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Graduate Scholar in English, 1SS9-91 






Editorial, ..... 

An American Poet, 

A Sketch (Poem), .... 

An Hour in the Life of Barbesieur Louvo 

A Nocturne of Chopin, . 

Moods (Poem), .... 

A Pet of the Poets at the Court of Elizab 

Lumbagiana, .... 

Song (Poem), .... 

Alternation, ..... 

In the Palace of the Ice Queen, 

Sonnets : Day and Night, 

The Uses of Costume in P'iction, 

Mrs. Glendon's Dinner Party (A Farce) 

Educational, .... 

Collegiana, ..... 

Flotsam and Jetsam, 

Edith Child, 

Mabel Parker Clark, 

. M. P. C, 

Lucy Martin Donnelly, 

. E. S. IF., 

th, . Marian Macintosh, 

S. E. Throop, 

. M. P. C, 

Elva Lee, 

Emma Stansbnry Wines, 

L. S. B., 'pj; L. M. D., 

Emily James Smith, 

Ethel McCoy Walker, 








2 5 





3 1 



















No. i BRYN MAWR June, 1891 


IN this, the first manifesto from the students of Bryn Mawr, is a good 
opportunity to express our ideas as to just what are the characteristics 
which give individuality to our life. Bryn Mawr has been in many 
respects an experiment. It was the second college in America to adopt the 
"group system" in its entirety; the arrangements for the living of the 
students are based on ideas recently developed ; and, most important factor 
of all in giving the tone to the college, the plan of putting into the hands 
of the students the power of self-government is here meeting its fairest test. 
It is this last feature of Bryn Mawr which forces upon the entering fresh- 
man a keen sense of her personal responsibility in the college welfare, and 
before she has been here two weeks, if she is at all thoughtful in the matter, 
she awakes with rather a horrified start to the consciousness that she 
herself is a pioneer, with a necessary part to play in these experiments, and 
that precedent with a "huge P" stands ready to project into futurity any 
chance or hasty decision for which she or those that she is able to influence 
may have given their vote. 

This, then, is a good time to pause and take stock, as it were, and to 
ask ourselves whether the capital of enthusiasm and that powerful agency 
which we call the " college spirit," with which the students of the first year 
entered, has diminished and lost in value, or whether we still have it to 
draw on as before. The first keen edge of enthusiasm — the sense of being 
among the very first, which is the subtlest inspiration — has been lost, of 
course, but we can honestly affirm, that in our opinion esprit de corps is as 
active a force here now as ever before. Class feeling, pure and simple, has 


very little place here; that is one of the advantages of that most estimable 
of systems, the elective,' which levels all ranks to the unavoidable demands 
of the required courses ; and in its stead we can, despite a certain forcible 
directness of expression and an ardent heat of argument, which is wont to 
characterize our undergradute meeting discussions, boast a rare unity of 
feeling, which underlies even personal prejudice and petty cliquism, and 
constrains and impels the most thoughtless among us. Unless a student 
has had the reality of this come home to her, she will never be thoroughly 
" in the swim " of the life here ; she will be in the life but not of it. 

To return to the other two experiments which are working themselves 
out at Bryn Mawr, a full discussion of the group system with its pros and 
cons would be out of place in any general consideration of the inner life of the 
students. The question of the group system vs. a course of stud}' in lines 
more or less prescribed, of specialization with its dangers vs. a mere gen- 
eral culture with its dangers, will probably always be a debated one ; and 
those who prefer the group system in detail, with opportunities for advanced 
and postgraduate study along chosen lines will, if they go to any college 
exclusively for women, undoubtedly choose Bryn Mawr. It is evidently 
the intention of the authorities to emphasize our graduate department; and 
the presence of a body of graduate students, so long as it does not dwarf 
into insignificance the undergraduate department, as is the case at the Johns 
Hopkins, where the latter was an afterthought, has very little effect on the 
undergraduate life. When the graduates are from our own college, their 
influence, felt as a body of conservative opinion, is markedly beneficial. 

Although we cannot boast the attractions of Holloway College, Eng- 
land, which beside a study and bedroom for each girl, is said to furnish a 
larger sitting-room and a kitchen for every six, with the added luxury of 
an insane asylum on the opposite hill for the overworked, built by the same 
thoughtful benefactor, yet in every other respect the arrangements for our 
comfortable living have been made with the utmost care and good judg- 
ment. We cannot emphasize too strongly the advantages of this order- 
liness and fitness. There is no crowding — our rooms are of good size, 
aiiy and well heated, and we of these earlier years enjoy a pleasure which 
will, alas ! pass away in time, of living in rooms whose paint and woodwork 


have not yet lost their pristine freshness. The garrulous visitor whose 
comment on Taylor I [all was the one word " Majestic ! " may not voice the 
opinion of the multitude, but although we do not claim architectural per- 
fection for our buildings, they are thoroughly and carefully planned and 
well adapted to the purposes to which they are put. The charming irregu- 
larity of the odd turns and angles and bay windows of our new building, 
Denbigh Hall, will ensure its marked popularity. It is a very pretty two- 
story building, the whole western end taken up by the dinning room, or 
hall you might call it — a room of fine proportions, panelled half way up to 
the ceiling in dark-stained wood, with a big carved stone fireplace at one 
end, and at the other, long narrow windows that face the sunset. The 
rooms at Denbigh are very attractive, especially certain bow-windowed 
suits looking out on the campus, where in the spring you can lie on your 
divan and divide your attention between the sunset and an exciting tennis 
match ; and each room has a large closet. The weight of this last state- 
ment need not be impressed upon you. Ever since the corner stone of this 
new building was laid last year with due ceremony by the graduating class, 
we have watched with interest its progress to completion, and have in con- 
sequence, a keen sense of its many good points. 

Our physical well-being, then, is carefully looked out for, and we have 
given into our hands the conditions for a happy and thoroughly healthful 
life. The world of Bryn Mawr is a busy world, and the general disposition 
of the students makes for earnest and careful work. There is no thoughtful 
provision made for laggards, and unless a student conform in a greater or 
less degree to the requirements of the college standard, she will speedily 
find out the advisability of a timely retreat, which she may cover as she 
pleases. As to the quality oi the material offered by the successive classes, 
opinions may differ ; each class has its good and its poor students, and the 
conspicuous excellence of one class may, rather unjustly, serve to damn 
with faint praise the students of the following year. The danger with us 
comes not so much from standards lowered, as from a scheme of work so 
engrossing and, in a sense, so special as to leave little time for outside read- 
ing and interest in outside matters; but before we criticise the plan on which 
our work is arranged, it would be well for us to consider whether the fault 


does not lie, for the most part, with ourselves. However, we can count 
among' us a goodly number of students who, while they maintain a high 
standard of work, are yet in no sense digs, but who put the most into, and 
consequently get the most out of, the whole other side of their college life. 
This general "busyness," and the difficulty, lessening as our numbers 
grow larger, of division of labor, in the matter of our entertainments, has 
limited us somewhat. During the winter, before the days lengthen and 
tennis or a lounge under the cherry trees becomes the order of the hours 
between half past four and dinner, those on hospitable thoughts intent, 
expend their originality in the giving of " teas." We may be said to be 
rather addicted to " teas " — " teas " of all sorts, from the social brew at five 
o'clock, or when work is over for the evening, when you come in chilly 
from gymnasium or constitutional, or from studying in the library, to find 
the kettle steaming away over the alcohol lamp, and your particular corner of 
the divan heaped with pillows awaiting you, and three or four of your " trusty 
chums," as Corporal Mulvaney would say, in various comfortable attitudes 
on the floor, or the window-seat, or the long, soft-cushioned steamer chair, 
to the most formal of "teas," where salted almonds and other insignia of an 
advanced civilization take the place of crackers and jam and olives, the 
Spartan fare, which was all that the most noted of hostesses could offer her 
guests during the early years of the college. With advancing years there 
has undoubtedly crept in a certain unwonted luxury, and this is especially 
noticeable in the gradual complication of the pantry paraphernalia During 
the first years of the college tea-making was almost a lost art. We have 
all heard of the student, far-famed for her hospitality, who was discovered 
making tea with water just as it came bubbling, but in no sense boiling, 
from the faucet. Now no room is complete without its dainty tea-table, 
and the coffee-pot and the chafing-dish have not been slow in making their 
appearance. More or less formality on the more important occasions is, in 
our opinion, by no means a bad thing ; there is always a danger of our 
growing slipshod in minor points of etiquette, a habit of putting one's elbows 
on the table when they should be in position, but there is no fear of a college 
"tea" ever losing its individuality. A very pleasant custom has grown up 
of giving " teas " early in the year for the freshmen. .In such comfortable 


fashion they become acquainted with the students, gain their first knowl- 
edge of characteristic college ways, and are often introduced to the store- 
house of time-honored jokes, through the medium of some memorabilia 

This leads us to speak of one of the few customs which Bryn Mawr's 
six years of life have served to ordain, the entertainment given as a welcome 
by the sophomores, at which lanterns are solemnly presented to the fresh- 
men. The lantern was never formally chosen as the symbol of the college, 
but the idea gradually took shape, as such ideas do. Their presentation at 
the first sophomore entertainment, in 1886, when the freshmen were put 
through a rather unkind drop quiz as to their opinions on various far- 
reaching and far-fetched subjects, brought with it simply the suggestion of 
a light given to the freshmen to guide their steps in the strange paths, a 
proffer of sympathy and help from the more experienced to the wholly 
untried ; but when this annual presentation of the lantern became an estab- 
lished custom, the lantern took its place as the college symbol. The oral 
examination we have discontinued, but we always accompany the gift of the 
lantern by words of advice, and the ceremonies of presentation have been 
very ingenious and interesting. In 1887 the freshmen were called up in 
groups, according to the various departments, scientific, classical, etc., and 
addressed in appropriate verse, delivered by one of the class, in the borrowed 
splendor of a red gown and hood faced with yellow, while the rest of the 
class acted as a Greek chorus. The following year an imposing figure of 
marked mythological characteristics, exact significance not known save to 
the initiated, performed the ceremomy of presentation to the accompaniment 
of soft chanting; while in 1889 the very ingenious device was adopted of 
making the freshmen pass under a yoke of books piled high on a base of 
dictionaries and ponderous tomes. The entertainments, of which these 
solemnities have been the close, have been quite as clever and well-man- 
aged. One year a delightful rendition of Alice in Wonderland was given ; 
again, Tennyson's Princess was rendered with the greatest success, and the 
sophomores of this year have "done themselves proud" by an adaptation 
which they called " Siegfried up to date," in which Brynhildr seeks for 
and, finding, releases from his bonds of parchment and red tape, her Siegfried, 


i. e., her degree, against all the obstacles put in her way and even against 
the incredulity of the councils of the gods, i. c, the body facultative. It is 
also usual for the freshmen to give an entertainment in return, of a less 
pretentious character. This year it fell on Hallowe'en, and they worked in 
the traditions of the night with great effect. 

The students are very clever in getting up entertainments, many of 
which are impromptu affairs, thought of in the afternoon and put through 
the same evening, with great success. The necessary rehearsing, arranging 
of costumes, etc., is genuine recreation, especially during the chill grey 
days of February and March, after the mid-year examinations, when work 
is a burden less omnipresent than usual, and a course of gymnasium work, 
hurried walks in the early dark of the short winter afternoons, and even a 
plethora of "teas" become slightly monotonous. 

There is but one other genuinely endorsed custom at Bryn Mawr, i. e., 
the wearing of the cap and gown. This is now accepted quite as a matter 
of course by the students, and has, moreover, received official sanction. 
The present year will record the first appearance on Commencement Day 
of the distinctive caps, gowns and hoods worn by the alumnae, graduate 
students, fellows and holders of special degrees, who will take their place 
in the general procession with the trustees, faculty and undergraduates. 
The entertainments characteristic of our commencement week are yet to 
be determined. There is, of course, the class supper, and the alumna? 
dinner, which falls this year on the evening of Commencement Day, and 
thus embraces the newly-made alumna?. As was done last year, a general 
reception will be given by the seniors, and arrangements are being made 
by the juniors for a breakfast to be given to the seniors by all the resident 
students. How far this latter festivity will become a matter of precedent 
will be determined by the future number of the students, but last year it 
met with the utmost success. It was held in the gymnasium, which was 
decorated with boughs and mottoes of more or less serious application, 
such as: " Famished people must be slowly nursed, and fed by spoonfuls, 
else they always burst." The tables were arranged in a hollow square, 
with seats on each side, and at the upper end of the room sat the master of 
toasts, who presided with great dignity. Everything was toasted, from the 


sublime to the sublimely ridiculous, and the speeches, if not all brilliantly 
witty, did quite as well as if they had been. The pleasantest thing about 
it was the sense of our all being together once during the year, and it is 
the advantage of this feeling which would, in our opinion, constitute its 
claims to becoming a custom. 

The establishment of customs demands the most careful consideration, 
and we are content to make haste very slowly in the matter. These first 
years have already seen a good many changes. Mistakes. have been made 
and mistakes have been rectified, but what we, as students, need to feel 
with all possible keenness is that, whatever other forces may be at work to 
make or mar the future of Bryn Mawr, we yet have a strong power for 
good or ill put into our hands, and it behooves us to look to it that we 
make the best use of it. That Bryn Mawr has great possibilities will not 
be denied, but we have yet to earn the right to say that these possibilities 
have been realized. 


PEOPLE of late years have been discussing the question whether 
America has produced a poet — a poet, that is, who may be grouped 
with the twelve greater poets of English literature. Poetic value is 
so various and imponderable a thing that it is hardly possible to demon- 
strate the relative rank of poets — of those poets whose rank is seriously 
in dispute — to the satisfaction of any one that chances to disagree with us. 
But we may ascertain, in a loose approximate way, to what class a poet 
belongs. In the history of philosophy a distinction is made between the 
men who remould ideas, and those who diffuse and familiarize them. It 
seems to me that the same distinction may be made, and made profitably, 
between poets. The writers of literature may be grouped in two classes : 
the one including those that are prized and beloved for their intimate 
associations with the interests or the traditions of those immediately 
around them, and those also that are deemed great because they interpret, 
and bring close to human life, great and unfamiliar ideas, of which they 
are not themselves the primal source; the other including all those who, 


whether the}' share or not the attributes of the first class, introduce into 
their work something altogether new and characteristic, an element of 
thought or feeling which before them had no existence, yet which needs as 
little as do the beautiful things of nature any formal recommendation to 
convince us of its worth. 

It is only spirits of this second order, who offer us a glimpse of a "new 
heavens and a new earth," through the glass of their own mind, and whose 
words, in spite of their novelty, still have what Matthew Arnold has called 
the "characters of poetic truth," the stamp of an "inevitable beauty," that 
add, in any true sense, to the domains of literature. The permanence and 
dignity of such an addition will depend upon its breadth of application, its 
intensity, or its charm; but whatever its position within the limits of litera- 
ture, it cannot be thrust altogether without the bounds by any comparison 
with greater things. 

To my own mind there are among our American men of letters, no 
longer living, only three writers, characterized in any considerable degree 
by such originative quality. These are Hawthorne, Emerson and Poe, all 
of them men with a distinctly ideal and poetic conception of life, which, 
however, the first two expressed, for the most part, only in prose. Haw- 
thorne, I think, wrote no poetry; Emerson's poetry is merely the intensi- 
fication of his prose — -separated from it by rhythm and by a greater degree 
of mysticism, but hardly at all by difference of substance, or by the presence 
of such a unifying and formative art as properly belongs to poetry. 

The last of the three, however, in so far as he belongs to literature at 
all, is thoroughly and entirely a poet. I know that the bulk of his prose 
exceeds that of his poetry ; but just as Emerson's poetry may be regarded 
as part of his prose, so also much of Poe's prose belongs, both in matter 
and in manner of treatment, with his poetry. I mean such prose as the 
"prose-poem," " Eureka," or those rhythmical, though not metrical, embodi- 
ments of pure beauty and emotion (that better deserve the title of "prose- 
poem") "The Island of the Fay," and "The Valley of the Many-colored 
Grass ; " or even those fanciful studies of color and contrast of which the 
" Masque of the ' Red Death,' " the " Cask of Amontillado " and the " Fall 
of the House of Usher " are examples. 


Of the rest of Foe's non-metrical writings, the group of what may be 
called the clever stories, including " Hans Pfaal " and the " Gold-bug," and 
the analytical disquisitions of M. Dupin, is the expression of a fanciful 
ingenuity which, though certainly characteristic of one side of Poe, yet has 
itself little in common with any true element of literature. There are other 
stories that lie between these two extremes of poetic and logical prose : the 
most remarkable are, of course, those tales of gloom and madness which, 
like the " Black Cat," and the " Tell-tale Heart," set forth a conception, 
almost poetic through its strangeness and intensity of horror, in matter of 
fact prose. Even in these stories, however, the logical and the poetic 
elements are never fused to produce that distinct manner, uniting judgment 
with insight — in a word, that attitude of intelligence, characteristic of pure 
prose. In accordance, therefore, with my personal opinion, that only the 
poetic mood in Poe deserves serious consideration in connection with 
literature, I shall treat him as purely and pre-eminently a poet. 

Though I shall try to show that he has a rightful place among the 
writers of English poetry, I must not be understood to reckon him a great 
poet. The trite and careless metaphor which applies to certain poets the 
epithet " great " seems not without significance: a man should be of vast 
proportions, should exhibit a spirit literally far-reaching, a mind that 
mounts above our ordinal'}' thoughts or embraces a prospect wider than 
that to which our common life is limited, before he can rightly receive that 
title. All those that are by general consent styled great poets touch in 
some way the note of universality. Besides their native and peculiar 
power of origination, they manifest a personal passion whose intensity 
cannot be limited to a single self, but must pierce and move others ; a 
broad or a subtle apprehension of meanings in the familiar aspect of the 
world ; a deliberate and laborious art which strives to create new beauty 
only by following the laws of the highest beauty that it already knows. 

I have distinguished the several qualities of this universality of the 
great poets; but no one of these qualities can reach its full development 
where the others are wanting. Especially is art dependent upon the rest; 
it can never be great art when it reveals selfish and trivial affections, or is 
built upon a superficial conception of the world it deals with. It must be 


noble, like the emotions we love and approve in others and in ourselves; 
and in the gathering and- arranging of its materials it must work, like the 
laws which govern life itself, for a " helpful and passionate harmony." 

The subject of the present study held an entirely opposite view of 
the nature of poetry, and depended, in his efforts to attain her loftiest 
heights, upon perfection of art alone. 

" I would define, in brief," he says, " the Poetry of wo&ds as the 
Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the 
intellect or with the conscience it has only collateral relations. Unless 
incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with Truth ; " 
and again, " He must be blind indeed, who does not perceive the radical 
differences between the truthful and the poetic modes of inculcation. He 
must be theory-mad beyond redemption, who, in spite of these differences, 
shall still persist in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of 
Poetry and Truth." 

Elsewhere in the same essay, " The Poetic Principle," Poe shows 
plainly that he has confounded truth with that logical demonstration, and 
that unclothed fact, which in matters of human experience tell only half 
a story. 

" The demands of Truth are severe. * * * We must be simple, precise, 
terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word, we must be in 
that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the poetical." 

He inveighs against the New England poets for their " heresy of the 
Didactic." " It has been assumed," he declares, " tacitly and avowedly, 
directly and indirectly, that the ultimate object of all Poetry is Truth. 
Every poem, it is said, should inculcate a moral ; and by this moral is the 
poetical merit of the work to be adjudged." 

Doubtless Poe is right in his condemnation of " the Didactic," but 
there is a finer truth than the unimpassioned accuracy of which he speaks. 

" In the highest as in the lowliest literature then," writes Walter Pater 
in his Essay on " Style," " the one indispensable beauty is, after all, truth ; 
truth to bare fact here, as to a sense of fact there, diverted somewhat 
from men's ordinary sense of it ; truth here as accuracy, truth there as 
expression, that finest and most intimate form of truth, the ' vrai virile! " 


This finer truth, the transcript not of mere fact, but of fact in its infinite 
variety, as modified by human preference, in " all its infinitely varied forms," 
is almost as rare in Poe's poetry as didactic accuracy. It would be easy to 
prove its presence in all the great works of poetic literature, and so to 
make evident the inadequate foundation of his theory, were such inadequacy 
not already manifested, not only in the narrowness of his own poetic range 
but even in the effects of that narrowness and poverty upon the quality of 
his art itself. 

I have made greatness in the poetic creation of pure beauty depend 
upon truth of thought, and depth of feeling. The relation of earnest feeling 
to Poe's fundamental doctrine may be gathered from his careful distinction 
between the" Poetic Sentiment," — the " pleasurable elevation or excitement 
of the soul," and " Passion," the excitement of the heart. His poems 
accordingly, in spite of their lyrical form, are strangely wanting in deep 
emotion. Even when we catch a note of personal pain or happiness it is 
hardly intense enough to convince us of its sincerity. Although the poet's 
short life was full of extraordinary passions, vehement hatreds, sudden and 
abject repentances, there is no echo of such experience in his verse. 

In this question ot passion, also, I shall presently seek to establish 
from Poe's own poems that his theory was imperfect, and that his art had 
discarded one of the essential elements of greatness ; yet I shall try at the 
same time to show him no less a genuine poet because he is in no sense a 
great one. 

In order to include all the manifestations of Poe's poetic quality, I 
shall begin with the " Poems Written in Youth" — dated probably before 
1821, at about his sixteenth year. Crude and shapeless though they are, 
they yet breathe a power far more direct and sustained than do his maturer 
works. They betray also a single powerful influence, that of Shelley. In 
the longest poem of the little volume, "Al Aaraaf," we meet with continual 
slight reminders of " Alastor " and " Queen Mab ;" there are several curi- 
ously small resemblances to Shelley's earliest poem — in the visionary and 
unsubstantial theme ; in the general form, which alternates recitative with 
lyrical measures; in the human maiden's name, Ianthe, and in the refer- 
ences to Grecian art, particularly the last, which describes the Idea of Beauty: 


Falling in wreathes through many a startled star, 
Like women's hair 'mid pearls, until afar, 
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt. 

Conspicuous, too, in both poems is a naive boldness in grappling with 
weighty themes, but the similarity nowhere extends to their purpose and 
inspiration ; " Al Aaraaf " is rich by virtue of its unrestrained enthusiasm 
for love and loveliness; " Queen Mab" is tedious and prosaic through its 
generous and laborious struggle to reach the indisputable and the good. It 
was only later that Shelley devoted himself seriously to beauty and love — ■ 
and at all times his conception of them differed greatly from Poe's. In 
temperament the American poet was nearer akin to Byron or to the Eliza- 
bethan, Marlowe. There is more sympathy between their note of " Titanic 
Revolt," and the tone of Poe's boyish treatment of Marlowe's own theme, 
in " Tamerlane," than anywhere exists between Poe's thought and Shelley's. 
" Tamerlane," is indeed written in the metre of " Rosalind and Helen," 
though with a different arrangement of rhymes, and continually recalls 
certain of the familiar cadences of Shelley's poem : 

" The flush on her bright cheek, to me 
Seemed to become a queenly throne 
Too well that I should let it be, 
Light in the wilderness alone." 

But ever and again occurs an accent of personal desire utterly remote 
in its hard precision, and restless, narrow intensity from the passionate gen- 
erosity of the author of " Prometheus Unbound." 

" Hath not the same fierce heirdom given 
Rome to the Caesar — this to me : 
The heritage of a kingly mind 
And a proud spirit which hath striven 
Triumphantly with human kind ?" 

The last half dozen short poems published with " Al Aaraaf" show so 
many of the characteristics of certain classes of Poe's maturer poems that I 
shall not consider them apart from these. 

So far we have considered the two longer pieces of Poe's youth only as 
the 'prentice work of a future master ; have they besides anything of value 


for itself? We see in them, of course, a continual effort at expression and 
description, availing itself now of the style of Shelley, again of that of Byron 
or Moore, and again of that of Keats. Such reproduction of a familiar tone 
is necessarily the fashion of young writers, but in the present case the effort 
seems to me often to pass beyond imitation, and to create with something 
of that mastery of the factors of language, of the individual qualities of 
words, the " latent imagery " and " colour, light and shade " of speech by 
which the great artist produces an exactly adequate, yet infinitely suggestive 
expression of his idea. Poe is most successful, to my mind, in the lines at 
the beginning of Al Aaraaf: 

" O nothing earthly, save the thrill 

Of melody in woodland rill — 

Or (music of the passion-hearted) 

Joy's voice so peacefully departed 

That, like the murmur in the shell, 

Its echo dwelleth and will dwell." 

And in those others from the same poem : 

" And on my eyelids — O the heavy light ! 
How drowsily it weighed them into night !" 

Beautiful, too, is the fancy of the " honied dew — deliriously sweet," 
that dropped from heaven, 

" And fell on gardens of the unforgiven 
In Trebizond — and on a sunny flower, 
So like its own above that, to this hour, 
It still remaineth, torturing the bee 
With madness and unwonted reverie." 

And three passages in Tamerlane — a description — 

" The mingled strife 
And tumult of the head-long air," 

the close of the almost morbidly sad lament for youth — 
" Boyhood is a summer sun 
Whose waning is the dreariest one — 
For all we live to know is known — 
And all we seek to keep hath flown. 
Let life then, as the day-flower fall 
With the noondav beautv, which is all." 


And the metaphor at the end of the poem : 
" How was it that Ambition crept, 
Unseen, amid the revels there, 
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt 
In the tangles of Love's very hair?" 

These instances, beside their artistic beauty of form and colors, pos- 
sess a substance of fine and idealized truth ; they embody with delicate and 
emotional insight each its own portion of " the manifold forms and sounds 
and colors, and sentiments " that minister to man's delight. Poe, however, 
was not content with such embodiment; "this mere repetition," he says, 
" is not poetry. He who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthu- 
siasm, or with however vivid a truth of description, of the sights and sounds 
* * * and sentiments, which greet him in common with all mankind — 
he, I say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. * We have still 

a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal 
springs." I do not mean that Poe himself thought such felicitous descrip- 
tions as I have just quoted failures in his purpose of realizing beauty; but 
that he came to deem their method inadequate, and in his later work, to 
strive after beauty in another fashion. That fashion is indicated by the 
sentence that follows upon the one just quoted, in " The Poetic Principle : " 
" We struggle by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts 
of time, to attain a portion of that loveliness whose very elements, per- 
haps, appertain to eternity alone." 

This statement, as it stands, contains an unquestioned principle of 
poetic creation. In true poetry, as in all other art, there must always exist, 
in combination with the beauty already evident in the world, a new and 
intangible quality, the reflection, as it were, caused by the passage of the 
perception through the artist's soul. For by the poet or painter's "trans- 
cript of his sense of fact, rather than of the fact, as being preferable, pleas- 
anter, more beautiful to him," we are brought into sympathetic contact 
with that emotion of delight for the sake of which we seek for beauty. 

There are other senses in which the power of combination may be 
counted an important element of poetry, in grouping according to harmony 
or contrast, of the large outlines and delicate details of its external mate- 


rial; or in closely uniting two remote but related ideas, passing simply, as 
does Marlowe's salutation of Helen : 

" Was this the face that launched a thousand ships 
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium ? " 

over a multitude of half-suggested links. 

The first and spiritual combination, however, is the only one essential 
to prove a poet's " divine title." Mere sight stops with the single object, 
and the name that classifies it — with the " primrose on the river's brim," in 
short. The "vision and the faculty divine " involves a sense of inherent 
connection between the ultimate nature of the seer and that of the world he 
sees. It may be known by its ability so to deal with things as to awaken 
in us a wonderfully full, new and intimate sense, of them and of our relations 
with them, by that interpretative power which Matthew Arnold affirms to 
be one of the highest powers of poetry. 

From Poe's practice, however, I think we must believe the word combi- 
nation, like the word truth to have had for him a peculiar signification. As 
he held truth to mean only bare fact, and banished her from poetry, he 
missed the primary condition of that art which depends for deep effect upon 
its exquisite conformity to the reality of what it interprets. This theory of 
combination, consequently, feels no subordination to verity and law ; prefers, 
in fact, as we find from the poems of his manhood, to follow arbitral'}- and 
capricious fancy, rather than reverent and observant imgination. 

It produces, for the most part, romantic, meaningless fictions like 
" Lenore," " Eulalie," the " Bridal Ballad," and pre-eminently the " Raven," 
badly and artificially constructed so that every detail may heighten the single 
impression of an affecting situation ; mystical embodiments of the allegori- 
cal and supernatural, like "Dream-land" and " Ulalume ; " suggestions of 
personal experience, such as "Annie," "Annabel Lee," "To Helen." 

The poems I have mentioned are mere examples of Poe's general 
method of work, but they were chosen as also plainly illustrating the dan- 
gers and defects of that method. Substance of thought and substance of 
feeling are alike wanting in them; furthermore, with no external criterion 
of the fitting and harmonious, there is nothing to prevent the intrusion of 
such high-sounding but ill-timed expressions as 


"The scoriae rivers that roll 

Their sulphurous currents down by a 
In the ultimate climes of the pole." 

Or again of trivial and inadequate words and phrases like : 
"The lolling lily," 

" Two sweet scintillant Venuses." 

Even where we find, as in "Annie" and "Annabel Lee," an actual chain 
of feelings and of ideas, the finish and elaboration of the unusual metres 
detract from the tone of sincerity and serious passion that befits their 
subjects ; and where the form is less complex, as in the short elegy, " To 
One in Paradise," there are still frequent parentheses and exclamations 
which interrupt the flow of the verse and mar the dignity of direct and 
passionate utterance. 

Of course, beside the faults of which the poems mentioned above are 
flagrant examples, they contain scattered manifestations of the power of 
delicate or magical reproduction of beauty, felicitous renderings of actual 
sight or sound, like the — 

" Silken, sad, uncertain 
Rustling of each purple curtain," 

or the more spiritual and imaginative passage in " To Helen : " 

" From out 
A full-orb'd moon, that like thine own soul soaring, 
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, 
There fell a silver, silken veil of light, 
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, 
Upon the upturned faces of a thousand 
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, 
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tip-toe ;" 

or the picture of the dead Lenore : 

" The life upon her yellow hair, 
But not within her eyes, 
The life still there upon her hair 
The death upon her eyes." 


Such instances as these, however, of living and discerning imagination 
are rare in the poems I have cited ; the main agent in their composition, as 
in the composition of many more of their author's poems, is the arbitrary 
fancy. And in thus following fancy, who has, says Coleridge, " no other 
counters to play with, but fixities and definities," and therefore is unable to 
unify and idealize her materials, Poe incurs the penalty of those who, 
devoured by a passion for beauty, choose dead and petrified, rather 
than living and animated beauty. Not only has the bulk of his work no 
"logical, architectural place in the great structure of human life," but it 
misses the joy that properly accompanies the perfect beauty of earthly 
things. Compare what Matthew Arnold says of the interpretative power 
of poetry : " We feel ourselves to be in contact with the essential nature of 
objects without us, to be no longer bewildered and oppressed by them, and 
this feeling calms and satisfies us as no other can," with Poe's experience 
of a " petulant and impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp, now, wholly 
here on earth, at once and forever, those divine and rapturous joys, of 
which through the poem, or through the music, we attain to but brief and 
indeterminate glimpses." Not that beauty does not awaken an exquisite 
sorrow — a sorrow more keen as the beauty is greater ; but in the great poets 
it brings also an exultant and exquisite joy. There are notes of intense 
melancholy in Keats and Shelley and Wordsworth — intenser than any in 
Poe, yet there is in them no gloom like his, and there is in all his poems no 
clear soaring gladness, like that which found its best human expression in 
the " Skylark." In " Israfel " there is a thrill of ecstatic intoxication, a sort 
of Bacchic intoxication, but this is not joy; this wild ecstasy brings no 
satisfaction ; its keenest note is a note of pain, of human discontent with life : 

" Yes, Heaven is thine ; but this 
Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
Our flowers are merely — flowers, 
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is the sunshine of ours." 

If we change our attitude now to consider in what respect Poe's works 
may yet be called successful, in what way he especially shows that individual 
poetic quality which I have claimed for him, the poems which like " Israfel " 


echo at all the tone of general human experience and suffering may be 
grouped together, as also free from most of his recurring faults. They are 
unique in literature, their finest qualities are peculiarly their own, and it is 
by their beauty that their poet's name will live, if it is to live at all. Slightest 
among them, but almost flawless in its fanciful, half-serious form, is the 
little song " Eldorado." Most beautiful seems to me the " Haunted Palace," 
in spite of its allegory. It has the lightest, clearest atmosphere of all Poe's 
poems ; the form has the rounded perfection in which Poe sometimes 
approaches Keats ; word is added to word, now intensifying by contrast, 
again rendering an object with exquisite verity. As in " Israfel," one phrase 
of absolute fitness follows upon another, from first to last. 

There is a like architectonic quality, with far more horror and gloom, 
in the other allegory, "The Conqueror Worm." Here the bitterness and 
agony are so deepened as to seem rather effective than real : 

" Mimes, in the form of God on high, 

Mutter and mumble low, 
And hither and thither fly — 

Mere puppets they, who come and go 
At bidding of vast formless things 

That shift the scenery to and fro, 
Flapping from out their condor wings, 

Invisible Woe !" 

The contempt for man, and insistence on the miserable side of human 
life, to the exclusion of any other side, is too narrow to be wholly sincere. 
The real despair of the soul, when it sees only earthly and transitory 
happiness and beauty, is that of the broken sentences of the bare, unorna- 
mented — " Dream Within a Dream : " 

" Yet if hope has flown away 
In a night, or in a day, 
In a vision, or in none, 
Is it therefore the less gone ?" 

I have noticed Shelley's influence on Poe's early poetry, and have 
tried to show how Poe's pursuit of beauty differed from his model's by a 
disregard of truth, and so of joyfulness. Some of the later poems show 


the same influence in their subject, or their general manner. They fall into 
two distinct classes, the first including all the occasional, personal poems, 
of the type seen in Shelley's " On a Faded Violet," " Goodnight," " Love's 

Philosophy," " I Fear thy Kisses," and various other " Lines to .'' 

I do not include among Poe's occasional poems the acrostics and puzzles 
which he was fond of writing to his friends. The poems of Poe's which 
bear to Shelley's a general likeness of form and attitude are entitled, " To 

One in Paradise," " To F s S. O-d," " To ," and, last and 

most perfect, "To F ." They have that melancholy tone of self- 
depreciation, of a distant reverence rather than a direct passion, of a certain 
hopelessness before the face of life, and that tendency to repose upon words, 
and bring about unexpected conclusions, which are the most conspicuous 
characteristics of the examples I have taken from Shelley's poems ; but 
they have also a depth and fullness of expression and color that Shelley 
rarely attained. An example of this quality is the musical last stanza of 
" To F : " 

" And thus thy memory is to me 

Like some enchanted far-off isle 
In some tumultuous sea — 

Some ocean throbbing far and free 
With storms — but where meanwhile 

Serenest skies continually 
Just o'er that one bright island smile." 

I have left to the last the other group of poems on which Shelley's 
influence was apparently strong, because in them, in spite of almost direct 
imitation, are best shown what I think the most characteristic and original 
qualities of Poe's genius. The poems are only three, " The Valley of 
Unrest," " The City in the Sea," and " The Sleeper," all written in the 
seven-syllabled metre of the " Lines written among the Euganean Hills." 
It is in the second that we can trace particular resemblances; the very idea 
of the fallen and sea-sunken city of the dead, a city, too, essentially evil in 
its nature, occurs first in Shelley's description of Venice: 

" Column, tower, and dome and spire, 
Shine like obelisks of tire, 


Pointing with inconstant motion 

From the altar of dark ocean. 

" Sun-girt city ! Thou hast been 
Ocean's child, and then his queen : 
Now is come a darker day, 
And thou soon must be his prey, 
A less drear ruin then than now. 



* among the waves 
Wilt thou be when the sea-mew 
Flies, as once before it flew. 
O'er thine isles depopulate, 
And all is in its ancient state, 
Save where many a palace-gate 
With green sea-flowers over-grown 
Like a rock of ocean's arm, 
Topples o'er the abandoned sea 
As the tides change sullenly." 

I will not quote from " The City in the Sea" any parallels of concep- 
tion and expression ; the similarity makes itself felt rather in the whole 
picture, and in the ideas wrought into it, than in any single line, and only 
the whole poem would be sufficient for a comparison. But in this poem, 
as in the others that can be compared with Shelley's for rhythm and expres- 
sion, there is a difference of impulse and movement. Shelley's lines, for 
the most part, are buoyant, and move onward with a free, swift movement ; 
Poe's are laden with unutterable mystery and with a burden of rich 
detail. Every word has its full value, and sinks into the ear and mind 
slowly and separately, itself, and not the line, being often the unit of the 
music ; while the line is a falling chain of harmonies. An example is the 
beginning of "The City of the Sea:" 

" Lo ! Death hath reared himself a throne 
In a strange city, lying alone 
Far down within the dim West, 
Where the good and the bad, 
And the worst and the best, 
Have gone to their eternal rest." 


In the other two poems we find a like mastery of rhythm and expression, 
and the same likenesses and differences between the model and the new 
form founded upon it, but not always the same mastery of subject. " The 
Sleeper" is less mystical than the other two, but is full of magical passages 
— the description of moonlight : 

" I stand beneath the mystic moon, 
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, 
Exhales from out her golden rim, 
And softly dripping drop by drop, 
Upon the quiet mountain-top, 
Steals drowsily and musically 
Into the universal valley." 

and of the wind 

The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, 

Flit through my chamber in and out." 

It contains also the prayer for sleep — a calmer, more severe and solemn 
piece of writing than is to be found, I think, anywhere else in Poe, yet full 
of his peculiar weight and depth of indefinable mystery; and it ends with 
an unusual touch of imagination in the strong human contrast of past and 
present — the maiden laid in the vault — ■ 

" Against whose portal she hath thrown, 
In childhood, many an idle stone ; 
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin ! 
It was the dead who groaned within." 

I have treated all but my last poem, and cannot yet find words to 
define the individual influence which rises to its height in the final group. 
In spite of their fanciful framework, these poems are full of imagination. 
It would seem that the supernatural had been so long the native food of 
Poe's mind that it had become real to him, and could be described or 
indicated with greater vividness and more intense feeling than could natural 
things. Certainly the world that we see through his mind is as strange as 
it is beautiful, and yet because we find it beautiful we must receive it, in 
spite of its strangeness, as a part, and an integral part, of that wider world 
which includes not only all things, but also all thoughts and feelings about 



these things. The most perfect picture of this dream-world, built of the 
elements of our own, magically and remotely reproduced, is the third poem 
of this final group. I simply add the greater part of it with no further 

" Once it smiled a silent dell 

Where the people did not dwell : 

They had gone unto the wars, 

Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, 

Nightly, from their azure towers, 

To keep watch above the flowers, 

In the midst of which all day, 

The red sunlight lazily lay. 

Now, each visitor shall confess 

The sad valley's restlessness. 

Nothing there is motionless — 

Nothing save the airs that brood 

Over the magic solitude. 

Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees 

That palpitate like the chill seas 

Around the misty Hebrides ! 

Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven 

That rustle through the unquiet Heaven, 

Uneasily, from morn to even, 

Over the violets there that lie 

In myriad types of the human eye." 

Mabel Parker Clark, 'Sg. 



The quiet hour pondereth storms ; 
The boughs are lifted, slow with sleep ; 
Half-noted, to the northward creep 
Pale clouds, that grow to sombre forms. 


A tremor falling down the air, 

Yet never sound or touch of rain ; 

Blue distance deepening through the plain : 

The urgent crickets everywhere. 



Strong as winds that rouse the tree ; 
Sweet as call of hidden thrush, 
Swift as drops that break the hush, 
With them comes the thought of thee. 

M. P. C, '89. 


BARBESIEUR LOUVOIS was seated in his cabinet looking over 
the title-deeds of the Bonaletta estates. All the long morning he 
had been busy at his desk prolonging the pleasant task. People 
came and went in the old chateau, but its master never heeded; the sun 
shone brightly on the stiff French garden, where the marble figures and the 
water of the fountains sparkled in the light, and the glossy, close-clipped 
box-hedges shed their fragrance all about — of this, too, Barbesieur Louvois 
realized nothing. A fierce storm might be raging for aught he knew, as he 
eagerly scanned his papers and tossed them aside. Then he would take 
them up again for the sheer delight of once more enjoying to the full the 
sense that the broad acres they represented were now in very truth his own. 

For years Francois Louvois, father of Barbesieur Louvois had been the 
bitter foe of the Countess de Soissons and all her house. Comte Francois 
Michel Louvois, Minister to France, never forgot nor forgave the ridicule 
which this fair lady had poured upon him, when he, young and poor, but 
rising by his own cleverness and the king's favor from the bourgeoisie, 
dared to ask her hand in marriage. That laugh of thoughtless, girlish 
vanity, Olympia Mancini would have given her choicest possession to recall 
years after, when she had fallen from favor at court and the cruel man of 
power persecuted her beyond bounds. 

This charming countess, beset by misfortune on every side, but still 
beautiful and ambitious, turned in her extremity to sorcery for assistance, 
and daily dabbled in charms, love philters, and conjurations of all kinds. 

Long ago Catharine ce Medici, in the generosity of her soul, had set 
the fashion of making her friends delicately perfumed presents which they 
seldom survived to enjoy. It was she who sent to the Prince of Porcia 
a flask of fine Italian oil for his night-lamp, which oil in burning emitted 


a faint, sweet smell. By the time the flask was emptied, the Prince had 
gone the way of all flesh. 

To " La Voisin," the famous sorceress of the time of the great Louis, 
had descended many of Catharine's secrets for disposing of inconvenient 
friends. " La Voisin," in consequence, died on the rack, but left a scandal 
about the court to the effect that the Countess de Soissons was her pupil 
and the purchaser of her precious recipes. The Countess was known to 
have a predilection for the study of chemistry, but her rank and influence 
prevented suspicion from penetrating too far. Surely she was not at fault 
because a few of her acquaintances chanced to die, since such, sooner or 
later, is the fate of all. Even Louvois, who had demanded that her palace 
should be searched, discovered nothing but an innocent laboratory wherein 
its mistress made experiments in cosmetics. 

Louvois dared to go no farther than this, and in future his attacks and 
those of Barbesieur Louvois, who had inherited his father's hatred of the 
Soisson family, were directed against Eugene of Savoy, the favorite son of 
the Countess. Eugene of Savoy had horsewhipped Barbesieur Louvois in 
public for mobbing his mother's palace. A few months later Louvois had 
succeeded in carrying off Laura Bonaletta, whom Prince Eugene was to 
marry. Louvois, without a thought of yielding, had watched Laura Bona- 
letta die, and to-day, as he held her property in his hands, he was exulting 
over the defeat of Prince Eugene, helpless under this last blow. 

Hours had passed and Louvois was still absorbed in the papers. Once 
he had been interrupted by a servant who brought him a most delicious 
peach. Now again he entered with a note, which Louvois was about to cast 
impatiently aside, when he recognized the writing of the Countess of Sois- 
sons. Had the Countess also yielded, was she, in her turn, to acknowledge 
herself foiled and make this day the most triumphant of his life ? Louvois 
hastily broke the seal and read : 

To Monsieur le Comte Barbesieur Louvois : 

I promised you to avenge my son. Some time since your 
servant brought you a fine peach, and if you have eaten it — it will 
be very slow in its effects — you have only four hours longer to live. 

(Signed) Olympia Mancini. 


September 19, 173 1. 


Barbesieur Louvois fell back in his chair half dazed and unable to 
realize the full meaning of the letter. A moment ago and his life had 
been as usual, more satisfying than ever on this day of victory — and now ! 
He looked around the room. Nothing was changed ; the frail, tall-stemmed 
glass dishes stood in the same places on the polished cabinets of ivory and 
ebony; the tapestry moved with the breeze that blew in through the open 
window ; the figures of the Watteau panels in the walls danced as gaily as 
ever; and yet into all these familiar things had come a strangeness which 
made him shrink from them and not like to see or think of them. Mechan- 
ically he looked again at the note which still lay crumpled in his hand. 
Hours to live ! Of course it is to live — he, Louvois, die ? It is absurd. 
Sometime it will come ! Yes, but that is far away, not now ! Involuntarily 
he blinds his eyes to the " four," then going back he reads it over again, 
"only four hours more to live." How the words burned ! They mean that 
he must die. Death, what a word in the mouth of Barbesieur Louvois, 
the gay man of the world, the polished courtier, buried deep in intrigue 
and politics; — death, he does not even understand its meaning. Beyond 
the present everything is a wondrous blank to him, farther than this life 
he cannot reach. 

A little clock ticks ominously on its shelf. Louvois turns suddenly. 
Is it true that every minute brings the awful four hours nearer their end ? 
Can they come to an end? he wonders stupidly. Half his mind seems 
shut away from him and dull ; perhaps he does not allow himself to use it. 

The clock sounds the half hour. He must, he will stop it, and he 
crushes the gilded bauble beneath his feet. An expression of relief crosses 
his face. That awful measuring off of his life is stopped. And still the time 
is passing. He must die in four hours — three hours and a half now. Already 
he feels fainter and weaker. He cannot die, he will not ; and he starts from 
his chair in dispair, trying to grasp madly at time, the air, anything, so that 
he shall lose no more of his life. But it is going on, slipping away every 
instant. He knows that the end of those four hours is coming fast upon 
him, and he grows sick at the thought. His mouth and throat are parched 
and dry, his hands clutch feverishly at the arms of the chair, and his whole 
body trembles and shakes with fear beyond his control. He shrinks away 


into a corner to escape the light. If he could only sleep or forget in any 
way this thing which stares at him from all sides, which will not allow him 
an instant's peace. His strength and manliness utterly forsake him, and 
his head falls on his hands. He sobs like a child until, exhausted by him- 
self and his own terrors, he grows quieter. 

He counts the priceless Rococo lamps that hang from the ceiling; one, 
two, three, there should have been five, three was far too small a number for 
the sum of money he paid. He must have been shamefully cheated. The 
number must be made good, he would send to-morrow to that Jew who sold 
them to him and insist upon it. Then the recollection of the four hours 
left him to live comes over him. He smiles a little — he will scarcely think 
of spending this time in remonstrance with a tardy merchant. 

What is this death that troubles him? He cannot tell at all, it is too 
unfamiliar to him; he has seldom allowed himself to think of it. It has 
been easy in his light, worldly life to pass over deeper things, to sneer at 
the hypocrisy of religion, or at best to regard it as only suited to monks 
and women. But now, when he is left to himself in his extremity, he has 
nothing to depend on — no one to help him. He dimly remembers that 
when he was a boy, the old Abbe, his tutor, had taught him that there was 
another life after this, better and happier in every way. If only the good 
man were here now to reassure him, to promise him that it should be so. 
Many men believe this, he knows, and why cannot he, too, feel sure and 
satisfied ? That he should die now ! The bitterness of it all comes over 
him again. In despair he sinks back to wait and try not to think. 

The distant chiming of the convent bells sounds in his ears. Bar- 

besieur Louvois has one hour less to live. Yet stay — as he raises his head 

wearily and turns his eyes heavy with pain, toward his desk, what is it he 

sees there amid the confusion of papers ? ■ A peach, a most excellent peach, 

which he had quite forgotten to eat. 

Lucy Martin Donnelly, gj. 



HE walks through the forest. The stars shine brokenly through the 
pine branches, and the pine needles crisp under his feet. Far away 
a keen wind is blowing; he hears it, but he heeds it not. For he 
thinks of his beloved: the odorous darkness is filled with her; the stars 
are her love-lit eyes ; the soft murmur of the wind among the pines is the 
rustle of her dress as she comes to meet him with outstretched arms ; he 
feels her warm arms about his neck. He is thinking of his beloved ; why 
does he shiver ? The far-away wind is drawing nearer ; the trees begin to 
stir and to moan low through the night. Walk quickly, O lover; thy 
beloved awaits thee, and the night-wind is chill. Perhaps even now she 
stands at the open door, shading her eyes with her hand and looking out 
into the darkness for thee. Perhaps she is with the dancers, dancing until 
even the musicians pause to watch her ; and the lights shine upon her love- 
liness. But here the stars shine. Hasten, O lover, for with her are 
warmth and beauty, and music and passion and delight, and all that the 
heart finds fair. 

Here the wind rises loud, and the branches toss and strain. They 
groan in the darkness, and the sound of their leaves is like the sound of a 
distant sea, and the wail of the wind is like the last cry of the swimmer 
sinking through the cold water. Why do the pines shudder? What mystery 
is hidden in the night? He goes on, he comes to an open glade in the 
midst of the trees. Here the shadow is less heavy ; but what is that dark 
spot yonder? The blood sinks cold to his heart, the wind hurries by with 
a shriek. Hasten, O lover ! Has she not adorned herself to please thee 
and put on all her jewels, and is she not even now counting the hours when 
thou comest? He has reached the dark spot; it is an open grave, and 
beside it stands a catafalque, draped with black, and on the catafalque lies 
she whom he loves, pale, and cold, and still forever. And the stars shine 

Emma Stansbury Wines, 'g^.. 



One muffled in a mantle crying " Hail! " 
Came to my door with gifts for all desire : 
Sceptre of power brought and song's sweet lyre, 
Passion's strong wine, and wisdom's keys, and mail 
Of stern endurance, pleasure's roses frail, 
Laughter and tears and Shame's Medea-attire, 
Sea-water of anguish and love's crown of fire — 
These in one hand — in one, Death's silver flail. 

The sombre voice behind the veil said " Choose." 
Then I — " Not Death, though life be bought with pain, 
And power be bought with pain, and love's delight 
With bitter anguish, or if I must lose 
All else that makes life sweet, strength shall remain 
To bear my burden even unto the night." 


Weary of Day, with all its noise and glare, 
I fain would see swift Night descend on Noon. 
Staggering blindly onward, half in swoon, 
While the hot sun beats through the burning air, 
Fame is a bitter cheat, that once seemed fair, 
Truth is a broken reed, Love an old tune 
That's heard about the streets in dusty noon, 
Heaven a forgotten dream, and Life — Despair. 

God cannot hear, for he is far away, 

And sweeter sleep than all things sung or said, 

And I am weary of all things that be. 

Too tired to love, too tired even to pray, — 

Oh, let me only sleep, while o'er my head 

Murmur the billows of eternity. 


O Lord of Life and Death and Love, come Thou, 
According to thy promise, to my heart ! 
Nor let thine awful Presence thence depart, 
Nor let thy life through my life cease to flow, 


As sap through branches when they bud and blow 
Runs from the vine through every smallest part — 

come, thou Heavenly Love, and fill my heart, 
Nor ever from thy presence let me go. 

So, like the oil-fed fire that Bunyan saw, 

1 shall shine ever brighter, though the flood 
Of all earth's sin and sorrow upon me pour — 
Like the mid-calm within the whirlwind's awe 
That Science tells us of; so, one with God, 
In the storm's heart at rest forevermore. 


RRETTINESS, as contrasted with beauty, rules the Alexandrian 
period of Greek literature: a certain dainty completeness of detail 
Lakes the place of the truth and grandeur of general effect that charac- 
terize an earlier period, and, though charmingly picturesque, the poems of 
this period are marred by an excessive conventionality. The artistic sense 
was cultivated at the expense of imagination, and the poets strove to 
present definite pictures, carefully wrought and exquisitely finished, to be 
sure, yet lacking greatness of conception and breadth of execution. 

Prominent among the poems of this time were those that told of the 
tricks and devices of the god of love, who is no longer the mighty lord of 
men, the son of Zeus, fight, to whom the splendid choruses 
of Sophocles and Euripides were sung, but the " pretty wag," with "lovely 
hair but impudent brow," who, though bereft of his eyes, has " his idle 
head full of laughing toys," and is ever ready, with his tiny hands, to let 
fly the arrow, " feather'd with flame, arm'd with a golden head," or to play 
the knave and trick unwary mortals, or, again, "vving'd like a bird, to flit, 
now here, now there, upon men and women and nestle in their inmost 

These stories of the mischievous god, in which the Greek poets gave 
concrete expression to their woes in love, were great favorites with the 
early English lyrists. For, widely as the age of Elizabeth differs from the 


Alexandrian period in general tendencies, it does not seem strange that in 
the sixteenth century, a time when poetry was the fashion and gallantry a 
profession, these Cupid poems should be chosen as models by the song- 
writers, manj' of whom were scholars, steeped in classical literature, and 
were, at the same time, courtiers, whose pleasure it was to dally with love 
and sing the praises of the ladies that chanced to charm their fancy. 
Naturally, then, they were tempted to clothe in classic garb their rather 
fanciful love-making, and to make their own these delightful, if somewhat 
extravagant, conceits of the Alexandrians. 

Very often the later poet merely translated, but would occasionally 
embody in his adaptation something of his own individuality. 

" The Wounded Cupid," as it is termed by Herrick, seems to have 
been a prime favorite with the Elizabethans. Of this there were two Greek 
forms, one an idyl attributed to Theocritus, the other, which is the version 
followed by most of the imitators, is the Anacreontic, 

''Epw^ztor iv fiddaiaiv abXwXa xri—o&vTJaxw 

xotficofiivr/V iJ.iXi-TWJ oipts /x 'i-uif's ficxpos 

oh-/. slSsv, a)X Irpwfyrj --spwrvs, Sv xaXoufflv 

tov ddxzuXov -aTayJlzis ij.C/.ittwj nl yewpyoi. 

t«j ys'ipas diX6Xo;sv a S 1 elizev si Tu xivrpov 

Spa;j.ufj oe -sram^eii Tzmel Tu ra? /teXtTraf, 

Trpos TTj'j xaXijy Au'frjprj-j -(>o~m daxsis — <w>D<T!v, 

oXwXa, ij.aTzp t el-ev, "Epws, oaou<; ab fidXXsis ; 

This is prettily rendered by Herrick in his song, " The Wounded 

Cupid as he lay among 

Roses, chanced to be stung, 

Whereupon, in anger flying 

To his mother, said, thus crying : 
"Help! O help ! your boy's a-dying." 
" And why my pretty lad ? " said she. 

Then blubbering, replied he, 
" A winged snake has bitten me, 

Which country people call a bee." 


At which she smiled, then with her hair 
And kisses, drying up his tears, 
"Alas ! " said she, " my wag, if this 
Such a pernicious torment is, 
Come, tell me then how great's the smart 
Of those thou woundest with thy dart ! " 

In a set of Madrigals published early in the seventeenth century, there- 
is the following imitation of this poem : — 

Cupid in a bed of roses 

Sleeping, chanced to be stung 

Of a bee that lay among 
The flowers where he himself reposes ; 
And thus to his mother weeping 

Told that he his wound did take 

Of a little winged snake, 
As he lay securely sleeping. 
Cytherea smiling said 

That " if so great sorrow spring 

From a silly bee's weak sting 
As should make thee thus dismay'd, 
What anguish feel they, think'st thou, and what pain, 
Whom thy empoison'd arrows cause complain ? " 

Thomas Lodge weaves this story into the Barginet of Aiitimachus in 
this manner : — 

There sat a lovely lady gay, 

His mother as I guessed : 
That set the lad upon her knee, 
And trimmed his bow, and taught him flee, 

And mickle love profess'd. 
Oft from her lap at sundry hours, 
He leapt and gathered summer flowers, 

Both violets and roses : 
But see the chance that followed fast, 
As he the pomp of pride doth waste, 

Before that he supposes, 
A bee, that harboured h ar d thereby, 
Did sting his hand, and made him cry, 

" Oh, mother I am wounded ! " 


FaLr Venus that beheld her son, 
Cry'd out, "Alas ! I am undone," 

And thereupon she swounded. 
" My little lad," the Goddess said, 
" Who 'hath my Cupid so dismay'd ? " 

He answered, " Gentle mother, 
The honey-worker in the hive 
My grief and mischief doth contrive, 

Alas it is no other." 
She kist the lad : now mark the chance, 
And straight she fell into a trance, 

And crying, thus concluded: 
" Ah ! wanton boy, like to the bee, 
Thou with a kiss hath wounded me, 

And hapless Love included. 
A little bee doth thee affright 
But ah ! my wounds are full of spright ; 

And cannot be recured." 

Toward the close of these lines occurs the comparison of love to a bee, 
so beautifully elaborated in Rosalind's Madrigal, beginning: — 

Love in my bosom, like a bee, 

Doth suck his sweet : 
Now with his wings he plays with me, 

Now with his feet. 
Within mine eyes he makes his rest ; 
His bed amidst my tender breast ; 
My kisses are his daily feast ; 
And yet he robs me of my rest. 
Ah, wanton, will ye ? 

With which might be compared Herrick's lines : — 

Love in a shower of blossoms came 

Down, and half-drown'd me with the same ; 

The blooms that fell were white and red. 

But with such sweets commingled, 

As whether, this I cannot tell, 

My sight was pleased more, or my smell ; 

But true it was, as I rolled there, 

Without a thought of hurt or fear, 


Love turned himself into a bee, 

And with his javelin wounded me, 

From which mishap this use I make — 

Where most sweets are, there lies a snake; 

Kisses and favours are sweet things, 

But those have thorns and these have stings. 

Much the same idea is to be found in fhe Greek poem : 

Sxltpos TzXixcov ~t)>'f supov 
h t«Tj fi/tdocs * Epwza' 
■/.at 7(tiv ~7=o(y> xazat/VQiv 
l$ti.-Tin eiy zuv dlvov 
laftibv <5' sitivov aunh, 

/.'/'. VOV k'fTW pskwv fJ.u'J 

-rzptiitrt yapya/.i^t'... 

Translated thus by Herrick : 

As lately I, a garland bound 
'Mongst roses I there Cupid found ; 
I took him, put him in my cup, 
And drunk with wine, I drank him up. 
Hence then it is, that my poor breast 
Could never since find any rest. 

There are many other Elizabethan songs, telling of Cupid's pranks and 
of the various guises assumed by him, several of which may be traced back 
to Alexandrian originals. 

In Thomas Forde's Love's Labyrinth is found this quaint little poem: — 

Cupid all his arts did prove 
To invite my heart to love ; 
But I always did delay 
His mild summons to obey, 
Being deaf to all bis charms, 
Straight the god assumes his arms ; 
With his bow and quiver he 


Takes the field to duel me. 
Armed like Achilles, I 
With my shield alone defy 
His bold challenge, as he cast 
His golden darts, I as fast 
Catched his arrows in my shield 
Till I make him leave the field. 
Fretting and disarmed then 
The angry god returns again 
All in flames ; 'stead of a dart 
Throws himself into my heart 
Useless I my shield require 
When the fort is all on fire, 
I in vain the field did win 
Now the enemy's within, 
Thus betray'd, at last I cry, 
" Love tho.ii hast the victory." 

This is a translation of another Anacreontic : 

(ji/.uj &dXw <piX9jaai. ipapvdp-qv * Ejjwti. 

eneiff "Epws tpiXsXv ps, k'jSaXX', sym <f speuyov. 

iym <S' k'ywv vi'ir/pa «uj <5' obx kV sly di'orou?, 

afiuoXov no/, hceia&qv. rjayaXXev e7#' iauruv 

6 <5' euftb zo!-ov upas a<p9jxsv el$ jSiXspvm, 

xa\ yponir/v <papirpy]v pitios ds xapdiys 

!'"7.Tt ! J -~ wpooxaXeiro. k'duvz, xat p HAutrev 

zap Xafiib'j in' copwv pdTyjv o' iym fioE'ajV 

$(bp7]Y o~ojg ' AytXXsos, rt yap j3dXw pw £'5w, 

xat Soopo. xai fitiziryj pdyq<; k'uio p' lynutrqs ; 

Especially numerous are the imitations of another of this group of 

}h<7(»i)XTiots -o'V wpatf, tot "Epais ixKTTw'teis pso 

r7T/i;<pe>y jjvix "Apxzos tJSvj ftuplwv 'ixo-T oy^af. 

xazd yeipa riyj Bocotou, riV, S<fjV, fti)pa$ apdanet ; 

pepoTiiov dk wuXa tzw/to. xazd ayi'si^ dvsipous. 

xinTai y.u-m daphza, d' " Epuii avotys, (pr^aiv 


($p£<po$ el/u, p.rj <fi'i^t)tiiw i/.-'ii/.ifiny Oypdv udcop. 

ftpiyo; iU xairiXfjvnv 6 !> i~s\ xpuos [j.e&r/xe». 

■/.an), vt'i/.ra -z-Xdvr/,tu/.i. ¥*!>-, T'l^i, xeipdtrw/jisv 

iXivjira raur axoutras, r/xh Tosuy, e" n ij.ih vuv 

(ha if euftb Xuyvov cty'a? ^kdfisrat ftpayeltra vsupij, 

avlwsa, /.ai (3p£(po$ p.iv ranusi ds xai p.z ti'j-t-i 

ina/im <p£povTa ri'i^n^ p.imrj J\~o.p, Sxntsp olirrpog' 

-rljiuyd^ r; y.a) tpapirprjv. Avn o aXXerac v.a.y_&%<av, 

Tzapa 3' Irrrirfj xaftlffa, :hi o , eT/T£. GuyydpTjfti' 

-aXdpacs rs y-'ipn.^ abruu xipas afiXaftss p.kv ^/juv, 

aviftaX-ov, ix 8e yairTjs ah ds xapdhjv itovijffets. 

Most nearly like the original is a poem, given in Davison's Poetical 
Rhapsody and attributed to the writer, who signed himself A. W., but 
whose full name is still a mystery : — 

Of late, what time the bear turn'd round 

At midnight in her wonted way, 
And men of all sorts slept full sound, 

O'ercome with labour of the day : 

The God of Love came to my door, 

And took the ring, and knocks it hard : 
" Who's there," quoth I, " that knocks so sore ? 

You break my sleep, my dreams are marred." 

" A little boy, forsooth," quoth he, 

" Dung-wet with rain this moonless night." 

With that methought it pitied me : 

I op'd the door, and candle light. 

And straight a little boy I spied ; 

A winged boy with shafts and bow ; 
I took him to the fire-side, 

And set him down to warm him so. 

His little hands in mine I strain, 

To rub and warm them therewithal ; 
Out of his locks I crush the rain, 

From which the drops apace down fall. 


At last, when he was waxen warm, 

" Now let me try my bow," quoth he ; 
" I fear my string hath caught some harm, 
And wet, will prove too slack for me.' 

He said ; and bent his bow, and shot ; 

And wightly hit me on the heart : 
The wound was sore ; and raging hot, 

The heat like fury reeks my smart. 

" Mine host," quoth he, " my string lies well," 

And laugh'd so, that he leap'd again : 
" Look to your wound for fear it swell, 

Your heart may hap to feel the pain." 

One of the prettiest versions is that of Robert Greene : — 

Cupid abroad, was lated in the night ; 

His wings were wet with ranging in the rain : 
Harbour he sought, to me he took his flight, 

To dry his plumes : I heard the boy complain ; 
I op'd the door, and granted his desire ; 
I rose myself, and made the wag a fire. 

Prying more narrow by the fire's flame, 

I spy'd his quiver hanging at his back : 
Doubting the boy might my misfortune frame, 
I would have gone for fear of further wrack. 

But what I fear'd, did me, poor wretch, betide, 
For forth he drew an arrow from his side. 

He pierced the quick, and I began to start ; 

A pleasing wound, but that it was too high : 
His shaft procured a sharp, yet sugar'd smart ; 

Away he flew, for now his wings were dry ; 
But left the arrow sticking in my breast, 

There sore I grieve, I welcom'd such a guest. 

Herrick also has made a charming translation of it in his Cheat of 
Cupid ; or, the Ungentle Guest : — 

One silent night of late, 

When every creature rested, 
Came one unto my gate, 

And knocking, me molested. 


" Who's that," said I, " beats there 
And troubles thus the sleepy ?" 

" Cast off," said he, " all fear, 

And let not locks thus keep ye. 

" For I a boy am, who 

By moonless nights have swerved ; 
And all with showers wet through, 
And e'en with cold half starv'd." 

I pitiful arose, 

And soon a taper lighted ; 
And did myself disclose 

Unto the lad benighted. 

I saw he had a bow, 

And wings too, which did shiver ; 

And looking down below, 
I spied he had a quiver. 

I to my chimney shine 

Brought him as love professes, 

And chafed his hands with mine, 
And dried his dropping tresses. 

But when he felt him warm'd 

" Let's try this bow of ours 
And string if they be harmed," 

Said he, " with these late showers." 

Forthwith his bow he bent, 

And wedded string and arrow, 

And struck me that it went 

Quite through my heart and marrow. 

Then laughing loud, he flew 

Away, and thus said flying, 
"Adieu, mine host, adieu, 

I'll leave thy heart a-dying." 

The same poem doubtless suggested to him the song : 

Love like a beggar, came to me, 

With hose and doublet torn, 
His shirt bedangling from his knee, 

With hat and shoes outworn. 


He ask'd an alms; I gave him bread, 

And meat too for his need, 
Of which when he had fully fed, 

He wished me all good-spead. 

Away he went, but as he turned, 

In faith I know not how, 
He touch'd me so as that I burn, 

And am tormented now. 

Love's silent flames and fires obscure 

Then crept into my heart, 
And though I saw no bow, I'm sure 

His finger was the dart. 

Although the two following poems vary considerably from the 
original, certain lines plainly show that the authors were following the 
Greek model ; one a sonnet from Lady Wroth's Urania : 

Late in the forest I did Cupid see, 

Cold wet and crying, he had lost his way; 

And being blind was farther like to stray : 

Which sight a kind compassion bred in me. 

I gently took and dried him while that he, 

Poor child complain'd he starved was with stay 
And pined for want of his accustomed prey ; 

For none in that wild place his host would be, 

I glad was of his finding, thinking sure 

This service sheuld my freedom still procure ; 

And to my breast I took him then unharm'd, 

Carrying him safe unto a myrtle bower ; 

But in the way he made me feel his power, 

Burning my heart, who had him kindly warmed. 

Also Michael Drayton's lines : 

Love banished Heaven, in earth was held in scorn 
Wandering abroad in need and beggary : 
And wanting friends, tho' of a goddess born, 


Yet craved the ;ilms of such as passed by: 

I like a man devout and charitable, 

Clothed the naked, lodged the wandering guest 

With what might make the miserable blest ; 

But, this ungrateful, for my good desert, 

Enticed my thoughts against me to conspire, 

Who gave consent to steal away my heart, 

And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire. 

Well, well my friends, when beggars grow thus bold, 

No marvel then if charity grow cold. 

The poems already quoted are the most interesting of this class of 
songs and will abundantly show the method of the closer imitators of the 
Greek lyrics. 

I cannot, however, close without giving illustrations, from two well- 
known poets, of a freer manner of adaptation. 

Ben Jonson in his " Hue and Cry after Cupid " takes scattered lines 
from Moschus' first idyl, as for instance : 

xaxa't 0nlvs$, ddu XaXyj/xa' 
fin yd.p I'itov voist y.a\ (pftiyyETat ' d>$ p.ifo <pti)vd., 

And : 

y.ryj -»Tt7?jS' xXalovra, puXdffffso ,'J.rj rrt xXavsjiTyi. 
xijv y M.r n zu vtv t/.y.-. xat jjv kbiyrjtr- ifi'u^n:, 
tpzuyz ' y.ay.ov to tpiAr^iri^ rd ysiXta tpdpp.Q.xav kv-zi 
ryj 8z X(yr t „Ad/?£ -aura, yapiZopai utrrrd jj.m 8~Xa". 
[j.r/ to 'i'VjJ? Saj/ia' to. yd.p 7:op\ -dvra ftifia—Tai. 

Which he combines in the following stanza : 

Trust him not his words though sweet, 

Seldom with his heart do meet. 

All his practice is deceit; 

Every gift is but a bait ; 

Not a kiss but poison bears ; 

And most treason in his tears. 

Spenser, on the other hand, while following his models rather closely, 
gives to the whole a homely English coloring. 


I quote in conclusion his translation of the fourth idyl of Bion 

It was upon a holiday, 

When shepheardes groomes have leave to playe, 

I cast to go a shooting. 
Long wandring up and downe the land, 
With bowes and bolts in either hand, 

For birds in bushes tooting, 
At length within an Yvie todde, 
(There shrouded was the little god) 

I heard a busie bustling. 
I bent my bow against the bush, 
Listening if anything did rushe, 

.But then heard no more rustling. 
Then peeping close into the thicke, 
Might see the moving of some quicke, 

Whose shape appeared not ; 
But were it faerie, feend or snake, 
My courage earnd it to awake, 

And manfully thereat shotte. 
With that sprang forth a naked swayne 
With spotted wings, like Peacock's trayne, 

And laughing lope to a tree ; 
His gylden quiver at his backe, 
And silver bowe, which was but slacke, 

Which lightly he bent at me ; 
That seeing, I levelde againe 
And shotte at him with might and maine, 

As thicke as that it hailed. 
So long I shott, that al was spent ; 
The pumie stones I hastly bent 

And threwe ; but nought availed : 
He was so nimble and so wight, 
From bough to bough he lepped light, 

And of the pumies latched. 
Therewith affrayd I ranne away ; 
But he that erst seemed but to play, 

A shafte in earnest snatched, 
And hit me running in the heele : 
For then I little smart did feele, 

But soone it sore increased ; 


And now it rancklcth more and more 
And inwardly it festreth me, 
Ne wote I how to cease it. 

The truly rustic coloring of Spenser's imitation is foreign to the dis- 
tinctive character of the original, and introduces into the picture a provin- 
ciality which mars the harmony of tone. 

The other translators, although in many cases they dealt freely with 
the original and varied from it in many ways, did not attempt to give any 
local atmosphere to the scene, or to reconcile the Greek myths to English 
ideas. They seemed to feel that they were toying with Greek mythology 
in much the same way as were the Alexandrians themselves ; and that, 
like them, they were using it merely for purposes of decoration. 

In the hands of these triflers in verse, the Cupid poems became only 
another form of the fantastic extravagance displayed in the literature of the 
day. They were conscious that this fanciful imagery was eminently suited 
to deck verses intended to please, not the people, but the dainty ladies and 
gay lords of a splendid court whose chief delights were gorgeous pageants 
and elaborate masques, and who desired richness of ornament above all 
other things. 

These songs, so full of airy lightness and grace, retaining as they do 
so much of the spirit of their Greek models, have little originality, and can 
lay no claim to greatness ; but they captivate our fancy by much the 
same charm as that of the carven fan once swayed by a spoiled beauty of 
the court, and adorned with its "loves in a riot of light, roses and vaporous 
blue." . 

Marian Mac Intosh, 'po. 


" Mens iiisana in cor pore insano." 

WHY am I cross? The weather is beautiful and the holidays are 
nearly here, yet there is no doubt about it. I am very cross. 
Unless you are personally acquainted with me, you cannot imagine 
the shock of surprise caused by this discovery. I endeavor to find a reason 
for the phenomenon. 

Yes, it must be so ! I am tired out, completely run down. My head 
aches and there are slight but incomprehensible pains in my shoulder-blades. 

Dear me ! This pain gets worse and worse. I think I must be very 
much worn out and cut a few classes. No improvement. I have my essay 
postponed and notice as a result a slight feeling of exhilaration. By this 
time the holidays have arrived and as the cheerfulness continues I resolve 
to take a great risk and go to a concert. 

Alas ! The enemy (as yet nameless) has followed me even here, 
and I give up in despair, go to bed and send for the doctor. Oh dear! 
When will he come to tell me what this fiendish pain is ? Ah, at last ! He 
comes ; a resolute young man with rather penetrating eyes, who smiles a 
little and tells me that I have Lumbago. 

Lumbago ! The ailment of an octogenarian, and I not yet twenty. 
Really I have to laugh. But my physician persists, so it must be true ! 
Lumbago ! Well, well ! 

Charming treatment they give for this sort of thing ! Rubbings exter- 
nally, and internally the most disagreeably chalky of powders, — powders 
that won't consent to be swallowed properly, but insist upon flying up to 
inspect one's brains and, once there, getting into a wild state of excitement. 

Easter Sunday comes and I do not go to church. That old saying 
about an ill wind grows truer to me every day, for I am almost always con- 
tent with my lot. The inevitable conclusion is that I am " nobody." Ah 
well! Another person, illustrious for his wisdom, took that name upon 
him, so why should not I ? Everyone is complaining of the weather, 


whereas it makes me feel better to know that when I cannot go out of doors 
no one can do so with comfort. Resignation is a beautiful thing ! 

I really feel much better. Hope springs up in my breast, but it is not 
eternal at all. I go out for a walk only to retire once more to my couch of 
woe. Lumbago, I find, is not only a weather prophet but a sort of 
physical conscience. 

Holidays are over at last and the students are at work again. It is too 
provoking! Everyone knows all about lumbago and does not feel at all 
interested in my extraordinary symptoms. Or if my caller pro tern, has not 
had it, one of her aged relatives has suffered and told her all about it. I feel 
quite like the hero of Mr. Stockton's " House of Martha." 

Another irritating thing is the way they all laugh. Now, aside from 
its name, lumbago is not such a tremendous joke. The name, moreover, 
when you say it two or three times, softly and tenderly, without thinking of 
the meaning, has a musical Castilian sound that is quite thrilling. Don 
Lumbago would certainly sound quite as well as Don Alonzo or Don 

The mornings now are not very exciting. They are chiefly spent in 
lying on my back, staring at the walls and trying to guess who it is coming 
down the plank-walk. Every hour some one goes past the door with hor- 
ribly squeaky boots and I wonder whether any article thrown through the 
transom would hit her or not. It is impossible to read with any comfort. 
Either I cannot understand what I read, or I contract a violent headache 
from the great mental effort required. This is explained to me by an intel- 
lectual sophomore. (Pray excuse the apparent tautology.) It seems that 
the nerves of the spine end in the nerve centre, the medulla, which is situa- 
ted at the base of the brain. Therefore any pain in the back must neces- 
sarily affect the working of the brain. Beautiful theory! Certainly quite 
true in my case. 

It is amusing, while I am lying here, to listen to what is going on in 
the corridor. One of my- neighbors sings. She has a style truly her own, 
taught neither by the German nor the Italian method. Her favorite airs 
are " Yankee Doodle " and " The Blue Alsatian Mountains," but occasion- 
ally she launches out into some others which I could not venture to name. 


Then one always knows when a story is being told. It is usually some- 
thing like this: " Um-m-m-m-hum-shum." "No!" " Um-um-shum-um- 
thum-m-smum-/(«/«-rn." Suppressed giggles. " Umum-num-mumshumum- 
humm-umum." "Really?" " K/dim-mum numkrumdmumhum-Hum- 
um ! " Shrieks of laughter. A door opens and closes and deep silence 

" Don Lumbago " is certainly appropriate, for one grows to think of 
him in quite a personal light. He must be commander of a large army as 
far as I can judge. It is interesting, though painful, to notice his manceu- 
vering. He has his headquarters, in which he spends most of the time. 
Early in the afternoon a scout is sent out to reconnoitre. He conies back 
to report and two or three others start off in different directions. There is 
a short skirmish on my left side, the scouts race back to headquarters and 
then the entire army sets out in all directions, laying waste with fire and 
sword. This is dreadful ! I must have the doctor again. 

Surely there is a sort of aristocracy in illnesses. If I am connected 
with a Spanish grandee I must have a new coat of arms. Let me see. 
How shall I compose it? Ah! I have it. A doctor, quartered, argent, 
would do very well. For the crest I will have a lumbago, gules, rampant 
and, as a motto, " Quid ago ? " 

The doctor is coming, and of course I feel much better. I shall not 
have a respectable pain left when he arrives and he will naturally think I 
am trying to make a mountain of a mole hill. It was so bad before, too. 
How vexing ! Heavens ! here it is again. The gory battle field has changed 
to a ball-room and they are having the gayest time possible. Now how 
can I keep my temper while the doctor is here and put on my usual charm- 
ing smile? 

My treatment is changed slightly. I am now rubbed with a sort of 
yellow ointment that makes me feel as if I were sliced and buttered, and in 
place of the powders some appetizing green and yellow pills are adminis- 
tered to me as a tonic. Variety is always agreeable ! How long I can bear 
up under this kind of thing is unknown. Luckily my thoughtful friends 
try to amuse me. Two charming jumping-jacks have been presented to 
me. One of them has lumbago and the other has the mumps in one cheek 


and sciatica in the opposite leg. Dear little things! We are a sympathetic 

A great source of entertainment is the conversations that go on in the 
hall near my door. Here is a specimen : 

A. " Good evening." 

B. " Good evening. How is your family ?" 

A. (calmly) " Oh, they are all dead." 

B. "Are they indeed? When did they die ?" 

A. " Night before last." 

B. " I am very sorry." 

A. "So am I." (a pause) " You know I kept them in a bottle." 

I am slightly bewildered until I learn that A. is an enthusiastic biolo- 
gist, interested in the study of tadpoles. 

It is surprising how things go wrong when I am unable to do any- 
thing to set them right. "Cursed spite" indeed, as Hamlet so justly 
remarked. None of my possessions is in its proper place when somebody 
else has to find it. And as for cups, innumerable cups have been broken — 
certainly three. Then to see some one try to make chocolate for me causes 
me an immense amount of suffering. I do not mean to be ungrateful, but 
it certainly is enough to make a saint nervous. One benevolent friend tried 
it the other night. First the alcohol went all over the floor (a thing against 
which we have been particularly warned), then the milk boiled over, and 
last of all the chocolate itself spilled and my spoon went into the cup, 
handle first. Wasn't that enough to justify a moderate degree of wrath? 
Yet I did not fly into a rage at all, but mildly reproved her and encouraged 
her to make another cup. My disposition is certainly lovable and sweet ! 

I am the most unfortunate of beings. My ill-health seems to have 
been condensing itself all this winter and now that it is once let loose, 
springs up with full force like a Jack-in-the-box. My eyes have given out ! 

" Ye see, O friends, 
How many evils have enclosed me round." 

5". E. Throop, 'pj. 



I would I were a merman, 

And in the deep sea furrows 
I'd ambush me, to lurk beneath 

The mists of falling foam ; — 
And there I'd watch and listen, 

A many long to-morrows, 
To meet my dearest sailing 

Alone, afar from home. 

I would I were the seagull, 

And with my grey cloud-brothers 
I'd lift my piercing wing to flight 

And lose familiar lands ; — 
Amid the bent white canvas, 

I'd swoop not fearing others 
And search, — where sat my dearest 

To greet me with her hands. 

Fain were I sky and ocean, 

To spread her fit adorning ; — 
The waves should toss glad music, — 

And from sun-haunted climes, 
The winds should blow white blossoms 

And buds as red as morning, 
And showering soft my dearest, 

Wake me her laughter chimes. 

M. P. C. 8g\ 



THE Skorrow sisters were coming home from church. When they 
came to the gate they stopped, or rather, Liddy stopped. Liddy 
was always ahead, not because she was the taller, and, as one might 
think, would always take the lead, but because Dorcas, who, though the 
shorter, was the stronger in every way, always put Liddy before her as a 
mother does her child in a crowd that she may watch over her. 

So Liddy stopped, and waited for Dorcas, and as she came up laid her 
hands on the gate-post, saying : " Seems someway's if it never rested me so 
much to look at this brown house as it used to to see the white one. 
There's something so kind o' restful in a white house with green blinds. 
Now don't you think so, Dorcas?" 

Before replying Dorcas meditated, as thoughtfully as though she had 
not heard the same question, or one of its few variations — the Skorrow 
sisters did not have many forms of expression for the same thought — every 
Sunday for the last sixteen months, and did not expect to hear it every 
Sunday of the coming winter. Then she said: "Well, I don' know but 
what on a hot day in summer it does look cool and nice ! But then it's 
got to be a pretty hot day; and this time of the year the brown is more 
becoming to the golden-rod and the bit of color in the trees. It's just so 
right on through the fall, the more color in the trees the better the brown 
house looks, and it certainly is a sight cheerier in the winter when every- 
thing is covered with snow." 

Liddy opened the gate, and they went in the yard, up the path leading 
to the front c'oor. They always went in the front door Sundays — it was 
part of the state they considered due the day, just as going to church in 
their best clothes, and sitting in the parlor in the afternoon, reading — and 
sleeping sometimes. 

The house was brown, even to the shutters, which were closed above 
and open below, and the paper window-shades were brown with a yellow- 
flowered border. Hugging close to the house on two sides was a bank of 
golden-rod, just feathering into bloom. Liddy paused again to look at it 
glowing in the warm September sunlight. 


" Well, you know," she returned, " We don't have golden-rod when 
the house is white — and I think the phlox is a dreadful pretty contrast 
against the white. And in winter, too, I think the white house, with snow 
all around and icicles hanging from the eaves, looks so pure and peaceful- 

Dorcas made no reply. She was bending over to get the key from its 
hiding-place under the steps. It was Liddy's turn to complain, and she 
was willing to allow her the little comfort of the last word. 

They went into the parlor, and Liddy entered the little bed-room 
adjoining, to take off her things, while Dorcas began struggling with the 
catch of the small-paned window ; at last, in answer to efforts which made 
her red in the face, the window went up, and she drew from the corner a 
green wire screen. 

" I don't see," she said, as she fitted in the screen, turning her head so 
that Liddy might hear her, " I don't see why they always make screens 
green — I declare I've a good notion to paint these brown. I wonder't I 
never thought of it before. I can do it just as well's not." 

"Don't seem's though 'twould hardly pay now, so late in the 
season," answered Liddy, appearing in the door. She was unpinning her 
bonnet-strings, and, as she spoke, smoothed them out, by rolling them 
softly over her fingers. 

Liddy was large and tall, fair and sweet of face, with gray showing in 
her soft, light brown hair ; Dorcas was shorter and more compact in form, 
with a dash of warm red in her cheeks and her hair was untouched by gray. 
There was a quick energy, too, in Dorcas, that showed itself in her answer 
to Liddy: "Don't care if it is late — I'm going to do it to-morrow; we 
always have the screens in through September anyways, and maybe 
October. I do like to see things match." 

By this time Dorcas' own bonnet-strings were smoothed out ; they 
were brown, and Liddy's were black, matching their silk dresses which were 
ow being carefully hung away. This done, the sisters put on ginghams 
Liddy's black-and-white, with a narrow white frilling at neck and sleeves ; 
Dorcas' brown-and-white, with a rolling collar turned over a brown tie. 
Never, by any chance, did these sisters wear the same colors. 


" Dorcas, did I tell you what Mis' Clymer said to Abigail Nutt's 
mother about us? I know I didn't tell you, for it was the day Brother 
Harvey's little Ned hurt his foot that Abigail told me, and when you came 
back I was so taken up with what you was telling about Neddy I never 
thought to tell you." 

Liddy was putting out their Sunday luncheon, and Dorcas was busy 
making the fire for tea. She did not answer Liddy till they were seated at 
the table, then, as she poured the tea, she asked : " Well, what did Mis' 
Clymer say ? " 

Liddy helped herself to a spoonful of preserves. " She said she should 
think the Skorrow girls 'd paint their house like a checker-board in brown 
and white squares — then they'd both be satisfied't the same time and 't 
would be more economical than painting their house over every other 
Spring." Dorcas took a mouthful of bread and butter, and then a drink of 
tea. " I don't see as Mis' Clymer has any call to worry about the cost, long's 
she don't have it to pay. I wouldn't let the house go more than two 
years anyway without painting. Father never did. I can't remember but 
once ; that was the time Harry was sick. But the Skorrows always was 
master-hands for painting," she added, meditatively. 

The meal went on in silence. The warm air floated in through open 
doors and windows, bearing a spicy fragrance from the mint along the 
edge of the creek that ran through the orchard. Outside there was a 
drowsy hum of insects, and leaves and grasses moved lazily in the breeze. 
A blue haze lay on the hills, and soft white clouds floated in the pale 
blue sky. 

Liddy, who sat facing the window, watched a bird fly over the orchard, 
over the open field on the other side of the road, over the row of elms be- 
yond, then soar into the air in ever widening circles till it darted from sight 
over the brow of a hill. 

She turned with a sudden start to her sister : " Do you know, Dorcas, 
I've been thinking ' twould look kind o' pretty — them checker-board 

Dorcas was picking the crumbs carefully out of her lap. " Land 
sakes ! Liddy, are you crazy?" 


" Why of course, Dorcas, I never meant for the outside of the house — 
I like white too well for that — but I kind o' thought for a wall-paper, or an 
apron — don't you think, Dorcas?" 

Liddy's remarks were always tentative, they lacked the decision that 
characterized Dorcas' speech. Nevertheless Liddy had a quiet insistence 
in having her own way, to which Dorcas had often been forced to yield- 
notably in the matter of painting the house. 

During the lifetime of their father the house had been an uncompromis- 
ingly bright and glaring yellow. Deacon Skorrow's hobby was " keepin' 
things well painted up," so the house never lost the pristine freshness of 
hue, which was an eyesore to the two girls. 

It was very natural then that when their father died, the question of 
repainting the house should arise, after a decent lapse of time. But, to the 
dismay of both, the sisters found this question hard to settle. Dorcas 
wanted the house painted brown, Liddy white, and peace came only with 
a compromise. The Skorrow's house had always been repainted every 
other spring, and the only change was that now it alternated from 
brown to white, from white to brown. Fortunately the house was small, 
and the sisters well-to-do, so they could carry out their whim if they chose. 

So, for twenty years, every other spring the aspect of the Skorrow's 
house had been changed. Even the flowers in the yard varied with the 
hue of the house. Liddy wanted banks of purple and white phlox under 
the windows, sweet pease, mignonnette and pansies running wild in the 
garden, bunches of sweet clover by the gate, and white hollyhocks nodding 
over the fence. But when the house put on Dorcas' colors, the paler flowers 
had to give way; daffodils crowded out fair lilies-of-the-valley, and when 
autumn came the golden-rod put out its yellow plumes unhindered, and 
the garden was one mass of closely-ranked, brilliantly-blooming dahlias. 

Neighbors had stared, laughed, and a few daring spirits had even 
ventured to expostulate at first, but as time went on they became accus- 
tomed to the change, and the sisters now seldom heard such remarks as 
Mrs. Clymer's. 

Monday morning Dorcas kept her word, and before night the screens 
were as brown as the rest of the house. 


Winter was early that year and unusually severe. It cost Dorcas a 
sigh to bring in her dahlia bulbs, for she knew that next year they must be 
planted in the lower part of the garden, behind the house, thus giving a 
place for Liddy's flowers. 

During the early part of the winter Liddy began to refuse to go out, 
alleging the unusual storminess as her excuse. Dorcas accepted this for 
some time, but, as spring drew near, she could no longer be blind to the 
fact that Liddy was steadily growing weaker. 

" There ain't really anything serious the matter," said Dorcas to a 
neighbor who had called her to the door one fair afternoon in March, 
" nothing serious, — she's just worn out by this long, cold winter. She'll be 
all right as soon as she gets a whiff of spring flowers." Dorcas hurried in 
again ; she never left Liddy alone now if she could avoid it. 

Liddy was sitting by the window, looking out. The sky was spotless, 
a faint golden glow lay on the hills ; down by the creek the willows were 
growing pink. Dorcas passed back and forth, busy with household duties. 
Now and then her eyes rested on Liddy with a sharp questioning — a new 
alarm was in them. Suddenly she went to Liddy's side : " Is there any- 
thing I can get for you ? " Liddy raised her soft blue eyes and said : " Do 
you suppose the crocuses are out?" Dorcas went into the yard, a strange 
throbbing at her heart and choking in her throat. She eagerly threw 
herself on her knees and tore away the brown leaves from the crocus bed. 
She found two buds, pale lilac-tinted, with faint gold lines, and took them 
to Liddy. Then another sharp, alarmed look — " Liddy, I'm going for the 
doctor ! " Dorcas went into the bed-room, and came out with bonnet and 
shawl. She looked at Liddy, and ran to her with a little cry, then sank on 
her knees by her side. It was too late for a doctor. 

It was May; the air was filled with the humming of bees and singing 
of birds. The odor of apple-blossoms came through the open door where 
Dorcas was sitting. Dorcas thought she could detect a breath from the 
lilies-of-the-valley planted thickly in the garden. A shadow fell across the 
doorway and Dorcas looked up. Israel Dobbs stood there — a thin-faced 
man, with bewildered expression and half-frightened air. " I s'pose you 
wont be paintin' the house this Spring, Miss Skorrow ?" 


"Well, I'd like to know what right you've got to be supposing any- 
thing about my affairs, Israel Dobbs. Do you think that because my poor 
sister is dead an' gone thet I'm going to cheat her out of her turn at the 
house. I ain't quite so mean as that yet, and I don't think you need com- 
plain, Israel Dobbs, when you get as much for scraping the brown paint off 
as for putting the white on." 

" Oh, I wa'n't complainin', Miss Skorrow," — Israel was edging back as 
he spoke, — " an' if you want it done, I'll come Monday and begin," and he 
fled like a frightened deer. 

For the next two years, Dorcas Skorrow lived alone in the white house, 
carefully tending the flowers her sister had loved. 

The soft, white clouds flitted across the sky, thickened and grew dark. 
Winter came,' and then the spring with its sad memories for Dorcas. 
Another summer and winter passed, and once more, with mingled hope and 
fear, Israel Dobbs sought the Skorrow house. 

This time Dorcas was sitting on her doorstep watching the western 
sky, which was ablaze with the sunset. 

" I heard Mis' Clymer say probably you'd always have the house white 
now — you'd got used to it, and you took so much comfort carryin' the 
white flowers to Miss Liddy's grave." 

Dorcas turned a slow, stern look on poor Israel. " Hasn't the Skorrow 
house been repainted every other spring since you can remember ?" 
"Yes, yes, it has," assented Israel. " Hasn't its color been changed every 
other spring for the last twenty-two years ?" " That's true," said Israel, 
perplexedly rubbing his hair over his forehead. 

" Do you know any good reason why it shouldn't be painted this 
spring ?" " No, indeed, I don't," affirmed Israel, as though this conviction 
had been forced upon him by a profound process of reasoning. 

" Well, then, Israel Dobbs, you may come to-morrow and begin paint- 
ing, if you want to. If you don't want to, you needn't come." Israel 
slunk back, rubbing his thin jaw with his left hand, not daring to look up. 

Dorcas stood up and looked around. " Well said ! Folks must think 
Liddy and me were pretty mean-spirited ! The poor child couldn't rest in 
her grave if she thought I was making a foolish martyr of myself. There's 
justice to be done to the living, as well as to the dead." 

Elva Lee, 'gj. 



IT was night in the forest. The stars twinkled keenly in the frosty sky, 
and the snow-crust gave back the light in faint gleams, obscured by 
the interlacing shadows of the branches. No movement of life dis- 
turbed those vast and silent aisles. A few rein-deer huddled together in 
sheltered hollows, dreaming of the green summer; the streams, in their ice- 
locked prisons, seemed too profoundly asleep to dream at all ; the very air 
seemed congealed. 

A young man was walking quickly along the path that led through 
the forest. He had bared his head, and now drank in long draughts of icy 
air, like wine. He strode on without pausing, even where, beside a turn in 
the path, a crooked old hemlock, sheeted in ice, stood like the ghost of a 
frozen witch. When he had rounded this turn he saw a distant light, which 
presently resolved itself into a stately building, whose towers and domes 
and fretted spires stood out in pale relief against the sky. Drawing nearer, 
he saw that it was built of massy blocks of ice. Light flashed from its 
windows like long red streamers that dance in the northern sky of a 
winter's night. Strains of weird music came faintly to his ears. But light 
and music seemed only to intensify the cold white silence without. The 
young man ascended the steps, chiselled out of snow so hard that it rang 
under his feet like marble, and knocked at the door. It flew open, and he 
found himself at the foot of a broad stair, which wound upward into invisi- 
ble spaces. As he ascended its stately sweep, through half-opened doors 
he caught glimpses of spacious rooms, or of a confusion of figures, eddying 
and whirling to the strains of a wild sweet waltz ; — a waltz that he seemed to 
have heard in some half-forgotten dream : and the dancers seemed to waver 
and melt into each other like the clouds that hang about Sneehattan. 

The stairs led him at last to the arched entrance of a lofty hall. Floor 
and walls and ceiling, even the throne, which stood at the upper end of the 
room, were of crystal ice, against which the light was shivered into a 
thousand glittering fragments ; so that the air, which congealed the traveler's 
breath in little drops upon his beard, was filled with all the color and radi- 
ance of flame. 


On the thronesata beautiful young woman. Her eyes had the clear, 
bluish-green shine of hollows in a glacier; her hair was of the color of 
lustrous wheat straws gleaming through the frost; and her cheeks were 
just tinged with the faint color that dyes the snow under a winter sunset. 
Her robe was soft and fleecy as the snow-flakes, and whenever she moved 
the lignt played over it in a thousand changing scintillations. 

Seeing the young man hesitate on the threshold, she beckoned him to 
approach. The attendants, who looked as if they had been made of the 
snow-dust that hangs over a falling avalanche, made room for him to 
advance; but it seemed to him that, as he passed, behind his back derisive 
glances and mocking smiles were flying about, though if he had turned 
suddenly, he would have seen nothing but the gravest courtesy. 

" You have heard that on Christmas Eve, I grant to such mortals as 
are bold enough to visit me, a single wish," said the Queen, when at last he 
stood before her. " Are you so fortunate as to know what is your dearest 
desire ? Be sure that you make no mistake, for the gift is irrevocable." 

" My wish is a simple one," answered the suitor. " I have been wronged 
and the wrong festers within me. I have loved, and I have been betrayed. 
She who could deceive the friend of her childhood, who could be false to 
her vows and to herself, is unworthy either love or hate. Let me torget 
her, — it is all I ask." 

" I cannot give you forgetfulness," said the Queen gravely, " there is no 
such thing as forgetting in this world. In another, if there be another 
world, they may perhaps forget; though I question if that ancient tale of 
the river of Lethe be anything but a fable. At all events, it flows not 
through my dominions. I can give you indifference if you desire it. You 
may leave me, if you choose, caring no more for this sweetheart of yours 
than for any bit of paper that the wind blows about the streets. But 
remember, you can never again feel for her anything but indifference, nor 
can you receive another into your heart to take her place. Think before 
you decide." 

"Anything!" cried the young man fiercely, "anything to be rid of 
this ceaseless burning! I would tear her out of my heart if I must tear my 
heart out with her !" 


The Ice-Queen bent and touched her cold lips to his, and his passion 
vanished like a dream, when the dreamer awakes in the bright morning. 

When the revolving year again made pause at Christmas Eve, the 
same traveler was striding again over the path through the frost-stilled 
forest, toward the Ice-Queen's palace. Again its doors flew open before 
him, and he mounted the winding stair and stood before the throne. 

" If you have come to ask the withdrawal of my gift," said the Queen, 
" I cannot grant your request. Remember, I warned you, that once 
conferred, it was irrevocable." 

" On the contrary," answered the petitioner, " I ask you not to with- 
draw, but to extend it. I ask you to take away all personal attachments 
from my heart. I wish to love only mankind. I am full of plans, of 
glorious hopes for the advancement of my race. But the drains of indi- 
vidual affection hold me back. How can I share the burdens of the world, 
when I am weighted with the burden of care for my friends ? How can I 
strengthen the .sorrowing, when I myself am faint with the suffering insep- 
arable from love ? I wish to be free from these petty restraints. I wish to 
devote myself wholly to the welfare of humanity." 

" It is a noble aim," said the Queen, and bending kissed his cheek, and 
her kiss was like the soft face of a snow-flake. 

And the young man went forth into the ice-bound forest. 

^ ^ % 

Again on Christmas Eve the former lover — now neither lover nor 
young — appeared in that glittering presence-chamber. 

" You are hard to satisfy," said the Queen, smiling, and her smile was 
like the cold white radiance of the stars. " Have you not succeeded jn 
your plans for the elevation of humanity ?" 

" Indifferently," he replied, " I have done something, perhaps ; by no 
means as much as I had hoped. But I no longer care for success. I have 
seen so much of the folly, the littleness, and the ingratitude of men, that 
their approval and even their admiration have lost their value for me. I 
cannot hope to make any appreciable increase in the slow advance of 


centuries ; that is a hope which belongs only to the first freshness of youth. 
But the dust of conflict and the glare of life have blinded me to that divine 
presence of which all that exists was once to me a revelation. I believe 
that God is infinitely higher, infinitely more worthy of devotion than man. 
Therefore I have resolved to devote myself henceforth wholly to Rim." 

" I cannot help you there," said the Queen. " I can only take away, 
I cannot give you love." 

" Nor do I ask it," he replied. " But the old habit of the anxiety for the 
welfare of men still clings to me, and hinders the concentration of my soul 
on God. I wish to be freed from this encumbrance, and to spend the 
remainder of my life in contemplation and adoration of the Supreme, 
unchecked by any lower attachment." 

"So be it," answered the Queen. As she touched his forehead with 
her lips, he experienced a momentary chill, and a sensation of faintness 
and giddiness, as if his heart had shivered. It passed instantly away, how- 
ever, and he turned and went out into the night. 

The faint sweet notes of the Christmas bells were dying away, as the 
traveler once more entered the forest. But this time, as he stood before 
the Queen, she said nothing, only looked at him with her inscrutable 
smile. He still acknowledged failure. 

" I have not drawn nearer to God," he said. " I have sought Him dili- 
gently and I cannot find Him. I am weary of the search ; weary alike of 
society and solitude, of useless activity and inward struggle ; weary of life 
itself. I ask only for peace. Take away the last remnant of feeling, make 
me insensible to pain, and this shall be my last request." 

" It is useless," answered the Queen. " When the desire was formed 
in your soul to expel the love of God, it had already ceased to dwell there. 
But if its ghost still haunts you with uneasy whisperings of doubt, I will 
exorcise it." 

So saying she laid her cold fingers softly over his heart. Their chill 
influence penetrated his frame with a slowly creeping languor, he felt him- 
self sinking down upon the steps of the throne, and in the last dreamy 


moments of consciousness fancied he heard a sound of multitudinous laugh- 
ter, sweet and shrill as the tinkle of falling icicles. 

The next morning a peasant, crossing the open space in the forest, 
found the body of an old man, lying across a great stone in the midst of it, 

half covered with snow. 

Emma Stansbury Wines, 'p./. 


By Burne-Jones. 
{"Awake, arise, from Deatli*to Death.") 
Not swift advancing through unclouded skies, 

Nor girt about with blinding noon-day glare, 

But pausing on the shadowed threshold bare ; 
Pale with a sense of heaven-born mysteries, 
Traces of dreams half-vanished , in thine eyes, 

Such anguish on thy lips that thou might'st wear 

A martyr's glory round about thine hair, — 
Thou standest between two eternities. 

Forth from the terrors and the throes ofnight, 

From which we vainly sought deliverance, 

To life, — but life seen dim as in a trance, 
Sorrow in all its length, and breadth, and height, 
And grievous joy and anguish of delight, — 

" From Death to Death " thou biddest us advance. 

L. S. B. 'gj. 


By Burne-Jones. 

Dark-haired, resting her hand upon life's door 

She stands, her head bowed down, so passionless ; 

Fullest expression of earth's quietness 
She seems as though she were forevermore, 
As her dark garments stilly sweep the floor. 

Upon her face sleep leaves his sure impress 

Touching her form and hands with mild caress ; 
She but half hears the spent waves' muffled roar. 

Yet what still thoughts are hidden in thy breast 

We dimm'd souls may not know nor ever might. 

Dost thou grow weary of thy fateful rest, 
Thy sweet passivity, and long for flight 
From thine own everlastingness, O Night, 

All-shadowing, belov'd and ever blest ? 

L. M. D. ' 93 . 



EVERY diligent and open-minded reader of novels will find, after the 
lapse of years spent largely in his favorite pursuit, that he has set 
up standards of his own for estimating whether this book or that is 
to his liking, or, in other words — such is the human self-confidence — 
whether it is a good book. These private standards form silently and imper- 
ceptibly beneath the conventional ones forced on the man by the theorists 
of the magazines. He may live and die professing a belief that pessimistic 
psychology is the proper business of the novelist, and yet read Trollope 
rather than Bourget when he wishes to be entertained, because, though he 
does not suspect it himself, what he really asks of a novel is that it shall 
contain a certain number of offers of marriage. Some people base their ■ 
opinion of a work of fiction on the degree of euphony and fitness displayed 
in the names of the characters, and feel as strongly as Mr. Shandy would 
that to give a hero a bad name is to hang him. It is well known that there 
comes with advancing years a conviction that to be good for anything a 
novel must end happily, and I have known even young persons who held 
the same opinion. Readers of this way of thinking will turn to the last 
page by way of beginning a book, and if that discloses the hero and hero- 
ine, the heroine's father and the hero's aunt, the footman and the lady's- 
maid bowing in pairs as the curtain falls, well and good. Such people would 
bestow their own daughters on Sir Willoughby Patterne rather than leave 
him unmated to the end. 

These whimsical judgments ride at large across the hedges and ditches 
that divide the " schools," and gather together a bizarre company of authors, 
hardly on speaking terms with each other, and amazed to find they have 
a trait in common. The test that I have found most serviceable in this way, 
a very obvious one and probably used more or less by all novel-readers, is 
the author's ability to handle costume. This is one of the few themes in 
literature for which we are very little if at all indebted to the ancients. 
They drew generally only the most elementary distinctions in dress, such as 


between Greek and barbarian, threadbare and splendid, clean and dirty. 
In those days a man still regarded his clothing as something only 
accidentally related to himself; he consciously wore it primarily for pro- 
tection against the weather, and by no means thought of it as an- inalien- 
able part of his appearance. In fact a man and his clothes were as loosely 
joined in consciousness as a pedestrian Englishman and his umbrella are 
to-day; as a matter of experience generally seen together, but easily con- 
ceivable apart. Nowadays of course half a dozen causes have combined 
to put the matter on a different footing altogether. Costume is as inevitable 
as nose and mouth. I have heard biologists say that top-hats and crinoline 
are the result of a flattering conviction that extension of our clothes is 
extension of ourselves. However that may be, our clothes are part of us as 
we figure in our friends' imaginations, and so inexplicably intertwined with 
human experience, character, and emotion, that they are unavoidably con- 
spicuous in novels. 

For the purposes of a brief survey of the different uses to which this 
engine has been put, it will not be worth while to go back of Scott. Fielding 
has hardly advanced upon'Chaucer in his treatment of it. A doctor, a beau, 
a fine lady, the wife of a country squire, each has an identifying costume, and 
a pink ribbon begins to be the sign of a pretty girl, but here Fielding's art 
ends. But in Scott we find at once the full-blown modern treatment in all 
its forms. His most usual method is of course the historical. His erudition 
is too much for him, and his delight in the facts quenches the novelist. He 
is invaluable if the reader is preparing for a fancy-dress ball, but in the mean- 
time the story waits. This tendency of his, this unwarrantable attempt to 
foist information on the novel-reader, has been made a bitter reproach 
against Scott and all other writers who exhibit it. It has been so fiercely 
theorized against by writers and readers alike, that one feels he has been 
made a fool of when he finds the same sin rampant in the novels of the arch- 
theorist of them all. Scott no more sacrifices story-telling to archaeology 
when he says that a woman had on her head " an old-fashioned bonnet 
called a bongrace," than Howells does in describing the weariful loop 
whereby the heroine of " A Woman's Reason " was forever catching up the 
train of her gown. Each is historically correct (I suppose) ; but each is an 


impertinence in a novel. This false use of costume is particularly abundant 
in novels whose scene is laid in places sufficiently remote to suggest the in- 
troduction of the garb of irrelevant peasantry. I think the mediocre writer 
is more apt to take up with this method than with any other, unless it be 
the allegorical, which I shall deal with later. 

But all instances of the historical treatment are not equally offensive. 
It is more acceptable the more nearly it approaches the scenic, which is one 
of the most important legitimate uses of costume. By the scenic method I 
mean the gift a good novelist has of setting before the eye a picture — or 
rather a stage-scene, for there is motion — of a transaction, with the chief 
actors vivid and round, and the background full and striking if the occasion 
calls for it, yet always subordinated to the real business of the moment.. This 
shifting background of minor characters is the difficult part of the scenic 
method, and it is here that the inferior workman falls into the historic. But 
the scenic includes every mention of costume introduced solely for the sake 
of a picture, whether it be a soldier's scarlet coat and pipe-clayed belt, a 
jewel on a woman's neck, or a child's torn pinafore. As one would expect, it 
is more abundant and successful among French novelists than among Anglo- 
Saxons. Dumas, Daudet, and De Maupassant invariably show us precisely 
how the thing looked. Scott often achieved the true scenic effect, Thack- 
eray and Hardy constantly, Meredith sometimes, Trollope seldom. The 
dress of Thackeray's men and women, whether historic or contemporary, is 
brought home to the reader without offending him. His mind is not 
distracted from the adventures and passions of the gentleman whose wig 
and knee-buckles, or whose lavender gloves and varnished boots are set 
before him as indispensible parts of the mise-en-scene. 

But the chief use to which the true novelist will put costume is that to 
which he will put all his other material, the translation of character. In 
real life we do not hesitate an instant to reason from dress to character. A 
man may learn to command his eye. The tell-tale mouth, which they say 
none can ever bring into submission, may be hidden. But in the clothing 
the man's nature is written from head to toe, his pet meanness, his pet 
vanity, his ignorance of the world or contempt of it or slavery to it, his 
good sense, his artistic gift, and the elusive quality that makes him a 


gentleman. Further than this his clothing 1 does not inform us. The novelist 
who would have us think a man a murderer because he wears a fustian cap, 
has wandered into allegory. But up to this point clothing is an infallible 
guide. I have read of at least one philosopher who asserts man's most 
expressive feature to be his spectacles. We need not go as far as this, but 
we must admit that it is in the perception of what costume has to tell, and 
the instant presentation of it as valuable, in fact indispensable to the reader, 
that the sound novelist shows himself. 

