemn and portentous sweep, The slow, deliberate marshalling of men. No monarch moves them, pawns to gain a goal; They felt a fever rising in the soul. _Literary Monthly_, 1909. PROPHECY HORACE HOLLEY ex-'10 All verse, all music; artistry Of cunning hand and feeling heart, All loveliness, whate'er it be, Is but the hint and broken part Of that vast beauty and delight Which man shall know when he is free; When in his soul the alien night Folds up like darkness from the sea. For e'en in song man still reveals His ancient fear, a mournful knell; Like one who dreams of home, but feels The bonds of an old prison cell. _Literary Monthly_, 1909. ASHES OF DREAMS PHILO CLARKE CALHOUN '10 Jane always called him the professor, a name which that individualaccepted without comment, as he did everything else. In fact, since hehad been possessed of titular rights, but two people had ignoredthem--his mother and Mary. His mother had been dead--oh, a very longtime, and it was nineteen years and some months since Mary hadfollowed her. When Mary had died people said that Jane was coming tolive with the professor; Jane came, and now people said quiteunthinkingly that the professor lived with his sister. Jane washigh-minded, also strong-minded; her hair was very thin and verystraight, a fact for which she was sternly and devoutly thankful. Janewas stern and devout in everything--even in cooking preserves. To theprofessor, Jane had been surrounded by a sort of halo of preserves, ever since he had recovered from his awe of her unapproachableangularity as to allude to her before admiring play-mates as the "oldmaid. " When the professor had married, Jane had strongly disapproved--Mary'scheeks were much too pink, her hands much too soft, and her ways oflife led her into the flowery meadows of the world and the flesh, ifnot the devil. The professor had been infatuated, and the year or soof married life seemed only to augment such infatuation, andincidentally Jane's ire. Well, the golden year was over, and thelittle butterfly had gone to its rest, fretfully, fearfully. And thenJane wrote; wrote that the professor needed somebody to superintendhim, to see that he did not take cold, and to cook his preserves; soshe was coming. The professor did not wish to be superintended, hewanted to take cold in comfort without being asked how he took it, andhe abominated preserves; to all of which Jane was supremelyindifferent. Jane came; the professor wore overshoes and atepreserves--meekly. So the professor lived with his sister. At first the direful systemwhich ruled everything from the time of the cat's entrance to the datewhen the furnace fire should be started, chafed on him. Hisdeclarations of independence were received pityingly, as the prattlesof a tired child. Gradually he resigned himself, and the germs ofdiscontent followed the wake of the other germs which Jane hadpromptly and forcefully annihilated. So the years went on; in time the professor grew tired of ranting andmild objections gave way to sighs of resignation. There had been bonesto pick in plenty. The professor had a sneaking fondness for dirt--notmud, but historic dust, so to speak; Jane decreed all foreign matteras damned eternally. The professor liked fiction; he had once in thefirst years of Jane's rule started a novel, which having beeninadvertently left in the living-room, was consigned to the flames;Jane had intimated, moreover, that the authors of such monstrositieswould probably end in the embrace of the same element. Whereupon theprofessor's wrath was great; but his house was built on the sand; sowas his novel; and five years afterwards he knew it. Although Jane's fanatical cleanliness had been far-reaching, theprofessor's study was nearly immune. In the first place the door wasusually locked and the key discreetly lost; and in the next place theprofessor had mildly but very obstinately insisted, through all thetwenty years, that his desk, which is the sanctum sanctorum of the manwith a past, remain untouched. Jane sniffed copiously over thisstipulation, and, as she liked to do a thing thoroughly or not at all, the study remained as a whole comfortably mussy. Sometimes, however, Jane had twinges of conscience, resulting in the disappearance of allold, unbound, and destructible matter which presented itself. So theprofessor painstakingly replaced equally old and disreputable matteraround the study when the whirlwind had passed, and waited till thedust settled. Of late the professor had been ill with a chronic rheumatism. Hegrumbled a good deal about the "positively senile" character of hisaffliction and finally agreed to take to his bed for a few days in thehope of luring nature to a hasty cure. The professor was ratherhelpless when he was ill; Jane was painfully and triumphantlyenergetic. One memorable day, when the invalid had fallen into arestless sleep, he was awakened by the vigorous ministrations of Jane, who was creaking around the room in an ostentatious effort, to bequiet. The professor looked and wondered what she would do if he wereto yell. Seeing he was awake, she stepped over briskly and began toarrange his bedclothes and pillows. Her hand touched his sore leg. Hewinced and groaned inwardly. "I am going to sit here and read to you, " she announced with the sterncheerfulness which gave the recipient of her benefits a fitting senseof the self-sacrifice which prompted them. Jane usually read tracts, and the professor did not feel religious; in fact he was conscious ofan emotion of most unchristian belligerence. "Aren't you neglecting your house-work to attend to me?" remarked thevictim with clumsy and obvious intent. "My house is always in order, professor, " answered the supremelyignorant one tartly. "How fortunate; my study, too, --I suppose that is in order?" Theprofessor felt most out of place as an inquisitor but he wasdesperate. Jane looked at him, with as near a quizzical expression as her veryunquizzical nature would permit. "You know I'd do it if you weren't so stubborn about using awastebasket instead of that desk, " she said. "Better clean it out, Jane--clean it all out--anything, anything, --"but she was gone. He took the tract which she had left on his tableand carefully tore it in four pieces, and hid them under the mattress. Then he went to sleep. The professor was in distinctly a rebelliousmood. In the natural course of time, which, when one has numerous queerpains in most unexpected places, is short, --the professor awoke andlay on his back watching a fly walking around the edge of a rosebud. Pretty soon the fly flew away--then the professor thought of somethingelse--something he had not thought of for some years. Strange howinactivity of the body affects one. The professor raised himself inbed with some effort and drew on his dressing gown and slippers. Thenhe hobbled across the room, out of the door, and down the hallwaytowards his study. At the turn of the narrow corridor the odor of long-hidden dust methim, --and he hobbled faster. His lips were set in a manner that wasstrange to him, and a fear was in his heart--a fear of the cleanlinesswhich may be akin to godliness, but to which a pressed flower is asthe dust upon the walls. At the door he hesitated, bewildered. On hisdesk was heaped a pile of papers, in which letters, lecture notes, oldpamphlets, were scattered in contemptuous disorder. Jane had justdropped an armful into the fire which blazed with that comfortlessinstability common to paper fires in the daytime. She had gatheredanother armful and was advancing toward the hearth, when she saw theapparition in the door-way and stopped. The professor was paler thanusual, and his hands shook a little. "Do you know what you're doing, Jane?" he asked, quietly enough. "Yes, " she answered defiantly, "I do. You've had 'em hanging aroundlong enough. " "You know whose letters they are?" "Yes, " she said. "Why, what--" The professor, forgetting his rheumatism, had advanced in two strides, and with one blow knocked the papers from her arms, so that they layscattered on the floor. There are wrongs committed against the sacredness of sentiment whichcannot be put in words. The professor checked the torrent which roseto his lips: Jane would never understand. The only thing which she didcomprehend was a strength in her brother of which she had neverdreamed--not the strength of the worm which turns, but of the man whohad endured because he wished to, and whose endurance was at an end. "You never had a heart, did you, Jane?" he said finally. "The past isnot sacred to you, and the present---well, the present does not countfor much when one has no dreams--or visions. .. . I think, Jane, you hadbetter go. " "Where?" she questioned vaguely. There was no asperity in her voicenow, only puzzled helplessness. It was the inevitable surrender of thecommonplace in the light of a greater understanding--in therealization of an unknown law to the significance of which some neverattain. She had come inadvertently to a marriage feast for which shehad no wedding garment; and she was naked and ashamed. "Anywhere--anywhere; only go, " said the professor. His thoughts werefar away now. "I shall not come back, professor--perhaps it is better, " she said. There was a new tone in her voice, and the professor turned sharply. Jane hesitated. Then he caught sight of a photograph lying among theletters on the floor. "That, too, " he murmured. He stood and looked at it; Jane passed outof the room. Slowly and painfully the professor stooped down and gathered up hiswife's letters and his wife's photograph. He sat down in the big plushchair by the fireside and thought for a long time. He was thinking ofan old quotation from some Sanskrit poem--"Every yesterday a dream ofhappiness, every to-morrow a vision of hope--" That was all he couldremember, but his mind said it over and over. Well, hisyesterdays--the yesterdays of long ago--were dreams of happiness--hehad no visions; to-morrow offered him nothing. After a while he tookMary's picture and looked at it. His dreams slowly settled toearth--and he began to adjust his perspective. It was a long, longtime since he had even remembered--since the dream had been more thana vague light shining through the mist. Now he wondered, as he staredat the pictured eyes, so laughingly helpless, at the chin, socharacterless, at the pretty mouth from which no word worth listeningto had ever proceeded--wondered whether the light was other than areflection from Youth's glamour. Then he took up the letters and readthem one by one. He wondered why they seemed so shallow--why he hadnever noticed their irresponsible dancing from light to shade, fromlight affection to unreasonable and trifling fretfulness. The lastletter he held in his hand for some time after he had read it. It waswritten from a summer resort. "You had better not come down, " it read, "you would just spoil the delightful little time I am having with Mr. Sanders--so stay at home with your books like the dear old bore youare. Please send me . .. " He remembered how it had hurt. He rememberedshortly afterwards how she had been taken ill, and how she had chafedand feared, and how the dark had taken her while she cried in terror. He remembered--so much. He wished that he had not tried to remember. It began to grow dark. The professor lifted the bundle of letters andthe photograph, and placed them in the fire-place as carefully as ifthey had been