_The same. Night. The moon, shining in broadly at the window,
discovers_ RAVENSBANE _alone, prostrate before the mirror.
Raised on one arm to a half-sitting posture, he gazes
fixedly at the vaguely seen image of the scarecrow
prostrate in the glass._
RAVENSBANE
All have left me—but not thou. Rachel has left me; her eyes
have turned away from me; she is gone. And with her, the great
light itself from heaven has drawn her glorious skirts,
contemptuous, from me—and they are gone together. Dickon, he
too has left me—but not thou. All that I loved, all that
loved me, have left me. A thousand ages—a thousand ages ago,
they went away; and thou and I have gazed upon each other’s
desertedness. Speak! and be pitiful! If thou art I,
inscrutable image, if thou dost feel these pangs thine own,
show then self-mercy; speak! What art thou? What am I? Why are
we here? How comes it that we feel and guess and suffer? Nay,
though thou answer not these doubts, yet mock them, mock them
aloud, even as there, monstrous, thou counterfeitest mine
actions. Speak, abject enigma!—Ah! with what vacant horror it
looks out and yearns toward me. Peace to thee! Thou poor
delirious mute, prisoned in glass and moonlight, peace! Thou
canst not escape thy gaol, nor I break in to thee. Poor
shadow, thou—
[_Recoiling wildly._]
Stand back, inanity! Thrust not thy mawkish face in pity
toward me. Ape and idiot! Scarecrow!—to console me! Haha!—A
flail and broomstick! a cob, a gourd and pumpkin, to fuse and
sublimate themselves into a mage-philosopher, who puffeth
metaphysics from a pipe and discourseth sweet philanthropy to
itself—itself, God! Dost Thou hear? Itself! For even such am
I—I whom Thou madest to love Rachel. Why, God—haha! dost
Thou dwell in this thing? Is it Thou that peerest forth _at_
me—_from_ me? Why, hark then; Thou shalt listen, and
answer—if Thou canst. Hark then, Spirit of life! Between the
rise and setting of a sun, I have walked in this world of
Thine. I have gazed upon it, I have peered within it, I have
grown enamoured, enamoured of it. I have been thrilled with
wonder, I have been calmed with knowledge, I have been exalted
with sympathy. I have trembled with joy and passion. Power,
beauty, love have ravished me. Infinity itself, like a dream,
has blazed before me with the certitude of prophecy; and I
have cried, “This world, the heavens, time itself, are mine to
conquer,” and I have thrust forth mine arm to wear Thy shield
forever—and lo! for my shield Thou reachest me a mirror—and
whisperest: “Know thyself! Thou art—a scarecrow: a tinkling
clod, a rigmarole of dust, a lump of ordure, contemptible,
superfluous, inane!” Haha! Hahaha! And with such scarecrows
Thou dost people a planet! O ludicrous! Monstrous! Ludicrous!
At least, I thank Thee, God! at least, this breathing bathos
can laugh at itself. At least this hotch-potch nobleman of
stubble is enough of an epicure to turn his own gorge. Thou
hast vouchsafed to me, Spirit,—hahaha!—to know myself. Mine,
mine is the consummation of man—even self-contempt!
[_Pointing in the glass with an agony of derision._]
Scarecrow! Scarecrow! Scarecrow!
THE IMAGE IN THE GLASS
[_More and more faintly._]
Scarecrow! Scarecrow! Scarecrow!