A good deal of discredit has been brought on this means of delineating 
character by the indiscretions of such novelists as Ouida and, to a certain 
extent, Rider Haggard, in whose hands it has deteriorated to mere 
millinery. In " Idalia " and "Cleopatra" the costume is related to the 
story much as sport is in Hawley Smart's books, not quite so legitimately 
as nautical matters are in Clark Russell's. It cannot be classed under the 
head of historic, for in most cases it is, I imagine, purely ideal. This false 
use of costume has done much to give the impression that its chief business 
in a book is to enhance feminine beauty. Of course this is a very important 
part of its duties, but it is not a greater part in books than in real life. It 
is true that when we are introduced to the heroine we are generally told, 
among other personal details, whether she is well or ill dressed, but as 
much as that is done for the hero. It is when we come to the old barrister, 
with his cravat always awry, or the low villain, with his hob-nailed boots, 
or the housekeeper, with black silk dress and snowy cap, or the club-waiter, 
who looks like a clergyman, in a word, to the people whose character is 
more important than their personal beauty, that the novelist bestirs himself 
to give us a clear image, a notion how they looked, with an implication 
that to look thus-and-thus a man must be inwardly so-and-so. I am 
inclined to say, in fact, that it is in the costume of his hero and heroine, if they 
be young and beautiful, that the second-rate artist chiefly betrays the weak- 
ness of his grasp. He generally can do no more than enumerate the 
articles of the modish dress of the moment, with the added assurance that 
in point of "fit" the garments left nothing to be desired. A costume 
treated after this manner is as much at the mercy of fashion as a full-length 
photograph ; both will be merely grotesque in five years' time. 


Compare with one of these descriptions that passage which presents to 
the reader the most beautiful woman in literature, wrapped in the glory of 
her incomparable charm. I mean, of course, the passage in which Beatrix, 
grown to womanhood, bursts on the dazzled sisrht of Henrv Esmond as 
she comes down the staircase of Walcote House. No sight could be more 
vivid. Even Du Maimer's charming version fails to visualize the picture 
that springs up in the reader's mind. Thackeray tells us that she wore a 
scarlet ribbon, and that the light from the candle she carried fell on this, 
and on the whitest neck in the world. The rest of his description deals 
with her person only, and by the simple yet great device of putting it in 
Esmond's mouth we learn not only the details of her beauty, but also its 
effect on human pulses. However, our knowledge would have ended here, 
we should have had no idea whether this beautiful young creature was a 
saint or a coquette ; in short, we should not from the outset have known 
Beatrix Esmond, if her candid younger brother had not been permitted 
further to describe her costume. 

" So she came holding her dress with one fair, rounded arm, and her 
taper before her, tripping down the stair to greet Esmond. 

' She hath put on her scarlet stockings and white shoes,' says my lord, 
still laughing. ' Oh, my fine mistress ! is this the way you set your cap at 
the captain ? * * ^ Right foot forward, toe turned out, so ; now drop 
the curtsey, and show the red stockings, Trix. They've silver clocks, 
Harry. The Dowager sent 'em. She went to put 'em on !' cries my lord." 

Nothing else could have performed the literary functions of these shoes 
and stockings. Let the ingenious reader try to hit upon another device 
that shall so simply set forth the girl's arch coquetry and daintiness, and he 
will perceive that this one was due to genius. The scarlet ribbon is merely 
scenic, but the shoes and stockings are evidently something quite different. 
For the purposes of my own criticism I have called the method they exhibit 
the sentimental, but I cannot recommend the same. Perhaps " dramatic " 
would be better. 

There are, as far as I know, only three heroines in fiction, the actu- 
ality of whose personal charm deserves to be compared with Beatrix 
Esmond's, and each of them is indebted to her biographer for just, illumi- 


nating and delicate traits of costume. If one does but recall the facts he 
will at once acknowledge how much of his interest in these ladies is based 
on his knowledge of Anna Karenina's ball costume, of the muslin gown 
that made Clara Middleton look like a summer morning, and of the black 
velvet fillet that bound the fateful locks of unhappy Eustacia Vye. 

This is what a good novelist will do for a beautiful woman. Now let 
us turn to an author in whose stories women, beautiful or otherwise, have 
curiously little to do, and see whether costume has been omitted along with 
them. In " The Pavilion on the Links," a short story containing all the 
excellencies of its kind, there are two bits of sentimental or dramatic cost- 
tume which show the highest art in that they produce a strong effect with 
the least possible machinery. There is a heroine in the story, a very lovely 
one, but except for the statement that on one occasion she carried an 
umbrella (and even the umbrella tells a story), we hear nothing of her 
clothes. But the good understanding come to by Frank Cassilis and Clara 
Huddlestone in their first interview, described by Cassilis himself in a very 
beautiful and moving way, is founded on the fact that he wears an Egypt- 
ian scarf around his waist. The admirable way in which this scarf first 
does its scenic work by helping to set Cassilis before us in seventeen words, 
and by introducing a touch of vivid colour into a landscape of sand and sea, 
and then produces its sentimental effect on the reader through Clara, so that 
he knows more both of Clara and Cassilis than he could have done without 
it, shows the power of the instrument in the hands of a capable person. 

The second piece of costume in this story shows the same simplicity of 
method, but its aim and effect are as different as possible. When Cassilis 
goes into the village to look at the newspapers in order to allay Clara's 
Italian panic, he is unpleasantly struck by meeting an Italian laborer in the 
tavern. When he goes into the street he sees three men in earnest conver- 
sation. " One of them was my recent companion in the tavern parlor ; the 
other two, by their handsome, sallow features and soft hats, should evidently 
belong to the same race.''' So far the hats are merely scenic, a careless, 
vivid touch, in the interests of 'evepysia and nothing else. But as Cassilis 
walks back to his seaside camp, he follows a series of footprints which, as 
they near the sea, turn off towards the quicksands and disappear on the 


boundary of Graden Floe. " There, whoever he was, the miserable man 
had perished." Cassilis stands horror-struck awhile. " I remember won- 
dering how long the tragedy had taken, and whether his screams had been 
audible at the pavilion. And then, making a strong resolution, I was about 
to tear myself away, when a fiercer gust than usual fell upon this quarter of 
the beach, and I saw, now whirling high in air, now skimming lightly across 
the surface of the sands, a soft black felt hat, somewhat conical in shape, such 
as I had remarked already on the heads of the Italians." 

It is hardly necessary to point out that now it is clear why the hats 
were made part of the appearance of the Italians. This one whirling in the 
air shocks the reader as much as it did Cassilis by the human reality it 
gives to the tragedy. Innuendo can no further go. 

Mr. Stevenson is always as high-principled as this in his use of 
costume, and his virtue is invariably rewarded. Alan Breck's blue coat 
with the gold buttons rounds out his personality for us without any preten- 
tious analysis. We learn to know him as we somehow make shift to know 
our fellow-men without the aid of a psychological novelist. The blind man 
Pen's green patch, Mr. Arrow's earrings, and the ingenious clothing of the 
maroon, all help the story on. They make no nearer approach to the 
unselected and meaningless detail of the so-called realists on the one hand, 
than to allegory on the other. 

Now by the allegorical method in costume I mean the method 
Scott, for instance, permitted himself to use in the case of Di Vernon, 
a young lady who consists of very little beyond a riding-habit. Dickens' 
people almost always wear allegorical garments, and they are chiefly 
responsible for the ravages of this manner in subsequent English lit- 
erature. I have never been able to make up my mind as to how much 
allegory lurks in Mr. Stork's pink stockings in the " New Republic," for the 
book is so full of true character, feeling and, consequently, costume, that it 
might, without much alteration, be turned into a real novel. The clothes in 
which Gautier presents Guy de Malivert to the reader are purely allegorical, 
i. e., there is no man beneath them. Malivert is hardly more incarnate than 
his ghostly lady-love. It is in vain that garments, the most significant in 
themselves, are hung on a peg ; they are as incoherent as words in a 


These are the various uses of costume that I have noted among novel- 
ists. The theme has the disadvantage of being inexhaustible, and the 
dissertation must be brought to an arbitrary close, omitting a hundred 
bright examples of the two legitimate uses ol the instrument which Mr. 
Pater almost describes when he speaks of " that well-known effect of a 
beautiful object kept constantly before the eye in a story or poem, of 
keeping sensation well awake, and giving a certain air of refinement to all 
the scenes into which it enters; with a heightening also of that sense of fate 
which hangs so much of the shaping of human life on trivial objects, like 
Othello's strawberry handkerchief." 

Emily James Smith, '8g. 




SCEA 7 E. — Mrs. Glendoris boudoir. Mrs. Glendon, seated before a table, sorting 
silver. Mr. Glendon reclining on a couch, absorbed in a newspaper. Son and heir 
playing with a dog before the fire. 

Mrs. Glendon [musingly]. — Have I everything ? Oyster-forks, coffee- 
spoons, ice-cream spoons — ah, here are only a dozen — where did I put 
the rest? Dinner-forks, knives — I need more than these. Wallace, 
hand mamma that box from the cabinet. 

Son [looking delightedly at his dog~\. — Oh! look at Sancho ! How funny- 
he is ! When I tickle his feet, he jerks all over, but doesn't wake up, 
and — 

Mrs. G. [impatiently], — Did you hear me speak to you, Wallace? Get 
up at once, and do as I told you. 

Son [reluctantly]. — Yes, in a minute. [Gives the dog a vigorous poke 
rises slowly, and goes to the cabinet.'] Which box ? 

Mrs. G. — The brown leather one with " Knives " on the cover. Hurry, my 

Son. — There isn't any box with " Knives" on the cover. Oh ! what is this 
funny stuff in the bottle? It smells like peppermint. Can I taste it? 
[ Uncorks the bottle and raises it to his lips.] 

[Mrs. G. jumps up, rushes to the cabinet, aud snatches the bottle 
from son. In doing so she drops the silver^] 

Mr. G. [starting up]. — For heaven's sake, what is the matter? I never 
heard such an incessant noise. For half an hour I have been trying 
to read Senator Brooke's speech, but have heard nothing but spoons 
and dogs and bottles. What has that boy been up to now ? Can't 
you send him upstairs with his governess, and let us have a little 
quiet? [Sternly to son.] Go upstairs, sir, or else sit down and behave 


Mrs. G. [pleadingly], — Don't be so cross to the poor child, Herbert, when 
lie feels so wretchedly with his cold. I told him he might stay here 
and play with Sancho by the fire. He has been very good until just 
now. [In a low voice to her son.] Never touch any bottles, no matter 
what they smell like. Now run along, and don't disturb papa. [She 
begins picking up silver while son goes back to his dog.] 

Mr. G. [curiously] . — What are you doing with all that silver? Are you 
going to give a State banquet? 

Mrs. G. [still picking it up]. — Of course I'm not. There will be only four- 
teen at the table. 

Mr. G. [sitting upright and looking alarmed]. — Fourteen what, — fourteen 
when ? What do you mean ? 

Mrs. G. [a trifle annoyed']. — You haven't forgotten, I hope, that this even- 
ing we give our dinner for your brother and his wife ? [Puts the silver 
on a salver.] Ring the bell, will you, please ? 

Son [jumping up eagerly]. — Oh ! let me ring it. [Presses the button and 
holds it.] 

Mr. G. [irritably throwing down his paper], — Forgotten ! This is the first 
I've heard of it ! Why don't you consult me about your dinners, and 
not inform me just in time to get into my dress suit and play the agree- 
able ? We've had nothing but dinners since the season began. [Turn- 
ing angrily to his sou]. Stop pressing that button. You'll have the 
servants frantic. 

[Hasty knock at the door and enter Butler breathlessly?] 

Butler. — Did you want me ma'am ? I was on the stepladder when you 
rang, but I came just as quick as I could. 

Mrs. G. — Yes, take this silver down stairs. [Exit Butler?] Turning to her 
husband with a gesture of despair?] I shall utterly give up. If you've 
forgotten that we discussed this dinner only two weeks ago in this very 
room, and you helped me make out the list, and — 

Son [with interest]. — Yes, and said it was a confounded nuisance and 
the sooner it was over the better. Don't you remember, papa? 

Mr. G. [sternly]. — Be quiet, will you? [To his wife.] Well, who are 
coming; ? 


Mrs. G. [consulting her list]. — Your brother and his wife, of course; Mr. 
and Mrs. Ticknor — 

Mr. G. [taking his cigar from his mouth\ — You never can convince me 
that I gave my consent to having them here. Why, Ticknor's father 
couldn't spell his name, and he himself made his money out of baking- 
powder, or shoe-blacking, or something of the sort. You can see they 
have no culture from the bonnets his wife wears. Why you want to 
cultivate such people, I can't see. Are all the rest of your guests of 
that stamp ? 

Mrs. G. [leaning back composedly in her chair]. — When you have fin- 
ished your tirade against the Ticknors, I will go on. 

Mr. G. [resuming his cigar and standing with his back to the fire]. — 
Well, let's have the rest. 

Mrs. G. [reading]. — Mr. and Mrs. Ticknor, Mr. and Mrs. Vorse, Dr. — 

Mr. G. — What Vorses ? The ones that live in that distorted house on Fif- 
teenth Street, and keep so many servants that one can never find any 
of the family ! Now, what is your object — 

Mrs. G. calmly]. — Pray don't excite yourself about the Vorses. They 
declined, so I invited, in their places, Col. Massinger and his sister. 

Mr. G. [brightening a little]. — Massinger, now, is a clever, sensible fel- 
low, one that really doesn't tire me. His sister is a pleasant, intelligent 
woman, wears her hair parted in the middle, and isn't so abominably 
frizzled and furbelowed as most women are. 

Mrs. G. [languidly]. — I am glad that at least two of my guests are not 
perfectly illiterate. But to proceed — Dr. Milford and his daughter are 
coming — no, Dr. Milford had an engagement, so I invited Judge 
Sanders for Miss Milford. 

Mr. G. [pacing up and down the room]. — Sanders ! It is a pity some one 
does not take pity on him and put him out of the world. A perfect 
old idiot. 

Mrs. G. [sarcastically]. — Oh! to be sure. No one could be otherwise in 
your estimation. But to complete the list — I have asked Mr. and Mrs. 
Bradley and their daughter, and also young Mr. Leston, who seems 
very attentive to her. 


Mr. G. — They are nice enough people. The girl is very pretty and agree- 
able. But didn't you know that Milford's daughter is a rival of Miss 
Bradley in the affections of young Leston ? 

Mrs. G. [with dignity']. — I am sure I know nothing whatever about the 
jealousies of these young ladies, nor do I care to. But have you no 
further comment to make on the Bradleys? Is it possible that their 
house, servants, bonnets are satisfactory ? I am under the impression 
that neither of the ladies parts her hair in the middle. [A knock at 
the door. Son calls " come in " at the top of Ids voice. Enter butler with 
a note, zvhich he hands to Mrs. G.\ 

Mrs. G. — Is there an answer, Blake? 

Butler [stiffly].- — No, ma'am. [Exit Butler.] 

[Mrs. Glendon breaks the seal and reads the note, while an expres- 
sion of consternation overspreads her face.] 

Mr. G. [by the fire] — What's the matter now, Alice? 

Mrs. G. — O, dear ! what shall I do ? Mr. Ticknor has been called suddenly 
to Chicago and can't come. How very annoying, when I had just 
arranged everything. It is so late now to ask anyone else, and, 
besides, who is there to ask ? Why didn't Mrs. Ticknor decline, too ? 
[She leans her face upon her hand and ponders.] 

Son [from the chest, in zvhich he has been rummaging]. — Mamma, where 
is that little hammer that Cousin John gave me ? 

Mrs. G. [eagerly]. — Cousin John ! The very person ! Herbert, you must go 
at once to his rooms. Tell him we can take no refusal, but he must 
come. I know he will, when you tell him what a predicament I'm in. 

Mr. G. [hesitatingly]. — Well, upon my word, my dear, I feel a little deli- 
cacy about asking Jack again. This is the fourth time this winter that 
I have rushed to his lodgings, hustled him into his dress-suit, and 
dragged him here to fill a vacancy. He is a good-natured fellow, and 
though he hates parties, would do anything for us, but I think he 
actually begins to' fear seeing me, for he always seems nervous until 
he finds out what I want. Isn't there anyone else that — 

Mrs. G. [half crying], — You know there isn't. You want my dinner to be 
a miserable failure, because you don't happen to like the way the — 


the people who are coming use their money, or — or [She sinks 

into a chair, covers her face zuith her hands, and burst into tears."] 
Mr. G. [in desperation]. — Don't, don't ! Jack shall come. 

[He shakes the ashes hurriedly from his cigar. They fall on the 
sleeping dog. Dog starts up and howls. Mrs. G. gasps. Son throws 
his arms about the dog's neck, and Mr. G. rushes wildly from the room.] 


SCENE. — Ladies' dressing-room in the Glendons house. Bed strewn with wraps. 
Miss Bradley is seated in chair while the maid puts on her slippers. Miss Milford 
stands at the toilet table arranging her hair. Mrs. Bradley at bureau putting on her 

Mrs. Bradley [turning to her daughter]. — Aren't you almost ready, my 
dear ? Your papa will be waiting for us. 

Miss Bradley [languidly]. — Oh, yes ; almost. But there's no hurry, is 
there ? 

Mrs. B. [arranging a pin in her daughter's hair]. — No, only your papa is a 
little out of patience, because we waited so long for Mr. Leston. 
[Miss B. gives her mother a meaning glance, but Mrs. B. is blissfully 
unconscious of it.] It is strange he did not come. I cannot under- 
stand it, after his saying that he would certainly be there by a quarter 
before six. [Miss B. frowns frantically and nods toward Miss Milford, 
but Airs. B. is now absorbed in her ozun hair and docs not notice it.] I 
hope he will come yet, for it will be so awkward for Mrs. Glendon if 
he does not, and besides, you — [She looks up, perceives her daughter s 
significant nods, glances at Miss Milford, who is smiling to herself in the 
glass as she fastens on a bunch of roses, and stops short.] 

Miss Milford [turning gaily around]. — Oh, I do think this is the most 
heavenly house ! This toilet table is perfectly ravishing with the sweet 
little candles all around it. Oh, my dear roses ! Don't they go well 
with this dress, Helen ? Wasn't it perfectly angelic of Judge Sanders 
to choose such beauties? [Glancing at Miss Bradley zuith a malicious 
little smile.] What color are yours ? 


Miss B. [coloring]. — I am not going to wear flowers this evening. [The 
maid finishes tying her slippers ; she rises and walks to the dressing table.] 

Miss M. — Ah! indeed! But then your dress is so perfect you don't need 
them. There, I must leave you. Dear Judge Sanders lias probably 
been waiting ages for me. 1 shall see you down stairs. [She kisses 
her hand blithely to Miss Bradley and passes lightly into the hall.] 

Miss B. [impatiently to her mother]. — Now you've given that little flirt a 
chance to crow over me all evening. Why did you say anything 
about Mr. Leston ? I have fairly made my headache by frowning at 
you. I shall never excuse him for this rudeness ! To be here with 
no escort is perfectly horrid ! My dress looks miserable, my hair is 
frightfully curled ! I wish I had staid at home ! [She pats her hair 
petulantly and turns away.] 

Maid [with a courtesy], — Mr. Bradley wants to know if the ladies are ready? 

Mrs. B. — Yes, just read}-. [In a whisper.] Come, dear, look a little more 
cheerful. I don't want to go down with you and papa both looking 
like thunder-clouds. [Exit Mrs. and Miss Bradley as other ladies enter.] 


SCENE. — Drawing-room at the Glcndons '. The company scattered about in tit tie 
groups. Mrs. Gtendon seated near the door conversing with Judge Sanders. Enter 
Cousin John. 

Mrs. G. [rising and cordially holding out her hand]. — Ah, Cousin John, so 
charmed to see you. [In a zuhisper.] So good of you to come. Do 
you know my cousin Mr. Hillard, Judge Sanders? 

Judge S. [adjusting his eye-glass and gazing vacantly around the room]. — 
Happy indeed to meet Mr. Hillard. [Cousin John bows. The Bradley s 
enter. Introductions follozv and cousin John finds himself in a corner 
zvilh Miss Bradley. A long silence, during which cousin John twirls his 
mustache and Miss Bradley gases abstractedly at the wall.] 

Cousin J. [with an effort]. — Ah, hem ! I think I saw you horse-back riding 
Monday — no, Tuesday — wasn't it Tuesday, Miss Bradley? [With a 
gasp.] Do you enjoy it ? 


Miss B. [who has been listening to Miss Milford and Judge Sanders, and 
lias heard only "horse-back riding"]. — Oh, I go out quite frequently. 
It's very good exercise. \_Relapses into silence.~\ 

Cousin J. [desperately]. — I am so glad you do. Yes, to be sure, fine exer- 
cise. I — I often {He becomes confused and stops). 

Miss B. [still absenffy.~] — You must find it delightful. 

Cousin J. [a trifle surprised]. — Ah, what? Yes, yes, certainly. 

Miss B. [recovering herself]. — I beg your pardon, Mr. Hillard, you were 
saying ? 

Cousin J. [looking beseechingly at Mr. Glendon]. — Don't mention it, I beg 
you. [Helplessly.] I — I — really I don't know what I was saying. [Mr. 
Glendon approaches, calls Miss Bradley 's attention to a curious picture, 
they walk towards it and Cousin John escapes to the other side of the 

Judge Sanders [to Col. Massinger who is seated at a little distance from 
him.]. — Col. Massinger, come and help me make Miss Milford 
confess that it was the fad a year ago for young ladies to have 
sprained ankles and walk with gold headed canes during the day, but 
to so improve by 'evening that they could dance for a few hours. Isn't 
that so ? [He presses the tips of his fingers together, leans back in his 
chair, suddenly catches sight of his image in an opposite mirror, sits up 
rigidly ', puts his head on one side and smiles bewitching ly. Col. Massinger 
joins them.] 

[Mrs. Glendon, after glancing anxiously around the room to discover 
who it is that has not come, sees the butler in the hall and goes out 
to him.] 

Mrs. G. [to butler]. — One of the gentlemen has not yet come, but I must 
speak to Mr. Glendon before I can tell you what to do about dinner. 
[She looks fixedly at her husband but fails to attract his attention, sees 
Cousin John looking at her and nods significantly toivard her husband. 
Cousin John goes heroically back to ivherc Mr- Glendon is standing with 
Miss Bradley, looks at him, then into the hall and begins talking to Miss 
Bradley. Mr. Glendon follozvs the direction of Cousin Joint's eyes, sees 
his wife and goes out to her.] 


Mrs. G. [to Mr. G. in a whisper\. — Mr. Leston lias not come yet, and it is 
half-past six. I suppose we must wait, for it will make everything 
uneven to go out without him, but — 

Mr. G. [impatiently]. — Don't think of waiting another moment. He will 
not come now, and if he does he ought to have the embarrassment of 
coming in late. I've no patience with people who cannot get to a 
dinner on time. 

Mrs. G. [dubiously]. — But don't you think — 

Mr. G. [irritably]. — No, I don't. Blake, remove one place and serve dinner 
at once. 

Mrs. G. — -Why must you be so impatient? Now I do not know how we 
shall go out. If you would take Miss Massinger and Mrs. Ticknor — 

Mr. G. — Nonsense, nonsense! Of course I cannot take two. Pair them 
off somehow. 

Mrs. G. [sarcastically]. — Oh certainly ! It's a very easy thing when there's 
an uneven number. But pray don't let it worry you. [She sweeps 
into the drawing room. A few moments elapse and the butler appears 
again and boivs. Mrs. Glendon rises, indicates to the gentlemen which 
ladies they are to take out and leads the way alone. Cousin Jolin and 
Miss Bradley bring up the rear. They all pass into the dining-room and 
take their places at the table. The hostess seats herself and all frllozu 
her example except Judge Sanders, who remains standing and looks 
anxiously around the table, up at the lights, and turns slightly pale] 

Mrs. Ticknor [in a whisper to Mr. Gleadon]. — What is the matter with 
Judge Sanders ? Is he ill ? 

Miss Milford [looking up mischievously at the Judge]. — Aren't you going 
to sit down, Judge Sanders? 

Judge S. [nervously]. — I am very sorry, Mrs. Glendon, to — to — be obliged 
to make myself so conspicuous, but — but — I really cannot — it — is 
against my principles — I would not feel it right to— to — have you 
noticed the number at the table and the number of lights ? [Everyone 
takes a hasty glance around the table and then up at the lights.] 

Mrs. G. [playfully]. — Oh, you are not so superstitious, are you, Judge Sand- 
ers? It is accidental, I assure you, that we have thirteen at the table. 


One of my guests failed me at the last moment. As for the lights, I 
had forgotten that three was an unlucky number, but we can easily 
remedy that by lighting another. Won't that solve the difficulty? 

Judge S. [Dropping first his eye-glasses, then his handkerchief, and grow- 
ing very much embarrassed as he tries to pick them up]. — I am afraid 
not, Mrs. Glendon. I am more than sorry to cause this disturbance. 
Permit me to retire. I assure you I should much rather do so, hard 
as it would be to tear myself away from this charming company, 
[bowing] than to inconvenience you. [He looks at the ladies, smiles 
faintly and nibs his forehead in an agitated manner]. 

Mr. G. [dryly], — Come, come, Judge, we must all die some time, you know, 
and each of us has thirteen chances to one that he'll not be the victim. 

Mr. B. — I will tell you, Judge, isn't there some way in which you can 
make the lot fall on one man ? Now, I offer myself — 

Mrs. B. [interrupting him]. — Don't talk so, please. I am'not superstitious, 
but I see no use in trifling with such things. 

Mrs. Charles Glendon. — Can't we walk around our chairs ? I have 
heard that breaks the charm. 

Judge S. [trying to tzvist off a button of his coat, groiviug more confused and 
alarmed, frantically], — Nothing can break this charm. I have seen 
the result of it too often to joke about it. I cannot sit down with this 
number without feeling as if I were either abetting a murder or com- 
mitting suicide. [The ladies turn pale and rise hastily. The gentlemen 
rise too. Mrs. Glendon looks despairingly at her husband.] 

Mr. G. [outwardly good-natured, inwardly fuming]. — Well, can't you send 
up for Miss Bell? [Turning to the Judge.] Does the sex of the 
person who fills the fourteenth place make any difference ? 

Judge S. [putting on Ids eye-glasses with trembling hands and looking 
relieved]. — Oh, no ; not at all. 

[Mrs. Glendon speaks to the butler who goes out. She leads the 
way to the dining-room. They converse for a few moments, when Butler 
appears again. Mrs. Glendon goes into the hall ; Mr. Glendon follows.] 

Butler [with a grin]. — Mary, she went up, ma'am, but Miss Bell say she 
eone to bed wid a headache. 


Mrs. G. [frantically clutching her husband's arm"]. — What shall I do ? 

Mr. G. \wrathfully\. — Do ! Never invite that confounded old Judge again. 
[To the butler]. Have the maid wake up the boy; put something on 
him and send him down at once. That's all there is to be done. \JIc 
scowls fiercely and turns into the drawing-room and is soon conversing 
pleasantly with Miss Mi/ford. Airs. Glendon overcomes her inclination 
to rush to her room and enters smiling. Interval of conversation, during 
which Miss Bradley sings. Enters son and heir, his eyes bright, checks 
flushed, curls flying. Pauses a moment at the door, then makes a wild 
dash at Cousin John.] 

Son [climbing on Cousin John's knee]. — Oh, you dear old Cousin Jack, 
I'm so glad papa hustled you into your dress-suit and dragged you 

Mr. Glendon [hastily to his zvife~\. — Shall we go out to dinner again ? 

Mrs. G. [taking her son's hand], — Yes, let us go. We shall all feel com- 
fortable this time, I hope. [All pass into dining-room and take their 
seats at the tabled] 

Miss Milford [to the Judge, with triumphant smile at Miss Bradley who sits 
between Cousin John and son and heir]. — What a charming escort Miss 
Bradley has! Do you know, I quite envy her. [Cousin John looks 
alarmed, blushes and glances hastily around. In doing so his eye falls 
on Wallace seated on the other side of Miss Bradley and he feels 
reassured. ,] 

Judge S. — Ah, Miss Milford, you have plunged me into the depths of 
despair by that cruel remark. [He lays his hand with a fork in it upon 
his heart and looks sentimental^ 

Son. — What is the matter with Judge Sanders, Miss Bradley? Is some 
one doing him the kindness to kill him ? 

Miss B. [much astonished]. — I think not. my dear. He is, I should say 
[sarcastically] , enjoying himself exceedingly. [Conversation around the 
table ; this remark remains unnoticed.] 

Mr. Glendon [to Miss Massiugcr]. — I am glad to hear you say so, and I 
hope we shall soon have an opportunity of putting our theories into 
practice by playing a rubber against your brother and Mrs. Bradley. 


[Turning to Mrs. B. -on his left.'] Do you agree to that, Mrs. Bradley? 
Miss Massinger and I want to redeem ourselves after our last shocking 
defeat at whist. 

Mrs. B. — Well, I don't know, Mr. Glendon. It is really such a great strain 
to play against you and Miss Massinger that it quite wears me out. I 
was so nervous after our last game that I could scarcely sleep at all 
that night, and since that I have' been playing miserably. Twice I did 
not notice the signal, and once, I regret to say, I did not return the 
lead. It was disgraceful. 

Mr. Glendon. — Ah, Mrs. Bradley, but that was a very exceptional case. 
When you play with Col. Massinger, I am sure you will carry every- 
thing before you again. 

Mrs. B. [to Col. Massinger]. — Do you hear that, Col. Massinger? You 
have just been receiving a most flattering commendation — but I shall 
not tell you, if you did not hear. 

Col. M. [sighing pathetically]. — What have I done to deserve this? But 
you must relent. 

Mr. B. [to Mrs. G., as the game is brought in]. — And did you really suc- 
ceed in devoting yourself to foreigners, and did you not find your- 
selves continually surrounded by Americans, as most of us are when 
we go abroad ? 

Mrs. G. [laughing]. — We religiously avoided Americans. We ran away 
from any we saw. 

Mr. B. — You must have been continually running away. 

Son [chiming in]. — Yes, we were. Papa said 

Mrs. G. [interrupting him with great composure]. — Wallace, I think, liked 
Europe better than his own country. This, too, is rather a new expe- 
rience for him, isn't it, my boy ? 

Son [wearily].. — It's a very long one, and everything tastes so funny. 

Mrs. G. [hastily]. — You must talk to Miss Bradley and entertain her, can't 
you ? 

Son [in disgusted tone]. — No, because she keeps talking to Cousin John. 

Cousin John [anszvering an agonized glance of Mrs. Glendon, as she turns 
again to Mr. Bradley]. — Wallace, I don't believe you have told Miss 
Bradley about Sancho yet, have you ? 


Son ksW/j']. — Poor Sancho ! Papa burned him badly to-day. It was just 
after mamma got the note, saying Mr. Ticknor couldn't come, and she 
said she did not see why Mrs. Ticknor didn't decline, too, and then she 
thought of you, but papa said he really couldn't, and mamma cried, 
and then he knocked off his cigar ashes on Sancho, and 

Cousin John [energetically]. — Oh, he will be well soon, I am sure. Tell 
Miss Bradley how you found him when you were abroad. [Son 
begins history of Sancho^] 

Mrs. Ticknor [to Mr. Charles Glcudon]. — Oh, as much as I could any 
place but Chicago. Indeed, in some respects even better. The winters 
are delightful, but too short. I can never get my calls made by 
Lent, though I go out every day, excepting my day at home. But we 
have been very busy this year getting into our new house. It is such 
an undertaking to furnish it, and Mr. Ticknor takes so little interest 
in it. 

Mr. Charles G. — He has, no doubt, perfect confidence in your taste, but 
I hear he has left town. Will he be absent long ? 

Mrs. Ticknor [carelessly]. — Oh, not very. A month or two I suppose. 
He spends most of his time going to and from Chicago. Next winter 
he will live at his club there and come on here occasionally. That will 
suit him better than so much traveling. 

Son [who has been eagerly listening to this conversation]. — Mamma did he 
go to Chicago to see about the shoe blacking and baking powder? 
[Mrs. Glcndon pretends not to hear and talks on with Mr. Bradley]. 

Mrs. Charles G. [to Judge Sanders]. — Many distinguished people were 
there but the crowd was something fearful. We had to wait a half an 
hour to get in. It is very poor taste to invite such a large number to 
such a small house. Ladies fainted from the heat and closeness. It was 
altogether uncomfortable. 

Judge S. [raising his eyebrows with a sigh and fanning himself languidly 
with his dinner card]. — Ah, excruciating, very ! 

Son [in disappointed voice as butler places some glazed pudding before 
him]. — Oh, I thought we were going to have ice cream all frozen like 
flowers. Blake said so, didn't you Blake? 


[Blake, after making a desperate effort to retain his solemn demeanor, 
begins to grin, turns and hastens from the room followed by another butler 
with a waiter full of dishes. ■ Blake neglects to hold open the swinging 
door. Butler number two edges his way through, the door swings to upon 
them both. A terrible crash follows from the butler s pantry. Every one 
starts. Judge Sanders pushes back his chair zt'ith a terrified look and 
glances around the table and up at the lights. Mr. Glcndon looks daggers 
at his son, who has jumped from his chair with the evident intention of 
rushing to the scene of action. Sou subsides with an excited face. Mrs. 
Glendon turns pale. Cousin John raises his voice and talks steadily on to 
Miss Bradley. Mrs. Glendon recovers herself with an effort and follows 
his example. All do the same.~\ 


SCENE. — Kitchen, just after the crash. 

Blake [with supreme hauteur to the cook~\. — Well, let 'em pick it up now, 
Miss Betty. I tole you dose meddlin' niggers 'ud do somethin' wrong. 
Now dey's well nigh spiled all Missis bes' plates, an' it all comes f om 
havin' fussin' niggers in heah for butlers. I tole Missis dat you an' 
Mary an' me, we could do it all ourselves, but she would have dat 
Petah f om Judge Sanders', who's alius ameddlin' an' a sudgestin' in 
oder folks's houses. He was so put out at de ole judge not a'sittin' 
down, that he jest stood dah a starin' like a donkey, instead of goin' 
ahead as if nothin' wall de matter, as I did. W'y, he been so afeard 
ever sense, dat he spilled de gravy over fust, an' now's done let fall de 
whole lot of Missis bes' plates. 

Betty [bustling about excitedly\. — VVal, Mista' Blake, he won't be puttin' 
on so many airs dis week, I reckon, for nary a cent he'll git fom dis 
yer job, dat I know. [Looking into the hall for the maidf] Wha's 
dat triflin' Mary? Heah's de whole dinner agoin' wrong. Fust an ole 
fool won't sit down, an' de whole dinner mus' be took off, an' now de 
secon' butler's broke de dishes an' spiled his dress suit, an' — [getting 


frantic] O, Mista' Blake, do come an' help me off wid dis yer freezer 

lid. It won't come off an' dey's been awaitin' dis ten minutes. Missis'll 
tink de whole crowd's lef de place. 

Blake [leisurely]. — Wha's dat Mary ? I can't go fussin' roun' freezers wid 
dis yer suit on, I tell you. Heah comes Petah. [Laughs with derision 
as Peter, bespattered with gravy and carrying broken dislies enters the 
kitchen and goes to the sink.] His close'll suit de occasion fust rate. 
\_To Peter.] Petah, as you've nuttin' else to do jest now, you might help 
Miss Betty off wid de lid of de freezer. 

Peter [sullenly]. — If you'd bin wha' you b'longed, Mista' Blake, an hel' 
dat do' open, dose dishes 'ud not bin broke, I mean to tell Col. Glen- 
don all about it, I do. You an' Miss Mary 're bin conspirin' agin me 
de whole evenin'. 

Betty. — Tut, tut, chillin, stop dat quar'lin' in my kitchen now, straight off, 
or I'll drive you every one out. Dah now, Blake, take de ice-cream, 
an' clar out, an' if you an' Mista' P. wan' to fight, you can jest go into 
de street. [Exit Blake with the cream.] 
[Enter Mary excitedly^] 

Mary. — I tell you now, Aunt Betty, dat ole prinker governess was — was a 
liah. She was jest mad wid Missis 'cause she wasn't invited down wid 
de big people in de fust place. An' when I went up and tole her dat 
" de Missis want you to come right down," she stuck out her head wid a 
towel aroun' it an' say dat she had a headache an' couldn't come. 
[Pause for breath^] An jest now I rushed into her room an' pretended 
dat de gas in de back hall was 'scapin' an I couldn't fine no matches — 
an' dah she sat as prim an' mad as ever. I know'd dat she was never 
goin' to bed till she got her dinner if it wasn't till midnight. 

Betty. — You alius was fussin' wid dat guv'niss, instead of tendin' to yer 
own 'fairs, an' heah you lef me to do ev'rything. 

Mary. — Wall, I ain't goin' to take her one mou'ful till I've done eat myself, 
dat I kin tell you, now. 

Peter [who has been scrubbing Jus clothes vigorously, in an injured tone 
to Man]. — If you can't be a lady, Miss Man*, I kin be a gentleman, 
an' I shall take de guv'niss something myself. You's alius acausin' 


some mischief, an' if it wasn't for you an' Blake I'd never drapped dem 

Mary [laughing]. — O, Lord, Mista' Peter, I'se laughed 'bout dat dis yer fifty 
times sence I saw dose plates agoin' an' all de grease on yer new dress- 
suit. O, deah ! O, deah ! I can neber stop laughin'. [She drops into 
a chair, rocking herself to and fro, and shaking with mcrrimcnt.~\ 

[A loud whistling at the speaking tube in the comer of the 

Betty [indig?iantly]. — Dar goes dat whistle agin. Now, Mary, you jist 
stop your laughin' at Petah, and stuff up dat whistle wid rags. If dat 
dar guv'niss reckons she goin' to blow us Marylan' niggers out of dis 
kitchen, she's mighty mistaken, dat's all. \_Betty, with a sigh, drops 
into a chair near the tabled] Our part of dis little act is over, an' I'se 
gwine to eat something heah wid Mista' Petah, an' you jist fly 'roun' 
an' be clarin' up dose dishes. 

Mary [who has succeeded in effectually closing the speaking tube~\. — Dar, 
now,. Miss Madcap, you kin jes' blow ter yer heart's conten', an' wait 
fer yer dinner 'till it comes. [Looks with envy at Peter and Betty who 
are making the most of the remains of a roast duck.] O, now, Aunt 
Betty, jist lem'me set down wid you an' Mista' Peta', an' den, 'pon my 
honah, I'll be awful spry-like. 0, now, Aunt Betty ! [coaxing ly, as 
Betty makes negative gesture']. 

[A loud prolonged ringing of the front door bell. Blake hurries 
into the kitchen and orders Mary off. Mary declines to go, and Blake, 
after a few threats and entreaties, quits the kitchen with dignity.'] 


SCENE. — The company are passing through the hall to the drawing-room, as 
Blake admits Mr. Lesion. 

Mr. Leston [going up to hostess]. — Mrs. Glendon, I owe you a thousand 
apologies. Don't smile upon me, I don't deserve it. I have never before 
been guilty of such rudeness. I accepted two invitations for to-night, 


and thinking that yours was for next week, I went out with a light 
heart this evening to fulfill one. On my way back, I stopped to call 
on Jack. The servant said he had come here. A horrible thought 
struck me. I hurried home, looked at my invitation and found what 
my stupidity had made me do. And [penitently], here I am, Mrs. 
Glendon. I don't want you to forgive me, but I felt that I must come 
and explain at once. 

Mr. Glendon [laughing and shaking hands]. — Well, well, Leston, we will 
try not to forgive you, but you must not b'e so penitent, if you wish us 
to be stern and unrelenting. Your humility is altogether too touching 
for our friendly hearts to resist. But come in ; you need no introduc- 
tion here, I believe. 

[Mr. L. shakes hands cordially tenth sonic of the guests. Looks 
around anxiously until he sees Miss Bradley standing in the doorzuay. 
Catches her eye and bows. She nods coldly, turns and walks to the other 
side of the room and takes a seat. Colonel Massinger draws up a chair 
and they engage in animated conversation.] 

Mr. Glendon [wrathfully to the maid, and catching son, who is rushing 
excitedly into the room]. — Take that boy and put him to bed, and 
don't, under any circumstances, let him get out of it until to-morrow 
morning. Give him a dose of something or he will be sick. Don't 
waste a moment, do you understand? [To his sou who attempts to 
speak.] Not a word, sir. 

Mary [coitrtesying]. — Yes, sah. [Exit Mary, dragging reluctant and tearful 


SCE.VE. — Mrs. Glendon s drawing-roan. Guests taking leave. Miss Bradley 
looks around the room, and, excusing herself to Col. Massinger, approaches Mrs. 

Miss Bradley. — Can you tell me, Mrs. Glendon, where mamma and papa 
are ? I think we must be sroing. 


Mrs. G. [pressing her hand.'] — They were obliged to leave to attend a 
reception — they said they would send the carriage back for you. But 
don't hurry, Mr. Glendon will be delighted to take you home. 

Mr. Leston \_stcpping up]. — Excuse me, Mrs. Glendon, but if Miss Bradley 
will allow me I will rob Mr. Glendon of that pleasure. [Looking 
wickedly at Mrs. Glendon.] He ought not to leave his guests now, 
ought he ? 

Miss B. [draiving herself up]. — You are very kind, Mrs. Glendon, but there 
is no necessity for taking Mr. Glendon away. As for Mr. Leston 
\_smUing disdainfully^, he may have another engagement for this 
evening, and I would not be instrumental in destroying his reputation 
for promptness. Thank you for this delightful evening. [She sweeps 
majestically up the stairs.] 

Mrs. Glendon. — What shall I do ? She must not go alone. 

Mr. L. [nodding confidently]. — Leave it to me. 

[He puts on his coat and waits by the door until Miss . Bradley 
comes dozen the stairs, looking more charming than ever in her light, 
fur wrap.] 

Mr. L. [stepping forward]. — May I see you to your carriage, Miss 
Bradley ? 

Miss B. — Thank you ; I don't think it has come yet. [She steps into a 
dimly-lighted recess, sinks into the corner of the window-seat, Mr. 
Leston follows her, and seats himself carelessly on the arm of a chair.] 

Mr. L. [in a lozv voice after a short silence]. — Miss Bradley, you are in no 
mood to hear an apology now, and I am not surprised, but I hope you 
will relent in time and let me offer one. You really do me an injustice. 

Miss B. [playing with the fringe of a cushion and tapping her foot lightly 
on the floor]. — O, you owe me no apology. The mistake was a trivial 
one, and I was not the one to be inconvenienced by it. What an inter- 
esting young man your friend, Mr. Hillard, is ? 

Mr. L. [looking out of the window]. — Yes, Jack is a fine fellow. [Miss 
Bradley turns her head and looks at him in surprise. He continues to 
look steadily out of the window, moodily beating a tune on the back of his 


Miss B. [turning zvith a sudden change of attitude and expression]. — It is I 

who have been rude and unreasonable and who ought to apologize. 

Pardon me, Mr. Leston, and do not look so displeased. \_SJic smiles 

and holds out her hand to him.] 
Mr. L. [eagerly seizing it in both his ozv/i]. — 0, don't blame yourself, I beg 

of you. You make me feel like a criminal. I am perfectly happy if 

you can only forgive me. 
Miss B. — Perfectly happy ? 
Mr. L. [/'ending towards her and dropping his voice still lower]. — No, not 

perfectly happy ; not perfectly happy until — until — [his voice sinks to 

a whisper]. 

[Mr. Glendon appears at the entrance of the recess after a few 

moments. He starts back in surprise. Mr. Leston rises quickly and 

begins vigorously buttoning up his coat?] 
Mr. G. [apologetically]. — Ah — I am sorry to disturb you, but I am afraid 

Miss Bradley must be cold in here. Won't you join us in the drawing- 
room ? 
Miss B. [somewhat confused]. — There is the carriage now. Not cold at all, 

thank you. It is very late. I — we — I — should have gone long ago, 

but the carriage [They pass to the door.] 

Mr. L. [drawing Miss Bradley's wrap more closely around her and offering 

her his arm]. We said good-night to Mrs. Glendon and will not 

disturb her again. Good-night. 
Mr. G. [opening door]. — Good-night. 
Mr. L. [softly to Miss Bradley]. — Of my three engagements to-night, I 

prefer the last. 
Miss B. [looking up mischievously]. — So do I. 

[Mr. Glendon closes the door, zvalks into the drawing-room and 

stands resting his elbozv on the mantle and anxiously regarding his wife 

zvho has thrown herself upon a couch.] 
Mrs. G.— Merbert ? 
Mr. G. [tenderly].— Well, darling? 

[Mrs. Glendon bursts into tears. Mr. Glendon sits down on the 

edge of the couch and puts his arm around her.] 


Mr. G. — Come, come, dear. It's all over now and isn't worth one of your 
tears. Come, cheer up. 

Mrs. G. [still sobbing]. — I never had such a — such a dinner. Everything 
went wrong from beginning to end — and 

Mr. G. — It was not a failure by any means. That stupid old Sanders 

Mrs. G.— My beautiful plates 

Mr. G. — We'll get some more just like them. Don't distress yourself 
about that. 

Mrs. G. — Wallace probably made ill — the governess furious- 

Mr. G. [energetically]. — I'll dismiss her to-morrow without further ado; 
and as for that young gentleman upstairs, I'll take him in hand very 
soon, I promise you. The irrepressible little scamp ! \_Hc rises and 
paces the floor frowning fiercely?] 

Mrs. G. [/tastily drying her tears and going to him]. — Don't be angry with 
him, Herbert, dear. He wasn't really to blame. [She lays her hand 

caressingly on his shoulder?] He had such a beautiful time, and 

[looking up quizzically] his remarks weren't altogether original, you 

[Mr. Glendon's forehead smoothes oat, he gradually relaxes into a 
smile, and then laughs outright.] 

Mr. Glendon [kissing his wife]. — Well, dear, we have both learned some- 
thing to-night. The next time we give a dinner, our promising son 
shall be securely locked up the day before, and Jack shall have at least 
a three weeks' notice. 

Mrs. G. [clasping Iter hands]. — Dear, old Cousin John ! 

Both [fervently]. — Bless him lorever. 




THE presentation to the Trustees of the Johns Hopkins University on May i, 1891, 
by the various local committees of the Women's Fund for the Medical School of 
the Johns Hopkins University, of the sum of one hundred and eleven thousand 
three hundred dollars, marks the consummation of an important work which for the 
past year has been engrossing the energies of women all over the country. This 
work, begun in the spring of 1S90, was carried on with renewed vigor in the following 
autumn, and on Octcber 28th the sum of one hundred thousand dollars was presented 
to the Board of Trustees of the University, and was accepted by them with the attached 
condition, that " when the Medical School shall open, women whose previous training 
has been equal to the preliminary medical course prescribed for men, shall be admitted 
to such school upon the same terms as may be prescribed for men." According to 
general agreement, the work of the committees was carried further, and in the additional 
eleven thousand three hundred dollars, raised by May 1st, we have the logical conclu- 

On April 27th of this year, Miss Mary E. Garrett, Secretary of the Baltimore 
Committee, addressed a letter to the Board of Trustees of the University, offering an 
additional sum of one hundred thousand dollars (making her total contribution 
upwards of one hundred and forty-seven thousand seven hundred and eighty 
dollars), payable on October 1, 1S92, provided that on or before February I, 
1892, the remaining sum necessary to complete an endowment for such School of 
five hundred thousan ddollars be in the hands of the Trustees, and that an agreement 
be made by them to open their School in October, 1892, and to give public notice 
of the same in February of that year. Miss Garrett also added the condition, that " if at 
any time it can be shown by proper legal proceedings that the women studying in the 
Medical School do not enjoy all its advantages on the same terms as men, or are 
not admitted on the same terms as men to all prizes, dignities, or honors that are 
awarded by competitive examination, or regarded as rewards of merit," the said sum of 
one hundred thousand dollars shall revert to her possession. The minute adopted by 
the Board of Trustees in answer is interesting as showing their kindly attitude. We 
will quote a short passage from it: "This Board accepts the conditions which Miss 
Mary E. Garrett has annexed to her proposed grant, payable on October 1, 1892, 
and assures her of its grateful sense of the broad and liberal spirit in which she has 
assisted in the establishment of the Medical School of the University." 

We, as women and as students, owe our meed of thanks to Miss Garrett and to 
those who have co-operated with her in this work ; and, although we may not our- 
selves be able to offer financial assistance toward the completion of this endowment, 


we should do all that lies in our power to enlist the help of others. The great advantage 
of the system on which the whole work has been carried on is that the interest of people 
all over the country has been awakened, although the money has been proportionately- 
small. We, as Bryn Mawr students, have special reason to take interest in this matter, 
because Bryn Mawr is now offering a course equivalent to that given at the Johns 
Hopkins under the title of the " preliminary medical course," and because Miss 
Thomas, of Baltimore, Dean of this College, was, with Miss Garrett, one of the projec- 
tors of the enterprise, and as Secretary of the Philadelphia Committee has been one of 
the most effective workers in bringing about the desired results. 

E. C, 'go. 

UNIVERSITY EXTENSION was begun in Cambridge in 1S72, at the urgent 
request of Professor Stuart of that University. His desire was to extend lectur- 
ing and teaching beyond the limits of the University, not by single chance lec- 
tures here and there, but by systematic courses on stated subjects. Efforts had been 
made previous to this to give advanced teaching to the poor. After some difficulty 
the movement was successfully initiated, and has led to the establishment of four new 
colleges in commercial and manufacturing towns. 

In 1S75 the "London Society for the Extension of University Teaching" was 
inaugurated. It was greatly assisted by educational institutions in London, and an 
advisory board, consisting of three members from each of the universities of Oxford, 
Cambridge, and London, was organized. Its work was begun in the halls of existing 
colleges, but finding that the audiences were small, it made use of the local halls in dif- 
ferent districts of the city, with a marked increase in the size of attendance. 

The same movement started in Oxford in 187S. Courses of twelve lectures each 
were at first offered, but no success was obtained until the courses were reduced to six 
lectures, thereby lessening the expense. Since that time the movement has so rapidly 
advanced, that at present no courses are given consisting of less than twelve lectures. 

After less than twenty years' growth, the number of " Extension students " in Eng- 
land has reached the sum of 40,000, with a corresponding increase of courses and 

The movement in Philadelphia was begun last spring, when an informal meeting 
was held to inaugurate University Extension in this country. Philadelphia was chosen 
as the centre of the new " Society for the Extension of University Teaching, " as being 
especially suitable, because of the large number of colleges and educational institutions 
in its vicinity. Advances were immediately made to these institutions, and very favor- 
able and cordial answers were received. The secretary of the Society was then sent to 
England to study the system there, and in the fall his " Report upon the University- 
Extension Movement in England" was published. 


The next step was to establish local centres. It was deemed advisable to co-oper- 
ate, in each case that was possible, with an already existing institution, which would 
supply a lecture hall, and appoint a committee to organize the centre. The first centre 
established was at Roxborough, in the hall of St. Timothy's Workingmen's Club, where 
the lectures began on November the third. The number of centres now amounts to 
twenty-five, and it is estimated that over 50,000 persons have attended the courses so far 

The courses vary in length from six to twelve lectures. Before a course is given, a 
Syllabus of all the lectures is prepared by the lecturer, and printed for the use of the 
students. The syllabus is intended to do away with the necessity of taking notes on the 
lecture, and also directs the reading and study pursued by the student in preparing for 
each lecture, or for the examination held at the end of the course. 

The lectures, however, are only a small portion of " Extension teaching." Regular 
"Extension students" are expected to attend the classes held at the end of each 
lecture, where they come into direct contact with the teacher. Discussions are often 
held, and the classwork is made as informal as possible. 

The weekly papers are also an important part of the system. The teacher 
prepares questions on each lecture, to which the students are expected to return 
answers before the next class. Books of reference and information, obtained from any 
source, may be used in answering these questions, as their purpose is to incite the 
students to original thought and investigation. In the next class the papers are care- 
fully discussed by the lecturer, and points of general interest raised by any student are 
brought before the notice of the others. 

At the end of each course an examination is held, to which all that have written 
the weekly papers are admitted. The lecturer then makes up the average of each 
student's work, from both weekly and examination papers, and when the work is 
approved a certificate is awarded by the central body of the association. In 
Cambridge, a certain number of these certificates is equivalent to a year's study at the 
University, and entitles the holder to enter the second year of the regular course. 

After a course of lectures has been given at any centre, a Student's Association is 
formed, with the intention of keeping alive the interest awakened by the lecturer. The 
students meet together every week or fortnight to discuss any books or subjects 
suggested by the course they have been attending. A correspondence with the lecturer 
is also maintained. This plan has been followed in England and has resulted in 
remarkably creditable work. It seems to give permanence to the local centre and to 
make the separate courses continuous. It also brings the students into closer relation- 
ship with one another and awakens a common interest. 

The department for home study is intended for those who cannot belong to any 
local centre. Courses extending over seven months have been carefully prepared by 
experienced teachers, each of these courses, forming part of a longer one, to continue 
for four years. Text books and other books of reference are recommended, and 


syllabi are arranged. Answers to questions made out by the teacher, theses and 
examination papers are required at intervals from the students. When the work 
accomplished is satisfactory, a certificate is to be awarded. 

A journal of the Society is to be published and sent to each member of the Asso- 

In order to secure a sound financial basis for the Society, so long as it is in the 
experimental stage, a Guarantee Fund to continue for five years has been raised. 

The movement is called Extension of University Teaching, because its aim is to 
carry education, more advanced than the ordinary public-school instruction, to every 
member of the community, who from lack of opportunity or money, cannot devote his 
or her time exclusively to study. It is an attempt to solve the problem, as to how an 
intellectual stimulus can be given to the men and women employed in the ordinary 
business of life. Whether the methods adopted by this Association will prove efficient 
in America is not yet determined, but the successful results attained in England are very 
encouraging. It is interesting to notice how many classes of people have already been 
reached. Many married women, some of them college graduates, who have heretofore 
been wholly occupied with household duties, have found it possible to attend courses of 
lectures, and have been greatly interested and awakened. Business men, too, have 
been induced to lose a part of their business hours in order to attend, not only the 
lectures, but also the classes, examinations, and students' associations, and write the 
weekly papers. Young women, chiefly engaged in social duties and pleasures, have 
taken hold of the work with zeal, and shown themselves efficient in organizing centres 
and exciting interest. 

It has been found that the subject which attracts mechanics and artisans is chiefly 
science, and especially mathematics, whereas literary and historical courses are attended 
by the so-called higher classes. So far it has been impossible, in Philadelphia, to bring 
these two classes together, although in England it is often done. 

The enthusiasm shown by the people of Philadelphia over the courses already 
given, promises success, and gives evidence of a strong demand for education, which 
has never been met in an effective way. The interest evinced by the professors of 
the various colleges and institutions has been very gratifying, and their assistance, 
given most generously, although their regular work demands the greater part of 
their time and strength, has been invaluable. One of the greatest difficulties in this 
country will be to supply lecturers, who in England have been largely taken from 
among the Fellows of the Universities. We hope in time to adopt the plan now pur- 
sued in England, of training a body of teachers for our particular work, but this will 
require much larger sums of money than we now have at our disposal. 

I am indebted for my facts to Mr. Hinchman's " Report upon the University Exten- 
sion Movement in England," Dr. Macintosh's " Report on University Courses for Home 
Students," and other papers published by order of the Society for the Extension of Uni- 
versity Teaching. I should like to draw especial attention to the M ay number of 


" Book News," 1891, published by John Wanamaker, which contains several import- 
ant articles on University Extension, among them, one by Professor Moulton, on 
" University Extension as the University of the Future." 

]•',. /•'. S., 'go. 

■\- * * 

AMONG the many projects for improving the material and spiritual conditions of 
the unfortunate " other half" in our large cities, there is none that arouses more 
interest and appreciation from intelligent people than that of the " settlement." 
The idea, associated in our minds with Arnold Toynbee, of a company of cultivated 
people making a home in the midst of a tenement-house district, bringing with them 
all that " home " means of order, of taste and of gentle breeding, has been put into 
execution, not only in London, but also in New York. 

The " settlement idea " is only a special adaptation of the Froebel method. The 
problem is: how can we persuade these people that clean orderly homes, palatable, well- 
cooked food and simple, neat dress are more desirable than their present squalor? 
(Albeit, they get the most extravagant " cuts " of meat and revel in plush.) What plan 
seems more reasonable than to give an object lesson in these matters ? The preaching 
of cleanliness, neatness, politeness avails little, but the being clean, neat and polite brings 
about results that appeal to all the senses; moreover, the imitative faculty develops 
early in the race as in the child. 

It was to try what could be done along these lines that a few college 
women decided two years ago to start a settlement at 95 Rivington Street, New 
York. The district is not an extremely poor one, but it offers a field of 
labor none the less fertile for that reason. The population is largely foreign, 
Jews, Italians, Germans, that, earning wages sufficient to provide respectable homes, are 
so ignorant, so improvident that "homes" cannot exist ; and the saloon, with its mir- 
rors and bright hangings, is the one spot of beauty and cheer in a hideous life. It is 
the famous tenth district where political jobbery is at its worst; and further noted for 
having the poorest public schools in the city (so poor that they are not open to visitors 
without a permit) ; schools so overcrowded that, though children are packed in quite 
beyond the limit prescribed by law, still many children can go but half the day, while 
others cannot be accomodated at all. 

The churches, morever (with the notable exception of St. George's chapel), working 
still along the conventional lines of fifty years ago, do not attract the people, few of 
whom ever enter the church door. Can a more hopeless environment for children be 
imagined ? 

It is here that several young women, some of them more or less engaged in outside 
pursuits, choose to live, remaining two months, a year or longer — as in the case of Miss 
Fine, of Smith College, who has been in charge of the work since its establishment. The 
methods of work are mainly those of the club ; some for play, where indirectly the 


Golden Rule is learned ; others for sewing, cooking, study, etc. Among the boys' clubs, 
one called the " Hero Club" for the free discussion of heroes (among whom Stanley 
far outranks all others), and another for the study of the principles of Government, 
the aim of which is to teach all that is essential to an intelligent voter, are specially 

The settlement is supported by annual subscriptions from the colleges, viz. : Vassar, 
Smith, Wellesley, The Harvard Annex and Bryn Mawr, belonging to the Collegiate 
Settlements Association, which has in addition a large non-collegiate membership. For 
the support of the New York settlement alone about four thousand dollars are needed 
annually, and as soon as the subscription list warrants the attempt, a second settlement 
will be opened in Boston. 

For every expenditure of money and energy in philanthropy, people usually 
demand large and immediate "returns": although no such "returns" can yet be 
expected from work of this character, still even after two years there are certain 
" signs," that may serve to encourage us. Some of these were cited in the report pre- 
sented at the second annual meeting of the Electoral Board, held April 18 ; for example, 
the chief of police of the district states that the number of boys arrested in the last year 
for petty larceny, window-breaking, etc., is less than in former years — due, he thinks, 
to the influence of the settlement. More significant than all else is the confidence of the 
people in the kindness as well as in the power of the " ladies " at the settlement. The 
variety of demands on this same kindness is amusing, but indicates that the residents 
are regarded as friends to be appealed to in emergencies — whether it be for the loan of 
a hammer or of money to save a family from ejection. 

The outlook for next year is decidedly hopeful. A new departure will be made in 
starting a number of home libraries, a system which has been successfully tried in Bos- 
ton. For these a number of helpers from " up-town " will be needed, and there will 
be a consequent broadening of the work in more ways than one. 

H. S. D., 'Sg. 

CHAU AUOUA is one of the oldest summer schools, and yet is perhaps the least 
understood by those who know it through its reading circles alone. The 
Chautauqua movement means to many only the system of instruction by corres- 
pondence which it established. But besides the " Chautauqua Literary and Scientific 
Circle," the well-known C. L. S. C, which now has over one thousand reading circles, 
and the organ o{\\'\\\z\\,TheChautauquan, has a circulation surpassed by only two other 
of our magazines, there is a large department for summer work wholly independent of 
the regular winter courses. For about six weeks every summer the College of Liberal 
Arts, School of English Bible, schools for normal work, physical training and cooking 
offer courses, each under the very best instructors. 


The College of Liberal Arts is in the charge of men well known in educational 
circles. Professors from Johns Hopkins, Yale and Harvard having charge of each 
department. Courses in mathematics, Latin, Greek, science, history, are offered; some 
of them post-graduate courses which would lead to a degree in the best colleges. Most 
satisfactory also is the college preparatory work. The tuition is from two to five dollars 
a course. Teachers have regular normal courses offered to them, from kindergarden 
department to special courses of training for teaching higher branches. 

In addition to the regular class-room work innumerable lectures are offered each 
summer, such as " German Literature," by Prof. Boyesen ; " Greece," by Prof. Mahaffy ; 
readings by George W. Cable and other interesting men ; fine concerts. One can 
hardly think of a taste which could not find something good there. 

Although the movement was sectarian in its origin, little evidence in a way the 
least unpleasant, can be seen. Sunday brings such men as Dr. Lyman Abbot, or Dr. 
Phillips Brooks to the City in the Grove, so that although people cannot leave the 
grounds on Sunday, this is no unpleasant restriction. The location is the pleasantest — 
one hundred and sixty-five acres on the lake front. Within the enclosure many people 
have pleasant summer homes, and think that the fact that they must have tickets 
punched upon exit or entrance is a very slight drawback, in consideration of the benefit 
and pleasure of the life there, educational and social. 

H.R. H., 'pj. 

AN interesting prospectus for a Summer School of Applied Ethics has been issued. 
Under the name "Applied Ethics" three departments are included : 
I. The Department of Economics, in charge of Professor H. C. Adams, Ph. D., 
of the University of Michigan. 

II. The Department of the History of Religions, in charge of Professor C. H. Toy, 
D.D., of Harvard University. 

III. The Department of Ethics, in charge of Professor Felix Adler, Ph. D., of New 

In each department courses of eighteen lectures are offered by the professor in 
charge of the department, and also special courses by men whose names are enough to 
insure the success of the project. 

The Department of Economics is especially interesting. It includes among its 
special lecturers such well-known names as those of Professor Frank W. Taussig, Ph. D., 
of Harvard University; Hon. Carroll D.Wright, Professor J. B. Clark, Ph.D., of 
Smith College ; Albert Shaw, Ph. D., and Professor E. J. James, Ph. D., of the Univer- 
sity of Pennsylvania. The subjects offered are of great practical interest to students 
of economic problems. They include lectures on the Evils of our Present Industrial 
System, Socialism as a Remedy, and The Better Way, Distributive and Credit Co-oper- 
ation, Productive Co-operation and Profit-sharing, Workingmen's Insurance, Factory 


Legislation, Housing of the Poor in London and in Paris, General Booth's Scheme for 
Relieving Poverty, Labor and Industrial Legislation in Europe and Chapters in the 
Industrial History of the Linked States. 

The school is to be held for six weeks, beginning early in July, at some summer 
resort on the Massachusetts coast. 

Terms. — The tuition, including lectures in all of the departments, will be $'0. For 
farther information in reference either to the instruction or to the arrangements for 
boarding, application should be made to 

Dean of Summer School of Applied Ethics, 

1602 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 

WE ARE sorry to lose from our number Miss Urae Tsuda, who returns to Japan 
to resume her work as teacher in the Empress' School. Miss Tsuda is one 
of the very few Japanese women who have enjoyed the advantages of a 
foreign education. When a child she was sent to this country by the 
Japanese Government, and spent six years in our schools ; and during the past two 
years she has been pursuing a course of study at Bryn Mawr College. While in the 
United States, Miss Tsuda has been deeply impressed by the contrast between Jap- 
anese and American women, and it is her great desire to raise the women of Japan 
from their state of ignorance and subjection to a more honorable and independent 
position. This work can only be done by native women-teachers, trained abroad, and 
of such there are very few in Japan. With this idea in her mind it occurred to Miss 
Tsuda to try, before leaving this country, to raise a fund for the education of Japanese 
women-teachers. She proposed her plan to prominent women in Philadelphia and 
the vicinity and met with encouragement. A committee has been formed for the 
purpose, consisting of Mrs. Wistar Morris, chairman ; Mrs. Pepper, Mrs. Baird, Miss 
M. Carey Thomas and others. The plan is to raise $8,000, the interest of which will be 
sufficient to always maintain one Japanese woman at some American college, and 
the college chosen by the committee is Bryn Mawr, unless the Japanese student wishes 
to study medicine, or manual training. Five thousand dollars has already been 
pledged, and the committee is trying to obtain the rest. 

We sincerely hope that this movement in the interest of the advancement of women 
will not fail for lack of support. H. R. P., 'gj. 

DURING the past winter has been organized in Boston a club that gives promise of 
the greatest success — the College Club. Its purpose is to supply a place for social 
intercourse, alumnae and committee meetings, and accommodation during the day 
to the college-bred women of Boston and its neighborhood. 


The Association of Collegiate Alumnaj took a room in Marlborough Street, which 
since that time every day from 9 A. M. to 10 1'. M. has been the rendez-vous for the 
members of the club. These are now more than eighty in number, and are college 
women residing either permanently or temporarily in New England, former non- 
graduate students who have taken at least two years of a college course arc eligible for 
election as associate members. 

Afternoon tea is served every Monday, and the second Monday in each month is a 
guest day, when guests may be introduced to the club. Its hospitality is extended at 
all times to college women from outside New England who are visiting in Boston. 


ONE of the characteristics of Bryn Mawr is the absence of such clubs and societies 
as are found in other colleges. Here there are but two associations, the 
Undergraduate Association and the Reform Club. The Undergraduate Associa- 
tion, as its name implies, includes all undergraduate students; its object is the discus- 
sion and decision of various matters of importance and interest in college life. The 
Reform Club is much less formal in organization, and its membership is not limited to 
undergraduates. Its genesis from the prayer meetings accounts for its informal 
character. All students of the college and any attendants upon the prayer meet- 
ings are members ; its only officers are a committee of three, elected annually by the 
Undergraduate Association, to invite speakers for the meetings of the club. 

The founders of the club felt that the majority of the students had very few 
interests beyond the all-absorbing ones of college life ; there were general ideas, but very 
little definite knowledge of the important questions and movements agitating the 
outside world. After consultation and discussion, it was decided to give up, once a 
month, the regular weekly prayer meeting, and to have in its stead a meeting, the 
object of which should be to give the girls a more intimate acquaintance with someone 
of the social movements. The first meeting was held in the fall of 1S86, and others 
have been held with great success in almost every month of the college year since 

The meetings are held generally on Tuesday evening, beginning at quarter past 
seven, and lasting not over three-quarters of an hour. There is always an opportunity 
given, after the talk, to ask any questions suggested by the topic or its treatment. The 
size of the meetings varies greatly, depending partly upon the subject of the evening, 
but chiefly upon how busy the girls are at the time. 

There have been five meetings this year, in November, January, February, April and 
May. The subjects considered give a very good idea of the character and object of the 


club. One of the first talks .was by Dr. Macintosh, of Philadelphia, on "University 
Extension." Miss Brace came from the college settlement in New York, and gave a 
most interesting account of the life in Rivington Street. We were very fortuate in 
having with us one evening Dr. Stanton Coit, who is known so well through his 
connection with Toynbee Hall, London. One meeting was occupied by a talk by Mr. 
Herbert Welsh, on the Indian question and the recent outbreaks in the West. On May 
the 7th, the last meeting of the year, the speaker was Miss Grace Dodge, of New York, 
who gave an account of the Working Girls' Clubs. 

M. V. A., '93. 
* * * 

{From Modern Language Notes, April, 1891.) 

DR. THOMAS McCABE, Associate Professor of Romance Languages at Bryn 
Mawr College, Bryn Mawr, Penna., died suddenly on February 22. Dr. 
McCabe was an Englishman by birth and received his early training in Lon- 
don ; thence he went to the Continent, where he spent several years attending lectures 
at the College de France and the universities of Rome and Berlin. On coming to 
America, in 1884, he entered the department of Romance Languages at the Johns Hop- 
kins University, where he received the Doctor's degree three years later. He was 
immediately called to the University of Michigan as an instructor in French, and a 
year later passed to the State University of Indiana as professor of Modern Lan- 
guages and director of the German Department. At the end of the past academic year 
he received a call to Bryn Mawr College, where his ability in reorganizing the depart- 
ment of Romance Languages won for him the high esteem of those with whom he had 
been associated for so short a time. * * In addition to his doctor's 

thesis on "The Morphology in Francesco Petrarca's Congionere," Dr. McCabe had 
written an article on "The Geste of Aubin le Bourgoing," printed in Vol. IV of the 
Publications of the Modern Language Association, and he was, furthermore, a' frequent 
contributor to Modern Language Notes. Not only have his friends sustained a great 
personal loss through his ' ^ath, but the cause of international culture in America 
has been deprived of an en.nusiastic advocate, whose devotion to high ideals was an 
inspiration to those who came under his influence. 

Professor of Romance Languages, Johns Hopkins University. 

THE missionary work in Bryn Mawr is beginning to assume gratifying proportions, 
and the interest felt is deepening. The college is pledged yearly to one-half the 
sum needed for the support of a missionary in the foreign field, Miss Agnes 
Orbison, formerly of Bryn Mawr College, and now stationed at Rawal Pindi, Punjaub, 


Under the auspices of the Missionary Association monthly meetings are held for 
the purpose of gaining any information that may be helpful. An address is given on the 
life and work of some missionary or philanthropist, and the students learn to know and 
appreciate the efforts that have been made to reach all lands not yet Christianized. 

/• /•■ '93- 

* * * 

FOR the year 1891-2 there will be several changes in the various departments of 
•the College. Arthur Stanley MacKenzie, A. M., of Dalhousic College, Halifax, 
Nova Scotia, has been appointed Associate in Physics. The Chair of Romance 
Languages will be filled by Joseph A. Fontaine, Ph. D., of Johns Hopkins University, 
Maryland. Dr. Fontaine was educated at the University of Paris, studied at Bonn and 
Naples, and has taught in the Universities of North Carolina and Mississippi. Frederick 
M. Page, of the University of Virginia, Professor of Romance Languages in the University 
of the South, has been appointed Reader in Romance Languages at Bryn Mawr College. 
Miss Rose Chamberlin will give her attention wholly to German, and thus that 
department will have the entire time of Dr. Collitz and Miss Chamberlin. 

The European Fellowship for 1891-92, has been awarded to Miss Lilian Vaughan 
Sampson, of Philadelphia, in recognition of her success in the study of Biology, Mathe- 
matics and Physics. 

The fellowship in Greek has been given to Miss Florence V. Keys, of Toronto 
University, Canada. 

The fellowship in English has been given to Miss Marguerite Sweet, A. B., a 

graduate of Vassar College, and two years a graduate student in English, of Bryn .Mawr. 

The fellowship in Mathematics has been awarded to Miss Mary Frances Winston, a 

graduate of the University of Wisconsin, and teacher of Mathematics at Donner College, 

Fox Lake, Wisconsin. 

The fellowship in Biology has been given to Miss Jane K. Howell, a graduate of 
Cornell University in 188S, and graduate student of that college. 

The fellowship in History has been awarded Miss CaroJ'ne Miles, A. B., of Earlham 
College, 18S7, and graduate student at University of Michig; ,1. 

No slight feature of the College year has been a series of lectures and addresses 
by members of the literary, scientific and philanthropic world. Sometimes it has 
been an unexpected pleasure ; other lectures have been arranged for and looked forward 
to. Among the lecturers have been 

Mr. Samuel L. Clemens, Miss Grace H. Dodge, 

Miss Lucy Toulmin Smith, of London, Professor Rendel Harris, 
Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, Miss Brace, 

Miss Florence Balgarnie, of London. M. Paul du Chaillu, 
Mr. Herbert Welsh, Miss Tsuda, of Japan, 

Mrs. Karmarkar, of India, Mr. Stanton Coit, 

Dr. John Macintosh. 


THE part that music plays in Bryn Mawr college life is slight enough, yet per- 
haps, for that very reason, its rare entrances are awaited with breathless 
expectation, and its exits are made amid rounds of applause and vigorous 
encores. Three or four times in a winter some of the members of the college, with 
the help of outside friends, combine to give us an evening of music, of which we 
are justly proud. For these musicales — in which the voice, piano, violin and 'cello 
take part separately and in combinations of twos or threes as well — are really chamber 
concerts of no mean order. The gymnasium, too, is an unusually good place for hear- 
ing music ; a fact which may possibly throw some light on the recent success of the 
Glee Club, in Gilbert and Sullivan's music. The Glee Club, which came into exist- 
ence in the year A. c. c. 2, and was for three years guided by the hand of a 
professional instructor, has thus just completed its second year of self-management. A 
club consisting of some forty students out of one hundred and forty, especially in a 
college which offers no department of music, can hardly be expected to boast voices of 
very superior quality or even mediocre training ; yet it seems to have pleased its 
audience in this its first ambitious attempt, and certainly so far as concerns performing 
the office for which it exists — namely, that of giving pleasure and profit to its mem- 
bers — it must be pronounced a most unqualified success. 

E. IV. W., '92. 
* # * 

IT IS impossible to convey the slightest idea of the crowded state of the laboratories 
in Bryn Mawr College. A small frame structure consisting of two rooms serves at 
present as" a physical laboratory and lecture-room. The chemical department 
occupies a portion of the third floor of the general lecture hall, while biological investi- 
gations are carried on in three rooms on the second floor. This department has been 
compelled to reject a large number of students applying for major and minor courses, 
as only twenty-nine desks can be crowded into the rooms set aside for biology. In 
addition to the inconvenience which it causes to the scientific department itself, this 
lack of room seriously interferes with the work of the college, forcing the other depart- 
ments to do without rooms which they sorely need. Then, too, it was the original plan 
that the rooms now set apart for biological work should serve as an extension to the 
library. Since these rooms are not available and the library has become greatly 
crowded, it has been necessary to use part of the main corridor for this extension. That 
something must be done to meet this difficulty is apparent, and it is proposed to erect a 
new building in which all the scientific work shall be carried on. The plans for such a 
building have been drawn up and submitted to the Board of Trustees, and the only 
thing for which the college now waits is the money necessary to carry out this project. 

L. G., '8g. 



"Levins Cortice " 


A ruddy glow 

From blazing grate, 
Fragrant pekoe 

In cup ornate, 
The others late, 

A fig for them ! 
A tete-a-tete 

At five P. M. 

In gown of snow, 

She sits sedate, 
Soft " Yes " and " No," 

Eyes fixed on plate : — 
I wax irate, 

I mutter " Hem," — 
I like not state, 

At five P. M. 

Ah ! does she know 

My pulse's rate, — 
The pangs, the woe 

Of long debate ? 
I will not wait, 

Carpe diem, — 
I'll meet my fate 

At five P. M. 

To jealous hate 

A truce pro tem. 
We made all straight 
At five P. M. 

E. C. 'go. 


Have you Lewis Morris's latest poem, 
" A Vision of Saints ? " 

You will get that in the Bible Depart- 

1 hardly think so ! 

Well, we haven't it here, but you can 
ask at the next counter. 

Have you Lewis Morris's latest poem, 
" A Vision of Saints ? " 

No, but we can give you " A Vision of 


She went with hopes of fame, 
(An earnest maid was she) 
A college girl to be, 
To win a glorious name. 

Alas what woe and shame 
Oppressed that spirit free ; 
She went with hopes of fame, 
An earnest maid was she. 

With conquering might he came, 

That not impossible he. 

I'm going there to tea, 

She's grown domestic, tame — 

She went with hopes of fame. 




Digging and delving in Greek. 
(There's my lamp smoking again) 
Crammed till I scarcely can speak, 
Ink gets in lumps in my pen. 

(There's my lamp smoking again) 
"Avfipa ftoi evvETre Movaa 
Ink gets in lumps in my pen, 
Hector, Achilles and Teucer. 

'Avdfja fjLOt EWE7TE Muycra 
Oh, for a walk by the moon ! 
Hector, Achilles and Teucer. 
I shall be cracked crazy soon. 

Oh for a walk by the moon ! 
With just a spice of flirtation, 
I shall be cracked crazy soon. 
Stuck in this slow calculation. 

With just a spice of flirtation, 
But instead I've got to be meek, 
Stuck in this slow calculation, 
Digging and delving in Greek. 

E. C. 'go. 


I seem to see her standing yet 

Upon the stair, as once she stood — 

My little love of long ago — 

In careless grace of maidenhood. 

I seem to see her standing yet — 

Her flowing robes were white and 
fair ; 

The crimson holly berries crowned 
The glory of her golden hair. 

She leaned upon the balustrade, 

The tears stood in her bonny eyes; 

One little satin-slippered foot 

A protest seemed to emphasize. 

I came upon her standing thus ; 

She turned in haste to mount the 
I caught the sight of falling tears 

And plead her seeming woe to share. 

She blushed — a rare, bewitching pink, 
She grew more lovely in its glow ! 

" I left the dancing hall — because — 
I will noi dance the mistletoe!" 

My heart beat high with sudden hope ; 

As lower drooped the golden head — 
I took the little hands in mine 

And, bending o'er her, softly said : 

" My little love, my heart is yours, 
You stole it from me long ago — 

Give me the right to take the kiss, 
Even without the mistletoe." 

Ah ! what she said it matters not, 

What was my answer you may 

But on my heart the holly leaves 

Crowned all my life with happiness, 



Pray, tell me the possible harm, 

Whenever one's fancies incline, 
Of seeking the quiet and calm 

Of thought — inexhaustible mine 
Of comfort ; to wholly resign 

Yourself without bridle or rein 
To dreaming — Ah ! sure 'tis a sign 

Each one has his castle in Spain. 

A system that works like a charm, 

The gambler dreams over his wine, 

The quack — an infallible balm ; 
The artist — a place on the line. 



The match-niaking mother's design 
Lays plans for Matilda and Jane, 

The poet craves grace of the Nine, 
Each one has his castle in Spain. 

Poor Pat wants a house and a farm 
Full of children and praties and 
The victor secure of the palm, 

Lacks freedom from slanders 

In whatever circle you shine, 

You sigh for some goal you would 

Some boon you still covet — in fine, 
Each one has his castle in Spain. 


The wish for whose granting I pine, 
Pray Heaven my hope be not vain ! 

Is this — that your castle be mine, 

Each one has his castle in Spain. 
E. C, 'go. 

SCENE: Laboratory door-way. 

Lobster No. i to No. 2. — Hello! 
where 'you going, old feT ? 

No. 2 (cautiously feeling his way 
down stairs). — Going to get out of these 
girls' way. Their little observations are 
rather too cutting for me. 

No. I . — Gracious ! what a coward ! 
You can't stand a little operation like 
that — when you're put under the influ- 
ence of an anaesthetic, too ! You're an 
awful coward ! 

No. 2. — That's all right ; I'm going 
down these stairs all the same. 

No. 1. — And in all probability get 
trod on or something of that sort. Bus- 
car'll give you a lively time if he finds 
you ! 

No. 2. — Do you think a dignified dog 
like Buscar would interfere with a harm- 
less little lobster like me? You don't 
know Buscar. Good-bye ! I'm off — go 
011 and get cut up if you want to — I 

No. 1. — Well, I don't think it's cour- 
teous to run away from ladies that way. 
I'm going in and get chloroformed 
straight away. 

-x- ***** 

Student (late for Lab., entering 
with a violently kicking lobster in her 
hand, to Demonstrator). — I found this 
creature down in the hall. Isn't it 
funny ? 

Demonstrator. — Very good. 1 
thought there was one missing. You 

may just go to work on him, Miss 

the chloroform has given out, so you'll 
have to dissect yours alive. 

* * Note. — The chloroform never 
does give out, and the lobster seems to 
have mistaken dissection for vivisection. 


A simple man 
That ne'er had known the strife, 
That ne'er had breathed Bryn Mawrian 
What should he know of life ? 

I met a handsome, bearded man, 

And he was nicely clad, 
His face was gay, ah ! very gay, 

His ga) ness made one sad ! 



" Lectures and courses, little maid, . 

How many may they be ? " 
" How many ? Three in all," I said. 

He, wondering, looked at me. 

" And what be they? I pray you tell." 
I answered, " They be three ; 

The English course I take in full, 
Greek and Biology." 

" You say you take the English course, 

Greek and Biology, 
Still you are cramming Latin Prose, 

Sweet maid, how may this be ? " 

Then sweetly to him I replied, 
" My courses are but three, 

This Prose is a condition, sir, 
With Plane Geometry. 

"And Algebra and German, too, 

Of course I must fulfil, 
But these are just conditions, sir, 

To study when I will." 

" Geometry and Algebra, 

German and Latin Prose, 
English, Biology and Greek! 

Why, everybody knows 

" That three and four make seven, my 

Ne'er called since time began 
Save in Bryn Mawr aught otherwise, 

As I'm a living man ! " 

" But four are just conditions, sir," 
" You study them ? " he said. 

" Oh, yes ! I burn the midnight oil, 
I rack my weary head 

" To find if A's will equal B's, 

And what is Latin ' heaven.' " 

" Then if you study three and four, 
Why don't you call it seven ? " 

" But four are just conditions sir, 

My courses are but three, 
The Dean will let us take no more : 

Oh ! pray sir, don't you see ? 

" Oh ! can't you understand ? " I cried, 
He raised his eyes to Heaven, 
His gay face wore a troubled look, 
He murmured in a voice that shook, 
" Don't three and four make seven ? " 

Mary E Hoyt, 'Q2. 


Store up the goods the happy gods have 

And gather roses while 'tis called to-day : 
Far in the West, the clouds are gathering 

Heavy with chill of Winter's discontent. 

Soon, ah, too soon ! our little season 

Sadly we yearn for days of vanished 

Store up the goods the happy gods have 

And gather roses while 'tis called to-day. 

Put on thy strength, my restless spirit 

And in this brief unclouded holiday 
Arm for the stress of life's unceasing 

And to make most of the short play -time 

Store up the goods the happy gods have 

And gather roses while 'tis called to-day. 

E. C, 'go. 




1 11 the morn ;it waking, 

Young Thoughts rub their eyes, 
Flitting off along the world 

Till Mentor Memory cries : 
" Each hour of the coming clay 

Brings many a task to do," 
'Tis hard to coax them back again 

For they have fled to you. 

At the end of evening, 

All their labours done, 
My thoughts to watch your slumbers 

Steal from me, one by one : 
I cannot sleep till all my thoughts 

Are folded safe at home, 
So with a thousand dreams of you 

I bribe them not to roam. 

M. P. C, 'Sg. 


[Translated from the French.] 

I sit upon a chair — a cane-seated 

Before me arises a picture. 

Ah ! he is beautiful ! His bright hair 
Hows upon his shoulders in wavelike 
ripples, like to the tiny spray cast upon 
the beach on a summer day, when the 
sky above is of a turquoise hue. Through 
it are peeping the stars. Even as the 
bright eyes of some shy maiden, as the — 

Alas ! the picture vanisheth. 

I, an old man, am left in darkness. 


g. p.; 94 . 


t September seventeenth, seven select 
souls started seeking saltmines. ' ome 
sought seclusion, slighting superfluous 
splendour, substituting scant short sur- 
touts, scarcely skirts, safety suggesting 
stern simplicity, sacrificing shocked sen- 
sibilities. Sortie somewhat shyly shame 
faced. Several similarly suited, sprang 
simultaneously saluting. Sideshaking 
spectacle ! Somebody snickered. Such 
strange specimens seldom seen ; splen- 
did subjects should some satirist spy. 
Situation slightly strained ; suddenly 
strain slackened, sober solemnity suc- 
cumbed, shouts, screams, shrieks sound- 
ed. Silence supervening sufficiently, 
still smiling, seriously started. Sper- 
macetti shining spread shadows ; steps 
sounded softly. Scaled stairs, saw strong 
sentinels silent ; such sturdy shaggy soil- 
stained servitors ! Suddenly saw salt sea 
spreading sable surface, scintillating stars 
surrounding — so solemn, soul-subduing, 
suggesting Styx. Superstitious some- 
body, somewhat sensitive, shivered sym- 
pathetically. Scarce speaking, shipped 
skiff, skimming smooth stagnant shal- 
lows, starting silvery shimmer ; seemed 
sad spirits seeking sombre shades. Soon 
slipping shorewards, sauntered somewhat 
slowly, surveying scene. Settled should 
slide, so slid successfully, shuffling, 
sprawling, scraping shoe-soles serenely, 
spasmodically seizing somebody's shoul- 
der — singularly scatheless, sith seriously 
scared. Solidity 'stablished, saw sheer 
sink, seemingly scarce soundable. Stu- 
pendous sight ! Stood speechless, stun- 
ned, startled, surprised, spontaneous 
sighs showing soul-stirred sentiments. 


Solemn, superb, superfique surely ! Sec- sawbones, setting splintered shanks, sup- 

ond slide somewhat steeper. Scorning porting shattered systems skillfully : such 

sad shades, scarce staying, surmounted* startlingsuppositionsscarcely seasonable. 

summit. Sapient scientists select saline sho[ sunwardS| shebang shaking, slewing 

specimens. Saw strange shebang — sought sidewivs 

seats successively. Securely settled, signal Sped sQ swift] ^ ^ sunlight _ 

sounding, shebang started. Suppose go short| sQ _ 

should strike sloping, shelving sides ; sup- e , , 

pose some serious smashup, sans sagacious F C 'no 











Business Manager 



Price, seventy -five cents 

Advance subscription price for 1893- fifty cents 

All subscriptions to be addressed simply : 

Treasurer of the Lantern 

Bryn Mawr College 

Bryn Mawr, Pa. 


Frontispiece : Fireplace in Denbigh Hall. 

Some Old Magazines, 

A Mystery (Poem), 

In a Night Watch, 

Catullus. CI., 

Any Friend to Any Other, 

The Gentle Art of Tea Drink 

Sonnets : Hull Bay, 

The Success of a Successor, 

Translations from the German 

A Winter in Berlin, 

Autolaletes : A Dialogue, 


The Fatherland, 

Sonnet : The Cathedral, 

On the Binding of Books, 

Farce : " Thy Fault is Youth 

Pigeon Holes, 


" Leviore Plectro," 

. Mabel Parker Clark, 
Mary E. Hoyt, 
. Laurettc Eustis Potts, 
Evangeline Holcombe Walker, 
. Edith Rockwell Hall, 
L. S. B., 'cjj; L. M. £>., 
Alary E. Hoyt, 
Estelle Reid, 
Emma Stansbury Wines. 
Ruth Gentry, 
... . L. M. £>., 
. Edith Child, 
. Julia Olivia Langdon, 
. M. P. C, 
. Lucy Martin Donnelly, 
. Ethel McCoy Walker, 




'9 2 



2 5 






3 2 

' 9 2 
























No. 2 BRYN MAWR June, 1892 


QUITE apart from the professed purpose of a college course are two 
things, which, to one who has learned to know them, are of such 
value that without them the mental training would be almost 
meaningless. These two things are the making of personal friend- 
ships and the taking part, as one of a community, in a general spirit of 
working and caring for a number rather than for oneself. Of course, of these 
two, the chance for making friendships must stand first as one of the greatest 
and best opportunities that college can offer. But our enthusiasm over the 
greater must not lead us to overlook the second of the advantages that we 
have seen a college course brings with it ; and it is this second opportunity 
that we would now speak of in particular, that of sharing a spirit of fellow- 
ship, not only with one's own college acquaintance, or even with all the 
members of the college at any given time, but a college spirit — a patriotism 
that, though on a small scale, is not unworthy of the name ; one which 
feels a sense of responsibility that will work and plan and sacrifice for the 
sake of all that are in the college, or to be in it, — for the sake of the college 
herself, as the mother of her children. 

From a superficial glance at some of Bryn Mawr's especial character- 
istics, it would seem that, she offers certain opportunities for this college 
spirit above most colleges, and certainly above most women's col- 
leges. Owing to the admirable, though mysterious " Group System," 


which allows a student to enter a class at any time that she is fitted 
for it, and enables Senior and Freshman to meet on the one common 
ground of a "required course," Bryn Mawr's four classes are not 
so distinctly separated from each other as those of most colleges. If the 
weakening of class feeling is the result it is not altogether a thing to be 
rejoiced in, though there is so strong a loyalty to one's class when occasion 
arises that it sometimes seems as though, in this case at least, we have here 
at Bryn Mawr the advantages without the corresponding losses. But, how- 
ever this may be, there certainly exists here a strong sense of the union of 
all the classes that is a result of their being so mixed together in their 

Then, too, Bryn Mawr's graduate department brings back a number of 
students from former classes and keeps them still a part of the college life. 
They join with the rest on an unbiased footing, helping with advice and 
practical aid, and their acquaintance with former " precedent " is invaluable 
in a place where that forms so important a factor in the life as it does here. 

Last of all, Bryn Mawr's small size has made it possible for all her 
students to know each other, and though her rapid growth threatens to do 
away with this advantage, for some time yet none of us need be entire 

Besides these reasons for general fellowship of feeling, which are 
especially characteristic of Bryn Mawr, we have, as is the case in all 
colleges, other opportunities for seeing each other. The gymnasium is open 
to us every Friday and Saturday evening for amusement; the tennis courts 
are always ready for us when the weather allows ; and innumerable " teas " 
and other more ambitious entertainments keep us in constant communica- 
tion with each other. 

But the more one thinks of such entertainments, the more one sees that 
it is not only by all coming together that the true college spirit is roused, 
but by all coming together with one common aim, and with one exception 
we have had scarcely any chances to meet in this way. This one exception, 
which will have flashed into the mind of every Bryn Mawr reader, is the 
number of meetings, held through this year, of our new " Students' Asso- 
ciation for Self-Government." 


To be sure, there may seem to be some drawbacks to the pleasures of 
the social intercourse that a self-government meeting offers us. There is an 
ominous silence, with which we have all become familiar, when anyone 
walks out of a meeting, and a breathless hush that follows, foreboding ill to 
any member who shall dare to raise- the point of " no quorum." For the 
difficulty of getting together the necessary quorum of" log " is, it may with 
all seriousness be said, one of the greatest obstacles which we put into the 
way of self-government. Half the trouble that the Association has had to 
contend with this year would have been obviated by the simple plan of 
every member's appearing in her place at the appointed time, that all the 
energy and enthusiasm which have had to be spent in scouring halls and 
campus to collect a few more members, and in keeping one's temper when 
the number fails to appear, might have been directed to the purpose of the 
meeting itself. 

But though annoyances like these may fill a disproportionate place in 
the recollection of our meetings, something has been gained that no Bryn 
Mawr student can over-estimate, that more than makes up for the many 
times when we have made mistakes, when we have even failed ; — we have all 
of us, from the youngest Freshman to the most mature graduate of some 
larger university, come together for one purpose and one end — that end 
being all possible good that it is in our power to give to Bryn Mawr. 

In the last speech made before the Self-Government Association by 
its retiring President, — a speech that filled every student present with a 
feeling of the power that lay in her hands of bestowing good or ill on her 
college, — when the last appeal was made " for the love of Bryn Mawr," the 
excitement and enthusiasm were overpowering. That meeting has been 
in a very distinct sense the event of the past college year, and it was filled 
completely in all that was said and done, with the truest and warmest " love 
of Bryn Mawr." The awakening of so genuine a spirit as this, although far 
from being the end at which it primarily aimed, is by no means the smallest 
part that the formation of the Self-Government Association has played in 
Bryn Mawr this year. 

Bryn Mawr has been hitherto a family. Her students have lived 
close together, at first in one, afterwards in two halls, and the Seniors of 


'92, who entered during the last year of the regime of the first class, have 
been part of the college at a time when every Bryn Mawr student was 
acquainted with every other — when each undergraduate formed part of a 
whole that included no one she did not personally know. 

But this year says good-bye to the last of those original four classes. 
Their going seems almost the closing of a tradition, at least of a personal 
part of that tradition that can never quite be replaced. Bryn Mawr's first 
seven-year cycle is over. It is not in any spirit of vain longing and regret 
for what is gone that we look on the new cycle just to begin. The college 
has grown, is growing wonderfully, and the opening of her third residence 
hall must soon be followed by a fourth. And the larger numbers will only 
increase our enthusiasm, and awaken and broaden us in hundreds of ways. 
Only we must face fearlessly the changes that must necessarily come with 
such rapid growth. 

The managing of so large a body by public opinion and precedent, 
the authorities hitherto referred to in all matters of government, was seen 
to be no longer possible. We could not but feel that a precedent that had 
been established in the case of a few was not, perhaps, best now that we 
were many ; and in matters to be decided by public opinion, where all were 
not unanimous, it was impossible for any student to find out whether she 
was free to take the course that seemed to her best, or must needs yield, 
with what grace and readiness she could, as one of the minority. There 
was distinct need of some formulated laws. For the moment it seemed 
inevitable that a printed list of regulations should appear in each study, 
fixed in some conspicuous position, in orthodox boarding-school fashion. 

However inevitable such a plan might seem, it could not help bring- 
ing with it a feeling of humiliation after the freedom that 'had till now be- 
longed to Bryn Mawr. And to some of the students the idea occurred 
that if we were only willing to come forward now — just at the time when 
it was evident to every one that a system of government was needed, and 
take that government into our own hands, and make our laws ourselves 
with the determination to enforce them, that we should have a government 
which we could uphold with a feeling, not of humiliation and disappoint- 
ment, but of ownership and loyalty and pride. 


The gratitude of all Bryn Mawr is clue to the student who, as soon as 
the idea had met with the approval of the authorities, spent a large part of 
the summer vacation in getting it into working form, by sending letters 
about among the students telling of the plan and asking for suggestions 
for working it out, — an excellent way for making each one think seriously 
and individually of the idea. 

So, when the college came together again, all were ready for the sum- 
mons to a meeting "of all the students to discuss plans for self-government," 
and the first of our enormous meetings was held. Enormous, that is, in 
proportion to the size of Bryn Mawr, for at the second meeting, when the 
constitution was voted on and finally adopted, it was decided that, in view 
of the importance of the meetings, a quorum of two-thirds of all the mem- 
bers should be necessary to transact business. Till this year the largest 
meetings Bryn Mawr had seen were those of her Undergraduate Association, 
which, of course, only undergraduates may attend. As no number is fixed 
for a quorum, the meetings, when the subject is not one of absorbing interest, 
are sometimes discreditably small. But in the new Association matters were 
different. "All persons pursuing studies at Bryn Mawr College" were 
members, and this included, of course, graduates and non-resident students. 
Two-thirds of this number formed a really impressive gathering, and we 
had to have recourse to the chapel as the only place large enough to hold 
us all. 

The working of our system of self-government for this its first year 
has been so largely an experiment that there is little that can be stated 
as definitely fixed in its arrangements. The management of affairs was 
provided for by three officers and an executive board of five. This exe- 
cutive board, of which the President of the Association is chairman, 
drew up the body of resolutions that form our laws, necessarily covering 
the disputed points in regard to which some system of regulations had 
been seen to be necessary. Besides these points, they arranged for the 
election, twice a year, of three " proctors " in each hall of residence, 
with whom was to rest the immediate responsibility for the conduct of 
the students in their respective halls. For conduct outside the halls of 
residence the Executive Board holds itself responsible. The observance of 


the laws contained in our body of resolutions is secured by fines in the case 
of such misdemeanors as failure to register name and address on absence 
from the college over night; while, in the case of graver difficulties the 
Association has the power, to quote from its constitution, " of inflicting 
penalties to enforce its decisions, even to the extent of recommending the 
expulsion of a member to the college authorities." 

The powers of the Association were definitely fixed in the " Agree- 
ment concerning the Self-government of the Students of Bryn Mawr Col- 
lege," which was formally laid before the Association in January of this 
year, and signed by the Executive Board as their representative, and by the 
President and the Dean of the college. Now that the power and authority 
is in our own hands, it remains only for us to show ourselves not unworthy 
of it, and to prove that a college, which for six years was governed by 
public opinion alone, may still be governed by that opinion, more clearly 
formulated and defined, but none the less general and none the less our 

Not that the way has been always smopth. There have been serious 
objections raised by some of the members, both to the plan itself and to 
the system that it has seemed best, on the whole, to adopt. But the loyalty 
with which such members, after clearly expressing their opinions, have 
yielded to the decisions of the majority and supported them, has made their 
influence in the Association, as a whole, a help rather than a hindrance. 
For it is here, in the union that we have all felt, and the longing to work 
together for Bryn Mawr now and for the Bryn Mawr that is to be, even 
more than in the laying down of the laws that we needed, that the Self-- 
Government Association has played its part. Just at the time when, by the 
making and enforcing of laws where hitherto none had existed, individuality 
and public-spirited union seemed most threatened with destruction, — at so 
critical a moment as this in the college life, the Self-Government Associa- 
tion, with its new laws and new loyalty and new enthusiasm, has come in, 
and so fostered the college spirit that it has come to some of us like a new 

Bryn Mawr owes gratitude for all time to come to our first president, 
whose unfailing energy and tact, and perfect loyalty to Bryn Mawr's best 


interests, have done more than all else put together to carry our Association 
through its first hard year, and leave it, we hope, now firmly set on its feet. 
And with her all honor is due to the rest of our first executive board, who 
have spared neither time nor pains in making the Association, in its aims 
and practical working all that we could most wish for it. At the meeting 
that has already been alluded to, when, after presenting our charter fully 
ratified, the first year's officers and executive board retired from office, a 
vote of thanks was tendered them, with the words that " it was the greatest 
cause of pride to the Association, that, as part of the document that gave 
us our powers, their names were to go down to the college in after years." 
No one, amid the enthusiastic applause that followed, could doubt the 
complete unanimity of the members in their gratitude. 

We have all learned to know this unanimity of feeling and oneness of 
aim. Can we doubt that in this first year of our new experiment, with its 
responsibilities, far greater even than when we ruled each for herself, we 
have come to know in a new and most real sense the " love of Bryn 
Mawr " ? 



" Foliis notas et nomina mandat." — Aen. in., 444. 

// 1 T APPY," says Hawthorne, " are the editors of newspapers! Their 
I I productions excel all others in immediate popularity, and are cer- 
tain to acquire another sort of value with the lapse of time. 
They scatter their leaves to the wind as the sibyl did, and posterity collects 
them to be treasured up among the best materials of its wisdom. With 
hasty pens they write for immortality." 

The same slowly-ripened interest attaches to those old magazines 
wherein, more deliberately, but with reference no less absolute to the topics 
of their own times, our ancestors addressed their daily or weekly audiences. 
In our hurried life, indeed, which makes of even the latest novel or the 
month's half-dozen magazines little more than a Tantalus' feast of title 
pages and illustrations, there is little room for the ephemera of the past. 
One must have made acquaintance with them as a child, must have wearied 
of fairy tales, and strayed away to rows of mottled volumes, stoutly bound, 
or to dusty boxes in the garret, where single numbers of Godcy's Ladies' 
Book lay among misspelt account books, and faded letters in the slender 
handwriting of our grandmothers. The shapeless sacques and embroid- 
ered lappets in the fashion-plates became credible in the sight of their con- 
temporaries hanging in dusky disgrace along the beams ; and the dreami- 
ness of childhood, which softens the vision like the twilight under the eaves, 
lent a charm to the impossibly sentimental heroines and their Reginalds. 
As we grew clearer-sighted the fascination dwindled into amazement that 
such writing could be, after Keats and Miss Austen had lived, and the sen- 
timental novel had wept itself out of literature. Thus the interest of 
maturer years was transferred to the magazines of hardly a generation ago, 
when there flourished an indescribably unique form of American fiction ; 
when echoes of the war were near and frequent ; when discriminating read- 
ers could fill up the blanks in the Atlantic's list of contents with the novel 
names of famous men now dead ; and when unknown critics patronized 
the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table and Essays in Criticism. 


If the taste for browsing upon old magazines be acquired in early 
youth, it is apt to prove a lasting one. In my own case it has lately 
emboldened me to explore those sober and substantial periodicals of the 
latter eighteenth century, the Rambler and the Idler. They are not to be 
called light reading. Though Dr. Johnson borrowed the form and many 
of the favorite topics of the Spectator, he borrowed with them none of the 
volatile graces of Addison's style. Even when the tiny brown volumes of 
the Edinburgh edition have been picked up at a book-stall, for the sake of 
the quaint landscapes and attitudes in their tail-pieces, the purchaser is 
fain to clutch the excuse of the ancient lisping s's for postponing his perusal 
of the yellowed pages. Nevertheless, like Hawthorne's stained colonial 
newspapers, they have their own value. Do they not let us peep from time 
to time behind the scenes of a comedy by Hogarth or Sheridan, and give 
us an occasional glimpse at history when she was nothing but news ? Mrs. 
Hardcastle and the faculty of the " School for Scandal" gain in reality when 
we meet their first cousins in these decorous pages; and it is no small 
privilege to watch fifty thousand soldiers (Mr. Harry Warrington, of Vir- 
ginia, among them) embarking for the " pathless deserts of the Isle of 
Wight," leaving two hundred thousand ladies to " run to Sales and Auc- 
tions without an attendant," and " sit at the play without a critic to direct 
their opinion." 

It was on the twentieth of March, 1750, that the Rambler first 
" endeavoured the entertainment of his countrymen," and his papers were 
published on every Tuesday and Saturday for two years. Six years after 
the Rambler had ended his homilies, the Idler began to discourse in less 
elaborated speech, whose solemn commonplaces were reserved for advising 
a correspondent, or pointing the moral of an allegory. The Idler covers, 
therefore, the early years of the Seven Years War, when the great Pitt was 
supporting the great Frederick in Hanover, and trifling with the French at 
Louisbourg. The first numbers chronicle the defeat of Braddock, and the 
petty incursions on the French coast, with sarcastic comments upon British 
prowess. They remind the ladies who lament the " men in scarlet " that 
their lap-dogs and monkeys remain. Should not these companions prove 
satisfactory (since even a parrot " has neither sword nor shoulder-knot ")the 


Idler suggests that their mistresses join the army. " I cannot find," he 
remarks, " that a modern soldier has any duties which a lady cannot per- 
form. If the hair has lost its powder, a Lady has a puff; if a coat be spotted, 
a Lady has a brush." Again, following the precept " learn of an enemy," 
he broaches a scheme for giving courage to the troops, which he has bor- 
rowed from the French knight who trained his dogs to tear a pasteboard 
dragon filled with beef and mutton. " Let a fortification," he says, " be raised 

on Salisbury Plain Let the soldiers, from some proper eminence, 

see shirts waving upon lines, and here and there a plump Landlady hurrying 
about with pots in her hands." If the soldiers be led thither, fasting, at 
dinner-time, and " if nobody within either moves or speaks," they may per- 
haps be encouraged by the smell of roast meat to enter the place by storm. 
Having dined, and returned to camp, they are to go through the same exer- 
cise every day, with "gradations of danger." " Sometimes, as they mount 
the rampart, a Cook may throw fat upon the fire, to accustom them to a 
sudden blaze ; and sometimes, by the clatter of empty pots, they may be 
inured to formidable noises." In a month, the French prisoners may be 
placed upon the walls ; at first, " their hands must be tied, but they may be 
allowed to grin." Finally, the Idler is of opinion that " by a proper mixture 
of Asses, Bulls, Turkeys, Geese and Tragedians," a noise may be produced 
" equally horrid with the war-cry," after which crucial test the troops may 
be led to action as men who are no longer to be frightened. 

Though Johnson himself "did not much like to see a Whig in any 
dress," the Idler, like Addison, was attentive to the evils of party-stripe, 
and could jest reasonably upon both extremes of bigotry. He has the same 
placid smile for the Whiggish apprehensions (suggestive of Barnaby Rudge 
and the Gordon riots of twenty years later,) indulged by Jack Sneaker, who 
" often rejoices that the nation was not enslaved by the Irish," and is " hourly 
disturbed by the dread of Popery ;" and for the Tory superstitions cherished 
by Tom Restless, who " wonders that the Nation was not awakened by the 
hard frost to a revocation of the true king," and " considers the new road to 
Islington as an encroachment on liberty.'" It is noticeable, however, that 
the good Doctor gives the more honorable nickname to the fanatic of his 
own party. 


The Idler is less observant of the minutiae of fashion, of the 

"Mall of Beaux that bent, 
Of Belles that bridled ;" 

than that taciturn haunter of clubs and theatres, " Mr. Spectator." In spite 
of his uncouthness, and frequent surliness, the Doctor had elaborated many 
theories of good-breeding, and could show himself, on occasion, a master of 
sincere and delicate courtesy, or of well-turned compliments. Nevertheless, 
though he had among his friends great ladies as well as "blues," his natural 
place was not beside the season's " flight of beauties." Now and then, he 
notes the revival of " that ancient ornament, the bracelet," or supports the 
complaint of a maid against her mistress, who hints at the candles by asking 
" if her eyes are like a cat's," and at the curling-tongs, by talking of Medusa 
and snakes. He sympathizes with the beau, whose mother gave him no 
education, because " she had known very few students that had not some 
stiffness in their manner," and " would not suffer so fine a child to be 
ruined." He reproves a fashionable affectation by the assurance that, like 
Sir Hugh in the comedy, he likes it not when a woman has a beard, and 
must therefore warn the gentle Phyllis that she send him " no more letters 
from the Horse-guards," and " require of Belinda that she be content to 
resign her pretensions to feminine elegance till she has lived three weeks 
without hearing the politicks of Batson's coffee-house." The greater 
number of his correspondents, however, are homely middle-class folk. 
One of them is Mr. Treacle, the grocer, who complains that his wife idles 
away the whole day behind his counter, putting him to charges for a maid 
to keep the house ; whereto the wife replies, in a later number, that unless 
she watches him, he runs off to beggar himself at the ale-house. Another, 
who was "bred a sugar-baker," is able to set up a chaise and pair; his 
summer diversion is to drive his friends and family from one nobleman's 
seat to another, like Mr. Ruskin's father, with the aim, however, of improving 
his knowledge, not of the pictures, but of the pedigrees and inter-marriages 
of the owners. Another, who would make a figure in the world, is young 
Wainscot, who promised to become the pink and paragon of eighteenth 
century shop-keepers ; had caught the careless air with which a small pair of 


scales is to be held between the fingers, and the vigour and sprightliness with 
which the box, after the ribband has been cut, is returned to its place; 
bowed " down to the counter's edge at the entrance and departure of every 
customer ; " and made it his constant practice " in any intermission of busi- 
ness ... to peruse the ledger ; " but who has now thrown away his 
chances of an aldermanship, to dress in a laced coat, and carry silver, " for 
readiness," in his waist-coat pocket. 