burnt-offerings. Well, they were--to a dead Romance. Thecharred paper crumbled where he had laid the letters--a few blackpieces floated drunkenly up the chimney. The fire had gone out longbefore. The professor fumbled in his pocket for a match. When he hadfound it he struck it on the brick hearth, but his hand trembled sothat it burnt his fingers and he dropped it. He lit another, carefully, deliberately, and held it to the pile of papers. Theycaught, the edges blackened and curled; finally the whole mass blazedviciously. The photograph had fallen to one side and remained unburnt. He stooped over and placed it on top of the blazing papers; then it, too, burned. A light flared from the gas jet, and the professor looked up. Janestood there in her black travelling dress. Her eyes were red withtears. "Good-bye, professor, " she said. "I thought you wouldn't mind if . .. "She hesitated. The professor thought she looked rather pitiful andthin and tired. "No, Jane, " he answered quietly. "You are not to go. I don't supposeyou will understand, but my dreams have all gone--and the vision hascome. And I need you, Jane. " "Then you forgive me?" she said tremulously. "I did not know . .. " "There is nothing to forgive, Jane. I did not know, either. " Jane broke down and the professor rose and put his arms around her, awkwardly, and kissed her. He had not kissed her in years. They satdown together before the hearth and gazed into the blackened ashes. Heheld her hand in his. Finally she spoke. She almost understood-- "Shall we have apple dumplings for supper, professor? The kind youused to like?" She was smiling now. "No, Jane, " he said gravely, "we'll have peach preserves. " _Literary Monthly_, 1909. THE GOOD GREY POET SONNET EDWIN PARTRIDGE LEHMAN '10 All men must feel the beauty of a star That rides in the illimitable space Of heav'n; the beauty of an Helen's face; Or of a woodland water, glimpsed afar, Where haze-empurpled meadows, undefined And slumbrous, intervene; of quiet, cool, Sequester'd glades, where in the level pool The long green rushes dip before the wind. These all men feel. But three times blessed he Whose eye and ear, of finer fibre spun, Sense the elusive thread of beauty, where The common man hath deemed that none can be. The beauty of the commonplace is one In substance with the beauty of the rare. _Literary Monthly_, 1910. A MINOR POET TO HIMSELF SONNET EDWIN PARTRIDGE LEHMAN '10 We lesser poets clothe in garb ornate, In words of dizzy fire, in awkward phrase, In humble thunderings, that only daze, Though meant to rouse in flames of love or hate, The thoughts that those brave souls of stuff divine, Whose words breathe inspiration, have long since In jewelled lines set forth. Where we bear hints Of grape, they bear the ruddy full-pressed wine. And yet the fire that thrills us is no less, Nor coarser, than the fire that they, the great, Have felt. Our pens are feebler; but the play Of deep emotions, the fine stir and stress That mark the soul's rare movements, are, in state, Equal to those of lines that make men pray. _Literary Monthly_, 1909. HEARTS AND TARTS AN OLD TALE RETOLD DURR FRIEDLEY ex-'10 There was shouting and hand-clapping from all the gay company, and ashower of gay words for me when I had done with my singing; and mylord, greatly pleased, and prophesying that some day when I should beriper in years I might win the crown of peacock's feathers from thehands of the Princess Eleanor herself, bade me come on the morrow dawnto sing an alba under the casement of the bridal chamber. The bride, too, this new wife that had taken my own lady's place by my lord'sside, she, come but yesterday from her thick-witted Bohemia, and whom, never loving, I might always truly pity, spoke me fair and besought meto make verses thenceforth in praise of none save her. I answered asbest I might, but I fear me my speech came but falteringly, what withmy heart beating against my ribs like the armor-smith's hammer, andthe thought uppermost in my mind of the dark business yet to come thatnight, before the shame and wrong of it all might be righted--a blackbusiness that none but I in all that company wotted of. So presently, when all the people made a noisy procession to see thebridegroom and the bride to their high chamber, I did not go amongthem, but stole apart in the shadow and tarried there until theserving-folk had ceased their scurrying about and the house had grownquiet in its besotted sleep. Then I crept back to a dark corner by thegreat hearth where the stone was warm to the touch and whence I mightsee if any passed along the hall. I was all alone there with thedrained goblets, the withering garlands, and the gutted torches, not asoul abroad, and not a sound save the breathing of the dormantstag-hounds by the hearth, or the faint disputes of the rats over thepasty fragments on the table. Sitting thus, I would go hot of a flash and then cold just as sudden. Fear? No, by Our Lady, but this was the first time I had ever had afinger in such a pie as this now baking, and the strangeness of itmade me tremble. But fear, pah! Besides I was in the right, and doesthat not make the just hand steady and the pious eye true? I took upmy lute and touching the strings so gently that I myself could scarcehear, I sang, soft as summer wind at even, so softly that none, noteven the great hounds heard. Sang I: The vision tender Which thy love giveth me, Still bids me render My vows in song to thee; Gracious and slender, Thine image I can see, Wherever I wend, or What eyes do look on me. Yea, in the frowning face Of uttermost disgrace Proud would I take my place Before thy feet, Lady whose aspect sweet Doth my poor soul efface Leaving but joy and grace In me to meet. Who shall deny me The memory of thine eyes? Evermore by me Thy lithe white form doth rise, If God were nigh me Still, in so sure a wise Quick might I hie me Into His paradise. Thus I sang to the memory of my true lady, for it was the last songour brave Renaud had made for her before he rode away to Terre Sainte. So when the song was finished I sat a long time still, taking counselwith my sad heart over the black past: how, four May-times ago, I hadridden blithely forth as singing page in my lady's train, when sheleft her own fair land of Aragon to be wedded to this grim Count Faelof the North; how from that time forth I had dwelt here in his castle, vassal to him only because he was lord to my liege lady, but fearingalway his stern face, that froze the laugh on the lips and madejoyousness die, stillborn; how my sole happiness had been to serve mylady and sing her such songs as I made, and my grief to see her fairface fade and her grey eyes grow less laughing day by day. Then onemorning had come this brave Renaud, Chatelain of far-off Coucy, seeming to bring in his eyes, his voice, his lute, all the merrySpring times we had missed. So he came often and often, teaching methe great art of song he knew so well; and we were all very happy. Butbye-and-bye he came only when my lord was out a-hawking or to tourney, and then very quietly, but always with his lute and with song to mylady. I guessed well which way the wind was blowing, but surely thepitiful Virgin granted my lady, and justly, this one little hour ofhappiness. So it went on and on for a long time and it seemed that mylord was always away to hunt or to battle, and that when he came backthe songs of Renaud of Coucy never ceased, but only changed theirplace, coming now by night under my lady's casement. Then there was spread abroad through the land this great fire in allhearts to go to Terre Sainte and to deliver the holy Jerusalem of OurLord from the curse of the Saracen hand, and our poor Renaud must feelhimself among the first to go. So one sad morning at early dawn he hadcome under my lady's window and sung her that farewell which so filledmy heart, and I had heard from my post in my lady's antechamber. Butoh, Mother of God! so had my lord, who, being at home and sleepless, had risen betimes and was walking in the cool of the morning on alittle pleasaunce next my lady's tower, and hearing the song, hadlooked unseen at the singer, had guessed the bitter truth, but hadheld his peace till a riper time. From then we went on much as before Renaud had come to us, except thatI sang his songs to my lady with all the art he had taught me, whileshe sat pale and fair, her hands idle on the tambour frame and hereyes looking on something far, far off. So for a long time there wasno ill-hap, only my lady's eyes grew dreamier and dreamier and herthoughts dwelt less and less in this dark Castle of Fael, and shecared no longer to go a-maying in the pleasant meadows with her women. Then, one twilight, when my lord had been back from the hunt threedays, and when there had been deep wassailing in the hall, and my ladyhad kept to her chamber the whole time--one twilight I stumbled over adead man at the foot of the little-used stair to my lady's tower and, dragging the body to the light, found it to be Jaufré that had beenaforetime esquire to Renaud. But why he should be lying here scarce anhour dead, here in fair France in this Castle of Fael under my lady'stower, when he might have been serving his master in all the blithefighting in Terre Sainte, --I could not guess. But I raised not hue norcry for, certes, there was some black mystery here; only wept silentlyand prayed mercy on his soul that had been so brave and so merry afellow. After a while, when my eyes were less red, I went and mingledamong the folk in the hall, where there was talk of how my lord hadpassed through to his chamber an hour ago, very pale and with thewine-fumes all cleared away, it would seem, and had let call the cook, who came back with something under his apron and looking as if he hadseen a spirit, but dumb as a stone. Also, said they, my lord hadcommanded that he and my lady would sup alone in her great chamber, and that I only should serve them. So presently I went up and served my lord and my lady where they satat a little table alight with many tapers, like the shrine in thegreat church at Soissons, with the goblets and the silver dishesmaking a brave show among them. There was a strange air over it all, like the breathless moment in a tourney when the tucket has blown andthe knights pause before giving spur. My lady, when she spoke at all, spoke in a voice as of some one stifling, but my lord said never aword and ate and drank but little, his eyes always on my lady's face. Bye-and-bye up came two little meat pasties, borne by the fat cookhimself, who charged me with a certain one for my lady and another formy lord. I thought nothing whatever on this, for often there wasspecial pasty made for my lady without hare's meat, which shedisliked. So I served the pasties, and I remember the faint sweetnessof her garments, like wind from apple-blossoms, and how yellow was herhair and how clear her face in the light of the many tapers. Thatcourse, too, they ate in silence, but before I could take away thedishes, my lord broke the stillness. "Lady, " quoth he, "is the flavor of this pasty pleasing to thypalate?" "Ay, sir, " spake my lady, "it hath a piquant savor I have not metbefore. " "Lady, " said he, "it is fashioned of passing good meat and rare, sorare that I doubt thou wilt ever enjoy its like again. For farcountries have contributed to its making, with spices from Araby andCathay, and corn from Egypt, and citron