A WILLIAMS ANTHOLOGY
A Collection of the Verse and Prose of Williams College
1798-1910
COMPILED BY
EDWIN PARTRIDGE LEHMAN
JULIAN PARK
EDITORS OF THE LITERARY MONTHLY
1910
INTRODUCTION
The present work owes its existence to a conviction on the part of its
editors that much material published by past Williams undergraduates
in past and present literary periodicals of the college, deserves a
resurrection from the threatening oblivion of musty library shelves.
That this conviction has been justified by the quality of the verse
and prose herein published, the editors believe; and they therefore
submit this volume to the public without undue fear as to its
reception, adding only the caution that its readers remember always
the tender age of the writers of these pages.
The purpose of the editors was to collect material which might be
adjudged to possess real literary merit; but in some cases in which
the historical interest attaching to the production, either by reason
of its subject or by reason of the fame attained in later years by its
author, is obvious, this rule has been waived. Among such exceptions
may be cited that of the Resolutions addressed to President Adams by
the students, and copied herein from the pages of the _Vidette_. The
matter has been arranged in the order of class seniority, with two
exceptions. It has seemed fitting to the editors to begin the work
with that immortal song, "The Mountains"; the second exception is that
of the series of biographical sketches entitled "Nine Williams
Alumni," which for obvious reasons were published as a whole.
The editors burrowed through all files of the college publications
which the college library contains, files which are reasonably
complete. In such a mass of material, some ninety volumes, it will be
astounding indeed if some creditable work has not been passed
inadvertently over. If such a mistake has occurred it is at least
pardonable. The editors fear only the presence of some unworthy matter
in this volume, a sin of commission and hence vastly more heinous.
In going over the works of their academic ancestors the editors have
been struck by several very interesting facts. The literary quality of
the poetry, as all will recognize, has made a steady advance, until
the last six years of the _Lit_. have seen the magazine second to
none, for verse at least, in the intercollegiate press. Dutton,
Westermann, Gibson, Holley, all of the same collegiate generation--they
are names which are widely known and which have brought the college
renown of a nature which, ordinarily, she is apt to obtain rather by
athletic than by intellectual means. It is striking, too, to notice
how the college poetry has changed during the seventy years of its
existence, as the present compilers have known it. There are specimens
of the "poetry" of the early days included herein, which find a place,
as is intimated elsewhere, not so much for their intrinsic merit as
for the interest attaching to them in other directions; and as for the
prose of the _Quarterly_ and the _Vidette_, it was, indeed, like the
essays of the college press to-day, carefully written and with a
degree of that indescribable something called "style"; but so
philosophical, heavy, and devoid of any human interest that we cannot
imagine the average student going through the magazine at a sitting as
(despite all reports to the contrary) is done with the college papers
to-day.
An interesting light on the alteration in undergraduate problems that
has gradually come about is furnished by a reading of Mr. Mabie's
essay included herein. At the time of its production Mr. Mabie saw the
need of a greater degree of organization among the students, in order
that the college might thereby become more of a community. How
directly opposed the present-day cry is! Student organization has
to-day so spread and so wound itself about the very life of the
college, that it threatens to hide the intellectual aims for which the
college exists. The editors venture to express the opinion that, had
Mr. Mabie written when they are writing, his essay would perhaps have
had a different tone.
The college has indeed much to be proud of in its literature and
journalism--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 college
that their fame had its beginnings, even if often modest, in our
student publications.
For the purpose of embodying the literary history of the college as
completely as possible in one volume, the compilers have added an
appendix containing the names of the editors of the _Literary Monthly_
for the twenty-six years of its existence. For the same purpose, they
quote below a chronological sketch of the various publications, which
appeared in the _Gulielmensian_ of the class of 1908. The present
editors cannot vouch for all the facts there set forth.
"So far as is known, the earliest periodical published by Williams
undergraduates was _The Adelphi_, a bi-weekly, of which the first
issue appeared August 18, 1831, and the last June 21, 1832. After
twelve years _The Williams Monthly Miscellany_ was started in July,
1844, and continued until September, 1845. After another lapse of
several 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 published
fortnightly until June, 1874, when it, together with _The Williams
Review_, a tri-weekly, started in June, 1870, was united to form the
fortnightly _Williams Athenoeum_, the first issue of which appeared
October 10, 1874. In May, 1881, another fortnightly, _The Argo_, was
started, which, with _The Athenoeum_, appeared in alternate weeks
until April, 1885, when the two gave place simultaneously to _The
Williams Literary Monthly_ and _The Fortnight_. Two years later,
April, 1887, _The Fortnight_ was reorganized into _The Williams
Weekly_. In 1904 _The Williams Weekly_ became _The Williams Record_.
"Volume I of the _Gulielmensian_ appeared in the early spring of
1857."
To these must be added two more, whose existences have begun since the
above was published. A humorous monthly, _The Purple Cow_, first saw
the light in the fall of 1907 and has since prospered. Two volumes
have appeared of _Coffee Club Papers_, containing productions read
before the meetings of that body. The first volume bears the date of
1909 and the second of 1910. Every class on its graduation publishes
its _Class Book_ and these sometimes attain a degree of literary
merit; hence any review of the literary interests of the college would
be 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 literary
palates they are spread. It remains only to thank the alumni for their
loyal financial support through the subscription blanks sent out in
June, and the library staff of the college for the generosity with
which more than the ordinary facilities of the library have been
tendered.
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 THE
UNITED STATES
From the _Hampshire Gazette_, Northampton, Mass., July 25, 1798
Sir,--Though members of an infant Institution and of little
comparative weight in the scale of the Union, we feel for the interest
of our country. It becomes every patriotic youth in whose breast there
yet remains a single principle of honour, to come forward calmly,
boldly, and rationally to defend his country. When we behold, Sir, a
great and powerful nation exerting all its energy to undermine the
vast fabrics of Religion and Government, when we behold them
inculcating the disbelief of a Deity, of future rewards and
punishments; when we behold them discarding every moral principle and
dissolving every tie which connects men together in Society, which
sweetens life and renders it worthy enjoying; when we behold them
brutalizing man that they may govern him,--as friends to Humanity; as
sharers in the happiness of our fellow-men, as Citizens of the world,
our feelings are deeply affected. We commiserate the fate of our
European Brethren; we weep over the awful calamities of anarchy and
atheism.
But when we behold this Nation, not contented with its vast European
dominions, but endeavouring to extend its Colossean empire across the
Atlantic, every passion is roused; our souls are fired with
indignation. We see that their object is universal domination; we see
that nothing less than the whole world, nothing less than the
universal degradation of man, will satisfy these merciless destroyers.
But be assured, Sir, we will oppose them with all our youthful energy
and risk our lives in defence of our country.
Untaught in the school of adulation, or the courts of sycophants, we
speak forth the pure sentiments of Independence. We give you our
warmest approbation. We behold with true patriotic pride the dignified
conduct of our Chief Magistrate at this alarming crisis. We are highly
pleased with the moderation, candor, and firmness which have uniformly
characterized your administration. Though measures decisive and
energetic will ever meet with censure from the unprincipled, the
disaffected, and the factious, yet virtue must eternally triumph. It
is this alone that can stand the test of calumny; and you have this
consolation, that the disapprobation of the wicked is solid praise.
At this eventful period our eyes are fixed upon you, Sir, as our
political Father, and under Providence we rely on your wisdom and
patriotism, with the co-operation of our national Council, to
perpetuate our prosperity; and we solemnly engage, that, while our
Government is thus purely and virtuously administered, we will give it
our whole Support.
These, Sir, are the unanimous sentiments of the Members of Williams
College, who, though convinced of the evils of War, yet despise peace
when put into competition with National Freedom and Sovereignty.
Signed by a Committee in behalf of one hundred and thirty Students of
Williams 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 of
singing, 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 the
editors. It is extracted here from Professor A.L. Perry's
_Williamstown and Williams College_, (1899), and of it Dr. Perry
remarks "Ingalls also wrote a notable sonnet on 'Opportunity,' which
will no doubt survive, for it has a fine form and considerable
literary 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 of
college editors, a contribution to this centennial number[1] has been
solicited. Perhaps I can do no better than to recall a few impressions
of my own life in college. Every year, at the banquet, I observe that
I am pushed a little nearer to the border where the almond tree
flourishes, and I shall soon have a right to be reminiscent and
garrulous. At the next centennial I shall not be called on; this is my
last chance.
I came to college in the fall of 1856. My class had been in college
for a year, so that the vicissitudes of a freshman are no part of my
memory. I shall never forget that evening when I first entered
Williamstown, riding on the top of the North Adams stage. The
September rains had been abundant, and the meadows and slopes were at
their greenest; the atmosphere was as nearly transparent as we are apt
to see it; the sun was just sinking behind the Taconics, and the
shadows were creeping up the eastern slopes of Williams and Prospect;
as we paused on the little hill beyond Blackinton the outline of the
Saddle was defined against a sky as rich and deep as ever looked down
at sunset on Naples or Palermo. I thought then that I had never seen a
lovelier 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 the
side of the picturesque, the old way of transportation was better than
the new. The boy who is dumped with his trunks at the station near the
factory on the flat gets no such abundant entrance into Williamstown
as was vouchsafed to the boy who rode in triumphantly on the top of
Jim Bridges' stage.