Though lines of class distinction were more rigidly drawn, social 
advancement was as eagerly sought in Johnson's day as in Thackeray's. 
Certain personages, indeed, might have strayed into the Rambler from 
the " Book of Snobs." There is the city woman, for instance, who removed 
to a fashionable quarter, and at once forgot her old friends, after she had 
pushed her way to " the card table of Lady Biddy Porpoise, a lethargic virgin 
of seventy-six," whom all the families in the next square visited very 
punctually when she was not at home. There are the callers to whom 
Mistress Peggy Heartless's apartments, on the second floor, furnish conver- 
sation. " Lady Stately told us how many years had passed since she 
climbed so many steps. Miss Airy ran to the window and thought it 
charming to see the walkers so little in the street." An anticipation of 
Thackeray's mock heroics sounds in the solemn warning, " Let no man from 
this time suffer his felicity to depend on the death of his aunt," uttered by 
the young man "untainted with a lucrative employment," who has grown 
so used to waiting for a fortune handed on from one spinster aunt to 
another, that the death of the youngest finds him unable to enjoy his 

Other forms of social ambition were less simple than these of wealth 
and good company. The fancy of Ned Drugget, a dealer in remnants, who 
had risen " to the highest dignities of a shop-keeper," was to change his 
dwelling over the shop for country lodgings at Islington, where he spent the 
tedious hours between breakfast and supper at his window, " counting the 
carriages as they passed before him." The frequency with which corres- 
pondents protest an enthusiasm for rural retirement, as fervent as Mr. 
Drugget's, would seem to bear some relation to that reawakening of romantic 
feeling for natural beauty which found its early expression in the works of 


Thomson, Collins, Macpherson, Howies and their fellows, and was finally to 
become the inspiration of Byron and Shelley, Keats and Wordsworth. 
Johnson himself, though he carried on a crusade against the modern Ossian, 
and professed little liking for scenery (which, indeed, he could hardly • i ), 
declared that he went to Scotland to behold not only " peculiar manners," 
but also " wild objects — mountains — waterfalls." We may guess, notwith- 
standing, that at a time when the landscapes of Wilson and Constable found 
no one to buy them, and where such lines as Thomson's 

" The uncurling floods diffused 
In glassy breadth, seem, through delusive lapse, 
Forgetful of their course " 

and Beattie's 

' The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, 
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields " 

could pass for transcripts of nature, the general taste for rusticity was little 
better than an ignorant affectation. That the Doctor thought so may be 
gathered from the misfortunes of his country-seeking correspondents. " I 
never pitied thee before," writes to a friend, one youth, who has just alighted 
from his post-chaise; " I am now, as I could wish every man of wisdom and 
virtue to be, in the regions of calm content and placid meditation ; . . . the 
birds are chirping in the hedges, and the flowers blooming in the mead ; the 
breeze is whistling in the woods, and the sun dancing on the water." When 
this meditator walks abroad, however, he suffers " some inconvenience 
from the furze that pricks his legs ; " and when he rides, he is cheated by 
the innocent peasants, and falls with his blind horse into the ditch. The 
enthusiastic Euphelia, a " modish lady," deluded by the reading of pastorals 
into a two months' visit to the country, is wondering, at the end of one 
week, how she is to exist for the remaining seven. " I have tried," she 
says, " to sleep by a brook, but find its murmurs ineffectual ; so that I am 
forced to be awake at least twelve hours, without laughter, and without 
flattery." Worst of all, she cannot even " dress with spirit," for she has 
neither admirer nor rival. 


To return from our own digression into the country, to the rustical 
ambitions of Mr. Drugget, we may match them with the pretensions to 
taste of a "City wit." Truly the despised guild of men of letters, to whose 
respectability Johnson's own personality had borne such honorable testi- 
mony, had risen in the public estimation, before a merchant who had often 
" been invited to dinner openly on the Exchange, by one hundred thousand 
pound men," could lock himself " in an upper room, for six or seven hours a 
day," to indulge an imaginary genius for " Tragick Poetry." " I would 
gladly, Mr. Idler," cries the would-be wit's unfortunate wife, "be informed 
what to think of a shop-keeper who is incessantly talking about liberty. 
. . What can the man mean ? I am sure he has liberty enough." 
Madam has no good opinion of the stage. " I went to a tragedy, which 
they called Macbeth, and when I came home, told him that I could not 
bear to see men and women make themselves such fools, by pretending to 
be witches and ghosts, generals and kings, and to walk in their sleep, 
when they were as much awake as those that looked at them." 

However the profession of letters had increased in honor, it was as 
yet hardly lucrative. The garret was still " the usual receptacle of the 
philosopher and poet," says Johnson, in the delightful, mock-serious, hun- 
dred-and-fifteenth Rambler, wherein he explains the fable that stationed 
the Muses on Mount Parnassus, by a demonstration of the wholesome 
effects of altitude upon the brain. " I never think myself qualified," he de- 
clares, "to judge decisively of any man's faculties, whom I have only 
known in one degree of elevation ; but take some opportunity of attending 
him from the cellar to the garret, and try upon him all the various degrees 
of rarefaction and condensation." Nevertheless, in a treatise so exhaust- 
ive, he cannot, of course, avoid mention of the common belief, which he 
seeks to discredit, " that the garret is generally chosen by the wits, as most 
easily rented ; or as remoter than any other part of the house from the 
outer door, which is often observed to be infested by visitants, who talk inces- 
santly of beer, or linen, or a coat, and repeat "the same sounds every morning, 
and sometimes again in the afternoon " in a monotone "always detestable to 
a man whose chief pleasure is ... to vary his ideas." The theory 
of mental expansion is persuasive, but that of duns and small rents is more 


convincing. Smollett at this time, in his account of" an assembly of greeks," 

in " Humphrey Clinker," called authorship " at best but a desperate 
resource against starving." An author without great friends to give him 
an office or a pension, must depend for his living upon hack-work or flat- 
tery. The Rambler tells of more than one hapless collegian, who 
haunted the coffee houses, and earned his wine by long practice in laughter. 

Poverty of purse was not alone in its dependence upon the coffee- 
houses, full, as Congreve says, " of smoke and stratagem." Poverty of wit, 
also, sought replenishment there, from the abundant interchange of jest and 
opinion. To my mind there is a hint of Mr. Boswell, of Auchinleck — 
anxiously listening, with his chair at Johnson's elbow, — in the description of 
the " ambulatory student," who, wishing to be a man of knowledge, but 
not caring to spend much time among books, has " found another way to 
wisdom." In the morning, " he goes into a coffee-house, where he creeps 
so near to men whom he takes to be reasoners as to hear their discourse ;" 
at night " he always runs to a disputing society, or a speaking club, where 
he half hears, what if he had heard the whole, he would but half under- 
stand ;" and finally goes home " pleased with the consciousness of a day 
well spent." By this means such a scholar, in other men's words, hopes 
in time to talk himself. Then he will head a party in the pit, and play the 
oracle, without danger of contradiction, by discovering in Swift "an inimi- 
table vein of irony," and in Otway " uncommon powers of moving the 
passions;" by " degrading Pope from a poet to a versifier, [a criticism for 
which we of the nineteenth century are apt to take sole credit to ourselves] 
and declaring his numbers rather luscious than sweet." If his aspirations 
reach beyond pre-eminence in conversation, he will attain, perhaps, to the 
anxieties of Misellus, who has lately published a book, and not only per- 
ceives himself shunned by all his acquaintance, " like the lion in the desert," 
but has reason to believe himself dogged by eleven painters, whom he tries 
to confound by changing his wig, and wearing his hat over his eyes. 

Another expedient for obtaining fame without wit, was that of the 
virtuoso. The history of one of these diligent gentlemen is told at length 
by himself, with some account also of his father, who once, unreasonably, 
"fretted at the expense of only ten shillings," for the sting of a hornet, 


" though it was a cold, moist summer, in which very few hornets had been 
seen." The son, coming to his fortune, disdains to cultivate a single science. 
He has a taste for old glass, which leads him to lament that he " was not 
one of that happy generation, who demolished the convents and broke 
windows by law." It is through his care that Britain can boast of a snail 
that has crawled upon the wall of China. He collects antiquities, but 
chooses " only by intrinsic worth and real usefulness, without regard to 
party ;" therefore he keeps in the same drawer " sand scraped from the 
coffin of King Richard, and a commission signed by Henry the Seventh.'' 
The biologist of the present era may find entertainment in seeing classed 
with these harmless and profitless follies, other practices of the same 
collector. " As Alfred received the tribute of the Welsh in wolves' heads, 
I allowed my tenants to pay their rents in butterflies, till I had exhausted the 
papilionaceous tribe. . . . One of my tenants so much neglected his 
own interest as to supply me in a whole summer with only two horse-flies. 
I was upon the point of seizing for arrears, when his good fortune 
threw a white mole in his way for which he was not only forgiven, but 
rewarded." Evidently the germs of modern science were already stirring 
in those days of Greek and Latin and little other learning. A spirit of 
enlightened scepticism breathes in the theories of another philosopher who 
has doubts of the existence of Alexander the Great ; and a just valuation of 
the experimental method is apparent in the proposals of a third (who 
believes the first man to have been a quadruped) — " that at the Foundling 
Hospital some children should be inclosed in an apartment in which the 
nurses should be obliged to walk half upon four, and half upon two legs, 
that the younglings being " bred without the prejudice of example, . . . 
might at last come forth into the world as genius should direct, erect or 

We are brought yet nearer to our own day, however, when we find 
ourselves, already in the year 1 750, amid stormy discussions concerning the 
education of girls. True, the whole question has moved forward a little 
since then. Few conservatives of the present would approve of the limits 
to knowledge fixed by Sir Anthony Absolute, or agree with the matron who 
kept her daughters at the preserving kettle, lest they should give their 


minds to reading, and unlike Mrs. Malaprop, " learn to use hard words." 
No one among us would uphold the practice of that careful housewife 
whose children were kept all day at their embroidery in a room lighted 
only by a skylight, so that, according to their disconsolate father, " Kitty 
knows not, at sixteen, the difference between a Protestant and a Papist, 
because she has been employed three years in filling the side of a closet 
with a hanging that is to represent Cranmer in the flames," and Dolly and 
Sukey are no wiser. 

The opposite and more radical opinion did not, even in 1750, lack 
partisans whose erudition apparently outstripped that of the most learned 
of their feminine descendants. We can believe of Flavia, that she drove 
the old parson to rub the dust from his neglected Homer ; and of Myrtilla, 
that she had to endure the civilities of young Squire Surly, only until she 
" learned to talk of subjects which he could not understand." But only 
in the imagination of her critics exists the college girl, who could, like 
Misothea, answer a proposal of marriage with a dissertation in denial of the 
freedom of the will. 

In these old pages it is not only the enduring controversy as to whether 
learning to read spoils Betty for her broom, and Lady Betty for small talk, 
that savours of our modern life. Many tokens, slight but indubitable, show 
how fashions change, but Fashion abides forever. The buyer of bargains 
for instance, who now haunts the crowds of every Christmas, was already 
hurrying from one small dark shop to another, one hundred and forty years 
ago. "Whatever she thinks cheap, she holds it the economist to buy." 
" Every advertisement of a warehouse newly opened, is in her pocket-book, 
and she knows before any of her neighbors, when the stock of any man 
' leaving off trade ' is to be sold cheap for ready money. . . . As she 
cannot bear to have anything incomplete, one purchase necessitates 
another." She has more feather-beds than she can use, and " a late sale 
has supplied her with five quilts for every bed, which she bought because 
the fellow told her that if she would clear his hands, he would let her have 
a Bargain." "She employs workmen to adjust six clocks that never go, 
. and pays the rent for the place of a vast copper in some ware- 
house, because, when we live in the country, we shall brew our own beer." 


Upon the style of 'the advertisements, which act like siren-songs 
upon this wondering purchaser, — a style not unfamiliar to our ears, — the 
Idler offers certain criticisms in another number. " Genius," he says, " is 
shown only by Invention. . . . The man who first took advantage 
of the general curiosity that was excited by a siege or a battle, to betray 
the Readers of News into the knowledge of the shop where the best Puffs 
and Powder were to be sold, was undoubtedly a man of great sagacity 
and profound skill in the Nature of man." " Promise, large promise," he 
continues, " is the soul of an advertisement. . . . There are some, 
however, that know the prejudice of mankind in favour of sincerity. The 
vender of the Beautifying Fluid sells a lotion that . . . smooths the 
skin, and plumps the flesh, and yet with a generous abhorrence of ostentation, 
confesses that it will not restore the bloom of fifteen to a Lady of fifty." To 
the " celebrated author who gave, in his notifications of the Camel and the 
Dromedary, so many specimens of the genuine sublime," the critic gives 
warning that "the noblest objects may be so associated as to be made 
ridiculous." "The Camel and Dromedary themselves, might have lost much 
of their dignity between The True Flower of Mustard and The Original 
Daffy's Elixir ;" and one cannot but feel indignation at finding an "illus- 
trious Indian Warrior, immediately succeeded by a Fresh parcel of Dublin 

We feel at home among the paragraphs that bear witness to an 
increasing passion for notoriety. The nineteenth century is not the first 
to enjoy seeing itself in print. The Idler might protest ; but it was none 
the less imperative, — if only to advertise the bridegroom's stock-in-trade, — 
to tell the town when " Timothy Mushroom, an eminent mercnant in Sea- 
Coal Lane, was married to Miss Polly Mohair, of Lothbury," omitting no 
particular of the bride's fortune and accomplishments. Had the lady that 
rode " a thousand miles in a thousand hours," but ridden a century or so 
later, she might have won more substantial rewards than " all the flowers of 
spring," but she could not have enjoyed louder acclamations. There is 
manifest no less desire to write than to be written about : " the Cook 
warbles her Lyrics in the Kitchen, and the Thresher vociferates his Heroics 
in the Barn," while every gentleman, like Sir Benjamin Backbite, fills his 


pockets " with Essays and Epigrams, which lie reads from house to house, 
to select parties." Complaints are already whispered against the multiplica- 
tion of books of Elegant Extracts or popular manuals of science, compiled, at 
no risk of originality, each one from two others. 

The greatest charm of the Spectator is wanting to the Rambler and its 
companion; the pleasant continuity of human interest which takes most 
definite forms in the papers on Sir Roger de Coverley, — those gentle fore- 
runners of our more eventful serials, — but which in a less degree connects 
all the essays with the individuality of the short-faced Mr. Spectator him- 
self. Whether the voice behind the quaint and amiable mask be Addi- 
son, or Steele, or Budgell or some other, the personality is always that im- 
parted by Addison in his first number. The Idler and the Rambler have 
no such distinct physiognomy. Nevertheless, a reader familiar with that 
colossal portrait that Boswell drew with the fine strokes of a miniature, can 
spy here and there the peculiarities of the good old Doctor. When he 
introduces himself as the " Idler "• — " because there is no appellation by 
which a writer can better denote his kindred to the human species," he is 
jesting for the moment with that native sluggishness for which at every 
Eastertide he was wont to offer up such penitent prayers. There is no 
need to tell us that he is laughing at himself again in the thirty-first Rambler 
under the character of " Sober," whose quick imagination is always at strife 
with his love of ease. " Mr. Sober's chief pleasure is conversation ; there 
is no end of his talk or his attention ; to speak or to hear is equally pleas- 
ing , for he still fancies that he is teaching or learning something, and is 
free for the time from his own reproaches. But there is one time at night 
when he must go home, that his friends may sleep ; and another time in 
the morning, when all the world agrees to shut out interruption. These 
are the moments of which poor Sober trembles at the thought." To alle- 
viate the misery of these tiresome intervals he has " supplied himself with 
the tools of a carpenter," with which he mended his coal-box very success- 
fully ; " has attempted at other times the crafts of the Shoemaker, 
Tinman, Plumber and Potter; . . . and finds his daily amusement 
in chemistry." " Poor Sober ! " moralizes Johnson ; " I have often teazed 
him with reproof, and he has often promised reformation 


What will be the effect of this paper I know not ; perhaps he will read it, 
and laugh, and light the fire in his furnace ; but my hope is that he will quit 
his trifles, and betake himself to rational and useful diligence." 

The very elaboration and rotundity of Johnson's periods, so remote 
from the suggestive brevity of modern style, proclaims the essential quality 
of the man. His outward appearance, his rolling gait, his clumsy brown 
coat, his beneficence to his cat and to his quarrelsome pensioners, — these 
things are familiar to all the world ; we are apt, however, to forget how 
often his autocratic, " Sir," — broke in upon some speciousness of careless 
speech, only to show the dangerous fallacy beneath. His corresponding 
formula of address for a lady was, " Madam, we must distinguish." John- 
son's periods, and even his long words, were necessary to his minute dis- 
criminations ; he pushed his clauses into every cranny and crevice of his 
subject. In the struggles of debate, he might, like the unstable Greek who 
scandalized the elder Cato, play at making the worse appear the better reason, 
but his permanent convictions were just and serious as Cato's own. " Innu- 
merable commonplace men are debating, are talking everywhere their com- 
monplace doctrines, which they have learned by logic, by rote, at second 
hand," complains Carlyle, inveighing against the eighteenth century, " it 
was in virtue of his sincerity that Johnson was a prophet." Indeed, the 
Rambler would have been not merely unpopular, but impossible, had not 
the author of its reiterated moralities been trusted by his more earnest read- 
ers, somewhat as Emerson, Ruskin and Carlyle himself have been trusted 
by their own disciples. 

" I hold old Johnson," writes Thackeray in the Four Georges, " to 
be the great supporter of the English monarchy and Church during the last 
age — better than whole benches of bishops, better than Pitts, Norths and 
the great Burke himself, Johnson had the ear of the nation ; his immense 
authority reconciled it to loyalty, and shamed it out of irreligion. When 
George III. talked with him, and the people heard the great author's good 
opinion of the sovereign, whole generations rallied to the King." Nor was 
this authority exerted merely to prop up the established forms of law and 
order ; conservative though he was, the good Doctor had more than one 
reform at heart. " What a humanity the old man had ! " cries Thackeray 


again. " He was a kindly partaker of all honest pleasures ; a fierce foe 
to all sin, but a gentle enemy to all sinners." 

For two classes of culprits in particular he pleads with public opinion. 
Now he renews Sir Thomas More's protest against the Draconian law that 
dealt the punishment of death, without discrimination, to the deliberate 
murderer, and the starving, pilfering child ; again, he relates how, in passing 
under one of the city gates, he was "struck with horror" by the rueful cry 
of " Remember the poor debtors ; " and takes up the statistical cudgel 
to wage the war against imprisonment for debt, which Dickens was later to 
fight with less unwieldy weapons. 

It was characteristic of that rhetorical age that Johnson should aver, 
before he began the Idler, that he knew exactly how to introduce and to 
conclude the series, but that he had nothing to say in the intervening papers. 
As we have so far been occupied only with his lighter papers, it may make 
our view of his periodical essays more complete, if we close this slight sketch 
of them with that solemn exhortation wherewith Johnson chose to end the 
Idler, on the Saturday before Easter, 1759. " I hope," he says, " that my 
readers are already disposed to view every incident with seriousness, and 
improve it by meditation, and that when they see this series of trifles brought 
to a conclusion, they will consider that by outliving the Idler, they have 
passed weeks, months and years which are now no longer in their power; 
that an end must in time be put to everything great, as to everything little ; 
that to life must come its last hour, and to this system of being its last day, 
the hour at which probation ceases, and repentance will be in vain ; the day 
in which every work of the hand and imagination of the heart shall be 
brought to judgment, and an everlasting futurity shall be determined by the 

Mabel Parker Clark, '89. 



Once, a little while ago, 'twas so warm and still 

Down here, in this soft, dark place. Now I feel a thrill 

Darting through me. Shivering, quivering, bursts my wrappage brown, 

Struggling, striving, something in me reaches up and down. 

Ah ! it must be death, this anguish that I cannot understand. 

One inch more, — I lift my head above the parted mold. 

Oh ! what rapture ! Falling on me something sweet and gold, 

Something humming, singing, moving, growing on each side ; 

High above me a blue glory stretching far and wide, — 

And I know 'twas life, that anguish that I could not understand. 

Mary E. Hoyt, 'g2. 



THE patient had stopped his restless tossing and lay on his back in a 
troubled sleep. No sound broke the stillness of the room save the 
heavy breathing of the sick man and the patter of rain that drove 
against the window pane like sharp tacks. I looked across the bed at the 
nurse who sat with folded hands, gazing straight before her ; her head was 
in shadow, but her cap gleamed white against the dark curtain drawn at her 
back. I watched her in silence ; there was an air of quiet alertness in her 
attitude which chained my attention. Some time passed. A clock in a 
distant part of the house struck the hour; the patient stirred in his sleep. 
The nurse leaned forward and moved his pillows slightly. As she sat down 
again she met my gaze with a full thoughtful look in return. 

" He is quieter now," she said, in a low, even tone ; " the last dose is 
beginning to tell. You had better take some rest yourself, it has been a 
hard strain upon you." 

I shook my head. " No, I should rather watch with you. I could 
not sleep." 

She made no opposition, but merely remarking, " You have a long 
time still before you," took up her old position at the bedside. I turned 
my eyes toward the sick man. His head showed darkly on the pillow in 
the dim light of the room. Sickness had drawn stiff lines around his half- 
opened mouth. His features looked badly changed and enlarged in his 
hollow face. 

I stared at him half-fascinated, half-repelled ; it was as though a stranger 
lay in the bed. 

" He has changed a good bit," said the nurse, quietly taking up the 
thread of my thoughts. " It is the fever that does it." She lightly traced 
with her finger the sunken socket of his eyes. "Yes," she repeated, '' he 
has changed a good bit ; see how he has fallen away here." 

A rush of almost uncontrollable emotion swept over me as her finger 
touched his face. A moment before I had felt strangely indifferent. Foolish 
fancies and trivial incidents had raced through my brain during the long 
night watch. The room had seemed unfamiliar, the white figure in the bed 


before me part of a curious dream, but the nurse's simple action stung me 
out of my numbness and the quick tears rushed to my eyes. She looked at 
me with a grave, kindly gaze. " Bless you," she said, " I have had many 
worse than that ; you're not accustomed to sick people, I take it ? " 

" It is the first time I have seen real illness," I whispered, " and he is 
so helpless !" 

"Ah," she gave me another quiet stare, "there is the woman in you. 
None of us can stand helplessness in men ; it touches the mother in us, I 
guess. I never saw a woman whose heart didn't set up a cry at weakness 
in a strong man. Never," she repeated thoughtfully, " save once." "When 
was it?" I said, wiping my eyes. The nurse was quite still for a few 
moments. She had folded her hands in her old attitude, and was looking 
straight before her at the wall opposite. I thought she had not heard my 

" I never could understand the grounds she had for acting so," she 
began suddenly. " She wasn't such a light thing ; you'd have understood 
it if she had been, but I've seen her walk her boy up and down the room 
when he was ailing, as gentle and as motherly as you could wish for. She 
was always very patient with her children, and let them bother her much 
more than many another woman I've seen. They were fond of her, too, 
and when they broke their playthings, they would take them to her to 
mend, and she would pretend to cry over them, and then she'd put them to 
rights again. She was very handy at such things, and they'd all laugh 
together. I've seen her husband look at her at such times with his heart 
in his eyes, and if she would look up and see him, she would get up and 
leave the room. He was consumptive. I had the care of him for many a 
week. They were rich people and had a very grand way of living. I don't 
know what the trouble between them was, or if there ever was any trouble. 
She was always kind and gentle to him. She was to every one, but I never 
saw her lay her hand on him during all the long weeks I was in the house. 
She was very gay all that time. He said he wanted her to go out. So, 
night after night she would come into his room in her trailing dresses, with 
her diamonds shining around her bare throat, and stand at his bedside, 
looking down at him for a few moments, and then she would say, " You 


must go to sleep now, good-night ! " and off she'd go. He would nol say 
anything, but would lie quite still until he heard the front door shut and 
the carriage roll down the street, and then the lever would come on and he 
would toss and turn until morning brought her back'. She never came to 
his door again, but he would sit up in bed and listen to her footsteps on the 
stairs, as she stopped at the nursery door and listened to the children's 
breathing, and then went on to her own room above. Then he'd begin his 
thrashing around, and so on till daylight. 

Well, things went on this way for a good bit. After a time she gave up 
going out, but would stay upstairs with the children or have people in the 
house with her. 1 didn't see much of her those days. Her husband used 
to speak of her sometimes. " My wife is not very strong," he would say; 
" she can't bear the sight of sickness. I do not think she ought to come 
in often to see me, do you ? She is not very strong." He said this to me 
one day after one of his bad spells, sitting up in his chair, looking at me 
with his eyes burning like coals in his livid face. I was a bit unnerved 
myself and snapped out suddenly, " Your wife does not need to be told to 
keep away ; she can take care of her own health well enough." I was 
frightened after I had said it. I thought he would strike me, his eyes 
blazed so, but he only cried a moment later, " You don't understand," and 
then fell to shaking and whimpering, — for he was very weak by this time 
" She doesn't understand ! Good God ! " 

Then I made up my mind to speak to his wife. She might turn me out. 
I did not care, but speak I had to. So when he had fallen asleep through 
sheer exhaustion, I went upstairs to look for her. I found her trying on a 
gown that had just come home. She was in a gay humour and I heard her 
laugh as I knocked at the door. The children were dancing around her and 
clapping their hands at her beauty. When I said that I wanted to speak to 
her she sent them away with a kiss. " Is anything wrong?" she said, turning 
to me when the door was shut. " Yes, there is," I said, leaning bolt up against 
it. " There is something very wrong, and I want you to better it. Maybe it 
is not my place to speak, but there doesn't seem to be any one else to say a 
thing that needs saying. Your husband is dying pretty fast." I saw her 
cheeks grow pale at this. " You can't help this, but you can help his eating 


his heart out with longing for you. I am not saying that it's your fault that 
you don't give him what he wants. I don't know who is to blame, but he's 
dying, and I want you to go to him. That's what I'm here for." She got 
up very still and white. " I will go to him," she said gently ; " what do )'ou 
want me to do ? I will do whatever you tell me." Then I lost my temper. 
"Tell you," I cried; "are you a woman ? Here is a man who is going 
down into the grave and wants nothing of life but a sight of you 
to give him Heaven, and you ask me what you are to do. Lie to 
him, that's what you're to do. If God hasn't put a soul into that 
soft, white body of yours, pretend you have one. That's what you're to 
do." She looked at me as though I had lost my senses. I guess I had 
for the time. Then, without another word, she gathered up her long red 
dress and ran downstairs. I followed close on her. She went quietly into 
the room. Her husband turned at her entrance. He looked ghastly in the 
firelight, — his face was yellow as wax, and his lips were grey and drawn. 
She drew back for a second and let her train fall from her arm. Then she 
went quickly towards him and stooped over his chair. He gave a hoarse 
gasp, caught her in his arms, and kissed her savagely many times. She did 
not resist him, but took it all quite quietly, and then got up with her hair 
all ruffled by his kisses, and the colour back again in her cheeks. " Is that 
what you wanted ? " she said in her soft, clear voice, turning and looking at 
me. " Have I done it right ? " He fell back in his chair with a groan like 
a poor stricken thing. Then she picked up her shining dress and went 
gently out of the room without once looking behind. 

" That was the end," said the nurse ; " he died soon after that. He 
never asked for her again, and I made no more trips upstairs. He slipped 
away one night when he had been unconscious for hours. I did not have 
to break the news to his wife, and never knew how she took it. I dare say 
she looked very pretty in her widow's mourning. And now, if you will 
fetch me that bottle on the shelf, I will give Mr. Trask his dose." 

Lanrctte Eustis Potts, 'gf. 



Through many lands, o'er many a purple deep 

Borne on, O brother dear, to thee I come, 

To offer these last rites at thy sad tomb, 
To sigh in pain o'er ashes hushed in sleep. 
Though fate has snatched thee now from my embrace, 

Ah ! brother mine, so harshly torn from me ! 

Yet may these last poor gifts be dear to thee, 
These holy rites come down from race to race. 
Accept them, dear lost one, for that they tell 

A breaking heart, are wet with honest tears ; 

And now and in the far-off future years 
Hail ! brother mine, sweet brother, and farewell ! 

Evangeline Holcombe Walker, '<?? 



That's the thing yonder — on the table there ; 
Next to the Browning over on the right. 
That's what she sent me. This is what she wrote : 
' Do you see this box ? 

'Tis home work made to catch 
The odds and trifles of Minerva's craft 
Needed to reparate time's ravages 
And wear and tear of summer's journeying. 
There's a knack (learned from my mother) 
Of building up the structure. Just a box 
O' the right proportions deftly cut from tin 
(Strength you see — adhesion to the shape) 
Pricked through with perforations o'er its face 
T' effect the needed lightness o' the mass ; 
This then you take and neatly cover o'er 
With stuff o' the tannery duly dressed and dyed 
To just the proper brownness and no more, 
Cut with slash here, snip there o' the scissors 
To the premeditated contour; lined with silk 
Of color to suit the individual eye 
And criss-crossed o'er and o'er in stylish wise. 
Next then conterminously baste them down 
And with dexterity bind round the whole 
To temper off the rawness of the edge. 
Put piece to piece as each befits its place, 
Make firm the edges with a stitch or so 
And, since the being o' the thing demands excuse, 
Look to the inside fixings. This achieved, 
Snip ! Rip o' the bastings— out they fly 
And there you've got a workbox fit to use. 

So much for the method. Now a word or two 

On the ivhyfor o' the making — a mere whimsy i' the brain, 

Product o' sweaty sultry summer morn 

Late gasped out here in Spruce St. 

Take the gaud, 
If so the taking please you — knowing well 
That taking is but giving of a grace. 


Mayhap 'twill chancely serve a ready turn 

In sonic cathedral town where holy thoughts 

Afford no remedy for holey garb. 

And when, with conscious pricking o' the quick, 

Haply you're sewing what by chance is ripped 

Think that a pricking conscience (pardon pray ! ) 

Is reaping what it has already sowed. 

Odds Pumpkins ! And a sorry crop it is — 

Scarce worth the toil o' the digging. Yet no doubt 

'Twill eke me a sufficient livelihood 

To keep corporeal vigor from decline. 

And body nourished thus — why there's the soul ; 

'Twere none the worse for chewing on such cud. 

(Mixed metaphor ? Let pass ; the meaning's plain. 

My soul can chew when that the case demands ; 

And, if the metre here demand a case, 

My soul's sole business is to masticate.) 

So, to continue where the thread was broke — 

Gastric vacuity once plenified 

And soul cud-glutted, then's the appointed time . 

To shake a leg and hustle to life's work 

With girding o' loin and lighting up o' lamp 

(With due precaution to the kerosene) 

And eye tear-dried for vision o' the way. 

That's needful, mark me that the eye be clear 

And free from watery superfluity 

Might warp the straightness o' the visual ray, 

Muddle the pathway where the feet must tread 

And land us, splosh ! i' the mire. 

Well, no more. 
Action behooves us. — not mere verbiage 
And idle, prating inefficiency 
That wastes itself i' the utterance and is lost. 
All good be with you ever. Now farewell." 

Edith Rockwell Hall, '92. 



Naevia sex cyathis ; scptcm Justina bibatur. Mart. Epic I. 72. 
Six cups to Naevia, to Justina seven. 

// r I MTERE are several arts," says a late ingenious writer, " which all 
men arc in some measure master of without having been at 
the pains of learning them." Many a man would account him- 
self a master, without education, of the art of tea-drinking. But, methinks, 
a little serious reflection on the matter will incline him to withdraw his pre- 
tensions, and avow himself but ill-versed in the fine distinctions of this deli- 
cate art. When accordingly he has reached this proper stage of humility, 
let him study the following letter which I received not long since. It will 
sufficiently explain its own intentions, so that I shall give it my reader 
at length, without either preface or postscript : 

Mr. Editor : — 

It has been my good fortune of late to have my attention directed to 
a matter of no light import, and one on which I have hitherto but little 
reflected, to wit, the making and drinking of tea. Some weeks ago I 
received an invitation from a young kinswoman of mine to drink tea with 
her on the following Thursday afternoon, in that haunt of erudition and 
elegance, Bryn Mawr. I was a stranger to the place, but found my destina- 
tion without difficulty by means of a small square of pasteboard attached to 
the door, on which was inscribed in a delicate female hand : 

Mistress Aurelia Pennistone 
Her Lodgings. 

Beneath this a small sign informed me 

Importer of Oolong and Repar-tca. 

I raised the knocker ; and my call was answered by my pretty cousin, who 
was attired in a dainty gown, partly covered by a long garment of sombre 
black. On her head she wore a curious structure of black broadcloth and 


tassel, which T have since been credibly informed is denominated a mortar- 
board. She received me with a gentle gravity, and led me by the hand into 
a charmingly ordered study, where she presented me to her three compan- 
ions, treating mc with as great a courtesy as though I had been a smart 
young coxcomb, rather than an hum-drum old gentleman of sixty odd 
years. Miss Such-a-one — I shall call them all by feigned names — rolled 
towards the fire for me a large leathern chair, one of whose arms was 
weakened by long service. She patted it with affection, saying, " We call 
our old friend ' the Wreck,' but we think you will find it to your liking." 

While my hostess Aurelia set about the tea-making, I warmed my 
hands over the blaze of the coals ; meantime embracing the opportunity to 
look about me, acquaint myself with her surroundings, and listen to the 
pretty unreserved discourse of her companions. These were seated in a 
large window-seat luxuriously furnished with plump cushions and flounced 
with gay flowered chintz. 

The sun was setting and its last rays illumined the dim apartment, 
throwing their light on two pictures which I was told were the " Beata 
Beatrix," of Mr. Rossctti, and the portrait of a Mr. Matthew Arnold, that 
hung above the bookcase, with what I deemed a somewhat arrogant expres- 
sion. The bookcase itself bore the legend : 

Non Icgcudi libri, scd lectitandi 
and was stocked with well-worn volumes, among which I remarked the com- 
plete works of Lord Tennyson, two costly editions of Mr. Percy Bysshe 
Shelley, flanked by Alice in Wonderland and Vernon Lee. Lower down 
were Mr. Walter Pater, Miss Edgeworth and a collection of" Sonnets of the 
Century" which most of all showed signs of use. 

Of a sudden, the singing of the kettle attracted my attention in its 
direction, and I now turned all my thoughts to the tea-table, which though it 
stood opposite me, to the right of the fireplace, I had not hitherto observed. 
Believe me, Mr. Editor, I now beheld as pretty a sight as it has often been 
my good fortune to look upon. Aurelia by this time had donned a ruffled 
apron that gave her an air of coquetry which I could not but suspect had 
been her intention in assuming it, although she assured me with eager earnest- 
ness that it was her habit to wear it, and that too for housewifely purposes. 


She was at the moment bending above the table engaged in pouring 
over the tea the water which was boiling furiously as it came bubbling and 
tumbling from the spout. Phillis, a small maiden who wore rather a timor- 
ous air, and was in no way remarkable for any charms of person, covered 
the pot with a tea-cosy. Thereupon she was bidden by Mistress Aurelia to 
fetch a grim-looking steel knife, with which she proceeded to cut the lemon 
into delicate pieces. Aurelia, however, seemed in a difficult humor, and 
was constantly protesting that the slices were not sufficiently transparent. 
Phillis received her chiding with a spirit of mirth and good-humour which 
seemed natural to the plac& Aurelia noting this, said to me: " Phillis has 
been in college only one winter, but we think her already extremely 
improved in the arts of good breeding and tea-making." 

Aurelia now poured the tea and handed it about. Phillis followed 
with a small tray of gold and white porcelain on which were laid out the 
lemon and sugar and a plate of small biscuits of various forms simulating 
hearts, turtle doves and guitars. The offices of tea-making being now com- 
pleted, Phillis retired to the window-seat; Aurelia having pushed back an 
obstinate ringlet and adjusted her tucker, drew up a small footstool, and 
seated herself at my side. 

" I must make you acquainted with our tea-table," she said. " The 
cup you are holding is 'Madame de Pompadour.' A friend brought her to 
me from Paris, and we gave her the name on this account and because of 
her tiny garlands of rosebuds and pink bands. ' Lady Teazle ' is her rival 
from England. She is more delicate, you see, and less dashingly handsome. 
Then the cup with the little round feet that Brunetta has over there is 
GEdipus. We never give him to visitors, because he is apt to tumble over. 
This cup I always use myself, and call her 'Mayday.' She is covered 
with little sprigs of spring flowers, and came to me on that day as a gift. 
You would hardly imagine what a difference this naming makes in your 
enjoyment of tea. When each cup has a name and character of its own, 
even though I am making tea by myself, I feel that I am one of a very 
sociable and friendly company. But I believe that one should never drink- 
tea alone; although better alone than with uncongenial spirits. I abhor 
nothing so much as a mixed tea-party, where the company has been inju- 


diciously chosen. To speak plainly, the tea is always so strong that it 
puckers one's tongue, and tepid at that; the delicate amber color is ruined 
by cream, and it is served in cups all of one pattern. Contrast such a 
party with one where a few esoteric souls" — here I observed Phillis look up 
gratefully — "are gathered round the kettle as a centre. Every member of 
the company has a hand in the tea-making, as well as in the conversation, 
which sparkles witli wit. The tea-pot is of a cosy size — not one of those 
cheerless white porcelain affairs — -while the tea itself is of the proper pale- 
ness, and steams up fragrant from the cups. Over all presides the kettle, 
looking like a little household god of comfort, with his crooked legs, and 
the clouds of steam pouring from his mouth as he hums blithely above the 
blue flame." 

Here Aurelia paused breathless. My humour inclined mc to stay and 
hear more of her pretty discourse, which, I verily believe, was as convinc- 
ing as the best philosopher in Europe could possibly make; but the time 
warned me that I must take my leave. Aurelia, with pretty confusion, 
would have it that she had been so full of words herself that she had given 
me no opportunity to express my opinion ; but I did assure her with much 
earnestness that my entertainment that afternoon had been but a charming 
illustration of her remarks, and that I was prepared to dispute no part of 
her discourse. 

I was so much edified, sir, by the ideas which Aurelia set forth, that I 
have been thinking on them ever since ; and am convinced that they will 
not be without profit to the fair readers of your paper. I would, therefore, 
in a very particular manner, recommend these speculations to all well-regu- 
lated persons that set apart an hour every afternoon for tea and unaffected 
discourse; and would earnestly advise them, for their own good, to look 
henceforth upon Aurelia's suggestions as a part of their tea-equipage. 

I know, sir, it is not requisite for me to enlarge upon these hints to a 
gentleman of your great abilities ; so, humbly recommending myself to 
your favour and patronage, I am, Sir, 

Your obliged, humble servant, 

Richard Loveit. 




Thou witching, wondrous, ever-changing sea ! 

A moment since thou wert as blue as sky ; — 

Now, like a lake of silver, thou dost lie 
About the little boats that silently 
Float on thy bosom sleeping peacefully, 

(As sleeps a child ere life's fret hath begun). 

About them thy cool, salt breath, and the sun 
Touching their masts and white sails tenderly. 
With scarce a murmur farther from my feet 

Thou movest, leaving on the green beach-grass 

Thy shining foot-prints ; and thou hast beguiled 
The breeze to linger o'er thee and grow sweet 

With kissing thee. And as the still hours pass 
I dream beside thee like a little child. 


Oh sea, thou art so beautiful to-day 

That, as I gaze upon thee shining there, 

I feel that I have wandered unaware 
Into God's presence-chamber. E'en to pray 
I do not wish, if I may only stay 

And worship. Oh, thou Being most divine, 

The loveliness of highest heaven is thine ; 
And little, laughing sunbeams come and play 
With thee, and fill thee full of dancing light, 

Till every dimple on thy breast doth gleam 
As if the angels, floating down last night, 

Dropped on thee all their stars. And one, 'twould seem, 
Left the soft shadows of his wings of white 

Where thou liest still, as summer clouds a-dream. 

Mary E. Hoyt, '92. 



IT was the afternoon of the well-remembered Bromley-White the-dansant 
and I had left business early with the praiseworthy intention of attend- 
ing my wife there. 

As I was walking across town from the " Elevated " station — and the 
walk there was a good bit of a journey — I was feeling slightly depressed 
from an unsuccessful attempt to persuade myself that I was offering a sacri- 
fice on the altar of Society for which my business (I am a lawyer) would 
suffer. But as I knew at the bottom of my heart that, had I stayed in my 
office, I should probably have spent the rest of the afternoon vainly awaiting 
any interruption of my solitude from the outside world, the attempt, though 
well meant, was, as I have said, unsuccessful. 

When I drew near my modest mansion several thoughts that the sight 
of home aroused in my breast — reflections on rent, (ah, happy ye who can 
indulge in a gratifying grumble about taxes!) household supplies, house- 
hold services, etc. — contributed to increase my depression so that by the 
time I entered the house I felt positively melancholy. 

In the hall I met the children dressed for a walk. Having received an 
unsatisfactory answer to their interrogations as to whether there were any 
bonbons in my pockets for them they departed in haste, and I was left alone 
at the foot of the staircase to await the descent of my wife. To those accus- 
tomed to taking women to their various forms of social pleasures it is per- 
haps unnecessary to state that she was late. 

At length, however, I heard a rustle on the landing and my wife 
appeared. She wore her best, in fact her only gown for afternoon recep- 
tions. (Will some kind person inform me why, if there is no difference 
between an afternoon reception and a " tea," there should be a difference 
between a gown for afternoon receptions and a tea gown ?) There was 
nothing new to me in the gown's appearance ; I had long watched its devel- 
opment with affectionate interest from the date of its entrance into our family 
about three years ago, until the present time. I had noticed that its stature, 
as one may say, had increased with its years and that now a small train had 


been evolved. It's sleeves too were longer and its general proportions 
more slender. I had once even ventured in a mild, jocular way to suggest 
that we might send it to Huxley as an example of the evolution of matter, 
but that was some time ago and I had almost forgotten the particularly 
crushing answer my wife vouchsafed, and had now become convinced that 
the gown and I were fated to grow old together. 

Meanwhile, as the old-fashioned novelists remark after deliberately 
keeping their heroines for hours knocking at a door — meanwhile, we have 
kept the lady waiting. 

My wife descended the staircase. If her appearance was so well 
known to me, why was it that my countenance assumed a look of pained 
surprise as my eyes fell upon her? In her hand she carried a large cluster 
of American Beauty roses. Before I could recover myself sufficiently to 
expostulate with her for this reckless expenditure she asked me in a clear 
determined tone to order a coupe for her immediately. A coupe! Was 
the world coming to an end? Was my wife, my only aid in forcing both 
ends to form an acquaintance, was she about to become extravagant? 
Before my trembling lips could frame a question, before my doubts were 
uttered, they were settled by five words. 

" Uncle John is very low," said my wife. • My heart gave a great 
bound ; whether the cause was a sudden sorrow or relief I did not stop to 
inquire. There are times when the little demon of self-interrogation should 
be firmly and convincingly informed that its services are not required. Too 
much self-analysis is an insult to our organs of sensation. 

Uncle John very low ! Oh, ye rich and venerable bachelor uncles, 
what would suffering humanity do without you ? Our blessing, our trial, 
our hope — particularly when over seventy, our hope! 

Knowing my wife's determined character and feeling that I had no 
right to hinder her in a work of mercy, I at once departed to order the 

The valuable little instrument whereby one summons all kinds of use- 
ful and useless assistance, from firemen to messenger-boys, had been long 
ago removed from the house, as it encouraged expenditure ; so I was 
obliged to walk around the corner for the coupe. 


With what different sensations did I leave my home from those with 
which I entered it! The very atmosphere seemed changed; even the 
vacant lot on the corner looked a shade less forlorn than before. 

I saw that the coupe was quickly made ready and drove back in it to 
my wife. When I arrived at the house I saw her in the doorway, earnestly 
engaged in a conversation with a young man, whose tall figure and broad 
shoulders I instinctively recognized as belonging to Tom de Leyston, 
Uncle John's favorite nephew. 

I confess I used always to have an antipathy for Tom, which then 
instantly took posession of me. " Want's to find out what we're going to 
do," said I to myself. Audibly, I said: 

" Well, Tom, how is Uncle John now ? " He replied gravely : " I've 
just left him feeling rather better, but the doctor fears a relapse to-night." 

" You know, Joe," he added, " my firm wanted me to go on to Chicago 
to-day, but, of course, I can't leave Uncle in this critical condition to go 
anywhere; though, as the business is very important and no one else in 
the office understands it as well as I, the minute Uncle John is out of 
danger I shall be off. So you're not going to see Uncle till later ? " he 

I glanced at my wife, saw she had made this arrangement, and told him 
that was my plan. 

" Where are you going? " I asked. 

" Oh, I must be going back to Uncle John," said he, " he will be expect- 
ing me." 

Upon this my wife, who believed in keeping on the good side of every- 
one, knowing that Uncle John always liked the family to act together on 
all occasions, suavely offered him a seat in the coupe. He accepted it and 
they drove off together. 

The sight of Tom dampened my spirits for a moment, but I reflected 
that though Uncle John always had shown an unaccountable preference for 
Tom, yet he had only two nephews, and he was very just, and knew of 
Tom's prosperity and our necessities. I recalled to mind several times 
when Uncle John's generosity had been very opportunely displayed towards 
us and my spirits rose once more. I felt grateful to my wife that she had 


arranged for me to go after her later, as I knew she could do better without 
me than with me, and I should have felt, as usual, extremely awkward in a 
sick room. 

Occupied with these thoughts I strolled over the vacant house. Where 
should I spend the afternoon ? Of course the Bromley-Whites' was out of 
the question. If Uncle John should ever hear of my even wishing to go 
there while he was so low, he was so eccentric no one could tell what might 
happen. Why under the sun had I come home early instead of going 
directly to the tea before I had heard anything to prevent me ? How 
unlucky it was that I had met Tom ! Of course, if he heard of my going 
to the Bromley-Whites', he would tell Uncle at once and my hopes would 
be ruined for ever. If I had not resigned my membership in the " Coven- 
try " (ostensibly to please my wife, but really to curtail expenses), I could 
have gone to the club. Hard luck ! " How sorry Tom will be to miss 
seeing Daisy Sturton at the Bromley- Whites'," I thought. " Of course, 
nothing could tear him away from Uncle John while he is in such a critical 
condition." Suddenly an idea struck me. If Uncle John got better Tom 
said he was going to Chicago, and as long as there was any danger he 
would not leave Uncle's house. How, then, could he possibly hear of my 
going to the "tea?" Chicago may be an enterprising city and particularly 
well up on our social pleasures, but Tom was not likely to get hold of the 
information there that I attended the Bromley-Whites'. As for the report 
in the newspapers, they are always getting names wrong. Everybody else 
would take it for granted that I had not heard of Uncle John's sudden 
illness — in fact, how could they have heard of it themselves? 

Revolving these thoughts in my mind I seized my hat and gloves, 
hurried into my coat, caught the next car and in a quarter of an hour was 
at the Bromley- Whites'. 

As I entered the room, softly lighted, flower-scented, I inwardly con- 
gratulated myself on my pluck and logic. Of course everyone was there. 
The punch was excellent. Somehow it struck me I had not seen so many 
pretty girls receiving in a long time. Daisy Sturton was looking particu- 
larly well in yellow, with a huge bunch of orchids which I was positive 
Tom had sent her. I could not resist the temptation of telling her what a 


shame it was I couldn't persuade Tom to come along with me, but he 
thought these receptions " such a beastly bore." 

Well, 1 was enjoying myself to the full when my eye fell on a familiar 
figure at the door, and the butler announced in unmistakable accents: " Mr. 
Thomas dc Leyston." 

The glass of punch I was holding nearly fell to the floor. Tom 
glanced around the room, recognized me at once with a cordial nod, walked 
over to Daisy Stur ton, said a few words to her, glanced at his watch, stayed 
a few minutes longer and then departed. 

ye gods, what were my feelings ! My one idea was ' What will 
Uncle John say?" How I left, how I reached home I do not know. That 
night was simply torture to me. I remember gloomily reflecting on Tom's 
prosperity and promising career, and reviewing the many cases I had known 
of wealthy persons leaving all they possessed to their richest relations. 
There was Billy Churchill, the poorest member of his family, who never 
had a cent left him when his rich aunt died ; then there was old Martin 
Brown, who deliberately passed over Ids son's poor widow and gave all he 
had to Baring Brown who, heaven knows, never wanted for anything in 
his life. Numbers of such dispiriting instances rose in my mind and I 
came to the mournful conclusion "that whatever Scriptural doctrines the rich 
held to in life, when death came they all seemed determined to fulfil the 
prophecy " to him that hath shall be given." 

The next day Uncle John died. I was really very sad over the event 
lie had always been kind to us, but I had my doubts as to what would 
happen when Tom had the money. Uncle John was fiery and eccentric, 
but then he could be managed, while Tom 

The day the 'will was read I felt like a criminal. I would hardly speak 
to the relatives assembled to hear it. Finally the family lawyer cleared his 
throat and began to announce the " Last Will and Testament of John *de 

1 tried to think of some congratulation to give Tom. Meanwhile all 
the petty legacies and small bequests were being read. My name was not 
yet mentioned. Was I to be cut off entirely ? The family lawyer paused, 
wiped his eye-glass, put it on again, and continued reading : " I hereby 


give and bequeath the remainder of my property, both real and personal, 
to " — strained anxiety on the part of all except Tom and myself, who sat 
gazing at each other with a ghastly stare — "to my beloved nephew, Joseph 
de Leyston." 

I forget what happened next exactly. I know my wife burst out 
crying, that there was a great hubbub, that the family lawyer came up with 
his first choice respectful expression on (which he had never condescended 
to assume before for my benefit) and that some of the relatives congratu- 
lated me in the very terms in which I had intended to congratulate Tom. 

How did it happen ? Well, you see the explanation is quite simple to 
one accustomed to dear old Uncle John's peculiarities. It seems that on the 
morning of the day of the Bromley-Whites' tea, after his first attack, Uncle 
John rallied, and he and Tom began to discuss me and my affairs. He told 
Tom he had divided the property between his two nephews, as his sense of 
justice would not allow him to give an unmarried man like Tom more than 
myself. Then my uncle, who was fond of making sarcastic speeches, 
remarked that he would like to know how I would bear the news of his 
illness. Tom immediately bet that the report would have no effect what- 
ever on me, and that it would not even hinder me from attending the 
Bromley-Whites' tea. 

Tom is a clever fellow and he thought he knew Uncle John pretty 
well, but he overreached himself. As he expected, the old gentleman fired 
up and immediately bet that, no matter how black I was, nothing would 
induce me seen there; and finally he worked himself up to such a 
pitch that he declared Tom must go around to the tea that afternoon and 
find out if I had been there. Whereupon Tom- comes up to see us, man- 
ages things so that I am left with the whole afternoon on my hands, leaves 
my wife at Uncle John's and departs to witness my iniquity with his own 

Tom ought to have known Uncle John better than to return and report 
to him triumphantly the success of his own predictions. My uncle's indig- 
nation on hearing that I was at the Bromley-Whites' sank into insignifi- 
cance beside his rage that Tom had got the better of him. He immedi- 
ately flew into a passion, accused Tom of deliberately planning to ruin the 


reputation ol the only respectable nephew lie ever had, and vowed 
Tom had got up the whole discussion as an excuse to go to the Bromley- 
Whites' himself just to see " that little idiot Marguerite Sturton." In a 
short time my uncle was so successful in rousing the de Leyston temper in 
Tom that a fine specimen of what is vulgarly called a family quarrel was 
exhibited, the result of which was that Tom was cut off without a shilling, 
while I — well, there are few positions in life pleasanter than occupying the 
shoes of a rich old uncle. 

I always respected and admired Uncle John's views. However, I had 
no idea his opinion carried so much, weight and was so generally accepted, 
yet since hearing of his regard for me, as indicated in his last wishes, peo- 
ple have shown me more consideration than I ever expected would fall to 
my lot. Why, only the other day, didn't poor Billy Churchill apologize 
for buying two afternoon papers instead of one (where he got the means is a 
mystery to me) and thus keeping me waiting for the newsboy ? Poor 
Billy! If Luck ever met him face to face he would not recognize her ! 

1 have not an enemy in the world. Tom was inclined at first to make 
himself disagreeable, but he soon came to the conclusion that one family 
quarrel was all the luxury in that line that he could afford himself, and we 
are now good friends. 

Talk about rose-colored spectacles improving one's view of the world, 
there is nothing for that purpose equal to gold-rimmed eyeglasses. Dear 
me ! There is the carriage waiting. My wife insists on dragging me down 
to Tiffany's to choose a wedding present for Tom and Daisy. 

What a pleasant sensation it gives one to think that some experiences 
exist only as memories ! 

I have risen even in my wife's estimation. The other day she actually 
remarked : " Well, Joseph, you have turned out a success after all ! " 
What more can a man want ? Yes, it is quite true that " Nothing succeeds 
like success," and I should like to amend this to read — and my ' should 
likes' are important now — " Nothing succeeds like the success of a suc- 

Estelle Reid, '9/. 



Two chambers has the heart, 

Where dwell 

Sorrow and Joy, apart. 

Now watches Joy in this, 

Now sleeps 

Sorrow, at rest, in his. 

O Joy of mine, beware ! 

Speak low 

Lest thou awaken Care ! 

From the German of Neumann. 

A lonely fir-tree slumbers 

On a desolate northern height. 

The ice and snow have wrapped him 

In a covering cold and white. 

He is dreaming of a palm-tree, 
That far in the morning-land 
Lonely and silent sorrows 
In the burning desert sand. 

From the German of Heine. 

As the moon's reflection quivers 
On the wild waves of the sea, 
While herself o'er heights of heaven 
Wanders ever, safe and free, — 

So on heights apart thou dwellest, 
Darling, only here below 
In my heart thine image trembles, 
For my own heart trembles so. 

From the German of Heine. 

Emma Stansbury Wines, 'pf 



/ / T T 7 1 [AT brought (or took) you to Germany ? To Berlin ? I low 

V/\/ did you gain admission to lectures in. Berlin University? 
What have been your experiences ? How do the students 
act toward you ? What are the prospects for Other women who may en- 
deavor to repeat your experiment ? What is your opinion as to the advisa- 
bility of such attempts ? " 

Although these questions have been answered many times, both orally 
and by letter, various false impressions seem, nevertheless, to exist among 
those who are pleased to view my presence in the University of Berlin as a 
matter of some public interest. This attempt at an article is made, there- 
fore, not merely to show appreciation of the honor done me by the editors 
of The Lantern, but aiso in the hope to correct in some measure these 
false impressions. 

I came to Germany to see Germany and the Germans, to acquire a 
needed ease in the use of the German language, to see something of a Ger- 
man University, and to gain acquaintance with German methods of present- 
ing Mathematics. 

Berlin was chosen as place of residence for the first few weeks or 
months, as the case might be, for the simple reason that I knew of people 
here who would kindly take me in charge till I should have learned to take 
care of myself in a foreign land. 

To the third question I sometimes make answer, " By the favor of the 
gods." If that sounds too conceited, then read the answer, " Fate," 
"Accident," or what you will. 

In America, I had heard that a woman was occasionally permitted, as 
an exceptional favor, to become a sort of supposed-to-be-invisible guest in 
lectures in some universities of Germany ; that in Berlin, however, all effort 
to secure such exceptional privilege would be utterly useless. Accordingly, 
from time to time during the summer of '91, I made inquiries of various 
prominent Professors of Mathematics elsewhere than in Berlin ; result, a 
collection of letters now treasured as souvenirs, no show of hope for me 


except in Leipzig, where the work in Mathematics was not exactly suited to 
my purpose, and a state of mind well adapted to lead to suicide. 

Having nursed my despair till the University had officially opened, I 
concluded to seek a long-desired interview with Prof. Fuchs and " view the 
prospect o'er " for myself. Prof. Fuchs did not politely " thank me for the 
honor, etc., while regretting to be unable to admit a woman to his lectures ; " 
he did not assure me Mathematics was a difficult subject which women, for 
the most part, could not comprehend (as one Professor had written) ; he did 
not, as the Rector of one University did, advise me to apply to the Minis- 
terium, and accompany his advice with the assurance that my request 
would not be granted ; he did not make me feel that a woman possessed of 
interest in Mathematics was a sort of natural curiosity, whose existence 
demanded explanation. He asked me in his quiet, restful way, what I had 
done in Mathematics and under whose instruction, talked a minute or two 
about Briot and Bouquet's Fouctions Elliptiqucs, and told me to ask the 
Rector of the University whether a way could not be found to favor my 

The Rector requested me to send him a written petition, and expressed 
a willingness to bring my case before the University Senate. Ten days 
later he answered my petition, to the effect that, on the strength of Prof. 
Fuchs' warm advocacy of my cause, he had resolved to take upon himself 
the responsibility of allowing me to attend lectures until the Senate should 
meet, provided, — of course, the men whose lectures I wished to hear should 
have no objections. 

A month later I received a second letter, to the effect that the Senate 
could not sanction my admission to lectures, it having been discovered, in 
the meantime, that, since the exception of a similar nature, sanctioned by 
the Senate in 1884, the Ministerium had strictly, specifically forbidden even 
exceptions of this nature. The Rector very kindly assured me, however, 
that he would assume the personal responsibility, and permit me to continue 
to the end of the semester. 

Plad it not been for the information deterring me from effort in Berlin 
till the last minute, my petition would have been made in time for the 
Senate to act before lectures began, and I should probably not have seen 


inside of ;i lecture-room. The change that had just taken place in the 
rectorship is reported to have been exceptionally fortunate for my cause. It 
was, at least, not ////fortunate for me that Prof. Fuchs and Rector Foerster 
had forgotten about that special edict of a former Cultus Minister. My 
teacher of German happened to be a friend of Prof. Fuchs' sister-in-law, 
and kindly recommended me. Then a dozen other circnmstanccs seemed 
"just to happen so," but happened so much better than I could have 
planned, that I attribute my happy semester in Berlin University to the 
" favor of the gods." 

Some one may reflect, " Is it not strange that she says ' happy 
semester?' I thought the students had annoyed her so much." The 
origin of this report, widely circulated in America, remains to this day a 
mystery to me. I assume, on general principles, that there are students who 
look with disfavor upon anything pointing in the direction of " co-educa- 
tion "in Germany; what per cent, of the Berlin students belong to this 
class I have not the data for computing, but the number of those who have 
annoyed me I can reckon to a nicety — the number is zero. To the best of 
my knowledge, the number of those who have attempted to annoy me is 
also zero. Those students with whom I have the pleasure of personal 
acquaintance, have shown me far more kindly consideration than mere 
politeness demanded ; between every other student and myself the relation 
has ever been that of two persons, each of whom quietly attends to his own 
affairs and permits the other to do the same. I repeat most emphatically, I 
have suffered no disturbance whatever. 

I attended the University, however, rather more for the sake of Math- 
ematics than for the sake of seeing what the students would do, and con- 
sider it not impossible that I might have said " happy semester," even if a 
student now and then had reminded me of my failure to secure his permis- 
sion before entering the consecrated precincts. Not only was the work, for 
the work's sake, suited to my purposes, but the method of presentation 
pleased me greatly, and my cause for gratitude would not be small, had I 
gained nothing except the privilege of hearing lectures. This privilege, 
however, was not all. The spirit of kindness and helpfulness shown at the 
beginning has manifested itself on every hand to the present time. Rector 


Foerster's action toward me seems to justify what the students tell me 
regarding my presence in the University, " Der Rector ist sehr dafiir." 
The various Professors whom I have had the honor of meeting have shown 
a kindly interest in my work; Dr. Schlesinger, the only instructor other 
than Prof. Fuchs whose lectures I attended, has been kindness itself; the 
students could scarcely have treated me better than they have done ; and 
Prof. Fuchs .... words fail me when I would describe what he has been 
to me. The thoughtful consideration, the ever-ready helpfulness, the 
innate goodness of Prof. Fuchs and his family, have put me under obliga- 
tions of gratitude for all time. 

Regarding prospects for other women, I had a positive opinion until 
very recently. My view was, that if such support as I have here could not 
enable me to " get round " that ministerial edict for just one more semester, 
then I might say to others, " It's no use to try. Women have no prospect in 
Berlin University for a long time to come." Recently I have begun to ask 
myself whether it would not be well to ward off a possible charge of false 
prophecy, by meekly acknowledging I know nothing about the future. 
The general opening of German Universities to women would astonish me 
immeasurably, but the question is being much agitated, and the hope that 
some slight concessions may be made seems not so utterly groundless as I 
had imagined. The sentiment in favor of medical education of women 
seems to be gaining ground, except perhaps among medical students ; and 
that in favor of " authorized exceptions" in other lines of University work, 
is not wholly without support among " the powers that be." I judge the 
most liberal position held by any considerable number of University people, 
is that of the one who threw himself with such zeal into my cause. This 
position is substantially as follows : " There are women who have a genuine 
call to scholarly work, and who not only remain womanly women, but 
become ever more womanly in the pursuit of their calling. That such 
women should be debarred from University privileges is an injustice and a 
shame; but the proper remedy in the Germany of to-day is not the general 
admission of women to the University, but the granting to each Professor 
the right to admit to his lectures such women as he should see fit to admit." 
This principle, long in successful operation in Leipzig, and recently (latter 


part of November or first of December, '91) adopted, measurably at least, 
in I teidelbeVg, is reported to be favorably looked upon by some of the 
higher authorities of the University of Berlin. The various Universities of 
Prussia have been called upon to give expression to their sentiments, and 
until very recently a decision of the Ministerium was looked for possibly 
toward the end of April. It seems now, however, that His Excellency, 
ITerr Graf von ZedlitzTriitschlcr, Cultus Minister, will not continue in office, 
and the hoped for decision will doubtless be long delayed. 

The question may well be asked, if the higher authorities should 
decide to give the Professors more or less liberty in the matter under dis- 
cussion, what would then be the prospects for women in German Universi- 
ties ? My judgment may be warped, but that judgment is, that a large per 
cent, of the women who are really fitted for special work in a German Uni- 
versity would secure admittance to lectures (not to laboratory or seminary 
work) ; and that a few, as exceptional exceptions, would be admitted to 
seminary work. 

So long as the situation remains as it is, I should be inclined to say 
to those who might hold me responsible for the result, " You have good 
opportunities elsewhere than in Germany : let well enough alone." To 
those who are willing to run all risk and not hold me responsible for the 
advice, I might offer the advice so often given me this year, " Versuchen 
Sie es doch 'mal ! Schaden kann es jedenfalls nicht." — To all who may 
follow this latter piece of advice, I can wish nothing better than that the 
measure of kindness they receive may be " heaped up, pressed down, and 
running over," as mine has been. 

Ruth Gentry, 

Berlin, 1SQ2. 
Fellow in Mathematics, Bryn Mawr, iSgo-'gr. 



(A modern Dialogue after Plato) 

Persons of the Dialogue 

Myself I 

I. I do not understand, my good friend, why you are turning away 
from the gymnasium in such haste that I can scarcely keep pace with you ; 
and that too when our discussion is not yet finished. 

Myself. If you will accompany me to the porch of Merion we may 
there finish the discussion. Meantime, if you desire, I will explain to you 
for what reason I chose, interrupting our discourse, to leave the gymnasium. 

/. I do desire it. 

Myself. I went to the gymnasium, it is true, and found it a large 
room filled with wooden implements and little iron boxes, so to speak, that 
held in their turn heavy blocks of iron which we will call weights. 

/. But I do not understand yet why you came away ! 

Myself. The reason is, most admirable one, that we were supposed to 
swing to and fro the wooden implements and to pull up and down the little 
boxes containing weights. They were very heavy, and it seemed to me the 
part of a just person to leave these things, and go about his proper work 
and nobody's else. 

I. Why so ? I do not follow your reasoning. 

Myself. We admitted long ago, in the Republic, did we not, that 
justice consisted in attending to one's own affairs and not meddling with 
any other persons? And again we said that justice could in nowise be 
the interest of the stronger. 

/. We did admit these things. 

Myself. Now. the gymnasium is most clearly in the interest of the 
stronger, since it is they who delight in beating each other with clubs and 
in pulling heavy weights. 

/. Very true. 

Myself. Therefore, being in the interest of the stronger, it can have 
nothing to do with justice, but belongs to the unjust. And since this is so, 


it is the part of a just soul not to meddle with their affairs, but to go and 
walk in the fresh air attending to liis own concerns. 

/. This much, indeed, 1 understand. But now, being in the porch of 
Merion, may we not find the point of our discussion at which we digressed 
and return to it ? 

Myself, There is no difficulty in doing this. You had, I think', just 
admitted that there is some such thing as a person. 

/. How could it be otherwise ? 

Myself. Then is there also too such a thing as a musician ? 

/. I do not understand what you mean. 

Myself. You certainly, however, would agree that there are such 
things as shoes ? 

I. I should, undoubtedly. 

Myself. And such things again as houses? 

/. Yes. 

Myself. And do not persons, so to speak, craftsmen, make these shoes 
and houses and do we not call the one cobblers, and the other builders ? 

/. Doubtless. 

Myself Then is there not such a thing as music ? 

/. Certainly. 

Myself. And might not a person make this music ? 

/. He might. 

Myself. Shall we not say that the man who makes this music is 
musical, or even a musical person, to speak briefly a musician? 

/. This slight addition we may allow. 

Myself. Such a musical person would have a name, and may we not, 
choosing any name from among those in the city, call him Paderewski ? 

/. Yes, perhaps. 

Myself. Does it seem to you that it would be right to go and hear 
this man play ? 

I. By all means, if he played good music. 

Myself. Even though it were necessary to cut a class and that too just 
before examinations ? 

/. No, by the cabbage ! I could never agree to this on any grounds. 


Myself. As yet, I do not see why this should be wrong, but I am 
only a bungler and wish to be instructed. If, therefore, I ask you a few 
simple questions, will you answer me as shortly as possible? 

I. As briefly as I can, although there are some questions, which, 
from their very nature, require long answers. 

Myself. Very well, then ! You would, I think, admit that education 
should be considered above all things as being the highest and greatest 

I. Nothing can be clearer. 

Myself. Just now it seems to me otherwise, although I shall no doubt 
be convinced that you are right. 

/. Proceed. 

Myself. Does not education consist in learning a great many things 
which make us wiser? 

/. Such as what things ? 

Myself. Oh, such as Trigonometry and dates, chemical reactions and 
Grimm's Law ! 

/. Yes, these things make us wiser. 

Myself. But do they make us any better or more charming or more 
lovable ? 

/. Perhaps not. 

Myself. But you will, I think, admit that there is something that will 
make us good, wise and charming; and that this thing which includes all 
these virtues will be far better than knowledge of Greek roots and of acids. 

/. True. 

Myself. Suppose we accordingly call this culture, as opposed to mere 

I. I agree. 

Myself. Music will be a part of this culture, I think. 

/. I do not understand. 

Myself. You agreed that there were such things as cobblers and that 
they made shoes. Now, a pretty shoe makes a person's foot more charming, 
and you will certainly acknowledge that the foot is a part of the body. 

/. I am willing to say so. 


Myself. Then there is the medical art also which makes men tor- 
mented by diseases well and whole. Strong and healthy men, we will all 
grant, are more charming and lovable, and at the same time more able to 
use their minds for the good of the city than sick ones. Moreover, just as 
the physicians' art makes men strong in body, so the musician's forms their 
souls harmoniously ; or does it not ? 

/. Well, what then? 

Myself. And the harmonious and musical souls are those that possess 
culture which we said was to be sought after above all else. 

/. To this also I assent. 

Myself. And if to hear a musical man, whom we call Paderewski, play, 
would add to our culture, is it not plainly our duty to put aside things which 
are of less importance, and go even a long distance to listen to him ? 

/. It is indeed our duty. 

Myself. And are not these lesser things, Grimm's Law, Chemical 
Formula;, Greek Dialects, and many others akin to them ? 

/. I see what you mean, — that I should cut my class on Friday and 
hear Paderewski play ; and by the dog I think I will do it. 

Myself. I have nothing to say. 

/. Let us go. 

L. M. £>., 'pj. 



' Cras amet, qui nunquam amavit 
Qui amavit, cras amet." 
Slight the wound, but who can salve it? 
Love the child, the wag, the pet. 

Monarch grown, — with pain and fret. 
Comes on human hearts to carve it, 
' Cras amet, qui nunquam amavit 
Qui amavit, cras amet." 

Foolish we, who seek to halve it, 

Love the boon is Love the debt ! 
Still we fear it, crush it, starve it, 

Cheat it, torture it, and yet, — 
' Cras amet, qui nunquam amavit 

Qui amavit, cras amet." 

Edith Child, 'go. 



EYOND a doubt it had been a hard day. I reviewed it carefully as I 
pulled mi my gloves in Mrs. Pompadux's stately hall. Possibly the 
sudden change from 52 to 20 , to which our climate, accomplished 
in matters of the kind, had treated us on Wednesday afternoon, was respon- 
sible for the increased number of patients awaiting me when I began my 
hospital rounds the next morning. But even the climate could not reason- 
ably be held accountable for the terrified whims of the woman I had just 
left. It had been a work of patience and devotion to convince her that she 
was stricken down witlT neither pleuro-pneumonia nor incipient typhus, but a 
slight attack of influenza. However, the struggle was over. She was the 
last patient of the day, and I speedily got into my overcoat and made haste 
away from the place that held her. 

It was snowing in a desperate fashion as I reached Sixth Avenue and 
went on to Fourteenth Street, — snowing as if in accordance with a heavy 
wager laid by the white army of invaders that the streets should be filled 
and the sidewalks blockaded, before morning. The wager was evidently 
more than half won. I was thoroughly powdered when I reached the 
flight of steps leading up to the elevated railroad station, and began to 
climb towards the spectral lights above. The stairs had grown slippery, as 
is their habit on every conceivable occasion, and I was carefully feeling my 
way, when suddenly rapid steps sounded behind me, and a tall man, snow- 
powdered like myself, sprang past and hurried up the flight. I had no 
chance to call out to him in warning, as I was for a moment tempted to do. 
In that moment he had slipped and fallen headlong with a mighty crash and 
an astonished " Donnerwetter ! " I dashed up the intervening steps at the 
peril of my life, and reached him before he had even tried to rise. 

" Wait a moment until I can help you. Where are you hurt ? " I asked 
with anxiety. 

" 1 am not greatly wounded — only a little somewhat on this, my 
wrist," answered the man in a grandly German voice. " But, nevertheless, 


would I kindly thank you for your so-courtcously-offered although wholly- 
unnecessary assistance, which, — " and he rose to six towering feet and turned 
to me, holding out his left hand. For a full half minute we confronted each 
other in the driving snow. He did not finish his sentence, and we stood 
silently gazing, until I cried in incredulous delight, 

" Karl ! It isn't you ! " when he broke forth with, 

" Du lieber Himmel ! Heinrich, bist du's ? " And somehow we had 
found each other's hands and were shaking them madly. 

" My dear fellow, what glorious good fortune is this ? I never dreamed 
that you were nearer than St. Petersburg. Where were you going to in such 
a rush ? " 

Karl pulled out a much-worn card and presented it with a smile. By 
the dim lights above I read it : 

" Henry R. Hathaway, M. D., Forty-first Street." 

" Well then," I said with much satisfaction, " you are on the right track 
after all. Why are we standing in this wretched place ? Come along to 
Forty-first Street." 

Karl explained matters briefly as we journeyed up town. 

" Yes, I have left Petersburg two weeks ago. I have come to America 
in the "Aller" to-day. I have come to thee, Heinrich." 

" You have done exactly as you should, of course," I said, a little 
puzzled. " But I must know why I have not heard from you in five 
months, and why you have left St. Petersburg. When we are at home I'll 
bind up that bruised wrist for you, and then we'll hear all about it." 

But when we had reached my snug quarters, and had cast off our wet 
coats, preparing to draw up before the fire that was my chief minister of 
comfort and good cheer, I found that my old friend was not disposed to talk 
of himself. 

" Now let, me see thee, Heinrich," he said. "Art thou changed ? " and 
the great fellow put his hands on my shoulders and kissed me, after the 
honest fashion of his native land. 

" I have not changed," I answered, with a swift thought of the light in 
which such a greeting would appear to Livingston Peabody and Roger Van 



der Spink, of the club. " But you, — stand up before the fire, Karl. So! 
You arc changed, old man. What have yon been doing to yourself?" 

" 1 have lived," he replied, seriously. " It did not agree with me this 
living. Nothing has so greatly agreed with me as those days of Heidelberg. 
Acli, Heinrich, hast thou forgotten those past-over days?" 

We had begun reminiscing. The outside storm, St. Petersburg, the 
hospital, and Mrs. Pompadux's influenza vanished as utterly as if we had 
been strolling again on the terrace of the old castle, looking down on the 
old town. We had talked on and on for one hour, two hours, almost three, 
when we fell into silences, broken only by an occasional word. Suddenly 1 
looked up and directly into Karl's face, bent brooding over the fire. 

"Jove, man!" I said, starting. "Something ails you. Why will you 
not tell me what you have been doing ?" 

" I have lived," he answered me, slowly and seriously as before. 

"' Ich habe gclebt und geliebet!' " I hummed lightly. And then I saw 
that I had made a mistake. He turned on the instant very white, and looked 
at me with such entreaty in his blue eyes that I hastened to seize the first 
change of subject that came to my mind, and asked briskly with what I con- 
ceived to be unbounded tact : 

"By the way, how is your cousin Emil ? I have never forgotten that 
boy's beauty. Do you remember how we used to call him ' der schone 
Emil,' at the University?" 

Evidently I had finished the matter. Karl left his chair almost with a 
bound, and went to the window. But before I could collect myself, he had 
come back to the fire, and said very quietly : 

" I see that I must tell thee, Heinrich, why I am come from Petersburg. 
Nay, partly to tell thee did I come. Good! If thou wilt have the not-to-be- 
exaggerated kindness to listen to my story I will tell it thee." 

For a few brief moments, as he stood looking steadily and silently into 
the fire, I compared this man, with whom I had sworn " Bruderschaft " five 
years before, who had given the name friendship a meaning most precious to 
me, with the aforesaid Peabocly and Van der Spink. The knights of the club 
suffered in the comparison, not Karl. . I had admired his carriage and figure 


always, but never as to-night. He stood before me as the type of that man- 
hood which only the German military system can produce — a manhood not 
perfect in itself, but embodying a strength so perfectly developed and trained, 
above all, so perfectly controlled, that, when necessity arises, it becomes a 
force resistless almost as the forces of nature. 

It was hard to believe that there was a wound anywhere under the coat 
to which the splendid shoulders gave a military air. Did Pcaboby and Van 
der Spink bear any wound, or any capacity for a wound, under their broad- 
cloths ? I thought not. 

Karl Hollster and I had spent two years together at the University of 
Heidelberg. I had found in the companionship of the warm-hearted, tender 
fellow, a pleasure exquisite as that which, I fancy, a man finds in the society 
of a sister. We had been knit at first by our common anxiety over Holl- 
ster's cousin, Emil von Dardt, who, in the beginning of his university career, 
had fallen in with a wild set of students, and needed our watching. Emil 
was the most gloriously handsome creature that I have ever seen. He had, 
moreover, a brilliancy and a flow of spirits so utterly irresistible that it was 
no wonder that we all loved him, and that Karl worshipped him with a touch- 
ing devotion. Therefore, after Emil had been restored to paths of compa- 
rative righteousness, the friendship between Karl and myself grew rapidly 
stronger. He persisted in regarding me as Emil's preserver, while I, on my 
side, could not resist the attraction of the loveliest nature I had ever known. 

This is not the place for me to dwell on the depths of his character. 
But the one distinctive and inborn trait that set him entirely apart from the 
men of my acquaintance, was his love of country. He had a kind of genius 
for patriotism such as I have never met with in any one else. " What do 
you," he asked me curiously one day, "to serve your fatherland? Soldiers 
you are not. Merchants and lawyers and scholars you may be. But how 
then serve you at any time the fatherland as we Germans ?" For one second 
I hesitated, confounded. Then I began desperately : " Oh, we — we attend 
the caucuses sometimes, and vote at the Presidential Elections — when it 
doesn't rain, that is, and — " I added, goaded to inspiration by a certain look 
of misgiving on Karl's face, " I have known men's patriotic fervor to carry 


them away to such an extent that they had devoted almost their entire for- 
tunes to the election of some noble man. And — and — don't you think, 
Karl, that it is nearly time for Professor Budenstein's lecture on Philo- 
sophy ?" 

I lollster had left the University a year earlier than 1. By the time that I 
was working in the Edinburgh Hospital, he had returned to the little Rhine 
town of his birth, performed at Coblentz his military service, and had gone 
to spend a year with his uncle, the head of a great banking house in St. 
Petersburg. " My father always wished me to enter the diplomatic service," 
he wrote me in the fluent English which was at the command of his pen if 
not of his tongue. "And this is the best preparation possible." Reports 
came to me from time to time through common friends, of the popularity 
and social success of the conspicuous young attache of the court, for such 
Karl soon became, but after a letter ending with an outburst of joy over 
the fact that Emil was daily expected in St. Petersburg, there was nothing 
further from him. I wrote twice, and was then obliged to leave Edin- 
burgh, to relieve an ancient medical relative of his practice in New York. 
Since that time, the same silence had continued on Hollster's part, until the 
meeting of this evening. 

It was here that Karl took up the tale, and told me in the quietest 
voice, and with no expression of excitement except in his eyes, the story of 
the accident that had undone him. 

He had been three months in St. Petersburg when he met, at a court 
ball, a certain old noblewoman exceedingly au cot/rant with things courtly. 
She had taken " a most unaccountable fancy," as he put it, to Karl, and con- 
trived to bring him under the notice of the Czar, who twice condescended to 
recognise him publicly. Thenceforth Hollster's success was assured. His 
personal attractions, his position as nephew of the great banker, and protege 
of the Princess Blavatsky, his own fortune, had needed only this sign of 
imperial favor, and he was courted and feted to a degree incomprehensible 
to the modest fellow. The courting and feting, the numbers of new friends, 
the dances and dinners, were literally nothing to him, until at some ball 
given in the winter palace, he was presented to the Countess Thekla. 


She was an orphan and an heiress, at that time living with her grand- 
mother in the Russian capital. Of the girl herself Karl told me nothing. 
But I needed no description to see the slender graceful figure, the grave 
gray eyes, the clear white complexion of the young Russian. I had known 
many such girls, apparently carved of ice as cold and changeless as that of 
the rivers of their land, but with hearts of fire lying sometimes untouched 
their lifetime through, within the frosty walls protecting them. I well 
knew what effect such gentleness, such reserve, as characterise the noble 
women of her race must of necessity have upon my friend. 

Of course they had met again and again ; of course he had loved her. 
But I gathered from Karl's story that he had never hoped that she cared for 
him until one evening, — the night before Emil was to come to St. Peters- 
burg, — when they were together at one of the Princess Blavatsky's famous 
little dinners. Happy they that were sufficiently in the good graces of Her 
Highness to be invited to those gatherings, where the best of the nobility, 
beauty and wit of St. Petersburg might be found night after night ! 

That evening the old Princess herself was in her most scintillating 
mood, Thekla was at her loveliest, and the young American girl whom the 
Princess had invited to minister to her guests' entertainment, sang enchant- 
ingly. Even on this snowy night in New York, Karl could not speak of 
the delight of that other evening without kindling. At its close, he had 
left the Blavatsky palace beside himself with joy, carrying with him one of the 
tiny bunches of sweet Russian violets with which Thekla's white gown had 
been caught here and there, and which she had given him with her divinest 
smile. To him they meant everything ; from her they might mean nothing. 

The next day Emil arrived. He was, if possible, handsomer than 
ever, and his cousin escorted him faithfully wherever he could see and be 
seen, and watched over him as proudly and fondly as a mother over a 
beautiful daughter. The Princess was pleased to pronounce him " un beau 
garcon," and his success in the court and diplomatic circles bade fair to' 
eclipse even Hollster's. Thus matters went on, to Karl's infinite content. 

Just here he paused for a moment in his recital, then broke into Ger- 
man, and went rapidly on : 


" I never guessed, dull as I was, and devoted to them both, how Emil 
must look upon Thekla. I never saw the possibility which must have been 
long apparent to any one else, until one night when they sat together in her 
grandmother's box, at the opera, and I, who had come in late and was look- 
ing at her from the foyer, heard a voice near me, commenting on the beauty 
of the pair. Then I understood. Who could resist either of them ? And 
when they met — 

" I was to have joined them, but I left the place, and went back to my 
rooms alone. It might be 'alone' for me always, as long as I lived, I 
thought, as I shut the door behind me. Then my eyes fell upon a square 
envelope lying on my table, and I carried it to the fire and read the direction 
by that dancing light. It was from Coblentz, and before I broke the official 
seal, I knew the contents. They were a summons to me to report at the 
fortress Ehrenbreitstein on the morning of February twenty-seventh, at 
eight o'clock. Dost thou know, Heinrich, what it meant ? I must give 
up everything ; resign my position at the court, and leave Thekla, for as 
long as the fatherland might wish to hold me to that extra service it has 
a right at any hour to demand. It meant that I should be detained possibly 
six weeks, possibly a year, drilling once more in the ranks." 

I made an involuntary gesture of indignation. But Karl said quietly, 
" It is the right of the fatherland," and then went on once more. 

" It was the twenty-third of the month already. I must leave at once, 
the very next morning, and then I should be barely in time. But I must see 
Thekla first. I knew that she was to be at the Princess Blavatsky's dance 
after the opera, and there, an hour later, I found her. She had saved some 
dances for me, and after a waltz I drew her a little apart from the rest into a 
small luxurious room furnished in the Oriental fashion, — a charming nook 
discovered by us long before. There was a faint suggestion of the perfume 
of sandal wood in the air, and the w r eird music of an Hungarian dance 
sounded in the distance. Then I told her that I loved her, and she gave 
me the answer, Heinrich, for which I should not have dared to hope except 
for the violets she had piven me weeks before." 


Karl paused again. I waited, breathless. It was sometime before he 
went on, in a voice lower than before, but perfectly steady. 

" Still, .hopelessness would have stood more truly my friend than the 
wild joy of that minute. When I told Thekla of the summons that called 
me back to Germany, she seemed unable to understand. ' Of course you 
will not go,' she said. When I would have explained, the Russian pride, 
deadlier than any other, rose in her face. 

" ' It is my duty to my country. Her children must obey her call. 
But I shall come back for you ? ' I said, in my distress. She answered me in 
utter coldness, ' I do not comprehend such duty. You do not go to fight 
for your country. If you love me, as you say, you will not go. It is for 
you to choose.' 

" She left the low couch on which she had been half lying, and went to 
the doorway, pulling back the curtains. Then she turned and looked at me, 
inquiringly — not with entreaty even, simply with a questioning in her eyes. 
Heinrich, I do not know what madness was in my heart, or whether I 
thought then of the fatherland, or of anything save the Countess. But at 
that instant Emil appeared, radiant, in the doorway behind her, and offered 
her his arm. 

" ' The dance is mine,' he said. 

"' Yes,' I answered, 'it is yours. I resign the Countess to you,' and 
they swept away together. 

" Even then it was not too late for the train. All the rest of that night, 
and for twenty-four hours more, I journeyed southwards. On the morning 
of the twenty-seventh, long before sunrise, we met, at Bingen, the first of a 
series of delays that put us further and further behind time. When at 
last T began to cross the bridge of boats at old Coblentz, the church clock 
was striking nine; but I hardly thought of the time, as, in the freshness and 
light of the morning, I climbed the slope to the frowning fortress, and was 
admitted to the Exizierplatz. 

" The old life of motion and vigor almost carried me away. The bugle 
music, the fretting horses, the blue uniforms, the old faces that I had known 
so well, — they were all there, and all filling the place with a welcome to me. 


There, moreover, was the insufferable captain, who was ever such a trial to 
rpe. Dost thou remember, Heinrich, the railings, in my letters, at Haupt- 
iiKinn Dumps ? 

" My company was drawn up in order, a sight refreshing to the eyes- 
But when I would have taken my place, it was filled. The captain stood at 
ease, looking on with truly characteristic enjoyment, as a new awkward 
squad was drilling in the preliminary gymnastics, f went up to him anil 
said : 

" ' My place is filled. By height 1 belong to the second row.' 

" ' You are an hour late,' answered Dumps with a frown, his eyes still 
on the performances of the new men. ' Surely you don't expect me to 
change the line for you. Go to the rear.' 

" ' But I have come from St. Petersburg, and have travelled day and 
night. It was literally impossible — ' 

" ' Go to the rear ! ' 

" The last row was little more than half filled when I entered it to make 
the seventh. Next me stood a heavy little man of something like five feet 
three. I smiled at the contrast, and then waited, as calmly as one learns to 
wait for military orders. It was twenty minutes before a bugle sounded 
from the fortress above. 

" ' Attention ! Present arms ! ' called the captain, and, a moment later, 
as the men fell into the perfect position, a great horse dashed along the line, 
bearing the commander of the brigade. The captain saluted punctiliously, — 
a sight that did my heart good. The officer reined up before us, and asked 
curtly, ' How many ? ' 

" ' One hundred and twenty-seven, Excellenz,' answered Dumps with 
a respect new to me, but which became him. 

" ' One hundred and twenty-seven ! ' repeated the officer. ' Outlandish 
number ! Cut off the seven and send them home. Then start the company 
at once for the training ground.' And the great horse galloped off again, 
leaving seven absolutely petrified men. 

" In a moment I heard confused murmurs on every side. The five feet 
three man was muttering something joyful about his return to the business 


needing his attention in Dresden. Another was wildly anticipating the 
welcome and the supper, — particularly the supper, — to be bestowed upon him 
by his delighted wife in Leipzig. I had a dim vision, through my momentary 
daze, of the company marching away, and a vague sense that one of my 
former companions, as he passed me, gave me a reproachful, envious glance 
and ventured to whisper, in spite of Dumps' watchful eye and ears, ' Pum- 
pernickel ! what luck ! ' 

" I recovered almost instantly, hurried to the barracks for my civilian's 
clothes, and took the next northern train. With one idea repeating itself 
over and over in my mind, I flew back over those weary miles to St. Peters- 
burg. Flew ? My thoughts outsped the rapid train by hundreds of miles. 
They were with Thekla before I had left the station. 

" But at last I reached the capital, late in the evening of the third day 
after I had left it. My rooms had, of course, been given up with everything 
else ; but I hurried to the house of one of my friends, who gave me a place 
to dress and the information that the Princess threw open her house for the 
last great ball, that very evening. ' Would I dine ? ' No, I would not, but 
I would have a carriage ; and with scant courtesy I left my astonished host 
and drove to the Blavatsky dance. 

" The beautiful halls of the palace were crowded with the men and 
women whose life I had lived three little days before. The hours of rapid 
travel, the sunny morning in Coblentz, the accident that set me free, seemed 
like a curious fever-phantasy. I had to pull myself together with an effort 
before I could begin my search for Thekla. For some time I failed to find 
her among the brilliant crowd that swayed and surged through the Prin- 
cess's great rooms. By a chance, the orchestra was playing the Hungarian 
waltz that I shall never forget, — that I pray never to hear again. 

" ' Emil's waltz ! ' I said, with a shiver of recollection, and at that 
moment I caught sight of them both. "It was indeed Emil's waltz. They 
were coming swiftly down the hall together, Thekla smiling as — as only she 
can smile ; Emil, beautiful as a god. I started towards them, but stopped at 
the curtains hanging before the little Oriental room, where she had first 
accepted and then refused my love. There I waited, for they had finished 


their dance, and were walking towards me. A moment more and Emil had 

seen me, and hurried Thekla forward with a glad cry of welcome, and an 
outstretched hand. 

" ' Gratulire, allerliebster Karl ! ' he said, his eyes alight, his voice 
ringing. 'She has promised to marry me!'" 

There was utter silence in my study. Suddenly a log on the hearth 
broke with a crash and a futile shower of sparks; and sank helplessly into a 
bed of ruddy coals. 

"Dear old fellow," I began, " what can I say?" Something in bis 
eyes let loose the torrent of indignation pent up within me, and I cried, 
" The whole thing was for three days, and a mistaken — an entirely mistaken, 
sense of duty." 

But Karl stopped me. " No," he said quietly, " it was for the father- 

Julia Olivia Langdon, 'pj. 



Softly the echoes move away, between 

Th'uplifted pillars; then the holy air 

Falls to a mellow silence ; then the rare 
Windows of olden time, the darkened screen 
Carven to fantastic spires, — more dimly seen 

The emptied choir, — the mighty arcs that bear 

In curving power this beauty up, — declare, 
As man's work may, what Deity should mean. 
Here are two musics met : the chords that run 

From high to low, across the threads of Time, 
Throb with the changing moods and fates of man, 
The unaltered stones, in still harmonious plan, 

Making space beautiful, softening the notes that climb, 
Figure th'eternal Peace, — 

Life's manifold shapes made one. 

M. P. C. '89. 
England, 'gi. 



NOT long ago I was turning over the pages of " Cranford "with the ling- 
ering touches we give to the books we have known and loved longest. 
There is such a rare pleasure in looking through a book which has, as it 
were, been lost for years and suddenly found again. Mow delightfully familiar 
it all seemed ; — those dear, quaint ladies with their prim little tea-parties, 
their wonderful caps and rigorous etiquette ! The awfulness of the Honor- 
able Mrs. Jamieson returned afresh ; and I felt the old time shudder of terror 
steal over me as Lady Glenmire, boldly ringing the bell, presumed to ask 
Mr. Mullincr, no less awful than his mistress, for more bread and butter. 
Time had not changed Lady Glenmire's plebeian soul ; Miss Matty was as 
charming as of old, and snuffed the candles with her wonted zeal ; little 
Miss Pole's curiosity was in no wise diminished ; and yet, familiar as all 
these things were, there lurked about them and the whole book a certain 

" Cranford," as I first knew it, was a small, square, brown book with a blis- 
tered cover, printed on thin paper, whose pages had turned yellow with age. 
The "Cranford " of to-day is very different ; has — alas ! — been revised, prefaced 
and illustrated. The dingy brown cover is changed for one of a gay flowery 
cloth with a red back, in which shine gold tea-cups and saucers. All one's 
fancies of the old town and its people are destroyed forever by illustrations, 
charming no doubt in themselves, but painfully of " to-day ; " the men and 
women, very awkward in their oldtime clothes, apparently find the stiff- 
backed chairs uncomfortable and knitting a foreign occupation. There are 
glimpses of prim gardens in which such care has been taken to preserve the 
ancient regularity of the box hedges that the perspective is quite ruined. 
Yet for all this, the flower-beds which should have been a tangle of bachelor's 
buttons and lady's slippers, of moss roses and bridal-wreath, bloom with 
the sunflower, the annunciation lily and other tributes to modern sestheti- 
cism. Oh for the musty little brown book where one could make shadowy 
pictures for oneself! The old pages needed no illustrations, they were in 
themselves full of suggestions, about which there clung a genuine aroma of 
the past. There was no enterprising artist, who at every turn thrust on us a 


bunch of lilacs, or a full-page illustration — •" How Deborah took it to him." 
A satisfactory portrait of Miss Deborah would under any circumstances be a 
difficult task. She was not beautiful, her strength lay in an uncompro- 
mising severity and firmness rather than in grace. Yet fancy might have 
softened the hard lines without the inconsistency which we feel obliged to 
reproach in the artist, who evidently has been trying to portray in her 
the beauty of one of the famous Miss Gunnings or the radiancy of a 
Duchess of Devonshire. On the contrary, if he makes her ugly we again 
demur — Miss Deborah's severity had its charms. It is hard to have all 
our fancies and conjectures set down on superior glazed paper; we beg 
that we may be allowed to imagine her exact attitude for ourselves. 

" Cranford " is only one of the many old books which have been dese- 
crated by illustrations. In almost any book of any time a clear, full length 
portrait of the hero or heroine, or a favorite scene depicted in minutest de- 
tail is destructive to those preconceived ideas and half formed fancies so 
dear to us. However much we may choose to question the artist's rights, 
there is always a haunting possibility of truth in his representation. Above 
all, the modern illustration does not suit the old book, it is far too- self- 
conscious, too professedly ancient. Again we plead for blank pages, if we 
cannot have the original illustrations hallowed by time; and especially we 
regret the old copper-plate prints, delightful always, and in the old books 
supremely in place. 

Take for example, as a frontispiece, a delicate grey print, a lawn with a 
queer gabled structure at the back and in the foreground a drooping willow- 
tree under which is walking an impossible girl carrying a basket, and attired 
in flowing skirts, a black mantilla and a broad garden hat which discreetly 
hides her expression. Some dogs are gamboling about her. This is very 
unpretentious, altogether vague and delightful ; it may suggest anything. 
Perhaps she is carrying jelly to a poor cottager ; again, she may be gather- 
ing wild flowers and may show a delicate, ladylike taste for botany ; she 
very possibly lives a quiet retired life in the country with her dogs as her 
only companions, and just at this point be about to meet the hero of the 
tale, who asks permission to carry the basket for her ever after. We look 
at this frontispiece, draw our conclusions and then may read the book in 


peace, without being interrupted every few lines by a tea-pot or a spindle- 
legged table. 

There are three authors whose books seem to me to have been ade- 
quately illustrated. Dickens, read without the Cruikshank illustrations, 
would be another person. Only by one who is familiar with " The Meek- 
ness of Mr. Pecksniff and His Charming Daughters," — Miss Mercy's ring- 
lets are never to be forgotten,— with the lively representations of the Pick- 
wickian revels, and the benignity of Mrs. Squeers when ladling forth brim- 
stone and molasses to the pupils of Dotheboys Hall, can he be truly 

To fully enjoy all the pleasure which is to be obtained from reading 
Thackeray, one should know him in green volumes, of not too serious a 
shade, with " W. M. Thackeray " in rather straggling letters on the front 
cover. The illustrations must be those drawn by himself, and nothing 
more satisfactory can be imagined than " The View in the Dean's Garden," 
from " Pendennis," or the balls of " The Newcomes," where slim, senti- 
mental youths lean against the walls of long drawing-rooms, while empty- 
faced ladies, crowned by black circles of hair, waltz languidly with regi- 
mental partners. 

Just as we delight in the ravishing Fotheringay and her noble parent, 
in good-natured Jos. Sedley, and Becky Sharp throwing back the dic- 
tionary at poor little Miss Jemima, so we are grateful that Beatrix Esmond, 
most fascinating of heroines, is nowhere very definitely pictured. 

Last of the books that I wish to mention as satisfactorily illustrated, are 
" The Rollo Books." As I knew them, they were thin, faded, grey volumes, 
illustrated by wood cuts of a sedate youth, by no means a boy, with an 
innocent smile. He is clad in a baggy coat and a necktie as immaculate as 
Daniel Deronda's, and is generally engaged in brushing the dust from his 
museum shelves, or in piling wood with Jonas. No character could be 
more truly portrayed than is the guileless Rollo's, in these few homely pic- 

To concern oneself with the editions of books and their bindings may 
be trivial, even frivolous ; and frivolous it undoubtedly is as compared with 
the possession of the books themselves. Yet since books must be bound 


and sometimes illustrated, their binding and illustration may be included 
among the things which go to make life outwardly more attractive. It cer- 
tainly is no great matter whether Swinburne is in green morocco or blue 
cloth ; whether one's " Paradise Lost " is a century old or the last English 
edition ; or whether the pages of" Marius the Epicurean " are cut or uncut. 
Yet as men's clothes help in forming or displaying their individuality, 
insensibly influencing the people about them, so do the bindings go to form 
the atmosphere of books. Not, perhaps, when one is in the heart of an 
all-absorbing volume; then it would in truth be ignoble to pause and 
denounce the publisher who dares gild Pater's pages and bind Shelley in 
scarlet ; but after the book has become a memory or has entered into one's 
life, then its binding means something. Half unconsciously, we come to 
associate pale grey with Marius, and wish a crimson for Keats — a rich dark 
color in full calf, with bright green labels and a fine gold tracery on the back 
in a pattern of tiny leaves. I am not at all commending the folly of those 
who find it in their hearts to bind Mrs. Jameson's " Characteristics of 
Women," or Stedman's "Victorian Poets" in superb calf, but surely in 
regard to the books that are near to us we may be permitted a little senti- 

As to bindings, I fancy, we are almost invariably prejudiced by the 
form in which we are accustomed to read a book. Scott, for me, is always 
associated with great green-backed volumes, too heavy to be held in one 
hand, and over which one must bend until only the fascinations of the dark 
Rebecca or Peveril of the Peak could leave one oblivious of aching back 
and head. 

There are, however, certain consistencies to be preserved in binding. 
This is especially true in regard to old books, which ought to be read in old 
editions, in order properly to cultivate the historic sense. If that is impos- 
sible, let them be simple and modest, and not gay in flower)- cloth, because, 
perchance, our grandmothers worked samplers. The good dames never 
bound their books with the precious squares. It is all very well when 
Austin Dobson writes quaint verses, to lend him whatever accessories 
modern art can give, but Prior does not need our aid to carry him back 
into the past. 


Above all, the old essayists, The Spectator, The Rambler and The Idler, 
should always be read from musty volumes, which should not be very large 
but rather thick, and hound either in dingy cloth or well-worn leather. To 
be perfect, their leaves must be deeply stained and their margins filled with 
notes and parallels in a crabbed handwriting, while on the fly leaf is the 
name of the former owner, in dim brown letters, and perhaps the stamp of 
his college, from which they came to him as a prize. 

Unfortunate indeed is the man who must read his Boswell from one of 
the neat brown and gold editions of modern times, which never for an 
instant betray the charm of this most delightful of books. Boswell, prop- 
erly bound, would be in thin, longish volumes, faded yellow with time, 
whose labels have grown dull and volume numbers difficult to distinguish. 
With such a book- we can soon find ourselves two centuries away, drinking 
tea with Mrs. Thrale, attacking the obnoxious Goldsmith, smiling at the 
follies of the irrepressible Boswell, and loving the dear old Doctor with all 
our heart. 

Little books are generally by far the most charming, and above all 
others, " Pepys' Diary" should be in tiny, fat volumes, rather ugly, but of good 
clear print, books which we can hold easily in our hand, and lay down when 
we please. It matters not whether we stop to chat, or even to run away 
for a little while, since we are always sure to return sooner or later to Pepys 
and " my wife Elizabeth." 

The other day I came upon a charming old dramatist in slender, faded 
volumes, fast falling apart. The print was very crooked, often a whole page 
would run askew, and again the letters reach to the very edge, regardless 
of margin. In the front was a print of the poet in periwig and ruffles. 
Another appeared further on, of a hideous murder scene, wherein the villain 
of the piece with a mild and pacific countenance was alternately poisoning 
the heroine and stabbing himself, while a court lady and gentleman ges- 
tured frantically and always gracefully to each other in the foreground. 
Being old-fashioned, the poet apparently intended to permit a happy denoue- 
ment, since men in armor were to be seen coming to the rescue from 
behind the tapestries. 


It is indeed for the old books we must finally plead. New books have 
youth to help them in bearing the burden of cheap editions and ruthless 
artists ; the old ones are, as it were, living among aliens, among men who, 
though with the sincerest attempts at appreciation, cannot read them in the 
spirit of the age to which they belonged. There is thus laid upon us the 
almost sacred duty of cherishing and reverencing them, not more in truth 
for their other virtues, than for the charm of age itself, since, as the Spanish 
proverb goes, " Age is a recommendation in four things — old wood to burn, 
old wine to drink, old friends to trust and old books to read." 

Lucy Martin Donnelly, 'pj. 



SCENE. — Parlor of Mrs. Flint's boarding school. Miss Sherwin seated at a 
window, her forehead pressed anxiously against the pane. Miss Kingsley standing 
before a mirror, critically examining her evening dress. 

Miss Kingsley [meditatively]. — Yes, I think I am very well satisfied with 
this dress. The color is becoming and the style suits me exactly. And 
to think that mamma and Madame Blanc planned the whole thing 
without any assistance from me. It seems like a work of magic. 

Miss Sherwin [sighing]. — Well, admire it while you can, for unless we start 
pretty soon it will be time to take it off and lay it away for the rest of 
the winter. Here is the carriage now. \_She turns quickly around.] 
Where is Dorothy? Can't you hurry her? 

Miss K. [revolving slowly before the mirror]. — I do like the back so. What 
a pity my blue wasn't made this way. You don't half appreciate it, 
Cathy ! 

Miss S. [zvith a gesture of annoyance]. — I should appreciate it more if you 
would cover it up with your cloak. I do dislike waiting, waiting, 
waiting for people that won't hurry. [She shakes her head defiantly 
and sinks back into her chair.] 

Miss K. '[putting a finishing touch here and there]. — I don't see how I ever 
managed to get my hair up this way. Don't you like it high better 
than low ? 

[Miss Sherwin folds her arms resignedly and docs not answer. Miss 
Kingsley, after another glance, begins reluctantly putting on her wraps. 
A slight, rustling noise from without. Enter Miss Layard in ball dress, 
carrying fan, gloves and ivraps.] 

Miss L. [excitedly]. — Oh; girls, isn't this blissful? Do you realize that we 
arc actually going to a ball ? [She spins wildly around the room, drop- 
ping fan and gloves ; then sinks breathlessly upon a chair], I had such 


fun dressing. A lot of the girls came in to help me, and we were in 
mortal terror for fear some of the teachers would walk in upon us. 
\_Looking up suddenl)i\. What is the matter, Cathy ? You look so 
solemn ! 

Miss K. [handing Miss Layard the gloves she has picked up]. — Not solemn, 
just dignified. When you and I are seniors, that is the way we shall 
be expected to behave. But hurry, Dorothy. Put on your gloves. 
Cathy, for certain reasons [with a significant smile], is very anxious to 
get to the ball, in spite of her seeming, indifference, and is getting posi- 
tively cross because you have kept her waiting. 

Miss L. [jumping up and running over to Miss Shcnvin]. — Oh, she can't be 
cross to-night ! Why, Cathy dear, you're all wrapped up. I must 
have a peep at your dress. [She drags Miss Shcnvin from her chair 
and ihrozvs back her cloak]. How perfectly sweet ! Come here, Maud, 
and let me look at you both. 

Miss K. [laughingly taking her position by Miss Shcnvin' s side]. — Well, now, 
what do you think of us ? 

Miss L. [falling back a little]. — Oh, you are both too beautiful ! Maud is 
perfectly stunning and Cathy has such lovely, little haughty airs. 
[Mournfully]. I am nowhere ! But [brightening] I don't care. I am 
going to have the gayest kind of a time. I never started to a ball at 
half-past nine before. Bless dear old papa ! He was a perfect jewel to 
write to Flinty and tell her that I must go this time. 

Miss S. [warming a little]. I never enjoyed anything more than to see the 
way our home letters worked upon her. 

Miss K. — It was jolly to hear her say that her principal reason for our not 
going was that she feared our " parents would object," and to see her 
pretending to be glad we were pleased, and all the time doing spiteful 
little things to get ahead of us. 

Miss L. — I don't believe she ever would have said yes, even after the letters, 
if Mrs. Harvey herself hadn't come and begged for us. 

Miss K. [nodding her head with great satisfaction]. — Mrs. Harvey is the kind 
ofa friend to have. Young and jolly, fond of entertaining, and with a 
perfect house for it. That ball room is 


Miss L. [waltzing up and down]. — Perfectly magnificent. I am crazy to 
begin the fun. Don't either of you frown or shake yum heads at me, 
no matter what I do. I shan't notice yon if yon do. I am going to 
have a recklessly good time, and I won't be stopped. [She taps her foot 
emphatically on the floor '.] 

Miss S. [with a condescending smile]. — That means, I suppose, that you arc- 
going to Hiit desperately. Well, we shan't disturb you. Mademoi- 
selle and I shall have our hands full with Maud, I foresee. All that 
posing before the mirror wasn't for nothing. 

Miss K. [quickly]. — Mademoiselle will have a very inefficient assistant, I 
fear. All that impatience to start might'mean something. 

Miss L. [gleefully]. — Yes, I know. She is afraid he will be waiting and 
not having a good time till she gets there, and 

Miss S. [with dignified resentment]. — You are both very sdly. It means 
simply a most laudable desire to be prompt. [She steps to the door and 
looks into the hall.] — What is Mademoiselle delaying for? She is un- 
usually slow. 

Miss K. [with a melancholy shake of the head]. — Don't blame poor little 
Mademoiselle. She has been closeted with Flinty for the last half 
hour, getting instructions, I suppose. But isn't it jolly [with anima- 
tion] that Mademoiselle can chaperon us ? Any of the other teachers 
would have spoiled the whole thing, but she is just like one of us ; not 
much older, either, I fancy. We do seem to have everything our own 
way for once. 

Miss S. [impatiently]. — Except that we can't get started. Mrs. Flint will 
be down in a moment, and then we shall have a lecture of at least fif- 
teen minutes. 