from Spain, and from the TerreSainte there is, minced into very little pieces, the heart of thatnoble sieur Renaud, the worshipful Chatelain of Coucy. His esquire Ihaply intercepted with a dagger on his way to thy chamber with hisdead lord's heart in a silver casket as a gift for thee. " For a while my lady did not move, the gold chalice closed in herdelicate fingers half-way to her lips; then with one little breathlesssob such as the hare gives when the fangs of the hound are about toclose upon her, she, very slowly, set down the goblet, and, just asslowly, rose to her feet, her face the grey-white of the pearls at herthroat. "Messire, " said she, and her voice was clear and steadfast, but veryfaint, like a bell tolling afar off in the deep forest, "messire, thouhast done me great honor in this feast, and on none daintier, I wotwell, sup the Blessed Saints in Paradise. But since such viand hasconsecrated these my lips, it is only seemly in me to take vow neverto let other pass them, the which I swear by the blood of Holy Jesu. " Then, swift as thought, she fled from the great chamber into hercloset, where she was wont to pray, swung the door to behind her, andslid the bolt. At that sound up sprang my lord and let cry a greatshout, so that all the serving-folk rushed in with great hubbub andstood stricken and panting, while my lord called thrice at the door. But no answer came therefrom, and the great room was very, very still;until at last the people were commanded to beat down the door. Thenall the folk crowded close together to peer within, spoiling the tableof its waxen tapers to cast light into the darkness, and there, O KindMother of God, lay my lady all in a little huddled heap before theshrine, an empty vial in her hand, and the breath departing from herbody. Then came her women with low sobbing and laid her on her bridalbed and began to make ready the grave clothes. From that time I had lived on here in the castle of the black shadow, the better that I might do honor to my lady's memory and bring surerretribution on him that had been my lord, for, certes, I, vassal to mylady alone, no longer owed allegiance to her murderer. Now at last wascome my chance on this night when he had brought him home a new wifeto take the place of her that was but a little while in earth. Poorladies, both! and if the thought that the blessed Jesu was mercifulsometimes made me falter, the thought that Messire God was just, andthat I might be the unworthy instrument of His justice, made mypurpose burn within me like a new torch. Thus the long night drew nearits ending, and the great logs in the fire had turned to coals whenthe appointed hour came. I stole in shadow from the hall, my heartpounding, but my purpose very steady, and passed silently throughpassages and corridors where here and there lay one in besotted sleep, until at last I came out in a little court by the postern. The warderswere long since guzzled to a torpor in their quarters, so there wasneither let nor hindrance when I slid the bolt and welcomed inAvenging Justice in the shape of him who stood without, my old lord ofAragon, uncle and protector to my lady. We met with silent greeting ashis picked men of arms filed in after him till the little court wasfull; then some were despatched to possess the guard quarters and thedrunken soldiery, others to stand watch over the serving-folk. After I had pointed them out the way to the high chamber where Faellodged that night, I stood watching as they went in silent file up thestone stair. Then I turned and passed out by the postern and down thehill to the encampment of my countrymen. I knew that behind me Justicewas taking her relentless course and that I had been her minister. _Literary Monthly_, 1908. TO KEATS SONNET[1] JULIAN PARK '10 Where, where is Ganymede? Where are the fair That graced the tales of Ilium years agone? Where are the visions of earth's aureate dawn, When the wing'd bearer bore Jove's nectar rare, When Naiads laughed and wept and sunned their hair At sun-kissed pools, deep-recessed, where the fawn And satyr sought the sloping cool-cropped lawn, And glimpsed the gods and lurking maidens there? Where now is Ganymede, and where is Pan? Where is fair Psyche, where Apollo brave? Are they all fled, affrighted at the span Of centuries? Or sunk beneath the wave Of solemn Lethe? No, rare poet; when I scan thy pages they all live again. _Literary Monthly_, 1907. [Footnote 1: Copyright, 1908, by Julian Park. ] MORTAL VERSE WILLIAM HUTCHESON WINDOM '11 The muse of poetry is a lady of many whims. Fancy, not reason, seemsto determine her actions. She loads the untutored ploughman with themost lavish gifts, while the scholar sits neglected in his study. Sheplaces a golden crown on the brow of the slave and flings a tasselledcap at the master. And yet the fool's raiment is worn with as seriousand dignified mien as is the kingly crown. She is a malicious person, and while she keeps a straight face before you, it is a hundred to onethat she winks behind your back. To be most trusted when she is mostdeceitful, that is her role. Very few of us have not at some time come under her spell. The mostguiltless-looking has somewhere in the lower drawer of his desk or atthe bottom of the tin box where he keeps his old papers, a manuscript, which he at times, half tenderly, half contemptuously, lifts out, after making sure that no prying eye is near. _He_ has caught the musewinking. Were he still illusioned, that poem would never have wastedits aesthetic fragrance within such close confines. It would have beenmost neatly printed in calendar form and sent to appreciative friends. But though the majority of us have become chary of the muse, there aresome who have never seen through her trickery. To this unfortunateclass belonged a certain Mrs. Simons--her real name is charitablywithheld--who found that she could gratify a moody disposition, ofwhich she was the unhappy possessor, by writing verses. No oneappreciated them, but, far from dampening her enthusiasm, it affordedher a sort of bitter joy, that considerably increased her alreadylarge number of available themes. Her poems now proclaimed that she, Mrs. Simons, was singing to stocks and stones; no one would listen, and her tender nature would soon succumb to this unwarranted neglect. But triumph would come, when, as a cold corpse, she would lie in anopen grave, with all her formerly unsympathetic friends and relativesweeping and wringing their hands at the sad spectacle. Alas, theirgrief and contriteness of heart would be too late. The little wordwhich might have saved her from this early death, now spoken, wouldfall on deaf ears. At last her verses would be read and their gloomyprophecy would fill the world, ever afterwards, with remorse. But Mrs. Simons did not wilt away and die like a flower deprived of water andsunshine. She could not overcome her naturally sound constitution, and, in spite of her wishes to the contrary, she lived to a ripe oldage. Verse demands, as a rule, serious, if not exalted, themes. It isstrange how ambitious they sometimes are. I knew a young man who hadnever been especially fond of poetry and had never attempted to writeit, until, one day, he had an imperative desire to test his powers inthat line. And what was the modest subject that the tyro chose? Ahistory of the earth from its birth "amidst the crash of worlds, "through the countless centuries until, cold and dry, it affords nosustenance to life, and becomes a vast desert like the moon. The poemcame to an abrupt end after "monsters huge" had appeared upon thescene, and, to my knowledge, was never resumed. Among the many who have advertised their bigotry or their ignorance bypublishing original compositions, for which it would be hard to findany suitable descriptive term, are two women, one of whom is wellknown. They are Julia A. Moore, self-styled "The Sweet Singer ofMichigan, " whose works are included by Dr. Crothers in _The HundredWorst Books_, and a Mrs. L. , a native of Rhode Island, but "byadoption a westerner, " as she explains in her introduction. If it werea question of which had the less poetic merit it would be hard indeedto decide between them, but as to the sincerity of the one and thepomposity of the other, there can be no doubt. The Sweet Singer playsupon the strings of her own heart in a way that makes your eyes growdim. She has moments of modesty, too, about her work that are verygratifying. But Mrs. L. Is cold and egotistical; lifted so high abovethe ordinary plane of life, in her estimation, that no arrows ofcriticism can possibly reach her. The introduction to her book_Mariamne, Queen of the Jews, and Other Poems_, is concise andstatistical. One can see that she has perfect self-confidence in herabilities. "The authoress is a native of Rhode Island, but by adoption awesterner. "Graduated from the Female College, Oxford, Ohio, when under thecontrol of the Rev. John Walter Scott, D. D. "Married and lived thirteen wedded years in Covington, Kentucky. Then, urged by her only brother, Levi L. , a lawyer residing at M. , Illinois, she removed (1870) to that city. Here she engaged in arduous andunremitting study, laboring to deserve the esteem of the gifted andcultured people with whom she had cast her lot. With the same laudableambition that moves the man of business to be identified as successfulin his life career, the writer, whose only wealth is the acquisitionof knowledge and the cultivation of an inherited gift, comes beforethe public in a pursuit that has ever proved the animating ally ofeducation and good breeding and the strong cordon of socialrefinement. " Her first poem, _Mariamne, Queen of the Jews_, has a footnote whichcontains this interesting, if rather incomprehensible, sentence: "The reader must take the production with its stamp of originality, which is the plainer synonym of afflatus or inspiration. " Undoubtedly she successfully diagnosed the case. Two passages from this remarkable poem, which is her most ambitiouseffort, will bear quoting: "The swooping winds across the spicery snare, The aromatic smells of redolent wood, Camphor, cinnamon, cassia, are incense there, And the tall aloe soaring into the flood Of pearlaceous moonlight stimulates the air Which scarcely soughs, so heavy with vesper scents; The calamus growing by the pond, did spare A spicey breath, with sweet sebaceous drents Of nard, and Jiled's balsamic tree, balm sweet, Were all which filled this estival retreat. " The other: "The problem of Existence here when tried, God remains God though matter returns to dust; The fool can read this truth; but, if denied, Does spirit return to be from what it came? Is there reunition of love with God as at first? The Brahmin trusts his soul even higher, its flame Refines in th' Nirvana that absorbs its load, Though this divine psychism seems lotus flowed, Seems spirit inane as that on flowers bestowed; Islamism prepictures the voluptuary's abode Of Love unending: It is 'Love, love, love, ' Which souls have cried since eons began to move. " Now it is an infinite relief to turn from this inflated but would-bestately style to the homely diction of the Sweet Singer, as found inthe _Sentimental Song Book_. Her book of verse is small andinsignificant, and has not the prosperous, self-satisfied appearanceof Mrs. L. 