[_Ravensbane throws himself prone upon the floor, beneath
the window, sobbing. There is a pause of silence, and
the moon shines brighter.—Slowly then Ravensbane,
getting to his knees, looks out into the night._]
RAVENSBANE
What face are you, high up through the twinkling leaves? Why
do you smile upon me with such white beneficence? Or why do
you place your viewless hand upon my brow, and say, “Be
comforted”? Do you not, like all the rest, turn, aghast, your
eyes away from me—me, abject enormity, grovelling at your
feet? Gracious being, do you not fear—despise me? To you
alone am I not hateful—unredeemed? O white peace of the world,
beneath your gaze the clouds glow silver, and the herded
cattle, slumbering far afield, crouch—beautiful. The slough
shines lustrous as a bridal veil. Beautiful face, you are
Rachel’s, and you have changed the world. Nothing is mean, but
you have made it miraculous; nothing is loathsome, nothing
ludicrous, but you have converted it to loveliness, that even
this shadow of a mockery myself, cast by your light, gives me
the dear assurance I am a man. Yea, more, that I too, steeped
in your universal light, am beautiful. For you are Rachel, and
you love me. You are Rachel in the sky, and the might of your
serene loveliness has transformed me. Rachel, mistress,
mother, beautiful spirit, out of my suffering you have brought
forth my soul. I am saved!
THE IMAGE IN THE GLASS
A very pretty sophistry.
[_The moonlight grows dimmer, as at the passing of a cloud._]
RAVENSBANE
Ah! what voice has snatched you from me?
THE IMAGE
A most poetified pumpkin!
RAVENSBANE
Thing! dost thou speak at last? My soul abhors thee.
THE IMAGE
I _am_ thy soul.
RAVENSBANE
Thou liest.
THE IMAGE
Our Daddy Dickon and our mother Rickby begot and conceived
us at sunrise, in a Jack-o’-lantern.
RAVENSBANE
Thou liest, torturing illusion. Thou art but a phantom in a
glass.
THE IMAGE
Why, very true. So art thou. _We_ are a pretty phantom
in a glass.
RAVENSBANE
It is a lie. I am no longer thou. I feel it; I am a man.
THE IMAGE
And prithee, what’s a man? Man’s but a mirror,
Wherein the imps and angels play charades,
Make faces, mope, and pull each other’s hair—
Till crack! the sly urchin Death shivers the glass,
And the bare coffin boards show underneath.
RAVENSBANE
Yea! if it be so, thou coggery! if both of us be indeed but
illusions, why, now let us end together. But if it be not so,
then let _me_ for evermore be free of thee. Now is the
test—the glass!
[_Springing to the fireplace, he seizes an iron cross-piece
from the andirons._]
I’ll play your urchin Death and shatter it. Let see what
shall survive!
[_He rushes to strike the glass with the iron._ DICKON
_steps out of the mirror, closing the curtain._]
DICKON
I wouldn’t, really!
RAVENSBANE
Dickon! dear Dickon! is it you?
DICKON
Yes, Jacky! it’s dear Dickon, and I really wouldn’t.
RAVENSBANE
Wouldn’t what, Dickon?
DICKON
Sweep the cobwebs off the sky with thine aspiring
broomstick. When a man questions fate, ’tis bad digestion.
When a scarecrow does it, ’tis bad taste.
RAVENSBANE
At last, _you_ will tell me the truth, Dickon! Am I
then—that thing?
DICKON
You mustn’t be so sceptical. Of course you’re that thing.
RAVENSBANE
Ah me despicable! Rachel, why didst thou ever look upon me?
DICKON
I fear, cobby, thou hast never studied woman’s heart and
hero-worship. Take thyself now. I remarked to Goody Bess, thy
mother, this morning, as I was chucking her thy pate from the
hay-loft, that thou wouldst make a Mark Antony or an Alexander
before night.
RAVENSBANE
Thou, then, didst create me!
DICKON
[_Bowing._]
Appreciate the honour. Your lordship was designed for a
corn-field; but I discerned nobler potentialities: the courts
of Europe and Justice Merton’s _salon_. In brief, your
lordship’s origins were pastoral, like King David’s.
RAVENSBANE
Cease! cease! in pity’s name. You do not know the agony of
being ridiculous.
DICKON
Nay, Jacky, all mortals are ridiculous. Like you, they were
rummaged out of the muck; and like you, they shall return to
the dunghill. I advise ’em, like you, to enjoy the interim,
and smoke.