Miss K. [mischievously]. — -Don't worry, Cathy. Your programme will be 
tilled up for you by the time you arrive. There won't be a great 
variety of names on it, — but then ! [Miss Sherwin looks exasperated, 
but does not deign to reply.] 

Miss L. [anxiously]. — Oh, do you suppose Mrs. Flint will come down? I 
shall be sure to say or do something wrong and make her mad. I 
always do — but there ! let's not talk of such unpleasant subjects. 


Come, Cathy, pretend, just for a minute, that Maud is Mr. Somebody- 
or-other at the ball, and bring her up to introduce to me. Please do. 
\_She gives Miss Sherwin a play fid push. Miss Sherwin gravely ap- 
proached Miss Kingsley, leads her up and introduces her with many 
flourishing gestures. Miss Kingsley boivs low with her hand on her 
heart. Miss Layard inclines her head slightly, smiles, and waves her 
fan. Enter, from behind, Mrs. Flint and Mademoiselle. They watch 
the pantomime with amazement.] 

Mrs. Flint [in a stentorian voice]. — Young ladies ! 

[The girls turn hastily around. Miss Sherwin walks to the table 
and searches for something on it. Miss Kingsley begins to fasten her 
cloak, and Miss Layard works nervously with her gloves.'] 

Mks. F. [majestically taking the chair which Mademoiselle offers']. — I see, 
young ladies, that you are quite ready; and now if you will be seated I 
have a few words to say to you. [The girls sigh and take their seats, 
Miss Layard by the zvindow.] 

Miss L. [in feigned surprise]. — Why, there is the carriage. You didn't tell 
me, girls, it had been waiting all this time. 

Mrs. F. — Ah, the carriage is there, is it? It must be getting quite late. 
You understand, young ladies, that I do not approve of such late 
hours, nor of dancing parties, and am running the risk of injuring my 
reputation by permitting members of my school to indulge in them. 
However, as your parents desire it, and as I always try to give pleasure 
to my pupils and to make the life here a happy one, [the girls exchange 
glances] I have consented to run this risk for once. Mademoiselle, in 
whom I have the greatest confidence [looking fixedly at Mademoiselle, 
who colors and grows confused], will be with you. You are to keep in 
her sight during the evening, and in any perplexity goto her. [Miss 
Sherwin smiles scornfully.] Then, too, should any college men be 
present, I wish you to have nothing zvhatcver to do with them. I 
object to them ; they have no principle and use a great deal of slang. 
Although I was forced by circumstances to establish my school in a 
college town, yet I have never permitted my scholars to speak to the 
students. My school has been — 


[ Miss Layard, who has been looking out of the window, starts from 

her seat with an exclamation^] 
Miss L. [without seating herself again]. — I beg pardon, Mrs. Flint, but the 

In uses jumped so they startled me. 
Mrs. F. [rising].— It is time you were starting, Mademoiselle! 
Mademoiselle. — Madame ? 
Mrs. F. — You will take good care of the young ladies and remember all 

my injunctions ? 
Mademoiselle. — Ah, oui, Madame. I raymam-bcrr tres-bien. 
Mrs. F. — And you will see that they arc here in the house by twelve 

o'clock ? 
Miss S., Miss K., Miss L. [in a chorus].— Oh, Mrs. Flint! 
Miss S. — That is frightfully early. 
Miss K- — We shall just be in the swing of it then. 
Miss L. — It will spoil all our fun. 
Mrs. F. [standing very erect and carefully folding her hands]. — Young 

ladies, I am shocked, surprised, and at the same time grieved at such 

vehement expressions and such a display of discontent after my 

great leniency. Twelve is the hour I have fixed for your return and 

it cannot be changed — unless you wish it earlier. [Mademoiselle slips 

Miss L. — But we begin so late that it will barely give us two hours. 
Mrs. F. — I am not to blame that Mrs. Harvey did not make her hours 

from eight to eleven, as is proper. I have overstepped my rules by 

one hour, and will not do more. Mademoiselle is at the door. Good 

night, young ladies. [Exit Mrs. Flint pompously.] 
Miss L. [half crying]. — I knew it, I knew it, I knew she would spite us 

some way. 
Miss K. [with lofty indignation]. — That is nothing but pure malice. 
Miss S. — Shh! girls. We can't help it. Oh, why did we waste so much 

time ? 
Mademoiselle [from without]. — Venez, mesdemoiselles, venez vite. 




SCENE — Tete-a-tete room opening out of Mrs. Harvey's ball-rooin. Enter Miss 
Sherwin and Mr. Blair. 

Mr. Blaik. — So you won't cut this dance with Morton and give it to me? 

Miss Sherwin [smiling and shaking her head]. — Oh, by no means ! 

Mr. B. [beseechingly^ — You won't even give me half of it ? 

MissS. [composedly] . — Not even half. 

Mr. B. [looking at her with a rueful expression]. — You are awfully hard on 

a fellow. At least you will let me stay here until Morton comes? 
Miss S. [taking the chair he offers]. — I can't think of it. The music has be- 
gun. You probably have this dance engaged, and if not, you must 

find a partner before it is too late. 
Mr. B. [earnestly]. — Upon my word, I haven't. I don't want to dance this 

time, really I don't. 
Miss S. — And yet you tried to convince me just now that you were very 

anxious to dance. 
Mr. B. [zvith a gesture of despair]. — Well, I suppose I have done it now, and 

there is no use in trying to explain that I meant I didn't want to dance 

with anyone else ? 
Miss S. [waving him off]. — Not a bit ; I insist upon your going. 
Mr. B. [looking back as lie goes out of the door]. — Shan't I find Morton for 

you ? 
Miss S. [languidly]. — Oh, I think he can find the way here. 

[Exit Mr. Blair. Miss Sherwin rises, wanders- about the room for 

a fezv moments, steps to the door and looks out into the ball-room and 

then goes back to her scat. Enter Mr. Carter.] 
Mr. Carter [in surprise]. — Am I so fortunate as to find you without a 

partner, Miss Sherwin? Won't you let me have the pleasure? 
Miss S. [looking a trifle annoyed]. — -Thank you, but I have an engagement 

for this dance. My partner will be here in a moment, I think. 
Mr. C. — Oh, I shouldn't wait for him. He has forfeited his right by not 

being here on time. If he comes before the dance is over I will resign 

you to him, if you wish. Isn't that magnanimous of me ? 


Miss S. {with emphasis]. — Very ! Still I shan't give you a chance to resign 
me. I shall wait a little longer, at any rate. 

Mr. C. [as he'goes out]. — Well, I only wish my partner had been as con- 
scientious as you. She went off at the beginning of the (lance without 
giving me any chance to get there. 

[Exit Mr. Carter. Miss. Sherwin leans forward and looks at the 
dancers as they pass, with a determined expression on her face. Mr. 
Harvey appears at the door, sees her, and niters a slight exclamation.] 

Mr. Harvey [advancing]. — Why, Miss Sherwin, aren't you dancing? 
Where is your partner? 

Miss S. [trying to appear unconcerned]. — I am sure I don't know. I have 
been expecting him every minute. 

Mr. II. [shaking his head]. — You never can depend upon these fellows, 
they forget so easily. Who is it? Morton ? I'll go look him up. 

Miss S. [quickly]. — No, please don't. If Mr. Morton forgets his engage- 
ments so easily I should prefer he were not reminded of them. 

Mr. II. [laughing], — Ah, I see. You will give him a little talking to when 
he does come. Well, I shall not prepare him for it. 

[Exit Mr. Harvey. Miss Sherwin leans back in her chair and 
plays with her fan ; the music ceases. Enter Mrs. Harvey.] 

Mrs. Harvey [hastening up to Miss Sherwin]. — My dear Catharine ! Didn't 
Dewitt Morton come for his dance at all? Frank told me you were 
in here waiting for him, but I supposed of course he had come before 
now. These boys need some one to look after them — they are so 

Miss S. [indignantly]. — This one, I think, was unpardonably rude! 

Mrs. H. — It is about time to go out to supper. I must get you an escort 
in Dewitt's place, as there is no telling where he is. Why, of course, 
my dear [as Miss Sherwin tries to speak], you musn't wait for him any 
longer. There! I see some one I am sure you will like, and he has 
been wanting to meet you, too. [Exit Mrs. Harvey.] 

Miss S. [rising and speaking vehemently]. — This is too much ! I shan't stay 
here to be questioned any more about this miserable dance. Where can 
I go to escape the escort Mrs. Harvey is bringing? He looks horribly 


uninteresting! [She glances hurriedly around, sees a screen standing 

before a divan in a corner of the room, and slips hastily behind it. Enter 

Mrs. Harvey with escort. .] 
Mrs. H. [looking about the room\. — Ah, she has gone. Mr. Morton must 

have come. I must find you some one else. 

[Exeunt Mrs. Harvey and escort. Miss Sherwin gives a sigh of 

relief, scats herself on the divan, still behind the screen, under a shaded 

lamp, and picks up a book lying near her. Enter from the ball-room 

Mademoiselle and Mr. St. John, carrying huo plates of ice.~\ 
Mr. St. John [airily]. — -Now, Mademoiselle, why isn't this a cosy little 

place for us to have our refreshments? [He places a chair for 

Mademoiselle and hands her her ice.]. 
Mademoiselle. — Ah, Monsieur, eet ees vary well. Ze light and ze warm 

ees not so much here. 
Mr. St. J. [drazving up his own chair facing Mademoiselle]. — You were 

telling me, Mademoiselle, that all this kind of thing is new to you. 

Now what do you think of American men, on the whole? 
Mademoiselle [with a little laugh]. — Ah, I cannot tell. I haf only met 

mostly ze Messieurs from ze college. 
Mr. St. J. [smiling]. — And you do not think they are a fair sample ? 
Mademoiselle [shrugging her shoulders]. — I do not say just so. But zey 

vary diffayrent. Zey speak so much of — ah ! I not raymamberr what. 

You know — ze words with-out ze sanse. 
Mr. St. J. — Slang. Oh, yes. The meaning is sometimes a little obscure. 

But [encouragingly] you will soon pick it up, Mademoiselle, and you 

have no idea how it will help you to express yourself. 
Mademoiselle [with a sigh], — Yas, I learn ze whole tongue sometime. 
Mr. St. J. [with an insinuating air]. — Come now, Mademoiselle, tell me 

what is your opinion of college men. I shan't let it out, I promise you. 
Mademoiselle [shaking her finger at him]. — You vary sly, but I know 

your camarades are Messieurs from ze college and you are an-other. 
Mr. St. J. [throtving back his head and laughing heartily]. — I am another, 

am I? You are doing well, Mademoiselle. Is that what Miss Kings- 
ley called me ? 


[Miss Sherzviil behind the screen looks up from her book in a startled 

Mademoiselle [naively]. ( >h non, T haf neverr hear her talk of you. 
Mr. St. J. [placing his plate on the floor with a meditative air], — That's 

strange. Never heard any of them speak of St. John ? 

[Miss Sherwin puis down her book and rises from the divan.] 
Mademoiselle [thoughtfully shaking her head]. — Non, non. I haf neverr 

hear zem say zat. Zey haf spoke of ze Saint, but I not know what eet 

ees zat zey mean. 

[Miss Sherwin takes a step forward and stands irresolute with a per- 
plexed expression on her face.] 
Mr. St. J. [carelessly folding his anus on his knees and leaning forward]. 

And what did they say of the Saint? 

[Miss Sherwin looks uneasily about her for means of escape, and 

seeing none sits down again with a helpless expresssion.] 
Mademoiselle [with an air of abandon^] — Mademoiselle Maude and 

Mademoiselle Cat-a-rine say zey haf am- use zem at ze name; it so 

un-ap-propri-ate. But Mademoiselle Dor-o-tee say she pleased be-cause 

ze owner not like ze name. 

[Miss Sherwin smiles grimly^] 
Mr. St. J. [Much amused]. — Good for Mademoiselle Dor-o-tee. She's out 

of sight, anyhow, is'nt she ? 
Mademoiselle [looking hastily around]. — Yas, I not see her at all. I have 

seen zem all vary leetle zees ev-en-ine:. 
Mr. St. J. — Haven't you seen Mademoiselle Catharine dancing with Mor- 
ton ? You know who he is, don't you ? 

[Miss Sherwin leans forward with parted lips.] 
Mademoiselle [with interest]. — Ees he ze Monsieur zat studies law? 
Mr. St. J. [looking a triple perplexed]. — Well, I don't know whether 

he is the Monsieur, but he is in the law school. This is his last 

Mademoiselle [with a quick gesture of the hands]. — Oh, yas. Eet ees he. 

I haf heard Mademciselle Cat-a-rine tell of him. She haf say she lot" 

him much be-cause he so difay-rent from ze rest. 


[Mr. St. John gives a long low whistle. Miss Sherwm leans back and 
closes her eyes. Enter Mr. Thistle and Miss Kingslcy. Mademoiselle and 
Mr. St. John rise as if to go.] 

Mr. Thistle [blandly]. — Don't let us disturb you, don't let us disturb you, 
don't let us disturb you ! 

Miss K. [to Mr. St. John, with a significant glance toward Mr. Thistle]. — 
No, don't go, We don't in the least want to monopolise the 

Mr. St. J. [wickedly]. — It is very self-sacrificing of you to ask us to stay, 
but Mademoiselle and I have had our turn and a tete-a-tete room isn't 
intended for four, you know. 

[Exeunt Mademoiselle and Mr. St. John. Miss Kingslcy and 
Mr. Thistle take the scats they have left ; Miss Kingslcy very reluctantly. 
Miss Sherwin looks out from behind the scenes, but withdraws in 

Mr. T. [speaking slowly and distinctly, on account of his slight deafness, and 
looking about him with satisfaction]. — A delightful idea this, to have a 
place where one can withdraw from the whirl and noise of the ball- 
room and enjoy a quiet conversation. A delightful idea, a delightful 

Miss K. [with a touch of sarcasm]. — The ' whirl and noise ' seem very dis- 
tasteful to you, Mr. Thistle, but, you know, one rather expects that 
sort of thing at a ball. 

Mr. T. — That is true, that is true. My retired life at college with those 
best of friends, my books, has unfitted me for gaiety. But do not 
think that anything can be distasteful to me in your company, Miss 
Kingsley. Then even the ball-room grows endurable, and how much 
do you think must your presence add to this quiet? 

[Miss Sherwin picks up her book and begins to read busily.] 

Miss K. [with an indifferent laugh]. — Not half so much, I dare say, as 
your best of friends would. 

Mr. T. [mournfully shaking his head]. — Ah, they can do a great deal, a great 
deal. For many years they have been my one delight, the one solace 
for every misfortune. They have satisfied every longing. 


Miss K. [calmly interrupting]. — Dear me, if they can accomplish so much, 
I shall turn student immediately. 

Mr. T. [in surprise], — And arc you not one already? Ah [glancing pity- 
ingly at her], I forgot, I forgot. You have nothing to encourage or 
inspire you in that paltry boarding school, surrounded by inferior 
girls. [Miss Sherwin looks up from her book indignantly]. But perhaps 
it is better so. As I was saying [raising Ids voice a little], for many 
years study has satisfied every longing, but now it has failed. I begin 
to realize that " They who know the most must mourn the deepest 
o'er the fatal truth, the Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life." 

Miss K. [with difficulty repressing a yawn], — I should hope not. Life would 
be very dull if it were. 

[Miss Sherwin begins to read again.] 

Mr T. [drawing nearer and speaking more distinctly]. — You arc right, you 
are right. Life would be, life is unendurable without something more, 
something better, something higher, and that something is love. " There 
is no good in life but love, but love. What else seems good is some 
shade Rung from love." [Miss Shcrzvin throws down her book and 
claps her hands over her ears. Jlfiss Kingsley turns suddenly and tries 
to speak, but Mr. Thistle raises his voice still higher]. Miss Kingsley, 
you have made me feel this. [Miss Kingsley leans back resignedly in 
her chair. Miss Sherwin presses her hands tighter and tighter and 
finally buries her head in the cushions]. You have made me dissatisfied 
■with my life, dissatisfied even with myself. You alone can restore to 
me my peace of mind, you alone — 

[Enter Mr. Morton in a hasty and agitated manner. He stops 
short and looks at Miss Kingsley and Mr. Thistle with a dazed expres- 
sion. At this moment Miss Sherwin moves and the book falls to the 
floor. Mr. Thistle springs to his feet in alarm. Mr. Morton rushes to 
the screen, throws it back, and' discovers Miss Sherwin, her head still 
buried in the cushions.] 

Mr. Morton [with a gasp]. — Caesar's ghost, what is the matter? 

[Miss Shcrzvin starts up, looks around her, and sinks back without 


Miss Kingsley [composedly to Mr. Thistle, who stands petrified]. — Mr. 

Thistle, would you mind looking in the ball-room and dining-room for 

my wrap ? It is getting chilly in here. 

[Exit Mr. Thistle hastily. Miss Kingsley rises and strolls leisurely 

into the ball-room^] 
Mr. Morton [looking much distressed]. — Miss Sherwin, I don't know what 

to say. I didn't intend to leave you so long. Do forgive my rude- 
ness. I, I — 
Miss Sherwin [sharply]. — Where have you been ? 
Mr. M. [in great confusion]. — I was in the dining-room — no, I mean the 

dressing-room. I was where I could not hear the music, and had no 

idea so much time had passed. I tried to get back, I truly did. 
Miss S. [sarcastically]. — You must have be"en enjoying yourself very much 

to make the time seem so short. 
Mr. M. [with great earnestness]. — I was alone and having a wretched time. 

I couldn't help it. I really couldn't. 
Miss S. [looking sternly at him]. — I suppose you couldn't help throwing 

back that screen and letting everyone see that I was concealed here. 
Mr. M. [in surprise]. — I didn't know you were hiding or I shouldn't — 
Miss S. [furiously]. — I wasn't hiding. I was driven here and couldn't get 

out. It is all your fault. Oh, dear ! [She covers her face with her 

Mr. M. [anxiously]. — Can't I get you some supper? 
Miss S. [without looking up]. — No. 
Mr. M. — Some water then ? 

[Miss Sherwin does not reply. Exit Mr. Morton as Miss Kingsley 

enters. She sits down on the divan by Miss Sherwin.] 
Miss K.— Cathy? 

[Miss Sherwin looks up. They gaze at each other a moment and 

then burst out laughing^ 
Miss K. [looking mystified]. — Explain this to me. I am totally in the 

Miss S. — There isn't much to explain. Mr. Morton did not come for the 

dance he had with me before supper, and I slipped back here to avoid 


being questioned. The first thing I knew, here were Mademoiselle 
and Mr. St. John, and they had reached a point in their conversation 
when it would have been embarrassing for me to appeal'. Just as they 
were leaving, you came. Between the fear of being discovered and the 
feeling that I was playing the eavesdropper, you don't know what I 

Miss K. — And you heard all that stupid fellow said? 

Miss S. — I tried not to, but he shouted so. 

Miss K. — Wasn't it dreadful? Thank goodness, I have the next dance 
with Mr. Carter. 

Miss S. — Rut the Thistle will fly back in a moment with your wrap. 

Miss K. [triumphantly drawing it from behind her]. — No, he won't, lie 
will go on looking for it for the rest of the evening. Ah, here comes 
Mr. Carter. [She rises and starts toward the door, then stops.] What 
are you going to say to Mr. Morton ? 

Miss S. [stiffly]. — I am going to be very cold and severe. 

Miss K. [smiling increduonsly]. — Well, I should like to see you do it; but 
you can't, Cathy. You will forgive him before he asks you. 

Miss S. [defiantly], — Wait and see. 

Miss K. — I'll wait. [Exit Miss Kingsley.~\ 


SCEA'E. — End of the ball-room at Mrs. Harvey';:. Enter Miss Layard and Mr. 
McClane dancing. 

Miss Layard [breathlessly]. — Oh, I must stop. Where can we sit down 

and rest for a moment ? 
Mr. McClane [looking about]. — The tete-a-tete rooms are occupied, worse 

luck ! But here is a window seat that looks moderately comfortable. 

You do not think you will feel the draught here? 
Miss L. [giving him her fan]. — I only wish I could feel a draught. I 

never was so warm. If I could ever learn to stop dancing at the right 

time — but I love it too much. 


Mr. McC. [fanning her]. — We'll rest and then begin again. So you really 
are enjoying it to-night? 

Miss L. [enthusiastically]. — Enjoying it ! If you had been shut up in a 
gloomy old boarding-school for about six months you wouldn't ask. 
Oh, how I hate it ! So poky ! So stupid ! 

Mr. McC. — Well, now, I prophesy that Mrs. Flint is going to change 
her tactics and let you have more fun. The very fact of her letting 
you come to-night means that she is meditating something of the 

Miss L. — No, it doesn't. It only means that we shall be kept in more than 
ever to make up for this. [She sighs plaintively^] 

Mr. McC. [dropping the fan upon his knee]. — Oh, pshaw, she oughtn't to be 
allowed to live. Now don't you suppose she would let a harmless 
person like me come to call upon you sometimes? 

Miss L. [mischievously]. — Well, perhaps if you wrote to papa and he 
wrote to Mrs. Flint and gave a good account of you, and satisfied her 
that your ancestors were really good men and that you are going to fol- 
low in their footsteps — 

Mr. McC. — I might come. I'll do it. What is the old gen — , I beg pardon, 
your father's address ? I'll fix my ancestors all right. My great- 
great-grandfather was a missionary to the Indians, his son a chaplain 
in the Revolutionary Army, my grandfather was a philanthropist, my 
father is a minister and I am thinking of studying theology. Will 
that do ? 

Miss L. [clapping her hands]. — Oh, lovely. But you must give good 
reasons for wanting to come. 

Mr. McC. [looking fixeclly ett Miss Layard]. — Jove ! I could give reasons 
enough. And you really give me permission to come after these pre- 
liminary arrangements? 

Miss L. [demurely]. — Oh, yes, then you may come some Saturday after- 
noon and talk to Mrs. Flint in my presence for half an hour. 

Mr. McC. [in dismay]. — Is this to be my reward ? 

Miss L. — You see you will be such an interesting young man that Mrs. 
Flint will want to talk with you about your ancestors. 


Mr. McC. [energetically shutting the fan.] — Then I'll dispose of soup ol 
them. No, I have it. [ He leans forward confidentially]. I am in! 
esteel in you through a mutual friend, hear through same friend that 
you are growing frivolous, think you a good subject for a little mission- 
ary work'. 1 low is that ? 

Miss L. — Very transparent, but — oh, I forgot! You can't come at all. 
Mrs. Flint particularly disapproves of college men. We were especially 
instructed to avoid them to-night. 

Mk. uicC, — And this is the way you do it ? 

Miss L. [tossing her head coquettishly]. — T don't see how I can help myself. 

Mk. McC. [reproachfully]. — Then you would like to? 

[Enter Air. Blair in great haste. He rushes up to Miss Layard.] 

Mr. B. — -I've been looking everywhere for you, Miss Layard. Isn't this 
our waltz ? 

Miss L. [glancing quickly at Mr. McClanc, who regards Iter with a most 
beseeching expression]. — Yes, it is, but if you will excuse me, I think I 
shall not dance this time. I am a little tired. [She settles herself more 
comfortably on the window-seat.] 

Mr. B. [aside to Mr. McClane]. — I'll get even with you for this, old chap. 

Mr. McC. [threateningly in an undertone]. — And I'll see that you repent 
interrupting my tetc-a-tetes. 
[Exit Mr. Blair.] 

Mr. McC. [in a pathetic tone]. — Was it much of a sacrifice to give up that 
dance '( . 

Miss L. — No, I like it better here. 

Mr. McC. [brightening]. — Do you really ? So do I. Do you know, I 
should have been awfully wretched if you had gone. I was just think- 

[Enter Mr. Morton.] 

Mr. Morton. — Excuse me — but — may I speak to you a minute, Mac? 

Mr. McC. [rising reluctantly^. — I suppose so, if Miss Layard will pardon 

[They stef> aside.] 

Mr. McC. [ivith vexation]. — Now, what do you want? Didn't you see I was 
busy? You fellows never seem to care when you interrupt. 


Mr. M — Come now, just forget about yourself a minute and look at me. 

Do you see anything strange or conspicuous looking about me ? 
Mr. McC. [scrutinising hint]. — No, only you look awfully rumpled and 

excited. What have you done to your clothes ? 
Mr. M. [in a whisper]. — Shhh ! They're not mine. Gawky butler met me 

in the passage and baptised me with a bowl of salad dressing. Ruined 

my dress suit. Harvey scraped me up this one of his. Had to cut a 

dance and supper with Miss Sherwin. She is furious. I can't explain. 

Help me, old fellow, and for heaven's sake, get them to turn out the 

lights, or the fit of this thing will drive me mad ! 
Mk. McC. [laughing]. — Well, you do deserve to be pitied. Where is Miss 

Sherwin ? 
Mr. M. — In the tete-a-tete room, where she has been for the last hour. 

She will scarcely speak to me. 
Mr. McC. — Go and get her and take her to the conservatory. We will 

meet you there. 
Mr. M. — But I am afraid she won't go. You don't know how immovable 

she is. 
Mr. McC. [after a moment's hesitation]. — Tell her Miss Layard wishes to 

sp'eak with ner. 
Mr. M. [suspiciously']. — Now look here, Mac, don't get me into any more 

scrapes ! 
Mr. McC. [reassuringly]. — Didn't I tell you I would do my best for you ? 

Go along. I'll have all the lights out hi the conservatory by the time 

you get there. 
Mr. M. [hesitating nervously]. — Don't tell any of the fellows until after the 

girls go ! 
Mr. McC. — I didn't promise that, but [threateningly] if you don't go and 

do as I say — [Exit Mr. Morton.] 



SCENE. — Conservatory. Miss Kingsley and Mr. I arlcr seated wit/iiu. Enter Miss 
Layard and Mr. McClane. 

Mr. McClane. — Hello, Hal, you here? That's good. Morton and Miss 

Sherwin are coming present I) - . Then we shall have it all to our- 
Mr. Carter [in a disgusted tone]. — Awfully good of you to come to keep 

us company. 
Miss Layard. — Ah! we are not welcome, Mr. McClane. 
Mr. McC. [stepping- up to the candles and blowing them out]. — Oh, yes, we 

are; that's just a way Hal has of expressing his pleasure. 
Miss Kingsley [i'emonstrating~\. — What are you putting out the lights for, 

Mr. McClane ? 
Mr. McC. [sitting down by Miss Layard]. — To reduce the temperature and 

prevent our presence from being irksome to you. Noble motives, are 

they not ? [He begins to talk to Miss Layard in an undertone.] 
Mr. C. [to Miss Kingsley]. — Come now, in all seriousness, you didn't really 

enjoy talking to Thistle, did you ? 
Miss K. — No, I can't say that I did [Mr. Carter looks relieved"], but 

[emphatically] I enjoyed immensely hearing him talk. 
Mr. C. [incredulously]. — Thistle? Oh, you couldn't! Impossible! 
Miss K. [with feigned displeasure]. — Do you think his conversation is 

beyond me ? 
Mr. C. — Oh, no, no, never ; but he's such a dry chap. An awful grind, you 

know. Doesn't know any of the fellows, even those in his class — 

never goes about any. Why, I believe I could show him places about 

the college that he doesn't know exist. 
Miss L. [laughing aloud]. — Poor Mr. Morton, that is a terrible scrape for 

him to be in. Can't we help him out? 
Mr. C. [turning quickly around]. — Morton in a scrape ? That's fine ! 

Don't get him out of it. Let him alone. 
Mr. McC. [threateningly]. — Now look here. Don't you give any such 

advice. Suppose I had let you alone when Miss — 


Mr. C. [hastily']. — All right, all right. I'll fix it all up for Morton. I 
don't know what it's about, but I'll see that it's all straight. 

Mr. McC. [to Miss Layard]. — If you could explain a little to Miss Sherwin 
when she comes in — 

Miss L. — Of course I can. I should love to. It will be so funny to hear 
what she says. Here they come now. 

[Enter Miss Sherwin and Mr. Morton.'] 

Mr. McC. — Um ! how frigid. [Aloud,.] Shouldn't you like some cushions 
from the window seat in the other room ? [In a whisper] I'll make 
Morton go with me to get them. See ? [Miss Layard nods. Mr. 
Mc Clane goes up to Mr. Morton and Miss Sherwin and speaks to them- 
Exeunt Mr. Mc Clane and Mr. Morton. Miss Sherwin goes over to 
Miss Layard and they converse in whispers.] 

Miss K. [to Mr. Carter]. — It must have been a very serious scrape to make 
the mere mention of it have such a subduing effect upon you. 

Mr. C. [confidentially]. — Well, I didn't want Mac to proclaim it to the 
whole house, that was all. It wasn't anything much. I'll tell you 
about it. That girl he mentioned was a terror [drops his voice and 

Miss. L. [to Miss Sherwin]. — Don't let him know that Mr. MClane told me 
anything or that I told you. Just be haughty for a little while and 
then be nice, as if all of your own accord. 

Miss S. [with a confident nod of her head]. — Don't be afraid that I shall 
be too relenting. Whether he was to blame or not, Mr. Morton caused 
me great annoyance and I am not entirely pacified yet. 

[Enter Mr. Morton and Mr. McClane with the cushions. They 
arrange them and all make themselves comfortable^] 

Mr. McC. [to Miss Layard].— -How did it work ? 

Miss L. [with great satisfaction]. — -Beautifully ! Cathy isn't going to for- 
give him right away, and when she does he will think it is from pure 
kindness of heart. 

Mr. McC. [shaking his head]. — It takes a girl to manoeuvre. I should 
never have thought of going into it as deep as that. I thought they 
would make it all up at once and have it over. 


Miss L. — Oh, that would spoil the fun. 

Mr. McC. [glancing toward Miss Sherwin andMr. Morton with a smile].— 

Well, it may be fun for us and for Miss Sherwin, but I'll venture it's 

the most uncomfortable fun Mort's had for a good while. 
Mr M. [to Miss Sherwin, with mournful entreaty]. — Are you going to 

punish me all the rest of the evening and not forgive me at all ? 
Miss S. — You haven't shown that you particularly desire forgiveness. 
Mk. M. [looking hurt]. — Haven't I apologised and done everything but go 

down on my knees ? I'll do that if you say so. 
Miss S. [with a touch of sarcasm]. — Oh, you have told me you were in 

two or three places at once, if that is what you mean by an apology, 

and you have said you were awfully sorry. I suppose I ought to be 

satisfied with that. 
Mr. M. [penitently]. — No, you oughtn't . I know I've said a lot of foolish 

things that weren't to the point, but I've been. all upset by one thing 

and another, and you mustn't judge by what I say. Judge by — 
Miss S. [mischievously]. — Appearances? 
Mr. M. [hastily], — No, no. I don't mean that, I mean — do have a little 

pity on me. 

[Mr. Blair appears at the door, peers around in the darkness and 

then enters.] 
Mr. Blair. — Oh, you're all here, are you ? Mademoiselle sent me to find 

you. She says it is after twelve and the mesdemoiselles must come 

immediately. She is surprised that they didn't come before, and is 

very angry. 

[The girls jump nf hastily.] 
Miss S. — Oh, dear, we should have gone sooner, I suppose. 
Mr. M. — No, no, sit down, you don't have to go yet. [Fiercely to Mr. 

Blair.] What do you mean by rushing in here in this style? 
Miss K. [decidedly]. — We must 'go. 
Miss L. — Isn't it too mean ! 
Mr. C. — Blair, go out of here. Go back and tell Mademoiselle you couldn't 

find them. 
Miss S. [anxiously]. — Is she very angry? 


Mr. B. [with mock solemnity]. — Awfully angry. The last time I saw her 

she was just giving it to St. John. 
Mr. M. \seizing Mr. Blair by the shoulder]. — Look here ! Stop fooling. 

Mademoiselle didn't send you here at all. Did she now ? 
Mr. B. — Well, don't choke me in the meantime. Mademoiselle sent me 

\_the girls press forward breathlessly] to see if the young ladies were 

enjoying themselves and behaving themselves properly, and — 
Miss K. ^ 

Miss S. V [sitting down with a sigh of relief], — Oh ! 
Miss L. J 
Mr. B — And to tell them if they didn't hurry along this minute — 

[The girls jump up again in alarm.] 
Mr. McC. [excitedly]. — Don't you say another word. 
Mr. C. [menacingly]. — -Tell the truth, can't you ? 
Miss L. [tileadingly]. — -Please tell us what she said. Oh, I know we shall 

have to go after all. 
Mr. McC. — No, you won't. It isn't late yet. Say, Blair, this is too much. 
Miss K. [indignantly]. — I don't intend to wait to hear more. I am going 

this minute. 
Miss S. — So am I. 
Mr! B. — You needn't go. Upon my word, I haven't seen Mademoiselle for 

an hour. 
Miss K. — I don't believe it. I am going. 
Mr. C. — No, don't. He hasn't seen Mademoiselle. Really he hasn't. It 

isn't late. 
Mr. M. [persuasively] . — Come, sit down. Don't pay any attention to Blair. 

He doesn't know what he is talking about. 
Miss L. [eagerly.] — Oh, Mr. Blair, do go back and ask Mademoiselle if we 

can't stay a little longer. 
Miss S.- — Yes, do, won't you ? 
Mr. B. — Why, I don't know where she is. 
Miss K. — What time is it ? Isn't she really waiting for us ? 
Mr. B. — It is exactly half-past eight, and Mademoiselle is tete-a-teting with 

the Saint. I stake my reputation upon it. 


Mk. M. — You won't lose much if you don't win. Now, have you worried 

us enough ? 
Mr. B. [sauntering to the dour]. — I am to tell Mademoiselle you are in the 

Miss K. [in dismay]. — Oh, no. 
MissS. — Just ask her if we must go now. 

Mr. B.— Ask her if 

Mr. McC. [rushing totvard hint]. — Are you going? 

Mr. B. — To be sure. 

Mr. C. — Then hurry. 

Mk. McC. — Fall down and break your neck ! Don't you come back here ! 

Mr. B.— Thank you. 

[Exit Mr. Blair.] 
Mr. M. [to Miss Sherwpl, as he takes his seat again]. — I suppose you would 

have gone away then and left me here without a word. 
Miss S. [with assumed indifference]. — I should only have been following 

your example if I had. I don't remember that you gave me many words 

of explanation when you left me this evening. 
Mr. M. [desperately]. — What shall I say or do ? [He leans back with the air 

of a martyr^] Well, go on ; make me miserable if you enjoy it. I can 

stand it, I suppose, if it gives you pleasure. 
Mr. C. [to Miss Kiugsley]. — Twelve is too early for anyone but a Cinder- 
ella. Why didn't you make her say two ? 
Miss K. — Have you ever seen Mrs. Flint ? 
Mr. C. [flippantly]. — Never have had that pleasure. 

Miss K. — Well, when you do you won't talk about making her do things. 
Miss S. [to Mr. Morton], — And you really couldn't help it? 
Mr. M. [reproachfully]. — Do you think I should have stayed away from you. 

all that time if I hadn't been forced to ? 
Miss L. [to Mr. McClanc] — Yes, to St. Luke's every Sunday. We have to — 

but we don't mind. It's fun to get out and see people. 
Mr. McC [musingly]. — I wonder if I couldn't get in the choir at St. 

Miss L. [with enthusiasm]. — That would be lovely! Do try. 


Mr. M. [to Miss Sherwin]. — Won't you take my word for it? 
Miss S. [smiling], — I suppose I must. You are so pitiful. 
Mr. M. [eagerly]. — And you forgive me too? 

[Re-enter Mr. Blair. Mr. Morton, Mr. Carter and Mr. McClane 

try to make him retreat, bat the girls gather around him.] 
Miss L. [breathlessly]. — What did she say? Where is she? Must we go 

now ? Has the carriage come ? 
Miss K. [sternly]. — Tell us the truth. 
Mr. C. — Tell them she doesn't want them, and then go ! 
Mu. B. [calmly]. — Mademoiselle has fled. One rumor is that she has gone 

with St. John ; another that she has gone for Mrs. Flint — 
Miss L. — Oh, I am frightened to death ! 
Mr. B. — Another that she has shut herself up in the dressing-room in a 

. rage. 
Miss K. — Come, girls, don't delay a minute. [She starts to the door.] 
Miss L. [following reluctantly]. — Oh dear, oh dear. It's to-morrow. 
Mr McC. — Pshaw ! this is all a trick. Come back. I'll go see about it 

Mr. M. [to Miss Sherwin, as she starts toward the door]. — Let the others go 

and pacify Mademoiselle. You stay here. Please do. 
Miss S. — I can't, — but perhaps we can get our wraps and come down 

again — unless the carriage is waiting. 
Mr. M. — Will you really ? Don't be long. I'm sure the carriage isn't there. 
Miss S.— I'll try. 

Mr. M. [detaining her]. — Did you say you forgave me ? 
Miss S. [with an exasperating smile]. — I didn't say. [She joins Miss 

Kingslcy and Miss Layard at the door.] 
Mr. B. [calling to them as they hurry out]. — Mademoiselle said you could 

stay until day after to-morrow, until next week, until — 

[Exeunt Miss Sherwin, Miss Layard and Miss Kingslcy.] 
Mr. C. [energetically]. — Blair, I'll kill you. 

Mr. McC. [in disgust]. — Of all contemptible tricks, this is the meanest! 
Mr. M. [excitedly]. — Don't waste time talking. We must do something. 

Fellows, if you don't all turn in and help me, you're no friends of 


mine. I must see Miss Shcrvvin again. You must contrive some way 

for her to be left behind — 
Mk. C. — And let the others go ? Thanks, I don't go into any such scheme 

as that. 
Mk. McC. [aside to Mr Carter']. — Come now, don't be crusty. Can't you 

see it's a serious thing with Mort ? Lend a hand and a head, if you 

haven't lost it, to help a fellow in distress. He's pulled you out often 

Mr. M. [to Mr. McClane].— Mac, what shall I do ? If it hadn't been for 

Mr. McC. [turning suddenly around]. — Blair, you're in an inventive frame 

of mind to-night. Suppose you turn it to a good purpose for sake of 

variety, and suggest something for us to do. 
Mr. B. [glibly]. — Bind Mademoiselle, drug the servants, lock up Mr. and 

Mrs. Harvey — 
Mr. C. [sternly]. — Now we've had enough of that for one night. If you 

can't say something sensible, just keep still or we'll — 
Mr. M. [wrathfidly].- — Put you out. I wish we had done it long ago. 
Mr. McC. — He oughtn't to have been allowed to come anyhow. 
Mr. B. [with unruffled countenance]. — Yes, he ought. If he hadn't come, 

you fellows might have had some reason to complain. 
Mr. M. [walking restlessly up and down~\. — Some reason ? I should like 

to know how we could well have more ! Oh, how I'd like — 
Mr. B. [soothingly]. — No, you wouldn't. Juit calm yourself a little. If I 

had known you were going to get into such a desperate state of mind 

I shouldn't have bribed the Coachman — 
Mr. M. [stopping short and confronting him]. — What do you mean ? 
Mr. C — What are you talking about ; have you any idea ? 
Mr. B. [rubbing his forehead]. — A dim one. I have a sort of a recollec- 
tion of standing out in the rain about an hour ago, haranguing with 

that old buffer of Flint's, and it seems to me that he finally consented 

to go off and lose himself for a couple of hours, — but I may have 

just imagined it. 
Mr. M. [looking astonished]. — Blair, are you in earnest? 


Mr. McC. — Well, you are a genius ! 

Mr. C. — Why didn't you tell us ? Why did you want to stir up all this 

commotion for nothing ? 
Mr. B. — I wanted you to appreciate the fact that you were having an extra 

allowance of time. 

[Enter Mr. St. John.'] 
Mr. St. J. — What is this ? a conspiracy ? 

Mr. C. — Exactly that. Blair has bribed the coachman to stay for a while. 
Mr. St. J. — What good does that do ? Mademoiselle and the girls are 

upstairs waiting for the carriage, and they won't come down again till 

it comes. 
Mr. McC. — Mort, shall we give a false alarm and bring them down ? 
Mr. M. [looking anxiously out of the door], — No, Miss Sherwin said she 

would come back. 
Mr. C. — Are the others coming too ? 
Mr. M. [absently]. — She said she would try. I think she will. Ah, here 

she comes now. 

[Enter Mademoiselle, Miss Sherwin, Miss Kingslcy and Miss Layard.] 
Mr. M. [to Mr. McC/ane, in a whisper].— Make Blair go and see that that 

coachman isn't lurking around anywhere. 

[They join the others, and all stand talking. Mr. McClanc speaks 

to Mr. Blair, who goes out]. 
Mademoiselle [protestingly to Mr. St. John]. — But we can-not hear ze 

car-riage here. 
Mr. St. J. [with great assurance]. — Oh, yes, we can. Better than anywhere 

else, really, especially if we sit by that window over there. [He leads 

the way and Mademoiselle follows]. 
Mr. C. — Don't stand here. That carriage isn't coming yet. Let's sit down 

and make ourselves comfortable. [He draws up a chair for Miss Kings- 
ley. They seat themselves, and the others follow their example^] 
Miss Kingsley [to Mr. Carter]. — I can't imagine what can have happened. 

It is so late, nearly everyone else has gone. What will Mrs. Harvey 

think of us ? 
Mr. C. — Oh, she understands about it. That's all right. 


Miss K. — But Mrs. Flint won't. Arc yon sure the carriage isn't there? 
Mk. C. [to Mr. Blair, who appears at the door], — Blair, see if " thirty-six " 

has conic yet. [Exit Mr, Blair]. We'll all conic around in the morn- 
ing and explain to Mrs. Flint. That'll fix it. 
Mr. B. [calling from zvithout], — Thirty-six ! Hello there, thirty-six ! 
Miss Sherwin [to Mr. Morton]. — I was a little disagreeable myself, perhaps. 
Mr. M. [warmly]. — No, you weren't, not a bit. I never saw anyone so 

amiable. I thought of course you had gone off and danced with some 

other fellow. But when I came back and found you still there — that's 

what broke me all up. 
Miss S. [folding her hands complacently]. — I could have danced a good 

many times — but I didn't want to. 
Mr. M.— It's awfully good of you to say that — that is, if you mean it the 

way I want you to. 

[Enter Mr. Blair.'] 
Mr. B. — No, signs of him yet [he beckons to Mr. MeClanc, who joins him]. 
Mr. McC— Well, is it all right? 
Mr. B. — Coachman's in the kitchen enjoying himself with the servants, 

good for another hour at least, and the carriage is concealed at the back 

of the house. But Mrs. Harvey is worrying, rather suspects we have 

had a hand in this business, and is trying to get Harvey to go out and 

look for it. If he does it's all over. 
Mr. McC. [looking toward Miss Sherwin and Mr Morton]. — Can't you head 

him off? 
Mr. B. [dubiously]. — Well, I don't quite see how I can — but here goes. 

[Exit Mr. Blair.] 
Miss Layard. [to Mr. McClane as he joins her again]. — Isn't this jolly 

and mysterious ? After one o'clock and no carriage. I just love that 

coachman for not coming. [She laughs gaily.] 
Mr. McC. — He is a sensible man. He knows this isn't any time for him to 

be coming round here. 
Miss L. [regretfully]. — -But it would have been much nicer if we could only 

have known that we could 'stay. I was positively afraid to look at a 

clock all the evening. 


Mr. St. John [to Mademoiselle]. — It is the most beautiful language in the 

world, Mademoiselle. So sort of thrilling. 
Mademoiselle [with a laugh]. — Ah, Monsieur, you can not tell eef you do 

not speak eet. 
Mr. St. J. [ptotestingly]. — But I am going to learn to speak it. Upon my 

word I am. I'll begin now if you'll teach me. You always begin with 

Vhomme and aimer, don't you ? 
Mademoiselle. — Ah, non! Monsieur. We be-gin with etre and gargon. 

[Mr. Blair appears again at the door and gesticulates wildly, but no 

one notices him.] 
Mr. M. — [pleadingly]. — Please don't treat it as a joke. I am in earnest. 

Really I am. 
Miss S. [y> cry softly]. — I have told you I forgive you, isn't that enough ? 
Mr. M. [impetuously]. — No ! not nearly enough. You must tell me. [He 

draws nearer and drops his voice very low.] 

[Enter Mr. Harvey. He stops and speaks to Mr. Blair for a 

Mr. Harvey [advancing]. — Mademoiselle, your carriage is here. I hope 

you and the young ladies have not found it tiresome waiting. 
Mademoiselle [rising quickly\. — Non, Monsieur, eet has not been so. Rut 

eet ees late. Depechez-vous, Mesdemoiselles. 
Mr. C. [to Miss Kingslcy]. — It is abominable for that cabby to turn up just 

now. You must go? 
Miss K. — Indeed we must. I don't know what would happen if we were 

to delay now [turning tozvard Miss Shenvin and Mr. Morton, who arc 

still seated]. We are going, Cathy. 
Mr. McC. [to Miss L.]. — Take your time. We'll see you to the carriage. 

Have you all your wraps ? I am sure you've dropped some. Let us 

stay here and look for them. 
Miss L.— Oh, I musn't. [She starts toward the door, then stops and looks 

bade] Aren't you coming, Cathy? 
Mr. M. [detaining Miss Shenvin, as she starts to go]. — Then you won't ask 

me to wait ? 


Miss S. [with a saucy smile, as she hurries after Miss Layard] — You kept me 

waiting, you know. 
Miss K. [to Mr. Harvey']— Where is Mrs. Harvey? 
Mr. II. — Just here in the other room. 

[Exit Mr. Harvey, followed by Mademoiselle, Miss S/ierwin, Miss 

Kingsley and Miss Layard.] 
Mr. McC. [anxiously to Mr. Morton, who is hurrying tozvard /he door']. — All 

right, Mort ? 
Mr. M. [without stopping or looking around]. — Yes, yes, all right. 
Mr. McC. [energetically sinking him by the shoulder]. — Is it really ''. Good 

for you ! 
Mr. St. J. [as they all crowd around Mr. Morton]. — That is fine, Dewitt. I 

am proud of you, old fellow. 
Mr. R. [seizing one hand and shaking it vigorously]. — You deserve credit, 

my boy. I congratulate you and 

Mr. C. [shaking the other hand]. — Wish you joy with all my heart. How 

does it 

Mr. M. [breaking away from them]. — Thank you, boys, thank you. I'll 

see you again. 
Mr. St. J. [in amazement]. — Well! Congratulations arc wasted on him. 
Mil. C. — Communicative, isn't he ? 
Mr. McC. — What do you expect? that he will stay here and talk to you 

instead of seeing Miss Sherwin to the carriage? If we don't hurry he 

will have the pleasure of seeing them all off. 
Mr. C. [hastily]. — Well, come on then. 

[Exit Mr. Carter, followed by Mr. McClane and Mr. St. John.] 
Mr. B. [looking after them and singing]. — 

Ah, me, 'tis strange that some should take to sighing, 

And like it well, and like it well ; 
For me, I have not thought it worth the trying", 
So cannot tell, so cannot tell. 
[Exit, humming^] 


Ethel McCoy Walker, 'pj. 




IT is more than a year now since the hot discussion of the sixteen-course or three- 
year system at Harvard, but a question is seldom closed, especially when any new 
aspect presents itself, and accordingly I should like to suggest that this one might 
very profitably be re-opened with regard to women's colleges. 

By way of preface let me state what, in its general application, the three-year system 
means. Its advocates propose, by cutting down the number of courses required for the 
A. B., to enable any student who desires to take the degree in three years. And be it 
said just here that there is as ample opportunity for saving the time thus cut out of the 
college course in the girls' preparatory schools as in the boys'; so that the change could 
be made without either raising the average age of admission to college, or materially 
lowering the standard of the degree. In short, there is elementary work of which the 
college should free the valuable time of her instructors, by requiring it in the entrance 

Now what are the principal arguments against the woman's college? I mean, of 
course, arguments which can be met and answered ; not the impalpable objections of 
prejudice and conservatism. The one most often insisted upon amounts to this, that the 
four years from eighteen to twenty-two are the most important years of a woman's life, 
years in which she re-adjusts her childish relations to family and surroundings, and takes 
her place once for all in the society in which she must live. The college girl, it is urged, 
who spends those years making new friends and getting new interests which are often 
hard to reconcile with her home life, is deprived of this precious time of adjustment, and 
comes back to her home a woman, her character and tastes formed without home influ- 
ences and regardless of home requirements. A life-long estrangement from her home 
and surroundings, and a life-long lack of that tact and adaptability which constitute a 
woman's greatest charm and are the secret of her greatest power are, it is argued, the 
natural and inevitable results. Is not a large part — much more than a fourth — of the 
force of this argument done away with by the shortening of the college course from 
four to three years ? Any college woman would tell you that the fourth year brings little 
that is actually new except the responsibilities of Seniorship, and makes its force felt 
chiefly in deepening and strengthening the lines that the three former years have 
drawn in. 

So, too, in regard to the argument that it is not a good plan for women to live to- 
gether in large numbers at any rate, since of necessity a woman's life has not the free- 
dom that gives broadness to the college life of men. This is not the place for a discus- 
sion of that question, but whatever evil effects there may be in college life they must 


make themselves felt not at first, but gradually, as the slow formation of narrow habits 
of thought, and would be urcally lessened with the removal of the fourth yi 

So much for die advantages of the three-year system in meeting the special objec- 
tions raised against women's colleges as such. In respect, now, to the arguments for it 
which have been urged in the case of men's colleges, I cannot think of one which does 
not hold for women with the same force. The supporters of the system argue tl 
professional and post-graduate training becomes more and more necessary, " if both 
college and professional trainingcan not be afforded, it is the college training which is 
sacrificed ;" and they " regard die piesent state of things as very burdensome to parents 
and as injurious to the state because it tends to confine the benefits of university educa- 
tion to the children of people more than ordinarily prosperous." They "recognize in 
the fact that the number of students in American colleges has not increased proportion- 
ately with the increase of the population at large, and in the very small proportion of col- 
lege bred men in the learned and scientific professions, signs that the traditional four- 
years' course for the A. B. may wisely be made more elastic." And they " believe that 
the common American college is already in an anomalous and untenable position, and 
that it will get more and more out of relation with its surroundings, as secondary schools 
improve, unless it gradually raises the grade of its work, and makes its requirements for 
the A. B. more clastic." 

All this holds quite as true of our women's colleges as of the men's , they, too, wish 
to extend the higher education to the community at large and not merely to the prosper- 
ous few ; there are professional women — students, teachers, doctors, ministers, even 
lawyers — and their numbers are growing all the time ; and, on the other hand, the man 
who comes to college merely for general culture and broadening and ought to get to 
his business life as young as possible, finds his counterpart in the girl who is losing 
these valuable years at home. The great argument that is brought up in favor of retain- 
ing the four-years' course for such men is that they cannot get the advantages of the 
college atmosphere in less time ; and at this very point, it seems to me, comes in the 
strongest argument that there is for abandoning the four-years' course for women. 
Women can and do get the advantages of the college atmosphere in less than four 
years; they are not obliged to go through the familiar and inevitable stages of Fresh- 
man and Sophomore, and the equally objectionable and almost equally inevitable 
Junior indifference and frivolity ; or, if they do. the stages are so short in most cases 
that one barely has time to notice them before they are gone. In fact, the process of 
development in a woman's college is so much more rapid than in a man's — at least, as 
long as girls continue t- come to college for the love of knowledge alone — that any 
girl who is worth anything has come to a realization of the nobleness of college life in 
itself and as a preparation for life in the world, long before the end of her Freshman 
year, and by the time she is a Junior has received in full the gift that Alma Mater often 
refuses to her sons until late in their last year with her. 


Is it too late to reconsider our traditions ? I think not, and I 
possibility of some change of this sort, as one that promises to remove a number of 
difficulties in the way of the higher education of women. 

Elizabeth Ware VVinsor, 'g2. 


To the Editors of The Lantern : 

I HAVE been delighted to hear that the membership of the College Settlements Asso- 
ciation in Bryn Mawr has so greatly increased this winter. The Association intends 

this coming year to extend its work so largely that we have good reason to redouble 
our energies to help in every way we can. 

The work has been hitherto confined to New York City. In the fall of '92 a Settle- 
ment is to be opened in Boston, to co-operate to some extent with the Andover Settle- 
ment, and intended more distinctly than that in New York to enable its residents to 
make independent sociological investigations. 

Then, too, the work is to come next winter nearer home, or what is for at least four 
years nearer home to every Bryn Mawr undergraduate. The Association has agreed 
to render assistance to the " St. Mary Street Library " in Philadelphia, and to take the 
work there as the beginning of a Philadelphia Settlement. The " St. Mary Street 
Library Association," which has been doing work in the neighborhood for some time, 
contributes a house for two years, one thousand dollars, and the use of a hall, class- 
room, cooking school and carpenter shop. The work is to be largely among negroes, 
conducted less through clubs and more by personal work than in New York, and we 
feel that with the hold already established, the opportunity here is unusually good. 

What we need is workers, — resident workers most of all ; but there will be classes 
and other work for such women as are unable to remain permanently in the Settlement. 
May we not here put in a plea for Bryn Mawr graduates and students who are in the 
neighborhood to help in the work ? One of the greatest desires of the College Settlements 
Association is in the end to make each Settlement dependent only upon the community 
about it. Surely, here or nowhere Bryn Mawr is to play her part. 

April, 1S92. 



PERHAPS the readers of the LANTERN may care to hear something of a Woman's 
College on the shores of the Bosphorus. 'There was once a small western town, 
the citizens of which were exhorted by the editor of their weekly paper to pur- 
chase a lire engine, " lest the town should share the fate of its sister cities of Boston and 
Chicago." It seems to show something of the same spirit to compare the American 
College in Constantinople with Bryn Mawr. But both colleges were founded to give to 
women the opportunities of a higher and better education than they could get elsewhere, 
and it may not seem presumptuous to tell how the college in Asia is struggling to fulfil 
this mission. 

Its students are of many different nationalities. Armenians, Greeks, English and 
Bulgarians predominate, but there are also Jews, Albanians, Americans, Roumanians, 
Turks, Germans, French, Danes and Italians. This fact necessitates much language 
study. Nearly every student must learn four tongues — English, French, her vernacular, 
and her ancestral language (as Ancient Greek, Slavic, Old Armenian, etc.) All the 
students are required to talk English for four days in the week, and French for two' 
days ; while on Sunday they may talk what they will ; that is the day of Babel. 

This diversity of nationality has its advantages. Think with what reality history 
and legend are invested, studied with Aspasia and Eurydice, with Aglaia and Ariadne 
and Euphrosyne, who talk of their brothers Pericles and Socrates and Achilles ! 

The study of history and art is also greatly helped by the situation of the college. It is 
easier to appreciate the reality of history in the midst of ruined walls and ancient palaces. 
When the students picnic by the palace of Belisarius; or gather botanical specimens on 
the site of the monastery to which the Empress Irene retired in her late remorse ; or 
when they eat lettuce raised in the moat by the gate through which the conquering 
Turks entered the city ; or visit on an afternoon walk the church in which the Council 
of Chalcedon was held ; or watch on every holiday the lineal descendant of the Pyr- 
rhic dances performed by porters ; it gives an illumination to many parts of the ancient 
story. And art-students should certainly enjoy living in the very city with St. Sophia 
and the church of S. S. Sergius and Bacchus. Then, too, they are within easy access to 
a museum, among whose treasures (though yet uncatalogued) may be found examples 
of nearly every phase and epoch of ancient art, from the Hittite sculptures and the 
colossal figure of Bel of Gaza, to the marvelously beautiful Alexandrine sarcophagus, 
with its vivid representation in polychrome bas-relief of the Battle of Arbela. 

But all these advantages are offset by very great disadvantages. There is deter- 
mined opposition on the part of the government, manifesting itself in a strict censorship 
of the text-books used in the college, and in other annoying ways ; in the students there 
is great want of preparation and of habits of study ; and we have the most serious diffi- 
culty in persuading" parents to allow their daughters to remain in school after the age of 
twenty, as that is considered old for marriage. 


There is in connection with the; American College a preparatory department with a 
course of two years. This is an absolute necessity, not only on account of the absence 
of other preparatory schools, but also because the students must learn English well 
before entering on the collegiate course. 

With a course so limited in time the students are necessarily very much crowded 
with work, especially as more than half of them study music, without which an educa- 
tion is considered very incomplete in Turkey. So, breakfasting at seven, and retiring 
at nine o'clock, the more industrious and advanced of the students are engaged regu- 
larly in study and recreation for nine and a halt or ten hours every day. 

There is a growing desire for education among the better classes of eastern nations, 
and this demand — almost feverish in its intensity in Bulgaria and Roumania and Gieece 
— is the origin of the attempt to build up a real college for women in Constantinople. 
And in spite of all the disadvantages under which it labors, it is advancing each year, 
and it is hoped' that rt will some day be worthy to be classed with Bryn Mawr, and to 
send its periodicals in exchange for the Lantern. 

Isabel F. Dodd. 


RECREATION among the German people is essentially different in character from 
that of Americans. It is sought as a pleasure, not a duty, and is enjoyed in a 
spirit of quiet. No thought of excitement suggests itself, and no great prepara- 
tion is necessary. 

If the house has a garden, the careful Hausfrau sees that the afternoon coffee is set 
out there ; and a smile of joy illumines her lace if a friend or neighbor drops in to join 
the circle and add a bit of news to the fund for discussion. 

Coffee is supplemented by mondscheinbauchen of black or white bread, a form of 
refreshment that requires for its preparation a skill learned only through patient prac- 
tice. The loaf of bread is held close to the body with the left hand and the knife drawn 
towards the cutter. In this manner, slices of a marvelous thinness can be obtained, so 
that it is no exaggeration to call them " moon-light slices." Pumpernickle thus prepared 
brings joy to the soul; it is bread, very black. and solid, but its chief attraction lies in 
its intense sourness ; the more sour the better in a German's opinion. 

The family, when assembled for this movable feast, presents to the eye of the 
American a picture as novel as it is enviable in its quiet content. Miitterchen sits behind 
the coffee-pot, talking and serving the party in a manner seemingly impossible for any 
mortal under whose hands is growing an affair of indescribable joyousness of color and 
hideousness of design which posterity will never know whether to classify as rug, shawl 


or table-cover. The daughters chatter in whispers, interrupted by suppressed laughter, 
drink their coffee and crochet lace or embroider something less imposingly large than 
the mother's, but by the taste therein displayed promising to be succeeded in after years 
by work of as appalling a type. The Herr Papa and his sons take their delight in 
puffing at huge pipes, from which circles upward many a blue ring of smoke ; or if the 
family is very progressive, the younger men may content themselves with a cigarette 
and a look of intense superiority. They are attired one and all in smoking jackets and 
slippers embroidered by some fair damsel with marvelous flowers or monstrosities fit for 
the Zoo. 

Sometimes the coffee is served on the Bergchen, which plays an important role in 
the enjoyment of the household. An ignorant person might suppose this luxury to be 
limited to .rolling country, but such is not the case. The Bergchen is not a rocky 
summit, the end of many a walk or drive, whither the inhabitants of the town resort to 
see the view; it is a mound of gravel just large enough to permit people sitting on its 
height to look over the hedge upon the passers-by. Two or three steps place the visitor 
in a position to survey the latest Braut as she passes, the favorite opera singer, or an 
officer with spotless uniform and hour-glass figure. 

As evening approaches, the thought of going indoors to supper grows insupportable, 
and the suggestion of tea in the "garten " or on the " terrasse " is hailed with delight. 
With slight preparation the party sets out, fancy work or pipe in hand, and upon arrival 
at the chosen resort, a table is selected under the trees, far enough from the music to 
admit of ready conversation. A few minutes are passed in exchanging gay greeting 
with those seated near, and then the whole party settles down to quiet enjoyment of the 
music and surroundings and anticipation of supper. 

The sight before them is well suited to arouse pleasant sensations in any one, — here 
a number of corps-studenten, their bright colored caps set at every possible angle and 
their faces marked by scars as ugly as they are disgusting in our eyes, yet greatly prized 
and carefully preserved by their courageous bearers. From their table clouds of smoke 
rise, and through it we see the light figures spring to their feet amid clinking of glasses, 
and with shouts of hoch ! hoch ! drink down each new toast as if it had had no prede- 

Further off half a dozen officers in brilliantly contrasted uniforms with jangling 
swords and spurs, toss off mugs of beer and criticize the women that pass. The party 
of tourists near by, who insist upon making personal remarks in their own language, 
which most of their neighbors can understand, are a source of great amusement and 
lively discussion. The talk comes to our ears mingled with the shouts of a party of 
children who get in everybody's way, yet manage to make friends with waiters, musi- 
cians and all whom they approach. We should perhaps except a few old ladies, 
portly in stature and gray-curled, who one and all have a cap or bit of lace on their 
heads, and a shawl drawn over the shoulders of their second-best black silks. Knitting- 


needles click and glance back and forth, keeping up a running accompaniment whose 
sharp sound well suits the gossip that keeps their tongues going so indefatigably. 

The rattle of dishes, ringing of glasses and jingling of money somehow do not 
seem out of place amidst the trees rustling in the wind and the soft stillness of the 
sunset hour; while near by, in a pond surrounded with gay flower-beds and winding 
walks, glides a silvery swan, with a stateliness in keeping with the strains of LoJic7igrin 
that come to us from under the trees. 

Susan Gi-imcs Walker, 'pj>. 
-x- -x- * 


( ( "\ Tl 7"HEREAS it is desirable for the general welfare of the community that the 
y Y hours of daily labor should be such that workmen may have reasonable 
time at their own disposal for recreation, mental culture and the perform- 
ance of social and civil duties." 

So runs the preamble of a bill to establish an eight hours day for wage laborers. Its 
advocates claim that in many occupations a man's physical condition is seriously im- 
paired by more than eight hours' continuous employment. Accordingly they assert that 
owing to the action of the Law of Diminishing Returns of Labor, a workman will pro- 
duce, by working eight hours, product better in quality and even greater in quantity than 
by working nine. 

Thus scientific methods have been brought to bear on the question of labor, and 
reason is in a fair way to accomplish for the working man what pity has never been able 
to do. But does not the argument apply exactly as well to students as to laborers ? and 
what prospect of reform does either reason or pity hold out lor them ? Nowadays, I 
suppose, no one will deny that mental culture is the labor of the student, and mental 
culture, paradoxical though it may sound, is in one sense very much neglected by us. 
The fact is that we give so much time to it that we pass the limit of maximum efficiency 
and deleat our own end. Our recitations dav after day are so near perfection that they 
knock the ground out from under. the feet of our instructors. We can find our way 
through Assyrian history blindfold, but the progress of thought and politics, nay, the 
commonest events of to-day in this country or any other, are as unknown to us as are 
those of Mr. Bellamy's era to every one but himself. 

Then, too, take the question of social life as a means of mental relaxation. Of 
course we do not want to try to combine " society " life with student life, but we ought 
to have an occasional concert and picture-gallery and a chance to meet people not con- 
nected with the college; and we ought to be able to enjoy this relaxation with a free 
conscience. Under our present system, though we often do go out for the evening or 
afternoon, it is usually with the feeling that we must study twice as hard the next day to 
make up for lost time. 


Extend this sort of thing and yon get mental stunting, not mental culture. Disten- 
tion is not development, and our labor thus becomes unproductive in exactly the propor- 
tion of that of the overworked wage-earner. Accordingly there seem to be equally good 
grounds for limiting the hours of study ; but of course we can not say of mental labor 
any more than of physical labor that an indefinite decrease of the number of hours would 
indefinitely increase the product. The established fact is that in any occupation there 
is a definite number of hours which a man must work in order to accomplish maximum 
results, while both above and below this limit the results will be diminished. 

To ascertain just what this limit is in the case of college work is the problem to be 
solved; a solution is suggested by an old rhyme dating from the time of King Alfred, 
and familiar to every English laborer: 

" Eight hours to work, 
Eight hours to play, 
Eight hours to sleep, 
Eight ' bob ' a day." 

Let us see how many students in various colleges attain to this ideal. By compar- 
ing the statements of students from Yale, Columbia, Harvard and Princeton, I get an 
average for six days out of the week, of about six hours' work a day, inclusive of 
recitations, for what, I think, we may call the average student in men's colleges, whereas 
among the women at the University of Michigan, at Smith, Vassar, Wellesley and 
Bryn Mawr my information points to an average of nearly nine hours for five days out 
of the week, and something less on Saturdays. 

These statistics show how great a difference there is in the number of hours spent 
on their work by men and by women. Now, as the number of hours' recitation a week 
is on the average about the same for both, we may draw our own conclusions as to the 
causes of this difference. But the result for the average woman is " as inevitable as 
sneezing." Now, no one will claim that six hours a day is the longest time that the 
mind can work to the best advantage, and it may seem that the difference between nine 
and eight hours is too slight to warrant the stress laid on the eight hours day, but as a 
matter of fact the ninth hour is not only useless itself, but is also a tremendous drain on 
the energies. 

Of course no hard and fast rule can be laid down to apply equally to all students, or 
to all branches of study. One can translate Greek or Latin with a clear head for a much 
longer time than one can work on philosophy or political economy. Also, " overtime" 
must always be allowed in exceptional cases. We do not want to establish an eight hours 
day by Act of Parliament, but by Local Option. That is to say, we want to enlist the 
power of public opinion on our side so that the girl who studies more than eight hours a 
day shall be considered either a dig or a dullard. 

Bertha Haven Putnam, '93. 



WE have in this issue of The Lantern a delightful letter from Miss Ruth Gentry 
concerning her experiences at Berlin University. Who Miss Gentry is, and 
how she happens to be in Berlin, it is hardly necessary to explain ; but a few 
words as to the history and meaning of the fellowship she holds may not be uninter- 
esting or superfluous to the general reader. 

A half-dozen years ago, the Collegiate Alumna; in the northwest raised the sum of 
three hundred and fifty dollars to provide a Fellowship for some member of the Associ- 
ation, to be used for graduate study at the University of Michigan. It was called the 
American Fellowship, and was won by Miss Ida M. Street, a graduate of Vassar College 
and a brilliant student in philosophy and letters. The following year, also, the Fellow- 
ship was raised among the western alumna; and was awarded to Miss Arlisle M. Young, 
a graduate of Michigan University where she also studied for her Ph. D. degree. Miss 
Street is still pursuing higher studies in the West, and Miss Young is Instructor of Latin 
at Wellesley College. 

The next year, 188910 1S90, the committee of the whole Association, whose chairman 
was Mrs. Christine Ladd Franklin of Johns Hopkins University, raised the European 
Fellowship of five hundred dollars, to be awarded only for study abroad. The first 
European Fellow was Miss Louisa Holmay Richardson, B. A. and M. A. of Boston 
University and Professor of Latin in Carlton College, Minnesota. She went to Oxford 
and returned at the end of the year to take her Ph. U. at Boston University. 

Last year an effort was made to raise two Fellowships at the same time, one of five 
hundred dollars for study abroad and one of three hundred and fifty dollars for 
advanced work in some American College or University. The committee was success- 
ful in raising the money and over twenty applicants applied. Of these Miss Gentry, 
a graduate of the University of Michigan and Fellow in Mathematics at Bryn Mavvr for 
1890-91, was appointed European Fellow, and Miss Alice Carter, Ph. D. of Syracuse 
University received the American Fellowship and is studying botany at Cornell. Miss 
Julia M. Snow, B. S. and M. S. of Cornell University, was so strong a candidate and it 
was so difficult to decide between her and Miss Gentry, that the Association, wishingthe 
honor of assisting her to go abroad, voted an extra sum of money and awarded her a 
partial Fellowship for foreign study in botany. Miss Snow is now studying in Leipsig 
with great success. 

These two Fellowships — the American and the European — are offered again for 
the coming year, and the award is to be made in May. 

It may interest the readers of The Lantern to know that the Women's Education 
Association of Boston has also offered for the coming year a five hundred dollar Euro- 
pean Fellowship which is open to all members of the Collegiate Alumna; Associaiion 
and the graduates of the Harvard Annex. 


'There is certainly no doubt now thai women can make the best of teachers and 
physicians, but to many people it is still a mooted question whether they are i apable of 
becoming real scholars. For this indirect reason, therefore, as well as For the direct 
one, those of ns who do believe in woman's capability for scholarship must rejoice most 
heartily in the opportunities offered her by these graduate Fellowships, as theopeniny ol 
a new era in her career. 

E. W. IV.'qs. 


By Emily James Smith (Harper &> Brothers). 

EVEN scholars can hardly read the whole of their Lucian in these busy times. But 
everyone can read the charming little volume of selections from Lucian in which 
Miss Emily James Smith, '89, has given us the essence of that delightfully modern 
ancient in such English as he would have used himself had he been a contemporary of 
Andrew Lang and Robert Louis Stevenson. 

Miss Smith's admirable introduction, which is a marvel of condensation, contains 
all the information needful for the enjoyable perusal of these translations. She pre- 
tends to be very frivolous, as befits a Bryn Mawr Alumna, but in the space of ten pages 
she contrives to initiate us into the manifold erroneous views of the erudite Alemanni 
whom she smites hip and thigh; to sketch broadly, but truly and vividly, the main 
characteristics of the life of the Roman Empire in the age of the Antonines ; and to tell 
us all we need to know of the life, studies, opinions and style of her author. Among the 
selections chosen are the autobiographical sketch, " The Dream ; " " Zeus, the Traged- 
ian," perhaps the most amusing ol the satires in which Lucian unconsciously helped 
the Christian Fathers to laugh down the gods of the pagan Olympus; '' The Sale of 
Lives," which illustrates his merry war on the pedantries and affectations of contempo- 
rary philosophy ; " The Cock," a realistic elaboration of an extravagant Pythagorean 
fancy; " The Ferry," perhaps the best of the dialogues of the dead. By judicious 
omission and compression she has also been able to give us all that anybody need care 
to read of the longer works, " The True History " and " The Ass." 

In the last selection, " The Halcyon," Miss Smith is competing with Walter Pater, 
who has incorporated in his " Marius " a version of this pretty expression of that pen- 
sive wonder which Plato thought the beginning of philosophy. We trust it is not merely 
Bryn Mawr patriotism that makes us think that Miss Smith's rendering quite holds its 




DURING the past college year the Reform Club has been successfully maintained. 
An account of its origin and history is given in the Lantern for 1891. 

The club includes all the members of the college, its aim being, through 
addresses delivered at the regular meetings, to keep us in touch with some of the earnest 
work outside our own walls. 

The speakers this year have been as follows : 

In November, the Rev. Mr. Gibbons, a native Esquimaux missionary, addressed us; 
in February, we had a visit from Miss Helena C. Dudley, a former graduate of Bryn 
Mawr, whose account of the " College Settlement " at 95 Rivington Street, New York, 
increased the list of our members to fifty-three names ; in March, Mr. Boker Washing- 
ton, of Tuskegee, Ala., told us of his work among the colored people; and in May, we 
had an address on " Manual Training," by Prof. J. L. Tadd, of Philadelphia. 

Besides this, Miss Ume Tsuda has given a talk on Japan ; and Mrs. Barnes, the 
National Superintendent of the Young Women's Christian Temperance Union, pre- 
sented some of the more general aspects of the Temperance work. 

H. T. C. '02. 

IT is a pleasure to report the increase in the College Settlement Association in Bryn 
Mawr this winter. For the first time we have had results to show at all proportion- 
ate with the size of the college and with the interest and enthusiasm that have been 
felt, at least by some of us, from the very first for the Association and its work. 

In the last report of the Association we were credited with a membership of twenty 
graduates and seven undergraduates — not an altogether satisfactory number. But we 
have had one very enthusiastic meeting, when Miss Dudley, one of our own graduates, 
came on to tell us what she could of the settlement in New York. The result speaks for 
itself. The membership was increased at once to fifty-three undergraduate members, 
and though we are, of course, never satisfied, we feel the greatest encouragement 
from the enthusiasm felt through all the college and hope for a proportionate increase 
next year. 

L. S. B. 'oj. 


MISSIONARY interest in Bryn Mawr is not confined to one branch, but includes 
both Home and Foreign Missions ; the yearly pledges of the College Missio 
Society amounting to #320, part being devoted to the support of a foreign 
missionary, and part to the education of an Indian girl at Hampton. 

Miss Agnes Orbison, toward whose salary the college contributes, is now en- 
gaged in teaching and zenana visiting at Laharapue, India. 

The fact that she was formerly a student at Bryn Mawr of course adds greatly to 
our interest in her work. 

Occasional meetings of the Society are held forthe purpose of learning more about 
the methods and results of missionary work, and there is a deepening interest in the 

E. D. />'., '94. 

AMONG the new things which the past year has brought us is the " Sunday Evening 
Meeting," and we feel that it has been a decided advance in the religious life of 
the college. We have always had each week meetings for devotion of various 
sorts among ourselves, but until this year they have, without exception, been held in the 
separate halls of residence and, although very helpful in many ways, they did not bring 
us together as we desired. The spirit of unity and good fellowship in Bryn Mawr which 
each one of us loves so well, and which makes us feel like one large family, needed, we 
thought, to be brought more prominently into our religious life. It is true we all come 
together for worship every morning at nine o'clock in the chapel and again on Wednes- 
day evening, but it seemed to us that these meetings should be supplemented by some 
effort on the part of the students themselves. This feeling led, last autumn, to the seri- 
ous consideration of the matter, and it was finally decided to hold a meeting of all the 
students in the gymnasium on Sunday evenings. In spite of the fears we entertained at 
first as to our power of making such meetings interesting, they have proved to be in 
every way a great success. They are extremely simple and their greatest attraction is 
the spirit of reverence and union in which they are carried on. The attendance has 
been large, and throughout the college the deepest enthusiasm has been manifested con- 
cerning them. They have, indeed, become a most essential and helpful feature of our 
college life and one which we feel will grow in usefulness and strength in the years to 

H. W. T., ' 93 . 


THIS year has seen the formation of an Athletic Association at Bryn Mawr. All 
the students are members, and by paying a small fee any member has the right to 
play upon those tennis courts which are kept in order by the Association. A tour- 
nament held in the fall, by which Miss Beriha H. Putnam became the college cham- 
pion, is to be followed by another as soon as the courts are in summer condition again. 
In indoor athletics all members of the Association are candidates, and at our annual 
sports and drill early in April ribbons were awarded to Miss Elizabeth G. Guilford and 
Miss Mary H. Ritchie respectively, for breaking our records in vaulting and jumping, 
and to Miss Emma L. Atkins, for excellence in general athletic work, especially Indian 

The general interest in athletics, which has been very much quickened by our own 
Association, we hope to make still more general and permanent by the formation of an 
intercollegiate athletic association, for both tennis and gymnasium work. With the 
cordial interest and co-operation of our college authorities we last June proposed the 
formation of such a league to the leading women's colleges of the East. Discouraging 
replies have been received from them all, but we have not lost hope for next year. 
We are more than anxious that such a league should be formed, not only for the sake 
of encouraging athletics among us, but quite as much for the sake of that intercollegiate 
intercourse which is practically unknown among women's colleges and which consti- 
tutes such a large part of the value of men's intercollegiate leagues. 

E. W. W., 'g2. 

THE much-vexed question whether work in the gymnasium invigorates or enervates 
women's physical state has been pretty decidedly settled for us in Bryn Mawr in 
favor of gymnastics. The few girls who have shown signs of breaking down 
were not gymnaslically minded, though they might have been so, had they been strong 
enough for vigorous exercise or hopeful enough to begin slowly. 

The Freshman class is most refreshing in its devotion to daily exercise. Another 
such enthusiastic class next year would crowd the gymnasium full to overflowing with 
Indian clubs and flying figures poised in mid-air. Their work in both drills and indi- 
vidual exercise has been better than that of anyone class before them ; they put the 
older classes quite to shame by their co -slant attendance and excellent work. 

The interest in individual work has lately been much increased among all the 
students by the establishment of a system of records by the Athletic Association. These 
records (chiefly in jumping and vaulting) are usually made on Thursday afternoons, and 
all the students who can make the effoit take part. In the course of ten minutes the 


contest narrows down to some half dozen, and this number gradually dwindle to I ■■■ o 01 
three. We find that the interest taken in our sports has had great effect in inducing 
less agile students to practise, so that we have now many very promising beginners. 

'The accommodations afforded by the gymnasium building have been sufficient for 
our needs this year, but it will not be long before we shall begin to feel crowded, and 
then will come the dreaded necessity ot restricting our hours of work to more spei ified 
times. Even now there arc but three afternoons and one evening in the week really 
common to us all, the rest being devoted to the drills and individual work of special 

Our most crying need is for a swimming tank. If we may believe the word of the 
powers that be, this blessing is surely coming when the Science Hall is finished and a few 
more fellowships have been established. Meanwhile we prepare for the great event by 
increasing our muscular endurance and, when impatience overcomes us, practising 
swimming motions on the floor or any other medium that is convenient. 

E. L. A., 'Q3. 

WE are glad to note in this number that the walls of the new Science Hall are 
rising. This building will relieve the enormous and increasing pressure now 
felt in the various scientific departments on account of lack of room. The 
building is to be of stone, three stories high, about 130 feet long and half as wide. The 
first story will be devoted to physics and botany, the second floor will be occupied by 
the Biological Department, the third floor given up to chemistry. In the central part of 
the roof space, a number of other rooms will be made which will be used for the newly 
created department of physiological psychology, for special research in physiology and 
physics, for a museum, etc. In addition to the space for the heating apparatus and store 
rooms, the basement will have special rooms for studies in magnetism and also a con- 
stant temperature room. 

The building is to be called Dalton Hall, for John Dalton, the founder of the Atomic 
Theory. The old laboratories in Taylor Hall are to be converted into commodious 
lecture rooms, which will enable the Library greatly to enlarge its accommodations and 
will relieve the much crowded English Department. The humble quarters of the 
Department of Physics are, we understand, to be transformed into an Infirmary. 

L. O., 'Sg. 


THE career of the Glee Club for 1891-92 is very similar to its career last year. As 
before, its meetings and public performances have not been distinguished by any 
great excellence of singing, but by a spirit of hearty enjoyment and good fellow- 
ship. When Bryn Mawr grows large enough and musical enough for us to pick and 
choose, we may form a small and select Glee Club like the Glee Clubs of other colleges ; 
at present we prefer the fun and enthusiasm of a larger number and the opportunity of 
giving Gilbert and Sullivan in the Spring, as the successful result of our winter's work. 
We have also this tried to do our part in the musicales which make our gym- 
nasium so full of pleasant associations. 

The chief advance which music has made this year has been in the formation of a 
banjo and guitar club which, it is universally agreed, would do great credit to a much 
larger institution. There are mandolins in college too, and perhaps another year will 
add a mandolin and guitar club to our resources. One thing is certain, every effort 
made in the direction of giving us more music will be heartily appreciated, for never 
was there a body of people more enthusiastic on the subject than the students of Bryn 

E. W. IV., 'Q2. 

IT is understood that the organization of the Department of Philosophy will be com- 
pleted in the autumn of 1893 by the appointment of Mr. Dickinson Sergeant Miller 
as Associate in Philosophy. Mr. Miller has been studying philosophy for the past 
four years in the graduate departments of Clark and Harvard, and will receive his 
Ph. D. from Harvard in '92. He will spend next year in university study in Germany. 

Miss Harriet Randolph has been appointed Demonstrator in Biology. Miss 
Randolph graduated from Bryn Mawr College in 18S9, held the Fellowship in Biology 
here, 1889-90, and for the past two years has studied at the University of Zurich. 



HE appointments to Fellowships in Bryn Maivr College for the year 1892-3 arc as 

follows : 

Annie Crosby Emery, European Fellow ; 

A. B., Rryn Mawr College, 1S92. 
Emily Wilmer Cave France, I'ellow in Creek ; 

Girton College, Cambridge, England, 1889-92. 
Esther B. Van Deman, Fellow in Latin ; 

A. B., University of Michigan, 1891. Graduate Student, University of Mich- 
igan, 1891-92. 
Florence V. Keys, Fellow in English ; 

A. B., Toronto University, Canada, 1S91. Fellow in Creek, Bryn Mawr 
College 1 891-92. 
Jane I!. Haines, Fellow in History; 

A. B.,Bryn Mawr College, 1891. Graduate Student, Bryn Mawr College, 1891-92. 
Ruth Gentry, Fellow in Mathematics ; 

1'h. B., University of Michigan, 1S90. Fellow in Mathematics, Bryn Mawr 
College, 1890-91. Collegiate Alumna: Association European Fellow, 
1891-92. University of Berlin, 1891-92. 
Ida H. Hyde, Fellow in Biology ; 

S. 1>., Cornell University, 1891. Senior Student-Assistant in the Biological 
Laboratory, Bryn Mawr College, 1891-92. 

The George W. Childs Prize, which is to be awarded annually to the best English 
Essayist in the Senior Class, has been awarded this year for the first time. 

Abby Kirk, Prise Essayist ; 

A. B., Bryn Mawr College, 1S92. 




" born to be 
An hour or lialf's delight" 


" 'Tis well to be off with the old love 
Before you are on with the new ; " 
I'm sure you are too kind to scold, love, 
('Tis well to be off with the old love) 
Nor think yourself awfully sold, love, 
To know that the " old love " means — 
" 'Tis well to be off with the old love 
Before you are on with the new." 

E. C, 'go. 


In cap and gown I saw her go — 
The daintiest sight the world could show ; 
The cap aslant with mocking air, 
The gown blown lightly here and 
there — 
I watched her with my heart aglow. 

Throughout the passing centuries slow, 
In many garbs maids come and go. 
Sweet souls ! they had been twice as 

In cap and gown. 

O Grecian girls in robes of snow 
O satin belles of long ago, 

However gay your dress, or fair, 
I tell you ye could not compare 
With the new maid ye cannot know, — 
In cap and gown. 

/. O. L., '95. 


I met a little pussy cat, 

Wild were its eyes and sad. 

It seemed to think that all was lost, 
And times Were very bad. 

" Now, prithee, tell me, little one, 
Why salt tears wet thy cheek, 
What poignant grief oppresses thee ? 
Oh, answer, pussy ! speak !" 

The little cat with choking voice 
Did thus reply to me, — 
" The cause of all my sorrows 
Lies in my pedigree.'' 

" What cause hast thou for grief in this ? 
The honors paid to them, 
Thine ancestors, are dated from — 
Why from the time of Shem." 



' Ah Shem was but a modern ! 

Tis here I feel the sling, 
Unto the ancient Aryans 

A cat was an unknown thing. 

' O sheep and oxen had they, 
And flocks and herds galore ! 

A cow was 'good as gold' then, 
Of cattle was many a score. 

" To think that from that ancient time 

Dates a dog's pedigree ! 
And even mice were well known then 
Authorities agree. 

" The eastern stories they matter not 
And the books of that glowing clime, 
For further back we can go you see 
To the ancient Aryan time." 

What could I say to the pussy-cat ? 

What comfort could words bring? 
'Twas true, to the ancient Aryans 

A cat was an unknown thing, 

Estcllc Reid, 'gj. 


I wish that on this sweet May-day, 
Mid blooming flowers I might stray, 
With great white boughs of dog-wood 

Above the pathway meeting. 
Then I should gather violets blue, 
Or apple blossoms bright with dew, 
Or butter-cups, the sun's own hue, 

To send you as a greeting. 

But Bryn Mawr woods, where flowers 

Arc very far away, you know, 
Instead we have row after row 

Of red brick houses glaring. 
And though the lawn is lovely here, 
Only the dandelions dare 
To lift their brave, bright faces there 

Up at the great sun staring. 

And so, perchance, you will not scorn 
My greeting on this sweet May morn, 
Although these poor things were not born 

Amid the April showers; 
Nor have they felt God's breezes sweet 
About them, growing in the heat 
Of some hot-house in some close street, 

Unhappy city flowers ! 


If brownies and fays were around, love, 
Engaged in their quips and their pranks, 

When the sweetest of presents was found, 

If brownies and fays were around, love. 

Making dainty surprises abound, love, 
I should know where to offer my thanks. 

If brownies and fays were around, love, 
Engaged in their quips and their pranks. 

But brownies and fays are no more, love, 
To whom can I turn, then, but thee, 

When May-day is brought to my door, 
love ? 

Since brownies and fays are no more, love, 

My questions and puzzlings are o'er, love, 
'Twas love brought my May-day tome. 

Since brownies and fays are no more, love, 
To whom can I turn, love, but thee ? 







Ye buildings grey, ye buildings red. 

That crown the " high, high Hill," 
Where blue-hosed maids to learning wed 

Can cram it as they will, 
And ye, that from the towered Hall, 
Yon lonely spire, gaunt and tall, 

The campus' stretch survey, 
Where sharpened stakes, that to the eye 
Of faith, a Science Hall imply, 

Wind their meandering way ! — 
( To be continued ad libitum.} 


Thou shalt feast well, Fabullus, in my 

At ICalencls, since the kindly god allows, 
If thou bring with thee to my 

barren hearth, 
The wine, the song, the maiden 
and the mirth, 
A generous guerdon of the night's 

Thy poor friend's tiny scrip with naught 
The common stock save cobwebs, 

nothing worth, 
Yet if, in truth, thou com'st to ease 

his dearth, 
Thou shalt feast well. 

For in return, sweet loves thy soul shall 

rouse ; 
Balm, Venus' gift, shall make thy spirit 


Which smelling, thou wilt wish 

that at thy birth 
Senses divine, partaking not of 
The gods had sent thee. Heed my earn- 
est vows, — 

Thou shalt feast well. 

E. C, 'go. 


[Song from the Presentation of Lanterns, 'go to '91.] 

Welcome, O comical, chemical class ! 
Gloat on your glorious, glittering glass ! 
Blow, blow-pipes, blow ! Set the wild 

gases flying. 
Blow, blow-pipes, blow! The art may 

come by trying. 


When the gas is over-rich isn't that a 

trial ? 
That's the way the money goes, and pop 

goes the vial ! 

Sometimes they " pass " in yonder class, 
But reach no higher grade. 
Do what they will they cannot rise 
To ninety in the shade. 


When the gas is over-rich isn't that a 

trial ? 
That's the way the money goes, and pop 

goes the vial. 





A large, untidy room in sunshine steeped 

All through the afternoon ; 
A broad, chintz-covered couch, with 
cushions heaped ; 
A table overstrewn 
With books and papers; and, upon the 

Sketches pinned carelessly as chance 
might fall. 

There, to the idle tinkle of guitar, 

Songs ring out on the air, 
And joyous laughter echoing afar. 

Amid the cushions there, 
Curled up together, lazily we lie 

While the bright moments slip un- 
noticed by. 

There flit before us all our girlish dreams, 

All that we long to be, 
All that to us — much wiser grown — now 
Nothing but vanity. 
All questions that have vexed this human 

Through our philosophy their answers 

" Twenty years hence," one chants all 
Twenty years hence ! — we four, 
Who are but twenty now, what shall we be 

Within another score ? 
Forty is not so old, and yet by then 
All these long years will have passed by 

What they will bring — whoknows? And 
yet, indeed, 
E'en if our dreams come true, 
E'en if we all should verily succeed 

In what we plan to do, — 
Still, as we lie together here, we say 
"Could we be happier than we arc 
to-day ? " 

Mathilde Wail, '<?.?. 


In cap and gown, a maiden rare, 
With downcast eyes and thoughtful air, 

Who wanders there so carelessly, 

While academic breezes free 
Caress her cheek and golden hair. 

What deep reflection makes her wear 
A look so far away ? What care 
Of Greek or Sanskrit ponders she 

In cap and gown 

Is't Calculus ? or is't Voltaire — 
To darken thus a brow so fair ? 
She gazes up ; then, anxiously, 
" Whom shall I ask to my next tea ? " 
Thus meditating walks she there, 

In cap and gown. 

Mnry Bid-well Breed, '94. 


Lady, you were false and fickle, 

And my heart is sore, 
Thinking how you basely flirted, 
Leaving me alone, deserted, 
On the ball-room floor. 

J 20 


You were false — but to forgive you, 

Sooth, I'm scarcely loth, 
For my fond heart loves you duly, 
And I think that I have, truly, 
Truth enough for both. 

M.E. H.,'Q2. 

'Tis hard to be prostrate in bed 

By ills that one cannot subdue, — 
With bad-tasting things to be fed, 

A spoonful each hour or two, 

(They taste like an old witch's brew) 
Your nutriment doled you in grams: — 

Not study ? But what shall I do 
In the day of impending exams ? 

I have been in the state aforesaid 

With a nurse who is faithful and true, 

She fattens me up till I dread 
Apoplexy or malady new ; 

But I hear to my sorrow that you, 
Past possible power of shams, 

Have been felled by the enemy too 
In the day of impending exams. 

How swiftly the hours have sped, 
And now there comes clearly to view 

The clay when all hope will have fled, 
We shall writhe 'neath a terrible screw: 
The strong, robust student, eheu ! 

Her cranium ceaselessly crams, — 
I think of it sadly, and rue 

The day of impending exams. 


Fellow-victim, Dame Fortune's a-shrew, 
Let us bear it, as patient as lambs , 

It is hard, but don't let us be " blue," 
In the day of impending exams. 

E. C, 'go. 









ELVA LEE, '93 



Business Manager 




Frontispiece : Minor Chemical Labm 


An < )ld-time Novelist, 

Below : Above, 

Betty Glinn's Home, 


A Quoi Revent les Jeunes Filles 


Dickens' Use of Food, 


Studies in College Color, 

Children of Light, 

London Clubs for .Vorking Gi 


Anne Emmony, 

Fog, .... 

A Portrait, not Imaginary, 

Pigeon Holes, 


" Currente Calamo," 

College Songs, 

alory, Dalian //all. 

Helen Whilall Thomas, 

. M. /'. C, 

Elva Lee, 

Alice Baehe Gould, 

Emily James Smith, 

Edith Chill, 

. Lucy Mar/in Donnelly, 

Em mo Stansbury Winn, 

L. S. B., ' 93 G. E. T., 

Mary Owen Brown, 

Alys I!'. Pear sail Smith, 

Julia Olivia Langdon, 'pj 

. M. P. C, '89 
Laurette Eusfis Pott. 


1 2 












4 3 





















No. 3 KRYN MAWR June, 1893 


WHEN Lord Chesterfield was writing from Cambridge two hun- 
dred years ago to his former tutor, he said with a pretty 
pedantry, after giving the details of his study of Greek and 
Latin : " But I reserve time for playing at tennis, for I wish to have the 
corpus sanum, as well as the mens sana. I think one is not good for much 
without the other." Two centuries have worked many changes in college 
life, and to-day the excessive ardor with which foot-ball and general 
athletics are cultivated, is, perhaps, rather to be feared than any overweening 
zeal in the pursuit of the mens sana. At least this is said to be true in the 
colleges for men. The higher education of women being of more recent 
date, we are still old-fashioned in many respects and must speak in trite 
phrase with Lord Chesterfield of the necessity for exercise when we are 
working hard mentally. 

Moreover, since it is considered by the world at large far more repre- 
hensible to injure one's health in the cause of knowledge than in that of 
society, it becomes the duty of every college woman to guard her physical 
well-being with the most jealous care. It is certainly true that there is a 
tendency among women in general, from the very eagerness they feel for 
this mental work which is as all-absorbing as it is new to them, to linger 
over their books and cut their time for exercise down to the absolutely 
required limits. At best they will perhaps devise some such deplorable 


methods as quizzing while they, walk or discussing" courses " on the running 
track. In the face, then, of such facts as these, it seems that too much cannot 
be said on this very old subject of the corpus sanuin which has furnished the 
theme for so many discourses from Horace down to the present time. 

To the Freshman on entering Bryn Mawr there are few places more 
attractive than the gymnasium, and nothing can be more pleasant than her 
introduction to it, which usually takes place on one of the late autumn 
afternoons, when it is beginning to be bleak and wintry out of doors, and 
the ground too frosty for easy walking, while the wind plays mad tricks with 
the tennis balls among the dry leaves. Then the gymnasium is opened with 
its gay music and bright colors, and the mysteriously fascinating machines 
which invite investigation. There are merry rivalries over the Indian 
clubs and fencing, and after the hour or half hour's exercise, whichever it 
may be, there comes the pleasant glow of muscular vigor and sense of 
increasing power, which sends the novice away with the firm resolution of 
becoming the gymnasium's most ardent devotee. And, if nothing happens 
to cool this early enthusiasm, she will perhaps develop into one of those 
eager athletes who think nothing in the world so altogether desirable as 
exercise at all seasons and in unlimited quantity. But then, sometimes, a 
student beginning with the best intentions will become more and more 
absorbed in her regular college work, and, after a long day spent over her 
books, will prefer to use her recreation time for walking in the open air 
instead of exercising in the, gymnasium. Such misguided souls may in 
time become members of the unhappy band who make up their gymnasium 
work in the warm May afternoons when every one else is rejoicing out of doors. 
These, however, are extremes, and between them comes the cheerful 
mediocrity who, with Lord Chesterfield, " reserve time for playing at 
tennis," who walk and go to the gymnasium regularly and yet find oppor- 
tunity to study as many hours each day as they desire. Every year this class 
of the students is growing larger, and, as a college, we are coming to feel 
more and more strongly that the walk of ordinary length or the set of 
tennis must be supplemented by something of greater strength-giving 
power than conversation or "a tea." And it is only when we have realised 
this thoroughly, that we can hope to gain, each one of us, that "corpus 


sanum" which will make for the glory of Biyn Mawr even before the 
highest standard of scholarship. 

A very great stimulus has been given to the general interest in athletics 
by the organization in the spring of '92, of the Athletic Association. The 
enthusiasm and energy of the founders of the Association has spread 
through the college, and although we did not all at once begin to play ten- 
nis and go to the gymnasium with that assiduity which neglects everything 
else, yet athletics have come to hold a more prominent place in our col- 
lege life than ever before, and we too recognise more perfectly the demands 
which they justly make upon our serious consideration. 

A system of keeping records in the gymnasium has been established 
and of awarding ribbons for the best records at the annual drill. All this 
year the gymnasium has been thronged on Thursday afternoons with stud- 
ents who come to make records themselves in running and jumping or to 
see them made, and in the evenings, with athletes eager to learn to run a 
mile without stopping, or to execute dazzling contortions with Indian clubs. 
As the spring comes on we naturally turn from the gymnasium to tennis 
and to long walks over the pleasant rolling country, where however far 
one goes she can never lose sight of the tall gray tower of Taylor Hall. 
The woods directly back of the college are the favorite haunt of the stud- 
ents, and we all have the most loyal affection for the little myrtle-grown 
" Harriton Family Cemetery " in their midst. The steps of the old stone 
wall which surrounds it are a chosen resting place for violet gatherers or 
weary pedestrians, who like to come home from long walks through the 
grateful shade. Or sometimes a party trying to trace the first spring birds 
by their notes will start out through the woods and make their way to the 
meadow land beyond, or go around by the clear little pond edged with 
willows and the old mill, and if very adventurous, all the way to " Black 
Rock" " in search of the wild scarlet columbine. But all this is, of course, 
very dilettante, and bird clubs and walking clubs and wild flowers shrink 
into insignificance beside the serious occupation of tennis which reigns 
supreme in our Bryn Mawr out-door world. Its followers toil early and 
late on fine afternoons, driving balls as vigorously as though the- sun and 
weariness were not. Only the ringing of the six o'clock bell from Taylor 


has power to scatter them and give over the campus to its rightful owners, 
the robins and grasshoppers. 

It lias always been our custom to hold in the autumn of each year a tennis 
tournament. The Athletic Association, by improving the courts and main- 
taining strict surveillance over the games, has greatly increased the interest 
felt in these tournaments, and under its superintendence an invitation 
tournament was held in the autumn of this year between students of Girton, 
England, the Harvard Annex and Bryn Mavvr. On those two sunny days 
when it took place, we put aside our books and college gowns and crowded 
round the tennis courts ready to applaud and to grow as excited as possi- 
ble. The maples glowed their brightest, the halls were gay with flags, 
while the blue and crimson and yellow and white ribbons floated amiably 
together from every shoulder. And when at last the victors were declared, 
the happy spectators had the pleasure of escorting them off the field, feting 
and congratulating them to their hearts' content. 

The success of this tournament has strengthened the interest in a plan 
which had already suggested itself to the members of our Athletic Asso- 
ciation, namely, that of forming an intercollegiate athletic league among 
the women's colleges of the East. The advantages of such a league we 
feel would be numerous, judging from the impetus which has been given to 
wholesome exercise in every form by the formation of our own Athletic 
Association, and the holding of the invitation tournament. Organization 
can in all cases effect so much and offer so many privileges not to be 
obtained by the individual. Moreover, we have found by experience that 
our Association has stimulated that general interest in athletics which seems 
so necessary for the well-being of students, and that it has not, as might 
very naturally have been feared, merely subserved the interests of a few 
" stronger spirits." While the mass of students can never play the best 
tennis or make the highest gymnasium records, yet the Athletic Association 
by its energy has left almost no one indifferent to the claims which exercise 
has upon us. 

We are therefore convinced that a league among the women's col- 
leges would have very great stimulating power, more, indeed, than any 
single association could hope to possess, and that the contests and tourna- 



ments which it would be the main purpose of such a league to hold would 
greatly further individual athletic interest. Through this means also a 
union of sympathy and interests might be brought about among women 
students which cannot, it seems, be so easily effected in any other manner, 
especially since, aside from the College Settlements Association, there arc few 
matters in which we are mutually concerned, at least during our actual college 
life. And whatever be our college we are surely all working for the same 
end, the advancement and perfection of women, and if union will aid us, let 
us have it whether the college settlements or high scholarship or athleti 
be its immediate object. 




In 1778 the anonymous publication of Evelina; or, the History of a 
Young Lady's Introduction to the World, threw London into a tumult of 
admiration and curiosity. Beaux and wits, blue-stockings and ladies of 
fashion read it, and could talk of nothing else. Mrs. Cholmondeley kept a 
copy on her drawing-room table and recommended it to all her friends; Mrs. 
Thrale was equally zealous, and even the severe Mrs. Montagu, without 
whose sanction its fortunes might still have been insecure, declared herself 
charmed. Dr. Johnson, the inveterate enemy of novels, when once pre- 
vailed upon to attempt Evelina became more enthusiastic than all the rest ; 
and the great Mr. Burke, perhaps the greatest man in England, sat up all 
night to finish the story. Sir Joshua Reynolds, too, fell a victim to Eve- 
lina's charms, and offered twenty pounds to anyone who would tell him the 
name of its author. But his curiosity was as vain as other men's ; the secret 
still remained unrevealed. Conjectures there were, of course, in plenty, but 
all alike amusingly far from the truth. Now one and 'now another of the 
well known wits of the day was pitched upon and duly complimented, but 
each in turn was forced to disclaim the honor. 

Meanwhile the cause of all this disturbance was sitting quietly at home, 
suspected by nobody ; for how could anyone suspect little Fanny Burney 
of so much wit and wisdom ? Nevertheless it was Fanny Burney, and 
none other, for all her youth and her shyness, who had written Evelina ; and 
in spite of her earnest desire to remain unknown, it was impossible that she 
should long escape detection. Her father was ambitious and her sisters 
indiscreet, and so it came about that before Evelina had fairly made her 
entrance into the world, Evelina's author followed and became in her 
turn the talk of »the town. The astonishment of everyone was ludicrous 
to behold. Indeed, at first, it seemed impossible to believe that this 
dark-haired, silent girl of twenty-six was she who had made all London 
laugh and weep at her pleasure. Where had she seen Madame Duval, 
how could she have created Captain Mirvan ? It is little wonder that 
Fanny Burney became the greatest lion in England. Her popularity grew 


greater as time went on, and was considerably increased by the publication 
of her second novel, Cecilia ; or, the Memoirs of an Heiress, about six- 
years after Evelina's appearance, Here, however, the list of her successes 
ends. Her two later novels, Camilla and The Wanderer, added noth- 
ing to her fame. After the first stir caused by their appearance, they 
were completely forgotten or remembered only with regret. They are in 
fact utterly unworthy to rank with their famous sisters. 

It is difficult for us, who live in an age that has produced a Richard 
Feverel and a Robert Elsmere, to understand the interest which such 
simple stories as these excited. The popular admiration is indeed easily 
enough accounted for; but that men like Johnson and Burke should have 
been so warm and so evidently sincere in their commendation shows us per- 
haps more clearly than anything else, the wide difference between the past 
century and our own. 

In those days the world of London society was givea up to frivolity 
and affectation of every kind. All the old magazines and journals, which it 
was so much the fashion to write, tell us the same " strange story of 
manners and pleasures." At whatever page we open we find ourselves 
plunged into such a world of gossip and finery, of wit and wisdom, as we never 
dreamed of before. There are the fine ladies, the patched and brocaded 
beauties, " who reckoned the sorting of a suit of ribbons a good morning's 
work," and who might be met of an evening at the balls and assemblies, like 
Millament, " full sail, their fans spread, their streamers out, and a shoal of 
fools for tender " ; there are the wits who sat in the famous bow-window of 
" White's" at the top of St. James' street, who read the latest "Grub Street " 
behind the red curtains and sparkled over the follies of their acquaintances 
as they passed ; and there are the young men of pleasure and fashion, who 
frequented the Ridotto Frescoes at the Ranelagh Gardens, and sipped their 
coffee at the " Cocoa-Tree " where years later young Rawdon Crawley lost 
his money to the distress of his affectionate aunt. Indeed, London was 
thronged with these young Maccaronnies, fresh from Italy with the latest 
fopperies. All Arabia breathed from their scented handkerchiefs, and they 
carried a watch in either breast pocket, " one, " Horace Walpole said, " to 
tell what time it was, and the other what time it was not." To be different 


from others and to call attention to himself, seems to have been the aim 
of every young man of rank, and to attain this, there was no end to the 
absurdities they practised. Sometimes their manners were rough and 
noisy ; sometimes they sought to distinguish themselves by a strained ele- 
gance, a fastidious conformity to the newest mode from the Continent. Nor 
was the excessive straining after effect confined to the beaux and Macca- 
ronnies; the ladies, too, were eager to distinguish themselves in this di- 
rection. . Perhaps their favorite was that of bas-bleu ; they studied Greek 
like the beautiful Miss Streatfield, or were ladies of literary coteries, like 
Lady Miller of Bath or Mrs. Montagu. Frivolity, too, they cultivated ; 
they were silent and languid or talkative and gay, as her individual humor 
prompted each one. 

To such a society as this Miss Burney held up the mirror ; and it is 
little wonder that young and old, wise and foolish, alike gazed in astonish- 
ment at their own forms reflected in it. The preface of Evelina tells us 
in Miss Burney's own words the purpose and scope of her story. We can- 
not do better than to let her speak for herself. 

" To draw characters from nature, though not from life, and to mark 
the manners of the times, is the attempted plan of the following letters. 
For this purpose, a young female educated in the most secluded retirement 
makes, at the age of seventeen, her first appearance upon the great and busy 
stage of life, with a virtuous mind, a cultivated understanding, and a 
feeling heart ; her ignorance of the forms and inexperience in the manners 
of the world occasion all the little incidents which these volumes record, 
and which form the natural progression of the life of a young woman of 
obscure birth, but conspicuous beauty, for the six months after her entrance 
into the world." 

This Evelina of obscure birth and conspicuous beauty is, to my mind, 
the most charming heroine in all fiction ; not even Beatrix Esmond or 
Elizabeth Bennet can vie with her. It is, I think, her irresistible naivete, 
shown on every occasion and always to her own infinite embarrass- 
ment and distress, which gives her this pre-eminence. Others have had 
as virtuous minds, as cultivated understandings and as feeling hearts 
others have perhaps equalled her in beauty, although Evelina's beauty 
is of a rare and distinguishing type, but nowhere else do we find so 


fascinating a combination of innocence and ignorance, with such truly 
exuberant wit. In her letters to the Reverend Mr. Villars and to her dear 
friend Maria, she describes the varying scenes of her daily life. The pi op i 
whom she meets are characterised, their conversations recorded and com- 
mented on, each one with the same enchanting innocence. Two successive 
visits to London, made under very different circumstances, and her final jour- 
ney to Bristol Ilotwells, give her every opportunity of seeing the world 
and of judging of all types of people. 

Like Sir Roger de Covcrley, she goes to the play in London, and 
her experience there is hardly less amusing than his. 

' " For my part,' said Mr. Lovel, ' I confess I seldom listen to the players ; 
one has so much to do in looking about, in finding out one's acquaintance, 
that really one has no time to mind the stage. Pray ' (most affectedly fixing 
his eyes upon a diamond ring on his little finger), ' pray, what was the play- 
to-night ? 

' " Why, what the d — 1," cried the captain, ' do you come to the play 
without knowing what it is ? ' 

' " O yes, sir, yes, very frequently ; I have no time to read playbills ; 
one merely comes to meet one's friends, and show that one's alive.' 

" ' Ha, ha, ha ! — and so? ' cried the captain, ' it costs you five shillings 
a night just to show that you're alive ! Well, faith, my friends should 
all think me dead and under ground before I'd be at that expense for 
'em. And so you've been here all this time, and don't know what the play 
was ? ' 

" ' Why, really, sir, a play requires so much attention, — it is scarce pos- 
sible to keep awake if one listens ; — for, indeed, by the time it is evening, one 
has been so fatigued with dining, or wine, or the House, or studying, that it 
is — it is perfectly an impossibility. But, now I think of it, I believe I have 
a bill in my pocket ; oh, ay, here it is,—' Love for Love,' ay, — true, ha, ha ! 
— how could I be so stupid ! ' 

" ' O, easily enough, as to that, I warrant you,' said the captain ; ' but, 
by my soul, this is one of the best jokes I ever heard ! Come to a play, and 
not know what it is ! — Why, I suppose you wouldn't have found it out, if 
they had fobfr'd you off with a scraping of fiddlers, or an opera ? — Ha, ha, ha! 
Why, now, I should have thought you might have taken some notice of one 
Mr. Tattle that is in this play ! ' " 


Lord Orville, the hero of the tale, is the pink of perfection, social, moral, 
and intellectual. The absurdities which result from Evelina's position and 
ignorance of the proprieties, stand out in amusing contrast to his polite and 
distressed superiority. Of all her lovers, high and low, and she has many, 
he alone treats her with due respect. Sir Clement Willoughby, the beau 
and wit, is adoring but insolent, Lord Merton insufferable, and Mr. Smith 
with his importance and vulgarity, worse than all. Here is an example ot 
Sir Clement's behavior. The scene is at Vauxhall, where Evelina has 
been taken against her will by Madame Duval and the Braughtons. She 
has lost her party, and at last, wandering alone in a vain effort to find her 
way, she comes face to face with Sir Clement. 