's volume, with its gold letters shining from a green clothbackground. At the top of its paper cover the price is modestly given:25 cents. Then is printed: "The Sweet Singer of Michigan Salutes thePublic, " with a likeness of the author directly beneath. She isdepicted as a strong, masculine woman with heavy, black eyebrows, large, black eyes, and a mass of coarse, black hair tumbling over hershoulders in a way that makes one think that she has washed and sunnedit, and has forgotten to put it up again. She wears a sort of crown orband at the top of her head. There is nothing in the homely face, withthe squat nose and thick lips, that would betray sentimentalism, andyet those honest eyes were probably continually suffused with thetears for which her ultra-sensitive nature was responsible. Below herpicture follows this simple introduction, without reference to any"laudable ambition, " "acquisition of knowledge, " or "cultivation ofinherited gifts. " * * * * * "Dear Friends: This little book is composed of truthful pieces. Allthose which speak of being killed, died or drowned, are truthfulsongs; others are 'more truth than poetry. ' They are all composed bythe author. "I was born in Plainfield, and lived there until I was ten years ofage. Then my parents moved to Algoma, where they have lived until thepresent day, and I live near them, one mile west of Edgerton. "JULIA A. MOORE. " * * * * * Among those pieces "which speak of being killed, died ordrowned, "--and it was on these melancholy topics that she was at herbest--are four poems which deal with the sad history of the Housefamily. They seemed to have had the most abominable luck. When theycouldn't get shot or induce the small-pox to hasten their departurefrom this world of care, they passed away for no reason at all. Somehow they just could not keep alive. Martin House is the first ofwhom she speaks. He enlisted with a friend in the federal army atGrand Rapids. The final stanza of "The Two Brave Soldiers" disclosestheir fate-- "It was down in old Virginia Those noble soldiers fell, In the battle of Hanover town, As many a one can tell. They fought through many a battle And obeyed their captain's call, Till, alas, the bullets struck them That caused them to fall. " Hattie House had no reasonable excuse for dying, but she managed tofool her mother: "Hattie had blue eyes and light flaxen hair, Her little heart was light and gay, And she said to her mother that morning fair, 'Mother, can I go out and play?' "Her mother tied her little bonnet on, Not thinking it would be the last She would ever see her dear little one In this world, little Hattie House. "She left the house, this merry little girl, That bright and pleasant day-- She went out to play with two little girls That were about her age. "She was not gone but a little while When they heard her playmates call-- Her friends hastened there to save the child, But, alas, she was dead and gone. "Those little girls will not forget The day little Hattie died, For she was with them when she fell in a fit, While playing by their side. " Lois House, however, did not have to resort to any subterfuge. Thedivine Providence spared her the trouble. She had just married anexemplary young man, who "had courted her a long time in triumph andglee, " and "They loved each other dearly and never deceived, But God he did part them, one which he laid low, The other He left with his heart full of woe. " The last verse almost has a touch of poetry in it: "They placed her fair form in the coffin so cold, And placed there Joy's picture as they had been told; They bore her to her grave, all were in sad gloom, And gently laid her down to rest in her tomb. " In "William House and Family" she disposes of them collectively: "They once did live at Edgerton, They once did live at Muskegon, From there they went to Chicago, Which proved their fatal overthrow. " Pathos evidently appealed to Julia A. Moore in a way that was not tobe resisted. She was also very careful about facts. For instance, whatcould be more explicit than these lines from "The Brave Page Boys"? "John S. Page was the eldest son-- Edward C. Fish was his brother-in-law; They both enlisted in the Mechanic, And served their time in the war. Fernand O. Page was the second son; He served in the Third Infantry; He was wounded and lost both his feet On duty at Yorktown siege. " Enos Page was rather unfortunate: "In the Eighth Michigan Cavalry This boy he did enlist; His life was almost despaired of, On account of his numerous fits, Caused by drinking water poisoned-- The effect cannot outgrow; In Northern Alabama, I hear, Came this dreadful blow. " In "The Grand Rapids Cricket Club, " one of the few poems that dealonly with minor misfortunes, a certain player, Mr. Follet, tried agood remedy for a novel accident. "And Mr. Follet is very brave, A lighter player than the rest, He got struck severe at the fair grounds, For which he took a rest. " I could quote from the _Sentimental Song Book_ until I had entirelyexhausted the material, and each verse would create a surprise. Andyet, in spite of the grammatical distortions, in spite of thesentimentality, there is something pleasing in the absoluteunaffectedness of the little book. That Mrs. Moore has beenappreciated is borne out by the fact that when she travelled from townto town she used to be met at the station by a brass band or by adelegation of prominent citizens. Wherever she went she was humored, and her numerous friends vied with each other in showing herattentions. All this she took as a natural recognition of her genius, and happily was never undeceived. However innocent the _SentimentalSong Book_ may be of any literary value, the writer's sincere attemptto express her ideas are as plain as the face which embellishes thecover of the book. She was an ignorant woman, and her utter disregardof grammatical and poetic principles can be easily forgiven. But whatcan be said in behalf of Mrs. L. , a graduate of the Oxford FemaleCollege, Ohio, when, in a piece entitled "Genesis, " occurs thispassage? "Once, the stars the Lord has scattered Bountifully on the sky, Some soul thought they there were spattered For an ornamental dye; The huge Opalescent Concave Wore the polish of a stone Which the fracturing fires engrave With a thunder-splitting tone; And the things they claimed as sponsors For the young religious thought Were the things that were the monsters Recently from chaos brought. Then the tree inlaced in corsets Laced some maiden in its arms, 'Twas a lover's trick, to toss its Purgatories at her charms, And the lilies in the shallows, And the echoes 'mong the hills, And the torrents in their wallows, And the wind's great organ mills, And the waters of the fountain, And the mists upon the river Had the gods who made a mountain Of our cosmographic sliver. " Evidently they did not give as thorough a course in the pronunciationof French at the Oxford Female College as they do here at Williams. Atleast this deplorable fact is indicated by the first stanza of "LaFille du Regiment": "Proudly marches on the nation Which its patriots will defend, But remains a loyal station With its daughters to commend, Cheerfully to send the heroes Who are called to field and tent, Cheers for those who hold the vetoes, Vive la Fille du Regiment. " Shall we attribute it to a coincidence that Mrs. L. 's best poemstrikes a very familiar chord? It is called the "River of Tears": "The world is swept by a sorrowful flood, The flood of a river of tears, Poured from the exhaustless human heart For thousands and thousands of years. It is sweeping thousands and thousands of lives On its currents, swift and strong, O the river of tears for thousands of years Has swept like a flood along. " Perhaps its poetic merit may be explained by the first few lines ofBryant's "Flood of Years": "A mighty hand from an exhaustless urn Pours forth the never ending flood of years Among the nations. How the rushing waves Bear all before them!" --and so on. There is no need of continuing. But why disturb the bones of poor Mrs. L. , who is but one of the manythousands of contributors to mortal verse? May they rest in peace. Shehad her dream, and never woke out of it. Undoubtedly she was all thehappier as it was. And now let the Sweet Singer raise her harmoniousvoice once more, and close this paper with the last stanza of herpoem, "The Author's Early Life, " which I think is the most beautifullyextraordinary--since I cannot say extraordinarily beautiful--of theentire collection. "My childhood days have passed and gone, And it fills my heart with pain To think that they will nevermore Return to me again. And now kind friends, what I have wrote, I hope you will pass o'er, And not criticise as some have done, Hitherto herebefore. " _Literary Monthly_, 1910. IN THE DONJON KEEP GILBERT W. GABRIEL 1912 At first the darkness was impenetrable, black and choking. There wasno sound, except for the occasional soft spatter of water that drippedto the stone floor from the mouldy ceiling. Then through a narrow, barred window came the moonlight in a mottled shaft of phosphorescentgreen, and licked its way across the floor, to the edge of the bier. It shone on two kneeling, crouching figures, and full on the face ofthe corpse. The eunuch, a great, gaunt negro, lifted his head and showed his red, rolling eyes and his skin, gleaming like bronze in the moonlight. "Hewas my friend, " he whimpered, bending over the loathsome dead. "He wasmy friend. " "Aye, aye, " mused the jester, fingering the mildewed shroud, "andsooth, he was the finest mute that ever crooked a back in the Bohemiancourt. Famous he was, all hereabouts, to the marches of the northernsea. " "And so high was he in the king's favor and graces!" snivelled theeunuch. "They shall never find another such as he. " "True, true; and yet hast heard another must be found? The king hasthus ordered: another mute must now be gotten to take hisplace--another just so strange. " The jester bent over the face andshuddered. A few swift clouds sped across the moon, and caused thegreenish shadows under the misshapen features to flicker and meltgrotesquely. Then the light shone clear again and he saw the broken, twisted nose; and the eyes that stared obstinately from their splitlids; and the gaping, grinning mouth that, years ago, the torturershad cut wide upon each seared and tattooed cheek; and the swollen, split lips that could not hide where once had been a tongue. He passedhis hand along the shroud and lightly touched the ugly hump where thespine had been pressed and snapped, and the slanted shoulders and thetwisted hips and legs. "Thou wast so laughable to all the court, " hecried. "Thy bones were so comically broken. And now, another must bemade for the court's delight, just so comical as thou. Aye, aye, " andhe sighed heavily, "Jesu have pity on the child's face of some youngpage or squire. " The iron door behind them swung suddenly open, and a captain of thepalace guard clanked into the donjon. The flare of a splutteringflambeau, which he held in his hand, caused them to blink and shrinkaway, beyond its yellow circle. But he thrust it close to their faceswith a cross oath. "Silence, " he growled, "cease thy shrillchatterings. What dost thou here, foul black? By what right hast thouleft thy post before the ladies' hall--before the chamber of theking's favorite?" "He was my friend, " the eunuch faltered. "I wished to pray for himthat was my friend. " "Pray? To thy heathen gods?" Upon his coat of mail the captain