RAVENSBANE
This pipe, this ludicrous pipe that I forever set to my lips
and puff! Why must I, Dickon? Why?
DICKON
To avoid extinction—merely. You see, ’tis just as your
fellow in there
[_Pointing to the glass._]
explained. You yourself are the subtlest of mirrors, polished
out of pumpkin and pipe-smoke. Into this mirror the fair
Mistress Rachel has projected her lovely image, and thus
provided you with what men call a soul.
RAVENSBANE
Ah! then, I have a soul—the truth of me? Mistress Rachel
has indeed made me a man?
DICKON
Don’t flatter thyself, cobby. Break thy pipe, and
whiff—soul, Mistress Rachel, man, truth, and this pretty
world itself, go up in the last smoke.
RAVENSBANE
No, no! not Mistress Rachel—for she is beautiful; and the
images of beauty are immutable. She told me so.
DICKON
What a Platonic young lady! Nevertheless, believe me,
Mistress Rachel exists for your lordship merely in your
lordship’s pipe-bowl.
RAVENSBANE
Wretched, niggling caricature that I am! All is lost to
me—all!
DICKON
“Paradise Lost” again! Always blaming it on me. There’s that
gaunt fellow in England has lately wrote a parody on me when I
was in the apple business.
RAVENSBANE
[_Falling on his knees and bowing his head._]
O God! I am so contemptible!
[_Enter, at door back_, GOODY RICKBY; _her
blacksmith garb is hidden under a dingy black mantle with
peaked hood._]
DICKON
Good verse, too, for a parody!
[_Ruminating, raises one arm rhetorically above Ravensbane._]
“Farewell, happy fields
Where joy forever dwells! Hail, horrors; hail,
Infernal world! and thou, profoundest Hell,
Receive thy new possessor.”
GOODY RICKBY
[_Seizing his arm._]
Dickon!
DICKON
Hullo! You, Bess!
GOODY RICKBY
There’s not a minute to lose. Justice Merton and the
neighbours have ended their conference at Minister Dodge’s,
and are returning here.
DICKON
What! coming back in the dark? They ran away in the daylight
as if the ghosts were after ’em.
GOODY RICKBY
[_At the window._]
I see their lanterns down the road.
DICKON
Well, let ’em come. We’re ready.
GOODY RICKBY
But thou toldst me they had discovered—
DICKON
A scarecrow in a mirror. Well? The glass is bewitched;
that’s all.
GOODY RICKBY
All? Witchcraft is hanging—that’s all! Come, how shall the
mirror help us?
DICKON
’Tis very simple. The glass is bewitched. Mistress
Rachel—mind you—shall admit it. She bought it of you.
GOODY RICKBY
Yea, of me; ’twill be me they’ll hang.
DICKON
Good! then the glass is bewitched. The glass bewitches the
room; for witchcraft is catching and spreads like the
small-pox. _Ergo_, the distorted image of Lord
Ravensbane; _ergo_, the magical accompaniments of the
ballad; _ergo_, the excited fancies of all the persons in
the room. _Ergo_, the glass must needs be destroyed, and
the room thoroughly disinfected by the Holy Scriptures.
_Ergo_, Master Dickonson himself reads the Bible aloud,
the guests apologize and go home, the Justice squirms again in
his merry dead past, and his fair niece is wed to the pumpkin.
RAVENSBANE
Hideous! Hideous!
GOODY RICKBY
Your grateful servant, Devil! But the mirror was bought of
me—of me, the witch. Wilt thou be my hangman, Dickon?
DICKON
Wilt thou give me a kiss, Goody? When did ever thy Dickon
desert thee?
GOODY RICKBY
But how, boy, wilt thou—
DICKON
Trust me, and thy son. When the Justice’s niece is thy
daughter-in-law, all will be safe. For the Justice will
cherish his niece’s family.