" ' So you will not explain to me your situation ? ' said he, at length. 

" ' No, sir,' answered I, disdainfully. 

" ' Nor yet suffer me to make my own interpretation ? ' ' 

" I could not bear this strange manner of speaking; it made my very 
soul shudder, and I burst into tears. 

" He flew to me, and actually flung himself at my feet, as if regardless 
who might see him, saying, ' O, Miss Anville, loveliest of women, forgive 
my — my — I beseech you forgive me ; -if I have offended, if I have hurt you, 
I could kill myself at the thought ! ' 

" ' No matter, sir ; no matter ! ' cried I ; ' if I can but find my friends, I 
will never speak to, never see you again ! ' 

" ' Good God ! — Good Heaven ! my dearest life, what is it I have done ? 
What is it I have said ? ' 

" ' You best know, sir, what and why; but don't hold me here ; let me 
be gone ! and do you ! ' 

" ' Not till you forgive me ! I cannot part with you in anger.' 

" ' For shame, for shame, sir ! ' cried I, indignantly ; ' do you suppose 
I am to be thus compelled? Do you take advantage of the absence of my 
friend to affront me? ' 

" ' No, Madam,' said he, rising; ' I would sooner forfeit my life than act 
so mean a part. But you have flung me into amazement unspeakable, and 
you will not condescend to listen to my request of giving me seme explana- 
tion . 

" ' The manner, sir,' said I, ' in which you spoke that request made, 
and will make me scorn to answer it.' 

" ' Scorn ! — I will own to you I expected not such displeasure from 
Miss Anville.' " 


How different is Lord Orville. 

" Wlicil at length he went away, Lord Orville took his seat, and said, with 
a half smile, ' Shall / call Sir Clement, or will you call me, a usurper for tak- • 
ing this place? You make no answer ! Must I then suppose that Sir 
Clement — ' 

" ' It is little worth your Lordship's while,' said I, ' to suppose anything 
upon so insignificant an occasion.' 

" ' Pardon me, said he, ' to me nothing is insignificant in which you are 

" To this I made no reply ; neither did he say anything more till the 
ladies retired to dress; and then, when I would have followed them, he 
stopped me, saying, ' One moment, I entreat you ! ' 

" I turned back, and he went on : 'I greatly fear that I have been so 
unfortunate as to offend you ; yet so repugnant to my very soul is the idea, 
that I know not how to suppose it possible I can unwittingly have done the 
thing in the world that, designedly, I would wish to avoid.' 

" ' No, indeed, my Lord, you have not,' said I. 

" ' You sigh ! ' cried he, taking my hand ; ' would to heaven I were the 
sharer of your uneasiness, whence soever it springs! with what earnestness 
would I not struggle to alleviate it! — Tell me, my dear Miss Anville, — my 
new adopted sister, my sweet and most amiable friend ! — tell me, I beseech 
you, if I can afford you any assistance ? ' " 

Of course, in the end, Lord Orville is rewarded for his. virtue and to Sir 
Clement's eternal chagrin, triumphantly carries off Evelina, now, as it turns 
out, the acknowledged daughter and heiress of the richest knight in Eng- 
land. The book ends with this characteristic and touching letter from 
Evelina to Mr. Villars : 

" All is over, my dearest sir, and the fate of your Evelina is decided. 
This morning, with fearful joy and trembling gratitude, she united herself 
forever with the object of her dearest, her eternal affection. 

" I have time for no more ; the chaise now waits which is to conduct 
me to dear Berry Hill, and to the arms of the best of men." 

Cecilia is very like Evelina in many ways, but is not, I think, so 
successful. It amuses and interests us perhaps as much, but the charm which 
distinguished the earlier work is wanting here. It is less artless, and far more 
elaborate ; we feel that it pretends to be something which it is not. We are 


annoyed by the endless little teasing distresses of the plot, and finally leave 
the poor heroine so worn out and degraded by her trials, that we cannot 
think of her with pleasure. The book is, however, in spite of its faults, a 
charming one ; it contains many amusing episodes, and abounds in witty 
criticism of the prevailing fashions, while its language is so grandiose as 
to bring a smile to the lips of the gravest reader. Nowhere in Evelina 
can we find anything more entertaining than the account of Cecilia's first 
night in London ; and her adventures at the masked ball, where she is 
imprisoned by a surly devil in black, and released by a gallant Don Quixote, 
are thrilling indeed. Delvile, though he perhaps lacks Lord Orville's exqui- 
site politeness, still far exceeds the expectations of a modern reader. And 
when, on the occasion of Cecilia's resting the tips of her fingers on his 
arm, he passionately exclaims, " Sweet, lovely burthen ! Oh, why not thus 
forever!" we feel we cannot, in reason, complain. 

To the end of her life, both before and after her marriage, whether 
in France or in England, Miss Burney was known as " the authoress of 
Evelina and Cecilia;" and it is thus that she is still oftenest spoken of. 
Nevertheless, her fame no longer rests on her novels ; they are for the most 
part known by name only, or read simply as literary curiosities. It is by 
means of her diary and her letters that she now lives. All the wit, the 
almost intuitive knowledge of character and the keen powers of observa- 
tion shown in Evelina, are used to describe the daily incidents of her life 
and the people by whom she was surrounded. She began her diary a few 
months before her sixteenth birthday, on March 27, 1768, and continued it 
at intervals until May, 1821, when the last entry was made, fifty-three years 
later, but still some years before her death. 

Fortunately for us, Miss Burney's life was very eventful. From her 
earliest childhood she was thrown with interesting people, and thus she has 
given us a minute account of the appearance and conversation of almost 
all the famous men of her day. Her father, Dr. Charles Burney, was 
during his life-time well known in England as a musician and a composer. 
It has been said of him that '' owing to the charm of his manners and the 
vivacity and readiness of his wit, he was the man of the eighteenth century 
that gained and kept the greatest number of friends." Certain it is, that 


his children loved him with a love rising to enthusiasm, and that in almost 
all the chronicles of the time we find him spoken of with admiration. " I 
love Burney, my heart goes out to meet him," says Dr. Johnson, " I much 
question if there is, in the world, such another man as Dr. Burney." 

Fanny was more like her father than any of her brothers and sisters. 
From him she inherited the painful shyness which distressed her to the 
end of her life ; from him, too, she got her wit and quick powers of obser- 
vation. But, strangely enough, until the publication of Evelina, Dr. 
Burney never appreciated her powers ; she was neglected and pushed aside, 
while her two sisters, Hester and Susan, were sent to school in Paris and 
given all the advantages of a foreign education. She was continually 
scribbling, it is true, but her father took no notice of it whatever, and her 
step-mother showed, in a very emphatic way, her disapproval of such a waste 
of time. 

Nevertheless Fanny was by no means wholly without sympathy ; in 
her sister Susan she had a constant and devoted admirer, who was always 
ready to aid and applaud. Susan had herself a very decided talent for 
writing, as is shown by her letters to Fanny, of which a few have recently 
been published ; she seems, moreover, to have been in many ways the most 
charming member of this charming family. Count Louis de Narbonne, 
we are told, said of her that she was "All that is ' douce ,' with all that is 
' spirititelle ! ' ' Indeed, everyone who knew her was loud in her praise. 
Between her and Fanny there existed a very strong devotion, they seem 
to have had but one soul and one mind. No two sisters were ever more 
congenial companions. Second only to Susan in Fanny's affections came 
her " dear daddy Crisp," the " Misanthrope of Chesington," of whom we 
hear so much in the diary. He had been in his time a wit and a man of 
fashion, and, like the rest, had wasted his fortune and written his play. 
Now, in his country solitude, the chief delight of his life was in Fanny's 
letters, in which he caught a glimpse of the world he had left forever. 
She was his favorite of all Dr. Burney's children, and even as a very young 
girl, it was her habit to give him minute accounts of her daily doings. Indeed 
a large part of every day was spent in writing, either to Mr. Crisp, or in 
her journal for Susan's private perusal ; or else she would lock herself up 


for a whole long delicious morning in "the den" and compose some 
extravagant romance in secret. We are told that in her fifteenth year she 
spent many months in writing a History of Caroline Evelyn, but in a fit 
of repentance over her disobedience to her step-mother she burned it, 
together with her whole stock of prose compositions. Caroline Evelyn 
had made, however, a lasting impression. Fanny's imagination was haunted 
by the singular situation in which her heroine's daughter would be placed, 
and by degrees every incident of Evelina was stored up in her mind 
before ever a single sentence was put upon paper. We have only to turn 
over the first pages of her diary to see how exuberant and boisterous were 
her spirits. She was overflowing with life, and writes for the pure joy of 
writing, taking pleasure even in the mere mechanical part of it. She fairly 
riots in words ; the slightest incident is magnified and related with won- 
derful humor. 

" I am prodigiously surprised, immensely astonished — indeed abso- 
lutely petrified with amazement — and what do you imagine the cause ? 
You can never guess; I shall pity your ignorance and incapacity, and 
generous, noble minded as I am, keep you no longer in suspense. Know 
then — Ha ! this frightful old watchman, how he has startled me — past 
eleven o'clock ! bless you, friend, don't bawl so loud, my nerves can't 
possibly bear it. No, I shall expire — this robust, gross creature will be 
the death of me — yes, I feel myself going, my spirits fail — my blood chills — 
I am gone ! To my eternal astonishment I am recovered ! I am really 
alive. I have actually and truly survived this bawling. Well, and now 
that I have in some measure recollected my scattered spirits, I will endeavor 
sufficiently to compose myself to relate the cause of wonder the first. 
Would you believe it- — but, now I think of it, you can't well tell till you 
hear — well, have patience, all in good time, don't imagine I intend to cheat 
you ; no — no — now attend. Miss Tilson, a young lady of fashion, fortune, 
education, with accomplishments and beauty, has fallen in love with my 
cousin Charles Burney. She is about seventeen, and she wrote her decla- 
ration to him on her glove, which she dropt for him to pick up. But 
Charles, not liking her, is above the temptation. Well, I'm so sleepy, I 
must . . . you may hear more anon." 

Fanny read constantly and eagerly ; her taste in novels is as charac- 
teristic and amusing as everything else about her. 


" I have this very moment finished reading a novel called the ' Vii ar 
of Wakefield.' It was wrote by Dr. Goldsmith. His style is rational and 
sensible, and T knew it again immediately. This book is of a very singular 
kind. I own I began it with distaste and disrelish, having just read the 
elegant ' Letters of Henry' — the beginning of it even disgusted me — he 
mentions his wife with such indifference, such contempt — the contrast of 
Henry's treatment of Frances struck me, the more so as it is real, while 
this letter is fictitious — and then the style of the latter is so elegantly 
natural, so tenderly manly, so unassumingly rational — I own I was tempted 
to throw the book aside — but there was something in the situation of his 
family, which if it did not interest me, at least drew me on — and as I pro- 
ceeded I was better pleased. The description of his rural felicity, his simple, 
unaffected contentment a,nd family domestic happiness, gave me much 

pleasure And before I was half thro' the first volume I was, 

as I may truly express myself, surprised into tears — and in the second 
volume I really sobb'd." 

The record of the ten years which elapsed between Fanny's sixteenth 
birthday and the publication of Evelina fills two large volumes, every page 
of which is alive with interest and charm. It is simply the story of the life 
of a young girl who lived now in London, now at Chesington with Mr. 
Crisp, and again in the small country town of Lynn. She was the constant 
companion of her sisters, and served as amanuensis to her father ; she went 
to a few balls, and had a lover or two, but there the events of her life end. 
She reveals herself to us freely and fully; whole pages are given up to 
reflections, sometimes sportive and sometimes sad, but always showing a 
disposition tender and affectionate to a high degree. She loved her friends 
with a warmth not often to be met with, and thought no sacrifice too great 
to make for their sake. Every now and then we find a character sketch 
which shows the masterly hand of a born writer. Garrick was a constant 
companion of the Burneys", and we have many pretty pictures of him and of 
his affection for them. His little shabby scratch wig, his preposterous atti- 
tudes and his overflowing love of fun and of children, are all vividly repre- 
sented. But here Charlotte, the youngest and most irrepressible of the sis- 
ters, has excelled Fanny. In her ill-spelt and headlong diary, she has 
described him for us irresistibly, and has given Boswell's famous story of his 
imitation of Dr. Johnson with twice Boswell's humor. 


Around Dr. Burney gathered the celebrated musicians of the day, and 
Fanny has given us more than one amusing account of the Sunday evening 
concerts held in Poland Street, when the narrow drawing-rooms of her 
father's house were crowded by the wit and fashion of London. It was at 
one of these gatherings that Fanny saw for the first time her future friend 
and admirer, Dr. Johnson. He made, naturally enough, a very vivid impres- 
sion upon her imagination, and her description of him is so amusing that 
we cannot pass it over. 

" In the midst of the performance Dr. Johnson was announced. He is, 
indeed, very ill-favored ; is tall and stout, but stoops terribly; he is almost 
bent double. His mouth is almost constantly opening and shutting, as if he 
was chewing. He has a strange method of frequently twirling his fingers, 
and twisting his hands. His body is in continual agitation, see- sawing up 
and down ; his feet are never a moment quiet ; and, in short, his whole per- 
son is in perpetual motion. His dress, too, considering the times, and that 
he had meant to put on his best becomes, being engaged to dine in a large 
company, was as much out of the common run as his figure ; he had a 
large wig, snuff-color coat, and gold buttons, but no ruffles to his shirt, 
doughty fists, and black worsted stockings. He is shockingly near-sighted, 
and did not, till she held out her hand to him, even know Mrs. Thrale. He 
poked his nose over the keys of the harpsichord, till the duet was finished, 
and then my father introduced Hetty to him as an old acquaintance, and he 
cordially kissed her ! 

" His attention, however, was not to be diverted five minutes from 
the books, as we were in the library; he pored over them, shelf by 
shelf, almost touching the backs of them with his eye-lashes, as he read 
their titles. . . . Mrs. Thrale said, in a laughing manner, ' Pray, Dr. 
Burney, can you tell me what that song was and whose, which Lavoi 
sung last night at Bach's concert, and which you did not hear?' My 
father confessed himself by no means so good a diviner ; however, 
wishing to draw Dr. Johnson into some conversation, he told him the 
question. The doctor, seeing his drift, good-naturedly put away his 
book, and said very drolly, ' And pray, sir, ivko is Bach ? Is he a piper? ' 
Man}' exclamations of surprise, you will believe, followed this question. 
' Why, you have read his name often in the papers,' said Mrs. Thrale ; and 
then she gave him some account of his concert, and the number of fine 
performances she had heard at it. 

" Pray,' said he gravely, ' Madam, what is the expense? ' 


"'Oh!' answered she, 'much trouble and solicitation to get a 
subscriber's ticket; — or else, half a guinea.' 

"'Trouble and solicitation,' said he, 'I will have nothing to do 
with ; but I would be willing to give eighteen pence ' 

" Ha ! ha ! " 

Throughout the time covered by the early diary, Dr. Burney was 
busily engaged in writing and publishing his books of travel, and in bring- 
ing out the first volumes of his History of Music. It is not surprising 
that his daughter, who shared with him the labors of composition and was 
gifted with equal powers, should have felt the desire to see some work of her 
own in print. She wrote out on paper the story of Evelina, which was, as 
we have said, already stored up in her mind, and with the help of her 
sisters and her younger brother, Charles, set about finding a publisher. 
She had no desire to be known as an author; on the contrary, her secret 
was to be inviolably kept, and her father was told of her plan only at the 
very last minute, and because she felt it her duty to obtain his consent. He 
asked the name neither of the story nor of its publisher, and seems to have 
felt very little interest in it. Mr. Lowndes, a book-seller in Fleet street, 
finally agreed to give her twenty pounds for the copyright ; and in January 
the book appeared. Miss Burney begins her Journal for 1778 with the 
following amusing sentences : 

" This year was ushered in by a grand and most important event ! At 
the latter end of January, the literary world was favored with the first 
publication of the ingenious, learned, and most profound Fanny Burney ! 
I doubt not but this memorable affair will, in future times, mark the period 
whence chronologers will date the zenith of the polite arts in this island! 

" This admirable authoress has named her most elaborate performance 
Evelina ; or, a Voting Lady's Entrance into the World." 

She was, in truth, far from expecting that her little book would attract 
attention of any sort. She had written it solely because she could not help 
writing, and had published it rather as a joke than with any desire for fame. 
It was not, however, many weeks before Evelina was in all the circulating 
libraries, to be read by people of every sort ; and its success was secured 
by a favorable notice in the London Review, for February. After that, it 
grew daily more popular, until the excitement it aroused was such as we 


have already described. Miss Burney's diary and letters at this time are 
full of her secret terror and delight at the turn affairs had taken. In May 
she went .to Chesington to visit Mr. Crisp, and took Evelina with her, 
intending to read it aloud to her dear daddy, and to give herself the deli- 
cious pain of hearing his unsuspecting comments. But the uncontrollable 
trembling of her voice rendered her self-imposed task so awkward that she 
was obliged to hide the third volume and to pretend she had forgotten it. 
Mr. Crisp's extreme testiness over this delay showed his deep interest, and 
caused Fanny such delight that she almost betrayed herself. 

During her absence from home, Dr. Burney guessed her secret, and 
read the book with gratifying, if somewhat tardy, eagerness. Susan kept 
Fanny posted as to the state of affairs in London, and evidently took infinite 
pleasure in every one of the many compliments she retailed. On the 4th 
of June she writes : 

" But, my dear Fanny, my father has at last got Evelina ! Charlotte 
has written you all the account ! I have been monstrous vexed that I was 
not at home when he first got it — I am sure I should have cried had I been 
present upon his opening the Ode (to himself), for the idea of it never 
occurs to me without bringing tears into my eyes. However, he has never 
mentioned it to me, tho' it affected him so much at the time — but yester- 
day morning, when I was alone with him a few minutes while he dressed — 
" ' Why, Susan,' said he to me, ' I have got Fan's book.' 
" ' Sir ! have you ? ' 

" ' Yes — but I suppose you must not tell her — Poor Fan's such a prude.' 

" ' Oh ! I don't know, Sir, she knows you know of it — -'tis only others' 

" ' Oh,' said he, quick — ' I shall keep it locked up in my sanctum 

sanctorum,' pointing to his bureau, ' I would not betray the poor girl for 

the world—but upon my soul I like it vastly. Do you know, I began to 

read it with Lady Hales and Miss Cousstnaker yesterday.' 

" ' Lord ! ' cried I, a little alarmed, ' you did not tell them — ' 
" ' Tell them, no, certainly — I said 'twas a book had been recommended 
to me — they'll never know and they like it vastly, but upon my soul there's 
something in the preface and dedication vastly strong and zvell written — 
better than I could have expected — and yet I did not think 'twould be trash 
when I began it.' " 

A few days later she tells how Charlotte and she had stood " cramped 
to death, not daring to move and almost stifled with laughter " in the 


morning outside of Dr. Burney's door, while he read aloud the " Ridotto 
scene" to his wife. " I wished with all my heart," she ends, " you had bi - n 
with Charlotte and me — for 'tis impossible by letter to convey an idea to 
you how thoroughly he enjoyed every line of it — but 1 believe it was near 
twelve before we breakfasted." 

When at last Mr. Crisp was told, his surprise knew no bounds. He 
evidently had never suspected his " Fannikins " of so much power, although 
we cannot but wonder at his blindness. Dr. Burney now whispered the 
astonishing news to Mrs. Thrale, and at once it became an open secret. In 
August, Fanny went to Streatham, where she was warmly welcomed, and 
given the seat of honor by the side of Dr. Johnson. From this time forth 
she was a constant inmate of the house, the devoted friend of Mrs. Thrale 
and the avowed favorite of the Doctor. She gives in detail the sayings and 
doings of this extraordinary household, and above all of Dr. Johnson. 
Although his strictures on others were often so sharp and bitter that he 
was far more widely feared than loved, he never was anything but kind and 
attentive to Fanny. He even went so far as to volunteer advice as to her 
frocks and her caps, and to praise her taste in colors. He delighted to draw 
her into long conversations and continually teased her by dubbing her his 
" character monger," and to her infinite confusion often rallied her upon the 
observant silence she maintained while others were " showing off" for her 

In London, as at Streatham, Fanny had now become the most honored 
member of every company. She was feted and caressed and complimented 
until we could hardly have wondered if her head had been completely 
turned. But we find her still the same, always modest and shy, always 
tender and thoughtful. In the midst of her many engagements she seems 
never to have been too busy to write to Susan and Daddy Crisp those long 
letters that were their greatest delight. She recounted for their benefit all 
the fine things that were said to her, she described the behavior and dress 
of every person of importance; and the hours of the day spent thus with 
those she loved were evidently pleasanter to her than any others. 

This was just the life that suited her ; she had many opportunities to 
study character; her intercourse with people of the highest wit and intelli- 


gence must have sharpened her own faculties, and we cannot regret too 
deeply that she was so soon to be taken away from it and shut up at court. 

Not very long after the publication of Cecilia, Mrs. Delany, who 
together with the Duchess of Portland had long constituted the "old wits," 
expressed a desire to see the young " authoress of Evelina and Cecilia!' 
She took an immediate fancy to Fanny, and from that time until her own 
death, kept her with her constantly. When she moved to Windsor, Fanny 
went too, and there saw for the first time the king and queen. Queen 
Charlotte seems to have been strongly attracted by Mrs. Delany "s silent 
companion, for a few months later she offered her the post of maid of honor 
which had become unexpectedly vacant. This was, indeed, a great honor, 
and completely overpowered the humble recipient of it, who, however, 
never for one moment considered acceptance possible. But she soon found 
that her father had set his heart on her going to court, and that all her 
friends upheld him. So with many misgivings and forebodings of evil, 
she said good-bye to her old life, and took up the new. 

In those days the position of maid of honor was by no means a sinecure; 
it meant actual hard work from morning until night, and complete retirement 
from her family and friends, with only the society of his majesty's equerries 
as a substitute. In all England there could have been found no one less 
suited for such a position than Fanny Burney. Her health was delicate, 
her eye-sight bad, and her spirits unequal to the wearisome round of court 
etiquette. In addition to these evils, what little comfort she might still 
have had was wantonly destroyed by the enmity of Mrs. Schwellenberg, 
the chief keeper of the robes. Before she had been at Windsor many 
weeks, she realised with terrible distinctness the importance of the step 
which she had taken. She found that her position was little superior to 
that of a lady's maid ; she was summoned to the royal presence by a bell 
which rang in her room, and her duties consisted chiefly in the mixing of 
snuff and the sorting of laces. 

That part of the diary which covers the five years at court is very 
dreary reading. Except for here and there an interesting bit, such as the 
description of the trial of Warren Hastings, it is all a dead level of 
weariness. We get to know the members of the royal family, it is true ; we 


sec the whole household before us, but we arc forced to ask- ourselves from 
time to time, whether it is possible for any human beings to have had so 
stupid an existence. Poor, mad King George with his frank' kindhearted- 
ness, wins our sympathy at once, but the Queen from first to last appi ai 
hard and cruel. That she was sincerely fond of Miss Burney we arc forced 
to believe, yet not for one instant did she relax her vigorous rules, even 
when common humanity would have prompted another to spare the over- 
taxed strength of her suffering companion. It was not until the whole 
court and many people outside had remarked Miss Burney's rapidly fail- 
ing health that the Queen seems to have noticed anything amiss. And 
when Miss Burney finally summoned sufficient courage to offer her resigna- 
tion, her royal mistress showed her displeasure in a very marked manner. 
We find this entry in the diary for July, 1 79 1 : 

" I come now to write of the last week of my royal residence. The 
Queen honored me with the most uniform graciousness, and though, as the 
time of separation approached, her cordiality rather diminished, and traces 
of internal displeasure appeared sometimes, arising from an opinion I ought 
rather to have struggled on, live or die, than to quit her, — yet I am sure she 
saw how poor was my own chance, except by a change in the mode of life, 
and at last ceased to wonder, though she could not approve." 

Miss Burney's health and spirits were now completely broken, the best 
years of her life were past, and she came back to the world very much 
changed by her long exile. Her talent had never been of a very high order 
and it seems to have depended almost entirely upon the buoyancy of her 
spirits. Evelina had succeeded precisely because she had put into it 
the vigor and liveliness of her youth, and the workings of an imagination 
untrammelled by serious thoughts or experience. All her keen wit and 
quick powers of observation could not save Cecilia from being tinged 
with dullness. The moral, as soon as it came in, crowded out the charm ; 
and it was only when she forgot all serious things and gave free play to her 
fancy that she was really at her best. Her experiences at court had aged 
her and saddened her so greatly that she was no longer capable of being 
wholly light-hearted. Only now and then there came a faint glimmer of 
the old humor, and even that died away quickly. Indeed, every year the 


entries in her diary grew less frequent and less interesting. The rest of her 
life can be told in a few words. 

In 1793, she made a marriage as strange and romantic as could be 
desired, even of one of her own heroines. At Juniper, near the home of 
her sister Susan, now Mrs. Phillips, there was situated a little colony of 
distinguished French exiles. Here she met and fell in love with M. 
d'Arblay, and married him, in spite of all opposition and without regard 
to the fact that he was utterly penniless. Miss Burney, however, had a 
small pension from the queen, and upon this they managed to live in a tiny 
house with the utmost economy. It was in this little house that she wrote 
her third novel, Camilla; which was to make their fortune, and here M. 
d'Arblay worked from morning until night in the* garden. Here, too, their 
only son was born. 

In her letters to Dr. Burney, Madame d'Arblay gives us a very pretty 
picture of their happy life in the country. No one who has ever read it 
will forget her description of M. d'Arblay's labors. 

" ' Abdolmine ' has no regret but that his garden was not in better 
order ; he was a \\XX\& pique , he confesses, that you said it was not ' very neat,' — 
and, ' to be shbr ' ! — but his passion is to do great works ; he undertakes 
with pleasure, pursues with energy, and finishes with spirit; but, then, 
all is over ! He thinks the business once done always done ; and to 
repair, and amend, and weed, and cleanse — O, these are drudgeries insup- 
portable to him ! 

" I wish you could have seen him yesterday, mowing down our hedge — 
with his sabre, and with an air and attitude so military, that, if he had 
been hewing down other legions than those he encountered — i. e., of spiders 
— he could scarcely have had a mein more tremendous, or have demanded 
an arm more mighty. Heaven knows, I am the most ' cohtente personne ' 
in the world, to see his sabre so employed ! " 

It was Madame d'Arblay's earnest wish to remain always in England, 
but changes in France soon required the presence of her husband, and 
she accompanied him to Paris. It is, impossible for us to follow her in all 
her wanderings in France, and again back to England. Her diary grows 
less and less interesting. She was very much occupied with her husband 
and her son, and appears to have found little time to devote to other things, 


so that, although we hear a faint echo of the events that were shaking Europe 
to its very foundation, much that she might have told us is passed over in 
silence. After twenty-five years of happy married life, General d'Arblay 
died and left behind him a glorious memory. His widow survived him for 
twenty-two years, and of these years we have little record. Towards the 
end Madame d'Arblay's life grew terribly lonely. She had out-lived all 
those whom she loved, her sisters, her father, her husband, and finally her 
son. A new generation had grown up around her, and at last, in her 
eighty-ninth year, on the sixth of January, the anniversary of the death of 
her beloved sister Susan, she died. The last letter we have from her hand 
is dated March 5, 1839. 

"Ah! my dearest! how changed, changed I am, since the irreparable 
loss of your beloved mother! that last original tie to native original 
affections ! 

" My spirits have been dreadfully saddened of late by whole days — 
nay weeks — of helplessness for any employment. They have but just 
revived. How merciful a reprieve! How merciful is all we know! 
The ways of Heaven are not dark and intricate, but unknown and unimag- 
ined till the great teacher, Death, develops them." 

Helen Whitall Thome 




Out of the busy morning of the house 

They beckon me, the rippling sunny leaves, — 

The bending boughs, that stir a little space, 

And then are still, and then are farther stirr'd, 

As a new wind comes, — till at last the trees 

Yielding, harmonious, surge along the air 

With one deep chord, of movement and myriad sound. 


How slowly floateth every quiet cloud 

In the still sky, nor dips a forward bow, 

As would a cargo'd ship, whose rounded sail 

The wind had put his strength to ; yet mine eyes, 

That watch this lofty squadron, shadow-keel'd, 

Coasting the horizon, ache to look instead 

Over the remote, blue, traffic-roughened sea. 

M. P. C, '8g. 



" If Betty Glinn doesn't rue her bargain, then I shall miss my guess; 
that's all 1 have to say about it." Mrs. Winship, a tall slender woman, of 
handsome severe features, settled herself more firmly in her straight-backed 
chair — she affected that kind — and looked at her guests with an expression 
intimating that though they might reserve the liberty of disagreeing with 
her, they did it with the certainty of laying themselves open to most 
egregious error. No such mistake on their part, however, seemed 
imminent. Dissent in any form was utterly foreign to Mrs. Glover, whose 
broad comfortable form quite filled the rocking chair opposite Mrs. 
Winship, and whose mild gray eyes and placid face beamed forth a kindly 
indiscriminating interest and approval for all the world. On the other 
hand, her niece, Miss Luella Glover, was discriminating enough ; she prided 
herself on that very thing, in fact ; but one of the niceties in the exercise 
of that quality she recognized as being assent to the opinions of Mrs. 

Miss Glover was arrayed that afternoon in a wine-colored silk, further 
adorned by a pink satin bow at the neck, and a considerable quantity of 
gold watch-chain. She wore her light hair brushed smoothly back from a 
round shining forehead, and her eyes looked upon the world through a 
pair of gleaming gold-bowed spectacles. 

" How very odd," she said, addressing her hostess with a certain 
unctiousness of tone, " that she should be willing to leave your charming 
home for that deserted place. I wonder if she really has a sentiment of 
tenderness for the farm because she was born there. But at any rate, I 
should think gratitude — " 

" Sentiment and fiddlesticks ! " interrupted Mrs. Winship energetically, 
thereby giving Miss Glover a slight shock. This young lady was a teacher ' 
in one of the public schools of the nearest city, and she favored little 
elegancies of speech, so that Mrs. Winship's directness was at times 


startling to her. " I don't care anything about gratitude," continued the 
latter. " I guess the favors are as many on one side as the other in the 
long run. But it is the most arrant piece of folly I ever heard of. Just as 
soon as she heard that place was for sale, she must have it. Takes her 
money out of the bank — a good round sum, too, she has saved, in all these 
years — and buys it. It's just for the sake of having her own way — nothing 
else in the world. She'd be a great deal better off here, she needs somebody 
to look after her — though almost everybody does, according to my way 
of thinking. She ought to have stayed for her own good. But she'll be 
back, you mark my words. And as for gratitude," she went on more 
slowly, as though, having given due consideration to her own views, she 
was beginning to see some force in Miss Glover's suggestion — " Well, I do 
need her enough, goodness knows." Mrs.Winship was knitting an elaborate 
pattern of linen lace, and her speech was punctuated with sharp needle 

She was proud of her skill in knitting — in truth she was proud of 
many things : of this big bright sitting-room of her's, with its red flowered 
Brussels carpet and white woodwork ; of the broad fields flanking her home 
standing at the edge of the village ; of her husband's position as leading 
merchant in the place. Proud of all things connected with her and her's, 
save the one of whom she would fain have been proudest, and that was 
her son, her only child, handsome reckless John Winship. Of him she 
dared not be proud ; she had great confidence in her disciplinary methods, 
and yet she was never without a lurking suspicion that her son might 
prove traitor to these methods. This suspicion, not too carefully concealed, 
was hardly salutary in its effect on his character ; yet it was in a manner 
justified, it is to be feared, by the boy's conduct, and still more perhaps by 
something in the nature of the methods themselves. It was undoubtedly 
a consciousness of all this that had led Mr. Winship to an action as 
surprising to his wife as Betty Glinn's defection had been — the surprise to 
Mrs. Winship consisting, in both instances, in the prevailing of any other 
will than her own. John had been offered, some time ago, a position in a 
private banking house in the city, and his father had insisted upon his 
accepting it, though greatly in opposition to his mother, who believed that 


the interests of her son, as well as of her servant Betty Glinn, were best 
advanced under her supervision. 

The conversation in regard to Betty was interrupted by the appearance 
of Mr. Winship, who stopped in the open door balancing his straw hat in his 
hand. He was a tall, spare, large-featured man, slightly bald — wearing an 
alpaca coat and white vest, in deference to June, though the air, while the 
sun was still high, had a bracing quality prophetic of a cold evening. 

"Oh, Mr. Winship!" cried Miss Glover with sweet effusiveness, 
stretching out her hand, "you really have come too late. Auntie and I 
are soon going." 

" I am very sorry," he answered slowly, with the grave courtesy of a 
kindly nature, in which a sense of humor is not highly developed. " I 
couldn't get away sooner. And then, too, I had an idea that you ladies 
rather liked to be alone to talk over your secrets — and other peoples'," he 
added, with a serious attempt at the jocoseness the occasion seemed to 
demand. " I hope you are well, Mrs. Glover. " 

"Oh yes; I'm well," with an accent as though she were prescient of 
some state of existence where mere physical well-being was a very minor 
factor in the whole sum of human happiness. " But we ain't so young as 
we were once." She gave him her hand while remaining seated, having 
a very good excuse — had she ever dreamed of the necessity of one — in the 
fact of her lap being full of sewing material. An afternoon visit in the 
country is a serious matter and cannot be given up wholly to idleness. 

" But I declare," she said suddenly with as much briskness as her 
dragging voice could assume. " We must be starting. If we don't get 
home by sundown, Abner'll think I've run away with you, Mr. Winship." 

A certain innocent latitude of speech that obtains in rural districts 
gave this remark the nature of a very harmless play of humor. 

" I guess he can trust you ; but if you think you must go, I'll get up 
your horse and buggy." 

The buggy in which Mrs. Glover and her niece finally departed was a 
substantial affair — its one seat perched high on a triangular shining box — 
drawn by a sturdy, well fed, white horse, who travelled with his fore feet 
well apart. 


It was nearly sunset when Mrs. Glover stopped her horse almost at 
the foot of a long stony descent. Here she had a choice of two roads, one 
skirting the hill, the other, after a few abrupt plunges, turning sharply into 
the wide green level of the creek meadows where Betty Glinn's farm lay. 
Into the latter road she turned, slapping her horse's broad back vigorously 
with the reins. " If we go a little faster," she explained, " we'll have time 
enough to go around by Betty Glinn's." 

The long stretch of road, on which the only buildings were Betty's 
dilapidated house and sheds, was very narrow, being closely encroached 
upon by the luxuriant growth of grasses and bushes from the meadows. 
The fences were hidden in woodbine, clematis and bitter-sweet vines, the 
ditches were filled with blue iris and the cat-tail flag, and elderberry bushes 
still white with bloom brushed the sides of the buggy. All this green was 
in that peculiarly brilliant stage, transitional between the tender tints of 
spring, and the deep color of midsummer. The now level rays of the sun 
illumed to a golden cloud the dust rising about the wheels. 

As they drew near the house a small figure darted from the gate, 
across the road and into the bushes of the opposite side — very much after 
the manner of a partridge skurrying to cover. But the moment Mrs. 
Glover drew up her horse with a gentle " Whoa! " the figure reappeared. 

" Now, Betty Glinn, what were you doing ? " demanded Mrs. Glover. 

" Well, you give me such a scare," panted Betty — " I thought you was 
Mrs. Winship, an' I won't go back, no I won't," she reiterated with mild 
fierceness. She was a small, bent, brown, thing, with muscles like fine steel 
wire, and with half- frightened dark eyes giving an oddly contradictory 
expression to a face whose whole contour denoted determination. 

" Don't you think you ought to go back ? " suggested Miss Glover 
sweetly. Betty's reply to this was a queer little twitch of her shoulders. 
She listened only to Mrs. Glover's droning account of Mrs. Winship's 

After they had gone she went back into the yard. Behind the house 
lay a long low shed, known as the milk-house. Here she had just placed 
several pails of foaming milk inside the door. She now put a row of bright 
tin pans on a shelf by the open barred window, and poured into them the 


milk, still warm and fragrant. This done she pushed her way through the 
long damp meadow grass to the small enclosure where the cows had stood 
to be milked. She spoke to them and they followed her into their stalls 
— their heads so close to her shoulders that she could feel their warm 
breath on her flesh. She talked to them as though they were children ; 
so too, to her horse, a shambling creature with wicked eyes, who received 
her attentions, nevertheless, as though he had entered into a compact of 
good faith with this innocent being who supposed she owned him. 

When Betty came out again the sun had already dropped below the 
horizon line. The west was burning with a deep orange light, which 
shaded off into the cold still blue through infinite gradations of its own 
hue, and opaline blendings of palest pink and green. Betty sat motionless 
on her steps till the sky was one far-off curtain of darkness stabbed through 
with the myriad golden points of the stars. Finally she said, as though in 
conference with the trees and bushes lying so closely in shadow about her: 

" I wonder if Mis' Winship ever thinks that mebbe some other people 
like to look at the sky from their own doorsteps." 

Betty had always been a faithful adherent to the Presbyterian church, 
which the Winships also attended. But she had now ceased going to 

" It's no use talking," she said to the minister who drove out one 
afternoon in July to expostulate with her, " I ain't goin' to church nor 
nowhere else where I'll see Mis' Winship, till she's reconciled. She's an 
awful good woman — about the best I ever see, but she don't understand 
other folks wantin' to be independent; and anyway she ain't goin' to have 
'em so, if they do want it. I know my Christian duty, an' I'm doin' it by 
stayin' out of her sight." With this, good Mr. Manners was obliged to 
go away satisfied. 

The afternoon on which this call was made was dull and grey, with 
rain coming on, Betty noticed as she looked after her departing visitor. 
She went into the yard and gathered a large bouquet of the flowers in 
bloom — bachelor's buttons, sweet Williams, a few late lemon lilies and 


some tiny slender-stemmed pansies — the last flowering from the roots of a 
long neglected garden. Earlier in the season the wide space from the old 
well to the house had been blue with wild forget-me-nots. Now only a 
few remained, these nearly hidden in the thick grass. She carried the 
flowers into the house, put them into a heavy tumbler, and placed it on the 
oilcloth covered table. She had hardly done this when she heard an 
uncertain knock at the outer door ; her mild surprise at a second visitor in 
one afternoon changed to alarm as she opened the door and saw John 
Winship leaning against the door-jamb, evidently too ill to stand. 

" Betty, for pity's sake give me a place to lie down. I think I am dying." 
The words came as though forced by great efforts through his parched 
lips, and dragging himself into the kitchen, he threw his body like a dead 
weight upon the old rocking settle. Betty was inclined to taciturnity 
where action was more needed than words, and she now devoted herself 
silently to the care of the young man whose confidante and friend she had 
been from his earliest recollection. 

When she had done all she could, she took her sunbonnet from a nail 
behind the door and went out. The rain had begun and its fine slanting 
lines blurred the sombre sky and the distant hills into one indistinct mass. 
She went along the road till she came to the field where old Bonaparte, her 
horse, was grazing. Docility was still part of this wily creature's policy 
so he allowed himself to be easily caught ; and when Betty knotted 
his halter into a bridle and sprang upon his bare back, and he discovered 
from the suggestions of a little elder switch, that haste was evidently 
wanted, he even broke into an awkward plunging run. 

It was quite dark when Betty turned in at Dr. Pomeroy's gate; the 
short drive led up to a door opening directly from the dining room where 
Betty could see that the family were at a late supper. The doctor himself, 
a portly, gray-haired man, with his napkin in his hand, opened the door, 
and in the block of yellow light projected into the darkness, Betty's little 
dripping figure was seen. She told her errand hurriedly, urging speed 
even to the extent of offering her horse for the doctor's use. 

" But my dear Madam," exclaimed the dignified doctor, " I can't ride 
that — that bare-backed beast!" At that there was a soft murmur, very 


like laughter, from within, and a young boy darted down the steps savin;.; 
as he went, " I'll have the horse for you in a jiffy, papa." The doctor did, 
indeed, reach the farm almost as soon as Betty. 

They found John no worse, and Dr. Pomeroy soon relieved Betty's 
anxiety; at the most it was only a severe cold, the fever evidently being 
aggravated by some mental unrest. The doctor looked sharply at John, 
but he accepted with professional reserve Betty's almost instinctive 
suggestion that John's presence and illness be kept secret. 

John was not delirious, but many times through that night, Betty 
could have wished that he were, as she watched by the light of a single 
tallow candle, the handsome, still boyish face flushed with fever and drawn 
with pain ; and listened to his broken, disjointed utterances making a 
disclosure, hard and bitter for her to bear, yet horribly and unmistakably 
true. He flung out the words, the bare outline of facts, without attempt at 
palliation — only his tone revealed his inward shame. True, indeed, there 
was no delirium now ; rather, this was the agony of escaping from the 
madness that had blinded and driven him for months. He had betrayed a 
position of trust, and though others had profited more by the betrayal 
than himself, yet he was the actual criminal. Disclosure was imminent, 
and the only saving thing — confession with immediate restitution — was not 
in his power. He had come home with some thought of asking his father 
to save him, but he could not bring himself to do it ; he would go back to 
meet the punishment he deserved. In his illness he had sought a single 
night's shelter with Betty. All this was said with a terseness and 
determination that showed that the layers of impulse, thoughtlessness 
and folly hitherto disguising his real nature, had been struck through at a 
single blow and swept away, leaving bare the solid substratum of manliness 
and stubborn honesty. 

Morning came at last. The rain had gone in the night and when 
Betty stepped out, the fresh strong, wind was already piling up the mist in 
opaque creamy masses against the sky. Betty gave one quick look 
around; she saw the long grass bending in the wind, the trees shaking off' 
the rain drops ; she caught the damp, earthy fragrance the wind brought 
from the woods and meadows ; she heard the cows mooing, the chickens 


clucking and crowing, Bonaparte stamping in his stall. Then it seemed as 
if she suddenly barred all avenues by which these impressions could reach 
her: she kept fixed in her mind one thing only, her determination that no 
one, not even John's father, should know of his disgrace. 

That afternoon she made another journey to the village, and on her 
return gave John the money he needed. He, thinking that his father had 
sent the money without the knowledge of his mother, readily acquiesced 
'in Betty's injunction of absolute secrecy. 

One afternoon, about three days after this, Mrs. Winship from her 
sitting-room, heard unusual noises in the kitchen. As the seventh of 
Betty's successors had been dismissed the week before, these indications of 
a presence in the kitchen were somewhat startling. She went through the 
dining-room and threw open the kitchen door. A fire was burning in the 
stove which she had left cold an hour before, and a thin white vapor was 
beginning to come from -the mouth of the tea-kettle. At the table stood 
Betty Glinn, peeling apples. Her sunbonnet and shawl hung in their old 
places. She turned as Mrs. Winship opened the door, " I've come back," 
she said, and began on another apple. 

Mrs. Winship stared at her a moment in silence, then saying " Hmp, 
I thought you would," turned and went back to her sitting-room. The 
subject was never mentioned between them again. Betty offered no explan- 
ation for giving up her farm, and Mrs. Winship needed her too greatly to 
run the risk of asking questions, being, moreover, quite well satisfied in her 
own mind in regard to the matter. 

It was nearly two years before John Winship came home again. 
When he did, it was that he might tell his father and mother that he had 
been made cashier in the bank. 

The evening of his return, Mrs. Winship stood watching him as he 
walked with his father up and down the walk to the gate. John had 
thrown his arm lightly across his father's shoulders, subtly trying to 
express by this slight pressure something of the grateful affection he must 
ever keep silent in his heart. Mr. Winship's face wore a look of mingled 
tenderness and pride in this boy of his. As Mrs. Winship watched then, 
the deepest emotion of her heart was one of pure, grateful joy; yet there 


was mingled with this feeling a very definite sense of self-congratulation 
on her success in bringing up her son. 

John and his father paused in their walk for a moment. 

" What is Betty doing down there in the garden?" John asked. 

" Oh," answered Mr. Winship, " she is working over some little plants 
she brought from that place of hers. Queer what an attachment she had 
for that old farm." 

" What made her leave it then ? " asked John idly, picking up a stone, 
and sending it swiftly towards the top of a tall elm across the street. 

His father waited till a sharp rustle of the leaves told that the stone 
he could not see for the gathering dusk, had reached its goal. " I don't 
know, I suppose your mother was right, she couldn't get along alone 
over there." 

Elva Lee, 'pj. 



Great as gods themselves is to me that lover, 
Dare I call him greater ? — to linger near thee, 
Sit before thy face, and again and ever 
See thee and hear thee. 

That sweet laughter, Lesbia, did undo me, 
That soft speech at once of my senses reft me; 
All my heart leapt up and a fire thrilled through me ; 
Nothing was left me. 

Now mine ears are ringing, my tongue doth stammer 
As from one that dies doth a darkness hide thee, 
White as grows the grass in the scorching summer, 
Grow I beside thee. 

Alice Bachc Gould, 'Sg. 



I was eighteen yesterday, and it has set me thinking. Papa and 
mamma gave me charming presents, and so did the boys, with the prettiest 
brotherly speeches, and other people sent me flowers and letters and so 
forth, and one and all said, "I congratulate you on being eighteen." Now. 
why is this? Why did everyone seem particularly pleased with me as 
though I had somehow distinguished myself? I thought about this a long 
time last night, after I went to bed, but I found that I was in a mood fitter 
for fancies than for thought and but little likely to come to any sound con- 
clusions, so I gave the matter up, after resolving to sit down in calmness 
to-day and have it out. When I attempt to have it out on any point I am 
in the habit of writing down my thoughts as I go along. This is necessi- 
tated by my age and sex. I find that there is no way of keeping the 
school girl who is as yet part of me out of my graver discussions save this 
one, to give myself time to keep on the lookout for her and snub her at 
her first appearance. I have sometimes brought an unwritten argument to 
what I thought an unavoidable conclusion, and then in a moment of keener 
insight detected some fallacy which showed that the trail of the school girl 
was over it all. But the expedient of thinking on paper prevents this occur- 
rence. My head feels clear to-day, and I ought to be able to find sound 
answers now if ever to the questions I propounded to myself last night. I 
intend to keep these questions and my answers, if I find any, together with 
my train of reasoning, for my edification eighteen years hence. I wish I had 
celebrated each of my self-conscious birthdays by a similar ceremony. It 
would have done me good at the time, and would probably have been very 
amusing reading at present. I rather think, however, that every five years 
would be often enough for such an examination. If for instance I had 
chronicled my thoughts and feelings on the highest subjects when I was 
eight and again when I was thirteen I should have an artless and 
authentic record of my moral growth. If I find that it is an assistance to 


me in any way I shall continue the practice. At all events this present 
attempt shall be sealed and filed for perusal by myself at the age of 

I will begin as I did last night with the inquiry ,why do people congratu- 
late me with apparent sincerity on becoming eighteen ? It is incredible 
that each person who makes the remark goes back in his own experience 
to his own eighteenth birthday, remembers a peculiar halo of happiness 
about it, and, inferring that I am surrounded by the same halo, rejoices with 
me on that account. There are two reasons why I cannot think this. In 
the first place I happen to know that papa for instance was the most 
miserable person on earth from seventeen to twenty, being fairly addled 
by the amount of study demanded of him by his father. Such instances 
would of course be multiplied by extended experience ; and in fact, con- 
sidering that the pain of minds laboring with questions too high for them 
is the last discovered degree of agony, I am sure that most candid 
persons would rather be forty-eight than eighteen. 

In the second place it is not in accordance with human nature as I 
understand it to suppose that even if each person who congratulates me had 
the memory of a happy eighteenth birthday of his own, that would be 
enough to account for his felicitation of me. For instance, mamma has 
repeatedly said to me and to others in my hearing that the greatest delight 
of her girlhood was to ride the most refractory horse she could find ; 
and yet she was excessively distressed one day at Newport last summer to 
hear that I had gone off alone on papa's Bess, who shies ; and she sent a 
man to fetch me home instantly, and fainted during the delay caused by his 
going the wrong way to find me. Another case very much in point occurs 
to me. Mr. Crichton was one day praising French literary methods to papa 
at the expense of English ones, and spoke of Bourget among other writers, 
saying he had been a good deal interested by Mensonges ; and yet when 
he came into the library next day and found me just cutting the leaves of the 
book, he was annoyed and begged me to put it aside, without assigning 
a reason for his request. These instances show indubitably that the 
sight of another person enjoying what we have enjoyed ourselves is not 
enough of itself to produce the congratulatory emotion, the timidity natural 


to my mother's increased age and the dread of imitative disciples peculiar 
to Mr. Crichton's temperament being in eacli case sufficient to over- 
come it. 

But there is one more possible explanation that is worth examining. 
Perhaps the form of the greeting is euphemistic. Perhaps the' real 
thought is, "you may thank your stars that you are no worse off. Who 
knows what may have happened before you are nineteen ?" There is 
sense in that as well as good feeling, and I believe it is the truth of the 
matter. Why people should clothe the idea in misleading language is 
another question that it would be interesting to pursue. Perhaps my smil- 
ing reception of the formula is equally misleading. And yet I don't know 
about that. My attitude is that of a man starting on a lonely, perilous 
voyage of discovery. When he sights another craft he signals "all's well," 
meaning, not that he thinks his cruise is blissful and will be crowned with 
glory, but that he has enough provisions aboard and can handle his boat. 
I was aware yesterday that though I am but standing off and on as yet, 
not having my course settled, yet I am well provisioned and mine is a good 

But what about my course? Why not stand off and on all my life? 
The answer to the second question is prompt though unphilosophical, — I 
can't. Something impels me constantly towards open water. Whatever it, 
is, whether biological or supernatural, it is forever insinuating that there is 
work to be done outside. My lines are cast in undeniably pleasant places. 
All knowledge of the world is studiously kept from me by mamma, and all 
other knowledge is urged on me by papa. It is a great boon to know Mr. 
Crichton, and a yet greater boon to read Homer and write sonnets with 
his assistance. He tells me that I am very well equipped. Now, what 
does he mean by that? Equipped for an active, useful life like mamma's 
I certainly am not, because of my ignorance of people and my inability to 
understand things for which there is no reason. That last is mamma's 
strong point. People like to tell her their secrets, but she can't play whist. 
Well, I can play a fair game of whist, but people don't confide in me. 

For life in papa's sense of the term I may have a somewhat better out- 
fit, but I don't know. He lives in a rut. He boasts of it, and says that 


true wisdom is judiciously to choose your rut and then let nothing throw 
you out of it. In pursuance of this theory he has done a good deal of 
work and is, I believe, an authority on Indo-European war-cries, and he has 
accomplished this by working five hours a day for twenty-two years. I 
sometimes feel myself inclining to his way, but I am so subject to volcanic 
upheavals that my ruts never have time to get very deep. Time may alter 
that however, and at thirty-six I may be as invariable in my ways as the 
square of the hypothenuse. 

For the sort of life naturally open to me I am manifestly incapacitated- 
I like to dance, but I like to sit at home with a book much better. I have 
not the least taste in life for what they call society. I am afraid of clever 
people and I hate stupid ones. Mr. Crichton says I make a mistake in 
supposing everybody to be the one or the other, for there is a great middle 
term. If that is so I am in the unprecedented position of one who is 
excluded by the middle, for I have seen nothing of it thus far. Besides 
this, I have no idea of marrying, and why should I put myself to the 
trouble of going through the course if I don't intend to take the degree ? 

So for that sort of life I do not seem to be equipped. In short, the 
sort of usefulness I am best fitted for is Mr. Crichton's own, and that suppo- 
stion explains his remark, though robbing it of all width of meaning. I can 
do almost everything that he can, though in a feeble and imitative way, and I 
think I might develop some force in applying the shovel after his pickaxe. 
His life seems to me very complete in its balanced universality, and he is 
a living refutation of my father's theory. Or perhaps his rut is simply so 
broad that I can't find the limits of it. He says that he doesn't dare to 
specialize, for intellectual interests are delightful servants but terrible 
masters. And he also says that it is arrogant as well as absurd to put a 
high polish on one's mind without being sure whether its grain is fine enough 
to warrant it. Just at present he is running a woodyard down in the East- 
side slums, and lives there for weeks at a time. He is willing enough to 
talk about the theory of his work, and it is interesting, for it adds a third 
stage of philanthropic development to the two that I can observe at home. 
Grandmother up in the country still clings to personal bounty. The 
sportula is still dispensed at her back-door and the poor of the neighbor- 


hood wear Uncle Jack's effete top-hats. Mamma disapproves of her methods 
and accuses her of needing personal gratitude to keep her enthusiasm alive. 
Mamma herself is all for system and is the patroness of an orphan asylum, 
where the orphans receive a classical education and eat asparagus in March. 
But Mr. Crichton finds each of them wanting, declaring that they keep only 
the worthy who would do very well without help, and that his mission is to 
the reprobates. And sometimes I can worm out of him something of his 
life down there, and the unobtrusive heroism of his adventures is far more- 
inspiring to me than the old commonplace business of saving drowning 
people and that sort of thing. 

However, though I hope I shall still be interested in Mr. Crichton 
eighteen years hence, I don't think that hypothetical interest justifies me in 
writing any more about him now. It is odd that I cannot overcome this 
habit of wandering from the point. But perhaps the study of Mr. Crichton 
will help me to my end as soon as anything else. If I were to model my 
life after his I fancy I might make a success of it, but he would be exces- 
sively annoyed. After all, why do I talk about modelling my life ? The 
direction of least resistance is the one in which my path will lie, and that 
sounds gloomier than it really is. I have inherited a fair assortment of 
motives and ideals which make the wrong act in many cases the more 
difficult one. It is easier for me to oblige people than to disoblige them, 
and it would require a pressure greater than has yet been applied to make 
me tell a lie. With this I have had no more to do than with the color of 
my eyes, and so when I speak of modelling my life I am talking nonsense. 
At all events what I am trying to do now is only to forecast the probable 
tendency of me ; to discover by studying the laws of my previous develop- 
ment, the direction and extent of my future growth. Everyone likes to 
think himself headed for somewhere if he is only on a pleasure-cruise, but 
then there is always the chance of setting out for India and being brought 
up short by some obstacle like the American continent. If my ideas were 
not so fine I might stand a better chance of doing something. Out of 
respect for Sophocles I won't try magazine articles, and out of respect for 
Titian I refrain from showing my water colors to any one but Mr. Crichton. 
I should despise anyone who would read what I might write or look at my 


sketches. That is not modesty. I know whether work is good or bad ; 
and if mine were good I should be charmed to say so. One of the greatest 
advantages in writing your reasons is the dramatic ability you gain to look 
at yourself impersonally. When I really allow my consciousness to play 
about such subjects as these while I am walking or riding I am much less 
able to get an outside point of view, — the view of the benevolent spectator, — 
than when I write, keeping my mind altogether on the subject, even as 
regards the control of the muscles. I can know much more surely that my 
sketches are bad when I write down the fact than when I merely glance at 
it in the course of a train of thought. Yes, they are undoubtedly bad, — 
no hope there. I don't care a bit for fame or money or admirers, but 
I do care bitterly to make my life good all around. When I think what 
a world of trouble my hard-headed ancestors might have saved me by 
handing down a little more religion along with their morality, I am inclined 
to wish that they had been wickeder and more credulous. I have not enough 
religious emotion to poultice my virtue when it aches. Now mamma, for 
instance, is emphatically two things, a homoeopath and a ritualist. She 
likes to be ill so she may cure herself with little pills, and spiritual trouble 
is almost welcome because the treatment is so soothing. Why we should 
not all share in this beautiful provision of nature, I am sure I don't know. 
Probably it is only temporary, however, and when the race has worked 
past sickness and suffering, those who have no sentimental attachment to 
medicines of any kind will come out ahead. 

I am afraid I am not coming to any very definite conclusions. I have 
discovered a sufficiently plausible reason for congratulating people on 
becoming eighteen, but for the rest I have merely rambled. I wonder 
whether I shall still be a rambler at thirty-six ? 

Nausikaa Elsmcrc. ■ 
Emily James Smith, '<?<?. 



" Sous une lumiere blafarde " 

Dancing 'neath the waning light, 

Life the brawler impudent 

Writhing, runs without intent : — 
While afar voluptuous Night 
Mounting to the zenith's height 

E'en to sorrow brings content, 

E'en to shame medicament : 
Cries the Poet ; " Cease to fight 
Wearied limbs and baffled mind, 

Heart o'er-spent with futile aching. 
I will seek in curtained rest, 
Lapped upon thy ample breast, 

Sleep unspoiled by thought of waking, 
Darkness comforting and kind! " 

Edith Child, 'go. 



Although the world at large is in the habit of breakfasting and din- 
ing each day, and of taking luncheon and tea on occasion, this is not a 
matter on which we ordinarily lay very great stress, nor has it ever been 
required of fiction to give particular attention to a fact, which, we will all 
acknowledge, is commonplace in the extreme. It will indeed be readily 
admitted that there may be eventful dinners in a heroine's life and critical 
breakfasts in a hero's, which it is necessary for the author to dwell upon in 
the development of the plot or the characters of a novel. But, since of 
the making of many books there is no end, it seems preferable in most 
cases to trust to the honor of the author in this respect, and leave him to 
provide proper food for his creatures at proper times, without sacrificing 
our reading hours to these details. 

Any theories, however, which one may have to the above effect will 
be very speedily contested by the authority of no less a person than the 
incomparable Dickens. One has only to glance through the pages of 
half a dozen of his novels, to read over the chronicles of pots of porter 
and knuckles of cold veal and the unfailing " greens," whatever this arti- 
cle of vegetable life may be which in Dickens' estimation serves to dignify 
any repast, — to be convinced that he felt eating to be as important a part 
of a person's career as anything else. He cannot carry his character 
through the events of a single day without describing at least one of the 
meals which they take together. They can no more begin a morning 
without breakfast than could real flesh and blood, and it is of great import- 
ance for us to know whether their piece de resistance consisted of fried soles 
or mutton chops. Although to the mind nurtured on the modern novel, din- 
ners appear the most proper subject for discussion, if such there must be, 
Dickens has I think a decided preference for breakfasts. David Copper- 
ficld fairly teems with breakfasts; it was on these occasions that Mr. Murd- 
stone passed judgment on the criminal conduct of his step-son, and that 
Miss Murdstone lent him her two cold fingertips to shake as she measured 


out the tea. Later when lie dwelt with the Micawbers, on Sunday morn- 
ings he " mixed the portion of tea or coffee bought over night, in a little 
shaving pot," and sat late over his breakfast while Mrs. Micawbcr confided 
to him her domestic difficulties, and the melancholy fact of there being 
" nothing left in the larder with the exception of the heel of a Dutch cheese, 
which is not adapted to the wants of a young family." And it was on 
going downstairs after the first night spent in Miss Betsey's " very neat 
little cottage with cheerful bow-windows " that David, whose name was to 
be changed to Trotwood during the day, and marked thus on his new suit 
of ready-made clothes — that Trotwood then, found his aunt not in her 
flower garden, busy with her roses, nor even chasing away the abhorred 
donkeys from her little green grass plot, but " musing so profoundly over the 
breakfast table with her elbow on the tray that the contents of the urn had 
overflowed the tea-pot, and were laying the whole table cloth under water." 

Perhaps the most amusing meal described in David Coppcrficld is 
the dinner he ate at the inn when on his way to Salem House, as a very 
little boy. The waiter kindly offered to drink his pint of ale for him, 
because the ale had killed a stout gentleman in breeches and gaiters, gray 
coat and speckled choker the day before, and when he had drained the glass, 
said, putting a fork into the dish, " What have we here, not chops?" 

" ' Chops,' I said. 

" ' Lord bles's my soul,' he exclaimed, ' I didn't know they were chops. 
Why a chop's the very thing to take off the bad effects of that beer ! Ain't 
it lucky ? ' " 

Hereupon the waiter devoured the chops and then ran a race with 
David over the batter-pudding, using a tablespoon against his teaspoon, 
which was certainly a very hard-hearted proceeding. So poor little David 
went hungry all night and had to spend one of his new shillings the next 
morning on his breakfast, which, we are carefully told, consisted of a nice 
little loaf of brown bread that cost three pence, an egg and a slice of streaky 

Now very possibly this incident is necessary to the development of 
David's character, and all these curious breakfasts make for the final 
denouement, and enable him in the end to marry Agnes and live happily 


ever after. Moreover in justice it must be acknowledged that Dickens lias, in 
other instances as in these, made very legitimate use of food. Mrs. Joe's 
" trenchant way of cutting bread-and-butter" for Joe and Pip ; Mr. Squeers' 
putting water in the mug of milk, which was to serve as breakfast for the 
three small boys he was taking down to Yorkshire, and his allowing them 
to drink in turn as he counted, one, two, three; hungry, pathetic, little 
Oliver Twist advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, and beg- 
ging timorously for more gruel; all these are perfectly justifiable and give 
a quick insight into character and situation, such as pages of careful 
analysis and description could not effect. And here, indeed, Dickens is by 
no means alone. His master, Smollett, allowed the guileless Matthew 
Bramble at Bath and London, and at other places in his pilgrimages, to 
give dinners at which Humphrey Clinker officiated. And, next day, Jack 
Melford would write to Sir Watkins Phillips of Jesus College long accounts 
of the dishes and of the erratic persons whom the Squire entertained. 

When Becky Sharp first went to Sir Pitt Crawley's in Great Gaunt Street, 
she found the baronet cooking his supper of tripe and onions over the fire 
with Mrs. Tinker, and was thus introduced to her future master's parsi- 
monious habits. There is the little dinner which Timmins could not afford, 
with made dishes from the pastry cooks, the green grocers' boys dressed 
up as footmen, the tiny dining-room too small for the company, and poor 
little hostess Rosa so miserable in the midst of her hired splendor. Miss 
Austin carried Elizabeth Bennett to numerous sleepy dinners at Lady Cath- 
erine's, and, to be slightly more modern, it is through the ordering of a 
luncheon, that Mr. Henry James makes us acquainted with the character of 
Lady Agnes in The Tragic Muse — a high, executive woman — " the mother 
of children, the daughter of earls, the consort of an official, the dispenser of 
hospitality, looking back upon a lifetime of luncheons. She carried many 
cares, and the feeding of the multitudes (she was honorably conscious of 
having fed them decently, as she had always done everything), had ever 
been one of them." But, perhaps, the most delightful meal in all fiction, 
and one which certainly justifies its own existence many times, is "The 
Mad-Tea-Party," in which Alice participated in Wonderland with the 
Hatter, the Dormouse, and the March Hare. 


What one objects to in the case of Dickens, is not an occasional repast 
of the kind I have just been mentioning, and one which brings with it 
incident and humor, but the fact that he introduces food in one form or 
another every few pages, without any apparent purpose. Now, when 
George Meredith opens a chapter of Richard Feverel t with Richard 
and Lucy breakfasting by " an open window that looked on the brine 
through nodding roses," while " files of egg-cups with disintegrated 
shells " stood on the table at which they sat, it is in order that when 
Adrian interrupts them a little later, Lucy may win the crusty epicure 
to her cause, through her tact in rectifying the mistake made in boiling 
his egg three minutes and three quarters. Again, if Pcndennis goes to 
dine with Clive Newcome off the cold beef which " the day before had 
weighed eighteen pounds," Mrs. MacKenzie emphasises, Thackeray does 
not bring in the incident merely for the purpose of telling us that the 
meal consisted of the beef from which Maria had purloined three pounds 
since yesterday, and of the remnants of the Christmas mince pies and plum- 
puddings, but to show us to what a condition Clive and the old Colonel 
are reduced, and to bring to a culmination the outrages of " the cam- 

Dickens on the other hand is constantly introducing food into his novels 
merely with the object of assuring us that his characters have dined, about 
which we must frankly confess we are not at all concerned. Moreover it is 
entirely unnecessary to tell us that the dinner in the " Patriarchal House- 
hold " began with " some soup, some fried soles, a butter-boat of 
shrimp sauce and a dish of potatoes." All these details are most annoying, 
dinners do usually begin with soup and often include a leg of mutton 
and even the inevitable " greens " as did Madame Mantalini's. These 
menus, for they are in fact nothing better, might easily be omitted without 
once breaking the thread of the story. Indeed, in addition to the serious 
artistic objection to their constant recurrence, there is the still graver charge 
to be brought against them of making the reader exceedingly hungry. It 
is a fact which I have long observed with the deepest concern that even 
the best intentioned person cannot read more than twenty pages of 
Dickens without feeling a light inward craving for food, which increases in 


strength with such rapidity that, by the time the fiftieth is turned, the 
demands of appetite are no longer to be resisted. Subdued in spirit, 
convinced against our will that we are the slaves of a passion of mean 
order, we must lay aside our book and go meekly in search of a cracker. 
In all seriousness we may assuredly be permitted to require of fiction that it 
shall not rouse such feelings in us except on extraordinary occasions, and 
that we shall not be forced to sacrifice the pleasures of the intellect to the 
demands of so humble a sensation as hunger. 

Surely, there awaits Dickens the fate which has overtaken Homer. 
When in after years out of one man have been evolved seven novelists, it 
will be argued, and perhaps not unjustly, that one of the seven went through 
his works, and carefully inserted all the passages concerning food. 

Lucy Martin Donnelly, 'pj- 




The grave said lo the rose, 

Of the tears of the dawn, what grows 

In thy heart, O passionate bloom ? 
The rose said to the grave, 
To tli y ever-yawning cave 

What dost thou with all that come ? 

The rose said, "Sombre tomb, 
Of those tears I make in the gloom 

A perfume of honey and wine." 
The tomb said, " Plaintive flower, 
Of each soul that comes each hour 

I make a spirit divine." 

From the French of Hugo. 

I wander through the silent night, 
The moon slips softly into sight 
From out her sombre cloud array, 

And somewhere in the vale 

Awakes the nightingale, 
Then all again is still and gray. 

O wonder-bearing night-song ! hark — 
Faint shudderings in the leafy dark, 
Far, far away the course of streams — 

Perplexed my thoughts in me ; 

My wandering melody 
Seems but a cry from out the land of dreams. 

From the German of Eichendorff. 
Emma Stansbury Wines, gj. 



The great bell clangs out through the morning air — through the snow- 
flakes that thicken it, sending its summons over the white-crusted campus. 
The slippery walks are crowded with black figures moving towards Taylor 
Hall, single, in groups of twos and threes, wrapped close with shawls and 
hoods, half of them umbrellaless. Voices fall as they enter and amid friendly 
jostling around the bulletin board and in the cloakroom whispered greet- 
ings are exchanged. Then upstairs to the silent chapel, with its white 
windows made whiter by the frost; a stillness seeming to fold it round. The 
black mortarboards nod their tassels in cheery greeting; subdued talk be- 
tween neighbors fills the room with a low hum. A sudden hush ; the talk 
stops; the heads are still; a moment's pause and the service has begun- 
All are together for once in the day, with no distinction of class or grade. 
All are alike children, and children of'Bryn Mawr. At the close of the 
prayer another moment's sijence. Then a sudden movement. The bell 
clangs out again. A general rush to classes, to the office, to one's room. 

The day has begun. 

# * * 

The sunlight is streaming in through the broad windows. It dances 
among the leaves of the red geraniums on the window-sill and falls upon 
the carpet in bright spots, and bands. « The bookcase and the two shelves 
of the little mahogony desk are crowded with a confusion of much worn, 
many-colored volumes. Over the Dresden inkstand and disordered piles 
of papers and pencils a small brass dragon mounts guard. Dainty cups 
shine on the white tea-table, which bears for its motto the words of the 
March Hare : 

" It's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the tea-things between whiles." 

On the Turkish scarf which drapes the mantel stands a ginger-jar full of 
yellow roses. Across the rocking chair is thrown a college gown, while 
tennis balls and rackets strew the floor. The divan is piled with flowered 
cushions innumerable, and half-buried among them is the mistress of all 
this color and confusion. She is reading " The Republic." 

* * * 


It was a warm afternoon in May. The shadows were lengthening on 

the campus, and the air had all the stillness of midsummer. On the grass 
near the gravel walk a robin was hopping and pecking. Two black-gowned 

figures had just passed slowly by, and now all was still again. A sparrow 
who had been hovering for several minutes overhead alighted close by the 

"Ah!" said the robin, "could you but fancy what you have lost! 
Two seniors conversing together. Did you not perceive them ? " 

The sparrow would gladly have concealed his ignorance on such 
classic ground, yet, constrained by curiosity, with hanging head he asked, 
" What may seniors be ? " 

" Seniors," replied the robin, " Do you not know, then, that seniors 
are the sovereigns of this place? Indeed, I assure you, it is true. We 
have their own confession for it. Listen while I tell you the words of these 
two as they passed by. 

"'Well, it is almost over,' said one. 'And next year what do you 
suppose will become of the college ? ' 

" ' It is too dreadful to think of,' said the other. ' Some of our class 
may come back as graduates. That is the only hope.' 

1 " And even then they cannot help the Undergraduate Association. 
And they will be too few to manage. Self-Government. Oh, this dear 
old college ! It is too terrible to think of leaving it to go to rack and ruin. 
And just when everything is in the best condition possible! Imagine the 
Editorial Board without some member from '93 ! And the standard of class 
work is sure to fall next year.' 

" ' And the gymnasium, too. To be sure most of us are making up con- 
ditions in the gym, but then ' 

" ' Oh, there is no help for it ! The college is sure to go down now. 
And it has been rapidly rising for four years ! It is too cruel ! ' ' 

The robin paused. Then he hopped confidingly towards the sparrow 
and, cocking his head on the side, whispered, " If you will take the trouble 
to listen you will hear conversations like that every spring on this campus. 
Now you know what seniors are." 

L. S. B., ' 93 ; G. E. T., > 93 . 



("// faut souffrir pour etre ") 

Scene. — Lydia's study. 

Pliyllis awaiting her hostess. 

Enter Portia. 

What ! Phyllis, dear, you reading Scott ! 
This really is so strange, you know ; 
Methinks you said sometime ago, 
You thought, — you surely know it's not. . 


Of course, it isn't, Portia, dear. 
But then the binding caught my eye, — 
I picked it up, I don't know why, 
It lay upon a table near. 


Oh candor ! Well, come what's the book ? 


My dearest child, what's this I see ? 
It can't — it is a " Waverley !" 

{Laughing, then serious.) 

Oh Phyllis ! Come, let's have a look. 
Lovely! Here's Brian Bois-Guilbert, 
1 fondly loved him, didn't you ? 
And thought not half those tales were true 
That called him wicked, for — why there 
Rebecca is and Ivanhoe, — 
Rowena was, I thought, so cold — 
There's Athelstane, the warrior bold, 
Whom I thought stupid, dear, and slow. 


Here is the " Lay ; " here's Michael Scott, 
Girt with a baldric strangely wrought. 

Portia ( Thoughtfully). 
" Baldric," impressive quite, I thought, 

P 1 1 v L L I s ( Reflectively ) . 
Malcolm, Douglas and Rod'rick Dim — 

( Tentatively). 
Come, let's read Scott once more, will you ? 

Portia (Sadly, tut sternly). 
No, Phyllis, dear! 'Tis better so, 
Unesoteric, don't you know ? 

Mary Owen Brown, 'g6. 



It is difficult to estimate the number of clubs for working-girls in London, 
because there are so many, conducted either in connection with the different 
churches or by private individuals, that do not issue reports. The four 
Associations that attempt to link together scattered clubs either by direct 
supervision or by affiliation are the Girls' Club Union, the Factory Helpers' 
Union — under the auspices of the Young Women's Christian Association — 
the Girls' Friendly Society and the Girls' Evening Homes — under the 
Recreative Evening Schools' Association. About two hundred clubs 
report to these Associations, and there are perhaps, by a rough estimate, 
as many more unclassified clubs in and about London. The object of all 
these clubs, however conducted, is to take up the education of girls at the 
point where the Board School leaves them, and, by endeavoring to give 
them right principles and teach them right habits, to fit them for mature life. 
This end is accomplished by evenings, devoted to classes of various kinds, 
such as sewing, knitting, cooking, painting, singing, etc. Some clubs pro- 
vide exercise and amusement in the form of dancing and acting, and others 
in musical drill, elocution lessons and discussions. 

Where several clubs belong to a Club Association, yearly competitions in 
all these various branches are held in some large central hall, where the dif- 
ferent clubs exhibit the work of their members, and compete in drilling and 
singing. Prizes are given to those that excel ; and, whenever it is possible, a 
member of the Royal family or some one of high rank is secured to make 
the presentation. These competitions not only rouse the feeling of esprit 
de corps among the girls, but they also bring them into contact with a 
wider world and give them a larger view of life. For one especial aim of 
all clubs, though their methods may be different, is to exchange in the 
girls' minds a new ideal of associated life for the old one, — hardly defined 
enough to be an ideal, — of individualism. Rank individualism and jealousy 
are the worst faults of these working girls, and they have very little idea 
of the citizen's life of common interests and common action. The prac- 


tical isolation of their lives, an isolation of ignorance and poverty, is most 
disastrous, and makes it extremely difficult to awaken in them a sense of 
the duties they owe to one another as members of one community. Dr. 
Stanton Coit says in his book on neighborhood guilds, that the supreme 
aim to be kept in view is " the complete efficiency of each individual, as a 
worker for the community, in morals, maimers, workmanship, civic virtues 
and intellectual power, and the fullest possible attainment of social and 
industrial advantages." It has been felt that perhaps the first step towards 
developing a feeling of responsibility is the formation of a girls' committee 
to assist in the management of the club. These committees are started in 
most of the clubs I know, but have been worked with a success so varied 
that the principle involved can hardly be said to be absolutely proved as 
yet. In clubs of long standing, like Miss Stanley's or Miss Honor Brooke's, 
the conception of self-government has indeed developed into a steady prin- 
ciple of daily practice, but whether it can be worked profitably at first in 
a new club of very rough girls is still a question. I know, for instance, of 
one club of laundry girls, a flighty, careless and particulary unreliable 
class of girls, where the workers, after a year's trial of such a committee, 
felt it to have been an utter failure, except in the practical work of the 
club. It gave the girls a sense of power that they were unable to use, 
being utterly untrained in habits of self-control, and unable to form cor- 
rect judgments on even the most trifling matters. It made them feel they 
had a right to criticise what was done for them, though in the end they 
always fell back on the workers ; and in all matters of conduct they posi- 
tively refused to have any voice in the matter, and definitely asked the 
workers to keep the authority in their own hands. " We don't want none 
of their 'Ome Rule business," some girls from a neighboring club, after 
spending an evening at the Girls' Evening Home in Somerstown, where I 
work, exclaimed to their o.wn workers. And, indeed, my own committee 
is not a success as yet. It has taken several months to make the girls 
understand the meaning of the words " committee," " address the chair," 
" adjourn," etc., and now they never do, by any possibility, " address the 
chair," and any member " adjourns," whenever she feels like it. It 
means twice the work to make them attend to anything themselves, or to 


take any part in their own government, and nothing would be easier than 
to develop into an absolute autocrat. But, personally, I believe that we 
must persevere in our efforts, because of the principle involved, and that 
even a less perfect action, the result of their own convictions, is worth far 
more to the character of the girls, than a right action imposed from the 

I have been told that there is a great difference between American and 
English working-girls, that the American girls, feeling they are as good as 
ladies, only not so well off, have a more independent spirit; whereas the 
English girls believe that they never can be ladies, and that the gulf 
between themselves and the workers is irrevocably fixed. I was surprised 
to hear from a well-known club worker the other day that she regarded 
this feeling in English girls as a distinct advantage. " They are much 
more happy and contented than your girls," she said, " for they know they 
can never be like us, and they are content to be like working-girls." No 
one can wish them to be other than contented to be working-girls, realising 
the use and dignity of honest manual labor, but it is a different thing to be 
contented to be " like "• working-girls. If being a lady means being cour- 
teous and refined, educated and self respecting, I think it is fatal to say they 
can never be ladies. So many times in argument with them I have said, 
" But, girls, supposing I was to do this or that," and I have been over- 
whelmed with a chorus of, " O, Miss, you're different, we are not like you." 
I am afraid it will be many years before they can be made to realize that 
there is not the slightest reason why they should not be as refined as any 
of the ladies they know. 

Even in their own class, they seem to have endless and almost insuper- 
able distinctions of rank. The servant or shop girl in a simple hat and 
black dress is very much above the factory girl, who, though she may have 
more money, has neither the taste nor training to make her dress quietly. 
This gaudily-dressed girl, in her turn, is infinitely higher than the " feather- 
hat " girl, who, though she have no umbrella to protect herself from a 
sudden shower, will ask in a millinery class for a large masher hat with 
three long feathers to put on it. And lowest of all, distinguished by her 
large white apron and her little shawl, is the " apron " girl. The axiom 


"The higher the hat, the lower the girl," does not apply to this last class, 
for with them an enormous front and side fringe entirely takes the place of 
a hat. 

The different dresses indicate a real difference of character, and it is bet- 
ter not to attempt to mix these classes in one club. One girl of the rougher 
sort will often lower the standard of manners of a whole club; and the prig- 
gishness that comes from a conscious superiority means a great advance in 
manners and in the feeling of esprit dc corps. It is a mistake to try to teach 
the girls ideals that arc too far above them. Make use of the impulses and 
motives they already have, and it will be far easier to lead them to higher 
ones. For instance, many people maintain that it is nobler to be a 
moderate drinker than a total abstainer, but all workers are agreed that the 
ideal of moderate drinking is an impossible one for factory girls. Indeed, 
this question of drink- among working girls is certainly far more serious in 
England than in America, and the difference in dress, manners, and appear- 
ance of the same class of girls in the two countries — for I have been told 
that American girls earning exactly the same wages are far more refined 
and self-respecting — must be ascribed to the fact that in England almost 
every girl goes constantly to public houses, or has beer fetched to the shop 
for her at the dinner hour. 

For the practical working of a club, the weekly or monthly committee 
meeting of workers is the most important thing. Every arrangement, especi- 
ally if it is to be brought before the Girls' Committee, should be discussed 
in detail, and compromises, when there is difference of opinion, decided upon, 
so that the workers may be united in action before the girls. Humility to 
begin with, and then loyalty, are indispensable qualities for this work. New 
workers, for instance, should not be critical or full of suggestions at first, 
and no worker should ever give food, clothes or money to the girls without 
consulting her committee. Remember that the best committee work is 
always done beforehand. Think out what you wish to have done, and 
and then try to work with individuals before they meet in their collective 

Even if you do very little at the committee or in the club, do it very 
thoroughly, and not in a haphazard amateur fashion. Bad system'and bad 


teaching are fatal to the girls. At a Conference on Clubs lately, one of the 
speakers, after inveighing against amateur work, said she did not believe in 
making East-end clubs the places of " labor-tests " for the wealthy unem- 
ployed classes in the West end, and she thought that workers should be 
very wary of admitting ladies into their clubs at all. Although there was 
some truth in this statement, it was much too sweeping, even when applied 
to ladies that are only playing at this work because it is the correct thing to 
do. They may, indeed, destroy the discipline and ruin the peace of the regu- 
lar workers, but they must be dealt with gently, remembering how grate- 
ful we ourselves, beginning as amateurs, were to those who kindly and 
patiently undertook to train us. 

The more I see of this work the more I feel how indispensable is my 
college training, though it may seem that Middle High German and 
French literature are not directly useful to work among factory girls. But 
if they have given one the habit of hard work, the power of thinking out 
problems, and the capacity to form wise judgments, if, in short, they have 
made one into a better working-machine, they cannot be too highly valued. 
And the community life at college, the committees, and discussion societies, 
form a most practical training for this sort of work. 

Among the most immediately useful things I learned at college, musical 
drill is perhaps as important as anything. There are very few amateur drill 
teachers in London, and yet the drill teacher holds, in one sense, the most 
influential position in the club. For discipline in its most severe form, and 
yet in such a form that it is not possible for the girls to resent it, comes 
through her, and she has always this advantage outside the drill that the 
girls are accustomed to listen to and obey her. 

A wide knowledge of literature and mythology is also of immense 
help in teaching reading-classes, but the method of teaching reading or 
anything else must be left to each individual. Very often hints may be 
obtained from friendly mistresses of Board Schools. 

Most clubs provide distinctly religious teaching for the girls, perhaps 
at a Bible class, or at Prayers the end of each evening. Personally, I 
believe it to be a great help to close the evening with hymns and a short 
address, though attendance at this should never be obligatory. 


All methods arc necessarily experimental. Nobody lias yet discov- 
ered the perfect way. But, like students in science, we are all at work in the 
laboratories, trying first to see clearly present conditions and their causes 
and effects, and then to offer sonic solution of the problem that will lead to 
a cure. No work is so fascinating as this, no work so interesting and even 
beautiful from every side. The discouragements are many, but the encour- 
agements are more, and never has there been such a chance to labor intelli- 
gently as now. Proper work among poor girls done in a simple, straight- 
forward way, with little romance and no shirking of disagreeable duties 
can never be stigmatised as "pauperising philanthropy." The duty of the 
State is to educate its members, and we, who have every advantage of 
education offered to women, cannot do better than take up this work of 
education for girls where the State has failed. 

A lys W. Pcarsall Smith, 'po. 

London, i8gj. 
Honorable Secretary, "Girls' Evening Homes." 



Once as at home of an evening I, weary of Homer and Virgil, 

Probed with an ear delighted a rare imitation in English. 

Piped up a quavering Voice that seemed in a rage to accost me : 

" When you have finished your work I have something important to tell you,' 

(Just the identical words I was reading addressed to Miles Standish ! ) 

Scared, I stood in amazement, nought replying, and heard next: 

" Are you so much offended you will not speak to me ? " (This, too, 

Right from the volume before me !) " Hark now, what's a hexameter? 

" I am the metre primeval, the murmuring parent of dactyls. 

" Stiff with wonder, and pallid with tears, I behold how my children 

" Stand like nothing of eld, with voices sad, retrospective, 

" Wailing in accents disconsolate, bearing a load on their bosoms. 

" Slowly, slowly, slowly syllable crawls after syllable. 

" Fie on your English hexameters ! Where is amongst them a dactyl 

" Worthy of ancient poet? Musical, even, unhindered, 

" Sailing away to the port as a wing-borne dactylus ought, till 

" ' Stop there ! ' cries an inactive spondee — pausing, it halts then 

" Speedily, waits, hesitating, yet only an instant's time, for 

" Onward now, tumultuous, eager, in haste unabated, 

" Swift as a bird to the nest it dances along to the haven ; 

" Not retarded in this way by consonants doubled and trebled, 

" Nor by vowels too long for the foot that must carry them, thus, but 

" Free, harmonious always, smooth to the ear, and, if artful, 

" Rhythmical, easily uttered, softly melodious ; ofttimes 

" Fleet as a galloping horse in a race contending ; and e'en made 

" Loud, with a beat iterated of hoofs upon hard earth pounded ; 

" Often again deep-rolling it, answering well to the master, 

" Moves with a sound as of ocean's long waves, breaking afar off. 

" Slow the spondee's two steps, each one stately, unhastened ; 

" Bounding, a dactylus' heart; and averse to iambical English." 

Here became silent at last the Voice, and, provoked at such sentiments, 

I resumed without farther delay the instructive perusal 

Of the elegant verses which we are all so proud of, 

Written by Mister Longfellow in the old classical metre. 



The two stood together, looking over the deck-railing of a White- 
Star liner, on her speedy way up the harbor of New York. The pilot had 
been taken on hours before, the decks had been cleared of such superfluous 
sea-luggage as steamer chairs, rugs and cushions, and from the state-rooms 
below came steadily pouring that interesting crowd of new faces and 
figures, hitherto unknown to the smaller number of passengers, whose 
privilege it is to spend the six days of the voyage outside the cabins. 
The Gigantic had again beaten her record, but the mighty " run " posted 
in the companion-way had at last lost its attraction in the face of the New 
York papers that the pilot had brought on board. The voyage was incon- 
trovertibly at an end. 

There were not wanting, as final proof of this most interesting fact, 
those pleasant little meetings between such of the more sea-seasoned fellow- 
passengers as had borne each other constant company above decks for the 
past five days, nineteen hours, seven and one-half minutes, to be exact. 
Several such re-unions had taken place around the two friends standing silent, 
a little apart from the rest. Mr. White, most nautical in tam-o'-shanter and 
ulster of many capes, leaves Mr. Green, in similar costume, with the words, 
"We shall be in soon. I'm off to make myself presentable. Good-bye 
till later." An hour after, in the accepted dress of reputable citizens, they 
pass each other unrecognizing, stop, smitten simultaneously with the convic- 
tion, " I've seen that man somewhere. There's surely something familiar 
about him," — turn and confront each other. " Haven't I the pleasure," 
begins White, " Of-er — Green! Upon my word you are so fine, I never 
knew you." 

" White, as I live ! What have you done to yourself? " And the two, 
their vanity tickled rather than stabbed, are reunited. 

Of the men who stood together at the railing, only the taller and older 
gave the slightest attention to the surrounding passengers and ship's people. 
To him the experience was evidently new, and he watched the moving 
crowd intently, a highly diverted expression on his English face. But his 


companion had not taken his. eyes from the Quarantine station, since first 
the lower end of Staten Island had come into sight. He was little more than 
a boy, and he was obviously in a boyish fever of expectancy. 

It was just as White and Green had recognized each other, and strolled 
away arm in arm, to the amusement of the Englishman, that the other cried, 

" There they are ! Hurrah ! They have come, exactly as I said they 
would. I told you the Colonel never does things by halves. Do you see 
the little yacht putting off, the one with the red pennant? That's his, the 
Totem, and I'll wager anything the dear old governor has a crowd of men 
on, and a lunch fit for royalty. Where are the glasses, Beauchamp ? I 
believe we can make out who's on deck there. Where are those glasses ?" 

The steamer was so close now to the Island, that the passengers had 
begun to crowd the left side, watching the two boats that had put off, the 
dainty Totem flying her red pennant, and the small white steamer bringing 
the health officers and the army of reporters in wait for the new German 
pianist and the returning native statesman, whom the Gigantic had brought 
with her. The yacht swerved from her straight course towards the ocean 
steamer, with the evident intention of crossing her stern, and coming up 
on the right, where the young men could be taken off without the supervision 
of the entire ship's load. 

"Now I call this uncommonly jolly of your people," said Beauchamp, 
unstrapping the glasses he carried over his shoulder, " you can't mean, 
Jack, that your uncle has travelled three hundred miles from the West, or 
wherever he lives, to take us off on that little craft?" 

" Exactly," answered the other, briefly, his glasses fixed on the 
approaching yacht. " There he is now, bless his soul ! But I don't see any 
men. What — Who?" There was a moment of intent silence. Then Jack, 
with a jubilant start, snatched off his hat, and waved it frantically. 

" By Jove, old man, there's Anne! " 

" I say, let me have the glasses a bit, while you shout, you know, " 
suggested the Englishman, alert at the sight of his companion's enthus- 

"Take them and gaze. I'm going down to see if anything's left in 
the stateroom — back directly." 


Tlic steamer's engines stopped and she lay quiet. Beauchamp poi >< d 
the glasses, and looked off at the little yacht rapidly ploughing her beau- 
tiful curve to the right. The tall man, whose light overcoat the breeze- 
blew about in discourteous fashion, was evidently the Colonel ; the crew 
betrayed themselves, wherever they moved on the small deck, by their 
blue uniforms. The only other figure, then, on the Totem, the slender 
one holding on its hat, was "Anne." It was on this figure, at least, that 
the glasses fixed themselves. 

Beauchamp was recalling the conversation that had kept him and his 
American chum on deck in the starlight of the night before. 

" You will see no end of things and people in New York that you'll 
not like," Emmony had said. " But, if my uncle asks us down to Wilton 
his country place, you'll see my cousin, and she's the best girl in this 
world. No, I am not joking. She has sense, you know, and plenty of it. 
Not that she can't dance with the best of them, and all of that ; but she's 
honest and straightforward, and she doesn't go in for flirting and nonsense. 
She can drive now better than I, and horses and children and old oeople 
get fond of her. I think it's a sin, mind, to spoil girls by praising them, 
but nine times out often, I'd choose Anne for a companion sooner than a 
man. She's an out-and-outer, I can assure you." 

Beauchamp had been struck with the combination of names. "Anne 
Emmony ! " he said : " How delicious ! " 

"Fetching, isn't it?" answered Jack. " Oh, you'll be the best of 
friends, never fear.- But there's just one thing, Arthur, it doesn't do to fall 
in love with Anne, I'm perfectly honest about it. Several of the best 
men I know would tell you just the same. She has very sensible ideas as 
to that." 

" I hope so, I'm sure," Beauchamp had replied rather stiffly, and the 
conversation had ended. 

It was undoubtedly a laudable desire to discover exactly the distin- 
guishing features of " an out-and-outer," that kept Beauchamp's glasses 
riveted on the Totem. But the yacht herself was graceful enough to 
challenge attention, as she finished her coy detour, and then, tired of coquet- 
ting, drew near the right side of the Gigantic, and, with countless mocking 


bows, came to a stop under her prodigious sister. The Englishman had 
crossed the deck, and waited, looking down, as the Colonel and his daughter, 
very near now, sent their inquiring gaze up to the place where he stood, and 
along the deck beyond him. He could plainly see the pretty color in the 
girl's cheeks, and the grace of the little gesture with which she finally turned 
to her father, and motioned towards the other side of the steamer. Then 
Beauchamp hesitated no longer. 

" Isn't it Colonel Emmony ? " he said, leaning over, and speaking dis- 
tinctly, " your nephew will be here directly." 

The Colonel smiled cordially. " Thank you," he answered, " You are 
Mr. Beauchamp, without a doubt ; and this is my daughter, Anne." 

His daughter Anne looked directly at the stranger, smiling in her 
father's way. "An out-and-outer" was distinctly charming, Beauchamp 
noted in passing. 

" Good morning ! " she said ; " I am glad to — Oh, Jack ! Jack ! " 

With young Emmony's tumultuous arrival on deck, there was an end 
of introductions, of formality, of everything but the business of boarding 
the Totem. Under his generalship, it was not long before the yacht, with 
pretty disdain, turned from the inert steamer, and made for the docks. 

" You have had a wonderful run, my boy," began Colonel Emmony, 
looking back at the Gigantic. 

" Glorious ! — but that's over and done with. Do tell us about Wilton,- 
heavenly place ! aren't you going to take us down there, after the way I've 
been slaving at Magdalen? How are the dogs? how are the stables 
coming on ? And, oh Anne, how is Warwick ? as ugly as ever? " 

"Just as ugly," Anne responded, adding affectionately, " and just as 
dear. Warwick is my father's old pacer," she explained to Beauchamp. 

" And the homeliest horse in the State," put in her cousin, " Anne 
thinks the world of him for some occult reason that I could never fathom — 
possibly because he's almost unmanageable with everyone else." 

" He's stiil one of the fastest horses, as well as one of the ugliest, in 
the State," said Anne. 'And if he's fond of me, what does it matter that 
he's cross with other people ? They may be uncongenial to him. Every 
one knows how that is." She was evidently a little roused. 


"Mr. Beauchamp shall sec Warwick at Wilton," interposed her father. 
" No third person should interfere to form a friendship, you know. It may 
be that he and Warwick will be congenial, Anne." 

lie turned to the young men. " I am sorry that the new stables arc- 
not finished ;" he said, "We have changed the old granary near Stubbs' 
Cottage on the lowland, you remember, John, into temporary quarters 
for the horses. But the stalls are cramped, and I understand that Warwick 
lias decided objections to the place." 

" Not to the place, exactly," corrected Anne. " 1 le is disturbed by the 
noise of the creek outside. lie has an insane fear of water, Father, you 

"Tell Arthur about the new stables, Uncle," said Jack. " He's building 
some after our American plans, on his ancestral acres at Kennington." 
And the conversation drifted away from the ugliest horse in the State. 

To-day, if Arthur Beauchamp were asked what summer of his life he 
would least willingly forget, beyond a question the weeks at Wilton, 
the "heavenly place" half farm, half villa would come into his mind, 
even if only to be dismissed in favor of seasons showing still better rights. 
Of course he ruined his tennis service, an Englishman should expect no 
less on American amateur courts. Of course he had no hunting, or, more 
properly speaking, with the most diligent hunting, he had no shooting. 
But the summer was a success none the less, and that, too, when he 
had left Devonshire persuaded that for him there was no success 

" Isn't he stunning ? Don't you like him?" Jack asked Anne, one 
morning soon after their arrival. 

" Oh, — -yes," his cousin answered indifferently. " He's finely tall and 
strong, so far as that goes. But I must say, I think he was rather dull not 
to understand your splendid pun on the Totem, and when you took such 
pains to explain it." 

" H'm ! Yes, that was a little slow," admitted Jack, ruminating. 
"Totem — tote'em." Rather a neat pun as puns go. But then, child, you 
can't dislike a man for being English and unable to understand American 
anacronisms — I mean colloquialisms." 


" I don't mind his nationality, now that I know how to pronounce 
his name. But he will trot when he rides, and he'd never even heard of a 
' lope.' He thought it was a kind of fruit," objected Anne. 

"That's no reason," Jack cried quickly. "It's not like you, to be 
hard on a man for such small things. What is the matter, Anne ?" 

" If you want to know," said the girl, facing him, " Mr. Beauchamp 
has been criticizing Warwick in a most unfeeling way. For a wonder, 
Warwick was friendly with him, quite friendly. But, in spite of that, he 
said he had a Roman nose, and he didn't believe he was any larger than a 
pony he had when he was a boy. Yes, I know the pronouns are wrong, 
but you understand exactly what I mean. I shall never like Mr. Beau- 

" By the spoon ! I believe you want simple perfection," cried Jack, 
after a moment's astounded silence. " Here's the finest man in England, 
and you find fault with him. You're very difficult all of a sudden, I must 
say. The man you want to know is Charles the Great, I suppose," with 
elaborate sarcasm, " or what's-his-name the Fourteenth, that had the man- 
ners. Possibly one of those gentlemen would satisfy you." But Anne 
had fled. 

Whether Jack gave some hints to his delinquent friend or not, this 
matter soon blew over. To begin with, Beauchamp made certain offers of 
friendship, on the whole kindly received, to Warwick ; moreover, Anne 
remorsefully remembered that, before they had left the yacht on the morn- 
ing of landing, Jack had admonished her, " Be nice to Beauchamp, and 
cheer him up. He's very down, I can tell you, although he's not the man 
to show it." 

" He failed in his examinations, probably, at Oxford," Anne had said 
sagely to herself, and, after her early distrust of him on Warwick's behalf 
had worn away, she set herself to work after a fashion calculated to be 
eminently successful. The horses were an unfailing source of entertainment, 
for even Beauchamp, with his English breeding, could find nothing to 
criticise in Colonel Emmony's taste and judgment, and the stables he 
boasted as their result. In their younger days the Colonel and Warwick 
had indulged, on occasion, in various friendly trials of speed with their 


neighbors, and Uncle Toby Johnson had told the entire story when he 
said, " Dat small little boss of de Cunnel's is a monst'ous good little hoss 
for winning. lie don't try onless he kin beat." 

It was unquestionably this unbroken record of " first " that had fostered 
in Warwick a hauteur wholly disproportioned to his size. He had scorn- 
fully refused, of late years, to yield willing obedience to any but Anne, her 
father, and, occasionally, the old coachman. On the day when he bowed 
to Beauchamp's hand and rubbed the Roman nose on Beauchamp's shoul- 
der, his acknowledgment of the Englishman's merit went to Anne's 

With driving and boating, with tennis and divers other diversions, Anne 
so assiduously "cheered up" her cousin's friend that, towards the close of 
the summer, she had begun to hope that the unfortunate examinations 
were forgotten. It was at this time, early in September, that an unseason- 
ably heavy rain set in, cutting off every out-of-door pleasure, and making 
the great house, according to Jack, " most unconscionably dull." To crown 
all, business had called Colonel Emmony from home, and the younger 
men had accepted, weeks before, an invitation, for this time, to a house 
party at a country place fourteen miles away. 

" I declare I hate to leave you alone, Anne," said Jack, at the moment 
of departing. But it's for hardly twenty-four hours after all — that is, if Uncle 
John's train isn't stalled anywhere by this terrific storm. Three days 
of it now ! Stubbs says he never saw the creek so high. It must be 
pleasant for that fanciful' little animal of Uncle John's to listen to its roar. 
Lend a hand with my mackintosh, will you, please, Beauchamp ? " 

" But, Jack," cried Anne, " you don't think the creek will overflow, 
surely — our little creek ? " 

" Only its banks, in any case it won't come near Stubbs' cottage or the 
granary, if that's what worries you. Don't forget to start the carriage for 
the station early, to-morrow, — the road is flooded by the rain, they say. Oh, 
and send Stubbs to the train, too, to attend to Uncle's luggage. Have I 
forgotten anything ?" 

•" Nothing, except to go," answered Anne. " Good-bye, dear boy. 
Good-bye, Mr. Beauchamp. When do the prodigals return to us? " 


" Oh, in time for Arthur to sail. Good-bye !" The carriage door 
slammed. Anne shivered, without in the least knowing why, and went in. 

" I think it was awfully shabby of us to leave Miss Emmony alone, do 
you know," said Mr. Beauchamp, as they drove away in the steady rain and 
the gathering darkness. 

"She did look a little mopy," admitted Jack. " I've wondered for 
several days what was up with Anne. She's usually so gay, but she seems 
to have lost her go lately. Still, she's an unmitigated dear, of course, and 
Uncle John will be glad enough to have her to himself for a while, I fancy." 
Jack settled himself in the corner to the contemplation of joy to come at 
Merrivale. Horace Grant had a certain sister with blue eyes — ■ 

Beauchamp's voice broke the silence 

" I say, who built the dam a mile or so above Wilton ?" 

" I don't know, I'm sure. Why do you ask?" 

" Is it old ? It looked precious old fashioned ; but I mean, are the tim- 
bers old, or has it been put into shape lately ?" 

" How should I know ! What are you driving at? " 

Jack abandoned his corner. 

" I'm wondering whether the reservoir above can take care of the water 
this deluge brings with it," said Beauchamp, slowly. " I'm wondering 
whether the dam 'can stand the extra pressure if the reservoir overflows. 
Oddly constructed creek, that one of yours. But I dare say it's safe 

" It's all right, of course," answered Jack, sharply. " Man alive! Uncle 
John looks after that sort of thing ! " 

" Naturally ! " Beauchamp relapsed into silence. 

Anne finished her solitary dinner, and spent the evening dreaming, in a 
curiously unwonted mood, over the fire. But at bedtime she rang for 
Uncle Toby, the old butler. 

" Johnson, is the creek still rising?" she asked. 

" Yes, Miss ; it's a-raising de whole blessed time. Stubbs, he say as how 
he never see it do — ■" 

" Does Stubbs think there's any danger that the water will creep up 
very near the granary ? Warwick would be wild !" 


" Oh no, Miss! Stubbs an' Watson, dcy shorely keep a good wati h 

"So they would, Johnson. 'That is all. Good night." 

Tn the morning, the heavy rain was still mercilessly falling. Anne 
found no letters awaiting her at the table, and it was nearly noon before 
fohnson brought in the tardy mail. 

"Postman say as how he couldn't scarcely get here. De road's flooded 
dreadful. lie had a letter for Mr. Beauchamp, but I done told him tote it 
right along to Merrivale wid de Grantses mail." 

" Quite right, Johnson. But Stubbs and Watson, they can't start too 
early, since the road is so bad. If the train is late, they must wait for it, if 
they wait all night." 

" Yes, Miss,— if they wait all night." Johnson departed. 

The day wore slowly on. At four o'clock darkness fell. Anne wandered, 
in a loneliness she could not understand, from window to window, looking 
out on the lawns, here and there entirely submerged by the unprecedented 
downpour. " They seem like little seas," she said to herself, thoughtfully 
enough ; then, reminded of Jack's parting words, she wondered aloud, 
" Can Mr. Beauchamp be going to sail soon ?" and again that inexplicable 
shivering seized her. 

Her restless glance finally fell on the dark roofs of the new stables. If 
only the horses were there ! — if only Warwick, in especial, were beyond the 
sound of the element he so dreaded! But Watson had gone, hours before, 
to meet her father, and she could send no one else to move the little horse, 
whom he would obey. She could not help him. There was nothing to do 
but to wait. 

Uncle Toby, touched by the girl's evident uneasiness, said, as he 
carried away the untouched dinner, " Dere ain't really no danger, Miss. 
Like as not de trains run slow. Watson, he's a mighty careful driver, an' 
de road ain't nigh de creek." 

" I know, Johnson, I know," answered Anne, with a guilty sense that 
she was not thinking of her father. 

It was two hours later, that a frightened maid ran into tht room and found 
the girl standing at the back window exactly where Uncle Toby had left her. 


" Oh, Miss Anne ! " she gasped, " Mrs. Stubbs is in the kitchen, pretty 
near drownded. There's a foot of the creek in her sitting-room .come very 
sudden, and she's brought all the children but Peter. He's trying to get 
the horses out of the granary. The whole lowland is a-flooding, and what- 
ever shall we do ? " 

Warwick was, then, in deadly danger. Anne stood a moment stunned. 
Then she caught the woman by the shoulder. 

"Stop crying ! " she commanded, "and tell us whether there is no 
one to help that boy. Where are the men ? " — she suddenly remembered 
that she had sent two of them to the station. " Peter never could do any- 
thing with Warwick," she went on, desperately, " and he cannot now. I must 
go down there myself. Tell Johnson to find a lantern and come with me. 
Send to the frame house for Seth and the other farmers, if they're not with 
little Peter. And, Mary, give Mrs. Stubbs some tea." 

Afterwards no one could tell the story clearly. Anne knew that some- 
how, stumbling and slipping on the soaked lawn, often misguided by the 
doubtful light of the lantern, she and Johnson together reached the flooded 
lowland. That there poor Uncle Toby faltered, and she turned and said, 
" Yes, give me the lantern. You are too old and your rheumatism would 
come on again," — and waded alone into the cold water. Down at the 
granary were lights in plenty. The farmers were already there, and she 
heard shouts of " Whoa!" and "Steady!" that brought her unspeakable 
comfort. But she kept on in the deepening water, until she could see the 
dim shapes of men and horses, making together for the high lawn and safety. 
She could count the horses now, — three already out of the water, under 
Peter's charge ; four, six, seven. There should be ten — ah, yes, two at the 
station and — Warwick. 

She pushed on, calling to the farmer she knew best, the man who 
had first put her on a horse and taught her to ride. She had almost reached 
the granary when he came to meet her, too agitated to be surprised. He 
could only say, " Miss Anne that horse is acting all possessed. I can't do 
a thing with him. I've tried my best, but he's that mad with fear that he 
won't let me come nigh him. He'll be drowned sure, for the water's rising 
every minute. What can we do?" Anne walked forward, desperate, the 


water half-way to her waist. It must have risen with marvelous rapidityat 
the last. " I don't see what ails our creek," she was beginning to say to 
Seth, when she stopped short, silenced by the terrified plungings and 
snortings of the little horse prisoned in the granary. With no other 1 i pj 1 1 1 
than his lantern, Seth could see that she turned white. Jin t she called, 
loudly and clearly, " Warwick ! Warwick - ! I'm here, my boy. Steady, 
Warwick ! " 

The agonized sounds ceased on the instant, and some of the men 
who had taken the other horses to the high ground, returning, surrounded 
the girl and the farmer, and waited, breathless, for orders. 

" He's saved, sure," shouted Seth in uncontrollable joy. " There's no 
one but you and the Britisher that the wicked little beast will listen to. 
Hold the lanterns up, men, and Miss Anne and I will get him out." 

" Yes," said Anne, quietly, " he will come with me." She stepped 
forward once more. 

But a thunderous crash sounded above the steady rush of the swollen 
creek, — one crash that died sullenly into an ominous roar far up the water 
but rolling nearer with every moment. 

" The dam !" shouted the men, with one panic-stricken voice. " The 
dam /" and they turned, carrying Anne with them in their wild rush. 

" I cannot — leave — Warwick — there to be — drowned !" She panted, 
holding back. 

" You must, Miss Anne, you'll be drowned yourself," answered Seth, 
sternly pressing her on. 

" Hear him call ! I must go back to him, — I will go ! " cried the girl 
in an agony. 

It was just at that instant, as she struggled hopelessly against Seth's 
determined strength, that a horseman splashed into the water beside them, — 
a horseman whose face wore an oddly elated expression, but whose horse 
was weary with the fourteen miles between Wilton and Merrivale. 

"Arthur!" Anne said. "Arthur! Of all the people in all the world 
— you t " 

Just how he understood, Beauchamp never could recollect. Perhaps 
the calls of the terror-stricken horse enlightened him. But he acted on 


the instant. He had caught up Anne's lantern and urged his own horse 
into the rising water before any one could hold him back. 