thumpeda vigorous sign of the cross. "Go, get thee back, lest aught shouldhappen in thy absence. Thou knowest the penalty, both for thee and anygallant that dare pass the Lady Suelva's portal. Thou know'st thepenalty, " and he slapped his thigh with the flat of the halberd thathung from his girdle. "Hush!" Faint from across the courtyard came a voice singing, a highfresh tenor voice. The black sprang to his feet and stood rooted intrembling horror. "From what corner of the yard comes thatserenading?" thundered the captain. The jester rose to the window; helooked first out into the courtyard, then back at the eunuch, whostood picking nervously at his tunic; then out of the window again. "From below the Lady Suelva's chambers. See! Someone is climbing thewinding steps of her balcony!" "And Lady Suelva? Has she come out on the balcony?" "I cannot see; a tilting-post stands directly in the way. " In thefurthest corner of the donjon, a dim black square disclosed an uglytrap leading down to the torture-room. To the trap-door the captainbounded, and from above, they could hear the thump of his feet on thecreaking ladder. He was up again in an instant, chuckling viciously. "I found them all asleep, the old torturer and his two sons. But ho!they are awake now--I kicked them hard awake. They have much to doto-night. " He stopped for a moment at the big iron door. "Wait heretill I return, " he commanded, and ran stealthily into the courtyard. The eunuch fell to his knees again, and prayed jabberingly--this timefor his own soul. The jester softly trod the length and breadth of thestone flaggings, and stopped to peer at the corpse and its face. "Jesuha' mercy, " he repeated ofttimes; "Jesu ha' mercy!" The pulsating suspense broke with the reentrance of the captain. Overhis shoulder was slung a dark, limp burden which he swung down andheld out in the crook of his thick arms, as if it were a doll. "Twas a tussle the young peacock gave me, " he said thickly. "Lookye--I have lost my flambeau, but come to the window and take a squintat him. " He held the figure up to the grating, to where the moon shonepale on its face and tumbled locks and over its gay-colored tunic, andlustered its silken hose. "By St. Godfrey, what a handsome lad! Who is he?" "Methinks he is a squire but lately come to court, so there'll be fewto miss him, when the night's work is done. " The jester sighed. "So young he is and fair. See that great purplewelt across his forehead. " "'Twas where I clubbed him senseless. " "And must thou torture him to death? Must he so surely die?" "Aye, so run my orders. He will die--and thou too, black. Hold thou myburden, fool, whilst I undo my halberd!" From the kneeling eunuch came a shriek and moan and incoherentjabbering. The captain cursed and stayed his uplifted arm. "It is too dark to strike, " he growled. "Wait till the moon is frombehind that cloud. Ugh! It is black here, pitchy black. " A full, heavyminute elapsed, disturbed by the scuffle of the negro's feet as he ranand cowered in the furthest corner, and the soft creaking of the irondoor, and a sudden suck and soughing of the night air. Then the moonslipped slyly from its frayed woolly covers, and relit the donjonkeep. "Holy God and Father, " and the halberd clanked noisily to thefloor. In the half open doorway stood the king's favorite, the LadySuelva. Against the frosted green background of the moonlit courtyardher shimmering robe, her white face and throat, and her long hair offlaming copper stood out gloriously. She did not move, but stayedpeering through the unaccustomed gloom, as if to recognize the darkfigures before her. The eunuch flung himself at her feet, and squirmedand grovelled. "Save me, lady save me!" But she thrust him from herwith a sharp push of her foot. The captain turned to the jester. "Take down thy burden, " hewhispered. "Down to the torture room with him. " But the lady heard and came forward. "No, " she said imperiously, "layhim down upon the floor, and let me see what has been done with him. " The captain grumbled and swore under his heavy mustache. "Take himaway, fool. Do as I bid!" But the lady stepped between. "Stop! Let me see him. " Her voice rosehigh and shaking; she was fast losing her stately calmness. The captain sneered. "See him! And why? Have you not seen enough ofhim this night?" "No, no! he was but singing to me!" "Yet I found you with him on the balcony. " "I swear it, " she repeated, "he was but singing to me. " The captain heaved his shoulders with so great a shrug that theringlets of his coat of mail jangled and clinked. "I have my orders, "he said, "which come from the king himself. " "The king?" She snapped her fingers. "And who orders the king? Hewould obey my slightest wish. " "No use, dame. Nor heaven nor hell could save this squire from hisdeath. As for the eunuch, he will mayhap be spared, if thou so wishit. He is thy servant--and his life at thy command. " The negro whinedand moaned and crept to kiss her feet. But Suelva flung herself back. "What care I for his foul black hide?'Tis the young squire's life I crave. " "Then both must die. " "Mother Mary! But let me hold him in my arms. " She tore the jester'sburden from him, and staggering under its weight, turned to the middleof the room. Then she saw, for the first time, the bier and what itbore. She gasped, and let the squire's body sink in a huddled heap onthe floor. "Who is it?" she asked, crossing herself. She lookedcloser. "Yes, I remember thee, fond old mute. Pha! but thou smellestof the grave. And why have they left thee lying here, this fortnight?" From the dark corner came a stifled cry and piping gurgle. "My lady, oh, my lady!" "How now, black; let go my skirt. " "Mistress, let me whisper close. He need not die, thy lover. " "Hast thou some scheme? Quick, tell it to me. " "First speak the word to let me live. " "Aye, we spare thy life--but haste!" "He is but a young stripling; his bones are not yet set and hardened. Let him be made the king's mute. " The jester heard the words. He flung himself upon the eunuch, andgrasping his throat, throttled him until his black face ran with shinysweat and his great white eyes hung nearly from their sockets. "Ifeared that thou wouldst dare to speak of that--squealing coward--Imight have known it. " Again he whacked the woolly head against thepavement. The captain dragged them apart. "Why so wroth, fool?" he asked. "Sooth, 'tis a wise plan, and one to save me a deal of trouble. For itwas my special commission from the king to furnish a new mute. Andsince the lad must suffer, lady--come, by the Holy Tokens, I'll make abond with thee. I'll spare his life, an' ye say nought of it to theking. I'll keep intact his pulse and true heart's beat; and thou, inturn, give me his lower limbs to twist and his doll's face toalter--only to alter slightly, " and he laughed lewdly. Lady Suelva moved to look at the dead mute; but the wily black hadthrust himself before the face and hid its loathsomeness. "Do as hebids, mistress, " he whispered. "Let thy lover live and love thee. Lethim have life. " "And what a life!" cried the jester. "Oh, noble lady, be merciful andlet him die. " "Would not the king or some one recognize him?" she asked. "No, " answered the captain; "he is but lately come to court--andanyway, there's none would recognize him after--" "Might he not some day blurt out the truth?" "Ho, you forget: mutes make safe lovers, for they have no tongues. " She recoiled. "True. And so, may he love me fearlessly in such aguise?" "Aye, and thou him--that we promise thee. " She dropped to her knees, beside the unconscious squire. She took hishead in her lap, and with her warm hands brushed back the locks fromhis bruised forehead. "He is so beautiful, " she sighed, wavering. "Itwere a shame--" "He would never be beautiful again, " said the jester. "Rather an ugly lover than a dead one, " retorted the captain. Lady Suelva fell to sobbing. "Canst thou not spare him altogether?" "Nay! nay!" He stamped his foot impatiently. "And it were best tohurry. " "Only wait till he awakes from the hard blow thou gavest him. He willdecide for himself. " "'Twill be by far less painful if done now. " "Then take him. " "Think well and long, " said the jester. "'Tis a life of hell thouwouldst prolong him to. The jeers, the coarse and ribald laughter ofthe court, the scorn and teasing--aye--God! I know the life, for I toosuffer as a courtier's play-thing--and yet, I have a straight body anda human face and a tongue to answer with. What canst thou offer him tocompensate for all his loss and misery?" She looked up proudly. "My love. Is it not enough?" The fool bowed. "It must be, when kings crave for it. Yet beauty suchas thine can only love the beautiful. " "Then I shall pity him--with all my heart's strength; I'll comfort hispoor life with sweetest pity. " "Lady, pity is the meanest gate of love. " The captain growled and swung his halberd viciously. "Keep thy wit forthe king's ear, " he said. "The lady Suelva hath spoken her decision. We dally no longer. " He bent down and lifted the squire's body overhis back. Then he turned to the eunuch. "Take thou the old mute'scorpse. I have kept his carcass these seven days; to serve as apattern. So carry it down. " The black's eyes dilated again, and he shrank back. "I dare not touchit. He was my friend. " "Bah. Then take thou my load, " and in exchange the captain slung thecorpse across his own shoulders. As he crossed the room, the loosehead showed upside-down over his back, bobbing and flabbily waggingits grin-split face. The lady stared at it rigidly. She seized the jester's arm. "And ishis face to be a counterpart of that one?" "Aye--every feature exactly. " The captain threw open the trap-door and went down the ladder. Theeunuch, staggering a little under the squire's weight, followed himand disappeared from view. Suelva ran forward a few steps as if tocall them back; then she stopped short, hand at breast. "'Tis too late, " said the jester bitterly, and shut down thetrap-door. "God pity me, " she sobbed. "I was too selfish of his life--and of hislove. " "And now, be sure, he will do naught but hate thee!" As if to spite her overwrought emotions, she turned on him sharply. "Thou art impertinent, fool. " He smiled sadly. "Unpleasant truths must ever seem impertinent--butthey are no less true. An' I be the court fool, pray, noble lady, whatart thou? We be all king's play-things--my wit and thy beauty and themute's deformities. For all of us sweet life is slowly spoiled--forthe mute and me by scorn and snickerings; for thee by the cold glitterof lavished finery and callous flattery. That squire, young andbeautiful and bursting with ambition, was only a play-thing, too--thytoy, to dally with and break. " "Nay, nay! I loved him dearly and so shall for all time. " The jester laughed shortly. "I had not meant for thee to glance uponthis scene, " he said, "but if 'twere best, then look, lady, look!" andhe threw open the trap. A great red light flared up into the donjon, and waved and danced along the moon-green walls. The empty bier seemedlicked in ruddy flames, and on the moist mould of the ceiling, eachlittle drop of water sparkled like a ruby. "Look at him, " repeated the jester. "Shrink not; they are only heatingthe irons. " She crept to the edge of the trap, and peered down, fascinated. "Whoare those huge hairy men, with wild beasts' faces?" she asked. "The