GOODY RICKBY
But when he knows—
DICKON
But he shall _not_ know. How can he? When the glass is
denounced as fraudulent, how will he, or any person, ever know
that we made this fellow out of rubbish? Who, forsooth, but a
poet—or a devil—_would_ believe it? You mustn’t credit
men with our imaginations, my dear.
RAVENSBANE
Mockery! Always mockery!
GOODY RICKBY
Then thou wilt pull me through this safe?
DICKON
As I adore thee—and my own reputation.
GOODY RICKBY
[_Hurrying away._]
Till we meet, then, boy.
DICKON
Stay, marchioness—his lordship!
GOODY RICKBY
[_Turning._]
His lordship’s pardon! How fares “the bottom of thy heart,”
my son?
DICKON
My lord—your lady mother.
RAVENSBANE
Begone, woman.
GOODY RICKBY
[_Courtesying, laughs shrilly._]
Your servant—my son!
[_About to depart._]
RAVENSBANE
Ye lie! Both of you! Ye lie—I was born of Rachel.
DICKON
Tut, tut, Jacky; you mustn’t mix up mothers and prospective
wives at your age. It’s fatal.
GOODY RICKBY
[_Excitedly._]
They’re coming!
[_Exit._]
DICKON
[_Calling after her._]
Fear not; if thou shouldst be followed, I will overtake
thee.
RAVENSBANE
She is coming; Rachel is coming, and I may not look upon
her!
DICKON
Eh? Why not?
RAVENSBANE
I am a monster.
DICKON
And born of her—Fie! fie!
RAVENSBANE
O God! I know not; I mock myself; I know not what to think.
But this I know, I love Rachel. I love her, I love her.
DICKON
And shalt have her.
RAVENSBANE
Have her, Dickon?
DICKON
For lover and wife.
RAVENSBANE
For wife?
DICKON
For wife and all. Thou hast but to obey.
RAVENSBANE
Ah! who will do this for me?
DICKON
I!
RAVENSBANE
Dickon! Wilt make me a man—a man and worthy of her?
DICKON
Fiddlededee! I make over no masterpieces. Thy mistress shall
be Cinderella, and drive to her palace with her gilded
pumpkin.
RAVENSBANE
It is the end.
DICKON
What! You’ll not?
RAVENSBANE
Never.
DICKON
Harkee, manikin. Hast thou learned to suffer?
RAVENSBANE
[_Wringing his hands._]
O God!
DICKON
_I_ taught thee. Shall I teach thee further?
RAVENSBANE
Thou canst not.
DICKON
Cannot—ha! What if I should teach Rachel too?
RAVENSBANE
Rachel!—Ah! now I know thee.
DICKON
[_Bowing._]
Flattered.
RAVENSBANE
Devil! Thou wouldst not torment Rachel?
DICKON
Not if my lord—
RAVENSBANE
Speak! What must I do?
DICKON
_Not_ speak. Be silent, my lord, and acquiesce to all I
say.
RAVENSBANE
I will be silent.
DICKON
And acquiesce?
RAVENSBANE
I will be silent.
[_Enter_ MINISTER DODGE, _accompanied by_ SIR CHARLES REDDINGTON,
CAPTAIN BUGBY, _the_ REV. MASTERS RAND _and_ TODD, _and
followed by_ JUSTICE MERTON, RICHARD, MISTRESS MERTON, _and_
RACHEL. _Richard and Rachel stand somewhat apart, Rachel
drawing close to Richard and hiding her face. All wear their
outer wraps, and two or three hold lanterns, which, save the
moon, throw the only light upon the scene. All enter solemn
and silent._]
MINISTER DODGE
Lord, be Thou present with us, in this unholy spot.
SEVERAL MEN’S VOICES
Amen.
DICKON
Friends! Have you seized her? Is she made prisoner?
MINISTER DODGE
Stand from us.
DICKON
Sir, the witch! Surely you did not let her escape?
ALL
The witch!
DICKON
A dame in a peaked hood. She has but now fled the house. She
called herself—Goody Rickby.