The ominous roar grew louder, and the men, still dragging Anne, fled 
further up the lawn. But their eyes did not once leave the shining spark 
of the " Britisher's " lantern. At last it disappeared, and instantly the. 
anguished calls from Warwick ceased. Beauchamp had entered the 
granary then, and half his journey was accomplished. Motionless, help- 
less, with the roar above steadily coming down to them, the little group 
stood waiting. Anne remembered, — and turned faint at the thought — 
that Watson tied an especially difficult knot to outwit the little horse's 
cunning. — How the hurrying waters thundered ! 

" He can never make it," said one of the men, under his breath. 

Anne did not answer. Over and over, standing there, she had said to 
herself," Warwick will drown ! " Suddenly something mighty rose within 
her, and crushed that cry. "Arthur will drown ! " it said, loudly, insistently, 
until she thought that the very horses about her must hear and under- 
stand. It was the roar that drowned that voice at last, — the roar in its deadly 
haste down the creek. 

All at once, there came a splash at the granary door, a struggle in the 
water, and, just as the roar had reached and caught the shaking building, 
Warwick alone, snorting and steaming, his halter cut in two above Wat- 
son's masterpiece, plunged out of the flood, and stood trembling at Anne's side. 

" Here Miss," said Seth grimly, putting the severed strap into her 
hand, " For pity's sake come away. Your horse is safe, and this is no 
place for you. Land ! but he had grit, the Britisher." 

She could not hear him above the rush of water that shook even the 
high ground on which they stood. But she dropped the halter, and stood 
immovable, staring before her at the tearing flood and the timbers of the 
granary, tossed like straws. Seth felt that she saw neither him nor the 
horse she loved. But a moment later, she turned to the men, and, 
pointing, said, imperiously, " Help him ! Can't you see that his horse is 
falling? " 

The girl had discovered what the men had not dreamed, that, fol- 
lowing Warwick, swimming more wearily, making way more slowly, came 


another horse, bearing a rider. As the last beams of the granary collap ed 
and rushed away, a dozen hands were stretched out to the bridle of this 
stumbling horse and [Hilled him to the land. 

It was a miracle of course. Such things are true, and arc miracles none 
the less. 

Then and there, before the strange group of dripping men and horses, 
Anne Emmony lifted her wet face to the hatless rider, still wearing his look 
of elation, and said passionately, " there is nothing in the wide world that 
I wouldn't do for you — nothing." Then she flew to the house. 

By midnight the family was re-united. Colonel Emmony's much 
delayed train had finally arrived, and Jack, startled by the news of the broken 
dam, had basely deserted the blue eyes, borrowed a horse, and galloped 
home from Merrivale. They had talked everything over and over by 
the largest fire that Jack and Uncle Toby between them could construct ; 
they had rejoiced and marveled, and talked everything over once more. 

" I still don't see," said the Colonel, at last, his hand on Beauchamp's 
shoulder, " what brought you here, my lad, at just that particular minute." 

" Ah, — I had a letter this morning," answered Beauchamp in a low 
voice, " that decides me to sail on Saturday. I came over to put my traps 
together, and to have one last, jolly evening with you and Miss Emmony; — 
Jack, there, couldn't be spared from the cotillion to night. — Not finding any 
of your servants about, I took my horse down to the granary, where I 
seem to have been needed. That was all." 

" Bless me! Saturday? We can't have that, Beauchamp. Anne, 
child, persuade him to stay longer. This is simple madness, eh Anne ? 
Where is she? She was here a moment ago." 

" Gone to bed, tired. She couldn't have stopped Arthur any more 
than she could have held down the creek by talking to it. We entreated, 
begged, prayed, — no use. He will go," answered Jack, somewhat gruffly. 

Beauchamp laughed. " It has stopped raining," he said. 

There was actually sunshine, imperturbable sunshine, over all the 
watery devastation the next afternoon as Beauchamp and Anne, left alone 
for a moment, were saying good-bye. 

" You are sure you've forgotten nothing ?" asked Anne. The critical 
Jack could not have complained of any lack of gaiety on her part that day. 


" I have forgotten nothing, and I shall forget nothing," answered 
Beauchamp, warmly. " Some day you may know how much I thank you 
and your father for this summer, and all you've done to make it so awfully 
nice, you know. I'm not much at saying things, really, but the fact is, Miss 
Emmony, — Miss Anne, — I'm so glad, I must tell you. I came away this 
summer because I was terribly cut up about a friend of mine who wouldn't 
— we had quarreled and I — I never expected to see her again. But it was 
all my fault, and she has written, and I am going back. Her name is 
Anne, too, you see. That's all. Do you mind my telling you ? You've 
been so kind to me all summer, quite as if I were Jack's brother. I have 
appreciated it all, I can tell you, or rather I can't tell you," he ended, a 
trifle incoherently. 

" I see," said Anne, gently, " I see," and she smiled at him as she had 
smiled from the Totem. 

She said nothing more, for Jack appeared, prepared to support his 
chum to the station. But as they were going she ran down the steps and 
called to Beauchamp : 

" Good-bye once more," she said. " I'm going to send you a photo- 
graph of Warwick, so that you shall never forget the horse whose life you 
saved. And won't you give my love to — to Anne ?" 

" Charmed, I'm sure," answered Beauchamp, with a smile and a sudden 
blush. But Jack turned, his foot on the carriage step, an expression of 
surprised disapproval on his face. 

" If you're not getting exactly like all other girls !" he said. " Sending 
your love ! I never expected to hear that speech from Anne Emmony." 

Julia Olivia Langdon, 'p$. 

FOG 79 


The shredded semblance of a cloud 
Blown from the sea, and drifting by, 

Blurs all things, even the silver tip 
Yon poplar nods against the sky. 

Hushed as beneath uneddying snow, 
The 'minish'd circle of the sight 

Pulseth, although the west is wan, 
Faint echoes to the sunset light. 

M. P. C, '89. 



She was my great Aunt on my mother's side, and because she had a 
very nice sense of the respect due her as eldest living member of the family, 

we, as children, were sent on weekly visits down to the old house on 

street. It has since been turned into a warehouse, and the garden that 
seemed so wonderful and fascinating to us, used to the poor little patches 
of brick and stunted rose-bushes of city yards, is now cut up into building 
lots ; but fifteen years ago the house stood as it had stood in the days of old 
Madame Gerard, who, in the early years of the century, had opened a school 
for young girls in which I am told letters, needlework, and the art of con- 
versation were very successfully cultivated. I never knew Madame Gerard, 
Bonnemaman Gerard as we were taught to call her, but Miss Annabel 
Joyce, my Aunt's companion, who had lived many years in the old place, 
would repeat to us tales of her goodness, and a certain fine charm of manner 
which was hers. Madame had come over from Martinique during the insur- 
rection in the island, with two babies and a couple of faithful slaves, and had 

settled in street, then a little colony of French families. It had been a 

fashionable quarter of the city eighty years ago, but even before my day 
had been given over to silence and the encroachments of poor vul- 
garity ; many of the old homes have been turned into shops or ware- 
houses, or torn down altogether to make room for a row of brick houses ) 
with fresh green shutters and polished brass plates on the doors, but some 
are still standing, great, square piles of yellow-brown brick, with tablets of 
discoloured marble above the old-fashioned arch of the door, separated from 
the street by a high iron fence, along which errand boys in passing now 
beat their tunes. 

Dingy as these houses are, their very dinginess has in it a certain 
dignity, a protest against the shifting aggressive vulgarity around them, a 
delicate assertion of a positive worth in themselves of certain things which 
time and circumstances are powerless to alter. 


My Aunt's house was one of the last to yield to the modem spirit; on 
entering it I always felt conscious of a certain pleasant awe coming over 
my spirit ; the large, cool rooms, with their old-fashioned furniture and 
faded hangings ; the paintings, after the manner of Vernet, in massive gilt 
frames ; the high ceilings stuccoed in elaborate scroll work and vine leaves, 
had a mysterious charm for me. 

The windows of the drawing-room, looking down on the street, were 
shaded, but a long finger of light used to stream in between the cracks of 
the shutters on to the faded carpet, a thick, old carpet, with spaces of cool 
gray, splashed with enormous bouquets of crimson roses ; the furniture had 
once been crimson and gold, but the crimson was dulled and the gold had 
grown sadly tarnished by time; yet I thought it very impressive. 

The ornaments of this room were few and severe — for Miss Gerard 
abhorred bric-a-brac. I can remember only two massive vases of some 
blue French ware on either side of a marble clock, with gold lettering, 
that stood on the mantelpiece; an agate table bearing a copy of Diderot's 
works ; a gilt framed mirror between the windows, and in one corner a harp 
and piano, with a spindle-legged stool- — my Aunt had been a diligent per- 
former in her day, and was to the end of her life an enthusiastic lover of 
music, and a critic of no mean merit. 

How well I recall my heart beatings, as perched on one of the narrow 
backed chairs in this room, with feet curled tightly around the chair legs 
to keep myself from sliding off the high satin seat, I would listen for the 
well-known footstep in the hall ! 

I never knew whether or no I loved Miss Gerard, but I had a fearful 
admiration for her which perhaps she did not suspect; she did not care a 
great deal for children, and was, I think, at all times indifferent to the 
impression she made upon people. I have known those that hated her 
and those that loved her ; in return she was a good lover and an ardent 
hater, but her general attitude toward the world was one of good-humoured 
contempt; most people, she thought, were fools, but their follies made 
excellent studies for epigram. 

Old Francois, who had served Miss Gerard as butler and gardener 
for half a century, would have it that my Aunt was beautiful in her youth. 


and, indeed, in the drawing room there was a portrait of her in a scant 
white gown, with fillets in her hair and one hand on a harp, which is far from 
unpleasing ; but when I knew her she had little remaining beaut}'. Her 
hair, which retained its color throughout her life, was looped in dark brown 
rings behind her ears ; she always wore a black silk dress of antique cut, 
and a narrow lace collar and cuffs of exquisite neatness. I never saw Miss 
Gerard in a passion, but I could easily fancy her black eyes snapping 
behind the gold pince-nez she always used. 

Francois, who like the rest of us, stood in wholesome awe of my 
Aunt, and in her presence maintained a certain discreet reserve towards us, 
in private would relax into a pleasant friendliness. He would take us, at 
times, into the pantry, lighted only by a narrow window under the ceiling, 
and treat us to slices of pain d'cpicc which he kept in a jar on the shelf; 
once he even gave us a sip of Miss Gerard's famous old Burgundy, which 
Madame had brought out in honour of La Fayette in '24, when M. de 
La Fayette had dined at the house and planted the little plum tree, which 
Miss Gerard reckoned among her choicest possessions. 

Francois never wearied of telling us the events of that memorable . 
evening, until we knew them by heart; the most brilliant men and women 
of the city had been invited to meet the General ; the silver and glass had 
been polished for a week in advance ; the General sat at Madame's right 
hand, and the talk was all of France and America, and of Paris in the days 
of the king, and M. de LaFayette praised America, and Madame's wine, 
and when later in the evening my Aunt sang to the harp, he gallantly kissed 
her hand, and compared her to Celestini, or some other famous singer of 
the day. 

I am disposed to think that this tale grew more exciting with every 
repetition, but we accepted it each time with uncritical good faith, and quite 
shared Francois' honest enthusiasm for the glories of the house! 

On warm spring days the long windows of the inner drawing-room 
were thrown open, and the scent of the pear blossoms in the garden below 
would fill the room with sweetness. A honeysuckle vine crept over the 
little balcony at the rear of the house, and dropped long clusters above 


door and window. A gravel path ran around the four sides of a stretch of 
green grass, reaching to the farther wall, and bordering this path were the 
pear trees which scattered their blossoms over the walk in early summer, 
and were a cause of sore annoyance to Miss Gerard, who dearfy loved 
an orderly appearance of things. Little Miss Joyce was fond of taking her 
books out there, and sitting on the steps in the sunshine, while my aunt 
would pass up and down the walk in pleasant meditation, with an occa- 
sional remark thrown out to Miss Joyce or a direction about gardening 
to Frangois, in the basement below. 

Never was there a droller little creature than Miss Gerard's companion ! 
When I first knew her she must have been in the neighbourhood of forty ; a 
shy little spinster, with vague blue eyes and sandy ringlets, which she wore 
turned back over a comb. Miss Joyce was fond of colour, and permitted 
herself little audacities of dress, but her self-confidence went no further than 
this, and for the rest she was an humble, unassuming little soul. I believe 
she was a distant cousin of my Aunt, but she always addressed her in a 
tone of the most formal and respectful deference. 

To us she was kindness itself, and would at any moment lay aside her 
own pursuits for our amusement ; in return for which we loved her and took 
base advantage of her gentleness and goodness, after the manner of children 
in this world. Miss Joyce was romantic, and would tell us tales of love and 
heroic sacrifice in a sweetly elevated strain of feeling, crying a little over 
her own pathos in a simple, artless way. She had spent three years in 
France in her younger days, and I used to wonder whether she had met 
with some romance there that made her speak with a wistful regret of her 
life at Pau and Vichy, of Mile. A., who had read Pascal to her during an 
illness; of M. le Comte de N., who had insisted on lending her his 
carriage when she was convalescent, and supplying her with novels for the 
journey to Paris ; of Mine. X., who kissed her on both cheeks at parting, 
and wrote her a pretty little note of farewell after she had sailed. In later 
years she showed me some of the letters written to her by those foreign 
friends, letters full of pleasant gossip, of kindly inquiries as to her health and 
delicate reproaches for her desertion of her friends in France. Miss Joyce 
was an admirable French scholar, and read these letters in sweet, pure 


accent, of which she was innocently vain. In talking, she liked to make use 
of a happy French phrase, and would let it fall with a pleasant sense of 
handling with skill a tool somewhat too fine for common use. 

Her most treasured relic of those by-gone days was a certain copy of 
the Genie dii Chrislianisme, with "A Miss Annabel Joyce, Souvenir d'Amitie," 
written in pale ink on the fly-leaf She kept the book in a drawer of her 
rosewood desk with the packet of letters neatly tied up by a bit of old 
ribbon. Whenever her dignity was ruffled, or her sensibility wounded by 
Miss Gerard's caustic tongue — for in her hours of gout and irritation my 
Aunt was not always tender towards her companion's little weaknesses — 
Miss Joyce would retire to her room and there re-read her faded packet of 
letters, and take refuge in her little brown volume, until calm was restored, 
but I never knew who was the unknown giver of the book. 

Like my Aunt, Miss Joyce was nominally a Catholic, but her zeal for the 
church was qualified, and consisted less in observance of its rules than in a 
social sympathy with its communion. Miss Gerard was something of an 
esprit fort, a Voltairian in religion. She frankly detested priests, and laughed 
at dogmas ; but her contempt for church and creeds did not prevent her 
numbering several ecclesiastics among her friends. " An fond, our creeds 
are the same," she said one time, after a battle of tongues with one of these, 
" but yours has the wind still in it, that is all." 

After my Aunt's death Miss Joyce grew more religious, and towards 
the close of her life would write me letters filled with a gentle, sentimental 
piety ; but she never lamented Miss Gerard's irreligion, or doubted the 
genuine goodness of her heart. 

Looking back upon their friendship after all these years, I wonder 
what bond it was that drew together these women, so unequal in age, so 
unlike in character. Whatever that bond was, death only weakened, but 
could not break it. Almost the last letter I ever received from Miss Joyce 
contained an affectionate allusion to Miss Gerard : " I have been thinking," 
she wro^e, in her gentle, high-flown way, " of what a privilege it was to have 
lived so many years with a character of such eminent qualities, a heart of 
such rectitude, a mind of such masculine intelligence as your Aunt's." Poor 
little Miss Annabel ! She left the city soon after the breaking up of the old 


life. Some cousins in the West begged her to make her home with tl 
but she declined. " I could not live with others after having lived with your 
Aunt," she wrote me at the time. But although she would not make new 
lies, with the income left to her by Miss Gerard's will, she took rooms in 
a Western town, and several years ago died there, surrounded by her pic- 
tures and book's, and the little mementos of the past, quite cheerful up to 
the last. 

1 have the copy of the Genie du Christianisme. 

Laurette Eitstis Potts, 





THAT the Students' Association for Self-Government, to which The Lantern 
of 1892 devoted its editorial, is firmly established at Bryn Mawr, the second year 
of its existence has assured us. Paradoxical as it may seem, this assurance 
springs from the fact that objections have still been raised within the Association itself. 
For diversity of opinions has compelled us to inquire more deeply into the principles of 
self-government and to examine more closely its actual results in its influence on our 
characters and cortduct, and in its relations to the general intellectual and social life of 
the College. We have found that we may assert with confidence that oitr Association 
is firmly established, because it is established not on youthful sentimentality or enthu- 
siasm, but on sound principles of government in aims, legislation, execution, and on 
earnest and successful efforts to effect the best good of Bryn Mawr. 

The questions which have come before us publicly this year have concerned the 
"practical working" of self-government. We have been gradually making our 
system something more certain than " an experiment," the only term by which it could 
be described last year. We found that it was one thing to organize an Executive Board 
and Proctors, with their duties and relationship to each other defined by a few general 
sentences, and quite another thing to preserve without difficulties on every side a happy 
combination of a strong central government with individual hall rights. Accordingly, 
we have organized our system more minutely until it has become excellent in its sim- 
plicity, coherence and efficiency. The legislative work is confined to the general Asso- 
ciation. The executive work is divided, according to the nature of the various matters, 
between the Association and the separate halls, the Association performing its share 
through its Executive Board, the halls performing their share through the Proctorial 
Boards. Yet in spite of the independent executive power lodged in the separate halls, 
centralization is preserved by the Executive Board, as the representative of the general 
Association, having the function of a board of appeal for the students and proctors, 
and the right to remove incompetent proctors. Various details add to the practical effi- 
ciency of the system. 

Another problem has been the enforcing of our most important resolutions, those, 
namely, concerning quiet in the lecture halls and the halls of residence. We have 
realized that upon this matter depends to a large extent the possibility of good graduate 
and undergraduate work at Bryn Mawr, and the preservation of proper relations 
between the different sides of our college life. We have had to discuss the advisability 
of changing our former resolutions, consider carefully what class of students should set 

PIGEON Hoi. MS 87 

the standard for the regulation of the hours of quiet, and devise better methods for the 
enforcement of our decisions. 

In connection with these questions arose the question of the advisability of leaving 
legislation on certain matters to the separate halls, instead of confining all legislation 
to the general Association. We decided against such a change on the ground thai il 
would destroy the centralization of our system and decrease our power of making reso- 
lutions based on pure justice and an impersonal regard for the public good. For we 
realize that these principles alone must underlie general laws made by an organized 
body to guide the conduct of a large number of students. 

As for new resolutions, we have found it necessary to add but one, and that one 
covers a matter which last year we endeavored to leave to unformulated public opinion. 
This year it has proved wiser to formulate our opinion and attach a fine to its violation. 

In regard to the addition of new resolutions in general, there is no reason why 
our course as a whole should not be a wise one. Some members of the Association are 
extreme resolutionists, other members are extreme anti-resolutionists. Full and free 
discussion between these two parties, both of whom are actuated by a desire for the 
best good of the Association, usually results in a happy mean. 

Neither last year nor this year have we in our public discussions touched on the edu- 
cational power that lies in self-government. But through the experience of these two 
years we have grown into the knowledge that in the opportunity of working for a com- 
munity that self-government affords us; in the organizing of a system of goverment; in 
the deciding for ourselves of important questions of conduct; and in our meetings, 
necessarily conducted according to strict parliamentary rules, and calling forth attempts, 
at least, at clear and logical argument or earnest and thoughtful appeal, instead of hap- 
hazard remarks and vehement personal discussion, we have the means of gaining a 
training which we, as women, especially need, and which will be invaluable in all 
future work. 

Annie Crosby Emery ^ '92. 


IT is said that Professor Agassiz's method with a beginner in his laboratory was to give 
him a specimen, a pair of forceps and a scalpel, and let him discover a chapter 
in anatomy for himself. After four months at the University of Zurich, I can realize 
better than ever before what such a method might be, not that it is literally carried out 
here, but the necessary independence of the students is the most striking and ever 
impressive feature of the system of the University. 

Guided by the printed list of lectures, a student may choose those that he wishes to 
hear, and if the title of a course leaves him in doubt, he can attend two or three lectures 
at the beginning of the semester, and then decide whether he wishes to continue; but it 


is etiquette to visit a professor at his house, and have his approval before regularly 
attending his lectures. A student often wastes much time before he finally decides on a 
well-chosen course, and unless he already knows something about the lectures, there is 
little to help one who has but a short time to spend at the University. 

Fortunately for me, I had had the advice of a former student, and entered two 
courses which are especially interesting on account of the splendid demonstrations at 
almost every lecture. I have heard the same thing very enthusiastically spoken of in 
connection with other scientific courses; there are fine collections, and they are practi- 
cally used in this way. 

Besides attending the lectures, I wanted to have a theme to work out in the zoolog- 
ical laboratory. In this particular, as in every other, independence was the first require- 
ment, and it was left to me to make a choice of subject, and also to discover, after many 
weeks of fruitless toil, that the material was unfavorable for the work. The assistance 
in the laboratory, which is always most generously given, is mainly in the way of sug- 
gestions of scientific literature relating to the particular subject, v. ith a general super- 
vision of the practical work. 

At the beginning of each semester, there is a formal initiation of new students ; I 
came to Zurich too late to attend the general ceremony, but the formalities were repeated 
for several others and myself. After depositing our certificates with the Rector of the 
University, who keeps these certificates as a hold on the students in case of misde- 
meanor, we were summoned to his office. The Rector himself delivered a short address 
explaining the general duties of a student, and expressed a sincere wish that we should 
find all the advantages and opportunities that we were seeking, and then, in accordance 
with what he had said, we pledged ourselves to be loyal to the University and to con- 
form to its laws and to those of the State. The ceremony being over, we were admitted 
to all rights and privileges of students of the University. We each received a card of 
admission with name and address on it which was to be vised at one city office, and a 
book for .entering courses, which is signed at quite another office in the town, where each 
course is paid for according to the rates on the posted price list. 

There is absolutely no division into classes in any sense of the word; each student 
stays as long as he likes ; if he wishes to take a doctor's degree (which is the one degree 
given in each of the departments of Philosophy, Law and Medicine), he attends the 
lectures and seminars that he thinks will be of benefit to him, and reads what seems 
necessary. No definite course of reading is required, it is part of the acquaintance with 
his subject to know what is important and what is unimportant, and he " need read 
nothing at all if he knows it already," as a young German woman who has studied 
here for some time remarked. A very important part of the preparation for a degree 
is, of course, a dissertation on original work, and if it has been accepted the student may 
present himself for examination when he considers himself prepared. 

But I see that I have referred only to the University of Zurich, whereas the Poly- 
technic of Switzerland is also at Zurich, and is of very great importance. It was founded 


in 1854, twenty-one years later than the University ; there was some debate as to whether 
it should be here or at Berne, and Zurich was finally decided upon by vote of the I 
sentative Chambers, and the city contributed land and a large building to the institution. 
As it is the Polytechnic of all Switzerland, the principal subjects are given in German 
and in French. The Chemical and Physical departments have each a large new build 
ing, and the equipment in the laboratories is as fine as any in Europe. 

The Polytechnic confers no degree, but gives a diploma for a regular course, which 
varies from two to four years in the different departments, and of which a large pari 1 
prescribed and the remainder free elective. The examinations are taken at intervals 
throughout the course. 

Many of the courses of the Polytechnic are open to students of the University and 
to special students. The University belongs to the Canton, though its history is closely 
connected with that of the Polytechnic. 1 shall not discuss the historical relation as 
it is described in accounts of the institutions. 

I have merely given the facts that have particularly impressed me and the other 
American students with whom I have discussed the subject, and without forming 
too hasty an opinion as to the value of the German system (as we have it here) com- 
pared with ours, I may say that from the very fact of the difference between it and our 
own, one learns a great deal by being at the University of Zurich. 

Lilian Vaughan Sampson, 'gi 


BRYN MAWR received all the space she asked for at the World's Fair. Her 
position is in the gallery of the Liberal Arts Building, — Section K, Column G. 7, — 
in the part devoted to Pennsylvania, next to the space allotted to the University 
of Pennsylvania. The space is 1 5 x 14 feet, open at the front and surrounded on three 
sides by a screen, ten feet high. 

All the woodwork of the exhibit has been painted in the college colors, white and 
yellow, and over the front is a sign, 15x4 feet, on which is painted in yellow letters on 
a white ground : 


A College for Women. 

Opened 1885. 

Situated in the suburbs of Philadelphia 

at Bryn Mawr, Pa. 

In the centre of the exhibit, on a panelled table 12x6 feet in size is a model of the 
college grounds and all the college buildings, on a scale 1-10 inch to the. foot, Taylor 
Hall, Dalton Hall, the Gymnasium, and the three halls of residence, Merion, Radnor 


and Denbigh. A model of the proposed new double hall of residence is placed in its 
proper position in the grounds. 

On the two screens at the sides spaces 14 x 7 feet are filled, first, by a framed card, 
2^ x \Yz feet, containing all the college statistics of especial interest; secondly, by the 
framed charter of the Self-Government Association ; thirdly, by the framed charter 
creating the Academic Committee, signed by the President and Dean of the College 
and the Academic Committee of.the Alumna; Association ; fourthly, by the photographs 
and plans of the different College buildings arranged so that the views and plans of 
each building are framed in a separate frame ; at the top are two carbon photographs 
of the exterior from the front and back, underneath are the floor plans, and lowest of 
all photographs of the interior. Taylor, Dalton, Merion, Radnor, Denbigh and the 
Gymnasium are all framed separately. The photographs are taken by the new carbon 
process, and are very successful. 

A water-color drawing of the new hall of residence is also framed, and a photo- 
graph from a painting of a member of the first graduating glass, in her cap and gown, 
as an example of the Bryn Mawr cap and gown. 

Toward the front of the exhibit are erected two tables 3 x 2)^ feet each on which 
will be placed three volumes, bound in white and yellow leather, with yellow lettering 
on white. One of these volumes will contain all the announcements of the College, 
from the first circular of information in 1883 to the last programme in 1893 ; the second, 
all the President's reports; the third, a short history of the College, the constitution of 
the Self-Government Association, all the Gymnasium statistics, and various other 
details; also', two glass cases, one containing all the theses and other investigations 
that have been written or made by students in residence at Bryn Mawr, and the other, 
models of the Academic costumes. 


THE new hall of residence will be built over the driveway leading out to Morris Ave- 
nue, having a length of four hundred feet along the avenue. It is to be built of 
the same stone used in Denbigh Hall, but the stone will be laid with irregular 
faces, so as to give the picturesque effect seen in old English castles. The building will 
consist of a tower overarching the driveway, and, on either side, a hall of residence, the 
west hall to accommodate sixty-six, the east hall sixty-four students. 

From either hall a wing will extend towards the campus, in shape like an L 
reversed and irregular in form. A doorway in each wing will lead out to the campus, 
and another doorway in the angle the wing makes with the hall will open into the col- 


lege grounds. The main doorway of each hall will be on the driveway under the to 
from this the entrance is direct to a square hall open to the roof. Stairways will bound 
the hall on its four sides, and opening into it will be the sitting-room of the mistress and 
the sitting-room and drawing-room of the students. A stairway will lead directly to the 
dining hall, which is to run through the tower and is to be the place of rendezvous for 
the students of both halls. 

This dining hall will be double the size of the Denbigh dining-room, and will have 
windows on both its long sides. Over it are to be the kitchens, and above these the 
servants' quarters. 

Of the single rooms in the new hall one-third will rent for )?375 a college year, one- 
third for more. One-third of the rooms in the hall are to be suites, and of these one- 
half will rent for a moderate price, the other half, which are to be built with bay 
windows, will be more expensive. 

In the two halls there will be nine suites for single students, consisting of one bed- 
room and an adjoining study. 

The west wing and tower will be finished before the east wing is built, and the latter 
will be completed when these are occupied. It is expected that the hall will be ready 
for occupation on October the fifteenth. 




THE De Rebus Club is the ne.w name adopted by the undergraduates this year for 
the society which was fast sinking under the weight of its title the Reform Club. 
The new name, at once more comprehensive and lighter, is designed to indicate 
more exactly the object of the club — to hear and learn of things, whatever they may 
be, which concern us all, while they are not of a nature to be included within our lines 
of college work. 

At the first meeting under the auspices of this De Rebus Club, Miss Adams, one of 
the founders of Hull House, Chicago, gave an inspiring account of her work in the 
slums and its success, — an account that was in a way supplemented by Mr. William 
Howe Tolman's lecture, illustrated by an interesting series of new stereopticon views, on 
The Tenement House Problem, 

The third lecture was of a more literary character ; Mr. George Haven Putnam 
repeated for us his address delivered at Yale University on The Beginnings of Literary 

Besides the lectures given directly under the auspices of the De Rebus Club, the 
college has had the pleasure of hearing addresses from the following speakers: 

Edmund F. James, Ph. D. Dr. George H. Barton, 

Mr. Franklin H. Giddings, Miss McLean, 

Mr. E. L. Godkin, Mr. William C. Lawton, 

The Rev. Hudson Shaw. 

L. S. P., '93. 


THE interest in the College Settlements work this year has been kept up by the efforts 
of our own undergraduates and by addresses given to us by Miss Adams, of Hull 
House, Chicago, and Miss McLean, head-worker of the New York settlement. 
By these means our undergraduate membership has been increased from fifty-six to 

A new and important feature of the work at Bryn Mawr is the organization of our 
members into a regular chapter of the general Association. The essential point in which 
our constitution differs from those of Vassar and Wellesley is our system of member- 
ship- Instead of using the club method for those who are not full members, we have 


arranged that those who pay live dollars shall have live votes in the chapter, and that 
those who pay less shall have a number of votes in proportion to the amount paid. The 
objections which has been urged against this method is that the privileges of a one-dollar 
member are so nearly equal to those of a full member that the result will be a falling off 
in the number of full members. So far this has not happened, and it depends 
Bryn Mawr to prove by a continued increase in membership each year, that it is possible 
to avoid the cumbersome club system. 

//. //. /'., - 93 . 


ONE of the characteristic things of Bryn Mawr is the membership of the Missionary 
Society. Every student who is at all interested in missionary work of any kind 
is considered a member of the college society, so that in this, as in every thing, 
there exists that feeling of unity which is the basis of our life and work here at Bryn 

We feel that even while we are in college, although we have not time to do any 
real work, our interest in missionary work ought to grow, and an effort is made each 
year to have one or more missionary workers, from this country or abroad, come and 
speak to us of what is actually being done. For a number of years the society has sup- 
ported a young Indian girl at the Hampton School, and each year we send half the 
money needed for the expenses of Miss Orbison, a former student of Bryn Mawr, who 
is now doing Zenana work in India. 

M. H. 5., 'g4. 


IN October, 1891, a paper on " Educated Women as Factors in Industrial Competi- 
tion " was read before the Association of Collegiate Alumna; by Miss Eleanor L. 
Lord, of Smith College. After a discussion of the relative value of men's and 
women's work, and of the statement so often made that, for the same grade of work, 
women receive lower wages than men, the writer said fhat the lack of accurate statistics 
rendered impossible any definite conclusions on either of these questions, and proposed 
that the Association of Collegiate Alumna; undertake the collection of such statistics. 

In accordance with this suggestion, Miss Lord, Miss E. M. Howe, and Miss Emily 
G. Balch were appointed as a committee to have general supervision of the work. 


At the next annual meeting of the Association, the plans submitted by the commit- 
tee were adopted. The occupations to be investigated are limited to those that " require 
of the worker previous education beyond that obtained in the grammar schools." The 
list is as follows : Teachers and school supervisors ; librarians and assistants in libra- 
ries; journalistic workers, including editors, compilers, reporters, "readers," type- 
setters, proof readers, etc. ; civil service employees ; telegraphers ; architects and assist- 
ants; assistants in all scientific work, e.g., in laboratories, observatories, etc.; business 
agents and managers ; trained nurses ; actresses (not their own managers) ; designers 
and illustrators; bookkeepers; musicians; typewriters and stenographers. To 
women in each of these classes is to be sent a schedule of questions which thoroughly 
cover the subject from the employe's point of view, while to the employer is sent a 
schedule asking for the number of men and women employed, the salaries given, and 
an estimate of the relative value of the work of men and women. It is hoped that the 
number of reliable answers received may be sufficient to make the conclusions drawn 
from them of real economic value. They cannot fail to throw some light upon the 
actual industrial status of educated women and the actual tendency of wages. 

/ L. B., ' 93 . 


THE eighth academic year has been marked by a great advance in the opportunity 
for scientific work in the College. Hitherto the scientific departments were all 
included in Taylor Hall and the lack of room made satisfactory work difficult. It 
was, therefore, a matter for great rejoicing when last spring work on the new Science 
Hall was begun. This was completed by the first of January and the classes moved in 
after the Christmas holidays, although the formal opening of the Hall did not occur 
until the third of March. On that day the Trustees and Faculty of the College 
invited friends to be present at the exercises and the College was addressed by 
Prof. Whitman, who is at the head of the biological department of Chicago Univer- 
sity and of the Wood's Holl Biological Laboratory for summer work. He explained 
briefly the scope and value of scientific study and investigation for our modern life, and 
impressed upon the audience the great importance of the work. Dr. Reiser, the senior 
member tf the scientific faculty, then made a short address, giving a sketch of the past 
work of the scientific departments and explaining some of the advantages that are 
expected from the possession of the new hall. He invited the guests to visit this them- 
selves after the close of the exercises, and touched upon the need of the college for 
books and apparatus to increase the effectiveness of the new hall. A day or two late. 
Mr. Justus Strawbridge, of Germantown, presented the College with five hundred 
dollars for books and apparatus for the Science Hall. After the addresses the visitors 


were shown over the new building which has been called Dalton Hall, after there 

chemist, John Dalton. The professors and students tried to give the guests an idea of 
the aim and style of the work, its general method and practical results. The materials 
and apparatus were exhibited, the libraries and charts of the departments open for 
inspection, and sonic work was actually going on. 

Dalton Hall is large and commodious, being carefully adapted to the work of the 
three natural sciences, which, as yet, are the only ones offered at Bryn Mawr. The I [all is 
of gray stone, is very simple in style, and the finish of the interior is pi mi, being entirely 
of bricks, painted a light buff color, and of oiled light wood. This makes the rooms 
light and airy and easy to keep clean, a very important matter in laboratories. The 
building is well-lighted and supplied with water, is heated by steam and very thoroughly 
ventilated, each half of the building" being ventilated independently of the other. 

The ground tloor is used by the Department of Physics. Its lecture-room seats 
sixty students, and like all those in Dalton, has the seats arranged in a semi-circle, rising 
gradually from the front so that all the students may see distinctly any demonstration 
that is made on the lecturer's desk. There is a large laboratory for students who are 
doing the first year's work and one for advanced students, besides separate rooms for 
various branches of special work ; for instance light, heat and electrical measurements. 
These rooms have one important feature that was greatly missed in the former quarters 
of Physics — this is solid stone foundations built all the way from the ground on which 
the more delicate pieces of apparatus that require a perfectly steady foundation can be 
placed. The convenience of these quarters is greatly increased by rooms set apart for 
the professors, by a library containing books relating to the subject, by rooms for work, 
and various branches of special work, by store-rooms for material and apparatus. On 
the fourth floor a room is specially set aside for a Rowland grating, used in advanced 
study of the spectrum. At present, the College has only a very small spectroscope, but a 
larger and better one will be obtained soon and will be a valuable addition to the 
apparatus of the department. This department has also taken possession of several of 
the basement rooms. It has there a magnetic room, also a dynamo-room and a constant 
temperature room for special work, which is surrounded by three, walls and air spaces. 

The second floor of the building belongs to the Department of Biology. It has a 
very large lecture-room, seating nearly one hundred students, and having a bow win- 
dow in which are several aquaria, where low plant forms are grown for the use of the 
classes. The laboratory for students, taking the first year's work, is very large and 
light, easily accommodating sixty students. The desks are conveniently fitted with 
drawers, shelves and gas-pipe connections, and there is plenty of running water in the 
room. There are cupboards and cases for materials, specimens and supplies, and 
everything is systematized to make the practical working as smooth as possible. 
Another laboratory for advanced students, and three for special graduate work in mor- 
phology, physiology and physiological chemistry, give ample working room for the 
present ; professors' rooms, a library and a room in which material for class work can 


be prepared by the demonstrators, occupy the rest of th-is floor. The department has 
already extended to the fourth floor where two small rooms have been taken for work 
in physiological psychology. There is a special biological laboratory here, too, but it 
is unused at present. A small room for animals contains tanks, in which frogs and 
turtles are kept, and the floor and walls, to a height of several feet, are connected so 
that water can be turned in and the whole place washed out. On this floor, too, is a 
room which is, in time, to be a biological museum ; although, as yet, a beginning only 
has been made of arranging in it the collection of specimens belonging to the depart- 
ment, among which will be placed a collection of stuffed birds, presented to Dalton 
Hall by Mrs. John Townsend, of Bryn Mawr. The museum is fitted with glass cases, 
made absolutely air-tight, in order to protect the specimens from the moths. Connected 
with this is a room in which botanical specimens will be separately arranged. The 
botanical department has a large laboratory on the first floor, where is kept a fine 
collection of plates and charts. 

The third floor of Dalton is consecrated to Chemistry, and its quarters are. well 
suited to the work done in them. The large laboratory for the first year's work, has a 
high-pitched, raftered roof, which collects the fumes and gases, and makes the room 
pleasant to work in. Each desk has its gas and water connections, cupboards and 
drawers, and for every two there is a basin with a waste-pipe. A number of desks are 
fitted with a hood, under which the fumes rise to be drawn out through the ventilation 
flues. A smaller laboratory is used for advanced work, and there are several for 
special work. 

There is a separate balance-room on the north side of the building in which has 
been placed a very superior chemical balance, presented by Mr. Ernest Wright, of 
Germantown; also a combustion room and one for gas measurements ; a dark room 
used for studies with the spectroscope, and, as in the other departments, professors' 
rooms and a library. The lecture room of this department is very thoroughly equipped. 
It has two fume closets with glass doors, so that students can see the experiment, un- 
troubled by disagreeable fumes. It has also a feature new to Bryn Mawr laboratories, 
the front of the professor's desk is removable and under it is a glass trough for collect- 
ing gases over water. 

Thus we see that Dalton Hall offers every opportunity for thorough scientific work, 
and must act as an inspiration to all connected with it. If not perfect in every way, it is 
at least an immense advance over anything we have had hitherto, and leaves opportunity 
for much growth and development in the work of the different courses. 

S. G. IV., -g 3 . 



AN ACCOUNT of the origin and history of the "Sunday Evening Meeting " was 
given in The Lantern for 1892. The meeting?, which are held in the gym- 
nasium on Sunday evenings, are very simple, and their greatest helpfulness lies 
in the way in which they draw us all together in our religious, as well as in our intel- 
lectual life. The attendance this year has increased, and we have been especially 
encouraged by the sympathy and interest of the new students. 

E. S. W., '94. 


THE formation of an Intercollegiate Athletic League, in which Bryn Mawr has 
been especially interested for more than a year, is still unaccomplished ; but the 
prospects for the future are much brighter than were thought possible a year ago. 
Finding it impossible to get the co-operation of the undergraduate associations of the 
other Colleges, it was decided to give at Bryn Mawr an invitation tennis tournament, to 
which the best players of Smith and the Annex should be asked as individuals. 
This tournament was held at Bryn Mawr during the latter part of October, 1S92, the 
Colleges represented being the Harvard Annex, Girton, England, and Bryn Mawr. 

Miss Whittelsy, champion of the Annex, won the singles from Miss Putnam, who, 
for three years, has held the championship of Bryn Mawr. In the doubles Miss Put- 
nam and Miss Underhill, of Bryn Mawr, defeated Miss Arnold and Miss Lathrop, of 
the Annex, and were in turn defeated by Miss Maddison and Miss France, of Girton. 

Finding this tournament a success in every respect, the Bryn Mawr Athletic 
Association has been more eager than ever to form the league, or if this proves 
impossible, at least to continue these invitation tournaments at the different women's 
colleges. Some objections have been urged by the various colleges against the forma- 
tion of such a league, but to us they seem invalid, and we feel that the benefits and 
advantages to be derived are enough to justify us in continuing our work in this direc- 
tion. , 

The advantages of such a league are discussed in the editorial of the present 
number of The Lantern. An objection, often made on the ground of publicity, is 
not mentioned there. Our tournament, however, proves conclusively that this matter 
is in the hands of the students themselves, and that to keep the tournaments private 
in such retired places as those in which Wellesley, Smith, Vassar and Bryn Mawr are 
situated is a very simple matter. 

We therefore earnestly hope that another year will see the formation of an athletic 
league in which the leading women's colleges of the East will be represented. 

E. H. IV., - 9 j. 



THE list of records in individual gymnasium work has this year. been increased by 
two new records — one in rope climbing held by Miss Mary Hopkins, and one in 
kicking held by Miss Minor. This year's contest in running high jump resulted 
in a tie between Miss Nicholson and Miss Bowman, though the record made by Miss 
Ritchie last year is still unbroken. The record in vaulting held by Miss Guilford was 
broken by a tie between Miss Guilford and Miss Underhill. The record in general 
athletics for '93 is held by Miss Guilford. Thermal drill was considered a greater suc- 
cess than usual this year, and the arrangement of placing the record-making last, rather 
increased than diminished the interest at the end of the afternoon. 

The gymnasium work for the year has been very successful. Those incorrigibles 
who seem to delight in their conditions, as signs that they have no pleasures save those 
of a purely intellectual order, grow fewer every year. We are still hoping for a swim- 
ming tank, to increase the attractions of the gymnasium for such students and for those 
unable to do the heavy work. The students as a whole are very faithful and persever- 
ing in the. gymnasium, and as a result the average work has been most satisfactory. In 
heavy work, especially, the majority of the students have shown great improvement. 

E. L. A., '<y. 


THE work of the Glee Club this year has little to show, but has been the means of 
great enjoyment to the club itself. None of Gilbert and Sullivan's music was 
undertaken, but in consideration of all the college work that looms up in the 
spring we have undoubtedly followed the wiser path. Rather a new departure was 
made in trying to sing some truly " modern " music. We chose a ballad of George W. 
Chadwick's, a most artistic, musical setting of Scott's " Lovely Rosabelle," which is 
so full of really serious difficulties that we may feel very much flattered at our success if 
we but overcome half of them. The number of members of the Glee Club this year 
is twenty-nine, and we have had more regular attendance than in years past, with an 
amount of individual enthusiasm that is very gratifying to the club as a whole. The 
club has followed the plan adopted four years ago of self-management, and has at least 
fulfilled the object for which it exists, of recreation for its own sake. 

The banjo and guitar clubs have been reinforced by the formation of a mandolin 
club, and they are to be congratulated on the excellence of their performance. 

A. M. W., '93. 


MR. DICKINSON SERGEANT MILLER who was appointed Associate in Phil- 
osophy in 1892, will begin his Courses in Philosophy at the opening of the 

next collegiate year. Mr. Miller received his Ph. U. from Harvard University 
in '92, and has spent the last year in university study in Germany. 

Mr. Edgar A. Buckingham lias been appointed Associate in Physics and will 
conduct the Department in Physics with Mr. Mackenzie. Mr. Buckingham has been 
a Laboratory Instructor in Physics at Harvard University, and Instructor in Physics at 
the Harvard Annex. lie will receive his Ph.D. from the University of Leipsic in '93, 
where he is at present studying. 


Edith Hamilton, '94, 


Laurette Eustis Potts, '94, 

Vice President. 

Elizabth Conway Bent, '95, 
Mary Bidwell Breed, '94, 
Edith Pettit, '95, 

Lillia M. D. Trask, '95, 


Caroline Reeves Foulke, '95, 



Mary Bidwell Breed, '94, 


Susan Fowler, '95, 


Lucy Baird, '95, 




Bertha Haven Putnam, '93, 


Elizabeth Gleim Guilford, '94, 

Vice President. 

Lillia M. D. Trask, '95, 


Evangeline Holcombe Walker, '93, 

Out door Manager, 

Emma Louise Atkins, '93, 

Indoor Manager. 

Agnes Mary Whiting, '93, 

Leader of the Glee Club. 

Estelle Reid, '94, 

Chairman of the De Rebus Club. 

HE appointments to Fellowships in Bryn Mawr College for the year 1893-94 are as 
follows : 

Louise Sheffield Brownell, European Fellow ; 

A. B., Bryn Mawr College, 1893. 
Elizabeth Mary Fairclough, Fellow in Greek; 

McGill University, Montreal, 18S9-93. 
Winifred Warren, Fellow in Latin ; 

A. B., Boston University, 1892. 
Helen Bartlett, Fellow in English; 

A. B., Bryn Mawr College, 1892. 
Mrs. Therese F. Colin, Fellow in Romance Languages. 

College de Neuchatel ; University of the City of New York ; Leland Stanford 
University, 1892-93. 
Helen Winifred Shute, Fellow in German and Teutonic Philology ; 

A. B., Smith College, 18S7. Instructor in German, Smith College, 1887-93. 
Jane Louise Brownell, Fellow in History ; 

A. B., Bryn Mawr College, 1893. 
Ada Isabel Maddison, Fellow in Mathematics ; 

University of South Wales and Monmouthshire, 1885-89. Girton College, Cam- 
bridge, England, 18S9-92. Bryn Mawr College, 1892-93. 
Elizabeth Nichols, Fellow in Biology ; 

A. B., Bryn Mawr College, 1S93. 
Emma H. Parker, Fellow in Chemistry ; 

B. S., Smith College, 1887. Student in Chemistry, Bryn Mawr College, 1S92-93. 





(Sent with some pansiest) 

Pansies for thoughts, dearest, 

Bringing from me 
Love, and a message, — 

I'm thinking of thee. 

Cupid's abroad, dearest, 

Sharp are his darts ; 
Cruel the marksman 

Whose target is hearts. 
Wounded am I, dearest, 

Cured would I be, 
Thou canst bring healing, 

By thinking of me. 

M. V.A.,'93. 


Erstwhile I pled for Chloe's smile, 
Employed my utmost simple guile 

To win her favor ; 
Tho' she would flout me in the face, 
And laughing, mock my piteous case, — 

My all I gave her. 

But now that Chloe's kinder grown, 
Would match my wishes with her own, 

Her " Prithee, sirrah," 
Her airs and graces naught avail, — 
All tedious as a thrice-told tale, 

I've turned to Pyrrha. 

E. C, 'go. 


Insidious tea, thy amber hue 

How dear to those our grey walls knew ! 
When the chill midnight falleth drear, 
Thy steaming cup makes wakeful 

Heedless of all that may ensue. 

Tea, when the grass is wet with dew, 
Thy fragrant, warming, healing brew 
Makes the dim morning seem as new — 
Insidious tea 1 

Let others sing of potions new, 
Of Bromo-Caffeine and imbue 
Their brains with noxious drugs ; 

I here 
Maintain thou hast not got thy peer ; 
To thee I am, and will be true, 
Insidious tea. 

M. H. R., '<?j. 


One little rule you must observe, 
When you with me converse, 

You will not find it hard to learn 
For it is quaintly terse : 

What e'er I say I mostly mean 
Exactly the reverse. 




A softly shaded room, 

Sweet with the breath and bloom 

Of fragant flowers ; 
A fire burning bright, 
Filling with crimson light, 
All the long day and night 

With their still hours. 

Dainty food, tender care, 
Soft silence everywhere 

All the day long ; 
Sometimes a small note brings, 
On its white folded wings, 
Hints of unspoken things 

Sweeter than song. 

Outside the wild winds blow, 
Cold rain falls on the snow, 

Sun follows rain ; 
Here where I lie and dream, 
Summer hath flown, 'twould seem, 
Roses and pansies gleam, 

Winds' howl in vain. 

Free from all pain and care, 
E'en Taylor's call I hear 

Without a qualm ; 
Gods that Lucretius knew, 
Dwelling above the blue, 
Did you live, even you, 

In such a calm ? 

Footsteps upon the walk, 
Scraps of some merry talk, 

Bid my dreams cease ; 
Do the Gods look below, 
Gaze on our joy and woe, 
Envy us mortals so, 

Weary of peace ? 

Mary E. Hoyt, 'qj. 

"Ayant cliante tout Fete." 
Belinda e'er hath Portia hated, 
Belinda oft hath clubbed her dig, 
An unattractive, studious prig, 
Then why is Portia now so feted ? 

No lecture yet hath Portia cut, 

Her notes she tabulates with care, 
And helpful schedules doth prepare, 

And on five sheets doth forty put. 

Belinda frequents pleasant places, 
Belinda oft hath gone to teas ; 
Belinda now must Portia please, 

Belinda's notes have desert spaces. 

The June exams come in two weeks, 
Belinda is well-nigh deranged ; 
But Portia's work is well arranged, 

Belinda Portia's love now seeks. 

M. O. B., 'g6. 


It was a shadow pantomime in one 
act — short but very sweet. The sheet was 
the ground-glass pane of the street door ; 
the lamp was the electric light across 
the way. 

I was waiting in the hall for my 
sister, and watching the moving shadows 
of the vines on the glass of the door. 
Suddenly, into the frame of leaves 
moved the two shadows of a man and a 
girl. The man-shadow pulled the door- 
bell ; then he looked towards the girl- 
shadow, and I saw his lips move. Shadow 
words must be very sweet for the girl- 
shadow blew a kiss to the man-shadow. 

And then the maid opened the door. 

M. V. A., ' 93 . 




I low sadly in these latter clays, 

In search of memories bitter sweet 
We tread the once-accustomed ways 

With step grown slow, and lagging 
Timed to the pulse's slower beat — 

And climb the stair and reach the 
To find — alas! how Time is licet! 

Another's name is on the door! 

We timid knock, and beg to gaze 

On all -once ours — are shown a seal, 
() irony ! In sad amaze 

We marvel that it looks so neat, — 
Recalling how we used to meet 

At gruesome hours in days of yore, — 
Hours that Fate can ne'er repeat. 

Another's name is on the door. 

Our ready chaff, our wordy frays, 

Convictions backed by young conceit, 
Have left no echoes ; nothing stays 

To mark how once we "led the street;" 
But others come with youthful heat, 

Nor reck of those that came before, 
And play their part — their years com- 
plete ; — 

Another's name is on the door. 

Freshmen, our age with reverence greet, 
And warning take, tho' grieved sore; 

No words delay, no prayers entreat, — 
Another's name is on the door. 

[slow music] 

E. C. 



Spring had come. The gleaming 

vane on Taylor Hall swung lazily in 
the light breeze, which now and then 
carried away a few of the snow-white, 
wild cherry blossoms silently flutterin 
down upon the soft inviting green sward. 
The birds sang softly, and the air was 
freighted with the scents of growing 
nature, and all was alluring to rest, 
peace and study. 

Impelled by the influence of the 
hour, I slowly wandered out under the 
cherry tree, as slowly sank upon the 
rustic seat, leisurely opened one of my 
well-worn note books, and began to 
saunter through the last lecture. When I 
had finished translating about a page of 
hieroglyphical abbreviations, I suddenly 
heard a humming, growing, growing, dis- 
tinctly growing, until it became a roar. 
Looking around, I saw a horde of tiny 
black creatures, of all imaginable shapes 
and forms, issuing from between the 
covers of my books. Faster and faster 
they poured forth, until they seemed to 
cover the entire campus. At last the din 
ceased, and out of their ranks slipped a 
small, wizened creature, whose ferocious " 
and threatening aspect contrasted ludi- 
crously with his diminutive form. 

"Who are you and what do you 
want ?" I demanded after a pause. 

Drawing himself up as much as the 
crook in his back would allow, he re- 
plied majestically : 

" We are the creatures whom you 
daily, yes, hourly, mutilate; whom you 
grind down with your oppressive hand; 
who are subject to the most virulent 
attacks of your pen !" 



" I cannot imagine," at last I man- 
aged to gasp, "what — " 

" Cannot imagine !" he interrupted ; 
" know then that I, the most useful 
creature here, am daily despised by you 
and called an article! I am the word 
'The' and these my fellow- soldiers and 
myself are what you have made us, mere 
remnants of once well known words ! 
Yes, well-known words ! How would 
you like," here his voice rose to a shriek, 
" how would you like to be chopped off 
every day, when, goodness knows you're 
short enough already ! How would you 
like to have some queer mark to usurp 
your rightful place, or, even worse, to be 
ignored entirely. How would you like 
it! Ha! Ha! Ha!" And laughing 
diabolically he disappeared among the 

Immediately a great commotion 
arose and cries of " vengeance ! " were 
heard on all sides. Then a wild scramble 
began and soon I found myself covered 
with these tiny creatures, each slashing at 
me with his sword. In vain I brushed 
them off. They swarmed up my gown 
by the thousands. Finally, a compara- 
tively huge fellow, Importance, so cur- 
tailed that he looked like an imp, 
gave me a stinging cut across the cheek, 
and suddenly, as suddenly as they had 
come, they vanished. 

The birds were still singing. The 
vane creaked, and the great bell show- 
ered down its appeals for the luncheon 
hour. A great black ant dropped from 
my cheek to the page below, upon the 
mark z which stood in the place of an 
article " the." 

Elisabeth R. Nicholson. 




Tune : " Lauriger Horathts." 

Man us BrynjMawrensium, 

Laetissimae puellae, 
Inter doctas gentium 

Fulgentes sicut stellae. 
Illius fausti temporis 

Sumus praecursores, 
Cum licebit feminis 

Fieri Doctores. 

Omnesque jam scientiae, 

Sunt nobis tamquam joci, 
Professor Linguae Anglicae 

Nos docet bene loqui. 
Necnon in mathematice 

Adeo sumus versatae, 
Ut numeremus facile 

Ouot annos sumus natae. 

Nos docet Biologia 

Ranunculos secare, 
Et Chimia monstrat supra 

Percoquere et arpare. 
Latine et Germanice 

Sumus eloquentes, 
Et Graece et Hispanice 

Legimus currentes. 

Tarn doctas nequis metuat 

Cum venit hora sera, 
1 Desipimus in loco" at- 

Oue " linquimus severa." 
Calculos caeruleos 

Habeant aliae sibi, 
Intuere oculos 

Caelum in est ibi. 

Namque nos monstramus jam 

Bene convenirc 
Doctrinam atque gratiam 

Placere atque scire. 
Nonne sumus omnium 

Doctissimae puellae, 
Mantis Bryn Mawrensium, 

Fulgentes sicut stellae ? 


Tune : "Fair Harvard." 
Class Song, '90. 
As Freshmen we came to the Halls of 
Bryn Mawr, 
All timid, and tender, and green, 
Like undifferentiate, typical cells, 

When the others developed have 
They told us the students would take us 
right in 
To their midst, — and it was not a 
. sham, — 
They have done it, as Congressmen take 
in their friends, 
Or as lions would take in a lamb. 

The Faculty frighten our faculties hence, 

Till our minds are examples of void ; 
They boast of the scalps of the candi- 
dates plucked, 
And the students in quizzes decoyed. 
A stout rope hangs down with a noose 
on the end, 
Just outside of the President's door, 
We are never suspended ; oh, say ! are 
we hanged 
Per order trustees of Bryn Mawr ? 



The Sophomores scoff at our- pleasures 
and pains, 
We have " no nervous system," they 
The Professors allude to their classes last 
In a pensive and sorrowing way, 
Oh ! happy the girls with whom College 
began ! 
Indigenous, favored by all ; 
Unhappy the Freshmen who stand here 
But wait till our turn comes next fall. 

Alice B. Gould, '8g. 

Tune: " Michael Roy ." 

In Bryn Mawr College there dwells a 

That will be known to fame ; 
We are but three months old, alas ! 

And " Freshmen " is our name. 
The Sophomores, they do their best 

To crush us Freshmen few; 
In fact they do the very best 

That Sophomores can do. 

Chorus. — For oh ! for oh ! our course is 
just begun ; 
Then give three cheers for 

the Baby Class, 
The glorious '91. 

We wander through the classic halls, 

And o'er the meadows green, 
We try to act as if we were 

What we have always been. 
The Sophomores, they call us "fresh," 

But just the same we know 
That they were all as fresh themselves, 

About a year ago. 
Cho. — For oh ! for oh ! our course, etc. 

We seek for aid from the Juniors sage, 

But they do smile on we, 
They pity us, and pity too, 

Those fresh professors three. 
Oh ! Juniors wise, and Sophomores, 

Rate not our class too low, 
Perhaps we may be stupid, but 

Just wait, and time will show ! 

Cho. — For oh ! for oh ! our course, etc. 
Ethclwyn Atwater, Student in 'Sy. 


Tune: " Imogene Donahue." 

In eighteen hundred and eighty-five, 
In fair Bryn Mawr began to thrive 
A goodly class of forty-five, 

A college for to be. Tra, la ! 
In eighty-six another came, 
In eighty-seven again the same, 
Yet the college still was but a name, 

A school with classes three ! 


Bryn Mawr was only a part of a whole, 
A fair Undine without a soul, 
A three-wheeled coach still far from the 
That goal so long in view. Tra, la ! 
The college was not one at all, alas ! 
And things had come to a pretty pass, 
The whole place waited for one more 
class — 
The Class of Ninety-two ! 



And here to-night we Freshmen stand, 
A very ordinary bund, 
Distinct upon ns is the brand, 

The greenest of the green, Tra, la ! 
Yet the Senior staid, and the Junior 

And the Sophomore, with head in air, 
To (lie class by whose advent names 
they bear 

Do bow with humble mien ! 

Clio. — Bryn Mawr was only a part of a 
whole, etc. 

Elizabeth Wart- Winsor, '92. 

Join all ye powers to proi [aim 
The glory of a Senior's name, 
Ring, ring; ye bells! blow! trumpel , 

blow ! 
From heights above to depths below ! 

< 1111.- Bryn Maw 1 's oui boast, etc 

And when our College life is o'er, 
Though of Bryn Mawr a part no more, 
Whate'er we do, where'er we be, 
We're still the Class of Ninety-three! 

Cub. — Bryn Mawr's our boast, etc 

G. E. T., '93 ; M. V. A., '93. 


Tunc: " The Watch on the Rhine." 

All hail the Class of '93 ! 
The tender Freshmen first you see, 
Tho' quiz and lecture bring dismay, 
And they lament their life's hard way. 


Bryn Mawr 's our boast, to her we sing, 
And to her feet our loyal tribute bring. 

The Sophomores, with brow serene, 
Lofty and dignified of mien, 
Look from their height with pitying eye, 
But still we have a common tie. 

Cho. — Bryn Mawr's our boast, etc. 

Enrapt in clouds, the Juniors wise 
Are hidden from our straining eyes, 
But if we listen we can hear 
A voice in accents faint and clear : 

Cho. — Bryn Mawr's our boast, etc. 


Music aukanged ijv S. E. T., '9.1. 

We have just come to this college. 
We have come to gather knowledge, 
To gather knowledge from the famous 
tree ! 
And we think that we may profit 
By the bright example of it 

That is set us by the Class of '93. 

Aren't we clever ? oh, yes, we are ! 

We couldn't have been cleverer ! 

Aren't we brilliant ? oh, yes, we are ! 

We couldn't have brillianter ! 

And you'll never see another, 
You'll never see another, 
You'll never see a class like '94 ! 

Cho. — For they said that they'd pluck us, 

But, ha, ha, they fibbed ! 

But, ha, ha, they fibbed ! 

But, ha, ha, they fibbed ! 
For they .said that they'd pluck us, 

But, ha, ha, they fibbed ! 

Ha, ha, they fibbed, they did ! ! ! 



The Sophomores are beauties. 
They quite fulfilled their duties, 

And for the little Freshmen gave a 
play ! 
We were filled with admiration, 
And to show appreciation 

We have tried to do our best for you 
to-day ! 
Aren't they stunning? oh, yes, they are ! 

They couldn't have been stunninger. 
Aren't they lovely ? oh, yes, they are, 
They couldn't have been lovelier ! 
And we'll never see another, 
We'll never see another, 
We'll never see such lovely Sopho- 

But perhaps before they leave us, 
They kindly will receive us 

Into the circle of their dignity. 
Aren't they sweet ! Oh, yes, they are ! 
They couldn't have been sweeter ! 
Aren't they angelic ? Oh, yes, they are ! 
They couldn't have been angelicer! 
And they'll never see another, 
They'll never see another, 
Another year when this last year is 
o'er ! 

Cho. — For they said they'd be Fellows, 
But, ha, ha, they fibbed, etc. 

Susette Throop, '94. 

Cho. — For they said that they'd haze us, 
But, ha, ha, they fibbed, etc. 

The Juniors are splendid 
Surely we'll be well defended, 

If they act as our protectors 'gainst the 
It will be a sight amazing 
If they try to stop the hazing, 

That is due the little Freshies, don't 
you know ! 
Aren't they charming ? oh, yes, they are ! 
They couldn't have been charminger! 
Aren't they merry ? Oh, yes, they are ! 
They couldn't have been Merioner ! 
And they'll never love another, 
They'll never love another, 
They'll never love another than Bryn 

Cho. — Said the Annex was better, 

But, ha, ha, they fibbed, etc. 

The haughty Seniors chill us, 
Their icy looks would kill us, 

If we were not as healthy as could be ; 


Music by ). O. L., '95. 

From us Freshmen to the class that goes 
before us, 
All honor and all reverence are due ; 
So here in humble, deprecating chorus, 
We sing a heart-felt eulogy to you. 
Then here's to you, '94, 

As bright as any daisy, 
Both welcoming and courteous, 
And anything but hazy ! 
We give you our approval, and if you 

have a mind, 
We'll try a friendly strife of brains when- 
ever you're inclined. 

To our Freshman-like amoebic under- 
The students' meetings first brought 
rays of light 
To B. M. S. A. S. G. soon expanding, 
They occupied our time from morn 
till night. 



Then here's to you, meetings all, 

A long life and success ! 
May your constitutions flourish, 
And your shadows ne'er grow less. 
May you always have a quorum — oh, 

this we do implore — 
And never have to watch it stealing 
gently toward the door ! 

When the class of '95's a little older, 

And more of its collegiate course is run, 
Then we expect to be a trifle bolder — 
Oh, then we'll show you how the thing 
is done ! 
Then here's to you, '95, 

Renown and fame forever ! 
May you always be remembered 
As exceptionally clever ! 
We are full of brains and energy, and 

when we get a show 
We'll set the world a-spinning faster than 
it used to go. 

Mary H. Ritchie, '95. 

Mid varied scenes of wood and dale 

Fair Bryn Mawr College stands, 
And to her '96 has come 

Gathered from many lands. 

Bryn Mawr, Bryn Mawr, O fair Bryn 
Mawr ! 
Now in thy crown doth shine, 
Another clear and steady star, 
For '96 is thine. 

And we the Class of '96 
Intend with earnest hearts, 

Whatever be assigned to us 
To play full well our parts. 

Bryn Mawr, liryn Mawr, fair Bryn 
Mawr, etc. 

Our class shall in thy halls, Bryn 

Tread fields of learning wide, 
Till '96, thy latest boast, 

Shall be thy greatest pride. 


Bryn Mawr, Bryn Mawr, O fair Bryn 
Mawr, etc. 

Anna Scattergood, '96. 

GREETING, '91 TO '92. 

Tune : " Welcome Little Primrose Flower." 

Welcome little Freshmaids, all ! 

Who come when Autumn comes, 
When wintry breezes fill the air, 

And College calls us from our homes ! 

With joy we watched your promised 

Gazing on your childish plays, 

And in our hearts, afar we roam 

The paths of Freshman days ! 


Welcome, welcome, welcome Freshmaids 

Welcome pretty Freshmaids fair, 

We sing with heart and voice ! 
Then banish thoughts of dreary care, 

And with us now rejoice ! ! 

Gazing on your budding flowers, 

We seem to hear the spring 
That calls the sunshine and the flowers, 

And bids the birds to sing ! 
And as we gaze our dreams are ripe 

With thoughts akin to you, 
Of Freshmen days, these bygone days, 

When every thing to us was new- ! 




Welcome, welcome, welcome Freshmaids 

Welcome pretty Freshmaids all, 

We're glad they let you through, 
To join us in our work and fun, 

We gladly welcome you ! 

Ethclwyn Atwatcr, Student in '37. 
GREETING, '92 TO '91. 

Tune : " Pretty Little Flower and the Old 
Oak Tree. 1 

We are timid little Freshmaids, as you 

plainly see ! 
We are just as pure and simple as we 
well can be ! 
We are innocence personified, 
And meekness well exemplified, 
And greenness most unqualified 
You'll all agree ! 

Sing hey, well a day ! 

Sing hey, well a day, little Fresh- 
maids we, 
We are artless and confiding, 

We are childish and free, 
Sing hey, well-a-day, 

Little Freshmaids we, 
We are innocence personified, 
You'll all agree! 

We are filled with childish wonder at the 

sights we see, 
Sorely puzzled as to what this thing or 
that may be ; 
We are petrified by quizzes, 
An essay fairly dizzies, 
Such publicity as this is, 
Is just agony ! ! 
Cho. — Sing hey, lack-a-day ! 

But wait a little longer, there is time to 

You were once as shy and bashful in the 
long ago ! 
If we persevere in wile, 
If we steep ourselves in guile, 
If we model on your style, 
We may make a show ! 

Cho. — Sing hey, well-a-day ! 

Sing hey, well-a-day, hopeful Freshmaids 

We have something yet to live for, 

Wicked Sophs to be ! 
Sing hey, well-a-day, 

Happy Freshmaids we, 
We hope sometime in the future 

Wicked Sophs to be ! 

Edith Rockwell Hall, Q2. 
SONG OF > 9 6. 

Tune: " Marching through Georgia." 

Oh ! 'tis fine to be a Freshman, free as 

yet from care, 
Marching through the lecture halls with 

sweet, complacent air. 
So here's to every Freshman class that 

ever entered here, 
At the College of Bryn Mawr. 


Hurrah ! hurrah ! the good old fifty-six ! 
Bryn Mawr! Bryn Mawr! and Class of 

>Here's to getting our degrees and passing 
every ex, 
While we are at Bryn Mawr. 



And 'tis also very line a Sophomore I" l><\ 
Welcoming the Freshmen in when most 

they arc at sea ; 
So here's to every Sophomore that ever 
gave a tea, 
At the College of Bryn Mavvr. 
Clio. — Hurrah ! hurrah ! the good old 
fifty-six ! etc. 

And how happy arc the Juniors, thai 

know it all, 
And fear no more the Faculty, nor aughl 

that may befall ; 
So here's to every Junior Class, that noth- 
ing can appall, 
At the College of Bryn Maivr. 
Clio. — Hurrah! hurrah! the good old 
fifty-six ! etc. 

And the stately Senior, now so rich in 

knowledge grown, 
At last prepared to sally forth crowned 

with learning's crown ; 
So here's to every Senior Class that ever 
wore the gown, 
At the College of Bryn Mawr. 
Clio. — Hurrah ! hurrah ! the good old 
fifty-six ! etc. 

Ruth Underhill, '06. 

< )h, that's the very pla< e, 
And if its halls we'd grai e, 
Since there exn m 
Is not a sham 
We'll have to take a brace ! 

Then come ! yes ! yes ! 

And learn ! yes ! yes! 

Chemistry ? no ! no ! 

History ? no ! no ! 

English ? yes ! yes ! 

Logic? yes ! yes ! 
for we want a degree. 

We'll set the place on fire ! 
We'll toil and never tire ! 
We'll think it right to dig all night 
To raise the standard higher. 

Edith ( 'Mid, 'go. 

llaXXig ' Athi^r h Osd 

Ss -ti<>' jy/jisfs iftsv, 
' Iiisr'jfTuarTai Gui dscvn 
" A/.uut ! '' Ay.uot ! 


Tlinr : " IVe want a drink that' s strong 

We want a course severe, 
We want a widened sphere, 
So let's elect, before too late, 
Just where to graduate. 

Then come! yes! yes! 

And learn ! yes ! yes ! 

Wellesley ? no ! no ! 

Evelyn ? no ! no ! 

Annex? yes ! yes ! 

Bryn Mawr ? yes ! yes ! 
Cap and gown once we're in ! 

Maxdpc^e, airoufiev, 

H/UV I7nifi.iv; didoo, 

liny; (TUYyiyvnu dsi, 
Mdxap >'hft, axons, 
"Axnusl "Axooel 

' tiptoe vbv ~ob$ Xoyvttog, 
' As\ <pw;w$ tpaoiEV 
t$ap—puvo)/Te$ Trp 6dov t 
MeXdv a>avuv iztHduv~£$ 3 

'A/.nos ! "A/.iios ! 

J/. V. A., 'oj; B.H.P., 'pj. 




Tune : "Elephant Song" from "IVahg-." 

You must be a little maiden both dainty 
and coy, 
If you strive to be a belle ; 
You must clearly know the difference 
'twixt a man and a boy, 
For that is what will tell. 
Don't hope to win society 
By being fast and bold, 
Nor yet go to the other extreme 
And be too proud and cold. 

And whatever little knowledge you may 
Suppress it immediately ; 
Nor upon Buddha's doctrines ever lay 
great stress , 
For they're not good form, you'll see. 
The average depth of the average mind 

These subjects will not endure, 
And the swells most average you'll find 
You must use better bait to lure. 

Don't ask to meet the batter of the base- 
ball team, 
Nor speak of the foot-ball nine. 
Some knowledge of these matters will 
you beseem 
So to them your heart incline. 
Declare cricket to be a charming game, 

Go wild over tennis too. 
Pronounce La Crosse a trifle tame, 
Great respect for you will ensue. 

Declare Boston Symphonies to be a 
dreadful bore, 
But approve of Boom-de-ay. 
Vow that Gibson's drawings you ever 
did adore, 
And a word of Cabanel say. 

In literature Rudyard Kipling take, 
Say his style is crisp and new ; 

Declare Ibsen to be a fake 
But say Clyde Fitch will do. 

M. O. B., 'q6. 


Tune: " The Bowery." 

Oh, that day that I reached Bryn Mawr, 

Didn't my vanity get a jar ! 

Wore my hair down, most becomingly 

Hoped that the College would be im- 

When my mail came in that night, 

Opened it quickly with great delight ; 

Nothing but hairpins met my sight, 
And I'll never go there any more. 


Oh, that College ! that College ! 
They say such things, 
And they do such things 

At that College ! that College ! 

We'll never go there any more. 

Went to the library to take a look, 
Every one there was intent on her book ; 
Found the latest Harper out, 
Read a story that made me shout, 
Said to the maiden who sat near me : 
" This is the richest I ever did see." 
" Would you mind making less noise ?" 
said she, 
And I'll never go there any more. 

Chorus. — Oh, that College ! that Col- 
lege ! etc. 



Oh, those weeks that I went to the gym, 

Didn't I ache in every limb ? 

Thought a condition would be pretty 

Was told that twelve hours would be 

quite enough ; 
Ran like a horse on the running track, 
Worked at the chest-weights until I was 

Then found 1 only one hour did lack ; 
And I'll never go there any more. 
Chorus. — Oh, that College ! that Col- 
lege ! etc. 

Happened one day out of doors to go, 
A man with a hose was sprinkling the 

The out-door manager stood near by, 
Scanning the puddles with anxious eye ; 
" Are you trying to make the daisies 

grow ?" 
Said I. With scorn she replied, " Not 

'Tis the skating pond, I would have you 

know ;" 
And I'll never go there any more. 

Chorus.— Oh, that College ! thaf Col- 
lege ! etc. 

Oh, that day that I wrote this song, 
Won't I regret ft my whole life long, 
Wrung out each day a verse or two ; 
Thought five, at least, with encores would 

Sorry to say I am out of rhymes; 
La, la, la, la, la, la la la la limes 
Though you may ask me a thousand 
more times, 

I never will write any more. 
Chorus. — Oh, that College ! that Col- 
lege ! etc. 

A.S. B., '94; E. M. IV., 'g 4 . 


(A prolcptic Commencement Ode.) 

On the top of Bryn Mawr a phenomenon 
With a circumflex air, and with weep- 
ing acute ; 
Though her accent was grave, yet her 
oxy-toned hat 
Was a proof she was clad in a Taylor 's 
new suit. 
Like a maiden she seemed, but I could 
not opine 
Why she shone like the star that was 
Hecuba's son, 
Why she shook as she sang, like a wild 
ivy vine, 
Why she looked like a fraction, though 
properly none ! 
Why she writhed like an earthworm, and 
croaked like a frog, 
While exploding in gas that talked 
Latin and Greek, 
Till I heard her lament, as on top of a 
With unearthly gymnastics she has- 
tened to speak : 

Tune: " One Fish Bali:' 

" l was a maiden, meek and mild, 

That now am an experiment, 
I was a single, simple child, 

And void, of time and firmament ; 
My maiden life, alas ! 'tis gone. 

Behold me now ! I am a star ! 
A beacon-light that gleams forlorn, 

The only lantern in Bryn Mawr ! 



Forlorn ! not lonely, there's a twin, 

That complicates my sad distress, 
And makes me yearn the more to win 

The " state of single blessedness." 
But presto ! change ! for when I yearn 

To smite the twin and smite the yoke. 
I turn into an ivy-vine 

Denied the shelter of an oak ! 

Oh oakless vine ! oh yokeless pair ! 

A star unique, within whose sky 
A twin is found ! oh quaint and rare ! 

Oh metaphor, oh mystery ! ! ! 
Oh mixedness, unhappy girl ! 

Where, where is my identity ? 
My head is ever in a whirl ! 

Familiar things seem strange to me ! ! 

The gentle worms avoid my walks, 
I fright the frogs that wooing go, 
While Virgil's ghost besides me stalks, 
And wrings its hands and shrieks 
" dabo ! " 
I am the maiden of Bryn Mawr, 

The high, high hill that leads to knowl- 
A twin I am, a vine, a star. 

The Great-Group-System Woman's 






ELVA LEE, '93 

Editor-in Chief 






Business Manager 




Frontispiece : Pembroke West, 

Editorial, . 

George Meredith, 

Sonnet ; Unrest, 

My Moral Supporter, 

Silence Visible, . 

Examination vs. Education, . 

The Need of a More Uniform Standard 

in American Examinations, . 
Hymn to Diana, .... 
No Case for Litigation, 
The Father of Fables, . 

Letters to Living Authors 
On a French Hill-top, 
Pigeon Holes, 

. Effie Wliittredge, '96 

Emma Stansbury Wines, '94 

Georgia na Goddard King, '96 

Mary Owen Brown, '96 

. . . M. P. C, '89 

Kate Holladay Claghorn,- '92 

A. B. Gould, '89 

. E. S. JK, '94 

Elva Lee, '9J 

. L. M. I)., '93 

Julia Olivia Langdon, '95 

M. H. R. , '95 ; II. S. H. , '97 

. Helen J. Robins, '92 

Madeline Vaughan Abbott, '9J 








No. 4 BRYN MAWR Junk, 1894 


ABOUT twenty-three years ago Ruskin wrote in Fors Clavigera, 
"... women hold it for an honor to be independent and 
shriek for some hold of the mattock for themselves." If we extend 
the symbolic meaning of" the mattock " to include intellectual as well as 
manual occupations, we have here a true and forcible description of a 
movement then in its beginning. That the efforts thus characterized have 
made great progress towards accomplishing their object, during the last 
quarter of a century, the amount and variety of work exhibited by women 
last year in the Columbian Exposition stands as a concrete confirmation. 
It is now established beyond question that a woman will not find insur- 
mountable obstacles in any pursuit that her ability and circumstances 
permit her to enter. 

Moreover, the legal restrictions upon women's personal liberty and 
property rights, which have been the cause of much suffering, are now for 
the most part set aside, and, in some cases, women have been given even 
a distinct advantage over men. Nor is there any longer any necessity for 
silent endurance on the part of women. What was in the beginning only 
an inarticulate cry for independence, has become a veiy definite statement. 
Women of almost every class have now some sort of organization to further 
their objects and formulate their desires. The isolated philanthropic sewing 
circle and tentatively ambitious literary society or lecture " lyceum " have 
given place to extensive and elaborately organized associations, such as the 


Temperance Union and Sorosis, and to more private clubs, with every pos- 
sible aim, from an understanding of Browning to a knowledge of bread- 
baking. Further, the press of the day gives abundant opportunity for that 
" shriek," deplored by Ruskin, to become articulate. To say nothing 
of the publications dealing exclusively with subjects of interest to women, 
it seems not impossible, as some very recent literature shows, to find 
expression for all grievances, real or fancied, not only in the daily journals 
but also in the more serious magazines. 

However, though so much has been gained, the end of the struggle 
is not yet come. To many who were resting under the comfortable 
impression that it had come, Mrs. Craikenthorpe's article The Revolt 
of the Daughters , in the Nineteenth Century, for January last, and the dis- 
cussions following it, must have contained startling revelations. It may have 
seemed at first sight that this revolt was due to one of the fancied grievances, 
and, indeed, in any case, it seems as though a little right feeling might have 
turned the outbreak in another direction. There must always be cause for 
wonder in the action of those who can render ghastly, by open utterance, 
any trouble between mother and daughter, — a thing painful enough when 
kept silent, and easily avoided, one would think, by even less affection than 
is naturally to be looked for in this relation. 

But this revolt, though it might well have taken a more seemly form 
than the comments upon it imply that it has taken, has its origin in con- 
ditions really demanding change, if the highest development of women is to 
be attained. The conditions are not the same, of course, in America as in 
England, where this discussion has been groins: on, but even here there is 
some cause for a similar trouble. The cause is, briefly, that custom and 
conventionality deny, not to the young girl alone, but to women generally, 
that freedom of action which is almost universally conceded as one of the 
chief rights of a man. It is probable that a corresponding revolt among 
American girls would strike more closely at the root of the trouble, and 
would be not merely a somewhat incoherent demand for the privilege 
of reading a questionable novel or making a call without the attendance 
of a maid, but an urgent insistence upon their rights, not as women, but as 
human beings. The discussion in the Nineteenth Century offers an inter- 


esting corroboration of the suggestion that American girls, being less 
hampered than English girls, will see more quickly their real needs, since 
the most thorough and discriminating treatment of the subject that has yet 
appeared is by an American girl, a graduate of Bryn Mawr. Many people 
may find it hard to believe that the young women of a nation which sup- 
plied the prototype of Daisy Miller twenty years ago, can find in their 
position any just cause for complaint. But the question is decidedly not 
one of chapcronage ; it is perfectly possible for a girl to be most el- 
guarded, and yet to be allowed an opportunity for individual development 
undreamed of by girls whose apparent freedom is far greater. The sug- 
gestion of Mrs. Haweis, in one of the papers already mentioned, although 
it gives vigorous utterance to a principle not yet sufficiently insisted upon, 
does not cover the whole ground. She says : " If girls were brought up to 
earn their own living, to feel that they not only might, but must, share their 
brothers' responsibilities ; if parents trained them lovingly, firmly, for this 
natural duty, they would be happier, and the problem. of revolt would be 

It is very true that restriction is imposed upon girls, more often than 
not, as a protection and as an exemption from the rigorous and often very 
disagreeable duties involved in self-dependence. But even in these cases, 
the restraint inevitably does harm — circumstances alone determining whether 
the harm be very great or almost imperceptible. And even in these cases the 
restraint is based on the same false estimate of the position of girls, which 
results in positive hardship when not alleviated by consideration and affection. 

The slowly growing conviction that girls should be trained in a way to 
make them capable of self-support has not yet become so integral a part of 
common thought as to lessen appreciably the difference between the demands 
made upon young men and those made upon young women. The very fact 
that a girl may, without censure, stay at home, passing her time, not neces- 
sarily idly, yet in an aimless way that would be a crying shame to her 
brother, is, in its reverse application, made the reason why she should 
subordinate her views and wishes to those of the family to an extent, it may 
be safely said, rarely required of a man. Even where it is necessary that a 
girl should support herself, her time, much more than her brother's, is 


generally considered at the disposal of her family. One of the most difficult 
problems of life is, of course, to determine the exact proportion between 
self-sacrifice and self-development that will make us most useful to those 
whom we would serve ; yet it is approximately true that the higher develop- 
ment one's powers reach, the greater will be one's usefulness. It is extremely 
doubtful whether this higher development, even of the moral nature, can be 
attained when the individuality is greatly repressed ; hence it is well that all 
possible freedom be given every one in " living his own life." The present 
unrest among girls is undoubtedly due to an awakening sense of the injustice 
of the limitations imposed upon them. It is not enough, then, that girls 
themselves be made to know that they ought to have the same responsi- 
bilities as their brothers, — the majority of girls known to the writer do feel 
this, only with varying intensity. Still more important is the bringing of 
public opinion to recognize not only that girls must work, but also that their 
self-dependence must involve exactly the same freedom in shaping their own 
lives which is now granted to men, and that upon these two things depend 
their highest usefulness and truest happiness. 

To us at Bryn Mawr this discussion is most interesting in its bearing 
on college education for women. We are not unaware that there are others 
for whom it has not this interest, but the remark of a certain writer that she 
is not speaking of " the highly educated examination-passing Girton girl, 
with her vast schemes for regenerating mankind," arouses in us the thought 
that if a girl in the present day has no ideas in regard to improving the con- 
dition of part of mankind, she is herself in some need of regeneration ; 
and that if the schemes and the examination-passing go together — we shall 
by no means insist that they do — it would be better for the most pronounced 
society girl to have both rather than neither. 

The present time is one of peculiar difficulty for girls, in that their 
needs are gaining a recognition, though slowly, from one-half of the world, 
and none at all from the other half. Without that almost unconsciously 
received training which a boy is constantly getting because of the certainty 
of the demands to be made upon him, they are but little fitted for the 
solution of the thousand and one perplexing and bewildering questions that 
meet them in this stage of transition. We would, then, lay special stress 


upon college education, because we believe it to have, besides all the general 
arguments in its favor, the additional one that it is the most effective mi ins 
yet devised for supplementing the defective training of girls. 

A brief consideration of some of the features of life and work here 
may serve to substantiate this claim. First in importance, of course, is the 
work ; the fundamental purpose of a college. The quantity and quality of 
the advanced work being done, proves that the opportunities offered for 
such work have met a real demand. A few examples will show the character 
of this work. A piece of philological research, seemingly of more than 
ordinary interest, is an investigation by the present Fellow in English as to 
the date, composition, and place of origin, and relation to its Latin original, 
of the Anglo-Saxon metrical version of the Psalms. It may also be men- 
tioned that the dissertation of a former Fellow in English, who took her 
doctor's degree at Bryn Mawr in 1892, has been published by the American 
Journal of Philology. In the line of published work, we have also this year 
to show an article in the Quarterly Journal of Mathematics by the Fellow in 
Mathematics. Also two papers by the European Fellow for 1894, one pub- 
lished in the Journal of the Franklin Institute and one in the American 
Chemical Journal, and abstracts of these have already been reprinted in 
Berichtc and English journals. A highly interesting thesis, A Study of 
the Birth-Rate in the United States, has just been completed by the Fellow 
in History, and is to be published in the Annals of the American Academy 
of Political and Social Science. This thesis is based upon a large number of 
statistical tables and charts made out with great care, and its conclusions 
are: that the theories of Dr. John S. Billings, M. Levasseur, M. Dumont 
and Dr. Cyrus Edson in regard to population have not given an adequate 
account of the matter for the United States ; that Mr. Spencer's generaliza- 
tion, that the birth rate diminishes as the rate of individual evolution increases 
is confirmed ; that the Malthusian theory in general does not hold for the 
United States. 

The fact that, as in one of the instances mentioned above, advanced 
work can be done here by undergraduates, is due to the arrangement of 
studies, which, while it is varied enough for purposes of general culture, at 
the same time does away, in many cases, with the often urged objection 


that the three or four years spent in getting the first degree is so much time 
taken from any special study one may wish to pursue. 

However, the girl who has a special taste in some one subject, and who 
is given a chance both to discover and gratify this taste, is not the only one 
benefitted by the breadth and variety of studies demanded in a college course 
of four years, nor does the whole benefit even to her lie in the study pur- 
sued. The average thoughtful girl, who, though she has no decided bent 
in any direction, none the less wishes to make her life tell for good, will find 
that the whole training of college, with all its various influences, has 
given her a new power to test herself, to learn her capabilities and 
preferences, to formulate her aspirations, and to co-ordinate and make 
effective all her future efforts. The very conditions resulting from bring- 
ing together a large number of girls into one common life are similar to 
those prevailing in the broader world, and tend to a similar development 
of character. 

This is especially true of Bryn Mawr, because of the unusual degree of 
freedom allowed the students. While we are not left without direction and 
assistance in working out the problems arising in our social life, at the same 
time there is given such a wide scope to our own discretion that our facul- 
ties of self-command and united action are exercised to an extent almost 
impossible in home life. During its first few years, the College was wholly 
without rules, but as the number of students increased it became necessary 
for us to have some definite order in our mutual relations, so that we might 
secure for ourselves a maximum of comfort with a minimum of friction. 
Hence arose the Self Government Association, which has been described in 
a former issue of the Lantern. 

There is one important influence of this Association that has been little 
dwelt upon as yet. It is impossible to estimate the time and energy lost by 
women in aimless discussion and useless dissension, because of their insuf- 
ficient knowledge of parliamentary forms and habits of thinking. In the 
Self-Government meetings the students are developing" a power of pertinent 
and logical argument, and of decisive and effective action, which will prove 
invaluable to them hereafter, and which, did the Association subserve no 
other purpose, would amply justify its existence. 


In view of the constantly increasing number of girls in colleges, it may 
seem a wholly unnecessary task- to attempt to set forth the need of greater 
liberty for girls in this respect. But it is a conviction forced upon one by 
repeated testimony, that by far the greater majority of people who believe in 
college at all, do not think it as important for girls as for men, and that the 
old conventional view of a girl's duties does avail, in altogether too many 
instances, to keep girls from following their own choice. It is true there are- 
many of us whose experience might be cited as evidence to the contrary ; 
nevertheless the opinion is still held that a girl is wickedly abandoning her 
home if she leaves it for four years or so for the purpose of study,— although she 
might marry, and leave it forever, without a word of censure. This opinion is so 
wide-spread that the parents who are wise enough to see that they are advan- 
cing their daughters' best interests by letting them walk alone for a little while, 
are very often regarded as martyrs to the selfishness of their children. 

One of the most serious difficulties in the way of college education for 
girls, is the charge that it is detrimental to their health. The discussion of 
this question, at present, can not be more than an exchange of opinions 
based on personal experience, because the matter has not been under con- 
sideration long enough for us to have the evidence of statistics. The 
Alumna? Association of Bryn Mawr is now preparing to send out a set of 
questions similar to those used by Mrs. Sidgwick, in England. These 
questions are very detailed, and it is earnestly hoped that, in course of 
time, statistical proof may be obtained that the charge is unwarranted. 
But, even without this confirmation, it seems highly improbable that a 
reasonable amount of clear and vigorous thinking can tend to lessen 
vitality. On the contrary, there is a good deal of ground for believing that 
it has the opposite effect. In an " open letter " to the Century {ok February, 
1891, Miss Thomas, Dean of Bryn Mawr, says: "The woman physician 
will prescribe sheer idleness as a remedy neither for the indispositions of 
girls in their teens, nor for the ill-health of college students." Anyone who 
has known anything of ill-health will affirm the truth of the theory implied in 
this statement. If a girl is not strong, it does not improve matters to let her' 
" eat her own heart," a prey to the morbid fancies that will surely come, if 
she is not given pleasurable and stimulating mental occupation. 


In the belief that study in itself promotes rather than impairs physical 
health, those in charge of women's colleges are strenuously trying to secure 
for the students conditions most favorable to the highest efficiency of both 
mind and body. Because of the fixed hours for lectures, the college day 
naturally falls into distinct periods of work and recreation, and therefore a 
wholesome regularity of life is preserved. At Bryn Mawr, though it is not 
forbidden to play tennis, walk, or drink tea at any time of the day, usually 
the morning hours and the early part of the afternoon are devoted to lectures, 
laboratory work and study. At four o'clock the second ringing of the bell 
in Taylor Hall tower is a signal to begin preparations for " teas," to try to 
remember one's duties in the way of committee and general meetings, to 
dress for tennis, basket-ball, or an invigorating walk over the rolling hills. 
Again, when that somewhat vaguely determined period of " 9.1 5 to 10" has 
come, the gymnasium or a friend's room tempts one, according to her taste, 
to a wholesome diversion before going to bed. 

While it is true that girls have broken down during their college course, 
it is safe to say that probably not in one case can it be shown that the girl 
started with ordinarily good health, and studied and exercised with reason- 
able moderation. It is, moreover, perfectly possible for even a delicate girl 
to come out of college better in health than when she entered, and it is 
equally possible for a very strong girl, who has never seen the walls of a 
college, to break down completely, through the over-pressure of social 

The insistence here upon college training does not imply the self-satis- 
fied conviction that college women are wiser and better than any others ; it 
merely means that we, to whom college has unfolded wider possibilities than 
we had before known, firmly believe that such training, or its equivalent, is 
an indispensable factor in the highest development of our powers, be they 
great or small. 



To go preach to the first passer-by, to become; tutor to the ignorance of 
the first I meet, is a thing I abhor. — Montaigne. 

The sentiment placed at the head of this article is quoted with approval 
by Mr. Walter Pater, in an essay in which he undertakes to develop, with 
some precision, his views concerning literary art, and especially concerning 
style. But his essay is more than the expression of the views of any indi- 
vidual ; it represents, with more or less accuracy, the theory of a school of 
writers of whom Mr. Pater may be taken as the exponent, and hence it 
attains a significance which can hardly attach to the utterances of any indi- 
vidual as such. It is always an ungrateful task to find fault with a piece of 
work which has cost the workman so much care and pains, which exhibits 
so much soundness of thought, truth of insight, vigor and exactness of 
language, and which is, on the whole, so rich in suggestion, as the essay 
that opens the volume entitled Appreciations. But along with much that is 
true and helpful, this essay contains the enunciation of a principle erroneous 
and dangerous, as it seems to me — a principle which has proved prejudicial 
to the work of Mr. Pater himself and to that of other writers of his schopl. 
To quote Mr. Pater's own words in the essay under consideration : 

" The literary artist is of necessity a scholar, and in what he proposes 
to do will have in mind, first of all, the scholar and the scholarly con- 
science. . . . " 

" To really strenuous minds there is a pleasurable stimulus in the chal- 
lenge for a continuous effort on their part, to be rewarded by securer and 
more intimate grasp of the author's sense. Self-restraint, a skilful economy 
of means, ascesis, that, too, has a beauty of its own ; and for the reader 
supposed there will be an aesthetic satisfaction in that frugal closeness of 
style which makes the most, of a word, in the exaction from every sentence 
of a precise relief, in the just spacing out of word to thought, in the logically 
filled space connected always with the delightful sense of difficulty over- 

There is here so much to which assent must be given, and it is so con- 
fused with that mistaken notion to which I have alluded, that the 


disentanglement becomes difficult. Indeed, it is rather a transposition of 
emphasis than anything positively false in the ideal here set before the 
artist, to which I wish to take exception. The literary artist, says Mr. 
Pater, must conform to the standard of the scholar. True : but not true 
that this is what he will have in mind exclusively or even chiefly. The 
primary appeal of all great art, literary art especially, is to the intelligence 
of a much wider and more general public than that of the scholar. There 
is a pleasurable stimulus, Mr. Pater affirms, in the challenge for a continuous 
effort on the reader's part — a satisfaction in the delightful sense of difficulty 
overcome. But there is a great difference between genuine difficulty of 
thought and artificial difficulty of style. When the difficulty is really 
inherent in the thought, when the thought is so subtle, so profound or so 
far-reaching as to require mental exertion, even intense, to grasp it, the effort 
becomes truly stimulating and delightful. But the reader, who, after 
making such an effort, finds that his exertion has been called forth only by 
wilful ambiguity, obscurity or intricacy of style, and that there is no intrinsic 
difficulty in the thought, will be very apt to feel that exasperation which 
does, as a rule, follow the useless expenditure of energy. The business of 
the writer is to render his meaning as clear as he can : not deliberately to 
make an enigma of it. More, the intentional elaboration of style so as to 
make it unintelligible or repellent to all but the esoteric few, is essentially a 
species of affectation, and, like all affectation, carries with it a tinge of vul- 
garity. To value a book because it is rare is one thing ; to buy up all the 
copies of certain editions and destroy them, in order to make one's own col- 
lection unique, is another and a different thing. So the refusal to accept as 
final the verdict of the uninstructed, is one thing ; the calculated attempt to 
make one's work unintelligible to them, is another. It smacks a little of 
the pedant. And beautiful and exquisite as is much of his work, it is to 
be feared that Mr. Pater must sometimes plead guilty to the charge of 
pedantry, especially when he adheres most closely to his own theoiy of the 
writer's art. 

In general, the history of art would seem to show that when the 
importance of style as an end in itself is made to overbalance the importance 
of the idea to be conveyed, the artistic value of the work is impaired, and 


its permanence becomes at least doubtful. The temptation to transgress 
(his law of art is, however, peculiarly strong in the case of men who, like 
Mr. Pater, lay stress upon artistic excellence in and for itself: because what 
they wish to present to the reader is often not a thought in the strictest 
sense of the word, i. c, it is nothing that can be expressed in a proposition 
or a syllogism ; it is a vision, a mood, an impression, whose essence is lost, 
in the reproduction, by the slightest error in the choice and arrangement of 
words. But what shall be said of a writer who claims as his peculiar 
domain the region of the purely intellectual, whose professed aim it is to 
inculcate moral truth, and who yet disdains to be comprehended by any but 
the initiate ? Our surprise at finding a moralist and a philosopher like Mr. 
Meredith among the votaries of this order is almost as great as that of the 
Israelites at finding Saul also among the prophets. 

Mr. Meredith does, to a certain extent, belong to the school of Mr. 
Pater. Their respective styles, though in some ways the very antithesis of 
each other, are alike in difficulty ; and I think their own utterances 
justify the assertion that on the part of both writers this difficulty is inten- 
tional, however different the means they employ to produce it. This is the 
point in common between Mr. Meredith and the esoteric school (if one may 
call it so), of which he is in many respects one of the most brilliant repre- 
sentatives. He would certainly agree heartily with Mr. Pater in approval of 
the sentiment expressed by Montaigne, and quoted above. In the matter 
of style, he has probably tested, to the utmost, the possibilities of excellence 
in the principle of non-intelligibility ; and his contempt for the common 
herd is not unnatural in view of the very tardy recognition accorded by the 
public to his own powerful and admirable novels. Excepting an unsuccess- 
ful attempt at a collection of tales in the style of the Arabian Niglits, with 
which we need not further concern ourselves, Mr. Meredith's first and, in 
the judgment of many critics, his greatest work, The Ordeal of Richard 
Feveril, was published in 1859, the year of the publication of Adam Bede, 
The Virginians, A Tale of Two Cities, and The Marble Faun. These novels 
have long been among our English classics, yet only within the last ten 
years has the author of Richard Feveril begun to find an audience. In the 
meantime, he has gone on, with indomitable determination, publishing at 


average intervals of about three years a series of massive, carefully elabo- 
rated, closely-written novels, each of which one may readily believe to be 
the result of three years of diligent and steady labor. Of late years, those 
members of the reading public who swaj' the judgment of the rest have 
begun to appreciate him, and in American literary circles he has become 
more or less the fashion — a state of things for which he may console him- 
self by reflecting that at least one-half of his professed admirers are prob- 
ably not sincere. 

The causes of the early neglect and of the late appreciation of the 
public lie side by side in the novels, for Mr. Meredith is emphatically a man 
who has the defects of his qualities. Not being a critic by profession, he 
has not, like Mr. Pater, given the world a formal exposition of his theory of 
literature : but he has conformed his actual writing to his ideal, if that can 
be inferred from scattered statements in his novels, far more rigorously than 
has the charming author of The Renaissance . About style he says little 
explicitly, but his practice renders a statement of theory on this point 
unnecessary. Indeed, the amount of effort necessary to get at his meaning 
is the most striking quality of his writings, on a first perusal. His pages 
bristle with uncouth and German-sounding constructions, with strange com- 
pounds, with phrases abbreviated to a point which might almost be called 
the short-hand of language, and above all with metaphors, at first sight 
unintelligible, reminding the reader of his saying with regard to metaphors in 
general, that though they " have helped largely to civilize us," "the sluggish 
in intellect detest them." He loves to open a novel with a particularly abstruse 
and baffling chapter, thus rearing a barrier to the entrance of all those whose 
interest or perseverance is insufficient to carry them through the severest 
tests. And yet, paradoxical as it may seem, to those who succeed in passing 
the barrier this very style becomes one of his greatest charms. To begin with, 
studied and even strained as it often appears, it is most profoundly impressed 
with the personality of the writer. To say this is not to withdraw the charge 
of affectation, for the form as well as the fact of affectation is determined by 
the character of the subject, and affectation often ends by becoming uncon- 
scious and, as we say, second nature. Of Mr. Meredith it may be said, 
with even more truth than of authors in general, that the style is the man. 


And then, if its faults arc peculiarly open to condemnation, its merits are 
incontestable. In fact the two are often so inextricably interwoven that it is 
not easy to separate them. His writing is fairly incrusted with aphorisms and 
epigrams, which are sometimes as much out of place as diamonds worn in the 
morning, but which are, nevertheless, diamonds. I lis effort to clothe his 
thought in an unusual and striking garb, while it often results in strained 
and unpleasing turns of expression, often, too, gives birth to one of those 
consummate phrases that stamp an idea or a picture on the mind as a flash 
of lightning stamps the momentary vision seen by its light. Many such 
pictures, painted by a rapid phrase, fully satisfy his own ideal of the art of 

" The art of the pen (we write on darkness) is to rouse the inward 
vision, instead of labouring with a drop-scene brush, as it were, to the eye ; 
because our flying minds cannot contain a protracted description. That is 
why the poets, who spring imagination with a word or a phrase, paint 
lasting pictures. The Shakespearian, the Dantesque, are in a line, two at 

In longer descriptions he is himself undoubtedly less admirable : 
because his highly wrought and self-assertive style attracts attention to 
itself, and away from the scene or subject to be placed before the reader. 
A style so brilliant and so self-conscious as Mr. Meredith's is better adapted 
to almost any other kind of writing than to this. In wit, on the contrary, 
he excels every other English novelist : but he sets too high a value on this 
quality, even to regarding it as a guarantee of truth and sincerity ; and he 
sometimes sacrifices a higher artistic excellence to the opportunity of saying 
a good thing. 

With regard to the other essential qualities of the art of fiction, Mr. 
Meredith is somewhat more explicit than he is with regard to style. His 
reiterated demand is for philosophy. 

" Instead, therefore, of objurgating the timid intrusions of philosophy, 
invoke her presence, I pray you. History without her is the skeleton- 
map of events : Fiction a picture of figures modelled on no skeleton- 
anatomy. But each, with philosophy in aid, blooms, and is humanly 
shapely. To demand of us truth to nature, excluding philosophy, is really 


to bid a pumpkin caper. As much as legs are wanted for the dance, 
philosophy is required to make' our human nature credible and acceptable." 
" A thousand years ! " he exclaims, " You may count full many a 
thousand years by this route before you are one with divine philosophy." 

And to the question, what is this divine philosophy? he replies : 

" You touch her skirts when you share her hatred of the sham 
decent, her derision of sentimentalism." 

" . . a single flight of brains will reach and embrace her; give 

you the savour of Truth, the right use of the senses, Reality's infinite sweet- 
ness ; for these things are in philosophy . . . " 

The discerning reader will not fail to recognize the influence of Carlyle 
in this vigorous outcry against sham. Sham, pretense, insincerity of any 
kind is Mr. Meredith's abhorrence, as truth is his watchword : truth to 
nature and to one's convictions, in art and in reality ; truth under all circum- 
stances and in every relation in life. So devoted is he to the presentation 
of life as it is, that he would hardly acquiesce even in Amiel's definition of 
art, as "a bringing into relief of groups invisible in nature." The limita- 
tions of the finite do, indeed, compel the novelist to restrict each one of 
his novels to a calculable number of persons and a definite succession of 
events ; but that events or persons should have more coherence than 
nature itself has to our eyes, is what Mr. Meredith cannot admit to be 
required by any principle of the novelist's art. In life we see many inco- 
herences, many incongruities ; unassociated lives touching each other, influ- 
encing each other, for a moment only ; divergent and widely-sundered 
interests meeting and involved at a single point ; consequences unex- 
plained by visible causes, and causes leading to no anticipated results ; the 
magical rapid shifting of scenes in a pantomine, the weaving and tangling, 
the tearing and ravelling, of a mystic web — hurry everywhere, disorder 
and confusion : and because these things are so in life, he seems to think 
them permissible, if not obligatory, in a novel. In other words, he devotes 
all his attention to the portrayal of character, at the expense of construc- 
tion ; nay, he seems even to imply that the two are incompatible. 

" . . . you are set astride the enchanted horse of the Tale, which 
leaves the man's mind at home while he performs the deeds befitting him. 

CI <>['<, I. Ml II 1)1 I'll 21 

The Talc inspirits one's earlier ardors, when we .sped without 
baggage, when the impossible was wings to imagination, and heroic sculpt- 
ure the simplest act of the chisel. . . . An ill-fortuned minstrel, who 
has by fateful direction been brought to see with distinctness, that man is 
not as much comprised in external features as the monkey, will be devoted 
to the task of the fuller portraiture." 

" I am bound to forewarn readers of this history that there is no plot in 
it. It is artless art and monstrous innovation to present so wilful 

a figure, but were I to create a striking fable for him, and set him off with 
scenic effects and contrasts, it would be only a momentary tonic to you, to' 
him instant death. He could not live in such an atmosphere." 

Though plot be admitted antagonistic to character-painting, the vivid 
presentation of human passions and emotions might be supposed essential to 
it. But of this important element of the novelist's art Mr. Meredith says 
little or nothing, except in so far as we may suppose it included in his gen- 
eral injunctions to be true to nature. And, even in these, his emphasis is 
always on the intellectual, whether in author or in character : "the brain- 
stuff of fiction," as he calls it. 

" A great modern writer, of clearest eye and head, now departed, capa- 
ble in activity of presenting thoughtful women, thinking men, groaned over 
his puppetry — that he dared not animate them, flesh though they were, with 
the fires of positive brainstuff. He could have done it, and he is of the 
departed ! Had he dared he would (for he was Titan enough) have raised 
the Art in dignity on a level with History, to an interest surpassing the narra- 
tive of public deeds, as vividly as man's heart and brain in their union excel 
his plain lines of action to eruption." 

In short, the intellectual is the predominant element in his theory of 
art ; and, after the style, the predominance of the intellectual must be the 
next thing to impress the student of Mr. Meredith's novels. They are 
novels with a purpose; they all have a " moral ;" for, as he informs the 
reader, it is " this garrulous, super-subtle, so-called Philosopher, who first 
set me upon the building of the three volumes." A personal friend quotes 
him as saying : 

" I have brooded over them, and the thoughts with which the best of 
them were written remain with me vivid as at the moment of production. 
Such thoughts are the keenest parts of spiritual life. Narrative is nothing. 


It is the mere vehicle of philosophy. The interest is in the idea which action 
serves to illustrate. Without action the mind fails in grasping the idea ; 
therefore action becomes necessary, but the mind must be fixed upon what 
lies behind." 

" The thoughts with which they were written," " the idea which action 
serves to illustrate " — that is the important thing in the mind of this didactic 
narrator. It must be confessed that his ideas are well worth studying. He 
knows human nature thoroughly; knows the world, too, as few men know 
it, even of those who have seen most of it. More than any other title he 
merits that of the wise man, the sage, or, as he himself prefers to put it, 
the Philosopher. His observation of life has been both broad and close, his 
conclusions are profound and weighty. Yet, deeply as he has studied the 
faults and foibles of his fellow-men, he has not lost faith in human nature. 
He is a great satirist, but he is not a cynic. " Philosophy bids us see," he 
says, " that we are not so pretty as rose-pink, not so repulsive as dirty 
drab ;" and his keen insight serves him to detect, his skill in delineation to 
expose, the latent good in a bad character, quite as often as the germs of 
evil in a good one. It is noteworthy that he has given us no monumental 
villain, no " Don Juan," or " Iago," or" Richard III." Even Sir Willoughby 
Patterne, that respectable gentleman, whose finished hypocrisy and thor- 
ough-going egoism are hardly to be paralleled outside of Moliere, is in no 
sense imposing. He is supremely contemptible, but he is insignificant in 
himself; his interest is derived from the skill of the hand that draws him. 

The delineation of character is, in fact, the great excellence of Mr. 
Meredith's novels. His portraits of women, in particular, evince an astonish- 
ing knowledge and comprehension, not only of human nature, but more 
especially of that half of it familiarly known to the last century as " the sex." 
One seeks in vain for women to compare with them, except in Shakespeare ; 
and with Shakespeare comparison is difficult, almost impossible. Master 
though he is in every province of art he enters, Shakespeare is before every- 
thing else a poet : in his dramas, as in the gorgeous frescoes of Titian and 
Tintoretti on the walls of Venetian palaces, while proportion and perspective 
are perfectly preserved, the drawing is altogether on a grandiose scale ; his 
men, and in an even greater degree his women, life-like as they are, are the 


creations of a poet — real, yet ideal. Mr. Meredith's men and women are 
the creations of an analyst; actual, solid flesh and blood, of no whit more heroi< 
proportions than the men and women whom we pass on the street, or encounter 
in business, or sit at table wilh every day of our lives. They, too, are life- 
like ; but whether they actually live, and breathe the breath of life — whether 
their conduct and conversation are characterized by that inevitableiiess which 
Mr. Swinburne declares to be the test of the highest genius — may be a ques- 
tion. To many readers, for example, Diana's treachery to her lover would 
probably seem inconsistent and unnatural, if not impossible, in view of her 
general character as represented by her creator. To me it seems one of the 
author's greatest triumphs to have so reconciled the seemingly irreconcila- 
ble ; to have made us feel to the utmost the turptitude of the action, and 
even in so doing to have retained all our sympathy and affection for the 
actor. But I confess that I had to read the book twice, before coming to 
this conclusion. As for their conversation, it is a mystery how Mr. Mere- 
dith contrives to make his characters so solid in substance, so distinct and 
clear-cut in outline, when they are all so addicted to the use of his own dia- 
lect that in many scenes, if the speeches merely were read aloud, it would 
be impossible for the hearer to guess who was speaking. Even the simple- 
minded Mrs. Berry expresses herself at times in a highly complicated and 
Meredithian manner; and that stupid fellow, Sir Lukin, showers epigrams 
about him with a careless prodigality worthy of Mirabell or Celimene. 
There are scenes in these novels that remind one of those Restoration com- 
edies where all the characters, even thevalets, are witty. 

Excessive wit, however, is after all a minor blemish. Even when it is 
decidedly out of character, though it may surprise the reader, it does not 
destroy his belief in the reality of the personages presented to him. But in 
the work of Mr. Meredith the analytic power so far overbalances the con- 
structive, as in some measure to accomplish this unfortunate result. Pre- 
liminary analysis on the part of the author is very necessary, no doubt ; the 
more thorough and searching the better, if fiction is to be more than " a 
picture of figures modelled on no skeleton anatomy," to " bloom, and' be 
humanly shapely." The sculptor must understand the construction of the 
human frame, and the more thorough his knowledge of anatomy, the better 


for his art. So the novelist must be, consciously or unconsciously, a psy- 
chologist ; must understand the anatomy of the mind, the mutual relations 
and interaction of passions and qualities in the human soul : and if he under- 
takes to portray the wider relations of men in society, he must also be con- 
versant with the underlying facts of sociology. But in fiction, as in sculpture, 
the object of art is to present humanity as we see it in life, not as we see it 
in the dissecting-room. Perhaps the more exact comparison should be 
drawn between sculpture and the drama, between the novel and painting : 
and as the painter may rely upon auxiliary effects of distance and atmos- 
phere, and may introduce accessory details which are foreign to the severity 
of the sculptor's art ; so the novelist may allow himself deviations and 
digressions, may employ arts of description and explanation, and may even 
enter upon the scene in person — a license forbidden by the simpler methods 
of the drama. But when he, or his Philosopher, insists upon sweeping 
away the stage with its " blooming and humanly shapely " figures in action 
before us, to make room for Frankenstein at work in his laboratory, we 
must protest against the intrusion of the skeleton. This is truly to " make 
tatters of the puppets' golden robe — illusion," and to " suck the blood of 
their warm humanity out of them." In this over-development of analysis 
may perhaps be found the reason why many of Mr. Meredith's characters 
are abstract rather than concrete ; figures compounded of qualities carefully 
selected and combined with a view to the presentation less of the individual 
than of the type. It is a trait that reminds one of classic French comedy, 
with which, if space permitted, an interesting comparison might be drawn. 
As analysis merely, this that we are discussing leaves nothing to be desired. 
It is very searching, very complete ; one might almost say, scientifically 
correct. In reading The Egoist, for instance, one cannot but admire the skill 
with which every ramification of the master-passion is traced to its source, 
every convolution of a tortuous and intricate character unwound, every 
hidden deformity, even those of which the subject himself is scarcely con- 
scious, laid bare, and the soul of the man left stripped and shivering before 
a gazing world. It is this that concentrates attention and makes the 
deepest impression : the interest of the story is that of an intellectual 
problem. In purely human interest it is deficient : we follow the fortunes 


of its characters with attention, to be sure, but our concern is less sympa- 
thetic than scientific. 

But if the intellectual element outweighs the emotional in these novels, 
to a much greater extent (and this is just what we should expect from a 
study of their author's theory) it overbalances the structural element. As 
we have already seen, he has for plot considered as a means of arousing 
interest a contempt to which the construction of his own novels bears wit- 
ness. Even the well-known dictum of Aristotle, that the proper subject of 
a tragedy [or any work of fiction] is a single action, having a beginning, 
middle and end, would hardly find acceptance with Mr. Meredith. It would 
puzzle the reader to name the single action, or even the single idea, which is 
the subject of Vittoria ; and he may be safely defied to indicate the central 
point of the narrative in Harry Riclimoiid, or to show any reason (except the 
author's caprice) why Beaucliamp's Career should come to an untimely end 
by the accidental death of its hero. Too often, through just this neglect of 
the craft of construction, Mr. Meredith's novels miss the artistic unity that 
should add so much to the depth and sharpness of their impression. On 
the whole, they are non-dramatic in character, though they contain dramatic 
scenes. But the best of them, by the very force with which a single person- 
ality is conceived as the central and dominating motive, attain to a unity of 
the highest kind : and there is one dramatic quality in which their author is 
not deficient ; he possesses tragic power, or, more exactly, the power of 
tragic irony, in a very high degree. Of unity derived from the development 
of a character as central motive, The Egoist is perhaps the best example. 
Richard Feveril is a tragedy, of the class to which Romeo and Juliet belongs ; 
the tragedy in which the catastrophe is foreseen, and yet up to the last 
moment seems avoidable, because it is equally the result of character and cir- 
cumstance — in which hope struggles against hope, and dies only with the 
falling of the blow. But in that other tragedy of his, cf material success 
disguising essential failure, is felt from the first that mysterious power called 
by the Greeks avdy.K?/, working not as in the Greek drama through any 
external will of offended gods, but through the deeds, the will, the motives 
of the personages themselves, as determined by Nature's inexorable law. 
With gravest irony we are shown the " successful man," going on from 


victory to victory, adding achievement to achievement, piling power on 
wealth and wealth on power, and all the while utterly unconscious that he is 
steadily undermining the fabric of his own happiness, until — at the moment 
of his supreme triumph, when his hand is already grasping the one coveted 
thing withheld by Fate — it falls, and crushes him under its ruins. 

The question has been often asked, whether Mr. Meredith's writings 
will survive — whether he is great enough as an artist to fill a lasting niche 
in the Temple of Fame. Many and great as are his qualifications, I doubt 
it. The enduringness of a work of art depends as much upon the absence 
of interpretation by the artist, as upon the truth of his representation — and 
this is the great advantage of the plastic over the literary arts. For while 
truth is eternal, each century, each generation almost, determines it under a 
new formula. The elemental passions of human nature, the great problems 
of existence, do not vary much ; the riddle of the sphynx remains the same 
from age to age, but its solution changes with the changing conditions of 
life. And hence art may be divided into two classes : That which gives to 
the unchanging and fundamental ideas a form more perfect than they have 
ever had before ; and that which gives form, more or less perfect as may 
happen, to thoughts as yet unknown — which presents itself as teacher and 
guide. The former is pure art ; the latter, in essence, philosophy making 
use of the means of art. It is to the latter rather than to the former class 
that most of Mr. Meredith's work belongs. In it the pure representation 
of life is too much subordinated to the explanation : too often, not content 
with making his puppets illustrate Nature's laws upon their mimic stage, he 
must himself appear as showman, condemning, applauding or interpreting 
their action, and pointing out the moral to the audience. Work necessary 
and valuable in its way, no doubt : but the discoveries of one age become 
the commonplaces of the next ; and the teacher is inevitably superseded in 
the progress of the race from century to century. 

Emma Stansbury Wines, 'gj.. 



I sat upon the drifted, warm sea-sand: 

Above gold-crested pines the sunset burned 
And shot its tongues of flame across, and turned 

The eastern sky-line to a violet band. 

I hate this sea, that restless gnaws the land 

And crawls and flees, as if it sometimes spurned 

Its wretched prey, and sometimes shuddering yearned 

O'er live-oaks dead, and barren salt-washed strand. 

But as the darkness, rising with the tide 

Flooded the air and quenched the western glow, 
My tired lids I raised, with effort slow, 

To where heaven broods above the waters wide, 

Then upward, till in utter peace I sighed, 

Watching the stars, feeling the night-wind blow. 

Georgiana Goddard King, 'g6. 



Have you never needed one ? No ? Then consider yourself fortunate 
among mortals. 

It was on a warm October day, as I sat in my dingy lawyer's office in 
Chittenden Block, that the idea of employing a moral supporter first occurred 
to me. The rays of the hot afternoon sun poured in through the slats of the 
dusty shutters, bringing into bolder relief the hopeless hideousness of my 
surroundings. The walls looked very dirty, the paper was of an ingeniously 
ugly pattern, the windows streaked, the tiles loose about the hearth, the 
carpet old and spotted, and the furniture battered and rickety. I gazed 
disconsolately about me, feeling hot, cross, unwashed and disagreeable. A 
vague, horrible suspicion seized my mind. Could it — yes it was distinctly 
and eminently possible — my life was colorless. The suspicion became 
more and more firmly established in my mind, until I felt almost ready to 
weep for sheer self-compassion. I have never fully understood what awful 
meaning the adjective " colorless " conceals, but it is a word I am fond of 
applying to existence in general when the gentleman of the movable news- 
stand is up betimes and hath appropriated to himself my morning's news- 
paper, or Charles has informed me, for the twentieth time, that the pipes 
have sprung a leak and that the presence of his friend, Mr. David McCafferty, 
is eminently desirable. Yes, my life was colorless. I should probably go 
on living and toiling in these dark, dusty dungeons until my youth was 
exhausted, my heart withered, and futile rebellion against the commonplace 
had given way to a dull resignation pathetic in its utter hopelessness. I 
luxuriated in these sentiments until they became slightly monotonous. Then 
I reflected, as the reaction against such morbidness set in, that there was no 
valid excuse for the existence of such a condition of things. Circumstances 
should be altered. Like Miss Repplier's Cavalier, I would insist upon 
" looking into the sunlight with clear, joyous eyes." Those shutters should 
be removed at once. It was my surroundings that were at fault, I decided. 
If my surroundings were all right, then my happy, sunny temper would once 
more assert itself, and I should find life not a period of probation but a time 
of enjoyment. I had it — the office would have to be fitted up. I had no 


right to stunt the growth of the artistic side of my nature. Accordingly I 
determined to sec Higgins, and then immediately make arrangements for a 
thorough cleansing, overhauling, papering, furnishing and fitting up of Nos. 
8 and 10 Chittenden Block. Higgins anil 1 are the most intimate enemies. 
I like him well enough sometimes — no, I don't, either. I hate him, loathe 
him, and yet the man has some queer fascination about him that makes me 
dread ever taking action about anything — from the purchase of a pair of 
Alfred Dolge felt slippers to acting as pall-bearer at an infant's funeral — 
without first asking his advice. It so happened that Higgins dropped in 
that afternoon to talk over some matters with me. Of course, I seized the 
opportunity and broached my scheme to him. He hooted at the idea. 

" Why, my dear Melton," said he, drawing his red brows into a scornful 
pucker, " you are as absurd as a child. That paper has been on those walls 
not quite two years, if I remember rightly, and that carpet I helped you to 
select last February. You say they are dirty ! What if they are ! A little 
dirt won't hurt them or you. The patterns are hideous, eh? Oh, by Jove ! 
that's good. So you desire to look only on the beautiful in life? The 
furniture is not beautiful, but I fail to perceive the ricketiness that you 
ascribe to it. No, let me tell you. All you need is to get some healthy, 
well-grown nigger to wash your windows and give your carpets a thorough 
beating. Your fitting up, as you call it, would cost no end of money and 
give you no end of trouble. You see that I'm right, don't you, Jack?" 

" Yes, Higgins," I responded humbly. 

That night I sent to the Observer for insertion the following advertise- 
ment : — 

WANTED— A Moral Supporter. 
For terms and nature of duties apply io Chittenden Block. 

I had scarcely had time to settle myself at my desk and buckle down 
to my morning's work, when Charles, the office boy, came in. " Please 
sir, there 's a gen'man as wants to see yer on bizness. He says as how his 
name's Spreggins." " Spreggins !" echoed I in amazement. I knew no ■ 
one of that name. Then I recollected my advertisement. " Show him up, 
Charles." And the obedient Charles forthwith ushered in Mr. Joshua 
Spreggins . 


Mr. Spreggins was a rather short, stout man, with yellowish gray hair, 
florid cheeks and very light blue eyes, which twinkled in a way that betok- 
ened in my future moral supporter a keener sense of humor than I should 
have liked him to possess. He was dressed respectably in an old brown 
suit that contrasted oddly with his coloring. In spite of this description, he 
was prepossessing, looked business-like, and was evidently possessed of a 
large amount of moral stamina. I liked the way in which he at once came 
to the point. 

" Mr. Melton, I believe?" I bowed. " I came in answer to your adver- 
tisement, which I saw in yesterday morning's Observer. I must confess I am 
at a loss to know just what the qualifications are for such as office as that of 
Moral Supporter; but those I believe you offered to explain upon application." 

" I did. First the terms. What do you say to four dollars a 
day?" Spreggins smiled. "You think that will do. Very well. I'll 
engage you for to-day, and if I like you, will retain you. Does this 
arrangement suit you ?" Spreggins assented. " Good ! Consider that 
much accomplished. And now, Mr. Spreggins, for your duties. Mr. 
Spreggins, I — er — lack moral stamina. Often I wish to do something, and 
believe this wish to be perfectly reasonable, yet because I am unable to find 
any one to sustain me in this belief, I am forced to abandon my intention. 
You follow me?" 

"I understand," said Spreggins, slowly. "What you want is some 
one to bolster you up when you want anything badly, but — er — er — don't 
— that is — er — know whether you ought to get it. Well, if I'm not competent 
to fill a place like that my name is not Joshua Spreggins." 

I was delighted. Good heavens ! What a treasure I had stumbled upon ! 

"Very well, Mr. Spreggins. I am sure you will be satisfactory. And 
— we might as well begin our arrangement at once." 

" I am ready at any time, Mr. Melton." 

" Mr. Spreggins, don't you think the office looks a trifle shabby ?" 

" Well, Mr. Melton, I must admit it does." 

"And that paper — " 

" Looks dirty, Mr. Melton, and is hideous, also." 

Ah ! here was a man after my own heart. 


"Don't you think it really advisable to have the office thoroughly 
cleaned, the old carpet taken up and a new one put down?" 

" 1 most undoubtedly do, Mr. Melton. You really ought to take 
your health into consideration. Dirty old carpets breed disease, and a new 
carpet is better than a doctor's bill, any day." 

"A Wilton would look well, don't you think so?" 

"A Wilton, by all means. Good quality, though expensive, is cheaper 
in the long run." 

" I agree with you there, Mr. Spreggins. But how about the furni- 
ture? Don't you think this old furniture would look badly with new paper 
and new carpet?" 

" Of course it would. You remember the Bible warns us against the 
union of the old with the new, lest it make matters worse." 

(" What a logical, intelligent fellow !" thought I.) 

"Your reasoning is excellent, Mr. Spreggins. Light oak would har- 
monize well, eh ?" 

" Beautifully. Nice surroundings are essential to the modern over- 
worked business man. His office is really his home, so why shouldn't he 
be comfortable ?" 

"You are right; why shouldn't he? And so why shouldn't I take 
out that tiling and put in new tiles ? Of a dark blue color, I would 

Spreggins smiled approvingly. 

"And my books are overflowing my office." 

" Then, Mr. Melton, why not get some light oak bookcases to match 
the rest of your furniture? Why ruin your books by crowding them into 
rickety old bookcases, when, by a slight expense, you could be made 
perfectly comfortable?" 

" Mr. Spreggins, permit me to say that you are a very clear-headed 
man. Your views coincide exactly with mine. I see that these changes 
are absolutely necessary, so it is just as well that they should take place at 
once. You will, therefore, oblige me by ordering such things as are needed, 
arranging for the cleaning, etc. I see that you have a good business head, 
and therefore shall not restrict you. Pay what you think ought to be 


paid. Meanwhile, I shall get Williams to take me in for a week, at the end 
of which time I shall expect you to have everything ready. Your salary 
will continue until the expiration of that time. Have all bills sent to me on 
the day that I return. And now I must excuse myself, as I have an 
appointment for eleven. Good morning." 

My Moral Supporter rose. " Good morning," he said, lifting his hat 
from the pile of books on the mantel. 

The office really looked most attractive. A bright fire was blazing in 
the fireplace ; the shaky yellow tiles had been replaced by pretty blue 
ones ; a Wilton had supplanted the ancient Brussels, and oak furniture was 
tastefully arranged about the room ; the windows were well washed ; there 
was a new waste paper basket ; the andirons were beautifully polished — in 
short, everything had been done to make the place as cosy and attractive as 

" Well, Spreggins," I exclaimed to my Moral Supporter, who stood 
waiting for my approval of his handiwork, " you are certainly to be 
congratulated on this result. Everything is entirely satisfactory — entirely. 
I have some work to do now, but would like to see you again at five. It 
will be convenient ? " 

" Perfectly," answered Spreggins, respectfully, as he turned to leave 
the room. 

I gave Spreggins time to get out of the building and then sat down to 
explore my new desk. Ah ! here were the bills. How thoughtful Spreg- 
gins had been in carrying out my orders. But good heavens ! what was 
this ? I sickened as I read it : 

Mr. John Melton, to Screwtight & Co., Dr. 

One Waste Paper Basket, . . . . |n oo 

Six Chairs (light oak), . . . . 90 oo 

One Wilton Carpet, . . . . . . 100 00 

One Oak Desk, ...... 40 00 

Three Oak Book Shelves, , . . . 75 00 

Total, . . . . . . $316 00 


Mr. John Melton, in account with Plaster, Paris & Co. 
For Papering Office $220 00 

Mr. John Melton, to Abel W. Jackson, Dr. 

Fur Cleanin' OlTucc, I9 00 

Please remit prompt. 

Mr. John Melton, to Joshua M. Spreggins, Dr. 
For services as Moral Supporter, for one week, $30 OO 

" When Spreggins came, at five, he found me in a brown study. I 
roused up at the sound of his voice. " How d'ye do, Spreggins. On time, 
I see. " 

" Yes, sir; I tried to be." 

" Well — er — Spreggins, my moral stamina has increased so much that 
I shall not need your services longer. I am very much obliged to you for 
what you have done, and — er" — -Here I slipped a cheque into his hand. 

I was growling over a newspaper at the Club when Davenport came in. 
" Hello ! Melton, got you at last. Such a chase as I've had. Don't you 
want to take in the theatre— Vaudeville and Burlesque Company, you know. 
Went to your office, but Charlie told me you were out, so I rushed up to 
this blessed old spot, thinking I'd find you here. By the way, how gor- 
geously you are fixed up." 

" Vaudeville and Burlesque forever, Davie. Go? Why, of course I 
will. On you, too, me dear charmer." 

It was raining outside, so we boarded a D Street car. " By the way, 
Jack," said Davenport, innocently, to me, " of course you're going down 
to the Thanksgiving game with the crowd. We old fogies will put up 
all our spare cash, cheer for old Yale drink her down, don't you know, 
and like the prehistoric eagle, renew our youth. Must come, you know." 

" Can't, worse luck," I muttered, gloomily. 

"What the deuce! Come, Jack, show your sporting blood; show 
your sand. You used to have lots of it." 


" Yes," I assented. " But now," looking at him with dignity and 
sternness, " I've moral courage instead." 

"A much higher form of sand, I don't doubt," said Davenport, sarcas- 

"Higher," I echoed. " Yes, that is just it; it is the highest form of 

Conversation flagged after this ; we made a few commonplace remarks, 
and lapsed into silence. As we rounded X Street, I glanced absently out of 
the window, and drew back with a start that roused Davenport, and made 
him look with me toward the corner we were just passing. There, through 
the drizzle and mist, I saw, surrounded by Higgins and four or five others 
of my laughing acquaintances, the hateful face of my Moral Supporter. 

Mary Owen Brown, '96. 



A mist that from the far off sea 
Last night crept inland, up the hills, 
Climbs higher with the morn, and stills 
The sun's mid-August revelry. 

As if noon's blaze were trumpet-loud, 
Now, while its glory doth abate, — 
Though bees still hum in velvet state, — 
Slowly, methinks, the gathering cloud 

Lulls jocund summer into rest, — 
Breathing of silence, full, unstirred, 
As when a gray-winged ocean bird 
Broods o'er the circle of her nest. 

August, iSpj. 

M. P. C, 'Sp. 



It is a common fallacy to suppose, when a certain undesirable state of 
things is accompanied by certain conditions, that the remedy for the given 
state of things is the establishment of just the opposite set of conditions. 
Does free competition work badly? Then state regulation must work well. 
Is appointment to office by personal choice an evil ? Then competitive 
examination for appointment is the proper cure. 

That the condition of education, both public and private, in our country 
is anything but ideal, we are all ready to admit. The cry goes up from all 
quarters that something must be done ; school teachers and college profes- 
sors meet in earnest conference to devise means of bettering the state of 
things ; protests are written to the newspapers. Parents and taxpayers 
complain that they get little return for the money they spend in education ; 
the public in general complains that annually thousands of young graduates 
are sent out into the world utterly incapable of the business of life. 

The fault at present most evident in our system of higher education is 
lack of coordination. Fitting schools turn out pupils ill prepared to begin 
collegiate work, so that time must be taken in college for school work. 
Again, the requirements of the different colleges are so various that the 
fitting schools are unable to keep pace with them all, and in partially 
attempting it must teach separately as many groups of students as the 
number of colleges they are trying to fit for. Furthermore, the wide extent 
of the country, since it forbids the establishment of a common standard of 
public opinion, has permitted the greatest divergence in scope, aim and 
method to the educational institutions in different localities, until the name 
"college" and the title "A. B." have almost no meaning at all, unless 
qualified by the further statement of the particular part of the country in 
which the terms are used. The condition of the public school system, on 
the whole, is even worse, though for different reasons. Ignorance and 
political knavery combined have made the public schools in many of our 
large cities the laughing-stock of the whole country. 


When vvc say a thing is wrong, we must mean by that that it 'Iocs not 
answer some desired end, — it docs not fulfil some particular purpose. The 
purpose of education is twofold : First, the diffusion of already existing 
knowledge in such a way that the person of average or slightly under 
average mind may be able to make use of it; that he may be led by its 
means to higher levels of thought and action ; and that he may grow into 
sympathy with the most wholesome and elevating tendencies in the com- 
munity of which he forms a part, so as to become a constructive rather 
than a destructive force therein : Second, the encouragement of the creative 
faculty, and the consequent enlargement of that stock of knowledge which is 
our common wealth, and must be increased from day to day to meet the 
growing needs of a growing time. 

We must acknowledge that our system as at present constituted does 
not fulfil these purposes with anything like completeness. To remedy its 
defects it is proposed to introduce the English system of competitive exami- 
nation, with its force of examiners distinct from teachers, with class-lists, 
honors and prizes, and with some kind of central control to unify it all. 
Before adopting any such scheme, we should ask what its real aims and 
tendencies are, and how it has been found to work upon actual trial. This 
system, as it now exists, is not of long standing, and the evils that have 
sprung up in connection with it are not those remote results which, after 
long lapse of time, betray hidden weaknesses in even the most skilfully 
planned contrivances. The system has been introduced within the memory 
of the present generation, to supply the needs of the Civil Service, which 
had recently been reformed ; and it has grown in strength and lustihood 
ever since. What is the opinion of the best thought of England as to its 
success there ? 

In November, 1888, the Nineteenth Century for the current month set 
before the public, under the heading, " The Sacrifice of Education to Exami- 
nation," a signed protest " against the mischief to which the system of 
Competitive Examination is running in this Country." The signers, whose 
names were given, were four hundred and thirteen in number, and repre- 
sented the broadest culture, the deepest research, and the keenest practical 
life in England. One hundred of the signers were Members of Parliament, 


one hundred and forty-one were professors and teachers, among whom are 
to be noted several examiners, fourteen were doctors of medicine or of 
surgery ; the rest were clergymen, literary men, and members of other pro- 
fessions. Among the many notable names on the roll were those of Max 
Mtiller, Edward A. Freeman, Frederic Harrison, James Bryce, Justin 
McCarthy, Auberon Herbert, Sir Frederick Pollock, James Anthony Froude, 
Henry Nettleship, Edmund Gosse, Aubrey de Vere, E. Burne Jones, A. H. 
Sayce, George J. Romanes, Sir Edwin Arnold and Sir H. Austen Layard. 
Accompanying this protest was a statement of the reasons actuating it, 
formulated by Max Muller, Frederic Harrison and Edward A. Freeman. 

They state in the first place that the system does not educate. Under 
it a large proportion of candidates utterly fail to get through even the pass- 
examinations, to say nothing of honors. Under this system, in the opinion 
of the protestants, if the professor or teacher does not wish to see his classes 
melting away from him, he must lecture or teach with a view to examina- 
tions, and not in line with his own deepest interests in connection with his 
subject — though the latter is the only sure method of teaching with power and 
effect. In the same way the student is led to work for his examiner rather 
than for his teacher ; to study from " cram-books " and " tips " of experi- 
enced coaches, with an eye to "points," rather than from the great literature 
of his subject, with an eye to broad general principles and relations ; to look 
for the rewards and emoluments that can be measured, rather than for the 
inner enrichment that cannot be measured. No time is allowed for devia- 
tion or deliberation. No side-paths of interest can be followed up for the 
sake of possible treasures of new knowledge to be found there. Every book 
read must be chosen with a view to possible questions, every lecture taken 
with the examiner in mind. Consequently little or no opportunity is offered 
for original or creative work of any kind. The protestants think that all 
pleasure in study is destroyed by this system ; the student learning what he 
learns as task-work, and getting rid of it as a heavy and useless burden, 
when its purpose for examinations is served : that a deadening uniformity is 
brought about in the character of students, so that one is just like another. 
This system, they find, develops the faculty of memory at the expense of 
the reasoning powers, and encourages dependence on authority. " Coach- 


ing " has become a regular profession ; and, indeed, the most profitable use 
that can be made at present of the knowledge painfully stored up in preparing 
for cram examinations, is in fitting others to stand like tests. The breaking 
down in health that follows protracted application to study, they consider 
due almost wholly to examinations and work for examinations, and scarcely 
at all to normal intellectual effort. This system, in their opinion, is hardest on 
the best men. The examiners, with thousands of papers to look over in a 
week, have no time to study, to freshen up their knowledge of their subjects, 
or to contrive better ways of testing acquirement in them. The whole plan 
of education is restricted by this system, since a never-failing objection 
brought up against the introduction into the curriculum of any comparatively 
new line of research is, that " it is not suitable for examination." 

This protest of course brought forth a reply, but from whom ? From 
a certain William Knight, a certain Harold Arthur Perry, a certain H. 
Temple Humphrey, and a certain W. Baptiste Scoones. In their replies 
they virtually admit the state of things described by the protestants, and 
found their defense chiefly on the fact that the protestants have failed to indi- 
cate any better system to replace the existing one. The reply of one of these 
worthy men is an unintentional testimony to the ill-effects of the system its 
author is upholding. The writer of the article in question tells us that he 
has been successful in two open competitions. The appointments were for 
the Indian and Home Services, with ,£1000 and £s°° per annum respect- 
ively — "the highest ever given in open competition," and he is " the only 
person who has gained two open competitions." But the reader can see, 
without being told, that one result of all this brilliancy is an article so poor 
in ideas, so flippant in spirit, so confused in expression, that it would dis- 
grace a school boy of average intelligence. 

Such, then, as I have described it, is the working of this system in 
England, in the minds of thoughtful and practical men, and this system it 
is proposed to introduce here. Can we hope that it will leave behind it all 
its attendant evils ? 

In the first place we do not want a system of education that does not 
educate, and that this system does not educate we have the testimony of 
the reliable witnesses mentioned. If one great aim of education is to help 


the mass of the people in reaching the fair degree of intelligence which is 
all that is implied in the ability to stand such an examination as the English 
pass-examination, surely its failure to effect this is a failure in education. In 
the next place we do not want a system of education that does not fulfil the 
second purpose outlined above, — the encouragement of the spirit of research. 
This is another of the failures of the English system, according to the same 
witnesses. But, it is claimed, that system would at least go far to introduce 
that cooperation of effort, the lack of which was spoken of as a striking 
feature of our system. But lack of cooperation is not the only possible 
evil. Will not cooperation be purchased at too dear a price, if in the 
exchange we must give up the natural and healthy diversity of spontaneous 
life for the regularity of a prearranged mechanism ? Much is made of the 
fact that the graduate of the small and unknown university is, under present 
conditions, as rightfully and lawfully Bachelor of Arts as the graduate of 
Yale or Harvard. Suppose he is. This is not such a terrible calamity. 
When the young man or young woman is needed for some of the real pur- 
poses of life, the " A.B." neither helps nor hinders. Nobody is deceived 
by the title. Everybody knows that those letters mean little or much, 
according to the source of them. In many ways the state of things that 
permits the possibility of such degrees is a good one. If the glitter 
of that venerable and somewhat threadbare ornament induces the western 
farmer's boy — or girl — to add something of the higher culture to the 
sterling practical qualities that are his by natural endowment and environ- 
ment, it is not so bad a thing after all. This is not to say that the present 
system is perfect ; but are things ever bad enough to justify exchanging 
them for worse ? 

The claim is also made that the examination system is the logical out- 
come of our growing civil service reform movement, and that the success of 
the latter implies the necessary introduction of the former. As to the 
future progress of this movement itself, it may be said that practical diffi- 
culties have already arisen in the application of the competitive examination 
to the civil service. It is not my purpose to criticise in this place the aims 
and tendencies of the Civil Service Reform, in which I believe most heartily, 
nor is it my purpose to devise means for remedying defects in its methods 


which are plainly to he seen now and are growing plainer daily. I will 
only remark- that there is, growing up side by side with the tendency to 
work by a system of mechanical tests, the tendency to work by the force of 
personal responsibility. Personal influence and powers used corruptly are 
among the worst things in the world ; personal influence and powers used 
intelligently and conscientiously, among the best things. No mechanical 
standard can take the place of personal judgment — the intuitive decision 
based upon the entire character and entire circumstances of each particular 
case, whether such character and circumstances can or cannot be measured 
by rule of thumb. 

An increasing tendency in our colleges, and, as it seems to me, a most 
healthy one, is toward preparing the student, as his growing powers fit him 
for it, to drop the leading-strings of text-book and set question and answer, 
and to take up the consideration and discussion of unsettled problems ; in 
short, to prepare in college for work in the university, and thus come one 
step nearer that living concrete reality, the world, which is one great 
unsettled problem. This tendency, which might wisely be encouraged, the 
English- system would check, since text-book and question and answer are 
its very life. How much original investigation have the English universities 
to show in comparison with Germany ? Is it from Germany or England 
that our colleges have caught the spirit of research, through which they in 
some departments bid fair to rival, and in others already surpass the univer- 
sities of the old world ? 

We have seen that the examination system has a tendency to fix educa- 
tion in grooves : they may be few or many, but they are still distinctly 
marked channels in which thought and activity must flow in order to obtain 
recognition. Does this feature recommend it to an American community? 
The "intelligent foreigner" is always telling us that although we assume 
great airs of independence we are a painfully monotonous people, slavishly 
prone to imitation, to dependence on models in literature, in architecture, in 
music and painting. He complains that though our country is so large, we 
have the same type everywhere, so that St. Louis and Milwaukee are feeble 
copies of New York and Boston. Perhaps the " intelligent foreigner " is 
not absolutely correct in his criticism ; at any rate, the introduction of Com- 


petitive Examinations would go far towards justifying him. The same 
standard long applied will produce the same type. Instead of a gradual 
adaptation of educational methods to the environment by natural selection, 
resulting in the survival of those methods which are best suited to our 
peculiar conditions, we shall get, if we adopt this system of education, a 
gradual adaptation of individuals to the artificial type thus established, 
resulting in the survival of those individuals who are best suited to the 
prescribed standard, but not necessarily to the conditions of the environ- 
ment. Surely this is not the way to better that state of affairs which, it is 
complained, already exists, in which the college graduate is turned out upon 
a world he is unfitted to cope with. He will not be better fitted to cope 
with it if his powers are to be directed into an artificially selected channel, 
and not allowed to flow as determined by his natural endowments reacting 
to the forces of his time. 

Another reproach directed against our civilization is that money is its 
standard ; that dollars and cents, not personal qualities, are the measures of 
value. Will the examination system remedy this ? On the contrary, how 
natural that the concrete standard of dollars should be supported and coun- 
tenanced by the equally concrete standard of marks. Marks, like money, 
serve as a common denominator in which goods otherwise incommensurable 
can be valued and compared with one another. So much Latin — worth so 
much, so much Greek — so much, until a grand total is reached that makes 
the most successful candidate in the widest examination the intellectual 
millionaire of the time, and yet he may be near to insolvency as far as real 
power in the world is concerned. 

As to the justice of this sort of test, and its moral effect upon the 
community, a few words should be said. In the first place there is really 
no common denominator for intellectual values. The nearest approach to 
a complete test of ability by the marking system is in mathematics ; in 
which a question must be answered correctly or incorrectly, for there is no 
middle ground : and it is interesting to note that the examination system has 
its chief stronghold and displays its greatest power in the University of Cam- 
bridge, the special home and abode of mathematics. But even in mathematics 
there is some scope for the exercise of the incommensurable powers of the 


human mind. Some of the greatest mathematicians England lias ever pro- 
duced — Clerk Maxwell, Sir William Thomson, and William Kingdon Clif- 
ford — were second wranglers. Who were the Senior Wranglers of their 
respective years? We can, it is true, point to the names of Airy, Stokes, Cay ley, 
Adams, Tait and Rayleigh, to show that Senior Wranglers were not by 
any means necessarily inferior to lower grade men. But when we pass to the 
subjects that admit of less exact test, we find a much greater divergence of 
first-class men from the " first-class " standard. Edward A. Freeman was 
a " second-class " man — an interesting commentary on the absurdities of 
this system. The public mind cannot but be injured in its moral tone when 
it realizes that the stamped and approved person is by no means necessarily 
the more capable or powerful person. It may be replied to all this, that 
noted men who obtain only a second-class rank, develop after examination, 
at the time of which they were in reality " second-class " men. This is one 
reason the more for refusing to affix a definitive and final stamp to a man's 
product at this stage in his career. 

One of the defenders of this system of examinations, while virtually 
acknowledging the condition of things described in the protest mentioned 
at the beginning of this article, is disposed to lay the blame, not upon the 
examination system, but upon the temper of the public, whose leading motive 
is a " wild anxiety to secure an immediate result." However the question 
of responsibility may be decided, there can be no doubt, I think, that the 
examination system is eminently fitted to foster that spirit in the community. 
With its marks and prizes, its class-lists and honors — all passports to office 
and interpretable in terms of pecuniary value — it surely surpasses any 
known system in ability to gratify the "wild anxiety to secure an immediate 
result" which is deplored in the community. 

In considering the results likely to follow if the English system were 
introduced universally in our country, we need not be confined to deductions 
drawn from the imagined working of known factors in known circum- 
stances. We have, in fact, a means of judging by actual observation what 
the system is likely to result-in. Our public school system is largely based 
on the English principle, both in the matter of marks and grades, and in the 
relative importance of one great subject — mathematics. It is not necessary, 


nor would it be just, to indulge in indiscriminate abuse of our public schools 
for the purpose of proving the point, but does not unprejudiced observation 
discover in them the tendencies of the English system resulting in the 
defects predicted as likely to follow from its adoption in this country — 
tendencies to the encouragement of learning by rote ; to the neglect of 
reasoned thought; to superficiality; to absorption of others' ideas, even to the 
destruction of the power for original work ; to the desire of appearing to 
know rather than of really knowing ; and to the formation of dogmatic 
judgments on insufficient grounds. 

No doubt there is much to be done in reforming our educational 
system — or lack of system — but it is not in the direction of the English 
idea. The examination is not necessarily and in itself an evil : it is a valuable 
and useful aid in education, but it is a sharp weapon to be used with skill 
and discretion. I have little sympathy with those who think an examina- 
tion is no test at all of ability. On the contrary, the capability of doing a 
given task, under pressure, in a given time, with some degree of method 
and order, is a most convenient and valuable quality. It implies self-control, 
concentration, promptness and accuracy — only these are not all the qualities 
the fine mind possesses, nor should examination be the only test. It should 
be employed by the teacher, like any other method of instruction, — to edu- 
cate, not to test. "Examination," says Mr. Frederic Harrison," is useful 
when spontaneous, occasional and simple." That it is none of these things 
in the present English system is very evident, and that the same is already 
true of many of our American colleges, the observer is soon convinced by 
personal experience of the feverish, intense atmosphere of such institutions 
about the time of the stated examinations. Some degree of uniformity in 
our system is no doubt desirable ; but not the machine-like uniformity that 
would come from central and compulsory control. The results desired can 
best be reached by voluntary cooperation, the circuit of which may extend 
to wider and wider limits as the tastes and needs of the community demand 
it. At present each of our colleges has a distinct individuality of its own — 
a flavor of personality that is as valuable and as powerful in influence upon 
the student as anything about it, though this is an influence that can neither 
be weighed nor measured. Just as personal character is the moving power, 


the dynamic force in all good teaching by individuals, so is the distinctive 
character and spirit of each college the dynamic force in its teaching, and 
this force, this power, would be destroyed by the rigorous application of the 
English system. 

Perhaps the most objectionable thing about the English examination is 
that it is competitive ; it encourages that open comparison of person with 
person which growing civilization has learned to look upon as a mark of 
savagery. Both good manners and good morals teach that such comparisons 
should be made silently, by the logic of events, and only in case of necessity. 
The Bishop of Carlisle tells a story of a young German who came to 
England to study, and, incidentally, to observe. After a short residence at 
one of the great universities, he one day made the following remark : " I 
now begin to understand what was said to me in Germany and what I did 
not understand then — ' The English do everything by way of racing.' " 
This is indeed the spirit of the competitive examination. Miss Emily 
James Smith, in a recent article in the Nation, has given a vivid description 
of this method of "sport" in England, showing that none of the natural 
concomitants of" sport " are left out. She describes in graphic terms how 
the candidate for honors " trains; " how liable he is to " go stale; " how 
hundreds before the examinations are betting on the result of the Senior Wran- 
glership ; how on the eventful day the favorite arrives victoriously at the 
winning post or else by some accident of condition, is distanced by a neck ; 
how at the finish the news is telegraphed all over England, and the Senior 
Wrangler is the most famous man in the country for a whole day. The 
entire proceeding arouses -the same feelings and can be described in the 
same terms as a horse-race. 

In place of the competitive examination let the qualifying examination 
be established by general understanding, so far as seems desirable ; let this 
examination be raised so far above the level of the present " pass '' examina- 
tion that such curiosities of the examination room as we all have in mind, 
and which I therefore forbear to quote, will be impossible in a pass-paper.' 
Above this level let absolute equality reign, so far as regards marks and 
grades. The effect upon students will be much better than under the 
grading system. In the pleasing obscurity and indefiniteness of the " pass " 


mark, the average student is not conscious of an impassable gulf between 
himself and the fine student ; he is encouraged to try again and again, 
because there is no unchangeable record to mark his past failures. The fine 
students have no definite ground for mutual comparisons ; consequently they 
will not make any, but will save time and energies for their own proper 
work. Each student should be told informally from time to time, in quali- 
tative, not quantitative terms, the character of the work he or she is doing. 
This kind of criticism is effective in improving the character of work as the 
other is not and cannot be. Examinations for graduation should be no 
exception to the rule. They should be qualifying examinations, with only 
one grade — " passed," and this grade should be sufficiently high to secure a 
fair degree of sound and active intelligence in the departing Bachelor of Arts. 
For all purposes of future work, professional or otherwise, the opinion of 
instructors, expressed with reference to the especial case in which the 
student's powers are needed, is a far more effectual recommendation than 
any list of marks and honors. In fact, when the student enters upon the real 
business of life, he finds that few people know, and fewer care, whether he 
is First, Second, or Tenth Wrangler, whether he left his college with Merit, 
Credit or High Credit. 

Kate Holladay Claghorn, '<?.?. 
April 18, 18 pj. 




Three years at an English University have sent me home again much 
interested in comparing English and American methods of education, and fully 
convinced of two mortifying facts. The first is that the average English 
standard of scholarship is far above ours ; the second that our colleges are 
wholly unconscious of their own inferiority. Every day we hear it roundly 
stated that we are the most highly educated of nations, though when we 
come to push the matter, the speaker generally means that our illiterate 
class is small. Again we are often told that the East is the equal or superior of 
Europe, and that all this unmerited European contempt ought to be directed 
with more discrimination against the West. Or if sometimes it is admitted 
that our standards do at first sight appear pretty low, we are hastily con- 
soled and it is shown that this is merely a misapprehension of one sort or 
another. Most of the American students I knew abroad were in just this 
bewildered state of protest and of self-accusing excuses. 

Now reasons for this self-deception are not far to seek. Nowhere else 
is there so enormous a difference in standard between institutions whose 
nominal performance is the same. We are accustomed to take a college at 
its own valuation. From three to four hundred degree-giving institutions 
dot the country, with no central authority, no reference to each other, nothing 
external to which they must conform or by which they may test themselves. 
Our educational machinery sprawls all over a continent, and the force, money 
and ability that might have supported a few great universities is dissipated 
in two or three hundred second to sixth-class institutions. 

My thesis is not that it would be well to lessen the number or in any 
way restrict the work of these teaching bodies, but that it very much 
behooves us to get a clearer idea of their relative standing. The dilution of 
education in order that it may cover the whole country may be good, but 
the self-deception that has so far attended it must be bad and it makes us 
the laughing-stock of learned and unlearned alike among nations that know 

♦Much of this paper was read before the Minnesota Branch of the Association of Collegiate Alumnae. 


the value of their own intellectual currency. As Bryce says, we have 
a number of institutions which are true universities in aspiration but not in 
fact. They have an ambitious programme and high ideals, but both are far 
above their power of performance. They probably do very useful work, 
but their title hangs upon them like a giant's robe. And they not only 
loudly proclaim their own superiority, but sincei'ely believe in it. 

Now this is not so in England. I do not mean that there are not great 
differences between the work of one institution and another, but that the 
standard of measurement by which work is tested is absolute and external, 
and the slip-shod and ill-managed school does not impose upon the public 
and upon itself. There is a wonderful reality about an Englishman, and 
some of his thoroughness comes from his perfect willingness to accept an 
inferior station and defer to the rank above him as heartily as he tramples 
on the rank below. The first attitude is not so bad. An English student 
knows that a second-class in a hard examination is good, and he finds no 
fault with its name. Our students would insist on a first-class for intelligent 
industry, and would provide for further brilliant excellencies by some extra 
honor "with high credit," " summa cum laitde" or some such formula. So 
it is in daily life. An English third-class on the railway is the class of the 
average man, and first-class represents the highest luxury. But in America 
the sovereign people must ride first-class, and anything better than the 
average man desires must be expressed by superlatives. The difference is 
really rather suggestive of the attitudes of the two peoples. 

Every little while there is a cry in the United States for the restriction 
of the power to grant degrees, and the vesting it in some central authority, 
say one Board in every State. It comes to nothing as yet, probably because 
we .all feel that the cramping of individual teaching and hampering a univer- 
sity professor in his perfect freedom of choice or even of whim would be an 
evil greater than the corresponding gain. But, none the less, this indis- 
criminate degree-giving is a very real harm. Indeed, as one institution after 
another springs fully armed from the brain of some Western Senator, it 
seems to have become self-evident to the American citizen that all universities 
are born free and equal, and that one A. B. should enjoy all the privileges of 


There are two things in English education that supply just the com 
paring and coordinating machinery that we lack : first, the rigid external 
examinations, with the immense number of money prizes ; and second, the 
relation of college and university. The two things are intimately connected. 

The name of university is one that bears no single sense. There are 
those haunters of the dictionary who will define it historically or etymolo 
gically with a persistent disregard of the actual case to-day. There are the 
dwellers on the prairie for whom it means a two-story building as distin 
guished from a college of one story. Generally the articles in current 
magazines that deal with college-university questions, concern themselves 
with the distinctions between two methods of instruction, and between con- 
fined and unbounded courses of study, and generally, they tacitly assume 
that the college and university are either independent institutions or might 
as well be so. 

The English university organization is unlike anything German or 
American, though it has some resemblance to the new French university 
system. Everyone knows that our colleges were founded at a time when 
the English university power was at a minimum, and that we completed the 
college independence by making it a matter of course that each college 
should give its own degrees. At present the coordinating power of the 
English university is strong. The colleges belong to it as states to the 
United States, and a college student in his ordinary life, his course of study, 
yearly examinations, and discipline even to expulsion, may be as little con- 
cerned with the university as a citizen of Pennsylvania with the Congress at 
Washington. But it is only the university that gives degrees, and always 
on the testimony of its own examiners, not on the college record or recom- 
mendation. This is the fundamental English principle of external examina- 
tion. The student has probably passed well in all his college examinations 
— without that the college would hardly recommend him to the university. 
But no certificate from his teachers will avail him ; the degree is given only 
after he has been examined by those who have not taught him. 

Variety in university life is insured by the number of colleges. The 
undergraduate has a pretty wide choice between eighteen or twenty in the 
great universities. One college may be particularly good in medicine ; 


another in mathematics ; in one the rich and titled are the majority ; in 
another, the poor and brilliant self-made man predominates. The horsey or 
betting- undergraduates congregate in one or two colleges ; for some tradi- 
tion is sure to attach to each and be kept up in the succession of brief 
undergraduate generations. I think there would be no obstacle to the 
exclusion, by any college that should wish, of all subjects but one from its 
lecture-rooms, and this would give us something very like the eastern and 
larger western American university, which is, indeed, a federation of colleges, 
as is the English university, but of colleges whose courses are not parallel 
and which lead to different degrees, in science, arts, medicine, law or the- 
ology. Notice, however, that even though Harvard University be said to 
confer the M. D. degree, it is the Harvard Medical School that holds the 

Now, in Cambridge and Oxford, the university has many functions 
besides examination. There are many rich and famous university chairs, 
whose professors lecture to students from any of the colleges. But one chief 
function of the university is to act as an external coordinating Board of 
Examination for which each college fits as it likes best, and from this we 
pass easily to a university as a mere Examining Board ; for so it also exists in 
England. The University of London is such a Board, entitled to give 
degrees to those who pass a series of severe examinations at stated intervals. 
There are as yet no colleges in the university, though practically a large 
number of the candidates come from two colleges in London. Again, the 
Victoria University is a good example of an Examining Board coordinating 
separate teaching colleges. The colleges that compose it are in towns at some 
distance from each other, and have each its own corps of instructors with its own 
complete organization ; but degrees are given only by the central examining 
board, which has the federal power. To this Victorian league of colleges 
belongs the well-known Owens College, Manchester — better known across 
the sea than its own university — and also the Yorkshire College, Leeds. 

This is different from anything American, but we seem tending in this 
direction. For instance, the elaborate organization of the new University of 
Chicago is evidently intended to coordinate differing institutions, though not 
indeed to do this by central examinations for subordinate colleges of the 
same kind. 


There is another English peculiarity that docs good in the matter I am 
considering — that is, in the forming a definite standard of judgment — though 
it is a peculiarity that American educators have disapproved for other 
reasons, I mean the division of undergraduates into Honor-men and Poll 
or Pass-men. Most general remarks about English scholarship refer to 
the Honor-men, that is, to those who have come to the university for the 
purpose of study. There is a large class who neither have any such pur- 
pose nor pretend to have it ; nor does the college pretend that they have it, 
or try to induce them to have it. Exactly the same degree of 15. A. is 
given with two wholly distinct preparations and two final examinations, which 
differ in difficulty almost as our entrance and our senior examinations. In 
this country such a thing is never done. Sometimes there are special addi- 
tional examinations for those who wish honors, but much more often they 
are given for high standing in the ordinary examinations ; and the instruc- 
tion, with the greater part of the examination, is always common to all 
classes of students. The Cambridge Honor-man and Poll-man are differently 
treated from the moment they enter, and probably have been differently 
treated at school. 

Now, the reducing quantities of learning to a common denominator that 
one may add or subtract them with approximate accuracy is a task much 
beyond me. I decline to have any opinion on the proposition I have heard 
advanced, that the average scholarship per caput in a good American uni- 
versity is above that in an English one ; it being understood that there is no 
actual example of the English average. But I am sure that the English 
system accomplishes two good things with some bad ones. It raises the 
maximum scholarship by severe competition with picked men, and it clears 
and defines the standard of measurement and brings self-deception to a 
minimum. The man who does not go in for honors has no idea that his 
degree represents what the Honor-man's represents. He comprehends the 
case perfectly ; and while he did not want to submit himself to any such 
intellectual strain, while he may a have profound contempt for the " smug" 
who has toiled hard for three years, yet he acknowledges that by bookish 
measure he himself is quite out of the competition. 


Let us next consider how far such coordinating machinery would be 
possible and desirable for ourselves. First, there is the old, old objection of 
cramping both the teacher and pupil. We claim that when working in the 
shadow of the coming examination, both are less loving of the subject for 
its own sake and less apt to original research. Let us grant this evil to some 
extent. I believe, indeed, it has been ignorantly over-rated in this country, 
and confess myself a convert to the examination system. One hears so much 
said against examinations, and it is so often urged by the speaker, as a sort 
of preliminary recommendation of himself, that he once believed in exami- 
nations but has come to see the error of his ways, that it may be interesting 
to hear of a person who once did not believe in them, and has now deserted 
from the culture that defies all test, into the ranks of the materialists. 

I do not believe that we are in any danger from the so-called Franken- 
stein monster of examination. The fact is that we have taken our fears 
ready made from the examination-ridden English . The protest in the Nine- 
teenth Century, some years ago, applied only to examinations as they are 
actually working in England, and it is only after living abroad that one can 
realize how different are the conditions there and here. The question is 
not whether examinations may do harm to some one else, but whether there 
is the slightest clanger of their hurting us. Our whole system tends the 
other way. So far are we from subordinating teaching to examination that 
we have reduced our examination to a mere servant of the teacher to aid 
him in forming an opinion or in punishing a culprit. But of examination 
as an independent educational instrument we have nothing, and, as usual, 
we are quite unaware of the fact. 

Now, the danger of cramping scholar and teacher increases very 
rapidly as we ascend the academic grades. A board like the Victoria 
University might do more harm than good ; at any rate it is opposed to 
all our tendencies and there is no chance whatever of its establishment. But 
in any device to unify a large number of entrance examinations, good would 
surely predominate. These come at an age when few students are putting 
out inquiring tentacles to be crushed, or losing their originality or abandon- 
ing their researches at approach of the examiner. 


I was especially surprised (and T have heard others speak of the same 
thing) to see how very different was the standard of preparation for college in 
England and in the United States. The difference in our colleges is less start- 
ling than the difference in our schools. In the college it is partly a difference 
in the kind of training, though not so much so as the American student finds 
it convenient to believe. But in the preparatory school I fear it is much more 
a simple matter of good against poor, thorough against superficial, of con- 
centrated study or languid reading a book. 

And as the differences in thoroughness between college and college in 
America are almost as great at entrance as afterward, the unification of 
standard at the beginning would very largely do away with our present 

The reaction upon schools would be one of the most important results 
Of such unification. The Local Examinations in England show this. Cam- 
bridge and Oxford both offer to hold local examinations of different degrees 
of difficulty in any center where they are desired, certain fees being exacted 
to defray expenses. Schools and private individuals avail themselves of 
these examinations in great numbers. The Cambridge Higher Local is the 
examination which has had most influence on woman's education, and I 
have even heard it stated that the whole rapid improvement of our genera- 
tion dates from the establishment of that examination ; while Newnham Col- 
lege owes its existence to the efforts of women to prepare for the Higher 
Local. The vice of pretending to more excellence than they can make 
good is, I fear, especially prevalent among women, the reason clearly being 
the absence of thorough types for comparison. 

Now, there are some public examinations in the United States, but they 
have as yet had little effect on education in general, and on the standard of 
admission to college in particular. Before they can have much effect I 
believe they must offer more powerful inducements, either by money prizes 
or by immunity from the entrance tests of a much larger number of colleges 
than now grant it. No one is going to submit to a searching examination 
with nothing to gain by it. And the effect of external examinations on 
college entrance is only what the college wishes it to be. It is useless to 
try to reform the colleges from without. Unless they want to unify their 


standards, outsiders are likely to want it for some time longer. Let us see 
then what has been done by agreements between different colleges or 

In some States, where the State University crowns the public system of 
schools, a consequent unifying of school standards has ensued. This is 
more often the case in the West. In the East something has been done by 
recent associations of colleges and schools. The most important of such 
leagues — I believe the only one which can show many important results — is 
the New England Association of Colleges and Preparatory Schools, which 
met last autumn at Yale. But there are leagues of the sort in various 
States. Their work is to harmonize or equalize the nominal requirements 
for college entrance. This has been chiefly for the sake of the schools, 
which naturally prefer not to have their pupils preparing for various colleges, 
every half-dozen boys with different classics prescribed and a different 
mathematical text-book recommended. 

This is a good work, against an obvious evil, but not exactly the evil 
about which I am writing. The inconsistency of standard might not be 
diminished, it might even be increased by making the same nominal 
demands. If the struggling little university conducted by " Mrs. Johnson 
and myself" announces that its requirements and courses are to be exactly 
parallel to those of the Johns Hopkins, it lessens the labor of the prepara- 
tory schools, but greatly increases the deceptions that I want to avoid. Not 
merely the same printed requirements, but the same actual examination con- 
ducted by the same examiners is necessary to produce a uniform standard. 

There has recently been some interesting correspondence in the Nation 
about the need of associations of Southern colleges in order to get a definite 
and uniform standard for admission. Says one writer from Tennessee, 
" The vagueness of statement that is frequently met with in the published 
requirements of Southern colleges differs materially from the growing 
tendency visible in Northern institutions toward indefiniteness in the 
prescribed requirements for admission to college. The one is the vague- 
ness of chaos ; the other, the brevity of conceded facts 

The published requirements of Harvard in Latin, to wit : ' The trans- 
lation at sight of average passages from Cicero and Virgil with ques- 


tions ' may be plain enough for Boston, but such words would be under- 
stood very differently a few degrees nearer the equator. The only hope for 
Southern education is that the colleges may in some way be brought together 
and come to some agreement as to the amount necessary for admission to 
the Freshman class." 

Where colleges have standards • nearly the same, it would even at first 
cause no great inconvenience, and in many subjects it would even save labor to 
issue one set of entrance examination papers. Some subjects might be marked 
necessary for one entrance and not for another ; some colleges might require 
a different number of electives ; some might in consideration, for instance, of 
no entrance Greek, require a higher grade in passing some other subjects. 
There would be room for any individual differences that the colleges wished 
to continue. But if the examinations were conducted by the same examiners, 
and successful candidates were ranked without regard to the future college, 
there would be no self-deception on the part of the colleges. If one chose 
to demand less than another it would be openly done for some good reason, 
and this necessity of acknowledging any depression of the test could not but 
stimulate competition and tend to raise the standard ; but it would more 
than tend, it would compel to unify it. Of course, each college would still 
be at liberty to admit on certificate when she chose, but when examination 
results were put forward in qualification there would be no question about 
how much they meant. 

It might save trouble if the Harvard examination, to which women are 
now admitted and on which two scholarships are yearly given in New York, 
could be utilized ; each college specifying its own required subjects and the 
required degree of success in each. I should like also to see tried the English 
custom of making failure never final, a candidate being welcome to the same 
examination as often as she chose to pay the fee ; along with the other cus- 
tom of admitting to any part of the examination or to the whole of it, and of 
publishing or not publishing the candidate's name in the list, according to 
her preference ; since this certainly robs examination of many of its terrors 
and might induce more schools and private students to use the entrance 
examinations voluntarily as a test of their own work. 


The fact that any college would accept this examination would at once 
lend it great attractions, even though some colleges reserved the right to 
hold their own examinations also and continued to admit from certificated 
schools. Next, perhaps, we should have an inter-collegiate committee for 
accrediting schools.* 

But if the more conservative colleges dared not suspend their individual 
examinations while the general examination was being tried, then stronger 
inducements might be necessary to bring candidates to anything so new, 
especially if it were rumored that the new examination might be more 
searching than the old. I think that prizes would furnish a legitimate and 
powerful attraction, and if a very few prizes, say four or five of a hundred 
dollars each, were offered on a general entrance examination — not as the 
income of a large sum to be subscribed, but by yearly subscription for two 
or three years only, competitors would be attracted and by the end of that 
time it would have been clearly shown whether such an examination would 
support itself, and if not, whether it was less expensive than the separate 
examinations by all the colleges. 

And finally, to touch on one other important point — the colleges which 
are in the habit of holding local examinations for the convenience of can- 
didates at a distance, would certainly find their expenditure for examination 
lessened by cooperation. This expenditure cannot yet be very great for 
women, but we may well profit by the wasteful example of the colleges for 
men. Examiners from Harvard, Yale and Princeton sometimes meet can- 
didates in the same building, at the same hours, and triplicate all travel, 
trouble and expense, while of course they make improbable the recogni- 
tion of that clearly defined and uniform standard of measure which is so 
needed by American colleges. 

A.B. Gould, '8p. 

*The whole question of admission by certificate is too complicated to attack here. There is an admirable 
paper on the subject by Professor L. M. Salmon in the Educational Review for October, 1893, which I have read 
since writing most of this paper, and I see that she strongly advocates some league of those colleges which use the 
certificate system. 



Thou hast clouds, O gracious Deliverer, 

Clouds to enwrap the innocent fugitive, 

Borne on the winds to carry her far over 

Land and sea, and where it seems good to thee, 

Snatched from brazen Destiny's arms. 

Wise thou art and seest the future, 

Neither to thee is the past inexistent ; 

And thy look rests over thy chosen ones, 

As thy light, the life of the night-time, 

Rests and rules over earth and ocean. 

O withhold my hands from blood-guiltiness ! 

Never peace it bringeth or blessing ; 

Ever the haply-murdered one's countenance 

For the reluctant sorrowful slayer's 

Evil hours lurks to affright him. 

For the Immortals are lovers of mankind, 

Love the kindly wide-scattered races: 

Willingly they to the perishing mortal 

Fleeting life lengthen, willingly share with him 

Even their heaven, their own, the eternal ; 

Even a share in their blest contemplation 

Gladly awhile they grant and allow him. 

From Iphigenie auf Tauris. 

E. S. IF., '94. 



The stillness of a summer afternoon in a little village : a strong warm 
wind swayed the trees, ruffled the short uneven grass and the many shrubs 
in the yard, and tossed the eglantines clinging loosely to the latticed arbor. 
This arbor was a long arched structure, covered thickly with vines of 
different sorts. One long spray of eglantine, bearing a cluster of the fra- 
grant pink flowers, swung to and fro, higher than the others. Above the 
spray a humming-bird poised for an instant — a flash of iridescent green and 
blue against the glowing turquoise of the sky — poised, and was gone. The 
soft whirr of its wings attracted the attention of a child kneeling on the 
other side of a high fence, which ran curiously close to the arbor. The 
child was a very pretty, round-limbed little fellow, with earnest eyes and a mist 
of yellow hair. He leaned back to catch a last glimpse of the bird as it 
darted away, then devoted himself again to his former task of trying to pull 
some of the eglantine blossoms through the lowest interspace of the fence. 
But, near as he was to the arbor, his plump little arms were all too short to 
reach those entrancing bunches of color and perfume. The tiny perplexed 
face was pressed close to the opening and the gray eyes peered eagerly at 
the opposite wall of quivering pink and green. 

Suddenly he heard a little rustle much higher than his head, and look- 
ing up, he found that a man was closely watching him through a parting in 
the leaves. Now, there is nothing necessarily startling in this, even to a 
very young person of a naturally shy disposition, if his experience has 
largely been to the effect that grown people are little more than cleverly 
devised — though very lovable — machines for serving him. It is very probable 
that he will look upon a human presence at such a critical juncture as this, 
only as an opportune means of attaining the thing wanted. And, in this 
case, there was still less cause for alarm : the child knew very well that he 
was often watched by a man who spent a great deal of time reading in the 
arbor, and he had a very friendly feeling for this person. So, instead of run- 
ning away, as he would have done under other circumstances, he clasped 
his dimpled hands more tightly on the board, and said, with happy expect- 
ancy, " Man, please give me a flower." 


There was a silence, broken mily by the hum of a icw bees about the 
tossing eglantines, then the childish voice repeated the request, a new 
experience denoted in the slightly broken tone. Another short .silence, 
and then confidence was restored by the sight of one of the biggest, 
pinkest clusters coming through the carefully parted leaves within reach of 
the tiny outstretched hands, now fairly quivering with excitement, and 
delight. But however great the child's excitement, that of the man was 
even greater, when he heard a very cheerful voice announcing," I love you, 

As Mr. Justin Fielding let the vine leaves come together again, and 
sat down in his old rustic garden chair, there was a very perceptible flush on 
his usually white cheeks. He was a compactly built, rather short man, 
with closely trimmed hair and beard, both nearly white. His manner, at 
all times, was a curious mixture of dignity and nervous sensibility. He 
now went on reading in perfect quiet, except that his fingers kept up a 
steady, slow tattoo on the back of his book. 

When about an hour had passed, he arranged in a neat pile the two 
or three books he had with him, took them up firmly in both hands, and 
walked briskly across the yard and into the house. 

" Now, my dear," he said to his wife as he entered the room where 
she was sitting, " if you will please open the bookcase door, I can put these 
in without rubbing the covers at all. Our books will stay bound twice as 
long as other people's, I am sure, because I never rub them together." 

" I guess they'd last as long as we do, Justin, if you didn't take quite 
so much pains." 

Her calm face showed the quiet amusement with which she always 
regarded her husband's pet notions. 

" No, indeed," he said, a little hastily, for he thought his wife did not 
fully appreciate the importance of his carefulness in small things, " I saw 
Judge Allen's Encyclopedia Britannica in his office, the other day, and it was 
rough, very rough, and he doesn't use his half as much as I use mine ; he 
abuses it, he abuses it." He emphasized the last words by tapping his right 
forefinger sharply into the palm of his other hand, a favorite gesture with 


Having closed the bookcase, he went into the hall, and called thence 
to his wife, 

" Do you want anything in the village, Clorinda ? " 

" No, I don't know as I do," his wife answered, following him to the 
door. She was a large woman with rounded shoulders, and her feet, clad 
comfortably in Congress gaiters, came down heavily. 

Mr. Fielding had stopped and was looking very intently, his wife 
thought, into the next yard. But as she came out, he began twining a 
morning-glory vine around one of the four big porch pillars, and finally, this 
being arranged to his satisfaction, he went on. She watched him going 
down the street — the fall of his cane in time with his step. 

When he had turned the corner, she went through the house quickly — 
taking up a little tin pail in the kitchen — and on into the garden and along 
a neat gravel path. At the foot of the garden lay an orchard where the 
long grass billowed around the sturdy old tree trunks. Where the garden 
and the orchard met grew a row of currant bushes, now heavy with fruit. 
She began picking the currants and in a few minutes had the pail full. 
Presently she picked up a small stone and rapped sharply on the flat top 
board of the fence. In a short time a woman looking much like her, 
though with a girl's freshness still in her pretty face, came out of the next 
house and hurried to the place where she stood. Mrs. Fielding spoke first. 

" Ellen, I thought perhaps you'd seen your father go out, so I didn't 
rap at first." 

"Well, I did see him," replied the younger woman, " but Mrs. Dillon 
was there, and I don't see as there's any use of letting the whole town know 
that you can't speak to your own mother till your father's out of sight. 
And you might as well tell the whole town as to let her find it out." 

This sentence was spoken in a sweet, monotonous tone, and ran off 
into a laugh at the end. 

" You needn't think people don't know," was the reply. " If you'd 
lived here right along after you got married you'd know that everybody 
knows that your father wouldn't speak to you after you married Henry 


Ellen laughed a little and folded her round arms on the fence. 

" Yes, I know that, but now that fve come to live next to you I don't 
want them to think that you and I have to hide before we can talk to each 

" There's no hiding about it. You know how your father always felt 
about the Thurstons always suing him for this strip of land, and he never 
was so sore over anything in his life as to have his only daughter marry 
one of them. Your father's too good, Ellen, for me to hurt his feelings, 
even to see more of you, specially when I can see you about as much 

" Well, you know," said Ellen a little eagerly, "the thing's not really 
settled yet. Henry says by rights the fence ought to be moved over twenty 
feet into pa's yard." 

" No such thing ! " interrupted Mrs. Fielding with perhaps a little 
resentment in her usually mild voice. " I hope Henry isn't going to let 
his head get filled with that notion ;" then in a softer tone, " I don't want 
you to go through all the torment I've had about it." 

" As for notions," said Ellen, " I guess Henry has as good a right to 
his notion as pa has, since the case has never been really settled one way or 
the other. But we needn't quarrel, now that we are together." 

"Quarrel! my dear child, I should think not! But don't you want 
this pail of currants ? I picked them for you, because you used to be so 
fond of them." 

" Yes, indeed, I do, I always thought these tasted better than any 
other currants in the world. But ma, do you know I'd like to go into the 
house with you. I get so homesick sometimes to see my home that I could 
cry. I've said all the time that I was too proud to steal in, but I want to 
see it more than I want to be proud about it. And I'm going to climb the 
fence and go in. I won't go in the front way." 

" Ellen, you'll break your neck if you try to climb over this fence," 
expostulated her mother. 

" Indeed I'll not. I know I'm fat, but I ain't too old yet to get over 
a fence." 


The two women, went softly through the garden and into the house. 
Within, the stillness of the day was intensified by the calmness of these low, 
cool, dark rooms with their old-fashioned furniture. Ellen gave, a little cry 
of pleasure when she went into the sitting-room and saw the clock which 
had been the delight of her childhood with its glass door adorned with a 
wonderful church set in a wreath of flowers. 

The front room, opening from the sitting-room by an archway, had 
few of the characteristics of an ordinary village parlor. The floor was 
covered with matting, and the open grate showed signs of use, while 
the horse-hair furniture was relieved by a few chairs of oak, worn till 
polished. An old mahogany cabinet stood at one side of the room, 
filled with such curiosities as Mr. Fielding had been able to collect. . Most 
of these had been obtained from returned foreign missionaries, who were the 
widest travelers of his acquaintance. A hideous Indian idol sat on one 
side of the hearth, and on the other side was a huge stone curiously indented 
as though by a deer's foot. Around the room were several plain oak cases 
filled with stones and minerals or books, and the few pictures were photo- 
graphs of natural scenery or old prints. Ellen looked around with a little 
sigh of satisfaction in the familiar distinctiveness. 

" I wish I could stay a while, but I know pa always comes home after 
the five o'clock mail comes in. Do you know," she continued as they 
went out again into the green and gold of the sunny garden, "baby Harry 
had a bunch of eglantines this afternoon that he declared ' ze man ' gave 
him — you know that's what he calls pa. The wind must have broken it off 
and blown it into the yard, and he said that because he knew it came from 
here. But one thing was queer, every thorn was taken off. I suppose 
Harry did it himself, I couldn't find out. You don't suppose — " 

"No, I don't." Mrs. Thurston had too strong a conviction of her 
husband's inflexibility to entertain any such supposition. "I have thought 
several times, though, that I'd caught your father looking as if he 
was very anxious to see something or somebody in your yard, and I 
shouldn't wonder if he was more interested in Harry than he is willing to 
let on. You see, it ain't the ordinary kind of stubbornness in your father. 
The more he thought of you and Harry the more he'd hold out, just because 


he'd think he wasn't acting up to his principles if lie didn't, and you know 
what he is about principles." 

" Oh, yes ! I know," said Mrs. Thurston, with her cooing laugh, " hut 
I wish he'd take down this fence." 

The Thurston house was in striking contrast to that of the Ficldings. 
It had just been altered and refurnished, and was very bright and fine, 
with new paint and marvelous scroll-work on the outside, and Brussels car- 
pets and plush-covered furniture within. 

When Mrs. Thurston went in she found her husband scrambling about 
on all-fours, while Harry rode triumphantly on his back. 

" I've got something to tell you," he said to his wife, " as soon as you 
can get this young son of yours to believe that I'm not a quadruped." 

" Well, what is it? " she asked, as soon as she had picked Harry up, 
kissed him, tousled his hair, and dropped him in a nest of pillows on the 
couch, where he, imperturbably good-natured, illustrated a child's marvel- 
ous power of adaptation to environment by immediately becoming a " wab- 
bit " and beginning to burrow in the cushions. 

Mr. Thurston stood up, shook himself, and said : 

" I was in Allen & Blakely's office to-day, and Blakelytold me he had 
just come across some old papers which he thought would prove that your 
father was wrong about the line between our places. Ellen, I'm going to 
take away that fence." 

" Henry, how can you ! Father'll put it right back." 

" No he won't. On the strength of those papers I can get out an 
injunction to prevent him. I don't want to bring suit against your father, 
or have any words with him, so the best way is to take the fence down 
quietly, and then if he wants to go to law, I can't help it. I can't move 
the fence because I don't want to take in the arbor and all the bushes and 
flowers he has put out, but I am not going to have that ugly old board fence 
on my land any longer. Besides, if I take it down, this youngster will have 
a chance to get nearer those flowers he's always talking about. He is as 
crazy after flowers as your father." 

He swung Harry to his shoulder and walked over to the window. 


" There, my pet, I'm going to take that fence down, and you can play 
over there." 

" Will ze man let me? " asked Harry, leaning forward and gazing out 
with very great interest. 

" He can't very well help himself," laughed his father. 

The next day Harry happened to be playing in the yard when he saw 
his grandfather come out to the arbor ; and he at once dropped his play- 
things and trotted over to the fence. After the incident of the day before, 
his grateful little heart was really inclined toward " ze man" and besides, 
he had such a 'delightful thing to tell. 

"Oh, man !" he cried, pressing his sweet little face against the bars, 
"man, my papa's going to take zis fence down." This news produced a 
quite unexpected result. A chair was suddenly overturned in the arbor, 
and Mr. Fielding appeared openly by the fence and bent over the child in 
great excitement. 

" Your father's going to take the fence down ?" 

" Yes ; my papa take zis fence down to-morrow, and zen I turn see 
you, man." The little face expressed such complete confidence in the 
power of this arrangement to give equal pleasure to his new-found friend, 
that Mr. Fielding stopped short the exclamations of his angry astonish- 
ment. Indeed, after giving a very scrutinizing look around, he even bent 
further down and patted the yellow head. 

The following morning Mr. Thurston, despite his wife's remonstrances, 
sent for carpenters to take down the fence. When the men came, he went 
out with them to give his directions ; at the same time Mr. Fielding left his 
house and walked energetically towards them, reaching the fence corner 
just as they did. He said " Good morning" pleasantly, and, having 
adjusted his hat and spectacles a little more firmly, he climbed the fence 
and seated himself on the top. He then took a newspaper from his pocket 
and began reading, apparently oblivious of their presence. 

The two carpenters grinned at each other, and Mr. Thurston spoke : 

" I am afraid we shall have to trouble you, Mr. Fielding. We are 
going to take this fence down, and I am afraid you may be injured." There 
was no response : Mr. Fielding was absorbed in an account of the latest 
railway strike. 


" We must begin at the other end, then." Mr. Thurston started off, the 
men picked up their tools and followed him. But they had no sooner gone 
than Mr. Fielding stood up; he walked carefully along the fence to the 
other vnil, and when the others came out through the garden, they found 
him sitting there reading as calmly as before. With a hopeless laugh, Mr. 
Thurston turned to. the men. 

" I don't want to kill the man ; we'll have to give it up." 

One of the carpenters, a tall loose-jointed man, offered his comment : 

" I guess ye will, he's alius hed a way o' makin' the Thurstons pull 
in their horns." 

The defeated party went back in silence. 

" It's no use," said Mr. Thurston to his wife. " He'd stay on that fence 
a week, and the men couldn't get a nail pulled before he'd be on the spot. 
And I can't watch him or pay anyone else to. I'll have to begin a suit. 
The fence must come down now, or I shall be the laughing-stock of the 
place. I shall have the line resurveyed according to those old deeds. 
Hut what I should like to know is, how he found out what I was going to 

But the little marplot who might have enlightened him was not at 
hand, being very busily engaged in making a well ; and, as one pail of water 
soaked down through the earth while he was bringing another, he was not 
likely to be at liberty very soon. 

Within a few days two of the best surveyors in the state were engaged 
in determining the boundary line between the Thurston and Fielding places. 
Meanwhile a very warm friendship between Mr. Fielding and his grandson 
was growing in a furtive manner. When Harry stayed near the fence, 
his grandfather watched him ; and the child played on, liking to be near this 
friendly man, yet too much engrossed in his own little fancies to care for 
conversation. Mr. Fielding was really very thankful for this silence, as he 
did not at all care to have his wife and daughter know how far he had 
betrayed his principles. Harry still believed that " to-morrow " his papa 
would remove the fence — which he regarded as the sole barrier between him 
and " the man," and the man's beautiful flowers. 


One day some weeks after the surveyors had gone, Henry Thurston 
told his wife that that afternoon he should get the decision of the surveyors 
and his lawyers. . " To-morrow," he added, " I am going to tell your father 
that the fence must come down, and he can take his choice whether it's to 
be with a lawsuit or not." 

Two or three hours later he started home with the news. When he 
came within sight of his father-in-law's place, he stopped in astonishment. 
The same two carpenters employed on a former occasion were now rapidly 
tearing' away the fence, under the direction of Mr. Fielding, while on the 
porch sat his wife and her mother, the latter holding Harry in her arms. 
In great bewilderment, he went in at the gate and approached Mr. Fielding ; 
but his wife and Mrs. Fielding were there before him. And from them all 
the got an explanation. It seemed that Harry, in the absence of his grand- 
father, had suddenly conceived the brilliant plan of climbing over the fence ; 
and he had succeeded in reaching the top, only to fall to the ground on the 
other side, and to be taken up a sadly bruised and wiser boy. 

Mr. Fielding on his return had sent for men to take the fence away 
as soon as possible. 

" I am so glad," Mrs. Thurston whispered to her husband. " Now you 
won't have to sue him." 

He gave her a rather embarrassed look, was silent for a few minutes, 
but finally laughed and said, " I may as well tell you, Allen & Blakely say 
that this fence stands exactly on the original boundary line. So you've 
always been right, Mr. Fielding." 

The terse reply was characteristic : 

" My dear sir, I've always known I was." 

Just then Harry raised his head from its comfortable resting-place on 
his grandmother's arm, and murmured in a sleepy voice: 

" Papa, is zis to-morrow ?" 

Elva Lee, 'gj. 



" Wc arc now fallen into a criticall age," wrote a doleful author three 
hundred years and more ago, in such a very thick, crabbed old tome, that 
his critics — " hastie hot-spurres," he calls them — -must have burned their 
candles very low, if ever they were zealous enough to read through all those 
fiercely black and highly illegible pages. Therefore one pardons them a 
few " taunting quips." " We are now fallen into that criticall age," he says, 
" wherein every man's writings (both prime inventions and second-hand 
translations) arc arraigned at the tribunall of each peadantical Aristarchus' 
understanding. For, if a man follow the point orderly and well, he is curi- 
ous : if he digresse never so little, he is frivolous : if the style be elaborate, it 
smelleth of the socket : if somewhat neglected and incult, it is good for 
nothing, but to be paper for his pocket. If the worke swelle with quota- 
tations and carie a large margent, it is nothing but a rhapsodic. If it be 
naked without all allegations, it's plaine Dunstable, and a mere fopperic : 
if the author write in praise of any they fine him for a flatterer : if of none for 
a maligner. Our ancestors called Herodotus, Patrcm Histories; these cen- 
sorious sirs, Patrcm Fabularum. They thought him worthy to be read at 
the games of Olympus : these men reade him but as a Canterberie Tale, to 
hold children from play, and old folkes from the chimney corners." 

Three centuries of " hastie hot-spurres " have done their work. We 
still learn the school-room traditions concerning the Father of History in 
the fairy-tale stage of our lives, when we listen with wistful faces to the 
sweet stories of The Goose Girl, and Beauty and the Beast, and the lovely 
lady from whose red lips pearls and honeyed words are ever falling, but all 
too soon " the shades of the prison-house " and Professor Sayce begin to 
exert their power. Alas ! that one must come to years of discretion and 
learned bewilderment, must be taught that in this sad age there is no pot of 
gold at the end of a rosy rainbow, and withal that Herodotus did not know a 
forged Cadmeian from a genuine inscription, but borrowed who can say 
how much of the material for his famous Histories from Flecatasus. Or 


" contrariwise," as Tweedledum said to Alice, it may be that Hecata^us bor- 
rowed from Herodotus. In any case someone is untrustworthy, and no one 
is to be trusted. 

The " hastie hot-spurres " press thick and fast upon us. One urges 
eagerly that Herodotus never recited the Histories at Olympus. The sun 
was too hot, the stone benches too hard to admit of a patient audience. 
And so we are not to believe the pretty anecdote about Thucydides, which 
says that he wept as Herodotus was reading, and Herodotus, seeing the 
boy's tears, said to his father, " Olorus, thy son's soul yearns for knowl- 
edge." Another discontented critic, the most ungrateful of all men, grum- 
bles : " we had a right to expect that Herodotus," who was writing an 
account of the Persian war, " would have embodied in the episodes of the 
books all the more important facts of Greek history." Thus, instead of two 
fat little volumes, full of quaint humor and childlike naivete, of drama and 
romance, of gossiping stories and Corinthian court scandal, of lively anec- 
dotes about Periander, and artless descriptions of such monsters of earth and 
sea as could never have lived, — in the place of all this, Colonel Mure assures 
us we ought rather to be the possessors of a big book teeming with dryest 
details. It were doubtless most valuable, most interesting, to know all about 
the legislation of Solon, and the history of Corinth under the Cypselidse. 
Yet one pleads that there arc already so many more facts in existence than 
one can ever make way with, and that so long as the world shall endure, 
those old gentlemen at the British Museum with two pairs of spectacles 
each, will without doubt be occupied in ferreting out fresh data for our con- 
sumption. They ought, one feels, to serve as a sop to Cerberus. But why 
plead with the " hastie hot-spurre " whose heart is hard ; with the pedantical 
Aristarchus, as jealous as some Thcban of Herodotus' glory; or with the 
Cato of " the Steele stomach," who can digest any discourse, be it never so 
heavy ? In truth, another weighty historical tome is not to be ours, and the 
best part of mankind have access to no semi-Cadmeian, or semi-Phcenician 
manuscripts whereby to test Herodotus' linguistics. Nor does there remain 
a sufficient fragment of the literary work of the eminent Hecatams, to enable 
us to pronounce with sure impartiality on Herodotus as a grave trans- 
gressor. Since, then, all these questions must be forever left in the air, why 


waste one's youth walking round and round a circle in the realm ol hiero- 
glyphics? Why not rather follow appreciation's pleasant path, which is 
edged with rose trees and scented box ? 

As a beginning of this appreciation, it must straightway be admitted 
with the old English writer whom I have already quoted, that " the credite 
of Herodotus is very much cracked." " We reade," he continues, " sun- 
drye particulars in Herodotus' historic, which sute not with the fashions of 
these times, and he reporteth some very strange tilings I confess : and fur- 
ther affirm that it is not probabLe that ever any king should play such 
prankes as he reporteth, not only not beseeming their places and persons 
(being princes) but any simple swains or Corridons of the countrcy." 

It was, indeed, long, long ago when conscience first pricked the tender 
soul so sharply that it could no more feel secure in allowing " such prankes" 
to be veritable history, and when the " hastie hot-spurrc" began shaking 
his scholarly head and translating each priest mentioned by Herodotus 
into a lazy, be-turbaned dragoman. All this skepticism is a flower of the 
dark ages, not of modern times. What surprises one is the fact that we are 
still quibbling over the priests, I would say dragomen, and those monsters 
that wagged the impossibly forked tails. The wonder is that the world 
persists in trying to turn Herodotus into an accurate and prosy historian, 
instead of teaching children from their cradles to know and love him as the 
Father of all Story-telling and the writer of the most delightful Canterbcrie 
Talcs that ever were. Ah ! the age is perverse and degenerate ; it fondly 
loves those old gentlemen who are reading in the British Museum ; the 
Encyclopaedia is its child ; it has slain the crocodile and civilized the drago- 
man. We like to prattle about realism, and the commonplace is so dear to 
our hearts that we continue to peer short-sightedly into the pages of 
Herodotus after the inevitable facts and the dates of the eclipses of the moon. 
One sighs with the author of The Decay of Lying, that we are no longer 
able to appreciate a fine lie, one that is its own evidence and not hedged 
about with clumsy proofs. It is somewhere in the same essay, I think, 
that Herodotus is reverently spoken of as " the Father of Lies," but the 
Father of Fables is, perhaps, more gracious, certainly more connotative. 
It gives a more just impression of the credulous old gentleman who would, 


no doubt, have shrunk from a deliberate falsehood with quite the propriety 
of a Washington. 

To read the Histories of Herodotus with that same questioning smile 
with which one follows The Doinges and Travayles of the romancing Sir John 
Mandeville, Knight, is assuredly quite out of the question. On the other 
side, the just mean is also to be preserved. Herodotus really must not be 
required to verify all the monuments, since, as every one knows very well, 
he is not writing a history in our dull, modern fashion, but telling the 
stories he heard from the loungers on the edge of the Persian Empire, with 
whom he sat and chatted for days together, while he wondered at the dates 
that looked like great lumps of amber, hanging in the sunshine. He is 
relating the legends that passed from mouth to mouth in the streets of Susa ; 
how the inhabitants have become black from the excessive heat, and how 
at the festivals of the moon and Dionysios only, is it meet to the Egyptian 
mind to sacrifice a pig. On which occasions, says Herodotus in his own 
easy manner, the poor who were possessed of no pig in the flesh, baked 
tiny ones of dough wherewith to delight the god of wine and the chaste 
moon. After Herodotus' personal observations of the country, follow stones 
of all the kings of Egypt. They did play some strange pranks, especially 
with the rivers, which they seem to have been continually engaged in 
diverting from their proper channels. In the long line from Menes, who 
began the evil and ponderous habit of building pyramids, to Amasis, more 
abandoned than all with respect to the rivers, Rhampsinitus is the most 
attractive monarch. He had a far deeper sense of humor than most of the 
Pharaohs, and the rare discretion to give over his kingdom and his daughter 
to the man who was cleverer than himself. " After which," continues 
Herodotus, " he went down alive to Hades, and played at dice with Deme- 
ter, and sometimes won and sometimes lost, but came back again to earth, 
bearing as a present a golden handkerchief." 

Now Herodotus by no means believes all the stories that were told to 
him as the first unwary traveler in Egypt and those other far-away lands 
where he journeyed. The history of criticism has its beginning in the first 
book of the Histories, where he says, in relating how Crcesus with his army 
crossed the Halys, " some, indeed, affirm that the ancient channel of the 


river was dried up, but to this I cannot assent. For how, then, on their 
return could they have crossed the river?" Just what is Herodotus' canon 
of criticism, however, it would be difficult to discover, since of all nun 
he is the most delightfully inconsistent. I le will laugh at the foolish Athc 
mans for being deceived into worshipping the lovely Phrya as their own 
patron goddess, and yet will gravely relate that most engaging story of the 
Arabian sheep. "One kind," he says, " has very long tails, not less than 
three cubits in length, and if they were suffered to trail, the tails would 
become sore, because of their rubbing on the ground. Hut every one of the 
shepherds knows enough of the carpenter's art to prevent this. For they 
make little carts, and fasten them under the tails, binding the tail of each to 
a separate cart." But Herodotus does not fall a victim to the Sir John 
Mandeville type of story as often as most old-fashioned travelers, to whom 
men with one eye and the feet of a goat, stealing gold from griffins, would 
have been quite irresistible. 

Natural wonders do not so much impress him as does an enigmatic 
oracle, some strange dream, or the voice of the mystic Iacchus speaking 
from a cloud of dust to the two men standing stricken with wonder on the 
plain of Thiasos. " And from the dust and the voice rose a cloud, and it 
was borne high up in the air towards Salamis, to the camp of the Hellenes, 
so they knew that the fleet of Xerxes was about to perish." It was, above 
all, "the spectacle of the chances and changes of human life " which fasci- 
nated him. He is always thinking curiously of " Fortune's whirling wheel " 
— xbxXos twv avOpui-rjiwj izpaypd-wj ; but the wheel which is continually turning 
does not suffer the same men to be always happy and successful — 
-Eptcfapufisvos Si oux ia aie\ rubs auzobs et>Tu%ietv. The thought of the inse- 
curity of all human things haunts Herodotus, he can never forget the 
homely proverb which says that " pride goeth before a fall." Perhaps he 
knew that " pride walketh proudly, not looking to her steps ; " perhaps he 
thought more vaguely of a divinity who grudges men their prosperity and 

loves confusion rd Oeiov xav iuv tpOovEpov tz /.a) zapa%aiSes to whom it was 

meet that Polycrates should sacrifice his ring ; perhaps he had the instinct- 
ive Greek feeling for that perfection which lies in moderation and absolute 
temperance, in the never going to excess. But in whatever way vve 


choose to explain Herodotus' philosophy of life, it is the god Nemesis who 
makes the Histories move on like a drama, and turns the life of 
the foolish Xerxes into a tragedy. There never was a man with a greater 
curiosity than Herodotus, or with more curiosities, one might say, for he 
has as many as some eager child. He wonders reverently about the nature 
of the Divine, but he is only less intensely interested in human affairs, and 
is a student of character, of manners, of anything you will. He loves to 
be surprised, is very easily amused and interested, and always full of a 
gentle gaiety. But he is not a clever person like Thucydides, nor does he 
understand " constitutional change " and other wise things. Some chance 
incident will serve him as well as a long chain of subtlest causes, whereby to 
account for the greatest event. Above all he is very credulous, so credu- 
lous, indeed, that MS/ios, the god of mockery, drove him away from Hali- 
carnassus to Athens. There he became the friend of Sophocles. The 
divine Sophocles ! Yet even so, he stayed in Greece only a few years. It 
may be he came to realize more and more how very far he was behind his 
age, and that all the brilliancy and cleverness of Periclean Athens bewildered 
and wearied his simple soul. Perhaps the god Mai/tot pursued him a 
second time in the shape of the laughing Aristophanes, who says, rij? paiptas — 
what folly ! to believe in Zeus when you are so big. t^? fuopias, ro Jia 

vopiZtiv, ovra ttjXuoutov ! 

So Herodotus went out with a band of colonists to Magna Grascia, and 
there on the blue Gulf of Tarcntum, they built a city with fair, broad streets, 
lying at the foot of the low Italian hills, where the prickly cactus grew and 
a spring bubbled up among the aloes and mulberry bushes. After this 
spring they named the city Thurii, and here Herodotus lived for the last 
twenty years of his life, busily engaged in elaborating his Histories 
and in writing innumerable digressions, [ipayia itapa.iz(Mj<ras. He was, per- 
haps, very like that other most charming old gentleman, the Herr 
Professor of Koenigsberg, Immanuel Kant, and in his own Greek fashion 
probably went out to walk each day with his umbrella, drank precisely 
three cups of tea at breakfast, and scribbled notes on all the scraps of paper 
he could find. How he must have enjoyed touching up his best stories, 
and occasionally adding those picturesque details that make the Histories 


such good reading! Who would not give half a lifetime to have been the 
boy Plesirrhous and heard the story of Hippocleides from Herodotus' own 
lips? Hippocleides was richer and more beautiful than all the Athenians, 
so that when he came to woo the daughter of Cleisthenes, he was preferred 
before the other suitors. Now Cleisthenes detained the suitors a year in 
order to make trial of their courage and manly qualities, and he built a palcEStra 
for this very purpose, and each night entertained them with a banquet. At 
last the day came that was fixed for the marriage and for Cleisthenes to 
announce which one of all the suitors he would choose, and he killed more 
than a hundred oxen and made a very great feast for the suitors and the 
Sicyonians. But at the end of the feast, while they were still drinking wine, 
" Hippocleides, who very much attracted the attention of the rest, bade the 
flute-player to play a dance, and when the minstrel obeyed he began to 
dance. He danced, perhaps, so as to please himself, but Cleisthenes, look- 
ing on, was filled with suspicion. And again Hippocleides, after he had 
rested, bade some one bring a table. When the table came in he first danced 
Laconian figures on it, and afterward Attic figures, and thirdly, leaning his 
head on the table, he gesticulated with his legs. Now Cleisthenes, after 
Hippocleides had danced the first and second times, felt that he could never 
have the youth for his son-in-law, but when he saw him standing on his 
head, he could no longer restrain himself, and cried, ' Son^ of Tisander, 
you have danced off the marriage.' But Hippocleides only answered, 
' Hippocleides doesn't care.' And this came to be a proverb." 

Where again will one find such charm of manner or that playful sim- 
plicity which lends to the Histories a freshness of spirit and a lively forcibility 
that are incomparable? In an English paraphrase all this is quite lost. One 
mourns with Mr. Andrew Lang over the translators of Herodotus, over 
" Bcloe, the proverbially fiat, and Rawlinson, the highly respectable." 
Indeed, he who must read his Herodotus in what Colonel Newcome calls 
" a crib," should take refuge in an old English translation, made by a mys- 
terious B. R., who knows how long ago ? It is delightfully inaccurate and 
full of quaint slang, but one has only to compare any simple sentence taken 
from Mr. Rawlinson 's translation with its equivalent in the older translation to 
be convinced of the latter's superiority and the charm of its spelling. " From 


the coast line as far as Heliopolis," Mr. Rawlinson reads, " the breadth of 
Egypt is considerable : the country is flat, without springs and full of 
marshes." How much more charming is this : "./Egypt is very wyde and 
broade, & playne and champion countrey ; destitute of waters, yet slimmie 
and full of mudde." 

This is taking a rather base advantage of Mr. Rawlinson, who may not 
spell as he will, but B. R. has other strong points which do not depend on 
mere quaintncss of manner. He can tell a story with spirit and humour, he 
thoroughly enjoys Herodotus, and values him as, it would seem, do very few 
in this " criticall age." Therefore it will not, perhaps, be unfair to make 
generous use of his preface, since it were difficult, indeed, for a modern 
English pen to praise him so altogether adequately and charmingly as B. R. 
has done. 

" The delyghte," he concludes, " wee receyve by readyng hystories, is 
every way singulare, a soveraigne medicine for the cares of the minde, a 
speedy remedy for the griefes of the body, so that Alphonsus, Kyng of 
Spayne, lefte by Physicke as incurable, recovered his health by readyng Lyvy. 
In whych kynde of delightsome veyne, of all others Herodotus most excel- 
leth, both for the plesaunt course of the story and the plentifull knowledge 
conteyned therein." 

L. M. D.,'93. 



Oh, when Love goes a-Maying on the hills, 
The spring awakes with joyous little thrills, 

The air turns soft and sweet, 

And beneath his bounding feet 
The sad meadows blaze with happy daffodils. 

And then, as Love makes merry holiday, 
The wits of men and maids run all astray, 

'Tis the witching time of year, 

The seductive skies hang near, 
And the old, old earth is young again — in May. 

Julia Olivia Langdon, 'pj. 



" A dream of Form in days of Thought, 
A dream — a dream, Autonoe !" 

Autonoe to Mr. Austin Dobson. 

Dear Mr. Austin Dobson : — 

Your conceit of me is a very pretty one, and I am much indebted, 
though I think the opinion is well deserved. But, are you quite genuine in 
your admiration ? No doubt it seemed so when you sung me so gracefully, 
but picture to yourself what life would be if you were compelled to spend it 
with me, as you suggest. Wouldn't you grow a trifle tired of the " form," 
and want a little more "thought?" Might I not, perhaps, make too great 
a demand on your artistic sense ? Fancy the strain of worshipping so much 
beauty and simplicity all the time ! I am sure you would sometimes wish I 
had just enough thought to find amusement for myself. And then how tried 
you would be if I were to walk down Regent Street, let us say, with you, 
some fine day, " with wind-blown brows unfilleted," which, I suppose, means 
with no hat on, and those very " form "-less garments that I am wont to 
wear ; would you not wish that I had gone first to Virot and Felix ? It is 
after all a matter of fashion, you know, and having the " historic feeling," 
you might realize for a short moment my supreme modislincss in my own 
day ; for I do assure you, my chiton had exactly the proper fold and fulness, 
and any one could have told you that my unfilleted brow was quite as it 
should be. You may think that what you want in woman is Greek grace, 
but it isn't, it's style ! And you are too much of a stylist yourself, my poet, 
not to bow before it when you see it. You agree ? 





"What is honor? A word. What is that word honor? What is that honor? Air. A trim 
reckoning ! Who hath it?" 

Diana to Mr. George Meredith. 

Dear Mr, Meredith :— 

Without doubt you will find many to agree with you in your 
estimate of me, but for myself I do not think you have been quite fair. That 
I am a woman, through and through, I admit, and I am glad of it ; but why 
will you therefore deny me that finest, subtlest, most pervading of charac- 
teristics, the sense of honor? I plead guilty to your arraignment of my 
faults ; but besides you have given me virtues, and those not the conven- 
tional virtues of woman. No, you have not given me conventional virtues, 
why, then, have you made me transgress so grievously against every code 
of honor ? You think me too impulsive to be quite honorable ? But where 
in my nature is there room for such a horrid impulse as that of betraying 
my lover for a price? Perhaps you set yourself the task of drawing a very 
woman, and, along with many others, you deem it impossible for her to be 
honorable, — at least, in the man's sense of the word. I must insist that I, of 
all women, possess that sense. I might have sinned a thousand times against 
the woman's code, against the man's, never. Nay, almost all my nobleness 
came from my possession of a man's honor. I feel strongly, perhaps because 
of many weaknesses that make me unwilling to relinquish part of my 
strength. Of course, you will tell me that my strength, as well as my 
weakness, is my loveablcncss, but I cannot let it rest there. Few women 
have that finer and greater kind of honor that many men have, so few that 
there must not be one less. Why should there be this difference between 
men and women in the conception of so crucial — if I may so speak — a 
virtue? If you will write another novel, and tell me that, I shall remain, 
Your obliged though protestant, 




" For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever." 

Dodo to Mr. E. F. Benson. 

Dear Mr. Benson : — 

Since you have been so kind as to write about me, I have one 
or two bones to pick with you. In the first place, why Dodo ? Do you 
for one moment imagine that I am extinct? Why not better Gogo, — you 
might paraphrase the Laureate, and say that " I Gogo on for ever," — you 
evidently think I do. But seriously, if you meant me to be attractive, as you 
seemed to, you have made a shocking failure of it. Libellous, I call it. If 
there is one virtue I have, it is worldliness, and by that I mean one of the 
finest things possible. Apparently you think worldliness entirely incom- 
patible with brains or kindliness. It isn't. In fact, a true wordling needs the 
very finest sort of brains and heart. And you deny me the faintest vestige of a 
heart. Now I don't mean I should have loved Chesterford, because he was a 
bit slow, but I am sure I should have stuck to Jack, if you only hadn't con- 
founded him with Chesterford in the end, and I should not have gone off 
like a tame tigress with Hagenbeck — I mean Waldeneck. No, Mr. Benson, 
either you can't understand me, or else you have entirely failed to convey 
your impression. You surely mean me for a worldling ; but a worldling would 
never have been as vulgar and loud-voiced as you have made me. You 
should have let me have an occasional relapse into dignity, and my nonsense 
should either have been wittier, or less continual. I should grow tiresome ; 
and tiresome no true worldling ever is. Have you never chanced to meet 
Madame d'lvry ? 

I may, perhaps, be wickeder than you say, but pray give me more dis- 


M. H. R., '95 and H. S. H., '97. 



Do you know Laon ? or have you heard only of its Cathedral as "one 
of the things to sec," and nothing whatever of the many charms of the 
pretty little town itself? A fortress built on the very lop of a curious, 
semicircular hill, which rises abruptly out of the plain with no other eleva- 
tion for miles around, it can be reached on foot only by a long flight of 
steps — two hundred and sixty there are, I believe — and a weary climb it is, 
although wonderfully pretty when the steps come to an end, and a narrow- 
footpath winds upward the rest of the way between trim little hedgi 

The flight of steps is the only way up, but there is another and a much 
shorter way down to the plain. Just in front of the barrack's you will find 
an odd little gutter of a path leading from the street down the inner slope 
of the hill, through pretty patches of garden and orchard, among bushes and 
brambles, over sticks and stones, and into stretches of mud, so that you 
must employ a systematic scheme of skipping and walking sideways. Once 
clown in the valley, look back at the inner slope, that " Cuve de St. Vincent," 
as it is called, down which you have just scrambled, with the walks and 
terraces of the town above, the houses rising irregularly, one higher than 
the other ; at one end of the hill a picturesque old fort, at the other the 
great Cathedral, very grand and imposing, presiding solemnly over its own 
hill and all the surrounding plain. 

As you stroll slowly round the curved hill, you have from below a view 
of the broad walk along its margin, outside the old city walls — the "boule- 
vard," with its rows of tall, straight trees, broadening out at the Cathedral 
end of the town into a Place for dancing, with a kiosk in the centre for the 
band ; here the boulevard curves round the hill, follows the top of the inner 
slope for a short distance, and comes to an end with the old stone gateway 
that leads back into the town. When long, yellow bills pasted on the mir- 
rors of the " Cafe de la Comedie" announce a " bal public et gratuit," it is 
in this Place that the dancing takes place ; and if there is a fete the trees 
are beautifully hung with colored lights, the terraced walk lined with booths, 
and at one end the " chevaux de bois" whirl round and round all day, 
grinding out a tune that I shall never forget. 


The boulevard has several characteristic phases : quiet, perhaps a little 
dull, but very restful in the early morning, when one meets only a few old 
women carrying" baskets or those mammoth loaves of French bread, and 
stopping in little groups to gossip together ; or perhaps one or two stray 
soldiers from the barracks. But after noon the children are out in full force : 
little boys coming home from, school, in long black aprons, reaching almost 
to their heels, fastened about their waists by leather belts, and with linen 
schoolbags slung about their necks ; infants in arms, with cloaks much too 
long, and little girls in flounced frocks, much too short. From the convent, 
built back among the trees, up on a lovely old terrace, come groups of girls 
in blue aprons ; with them, one or two sisters. 

Late in the afternoon appear a few of the " four hundred," who spend 
nine-tenths of their lives shut up in those old-fashioned, square houses, into 
whose pretty courtyards we have an occasional glimpse through accidentally 
open doors. Except on Sundays, when they come down to the boulevard 
" en famille," the children the only gay or attractive element among them, this 
is all we ever see of the " aristocracy " of Laon, unless we meet them coming 
home from early Mass at the Cathedral, or in the market on Wednesday and 
Saturday mornings. It is a very short afternoon walk that they allow them- 
selves, the demoiselles much dressed, and holding up dainty parasols in spite 
of the shade of the over-arching trees. An occasional officer, very gay in 
full uniform, and always gallant, stops for a moment to exchange a few com- 
pliments with a young madame and her husband who are taking the air 

Then it is evening, and the boulevard is quite dark ; its rows of trees 
seem taller than ever ; the walk between, a long, dim aisle, ending suddenly 
in utter blackness, is full of mystery ; the only lights are the stars and the 
moon. It is wonderfully solemn to sit there then, "looking off" over the 
country into the darkness; the lights in the plain below are like reflections 
of the stars above, and it seems almost as though one were on the deck of 
a great ship, sailing silently and peacefully along in the night. On Sunday 
evenings, however, it is bright and gay enough down by the kiosk, for the 
Place is lighted up and well crowded ; the band plays for an hour, and one 
has no opportunity for quiet meditation. 


But the boulevard does not comprise all the walks in Laon, nor the 
extended outlook from its margin all the views! Around one-half of the 
inner curve of the hill, opposite the cathedral end of the town, runs a 
pretty shaded path, following — as the boulevard follows the city wall — the 
wall of what is now the arsenal, once, I believe, a convent. At the end of 
this walk, corresponding to the Place at the other end of the semicircle, is a 
broad, grassy plateau from which the view down into the plain is particu- 
larly lovely : — that long, straight road with the tall poplars on cither sick: 
leads to a cluster of little villages over there among the trees ; there are four 
of them, I think — you can tell by the spires ; each one, of course, has its 

No one will disturb you, for few people come to the plateau in the 
afternoon ; but do not linger here, you must continue your walk round 
the convent wall and wait for the sun to set, — you have come to watch the 
evening shadows in the plain below. It is very .pretty and peaceful on this 
side of the hill, and you will stay too long, and will be obliged to take a 
" short cut " home. You have not time to turn back along the pretty 
wooded path, but must cut across the open stretch between the old fort and 
the arsenal, and so reach the street. As you pass, you may see a group of 
tennis-players in front of the arsenal, and a very odd appearance they 
present ; the young girls in long-tailed lace gowns or in riding habits, the 
men in equally impossible costumes. The elder members of the family, 
with one or two officers, are sitting under the trees watching the players, 
who play very badly, but who are enjoying themselves immensely. 

Very weary and very late you reach the hotel, but in excellent appetite 
for the table d'hote, and in just the humor to sit for an hour afterward at 
the cafe opposite, where the officers sit smoking and solemnly playing domi- 
noes, and to listen to the band of the " Quarante-Cinquieme Regiment de 
Ligne " in the Place outside. 

It is difficult to say under which of its many aspects Laon is most 
charming. Market-day is the regular semi-weekly excitement ; on Wednes- 
day and Saturday mornings you wake and go out to find the Place before 
the Hotel de Ville and the square in front of the cathedral crowded with 
booths ; the square overflows and the booths extend all along the narrow 


street that runs by the side of the Cathedral, up against the wall of what once 
formed the old cloisters ; the vegetables and flowers converting the street into 
a long line of bright patches of color. There is everything for sale ! poultry 
and rabbits, alive and active, birds in cages, flowers blooming in pots or 
done up in stiff " bouquets " for the decoration of the altars, fruit, cheeses, 
ribbons, gowns, toys and stationery. And such a noise ! Every one is 
talking at once ! The old women lay aside their knitting and bargain 
excitedly with their customers ; the men lean over their booths gesticulating 
and chattering ; children, birds, chickens and dogs united in one great clatter 
and cackle, until eleven o'clock rings from the cathedral tower. Then every- 
thing begins to calm down ; the towns-people, laden with their purchases, 
return to dejeuner, the market-people gather together their unsold wares 
and prepare to go home. 

It is wonderful how those quiet little streets can be suddenly transformed, 
on market-day or on a holiday, into scenes of the liveliest confusion. We 
reached Laon on a Sunday morning, to find the whole town "en fete ;"itwas 
the annual gathering of "Gymnastes " from all the neighboring Departments, 
moreover a " Tir," or shooting-match, was in progress among the soldiers. 
There was every sort of contest and gymnastic performance, and the 
whole town went wild for three days. The Place, outside the Hotel de 
Ville, was lighted up as bright as day, and there was dancing there ; the 
streets were spanned by arches and hung with lanterns ; the colored lights 
reached on down through the old gateway and along the boulevard, where 
gayly-adorned booths and little shooting-galleries were set up. Along the 
boulevard and through the streets men, women and boys pursued one 
another with " confetti ;" from window to window or high in the air they 
threw " serpentins," — long ribbons of colored paper in rolls, — the children 
waiting expectantly to catch them as they descended, then shrieking and 
tumbling over one another in their excitement. Processions passed up and 
down the streets, horns and bugles sounded all day long ; the " chevaux 
de bois," crowded with shouting soldiers and " Gymnastes," turned 
madly round in front of the very Cathedral itself, the sculptured oxen on 
the towers looking down on the noisy scene in mild surprise, but in no wise 


Just such another event is the time of the elections, or of the raci 
when strangers (lock to Laon and the I fotcl de la I lure is crowded to over- 
flowing. And yet the little town is very lovely when it is itself again, when 
all the gayety and excitement are at an end, and there is no diversion but 
the military hand twice a week, and no amusement except the walk's. And 
then, the hotel ! 

If you visit Laon, go to the Hotel de la I lure. When Mr. Henry 
James found Laon " good " some years ago, he stopped there on his "very 
little tour," and stayed over night at the Hotel de la Hure ; there he " was 
in perpetual intercourse with the landlord and his wife; the landlord cooked 
his dinner, wore a white cap . . . and brought in the first dish at 
the tabic." Times have changed since then ! Monsieur and Madame con- 
fine themselves now to their little private office with its lace curtains and its 
visitor's book, which, we were triumphantly informed, could boast of the 
signature of the Dean of Windsor! From the door of this sanctum Mon- 
sieur bowed us a somewhat pompous, Madame an unchangeably enthusiastic 
" bonjour " or " bonsoir," as the case might be. If we met them in the late- 
afternoon, when we were slowly and wearily making our way home on foot, 
they were rolling along in a carriage, with a dignity befitting their position. 
Madame was deprecating, kindly, and sympathetic, and helped us through 
laborious French phrases ; Monsieur was more unapproachable, he was 
always dignified, and at times even frigid. There was no one of whom I 
stood more in awe than Monsieur, except the chef, a man of chilling hauteur, 
who read his paper in the little private office, and was on terms of easy 
familiarity with Monsieur and Madame. In pleasant contrast was the sous- 
chef, who had the most engaging of smiles, and who spent all his odd 
moments in the doorway of the great low kitchen on the left side of the 
court-yard, a suggestive signpost to the hungry guest. 