torturers. " "Oh! what have they done to his hair--to all his long, pretty locks?How strange he looks with his head shaven thus! And see! what is thetorturer to do with that glowing iron in his hand? Ugh!" and she fellback, near swooning. There was a sudden sizzle of burnt flesh and stenching smoke. "Look, " commanded the jester. "Look again. " "I dare not--nay, I cannot, " and she flung herself away from the trap, and lay at full length on the floor, with the moon and the furnacelight reflecting a mad swirl of color over her upturned, staring face. For some moments she lay there, and above her stood the jester. Neither spoke nor moved; they could only listen and listen to thenoises below them: the soft purring of the furnace-fire; the scuffleof the workers' feet; the deadened clank of instruments; the faintgroans of the insensible youth; the binding, searing, ripping offlesh; the crack and crunch of bones. "Quick, " cried the jester, "before they bandage him; quick! lookagain, " and when she shrank further back, he pushed her forward to thevery edge of the trap, until she could not help but see. "And couldstthou love him now?" he asked, and keenly searched her face. She said no word, but slightly swayed from side to side. She threw herhands before her eyes, and dug her fists deep into them, as if to blotthe sight from her memory. She crouched, stunned and sickened. Herhands dropped back to her breast; and the jester saw the expression ofher features. There was no sign of love in her face; there was no tenderness orpity. Only black horror and disgust; only a sullen, disappointed rage, and a scowling disgust. "They have made him as ugly as the king's gorillas, " she sobbed. "Ugh!he is ugly!" The jester nodded his head mockingly. "Thou art right. They have madehim too foul for thee ever to love, have they not?" "Love? God! I could not love a beast like that. " "Nor couldst thou even pity him--is he not too foul even for pity?" "Nay, I'd never dare to pity such a thing. He is too horrible, tooloathsome. I would swoon if he touched me. " "What, lady, neither love nor pity? Yet this may merely be a passingsickness of the humours. To-morrow thou mayest love him better thanbefore. " "Love?" She was fast growing hysterical. "I could never bear the sightof such a mangled dwarf. " Thrusting her hand inside her dress, shedrew out a gleaming bodkin, and flung it at the fool's feet. "Killhim, " she screamed, "kill him!" Then she rose unsteadily and staggeredout the iron door. "Kill him!" the jester echoed. "Merciful Mary, I thank thee!" and, concealing the bodkin in his blouse, he descended the ladder, to helpthe captain and the torturers in their work. An hour later, the squire's corpse was thrown over the castle walls. "'Tis a shame, " growled the captain; "he would have made so fine amute. One of the torturers' knives must ha' slipped, whilst they werecutting out his tongue. For I noticed that the spinal cord was severedat the base of the mouth--and that is a sure death, you know. " "So? I had not known that, " said the jester softly, and he smiled tohimself. The old dead mute was placed back on his bier and the trap-door shutdown. "So now I must hunt for another page or squire, " growled thecaptain, and he clanked wrathfully out of the donjon. The jester stayed a little while, to pray for the mute's soul and forthe squire's soul and for his own. Then he too rose and, swinging theiron door behind him, left the corpse alone. The moonlight shone dimlyand more dimly through the grating, and soon had disappeared. It leftthe donjon keep in total darkness, and in a stillness broken only bythe dripping of water from the mouldy ceiling. _Literary Monthly_, 1910. NINE WILLIAMS ALUMNI[1] [Footnote 1: A series which ran through Vol. XXV. Of the _Lit_. , 1909-1910. ] I. JOHN BASCOM JOHN ADAMS LOWE '06 Already long past the threescore years and ten allotted man, Dr. Bascom exerted a vital influence on the college when we first met him. On the shadowy side of the valley, and even then silvery haired, hemoved beneath these classic shades like a patriarch, "the grand olddoctor. " The facts of his life and of his achievements require volumes for thetelling. They speak of his genius-like career at Williams, of his keenphilosophical insight, and of how, after being graduated in 1849, hetried the law and theology before accepting a tutorship in his almamater. A score of years from 1855 to 1874, he served the college asprofessor of rhetoric, although his desire was to give his attentionto philosophy. The times were filled with conflict and struggle, andDr. Bascom accepted the presidency of the University of Wisconsin, where he made a glorious record covering fourteen years. In 1887 hereturned to Williamstown with unimpaired powers, and became lecturerin sociology and later professor of political economy, a positionwhich he filled till 1903. They speak of his degrees of honor:Wisconsin, Amherst, and Williams conferred the LL. D. , Iowa College theD. D. It is in the evening of his life that it has been our good fortune toknow him. As when, the day's work done and the worries of its earlierhours laid aside, we look forward to the rest that awaits us and liveover in thought the events of the day that is gone, the conflicts losetheir bitterness. Here is a man whose limitless energy built up agreat university; whose straightforward counsel for many years shapedthe policies of one of the political parties of the Commonwealth;whose earnest teaching pointed out to many a man his civic duty; andwhose personal life is an incentive to high intellectual morality. Bya score of books covering the various fields of rhetoric, aesthetics, political economy, philosophy, and religion, he has moulded publicopinion in his generation. The same undaunted ambition keeps his eyebright now as then; the same keen brain grapples with vital problems;the same magnetic personality commands respect and love. II. HENRY MILLS ALDEN LEVERETT W. SPRING '62 Henry M. Alden has been the editor of _Harper's Monthly_ since 1869, and is still in active service. He was transferred to this positionfrom _Harper's Weekly_, of which he was the editor for the five yearspreceding. For this long and distinguished service he seems to havehad little or no preliminary training. The first six years of hislife--he was born in 1836--were spent in Mount Tabor, a Vermont hamletwith the rude life of a remote country town three quarters of acentury ago. From Mount Tabor he removed in 1842 to Hoosick Falls, NewYork. Here, after some service as an operative in a cotton mill andother tentative vocations, he prepared for college, and, in the autumnof 1853, entered Williams, where he supported himself by teachingduring the long winter vacations and by such miscellaneous work asfell in his way. "I remember among other things, " said the latePresident Henry Hopkins to the writer, "that he took care of myfather's horse. " In Mr. Alden's day the opportunities at Williams in the way ofpreparation for an editorial career were very slender. The onlystudent publication was a quarterly magazine of less than a hundredpages, and by some oversight his class-mates failed to elect him asone of the five editors. At Andover Theological Seminary, where he wasa student from 1857 to 1860, the opportunities for 'prentice work asan editor were wholly wanting. Hence the preparation which the collegeand seminary afforded for his life-work was of a very general andindirect sort. Yet his success has been one of the notable landmarksin the history of modern periodicals. In the conduct of _Harper'sMonthly_ with its wide range of attractive material, he has done theworld a service, high and fine. For the first thirty years of thisservice Mr. Alden seems to have devoted himself to the task ofsecuring and organizing the material to be printed. In 1900 he addedto the departments of the magazine an "Editor's Study, " and begged "anaudience speaking in his own name. " Here he discusses from month tomonth such topics as the shiftings of popular taste, the story with apurpose, the volunteer contributor, rejected manuscripts, the"dullards of the college world for whom a Jowett or a Mark Hopkins issuperfluous, " and the present outlook of literature. That such a career was possible for Mr. Alden--the career of anindefatigable editor, keenly alive to the various needs of the readingpublic, with an office in a great New York business establishment, bethumped without by the roar of elevated trains and confused withinby the noise of incessant printing presses--no one who knew him inWilliamstown from 1853 to 1857 had the slightest conception. Then andthere he was a dreamer, and showed relatively little interest in thispresent material, workaday world. Dr. Gladden says in his_Recollections_ that he could never find out how he got down fromcloudland to Franklin Square. But as a matter of fact, in whateverhostile regions he may have sojourned, he never quite lost hisresidence in the supersensual world. Somehow he succeeded in reachingFranklin Square and becoming an editor without ceasing to be a mystic. The literary history of Mr. Alden the mystic, as distinguished fromthe editor, seems to have begun with the appearance of an essay on"The Philosophy of Art" in the _Williams Quarterly_ for December, 1856. Then, three or four years later, came "The Eleusinia, " twoarticles printed in the _Atlantic Monthly_. These papers led to thedelivery in 1864 of a course of lectures before the Lowell Instituteon "The Structure of Paganism. " Some thirty years afterward two booksappeared--_God in His World_ in 1893 and _The Study of Death_ in1895--which may be regarded as the culmination of the mental andspiritual characteristics revealed in the _Williams Quarterly_ essayand in the _Atlantic_ papers. Both of these books abound in rhythmic, melodious pages of prose poetry like the rhapsody on "The Coming ofthe Bridegroom" or on "The Lesson of the Sea. " Mr. Alden's prose isperhaps more poetic than his verse. Of the latter, scanty in amount, the best is his "Ancient Lady of Sorrows, " before whom pass "All shapes that come, or soon or late, Of this world's misery. " In general, the books may be described as an interpretation of thegreat problems of life by the mystic intuitions as distinguished fromabstract intellectualism, which finds that many of these problems arehopelessly beyond its reach. If one cares for the philosophy of natureand history, of Christianity and other religions, brilliantlyexpounded by an idealizing, poetic optimist and seer, we commend himto "God in His World" and "The Study of Death. " III. WASHINGTON GLADDEN STEPHEN T. LIVINGSTON '87 Washington Gladden, whose very name irradiates the nobility andwholesomeness of the man himself, has for years been a foremostinterpreter of the perplexing problems of our time. His appeal is tohonest intelligence in whatever concerns human welfare. He has donemuch to humanize theology and stimulate popular interest in modernscholarship. Moreover, in the region of industrial, social, and civicreform he stands out conspicuously as a bold champion of the GoldenRule in its application to every-day activities; and though sometimescharged with being a dreamer, he shows that the sky (to use his ownfigure) is less remote than is commonly supposed, and in fact adjoinsthe surface of the earth where human feet daily walk. Dr. Gladden, who is now a little more than seventy, was