ALL
Goody Rickby!
MISTRESS MERTON
She here!
DICKON
Yea, mistress, and hath confessed all the damnable art, by
which all of us have lately been so terrorized, and his
lordship, my poor master, so maligned and victimized.
RICHARD
Victimized!
JUSTICE MERTON
What confessed she?
MINISTER DODGE
What said she?
DICKON
This: It appeareth that, for some time past, she hath
cherished revengeful thoughts against our honoured host,
Justice Merton.
JUSTICE MERTON
Sir! What cause—what cause—
DICKON
Inasmuch as your worship hath ever so righteously condemned
her damnable faults, and threatened them punishment.
MINISTER DODGE
Yea—well?
DICKON
Thus, in revenge, she bewitched yonder mirror, and this very
morning unlawfully inveigled this sweet young lady into
purchasing it.
SIR CHARLES
Mistress Rachel!
MINISTER DODGE
[_To Rachel._]
Didst thou purchase that glass?
RACHEL
[_In a low voice._]
Yes.
MINISTER DODGE
From Goody Rickby?
RACHEL
Yes.
RICHARD
Sir—the blame was mine.
RACHEL
[_Clinging to him._]
O Richard!
DICKON
Pardon, my friends. The fault rests upon no one here. The
witch alone is to blame. Her black art inveigled this innocent
maid into purchasing the glass; her black art bewitched this
room and all that it contained—even to these innocent
virginals, on which I played.
MINISTER DODGE
Verily, this would seem to account—but the image; the
damnable image in the glass?
DICKON
A familiar devil of hers—a sly imp, it seems, who wears to
mortal eyes the shape of a scarecrow. ’Twas he, by means of
whom she bedevilled this glass, by making it his _habitat_.
When, therefore, she learned that honour and happiness were
yours, Justice Merton, in the prospect of Lord Ravensbane as
your nephew-in-law, she commanded this devil to reveal himself
in the glass as my lord’s own image, that thus she might wreck
your family felicity.
MINISTER DODGE
Infamous!
DICKON
Indeed, sir, it was this very devil whom but now she stole
here to consult withal, when she encountered me, attendant
here upon my poor prostrate lord, and—held by the wrath in my
eye—confessed it all.
SIR CHARLES
Thunder and brimstone! Where is this accursed hag?
DICKON
Alas—gone, gone! If you had but stopped her.
MINISTER DODGE
I know her den—the blacksmith shop.
SIR CHARLES
[_Starting._]
Which way?
MINISTER DODGE
To the left.
SIR CHARLES
Go on, there.
MINISTER DODGE
My honoured friend, we shall return and officially destroy
this fatal glass. But first, we must secure the witch. Heaven
shield, with her guilt, the innocent!
THE MEN
[_As they hurry out._]
Amen.
SIR CHARLES
[_Outside._]
Go on!
[_Exeunt all but Richard, Rachel, Justice Merton, Mistress
Merton, Dickon, and Ravensbane._]
DICKON
[_To Justice Merton, who has importuned him, aside._]
And reveal thy youthful escapades to Rachel?
JUSTICE MERTON
God help me! no.
DICKON
So then, dear friends, this strange incident is happily
elucidated. The pain and contumely have fallen most heavily
upon my dear lord and master, but you are witnesses, even now,
of his silent and Christian forgiveness of your suspicions.
Bygones, therefore, be bygones. The future brightens—with
orange-blossoms! Hymen and Felicity stand with us here ready
to unite two amorous and bashful lovers. His lordship is
reticent; yet to you alone, of all beautiful ladies, Mistress
Rachel—
RAVENSBANE
[_In a mighty voice._]
Silence!
DICKON
My lord would—
RAVENSBANE
Silence! Dare not to speak to her!
DICKON
[_Biting his lip._]
My babe is weaned.
RACHEL
[_Still at Richard’s side._]
Oh, my lord, if I have made you suffer—
RICHARD
[_Appealingly._]
Rachel!