I was never afraid of the sous-chef and I can count other dear friends 
at the Hotel de la Hure. What delightful people they were ! First, there 
was George. On the authority of Madame, the widow, who owned the 
row of shops opposite, and who had taken her meals at the hotel for many 
a year, we knew that George had grown up there from a little boy. She 
had always taken an interest in him as though he were her own son ; she had 


a son, and, would \vc believe it? was herself a grandmother ! George and 
Susanne — whom we never saw — had played together in the village when 
they were children — a boy and girl love — they were married now. Ah ! 
George was a " brave gallon." We did not wonder that Susanne had suc- 
cumbed to the tender gallantry of George ; no words can express the feeling 
he threw into his voice when he would persuade us to take every one of the 
fifteen courses at dinner, or the grace with which he handed us some final 
delicacy which it was past all reason to expect us to be able to eat, and 
explained that we could not refuse, because he handed it with his left hand, 
" C'cst la main gauche, la main du cceur ! " 

And after George, Augustine ! I cannot imagine the salon without 
Augustine in her wonderful black cap, its two long ribbon strings floating 
out farther and farther as she grew more and more excited and rushed dis- 
tractedly to and fro, shrieking unintelligible directions to every one. Augus- 
tine, I know, was never without her cap and her excitement, they were a 
part of herself, and were what carried her through the task of waiting on the 

When the long table in the main salon was not filled, there was mod- 
erate order, and we finished dinner and got to the " Cafe de la Comedie " 
before eight ; this was desirable en the evenings when the band played, for 
the music was over at nine o'clock. Now and then, however, there was a 
rush of commercial travelers to the hotel, or market-day brought in an 
unusual number of wealthy farmers, who wore their long blouses at the 
tables and drank a great deal of champagne ; or, more than all, the fete, the 
elections, or the races crowded us so that our table was filled, and the folding- 
doors were opened into the adjoining room and that table was added as well ! 
Then there was nothing to do but to resign ourselves to the inevitable — to 
a dinner of two hours or more ! Augustine lost her head at once; George, 
with a certain respect for her age, attempted to obey her directions, and the 
result was disastrous ! Jean, who took care of our rooms, was called down 
and pressed into service, upon which occasions he seemed to answer to the 
name of" Albert." Sometimes Giles, a superannuated servitor, in a dress- 
suit, was added to the number, and as he never accomplished anything 
except running into everyone else in the room, this completed the confu- 


sion ! When all seemed desperate, the whole force would rush to the side- 
tables and cut bread, while we sal patiently waiting for them to work off their 

But ah ! how many an hour would I not willingly wait my turn 
through one after another of the endless courses, for one more such 
dejeuner, another such dinner as those at the Hotel de la Hure ! 

The only cloud on tin- happiness of my stay at Laon was the visil ol 
" the four generals " to the hotel. It was during the fete, and was a great 
recommendation for Monsieur and Madame. We had sentinels stationed out- 
side the hotel, to be sure, and that gave us a feeling of importance and 
superiority. But I had a grudge against " the four generals," (they were 
always spoken of collectively) for I never fixed a longing gaze upon any parti- 
cular delicacy that stood temptingly before me on the table, and hurried through 
the preceding courses in happy anticipation, that the sous-chef, or even 
Madame herself, did not rush in at the last moment and bear it off to the 
private dining-room of " the four generals !" They left, however, before very 
long, and on the eve of their departure had a grand dinner, for which we 
were turned out of the main salon, and the military band was stationed in 
the courtyard, and George, and Jean, and Giles were all on hand, and 
Augustine did not know whether she was on her head or her heels ! 

Our rooms at the Hotel dc la Hure were at the end of that courtyard, 
and up a pair of stone steps made from the slabs and monuments out of 
some old graveyard — a few scattered letters and bits of scroll-work showing 
what they once had been. Down in the pavement of the court itself was 
one slab, quite complete; night and morning we were reminded of the 
transitoriness of life by all that remained of its inscription — " Priez pour 
eux," and I used often to wonder who " they " had been. 

Across the courtyard, up those stone steps and along the hall beside 
our rooms continually clattered the wooden shoes of Jean and Desire ! The 
last thing that we heard at night as we dropped off to sleep were those 
shoes — the first tiling in the morning. No one ever tried to be quiet at the 
Hotel de la Hure ; Jean and George clattered about the yard; Augustine 
screamed at them and they screamed at one another ; cyclers rode in on 
their wheels ; commercial travelers drove in and held long conversations 


there — yet the place, like the rest of Laon, impressed one as a haven of 
peace. The very noise itself was restful ! There was an escape from it, 
for the front rooms looked out on the Place, but I liked the courtyard best ; 
it was certainly most entertaining. 

It was six o'clock in the evening when we left Laon. I knew how 
beautiful the sunset must be ! If we could walk only once more down to the 
boulevard and " look off!" But the train would not wait for sunsets, and 
we must drive down to the station stupidly in the diligence. There was a 
series of sad farewells to be gone through with first ; how good they all 
were ! even Monsieur relaxed ! Madame patted my hand ; she was always 
kind. We turned from Madame to Jean and Desire, to Augustine, whose 
capstrings floated out farther than ever with emotion ; and we almost wept 
when we came to George. Ah, the unfailing gallantry of George ! with 
upraised hands he assured us that we left a "vide," a " vide" that could 
never be filled ! He accompanied us, with his tender smile, to the diligence, 
into which we climbed, utterly overcome. Monsieur closed the door and 
bowed, the driver turned his horses, and we were off! But the last vision 
we had was George, the old familiar gesture, one hand on his heart, the last 
words we heard were his, in hopeful, reassuring tones — " a l'annee prochaine !" 

Helen J. Robins, '92. 




She was kneeling in a dark corner of the church waiting for the service 
to begin, and peeping, just a trifle, between her gray-gloved fingers. Sud 
denly she started a little, for she saw a man she knew coming in with his 
sister, and she knew he had seen her. 

It was only a year ago that she and the man had been such good 
friends, and now they never met except on the street. There had been no 
quarrel, only a drifting apart in the year she had been in Europe and he in 
the West, and new interests had supplanted the old ones. 

He sat down just behind her where she could not see him, and she 
wondered if he was watching her, as he used to say he did. Then she forgot 
him for awhile in the charm of the service ; but just before the sermon she 
saw his sister go out alone, and her heart gave a little jump, for she was 
pleased at the thought that he was waiting for her. She did not hear much 
of the sermon after that, — she was thinking of what he might say to her 
"when he joined her at the door, and of the walk home, and wondering 
whether they could forget the year between them and be quite good friends 
again. Just then she looked up, and the queer little smile on her face 
changed to a queerer one : she saw a girl whom she had not noticed 
before, and she realized that it was not herself for whom the man was 


The clock in the court house tower was striking two as she had bidden 
her friends good-night at the door and very quietly let herself into the dimly 
lighted hall. She had crept upstairs very softly, fearful of creaking boards, 
and now had settled down in the Morris chair before the fire in her room to 
think it all over. It had been such a happy evening, and everything had 
happened as if she had chosen beforehand. And now it was all over : she 


sighed with regret as she thought of it. All over, and nothing more tangi- 
ble was left than delicious memories, except the heap of favors ; and the big 
stain on her gown where Mr. Gray had poured a whole glassful of claret 
punch. He had clone his best to wash it off with ice water, and he 
had looked so amusing, kneeling at her feet with a glass of water in one 
hand and a doiley in the other, that she had forgotten to be angry at his 
awkwardness. She laughed now as she thought of it. He was not awkward 
usually, and he was really very nice. How carefully he had put her into 
the carriage and asked if he might come to see her to-morrow. There had 
been a new look in his eyes as he said good-night to her at the carriage door, 
a look that bewildered her and made her wish almost that she was not 
going to be at home. She wondered if he really did care for her as much 
as her best friend said he did. He had been with her most of the evening, 
and she did like him ; but — . 

The cathedral clock on her mantel chimed the quarter past three and 
reminded her that the breakfast hour was eight; and she waltzed across the 
floor, laughing at herself, to put her favors away in a drawer of her desk. 
There on the top was her share of the evening mail, and still keeping time 
to the Aphrodite Waltz that rang in her ears, she went back to her big 
chair for only five minutes more to read her letters. Three were invitations 
for the next week, and all such jolly ones. The fourth was a' thick letter 
from her father. As she opened it, several newspaper-cuttings fell out : it 
was only a, short note after all. 

" You will be sorry to hear that your friend Jean's brother is dead, 
thrown from his horse and killed." 

She could get no farther. The words swam before her eyes and 
repeated themselves in the time of that pitiless waltz that would not 
leave her peace to think. What did it all mean ? She stooped to 
pick up the scattered clippings ; and she noticed the stain on her gown 
and vaguely wondered whether it would ever come off. It looked like 
blood in the firelight. Blood? She shivered, and began to read. Yes, 
it was all true. Her friend's brother was dead ; and she was sorry. But 
for whom? To her he was only her friend's brother, and he never would 
have been anything more ; she had realized that long ago, and was honestly 


glad for the other girl. And now she had no right to be sony for herself, 
that belonged to the other girl, too. She could only smile and go to her 
three dances the next week in her prettiest gowns. And to-morrow, Mr. 
Gray was coming, and she liked him very much. It was only the other 
girl that had the right to keep her life free for a memory. She could only 
be sorry that her friend's brother was dead. 


The girl has not an atom of reverence in her composition apparently ; 
she jests at everything. She never speaks a serious word : she says she never 
has a serious thought. Even her best friends think that she is frivolous, and 
wonder if she will ever realize that life is not all a bed of roses ; and they 
hope that her engagement will steady her. 

She openly avows two ambitions : to maintain her reputation for fri- 
volity, and to add indefinitely to the charms on her chatelaine. One of those 
charms is a tiny brass key, curiously wrought. She laughs about it to 
inquisitive friends and calls it the key to her heart. 

In a drawer of her inlaid desk is a brass-bound ebony box with a tiny 
keyhole. There is nothing valuable in the box, — only a couple of notes tied 
with a black ribbon, a newspaper cutting of four lines, and some crumbling 
green-brown dust that once was violets. She has never opened the box 
since the day she locked those things away in it with a curious little brass 
key, — perhaps it is the key to her heart. 

Some day she means to tell it all to her husband ; and meanwhile she 
is trying to forget that she has felt the thorn among her roses. 

Madeline Vauglian Abbott, 'pj. 




FOR the biologist no place in America has a greater charm in the summer-time than 
Wood's Holl. To him, of course, its principal attraction lies, not in the beauty 
of the land, water and sky, and not in the fine sailing and bathing, but in the 
exceptional opportunities offered for work at the Marine Biological Laboratory. It is 
on account of this station and that of the United States Fish Commission that Wood's 
Holl is, or ought to be, known to fame. 

The town of Wood's Holl is situated on a point of land lying between Buzzard's 
Bay and Vineyard Sound. The Holl proper is the strait connecting these two bodies of 
water. On a clear day one can easily see the houses across the Bay at Nonquit, while 
in the other direction one looks out to sea over a chain of islands beginning with 
Naushon, on the other side of the Holl, and ending with Penikese, the site of Agassiz's 
laboratory, lately burned to the ground (1891). Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket lie 
off to the south, floating between the sea and the sky. Over there, in the sound, more 
vessels pass than in any other water except the English Channel. 

Its situation on the coast makes Wood's Holl a very good collecting ground, and 
the myriads of fresh water ponds back in the country furnish many specimens. 

It was these advantages and that of being near the United States Fish Commission, 
which had occupied its present station for a number of years, that led to the establish- 
ment at Wood's Holl of the Marine Biological Laboratory in 18S8. It is an interesting 
fact that the Laboratory owes its existence to the efforts of the Woman's Educational 
Association of Boston, assisted by members of the Boston Society of Natural History. 
The Laboratory opened in small quarters and with little apparatus, but by the generous 
assistance of its friends many necessary additions and improvements have since been 
made. The buildings have been enlarged and the Laboratory has been provided with 
more apparatus and books, and with a launch, boats and nets for collecting. The 
building now contains thirty rooms for investigators, five laboratories, a lecture-room 
and a library. In connection with the Laboratory is a building known as the " Home- 
stead," which, with a late addition facetiously called the " Life-Saving Station," is used 
as a mess-hcuse by the members of the Laboratory. 

The object of the Laboratory is mainly investigation, though instruction is given in 
physiology, zoology, botany and embryology, the latter course being intended as an intro- 
duction to investigation, and young investigators are given supervision in their work. 
In 1S92 there were one hundred and ten men and women at work in the Laboratory — 
fifty investigators and sixty students — and more in 1893. The number is constantly 


increasing. Students and investigators come from all pails of the United Slates: over 
one hundred different institutions have been represented. 

'the atmosphere in which work is done is delightful. One of the greatest advan- 
tages and privileges for the young scientist is the opportunity afforded him here to feel 
the inspiring influence of the greatest biologists of the country, to meet those whom he 
has before known only through their works, and to study under their direction. All the 
students seem to be endeavoring to live up to the spirit of the motto which was brought 
from Penikese and now hangs in one of the laboratories at Wood's Moll : "A laboratory 
is to me a sanctuary. I would have nothing done in it unworthy its great Author." 

The life is one of the greatest simplicity. Work in the Laboratory is varied by 
excursions for collecting, and after the day's labor comes usually a game of tennis, a 
sail or a row, followed by a swim. After supper at the Mess and a trip to the post-office 
comes a lecture or an evening spent in reading or playing chess. The natives of the 
town are kind and hospitable and disposed to take a friendly interest in those connected 
with the Laboratory, although they do call them " bug-hunters." 

Tlie Laboratory at Wood's Holl was one of the first marine laboratories in the 
country. Its success has encouraged the founding of others, notably that at Cold Spring 
Harbour, Long Island, and the one lately started on the Pacific Coast under the auspices 
of the Leland Stanford, Jr., University. What is needed, however, is not an increase 
in the number of such institutions, but perfection of those already established. It seems 
a shame that such a good work should be in the least hindered in its development, but 
the Laboratory at Wood's Holl, in spite of its success, is still " waiting for its ship to 
come in." 


THE evils of indiscriminate charity are very generally recognized by people of intelli- 
gence, and are constantly deplored by students of modern social problems. The 
decrease of pauperism effected in England by the Poor Law Commission has 
proved conclusively that its former prevalence in that country was largely due to careless 
and unwise giving ; and investigations in America tend to show the existence of the 
same conditions here. Many experiments in reform, more or less tentative, are being 
tried in this country ; but the inevitable difficulties have been, at best, only partially 
surmounted. One of the greatest of these difficulties is a lack of thorough knowledge, 
even on the part of active workers, of the conditions among which they are working. 

It is gratifying to notice that these facts have been fully recognized by the women 
of the College Settlements. Their method of neighborhood work, or rather their method 
of living as neighbors to the poor, is already so well known to the readers of this maga- 
zine that it needs no further explanation. During the last two years, however, a new 


feature has been added, which has in it the promise of great usefulness in the future, 
namely, the scientific investigation of social conditions by the Fellows of the College 
Settlements Association. Fellowships were awarded for the first time in 1S92; one to 
Miss Amelia Shapleigh of Cornell, the other to Miss Maud Mason of Wellesley. 
Three have been awarded this year (1893-4); the Upham Fellowship to Miss Ada S. 
Woolfolk of Wellesley, the Dutton Fellowship to Miss Isabel Eaton of Smith, and 
another to Miss Katharine Pearson Woods, the author of " Metzerott, Shoemaker," and 
other socialistic novels. 

A partial report of Miss Shapleigh's study of " The Dietary of the Poor " shows 
interesting results. She has obtained from fifty-five families facts concerning the amount 
and the kind of food purchased, its cost, the methods of preparing it, etc., and her con- 
clusions enable her already to make valuable suggestions of ways of improving the 
nutritive value of the food, and at the same time lessening its cost. The other subjects 
at present under investigation are " The Use the Poor Make of Their Leisure Time," 
" The Obstacles to Sanitary Living Among the Poor," and " Typical Injuries and 
Maladies of the Workers in the Various Occupations." 

In combining this kind of work with that peculiar to the " Settlement " idea, the 
College Settlements Association has shown its appreciation of the value and the really 
fundamental importance of a scientific knowledge of the facts on which its work must 
be based, and also its recognition of the fact that such scientific knowledge of many 
important phases of the lives of the poor can be gained only by means of the friendly 
intercourse which the Settlement workers aim to establish with their neighbors. An 
ordinary investigator might find difficulty in getting many of the details that have been 
willingly given to the College Settlement Fellows. Miss Shapleigh reports that her 
questions were, as a rule, kindly answered, and that she was received as a friend. 

This work of visiting from house to house, in a friendly, neighborly way, seems 
peculiarly adapted to women. Through their interest in the children of the neighbor- 
hood, the Settlement Workers can gain access to the homes and learn to know the 
mothers, and thus many facts can be collected that could be obtained in no other way. 

It is not necessary that the work of sociological investigation be confined merely to 
the Fellows of the Settlement. Any " worker" who is interested in sociological prob- 
lems may choose this side only of Settlement Work, or may, in connection with other 
parts of the work, collect data for statistical purposes. 

When it becomes more widely known that the College Settlement offers a rare 
opportunity for scientific research, and that the work has in itself more than a scientific 
interest, there is no doubt that many college women will be glad to work in so rich a field. 

/. L. B., '93. 



TO wander seems to be the natural relaxation for all men. Perhaps it is in 
reminiscence of the time when to dwell in houses was the rare exception, not the 
rule, that the civilized man is impelled now and then to go back to primitive 
conditions. Leaving; out the perennial villegiatura and the occasional year's hunting 
in the Rockies, there is a large class of more or less lawless individuals, whom we call 
tramps, whose chief object seems to be to avoid all legitimate labour. The modern tramp 
is a chance product; but there is a whole nation of tramps who have acquired some 
dignity, simply by persistently clinging to their own mode of life; I mean the gypsies. 
The gypsies are a curious race, and we can well imagine that they came from the East, 
for they carry with them a sort of magic that we associate with the Orient, that has 
drawn many who are no kin to them to join them and lead their life. Under this 
fascination fell George Borrow. He does not regard the gypsy as do most of us, who 
have" no practical knowledge of the matter. Borrow shows us the gypsy, not merely as 
the cringing beggar, horse-thief, or pick-pocket, but as a man possessed of pride, both 
personal and racial ; a man who feels the dignity of a far-distant and mysterious past, 
who clings with love and reverence to his mother tongue, preserving it through all his 
wanderings, and guarding it zealously from the curious and vulgar. Nowadays there 
are few men of ability and position who would be willing to let civilization go and dwell 
among the gypsies from pure interest, or love : the gypsy problem is investigated in a 
less sympathetic if more scientific way, but there have not been wanting in times gone 
by notable examples of an irresistible leaning toward vagabondage in men of soberer 
birth. Perhaps the most famous case of this sort was Bampfylde-Moore Carew, who, 
though an Englishman of good family, became so enamoured of the Romany that he 
joined the wandering brotherhood, and could never be persuaded to come back to a 
more regular life. His happy-go-lucky disposition might be attributed, in part at least, 
to the manner of his christening, for, it being decided that he was to be named for both 
his godfathers, there arose a dispute between Mr. Bampfylde and Mr. Moore as to 
which name should come before the hyphen, and which after. The matter was settled 
by a toss-up, and Mr. Bampfylde, being the winner, presented a very handsome piece 
of plate with his godson's full name engraved thereon. Happening to see this name in 
a newspaper the other day, I looked the gentleman up, and found his history in a 
shabby and rather rare little volume, published in 1782, and entitled: " The Life and 
Adventures of Mr. Bampfylde-Moore Carew, commonly called the King of the Beg 
gars." This book gives the same impression of absolute defiance of all ordinary law 
and morality that other accounts of the gypsies do, but withal there is an attempt at an 
apology. It is a naive relation of the life of an unrepentant rogue, who would certainly 
have passed most of his time in confinement if he had not had the good luck to live in 
the eighteenth century. Mr. Carew, as he is punctiliously called throughout the book, 
did not even spare to deceive the girl he married, but wooed her in the respectable 
disguise of mate to a collier's vessel, and told her of his real calling only after he had 


persuaded her to run away with him. When he finally had to confess what he was, the 
lady "was not a little surprised and troubled at it," as one might imagine, but Cupid, 
says the apologist, soon soothed her doubts, and the pair were married, with great 
gayety, at Bath. 

After this fine beginning, Mr. Carew started out on a campaign against "the 
enemy," as all respectable gorgios were called, and succeeded so well in his depredations 
that he became famous throughout England for cunning trickery. There was no dis- 
guise which he could not assume; nothing, apparently, which he did not know. When- 
ever he heard of a fire, he immediately acquainted himself with the particulars of it, and 
then raised large contributions by passing for a burnt-out miller or shoemaker. The 
curious part of his deceit is that very few seem to have resented the imposition put 
upon them, but, when they found him out, paid the rascal well for the amusement his 
cleverness gave them. A short time after Mr. Carew's marriage, the King of the Men- 
dicants, being near death, summoned his children and chief supporters about him, and 
in a sort of swan-song gave them a choice collection of maxims and rules of conduct, 
which the beggars seem to have followed until this day. After telling them how active he 
had always been for the good of his people, the king went on to advise them : " Remem- 
ber, that where one gives out of pity to you, fifty give out of kindness to themselves, to rid 
them of your troublesome application ; and for one that gives out of real compassion, 
five hundred do it out of ostentation. On these principles, trouble people most who are 
most busy, and ask relief when many may see it given, and you'll succeed in your 
attempt." And again : 

" Whatever people seem to want, give it to them largely in your address to 
them; call the beau sweet gentleman; bless even his coat or periwig, and tell him 
they are happy ladies where he's going. If you meet with a school-boy captain, such 
as our streets are full of, call him noble general; and if the miser can in any way be 
got to strip himself of a farthing, it will be by the name of Charitable Sir." 

The death of this worldly-wise rogue made necessary the election of a new king ; 
consequently, a vast number of gypsies and mendicants came together in London for 
this important occasion. Mere the apologist assures us that this election was not like 
the ordinary kind; no cringing and suing of the candidates, no bribing of electors, and 
if he had lived to-day he might have added, no murders at the polls, but a well-ordered 
ceremony, in which everyone had his vote, and no one more than one. At all events, 
by fair means or foul, and one is tempted to suspect foul in this case, Mr. Carew suc- 
ceeded to the kingdom, and thenceforward was known as the King of the Mendicants. 
Although the wants of the king were freely supplied by his subjects, so that it was 
unnecessary for him to work at his profession, pure love of the art made Mr. Carew 
continue his pranks, until a catastrophe happened. Going one day to call on an 
acquaintance, who seems to have been more or less respectable, the door was shut 
upon him by a certain Justice Lethbridge, who was most unwarrantably bitter against 
the whole community of beggars. Whereupon the apologist comments : " So sudden 
are the vicissitudes of life ! and misfortunes spring, as it were, out of the earth ! Thus* 


sudden and unexpected, fell the mighty Caesar, the master of llic world ! and just so 
affrighted Priam looked when the shade of I lei lor drew his curtains and told him that 
his Troy was taken." There was a reason, however, for the justice's rancour, for Mr. 
Carew, in the guise of a lame man, had grievously frightened cither the justice or his 
horse, or both, so that though many interceded lor the culprit, Mr. Lethbridge proved 
obdurate enough to condemn him to be sent over seas, and sold for a slave in " Merrj 
laud." Mr. Carew's impudence was not quelled by his threatened fate, for he informed 
his lordship that the proper pronunciation of that word was " Maryland," and that he was 
being saved five pounds passage money, for he had always had a great desire to see the 
colonies. This desire was gratified. Mr. Carew was carried to Maryland, escaped 
once from his gaolers, but was re-captured, weighted with a heavy iron collar, and made 
to work harder than he had ever done in his life. In this condition some of his friends 
found him, and by bribery got his keepers to wink at his escape. As for the collar, 
they told him that he must seek the friendly Indians to get rid of that encumbrance, as 
a heavy penalty was exacted from anyone who took off the collar of a runaway slave. 
Mr. Carew, therefore, started out through the forest, meeting many wild beasts on the 
way, among them a large white bear, that fled from him, conveniently, when he waved 
a torch at it. Mr. Carew finally reached his friendly Indians, who took off his collar, 
and treated him with great kindness. This seems to the apologist a good place to insert 
the tale of Captain John Smith and " the Lady Pocohonta," as she is called, though so 
far as I can find out they neither of them have any connection with Mr. Carew. 
Despite the kind treatment of the Indians, Mr. Carew showed his usual ingratitude, and 
gave them the slip, making his way to the Delaware, where he promply transformed 
himself into a Quaker, and thereby raised much money. Passing through several towns, 
Mr. Carew finally came to the city of Philadelphia, of which he gives an account, saying 
that at this time it contained no less than two thousand houses, and that some of its 
merchants were so wealthy that they kept their coaches. After many adventures, and 
much roguery, Mr. Carew succeeded in reaching England, even before the captain of 
the ship that had taken him to the colonies, and he immediately began his old way 
of life. 

Once only did Mr. Carew meet his match. Happening one day to be begging, in 
the guise of a poor, unfortunate sailor, he saw another beggar making use of the same 
device. The two joined forces, and together attempted the household of Lord Weymouth, 
with some success. Unfortunately for Mr. Carew, however, the needy sailor was no 
other than Lord Weymouth himself, who, when it so pleased him, seems to have been 
as great a rogue as any. His Lordship, having doffed his rags, caused Mr. Carew to be 
seized and brought before him, and not being recognized, gave his brother sailor a fine 
fright. After tormenting him awhile, however, he let him go, with much laughter and 
a substantial present. Such good luck did not always attend this hero, for he was again 
caught and sent to America, where he promptly made his escape, as before, and this 
time had the privilege of seeing the town of Boston, then, as now, the chief seat of 
American culture, for says Mr. Carew: "There are five printing-houses . . . the 


presses here are generally full of work, which is in great measure owing to the colleges 
and schools for useful learning in New England, whereas at New York there is but one 
little bookseller's shop." Alas ! New York ! As before, he gets back to England before 
the captain who took him out, and promptly begins his old tricks again, which continue 
until the end of the chapter. Whether he died on the gallows or in his bed, his apologist, 
perhaps wisely, does not tell us, but ends with this remarkable peroration: "We 
acknowledge he (Mr. Carew) has his faults ; but everybody knows a perfect character 
is quite out of fashion, and that the present excellent writers of the age hold it a solecism 
and an absurdity to draw even a fictitious hero without plenty of faults . . . upon 
this account, we acknowledge, we have been at no little pains, in writing this true history, 
to throw a veil over some of the virtues of our hero, lest he should be found to exceed 
the present standard of heroism, and be thought a character out of nature." 

M. H. R., 'Q5. 


coi.lkgiana 97 



*HE Ue Rebus Club has been peculiarly fortunate this year in securing the services 
of lecturers of exceptional ability and established reputation. The need of an 
organization of this kind to keep the students interested in outside movements 
has never before been so deeply felt. The attendance on the lectures has been unusu- 
ally large, and the students have shown a most encouraging appreciation of the impor- 
tance of the meetings of the Club. 

The Club has had the privilege of listening to the following speakers : 
Hon. William Dudley Foulke, on Proportional Representation. 
Reverend Frederick Howard Wines, on Social Evils. 
Mr. Percival Chubb, on Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson and the Romantic Revival in 

Dr. John Graham Brooks, on Certain Observations on Socialism. 
Mr. Dickinson Sargeant Miller, on Hypnotism. 

The Club wishes to take this opportunity of thanking those to whose kindness and 
personal interest in the work the success of this year is mainly due. 

E. R., '94. 


THE success of the Self-Government Association, of which in former years we have 
been obliged to speak in a tentative way, is now an assured fact. Although the 
problems before us are many and grave, and although more sacrifice of time and 
work is necessary on the part of its officers than we perhaps realized in the early days 
of the system, yet we are convinced that, so long as the present friendly and helpful 
spirit reigns in the College, the difficulties in our way can never be insurmountable. The 
working organization has been greatly strengthened by the creation of an Advisory 
Board, of eight members, whose duty is to assist and advise the Executive Board when- 
ever they may wish it, and especially in the more serious cases of an infringement of the 
regulations of the Association. To the combined boards has been given the judicial 
power of the Association, subject to appeal to the whole body. This arrangement makes 
the practical work more simple and convenient, and yet the committee is large enough 
to bear easily the responsibility laid upon it. 

In short, we are gradually evolving a more and more practicable system of Self- 
Government, and the sound common-sense of the body of Bryn Mawr students encour- 
ages us to hope for an ever-increasing strength. 

M. B. B., '94. 





NEW feature of the college life this year is the Graduate Club, which was organ- 
ized in January, 1894. Its membership, which now numbers forty-four, is limited 
to those who are registered as graduate students of the College during each 
academic year. Ex-members of the Club and any former graduate students of the Col- 
lege may become corresponding members, and may enjoy all the privileges of member- 
ship, except participation in the business meetings. It is hoped that they may aid the 
Club by suggestions and by information gained through their connection with graduate 
clubs and graduate work elsewhere. 

The object of the Club is to promote the interests of the graduate students in every 
possible way. The distinctive feature this year has been the social meetings. Dean 
Thomas gave the opening reception of the Club. Dr. Horace Howard Furness added 
greatly to the pleasure of the evening by reading King Henry the Fifth. The Club has 
had two formal social meetings in the gymnasium. At the first meeting Dr. Edmund B. 
Wilson, of Columbia University, delivered an address on "The Physical Basis of Life 
in Some of its Present Aspects," and at the other Mr. Franklin H. Giddings spoke upon 
" The Study of Sociology." To these formal social meetings the members of the Faculty 
and other friends of the Club are invited. 

The informal social meetings are held every fortnight in the club-rooms in Pem- 
broke West. They are attended only by the club members and a few friends. At one 
meeting a talk was given on College Settlement Work. 

Thanks to the kindly interest of several friends of the Club, the club-rooms are 
already comfortably furnished. Next year the Club will occupy permanent quarters in 
the graduate wing of Denbigh Hall. 

/• L. /?., '93. 


BRYN MAWR COLLEGE has for some years, in fact ever since the organization of 
a formal Association, taken an active interest in the College Settlement work. It 
has had its undergraduate and alumna; chapters, and has furnished from its 
alumnse a number of workers. Miss Dudley of the Class of '89 has been head worker 
in Philadelphia, and is now in Boston ; Miss Putnam of '93 is Vice-President of the 
General Association. 

The undergraduate chapter has been definitely organized for some time, and under 
its auspices various College Settlement workers have addressed the College, and deep- 
ened the interest already felt there on the subject. 


The alumna: chapter was entirely unorganized until last June, and its efficiency 
suffered in consequence. There was no organization or communication to keep alive 
the interest of the members, and they were really no more bound to each other than to 
any other members of the General Association. This fact became evident from the 
cessation of subscriptions, and to meet the difficulty a meeting was called on ' om- 
mencement day and a chapter formally organized. The alumna' graduate students 
and former students of the College are eligible for membership. A constitution was 
adopted and sent to all the alumnae and to many of the former students, and the result 
has been most satisfactory. The membership list has increased very largely, and the 
liryn Mawr subscription for the current year is far larger than ever before. 

Il is hoped that it will prove possible to organize under the alumna- chapter, in a 
very informal manner, " sub-centres " for the extension of interest in the work, both 
among collegiate and non-collegiate people. The officers of the chapter have reason to 
be very grateful for the heartiness with which their efforts have been met. 

Susan G. Walker, 'gj, 

Alumna: Elector. 



'HIS Society has been especially active this year, and its meetings have been inter- 
esting and well attended. 

The progress of missions in India was the subject of one of the first meetings. 
An account was given of the work of Miss Orbison, a former student at Bryn Mawr, 
whom the Society helps to support in that field. After the reading of the papers, tea 
was served by a student in East Indian costume, and many interesting articles from 
India, illustrative of its native life and customs, were exhibited. 

Later in the year, two meetings were devoted to the McAll Mission in France, at 
one of which we were so fortunate as to secure an address from the Rev. Charles E. 
Greig, of Paris, who is in charge of the Mission. 

In February the Society sent two delegates to the Convention of Student Volunteers 
which was held at Detroit. This organization, numbering some four thousand young 
people, embraces all college students that have volunteered to become missionaries 
after the completion of their education. 

H. A/. B., 'q6. 



THE large and steady attendance upon the Sunday evening meetings shows that 
they have met a very general desire among the students for some further union 
in spiritual life than is given by the chapel services. The attendance and the 
interest of the meetings have increased with the growth of the College, as we hope they 
may continue to do in future. Our special thanks are due to the new students, for the 
interest they have shown and the help they have given in carrying on these meeting. 

E. H., '04. 
* * * 


'HE Bryn Mawr Athletic Association held its annual Invitation Tennis Tourna- 


Bryn Mawr, but owing to the fact that the Annex sent but one representative, the 
doubles could not be played. Miss Whittelsy of the Annex won the singles from Miss 
Ely of Bryn Mawr. 

The Bryn Mawr Athletic Association is still hopeful that it may have the coopera- 
tion of the other women's colleges in these invitation tournaments, and that an inter- 
collegiate Athletic Association may be formed at no distant time. 

At Bryn Mawr, the interest in athletic sports has been increased this year by the 

introduction of basket ball. This is a new game here, but it promises to become very 


E. M. IV., '94. 
* * * 


WHEN, in October, it was proposed that we get a professional director for our 
Glee Club, trying in this and every other way to make the meetings of the 
year a source of distinct benefit, instead of recreation merely, the objection 
\ was made that training by any other than one of ourselves would put an end to the 
informality which had always been the charm of our meetings. However, the contest 
resulted in our procuring an experienced leader and accompanist, and electing officers 
who were not members of the Glee Club. A picking and choosing of voices would 
have made the metamorphosis complete; that was left for the Bryn Mawr Glee Club of 
the future. 

The final musicale showed in part how successful the experiment has proved. The 
traditional and delightful spirit of good fellowship has been preserved. Regular training 
and the study of carefully selected music have produced a decided improvement in the 
quality of the work done, while the introduction of system in the management has 
added to its dignity. We have reason to believe that our Glee Club has at last begun 
to realize its importance and to fulfil its obligations, as the only expression of the musical 
side of Bryn Mawr. 




THE work in the Gymnasium last winter was most successful. Chest weights and 
machines were popular as usual, and the class-work has been made attractive by 
the introduction of Swedish drill. There has been no marked change in the 
heavy work. 

At the beginning of the second semester, it was decided to require four hours of 
physical exercise, instead of two, as heretofore; of these, three may be taken in the 
open air. This arrangement has proved eminently satisfactory to those students who 
prefer three hours of vigorous out-door work to one hour in the gymnasium. 

The final drill took place on the 19th of April. The exercises went off well. It 
was, however, deemed advisable to take the records on a different day. Records were 
accordingly taken on the 27th of April in vaulting, kicking, rope climbing and running 
high jump. The advantage of this arrangement, in shortening the final drill and in 
bringing the contestants fresh to their work, will probably lead to its being permanently 

E. B., '96; M. D. H., '96. 

* * * 


IN connection with the Department of Philosophy there is now in process of organi- 
zation a club to be open to all students interested in philosophy. The Club will be 
devoted to the discussion of questions of general philosophic interest. Its meetings 
will be held fortnightly, and it is hoped that at least once a month it may be addressed 
by noted philosophic writers and speakers. 

B. D. F., '94 

* * # 


THIS Fellowship was founded within the present year by Miss Garrett of Baltimore. 
The holder of it receives five hundred dollars to be applied to the expenses of 
one year's study at some foreign university, and it is open for competition to 
any student, still in residence, who has for two years pursued graduate studies at 
Bryn Mawr. 

* * * 


TO many Bryn Mawr students, the most delightful part of the day is the hour after 
dinner in spring and autumn, which is usually spent in strolling about the campus. 
The pleasure given by these walks will be greatly increased by the opening up 
of the newly purchased land across Yarrow Street, and preliminary steps are now being 


taken to close Yarrow Street from the old entrance to the Roberts Road, so that the 
grounds may be thrown into one lawn. 

It is hoped that when this' is done we may have an athletic field with a running 
track, and a well kept ground for basket ball. 


THE frontispiece of this number of the Lantern is a sketch of the new residence 
hall, which is still unfinished. Work has already begun on the eastern wing, and 
it is hoped that the building will be completed by October, 1894. In the base- 
ment of Pembroke East seven rooms will be supplied with pianos, and thus a much 
needed opportunity for piano practice will be given. 

MR. LINDLEY MILLER KEASBEY, A. B., Harvard; A.M. and Ph.D., Colum- 
bia, '90; student, Berlin, 1S90-91 ; Doctor of Politics, stimma cum laude, Stras- 
burg, has accepted the Associate Professorship of Political Science at Bryn Mawr 
for 1894-95. Mr. Keasbey held the position of Assistant in Economics, Columbia, June, 
1S92, and that of Professor of History, Economics and Political Science in the State 
University of Colorado, 1892-94. 

Mr. Richard G. Bury, of Trinity College, Cambridge, England, a brother of the 
well-known Professor Bury of Dublin University, Ireland, has been appointed Lecturer 
in Greek and Latin literature for 1894-95. 

Mme. Therese F. Colin has been appointed Reader in Romance Languages. 

Dr. Alice Bertha Foster, M. D., University of Buffalo, '91, has been appointed Direc- 
tor of the Gymnasium. She has been six years director of the Woman's Gymnasium, 
Buffalo, and is now Tutor in Physical Culture, Chicago University. 

Dr. Mary Sherwood, M. D., Zurich; graduate student in medicine, Johns Hopkins 
Hospital, 1891-94; Lecturer on Pathology in Woman's Medical College of Pennsyl- 
vania, has been appointed College Physician for the next academic year. An office 
under Pembroke East has been assigned to her, and she will have regular office hours. 

- -. COLL KG I ANA 103 


Susan Grimes Walker, '93, 


Elizabeth Butler Kirkbride, '96, 


Elizabeth Conway Bent, '95, 

Susan Fowler, '95, 

Ruth Wadsworth Furness, '96, 

Clarrissa Worcester Smith, '96, 


Lucy Baird, '95, 



Susan Fowler, '95, 


Pauline D. Goldmark, '96, 


Abigail Camp Dimon, '96, 



Evangeline Holcombe Walker, '93, 


Ruth Wadsworth Furness, '96, 


Elsa Bowman, '96, 


Ethel McCoy Walker, '94, 

Out-door Manager. 

Elizabeth Gleim Guilford, '94, 

In-door Manager. 

Estelle Reid, '94, 




HE appointments to Fellowships in Bryn Mawr College for the year 1894-1895 are 
as follows : 

Mary Bidwell Breed, European Fellow ; 

A. B., Bryn Mawr College, 1894. 
Ada Isabel Madison, Mary E. Garrett European Fellow ; 

University of South Wales and Monmouthshire, 1885-S9 ; Girton College, Cam- 
bridge, England, 1889-92; Mathematical Tripos, 1892; Oxford Greats, 
1892; graduate student in Mathematics, Bryn Mawr College, 1892-93; 
B. So, University of London, Mathematical Honors, 1S93; Fellow in 
Mathematics, Bryn Mawr College, 1893-94. 
Edith Hamilton, Fellow in Latin; 

A. B. and A. M., Bryn Mawr College, 1894. 
Laura L. Jones, Fellow in English ; 

A. B., University of Toronto, 1891. 
Esther Tontant de Beauregard, Fellow in Romance Languages ; 

A. B., University of Toronto, 1894. 
Minna Steele Smith, Fellow in German and Teutonic Philology ; 

Newnham, 1890-94; Mediaeval and Modern Languages Tripos, First Class, 1893. 
Nellie Neilson, Fellow in History ; 

A. B., 1893 ; A. M., 1S94 ; Bryn Mawr College. 
Frances Hardcastle, Fellow in Mathematics ; 

Girton College, Cambridge, England, 18S8-92 ; Mathematical Tripos, 1891 ; 
Part II, 1S92; Honorary Fellow in Mathematics, University of Chicago, 
Esther F. Byrnes, Fellow in Biology ; 

A. B., Bryn Mawr College, 1S91 ; A.M., Bryn Mawr College, 1894; Demon- 
strator in the Biological Laboratory, Vassar College, 1S91-93. 
Amy Cordova Rock, Fellow in Chemistry ; 
A. B., Bryn Mawr College, 1S93. 

The George W. Childs Prize, which is to be awarded annually to the best English 
Essayist in the Senior Class, is this year awarded to 

Emma Stansbury Wines, 

A. B., Bryn Mawr College, 1894. 





(Catullus XXII.) 

" Suffenus iste, Vare, quern probe nosli 
Homo estvenustos " 

Varus, a certain friend of ours, 

Suffenus, you'll recall his name, 
A fellow of no common powers, 

And more than usual worldly fame, — 
A wit, a beau, a man of parts, — 

Whose store of jest a widow's cruse is, — 
Has dropped his role of breaking hearts, 

To try his hand on wooing muses. 

Ah well, we all, could we but know it, 

Have, tucked away, some dear delu- 
About ourselves ; too wise to show it 

Perchance, within it works confusion. 
The foibles of our friends, indeed, 

We note with zeal, as odd or heinous, 
Yet all the while we fail to heed 

How very much we're like Suffenus. 

Edith Child, 'go. 

He has a thousand poems, no less, 

Not scribbled down in haste, but 
printed ! 
(Private subscription, one would guess.) 

I picked the volume up, fresh-minted ; 
Most charming, richly-bound, compact, 

With rough-edged page, gold-lettered 
Edition de luxe, in fact, 

A gift-book, fit for center-tables. 

" Poeta nascitur, non fit," 

Came sadly home, as I perused him. 
Whate'er the gods, at birth of wit 

Did grant, true genius they refused 
him ; 
Vapid and trite, no country lout 

Could duller be, 'twixt pipe and dozing, 
Yet is he never, I've no doubt, 

So crowned with bliss as when com- 


My Julia, just comparing tastes with 

Asked me what color I, of all, opine 
To be the loveliest. What could I say, 
When looking into Julia's eyes, but gray ? 
Julia was angry then, because — 'tis true, 
I had the day before declared for blue; 
She said, who in small things knew not 

his mind, 
In love would prove as fickle as the wind. 

In my defence the whole that I could say 
Was this ; Julia forgets that yesterday 
Her eyes and gown were blue, and now — 
are gray. 

Ruth Wadsworth Furness, '06. 




(" Perhaps — because the grapes are 


Good-night, dear Rose ! Yes, I must go. 

The east a blush begins to show. 
You are unwearied still, you say, 
And yet the golden lights turn gray, 

The music falters in its flow. 

Your violets long have lost their glow, — 
I saw you fling the sweet things low 
While you danced on. Is that your way ? 
Good-night, dear Rose ! 

I watch you, musing on the " no " 
You gave me half an hour ago. 
Ah well, — your pretty life is play, 
While mine shows stern and work-a- 
Such lightness, faith ! would pall. And so 
Good-night, dear Rose ! 

/. O. L., ' 9S . 


April had come with buds and birds and 
Those same old adjuncts poets always 
sing ; 
Me also did the vernal muse inspire, — 
I wrote a lyric gem and called it 
" Spring." 

In eager haste the editor I sought, 

Elate o'er laurels — also cash — ex- 
pected, — 

But editors were ever obdurate, 
And so, forsooth, my poem was rejected. 

I laid it by with a regretful tear, 

And in a week or so there came around 
A well-grown blizzard — piercing winds 
and ice. 
And snow six inches deep upon the 

Then to the editor once more I brought 
That selfsame poem — fickle Fortune's 
tool — 
With " thanks " it was accepted, just 
I'd changed its name from " Spring'' 
to " April Fool." 

C. Ji. K, 'PS- 

TO V. H. 

Give me the Town ; let others go 
Where babbling streams of water flow, 
Where soars the lark on daring wing, 
(I'd rather hear De Reszke sing,) 
And where sweet scented breezes blow. 

I love to be where, to and fro, 
Weary or eager, fast or slow, 
The human tide is eddying ; 
Give me the Town. 

The Balls, the Theatres, the Row, 
Who would not find amusement so ? 
Here's where a man can have his fling, 
Can drink the dregs of — everything. 
Would you change this for Surrey ? Oh, 
Give me the Town. 

M. H. 7?., 'pj. 




On every stall they meet my sight, 

A feast poetic spread, 
Shelley and Pope stand left and right 

Of brave old Holinshed : 

The pages soiled with milk and bread, 
The covers full of dents ; — 

What boots ? They once were bound 
i"n red 
And sold for fifty cents. 

When with a friend I spent the night, 

And to the bookcase sped, 
I found in Keats a pure delight, 

But she read Young instead. 

It makes me hang a heavy head 
And question Time's intents ; 

Docs Fame mean being bound in red 
And sold for fifty cents ? 

I wake at early morning light, 

A ruddy glow is shed 
Where row on row to giddy height 

They hang above my bed, 

Like those his clerk, Dan Chaucer said, 
Loved more than lands or rents ; 

Were his, y-clad in blak and red, 
Sold, too, for fifty cents ? 


Princess, when thou and I are dead — 
Since Death for none relents — 

God grant we too be bound in red 
And sold for fifty cents. 

G. G. A'., 'g6. 


There was a comelye nurserye-mayde 

Y-cleped Marye Anne, — 
Fulle welle was she beloved, pardee, 

By y e greene-grocerye manne. 

" Wilt'ow be mine, swete Marye Anne, 
& thou shalte have, I sweare, 

Fresshe beetes, lyke to thy cheekcs redde, 
& carrottes, lyke thy hayre." 

" Graunt mercy to thee, grocerye-manne, 

For all thy beetes redde, 
I love y e bolde policemanne beste, 

& hym alone I'll wedde." 

& she hath taen y e three small boyes 

& gonne into y e square — 
Y e gallante parke-policemanne 

Hath she encountoured there. 

" Goode-morrow, Mystresse Mary Anne, 

I prythee byde anon, 
For thou'rt as fayre a syghte, I trowe, 

As e'er y e sonne shined onne." 

Then uppe & spake fayre Marye Anne 

Unto y e bairnies three, 
" Now byde ye heere, ye lytel brattes, 

Beneath thysse greenwoode tree. 

" & marke y e sygne, y e whyehe doth runne 
' Treade notte y e goode greene grasse,' 

& pluck notte any floweret, 
Nor speke to them whyehe passe." 

& Marye Anne hath hied her thence 
Wyth y e policemanne bolde, 

& she hath left those lytel kyddes 
To gambole on y e wolde. 



Eftsoones, alacke, y e grocerye-manne 
Those chyldrenne dyde espye, 

As mounted onne hys grocerye-carte 
He came a rydynge bye. 

" Now Godde you save my lither laddes," 

Fulle wynsomely quoth hee ; 
" Come hyther, & a bonnie syghte 

I warrante ye shalle see." 

Those lytel churles have wended them 

Unto thatte wyckked wighte, 
Whose wallett was fulle balefullye 

With appelles greene bedyghte. 

&he hath fylled their lytel smokkes 
And eke their handes, I weene, 

I trow noe appelles evere yette 
Were halfe soe harde & greene. 

" Now eate away, my lustye laddes," 
Thatte caytif them doth rede, 

& they fulle soone have gared them onne 
That deadlie fruite to feede. 

Butte as they ate, their lytel lyppes 
Grew greene & greye & whyte, — 

Their lytel lymbes waxed styffe & colde, 
Alle gruesomelye they shrighte. 

Now haste thee, Mystresse Marye Anne, 
Hear' st 'ow thatte pitous sounde ? 

See those three wry^hinge lytel formes 
Stretched out in deadlie swounde. 

"What glyntes so greene uponne y e 
Thou wykked grocerye-manne ? " 
" Oh, 'tis y e fresshe younge blades of 
Thou seeste, Marye Anne." 

" Yonge grasse was nevere yette so 
greene, — 

Speke soothlye now toe me." 
" Now, by my troth, 'tis verdaunte leaves 

Fromme offe y e greenewoode tree." 

" Greene leaves be notte soe greene, base 
churle ; 

The truthe nowe prithee state." 
"These, appelles greene, 

Of whyche these chyldrenne ate." 

Thenne rangge y e welkin wyth y e sounde 
Of Marye Anne's sadde pleynte, 

Bismotered was hyre countenaunce, 
Inne byttere teares y-dreynte. 

"What penaunce wylt thou doe for 
thysse ? 

Speke, now, false grocerye-manne." 
" I'll borde a shyppe & sail awaye, 

I swear it, Marye Anne." 

" Whatte wylt thou leave these lytel 

I prithee, grocerye-manne ? " 
" To eche a lytel Soda-Mynte 

For y e digestianne." 

" Whatte wylt thou leave thy erstwhyle 
love ? 

Speke soothlye, grocerye-manne." 
" The faithe & trothe thou gavest me 

I'll leave thee, Marye Anne." 

& he hath gonne onne borde a shyppe 

And sayled farre awaye, 
Where Ferris Wheeles whyrle alle daye 

& organne-grynders pleye ; 

Where peanutte shelles lye onne y e 
& bandes of brasse doe screeche, 
& pynkest lemonade doth flowe, 
Atte Coneye Islande Beache. 

C. R. Foulke, 'p;. 




When winter broods above the lands, 

And slumber falls on things below, 
As, touched by countless mages' wands, 

The world lies buried deep in snow ; 

When brooks are fettered in their How, 
And sparrows meet an icy doom, 

And life seems done with long ago, 
Within my heart the roses bloom. 

When western skies are turned to strands 

Of gold and pearl, beneath whose 
Where one lone elm-tree naked stands, 

The world lies buried deep in snow ; 

When wan blue shadows plainlier show 
And dusky grows my little room, 

And wailing winds begin to blow, 
Within my heart the roses bloom. 

When life seems weary trackless sands 
Whereon no hope may ever grow, 

(As— heedless of the Spring's demands — 
The world lies buried deep in snow :) 
When space is strait and time is slow, 

And earth a void and echoing tomb, 
I hear your voice, your name, and lo ! 

Within my heart the roses bloom. 

Princess, who well my love dost know, 
The world lies buried deep in snow, 
But since thy face illumes the gloom, 
Within my heart the roses bloom. 

G. G. K., 'g6. 

TO E. 

If thou should'st e'er prove cruel 

Or heartless or untrue, 
Think'st thou in angry pique, dear, 

I'd treat thee coldly too ? 

Nay, rather would I strive, clear, 

To win thee back to me, 
For tho' revenge is sweet, dear, 

'Tis not so sweet as thee. 

i : r. /•-., vj 


50 assorted girls. 

A large quantity of college jokes. 
They are always in season, but if fresh 
ones cannot be obtained the preserved 
will do. 

y 2 doz. original songs, flavored with 
ancient airs. 

2 or 3 new and pretty dances. 

1 doz. characters from mythology, his- 
tory and fiction. They should be care- 
fully picked over, and all that have not 
striking and picturesque costumes thrown 

Season very sparingly with plot. A 
few ideas may be added if liked, but be 
very careful not to put in too many, as 
too strong a flavor would ruin the dish. 
Mix all very thoroughly, stew three 
weeks, and serve piping hot. It will fall 
flat if allowed to cool. 

E. S. IV., 'Q4. 





I shall never disclose 

What Dick did to my sister — 
Cousin Jane may suppose, — 
But I shall not disclose, 
(For 'twas under the rose) 

That he almost quite kissed her ! 
I shall never disclose 

What Dick did to my sister. 


Bess is quite in the style, 
And she looks most engaging — 

Her ruffles beguile, — 

Bess is quite in the style 

And her sleeves are worth while — 
Why, the rest are all raging! 

Bess is quite in the style 

/• 0. L., ' 9S . 


{A Valentine?) 

In Arcady, dear love, they say, 
The season always is as May. 
Green is the earth and blue the sky, 
And little birds sing sweet on high, 
Light sadnesses do come, ah yea ! 
(Or dull 'twould be) but cannot stay, 
And life goes gently on alway 
That like the silver brook flows by 
In Arcady. 

But if December and not May 
The season were, and skies were gray 
Instead of blue, yet Arcady 
I'd love, sweet heart, because that I 
Have heard you dwell there, so they say, 
In Arcady. 
Edith Franklin Wyatt, 'g6. 












Business Manager 


Assistant Business Manager 



Frontispiece : Pembroke East and West, ....... 

Editorial, ............ 7 

Scientific Pastures New, ..... Mary Bidwell Dreed, ' p*/:. i 2 

Two. Quatrains, . ... . . . . . G. G. K., 'p6 21 

Bathos and Blue Ribbons, . . . Carolifie Reeves Eoulke, 'pj 22 

To a Tanagra Figure, .... Louise Sheffield Browne li, ' pj 31 

Admission by Certificate. . . . Emma Stansbury Wines, 'p4 32 

Must the Entrance Examination Go? . Kate Holladay Claghorn, '92 38 

Phonemainometics, . . . . . . E. S. W., '94 43 

Chalk Studies, ..... Georgiana Goddard King, 'p6 45 

The Tuneful Notes of Shepherds' Reeds, . Marian Macintosh, ' po 48 

White Muslin and Lilies, . . . . . . . . . 57 

Incompetency, ...... Lila Verplanck North, 'pj 64 

A Word for the Evanescent, . . . - . Edith Petlit, 'pjj 65 

Fairest Hands in all the World, . . . . . G. G. K., 'p6 71 

What's in a Name, .... Louise Sheffield Brownell, 'pj 72 

My Yellow Gown, ..... . Julia Blackburn Duke, '97 77 

Four Books, ............ 81 

The Sauppe Library, . . . . . . . . . . 91 

Collegiana, ............ 94 

Leviore Plectro, ........... roo 


No. 5 BRYN MAWR June, 1895 


TT is perhaps a trifle irritating to the ordinary young woman who goes 
to college to find that she is still considered a factor in an experi- 
ment. She is used rather to regard herself as an accomplished fact, 
and a grandly triumphant one at that. While she is undergoing her 
years of scholastic training she is in the company of several hundred other 
young women, most of them in no way unusual, who are doing the same 
things as herself; and it is not until she gets back into the everyday world 
that she finds herself considered by her whilom friends and acquaintances 
an awe-inspiring and not entirely pleasing phenomenon. It is not ridicule 
that she has to contend with now-a-days, but a widely diffused impression 
that no woman who is not forced to earn her own living will go to college, 
unless she has good reason to think that she will not be a social success. 
If the collegian's attractions controvert this theory, then it is audibly 
wondered why she wanted to go, and she is considered more extraordinary 
than ever. New acquaintances on introduction are carefully warned of her 
dangerous character, "You must be careful what you say to Miss So and 
So, she has been to college, and is very learned," until the unfortunate 
blue-stocking sedulously conceals the fact that she ever learned any more 
than a finishing school could teach her. She finds that if she wishes to 
enjoy herself in society she must hide the fact that she may know as much 
as the men she meets. The college-bred man does not try to conceal that 
he is educated. Why not ? It is true that it is far from being a reproach 


to him now, but when men first came together and lived in universities a 
very similar state of things existed. About the year 1300 the unlettered 
knight looked with considerable contempt upon the humble clerk who was 
useful to him to write his billets doicx, but was far from being ornamental 
to society. The ranks of the scholars were recruited chiefly from those 
who had no chance of becoming distinguished in the lists, and the name 
Oxonian called up, not the polished gentleman whose manners and bearing 
have received the cachet of university training, but a deprecating and 
apologetic dependent, who realised his hopeless inferiority as far as society 
was concerned. There were exceptions ; there are now, and no doubt the 
exceptions will increase in number, until the world will outgrow its feudal 
attitude towards the feminine scholar, and cease to demand that the woman 
who has not her living to earn shall content herself with purely ornamental 

Perhaps one reason for the critical attitude assumed toward the college 
woman in society is that only of late years have women gone to college 
for any but strictly business purposes. The class of men that made 
Harvard and Yale training schools for the manners as well as for the mind, 
had no parallel in any woman's college ; nor had college women, either the 
time or the money to attend to such matters. During the last ten years 
this state of things has been changing, and a class of women with no need 
to coin their brains, and no definite aim in life, has come to enliven the 
college atmosphere, just when it seems as though their brothers were 
attending to other things. The ordinary young man is beginning to think 
that learning for its own sake does not pay; he is beginning to demand 
that his college education shall represent so much capital when he starts on 
the serious business of life, money-getting, and to grumble loudly when it 
fails to do so. We hear more and more every day of the uselessness of the 
classics to the young man who is going into business as soon as he has 
taken his A. B. From a purely monetary point of view it is undoubtedly 
better to dispense with collegiate training and to save the time that it 
involves; but money-getting should not be the main object of education, 
and to regard the acquirement of learning from the utilitarian side, will 
finally result in the creation of specialists only, so that we shall need a new 
revival of learning to bring back the humanities. If then a college or 


university education is not for the purpose of fitting its recipient for some 
special business or line of work, what is its value ? Cardinal Newman has 
set down for us what he considers it to be : — 

" Our desideratum is, not the manners and habits of gentlemen . . . 
but the force, the steadiness, the comprehensiveness and the versatility of 
intellect, the command over our own powers, the instinctive just estimate 
of things as they pass before us, which sometimes indeed is a natural gift, 
but commonly is not gained without much effort and the exercise of years." 

This is a much more general and far-reaching aim than the mere 
acquirement of specialized knowledge to assist in some particular pursuit, 
and if it be objected that such an object could lie within the reach of a 
leisured class only, it may be replied that here we have an excellent argu- 
ment for the giving of this university training to women who will turn it to 
no account but that of the general service of society. It has often been 
said that America has no leisured class except its women ; if that is true, it 
is obviously suitable that they should take upon themselves the duty of 
keeping high the standard of trained intellectual life. The objection most 
often urged against sending women to college is that a knowledge of Greek 
and mathematics is of no possible use to them in after life. To quote from 
Cardinal Newman again : — 

" If then a practical end must be assigned to a university course, I say 
it is that of training good members of society. Its art is the art of social 
life, and its end is fitness for the world. It neither confines its views to 
particular professions on the one hand nor creates heroes or inspires genius 
on the other. Works indeed of genius fall under no art ; heroic minds 
come under no rule; a university is not a birthplace of poets or of immortal 
authors, of founders of schools, leaders of colonies, or conquerors of nations. 
It does not promise a generation of Aristotles or Newtons, of Napoleons or 
Washingtons, of Raphaels or Shakespeares, though such miracles of nature 
it has before now contained within its precincts. Nor is it content on the 
other hand with forming the critic or the experimentalist, the economist or 
the engineer, though such too it includes within its scope. Buta university 
training is the great ordinary means to a great but ordinary end ; it aims at 
raising the intellectual tone of society, at cultivating the public mind, at 
purifying the national taste, at supplying true principles to popular 
enthusiasm and fixed aims to popular aspiration, at giving enlargement 
and sobriety to the ideas of the age, at facilitating the exercise of political 
power, and refining the intercourse of private life. It is the education 


which gives a man a clear conscious view of his own opinions and judg- 
ments, a truth in developing them, an eloquence in expressing them, and a 
force in urging them. It teaches him to see things as they are, to go right 
to the point, to disentangle a skein of thought, to detect what is sophistical, 
and to discard what is irrelevant. It prepares him to fill any post with 
credit, and to master any subject with facility. It shows him how to accom- 
modate himself to others, how to throw himself into their state of mind, 
how to bring before them his own, how to influence them, how to come to 
an understanding with them, how to bear with them. He is at home with 
any society, he has common ground with every class, he knows when to 
speak and when to be silent ; he is able to converse, he is able to listen ; he 
can ask a question pertinently, and gain a lesson seasonably, when he has 
nothing to impart himself; he is ever ready, yet never in the way; he is a 
pleasant companion, and a comrade you can depend upon ; he knows when 
to be serious and when to trifle, he has a sure tact which enables him to 
trifle with gracefulness and to be serious with effect. . . . The art which 
tends to make a man all this, is in the object which it pursues as useful as 
the art of wealth or the art of health, though it is less susceptible of 
method, and less tangible, less certain, less complete in its result." 

If this is the ideal result of a university training, no matter how far 
the actual result may fall short of that ideal, who shall say that it is inex- 
pedient or useless to give it to the women of society as well as to men ? 
Why, if the struggle for existence is so keen that very few young men can 
afford to stand aside from it, should not the women for whom it is not 
necessary or desirable to join in that struggle be sent to fill the vacant 
places ? It is pretty generally conceded now-a-days that college training is 
useful and almost necessary for the women who have some direct aim in 
life ; but for the daughters of the great number of ordinarily well-to-do 
people it is thought to be too expensive, both in time and money. As for 
the time, it may be questioned whether it is not better to send a young 
woman into society at an age when she may be supposed to have thought 
enough for herself, to have some firm basis of action, rather than to launch 
her into a complex existence while she is still practically a child, and must 
gather her experience as she goes along. Perhaps it may be asked here, 
why not let her give the time her collegiate education would take to study 
under competent tutors, who could give her their undivided attention, and 
train her mind and judgment without removing her from home just at the 
formative period of her life ? We have seen that the mere acquirement of 


knowledge is not the chief benefit of university life for men, and to argue 
from analogy we must think that there are certain benefits to be derived by 
women also from living in community. It is too soon to say that women 
reap no advantages from living together — if there are many disadvantages 
to be seen in the workings of the system at present, it must be borne in 
mind that the experiment has been tried for much less than half a century, 
and we should be willing to give it a little more time. As for the money, 
the four years of college would cost no more in most cases than the extra 
gowns and entertainments that are given to the daughters of the well-to-do 
when they stay at home, and in no case would they need as much as their 
brothers are supposed to require — and get. If it costs less to give the 
same education to the daughter as to the son, does it not seem a little hard 
to deny it to her ? 

In talking about the beauties of collegiate education for women 
there is always danger of falling into a common error, and exalting too 
high their brains and capabilities. But in spite of that risk, we venture to 
say that in this ever-busy America, at least, it seems not unlikely that the 
women only will have time for the pursuit of learning for learning's sake. 



There are probably few people who have not, at one time or another 
looked into some old-fashioned scientific text-book beginning with an 
elaborate classification of the natural and physical sciences, or heard a 
course of lectures of which the first was devoted to (or shall we say 
wasted on ?) such an outline. It took a long time for us to find out that 
science is one and indivisible, and that any distribution of the whole into 
parts corresponds in many ways to the distribution of the land into political 
divisions, and is essentially artificial, if not arbitrary. When we had found 
this out, it took us some time longer to learn how to act in accordance with 
our new view of the case. But at present, not only do we realize that the 
individual sciences of the old-fashioned text-books are simply small areas 
of the great field that have been worked upon more than the rest of the 
space, and that the boundary lines are just as unreal as the meridians in 
our atlas, and are used like the latter merely for convenience; but we are 
also making some attempts to explore the hitherto little known regions 
just along those imaginary boundary lines. We generally find that an old 
boundary line grows more indistinct the closer we come to it, and the more 
we explore the more difficult it is to fix any boundary at all. Therefore, 
we shall not hesitate to invade and claim as our own the territory of the 
neighbouring power, when we reach so far in our explorations. One can 
picture to one's self the progress of scientific history, when physics, with 
her unrivalled equipment of well-founded law and highly developed theory, 
shall conquer and subject to her own laws the neighbouring kingdom of 
chemistry, and when the two, combining their forces, shall reduce to law 
the great state of biology, together with her many provinces. When we 
have reduced sociology, anthropology, philology, philosophy, aesthetics 
and all the rest, to biological law, and this in turn is all explained by 
physics, and physics shall have reduced all of Iter laws to mathematical 
expression, then we shall have reached the scientific millennium. Then 
every thing, from the formation of a crystal or of an opinion to the opening 


of a bud, will be completely described by a few differential equations, 
or some new form of mathematical expression, just as novv-a-days we 
describe the motion of the pendulum in our clock. To the non-mathe- 
matical mind this may not seem a very alluring picture of a millennium, 
but such an one may find some comfort in the thought that science pro- 
gresses slowly, when we consider absolute, not relative advancement, and 
that this glorious consummation may not come to pass for several hundreds 
of thousands of years, — perhaps not before our sun has burned out, and 
our globe has reached that dreary state of cold and darkness that the 
astronomers predict. 

The present generation need not, therefore, anticipate the reign of 
applied mathematics over their intellects or emotions ; but such a state 
of things is not too utterly fanciful to be out of the pale of reason. 
That our own generation will see some long steps taken toward this 
consummation seems not only reasonable but highly probable. The first 
thing to be done, of course, is to explore thoroughly the whole field, 
especially those shadowy border-lands between the various sciences, and to 
this task many investigators have set themselves. After we have learned 
more, \ve may begin to formulate general laws and then to speculate. At 
present we are in the first stage, that of investigation and experiment, of 
tedious and often fruitless research. But even now we have reached results 
so important and significant, that we do not hesitate to look for knowledge, 
which, as human knowledge goes, shall be complete, and that at no very 
distant day. 

I say that we are in the stage of investigation, and it is to point out 
and describe very briefly two particular fields of investigation, that I am 
writing. The first of these fields is usually spoken of as " the new science 
of physical chemistry," though the giving of such a name to it is some- 
what misleading. It is not physical chemistry any more than it is chemical 
physics. It is really the science of phenomena which we cannot explain 
either by chemistry or by physics alone, but which we are endeavoring to 
explain by combining the resources of the two. In order to give some 
idea of such a science, of its importance, and especially of its theoretical 
significance, I must recall, at the risk of tedium, the nature of the pheno- 
mena dealt with by the two older sciences and their methods of procedure. 


In the visible universe, and especially in the inanimate universe of 
which these sciences treat, we are accustomed to think of matter as the 
only thing that has objective existence. Now matter is something with 
which we are so familiar that it seems at first quite unnecessary to explain 
what we mean by the word, but we must devote a little space to such an 
explanation. What then do we mean by matter ? The first description 
that occurs to us is that matter is something that occupies space, and this 
definition is often given. I need hardly remind you of the philosophic 
difficulties such a definition involves, the least of which is that it defines in 
a circle, for I am concerned not with the philosophical but with the physical 
side of the question. Leaving the philosophical difficulty, the practical 
meaning of the definition is, — if we try to put one body of matter into the 
space occupied by another body of matter, we meet with a certain force of 
resistance, which force is always great enough to counterbalance the force 
we are exerting, and therefore we never succeed in making one body of 
matter occupy the same space as the other at the same time. In other 
words, this description means that matter of itself possesses certain forces of 
resistance. The force we apply may compress matter, or it may set it in 
motion, but it can never overcome its impenetrability, due to these forces of 

Another very common description of matter is that it has weight. 
The more matter, the greater the weight. This means that bodies of matter 
attract one another, and that the more matter there is, the greater is the 
attraction. The weight is the measure of the force of attraction, or gravi- 
tation, as it is usually called. This description means also that matter, of 
itself, possesses certain forces, this time forces of attraction. I need not 
multiply instances of such descriptions of matter, but merely add that all 
descriptions, without exception, are based on some property, the existence 
of which rests either directly on a force, or on something analogous to a 
force, and convertible, more or less completely, into a force. The best 
description that can be given is substantially this : matter is something 
which can be made to move, or to change its rate of motion, only under the 
influence of an external force. 

We find then that all the physical properties of matter are due either 
to mechanical forces, which result from or produce motion, or to heat, a 


"mode of motion," as Tyndall calls it, or to reflection and transmission of 
light, which is also a form of motion, or to electric properties which can 
on the one hand be induced by mechanical means, and on the other hand 
be made themselves to produce motion, heat, or light. Further, all these 
seemingly intangible things can be measured accurately, and then converted 
into one another, and not the smallest fraction of the whole be lost in the 
process. Heat, light, electricity and mechanical force in its many forms, 
are all eventually convertible without any change in quantity, and are 
evidently merely the different manifestations of some one thing. That 
thing we call energy. The conception of energy has been to physical 
science all that the conception of evolution has been to natural and social 
science. Energy is an immaterial, but perfectly definite, objective entity, 
in the same sense that matter is an objective entity. We have found that 
all descriptions of matter involve the conception of energy, and similarly 
all descriptions of energy involve the idea of matter. The one is never 
found without the other. When a scientist attempts to explain what he 
means by matter, he finds himself talking about energy, as I am doing now, 
and vice versa. This, of course, leads us to consider matter somewhat 
further. When we attempt to describe it in statu quo we reach nothing 
but a description of energy. Let us see if its transformations will give us 
any light as to its nature. If we cannot find out what it is, let us find out 
what it will do. 

Though all matter possesses such characteristic properties as 
impenetrability and gravitation, various forms of matter differ very much in 
their less essential properties; and there are characteristic material sub- 
stances in the objects around us. These substances are capable of under- 
going many changes, the most radical being known as chemical changes. 
The coal burning in my grate is undergoing a chemical change, for it is 
partially escaping as a gas, and the ashes left are very different from the 
coal By no process can I obtain the coal again from the gases and the 
ashes. The properties of the matter are changed, and it has given out 
much energy in the form of heat. But in this, and in every other chemical 
change, however radical, one thing remains unaltered ; that is the amount of 
matter. Matter like energy, is unchangeable in quantity, and its quantity 
is quite independent of any changes of energy. The two are in a sense 


perfectly independent, although we can define either only in terms of the 
other, and in fact we can conceive of neither alone. 

Matter and energy, then, different but inseparable, both of them un- 
changeable in quantity, are the subjects of which physics and chemistry 
treat. This, to go back to our old figure, is the field which the two 
sciences are to explore and occupy. Hitherto physics has devoted herself 
mainly to the investigation of the laws of energy in its various forms, while 
chemistry has studied the transformation of matter, under the influence of 
a special form of energy, comparatively little known, and called chemical 
affinity. They have occupied only two provinces of the vast field, and 
it remains for them to explore the rest. They are to find, for instance, 
the exact relation of chemical to other forms of energy ; to heat, elec- 
tricity, light and so on. The immense practical importance of such 
knowledge is felt when we remember that we are coming to rely more 
and more on the energy of such chemical processes as the burning of 
coal and gas for the motive power of our factories, for the lighting of our 
houses, for transportation, for transmission of news, for the general machin- 
ery of our civilisation. We are fairly well acquainted with other forms 
of energy, and can use them economically, so the question now is how to 
convert our chemical energy most completely into these more useful forms. 
Not less important than this is the discovery of the laws by which affinity 
itself is governed, in order that we may gain a more complete control of 
chemical changes, and thus be able to build up more substances with new 
and perhaps more useful properties. To find these laws of affinity we must 
start from the well-known field of physics, and gradually work our way 
into more difficult paths. Thus we shall gain, in time, more and more 
mastery of chemical synthesis, until we make in our workshops not only 
our drugs, our dyes, our fruit essences and our sugar, as at present, but our 
very food-stuffs. Then we can laugh at Malthus and his doctrine, for we 
shall no longer need the earth for wheat-fields and pastures, but can use it 
all for standing-room, while the tall factories make our albumens, fats, 
starchy substances and the rest, in the most concentrated forms of nourish- 
ment. Even though we do not need this prospect to make us laugh at 
Malthus, we have reason to congratulate ourselves at the great economy 
of labor that such attainments will bring about. 


Aside from these practical advantages which we may prophesy from 
the pursuit of this new science, there is the theoretical significance of the 
study of matter and energy, which is to many of us the most interesting 
phase of the new development. Metaphysicians have always spoken of the 
world of mind and the world of matter as if this classification embraced 
all phenomena. The old view was to regard heat, electricity and other 
forms of energy as special forms of matter, as imponderable fluids. Even 
to-day, when this view has been so long given up, the common idea is that 
energy is merely a property of matter, and that the existence of the former 
is conditioned by that of the latter. From what I have said, however, 
concerning the nature of the two, I think it will be plain that such a view 
is not the only one tenable. In whatever sense we ascribe reality to matter, 
in the same sense we may, if we will, ascribe reality to energy. And 
just as the metaphysician, in considering mind and matter, has three pos- 
sibilities open, — the co-existence of both, or mind conditioned by matter, 
or matter conditioned by mind, — in the same way the speculative physicist 
has three possibilities open with regard to matter and energy, — the co- 
existence of both, or energy conditioned by matter, or matter conditioned 
by energy. The first of these theories is the working hypothesis of most 
practical scientists. It is the easiest and most natural, just as the hypoth- 
esis of the co-existence of mind and matter is the easiest and most natural. 
The second is rather out of date, and the third is merely an ingenious 

Matter conditioned by energy, — energy the one thing that has inde- 
pendent existence in the visible universe, — the desk on which I write 
nothing but an aggregation of attracting and repelling forces, heat and 
electricity, such is the fantastic result of such a theory. And yet it is no 
more fantastic than the idealism of the metaphysicians, in which some of 
us believe and still consider ourselves sane. It may, indeed, be adapted to 
all our facts, and even made to harmonise with the august Atomic Theory 
itself, for according to this new idea an atom is merely a point without 
extension, the centre of a sphere of attractive and repellent forces, which 
vary in such a way as to produce all the changes matter is known to 
undergo. That we should ever prove this to be the case seems as improb- 
able as that we should ever prove the corresponding idealistic theory with 


regard to the non-existence of anything in the external universe. But at 
all events it is not impossible that this may be the prevalent view of 
scientists before very many years, and that we may then have not 
materialists but " energists," waging bloodless war with their friends, the 
idealists, on the question as to whether energy can have an objective 

Such is the new departure in physical science. The other new field 
to which I referred is one which, though not more interesting to a pure 
scientist, is perhaps more vitally interesting to the public at large. Just as 
the first of our new fields was that lying between chemistry and physics, so 
this one is the much more obscure and difficult field, lying between the 
physical sciences in general and the biological ; and this latter, therefore 
includes the problems of the living and non-living, their differences and 
relations. Until well on in this century it was thought that the substances 
found in living beings were formed there by the action of a so-called 
" vital force," and that they could be formed by no artificial means what- 
ever, thus differing essentially from the substances found in inanimate 
nature. Complicated inorganic compounds could be made by building up 
simpler ones, by chemical synthesis; but it was not until 1S28 that the first 
substance characteristic of many animal secretions was prepared syntheti- 
cally, and not until much later that it was found possible to make in the 
laboratory any considerable number of such organic bodies. It was, how- 
ever, established that such organic substances were in all essential respects 
of the same nature as the bodies which go to make up the soil and rocks, 
and that there was no room for the action of such a thing as " vital force," 
for chemical and physical forces were sufficient to bring about the changes 
observed. As more and more complicated bodies were formed in the labor- 
atory, and were found to be identical with the products of living organisms, 
the question arose, What is the limit to our power of synthesis ? Can we 
not make organisms in our laboratories ? 

The problem of the genesis of life from dead matter can be attacked in 
three ways. We may start from the general biologist's point of view and 
see whether life can be created, whether there is such a thing as spontaneous 
generation. At present there is no evidence whatever for such a phenomenon, 
and experiments that were thought to prove it have been shown to be 


inaccurate. On the other hand wc may start from the physiologist's point 
of view and attempt to find out exactly what is going on in an organism, 
with the hope of being ourselves able to induce similar processes. This 
method has led to few results, for there is one insuperable difficulty. As long 
as an organism is alive we cannot experiment on it in any way that will tell 
us the fundamental changes going on, such as the chemical reactions. As 
soon as we get into a position to follow them, the organism as such has 
ceased to exist, and is merely dead organic matter. Physiologists know a 
great deal about dead organic matter, from which life has just ceased, but 
about the changes in the living state they know practically nothing. 

The third way is to start from chemical data, to get as complete an 
idea as possible of the simpler organic substances, such as sugars, fats and 
oils, the vegetable dyes and so forth, and from these to develop more and 
more complicated substances. A complete command over such syntheses 
would come only from physico-chemical results, as I have before indi- 
cated ; but meanwhile we are making long strides towards the understanding 
of such compounds as are characteristic of life. It may seem that the 
chemists are merely advancing to meet the physiologists, and such is really 
the case. But it must be remembered that most of our brilliant results in 
science come, not from the direct study of complicated and obscure 
phenomena, but from the gradual clearing up of simpler and apparently less 
important problems, from which we learn enough to be able to attack the 
others in a more intelligent way. Just as in physical chemistry we hope 
the most from the work of the physicists, who start nearer the beginning 
of things, so to speak, here in physiological chemistry we must look to the 
chemists for our best work. It seems rather inappropriate that we should 
recommend physicists to study chemistry, and chemists to study biology, 
and biologists in turn to clear up and reduce to order sociology and her 
various neighbouring sciences ; but if the logicians speak truly when they 
say that to explain a thing we must describe it in terms of some well-known 
thing, then this recommendation of ours will be altogether natural. 

Life is something of which we know absolutely nothing. It is the great 
unknown of science ; and matter and energy are things of which we know 
something, though perhaps not very much. Therefore, if we succeed in defin- 
ing life at all, it will probably be in terms of matter and energy, and only 


with the aid of the knowledge afforded by the study of matter and energy. 
It is not altogether impossible, and indeed such a theory has been hinted at 
more than once, that life consists merely of a continuous series of chemical 
changes going on in a system of extremely complicated chemical com- 
pounds. Speaking generally, changes in the inanimate world go on with 
much less rapidity, and are of much less frequent occurrence than changes 
in organisms, but there is no conclusive reason for believing that they are 
of an essentially different nature, or do not obey the laws of matter and 
energy. The difference between living and dead would then be one of 
degree and not of kind ; for according to this idea, growth and the perform- 
ance of functions would depend only on the extremely complicated 
chemical processes that were going on, and would last only so long as the 
conditions for those processes remained favorable. When the conditions 
altered so that these peculiar reactions could no longer take place, the 
" living" matter would become " dead." That any one would be bold enough 
to regard this idea as anything more than a rash, but perhaps suggestive, 
hypothesis, is not to be expected. But the mere fact that such an hypothe- 
sis should be suggested, shows in what direction we may look for future 
and better attempts at explanation ; and when we consider that the best 
description of life now possible, is that it is " the sum-total of the forces 
that resist death" we may see the rationality of such attempts at explana- 
tion. It is such an idea, perhaps unrecognised, that is spurring on much 
of the present work in synthetic chemistry ; for if life is what this hypothe- 
sis assumes it to be, there can be but one answer to the question, — where 
is the limit to our power of synthesis ? That answer is, of course, 
" Nowhere." If we can make organic substances at all, there is no 
apparent reason why we should not make more and more complicated 
bodies, until we succeed in making living matter, and if we make living 
matter at all, there is no apparent reason why we should not succeed in 
making new and entirely different forms of living matter, and improve 
on nature, just as now, in our workshops, we make new drugs similar to 
those in nature, but improvements on them. 

Mary Bidwell Breed, '94. 




A world of sky-blue sea and sea-blue sky ; 

Gulls wheeling, crying, up the crystal air ; 
A broken figure-head slow drifting by; — 

Death's very self in such a world is fair. 


Celestial locks parted by furry ears ; 

White brows, and hoofs that oft the mire have trod ; 
Eyes bright with unshed tears ; — 

Poor soul, half goat, half god ! 

G. G. K. ' 9 6. 



The Catherwood's summer cottage on the hill was being soaked by a 
penetrating September rain into a uniformity of colourlessness with the 
rows of little frame houses in the village below, while a still more penetra- 
ting September wind blew up the hill from the bay and howled bleakly 
forth from dismal corners. 

Woodruff shivered involuntarily as he closed the door behind him, 
and stood on the verandah for a moment looking blankly out at the 
dispiriting prospect. Then he plunged down the steps into the rain. 

He tried mechanically to remember everything that had happened 
during the past hour, but his only distinct impression was that Anne had 
looked uncommonly pretty as she left him — and then he found himself 
solemnly informing the landscape that his engagement was off, and that it 
really was of no material consequence to him whether he went to the 
devil or not, on the whole he believed he would go to Boston by the 
night train. Then he laughed grimly and called himself a fool. 

Such an utterly inane thing to quarrel about ! He had hardly 
realised there was anything serious in it until Anne, with a fine poising of 
her handsome head, had handed him that confounded solitaire and had 
said as she left the room with a bow of frigid politeness, " I shall send 
you your letters at once, Mr. Woodruff; I should be glad if you would 
burn mine, or return them as soon as possible !" 

How odd it was to hear her say " Mr. Woodruff!" It brought back 
all those months of mere acquaintanceship last winter, and yes, by Jove ! 
— it wasn't till April she had dropped all that for " Dick." — That jolly 
night. Oh, hang it! — and with a dismal, half-choked groan he once 
more faced the fact that it was all up — forever ! 

By the time he reached the hotel his aspect of dreary despair caused 
young Fergueson, who was smoking a very black pipe in front of an open 
fire in his room, to sit up and beat his breast tragically, declaiming in 
melodramatic tones, " Enter impassioned swain with gloom depicted on 


his manly brow. What aileth thee, fair youth ? Hath lovely Mistress 
Catherwood frowned upon thy suit to-day?" 

Woodruff threw back his head with a gesture of hopeless wretchedness. 

" No joke, Bob. She's thrown me over. I'm going to get out of this 
to-night. Evening train to Boston. Can't stay here. All broken up." 

Fergueson waxed paternal. " Now Richard, don't you go and make 
a blooming idiot of yourself. Your family isn't in town yet and you must 
guard your young life against the demoralising influences of the club. 
The air here is healthful and exhilarating " — (renewed howls from the wind 
outside) — " moreover the divine Anne is no doubt crying her little 
eyes out for you this very minute. Now trot along back to her — beg her 
pardon like a man and live happily ever after — I speak advisedly, my son, 
having had wide experience in affairs of this nature," and with a magnifi- 
cent wave of the hand and an expression of infinite complacency, he 
subsided into the depths of his big chair, and devoted his entire attention 
to the black pipe and the contemplation of a pair of exceedingly well-built 
patent-leather shoes stretched out on the fender in front of him. 

He was aroused from this absorbing pursuit some fifteen minutes later 
by a broken sigh coming from the next room, and found Woodruff, a very 
pattern of despondency, with his head down on his writing-table, and 
beside him a heap of plump blue letters, one of which lay open in his hand. 
Fergueson became sympathetic at once, and tapped him commiseratingly 
on the shoulder. " Oh, I say, old chap, — it isn't really as bad as that ? 
Brace up, — she'll come round all right. Don't be downhearted, now — 
really shouldn't you know." 

Woodruff raised his head and shook it dejectedly and then set himself 
fiercely to arranging the letters in a neat pile, talking nervously all the 
while. " No, there's no help for it. These must be sent to her at once. 
I was fool enough to read some of them over again just now — upset 
me, of course. Serves me right for making such an idiot of myself. 
Deuce take my hands, — what makes them shake so confoundedly? — I 
can't manage this string at all. Hold on here, will you Bob, while I tie 
them up." 

" My dear fellow," ejaculated Fergueson in his most impressive tones, 
"you can't send these this way ! " 


" What's the matter with them ? " demanded Woodruff blankly. 

" Don't you see, that's string you're trying to tie them with — pink 
string ! " 

" Well," growled the other, tugging savagely at a knot, " what of it? " 

" If your divinity, my friend," with a wave of his pipe in the direction 
of Miss Catherwood's photograph on the mantlepiece, " were to behold her 
soul-outpourings desecrated by a piece of knotted pink cotton string, you 
might in very sooth bid an eternal farewell to your pretty little romance. 
Her artistic sense would never allow her to forgive you. Little details of 
this kind mean everything to young women of Mistress Anne's type," he 
continued with a manner suggestive of vast reserves of worldly wisdom, 
surveying the lady's photograph critically through half-closed eyes. 

Woodruff began distractedly to overturn his bureau drawers. " Con- 
found it, — Bob, — why don't you help me out of this mess ? What am I to 
do with these, anyhow ? I haven't a blessed thing to wrap them in except 
that string and these," and he threw down on the table for his friend's 
inspection a leather collar box, a pasteboard shoe box, a yellow silk cravat 
case, some stout wrapping-paper and brown twine. " Do you think any 
of those would do ? " he added deprecatingly. 

Fergueson smiled a superior but indulgent smile. " These articles, 
my dear young friend, are quite impossible," he said solemnly. " The only 
thing allowable in a crisis of this nature is blue ribbon. Blue ribbon is 
an absolute essential in the transfer of the love-letter — blue ribbon you 
must have ! " 

Woodruff renewed his search, and at length exhumed from some 
obscure corner two small pieces of ribbon — a red one attached to a dilapi- 
dated German favour, and a bedraggled-looking green one without encum- 
brances. These he held up tentatively before Fergueson's critical gaze. 
" No, Dick," he said, firmly, "with anything but blue ribbon you risk all 
future chances with Miss C, and I wash my hands of the responsibility." 

Woodruff sighed tragically and attacked his friend's bureau drawers. 
But again his search was unsuccessful, and he retired to an easy chair and 
devoted himself for a short time to the pensive contemplation of Anne 
Catherwood's photograph, while the other smoked in silence. Then he 
walked over to the mantelpiece and laid the picture face downward upon 


it, and turning sharply, said, " We might ask some of the women here 
in the house — women always have such things on hand, I fancy — Mrs. 
Fraley, or Mrs. Warden, — some of those people, you know." 

Fergueson shrugged his shoulders. " Yes, if you intend making con- 
fidantes of Mrs. Fraley and Mrs. Warden — charming confidantes, I have 
no doubt, though perhaps just a trifle young. Of course, you under- 
stand that a sudden thirst for blue ribbon on the part of an engaged youth, 
with wild eyes and distracted port, will carry with it a depth of significance 
to the hearts of those sympathetic ladies, and their tender sympathy will 
naturally soon be shared by the majority of your acquaintances here, and 
it will be so sweet for you to have your little troubles understood and felt 
for, dear Dick ! " he said with an effusive suggestion of pretty Mrs. Warden's 

Woodruff shuddered. " What am I to do, Bob ? " he groaned, " this 
affair means life or death to me. Don't you see, I can't afford to be made 
a fool of by a paltry piece of blue ribbon ? It's simply impossible ! " 

" The situation does seem to demand more dignity of detail, I admit," 
said Fergueson sagaciously, " try the Emporium." 

" Why, man, it's a vulgar village shop. They traffic in tinned vegetables 
at the Emporium, and hardware, and tallow candles, ugh, and dried beef — 
you don't suppose — ! " 

" With keener powers of observation, Richard, you would have been 
an exceptionally clever young man," said Fergueson, " you would then 
have perceived that the windows of the Emporium are further wont to 
flaunt in the eyes of a dazzled public gay-coloured chintz and cheese-cloth 
— and notions, Dick, — do you grasp the full significance of that Ameri- 
canism ? 

There was a half-incredulous expression on Woodruff's face, but he 
pulled on his mackintosh with nervous haste. " Sorry I can't relieve you of 
these sordid little details, old fellow," drawled the other lazily, "but 
this wet weather, you know — beastly cough — I'll have to be careful of it 
for a day or two;" and he enforced his remark with a few illustrative 

Woodruff went off without replying, and his friend lay back gazing 
confidentially at the black pipe. 


" This rain will tone him down a bit if he stays out .long enough," he 
soliloquised, " Bring him around beautifully before night. He'll see the 
ridiculousness of the whole business, — happiness of two lives hanging on 
small piece of blue ribbon, — that's the idea, — rather neat situation on the 
whole, I flatter myself. What awful fools the tender passion makes of the 
erstwhile sane and sensible, — eternal rows and beatings of breasts and 
gnashings of teeth. Ah, Dick! you used to be such a level-headed chap." 
And again the patent-leather boots monopolized his attention, and he fell to 
musing amid clouds of fragrant smoke-wreaths. 

Two hours later Woodruff burst into the room, flushed and frowning 
and thoroughly drenched. " I hope you found the right shade of blue," 
said Fergueson airily, " I quite forgot to tell you before you went out that 
there are only certain shades correct in cases of this kind." 

" Hang it, Bob," roared Woodruff, " look at me — do I look as if I 
had a right shade or a wrong shade or any other variety of shade concealed 
about my person ? " 

" No, I confess," said Fergueson surveying him critically, " Your 
appearance doesn't suggest even a simshade to my mind ; you look like an 
exemplification of bad plumbing," he went on, standing on a chair, " Should 
you mind hanging yourself out of the window to drip for a short time ? 
— Wicker furniture isn't particularly seaworthy in rough weather." 

" Vastly amusing," growled the other, " Come down off that, will you, 
and help me get rid of these beastly things ! " 

"You are a cheerful-looking customer," said his friend, dragging off 
his dripping mackintosh,—" Where have you been? " 

" Only to Millville — sweet little walk for a rainy day," snarled Wood- 
ruff, — " Bolts of green ribbon and yellow ribbon, yards of red ribbon and 
pink ribbon, — ' So sorry, just out of blue ribbon — Have some in in a day or 
two — Anything else we could show you ? — Call again.' — Great Scott, Bob — 
don't you see what an awful ass I've been making of myself? If Anne 
were to hear of it, — all this mess for a few ridiculous letters, — she'd be 
hugely diverted, I've no doubt. Those letters have got to be sent off 
at once," he thundered, " Do you hear ? At once ! Why don't you come out 
of that refrigerator pose of yours and suggest something ! " — and he tramped 
up and down the room with clenched hands and a most unlover-like scowl. 


" Shades of love-sick sighs and tender yearnings and soft despair, what 
sight is this ! " declaimed Fergueson. 

" Tender yearnings and soft despair be hanged," growled Woodruff, 
" I've got to get out of this scrape — are you going to suggest anything or 
aren't you ? " 

" You might burn the letters — that is usually an allowable alternative 
in these little difficulties — perhaps Miss Catherwood may have mentioned 
the fact to you." 

" I hadn't thought of that," said Woodruff simply; and going over to 
the table with an aspect of stern determination he began to gather up the 
plump, blue envelopes before referred to. One sheet of closely-written 
paper lay open among the pile, and he picked it up separately and bundled 
it in more slowly with the rest, — then the postmark of another attracted 
his attention, and he stopped a minute or two to decipher its blurred letter- 
ing. And then more and more lingerihgly he gathered them together. 
As he picked up the last envelope he read the address over six times, added 
it carefully to the pile in his other hand, sighed, and then laid the whole 
back on the table again. 

" No, Bob, I can't burn these," he said helplessly. 

" Then there is only one thing else you can do," said the other who 
had been waiting for this very softening of Woodruff's mood, — " Swallow 
your pride, go back there and square up your share of the row. If you do 
it handsomely she can't help relenting — and there you are," conclusively. 

Woodruff shook his head despairingly ; but he set Anne's photo- 
graph in its former upright position on the mantel-piece, and then stood 
contemplating it in silence. 

When Anne heard the door close behind Woodruff that morning she 
walked with close-set lips upstairs to her mother's room and told her that 
the engagement was broken. There was a look on Anne's face that made 
expressions of sympathy, or even of surprise, unadvisable ; so Mrs. Cather- 
wood simply said, " Indeed," with a rising inflection, and left further 
discussion of the subject to a more favorable moment. 

" Will you take a note for me to Mrs. Sturgis, Anne ? " she asked, 
" You look rather pale, and a walk in the rain will do you good, I think. 


This afternoon I should like to talk with you," and she went on with her 

Anne obeyed half-mechanically, and tramped for an hour or two 
through mud and rain, returning drenched and tired, but with a fresher 
colour and a shade less of that ominous firmness about the mouth and chin. 
She went up to her room, closed the door, and seating herself in front of 
her dressing-table, drew from a drawer thereof a bundle of long, narrow 
envelopes, addressed in a firm, manly scrawl, and tied together by a piece 
of narrow blue ribbon. 

Now Anne was a young woman of much force and decision of 
character. She was very angry with Woodruff and had quite firmly deter- 
mined never to see him again ; therefore it is quite incomprehensible to me 
what possible satisfaction it could have given her to untie that ribbon and 
re-read any of those dull letters, — for did she not herself several times 
while she was reading, in perfectly audible tones, pronounce them " insuffer- 
ably stupid " ? It must have been as a sort of self-imposed penance 
that she forced herself to plod through so much " insufferable stupidity," 
for she read them from beginning to end,- — every single one. When she 
had finished the last of the number, she put it carefully back into its 
envelope, and then — ah, humiliating confession ! — that most strong-minded 
of all young persons covered her face with her hands and wept hysterically. 
Presently Mrs. Catherwood, who had been hovering about Anne's door for 
nearly an hour awaiting a favorable opportunity for effecting an entrance, 
heard a significant, stifled sound from within and arming herself with 
formidable-looking bottles of cologne and " Pond's Extract" she softly 
entered the room. 

Her motherly presence was soothing, and with her quiet voice and 
generous applications of her pet remedies to the girl's hot forehead, she 
soon restored relative calm, and then the two settled themselves to " talk- 
it out." This occupation proved so absorbing that Anne for a time forgot 
that Woodruff's letters had not yet been sent back to him, until a clock 
struck somewhere in the house and reminded her. She rushed to the 
dressing-table only to find that something had upset the " Pond's Extract " 
bottle, and the luckless letters lay in a soaked and stained little heap, the 
ink blurred and streaked and the paper here and there adorned with 


purplish blotches, where it had come into contact with the sodden blue 
ribbon. It was a sorry sight, and every attempt at drying and cleaning 
seemed only to make matters worse. 

" Whatever shall I do ! " moaned Anne, " I said I would send them to 
him at once — they can't go like this, — just look at them, and smell them ! " 

Mrs. Catherwood renewed her efforts with the melancholy-looking 
epistles, but the streaks and splotches seemed irreclaimable and an 
unmistakably characteristic odour clung to them tenaciously. 

" You will have to write and explain why you cannot send these, 

" But, mother, don't you see what a silly thing this is to have to 
explain ? What an absurd climax to a terribly serious affair ? Oh, and I 
was really the one that got angry first and insisted on breaking the engage- 
ment and all that, and I tried to be so fearfully dignified ! I simply can't 
appear ridiculous now — Dick would no doubt derive infinite amusement 
from such a piece of anti-climax. Oh, no, I can never give him such an 
advantage — it would be too humiliating ! " 

Anne almost wept again — it was so very provoking to have a 
dramatic situation ruined by so commonplace an accident. Mrs. Cather- 
wood made one or two mild suggestions, but Anne waxed more and more 
despairing, as the utter foolishness of the predicament grew upon her. 

" Oh, dear," she wailed at last, " the whole thing is so unnecessary. I 
must have been very ill-tempered to quarrel with Dick, he's such a good- 
natured fellow. It's so tiresome to be in the wrong, too, — if it were only 
he, perhaps he'd have the grace to come and apologise, and save all this 
trouble about the letters." 

" Don't you think, perhaps, if you owe him an apology, that might be 
the simplest solution ?" ventured her mother. 

Anne drew herself up and became haughty at once. 

" I owe Mr. Woodruff no apology," she said magnificently, " and 
would accept none from him, even if he should choose to apologise — please 
say nothing further about it." 

The door opened and " Mr. Woodruff" was announced. 

Now, as I have before intimated, Miss Catherwood was a young person 
of much firmness and determination, and I have always had the utmost 


faith in her ability to cope- with the most perplexing situations. I can 
therefore imagine but one possible outcome to that interview of hers with 
Mr. Woodruff. 

But Bob Fergueson told me not long ago that the last time he visited 
the Woodruff's he saw in a pigeon-hole of Mrs. Woodruff's writing-desk a 
large bundle of envelopes, half of them plump and blue, half of them 
white and adorned with many blots and stains — all tied together with a 
badly streaked and crumpled piece of narrow blue ribbon ! 

Caroline Reeves Foulke, 'gj. 



Come downito us from far-off days, 

In dearest Greece beyond the sea. 

I hold thee ; sweetest, can it be, 
A girl lived once, whose gracious ways 
Of movement had a charm that stays 

About thee, still, and is through thee, 
Come down to us from far-off days 

In dearest Greece Deyond the sea ! 

Thy slim, sweet hands bind up with bays, 

Thine hair; the long, straight folds leave free, 
Thy slender feet ; thine eyes — ah me, 

I love thee, sweet, I cannot praise ; 

Come down to us from far-off days 

In dearest Gieece beyond the sea ! 

Louise Sheffield Brownell, 'pj. 



The usual argument against admitting students to college by certi- 
ficate is that this practice lowers the standard of the college. People who 
urge this objection often seem to think that admission by certificate means 
indiscriminate approval of any candidate whom any school whatsoever 
may choose to indorse. Even those who are somewhat better informed 
usually argue that the certificate cannot be received as satisfactory evidence 
of thorough preparation, because it is impossible for the college to super- 
vise the work of the fitting-schools. This impression is, however, at least 
as to its latter part, a mistaken one. Wellesley College, which as the 
oldest and largest college for women is most often cited in illustration, 
does not indeed attempt to supervise the fitting-schools, except by corres- 
pondence. Any school whose catalogue and application are satisfactory, 
receives the certificate privilege for a year, on trial. But other colleges 
are more exacting. Smith requires the school applying for such privilege 
to send specimens of examination work, covering all requirements for 
entrance. If the papers sent are satisfactory, the privilege is extended to 
the school ; but all certificates, even from schools entitled to grant them, 
are subject to the final approval of the Board of Examiners. Vassar 
admits students prepared (i) by schools from which pupils have previously 
been admitted without conditions ; (2) by tutors who are graduates of 
Vassar and whose pupils have previously been admitted without conditions ; 
(3) by schools which have been visited and approved by a committee of 
the Faculty, or " in regard to which the Faculty have other sufficient 
means of information." Michigan University, which probably exercises a 
stricter supervision than any of the above-mentioned colleges, sends a 
committee of the Faculty to examine any school which applies for the 
certificate privilege ; if the committee approves the school, the privilege is 
conferred for three years, at the end of which time another examination 
of the school is necessary to a renewal of the privilege. Schools near Ann 
Arbor are visited at shorter intervals. It is needless to say that all colleges 


which admit by certificate reserve the right to examine candidates upon any 
point or points that may not be sufficiently covered by the certificate, and 
that all reserve also the right to withdraw the privilege from any school, upon 
the failure of any pupil of the school to do satisfactory work in college. 

But, it is sometimes said, while all this may ensure the school's doing 
good work in its own way, it does not ensure just the kind of work desired 
by the college. What the college wants is not an assurance that the 
student has a good general knowledge of such and such a subject, but an 
assurance that he knows just those parts of it which are most necessary 
for the more advanced work offered by the college in question. People 
who urge this objection do not seem to be aware that every college which 
admits by certificate requires the certificate to cover definitely prescribed 
work. Certificates for Smith must be "to the effect that the requirements 
of the Classical Course," or of the Literary and Scientific Course, as the 
case maybe, "have been fulfilled." Vassar prescribes that "in all cases 
the certificate must specify the text books used, the ground actually gone 
over, and the date of examination." Wellesley requires the certificate to 
" show distinctly that the candidate has met in detail the requirements as 
published in the current calendar. Whenever any variation has been 
allowed, the work done must be specifically stated and offered as an 
equivalent, to be accepted or refused." I have known a candidate at 
Wellesley to be obliged to take the whole series of Latin examinations — 
translations, prosody, prose and all — because she had omitted to read one 
of Cicero's orations. The conditions of admission on certificate may be 
made as stringent in this respect as seems advisable. 

The certificate system, at its best, has a very beneficial effect on the 
work of the schools affected by it. Indeed, every college of high standing 
contributes more or less to raise the standard of the secondary schools in 
its neighbourhood. But there is a marked difference between the influence 
of the college which offers as incentive a rigorous examination, and that of 
the college which offers the approval of a committee of Faculty. In the 
one case, the minds of teachers and pupils are fixed mainly on the acqui- 
sition of the facts necessary to pass the examination ; in the other, they 
are fixed on the excellence per sc of the work done in school, and on its 
value as a preparation for the work to be done in college. And I speak 


from my own experience; as well as from the testimony of many other 
teachers, who, like myself, have taught under both systems, in saying that 
while the prospect of the examination may secure a more nearly uniform 
preparation and the memorising of a greater number of facts, it sacrifices 
to these what is of more importance to the college as of more worth in 
itself — the development of intelligence ; and that the teacher whose 
attention is not absorbed in preparing pupils for the examination devotes 
far more time and thought to preparing them for the work they will have 
to do in college. For (in the latter case) it is upon the success or failure of 
the pupil in college that the success or failure of the teacher depends ; and 
no good teacher is willing to risk her reputation, no good school is willing 
to risk its certificate privilege, on the chances of success of a pupil whose 
capacity for college work seems doubtful. I myself believe that the 
admitted superiority of the public schools in the group of States lying 
around Michigan is partly due to the wise employment of the certificate 
system by Michigan University. 

But whatever may be the interest of the college in the improvement ot 
the schools, and, whether from a generous or from a selfish standpoint it 
ought to be a deep interest, — this is nevertheless a matter of comparatively 
little moment. No college can afford to try to raise the standard of the 
secondary schools at the expense of its own standard. We must return 
after all to the original question : — Does admission by certificate necessarily 
lower the standard of the college? Everyone admits that in order to 
maintain the highest level of scholarship the entrance test ought to be a 
strict one ; the only difference of opinion is as to whether the certificate 
can be made as strict a test as the examination. It is undoubtedly true 
that under the certificate system some students enter college who are not 
at all fitted to do good work after they are in, a thing which has sometimes 
been known to happen even in the case of students admitted by examina- 
tion. It may even be true that the number of inadequately prepared 
students who succeed in getting into college is proportionally greater 
under the certificate system, as at present conducted, than under the strict 
examination system. But there are several considerations to offset this. 
In the first place, it is a matter of practical experience that a certain 
number of students do enter college on certificate, and do excellent and 


even brilliant college work, who would not have been able to pass the 
examinations, at least not without further preparation ; and we all know 
how often the question of now or next year is a question of now or never. 
In the second place, the examination system sometimes works in a way 
that would never be anticipated by anyone who had not seen it in practice, 
— that is, it admits students who are not well enough prepared to obtain a 
certificate. It is by no means uncommon to hear among the teachers of 
a good fitting-school such a conversation as the following : — 

A. — Mary Brown wants to enter college next fall ; can she be ready ? 

B. — She has had only one year of German. 

A. — Well, let her try the examination, and if she gets through, all 
right; if not, she will have to wait a year longer. You know Jane Jones 
got through with one year's German, and she was anything but a clever girl. 

B. — Very well, she can try the examination and see; but I would not 
think of signing her certificate, for I don't consider her prepared for 
college work. 

And it frequently happens that under just such circumstances, the 
responsibility being assumed by the college, — the candidate passes the 
examination and enters college a year sooner than she would do if the 
responsibility were thrown upon her teachers. 

It must also be remembered that because some incompetent students 
do get into college, whether by obtaining certificates or by passing exami- 
nations, it by no means follows that they stay in. Such students are 
merely dropped at the end of the first semester, or at any rate of the first 
year. Wellesley even refuses to consider a student matriculated until after 
she has passed her mid-year examinations. Of course, the temporary 
presence of students who are unable to maintain their standing involves 
more or less injury to the first semester's work, more or less friction and sub- 
sequent readjustment of relations ; and it would be very desirable to exclude 
such students altogether, if possible. But it is a curious fact that the facility 
of entrance by certificate seems to stand in inverse ratio to the number of en- 
trance conditions allowed, the one kind of laxity thus offsetting the other. 

Students who enter conditioned, have, besides the implied lack of 
thorough preparation in certain subjects, the further disadvantage of being 
obliged to pass off the conditions within a year, in addition to the regular 


college work ; many fail to do so, and thus drop out, having wasted a year 
instead of a semester in college. It is a serious question whether the 
injury to the first year's work is not greater, and the difficulty of readjust- 
ment more serious, under the system of entrance with heavy conditions, 
than under that of entrance by certificate. 

There is another consideration of great practical importance, which 
yet is seldom taken into account in this connection. The student who 
enters college on certificate almost always finishes her work in the preced- 
ing June, and with a mind free from anxiety is able to devote the whole 
summer to rest and relaxation ; she enters college in a favorable condition 
of body and mind for thoroughgoing hard work. The student who enters 
by examination hardly ever completes her work until the week before 
college opens ; this usually means that she devotes the summer to " cram," 
and that she is in a more or less exhausted state when she begins work in 

Examinations, though always an imperfect test, are in many cases the 
best yet devised — an evil, but still a necessary evil. But is an examination 
a better test than the verdict of a competent teacher concerning a pupil 
whose daily work she has studied for one, two or three years ? As for the 
competence of the teacher, and the thoroughness of the school, it rests 
with the college to insist upon these things. A college may decline to 
exercise more than a nominal supervision over the schools on its list, may 
accept certificates from incompetent or dishonest teachers, may put up with 
superficial and unscholarly work ; and a college may impose easy examina- 
tions, mark leniently, allow many and heavy conditions, and permit 
ill-qualified students to slip through without meeting even its own facile 
requirements. After all the maintenance of a high standard depends less 
on the choice of entrance tests than on the earnestness and thoroughness 
of the college in enforcing those tests. But taking the two systems at 
their worst, which is likely to do poorer work in college ; the student who 
after idling away two years in a preparatory school, enters with no scholarly 
habits of mind, and with no thorough knowledge of anything; or she who, 
with an ignorance really if not apparently equal, and an equal lack of 
mental training, after six months' desperate " cram," enters with four heavy 
conditions, in such a physical state that a rest-cure would be the most 


appropriate place for her. The latter may seem an extreme case, yet it is 
not so rare but that it has more than once come within my own limited 
sphere of observation. 

A high standard, in morals, manners, or scholarship, is an excellent 
thing to have. One's standard, or at least one's ideal, can hardly be too 
high. But is there not sometimes, in college circles as well as elsewhere, 
a good deal of talk about high standards which has a more intimate con- 
nection with one's self-satisfaction than with one's possession of any genuine 

Emma Si 'an \s bury Wines, 'p#. 



There are unmistakable signs that a much-needed and wholesome reac- 
tion is now going on against mechanism and mechanical methods in educa- 
tion, a field in which the conditions are rather those of organic life, and the 
methods necessary those of organic growth. The kindergarten and its 
coadjutor the inductive method, have come among us, and have come to 
stay. We are growing into the conviction that power and not acquirement 
is the object of education ; that not what a man has, but what he can do, 
is the test of his quality, and the essence of his value to society. 

Following out this line of thought, too frequent and too detailed exam- 
inations, the results tested in accordance with an iron system of " grades " 
and " marks" are deprecated as being both unnatural and unnecessary, a 
heavy burden on the st