The wide old street was as hospitable then as now; if the elms were
something less paternal in their benediction their stature was fair
and their shade was ample; but the aspect of the street--how greatly
changed since then! There were two or three fine old colonial houses,
which are standing now and are not likely to be improved upon; but
most of the dwellings were of the orthodox New England village
pattern, built, I suppose, to square with the theology of the Shorter
Catechism, or perhaps with the measurements of the New Jerusalem, the
length and breadth and height of which are equal. The front yards were
all enclosed with fences, none of which were useful and few of which
were ornamental. The broad-shouldered old white Congregational
meeting-house stood at the top of the street in Field Park; it was the
goal of restless Sophomores for several hours every Sunday, and it was
also the goal of all ambitious contestants for college honors. Griffin
Hall was then chapel, museum, laboratories, and recitation-rooms;
East, South, and West Colleges, with Kellogg Hall, on the West
lawn,--"factories of the muses," in Lowell's expressive phrase,--stood
forth in their naked practicality much as they stand to-day. Lawrence
Hall 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: President
Hopkins, whose clear and venerable name no eulogy of mine shall here
disfigure; his stern-faced but great-hearted brother Albert; Emmons
the geologist; Griffin, Tatlock, Lincoln, and Chadbourne, who
succeeded Hopkins in the presidency; Bascom, the only survivor to-day,
and Perry, the best-known of them all. I have taken no pains to
refresh my memory of the faculty of 1856, but I am confident that here
are no omissions. It will be somewhat less easy for undergraduates
to-day, writing so many eventful years after their entrance, to recall
the names of their teachers. One only of our memorable nine is now in
service, and long may he serve the community! All these were ranked as
professors; there had been tutors and instructors before our days, but
none in our time.
The _Gul_ of those days was a four-page sheet containing in briefest
form the membership and official lists of the various fraternities and
associations; it sold for ten cents a copy. The only other college
publication was the _Quarterly_, a solid magazine of about one hundred
pages. None of the fraternities then existing, I think, possessed a
chapter-house; their rooms were in more or less obscure quarters, over
stores or in private houses. There was quite as much rivalry between
them then as now, and poorer spirit. There was also an Anti-Secret
Confederation, of which General Garfield in his time was the leader;
it mixed freely in college politics and was no less clannish than the
other fraternities. The absence of chapter-houses and the less fully
developed social life of the fraternities left room for a stronger
class feeling and perhaps a more sympathetic college spirit than
exists to-day. The smallness of the classes and the absence of the
electives, too, aided the cultivation of class feeling; the classes
ranged from forty-five to sixty, and the whole class was held solidly
together during the whole course, all reciting in the same room three
times a day from the beginning of freshman year to the end of senior.
College singing was hearty and spirited, but our repertoire was
limited. I recall many evenings of blameless hilarity on the benches
under the trees in front of East College. For more ambitious musical
performance we had our "Mendelssohn Society," whose concerts were not
probably so classical as we then esteemed them, but whose rehearsals
gave us not a little pleasure. Athletics had hardly a name to live.
Now and then a football was mysteriously dropped into the West College
yard, and kicked about in a very promiscuous fashion; the freshmen and
sophomores generally had a match of what was by courtesy called
base-ball. The only intercollegiate contest of which I had any
recollection, and as it seems the first ever to take place, was a ball
game at Pittsfield between Williams and Amherst. Amherst was the
challenging party, and the college by vote selected its team with much
care and went forth to the contest with strong hopes. The game was not
lacking in excitement. It was none of your new-fangled, umpire-ridden
matches: the modern type of base-ball had not, of course, been
invented. Foul balls were unknown, the sphere could be knocked toward
any quarter of the earth or sky; runners between bases could be pelted
with it by any of the outfielders. I think that the score stood
something like 60 to 40, and it was not in favor of Williams. It was a
melancholy company that trailed homeward after this contest past the
Lanesboro pond; but since then I understand that times have changed.
[Dr. Gladden has embodied his college reminiscences more fully in his
recent volume _Recollections_, wherein is told also the story of "The
Mountains." (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 to
speechmaking. Laboulaye makes a good point by representing the son of
a leading character in "Paris in America" discovered by his father
before a large audience, in the full tide of political speech, and
maintaining afterwards to the old gentleman that it is the common
practice among all the boys to make a speech on every possible
occasion, that they may thus fit themselves for public life.
In New York, which tends rapidly to become the center of activity for
most of the important influences of our country, there are every year
many dinners, anniversaries, and assemblies, at which oratory of an
ephemeral nature finds expression and attention. All the
nationalities, all the religious and literary societies, all the
clubs, all the distinguished foreigners, and all the leading and
following colleges, must have a dinner, and every dinner must have at
least a dozen speeches. Most of these speeches are more eloquent to
the opinion of their authors than to the minds of their hearers.
It certainly is one of the best moral illustrations of the first law
of motion that in spite of all the heroism necessary to endure such a
volume of speech, the patient public seems (if we may judge from the
increase in volume) every year more and more willing to sit at the
tables and listen to this flow of sound. Perhaps this patience is only
apparent, for competition for an opportunity to speak is said to be
lively. Possibly every one of the thousands who listen is secretly
comparing the eloquence of the speaker with his own skilful ability,
and not quite calmly biding the time when he shall enrapture, where
the present speaker wearies and annoys.
Yet not every speech made on those occasions is dull. Now and then the
happy mingling of fun and sense really lifts the company out of the
tiresome monotony. Were it not for these addresses beautiful and rare,
we can believe that dinner speeches would be abandoned, or exchanged
for a single oration from one competent to delight.
For the distinguishing mark of the dinner speech should be that it
amuse not in the rough, coarse way of the demagogue, but in the
subtle, fine way of the man of culture.
The dinner speeches with which the readers of this paper are perhaps
most familiar, those made when the alumni of a noble college gather
around the table of their alma mater, ought to be characterized by the
broad sympathy, the quick insight, the flexible grace and the genial
humor of the thoroughly educated man. Although to make fine dinner
speeches can never be an aim worthy of an earnest man, yet to have the
power and culture from which such a speech usually comes, is the
highest aim in a literary regard that any man can have. It is a
short-sighted and one-sighted earnestness that despises the wit and
banter of society, and affects the isolation and grandeur of pure
thought. The mountain summit is too far removed from the walks of men
to make it possible for the recluse to wield all the influence that
his powers may entitle him to exert. The metaphysician less than the
poet, the country minister less than the successful lawyer, is the
autocrat of the dinner-table.
Because Williams and Yale have produced great and useful men, it does
not follow that their commencement dinners are always marked by the
finest flow of wit and wisdom, nor that pioneers in civilization who
bring great honor to their alma mater should always and everywhere
speak for her. Dinner-speaking is a fine art, not one for which men
need absolutely European travel and study, but one which is never
mastered except by those who love and perhaps know how to reach all
the beautiful thoughts of every age and clime. It is the cultured
gentleman of social experience, who may or may not be a man of great
ability, but who knows how to weave the poetic and humorous and
commonplace into beautiful or grotesque forms, that delights and
surprises a dinner company. Social experience and good abilities will
not alone make the successful speaker. Underneath and back of all must
be the gentleman. A lawyer, though of splendid position, can ill
afford to say at the festal table of his alma mater, "Harvard takes
great poets and historians to fill her vacant professorships; my
college takes boys, who have proved their qualifications by getting
their windows broken." Those who go deeper than the surface will
perhaps surmise that Harvard has had better material to work upon than
some colleges; not perhaps material of finer abilities, but material
that has been more under the influence of sweetness and light.
Possibly her graduates are as superior at making dinner speeches as
are her trustees in choosing professors.
A gentleman must make the happy dinner-speech, for only he can
perceive the proprieties of the situation. He will neither improve the
occasion to give the corporation advice as to the management of the
college, nor try to point out to a company of Unitarians the superior
advantages of the orthodox faith, nor exhibit to invited guests the
rags of his alma mater's poverty. He may, perhaps, avoid the
commonplace by so doing, but he will certainly transgress the rules of
propriety. The commonplace at a dinner, repeated every year under so
nearly similar conditions, cannot be avoided, but can be transformed
by the art of the master.
What could be more difficult than the duty of presiding at the dinner
of the New England Society and rehearsing the threadbare story of the
landing of the Pilgrims and dilating upon it in such a way as to
entertain New Englanders, who ever since their childhood have heard
the declamations of Webster, Everett, Winthrop, and the rest, about
that heroic band? Yet by a mixture of shrewd wit and eloquence Mr.
Choate, a Harvard graduate, went over again, last year, at the
sixty-fourth anniversary of the society, the main facts of the
history, and dwelt upon the relations of New Englanders to New York,
making a speech that, printed, fills ten octavo pages but which the
audience found charming from beginning to end.
This, like every other fine art, has something cosmopolitan in it. It
eschews the local and narrow, refuses to belong to any sect or party,
and appeals by the widest culture to men of culture. The dinner
speeches of our own Bryant are thus liberal and catholic. So were
those of Mr. Everett in the main, though one discovered the superb
actor now and then arranging his robe or making use of his splendid
presence and reputation to draw attention to himself. Of course, when
such a man comes as a guest into a company somewhat foreign in thought
and life to his own belongings, he can neglect the rules that good
breeding imposes on those who compose the homogeneous circles and
become narrow. But he must be narrow by praising not his own methods
but the unexpected excellence of life found among his hosts--thus,
while apparently dwarfing himself, he throws the dignity of his own
reputation and history over that which he eulogizes and really
exhibits the truest catholicity of spirit. To do this and perfectly
conceal the satisfaction that one has, because he can do it, was
perhaps difficult for Everett. Most men who heard him pardoned the
failure. It was easier for Dickens. His life was in some sense less
splendid but more real.