RAVENSBANE
[_Approaching her, raises one arm to screen his face._]
Gracious lady! let fall your eyes; look not upon me. If I
have dared remain in your presence, if I dare now speak once
more to you, ’tis because I would have you know—O forgive
me!—that I love you.
RICHARD
Sir! This lady has renewed her promise to be my wife.
RAVENSBANE
Your wife, or not, I love her.
RICHARD
Zounds!
RAVENSBANE
Forbear, and hear me! For one wonderful day I have gazed
upon this, your world. The sun has kindled me and the moon has
blessed me. A million forms—of trees, of stones, of stars, of
men, of common things—have swum like motes before my eyes;
but one alone was wholly beautiful. That form was Rachel: to
her alone I was not ludicrous; to her I also was beautiful.
Therefore, I love her. You talk to me of mothers, mistresses,
lovers, and wives and sisters, and you say men love these.
What is love? The sun’s enkindling and the moon’s quiescence;
the night and day of the world—the _all_ of life, the
all which must include both you and me and God, of whom you
dream. Well then, I love you, Rachel. What shall prevent me?
Mistress, mother, wife—thou art all to me!
RICHARD
My lord, I can only reply for Mistress Rachel, that you
speak like one who does not understand this world.
RAVENSBANE
O God! Sir, and do you? If so, tell me—tell me before it be
too late—why, in this world, such a thing as _I_ can
love and talk of love. Why, in this world, a true man and
woman, like you and your betrothed, can look upon this
counterfeit and be deceived.
RACHEL AND RICHARD
Counterfeit?
RAVENSBANE
Me—on me—the ignominy of the earth, the laughing-stock of
the angels!
RACHEL
Why, my lord. Are you not—
RAVENSBANE
No.
JUSTICE MERTON
[_To Ravensbane._]
Forbear! Not to her—
DICKON
My lord forgets.
RACHEL
Are you not Lord Ravensbane?
RAVENSBANE
Marquis of Oxford, Baron of Wittenberg, Elector of Worms,
and Count of Cordova? No, I am _not_ Lord Ravensbane. I
am Lord Scarecrow!
[_He bursts into laughter._]
RACHEL
[_Shrinking back._]
Ah me!
RAVENSBANE
A nobleman of husks, bewitched from a pumpkin.
RACHEL
The image in the glass was true?
RAVENSBANE
Yes, true. It is the glass of truth—thank God! Thank God
for you, dear.
JUSTICE MERTON
Richard! Go for the minister; this proof of witchcraft needs
be known.
[_Richard does not move._]
DICKON
My lord, this grotesque absurdity must end.
RAVENSBANE
True, Dickon! This grotesque absurdity must end. The laugher
and the laughing-stock, man and the worm, possess at least one
dignity in common: both must die.
DICKON
[_Speaking low._]
Remember! if you dare—Rachel shall suffer for it.
RAVENSBANE
You lie. She is above your power.
DICKON
Still, thou darest not—
RAVENSBANE
Fool, I dare.
[_Turning to Rachel._]
Mistress, this pipe is I. This intermittent smoke holds, in
its nebula, Venus, Mars, the world. If I should break
it—Chaos and the dark! And this of me that now stands up will
sink jumbled upon the floor—a scarecrow. See! I break it.
[_He breaks the pipe in his hands, and flings the pieces
at Dickon’s feet in defiance; then turns, agonized, to
Rachel._]
Oh, Rachel, could I have been a man—!
DICKON
[_Picking up the pieces of pipe, turns to Rachel._]
Mademoiselle, I felicitate you; you have outwitted the
devil.
[_Kissing his fingers to her, he disappears._]
MISTRESS MERTON
[_Seizing the Justice’s arm in fright._]
Satan!
JUSTICE MERTON
[_Whispers._]
Gone!
RACHEL
Richard! Richard! support him.
RICHARD
[_Sustaining Ravensbane, who sways._]
He is fainting. A chair!