born inPennsylvania. He prepared for college in Owego, New York, and wasgraduated from Williams in 1859. After preaching in New York state fora few years, he came to Massachusetts, where he was settled first inNorth Adams, and then in Springfield. Since 1882 he has been ministerof the First Congregational Church in Columbus, Ohio. As preacher, author, and lecturer he is famous throughout the English-speakingworld, and all his recent books (the latest being his _Recollections_)are published simultaneously in England and the United States. Thehonorary degrees conferred on him are D. D. And LL. D. The instructive and practical elements in Dr. Gladden's writings, thewide influence he exerts in the cause of aggressive righteousness, andhis interesting personality, do not, however, measure the full extentof his gifts. One has only to read his well-known hymns to realizeanew that here is lyric quality of the first order. Then, too, theWilliams alumnus, whether he sings hymns or not, has the warmest placein his heart for "The Mountains, " and when he comes back to thecollege with white hair will continue to thank Washington Gladden forthat song. While serving as one of the trustees of Williams, Dr. Gladden was a familiar figure at commencement. His personal presenceindicates the character of his thought, and the spirit whichchallenged him to high daring in the early days is still unflinching. During the present disintegration of old beliefs, this servant of thetruth has always been eager to reconstruct the new with the clear anddefinite purpose of meeting the highest requirements of life. IV. FRANKLIN CARTER HENRY D. WILD '88 It was largely owing to her location that Williams College gained theson who was to become her sixth president. Born at Waterbury, Connecticut, and thus well within the centripetal sweep of Yale, Franklin Carter left New Haven at the close of his sophomore year forreasons of health, and later sought the more favorable climate of theBerkshire Hills. Thus, once a member of the class of 1859 at Yale, hewas graduated from Williams in the class of 1862. There came ablending of these affiliations throughout his career. Williams was thefirst to claim him, as professor of French and Latin till 1868 andthen as Massachusetts Professor of Latin until 1872, when Yale drewhim to a professorship of German, to relinquish him in 1881 when hesucceeded Dr. Chadbourne as president of Williams. For twenty years, the third longest administration in the history of the college, hestood at the head of her interests. The history of education can show fewer periods more critical or morerapid in change than the last quarter of the nineteenth century inthis country. Williams was in her own crisis when Dr. Carter came aspresident. How he met it, and how he guided the college in a steadymovement toward larger things, a mere comparison of the cataloguesmarking the limits of his administration can tell the younger men ofto-day, who enjoy the fruits without knowing the process. Such acomparison would show an increase of sixty per cent. In the number ofstudents and over one hundred per cent. In the number of instructors. This period also saw an increase in real estate, buildings, andimprovements of $600, 000, and, in addition to this, of $900, 000 ininvested funds. But educational realities go deeper than outward prosperity. A collegereflects her president's personality in things of mind and of spirit. To business capacity Dr. Carter added distinguished scholarship andthe genius of a teacher born. All this was made living effective bysingle-hearted loyalty to the best interests of the college as he sawthem and by devotion to the highest moral and intellectual good of thestudents. He did not swerve from duty as he understood it to follow aneasy popularity. The burdens that he bore and the labors that heaccomplished, at personal cost in more ways than one, rested in thelast analysis on this substratum of self-denying service. His work has extended far beyond the college. His grace of expressionin both speech and print, the keenness of his wit, his administrativepower, and his command of educational resources have been recognizedand made available beyond the limits of his presidency and apart fromthe demands of Williams alone. Honored in many spheres, he has thusbrought added honor to the college. The solidarity of his achievementsfor Williams is revealed more clearly as time proceeds. More and morethe alumni are coming to appreciate this as both historical fact andacademic heritage. This shall be his reward as he continues, and mayit be for long, to live close to the college and to the town that hehas served and loved. V. HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE WILLIAM M. GROSVENOR '85 It would be easy enough for me to study critically Mr. Mabie's books, for he has written many and they are well known and widely read; Imight give you a criticism of him as thinker and author. If criticismis, (as I believe Matthew Arnold once defined it) the discerning ofthe characteristic excellencies in things, I could easily show you thecharm of Mr. Mabie's English, the wide range of his culture, thesweetness and light of his interpretations of nature and human life. But this is rather a brief tribute to the man himself whom we sons ofWilliams have known and admired these many years, and this or any liketribute, however inadequate, will serve to pay a little of the debt weowe him for all that he is and all that he has done. Born in 1846, he graduated from college in 1867 and from the ColumbiaLaw School in 1869. As I graduated eighteen years later, I never knewhim in those earlier days. But the law did not claim him; almost atonce he turned to literature, for that clearly was his God-givenaptitude. For nearly thirty years he has been an editor of the_Christian Union_, which afterward became the _Outlook_. . .. The boy is father to the man. The gentleness, the refinement, thegenerous outlook on life, the genial friendliness, have only growninto nobler forms through the strenuous years. But he is an editor aswell as a litterateur. He has had his share in the fight to preserveour national ideals. The years have put iron into his soul andstrength into his judgments, and the sweetness has become only thepleasing incasement of the strong medicine which our social andpolitical life so often needs. So his personal influence has grown inweight and effectiveness. Mr. Mabie is serving the state, the church, human society, in all the wide range of its interests, with singularefficiency and is quietly achieving many very useful things; andwithal it is done with methods that are constructive and with thegentle arts of a gracious persuasiveness and a winning courtesy. May he have many years of rich and fruitful work, and a golden harvestof all the good deeds he has sown! VI. HENRY LOOMIS NELSON JULIAN PARK '10 To some of the college body the name of Henry Loomis Nelson is nothingmore than a name, but the three upper classes, especially thatconsiderable portion of them who at one time or another came under hisinfluence, will not soon allow the memory of his personality to pass. The facts of his life are simple enough and as well known; the fruitsof that life would take many pages to set forth. His power aseducator, journalist, and man of public affairs reached infinitelyfurther than most of us, who first saw in him the man of even, wittytemperament, were used to realize. Professor Nelson was graduated with the class of 1867, later takingthe M. A. Degree; the college further honored him and itself byconferring the degree of L. H. D. In 1902. Together with Mabie andStetson of his class, he organized a little circle for literarydiscussion; and that group, each afterward to attain eminence, showedmore vital interest in art and letters than can be found to-day. Aftertaking his law degree at Columbia he went to Washington as newspapercorrespondent and there began a great series of political and economicwritings. Called to the editorial chair of _Harper's Weekly_ in 1895, he resigned it after four years because, he said, he felt that hewould be false to his own convictions if he wrote those of thepublisher, false to the publisher if he used the magazine to voice hisown. His writings include also a novel as well as treatises onpolitical science. In 1902 he came back to his alma mater as head ofthe department of Government. He died on February 29, 1908. In his devotion to the ideals of Williams as he saw them, Dr. Nelsonwas, many have said, more distinguished by manly but quiet zeal thanany other graduate of his prominence in public life. He stood forscholarship, fine scholarship of course, but even above that he puthonor, a gentleman's code of honor. He was unconditional in hiscontempt for hedging, for trickery, for meanness. Constantly he showedhimself an idealist, as in his advocacy of an absolute honor system. But in all there was the play of a shrewd wit, the touch of sureness, lacking snobbery, of the man who knows where he stands, and a love ofentertaining others. For only six years we knew him as a teacher, butthe time was long enough for many of his ideals and ideas to takeroot, and the fruit of them will long be apparent. VII. HARRY PRATT JUDSON GEORGE EDWIN MACLEAN '71 Harry Judson entered Williams from Stillwater, New York, and it wassaid that he made the best entrance examinations ever passed up tothat time. Immediately upon his graduation, the third in his class, in1870, he taught public school in Troy, and was initiated as a reformerin municipal politics when Troy was infamous for corruption. The second public era of his life, 1885 to 1892, witnessed hisintroduction to the West as professor of history in the University ofMinnesota. This was the time of the refounding of that institutionunder the beginning of President Northrop's administration, to whomProfessor Judson became a right hand. His career is an illustriousexample of one rising slowly and patiently through every grade of thepublic school system, to its crown in the highest grades in the stateuniversity. It must have been of inestimable worth to him to becomefamiliar with the genius of a state university, so peculiarly apeople's institution and so characteristic of the middle West. Unconsciously he was preparing for crowning his career in the newUniversity of Chicago. It is not strange that, in 1889, three yearsbefore he became a member of the university's first faculty, PresidentHarper's attention was attracted to him, and he brought the earlydrafts of his plan for a herculean university to Professor Judson forcriticism. When the inner history of that university is written, in myopinion, the world will be surprised to learn of the contribution ofProfessor Judson, who was Dr. Harper's Secretary of the Interior fromthe beginning. What Mr. Rockefeller was as a silent partner in moneymatters, Dr. Judson was in matters of the mind. As dean of the Faculty of Arts, Literature, and Science from 1892 tillhis accession to the presidency, he was in admirable training for thatoffice. His facility in using his knowledge, his versatility ofpowers, fired by an innate energy, regulated by steadiness of purpose, and aimed at the highest ideals, make his name synonymous withefficiency incarnate. His modesty equals his ability. Harper stands asan heroic figure, a Napoleon with visions of educational conquest, selected by the far-seeing Rockefeller to build a university in thecenter of the nation and to give the West intellectual self-respect. With the same keenness of vision Mr. Rockefeller and the trusteesselected as Dr. Harper's successor a human figure, one in almost everyway a contrast to Dr. Harper; an Elisha succeeding an Elijah andfitted to balance and round out the creative stage in a university tobe not only the biggest but the best in the West. Williams as themother of many educators must place the name of Judson beside that ofMark Hopkins. VIII. CHARLES CUTHBERT HALL SOLOMON BULKLEY GRIFFIN '72 Dr. Hall was born in 1852, and died within a short time of two of hisbest and best-known college friends, H. L. Nelson and Isaac Henderson, on March 15, 1908. On being graduated from Williams in 1872 and fromthe Union Seminary, his first pastorates were spent in Newburgh, N. Y. , and in Brooklyn, whence he was called to the presidency of UnionSeminary in 1897. The most brilliant of his achievements was perhapsembodied in his two trips to India as the Barrows lecturer of theUniversity of Chicago;--he had a wonderful aptitude in applying theprinciples of Christianity to an alien civilization. A class-mate, theeditor of the _Springfield Republican_ is the author of the tribute tohis memory which follows. * * * * * It is around the thought of Cuthbert Hall the college boy, rather thanthe distinguished president of a great seminary and all the rest, withthe world so much his parish, that any word of loving memory shapesitself. He was refined and winning. If ever the sunlight of a graciousnature touched any youth, it rested on him; the unworthy and thetrivial passed him by. His adjustment of values even then was matureand firm. His literary taste and product were superior. He was anatural gentleman, and that meant a Christian by all the call of hisnature. Love of the fine, the high, the genuine, and the generous, wasinstinctive. His breadth of charity and welcome for knowledge in youthbecame the distinction of his manhood. Qualities were conspicuous in his life that bound worldlings to him ina bond of fellowship that grappled the best that was in them. Goodnessof his sort is commanding--the practical power of a pure life is apulpit asset that reenforces the spoken word beyond all humancalculation. Under his leadership Union Seminary could not have beenother than liberal and sympathetic toward devout scholarship thatmight seem to threaten the ancient foundations of faith. When a class-mate late in life found repose in the Roman church, Dr. Hall could see and say that such anchorage was best for his friend. All paths that led to trust in God and the strengthening of theessentials of character were allowable in the brotherhood of theservice of humanity. The world of scholarship has its arrogancies--sometimes it is criticalover-much, intolerant toward the lesser requirements of busy menoutside. This man never lost touch with men as they passed. His ownassurance of belief was a flame which lighted many torches. It was asane and a glad evangel that he gave to his students, and brought inalmost constant and always ardent addresses to the youth of manycolleges. Intellectual integrity was joined in him with the finest spiritualapprehension and expression, so that he was qualified to carry amessage to the cultivated of India, where he got his mortal hurt. Inthe knightly loyalty with which he labored his zeal was a highlytempered blade. He respected all faiths, but an abiding assurance ofthe supremacy of the service of Christ gave him unwavering serenityand poise. It is easy to think of Charles Cuthbert Hall entering theSupreme Presence reverently, unafraid, rejoicing, as naturally as achild would come home. IX. BLISS PERRY CARROLL LEWIS MAXCY '87 The subject of this brief sketch may indeed be termed a Williams manboth by heredity and by environment. He passed his boyhood and earlyyouth under the very shadow of our hills; and his father, ProfessorA. L. Perry, was for years the most widely known as well as the mostgenerally loved of its faculty. Bliss Perry was born in 1860; after graduation, in 1881, he becameinstructor in English and elocution at his alma mater and in 1886 wasadvanced to the full professorship. In 1893 he accepted a call to thesame chair at Princeton. Six years later he was appointed to theeditorship of the _Atlantic Monthly_, thus becoming one of a famousline of editors including Lowell, Howells, and Aldrich. He remained atthe head of the _Atlantic_ for just ten years, resigning in August1909 to devote himself wholly to the duties of the chair of Englishliterature at Harvard, which he had accepted two years before andwhich had already been filled by Longfellow and Lowell. The year1909-1910 he spent abroad as Hyde lecturer at the Sorbonne. Professor Perry's publications extend over the fields of fiction, criticism, and the occasional essay. His _Study of Prose Fiction_, aclear exposition of narrative writing, is one of the best-knowncollege textbooks on the subject. His _Walt Whitman_ is without doubthis most careful and elaborate critical work and is a recognizedauthority. The _Amateur Spirit_, a series of familiar essays, showsProfessor Perry at his best and should be read especially by those whodelight to study the personality of an author as revealed in his work. But whatever fame Professor Perry may have attained in the fields ofliterature, to Williams men he is the teacher. In _The Amateur Spirit_he has written: "Your born teacher is as rare as a poet. .. . Once in awhile a college gets hold of one. It does not always know that it hashim, and proceeds to ruin him by over-driving, the moment he showspower; or to let another college lure him away for a few hundreddollars more a year. But while he lasts--and sometimes, fortunately, he lasts till the end of a long life--he transforms the lecture-hallas by enchantment. Lucky is the alumnus who can call the roll of hisold instructors, and among the martinets and the pedants and thepiously inane can here and there come suddenly upon a man; a man whotaught him to think, or helped him to feel, and thrilled him with anew horizon. " Those of us who have been under Professor Perry's instruction in theclass-room must smile to note how--all unconsciously--he has hereportrayed what we know him to be. Scholarly in his tastes, clear inhis thinking, simple and direct in the expression of his thought, andalways human in his personality, he "taught us to think, he helped usto feel, and he thrilled us with a new horizon. " To us he seemed theideal teacher, and as teacher and as man withal he has won the loyaltyof Harvard, Princeton, and Williams men alike. SUGGESTIONS OVER THE HILLS G. B. D. "Mister, " my companion in the smoking-car addressed me rather timidly, "hev you ever bin to Ebenezer?" I looked at him a moment: kindly eyes, tanned face, grizzled beard;clothing of that indescribable, faded greenish brown which had lostall resemblance to its original color. "Yes, " I answered, "I've been there a number of times. " A moment's pause; then, "Quite a sizeable place, so folks say. " I assented, wondering what was to come. "An' to think I've never seen it--never bin to Ebenezer in all mylife, an' I live right back here a piece, not ten miles over the hillsfrom Ebenezer. But if this here train stays on the track till we gitthere, " he added with some pride, "I'm goin' to see it. "I'm goin' to see Ebenezer, jest to think of it! Well sir, it makes meall het up. Many's the time when I come in fr'm chores, I'd set by thefire an' read the _Ebenezer Weekly Review and Advertiser_; an' thereI'd see, 'Ebenezer items: Squire Hodge's store painted; the EbenezerDry Goods Emporium moved into new and more commodorious quarters, ' etcetery. Then I'd say to Mandy, 'Mandy, some day we'll go to Ebenezer. 'But we never went. Well, I s'pose it's all fer the best. " He sighedand shook his head. "But I'm goin' to see it all now. " He brightened up again. "Yes, sir, poor Mandy's fixed so she can't leave the house now, kind of laid upwith rheumatiz. A spell back, though, when our daughter got married, an' time kind o' hung heavy on our hands, Mandy says, 'Why don't yougo alone, pa? Now's a good chance. So I fixed things up spick an'span, an' Nancy--that's our girl--come over this mornin' to stay withher ma, an' I--well, it'll be grand! D'you s'pose I c'n see it all inone day?" "Oh, yes. " "Well, " he sighed contentedly, "that's good. Say, you've bin awfulgood to me, tellin' me all about Ebenezer. I'm glad I met some onewho's had experience in such a big town. " Silence for a minute. Thenhe leaned over confidentially. "D'y' know, it sort o' seems 's though the sunshine was a leetle bitbrighter to-day than usual, all on 'count of my goin' to Ebenezer. Only I wish Mandy c'd be along. " "Ebenezer!" yelled the brakeman. "Ebenezer!" _Literary Monthly_, 1906. A NEW LIFE IN READING J. O. S. E. When we were at home the gas always went out at a certain time, and ifwe were tempted to finish just one more chapter of _Coral Island_ or_Out on the Pampas_, we needs must steal a candle from the pantrystock and furtively read by its flickering light. Our own sense ofdanger, together with the imaginative effect wrought upon our excitiveminds by the dancing candlelight and the awesome shadows of the stillhouse, gave a strange relish to our childhood reading. At boarding-school we found (among its other strange things) theelectric light. At nine-thirty the bell in the chapel sounded taps, and all the lights in the school were extinguished simultaneously. Then the master would make his rounds and find the whole schoolevidently asleep in their beds. But presently doors would open andbooks would be read by the light in the hall. Still we had that sameadventurous feeling in our readings, still that sweet taste of stolenfruit. When we were graduated from the boarding-school, put away theproverbial childish things, and came to college, we were given afreedom such as we had never had before. No interfering master, noprovoking lack of light to annoy us. We could burn our lamps allnight, and receive no paternal rebuke or master's chastisement. Andnow, though there is none of that sweetness of stolen fruits, none ofthat creeping insecurity of former readings, there is an undisturbing, quiet secureness that makes our books more living to us. Now, when allthe dormitory is asleep; when the lighted windowpanes have ceased tocast their gleams upon the snow; when the streets are deserted, thepool-rooms closed, and the last good-fellow has gone to bed, and onlyoneself is awake, then we have the full enjoyment of our quiet studylamp-light. We may yawn once or twice, a creak on the stair maystartle us, --but we do not go to bed. We reach out our hand for somefavorite volume, Stevenson's _Garden of Verses_, _Underwoods_, orEmily Bronte's _Wuthering Heights_: and read far on into the nighttowards cock-crow. We mingle our reading with dreams, and read on andon, finding a new feeling in our book: we find the author's deepermeaning. Our reading is undisturbed by the ghost-creep of childhoodand the adventuresome daring of boarding-school. Formerly we had themere tale or story; now we feel in a small degree the soul-expressionof the writer--an indefinable, will-o'-the-wisp sort of thing; asomething not always caught, but that strange intangible somethingwhich lends the spark of immortality to the master creations. _Literary Monthly_, 1909.