The amusement and good feeling which it is always the aim of the
dinner speaker to create, were largely the aim of Dickens' life. The
humor, the knowledge of human nature, that he always had at command,
were employed in his writings and daily thoughts to enliven and cheer
men. No wonder then that his speeches are models of breadth and
sweetness and appositeness, and that good judges regarded him when
living as in this department of expression unrivalled.
He who is so guided by the love of letters engrafted on the love of
man as to give constant and ample expression to these motives, will be
neither a reformer without grace nor a scholar without manliness. Give
to such a man a flow of animal spirits and a dash of wit, and he
should be not unapt to entertain even when poised on the dangerous
wing of an after-dinner speech.
_Review_, 1870.
THE STUDENT COMMUNITY
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE '67
A very interesting and significant feature of university life in the
early days was the great part played by students in the scholastic
community. They were not only included in the group described by the
word "faculty," but they were charged with administrative and
executive functions. The movement toward self-government, which has
already borne fruit in many of our colleges, is in no sense a modern
influence; it is a return to a condition widely prevalent in the early
history of university organization. Not only did the students share,
through various deliberative bodies, in the determination of the
gravest questions of academic policy, but, in many cases, the
executive head of the university was not only chosen by them but was
often one of their number. The rector of the Italian universities was
in most instances a student, often under twenty-five years of age. The
rector of the University of Paris, who was charged with the gravest
administrative functions, took precedence of the archbishop, and sat
at times in the royal councils with princes and nobles, was originally
elected 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 the
general assembly of undergraduates. Whether governed by students or by
masters,--alumni as we should say,--these historic institutions were
essentially democratic, and the student seems on the whole to have
been the most important figure; not only because at the beginning he
formed the constituency for the popular teacher, but because later
when these throngs of students formally organized he had the largest
share of privileges and for a long time the controlling voice in the
management of affairs.
"Universities," said Professor Croisat at the centenary of the
University of Montpellier in 1889, "do not come into the world with a
clatter. What we know least about in all our history is the precise
moment when it (Montpellier) began." It is impossible, in many
instances, to fix the date of organization of many of the foremost of
the older institutions; they were not made, they grew. There was a
deep necessity for their existence in the intellectual and spiritual
condition of the times, and they sprang into being here and there, in
Italy, France, Spain, and England, in response to that need. They were
notable, at the beginning, not for academic calm, but for turbulence
and vitality; for they were not universities of science, they were
universities of persons. The differences of scholastic rank were not
very sharply defined. In early days, whenever the university body was
formally addressed by Pope or Emperor, the students were named in the
same sentence as the masters.
It is unnecessary to recall here the changes in condition which have
separated the student class sharply from the teaching body and
divorced it almost entirely from governmental functions. What is
significant for the purpose of this article is an apparent disposition
in many quarters to recede from the extreme position of entire
exclusion of the student body and a tendency to move in the other
direction. That tendency may become very marked and lead to a very
radical change of policy in the government of colleges, a change so
radical as to be revolutionary in its effect. It is certain that the
government of colleges, like that of states, must from time to time
undergo marked modifications if it is to remain vitally representative
of, and harmonious with, the growing and changing life of the college.
In healthy institutional life there is free play and interaction of
all the forces that go to make up the organic life, and a certain
flexibility is involved in all growth. The student community, is,
after all, in most institutions the prime object of interest. A few
foundations 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's
welfare is, therefore, the controlling factor. In western colleges,
where the edge of hunger for knowledge has not yet been dulled by
opportunity, it is not an unknown thing for a committee of students to
wait on a president or chancellor and announce the failure of some
professor to prepare himself for recitations by fresh study of his
subject. It would be well if students in eastern colleges would
sometimes put on a similar boldness; they would help heads of colleges
out of very trying difficulties with well-meaning but incompetent or
indolent professors. Undergraduate popularity is often illusive and
unstable, but undergraduate perception of incompetency is often very
keen and discriminating.
But whether admitted to, or excluded from the government of the
college, the student community plays a part not always recognized in
its educational influence and work, and many men receive more
influential impressions from the atmosphere in which they live and the
men with whom they associate during their college career than from
their instructors. Nothing is so pervasive as an atmospheric
influence, and, in its way, nothing is so important. It is significant
that foreign students rarely speak of Oxford without commenting on its
atmosphere; something in the air of the old town which, although
intangible in its operation, is a positive factor in the educational
result. Specific courses of instruction are less numerous than in many
other places, and such instruction as is offered is often defective in
methods and spirit; but the life of the place is adjusted to
intellectual work; the library facilities are great, the traditions
which seem to be part of the very structure of the colleges are
liberalizing and make for generous culture. In such an air it is easy
to study by one's own impetus and to develop in ourselves the passion
for perfection. Culture is so different from training or favoring the
acquirement of knowledge that it is so often totally lacking in men
who have carried both processes to great length; it is indeed rarely
conveyed, though it may be greatly aided, by definite instruction. It
cannot be said of the great mass of college graduates that they are
men of culture. Culture comes, in a sense, by indirection, a man
absorbs it and furnishes the conditions for its growth, but he cannot
receive it directly from his teachers. There are, in every college,
teachers, who stimulate culture in students not so much by reason of
their scholarship as by reason of their attitude toward what they
know. For culture is always a personal quality; a ripeness which comes
from the generous enrichment of a man's nature by contact with the
best things. In certain atmospheres men ripen, as in certain others
they remain hard and unaffected.
The atmospheric quality of a college is determined largely by the
character and traditions of undergraduate life. If that life has
generous ideals, sound impulses, and traditions which appeal to the
imagination, the atmosphere will do as much for many men as the formal
instruction they receive. It will inspire self-respect, firm
ambitions, and general dignity and nobleness of nature. Men will be
drawn together by the sympathy of aspiration, rather than by mere
congeniality of habit, and their daily association will have an
educational influence of the most lasting kind. It is this association
which often leaves its mark on men who have failed to make right use
of the opportunities for specific instruction which surround them. A
college education is complete, so far as any provisional education is
complete, only when the student receives the strong impress of both
teachers and associates; when instruction is competent and vital, and
undergraduate life is wholesome, generous, and aspiring.
It is a significant fact that when a group of men develop creative
gifts in later life it will generally be found that their
undergraduate life together discovered strong sympathetic aspirations
which bound them together and gave their intercourse a very
stimulating quality. The action and reaction upon each other of a
group of young men of generous aims are peculiarly delicate and
influential, affecting the very sources of individual strength and
impulse.
Such influences are intermittent and irregular; it would be a great
gain if they could become continuous and, in a flexible sense,
organic. Student life has been, at times, highly organized and
penetrated by intellectual impulses. Colleges differ greatly in this
respect, but in American institutions the student life of to-day does
not anywhere near realize its rich possibilities. Its interest in
athletics is so great that in this single field it may be said to be
fairly well organized and fairly effective in securing the end for
which it works; but in no other field is a similar activity
discoverable, unless it be in that of journalism. One of the most
interesting features of the intellectual and moral revival now going
on in France is the notable change that has come over student life, a
change shown in a revival of song, of old student customs, of
solidarity of feeling, and of a generous enthusiasm for the common
traditions and views. May not American students learn something from
this contemporary illustration of the possibilities of organized
student 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 when
those ordinarily confident shrink back at the thought of grappling
with the mighty issues that lie before them. There are minds of a
structure so singularly complex and unique, that one leaves the study
of them impressed only with a deep, abiding sense of his inability to
fathom them. We have in our midst one such, the penetration of whose
manifestations and phenomena is well calculated to baffle the most
zealous investigator. Reared among the rugged hill-sides and verdant
vales of Williamstown, his character and oratory bear the evident
impress 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 a
knowledge of eight languages, he can at least use the one of which he
is master, in a manner at once astounding and gratifying. No son of
Williams needs to be told who he is; yet for the benefit of those
unacquainted with his genius and oratorical ability, we will endeavor
briefly to sketch his early career before enlarging upon the grander
triumphs of his later years.
The subject of the present article was born not far from the year
1810. Whether or no any comet or other unusual heavenly phenomenon
heralded his entrance upon the scenes of earth, is not recorded. If,
however, the astronomical appearances which are said to accompany the
birth of the mighty ones of the sons of earth are gauged with any
degree of fairness, there should have been at least six large comets
and any number of meteors distinctly visible. His early life glided by
gently as the placid Hoosick, by which he frolicked. Several desperate
attempts were made by various misguided individuals to educate him.
From all these, however, he escaped unscathed, with the wings of his
genius unfettered. At what precise period he began to exhibit symptoms
of that highly original and forcible eloquence which he now possesses,
we are unable to state. We presume that his first efforts were
co-existent with the commencement of his career as a wood-sawyer.
Certainly, at present, he is rarely filled with the divine afflatus
except when plying his saw. He is unlike Shakespeare, as he often
repeats. One utterance--"Ottah"--the coinage of his own brain, seems
to be the attempt of his daring and unschooled genius to strike out
not only into new lines of thought, but even to find a mystic mode of
expression. This term is evidently a portion of a language wholly
differing 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 to
the other with astounding rapidity.
The extreme versatility of his genius renders it peculiarly difficult
to give any adequate idea of his oratory. He is equally bold in the
expression of his sentiments on any subject. Perhaps for convenience
in consideration we may roughly divide his oratory into wood-pile and
conversational eloquence.
Specimens of his genuine wood-pile eloquence, though by no means
uncommon, are yet not easily accessible to the biographical compiler.
Very few of his sayings have ever found their way into print, and when
thus presented they are of necessity shorn of much of their strength,
and deprived of the impressiveness which they derive from the orator's
gesticulation and delivery. We will, however, endeavor to present our
readers with a few, selected at random, from discourses on various
occasions 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. He
remains deaf to their entreaties till the bell sounds, when with
uplifted hand and glaring eye he thus addresses them, in a voice
audible for about half a mile.
"Go in and take your secretary, persecuting yourself with the
dandelions and robes of righteousness. All the life, all the music,
and the blood and electricity rolling over the mountains with the
elements of pietude spread all over the fundament. Ottah!! R-R-R-Rose
Ottah! Rack-a-tack."
As might be surmised from a perusal of this effort, his peroration is
rarely in keeping with the main portion of his oration. In fact, the
close of all his speeches may be said to be very similar, being
invariably "Ottah," or some variation of it.
Occasionally the exuberance of his genius leads him into the error of
crowding together metaphors to the detriment of perspicuity. When, for
example, he says:
"The waters of heaven descending on the breast-bones of the women; and
the youthful Moses, sitting on the back-bone of eternity, sucking the
pap of time," we feel that there is a redundancy in the expression.
Some specimens of his remarkable verbal and figurative power in
conversation are forcible in the extreme. It is said, with what truth
we know not, that on one occasion the venerable head of this
institution ventured to "tackle" him in a religious argument. Bill,
after listening with a deference which was evidently a tribute of
respect to the Doctor's position rather than an acknowledgment of the
cogency of his reasoning, settled the question by an interrogatory:
"Dr. Hopkins, do you suppose I'm goin' to believe that when I die I'll
go 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 of
the Pratt estates, Bill was asked how Charles' wife was getting along,
whereupon he was pleased to remark that he believed she was "under
conviction." Since then the conviction has become a certainty, and
Bill 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 like
Charles. Charles says she looks like me."
There are few scenes that abide longer in the student's recollection
than those in which Bill is the central figure. It not infrequently
happens that, when a number of lovers of fun are gathered around him
as he vigorously brandishes axe or saw, one of them, willing, for the
sake of drawing him out, to make a martyr of himself for the public
good, addresses him. On such occasions a conversation, something as
follows, occurs:
Student--"Bill, what do you think of the constitutionality of the
configuration, esthetically considered?"
No reply is elicited from Bill, but a scornful "Ottah," as he puts on
a new stick and continues his work.
Student, (not discouraged)--"Really, Bill, I should like your opinion
on that point."
Bill, (having finished his stick)--"You ain't no kind of a man. You
hain't got no elements, no justice of earth. When I see these young
men and the monument of liberty imported from Long Island for the
benefit of the rising generation, Ottah! Rolling Ottah!! Rang Dang! Du
Dah!!!"
Of course a rebuke so scathing and sudden as this, never fails to
annihilate its object. Being assured by the rapturous applause which
ever succeeds his efforts, that he has made a good hit, Bill suddenly
becomes as impenetrable as Gibraltar, and saws vigorously.
If, at a time like this, "the Professor," _alias_ "Niobe," having
snatched a few moments from his professional perambulations in search
of "_Coffee_," steps forward, signalizing his debut with the
interrogatory: "Do ye think I'm a common laborin' man?" naught is
wanting to complete the student's bliss.
"The Professor" is by no means as varied in his accomplishments as
Bill, his only quotable utterances being the one already given and
another, supposed to be severely sarcastic: "How lang has he been
_so_?" He, however, has, in the recesses of his brain, a dim idea that
Bill is weak, viewed from an intellectual standpoint, while Bill has
an equally indistinct belief that "the Professor" has very little
furniture in his upper story. How far either of them is wrong our
space does not permit us to say. Both have a supreme contempt for
students, regarding them as effeminate cumberers of the ground. In the
presence of Bill, "the Professor" does not appear to advantage. Being
entirely unable to compete with him in a war of words, he is usually
forced to betake himself to dancing; which, compared with oratory, is
frivolous.
Occasionally the adversities of life seem to press upon Bill with
peculiar force, rendering him extremely dejected. At such times,
though his flow of language does not forsake him, he is without that
cheerful aspect and spontaneous expression ordinarily so
characteristic. No longer does he cause the campus to ring with his
hearty vociferation, but he grumbles very like an ordinary mortal:
"I tell yer now I don't believe no man ever got rich sawin' wood. I
tell yer it's hard work to saw wood all day and car' it up two pa'r
stairs on yer back. I've sawed wood mor'n thirty years. You ask Mist'r
Tatlock, if yer don't believe it. Mist'r Tatlock's nice man. There
ain'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 dollars
for 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 lighter
and more refined occupation of stove-blacking. While engaged in this
profession he never fails to assert his profound and lasting
conviction that, like sawing, it does not offer a broad and easy road
to opulence. His execution of whatever work is given him in this line
is at once artistic and masterly, showing that excellence in oratory
is not incompatible with an aptitude for the fine arts. His outfit is
eminently complete and choice. In order that he may fail in no portion
of his work, he usually carries with him a stock consisting of:
1. About 35 brooms, carried in a large sack. These are useful in
putting on the finishing touches, and ensuring an unapproachable
lustre.
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 in
many respects, the shoe-brushes and hair-brushes being instrumental in
doing the heavy and plain work, while the shaving-brushes and
tooth-brushes are extremely handy in doing justice to the filagree
work 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 the
legs 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 properties
are 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 of
his goods.
We have been thus minute in describing his equipment, knowing him to
be at the head of his profession, and hoping that any youth aspiring
to celebrity in it, who may chance upon these pages, will profit
therefrom. We regret to be obliged to state that there are some so
utterly out of sympathy with the cause of art, as to assert that the
greater portion of Bill's utensils are useless; and that by much
puttering he loses time without improving his work. These persons we
are inclined to class among those zealous but unthinking lovers of
simplicity, whose misdirected reformatory efforts in other departments
of life are so well known. As might be expected, Bill treats these
sacrilegious innovators with the contempt they so justly merit. Were
an officious stranger to try to convince an artist that one color
would answer all his purposes as well as a greater number, would the
suggestion of the untutored interloper cause the artist to waver in
the sternness of his faith? And shall the subject of this sketch
revolutionize his mode of stove-blacking at the promptings of an
untaught spectator?
It would be by no means surprising if such nicety of execution as that
to which we have alluded tended to draw his attention from rhetorical
themes. Yet, spite of this apparently necessary result, some of his
grandest and most startling flights of oratory have had their
inspiration from incidents connected with stove-nigrification. Bill
has, as it were, soared on the legs of the stove, like Perseus on
Mercury's sandals, to unexplored realms of space and thought. At such
moments the stove-pipe becomes to him a magic telescope, through which
he peers far into the unfathomable depths.
There are times when, through the influence of passion, he for a
little time lays aside his oratorical embellishments. We remember one
such occasion. He had just finished sawing a pile of wood, when a
student, who was looking from a window, told him there was one stick
which 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 pure
Anglo-Saxon:--
"You're a liar. You lie."
The student, perceiving from Bill's descent to the vernacular of
common men that his ire was roused, abjectly and unqualifiedly
apologized.
"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 dawn
over your jewelry. No sir, I never stole nothin'. _You_ do. You'd
steal if you wan't afraid to. Ottah!"
We regret to be obliged to chronicle one incident that would seem to
indicate 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, on
account of a peculiar propensity to split two-inch planks with his
head, "Abe Bunter," not long since honored the students of this
institution with a series of calls for the purpose of soliciting money
to purchase for himself a bovine, to replace one providentially taken
from 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 a
cent."
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 wealth
would not suffice to induce him to partake of it. This repugnance is
due partly to a fear of being choked with bones, and partly to a scorn
of its tenderness. The physical weaknesses of students he attributes
entirely to their consuming so much of it. Viewed from his standpoint,
perhaps students are effeminate, for he possesses the strength of
brass, and an amount of endurance astonishing to contemplate.
His ordinary working-hours are from six in the morning till six at
night; but, when business presses, he rises, like the virtuous woman,
while it is yet night, and brings down on his devoted head the
anathemas of various students by commencing his day's sawing under
their windows at the moderately early hour of one A.M. He is a living
proof 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 come
down to the limit of ordinary mortals, as he feared that the influence
of the sun's rays would bring about a degeneration of the Ottah and
Verdigres in the brain, and result in an explosion of the blood-veins.
By careful sanitary precautions he was enabled to avoid this fearful
malady and preserve his physical well-being.
He can, and will, for the comparatively slight sum of twenty-five
cents, hold his breath for five minutes. He, himself, asserts that he
can do it for seven minutes, but that the doctor advised him against
doing so, as it might produce a fusion of the Ottahs.
His costume is at once serviceable and unique. It usually consists of
from two to five shirts, and three pairs of pantaloons. He never was
known to wear the same hat or pair of boots all day. Occasionally he
dons a vest, and, at rare times, a coat. In stature he is below the
medium height; nevertheless, his appearance is eminently imposing and
prepossessing. His countenance is rather oblong, and wears an
expression that is a singular mixture of profound gravity and fearful
earnestness. His eyes resemble those of some species of fish, and are
set under curiously wrinkled brows that nearly conceal them.... Such
is Bill Pratt, honest, cheerful, and industrious, the maligner of no
man. His sturdy figure long holds a place in the memory of every
student; his photograph decorates every student's album. Without him
our college would be incomplete. Esteemed by all for his unfailing
integrity and industry, laughed at by all for his oddities, he remains
ever the same. We trust that the day is far distant when he will be
among us no more, and when the college walls shall cease to echo his
chaotic 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 are
lazy 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 drowsy
rhythm. What more delightful than to yield yourself entirely to the
present mood and wander off somewhere, aimless except to see and feel?
The trim soberness of the dusty road with its gray windings and vistas
of sand-ruts becomes less matter-of-fact at length, and so you leave
it to itself, and seek a path that leads to the heart of Nature and
far from ways of men. Down grassy slopes and over little hillocks that
pique your curiosity by shutting out the view of what is coming next;
now skirting the edge of a furrowed potato-patch, and now sauntering
down 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 spot
where a spring bubbles forth, apparently only to nourish a family of
cowslips, and so on and on until you break the stillness of a shady
wood as your feet keep alternate time among the heaps of leaves whose
rustling is varied by the occasional noise of crackling twigs. The
damp air, freshened by contact with trickling drops and oozy bogs, and
perfumed with spicy cedar, soothes and cools. Yonder lies prostrate
some mighty giant of the forest, victim of a ruthless storm, grim with
decay and raising a vertical base of black sod and tangled roots torn
from the earth where a gaping wound shows its former place. Here a
rock, moist with swamp-sweat, lichen-covered and set in moss. There a
clump of thick-grown cedars, deep shelter for the timid rabbit. All is
noiseless, breathless. Not even the squirrel chatters, for it is not
long past noon. But farther on comes a dull, low murmuring, scarcely
to be heard at first, so nicely does it fit this gentle monotone of
silence, yet soon filling the trembling air with overtones that rise
and fall and swell again in varying chords. It is the river. A few
steps more and you are there, and beside the stream in a fragrant bed
of ferns, with one hand caressing the delicate tresses of the
maidenhair, and the other dipped among the ripples, you give yourself
up, half dozing, to thoughts of the long ago and the far away that
seem to float up from the past along the dim windings of the stream.
The sun makes dancing spots of dark and light between the fluttering
leaves, and throws a changing shadow upon yon deep pool, where a grand
old beech, festooned with clematis, leans its gray trunk far over as
if to bless the stream whose waters, bubbling swiftly over the pebbles
a little higher up, calm themselves here to rest in peace. The
wood-thrush sends its plaintive, solitary note of silver-globuled
melody from the inmost forest. No other sound, save when a wagon now
and then rolls its quick rumble across a bridge, and then is gone like
some self-conscious intruder. But luxury like this is the very thief
of time. Before you are aware the waves of heat have ceased to form a
throbbing air-hive for humming insects, and the cool of early twilight
has come on, attended by lengthening shadows. And so home again along
the dewy fields, while an orchestra of crickets chirps a happy end
beneath the summer stars to the day that is done. It is in ways like
this that poets renew their souls, the old their youth, and weary
hearts, 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 walked
wearily up the dusty road toward the Waring farmhouse. In each hand he
carried a brimming pail and as he stepped along the milk in them
flopped softly against their tin sides. Out from the white streak of
sky 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 almost
think him a piece of ambulatory mechanism. Once or twice, to be sure,
he turned his head, perhaps to look off over the cultivated fields and
to calculate the labor still to be put on them, or possibly to draw a
sort of unconscious, tired satisfaction from these encouraging results
of so many weary hours. At any rate his pace never altered. Overhead
the large maple trees reached their glooming branches in a mysterious,
impenetrable canopy that rustled softly in the dusky silence. For the
night was still, despite the squeaking of katydids and the distant
peep of frogs. Along the sides of the road as it stretched on ahead
like a brownish ribbon and vanished under the farther trees, ran stone
walls, low and massive, and sharply hemming in the dusty highway from
the cool, green fields beyond.
David Waring was not consciously aware of anything in the world, but
his whole body was alive to the anticipation of the near end of his
day's work. A few minutes more and he should have set the milk into
the coolers, thrown off his overalls, and washed himself in cold
spring water--and then he could drop into a chair on the quiet porch
and take his ease.
Quite unexpectedly just ahead of him a young woman stepped out from
the 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 a
plough-horse. What's the matter?"
"Well, I am, Janet. It doesn't hardly seem as if I could push one foot
ahead of another. Here I've been working all day long, and only just
done at eight or nine o'clock."
"Poor boy," answered the girl. "Come and sit down a few minutes while
I talk to you. I didn't go round to the house because I knew your
father and mother would be off at meeting."
David needed no urging. He placed the pails of milk by the roadside
and 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," said
Janet with a little laugh.
"That's not my fault," he answered. "Somebody's got to milk the poor
old beasts, and I don't know who would if I didn't. That doesn't make
me like it, though. Oh Janet, when I feel as tired as I do to-night I
get terribly sickened with all this humdrum life on the farm! It's
just work, work, from morning till night and when you get done you're
too tired to read or talk or do anything but just go to sleep like a
big ox. If it weren't for father's and mother's sakes I believe I'd
quit 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 half
indignant, half smiling. "Is _that_ the only thing that keeps you
here? 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 just
sick and tired of the whole business, and I wish to goodness I could
throw it over. By the way, I suppose you know my brother's coming home
from Yale to-morrow. It's almost two years since I've seen him except
for a week or two. I guess he'll have changed some; his letters sound
so, anyway."
"That's just what I came down to ask you about. I heard it yesterday
and I'd be awfully glad if you two would come up to supper day after
to-morrow--that's Sunday. I'm so anxious to see him because I know
he'll have lots to tell us about college and the city and things like
that. Oh, David, I get tired too of always staying here in the country
and teaching school forever, when there are so many things to learn
and so much to see off there in the world. That's what Loren can tell
us 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 west
had turned to gray and the night was rapidly closing down. The girl
jumped 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. A
little later he had seated himself on the porch. He felt discontented
and unhappy though he could not have told exactly why. But one thing
was evident--he was not anticipating Loren's home-coming with much
pleasure. He felt, in fact, a certain reluctance, or rather timidity,
about meeting this younger brother of his who knew so much and talked
so much, and seemed to enjoy himself so thoroughly. He anticipated
keenly the difference that two years must have brought between them,
and dreaded the time when they should be put side by side once more
and compared. For David, too--the older of the boys by a year--had
expected to go to college and till the time came had never doubted the
expediency of it. But, as is so often the case, that merry-making
force in human affairs that we call Circumstance--or is it
Providence?--had it fixed up otherwise. Mr. Waring had suddenly
lighted upon chronic poor health as a daily companion on the walk of
life, and his time was so much engrossed therewith that David seemed
called upon--nay, impelled--to become the main-stay of the farm; Loren
was 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 recalled
since then the night--that breathless night in August four years
ago--when he and his dearest ambition had had their last battle, and
he had forced it to cover. "Loren shall have the best chance I can
give him," he had said to himself, with his teeth gritted, "and God
help me to stick it out here on the farm!" Thus it was, that, as
usual, Dame Circumstance had won out by a good margin.
And now Loren had been two years at Yale and was coming home for the
summer. Loren had learned a vast deal at college; among other scraps
of intelligence he had discovered that his family were a little
outlandish, and that Melton was altogether too slow a place for a
rational being like himself to exist in except, at the best, for a few
summer weeks. His latest letter, received only yesterday, was a
characteristic one, and David had unintentionally resented its tone of
breezy 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 get
a few days' invite to New York. Of course David will be down to meet
me and bring my trunk up." The words were innocent enough, but they
had insinuated their way into his mind and rankled there like an evil
thing. "Yes, _of course_ I will be down," he said to himself somewhat
bitterly; "of course I will, that's to be expected. And bring up his
trunk for him; yes, that's just what I like--the chance to fetch
Loren'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 a
natural one. He began to wish that she hadn't been in such a hurry
about giving it. What could she want of Loren? He wasn't anything to
her. Why did she have to be all the time hankering after new friends?
"New friends!" With a slight internal start David realized that only
three years ago Loren had never been away from home. "New friends!"
Why, Janet had known them both ever since the old days of skip-rope
and hide and seek! What more natural than that she should want to see
her old play-fellow again? Why should _he_ complain? Hadn't she said
once, "I love you, David," and wasn't that enough to make him trust
her?
A little way down the road he heard the step of some one approaching
and 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 he
carried a suit-case. This he set down heavily and approached the door.
David sprang to his feet. "Why Loren, is that you? We weren't
expecting you to-night."
"Well, how are you, old boy?" cried the new-comer. "It's bully good to
see you again. No, I didn't expect to get up to-night, but there
wasn't much doing at college and I didn't get my invite, so I thought
I might as well come on home. Where are the folks?"
"Out at meeting just now, but they'll be back in a little while. Sit
down, you must be tired."
Loren took a chair and sunk into it with a sigh of comfort. "You're
right I am. I tell you it's hard work to walk a mile and a half with a
suit-case. And all the time you were just sitting comfortably out here
on the veranda listening to the katydids." He drew out his pipe and
lit it. "Well, how are all the folks? Same as usual?"
"I guess so. Father's failing a little, and mother worries a good
deal, but keeps pretty well."
"That's good. They must be mighty glad to have one of us at home to
look after things. Lord, but I've often imagined you outdoors driving
around in the open air and enjoying life when I've been plugging up
for some beastly exam. But, apropos of the health bulletin, etc., is
Janet Manning here still, or has she gone off to college?"
"No, she's teaching school at the Corners. I saw her a minute
to-night, and she invited us up to supper there on Sunday."
"Good! That's something like. Shall be much charmed to see the little
schoolma'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, that
girl's got ability, and I call it a shame for her to bury herself in
the country just for her mother's account. But say, isn't that a wagon
coming?"
The two went down to the gate and stood there waiting for the buggy to
draw up. When Mr. and Mrs. Waring were out, David took the horse to
the barn and unharnessed in the dark. Then he reentered the house, and
without 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 gable
windows of the barn the yellow sunlight shot through the dusty air in
a 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 hay
rose up in a tremendous heap almost to the roof, where it vanished
dimly in the dusky shadows. Opposite were the cow-stables, five of
them in a row, each occupant munching her cud contentedly and now and
then giving vent to a soft, self-satisfied low. From one of the stalls
could be heard the rhythmical squirt of milk against the milking-pail,
for David was engaged upon his evening work. On a rickety chair near
the hay-loft sat Janet, holding a timid little barn cat in her lap and
stroking it nervously. She was speaking in a voice that betrayed
considerable agitation.
"Well, I'm just going to leave it with you to decide, for I'm not
ready to do it myself. But it does seem to me that it's the chance of
a lifetime. It's just a question of whether I shall always stay on
here teaching district school, or see a little of the world and have a
chance to go on studying."
She stopped, and a moment of strained silence ensued, broken only by
the sound of the milking. David pressed his head against the flank of
the cow and choked back something in his throat. Then he managed to
speak.
"Of course, Janet," he said, with an attempt at composure. "I can see
how it must attract you--this opportunity of going off to college, and
I don't mean to put anything in your way. Such questions a person has
to decide for one's self, and I don't see how I can give you any
help."
"Yes, there you are again. You just won't say yes or no; but I am sure
all the time that you don't really want me to go. You'd like to keep
me here at home, just an ignorant, stupid country girl. Why don't you
want 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 worth
while?"
David could not answer at once. He sat with his eyes shut, his knees
pressed rigidly against the pail, and against his head he felt the
warm, throbbing pulse of the animal in front of him. Upon his mind a
picture was forcing itself with cruel insistence. It was the Janet of
a year hence, well-dressed, sedate, intellectual, with all her new
college interests to talk of; and side by side with this he saw
himself--what would _he_ be? Just the same as ever, only a little more
awkward and out of date, and when he talked it would be of--yes, his
cows, and the new pig, and the price of potatoes! It was Loren who
would be suited to her then; it was they who would sit under the trees
together and the farmer could go about his chores. The impossibility
of her continuing to love him struck him with a new pang of
conviction, and he felt helpless before it.
"Why don't you say something, David?" asked the girl, rapping her foot
on the floor and unconsciously pulling the kitten's fur. "You're not
angry with me, are you?"
David saw that he must speak, and he determined to dissimulate no
longer. "No, Janet, but can't you see how it must look to me? How can
you expect me to be happy over it? Do you suppose, dear, that you
could 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 new
friends and studies to take up your time and I'd just be plodding
along here in the woods like a clod of turf? How could you ever keep
on loving me? Don't you see, Janet, how it sort o' breaks my heart to
say yes?"
The jets of milk shot into the pail with an angry rapidity. The bar of
sunlight lay almost horizontally now across the upper emptiness of the
barn, transforming the thick-hung cobwebs into golden draperies and
accentuating the twilight gloom below. Janet threw the kitten out of
her lap and, jumping from the chair, walked nervously to the window
and looked out absently upon the meadow below.
"Well, I supposed it would come to that," she said, with some
indignation in her voice. "It's nice to feel that you can't trust me
out of your sight. Don't you think that if you really loved me as you
say you'd be as glad as I was that I could get a better education? But
of course, if you're afraid to trust me, why, I suppose I can give it
up."
The strain of decision had been a hard one for Janet, and she was now
on the verge of giving way under it. Her shoulders shook, and she put
her face in her hands. David heard her sobbing softly.
"Janet," he said, "if you think that this is going to be a valuable
thing for you, I'm not going to say a word against it. You know that
every wish I've got is for your good, and that's God's truth. If you
think it's best to go, I'm going to try to think so too, and I'll do
everything I can to make you happy."
Janet had left the window and came toward him, a joyful smile breaking
through her tears. "You are a dear, good boy, and I love you," she
said, and allowed him to kiss her. He held her long in his big arms
and 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 wide
meadows, out over the dim woods beyond, and still on to the
half-visible hills in the distance, where it merged itself
imperceptibly into a low, lead-colored sky. Though the rain was not
falling, everything dripped with the damp. In front of the Waring
farmhouse the road, wallowing with fat mud, stretched off in a dirty
streak under the glistening limbs of the maples. The door of the house
opened and David came out. His mother followed him anxiously.
"David, I hope it isn't bad news," she asked, laying her hand lightly
on 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 and
stepped out into the road, his heavy boots sinking in to half their
height.
The mother watched him with strained attention as he set off towards
the barn. There was a sort of savage aimlessness in his gait. His
shoulders were bent forward, his hands thrust deep into his pockets,
and he looked neither to the one side nor the other of the road. At
the barnyard gate he seemed to hesitate a second, then turned in, and
the small, gray-haired woman on the step sighed and went back into the
house.
David strode deliberately through the yard and out of the gate on the
other 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 settled
over the land, obliterating outline and color, toning everything down
to a monotonous sameness of appearance--a flat, unrelieved vacancy.
David walked on mechanically, unmindful of any destination or definite
purpose; a dumb bitterness wrung his heart, and, in comparison with
that, 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 must
tell you--and if not now, certainly before many more weeks pass. Let
me admit then first of all that you were right in your anticipation of
what college life would do for me. It _has_ changed my ways of looking
at things more than I can tell you, and things that once seemed very
beautiful to me are so no longer. This was inevitable and we need not
regret it, for I know that the aggregate enjoyment of life has been
increased, at least potentially. You may know that your brother Loren
spent part of his Christmas vacation here, and he has just been here
again for a flying visit. Need I tell you the result, David? I think
you foresaw it long ago, and I cannot of course feel sad that things
have come about in this way, though I realize that for a time, at
least, it may be hard for you to understand it. But there are many
interests we have in common, he and I; I know that you will see
sometime that we were made for each other and that you will be happy
with us in our great happiness.
"I doubt whether this news will much surprise you, for I know, from
the tenor of your latest letters, you have noticed a change and have
been suspicious of the truth...."
* * * * *
Ah, yes, he had noticed it and had had suspicions; but to have it come
to this, and so suddenly--it was more than he could bear. His throat
ached and his hands were wet with perspiration. He looked up into the
sky and saw nothing there to help him--nothing but a roofless expanse
of drizzling gray fog. Not a bird chirped in the distance. The brook
down below him ran on silently without an audible ripple. Everything
was silent and motionless. If only a cow would low or a hen would
cackle back in the barnyard, life would be a bit more tolerable. It
was as if all the world had become soulless and dead.
How he had loved her! ... No other thought could find entrance in his
mind ... and now, it was all over. She belonged to some one else and
had left him without a thought, almost, of the pain it was going to
bring him. "Hard to understand!" She was wrong: he had understood it
from the first, and far better than she. Had he not told her so that
afternoon when they sat together in the barn? But understanding it
made it no more easy to bear. He wondered whether he could bear it. He
seemed so cruelly alone with his sorrow. The silence seemed shouting
at him.
Suddenly, without knowing why, he looked back to the barn. A little
figure, wrapped in a plaid shawl, was coming towards him: it was his
mother. A sharp thrill of tenderness ran through him. "Poor little
mother," he said softly, "you are longing to help me," and, somewhat
ashamed of the way in which he had left her recently, he turned and
walked 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 down
on the hay, side by side. "Read that, mother," he said, and handed her
the 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 she
stroked his hair and face and spoke shy words of sympathy.
"David," she said, "it was for your father and me that you gave up
college. Perhaps you think we don't appreciate it, because we never
say much. I know what it has cost you and how nobly you have stuck to
your duty, and you know that in God's sight whatever may come of it
you have done the kindest thing."
"Oh, but mother, that doesn't make it any easier to lose Janet. She
was 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 day
you'll see that it was for the best."
The afternoon light was fading and the rain was beginning to fall
softly outside. In the dimming light the two continued sitting there
together, hardly speaking a word, for what comfort could words bring?
And slowly a vague peacefulness began to fall upon his heart under the
gentle touch of his mother, and rising, he kissed her silently and
went 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 are
but two kinds of _regular_ correspondence possible--one of simple
affection, which gives a picture of all the details, painful and
pleasurable, that a loving heart pines after ..., and one purely moral
and intellectual, carried on for the sake of ghostly edification in
which each party has to put salt on the tails of all sorts of ideas on
all sorts of subjects." These two classes embrace, perhaps, the great
bulk of letters, but George Eliot says there is a third class to which
her correspondence with Miss Hennel belongs--one of _impulse_.
Strictly speaking, all of the letters which really belong as such to
literature come under this last head. The result of a perfect fusion
of the two other styles, they exhibit a sparkle, a pungency, and
lightness of touch, which take the curse from mere gossip, supple the
joints of intellectual disquisition, and mark unmistakably the
epistolary artist. The letter-writer, no less than the poet, is born,
not made, and his art, though for the most part unconscious, is no
less an art. The expression of every sentiment, the choice of every
word, however random it may seem, is determined for the born enditer
of epistles by a sense of fitness so exquisite that its niceties of
distinction escape analysis and only its more general principles can
be enunciated.
The most vital of these principles is pretty generally observed.
Thackeray perceives it when at the close of a delightful letter to
Mrs. Brookfield he exclaims, "Why, this is almost as good as talk!" He
was right: it was written talk. If read aloud with pauses for the
correspondent's reply, the perfect letter would make perfect
conversation. It should call up the voice, gesture, and bearing of the
writer. Though it may be more studied than oral speech, it must appear
no less impromptu. This, indeed, is its essential charm, that it
contains the mind's first fruits with the bloom on, that it exhale
carelessly the mixed fragrance of the spirit like a handful of wild
flowers not sorted for the parlor table but, as gathered among the
fields, haphazard, with here a violet, there a spice of mint, a
strawberry blossom from the hillside, and a sprig of bittersweet. This
is the opportunity for the clergyman to show that he is not all
theologian, but part naturalist; the farmer that he is not all
ploughman, but part philosopher. This is the place for little buds of
sentiment, 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 play
delights. Sickness and sorrow, too, and death, if spoken of reverently
and bravely, must not be denied a place. So we shall have a letter now
all grave, now all gay, but generally, if it be a good letter, part
grave, part gay, just as the mingled threads are clipped from the webs
of life.
That such a letter cannot be written with white gloves goes without
saying. The first requisite is freedom from stiffness. The realm of
good letters is a republic in which no man need lift his hat to
another. It is hail-fellow well met, or not met at all. So when the
humble address their superiors, or when children write to austere
grandfathers, they suffer from an awkwardness of mental attitude which
is the paralysis of all spontaneity. Before the indispensable ease can
exist, certain relations of equality must be established. But there
are some whose fountains of speech, in letters as in conversation, lie
forever above the line of perpetual snow. They never thaw out. Bound
by a sort of viscosity of spirits, that peculiar stamp of the
Anglo-Saxon temperament, they are incapable of getting their thoughts
and emotions under way; with the best will in the world, genuine
warmth of feeling, minds stocked with information on all subjects,
they are never fluent. The man with no ear must not hope to be a
musician, nor the man with no fluency a letter-writer. Yet this is not
all. You will find some at perfect ease in conversation who, touching
pen to paper, exhibit the affected primness commonly ascribed to the
maiden aunt. They have not learned that this is a place where words
must speak for themselves without comment of inflection, gesture of
the hand, or interpreting smile. Here to be unaffected one must take
thought. As on the stage a natural hue must be obtained by unnatural
means, so in the writing of letters one must a trifle overdo in order
to do but ordinarily. A word which rings on the lips with frank
cordiality will stare coldly from the written page and must be
heightened to avoid offense. This is a license requiring the exercise
of moderation and the utmost tact. Not all expressions suitable for
conversation need reinforcement in black and white. In speaking one
frequently raps out a phrase whose literalness one's eyes warn the
listener to question. These must be toned down or glossed. An example
of the toned down variety, which illustrates as well men's fondness
for assailing their friends with opprobrious epithet, is offered by
Darwin when he writes, "I cannot conclude without telling you that of
all blackguards you are the greatest and best." If Darwin had been
talking face to face with Fox, he would doubtless have called him a
blooming blackguard outright.
A writer in a journal of psychology points out the strong psychic link
existing between a certain short expletive of condemnation and a
refractory collar-button. These words seem to come at times charged
with the very marrow of the mind, and, if the letters of a man who
occasionally indulges in them be wholly purged of them, the letters
lose one of their most distinctive characteristics. The point to be
made is, that the personal word is all-important, that till the fact
is related to the writer, it is dead. If we want news, we can consult
the dailies; but in letters facts are little, ideas about facts
everything. 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 the
happening bears to you and your correspondent.
When once the personal vein is struck, nothing is so easy as to find a
theme for a letter. The materials are only too plentiful if the eyes
and heart are open to receive them. Stevenson wrote that he scarcely
pulled a weed in his garden without pondering some fit phrase to
report the fact to his friend Colvin, and we may be sure that the weed
was not allowed to wither, but when it was transplanted, flourished
again and reached its destination in a veritable Pot of Basil. No
great events are necessary; the plainest incident, the morning's
shopping, is as good as a Pan-American exposition for ideas to
crystallize about, since exactly in proportion as an event is embedded
in opinion, comment, and feeling, must its value as an epistolary item
be rated. While the born letter-writer is driving a nail or polishing
a shoe, a thought apropos of his occupation or of stars, perhaps,
drops complete and perfect like ripe fruit in an orchard. It matters
little; seen through the eyes of a friend, all homely things are
invested with an extrinsic interest and a new glory not their own.
... By the very nature of the composition a mean man cannot possibly
write a good letter. When we cast about for a perfect exemplar of the
epistolary style, we must of necessity look among the high-souled
men--Cowper, Lamb, FitzGerald, Hearn--for where else shall we find one
to stand the test of self-revelation? Happily, one of the blithest,
manliest, completest spirits of our times was a matchless writer of
letters--Stevenson. Aching for absolute honesty of style and making
clearness almost synonomous with good morals, he has given us in the
Vailima collection and in the two larger volumes of his correspondence
an almost unexampled self-revelation. The man Stevenson is _in_ them,
"his essence and his sting." The grip of his hand and the look of his
eye lose none of their force in the transparent medium through which
they are constrained to pass. Knowing that a man who constantly gives
his best finds his best constantly growing better, he never hoarded
his ideas for publication, but poured his intellectual riches into a
note to a friend as freely as if each line were coining him gold. It
results that the lover of Stevenson would almost prefer to give up all
the romances rather than the letters. For they feel that in this
correspondence, besides finding the qualities which distinguish the
other works, they have met face to face and known personally the
romancer, the essayist, the poet, and above all the man who, ridden by
an incubus of disease, spoke always of the joy of living, the man who
knew hours of bitterness but none of flinching, the man who grappled
with his destiny undaunted, and, when death hunted him down in a South
Sea island, fell gallantly and gazing unabashed into "the bright eyes
of danger."
Stevenson approached close to the beau ideal of epistolary art. When
we and our friends have achieved it, distance will be annihilated and
there will be no such thing as separation. We shall draw from our
little box a small white packet, and, though Nostradamus may offer us
every secret of magician or alchemist in exchange for it, we shall
refuse offhand. How shall he lure us with a shadow, a ghostly
visitant, savoring of the pit and summoned only by the most
marrow-freezing incantations? Here in our hand is a mysterious, more
potent charm, bringing us the warm, human personality of the man. We
are not spiritualists, yet here sealed in the white packet is an
incorporal presence. Given but a mastery of the twenty-six signs and
their combinations, and lo, the heart of our friend served up in
Boston bond! Then, as for enditing of letters, we shall rise up and
call 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, at
times all but obscuring the Peak where it rose between its pair of
flanking hills. Sifting clouds had surged and seethed in the Cleft, as
those who dwelt in its vicinity called the interval between the two
hills and the loftier and more distant Peak, and rose now and then
barely enough to reveal the greater mountain, but never yet had quite
cleared the summit. The mist had slimed the whole world with a coating
of wet, and when the wind chanced to set the bare limbs of the trees
to swaying, the drops would spatter on the ground and scarcely be
absorbed, so waterlogged was the earth.
Mrs. Trent rolled up her knitting in a napkin, picked a few stray bits
of yarn from her black dress, and stepped to the window. She looked
out across the valley toward the Cleft to see if perchance the clouds
would open enough to permit her a view of the Peak. Not once, but many
times that day had she arisen from her work to search for a glimpse of
the mountain, but every time she had failed.
"No, it's hidden, still hidden," she murmured half aloud. "It is hard
to be shut up here with my thoughts,--with such thoughts. I wish the
clouds would lift and let me see the Peak. Then I am sure that things
would not seem so dark. If I could only get one glimpse, I would feel
almost, yes, almost as though Doctor McMurray had been here and had
told me he was sorry."
She stood looking out the window for a time, but the clouds only
gathered more heavily in the Cleft and the Peak remained shrouded in
the mist. At last she turned wearily back toward her chair, and was
about to resume her knitting when her ear caught the sound of wheels
pausing before the house. She hastened across the room toward the door
and threw it open with a gesture of fear, as though she had been
anticipating the coming of unwelcome visitors and now had reason to
suppose that they had arrived. The tremor of suspense, however,
quickly passed, for she saw outside no less a person than Doctor
McMurray himself.
"Doctor," she called, "put your horse in the barn and come in. It does
my heart good to see you."
Presently the door opened and the old minister's face appeared, that
face which had looked in at every house in the valley whenever trouble
brooded there, and always had brought with it good cheer and hope for
now close upon half-a-century.
"A wet day, Mrs. Trent, a wet day. But seems to me there are signs of
clearing. It is always much pleasanter to look for fair weather than
for foul, don't you think so?"
Mrs. Trent nodded.
"Doctor McMurray," she said, "I was almost afraid to go to the door
when I heard you drive up; I thought the lawyers might be coming
already."
"The lawyers?" he echoed, "What, can they be troubling you again?"
"Yes, I got a letter from the district attorney's office yesterday
saying 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 for
you to go over the thing again. I had hoped that when your husband's
trial was over they would let you alone. Now that poor Jacob has paid
the biggest price a man can pay, it seems that common decency ought to
keep them from worrying you about the matter any more."
"Well," she said, clasping her hands and looking absently out the
window, "I presume they want to make quite sure. Mrs. Withey's case is
coming up again the first of the week, you know, and there must be no
mistake."
"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 to
me, prejudiced in favor of your husband as I was, that there could be
no doubt that Jacob gave old Mr. Withey the arsenic and that Mrs.
Withey was his equally guilty accomplice. I think this second trial
must only be a repetition of the first, and that Mrs. Withey must be
found the murderess of Andrew Withey, just as Jacob Trent was proven
murderer."
Mrs. Trent leaned forward in her chair. Her hands were clenched and
every muscle in her frail body was drawn tense. The look in her eyes
startled the good doctor, and, thinking that he had recalled too
harshly 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 of
me."
"No, no," the woman answered thickly, "I am used to that, it doesn't
shock me to hear so much about Jacob now. But tell me, doctor, tell
me, are you sure she will not get off? Will they treat her as they did
Jacob?"
"What, Mrs. Trent, you surely wouldn't wish trouble to any fellow
creature if it could be avoided, would you?"
"Doctor McMurray," replied Mrs. Trent in a very low voice which seemed
to come from her inmost soul, "Doctor McMurray, that woman robbed me
of my husband, of Jacob, and then led him to a murderer's grave. That
is so. Do you know, now that so many weeks have gone by since they
took Jacob away, sometimes I feel that he is true to me somewhere, and
that she, that woman, was the one who led him on to do wrong. You ask
me if I would see any fellow creature suffer. I answer no; but I say
too that that woman has no claim to be fellow creature to any human
being. She robbed me of my husband."
For a time the two sat in silence. The rain continued to drip, drip
from the eaves, and the Cleft was still clogged with mist. Then the
old doctor broke the silence.
"I am afraid we do wrong, Mrs. Trent, in brooding over these troubles
of ours. Heaven knows you have provocation. There seems to be no doubt
but that your husband gave arsenic to old Mr. Withey, and it seems the
more grievous when we think that the natural ailments of the old man
must soon have hurried him across the Great River in any case. It is
also true that he did it for the love of a woman whose youth and
beauty 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 as
they may seem, and to forgive those who do us ill."
Mrs. Trent rose from her chair and stepped toward the window which
looked out toward the Peak. Her hands, which she had folded behind her
back, worked convulsively.
"The Peak," she said at last. "The Peak is covered with clouds; I
cannot see. Forgive--forgive her? All is cloudy, I cannot see."
Doctor McMurray, being no common man, said not a word. He softly rose
and took his stand beside Mrs. Trent at the window. For some time the
two stood looking out over the valley, watching the heavy, leaden
clouds as they banked themselves up against the opposite hillside. The
rain continued to trickle from the eaves, the only sound audible above
the breathing of the man and woman. At last Doctor McMurray broke the
silence.
"It seems to me the clouds aren't lying quite so low on the hills as
they 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 his
overcoat.
"Why, you're not going, doctor?" exclaimed Mrs. Trent with a note of
distress 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's
on the way down. The poor man has stomach trouble, I believe--they say
it's just the same thing that Mr. Withey had--and I think he'll be
looking for me."
"Doctor, you're so kind," Mrs. Trent interjected. "You're always
keeping an eye out for the unfortunate. But look here. I've got some
medicine out here in the pantry, some Epsom salts, which they used to
come and get for old Mr. Withey. They used to tell me it did him a lot
of good. I wish you could wait till I get a little for Mr. Gebhart."
Mrs. Trent hastened from the room, and Doctor McMurray heard her
moving pans and bottles on the shelves as though she were in search of
the medicine. Suddenly the sound ceased; he waited a minute or two,
pacing uneasily up and down the room, with the thought of the sick old
man heavy upon his mind. At last he called:
"Mrs. Trent, can't I help you? Don't trouble if you can't find it
easily."
No answer reached his ears for a moment. Then Mrs. Trent emerged from
the pantry walking unsteadily, as though she carried a terrific
weight. Doctor McMurray was at her side in an instant, and led her to
a chair.
"Tell me," he urged, "what is it? What is the trouble?"
Mrs. Trent covered her face with her hands, and her slender figure
bent silently before the strength of her emotion.
"Look," she moaned at last; "go and look for yourself. There are two
of them, two."
Doctor McMurray obeyed. He went into the pantry, and there on a shelf
stood two wide-mouthed bottles, very much alike save that one had
never been opened. He looked at them in silent wonderment, not knowing
for the instant what message they conveyed. He picked them up and read
the labels; then he had an inkling of what they meant, for one was
marked "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 and
unnatural 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 for
some Epsom salts in a great hurry. I knew there must be some great
need, so I rushed to the pantry. Jacob wasn't at home. I reached to
the top shelf and pulled down a bottle, one of those bottles. In my
hurry I didn't look at the label, but poured the little white crystals
out in a paper, and they took them away. Then I put the bottle back in
its place and went on with my work. In the morning I heard Mr. Withey
was dead."
"But the arsenic--the arsenic," interposed the doctor. "How did it get
there?"
"Heaven knows; you remember Jacob used to get it once in a while to
keep his horses in condition. I presume he got a fresh bottle of it
about the same time I got some more Epsom salts, and they were both
put up there on the top shelf together. It is all too plain. I got the
bottles 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 you
make it out so?"
Mrs. Trent looked up sharply. It seemed as though she had for the
moment forgotten her lesser trouble in the new consciousness of the
greater. The mention of the other woman's name brought back all the
profound 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 love
and 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 hate
no-one, not even if he uses you as Mrs. Withey has used you. If we
keep on hating the clouds will never lift."
Mrs. Trent rose heavily from her chair and labored from her window
that she might look out across the valley toward the Peak. Her voice
was hoarse as she answered:
"Oh, I'm afraid the clouds will never lift. The hatred of that woman
is like a fog which closes in upon my soul, and shuts off every beam
of sunshine. I can't see through it, and the heaviness of it chokes
me. The clouds will never lift."
The old minister came up beside her, and stood looking for a time out
toward the Peak. The mist which all day had hung so low around the
foot of the hills had risen appreciably, and now the Cleft itself was
beginning to clear, revealing the dark base of the Peak itself. A
single ray of sunshine shot out of the west and struck straight into
the Cleft.
"Look, look, Mrs. Trent," exclaimed Doctor McMurray. "The Peak is
beginning to show. Don't you think the weather will clear? Ah, it must
clear, it must before they come, before the lawyers come. Tell me, do
you not think it will?"
Mrs. Trent's face was very pale. Her eyes gleamed very large and
feverishly bright from beneath her lashes, as they searched the
opposite side of the valley. For some moments she kept silent, and for
the second time that afternoon there was no sound in the room save the
labored breathing of the man and woman. At last there became audible
the slowly increasing creak of a carriage, and the splashing of a
horse's hoofs through the sea of mud in the roadway. Doctor McMurray
heard, and he knew that Mrs. Trent heard also.
"Mrs. Trent," he said softly, "Mrs. Trent, are the clouds lifting? Can
you see the Peak?"
Still the woman kept silent. The sounds of the wheels grew momentarily
louder, the voices of men talking broke in upon them, and then the
carriage stopped before the door.
"Mrs. Trent," pleaded the doctor for the last time, "tell me, can you
see 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 the
monastery 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 room
is a large one, with cold stone walls and a heavy-beamed ceiling,
lighted by flaring torches. The rear wall is broken by a massive oaken
door leading to the courtyard of the monastery, and two rudely glazed
windows. On the right an open doorway leads to the chapel and to one
side of the doorway is a shrine to the Virgin and Child, before which
some candles burn with wavering flames. On the opposite side of the
room is a huge fireplace with a blazing log fire. The wind is roaring
outside, and even blows through the rude hall in great, gusty
draughts, while a fine powder of snow sifts in through crevices of
windows and door.
SCENE I. [The travellers, with some of the monks of the monastery, are
seated before the fire. The Jew, bent, gaunt and gray-bearded, stands
to one side, unrecognized, muttering to himself indistinctly. He has
evidently just entered, for the melted snow still gleams from his
clothing. 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 great
chimney.]
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 are
lowered.]
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 strange
moanings 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, then
shakes his head and departs.]