RACHEL
[_Placing a chair, helps Richard to support
Ravensbane toward it._]
How pale; but yet no change.
RICHARD
His heart, perhaps.
RACHEL
Oh, Dick, if it should be some strange mistake! Look! he is
noble still. My lord! my lord! the glass—
[_She draws the curtain of the mirror, just opposite which
Ravensbane has sunk into the chair. At her cry, he
starts up faintly and gazes at his reflection, which
is seen to be a normal image of himself._]
RAVENSBANE
Who is it?
RACHEL
Yourself, my lord—’tis the glass of truth.
RAVENSBANE
[_His face lighting with an exalted joy, starts
to his feet, erect, before the glass._]
A man!
[_He falls back into the arms of the two lovers._]
Rachel!
[_He dies._]
RACHEL
Richard, I am afraid. Was it a chimera, or a hero?
FINIS
“THE MOST NOTABLE ADDITION MADE TO AMERICAN
DRAMATIC LITERATURE IN MANY YEARS.”
Mr. PERCY MACKAYE’S new drama
_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net;
Sappho and Phaon by mail, $1.35_
“Mr. MacKaye’s work is the most notable addition
that has been made for many years to American
dramatic literature. It is true poetic tragedy
... charged with happy inspiration; dignified,
eloquent, passionate, imaginative, and thoroughly
human in its emotions ... and whether considered
in the light of literature or drama need not fear
comparison with anything that has been written by
Stephen Phillips or John Davidson ... masterfully
written with deep pathos and unmistakable poetic
power.”—_New York Evening Post._
The critic of the _Boston Transcript_ says:
“Mr. MacKaye has planned his scheme with both
the exactitude of the stage director and the
imagination of the poet.... We remember no drama by
any modern writer that at once seems so readable
and so actable, and no play that is so excellent in
stage technique, so clear in characterization, and
so completely filled with the atmosphere of romance
and poetry.”
“... The force and vigor, and beautiful imagery,
of Mr. MacKaye’s happy experiment in classic form
are evident. It is finer and stronger, better
knit, than his ‘Jeanne d’Arc,’ which Sothern and
Marlowe have found an acceptable addition to their
repertory.... This play is high-water mark in
American dramatic verse.”—_Boston Advertiser._
“Mr. MacKaye’s verse is varied, virile, and
essentially dramatic, with here and there bits
which stand out with rare beauty.”—_New York
Dramatic Mirror._
“It has beauty of spirit, grace and distinction of
style, and power enough to commend it to a friendly
reading by lovers of dramatic writing.”—_Daily
Eagle._
“Many are awakening to the somewhat incredulous but
curiously persistent feeling that in ‘Sappho and
Phaon’ Mr. MacKaye has achieved a _tour de force_
which will be read with admiration for some time to
come.”—_The World To-Day._
“Interesting for the dramatic beauty of some of its
passages, for the originality of its conception,
and as a curiosity of playwriting.... The tragic
conception, the shipwreck of the ideal in its
passionate self-emancipation from reality, is Greek
to the core.”—_Churchman._
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, 64—66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
OTHER POETICAL DRAMAS BY
Mr. PERCY MACKAYE
Jeanne d’Arc
“A series of scenes animated at times by a sure,
direct, and simple poetry, again by the militant
fire, and finally by the bitter pathos of the
most moving, perhaps the most beautiful, and
certainly the most inexplicable story in profane
history.”—_Philadelphia Ledger._
“A singularly fresh, buoyant treatment of an
old subject, Mr. Mackaye’s ‘Jeanne d’Arc’
contains less pageantry and more spirituality
than any of the plays about the Maid since
Schiller.”—_Record-Herald_, Chicago.
Fenris the Wolf
“A drama that shows triple greatness. There is the
supreme beauty of poetry, the perfect sense of
dramatic proportion, and nobility of purpose. It
is a work to dream over, to make one see glorious
pictures,—a work to uplift to soul heights through
its marvellously wrought sense appeal.”—_Examiner._
The Canterbury Pilgrims
“This is a comedy in four acts,—a comedy in the
higher and better meaning of the term. It is an
original conception worked out with a rare degree
of freshness and buoyancy, and it may honestly
be called a play of unusual interest and unusual
literary merit.... The drama might well be called
a character portrait of Chaucer, for it shows him
forth with keen discernment, a captivating figure
among men, an intensely human, vigorous, kindly
man.... It is a moving, vigorous play in action.
Things go rapidly and happily, and, while there
are many passages of real poetry, the book is
essentially a drama.”—_St. Paul Dispatch._
The Scarecrow
A Tragedy of the Ludicrous
_Each, cloth, gilt top, decorated cover, $1.25 net._
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, 64—66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
RECENT VOLUMES OF POETRY
BY STEPHEN PHILLIPS (dramatic verse)
Nero _Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net_
The Sin of David _Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net_
Ulysses _Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net_
“Mr. Stephen Phillips is one of not more than three
or four living poets of whom the student of English
literature finds himself compelled, in the interest
of his study, to take account.”—MONTGOMERY
SCHUYLER, in _The New York Times_.
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
Lyrical and Dramatic Poems In two volumes
The first volume contains his lyrics up to the
present time; the second includes all of his five
dramas in verse; The Countess Cathleen; The Land of
Heart’s Desire; The King’s Threshold; On Baile’s
Strand; and The Shadowy Waters.
“Mr. Yeats is probably the most important as well
as the most widely known of the men concerned
directly in the so-called Celtic renaissance.
More than this, he stands among the few men to be
reckoned with in modern poetry.”—_New York Herald._
BY SARA KING WILEY (dramatic and lyric)
The Coming of Philibert In press
Poems, Lyrical and Dramatic _Cloth, $1.50 net_
Alcestis: and Other Poems _Cloth, 75 cents net_
“Fundamentally lyrical in free play of imagination,
frankness of creation, passionate devotion, and
exaltation of sacrifice.”—_The Outlook._
Mr. ALFRED NOYES’S
THREE VOLUMES OF POETRY
Poems _Cloth, decorated cover, $1.25 net_
Mr. Richard Le Gallienne in the _North American
Review_ pointed out recently “their spontaneous
power and freshness, their imaginative vision,
their lyrical magic.” He adds: “Mr. Noyes is
surprisingly various. I have seldom read one book,
particularly by so young a writer, in which so
many different things are done, and all done so
well.... But that for which one is most grateful to
Mr. Noyes in his strong and brilliant treatment of
all his rich material, is the gift by which, in my
opinion, he stands alone among the younger poets of
the day, his lyrical gift.”
The Flower of Old Japan
and The Forest of Wild Thyme
_In one volume, decorated cloth, $1.25 net_
“The little ones will love the songs at first for
the pure music of their rhythm, later because
of the deep embodied truths rather divined than
comprehended.... Mr. Noyes is first of all a
singer, then something of a seer with great love
and high hopes and aims to balance this rare
combination. Of course ultramaterialists will pull
his latest book to pieces, from the frank preface
to the dedication which follows the last chapter.
But readers of more gentle fibre will find it not
only full of rich imagery and refreshing interest,
but also a wonderful passport to the dear child
land Stevenson made so real and telling, and which
most of us, having left it far behind, would so
gladly regain.”—_Chicago Record-Herald._
The Golden Hynde
AND OTHER POEMS
The new volume contains a considerable amount of
hitherto unpublished work, besides some poems which
have been published only in magazines and are
practically unknown to American readers. The book
bears out the verdict of the _Post_:—
“It has seemed to us from the first that Noyes has
been one of the most hope-inspiring figures in our
latter-day poetry. He, almost alone of the younger
men, seems to have the true singing voice, the gift
of uttering in authentic lyric cry some fresh,
unspoiled emotion.”
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, 64—66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK