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1006-1016 ARCH STREET 





Graduate Editor. 






Business Manager. 


Assistant Business Manager. 






Editorial 7 

William of Hatfield Ethel Bennett Kitchens, 1905 10 

The Testament Georgiana Goddard King, 1896 13 

From a Letter Sara Montenegro, 1902 14 

To a Chapel in Brittany Mary Butter Towle, 1S99 25 

The Gold of the Temple Margaret Emerson Bailey, 1901 26 

The Decision Mary I sal ell e 0' Sullivan, 1907 38 

A September Storm E.B. Lewis, 1905 39 

To One Asleep Louise Foley, 1908 42 

The Denationalisation of American Art . . . .Margaret Franklin, 1908 43 

With Eyes of Eaith Theresa Helium, 1908 49 

The Sea-farer Louise Foley, 1908 56 

Academic Eomanticism Mary Isalelle 0' Sullivan, 1907 57 

Velin Dore Margaret Franklin, 1908 61 

Empty Wells Louise Foley, 1908 62 

Guanajuato Hope Emily Allen, 1905 69 

Sun-dial Motto Caroline Beeves Foulke 72 

A Freshman's Impression of College. .Katherine Forbes Liddell, 1910 73 

The Prairie Caroline Seymour Daniels, 1901 77 

In Memoriam 79 

College Themes 80 

Collegiana 90 

"Leviore Plectro" 104 

The Lantern 

No. 16 BRYN MAWR Spring, 1907 


IF Mr. James, in his summing up of America as a place of collective 
activity, of clear-voiced, light -limbed youth, without a doubt in the 
world and without a conviction, seems at first too paradoxical, he 

gives to our second thoughts his accustomed measure of truth. If he 
overlooks, that is, the initial conviction of so many Americans, that action 
for action's sake is right, he perceives the abundance of physical energy 
born not of thought, but mere impulse. He summarizes, indeed, from a 
large class of men who never pause to consider the reasons for their cock- 
sureness, who choose their professions less from a feeling of preference 
than from a wish to be busy at something, who work with no conscious 
motive, no well-weighed allegiance, and fail even to see connexions between 
their toil and attainment. 

Such lack of thought, which is the cause of our scruples, and should 
be of all of our certainties, has often in the amorphous world of getting 
and spending, of hurried giving and taking, a valid exctise. The force of 
necessity drives many to struggles in which a goal, well defined and desired, 
would bring but an added pain, a further renunciation. To them, by virtue 
of youth, the world lies open for choice, and in a sense they may be its 
potential possessors. But there is no time to reflect, nor in occasional 
intermissions from work is there much use in choosing a road to pass by, 
though it lead to a special salvation. 

If this, however, is true of the busy lives in a larger existence, a 
university, so Cardinal Newman has said, "should educate the intellect 
to reason well in all matters, to reach toward the truth and to grasp it." 



It should make, that is, of reflection, which leads to doubts and convic- 
tions, to the dissipation of slight and slovenly thought, its purposed achieve- 
ment and aim. To attain this result, indeed, since alternatives are the 
first cause of reason, each university offers its students the widest extension 
of choice. Bryn Mawr, for example, forces few bonds on our conduct 
and no strait-jackets upon our belief. It allows us, indeed, to oppose 
and to try all unfounded prejudices, to weigh them against the opinions 
of others; to modify, keep, or surrender them after the trial struggle. It 
encourages, too, the spirit of organisation, which has increased with each 
year, as if seeing in each institution and group the greater spur for a 
careful selection. Each new course of action, each chance for potential 
allegiance, it sanctions, so it would seem, to stir up consideration and doubt. 
Most frankly intentioned, however, as a goad, not as a mere spur, to reason 
and choice, is the elective system ; the reaction from the old doctrines which 
took no account of a difference of mind. Eeckoning, indeed, with the 
maxim, that after all the prefection of one is not the prefection of anyone 
else, it exists to inspire in each girl a rigid examination of individual 
temper, and a consequent knowledge of self. Applying, too, as it does, 
in a different manner to each different person, it should awake decisions 
not borrowed from books, nor overheard in the market; should achieve 
an individual search and a wrestling with thought. It should, indeed as 
should everything else at a college, help to produce a more philosophic habit 
of mind: one which should in the end facilitate problems, enable each 
student to grasp each matter in hand. 

Here, moreover, at college, where, as Emerson said of himself, "we 
are not wholly in the busy world, nor quite beyond it," the conditions of 
life which force many from thought, do not hold. If near to our homes, 
we are so remote by a difference of interests and customs, which build in 
the end a seclusion, that we are in great measure protected against all 
disturbing claims. Even those of us, the least fortunate, who are forced 
to look to the close of scholastic training as the end of apprenticeship, 
who cannot help but acquire their learning less for itself than the future 
practical value, keep the pressure of their eventful aims so remote, as to 
have but little effect on their college careers. We all achieve, that is, for 
the time, a certain detachment from the sense of flitting and precious hours 
in the face of a present if relative leisure. Not only, that is, do we become 


oirx own masters, able to go as we will, unhindered by old traditions, but we 
possess an abundance of time to look before leaping, or, if unwary, the time 
to pause and consider the cause of our falls. 

If, however, here at Bryn Mawr, both the solitude and the incentive 
are conducive to the completest mental awakening, they are seldom put to 
so good a use. Spare hours are seldom employed in reducing unfounded 
beliefs into doubts, or turning mere confidence into conviction. Tenden- 
cies, so it is said, are stronger than men, and because of a natural indo- 
lence many students put through with scant discernment their required 
college work, drift through their spare hours in careless and insolent 
blindness. If they give their adherence to any one cause, it is from a 
spontaneous impulse, not from discrimination, nor from the value of one 
institution argued from the relative merits of others. Even, indeed, the 
elective system given to them as a chance for finding a task to their mind, 
resolves itself into a way of avoiding hard labour and work; a way by 
which they quickly escape many difficult courses. They never, that is, seek 
out the chances for choice, but shrink rather from such cogitation. 

More interesting far than this class, and full of as serious purpose, 
arriving, however, at the same end and result, is another body of stu- 
dents: passionate pilgrims after broad-mindedness, and possessing a con- 
sequent interest in each matter in hand. Continually off on the wing, in 
a search after knowledge, examining now this and now that, they have 
no moment of pause to reflect upon merits; to arrive at conclusions after 
inspection. They only accumulate treasures for future reflection. They 
pause at the threshold of doubts and convictions, blocked at the entrance 
by a great number of things stored up there for prospective thought. 

"While, then, it is well to achieve a large-minded tolerance, and to weigh 
and examine all creeds, let us not forget, in this place of opportunities 
given for increasing the powers of one's mind, to put the same powers to 
use. Let us pause in the constant additions we make to our columns, to 
do a few sums, lest we put off the day of our final reckoning to the point of 
utter confusion. 



"William of Hatfield, second son of Edward III., 
died at York in 1344, aged eight years." 

— Guide-Book. 

LITTLE WILLIAM OP HATFIELD reclines stiffly in his high niche, 
carved with the emblems of the Plantagenets. His childish limbs 
-^ are clad in doublet and hose, an ermine mantle droops from his 
shoulders, his feet in their pointed shoes are cushioned on a lion. 
Truly he lies like a king, but decorously withal, facing the great altar with 
small palms folded on his impassive breast. 

How long, my prince, since thy pompous cortege passed from these 
gray aisles, since the royal tears shed for thee were dried by other griefs, 
how long ago was chanted the final mass for thy young repose ! 

Through the slow centuries, in time of peace, in time of war, when 
insurrection beat upon the minster doors, when the holy shrines were 
desecrated and the religion of thy fathers was made a mockery — still hast 
thou prayed thus, ever unmoved! The great achievements of thy house 
are dim as the emblazoned shield above thy head, thou thyself hast been 
called other than thou art, so utterly art thou passed from memory; yet 
perpetually thou profferest thy mute petition ! 

When, at the final day, my prince, thy white and virginal soul shall 
issue from the ancient sepulchre, thou shalt bear cup-like between thy 
hands this oblation of unceasing prayer. Amid the thunder of celestial 
trumpets thou shalt join the assemblage of thy house, kings and queens and 
princes, splendid in their jewelled grave-clothes, and take thy stand beside 
that stooped and pallid monarch who, leaning on his sceptre, turns to thee 
a glazed and absent gaze. One by one are thy kinsfolk summoned, one by 
one they depart, till thou and he are left solitary. And then hurtles 
through the dense air the call — 

"Edward the Third of the House of Plantagenet, King of England, 
Lord of Ireland and Duke of Aquitaine," and he is snatched away, thou 


following blindly with the precious thing enshrouded in thy mantle. Then 
shalt thou hear a voice falling from Heaven in monotonous recital — 

"The crimes of Edward Plantagenet, King of England, against tbe 
most High God: — 

"His wars — " Battle by battle, siege by siege, massacre by massacre, 
the relentless catalogue goes on. The king's head droops. Fifty years of 
war are long in the telling. What else ? Nay, the half is not read. What of 
his oppression of Ireland, what of his heavy taxation, what of his dissolute 
old age? The voice continues to proclaim his sins to the listening universe 
while the child looks still on that within his cloak which casts a light 
upward upon his small features. 

At last the accusation is ended. What can Edward Plantagenet offer 
in defence? He sways upon his sceptre, his thin shoulders are bowed 
beneath the mountain of his offenses. He does not lift his head, he does 
not speak, though each hurrying moment thrusts him nearer to condemna- 
tion, to endless agonies of penance. Who then will offer, who then can 
offer, a sacrifice for him? Will a lifetime of virtue outweigh the misery 
of half a century of misgovernment, half a century of oppression, half a 
century of slaughter? Yet if there be any in all the assembled earth who 
dares proffer an existence of goodness for this sum of royal transgression, 
let him not hold his peace; let him speak quickly ere the time is past. 

What doest thou here, William? Haste, before the sentence of un- 
appeased justice is pronounced, and hide thy tender eyes from its fearful 
execution. For thou art the son of this wretched king; it is not meet that 
thou should'st behold his punishment. 

It is the ultimate moment. Edward of England looks supplicatingly 
toward the ranks of the heavenly host rising higher and higher in the 
dim vastness of the judgment hall: thrones, dominions, powers, cherubim, 
seraphim, that fix on him austere eyes of condemnation. He falls prone on 
the earth beneath, grovelling feebly with his hands at the feet of his son. 
And thou, prince, stepping out before that awful company, dost raise, 
in view of all, the gleaming chalice of thy sacrifice. 

"I, William of Hatfield, of the House of Plantagenet, do offer in behalf 
of my father's sins, these, my intercessions. For fifty years of misrule, 
four times fifty years of prayer; for fifty years of oppression, two hundred 
years of appeal ; for fifty years of battle, two centuries of penance." 


In the chill night, when cold moonshine illumines palely thy gray 
monument, cease not thy petitions; when sunlight from the great east 
window paints again blue and red and gold, the chiselled quarterings of 
the shield; when evening draws its shadows from pillar to pillar, and from 
the choir rise strange-tongued plaints of carolings; seal thine eyes, close 
fast thine ears, repeat ever thy miserere — that the sacrificial cup, which, on 
the last day, thou shalt raise imploring before the tribunal, may, perchance, 
by a warmer effulgence soften the Divine Justice to compassion. 

Ethel Bennett Hitchens, 1905. 



Comrade, if when to-morrow came 
The breath called Me this heavy frame 
~No longer stirred, what should be done 
With these things that I called my own 
Before God shut the little door? 

Be you my soul's executor. 
My Truth unto the schools I give, 
Without which sages cannot live, 
ISTor poets flourish, no more than where 
A plant pines, wanting heaven's blue air. 
Next of my Patience I impart 
Unto the strong : the high, quick heart 
To other gifts shall add from me 
The grace of longanimity. 
To aged souls I give Desire, 
An inextinguishable fire 
Warming them when the hands are cold, 
And the eyes dry, and the flesh old, 
And the heart slow : but to the young 
Faith, that the sound of chants unsung, 
Flowers of an unfound Paradise, 
Be to their keen warm ears and eyes 
More real than all the glad great earth 
Gives in abandonment of mirth. 
Sole unbequeathed remains at last 
Love: my chief good so long time past, 
That, as babes take their toys to bed, 
I must still hold it, being dead. 

Yet I bethink me how the tomb 
Is a chill, hushed and lightless room, 
And love, that is a warm live thing 
Like quivering birds that grieve and sing, 
Must with the living-hearted bide. 
So, whose it was before I died, 
With two lives' fragrance gracing one, 
Hers be it still while years go on, 
—Whom should my love, if not to you, 
My Very Dear, come home unto? 

Georgiana Goddard King, 1896. 



. . . Follies of friendship ! You deliberately put aside all con- 
sideration of self and ask me that question which — with a sinking of the 
heart, I warrant — you know I shall answer most gladly — and at greatest 
length. Not by any persuasion could I be deterred now; let me but detect 
a glimmer of curiosity in you concerning the bookish part of me, and my 
pen leaps — I am unable to control an exuberant responsiveness — my letter 
which might otherwise have been modestly brief, waxes, expands, until lo! 
it is in danger of itself attaining a book's proportions. Outrageous likeli- 
hood ! May I who reverence good books so highly and find no justification 
for intrusive, usurping, misguiding bad ones, be always able, in spite of 
my tiresome leisure that cries out for occupation, to resist the prevailing 
temptation of the day. I of course am immoderately absolute: I should 
like to see literature, that magnificent dominion without bounds of time 
or influence, in the power of a benevolent tyrant — with infallible judgment. 
There would be slaughter unheard of, from end to end of the world a 
sweeping-out and devastation. Many a sorry gap made on many a pre- 
tentious shelf, many petty writers relieved, to a silly public's benefit, of 
the pen and ink they abuse, many an over-grown ambition improvingly 
nipped; and then! — back into their proper obscurity the pushing musb- 
room growths would go, leaving space clear as it should be for the immortals. 

My fancy conjures beguilingly; but, as so often, between fancy and 
reason is a fatal discrepancy. I had the hopelessness of critical justice too 
keenly pointed for me lately when I learned that to Tolstoi, so soberly 
fair and so lofty of understanding, Shakespeare, so vastly and sublimely 
imaginative, reservoir of all moods and emotions, seer into the deepest 
mysteries, appears for the most part tiresome and vulgar. To-day's greatest 
genius despising the unequaled genius of the past! and one looks for a 
single standard of good books ! 

Tolstoi's judgment against Shakespeare, brutally sincere and to the 
extent of the sincerity significant, plunged me first into a state of bitter 
dismay, caused in me overwhelmingly a sense of tragedy and eternal defeat, 


of the futility of human effort and the fallacy of inspiration. Indeed, if the 
cloud upon me had not lifted, I am afraid I should have given over reading 
for the rest of my life. But behold the sun — in the shape of the spirit of 
controversy: I turned argumentatively from depressing reflections upon 
the limitations of the mind to very exhilarating reflections, on the other 
hand, upon the mind's unmeasured reach; upon depths and heights and 
spaces of knowledge and feeling, sunk into which, one — the richest — life- 
time's steady accumulation of wisdom shows in the dimensions of an atom ; 
upon the mazy wealth in points of view, all looking to the same end, not 
any two along the same line of vision or through the same medium of 
color. And so I was comforted; peace existed again between me and my 
troublesome literary world. If you take me very seriously, now or ever, 
I shall be appalled. 

I have read much of Tolstoi lately— I have, indeed, as always, read in 
the most haphazard, helter-skelter disorder, gaily capable of approaching 
KLopstock and Keats, Schiller and de Maupassant to within five minutes 
of each other; but the main direction of my thoughts for some months 
past has been determined by Eussian writers. And a graver significance 
is carried by these words than you imagine, a significance of the life-blood 
spilled by my hope and happy ignorance and young, rash trust in human 
kind. Dearly have I paid, with long moods of depression, moments of 
intense despair, for my fevers of enthusiasm as I read, my ecstasies of 
appreciation when I was exalted out of the commonplace, whirled into a 
passion of sympathy, when my brain burned with a fire, illuminatingly 
brilliant, if borrowed and temporary, of reason and understanding. The 
fevers cooled, the ecstasies passed, and I was left in each case sadder, 
sadder, with a broadened vision for the sorrows and follies and injustices 
of the world, a strengthened conviction that life, which for the most part 
we take so lightly, is from foundation to surface, from beginning to end, 
in every phase and every ultimate purpose, a profoundly serious thing. 
Even Gogol's humorous sketches with their diverting spriteliness of satire 
are framed in gloom, an inevitable Eussian edge of sardonic mourning. 
Indeed I am not sure that he, so spirited and audaciously derisive, does not 
at times surpass Turgenieff and Tolstoi and the sturdily miserable Gorky 
in the dreariness of his final impression — as the comedy of realism is apt 
to surpass admitted tragedy. What is there to say? The truth about this 


big, selfish, blind, hurrying world must be dreary or worse, it seems, and 
only the truth is worth telling. 

As for Gogol, he has an eye for truth that there is no deceiving; a 
groundwork of earnestness that makes his airiest word a force; a skill in 
the delineation of character — skill is a poor word here: all the skill ever 
acquired would fail of producing Gogol's men; for the power that embodies 
an actual type in a genuine living individual, precisely human in his 
attributes, his blending of faults and virtues, his susceptibility to environ- 
ment, his submissiveness to ruling passions, subtly vitalized, gripping at 
our emotions and sympathies with warm strong real hands, is the inex- 
plicable, undefined power of genius. It has been months since I read one 
of Gogol's books, but my ardor mounts as I write till I wonder that I do 
not have him constantly under my eyes. If the days were only longer! 
The truth is they are far too short for half the delightful books, and to 
reach my Gogol shelf I must — I can't — pass by Ibsen and Maeterlinck 
and Lamb and Jane Austen and a persuasive impertinent little green copy 
of the Sentimental Journey and such a marvelous, resplendent Don 
Quixote as few could resist, and Vie de Boheme and Les Trois Mousque- 
taires which for my part I never did resist, and a Joseph Andrews and 
Humphrey Clinker, and so many more captivating names that as I consider 
them, I am obliged to realize how very disadvantageously my Gogol is 
placed. You know what a helpless vagabond I am along literary high- 

But Tolstoi — in letters I wander, too, it seems — quite as badly as 
among shelves. If Gogol was the father of Eussian realism, in Tolstoi 
what an outstripping and superior child he had ! "When I think of Tolstoi', 
I permit myself this very lamentable weakness — I fall into metaphor— 
for your misfortune : a great, staunch, indestructible tree of truth, its roots 
in the most secret depths of the human heart and mind, its branches 
enclosing in their nearly boundless sweep the minutest details of the sor- 
rowful, laughable, wonderful, terrible history of daily life, its summit 
touching the sublime height of moral reform — Tolstoi, the author of Anna 
Karenina, Resurrection, War and Peace, The Kreutzer Sonata, that re- 
markable, horrible drama, The Tower of Darkness, remarkable and horrible 
as life darkened and degraded is capable of being. 

Probably for no cause again shall I ever experience such a peculiar 


joyous delirium as came upon me one day last winter after I had read in 
quick succession War and Peace, Master and Man, The Cossacks, The 
Fruits of Enlightenment and The Power of Darkness. I was at the 
moment well advanced into Childhood, Boyhood and Youth. Half a dozen 
pages of superb observation, touched to something like lightness by 
Tolstoi's large life-like humor, controlled by underlying purpose to admir- 
able coherence," ended in a passage of particular acuteness. My apprecia- 
tion had been swelling, swelling for days — suddenly it passed bounds. I 
sprang up ; I paced my room in a frenzy of pleasurable excitement ; I sought 
in my mind for some sacrifice to offer this surpassing realist; and I found 
a victim properly splendid. You will not believe it of me — at the feet of 
Tolstoi I laid Balzac. Don't scoff — you with your one steady worship. In 
cooler moments, I modified the judgment until Balzac had again in great 
measure his pre-eminence: but with Tolstoi's spell upon me, realizing 
freshly his clairvoyant understanding, Ms strong, just critical faculty, the 
massive security of his self-confidence, his almost superhuman superiority 
to illusions, above all, his unfailingly dominant moral purpose, without an 
inner qualm or remonstrance to my credit I perpetrated the disloyalty. 

Later, when the rapture had languished and I could remember in all 
their greatness Le Cousin Pons, Le Pere Goriot, Illusions Perdues, Eugenie 
G-randet, Splendeurs et Miseres des Courtisanes, and the rest, I sorrowed over 
my apostasy, admitting that no stern reformer with his fingers always at the 
moral pulse of society, who for his fine height must pay inevitably with some 
narrowness, could have given us the glorious Comedie Humaine. Bal- 
zac with nothing more trammelling than an ingenious scheme of meta- 
physics to underlie richly without limiting his realism poured out at 
will from his inexhaustible mind the flood of his thoughts and knowledge, 
set up a world and peopled it, showed every kind of man and woman in 
their various relationships, let the analysis of not a single sensation escape 
him, bled hearts mercilessly to feed living warmth to his pages, saw, in 
marvelous intuitive flashes, the seed of an act, the act developing, the act 
full grown, bearing its results, then a thousand spreading ramifications to 
those results, and from his pen's end spun the whole progression with its 
tremendous far-reaching significance and its reference to the governing 
laws of the human soul. 

But Balzac, who is not the moralist and whose elaborate metaphysics, 


like metaphysics in general, are not for practical application, wants in that 
fact one of Tolstoi's great values — my Bussian reasserting his claim, you 
see. Tolsto'i, having broken our hearts with his uncompromising truth, 
at least brings to the wound a more or less easing balm in his creed, not 
luxurious but wise, of resignation and simplicity, both of which it is to be 
supposed we may come to with striving — as Tolstoi, firmly setting his 
example and independently solving his problem, has come to them. Balzac 
tosses us into a hideous, seething, black well of facts — there he leaves us 
to flounder. If there is perhaps a golden ladder leading out of the well 
to light and a salvation of our instinctive ideals, it is our own desperate 
floundering that must bring us to it. You, I know, draw endless inspira- 
tion to work from Balzac. For my part, I find myself after prolonged 
reading of him collapsed and without genuine substantial hope of either 
myself or my fellow-creatures. And yet, a season having been allowed my 
spirits in which to exercise their elasticity, back I fly to him. And equally 
I cling to Tolstoi, who has brought me to the verge of chronic melancholy 
— resignation and self -sacrifice, utter simplicity and the healing power of 
work, not being the philosophy of all others which I can most jubilantly 
take refuge in. 

For Anna Earenina, that "dull, commonplace" book, which its author 
found intolerably tiresome, and so gave arbitrarily piecemeal to a hungry 
public, I reserve a special pinnacle: if it is not the greatest novel I have 
ever read, at least I faithfully esteem it such. Its role of authority, from 
the first word to the last, calm, assured, unfailingly sustained, is that un- 
mistakable role of an immortal masterpiece. On every page there is a 
gigantic pressure of significance, and through the whole a greatness which 
springs from truth unbeautified, unsoftened, unexaggerated, simply told, 
carrying inevitable conviction with it; from a clear, bold, vastly compre- 
hensive reason penetrating and controlling every word and from time to 
time manifesting itself directly in profound earnestness; from a fearless 
revelation of the strongest emotions of the heart and the most intricate 
workings of the mind. I have heard the possibility of a long future for 
Tolstoi questioned; — so long as hearts feel and minds work and truth is 
our ideal, I cannot see why he should die. 

But a sweetness and fineness of pleasure not to be found for me in the 
other Bussians I know, I draw from the writings of Turgenieff. Bealist, 


too, mournful, discouraging realist as he is, there is all about Turgenieff 
an enchanted air of poetry and romance that addresses my soul rather 
than my reason. The mysteries that Tolstoi relates so firmly and capably 
to life, in Turgenieff retain their most subtle elusiveness; the flame of 
ardent vitality burns bright and strong through his books, but enveloping 
the flame is a dim and shadowy penumbra of miracle — and this I love: I 
love to realize curious and impalpable powers bearing everywhere upon us 
with the steady secret force of Fate. Isolated from mystery, we are far 
too uninteresting, a sorry handful indeed of wayward, purposeless creatures. 
For my part, I had rather hold a mediaeval belief in witches and hob- 
goblins, Merlins, Calibans, every antiquated sprite and fay, than never to 
feel the air charged with strange compelling influences. I can see your 
expression of dismay as you read — pray don't despair of me — I have not 
turned spiritualist since my last letter; it is only the spirits that hover 
and haunt in TurgeniefPs wonderful, glamorous pages that I am thinking 
of — spirits of youth and love, of visionary hope and torturing melancholy, 
of the past and progress and decay and death. 

Conceive what human personality may become in the hands of a writer 
whose temperament compasses every shade of feeling, to whose delicacy 
of fancy and fervency of imagination there is no perceptible bound, in 
whom sympathy with every phase of life, whether of men or of women, 
attains the proportions of a wide, deep sea of generous understanding. 
Being a true realist, and a true lover of his kind, Turgenieff is incapable 
of refusing to the least of his characters the respect which we all owe — 
and do not give — our own importance is so overshadowing — to every indi- 
vidual with a soul, of whatever rank or force; and being Turgenieff, he 
creates as heroines the most entrancing women, so vividly living, so 
swaying to wild moods and turbulent emotions; as heroes — -if one may so 
call them — the saddest, weariest men, symbolising failure but appealing 
almost with a magnetism of weakness in their final proneness before life 
to whose struggle they were inadequate. 

As I read Turgenieff I feel that there is no region of literary art 
wherein he falls short of supremacy. He penetrates his natural descriptions 
with a loveliness of color and stir of growth that should be the despair of 
painters; he does something more and infinitely harder — he shows the 
soul which man claims for himself projected beyond man into the external 


•world and establishing a universal harmony; he sweeps passion into his 
pages like a destroying whirlwind, or he insinuates it to a tune of immortal 
sweetness; he burns the torch of patriotism that is capable of firing a 
nation; he is infinitely sad, with a pathos that brings the tears and leaves 
the heart impressed forever; and he is gay with a tender, beautiful humor. 
What I like best of his I scarcely know: some of his longer novels have 
bewitching passages — I believe when I say this I am thinking especially — 
though I might choose countless other instances — of quaint, absurd, old- 
fashioned Fomushka and Fimushka in Virgin Soil; and there are stretches 
that take the heart and mind by storm — Old Portraits, a reminiscence 
reviving the past in exquisite picturesqueness and with a delicately loving 
touch for ancestral follies. Mumu, a relentless, heart-crushing tragedy of 
the dumb — a sermon to us all, for the dumb about us are without number, 
and our mercy is scant; Enough: A Fragment from the Note-booh of a 
Dead Artist — you, guarded and fortressed as you are in your cheerfulness, 
will wonder possibly why I love this sketch, all aching, morbid intensity, 
but indeed it has great charm for me. — I might set down still a score of 
names with for each a lingering, luxurious page of recollections — you are 
helpless, and I am selfish — but another indulgence tempts me. I am 
going to copy into this interminable letter one or two of TurgeniefFs 
prose poems ; they will lend worth to the packet, and I shall love to exercise 
my pen over their incomparable perfection. 

The Dog. 

We two in the room; my dog and me. . . . Outside a fearful 
storm is howling. 

The dog sits in front of me, and looks me straight in the face. 

And I, too, look into his face. 

He wants, it seems, to tell me something. He is dumb, he is without 
words, he does not understand himself — but I understand him. 

I understand that at this instant there is living in him and in me the 
same feeling, that there is no difference between us. We are the same; in 
each of us there burns and shines the same trembling spark. 

Death sweeps down, with a wave of its chill broad wing 

And the end ! 

Who then can discern what was the spark that glowed in each of us? 


No ! We are not beast and man that glance at one another. . . . 
They are the eyes of equals, those eyes riveted on one another. 
And in each of these, in the beast and in the man, the same life hud- 
dles up in fear close to the other. 

A Conversation. 
"Neither the Jungfrau nor the Finsteraarhorn has yet been trodden by 
the foot of man!" 

The topmost peak of the Alps. ... A whole chain of rugged 
precipices. . . . The very heart of the mountains. 

Over the mountain a pale green, clear, dumb sky. Bitter, cruel frost; 
hard, sparkling snow; sticking out of the snow, the sullen peaks of the ice- 
covered, wind-swept mountains. 

Two massive forms, two giants on the sides of the horizon, the Jung- 
frau and the Finsteraarhorn. 

And the Jungfrau speaks to its neighbor : "What canst thou tell that 
is new? Thou canst see more. What is there down below?" 

A few thousand years go by: one mimite. And the Finsteraarhorn 
roars back in answer: "Thick clouds cover the earth. . . . Wait a 
little !" 

Thousands more years go by : one minute. 

"Well, and now?" asks the Jungfrau. 

"Now I see, there below all is the same. There are blue waters, black, 
gray heaps of piled up stones. Among them are still passing to and fro 
the insects, thou knowest, the bipeds that have never yet once defiled thee 
nor me." 


"Yes, men." 

Thousands of years go by: one minute. 

"Well, and now?" asks the Jungfrau. 

"There seem fewer insects to be seen," thunders the Finsteraarhorn. 
"It is clearer down below ; the waters have shrunk, the forests are thinner." 

Again thousands of years go by : one minute. 

"What seest thou?" says the Jungfrau. 

"Close about us it seems purer," answers the Finsteraarhorn, "but 
there in the distance in the valleys are still spots, and something is moving." 


"And now?" asks the Jungfrau, after more thousands of years: one 

"Now it is well," answers the Finsteraarhorn, "it is clear everywhere, 
quite white, wherever you look. . . . Everywhere is our snow, un- 
broken snow and ice. Everything is frozen. It is well now, it is quiet." 

"Good," says the Jungfrau. "But we have gossiped enough, old fellow. 
It's time to slumber." 

"It is time indeed." 

The huge mountains sleep; the green, clear sky sleeps over the region 
of eternal silence. 

And this one more: 

"How Fair, How Fresh Were the Roses. . . . " 

Somewhere, sometime, long, long ago, I read a poem. It was soon 
forgotten . . . but the first line has stuck in my memory — 

"How fair, how fresh were the roses ..." 

Now is winter; the frost has iced over the window-panes; in the dark 
room burns^a solitary candle. I sit huddled up in a corner; and in my 
head the line keeps echoing and echoing — 

"How fair, how fresh were the roses ..." 

And I see myself below the low windows of a Eussian country house. 
The summer evening is slowly melting into night, the warm air is fragrant 
of mignonette and lime-blossom; and at the window, leaning on her arm, 
her head bent on her shoulder, sits a young girl, and silently, intently 
gazes into the sky, as though looking for new stars to come out. What 
candour, what inspiration in the dreamy eyes, what moving innocence in 
the parted questioning lips, how calmly breathes that still-growing, still- 
untroubled bosom, how pure and tender the profile of the young face! I 
dare not speak to her ; but how dear she is to me, how my heart beats ! 

"How fair, how fresh were the roses ..." 

But here in the room it gets darker and darker, . . . The candle 
burns dim and gutters, dancing shadows quiver on the low ceiling, the 


cruel crunch of the frost is heard outside, and within the dreary murmur 
of old age. . . . 

''How fair, how fresh were the roses ..." 

There rise up before me other images. I hear the merry hubbub of 
home life in the country. Two flaxen heads, bending close together, look 
saucily at me with their bright eyes, rosy cheeks shake with suppressed 
laughter, hands are clasped in warm affection, young kind voices ring one 
above the other; while a little farther, at the end of the snug room, other 
hands, young too, ply with unskilled fingers over the keys of the old piano, 
and the Lanner waltz cannot drown the hissing of the patriarchal 
samovar . . . 

"How fair, how fresh were the roses ..." 

The candle flickers and goes out . . . Whose is that hoarse and 
hollow cough ? Curled up, my old dog lies, shuddering, at my feet, my only 
companion. . . . I'm cold . . . I'm frozen . . . and all of 
them are dead . . . dead . . . 

"How fair, how fresh were the roses ..." 

So much — in so many pages ! — for my beloved Eussians. What I have 
gained from them, more than heartaches for the sorrowful world, I think 
I cannot yet fairly estimate; but this I realise — they have enlarged im- 
measurably my knowledge of men and women, taught me tolerance and 
sympathy through understanding, and more than the writers of any other 
nation whom I have read have with their own sincerity inclined me to an 
ideal of honesty and straightforwardness, the wisest of aims, I have come 
to believe, in a world where perhaps the great preponderance of ills is the 
fruit of our wilful complexness. 

You have a grave charge against me at this moment; you are about 
to launch it at my head like a thunderbolt; but you are wrong. For all 
these new allegiances of mine, this devout prostration before new shrines, 
I have not abandoned old idols; I still can weary you with paeans of praise 
for Galdos; and a lighter chant for Valdes, who — may eternal fame reward 
him! — takes pity on my natural frivolity and amuses me; and a flight of 
notes in rhapsodic crescendo to immortalize Flaubert; and a tribute to 


de Maupassant, another to Huysmans, another to Maeterlinck, another to 
Bordeaux. A confession — my last two weeks have been quite, even ficklely, 
withdrawn from Eussian worship and given to these very authors whose 
names I have tumbled pell-mell into my page. 

As for Galdos and Valdes — when I read my great Spanish people, I 
always wonder, and regret more than I can say, that beyond national 
confines Spain's literature is so little known. It is a surpassingly wonder- 
ful literature in its magnificent beginnings of some centuries ago, and 
to-day its first rank is by no means below the highest standard of any na- 
tion. For a language of unequaled grace, eloquence and dignity, couched 
in which the simplest thought receives a measure of weight and beauty; 
for a peculiar pointedness of wit and charm of humor, and a Latin flexi- 
bility of mood to be safely and enjoyably anticipated, I love the literature 
of Spain. 

In Galdos and Valdes, realists — with reservations — and possibly the 
two most famous of Spain's modern novelists, the tone of mind is high 
and pure; their themes throb with all possible vitality, their views are 
broad and just. Galdos, seeing mainly the tragedy of life, but seeing it 
majestically and dominatingly, is superb; Valdes, with an eye resolutely 
for the brighter outlook, the problems that solve, the threads that untangle, 
is delightful. If my benevolent tyrant of unerring justice were governing 
as he should be, industriously thumbed and conned would be Galdos and 
Valdes in every household — together with many another writer of Spain ! 
On all sides we should hear melodious Castilian echoes. Not the humblest 
book-stall but there inviting our American fancy with the seductiveness of 
centuries would be Madrid, Granada, the flowery ways of Andalusia. 
Alluring dream to one who has heard those echoes and wandered petal- 
pelted in those ways! Alas for the sad folly of dreaming. Alluring 
dreams are never, never realised. 

Flaubert, Huysmans, Bordeaux. With memories not a fortnight old 
of Bonvard et Pecucliet, Les Soeurs Vatard — unlovely book — and Les 
Roquevillarde, I could find it in my heart — but upon even the maddest 
enthusiasm bounds must be imposed at last. My desk is littered with 
scrawled impatient sheets : I gather them up resolutely and send them to 
you, asking again the indulgence you have so often granted me. . . . 

Sara Montenegro, 1902. 



Thou chapel old and grey and wreathed with vines 
Beside whose solitude the river flows, 
There hast thou weathered thrice an hundred snows 
With crumbling buttresses and niould'ring shrines. 

Gilded and gleaming through the glossy leaves 
Thy spire seeks the sun; thy windows deep 
Shelter the birds. There dost thou lie asleep 
Shielding the past beneath thy failing eaves. 

Within thy walls what dreams in days of old 

Were dreamed ! How straight the road to Heaven seemed then 

To knight and lady, hermit, priest, and squire, 

As, kneeling there upon thy pavement cold, 

They heard what terms the church accords to men, 

And thou, above them, pointed with thy spire! 

Mary Rutter Towle, 1899. 



"For whether is greater, the gold, or the temple that sanctifieth the gold." 

Chapter I. 

THOUGH the same little gasp of interest was given by Julia Lippitt 
to all her surprises, Jasper Brandt felt that he had at last pro- 
longed its perplexity, deepened its meaning. It did not, he 
knew, as yet reveal a belief in his earnestness. It even implied 
that connections between them had been of so light a nature, as to make his 
remark but a part of that levity. At the same time, however, it showed a 
spirit candidly curious in all matters concerning itself. 

"But why," Julia asked, as she leaned from her chair, her brows lifted 
high in perplexity under the yellow droop of her hair, "Why, may I ask, 
are you doing it? I don't, of course, know, or pretend to guesss from my 
ignorance, whom you ought most to marry. I only know well from my 
knowledge, most whom you oughtn't. And — you'll laugh at my frankness 
— this conviction, on my part, is not the result of your question just put 
me. It's one of a longer duration. You know my habit, no doubt, of 
inventing possible lives for myself. You know how I speculate and find 
reasons for the likelihood of events, which may ever accrue to me. It 
makes up so for those which don't, that it's become in the end my diversion. 
In one of my flights of fancy, I happened on just this occurrence. Much, 
however, as I knew you liked me, and much as my ingenuity and vanity 
were both concerned, I couldn't find the least little reason for your wanting 
more of me than just this : our short little talks and our tea." 

Jasper Brandt laughed as he faced her in the twilight, watched the 
line of her chin when the bright glow caught it, her clasped white hands 
with their heavy rings, and the gleam of her neat braids of hair. It pleased 
him to think, not only that he should have so touched her fancy, but that 
he should when considered appear like some rare old trinket, too dear to 
be even desired. 

"It's like you," he began, indulgently, wishing in his turn to do for 


her all that he could, "to abandon my question in search of the motive 
involved. It's like you, too, to leave me restlessly pacing the shore, while 
you go on your voyage of discovery. But it's vastly more like you to have 
pushed off in advance; to have set out to sea with nothing to warrant the 
toils of departure. I even believe that while most of us stupidly take things 
just as they come, placidly when possible, and with folded hands, you even 
prefer that they shouldn't come. Their arrival after the play of your 
fancy must make them such vain repetition." He paused to laugh again, 
as he watched her. "Here, however, in any case," he pursued, "is the 
longed for exception." 

She nodded slowly over it, as she moved her chair, with its big faded 
expanse of dull red, a little more close to the fire. "Yes," she said, as she 
again sat down and stretched her hands to the glow. "You've your mystery, 
no doubt." Then, as she looked before her with the air of a person forced 
after apparently skilful clutching to gaze at an empty palm, she continued : 
"With any one else it might be the mere wish for adventure and novelty, 
the love of one's distant Antipodes, the knowledge, exhilerating to many, 
that the huntsmen are up in Australia. But you are so peacefully, urbanely 
content with your own present prospect, that for the life of me I can't 
make yon out." 

Some of her difficulty Brandt himself realized, and felt himself able, 
in consequence, to see from her point of view. Delicate and fastidious as 
he was, hating all things sordid or dingy, he had never wishes to look over 
his pleasant horizon; to indulge in a larger vision than his own inherited 
view. Julia Lippitt, herself, indeed, stood as his single peep into another 
world, a peep taken timorously, with a refuge close at his hand, a retreat 
to which he might go at the first sight of glooms. If, however, he had 
been in prospect afraid, she had at once reassured him. She had shown 
herself, indeed, despite her bare little room, and even because of it, so 
brave, unappalled, that she left him slight reason for fear. Even the 
meagreness of her life, which he saw there before him, in the dullness of 
two tiny windows and dimness of flickering candles, was enhanced by the 
gaiety. So joyous, indeed, had she been as she gave her droll comments 
and various views on all subjects, that he soon felt convinced that with 
her, at least, lay cheerfulness, optimism. If her apartment, then, high as 
it was, and shut off from the rest of the world by the length of its narrow 


stairway, stood to her least of all for a refuge, why mightn't it be for him, 
in his turn, a rare extravagance, a rich opportunity? 

At first, however, she simply amused him, became a new recreation 
in the midst of his drowsy life. She existed, he felt, but for his delectation. 
She went off on adventures, wandered about the dark crooked by-paths of 
existence, to report later to him her strange encounters and startling dis- 
coveries. But, except for this part of spy, of reporter on life and all 
people, she made no stronger appeal. He even had thought her, with her 
air of assurance, her defensive hardness, and her tongue that played 
laughingly, fluently over all subjects, a little bit lacking in refinement and 
tact. As his visits became more frequent, however, her freshness was 
what most impressed him. It was hard to escape it, indeed, when once he 
had found it. It lay in the fall of her hair, sleek as the wing of a bird, 
as it drooped on her temples, in the rich bloom of her cheeks, in her deep 
blue eyes, which, despite her awareness, her inner sophistication, still had 
preserved a childlike candour. It even extended into her mannerisms, the 
affirmative nods of her head, the opposing lift of her hands, the hundred 
and one little gestures which she used to express her thought. If, however, 
he had been slow to perceive her sprightliness, he had been slower still to 
react to its charms. It was only lately, indeed, that he had found her 
charming in spite of her freedom; had seen what he himself might do for 
her, since she did so much for herself. Now, however, as he watched her, 
bending toward him, her chin deep in her thin polished hands, he found 
himself wondering where her grace wouldn't take her, with the help of 
his affluence and ease. Then, as he watched her, transferred by his fancy, 
fulfilling omitted growth, perfecting a blighted loveliness, in richer and 
deeper soil, her last words came to him. 

"Yes," he said, at last, determined to give, from his own pleasing 
picture, a little the light of romance. "Of course, you can't see my reason. 
Except for the vision, the hope which actuates all men to just such a 
question, I haven't any, you see. If you must have one, if your longing 
positively has to be satisfied, why not call it simply my love for you, or, if 
you wish, my selfishness, my desire to prolong our beautiful hours. At 
least," and he gave to his voice a tone of insistence, "believe in me. Use 
some faith." 

She gave him a sorrowful shake of her head, one clearly meant to 


show her desire in regard to his wishes, as well as her sad inability for their 
compliance. '"'Faith/' she sighed. "Some one said, you remember, that the 
Eyes of Faith see things as they wish them, not things as they are. And 
what have I at my age to do with blurred sight. Of course, when one has 
grown old, one then has acquired a willing blindness, an inability just 
from one's weariness to see things quite as they are. Faith becomes, then, 
the evidence of things unseen. It's when one is young that it is still 
the substance of things hoped for. It's happy, however, in children, repre- 
senting, as it so charmingly does, their desire for concrete and possible 
objects. One wants so many things, too, that the elimination of some only 
perfects and develops the rest. But when one is middle aged, has long 
ago surrendered desires for an earthly Paradise, and not yet achieved 
the wish for an immaterial heaven, one is simply hopelessly lost. One 
strives to be neither a child nor a dotard; and much as one wants to 
bandage one's eyes, one keeps them wearily opened against all possible 
shocks. In what," she repeated again, "should I have any faith?" 

It was impressive, this little gust of her grimness, which had swept 
away all her gaiet}', and had forced her up on her feet. It made her, by 
reason of what she had so long concealed, the more deep and abysmal. 
In his eagerness, however, he gave it only the shortest of pauses. 

"In what should you have faith !" he cried. "In me, in my ignorance 
of you ; in the fact that I'm asking you now to marry me, without knowing 
the least little thing of you, or your life. If you want a basis for faith, 
you can — one surely could — make something out of just that." 

Already in the silence that followed he felt that she did; that after 
much weighing, deciding, reflecting, she had reached at last her result. 
In her very pause by the window, in her silent droop of her head, as she 
looked at the sunset, and the huddled roof that cut with the sky line, he 
knew he had caught her, had bound her fast. 

"Yes," she said, without turning yet from the light that outlined her 
trim purple gown and small compact figure. "You are the special case, 
the exception. But there are, after all, so many apparently special eases 
that one hates to let up on one's vigilance. It isn't, of course, that I don't 
see all of your generosity. I see nothing, in fact, but the vision of you 
giving me all that you have, offering it to me, like some benevolent saint, 
with both hands." 


Clearly, from the bright smile which she sent him over her shoulder 
as he rose and stood close behind her, the picture she saw was a pleasant 
one; one which, save for her fear of its vanishing, she would willingly 
watch for some time. In an instant, however, she had turned from its 

"But, after all," she broke out in perversity, "I'm at least detached. 
Shop-worn and soiled as I am, I'm not in the least among remnants. I'm 
simply a piece which might have its edges trimmed, be hemmed to con- 
ventional neatness. But what if I weren't detached, had had surroundings 
from which I could never be severed ; a past which I couldn't possibly lose." 

If he had given to her, in her doubt and her disbelief, a reason for 
faith, she had shown him a way in which to make good his statements. 
Strangely enough, however, though he felt his task might be difficult, 
might, by a life of sordidness suddenly placed before him, force from him 
a bolder front than that which he usually wore, he had only a sense of 
exhilaration. Never even in his young days, of brimming beakers and 
dregs disregarded, had he filled so boldly his cup. 

"It wouldn't," he nodded, "make for me the least little difference. 
You might as well spare yourself." Then, to make his task appear not 
light, but heavy, one which, though arduous, he bravely put through for 
her sake, he added: "Yes, I should mean every word I have said, if I 
thought I might give you happiness." 

Again he caught her, and this time he held her for good. 

"Would you come to my home?" she questioned eagerly, her eyes full 
of a deep, solemn glow. "It's only a little New England village. It's a 
risk. Will you take it?" 

Again he nodded and again there was silence. As they stood there, 
however, face to face in the gathering darkness, he knew that at last she 
believed him. 

"You've only to let me know when you wish me and give me direc- 
tions," he said, softly, taking her into his arms, "and you'll see how soon 
I shall come." 

She interrupted him, staring wistfully up at him with her wide open 

"No, not soon," she insisted, "not at least for three weeks. I'm not 
even yet cured of all doubts. I want all that time to mix facts with 


illusions. I want, no matter what happens later, to have had my happi- 
ness, even if based tin the falsest security ; to have been sure, that is, so long 
of you." 

"Ah, you!" he returned, as he released her, confidently implying to 
her what in time he should do for her, the wonders, in regard to her trust, 
he should soon effect. "And what am I meantime to have for my comfort ?" 

She held out her hand as he made his way toward the door in the 
darkness. Then, as he took it, she said quite softly : 

"The knowledge that you are the cause of these weeks; that I've 
believed in you enough to accept them. If s surely enough to have led me 
back to even a childish belief in Paradise, to have so completely renewed 
my youth." 

Chaptee II. 

At the end of a stated time, after a long dull journey, Jasper Brandt 
found himself left on a blazing platform, gazing about him at small flaring 
beds of petunias, neat pointed firs, and a road stretched through the 
dust to the distance. A muddy trap stood before him, with a dingy 
fringed lap robe and a horse that blinked lazily up at the sunlight. So 
apprehensive, however, had he grown of the task which now lay before 
him, that he passed by the carriage and walked down the road. Though 
the past weeks had gone by so slowly, had tried his patience by the extent 
of his mystification, his object was now to gain time. By walking, he 
might go quite as he chose, be as dilatory as his fancy dictated; might 
consider, moreover, his plans more clearly than if jostled over the highway. 

As he passed by the first stretch of singed fields, where the dust lay 
caked on tall scrubby weeds and on rusty plantains, it came to him how 
wonderful in her humility, in her unselfish veracity, Julia Lippitt had 
been. He had been astonished at her reluctance, in receiving him at once 
in her home; in getting the worst quickly over no matter how bad; in 
putting him, with the shortest delay, to his test. Later, however, he saw, 
so he thought, that this respite had been but for him. She had seen his 
position, had seen it, too, with the aid of her greater knowledge, more 
clearly even than be could perceive it himself. If she knew that he had 
waded in far deeper than he had in the first place intended, she knew, also, 
just where and with how great a burden he must valiantly totter out. This 


time, then, which she gave him, with a tact so rare that it showed but a 
trace of her generosity, was less to secure for herself hours of prophetic 
happiness, than to show him the better part of his valour. The lesser 
portion, however, was what in the past slow days, and in the slower stroll 
which he now took across the country, he was most determined to prove. 
It might be indiscreet, absurd, foolish, but it gave him a positive sense of 
pleasure. These weren't the old ballad days, of course, when one flung 
one's all to the winds for the sake of one's love; and his love was stirred 
by much calmer strains than those of traditional heroes. Julia, however, 
might lead him to sights and to places with which he was not familiar; 
might show him a father stout, pompous and red; a mother flurried and 
awkward; a home more vulgar than dingy, more cluttered than meagre; 
but she could not scare him away. 

By this time he had reached the town, and found himself pacing 
along a broad village street, where small similar houses and square enclosed 
yards were darkened by the spacious shade of tall elms. There, before him, 
at last, lay the mill of which Julia had told him, and in which, from some 
dim idea he had formed, he saw her father as superintendent, dealing out 
to the men on Saturday night, piles of small coins. Beyond this, he knew, 
lay her home. Gazing straight at the ground, he hurried to meet it. 

When he looked up, he saw at the top of a terrace, whose sides were 
cut into sloping banks and stretches of emerald sward, a large white 
mansion. Its great roof, cut by gables and sheltered by hemlocks, as well 
as its broad brick chimneys, gave it an air of dignity, a sense of space, of 
high ceilings, bare rooms and echoing footsteps. The place, moreover, in 
its drawn curtains, pulled down against the glare, its rotting gateway, 
over which old-fashioned roses twined small blighted pink flowers, its 
cracked but neat flagstones, had the sweetness born of antiquity. He had 
never before seen anything like it. He had, however, an idea that in 
past years his own people might have lived in just such a place, in some 
home such as this, have dozed by trimmed lamps and been hushed to sleep 
by the crackling of dying fires. Not pausing to think of what he was 
doing, he made his way up the path to the door, with its circle of small 
glass panes, and lifted the knocker. 

In a moment he stood in a room, as large as the outside betokened, 
where the sunlight rifted through shades, mellowing the white glare of 


the paint, and dulling the gleam of the polished mahogany furniture. 
The adornments about him were spare and distributed; two sofas with 
high-cushioned backs and with buttons; chairs, whose upholstered tops 
protruded in squares from their woodwork; pale samplers, and long oval 
mirrors, with reflections quite dim and distorted from the long course of 
years. An ascetic spirit, he felt, had been here at work, had removed all 
objects less good than those which he saw before him. Clearly, however, a 
little old lady, as the rarest and oldest of all the possessions, had been 
allowed to remain, and was coming forward to meet him, holding out to 
him a stiff, small hand. 

f Tm afraid," he said, as he took it, half timorously, and bowed 
gently over it, "that I've made some stupid mistake. I had but the vaguest 
directions, and I blundered into your pathway. And once there — " he 
paused, thinking that so much was the house a part of herself and she of 
the house, that his remarks might become too personal. "Once there I 
couldn't turn back. I had to come up and knock. I was looking — perhaps 
you might know where she lives — for a Miss Julia Lippitt." 

Her gray eyes covered him in a look which, though searching, even 
inquiring, had the frail austerity born of long shyness. 

"Yes," she said. "I know you are Mr. Brandt." 

As he spoke he heard the rustle of skirts, the hurried click of high 
heels over polished floors, and Julia stood there before him, filling the large 
silent room, tainting its paleness with the colour flashed from her hair, 
and her eyes, and bright lavender dress. 

"So you thought," she laughed. And he saw at a glance that the 
weeks he had had, had left her little enough of her gravity; had given her 
rather the power and the potency of renewed youth. "So you thought, 
when you saw all this and my aunt, you had made a mistake. I did scare 
you, of course. I meant to scare you enough to make my test superb and 
supreme, something large enough, in fact, on which to build in the future. 
If you came after all that I didn't say, but suggested, I knew I might 
count on you. And this — " she wheeled gaily, "is to be your proper, your 
fitting reward." 

Brandt felt himself quite bewildered, not only by the house and its 
quaintness, its hush and its little old lady, all softened and hallowed by 
years, but by Julia sounding her note of enthusiasm, high and clear in 
the midst of the silence. 


"You'll have to explain this to me. I expected something so different/' 
he said quite slowly, turning from Julia to watch the small shrunken 
figure, apparently lightening its steps so as not to disturb them as it 
walked to another room. "I don't in the least understand where we are, 
why we are here. I'm quite completely at sea." 

Again Julia showed him an irritating enjoyment, one expressed in 
the gleam of her eyes, in the lines at their corners, in the inscrutable 
smile which just moved her lips. 

"Poor man," she said, leading the way to the porch, from which might 
be seen perspectives of box, graded rows of red hollyhocks and white latticed 
arbours, placed in the glare at the end of the pathways. "You think that 
I don't belong here, that the prize for your valour, which you so justly 
deserve, isn't mine to give, that I'm only pretending to rights of donation. 
But, though I admit I fit into my background with the roughest of edges," 
and she went to the end of the porch leaning out from the shade, in 
which they had both been standing, "this is, it really is, my own home." 

"But why then," Brandt broke out, with the petulant air of one quite 
weary of practical jokes and bewildering blindness, "are you what you 
are ? Why aren't you the product of this, why doesn't the past reflect itself 
on the present? And why, most of all, if, as you say, this is your home, 
did you so foolishly leave it ?" 

Julia turned from her gaze at the gardens to spread out her lavender 
dress in a low wicker chair. Clearly she wished him to see, by her air of 
repose, that the first frisk of joy at her joke was now over. 

"Why did I leave it?" she said, as he sat down beside her. "Because 
I never perceived its beauty. I only saw its austerity; its harsh stiff lines, 
which straightened each edge of the pathways and clipped all their strag- 
gling branches. It's only since I came back that I've seen the opportuni- 
ties it offers; the chance, for example, it gives in its neatness to rest with- 
out closing one's eyes." 

Then, after a pause, she began again, in a tone that carried to him, 
as he sat there beside her, still watching, still waiting, the note of a deeper 
seriousness : 

"Of course, you don't see how I belong here, how my harsh and crude 
outlines fit into this time-worn frame. You, like most of the world, see 
only the older ISTew England, that of the Puritan blood, and the consequent 


Puritan grimness. You seldom see the chance for revolt and reaction. 
But of just that legend, the old inherited laws, and the new rebellion, my 
parents and I were the sad and pathetic picture. Fond, in a formal way, 
as they were of me, I was always to them a small, naughty, and seldom, I 
fear, a repentant child. I never belonged to their race, so they said. I 
had always hankerings after things neither sanctioned nor safe. After 
adventures, that is, and encounters. I wanted to live, and to see, and to 
know, to get the fruits of experience by actual contact. I had none of 
the lofty mottos and texts which they formed, so I thought, from a querulous 
egotism. They went on the plan, for example, that for all one got one 
paid, and that the price that one paid was high, heart's blood or a pound 
of flesh. I didn't object to that. I've always hated in abstract life, 
more than in concrete affairs, the avoidance of debts. What I objected 
to merely was the close watch they kept on their coin, the way in which, 
in their deep apprehension, they saved it up for emergence, and missed 
by their too careful guard the pageantry of their existence. I was 
romantic, you see, to the point of absurdity. I even wanted to spend my 
all on my first great choice, and to spend all my life in regretting. My 
poor dear mother, who called such a wish unmoral, and even turned, from 
her lack of sympathy, that term to its harsher name, kept me from my 
extravagance, until she and my father had died." 

"And your purchase then?" Brandt broke in, not quite conscious of 
what he was asking, but getting a few faint glimpses of his final elucida- 

"Was what you saw, the place where you found me, my high little 
room. It wasn't much of a wish, was it? to stand as one's highest. But 
it gave me a place from which to look out, if I might not take part in life, 
to watch the world as it passed on its way. It was there that I sought to 
lead the life of untrammeled youth; youth responsible to no one but itself. 
I sought, indeed, in all possible harmless ways, ways suggested by curiosity 
and by my intuition, to find quite the other side of the world from that 
I had lived in. I was foolish, of course. I didn't see that the only perma- 
nent love one has is, after all, for one's home, not for Antipolar realms. 
It took me some time to see that the other side of the world, its distant, 
fantastic Australia, is only the other side before one has reached it. To 
keep its one charm, it must also keep its far distance. It must always 


stay a dream only dreamed, a vision but mistily seen, a land quite over 
the sea." 

Brandt stared his perplexity, following Julia blindly through the 
drift of her metaphors, feeling himself quite foot-loose in the midst of 
symbolic words. 

"But you weren't even poor," he began, answering her with a state- 
ment of fact, which, if crude, he felt to be concrete. "You might have 
come home. You must have lived as you did, in the cramped unconven- 
tional way in which I so often found you, either through preference or 
through perversity." 

"Perversity in the beginning," her head-shake assented, <f but pride 
and perhaps even bravery in the sad end. Mine, as I said, was the leap 
of youth, suddenly finding itself quite free of restrictions. But for all 
that, it wasn't a leap quickly taken without the least little look. And 
when one has looked and measured the distance, one can't, from one's 
pride, retrace one's own foolish steps. I stayed and learned all the bitter- 
ness of my rash bargain, paid my high price. The gain, of course, was 
awareness and knowledge, but the cost was my young idealism and my 
high faith. I had to see things not at all as I wished them, but quite as 
they were. I couldn't keep my illusions. And clearest of all I saw the 
life I had planned, laid before me; saw that even my work mattered to no 
one now but myself. There was no good in making the best of my lot, in 
putting things through without a bit of applause. There was no good 
even in being bad, without a soul to be sorry. At last, as I once had so 
wished, I knew what it was to be quite adrift, alone and detached. There 
was no chance, moreover, for any future connections. I couldn't go home. 
One man, I think, wanted at first to marry me, but when it came 
to the point of learning the truth about me, of coming, that is, to see me — " 
Here she gave him a smile which showed him the depths of her commenda- 
tion. "He hadn't a bit of your courage and bravery. But I've made it 
up to you, haven't I. And isn't your reward all the greater for having 
been put to the test, having shown me yourself as so fine?" 

She had risen and started toward him with the end of his speech, but 
she paused, stopped, Brandt dimly felt, by something she saw in bis face. 

"Aren't you glad? You don't seem so." She put the question quite 


Brandt felt quite convinced that he ought to be glad; ought to meet 
her joy with the burst of a like enthusiasm; receive what she offered him 
■with a sigh of relief, after long suspense and with the deepest gratitude. 
She had taken away, however, so much by her gift, things not tangible 
yet, but of whose loss he was conscious, that he could only nod her a 
negative, shaking his head quite sadly from side to side. 

"I wanted so much to help you," he said, "to give you all that, 
when I first knew you, you seemed to need. I wanted to grant you all 
your desires. You see, I thought these very possessions you have were the 
very surroundings which you had never known, but which you most 
wanted. And now, by owning them all yourself, by having all that I've 
got to give you, you've taken from me my chance. I didn't want you for 
what you could do for me, but for what I could do for you." 

As the words he had uttered echoed into the silence, Brandt expected 
them to be met by another praise of his nobleness. Clearly, however, they 
carried to Julia a wave of meaning quite unintentioned ; one from which 
he saw her at first recoil, then lift herself bravely to meet. When she 
spoke the note of joy in her voice was quite quenched. 

"Oh," she moaned. It came as her first drowning breath. "So that 
is why you were brave, why, after all, you came to me. You were prepared 
for heroic actions, to take me and marry me, no matter what. You told 
yourself that the task would be hard, but you never admitted it sweetened 
quite through by the sense of your bravery. It gave you, of course, a 
sense of complete satisfaction, to think of your sacrifice. And now that 
I've proved something else than that which I seemed, have shown myself 
to be born at least of conventional parents, to have my inherited place in 
the world, I've turned your crisis, to have been so triumphantly acted, into 
a mere anti-climax. I've left to you not one bit of romantic glamour, no 
chance even to show your generous spirit." She paused; then, with the 
final burst of her bitterness, she said quite slowly: "It shouldn't be 
blessed are those who give, but those who receive. Theirs is, after all, a 
far lesser selfishness." 

In her next remark there was not even resentment, and nothing of 

"To think," she murmured, "that I had hoped to make you so happy." 

Margaret Emerson Bailey, 1907. 



(Reprinted from "Tipyn o' Boo.") 

The End to the Beginning said: 
"Of all glad men I choose the dead, — 
The tongue is still the slave of sin, 
Good is the bandage round the chin, 
For one alone the victor's place, 
For all, cool earth on feet and face." 

Said the Beginning to the End — 
"To live is still to hope to mend, 
They that have run must want to rest — 
And yet the running is the best. 
All men are born to lose at last, 
The fun comes in the running fast." 

Here the Beginning and the End, 
Shook hands and called each other friend. 

Mary Isabelle 0' Sullivan, 1907. 




HEIST the birds fly all ways at once, a storm's nigh at hand." 
This is what the fishmonger told me when I asked for news of 
the weather. 

The heat had sucked all colour from the world. Out at sea 
the faint blue of the sleek swells was lost in the white incandescence of 
the sky; the sand was a pale glare; the trees on the mainland, the motion- 
less yellow grass on the dunes, melted in the heat blaze. Only the telegraph 
wire struck by the sun burned fiercely, and on the wire, huddled side by 
side in a black, serried company, drooped the prophetic birds, the harbingers 
of storm. They sat silent until with one accord the birds lifted together, 
and, tumbling in frenzied circles with a beating of wings sharper than 
the rasp of the locusts, they scattered to the four winds and returned to 
sit again in close formations. Thus they did all day. The thick night 
blinking with haloed stars was full of unrest. Morning was flaringly 
bright, but before midday darkness closed in the sky, a wind arose whirling 
the sand in spirals, sank, and then, with a volleyed peal of thunder and a 
rosy flame the rain blotted out the sea. 

Towards dark the wind returned. Hitherto the ocean had lain torpid, 
receiving the thrusts of the rain with panting acquiescence, but now the 
tide was running strong and the waves swelled. Through the rain-blind 
night the ocean shouted to the shrill tune of the wind. At dawn a patter 
of bare feet drummed on the board-walk, and looking out I caught a 
glimpse of the coast-guards hurrying by, more than mortal tall in the 
shadowless greyness. The ocean was a welter of short, high-crested waves 
that shouldered one another and churned hissing. Drifts of sands blocked 
the gangway; placid pools of salt water spread under the piles on which 
the houses stood. The bay was rough black streaked with white, the 
southern shore was blurred. All that morning our little neighbor came 
pluDgin^ in with new tidings. "The water is over the board-walk in the 
old town," "Tbe bay is beyond tbe dunes." His final message was shrill 
with a crescendo of triumph. "The bay and the ocean have met!" 

We tumbled out, adolescents, children and dogs, and were swept down 
the beach. A trail of fine grains of sands stung our faces, tossed balls of 


bitter foam clung to our hair and rolled under our feet; in the cannonade 
of wind and water speech was a shriek. Barrows heaped with luggage from 
hastily closed cottages trundled past us, for who could tell how long the 
railroad bridge would resist the hammering of the meeting waters? 

Down in the fishermen's town the houses stood knee-deep in a green 
lake raked with cross-currents. The boats, half floating and half lurching 
against one another, strained at their tethers and tried to right themselves. 
The usual group of lounging, smoking men were gesticulating violently 
with hoarse mumbles of excitement. In the middle of the largest knot of 
men a woman was standing, her eyes set on the sea. 

"They've been blown down into Verginy, I tell you," she shouted. 
"They'll be picked up or they'll make shore. I tell you they'll come home 
by rail from Newport News." 

The men looked at one another shamefacedly, then at the waves that 
were pounding against the boats. At last one of them spat and began to 
mumble something of the "Lord's mercy." 

The woman shrieked at him, "They're coming home by rail from 
Newport News, I tell you." And with that she flung out her thin fist, 
whether at him or at the lashing ocean, and turned away. 

Sophia plucked up courage to ask one of the men if the storm might 
not soon end. For answer he swung her first to the drowned beach, where 
gigantic snowballs of foam were dancing, then toward the bay. 

"Do you hear the wind?" he asked. "Can you see where hit comes 
from? Well, God sent that there wind and you cyan't ask Him when 
He'll stay it." 

He descended to the commonplace with a hint of "three, fo' days." 

"And then, if the bridge's gone, sister, all the boats for sure won't be 
broke and we'll get you acrosst." 

There is a fatalism in the men who painfully pluck a living from the 
"unfilled field." Far more than the farmer, they must wait on what even 
those who have not "got religion" call the will of the Lord. The wind 
brings the fishes, the wind carries them away; to-day the baskets are not 
large enough to hold the plentiful bounty of the sea, for days to come the 
boats cannot put on, the baskets remain empty. Want, never to be evaded 
or propitiated, dogs the fisherman's heels. And, always, there lurks in him 
the dim foreboding of that hour when he will not be "picked up or make 
shore," when the ocean shall claim him forever. 


We ploughed our way home through mounds of drifting sand. There 
was enough to justify the fugitives. With the close of the day the wind 
gained in violence and its battle cry outscreamed the surf. And beneath 
the raving of the wind the under noises, the bang of a shutter, the thud 
of a swinging door, a child's cry of fear, were strangely unfamiliar. We 
stopped to look around us. The land lay helplessly now beneath the level 
of the threatening waters. Darkness was setting; the great waves that 
scarcely broke before their back wash was again hounded on and flung 
forwards, towered with a gleaming menace. And to us, shivering in the 
cold wind, there came a prickling of the terror with which our primeval 
fathers looked out on a shapeless world. For to-night, in this war of 
tempest and ocean, forces were abroad that had no heed for the smootb 
order of established laws. 

No lamps could be lighted that night. Between the darkness and the 
first light the sound of guns forced its way through the full orchestra of 
the storm. Every ten minutes it came' again, but nothing could be seen 
through the mirk. Someone remembered it was the day for the Charleston 
steamer. All through the night the call continued and in the profound 
darkness stories crowded to the mind of the winter storms and their brutal 
fury. One year the town had been choked with wreckage, another winter 
a hotel, well acquainted with political conventions and with the hopes and 
fears of State Senators, had been lifted from its foundations and its 
twisted frame tossed down in mockery many yards inshore. And on a 
wilder night even than this, the horror had come upon the coast-guard 
and driven him inland away from the pulse of the sea. 

For as he went his round one March night he saw a body come riding 
the crest of a mighty wave. And, as it lay swaying in the shallow water, 
he waded out and with his grappling hook seized it by the arm. The arm 
came away with the iron. Then a great sickness filled the man, but he 
was resolved to do his duty, and when again the corpse bobbed toward him 
he laid hold of it by the leg. And this time the leg, in its turn, parted 
from the trunk and dangled at arm's length. 

The firing grew fainter or more infrequent. Now the blackness was 
thinning and the sea-birds gave long hoarse calls. Soon the dawn would 

E. B. Lewis, 1905. 



The sleeping worlds are whirled through space, 
Through many a windy azure place 

Where crystal planets spin and gleam ; 
Somewhere among those whirling globes, 
Wrapped in star-inwoven robes, 

You whom I seek now sleep and dream. 

Your brow is bound with poppies bland, 
You crush the seeds within your hand 

That bring oblivion and rest ; 
Dim gracious forms about you throng, 
Dream forms of youth and light and song; 

But pain finds harbour in my breast. 

Beneath their soft, thin lids, your eyes 
Are radiant of Paradise 

And joy of distant vanished things; 
In dreams you walk beside the rills 
Of springtime fields through daffodils, 

The golden flag that April flings. 

Ah ! could I find you, reach your side 
To tell you of my passion-tide, 

Unbind the poppies from your brow, 
Loose those Lethean seeds, and see 
Your opened eyes look up at me, 

And hear the music of your vow. 

When you aver your dreams were death 
Which love has vanquished with his breath, 

That youth was but a passing day, — 
Ah! then the worlds might whirl their while, 
When you would look at me and smile 

And walk with me the sombre way. 

Louise Foley, 1908. 



WE HAVE little retort to make to foreigners like an Englishman, 
who, the other day, asked whether we really had any artists of 
distinction. He was answered with the names of Abbey, Sar- 
geant, Gari Melchers. "Why!" he exclaimed, "you will be 
claiming Whistler next !" So completely, in fact, have our best American 
painters become identified with foreign life that only we who are eager to 
claim them as our own are sure to remember their American birth. Of 
our writers indeed the same statement may not be so unreservedly made; 
there are not many among them that have become completely expatriated. 
But when we compare the achievement of those who have identified them- 
selves with their national life with the achievement of him who, more than 
any other, has cut himself off from it — the achievement, I mean, of Mr. 
Henry James — we cannot but be inclined to judge from results and to 
conclude that in the realm of letters, too, the way of American advance 
leads to Europe. 

And if we are right in our conclusion we are at once confronted with 
a curious problem. If as we advance in our skill in expressing beauty we 
really lose our nationality, we shall find ourselves differing most radically 
from other nations. Our art may be truly, though paradoxically, said to 
differ from theirs because it is like theirs. For the great art of other 
nations has generally had a distinctly national character, and if our art 
is to become great without developing a character of its own, it will be 
making a new departure. The question then arises whether the growing 
tendency among our artists to lose their nationality in dependence upon 
Europe for material will stand in the way of our producing great art. 

The question is one of those about which, as Sir Eoger de Coverley 
would say, there is a great deal to be said on both sides. There are, how- 
ever, some few generalities that both sides will, I think, readily admit. I 
suppose not even the most ardent partisan will demur at the statement that 
America has as yet produced no art of the first order. This fact can be 
used by neither side in argument, however, since it cuts both ways. If it 
proved anything — as of course it does not — it would prove that neither 


by originality in work nor by imitation can we produce great art — for both, 
methods have been tried. There are two other assertions that both sides 
will agree upon, and these are more pertinent to the discussion. Those 
who favour expatriation, as well as those who oppose it, will admit that 
Americans may go to Europe for training without losing their own national 
temperament. If this were not admitted they might justly claim that the 
advantage of learning from the great European masters would outweigh 
any strength that might come to us from working out a technique of our 
own. On the other hand, those who regard expatriation as a danger will 
admit that no art can be great that has not a universal significance. How- 
ever faithfully one portrays the life about one, one does not accomplish 
great things in art unless one can engage the sympathies of the larger 

We now come to the main arguments on both sides of the question. 
Those who hope for a cessation to the current that sets towards Europe 
contend in the first place that all great art is national in character. This 
is, they think, not merely a general habit, brought about by the accident 
of convenience; it is a quality of art that arises from the nature of men. 
They claim, moreover, that there is no good reason why American art in 
particular should not be national. It is not necessary, they say, to look 
constantly to other countries for subjects, since America offers an abund- 
ance of material. Neither of these points, however, is fully established, 
and those who think there is no danger to our art in expatriation are sure 
to deny them both. They consider that great art is, in virtue of its great- 
ness, wholly independent of conventional boundaries; that it is capable of 
using material from one place as well as from another, that every artist 
should, therefore, scour the universe until he finds such subjects as are 
suited to his temperament. Moreover, they maintain that the subjects 
offered by America are most often antipathetic to the artistic tempera- 
ment; hence it is but the natural course of events that American artists 
should soon weary of trying to draw water from stone. 

These, then, are the two main contentions which those who oppose 
expatriation uphold and those who favour it deny. If we are to come to a 
clear idea as to the worth of their conclusions, we must reach a decision 
as to whether, in the first place, all great art is national in character, and 
whether, in the second, America offers material that is worthy of artistic 


I t hink that as the arguments in favour of a national art are examined, 
they will at least be found not to have their origin in the blind jingoism of 
which Americans are often justly accused. It is not, of course, to be desired 
that American painters and sculptors and writers should not profit by the 
achievements of other countries. Many of the greatest artists have been 
strongly influenced by foreign art. But on taking up, one by one, those 
artists who have been most strongly so influenced, we shall find that even 
they have still retained essentially national characteristics and have drawn 
much material from their own countries. No poet certainly has ever more 
thoroughly appreciated the culture of foreign lands than Chaucer. In 
nearly everything he wrote we can trace either an Italian or a French 
influence. Yet Chaucer's spirit remained so thoroughly national that 
after five centuries we still point to him as the first poet to give expression 
to the typical English feeling for nature, the typical English gift for gentle 
satire. Italian art affected Albrecht Diirer much as Italian literature 
affected Chaucer. Diirer, after having made a journey to Venice, and 
learned much from the painters of the Italian renaissance, came back to 
Germany and founded a typically German school of art — not idealistic, 
after the Italian fashion, but full of rude strength and realism. England 
and Germany must have been in those times far more uncouth in com- 
parison with Italy, than America is now in comparison with Europe. The 
fact that "in spite of all temptations to belong to other nations" Chaucer 
and Diirer became great by living and working in their own countries and 
depicting the life about them, is one of the many indications that great art 
is essentially national. 

Another indication that it is impossible to overlook as we review the 
art of other nations is the fact that, when imitation has been carried very 
far, it has put a great restraint upon artistic achievement. The most 
obvious example of such an imitative period is, of course, the English 
eighteenth century. And the period illustrates the double danger of imita- 
tion — the danger that spontaneous expression of the genius peculiar to the 
country will be stopped, and that imitation itself will become perfunctory 
and unappreciative. The Englishmen of the eighteenth century failed to 
get inspiration from what is best in classic literature ; as Keats says : 

"They swayed upon a rocking-horse 
And thought it Pegasus." 


If they had had a warmer feeling for their own national life and for 
the demands of art they would have understood better the classic spirit. 

But no one will deny that great art has in it always something of 
universality, and from this some conclude that it cannot be definitely 
national. They take it for granted that, because universality is a quality 
to be desired, the wider the field that comes under an artist's vision, the 
greater his art must be. But when we say that great art must be universal, 
we mean simply that it must have a universal significance, not that it must 
portray the looks and manners of many peoples. Great artists have shown 
their power in no more signal way than in imparting to a narrow field a 
significance that is felt by all nations and in all times. Take the old 
Dutch women that Bembrandt so often painted. How unspeakably borne 
and uninteresting they would seem to us in real life ! And yet Bembrandt 
does not idealise them in the sense of investing them with qualities that 
are not theirs; he simply makes us see the charm that they intrinsically 
have but that we should not discover unaided. He shows the universality 
of beauty. 

Even many lesser men than Bembrandt have had much of this power ; 
Sudermann and Hardy are striking modern examples. The life on German 
country estates that Sudermann describes is so much a thing apart from 
the rest of the world that a foreigner might easily lose himself in the 
details of it and fail to grasp its real significance. It is much the same 
with Hardy's Wessex farms. But in reading Sudermann and Hardy we 
feel not only the differences between the characters in their books and 
ourselves, but also the more fundamental resemblances. 

Now imagine an Englishman writing "Frau Sorge" or a Frenchman 
writing "Far from the Madding Crowd !" It is simply inconceivable. 
However eager his mind and faithful his observation and sympathetic his 
comprehension, an artist cannot possibly develop for men of foreign coun- 
tries that complete sympathy and understanding which is necessary for the 
production of great art. To us in America it often seems, of course, that 
no one could treat European life with greater sympathy and understanding 
than Mr. James. But are we, after all, the proper judges? And would 
not the judgment of Europe itself perhaps throw a damper on our enthu- 
siasm? Certainly such a summing up of our recent achievements as 
appeared in a recent number of the Athenceum should at least make us 


pause. After considering the greatness of earlier American art and learn- 
ing, the writer says: "The culture of America is now a borrowed thing, 
anim ated by no life of its own. Their art is become a reflection of French 
art, their literature a reflection of English literature, their learning a 
reflection of German learning." 

But, it will be said, it is useless to lay down general laws about it; 
if there is no inspiration to be had from this country, our artists are 
forced to go abroad to seek it. It will be claimed that the fact that no art 
has, at least of late, been produced by Americans who have identified them- 
selves with their national life, clearly indicates the lack of productive 
capacity of the country. But the tendency to expatriation has created in 
America an unsympathetic atmosphere, which is by itself sufficient to 
account for the lack of success of those artists who have withstood the 
tendency. When the country has sent its best talent to Europe, when even 
the public in America insists upon buying only European pictures, it is 
not surprising that the artists that remain, having neither the incentive 
that comes from a large body of colleagues, nor that which comes from a 
sympathetic community, should "gasp for vital air" — nor that the work 
that results from such a condition should be mediocre. We cannot, there- 
fore, conclude from results that America does not offer material that is 
worthy of artistic treatment, until there has been a more earnest and sus- 
tained effort to use the material it does offer. 

There are, however, many who, without arguing from results, will 
maintain that the civilisation of America is not susceptible of artistic treat- 
ment. They will probably sum up their objections by the word, "commer- 
cial." It is a commercial age, they say; in America one is reminded of 
nothing farther back than the last century, and everything produced in the 
last century is commercial and unpicturesque ; an artist's only salvation, 
then, lies in lands that still retain something of the romance of the past. 
But is it so obvious that a commercial age must be inartistic? It seems 
to be often taken for granted, and yet the experience of former times 
does not warrant the assumption. In Venice, Florence, Holland and Eng- 
land, as well as in Borne and Greece, periods of great commercial activity 
have been periods of great artistic achievement. The excitement that was 
felt about commerce during the Renaissance probably, indeed, made men 
more alive to beauty and interests of all sorts. It is not when men are 


uninterested in the ordinary events of life and have time to discuss art 
that they paint great pictures and write great books. "When people jabber 
so much about art as they do here/' says Lowell, "and have all their terras 
so cut and dried, they are only playing cards on art's coffin — just as 
Aristotle's Poetics was the funeral oration of Greek poetry." 

America is indeed full of a co mm ercial spirit, but this should be no 
hindrance to our artistic life. Moreover, though our civilisation is, of 
course, entirely without the mellow European charm, it has a compensating 
freshness and vigour that it would be hard to find in Europe. Another 
element that gives American life a peculiar interest is the combination of 
many nationalities. Here is, indeed, a wide field for painter or novelist. 
Types of all sorts are here, and not the least interesting are those in which 
different races are joined, — the amalgamating process, too, has its interest. 
The original American stock came, of course, from many sources; and we 
have, besides, the immigrant and negro populations. There is a romantic 
charm about the immigrant and the American negro which is quite distinct 
from any qualities that may belong to the African negro or to the immi- 
grant before he has come to America, and which should appeal to artist? 
of all kinds. The very fact, too, that America is, as compared with Europe, 
an untried field must, one would suppose, be an incentive. The uncertainty 
of the adventure must lend it spice — the great possibilities and what many 
would call the great risks. 

But I shall not try to establish by detailed proof the artistic quality 
of American life. All I have hoped to do is to point out a few of the 
directions in which the real romance at the heart of our civilisation will, 
I think, be found to lie, and to show how essential a quality of really great 
art is that sympathy with one's environment which comes only when art is 
national. Those whom my plea has failed to convince — and I fear they 
will be many — will, I think, if they consider the matter for themselves, 
reach the same conclusion to which I have come, by way, perhaps, of better 
arguments. They will agree that the tendency among our artists to ex- 
patriation stands in the way of our producing great art, and will do what 
they can to create a sentiment favourable to the growth of an American 
art that is thoroughly national. 

Margaret Franklin, 1908. 



JOHN EITTER'S forceful, unmelodious voice ceased in a sudden 
dramatic climax. The audience recoiled a moment gasping, as if 
from a blow, then broke its hour of tense silence with loud, lasting 
applause. Men stood stamping and beating the chairs in front of 
them on the groud, but scarcely anyone moved from his place till John 
Eitter, coming down from the platform, spoke to a few roughly dressed 
men in the front row. In a moment he was surrounded by a mass of 
workmgmen, roughly jostling each other and overturning or standing 
upon chairs in their eagerness to get a closer view of the speaker. Mean- 
while the gentlemen in the audience either went directly out or gathered 
in low-voiced conversation near the door. Only Alan Manners, heedless 
of the motion around him, sat quite still, his elbows on his knees, as he 
had been sitting throughout the whole lecture. At last a woman's voice 
spoke beside him. 

"Come back to reality, Alan. Everyone is going." 

He sprang quickly to his feet and helped his sister into her cloak. 

"I have been in reality," he said with a little embarrassed laugh, "and 
you have called me back to the world of shams." 

"Thank you for the implied compliment," she rejoined lightly, but he 
refused to follow her mood. 

"You know I meant nothing of the kind," he protested, holding her 
eyes with bis wide, brilliant gaze, "and, thank God, I never could." 

She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You must not let yourself 
get so worked up at these meetings, Alan." 

"I am not worked up," he replied quickly, "but it struck me more 
than ever this evening, when I saw you here alone among all these men, 
how much stronger your devotion must be than any other's, how much 
deeper your feeling, how much greater your sacrifice." 

"I do not see it in that way." 

"No, of course not, that is the beauty of it. You see it so perfectly in 


the right way, and another woman would have seen it so perfectly in the 
wrong. He was wonderful to-night, was he not?" 

"Yes. How enthusiastic the men are !" 

They turned towards the noisy, shuffling group near the platform, 
which, dispersing at last, permitted John Eitter to come towards them from 
its midst, a tall, loosely-built man with thick, dark hair and features that 
looked as if they had been blocked out of stone by a sculptor and never fin- 
ished. He gave them a quick, smiling, intimate glance as he passed; then 
turning, spoke to Alan: 

"Cynthia looks fagged, and this room is like a baking oven," he said. 
"Go on ahead, and I'll follow you later." 

"We will wait for you in the carriage," said Alan, as he led his 
sister to a side door. A few minutes later Eitter joined them and the 
long drive to Cedarhurst was made in comparative silence. Eitter made 
no effort to talk, and Cynthia restrained her brother's energy with a 
plea of fatigue. But when they drew up before the broad steps of the 
lovely old house, her vitality seemed to return. Taking a lighted candle 
from a table in the broad entrance hall, she led the way gaily through the 
great dim drawing-rooms, where the polished wood and rich damasks of 
the furniture glimmered as she passed, to the panelled dining-room beyond. 
Here she moved softly about, touching into flame the tall candles on the 
chimney-piece and in the bronze brackets fastened to the wall. As she 
threw off her cloak and came to dispense hospitality from the daintily 
spread supper table she seemed entirely in keeping with the old-fashioned 
beauty of the room. The quaint stiffness of her rich little gown set off 
with odd emphasis the delicate youth of her face beneath its crown of pale 
hair, braided and massed on the top of her well-shaped head in dignified 
intricacy. Alan, as he watched the swift, quiet motion of her white hands 
among the glass and china, tried in vain to remember a time when his 
tiny sister had been less stately, less like a princess of mediaeval fable than 
now. That very evening he had remonstrated with her on the inappro- 
priateness of her gown to the occasion. "But Alan," she had answered in 
mild astonishment, "it is high-neck." And when he had dared to persist, 
she had — though still unable to comprehend his objection — reminded him 
that one's clothes did not matter so long as one's heart was in the cause. 
This old argument, so oddly inverted in her hands, had silenced Alan. His 


superficial objection appeared to him suddenly foolish and petty in the 
light of their deeper feelings. She was indeed, as she had said, heart and 
soul in the cause of the people, for was she not going to marry their leader ? 
For a while, now, in silent enjoyment he contemplated this achievement of 
a long cherished ideal. How much, he wondered, had his influence availed 
in bringing it about? He glanced suddenly, almost apprehensively, across 
the table, where John Eitter was bending over towards the straight little 
figure of his sister. Alan had missed the thread of their low conversation, 
but it came to him even from the tone of their voices that the respon- 
sibility he might possibly have incurred in the past was erased by his 
present isolation in the face of their self-sufficiency. Then almost imme- 
diately he checked this incipient bitterness and denied its right to exist- 
ence. The tie that had brought them together bound them also firmly to 
him. They were — he recognized it with a rebirth of gladness — indis- 
solubly a trio, formed and held together by a common purpose, a single 
ideal. And then the memory of Bitter's rare speech that evening returned 
to him and drowned every thought in the flood of his hero worship. 

"Will you come into the library and smoke?" he asked his guest as 
they rose from the table. There is much I want to ask you." 

"Promise me, John," said Cynthia, as she bade them good night, 
"that you will not let Alan stay talking too late. It is bad for him — for 
you both." 

They promised obediently, while John lighted her bedroom candle and 
Alan held the door open for her to pass out. Cynthia had the faculty of 
throwing an atmosphere of ceremony over her smallest actions. Then the 
two men went out by another door, down a little hallway and into the 
large mahogany-lined library that took up the lower floor of the wing. 
Alan stirred into flame the glowing logs in the wide fire-place and drew a 
great damask chair near it for his friend. But Bitter was in no hurry to 
sit down. He lit a cigar and moved slowly about the room, looking at 
various books, handling some of the curious bibelots that stood on the 
shelves, and now and then stopping to admire the soft rich coloring and 
stately proportions of the room, that loomed dimly vast in the firelight. 
At last he returned to the chimney-piece and took the proffered chair. He 
leaned far back and smoked in slow comfort, but Alan, bending forward 


on the low stool where he sat, put his hands on the arm of the other's 

"I want to ask yon," he began, "exactly how this fund you spoke of 
to-night is to be managed." 

"My dear Alan, aren't you going to let me off the platform for a 
while, even here?" said Bitter. 

The eagerness on Manners' face softened into a boyish tenderness. 

"I am horribly rude," he apologised, "I did not realise how worn out 
you must be. After a speech like yours any one has a right to be ex- 

Bitter smiled his appreciation. "That's a good fellow, he said. "Let's 
just sit here for a while and enjoy the fire and these cigars — they are very 
good — and the quiet of this wonderful room. I wonder whether you, who 
have grown up in this house, realise what a treasure you possess." 

"Yes, I think we do — just because of that. I promise you I shall 
not see it go without many pangs." 

"See it go?" demurred Bitter. 

"Oh, I shall be properly steeled when the time comes," rejoined Alan, 
half lightly. "But I am deferring it so that I, too, may seem to have a 
little irrevocable ceremony of my own. The fancy pleases me." 

"I don't see — when is this to be?" demanded Bitter. 

"When the longed-for comes to pass," Alan mused. "That is, of 
course, when you marry Cynthia." 

"And what has that to do with it? Isn't it your house?" 

"Certainly it is, but did you think I would let Cynthia be alone in 
the good work?" He was very serious now, bending forward towards the 
fire, his eyes on the ground. "Surely, John," he said softly, "you did not 
rank my devotion so much lower than hers." 

Bitter sat up in his chair and dropped his cigar into the tray beside 
him. "Frankly, Alan," he said, half angrily, "I don't understand you." 

The young man looked at him a moment in surprise. Then he seemed 
to comprehend. 

"Ah, I thought you knew," he said. "But it is simply this. The 
money went to Cynthia and the house and land is all I have. They tell 
me, however, that it will bring a high price in the market. The little of 


it that I shall need will make scant difference in the final result, and when 
it is joined to Cynthia's — then our great fund will no longer be a thing 
of dreams, will it, John? What shall we not do with a power behind us 
to support our plans till we have proved to the world that they are able to 
walk alone ? Before the mere thought, the loss of one's silly luxuries seems 
far too small a sacrifice, does it not? One might do so much more." He 
had risen and was standing before the fire, his outstretched arms resting 
lightly on the chimney-piece. "Did I tell you I had been down to the 
factory and seen Palmer — " he continued, but Eitter interrupted him. 

"Wait a minute, Alan," he said. "Do you expect Cynthia to get along 
without the 'silly luxuries' of life, as you call them?" 

Alan faced him quickly. 

"Do you doubt her ?" he asked. Then, as Eitter hesitated, he went od 
in sudden eagerness. "Ah, of course, you have always seen her as the fine 
lady — you cannot imagine her otherwise, and, to be sure, Cynthia will 
never lose that atmosphere. It is part of her nature, but for that very 
reason it is something quite independent of externals. I have seen that 
very clearly since your engagement, haven't you?" 

"No," replied Eitter shortly, "I haven't." 

Manners passed his hand quickly across his forehead as if in pain, and 
he spoke very quickly. 

"But you must have. How else cordd she have expected it to be 
possible. Surely, she has not failed to understand — " 

"She has not failed because there has been nothing to understand. 
Did you expect I would ask such a sacrifice of my wife? Or were you 
going to permit a woman like your sister not only to marry a poor man, 
but to pauperize herself in so doing. I am very blunt, but it is you who 
have misunderstood." 

Alan had paled slightly and drawn away from his companion, but his 
dark eyes still held the other's glance. 

"Perhaps I have misunderstood you," he said slowly after a pause, 
"but not my sister. I am sure Cynthia shares my mistake." 

"Ah, my ears are not burning in vain. What are you saying about 
me?" and Cynthia entered the room, a lighted candle in her hand. "I 
sat up reading, waiting to hear you on the stairs, but you did not come 
as you had promised, and then I remembered that Alan had not fastened 


the inner bolts when we came back." She had put her candle down, and 
as she drew near the men at the fire she became aware of the strangeness 
of their silence. 

"What is the matter ?" she asked simply. 

"Nothing. Alan is a little mad to-night," said Bitter. 

"Ah, you have excited him again with your dreadful plans," she 
reproached, and, going swiftly to her brother, she attempted to place her 
cool hands on his forehead. But he caught her wrists tightly and held 

" 'Dreadful plans,' " he repeated. "Do you really think them dread- 
ful, Cynthia ?" 

"Of course not. Only when they excite you. Foolish boy, let me go. 
I didn't mean to insult you." 

"I am not insulted. We were just talking of these plans — " his voice 
was tensely quiet — "and of what would become of them after your mar- 
riage. Are they not to go on?" 

"What do you mean, Alan?" she wondered. "Of course they are to 
go on. Why, we are going to make the whole countryside into a model 
county, are we not, John? — and there are to be the most beautiful play- 
grounds for the mill children on our land, and in the house — " 

"Alan expects there is to be no house and no land," said John tersely. 

"And no Lady Bountiful." Manners dropped his sister's hands and 
turned away. For a moment no one spoke. In gradual comprehension 
Cynthia moved slowly back towards John Bitter. 

"Alan has the beautiful dreams of a child," she said at last, "but 
equally impractical. Don't you see, dear boy, that we can do much more 
good without going to extremes?" 

"ISTo," he answered, "not if you use as tools the principles you are 
fighting against." 

John Bitter came, manlike, to particulars. "To the fund we shall 
give what will encourage others to give also, not what will frighten them 

"And the rest is ours, of course, only in trust, Alan," said Cynthia. 
"But how could we accomplish anything, if we were to cripple ourselves 
utterly in the outset?" 

Alan turned again to where they stood close together confronting him. 


It seemed to him, suddenly, as if they were hundreds of yards away. He 
wanted to cry out to them that they were begging the question, that they 
were cheating themselves with a superficial aspect of the thing. But in a 
second the impulse died. The pain of loneliness came into his eyes, joining 
the misery of disillusionment which was already there. 

"Perhaps you are right," he said quite simply. "You will probably 
accomplish much more in your way than I could in mine. And that after 
all is the tragedy of it," he added. 

Theresa Eelburn, 1908. 



Guide my ship, Aphrodite! 
Goddess, hear my prayer ! 
Winds and waves and rains are mighty, 
Hold me in thy care ! 

To the distant pearled West, 
Where my heart leads now, 
Goddess of the coral crest, 
Steer my weathered prow ! 

Ah, shores of Greece that fade from sight, 

Three await me there, 

Who will keep thy altars bright, 

If my course be fair. 

Indian incense shall be thine, 
Found upon my quest, 
Blue and sweet before thy shrine, 
Aphrodite blest ! 

Louise Foley, 1908, 



TO react against one false point of view is, often, to fall under the 
influence of another that is equally false, and, in the revolt of suc- 
cessive generations, each against the old ideals, the truth is in 
danger of eclipse from the mere passion for change. For women, 
whose lack of balance is a proverbial reproach, this casting aside of old 
idols, — necessary and right as it often is, — should be preceded by a serious 
and dispassionate consideration of purposes and of results. 

Two generations ago women lost the larger vision of life through an 
overstrained sentimentality. They were taught to see life in pink and blue, 
to love ostentatiously the delicate and unessential things. Between Laetitia 
Landon and us there is a generation of women who fought for a real 
intellectual life, and more and more, in each successive year, we are coming 
into possession of the rewards of their struggle. For us, however, it 
is necessary to beware lest we retain the fighter's attitude when it is no 
longer necessary. 

The first women who were educated were forced into the almost 
mechancial getting of facts. As an assigned task, they had to prove their 
right to education, to endeavor to equal men on their own ground. For us 
these claims are, for practical use, axiomatic. The privileges of education 
have been gained. It remains for us to decide what to do with them. 

The extreme of the pendulum's swing away from sentimentality is 
represented by the attitude of many women students. Women come to 
college because it is customary to come or because the college graduate 
has definite advantages over other women in the earning of money. These 
women, then, go through their four years in a spirit of give and take. 
With a canny commercialism, they pay certain bills and pass certain 
examinations and obey certain rules, and in return they expect a business- 
like A.B. with rights, privileges and immunities. The fallacy of this con- 
duct lies in the notion that there is a more intellectual process involved in 
trading in Greek than in groceries. 

The capable and useful personalities of the followers of this strenu- 


ous creed tend to blind our eyes to their failure to get the most valuable 
things either in college or in life. 

Goethe has said, "Woe unto that culture which only leads a man 
towards an end without making him happy by the way." The happi- 
ness of students who cultivate a commercial attitude towards their work 
is not to be denied. To accomplish a given task, finally and securely, with 
no raw edges, to fill one's day with definite duties, is to find happiness of 
a certain quality. But this happiness can be gotten as well in any place 
as in college. Its sources are quite unacademic. The happiness of the 
student is happiness in the things of the mind, happiness in relating the 
scraps of information which we can acquire to the great idea of truth, "the 
breath and finer spirit of all knowledge." 

The academic life can give to us no exemption from the ordinary 
functions of humanity, and the student in no less degree than the worker 
must live and suffer. To look at life in a larger and braver light than 
others should be distinctive of the student. Not knowledge, nor a degree, 
nor habits of industry, can make the sordidness of life bearable, can make 
dingy days 

"As glorious as a fiery martyrdom;" 

but a recognition of 

"The light that never was on sea or land, 
The consecration and the poet's dream." 

For, in its way, the spirit of Eomanticism is a spirit of mysticism, getting 
at truth more through the imagination than through the intellect — urging 
on, as it were, the work of the spade by revelations of the glory of the 
hidden treasure. If the years of a student's life are to be a help for the 
"meaner years" to come, they will work rather through the inspiration of 
the remembered vision than of the remembered digging. 

Larger and more widely essential than the intelectual life of any 
individual is the intellectual life of collective humanity. For the rest of 
the world, for the workers who give their energies to a lower but no less 
essential side of life, the students make the intellectual standards. If 
things of the mind are not respected and loved in colleges, their hold on 
the life of the multitude is doubtful and insecure. In a sense, the intel- 


lectual life of students is the salt of the earth, and it is for us to decide 
whether a portion of it shall lose its savour or not. In a community 
where business principles regulate the reading and the thought, a genuine 
culture of the things of the mind cannot exist. It is, in the mind as well 
as in the world, the letter which tells. 

It has been asked, with a disagreeable suggestiveness, why intellec- 
tual and spiritual movements in America most often originate in an un- 
academic atmosphere. That the charge is deserved must be acknowledged, 
but that its insinuated cause is the true one may be doubted. The modern 
students who are busied in getting grades and degrees and numerals have 
but short time for the reading and thinking out of which movements arise. 
Our fault towards the world lies not in the superfluity of our intellectual 
life, but in its barrenness. Out of nothing comes nothing, and the life 
of the spirit does not grow out of memorised notebooks. 

To seek for practical rules to help us to get this wider vision of our 
life in college, to develop our intellectual life so that "Veritatem Dilexi" 
may not be absurd is the practical outcome of any recognition of the 
relation of the romantic and of the academic ideals. 

In the first place, although it is an issue by the way, we should feel 
a spirit of loyalty towards the actual college. It is here in especial 
that our flight from the bogs of sentimentality leads us into a hideous 
checkerboard of common sense. We have heard of "beloved Alma Mater" 
and "loyal classmates" until, by a nervous reaction we take malicious de- 
light in the weak places of the faculty and in the faidts of other students. 
The most nearly ideal attitude is perhaps to recognize the facts, but to 
feel that the college itself, the spirit of the place, is a big enough thing 
to overshadow the faults of individual professors or of students. What we 
should do is not to shut our eyes in uncritical admiration, but to recognize 
a vast ideal in a more or less faulty reality. 

Moreover, we should try to see in our work, not so many chances for 
failure or high credit, but, rather, opportunities for systematic effort to 
attain to more knowledge. There is no question, of course, whether we 
should work or not, but upon work it is well for us to impose the motives 
of a large imaginative grasp of its purpose. 

Most of all, perhaps, do we need to read and to think seriously. To 
comprehend the larger issues of life is impossible to anyone whose outlook 


is limited to the interests of an individual's life — whose reading and think- 
ing are not serious and wide. To make an enforced effort after intellec- 
tuality is to open to the mind the stimulation of the thoughts and ideals of 
the widest minds in the world, to make one able to see a single life in its 
relations. To see knowledge as a part of life and life as a part of an 
infinite relation of things is the best result of wide reading, and, in its 
way, the essence of the romantic elements in the academic ideal, of a 
power which can 

"Uphold us, cherish and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence." 

Mary Isabelle 0' Sullivan, 1907. 



Translated from Heredia. 

Dead binder of old books, the ruddy gold 
Upon their backs and edges chiseled, 
Despite the tools your skilful fingers led, 
Has lost the brilliance that it had of old. 

The twisted figures that the twine doth hold 
Are from the leather almost vanished; 
My eyes can hardly follow where the thread 
Of ivy winds about with careful fold. 

And yet this supple ivory I seem 

To see through was by loving hands caressed, 

By Marguerite and Diane and Marie ; 

And this pale gilded vellum brings to me, 

I know not through what magic charm expressed, 

Their perfumed breath, the shadow of their dream. 

Margaret Franklin. 



WHEN" the funeral was over, Veronica Churchill found herself 
standing in the drawing-room with Cecil Marcham. She had a 
sudden desire, when she saw him there beside her, to send him 
away, but immediately after she realized that he furnished a 
sort of refuge where she might rest and gather her forces before begin- 
ning the weary task of constructing her future out of the ruin of the past. 
That this work must immediately be undertaken she didn't for an instant 
question; it presented itself to her, moreover, as a means of escape from 
that sea of grief which she now felt surging over her. The past, she told 
herself, was her only heritage of worth, and it, she resolved in her bleak 
despair, should be so stripped of every disfigurement, should so have every 
beauty brought into its proper high light and every rough spot so softened 
by shadow, that it should be without question the perfect heritage which 
she felt her brother had left her. She looked back upon her existence up 
to this time and saw it as a tapestry that in the very moment of weaving 
had suddenly been ravelled before her eyes. Now she stood looking at the 
mass of threads before she should set to weaving them again. That she 
might do otherwise did not for a moment occur to her. As soon as she 
could, she must firmly weave those ravelled threads into an enduring 
fabric whose woof time could not destroy, although it should deepen and 
enrich the colours. 

A noisy fluttering in the black haw tree outside the open window 
roused Veronica from her reflections. She became aware that she had been 
standing beside Marcham without speaking for some minutes. 

"Will you wait for me here," she asked, "while I change my dress?" 
She hesitated a moment and then, as if she could not resist her desire to 
speak, "Basil never liked black," she said. 

Marcham's eyes followed sadly the small figure in its long black drape- 
ries. The hopelessness of his own case was lost in his pity for the distress of 
hers. He turned to the window and stared into the still, scented garden, 
so fine and exquisite with all its delicate pale flowers tended by Veronica's 


hands. He mused, as he stood there, upon the likness between Veronica 
and her garden, and wondered if all quiet lovely things would always 
remind him of her. 

Upstairs in her silent room, Veronica took off the black draperies and 
put on a gray dress. As she looked at the gloomy heap of mourning laid 
on the couch, she retraced the last two hours, the long drive through the 
village to the little old cemetery among its tiny pointed firs and crumbling 
ivied walls; she could remember the formal speeches of the people from 
the houses about, how they had chilled her with their cold, set phrases; 
the artists who had come down for the funeral pleased her because they 
so openly and sincerely mourned Basil Churchill, the artist, and were 
not betrayed, out of commiseration for her, into expressing a sorrow they 
did not actually feel. As she looked into the mirror, she was glad that she 
showed no signs of her grief, save an added stillness of expression and 
deeper shadows about her eyes. She smiled a little as she saw her brace- 
lets on the table, and she clasped them on, remembering how Basil had 
always liked to see the dark bands on her slim wrists and the warm polish 
of the onyx through the lace of her sleeves. 

Downstairs she found Marcham waiting in the drawing-room, now 
filled with yellow sunset light. She had a sense of timidity as she ap- 
proached him, a fear that what she now intended to do might seem to 
him too fanciful for reason, tinged even by a morbid grief; that he 
would not understand this straightening process, this putting of things in 
their proper places, of discovering exact proportions and relations. It 
might, she reflected, be sounding for depths of sympathy he did not pos- 
sess to ask him to help her put this strange inheritance in order, and that 
it was a service of love which must either go unrequited or be paid in 
full she clearly recognised. Marcham's kind eyes as they met hers, how- 
ever, and the faint look of pleasure he gave her changed appearance, re- 
assured her, and with a grateful confidence that her pilgrimage through 
the lonely house and garden was not to be solitary, she put her plan to him. 

"Cecil," she said, "I am going now to walk through the garden and 
the rooms and get my last clear impression of them, for you know I'm 
going up to Mrs. Penfield's in the morning. I want to get it all in my 
mind as it was when each thing happened; I don't want to forget any- 
thing, but to treasure up every small bit and put it again into a perfect 



whole. Ah! you must see — you know how we lived; you know now that 
there can't be any future for me except the one I make out of the shat- 
tered bits of the beautiful past." 

"An architect with so loving a hand can construct a beautiful future/' 
said Marcham, as he followed her into the garden. They walked down 
the brick path together, between the borders of sweet, colourless flowers, 
mignonette and lavender and alyssum. 

"It was like this the day we came," said Veronica. "There was the 
same yellow sunset, the same odours were in the air. It was the first time 
Basil had been out after — after — and as we wheeled him up the path he 
said- — " Veronica hesitated. 

"Of course he said," began Marcham, but Veronica went on, smiling 
to think how she had scolded Basil: 

"Of course, he said 'My God ! Veronica, smell the alyssum !' I always 
pulled him a handful of it after rain." She paused, seeming to muse to 
herself, and then, as if with some effort, she put her musing into words. 

"He said often when I gave it to him, TTou would be exactly like it if 
you cried sometimes, but, thank God, you never do.' " 

So Basil Churchil, too, had seen in his sister the likeness to these frail, 
beautifiu flowers, Marcham started to find himself pondering over this 
trifling coincidence. He had, in his own selfish mood, accused Basil of 
not appreciating his sister, he had forgotten the look with which he 
had been wont to follow her, the anguish it was to him to be such a bur- 
den to her, the almost childish, affectionate way the two had teased each 
other, the contentment they seemed to feel in their restricted existence. 

"If Basil had been left with any other woman — " Marcham ventured. 

"Oh! no one could have been different; it was too terrible for any- 
thing else. Do you remember the time when we thought that he could 
not even use his hands?" She winced at the cruelty of her own bare 
words, but she was brave and she would remember it all as it had really 
been. Marcham winced, too, for he was wondering what Veronica's life 
would have been had Basil Churchill not been able to forget himself when 
he painted. 

They went on along the even paths. Each corner of the prim, fra- 
grant garden had its memory, which Veronica reviewed with a loving and 
passionate exactness, sanctifying the more placid ones with an overflow 


of affectionate recollection, making tender excuses for the stormy ones. 
Marcham talked, too, adding here and there to her reminiscences from 
his own scanty store, helping easily enough, it seemed, to put the odd 
inheritance in proper order. The man whose sympathy in her undertaking 
Veronica had questioned was enriching the result of her fond labour. The 
poplar shadows were long and dark on the grass and the yellow sunset 
had faded to dull purple rifts when they entered the cottage again. 

"Come and light the candles in the drawing-room," said Veronica. 
"Basil was exceedingly cross when I asked him what I should do with 
the drawing-room, and told me to arrange it to suit myself, but I tormented 
him until he painted the panels for me." She ran her small, smooth 
hand over one of the delicate, decorated panels which separated the wall 
into cool gray spaces. On the chimney-piece and tables yellow roses were 
falling in small showers of petals from gray crockery bowls. The slim, 
white furniture, with its covering of soft gray satin, looked rather ghostly 
in the uncertain light. Marcham thought to himself that he liked the 
room more than any other in the cottage. It, again, was like Veronica, 
so still and pale, a little faded, but more charming in its dimmed love- 
liness than many fresher things. 

"We hardly ever used the room. When we had visitors from the 
houses about, I made Basil come in here by telling him that if he didn't 
I would take the visitors to the studio. But there never were many visit- 
ors. Basil didn't encourage those who were brave enough to come once, 
and I didn't care. When Letty Penfleld used to be staying with us, she 
would come in here to sing. I often wondered why Basil would come to 
listen to her, for he hated music; but he would rather have talked to 
Letty than to any one else." 

"Ah! he was brave," said Marcham. At Letty Penfield's name a 
flicker appeared in Marcham's grave eyes, and the look he held turned 
upon Veronica became a trifle searching. He seemed to seek for something, 
the existence of which he suspected, but could only blindly grope after. 

"You have known Mrs. Penfield a very long time, haven't you?" he 
asked. "I am glad that you are going up to her to-morrow." 

"Even longer than I have known you, Cecil." Veronica smiled faintly 
at him. "In fact, I think I've always known Letty. Before — before we 
came down here she used to stay with us. Basil was fond of her then, 


even though he disliked young women, and he liked to paint her. She 
was very beautiful when she was younger, you know. She was the only 
person except myself who could go to the studio as she pleased. But how 
they used to argue!" 

"It is tragic that such beauty should go as hers has," said Marcham. 

"Ah! it was a tragic ruin in her case," replied Veronica," no mere 
fading and wearing away. The first time we saw her after her marriage 
was the first time she came down here. She hadn't been with us for four 
years. Her beauty was gone then, and Basil never painted her again, 
although she stayed with him in the studio when I couldn't be there." 

A silence fell between them. Finally Veronica broke it. 

"I am going up to the studio," she said, "and I think I'll go alone. 
It was good of you to stay down; I don't know what I should have done 
if I had had to face it suddenly alone." 

Marcham longed to make her let him face it with her; he felt that 
he could make her see her situation in his saner light if only she would 
let him try. But as he looked at the still misery of her face, now grown 
very white, his desire changed to pain and his confidence faded again into 

"Good-bye," he said, "remember that there is one — " Veronica didn't 
let him go further. 

"Ah!" she pleaded, "you see, you must see, that I shall never do any- 
thing more, need anything more, — it is all finished. I shall spend my 
life cherishing the devotion, even though the shrine is destroyed. I think 
it would have been so for him, it cannot be different for me." 

"You might, you know, have need of some one sometime, and then — " 

"No," said Veronica, quietly, "when you say 'need' you mean trouble 
of some sort. Only one other trouble is possible to me now, and if it 
should come, then I would, indeed, be alone forever. But it will not be 
long until I see you again, and in the meantime do not think of me as 
quite unhappy. Good-bye." 

When the sound of Marcham's footsteps had died away, Veronica 
found her way up the dark' staircase to the studio. She crossed the big 
bare room to her chair near her brother's and sank into it. In the silence 
and gloom, she tried to think of all that had happened here in the years she 
had been so rarely contented. But her memories seemed to slip away 


from her, and although she groped after them, they escaped her; her 
grief surged over her, drowning all else, and she could only sit there, 
alone and silent, while the night passed. 

The next day, in the gray, rainy dawn, she left the cottage and went 
up to London to Mrs. Penfield's. Her affairs kept her so late at the 
lawyer's that the dreary afternoon was wearing into dusk when she arrived 
at the house, and she longed for the comfort of Lefty's friendly presence 
and kind, beautiful eyes. She wondered if she might not even weep when 
she was alone with this woman, who had been her friend for so many 
years and who, she felt sure, was the only one who understood why she 
had found so much joyousness in an existence that the world probably had 
called dull. The servant took her upstairs to Mrs. Penneld's room. As 
Veronica entered she saw Letty sitting before the fire, her long, pale 
hands clasped in her lap, the golden, gray-streaked hair about her pallid 
face touched brightly by the firelight. At the sound of Veronica's step Mrs. 
Penfield rose and came to meet her. Veronica saw the traces of tears 
about her friend's large, tired eyes and she laid her fingers softly on them. 
Mrs. Penfield took Veronica's hands and kissed them lightly. 

"Ah! Pm so glad you have come," she said. "It will be very quiet; I 
am alone again." 

The two women sat together by the fire. Letty now and then put a 
question to Veronica, but apparently she was unable to rouse herself from 
a sort of sorrowful, almost tragic, revery, into which she had fallen. Oc- 
casionally, in little outbursts of tenderness, she seemed to attempt to 
make atonement for her neglect. Veronica felt a cold, strange loneliness 
settling over her; her disappointment at Lefty's attitude gave place to a 
feeling of apprehension; she seemed to wait with her friend for some dis- 
aster. Her extremity, she told herself, was now indeed pitiable, and she 
fain would have had recourse to the deserted cottage. 

In the midst of her sad reflections Veronica heard Mrs. Penfield sud- 
denly speak her name. She looked up. Lefty's hands were locked together 
in her lap, a flush had appeared high up on each cheek. 

'Veronica," she asked, "did Basil send me anything?" 

"I found a canvas packed and addressed to you in the studio, Letty. 
If you will send your maid to unpack my large box you may have it 


Again they sat in silence until Mrs. Penfield's maid brought her the 
canvas. Letty took the scissors from her embroidery basket and cut the 
cords. Veronica calmly watched her trembling haste. A great curiosity, 
that precluded all other thought, seized her as to what the picture might 
be. She leaned forward as Letty held up the canvas. Veronica gazed won- 
deringly at the picture. It was a portrait of Letty, of her ruined, tragic 
beauty; it was painted with so marvelous an understanding that things 
which Veronica had only dimly guessed at were now clearly revealed to 
her. The beauty and the skill of the picture held her enthralled. 

Suddenly, as she gazed, she saw her universe falling into ruin. The 
past lay about her in crumbled fragments that could never be put together 
again. The work that she so lovingly had just taken up must now be 
put down again. Through all the years to come, she would have to sit 
alone among the ruins, guarding them, building up a wall around them 
which should prevent the beholder from seeing what was behind it. Letty's 
voice came to her as from a distance. 

"Do you like it, Veronica','' 

Veronica gathered her forces herself to deal the final blow at her 

"It is the best thing that Basil ever did," she said. "None but a 
lover could have painted it." 

Louise Foley, 1908. 



MINING TOWNS like mediaeval fortresses are driven into narrow 
corners. Yet for all their picturesqueness of site, until I came to 
Guanajuato, I had never seen a mining town beautiful. There 
had been lacking the mellow tone of old walls, the slenderness of 
church towers to vary and enrich the outlines; order and dignity were by 
situation always lacking. Therefore, mining towns all huddle in their 
gulches. Nothing can harmonize Cripple Creek; no bejeweled Colorado 
air, no lengths of Sangre de Cristo peaks in splendid panorama, hundreds 
of miles of them jagging a clearer, bluer sky. Guanajuato alone is a 
mining town grown old and beautiful. It is a city beautiful with a sort 
of faded mediseval splendour. 

For the life Guanajuato has been mediseval and splendid beyond the 
life of mining towns. It has been no Eoaring Camp. In the three hundred 
and fifty years in which it has produced over one thousand millions of 
silver dollars, the full flood of life and death of new Spain, of the Mexican 
Eepublie, has swept across it; bitterness of Indian wars, the chivalry and 
rapacity of great cavaliers, the heroism and the butchery of the bitter 
beginnings and the bitter endings of Mexican independence and Mexican 
revolutions. The priest Hidalgo, the "Liberator," rang his grito of Mexican 
independence in his parish church of Dolores in the state of Guanajuato. 
He came at once to storm the Spanish garrison at the great mines, — "not 
as enemies but as obstacles," — as he wrote them in advance. While the 
men of Guanajuato sat to watch the issue around the amphitheatre of 
hills, the Spaniards stood a siege to defend the Crown in the great state 
granary — the Alhondiga de Granaditas — which is still a massive Spanish 
landmark, set high in the town. They fought, wrote the Intendente to his 
old friend Hidalgo, because they were "officers and honourable." They 
were butchered and in Guanajuato the Indians of Hidalgo's army took 
their first revenge. Revenge followed revenge, for in a year the heads of 
Hidalgo and his generals hung on hooks at the four corners of the 
Alhondiga. Now they lie under the Altar of the Kings in the great 


cathedral of Mexico. One sees to-day far across the city of Guanajuato 
dark tablets at the corners of the white-walled Alhondiga, placed to the 
glory of Hidalgo, Allende, Aldama and Jimenez. Guanajuato lies to-day 
in "careless quiet far from enemies," from revolutions and rebellions. The 
rurales, old bandits, have hunted down their brothers who ten years ago 
ranged about the hills to the outposts of the city. The old life of Guana- 
juato has become obsolete. Thus the seal is put upon its antiquity and its 

To-day the square white houses of Guanajuato fill up the hollows 
before pale desert hills, run white over the foothills, where narrow stairway 
streets go up and down. Green palisades of round-leaved cacti grow in 
hedges; coarse tawny grass and rows of gaudy potted plants grow over the 
roof tops under a deep blue sky and flashing sunlight. At the end of the 
city, already high up the hillside, great marble houses face a plaza densely 
grown with green and flowers. There are delicately wrought balconies and 
marble fagades; a brilliance of blooming vines — bright blue or purple — 
grown over black iron rails; a brilliance of plants deep set in arched 
recesses. Seen from the hill of the Catacombs, high loggias, faced with 
Moorish arches, here and there across the city, hold depths of darkness. 
The slender towers and Moorish domes of old Spanish churches mark 
across a rich irregularity of lines. The church walls, the garden, the 
orchard walls behind are dimly rosy; the great domes are tiled and glazed, 
delicately rainbow-like. All between, the city lies run into the hollows of 
the pinkish hills in white blurring patches of marble and stucco, dashed 
with bloom. 

Down the dark and crooked city streets the stream still passes of 
burros laden with sacks of ore. Trains of them still wind out along the 
river gulches where the floods come down, generation after generation, to 
distress the city. The silver still flows into old coffers and the hacendado 
of the mines flourishes in his Guanajuato still. But the leaf of history 
has been turned forever. For old rebellion and revolution, slave and 
master, we have the full cornucopia of Porfirio Diaz; for old mining in 
the patios of great haciendas, trampling out the ore by droves of ponies, 
we have great new reduction plants and the cyanide process. About the 
time when the last inundation came down that process was discovered. 
Under the hills since then the broken haciendas have crumbled and fallen. 

GUANAJUATO. ] ,' 71 

Their broad walls, chapels, long sheds and irregular towers, the whole 
mass of a weather-beaten rosiness, were altogether enclosed by great sculp- 
tured gateways emblazoned in faded colourings that open as at a moat 
over the river bed. They now, by fading beauty, dim gorgeousness, match 
the old Spanish churches of Mexico. 

That all this is North America seems passing strange. For sometimes 
we come near forgetting that the Pilgrim Fathers did not discover the 
New World. The sight of Guanajuato, divinely meridional, shivers such 
accustomed half-truths. For Guanajuato is North American by all the 
poignant rightfulness of three centuries of occupation. In such a pla°e 
the memory rises high of our Spanish beginnings; of the ardour and the 
hardihood, the valour and the chivalry, of old Spain; of the slowing down 
of that triumphal progress. 

Hope Emily Allen, 1905. 



On me, by day, my lord the Sun doth smile 
And show his stately pageant of the hours; 

By night he doth forsake me for awhile 
To empty vigil 'mid the sleeping flowers. 

— I number but those hours whereon hath shone 
The glorious visage of my lord, the Sun. 

Caroline Reeves Foulke. 



DURING her long years of preparation for college — that "Land of 
the Heart's Desire" — every girl forms some idea of what things 
will be like when entrance examinations are no more than unpleas- 
ant memories, and she has really become part of that big, delight- 
ful, mysterious college world. If the sub-freshman is imaginative and 
inexperienced, — and she is apt to be both, — her dream of college is vague 
in form and rosy in hue. It is a sort of concentrated expression of all her 
dearest wishes for happiness, and is large and flexible enough to cover 
everything she most longs for. 

It may be that the sub-freshman visits the college sometime during 
the summer before her entrance, and if so her joyous anticipation mounts 
higher than ever. The fear lest everything should not be as halcyon as she 
would have it, disappears like a cloud before the brightness of the reality. 
Never has her imagination pictured anything so perfect in its rich, har- 
monious beauty as the wide, smooth, sunlit campus in its deep, vivid 
greenness, and the spreading stone buildings, with their rustling garments 
of ivy. Eeassured and exultant, the sub-freshman escapes from her com- 
panions and wanders about the quiet campus with something like the joy 
and pride of proprietorship swelling her heart. It is all to be hers, this 
big, beautiful, wonderful place ; hers by right of her ardent desire for it ! 
She mounts with reverent foot the stairs of the academic hall, and peeps 
half afraid, yet full of the confidence of future success, into the empty, 
echoing lecture rooms; under the leadership of the janitor, she explores 
the dismantled dormitories, and her lively fancy sees them peopled and 
furnished, full of the friendly, happy life of her dreams. Never was a 
soldier more eager for battle, or a youthful prince to enter into his king- 
dom, than the sub-freshman is eager for the time when she shall take pos- 
session of her rightful place in the college; for somehow she feels that 
there is a place all ready and waiting for her to step into it. Already 
she sees herself highly successful in work and play, brilliant, popular, figur- 
ing extensively in every sort of college activity. 


Of course there is a disappointment in store for the ambitious young 
dreamer. She must take a tumble from her dizzy heights of fancy, and 
the tumble comes when she finds herself an unknown, uncared-for, and in- 
significant member of a big class. Then she comes plunging back to reality 
with a hard and painful thump, which knocks the illusions out of her heart 
so completely that she forgets they have ever been there. She no longer 
treads the campus with the proud step of a proprietor. There are so 
many other proprietors now who seem to have a better right to it than 
herself that she feels heart-breaMngly lonesome, and completely out of 
place. The upper-classmen are kind to her, but it is not the sympathetic 
friendliness she half unconsciously expected. It is, rather, a large, imper- 
sonal, superficial sort of kindness which carries with it absolutely no 
sense of real individual interest. The freshman wonders, indeed, if she 
has any individuality, or if she lost it all when she passed her entrance 
examinations, and if from henceforth she is to be only a freshman, — one of 
a hundred others, with no right to think and feel in a different way from 
her hundred companions. 

The rush and confusion of the first few weeks of college life leave 
her in a sad state of bewilderment; there are so many things she does not 
understand about the strange new community into which she has been sud- 
denly plunged. She must learn an entirely new point of view, a new 
scale of proportions, a new code of etiquette, a new modus vivendi. Small 
wonder that she should be dazed, bewildered, not herself ! Even the work 
is unfamiliar and confusing. She is apt to do badly at her books at first, 
and wonders why she was ever considered '^bright" at school. Altogether 
she lapses into a state of hopelessness and helplessness. Helpless is indeed 
the best word to describe her conditon. It is perhaps the first time in 
her life when she has been absolutely dependent upon herslf. There is no 
one to give advice or encouragement; no one, indeed, who cares whether 
she sinks or swims. Her first impulse is to stay submerged, so to speak; 
to let the busy college world, which seems to have no room for her, go its 
own way; to bury herself in her own affairs, and live her life as nearly 
as possible as she has been accustomed to live it. No one would care, and 
she is free to do as she pleases. 

There are two reasons why she cannot carry out this plan. The first 
is the completeness with which college consumes all one's time and energy, 


and swallows one bodily as far as the outside world is concerned. This 
makes it impossible to do the things one used to do, and throws one's 
whole life within the limits of the campus, where the freshman has dis- 
covered that people care for her only so far as she makes herself interesting 
or useful. She sees that she will remain a stranger in a strange land 
unless she adapts herself to surrounding conditions, and becomes part of 
the community in which she has come to live; and so she begins to accept 
her position and try to make the most of it. The second force which draws 
her quickly into the life of the college is the call to action. The position 
as member of a class which has a definite place in the world and definite 
things to accomplish brings duties and responsibilities to even the most 
insignificant. If one does no more than attend class meetings, cast one's 
vote, and cheer the upper-classmen on proper occasions, these are neverthe- 
less duties which must not be neglected, and they rest on each one person- 
ally. Furthermore, there is a perpetual demand for individual effort and 
action. There are hundreds of things which the class must do, and this 
means constant activity on the part of each member of the class. The 
weight of the whole college world seems suddenly to rest upon the fresh- 
man's shoulders. She no longer feels as if there were no place for her, 
but rather as if there were a thousand places all clamoring for her to fill 
them, and that it is her duty to respond as bravely as possible. What mat- 
ter now if she be only one of a hundred others? There is plenty of room 
for a hundred more beside, and the class could not have too many devoted 
members, or the college too many to bring to it loyal affection, and to 
sing its glory. The freshman no longer rebels against her insignificance, 
but rejoices if she be able to do anything, however slight, for her class or 
her college. Not to throw herself into the stream of action and expend 
her energies where they are needed would be to acknowledge herself selfish, 
cowardly, or inefficient. 

It is at this period that the freshman's first ideal of college comes 
back in all its exalted, romantic brightness. The possibilities are all there, 
the opportunities for doing the splendid thing, the material for making 
one's college life what one wishes it to be. The freshman has also begun 
to be acquainted with her companions, and to find numberless congenial 
spirits among those about her. And, best of all, she has gradually become 
accustomed to the broad and independent methods of study which are 


pursued at college, and has experienced the thrill of joyous power which 
comes when one is for the first time conscious of doing vigorous, original 
work. Altogether, the world has never before seemed to her more worth 
while, more full of hope and promise. Once again she sees her future 
radiant with friendship and success. 

This elated state of mind lasts till well on toward the end of the year. 
The coming of spring on the campus, indeed, the return of the warm, lin- 
gering, golden days when the very air is brimming over with a subtle sense 
of great things to come, the stir of excitement which attends the college 
year drawing to its close, — all this quickens the freshman's imagination, 
and gives to the most trivial occurrences a dignity and a glory. It is, how- 
ever, entirely an affair of her imagination, and not of her sound judgment, 
for by this time the freshman has regained, in large part, her normal sense 
of equilibrium and proportion, which was so sadly disturbed at the begin- 
ning of her college career. She no longer sees things from the distorted 
point of view of a freshman, but has begun, at least, to appreciate in a sensi- 
ble and rational way the true importance or unimportance of her life at 
college, of her relations with her companions, and of the work she is doing. 
She has come to realise that out of perhaps twenty delightful but hastily- 
formed intimacies only two or three are real friendships; she has learned 
that she is a favored mortal if she can be highly successful in even so 
much as one branch of college activity; she has even come to see that 
college is not the most important fact of her existence, but is only of 
value in so far as it brings to her a love of learning for its own sake, a 
deeper insight, a clearer judgment, and a broader sympathy for other 
people. And so at last she begins to concentrate her scattered and exuber- 
ant energies and to find herself; to make her own peculiar place, small 
though it be, in the college world. 

Eatherine Forbes Liddell, 1910. 



YOU need a long acquaintanceship to learn the charm of the Illinois 
prairie. If you must extol the beauties of our continent, you 
describe at once the massive, bulky mountains of Colorado looming 
before you in their baldness and commanding you to hold your 
breath in the presence of the creations of the Almighty, or the rumbling, 
rolling ocean which, while playfully splashing at your feet, draws your 
eyes treacherously out to its merciless immensity; likely you tell of the 
wooded bills of Vermont, of their whims and moods of clouds and sun- 
shine, light and shade, of prattling brooks, and unexpected vistas of 
delight; or perhaps of the full-bosomed, rolling farm country of Penn- 
sylvania or Iowa, of broad rivers and grazing cattle. But even have you 
crossed and recrossed this eastern middle west you have probably no word to 
say of our low-horizoned level prairie which stretches away before you in 
quiet monotony of good orchards, rich farms, and low woods-. 

For the mountains, like prophets of old, warn you at your peril to be 
heedless of their message ; the sea, like some powerful monarch, gracious to 
you, but under whose feet you are no more than a worm if your way crosses 
his pleasure, fascinates your attention; the hills, like playful girls, awaken 
your laughter; the rolling farm country, like an old mammy, lulls you to 
rest. But the prairie is an acquaintance who never commands, nor hypno- 
tizes, nor plays, nor sings, nor bids for your notice. Be observant of her, 
expecting neither thrills, nor threats, nor merriment, and she will repay 
you by her unassuming beauties, and the modesty of her demeanor. 

At this time of year she wears a dress of dull yellows, bronze golds, 
and copper reds. Fields of winter wheat show green in the foreground, 
while stacks of grain and shocks of corn in the distance are the ornaments 
of her prosperity. In winter most characteristically herself, she is arrayed 
demurely. The dead leaves clinging to the trees the entire season give the 
patches of wood which, no matter how slow you travel, always stretch a 
straight low border at the horizon. A deep tone of brown and the dried 
grass everywhere covers the fields with lighter shades. All in sight clothed 


in a warm monochrome suggests not death but sleep, over whose security 
the silent corn stands sentinel. And sometimes in late winter the fields 
change their brown dress for a garment of dazzling white adorned with ice- 
laden trees, seeming aigrettes when near and great masses of ostrich plumes 
in the distance. During the long cold spring the trees slowly come to leaf, 
the upturned earth takes a soft green, the orchards put on a dainty mantle 
of pink and white. Delicate and graceful, in long tapering lines, the 
prairie shows her gentle beauty; and even in the summer, under the bright 
noonday sun, when the fields are ripe and bending happily to the breeze, 
when horses canter in the pastures, and the woods are rich in the fullness 
of their foliage and the depth of their shadows, she shows no startling line, 
and wears no vivid color, but with a pleasant expression will keep your 
thoughts at peace and your heart full of affection. 

Caroline Seymour Daniels, 1901. 


%n fflL&nx&Ki&tti*. 

Died, in Bryn Mawr, January twenty-third, 
David Irons, Ph.D., Professor of Philosophy in 
Bryn Mawr College, 1900-1907. 



"Besides, as it is fit for grown and able writers to stand of themselves, so 
it is fit for the beginner and learner to study others and the best ; . . . . not 
to imitate servilely .... but to draw forth out of the best and choicest 
flowers with the bee, and turn all into honey, work it into one relish and savour : 
make our imitation sweet." — Ben Jonson : Discoveries. 

Since the first Lawson brought his 
young family by difficult stages to the 
heart of the Virginia wilderness there 
had been a Lawson burying ground. 
From one small grave at the foot of 
a primeval cedar it had grown through 
years of tending and generations of 
neglect to a plot of perhaps thirty 
mounds. Anne Lawson could see from 
her bed during the brief futile struggle 
of her last illness the black tops of 
four fir trees against the wintry sky. 
She knew in just what corner of the 
little cemetery each grew ; they would 
bury her beneath the second one on 
the right, for that was the only place 
left. She wondered how they would 
get the coffin through the miry fields 
if a thaw set in. She remembered at 
her mother's funeral watching through 
blurring tears the struggle of the six 
bearers up the hill. Once they rested 
the coffin on two fence rails, once a 
man, slipping, jolted it to the ground, 
and she had cried out as with a physi- 
cal hurt. 

Whenever she closed her eyes she 
saw the place distinctly : above it the 
trees bent in the wind like plumes of 
a hearse ; there were gaps in the 

bleached paling fence; the crazy moss- 
grown headstones were tilted at every 
angle and the mounds they marked 
were half obliterated. And over it 
all lay the matted growth of last year's 

She recalled her last visit with a 
horrible revulsion. In the slow nights 
when her drowsy nurse nodded beside 
the oil lamp she walked again the hill 
path to the burying ground. It was 
the late afternoon of a hot, breathless 
day. Her tired arms held a geranium 
for her mother's grave. She half 
groped her way in the thick shadow 
of the firs to the one tended grave in the 
corner. She knelt down to pass her 
tender hands in an accustomed caress- 
ing gesture across the mound, but she 
recoiled, shuddering at the first touch. 
The grave she had left so rounded and 
green and blooming, had sunk into the 
ground. A rim of earth outlined its 
former shape, but the center had col- 
lapsed ; here and there raw fissures 
gaped in the turf. For a moment the 
full significance of this change did not 
strike her. She thought of desecra- 
tion. Then her eyes fell upon the 
other graves that had in the course of 
years taken on likewise that sinister 



aspect, and she was filled with sud- 
den uncontrolled loathing for the earth 
where she knelt 

Ever since her mother's death she 
had solaced the sting of loss hy tend- 
ing this grave. She had deliberately 
chosen to imagine her asleep beneath 
the level hillock, with limbs relaxed in 
the final rest and wrinkled face smiling 
placidly beneath its woolen shroud. 
Though she could not reach her, she 
could approach her, she was, as it were, 
in an adjoining room, and there was 
comfort in the thought of such near- 
ness. That evening in the lugubrious 
twilight she had comprehended with tor- 
turing completeness the horror of mor- 
tality. A few feet below, among bits 
of splintered wood and mouldering cloth 
lay what had been her bone and her 
flesh changed to that which love itself 
must abhor. 

And nightly she fled the place in 
sick panic, stumbling on the familiar 
road and stretching trembling hands to 
clutch the kindly threshold where, safe 
within upon her tumbled bed, she might 
wait the tardy morning. 

It was late dawn of the fifth day 
when she died. Her thin chest heaved 
in gasps — the hill road had been longer 
and the threshold harder to cross than 
before ; she turned dim eyes to the 
east where the sentinel trees reared 
their heads into the cold red sky. 

"Their long roots find the deepest 
grave," she whispered hopelessly. Sud- 
denly she sat upright. A dreadful 
frenzy crossed her grey face. "This 
earth, this earth," she screamed, "ah. 
It Is crushing my coffin." She fell 
back ; for a moment her hands plucked 
at the heavy coverlid, then they were 

Ethel Rennet Bitchcns, 1905. 


"Xou'll get a fine view," said the 
verger as he handed Latimer a little 
iron lantern. "Just bring the keys any 
time before tea, sir, if you please." 

The door closed upon him and Lati- 
mer commenced the dark ascent to 
the triforium. He went up the worn 
steps, deliberately casting the light of 
his lantern on each, that he might 
see where to set his foot. Some there 
were that offered practically no hold. 
He reflected as he climbed that it was 
customary to sentimentalise over 
stones such as these, literally trodden 
out of shape in the passing of genera- 
tions ; and that he merely felt an- 
noyed that they were not mended here, 
as at Ely. He had put the two great 
keys into his coat pockets, and they 
swung as he walked, striking some- 
times against the narrow walls and 
sending dull echoes through the ma- 
sonry. He continued to mount, and 
other passages opened upon that 
he was following, alluring flights of 
steps ascending or descending into 
shadow, and occult recesses yawning in 
the unsunned darkness of the tower 
wall. At the third turning he needed 
his lamp no longer, for the low cor- 
ridor which he now entered was 
lighted by a pale, reflected sun. He 
passed on a few steps and stood daz- 
zled by a beam that poured from the 
gigantic west window through a nar- 
row gallery into the heart of the min- 
ster. He shaded his blinded eyes and 
perceived how it mellowed the gray 
pillars of the nave and brightened the 
dull colors of the ancient monuments. 
It went higher, streaming upon the 
graceful columns of the triforium and 
the clerestory and sending slender rays 



into the intricate tracery of the very 

As Latimer watched it he was pos- 
sessed by a sudden vertiginous terror 
of the height upon which he stood, of 
the edifice stretching beneath, above, 
beyond him, of the long procession of 
arches leading to the distant tran- 
septs, to the remote choir, to the far- • 
off Lady Chapel that crowned the 
whole. He glanced beneath, where the 
tombs of bishops and prebends ranged 
themselves in the side-aisles, and saw 
the recumbent figures in their solemn 
posture dwarfed and petty ; and he 
grasped tighter the single rail of the 
gallery — an iron bar of the thickness 
of a finger — that alone seemed to pre- 
vent his headlong fall. 

He averted his eyes and they rested 
on the capital of a pillar close by. It 
was formed of one large stone — Lati- 
mer could not have stirred it with 
twice his strength — and coarsely 
carved in a motif that he at first 
failed to recognise. Then he remem- 
bered having seen it from the floor of 
the nave, a delicate bit of design, pro- 
jecting against the groinery of the 
roof. He shut his eyelids and stood 
unable to move, to think, only feeling 
the whirling plunge of descent upon 
him, the rush of air in his ears, the 
desperate clutching at emptiness. 

Somewhere below there was the 
sound of an opening door. Then he 
became aware of a melody that floated 
past, faint yet distinct, an articulate 
melody of young voices, questioning, 
replying, spiritualised by remoteness. 

"Lord, who shall dwell in Thy taber- 
nacle or who shall rest upon Thy holy 

He trembled and opened his eyes — 
the invisible chant continued, deliber- 
ate, sweet, infinitely comforting. 

"Even he that leadeth an uncorrupt 
life and doeth the thing which is right 
and speaketh the truth from his 

The rigid panic that had found his 
limbs relaxed, he felt the solid floor 
once more beneath his feet; he was 
as if supported and safeguarded on 
his pinnacle by this psalm of promise : 

"He that hath used no deceit — " the 
door closed, the plaintive declamation 
ceased abruptly. 

He drew a long breath and stood 
looking unafraid now into the darken- 
ing cathedral. Certain things before 
alien and indifferent he now compre- 
hended with a kind of humility. This 
church was not a mere embodiment of 
the aesthetic ideal of one sect among 
many ; it was a living thing vital with 
the toil and breath of those long dead. 
British Saxons had laid its founda- 
tions, their descendants plowed the 
glebe lands round about. The red- 
cheeked choir-boys piped Gregorian 
chants that mediaeval schoolmen had 
taught their childish predecessors ; 
even the Ritual, translation though it 
was, retained the sonorous roll of the 

The building and the services alike 
were a monument, the one a mighty 
tomb, the other an epitaph to those 
innumerable unmarked existences. 

It had grown very dark. He took 
the little lantern and found his way 
again by the passage and the difficult 
steps, and as he went his shadow gam- 
boled about him, now leaping out of 
the blackness above, now burying it- 



sell in tlie obscurity beyond that 
yielded ground only step by step as he 
went down. The light guttered in a 
wind that came out of the cross pas- 
ages and he thought of it as the breath 
of dead builders whose vanished hands 
had mixed the mortar grating beneath 
his feet. They were close about him 
as he reached the last step, and though 
he had no fear, he shut them in with 
the massive keys and lifted his face 
to the bright evening sky above the 
close with a sensation of relief from 
ancient things. 

Ethel Bennett Hitchens, 1905. 


To be rather painfully conscious of 
the moments of life as they go, of 
the days as full of decisions that each 
turns a scale, however slightly ; to be, 
therefore, never very free; such is the 
fate, partly self-imposed, of persons of 
a certain type of mind. A dispropor- 
tionate sense of the weight of choices, 
of their meaning and effect, the fallacy 
toward which this temperament in- 
variably tends, does not come from a 
devout allegiance to rigidly held moral 
or religious principle, or from faith in 
any vision of the glories of true con- 
scientiousness, but rather from a blind 
adherence to a strange god that has 
slipped in, or formed itself out of mists 
and nothingness in a niche straight 
before the gaze; a god whose worship 
dictates a strange principle of conduct, 
or rather a strange habit of action that 
takes the place of principle. 

The worshippers of expediency, in 
fact do not look to anything so remote 
and general as a principle, but are 

guided by considerations of the mo- 
ment. They neither make sacrifice for 
some ultimate good for themselves or 
others, nor do they give themselves up 
to following the mad beckonings of 
impulse. Their servitude, moreover, 
does not begin as it ends, but knows a 
slow development. The love of ease, 
at first, a dislike of the effort of think- 
ing, which prompts a search for some 
simple method of action not requiring 
a careful and painful analysis of every 
situation, together with a sense, gained 
from experience, of the baffling futility 
and error of decisions made with most 
careful thought, marks the first stage. 
The next is the impassioned period 
when expediency first clearly appears, 
hailed with joy as the apostle of peace 
and comfort, counselling always the 
easiest way out, its decrees seeming so 
practical, so important and immediate 
that every gleaming vista of the future 
is shut out as with a heavy veil. Lastly 
comes the calm satisfaction, when ac- 
tion is all expedient, all matter-of-fact, 
when extreme excitement as well as 
doubt and uncertainty are past, and ex- 
pediency is enthroned in full, authority. 

In the end, too, all spontaneity van- 
ishes, and imagination loses its guiding 
power over action, for when expediency 
asserts an all-powerful sway, there is 
no need for the liberty and scope of 
the imagination, nor any room for it. 
So at length it dies a lingering death, 
leaving the poor victim only a dim con- 
sciousness of the happiness of freer and 
more untrammeled ways of living. 

It all begins with real conscientious- 
ness of a certain sort ; but a lack of a 
sense of proportion, and perhaps also 
of a sense of humour, and a spirit of 



daring and energy, makes all the fidel- 
ity vain. Because decisions are shaped 
by the exigencies of particular cases, 
any inclusive, far-reaching view is lost. 
Stability of purpose and consistency be- 
come impossible. When once the distant 
view and the other fruits of the imag- 
ination are crushed out, commonplace- 
aess and stupidity come dragging along 
to take its place. The future is mort- 
gaged because action has not been 
shaped with regard to it. Peter is 
robbed to pay Paul, and Paul, too, 
might better have been paid in another 
coin. The love of pleasure and ease, 
moreover, which seems at first to have 
no place at all, crops suddenly out and 
prompts the giving over of true ener- 
getic thoughtfulness, though it is re- 
signed at the price of freedom. 

There is, however, one compensation 
for this weary, too fruitless careful- 
ness. If ever the devotee is swept off 
his feet by an irresistible impulse, his 
joy, by very contrast with the level of 
his ordinary experience, is greater than 
any the jaded Epicurean, though he is 
so admirably educated in pleasure-get- 
ting, can ever know. There is also a 
constant stolid satisfaction for him in 
the fact that, by virtue of his practical 
point of view, he is often able, in the 
ordinary affairs of life, to hit the nail 
on the head. 

Elisabeth Bogman Pope, 1907. 

Strong as is our first childish faith 
that things are always what they seem, 
a very little experience of life is enough 
to disabuse us of it; reluctantly but 
inevitably, we come to see that "all is 

not gold that glitters." Yet the original 
presumption that a thing that glitters 
ought to be gold retains a certain hold 
on us ; so that we continue to be more 
struck by the cases where fine appear- 
ances deceive us than by those in which 
they fulfil their promise. The latter 
event we pass over as a matter of 
course ; the former rankles in our 

Thus there are many of us who de- 
velop a tendency to put more trust, 
other things being equal, in the thing 
that is unpleasing than in the thing 
that is pleasing. Such were the men 
whom Iago's blunt manners and gruff 
speech led into thinking him an honest 
man. Such, too, is the worldly-wise 
Bassanio, the discerning suitor, who 
chooses the leaden casket rather than 
the silver or the golden one, for the 
very reason that it "rather threatens 
than doth promise aught." There are, 
of course, the caskets' mottoes to aid 
him in the choice, but he pays no heed 
whatever to them — does not, for all we 
know, even read them. What guides 
him is the bare fact that the leaden 
casket is leaden, while the others are 
silver and golden. 'Thus," he says, 

"Thus ornament is but the guiled shore 
To a most dangerous sea ; the beau- 
teous scarf 
Veiling an Indian beauty ; in a word, 
The seeming truth which cunning times 

put on 
To entrap the wisest." 

"Choose not by the view" meant for 
Bassanio not merely "Take account, 
when you can, of other things than the 
view," but "when the view is absolutely 
the only guidance you have, choose in 



contradiction to it." In other words, a 
thing is much more often gold when it 
does not glitter than when it does. 

This fallacy — due, surely, to nothing 
but the failure to observe the cases in 
which glittering things do, after all, 
turn out to be gold — has been carried 
to its utmost extreme by Mr. Bernard 
Shaw. It is the warping influence 
through all his work, and vitiates, to 
my mind, his otherwise keen powers of 
observation. For no sooner does Mr. 
Shaw espy from afar off a glittering 
object than he pronounces without fur- 
ther examination "That object is cer- 
tainly not gold.' After reading a few 
of his plays, we become so used to his 
method that he has only to bring upon 
the scene a man respected by his 
friends and the world, — and we know 
at once that this man is to turn out 
the veriest blackguard. All things in 
the world — at least all apparently nice 
things — were, according to Mr. Shaw, 
named on a luctis a non lucendo prin- 
ciple. Surely this is going too far — 
prudence is here defeating its own end. 
If we must be "deceived with orna- 
ment," let us by all means be deceived 
in the pleasanter way, let us not be 
deceived Into thinking that nothing is 
gold that glitters. 

Margaret Franlclin, 1908. 

The pearl-diver, a young Greek from 
the north of Africa, stood upon the 
small gray promontory that juts out 
on the Arabian coast between Hasa and 
Oman. The lucid, ehrysoprase-coloured 
waters of the Persian Gulf swayed be- 
low him, temptingly cool and placid. 

But the boy had turned his back upon 
the water and was gazing after a cara- 
van that wound across the scorched 
plains toward Riadh. The file of horses 
bearing silk-turbaned riders, the cur- 
tained litters, the waving peacock fans, 
and the band of musicians and danc- 
ing-girls, made a very different caravan 
from those he had seen in Africa, 
whence he had lately come. There 
the camels stalked noiselessly and 
swiftly along, while the riders, swathed 
from head to foot in white, sat upon 
their rugs, always motionless and silent, 
always gazing toward the horizon. 

Suddenly, the boy turned toward the 
gulf and the moment after his young, 
supple body cleft the air like a flash 
of copper. He cut the surface of the 
water with a quick splash, the circles 
of ripples closed above him, and he 
was slipping easily down and down 
through the lucent green depths. Here 
and there the slant lights from above 
streaked the green with gold. A school 
of tiny, gleaming fish passed him, some 
of them even touched him with their 
little fins. A long, graceful serpent 
caught his glance and while he watched 
its bright, mazy progress, he did not 
see the end of the coral reef that 
stretched past the coast of Hasa into 
the pearl waters. He cursed the pink 
branch that grazed his foot and then 
smiled as he remembered that from 
this reef his half-brother got the rosy 
trinkets which he sold at Moham- 
merab. Then down again, down, down, 
until the water stung his eyes, and 
seemed to crush him with its weight! 
Long, slippery plants with starry blos- 
soms twined about his arms. Far off 
he could see a huge form moving slowly. 



He knew that it was a whale and 
wondered if he really were on his pil- 
grimage about the world. Then he 
found himself on a bank where shells 
and starfish, weeds ana sand, were 
mingled and interwoven. He put forth 
his hand and seized an ugly gray shell. 
Then up through the green water, 
up, up, with swift, strong strokes, up 
toward the light and the air, up to- 
ward the hot sky and sands and rocks ! 
When he reached the surface, he swam 
to shore and clambered up the steep 
path to the promontory. He sat down 
upon the warm rock and opened his 
shell. There, in the blackened folds 
of the ugly creature within, lay a round 
object, its yellowish surface tinged with 
a dull pinkish gleam. The pearl-diver 
laughed as he took the treasure from 
its hiding place. The shell rattled 
down the rocks. Then the boy, clasp- 
ing the stone in his hand, put his arms 
around his knees, and dropping his 
head upon them, slept, while the sun 
dried his dripping body. 

Louise Foley. 

Certainly it is the old men that have 
given us most of our proverbs — not the 
hale and hearty old men, but those 
whom life has jostled from pillar to 
post and old age has found at last not 
mellow but sour. For while we have 
but a handful of sayings that give voice 
to the daring and light-heartedness of 
youth — such spurs to our intent as 
"Strike while the iron is hot" and 
"Paint heart ne'er won fair lady" — the 
number of proverbs that teach us the 

prudence and disillusion of age could 
never be reckoned. We are told that 
discretion is the better part of valour. 
The better part! better than valour, if 
you like, but never, since the world be- 
gan, a part of valour ! Only a man too 
weak to fight would have tried to de- 
ceive us thus. We are told that speech 
is silver, but silence is golden. Who 
that had not lost — and forgotten — his 
last friend would have dealt such a 
blow at the delights of conversation? 
We are told that there is no new thing 
under the sun. Who that still has eyes 
to see will concur in this? So they run 
on, without an end ; old men invented 
them, and old men ever since have 
sounded them as warnings to the ears 
of youth. 

But of all the familiar sayings that 
they have cherished and handed down, 
there is none more completely armed 
with the triple brass of their wit and 
cynicism and conceit than this : Si 
jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait. 
With what complacency do the old here 
lay claim to funds of wisdom of which 
they need never give proof ! They know 
how to construct a perfectly happy 
world, forsooth, — but old age, bearing 
the long-sought gift of wisdom in one 
hand, renders the gift profitless by rob- 
bing them with the other of the power 
to act! There is much consolation in 
the thought, but little truth. As a rule 
men do, to be sure, accumulate knowl- 
edge as they grow older, and some- 
times the knowledge ripens into wis- 
dom. But there is danger that it 
obstruct the free workings of the 
mind, and that superfluity of theory 
end in a host of doubts and reserva- 
tions. There comes a time, too, when. 



whether from the fatigue of having 
learned too much or from the gen- 
eral listlessness of age, one indulges 
in a final intellectual rest and learns 
no more. And then it is that we com- 
fort ourselves with saying, "There is 
no new thing under the sun." In age, 
as Meredith says, we have "ceased to 
be jealous of the ancients" — but we 
have become jealous of our contempo- 
raries, and scoff at the discovery of a 
new planet. It is only in youth that 
we are abreast of our time, and are 
willing to run for miles on the barest 
chance of seeing the Thames set on fire. 
Let us, then, be glad if we are not 
yet so old but we may learn. 

There is, to be sure, a pride of youth 
as well as a pride of age, and I fear 
lest this paper be thought but too clear 
an illustration of it. But youth is, 
more often than age, ready to admit 
that its pride has, after all, not the 
surest of foundations. "Young men 
think old men fools, and old men know 
young men to be so." Is it perhaps 
that the pride of youth is tempered 
with the thought that the young will 
one day be old, and are perhaps des- 
tined to eat their words, while the 
pride of age rests in the assurance of 
a final consistency? 

Margaret Franlclin, 1908. 


(A Freshman Critical Paper.) 

If we look back over the years that 
are past and the races of men that 
have gone before us, and try to dis- 
cover just what thcsi- by-gone ages and 

peoples were like, we find that it is by 
no means an easy task. History, in- 
deed, tells us what each race has ac- 
complished, but their thoughts and feel- 
ings, their peculiar way of receiving 
life, and the things which seemed to 
them beautiful, and fitting, and worth 
while, are too often hidden from our 
view by the dust of the long, interven- 
ing centuries. A book like the Vol- 
sunga Saga, therefore, which comprises 
many of the heroic legends and tradi- 
tions of the early Norse people, — leg- 
ends that were loved and cherished for 
generations, and then written down by 
the people themselves, — is invaluable 
to every earnest student both of litera- 
ture and of life. The Volsunga Saga 
gives us a glimpse into the very heart 
of the primitive Norsemen ; lets us into 
his mind and ways of thinking. It is 
'like a fragment of the old Norse life 
preserved unchanged through all the 
ages. Time has not dulled the bright 
vividness of the colors in which it is 
painted, and all the crudeness, fierce 
brutality and brilliant, vigorous imag- 
inative power which it displays stand 
out with sharp, unfaded edges. In the 
Volsunga Saga alone we can almost 
read the answer to the question : What 
was the primitive Norseman really 
like ; what were his moral standards ; 
and just how far did his appreciation 
and understanding of beauty extend. 

The first thing that strikes our at- 
tention, on reading these splendid old 
barbaric tales, is the supreme im- 
portance of personal strength and brav- 
ery. The Norse code of morals per- 
mitted no subtle gradations and dis- 
tinctions. There was a hard, fast, and 
inflexible line drawn between virtue 



and crime. The brave man was the 
virtuous man. He might be cruel, 
treacherous and licentious, but so long 
as he was bold and fearless he met per- 
fectly all the requirements made by the 
Norse sense of honor and morailty. In 
fact, his wrong-doings, according to our 
modern point of view, were not then 
considered wrong. In those days the 
only crimes were cowardice and weak- 
ness. Joined to great strength, brav- 
ery, and endurance, a certain amount 
of reckless daring was required, and 
to the Norseman discretion was never 
the better part of valour. The hero 
Sigurd was far from discreet when he 
plunged through the leaping flames that 
surrounded Brynhild's castle, or when, 
alone and unaided, he lay in wait for 
the dragon. It was part of the old 
Norseman's religion to risk fearful 
odds, to match himself against great 
and acknowledged superior strength, 
and if he could, in any way, get the 
better of the opposing force, he was 
likely to be exalted into something like 
a god. 

There is yet another side to the Norse 
idea of heroism and virtue ; subordi- 
nate, it is true, to the necessity of per- 
sonal bravery, but nevertheless a vital 
component part of the moral standard 
of the time. This is absolute and un- 
questioning loyalty and devotion to 
one's own family. When Gudrun killed 
her own sons and offered them up at 
her husband's feast in revenge for his 
slaying of her brothers, she was acting 
in accordance with the accepted stand- 
ard of her people. This terrible deed 
excited in the Norseman's heart ad- 
miration, rather than horror and dis- 
gust. The most brutal and atrocious 

actions, when undertaken from motives 
of loyalty to kin, were esteemed hon- 
orable and holy. So these two ele- 
ments, — ■ bravery and loyalty, — make 
up the Norse ideal of virtue ; not a 
bad ideal by which to guide our lives, 
when it has been softened by time and 
civilization, and purified of its savage 
and incongruous elements. 

In this brief discussion of the moral 
preferences of the Norse people we 
have seen that it was the stern and 
terrible side of life that appealed most 
strongly to their minds. Their imagi- 
nations were stimulated and their 
hearts stirred by the stories of fierce 
passion and fierce strife. But a glance 
at the way in which the Norseman 
treated these stories shows that his 
was not merely a crude and barbarous 
narration of bloodshed and slaughter, 
but rather the most dramatic, striking 
and picturesque representation possi- 
ble of the life of the day. There is a 
great deal of art in the way these 
stories are told. They are made beauti- 
ful. There is quick, graphic narration, 
vivid and glowing description, skilful 
delineation of character and, over 
everything, a luminous splendor of 
light and color. External beauty and 
brightness, in fact, is as essential 
and characteristic part of these old 
tales as is gloominess and melancholy 
of thought. It is interesting to note 
that however stern, incongruous and 
terrible were the Norsemen's ideas of 
virtue and morality and his attitude 
toward life, his intellect showed grow- 
ing signs of vigor, brilliance, and in- 

They are a fascinating study — these 
old legends and tales of a by-gone age, 


and they lead to many interesting dis- eras native tendencies yet unchecked 

coveries in regard to the people who and undirected. The Volsunga Saga, 

produced them. We are given an op- as I said at the beginning of this paper, 

portunity to study these people in the gives us a glimpse into the very hearts 

freshness and bloom of the morning of and souls of the Norse people, 
their existence ; to see all their vigor- 



[The reports here printed are for the year 1906-07.] 


DURING the year 1906-1907 the Graduate Club consisted of fifty-six members. 
There were four formal meetings, at which the following guests ad- 
dressed the club: President M. Carey Thomas, on "Woman Suffrage"; 
Professor Jeremiah Jenks, of Cornell University, on "The Amassing and Spend- 
ing of Great Fortunes" ; Dr. William B. Huff, of Bryn Mawr College, on "Recent 
Discoveries in Physics" ; and Dr. Felix Shelling, of the University of Pennsyl- 
vania, on "Elizabethan Drama." 

Graduate hockey and basketball teams were formed; the custom of serving 
tea in the clubroom on the first four afternoons of the week was continued; 
in addition, one formal tea was given to the faculty. 

B. M. L., 1906. 


URING the past year the Bryn Mawr Club of New York has remained at 

D138 East Fortieth Street, three tenants occupying its only available sleep- 
ing rooms. The great demand for more rooms resulted this spring in 
the purchase of a house — 37 East Fortieth Street— directly opposite the present 
apartment. This will provide six rooms for tenants, as well as two for transient 
guests. The latter may be either members of the club or any guests of club 
members not themselves eligible to membership. 

A. H. D., 1902. 

$ :fj ;j; 


THE Philosophical Club has had thus far two formal meetings ; the first 
in November, when Dr. Norman Smith, of Princeton, spoke on "Balfour's 
Defense of Philosophic Doubt," the second in December, with an address 
by Dr. George M. Stratton of Johns Hopkins University, on "Optimism and the 
Scientific Method." Dr. W. S. Seldon of Princeton is to address the Club on 
the third of May on "Pragmatism and its Heresies." Dr. William Jones was to 
have lectured to the Club on January 26th, but the meeting was given up on 
account of the sudden death of Dr. Irons, which not only was a grief to 
those who knew him, but cast a shadow over 'the entire College that will not 
quickly pass away. 

B. W. S., 1906. 



THE Sunday Evening Committee in April of 1906 was increased from three to 
seven members, and a chairman was elected. It was decided that as the 
new committee members were chosen with special care to represent the 
various classes and interests in college and were now so numerous, they should 
hold office for a year's time. Three new members were added this fall to take 
the place of those who retired in the preceding spring, and the plan which had 
been suggested in June for the first semester of this year was executed, — ten 
subjects of philosophical and religious character and four miscellaneous subjects, 
being posted in advance with the names of their several leaders, alumnse and 
undergraduate. In the second semester the committee, keeping more closely in 
touch with the wishes of the college by having a box for proposed subjects in 
the new library, acted as sponsor for meetings held on such subjects as "Class 
Distinctions in College," "The Keeping of Sunday in College," etc. 

(?. S. B., 1907. 

* # # 


JN only two respects has the past year differed materially from other years in 
the history of the Christian Union. The new features have been plans for 

a conference, and the Christian Union Library. There have been, as usual, 
Bible classes, mission classes, and fortnightly religious meetings. 

The greatest interest of the members during the past six months has centered 
in the summer conference which is to be held at Bryn Mawr College from June 
fourteenth to twenty-second, in connection with the session of the Friends' Sum- 
mer School of Religious History. While Pembroke will be occupied by the 
Summer School, Radnor will be kept open for the use of the Bryn Mawr con- 
tingent — forty or fifty undergraduates and alumna?, and a few sub-freshmen. 
Joint meetings will be conducted in Taylor Hall, and, in a few cases, out of 
doors on the campus. Separate meetings of the student conference will be held 
in the gymnasium. The program of lectures, classes, etc., has just been arranged, 
and It contains the names of interesting and inspiring speakers. 

The occupation of the library building last autumn meant a new acquisition 
for the Christian Union, in the form of a very convenient and attractive reading- 
room. On the shelves are books belonging to the Christian Union and to the 
League, and books from the main library which are kept on reserve there. 

The philanthropic committee has continued work among the factory girls of 
Kensington, classes for the laboratory boys, and the maids' Sunday School. 
The evening classes for the maids have been more thoroughly organized and 
more successfully carried on this year than ever before, and the weekly class 
in sewing, an innovation, has especially aroused Interest. 

The membership of the Christian Union includes twenty-four auxiliary mem- 
bers from among the alumnse. 

L. M., 1908. 



ALTHOUGH the membership of the College Settlement Association has 
slightly decreased during the past year, in other respects the season has 
been very successful. A subscription has been made to cover the ex- 
penses of the Bryn Mawr fellowship. This amount, raised partly by subscrip- 
tion but chiefly by selling ice cream and sandwiches at the match games, is 
still in the treasury, owing to the fact that no eligible candidate has applied for 
the fellowship. 

The fellowship, which is designed to interest beginners, has been held for 
the two years during which the Bryn Mawr Association has offered it by Miss 
Frances Keay, and is now open to any graduate of the College. 

The yearly subscription from the membership fees amounted to approx- 
imately $100 and besides this §30 was sent to the Philadelphia Settlements at 

As usual, students have gone in to the Front Street and Christian Street 
houses to help take charge of the children on Saturday mornings. 

K. G. E., 1909. 

# * # 


MUCH interest and enthusiasm has been shown in college athletics during 
the year 1906-1907. A great variety of games and sports have been 
carried on, in which an unusually large number of people have taken 

In hockey each class had at least two teams out for the practice games that 
led up to the final games, the championship in which was won by 1907. The 
hockey Varsity played five games with outside teams, winning four of them 
and being defeated by the Ladies' Hockey team of the Merion Cricket Club. 

Enough enthusiasm was shown for lacrosse — especially by the two lower 
classes — to warrant the belief that it will grow in popularity as a form of 
outdoor exercise after the hockey season is over. 

In the tennis tournament the systematic arrangement of the matches by the 
class tennis captains in interclass doubles and singles resulted in an orderly and 
satisfactory tournament, the pleasure in which was also increased by the use of 
the three new courts. Gertrude Hill, '07, won the singles, and is to play Grace 
Hutchins, '07, who holds the cup for last year. The doubles were not begun 
until the spring, and are now being played off. 

In the swimming contest, which was won by 1907, records were broken by 
Schaefer, '08; Woerishoffer, '07, Baker, '09, and Ashton, '10. Water polo was 
played to the extent of having a series of match games between the classes. 

The track meet was noteworthy for the fact that the world's record for 
women in the shot-put was broken by M. Young, '08, her distance being 33 feet 1 
inch. The Bryn Mawr College records were broken in the rope-climb by A. 


Piatt, '09, and in the three broad jumps by I. Richter, '08. The meet was won 
by 1908, and the cnp for the highest individual number of points was awarded 
to A. Piatt, '09. 

A mock track meet and a mock swimming contest were held a few days 
after the regular ones, and they proved most amusing both to those who took 
part and to the spectators. 

Cricket has been started this spring with much enthusiasm, and it promises 
to become increasingly popular. 

Basket-ball has begun with great interest and in earnest, there being at 
least two teams out from every class. Practice games are being played every 
afternoon and Saturday morning, with the exception of one afternoon that is 
reserved for Varsity practice in preparation for the game with the Alumnse. 

Although the gymnasium contest does not come under the auspices of the 
Athletic Association, it is not wholly out of place to mention it here, for its 
great success this year and the unprecedented interest shown in it are only one 
more tribute to Miss Applebee, to whom the association owes more than it 
can express for the interest she has shown us and for her work with us. 

E. W., 1907. 


THE Glee Club for the year 1906-1907 numbered fifty-two members. All the 
classes have been well represented, except the Senior Class, which has con- 
tributed very few. The annual concert of the Glee and Mandolin Clubs was 
held in the gymnasium on the twentieth of April, and brought in $167.50. Except 
for the fact that the Glee Club sang without notes, the concert was similar to 
that of previous years. 

O. H., 1907. 
* * * 


THE Tropby Club this year has sent out blanks to all the former students 
of Bryn Mawr, asking for the names of those people who have occupied 
the various rooms in college, in order that small individual brass name- 
plates, half an inch broad and three inches long, may be put up between the 
windows In every room. Many alumna? and former students have already 
answered, and it is hoped that the rest will answer as soon as possible so 
that the plates may be put up next year. The undergraduates are in sympathy 
with the scheme, and the club thinks that the plates may be a means of keep- 
ing the former and the present students of the college in closer touch with each 
other. It hopes, too, that the plates may make the older students feel that they 
are remembered and have a place here still, although they are now living away 
from the college. 

G. S. B., 1907. 



THE English Club during the year 1906-1907 has held its customary fort- 
nightly meetings. At these were read papers written for the advanced 
writing courses in Argumentation and Narrative Writing, and separate 
chapters of the novel, which was the production of the entire club. As a change 
has been made in the constitution, by which a full membership of nine is no 
longer necessitated, the club was confined to the number of seven. At the 
meetings there were occasional visitors — Miss Hoyt once, and several graduate 
members ; Maud Temple, 1904 ; Ethel Bennet Hitchens, 1905, and fre- 
quently Edna Shearer, 1904. One formal meeting was held in December, at 
which Mr. Hammond Lamont, of the Nation, spoke on the Daily in a Democracy. 
Another was held in February, at which Dr. Puller, of Harvard, delivered a 
lecture on Shakespeare. 

M. E. B., 1907. 


THE Law Club was founded with the primary purpose of furthering an 
interest in debate. In view of this fact, it may seem strange that during 
„»! the past year only two debates were held, although the club has met 
every month. There are, however, serious obstacles to be overcome here at col- 
lege before we can have as many good debates as we desire. In the first place, 
debating devours more time than people can easily give ; there are books to be 
read, arguments to be gone over, papers to be planned, team-work to be rehearsed. 
In the second place, the Law Club is but a small organization — the number of 
members ranging from fifty to seventy — and it is hard to pick from it more than 
a few girls who have the time and ability that debating requires. Notwith- 
standing these obstacles, we think that, now that an interclass debate has 
become an established event of the year, the interest in debating will grow 
stronger and stronger until ultimately people will be as eager to "make" the 
class debating teams as they are to make the hockey and basket-ball teams. 

Besides the debates, in which the members of the Law Club alone take 
part directly, there are frequent addresses held under its auspices, to which the 
entire college is asked. Prominent lawyers and economists are invited to speak 
and afterwards to meet the members of the club. This year we were fortunate 
enough to secure as our speakers Dean Ashley, of the New York University Law 
School ; Dr. Prank Goodnow, Professor of Law and Economics at Columbia ; Mr. 
James McKeen, of Brooklyn, and Mr. Hampton Carson, of Philadelphia, all 
of whom gave most interesting and enjoyable lectures. 

L. E., 1908. 



THE Bryn Mawr League for the Service of Christ has an active membership 
of ninety-two, an associate membership of five, and an auxiliary mem- 
bership of forty. The activities of the League are its weekly meetings 
on Sunday afternoon, its Bible and Mission Study Classes, its work in the study 
of Japan under Mr. Tonumura, and its Kensington work. 

Three Bible Classes have been held this year. The class in the Life of 
Christ has an enrolment of twenty, the one on "The Twelve Minor Prophets" an 
enrolment of twenty-four, and the one on John of ten. One of the mission study 
classes, led by the student volunteers on "Mission Fields of To-day," had an 
enrolment of seventeen. The class on "Social Problems" has eighteen, that on 
"The Evangelization of the World in this Generation" had seven members, and 
an interesting class on "Japan" has an enrolment of fourteen. The class on 
"Missionary Biographies has eight members. 

Every year the League sends Mr. Tonumura, a missionary in Tokio, $200. 
This year we have been able to send him $250. 

At the suggestion of Mrs. Bradford, who is connected with the "Light House" 
work in Kensington, Philadelphia, two girls are sent in by the League every 
week to lead religious meetings in the homes of the Kensington women. 

This brief account of the work of the League during the year 1906-07 will 
be sufficient to show that it is filling a large place in Bryn Mawr, and is begin- 
ning to fulfil the purpose for which it was founded. 

, j J On behalf of the officers (1906-07). 

M. M. B., 1907. 


THE need for an endowment for academic salaries at Bryn Mawr was never 
more urgent than to-day ; the living expenses in Bryn Mawr, as elsewhere, 
are constantly increasing, and other colleges and universities are, by 
reason of great gifts and endowments, offering more and more attractions to 
members of our Faculty, who are bound sooner or later, to accept greater 
facilities for their work, and the possibility of living more easily. 

The organized work of raising the $1,000,000 that the Alumnae have set as 
the least possible sum that will be really effective in maintaining the acade- 
mic standard of the College, has been carried on by committees, in various 
cities and local centres since 1904, and the money promised is to be paid be- 
fore 1910. The Boston Committee has obtained in all $53,000.00; Chicago, 
by a week of opera, $7,000.00; Washington, by a sale of autographe"d 
books over $700.00; and Philadelphia by a concert by Mme. Milba $1,000.00, 
besides $10,000 in contributions and a promise of $50,000.00 from the Baldwin 


Locomotive Works Company. The general feeling among the Alumna? that 
have done most work for the fund is that: 

1st. The fund must be raised largely by large subscriptions. 

2nd. The appeals must, if possible, be made in person. The Finance Com- 
mittee does not wish to discourage small contributors where it is impossible 
to get large ones, but it does maintain the advantage in attempting to get 
large contributions first if possible. 

It has been estimated that only part of the cost of tuition in a college is 
ever covered by the tuition fee. Therefore does not every graduate of Bryn 
Mawr owe a debt to the College and to the Faculty that gave her her educa- 
tion? And it is not only fair that this debt should be paid by means of the 
Endowment Fund. 

Signed for the Finance Committee. 

Martha G. Thomas, Chairman 


THROUGH the efforts of Dr. Mussey and Miss Dorothy Congdon, the Con- 
sumers' League was established as a separate organisation in the spring 
of 1906. A large number of members were enrolled and $120 was sent 
to the Philadelphia Consumers' League, with which the society here is affiliated. 
This year the membership has been increased to 196. The League made all of 
the charts for the Philadelphia Industrial Exhibit, which was held in December. 
Since then the charts have been shown at exhibits in other cities, and have 
attracted much attention. 

There have been two formal meetings this year. The first one was addressed 
by Mrs. Frederick Nathan, the secretary of the New York Consumers' League, 
and the second by Miss Florence L. Lanville, the general secretary of the Phila- 
delphia Consumers' League. 

It has been decided to send out cards to each of the members of the League 
when they leave college asking them to join the organisation in thir own 
home, should there be one there. The League thus hopes to keep up the inter- 
est of its members in the work. 

E. 8., 1907. 


THE German Club of Bryn Mawr College was founded in December, 1906, 
by several girls of the Major German Class interested in German. The 
purpose was twofold : first, to help girls to obtain a conversational knowl- 
edge of the language, and, secondly, to further an interest in modern German 
literature. President Thomas's approval was obtained, a short constitution formed, 
and the club soon in working order. With a small membership to begin with, 


it soon increased until now it consists of about thirty active members. There 
are regular informal meetings every two weeks — where the club is entertained 
by reading from modern authors. Afterwards refreshments are served, two of 
the girls acting as hostesses, and a lively conversation is carried on entirely in 
German. These evenings are made as informal as possible, and have proved 
successful. One formal meeting is held during the year, at which some out- 
sider is asked to lecture. On the twenty-seventh of April, 1907, the first formal 
meeting, Dr. Karl Detter Jessen will lecture on "The Scandinavian Influence in 
German Literature." This meeting promises to be of great value in the his- 
tory of the German Club, as Dr. Jessen has won much appreciation as an inspir- 
ing lecturer. 

There is no danger of a financial failure of the club, as no dues are required. 
In case of expenditure, the situation is discussed at a business meeting, and an 
assessment is made to meet the demand. 

On the whole, the German Club has apparently obtained a fairly good hold 
in the college in this its first year, and promises to continue its career. 

G. G. H., 1907. 
* * * 


ANEW interest has been taken in the Chess Club during the year 1906- 
1907. From November to February, meetings for practise were held 
every fortnight. Of the twenty-six members, twenty-one entered the 
tournament in the Spring. 

A. T. C, 1908. 


FOR the last few years there has been an increasing desire among the stu- 
dents of Oriental History to found a club to arouse and stimulate inter- 
est in the East. Accordingly in the early part of this academic year the 
subject was brought up and it was decided that such a club should be formed. 
Therefore a committee was appointed to draw up a constitution, and at the 
next meeting the constitution was adopted and the officers elected. They are 
as follows: President, Marjorie Newton Wallace, 1908; Vice-President and 
Treasurer, Elizabeth Wilson, 1907; Secretary, Lydia Sharpless, 1908. 

Four formal meetings were held in the chapel, and the club invited all 
who were interested to attend. On December seventh, Dr. A. V. Williams Jack- 
son, of Cornell University, lectured on "The Early Drama in India, with Parallels 
from Shakespeare." On January eleventh, Dr. A. T. Clay, of the University of 
Pennsylvania, gave an illustrated lecture on "Recent Explorations in Baby- 
lonia." On February fifteenth, Dr. E. Grant, of Boston University, gave a stere- 
opticon lecture on "Village Life in Palestine," and on March fifteenth the club 


held its last formal meeting and was addressed by Mrs. Cornelius Stevenson, 
her subject being "Recent Discoveries, Showing the Development in the His- 
tory of Egypt." 

The club owes a large debt of gratitude to Dr. Barton for his kind assistance 
and advice in this first year of its existence. Moreover the student body as a 
whole has shown a gratifying interest in the welfare of the new organization, 
which we hope will increase each year. M. V. W., 1908. 



President — Helen Schaeffeb. 

Vice-President — Louise Dudley. 

Secretary — Helen Paddock. 

Treasurer — Sue Avis Blake. 

Executive Committee — Helen Schaeffeb. 
Louise Dudley, 
Lillian V. Moseb, 
Geetbude Smabt, 
Maby Swindles. 

President — Helen Willeston Smith, 1906. 
Vice-President and Treasurer — Louise Milligan, 1908. 
Secretary — Louise Foley, 1908. 

* * * 

Elector — Kathebine Ecob, 1909. 
Secretary — Cabola Woeeishoffeb, 1907. 
Treasurer — Anna Welles. 

* * * 

President — Estheb Williams, 1907. 
Vice-President and Treasurer — Anna Platt, 1909. 
Secretary — Mabqabet Copeland, 1908. 
Indoor Manager — Mabjobie Young, 1908. 

* * * 

Chairman — Bebtha M. Laws, 1901. 
Undergraduate Members — Louise Milligan, 1908. 
Louise Congdon, 1908 
Mabtha Plaisted, 1908. 
Anna Platt, 1909. 
Fbances Jackson, 1910. 
Alumn® Members — Mabion T. Macintosh, 1890. 
Elizabeth Blanchabd, 1889. 
Content Siiepaed Nichols, 1899. 
Ida Langdon, 1903. 
Elma Loines, 1905. 


Conductor — Miss Mabtha C. Babet. 
Leader — Gebtbude Hill, 1907. 
Business Manager — Evelyn Holt, 1909. 

* * # 

President — Margaret Emebson Bailey, 1907. 
Elizabeth Bogman Pope, 1907. 
Eunice Morgan Schenk, 1907. 
Maegaeet Ladd Feanklin, 1908. 
Theresa Helbubn, 1908. 
Louise Folet, 1908. 
Mabtha Plaisted, 1908. 

* sj: # 

President — Louise Hyhan, 1908. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Grace S. Brownell, 1907. 
Secretary — Hazel Whitelaw, 1908. 

President — Margaret Morris Reeve, 1907. 

Vice-President and Secretary — Maegaeet Rteeson Maynard, 1908. 
Treasurer — Caroline Minor, 1909. 
& # * 

President — Evangeline Walker Andrews, 1893 (Mrs. O. M. Andrews). 
Vice-President — Edith Thompson Oelady, 1902. 

Recording Secretary — Elizabeth M. Bancboft, 1908 (Mrs. Wilfred Bancroft). 
Corresponding Secretary — Maetha Boot White, 1903. 
Treasurer — Jane B. Haines, 1891. 
Cleric of Records — Ethel Walker. 

* * * 

Chairman — Elizabeth Pearson. 

Eleanor Louisa Loed. 

Evangeline Walkee Andrews. 

Louise Sheffield Brownell Saunders. 

Maeion Edwaeds Paek. 

Susan Bbaley Franklin. 

Marion Reilly. 

Nellie Netlson. 


President — Ellen Thateb, 1907. 
Vice-President and Treasurer — Myba Elliot, 1908. 
Secretary — Maetha Plaisted, 1908. 
Assistant Treasurer— Edith Bbown, 1909. 

* * * 


President — Mabgaeet Bakes Mobison, 1907. 
Vice-President— Eunice Schenck, 1907. 
O-raduate Member — Edna Shearee, 1904. 
Secertarv — Mabgaeet Copeland, 1908. 
Treasurer — Louise Congdon, 1907. 

Chairman — Geace S. Bbownell, 1907. 
Eunice M. Schenck, 1907. 
Mabgaeet Ayee, 1907. 
Helen Dudley, 1908. 
Mabgaeet Feanklin, 1908. 
Caelie Minoe, 1909. 
Feances Bbowne, 1909. 

President — Emma Sweet, 1907. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Melanie Athebton, 1908. 
Secretary — Maby Lacy Van Waqenen, 1909. 

President — Gladys C. Haines. 
Vice-President — O. Floeence Lexow. 
Secrteary — Alice Sachs. 


President — Adelaide T. Case, 1908. 
Vice-President — Maecet Haldeman, 1909. 
Secretary — Anita Boggs, 1910. 

Bryn Mawr European Fellow — Virginia Greer Hill. 
Presidents European Fellow — Esther Harmon. 

A.B., University of Michigan, 1906 ; Graduate Scholar in Teutonic 
Mary E. Garrett European Fellow — Alice Middleton Boring. 

A.B., Bryn Mawr College, 1904, and A.M., 1905 ; Graduate Scholar in 
Biology and Assistant in the Biological Laboratory, Bryn Mawr 
College, 1904-05 ; Moore Fellow in Zoology, University of Pennsyl- 
vania, 1905-06. 

Awarded for the year 1906-07 to Anna Sophie Weusthoff. 
A.B., Woman's College of Baltimore, 1906. 



Mary Swindler. A.B., University of Wisconsin, 1906. 

Rose Jeffrees Peebles. A.B., Mississippi State College for Women, 1891. 

Florence Donnell White. A.B., Mount Holyoke College, 1903. 

Margaret Shore Morriss. A.B., Woman's College of Baltimore, 1904. 

Margaret Mary Anne Melley. B.A., University of Ireland, 1905. 

Elva Cooper. A.B., University of Wisconsin. 1904. 

Dorothy Halin. A.B., Bryn Mawr College, 1S99. 


Maria L. Eastman Brooke Hall Memorial Senior Scholarship. 

Mayone Lewis, 1906. 
James E. Rhoads Junior Scholarship. 

Anne Garrett Walton, 1908. 
James E. Rhoads Sophomore Scholarship. 

Ruth Anita Wade, 1910. 
Mary E. Stevens Junior Scholarship. 

Elise Donaldson, 1909. 
Maria Hopper Scholarships. 

Josephine Chapin Brown, 1910. 

Marion Shelmire Kirk, 1910. 
George W. Childs Essay Prize. 

Margaret Emerson Bailey, 1907. 


Anna Ward Aven. A.B., Mississippi, 1905. 

Clara Lyford Smith. A.B., Bryn Mawr College, 1907. 

Edith Florence Rice. Bryn Mawr College, 1907. 

Lilian Virginia Moser. A.B., Bryn Mawr College, 1893. 

Margaret Elizabeth Brusstar. A.B., Bryn Mawr College, 1903. 

Helen Lamberton. Bryn Mawr College, 1907. 

Julia Anna Gardner. A.B., Bryn Mawr College, 1905. 

Helen Williston Smith. A.B., Bryn Mawr College, 1906. 
Semitic Languages. 

Helen Hawley Nichols. A.B., Marietta College, 1906. 
Foundation Scholar in Semitic Languages. 

Eleanor Densmore Wood. A.B., Penn College, 1897. 

Helen Moss Lowengrund. A.B., Bryn Mawr College, 1906. 




(Reprinted, from Tiptn o' Bob.) 

"Come, sweetheart come, till I show thee where the violets grow : 

Come, sweetheart, till I show thee where they grow. 

Down within the sweet green hollow. 

Where no breath of wind shall follow, 

That is where they grow." 

"But, no, ah! no, 

To-day I cannot go. 

in the sun and in the shade 

Fair white linen must be spread. 

Have patience and to-morrow we shall know." 

"Come, sweetheart, come, till I show thee where the daisies grow : 

Come, sweetheart, till I show thee where they grow. 

Out beyond the pasture bars, 

Sky of green with silver stars, 

That is where they grow." 

"But, no, ah ! no, 

To-day I cannot go. 

By the hearth-side soon must lie 

Piles of cake, all savoury. 

Have patience, and to-morrow we shall know." 

"Come, sweetheart, come, till I show thee where the asters grow : 

Come, sweetheart, till I show thee where they grow. 

There beneath the mellow sun, 

In dry grass with webs o'erspun, 

That is where they grow." 

"But, no, ah! no, 

To-day I cannot go. 

Many a fabric soft and thick 

Waits my needle's dainty prick. 

Have patience, and to-morrow we shall know." 


"Come, sweetheart, come, till I show thee where the snows do lie: 

Come, sweetheart, till I show thee where they lie. 

Over all the asters fair, 

Roof and stack and branches bare, 

And they creep in thy fair hair, 

That is where they lie." 

"Ah! dost thou sigh? 

All the year is come and gone, 

Swift the ending draweth on, 

For each to-morrow a to-day must die." 

Mary F. Nearing, 1909. 


(Reprinted from Ttptn o' Bob.) 

I should like to be a pedant, and always get H. G, 

To talk a mystic language, have the Faculty to tea, 

To give aesthetic parties of a simple bill of fare, 

To walk with the Department, and watch the Freshmen stare. 

But, most of all, I think I'd like to get off sage remarks, 
With that unstudied manner that is natural to sharks : 
To offer apt opinions that were true but never trite, 
Without the guilty knowledge I'd composed them overnight. 

We all wish we were pedants ; but alas we wish in vain, 
We cannot be uplifted above our common plane — 
At least not by our efforts ; but why could there not be 
To keep up the tradition, a class in pedantry. 

Suppose we common mortals should give a tea each day. 
Invite the geniuses to come, take notes on what they say — 
And notice how they take their tea, and how they dress and walk. 
We too might grow pedantic in all our thoughts and talk. 

And if we are too stupid we'd at least be glad we tried 
To help keep up the pedants, our greatest joy and pride, 
So that in future ages, oh will it not be nice 
To point to Bryn Mawr College as the Pedants' Paradise! 

0. L. Meigs, 1907. 



(Reprinted from Tipyn o' Bob.) 

You tell me that the skies were gray? 
I thought I saw a purple light, 
That dyed the hilltops warmly bright, 
And vanished far away. 

You saw from streams the cold mist rise ; 
But at my foot the grass was green, 
And from beneath the hedge's screen 
Peeped May, and violet's eyes. 

What though to you the trees were bare? 
I only saw the beeches old 
Weighted down with rustling freight of gold, 
Like lovely Enid's hair. 

For in my hand — you did not know — 

A talisman would paint the world 

With moonbeams, and from buds upcurled, 

Make fairy gardens grow. 

Mary F. Nearing, 1909. 


(Reprinted from Tipyn o' Bob.) 

The year is young and the day is fair, 
Gudrun, Gudrun, bind up your hair ; 
See who stand in the court below. 

Brothers of mine! Can this be so? 

Maids, have they not returned too soon? 
But look who comes with them, Gudrun. 

Open the windows wide for me, 

Think you the gods are such as he? 

My heart has whispered the time is nigh 

When I must leave you here and go ; 

But shall I care, 

When we are together, he and I? 
Too early yet is it to know, 
Only the future years can show, 


Beware of asking the Fates too soon, 
Alas, Gudrun! alas, Gudrun! 

Why do you say alas and weep? 

Weep for yourselves, I need no tears, 

I have neither sorrows nor fears. 
Gudrun, beware of double sleep, 
Remember the cup one drinks is deep. 

Deep and sweet and a drink for two. 
When the year is late and the night is drear, 
And you are pale as the waning moon, 
And have drained the cup of sorrow and fear, 
Remember your maidens wept for you, 
Alas, Gudrun ! alas, Gudrun ! 

Louise Foly, 1908. 


(Reprinted, from Trpyw o' Bob.) 

O innocent, sweet eyes ! 
Twin mirrors of the soul 

Of maidenhood, 
Tender and only wise 

In doing good. 
O shadowy, shy smile! 

So faint it seems 
A glimmer caught the while 

Thou wert in dreams. 
O angel smile and eyes ! 
Fountains of purity. 

And can it be 

That such wild deeds 
Within thy weary heart 

(O Beatrice rare, 

Child of despair!) 
In thy desperate needs, 

Thou dost devise! 

Louise Foley, 1908. 



(Reprinted from Twyn o' Bob.) 

(From the point of view of the Decoration Committee.) With apologies to 

Robert Herrick. 

Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn 
Upon her wings presents our banners torn 
With which last night we decked each hall, 
Fresh quilted colours, tattered all ; 
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 
The men about the scenery, 
They've waited us in front of Pembroke West 
Above an hour since, yet you not drest? 
Nay, not so much as out of bed? 
Come, take the donkeys to the shed, 
And trim the floats, and carry chairs, 
And drag those borrowed rugs down stairs. 
For now five hundred maidens on this day 
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May. 

Come, all my classmates, come; and coming mark 

How crook'd we hung those banners in the dark. 

Some one run up and mend that tear. 

The reds upon that throne will swear. 

Hang out the pennants from the towers ; 

Deck Merion fire escape with flowers ; 

And make that grandstand gay with gren percale, 

And cut the ropes around that largest bale. 

Do something for those wretched sheep 

Behind the Gym, and try and keep 

Them quiet while you make them gay 

With garlands for the first of May. 

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying 

But, come, my classmates, come, let's go a-Maying. 

Come let us go while we are in our prime 

And take the harmless jolly of the time! 

We shall grow old apace; and then 

We'll never give this F§te again. 

Poor old Elizabethans. They 

Had every year to greet the May! 

As long as they could totter to the green 



They had to dance with joyous mien. 

Now older, wiser, than of yore, 

We give but one fete to their four. 

And future undergraduates 

Will have to give the future Fetes. 

Then while time serves, we are but decaying, 

Come, all my classmates, come, let's go a-Maying. 

Margaret Helen Ayer, 1907. 

(Reprinted, -from Ttpytt o' Bob.) 

The motto of the world is no longer 
to be up-to-date, but to be ahead-of-the- 
date. The modern age does not stop 
at calculations about the future; it 
actually turns the future from a pos- 
sibility to a reality, a reality of every- 
day life. 

No sooner does the public inaugurate 
one President than it begins to cam- 
paign for the next. No sooner does the 
baby boy lisp his first syllable than the 
provident parent takes pains to secure 
him a place for fifteen years hence at 
Groton or St. Mark's. In order to 
guard against the unpardonable error 
of being "behind the times," our even- 
ing newspapers appear at noon and our 
morning issues run a close race with 
the dawn. The April number of Me- 
et ure' a is on the newsstands on the 
fifteen of March, and we have no pa- 
tience with the Theatre which keepg 

us waiting until the twenty-fifth. We 
lay in our store of winter flannels in 
the mellow fall, and woe to the one 
who, not having previously fortified 
herself against the snows of February, 
hopes to provide for her needs as the 
season impels them. With frostbitten 
fingers she seeks to buy a muff, but 
finds the fur counter decked with "lin- 
gerie" hats — and why ! Because next 
summer will be upon us in four 
months ! The world decrees that a 
man shall have no chance of finding an 
umbrella after the storm has begun, 
but must provide for the rainy day 
while the sun is still shining. 

Surely this era of anticipation must 
be one of hopeful enlightenment. What 
could better bespeak the progressive- 
ness of the age than this outdistancing 
of time itself! Perfection and perfect 
happiness will, no doubt, be reached, 
when we have completely drowned the 
evils and sorrows of the present in the 
fast-encroaching tide of the future. 
Shirley Putnam, 1909. 



Press of 

Thb John C. Winston Co., 

Philadelphia, Pa. 





Graduate Editor. 







Business Manager. 


Assistant Business Manager. 




Frontispiece: The May-daj' Pageant Pleasaunce Baker, 1909 

Editorial 7 

Fallow Ground Theresa Helburn, 1908 11 

Over the Hills Mary Isabelle 0' Sullivan, 1907 21 

Alone Content Shepard Nichols, 1899 22 

The Sage of Eationalism Maud Elizabeth Temple, 1904 23 

Demeter's Lament for Persephone Louise Foley, 1908 37 

The Eevelation of a Bond Helen Dudley, 1908 40 

Sappho Clara Lyford Smith, 1907 45 

The Tie of Blood Martha Plaisted, 1908 46 

The Faun Mary Nearing, 1909 56 

A Time to Eead Grace Branham, 1910 57 

The Cat Georgiana Godclard King, 1896 59 

In the Shadow Louise Foley, 1908 60 

The Defeat Theresa Helburn, 1908 61 

Song from La Princesse Lointaine Margaret Franklin, 1908 66 

Yolkslieder Margaret Franklin, 1908 68 

In Miirchenland Caroline Reeves Foulke, 1908 68 

College Themes 91 

Collegiana 96 

"Leviore Pleclro" 106 

The Lantern 

No. 17 BRYN MAWR Spring, 1908 


WE are far removed from the time when college women were 
sufficiently occupied in proving to an incredulous world their 
ability to deal with philosophy and the higher mathematics. 
Yet we who are at college now still take pride in the mere 
repetition of such proofs until the world, whether willing or reluctant, 
must by this time have learned them by heart. We are slow to perceive 
that there is no longer any novelty in the process, and that the spur that 
should be goading us to greater exertion is not the old question — Can a 
woman go through college? but the new one, asked just as insistently as 
the other was forty years ago — Is it worth while that she should? If, 
now and then, to our surprise, we hear such a question put by an older 
person whom we had thought not at all behind the times, we dismiss it 
with the assurance that after we have won our degrees we shall soon prove 
their value beyond possibility of question. The best thing we can do for 
the present, we say, is to bend all our energies upon our college life and 
not try to cross our bridges before we come to them. 

We build up, therefore, along the boundaries of the campus the walls 
that shall enclose our world, and commend ourselves for not attempting 
to scale them. We apply to ourselves Horatian maxims about the beauty 
of being contented with little, and rate ourselves high in capacity for 
enjoyment because we do not sigh for fresh fields. We even make a virtue 
of what is, in reality, the easiest course. We tell ourselves that the four 
years at college are of inestimable importance as preparation for the years 
to come; that it is impossible to rate the opportunities they offer too 



highly, to throw ourselves too unreservedly into the business of spending 
them to best advantage. But this is not the real reason for the fixedness 
of the attention we give to our life here; it is only the facile justification 
we make to ourselves for taking the course we prefer, after inclination has 
already launched us upon it. For we cannot seriously believe that we are 
giving ourselves the best training for the future by concentrating all our 
thoughts upon the present; — if we did we should be as presumptuous as 
an archer who should be confident of hitting the mark while fixing his 
gaze not on his target but on his bow and arrow. We are not, in point 
of fact, thinking of hitting a mark at all; if we were we should keep 
it in view. 

The necessity for foresight would, I think, be more present to us if 
we did not look upon teaching as the best means by which a woman can 
prove her college education of practical use to the world. For in order 
to qualify ourselves for teaching all that is absolutely necessary is to 
imbibe what we ourselves are taught; we need not puzzle over questions 
of how we are to convert our knowledge into a useful commodity, — the 
process is too simple. But in storing up our own learning merely that 
we may prepare others to acquire it, that they, in their turn, may lead 
others again up to the same ordeal of entrance examinations, we are, in 
fact, proving the value of a college course by an endless argument in a 
circle. It is flatly obvious that a college education is the most valuable 
preparation for preparing others to receive a college education; we must 
not let it rest there. What we really need to prove is that the equipment 
is of value even to those whose activity is beyond the pale of academic 

As soon as we recognise this necessity, and decide that if we are not 
especially fitted for teaching, we had better seek some other occupation, 
we shall be forced to look carefully ahead of us while we are still in 
college, that we may train ourselves very definitely, if need be, for the 
life we expect to lead. As long, however, as most of us look upon the 
education we are receiving merely as a treasure that we shall carry with 
us through life and perhaps help others to acquire, we shall feel justified 
in fixing our attention with the traditional academic narrowness on our 
college careers. And the pleasantness of the path we travel is always enough 
to keep our spirits high; we need not look to the end of our journey for 


Here at Bryn MawT we are not, it is true, cut off from visions of 
the larger world, of more vital activities. It is not the narrowness of our 
horizon but the narrowness of our gaze — as if we were perversely looking 
through the wrong end of a telescope — that is to be deplored. Instead of 
constantly trying to relate the college world to the larger world, we are 
more apt to seek out for notice elsewhere only such points as have some 
application or parallel here. We look upon the distant view as a pano- 
ramic display, which we may gaze on, appreciate, discuss, but with which 
we quite forget that we are ever to have a personal concern. When, as 
often happens, we make an excursion into the country ahead of us, we 
enter upon it as upon a sort of Campus Martius for the exercise of our 
wits. We look upon politics as material for debates and argumentative 
papers, upon books as models for style or as a field in which we may 
display our turn for sophistry. With judicial aloofness we line up the 
arguments pro and con, or, in the spirit of a lawyer, we are often glad 
to employ our wits in supporting the side for which we think there is 
least to be said. Present crises in the world's thought and action affect 
us no more than past ones; we are so far removed even from what is now 
going on about us that twentieth-century labour struggles, socialism, 
woman suffrage, — all these things have in reality no sharper edge of 
immediate significance than the wars of the Middle Ages. "As if,"" says 
Bacon, "there were sought in knowledge a couch whereon to rest a restless 
spirit; or a tarasse for a wandering and variable mind to walk up and 
down with a fair prospect; or a fort or commanding ground for strife 
and contention; or a shop for profit or sale; and not a rich storehouse 
for the glory of the creator, and the relief of man's estate." 

In our own narrow world, on the other hand, there is nothing so 
trivial that it has not for us a tang of importance. A world in miniature,. 
we are fond of calling the place; and we suppose that if we achieve any 
sort of success here we are playing a prelude, as it were, to success in the 
larger world. But this is by no means a world in miniature. The differ- 
ence is not one of size alone; for we have not here, even on a propor- 
tionately small scale, any such mountains and ravines, streams and 
precipices, as form the striking features of greater landscapes. College is 
a world of difficulties eliminated and problems solved. Here our work 
i-. for the most, part, mapped out for us; if it is not always easy, there is 


at least always the simplification of knowing what we have to do. Social 
intercourse, too, is obviously simplified, not only by the fact that we are 
all of the same age and sex and engaged in the same pursuit, but further 
by the freedom with which each can drift into the group to which by 
'character and interests she naturally belongs; we need not, as in other 
places, make constant efforts to conform to the tastes and ideas of persons 
unlike ourselves. 

All these differences we should keep in mind if we really regarded 
these four years as a means, not an end. "Gras ingens iterabimas aequor" 
is a reflection that should heighten the gayety of the banquet only if the 
ships are known to be fully equipped for the voyage. We are all too 
content, while strolling in the shade of collegiate Gothic walls, to forget for 
the time that there is any world but this one; or else to think of this one, 
not as a point of vantage from which we may survey the ground ahead 
before we take to the highway, but as a pleasant garden without the city 
walls, where it is sweet to linger, letting no wandering thought fly to 
regions unexplored. 



THE scene is a large, light, sparsely furnished room, which gives the 
impression of being a cross between a comfortable office and an 
uncomfortable living room. At the right is a large business desk, 
on which stands a neat row of books and several orderly piles of 
papers arranged beneath paper weights. On the opposite side of tha 
room the wall is half concealed by a great many book shelves covered 
with a varied assortment of reading matter, obviously ranging from 
volumes on law, philosophy, and sociology to the ten-cent periodicals. Near 
a solid looking table in the centre stands the one comfortable easy chair 
in the room — the others are straight-backed and forbidding. There are 
two doors visible, one on the left opening into the hall of the house and one 
on the right which leads into an inner room. There is, moreover, at the 
back a square recessed window provided with an uncushioned window seat. 
This is at present occupied by a young girl, Honoria Yane, who has 
managed, by leaning against the wall and curling her feet up under her, 
to make herself comfortable or else perhaps to forget the inconvenience in 
a book. This is more probably the case, for a gentle knock at the door 
fails to disturb her, and only when it is rather noisily pushed open does 
she drop her book on the seat and her feet on the ground and assume a 
straight conventional posture. By this time Cudwith Moore has entered. 
He is a tall, very thin man, somewhere about thirty, with a rather languid 
but very graceful carriage. Honoria, a well built girl, with a clear skin 
and fine features, and a suggestion of immense vitality about her, has risen 
as she recognises the identity of the intruder. 

Cudwith. — Honoria ! I didn't know you were here. They told me 
Jerry was out and I came up to wait. 

Honoria. — I sometimes appropriate Jerry's room in his absence. No 
one ever comes in here, so it's a refuge from interruptions. 

Cudwith. — That is not over tactful. Have you no welcome for this 
interruption ? 

Honokia (laughing). — Of course. Only T don't want to be senti- 


Cudwith. — An apprehension you have caught from the over-practical 
Jerry! (Going to her.) Well, I shall not be sentimental, only sensible. 
(He kisses her.) 

Honoeia (gaily). — I'm not a bit like Jerry. It is because I have an 
over-weening tendency toward sentimentality, not aversion for it, that I 
am afraid of it. Oh, I am glad to see you ! 

Cudwith. — Well, what was the absorbing occupation I broke in upon? 

Honoria. — A book. 

Cudwith (turning to the window-seat on which a pile of magazines 
is now discovered and picking one up). — Not these, I hope. 

Honoeia. — No, I have to use those for cushions. Jerry's room is so 
inconveniently ascetic. 

Cudwith (throws down the magazine he has been looking through 
with an air of disgust). — Soft enough, I should imagine! Well? 

Honoeia. — You have guessed. 

Cudwith. — You are flattering, but I have not. 

Honoeia (pointing to the book that has dropped on the floor). — 
There it is. (Cudwith stoops to pick it up. She moves forward and sits 
in the easy chair.) 

Cudwith. — -Oh ! 

Honoeia. — Is it sentimental to read your books over again, now? 

Cudwith (pleased). — Silly child! 

Honoeia. — Do you know, I like them even better on a second reading. 

Cudwith (absently, as he looks through the book in his hand). — 
Do you? 

Honoeia. — Yes, they wear well. And then of course I'm so much 
more interested in you. Won't you tell me something, Cudwith, about 
this new thing you are doing? Jerry has just mentioned it. 

Cudwith (putting the book down quickly). — Oh! he has? 

Honoria. — Just enough to rouse my curiosity. I've come to you for 
the rest. 

Cudwith. — Of course. (He leans over the back of her chair.) Well, 
how shall I begin? Oh, the heroine's name is Honoria. 

Honoeia. — Eeally ? 

Cudwith. — That is, if you don't object ? 

Honoeia. — Object ! It's delightful. But go on. 


Cudwith. — Well then — but how much has Jerry told you ? 

Honoria. — Nothing, save that it exists. 

Cudwith. — Ah! (Ee sits near her.) It doesn't even do that. It's 
scarcely begun. It concerns a man who falls under the influence of 
Buddhism. His childhood is bare, gloomy, hampered, and his ceaseless 
attacks on the walls of limitation that surround him end only in futile 
pain. Through it all he cherishes a love of beauty that has always been 
especially fascinated by the splendid color of the East. But later his 
sudden dazzling glimpse of Eastern beauty is followed by a finer perception 
of its inherent ugliness. In his disillusionment he is ready for pessimism. 
Nirvana becomes the only solution. 

Honoria. — I'm not sure that I follow you as I should. It is a trifle 

Cudwith. — Oh, don't ask me to be concrete and detailed at this 
stage, Honoria. It is hard enough for me to discuss it at all. 

Honoria. — Forgive me. I should have known. But Cudwith, it is 
so absorbing to me. I had no idea you were interested in Buddhism. Why 
did you never tell me of it ? 

Cudwith. — JBeeause there were other things to talk of — as there 
are now. 

Honoria. — Reproved again. Cudwith, you must not expect me to 
know all your literary idiosyncrasies, even though I have known you for 
years and we have been engaged — 

Cudwith. — Three days. 

Honoria. — Yes, and (do you know?) I have felt outrageously wicked 
all that time. 

Cudwith. — Why so? 

Honoria. — Because of Jerry. 

Cudwith. — Oh, Jerry shall know in good time. Do you find no 
pleasure in keeping our secret to ourselves for a while? I find a great 
deal. And there are other reasons. Just now with this book on my hands 
I want to keep a clear head. Jerry is my friend and my publisher. I 
have to see a great deal of him at present and I don't want to complicate 
the relationship. It is confusing. Call it eccentric if you will, but let 
me have my way. 

Honoria. — Do you know, Cudwith, in our case the usual situation 


seems to be reversed. Instead of baffling you as they say a woman should, 
I spend my time trying to keep up with your subtleties. Well, do what 
you will. I suppose there are inevitable disadvantages in being engaged to 
a genius. 

Cddwith. — And I suppose you know you are charmingly absurd and 
absurdly charming. (The sound of a motor is heard outside.) Here's 
Jerry now. Bun away and let me talk business to him for a time; but 
don't forget to come back again. 

Honoeia (at the door). — And you will give me a stick of pepper- 
mint candy and a kiss for being so good. Thank you, Grandpapa. (She 
goes out. After a moment Cudwith follows her, hut returns almost imme- 
diately with Jerry Morgan. Jerry is a small , thin man, with very bright 
eyes set in a face rather suggestive of an alert fowl. His quick, nervous 
gestures carry out the impression.) 

Jerry. — Sorry to be so late, Cudwith. Couldn't help it. Hope you 
found something to keep you busy. 

CuDwrra. — Oh, yes. You weren't long. 

Jerry. — I left the papers out for you on my desk. Did you notice 
them? (He sits at the desk. Cudwith, his back turned, is lighting a 
cigarette from a match box on the table.) 

Cudwith. — No, I didn't look. I thought they were probably locked 
away in one of those innumerable little drawers. 

Jerry. — Well, here they are, and we might as well get to work at 
once. (He fills and lights a short stubby pipe as he talks.) I've mapped 
out a pretty clear scheme of chapters here. You remember all I told you. 

Cudwith (carrying a chair up to the desk). — Yes. (With a Hash 
of recollection.) Only generally, that is, I don't think I ever really grasped 
the details. 

Jerry.— I thought you had better ruminate for a while on the 
general idea. Besides, most of the finer points must be left for the 
dialogue itself to settle. Speaking of dialogue, don't be chary of epigrams 
in the case of the hero. 

Cudwith. — Maxwell Chesborough by name. 

Jerry. — Call him what you will, but remember the public is keen 
for paradoxes at present. Moreover, it suits the ease. Now, how much 
do you know about Buddhism? 


Cudwith. — In comparison with the average reader, something to 
boast of; in comparison with the average Buddhist, nothing at all. 

Jerry (rising and crossing to the booh shelves). — I expected as 
much, and I've provided you with some fairly enlightening literature on 
the subject. It will help for atmosphere. 

Cudwith (whose attitude all along has been one of tolerant con- 
tempt). — I shall, to say the least, make myself conspicuous by coming 
out as the champion of the eastern faith. 

Jerry. — But you're not its champion, you know. In the end its 
inadequacy is proved by the heroine 

Cudwith. — Honoria Massinger by name. 

Jerry. — Honoria? Why Honoria? 

Cudwith. — Why not? 

Jerry. — No reason. Does she know? 

Cudwith. — Yes. Surely I owe her that tribute 

Jerry. — Owe her? 

Cudwith. — I mean it is only a due compliment to a woman I have 
known so long and so pleasantly. 

Jerry. — Humph ! Four years. Well, what were we talking about ? 
Oh, you as the champion of Buddhism. But it doesn't matter anyway. 
Notoriety only increases the selling list. 

Cudwith. — There's no need to be disgustingly sordid. 

Jerry. — Surely not. I simply bow to the spirit of the age. What 
i.- art without advertising? 

Cudwith (sadly) .■ — And you have the makings of a genius in you, 
Jerry! With all your skill in that line and all your other cleverness, 
why don't you express yourself directly to the public instead of making 
me the vehicle? (Rising.) Pah! I wish you would. Sometimes I sicken 
at the whole affair and at myself above all. I'll see myself in Grub 
Street before I write any more of your confounded little 

Jerry. — My dear fellow, how absurd you are! I can't write. I 
make no pretense of it. Is it my fault I see life in situations while you 
see it in words? 

Cudwith (bitterly). — Perfect words, you must admit. 

Jerry. — I do without hesitation. Witness the way you take my poor 
skeletons — 


Cudwith. — And clothe thein in such alluring garments that, as you 
would say with your blatant frankness, the public is willing to pay one 
dollar and forty-eight cents apiece for them, net. 

Jerry. — You are regarding a perfectly justifiable partnership in a 
false, theatric light. 

Cudwith. — If it's a partnership, why don't you share the credit or 
the blame? 

Jerry. — -I shoulder the responsibility; isn't that enough? Besides, 
yours is the important contribution. It is form that really counts. What 
is plot after all but a mere plagiarism from life? 

Cudwith. — Ah, yes. And style but a petty theft from grammars ? 

Jerry (impatiently). — Well, if you don't like it, why did you ever 
begin? You wouldn't be in Grub Street without me. Look at your first 
book, the one that really opened my eyes to you. That had immense 

Cudwith (miserably). — Ah, my first book — yes. I — I think it must 
have used me up. I haven't had a decent idea since. 

Jerry (cheerfully). — Well, you see Providence evidently made us 
for each other and Providence threw us together, so there's an end. 

Cudwith. — Another crime laid at poor Providence's door. Forgive 
my beastly mood. If you don't mind I'll take these papers and a book 
or so and look over them in the inner study. 

Jerry. — Certainly not. Here you are. I think you'll find this most 
worth while. (Cudwith takes the preferred book and papers and goes to 
the door on the right.) Oh, you'll find a decanter in the cabinet. Here's 
the key. (He detaches a key from a keyring and throivs it across to 

Cudwith. — Thanks. (He goes out. Jerry rises and stands absorbed 
in thought till he suddenly realises that his pipe has gone out. In crossing 
to the table for a match his eye is caught by the magazines on the window- 
seat. He sends a quick, puzzled glance at the door through which Cudwith 
has disappeared and then with a smile begins to finger the periodicals. 
Suddenly he finds a tortoise shell hair pin on the seat beside them. He 
picks it up and moves slowly forward, holding it in his hand, when the 
sound of footsteps approaching the outer door is heard. At this he delib- 
erately pockets the hair pin, sits down at his desk, and begins to write a 
letter. Some one knocks at the door.) 


Jerry. — Is that you, Honoria? Come in. 

Honoria. — Yes, it's I. Isn't Cudwith here? 

Jeeht (who has risen as she enters, resuming his seat). — He's in 
there at work. Do you want to see him ? 

Honoria. — Not particularly. (She lightly kisses his bald spot as she 
passes behind him.) It gives the house a decided flavor to have Cudwith 
come here to work, doesn't it ? In future days we shall be quite historic. 

Jerry (laughing) . — Oh, not quite so bad as that, I should say. 

Honoria. — You mean you object to literary pilgrims? 

Jerry. — I mean I object to Cudwith's already being spoken of as 
their idol. 

Honoria. — You don't think he deserves it? 

Jerry. — Do you? 

Honoria (like a child). — I asked first. 

Jerry. — Well, there's no denying his style. He has an excellent com- 
mand of language and a fine, subtle power of expression. 

Honoria. — And that's just what makes the vitality of his substance 
so remarkable. One would so naturally expect it to have something 
remote or scholastic about it. But it hasn't, it's strong and vigorous. He 
seems to combine wonderfully the ardour of the fighter and the calmness 
of the onlooker. 

Jerry. — This you get from his books — but the man himself? 

Honoria (looking at him half questioningly, half divining). — Oh, of 
course, you can't get all that from him in casual contact. He is not a 
man who gives himself readily, even to his intimates, I should think. 
The deepest personalities are usually — don't you think so? — those that 
find disclosure most difficult. 

Jerry. — No, you have fallen into a very common fallacy. In reality 
the more a person has, the more he gives. 

Honoria (puzzled) . — You mean to disparage Cudwith. 

Jerry. — Not at all. His first book, Fallow Ground, struck me as 
quite remarkable. There was something very fresh and fine about it, and 
the point of view was delightfully unusual. 

Honoria. — Ah, you really liked Fallow Ground? 

Jehky. — Yes. Didn't you? 

Honoria. — Somewhat. But it's slight compared with his later things. 


Jeeet. — You feel the man's growth? 

Honoeia (annoyed at the note of attach in Jerry's tone). — Surely. 
But what are you after, Jerry? You speak as if you were pulling some 
dead author to pieces. What right have we, anyway, to sit here and 
discuss his character ? It's disgraceful ! 

Jeeet. — Nonsense. That's another fallacy. Every right, because 
just at present it's the most interesting subject we can think of. There's 
very little worth talking about in the world except people, and surely it's 
better to sit in judgment on their characters than on their clothes. (Seri- 
ously.) Won't you acknowledge, Honoria, that Cudwith's character is 
the subject most interesting to you at present? 

Honoeia (after a pause). — Yes — and that is the reason for my not 
wishing to discuss it. 

Jeeey. — Honoria, Cudwith has asked }'ou to marry him? 

Honoeia.— Yes. 

Jeeey. — And you have said you would? 

Honoeia. — Yes. 

Jeeey (rising). — You might have told me. 

Honoeia (following him). — I know, Jerry dear, I wanted to. But, 
oh — I shouldn't have, now. Cudwith did not wish it. 

Jeeey. — Why not? 

Honoeia. — I — I don't know. I didn't quite understand. He said 
he wanted to wait till he had finished the book he is working on now. 

Jeeey. — Oh — he did! 

Honoeia (pleading). — Jerry, don't be angry. You must allow for 
Cudwith's eccentricity. Won't you say anything nice to me, now you 
know? (As Jerry does not answer she begins to grow angry.) You won't? 
You don't approve. I don't know why, but I shall not attempt to defend 
Cudwith. He is perfectly able to do that for himself. (She goes to the 
door of the inner study.) 

Jeeey (starting from his reverie). — Honoria, I 

Honoeia (opening the door). — Cudwith! (He appears on the 
threshold.) Cudwith, I have told Jerry of our engagement. (After a 
moment's pause on the part of the two men she adds, ivith a glance at 
Jerry.) He wishes to congratulate you. 

Cudwith. — You should have let me do that, Honoria. 


Honoria. — I know. I couldn't help it. I will leave you together 

Jerky. — Don't go. 

Honoria (with a glance at Cudwith, who neither answers nor looks 
at her). — Cudwith wishes it. You may call me if you want me. (She 
crosses to the door of the study. Jerry ceremoniously opens it for her — 
then, shutting it, turns and faces Cudwith. He rakes his eyes. The hvo 
men look at each other in silence for a few moments.) 

Jerry.— Well ? 

Cudwith. — You said it was perfectly justifiable, you remember. 

Jerry. — All the more reason she should not be kept in ignorance 
of it. 

Cudwith. — Thafs impossible. It needn't go on, but that's impos- 

Jerry (drily). — But also necessary, however. 

Cudwith. — You would suffer by it as much as I ! 

Jerry. — Perhaps. But that's my affair. 

Cudwith. — You are in love with her yourself ! 

Jerry (unable to conceal his contempt). — Good Lord! Cudwith, how 

can vou 

Cudwith (breaking out angrily). — Well, who's responsible for this 
anyway? You invented the scheme! You lured me into it! And now 
it's your affair to get me out. 

Jerry (patiently). — I don't suppose I can ask you to be reasonable, 
but listen. (He goes on as if he were explaining to a small child.) That's 
exactly what I am trying to do. Can't you see it's preposterous that 
Honoria should marry you with her eyes closed ? 

Cudwith. — I can't tell her. 

Jerry. — Then I will, and as gently as I can. If she cares for you 
and not your work she'll get over it. 

Cudwith (with a ray of hope). — Ah! 

Jerry. — And if she doesn't, then for God's sake swallow your medi- 
cine like a man. 

Cudwith (impotcntly miserable). — Can't you see this is all your 
fault ? 

Jerry. — Perhaps I am partly to blame. And at all events I'll do the 
best for you I know how. Now, will you go? 


Cudwith. — I suppose I must. (He moves slowly to the door, then 
turns impulsively.) I can't go. I'm going to wait outside. (He goes 
out. Jerry waits a minute, then he slowly crosses to the other door and 
opens it.) 

Jerry. — Honoria! (Honoria enters.) 

Honoria. — What is it ? Where is Cudwith ? 

Jerry. — He has gone. I want to speak to you. Won't you sit down ? 

Honoria (sitting in the easy chair). — What is the matter? (Then, 
quickly.) You are going to tell me something terrible about Cudwith. I 
won't hear it ! 

Jerry (lightly). — Don't be absurd, Honoria. What I have to say 
doesn't really concern Cudwith at all — only certain illusions you have 
about his writing. 

Honoria. — What do you mean? 

Jerry. — I mean simply that the substance of his books which you 
professed to admire so much isn't entirely his. I must claim some share 
of your praise. 

Honoria (slowly). — You gave him his material? 

Jerry. — Yes — but, of course, only in outline. He worked it up and 
made something of it — so the credit is really his. (He waits for her to 
speak, but she only stares at him with a strange, disturbing look in her 
eyes, and he goes on to drown the silence.) The fine work, the delicate 
shadings are his — and the dialogue, you know. And after all it was my 
fault he began. I suggested it and I suppose, as he said, I lured him 
into it. For he has stuff in himself, you know. Look at the promise of 
Fallow Ground. (He goes on eagerly developing this new point.) I 
hadn't a finger in that. It showed me his incipient greatness and made 
me mark him for the man to develop my cherished schemes. I suppose 
I've simply delayed and hampered him for the time being. When I leave 
him alone he'll probably fulfil his original promise with the added skill he 
has gained in the interim. Don't look at me like that, Honoria. Can't 
you see what I mean? 

Honoria (dully). — Yes, I understand, Jerry, but you don't. There 
is no promise there. There is only a shell that is empty and — and de- 
ceives. And (pitifully) oh, it pains! 

Jerry. — Tell me. I don't see. 


Honoria (passionately) . — I know what your share in his work means. 
It means the thought drawn from your experience, it means the feeling 
taken from your emotions, it means the life springing from your vitality. 
I know because I gave him all that for Fallow Ground. 

Jerky. — You ! (Honoria covers her face with her hands and remains 
silent. Jerry walks slowly lack to the window.) You! What a fool I 
was never to have suspected (turning) — a fool — a fool — and, by Jove! 
what a situation! I beg your pardon, Honoria. (He looks out of the 
window, starts, draws back, then slowly and deliberately draws down the 
shade. Honoria remains motionless in her chair.) 

Theresa Helium, 1908. 


The winds that blow at sunset 

Across my meaner years, 
They blow away the city streets, 

They blow away my fears. 

The hills we know of rise again 
Up to the gay March west; 
The untouched world lies open 
And the farthest way seems best. 

Mary Isabelle O'Sullivan, 1907. 




All alone I sit 
While the fire dies : 
While the swallow cries, 
While the lamps are lit, 
All alone I sit. 

All alone I sit, 
And my thoughts are loud 
While the shadows crowd 
Where my fancies flit. 
All alone I sit. 

All alone I sit : 
Once a heart was mine, 
Once a love like wine 
To my lips was held; 
And I drank untired, 
And I lived inspired. 

the rapture knelled! 
the dream dispelled! 
Now with fingers knit 
All alone I sit. 

All alone I sit. 

Ah ! the fire burns bright 

Where they laugh to-night, 

Sitting side by side 

In the evening-tide. 

Unadorned, unfit, 

All alone I sit. 

All alone I sit. 

How the charred logs crack 

As the ash drops back. 

In a dark unlit 

All alone I sit. 

Content Shepard Nichols, 1899. 



H. Taine : Sa vie et sa correspondance. 

La vie n'est plus une fete dont on jouit, mais un concours oil, Von rivalise 
. . . plus un salon oil Von cause, mats un laboratoire o-u Von pense. Croyez- 
vous qu'un laboratoire on un concours soient des endroits gaisf Les traits y 
sant contractus, les yeux fatigue's, le front soucieux, les joues p&les. 

Causeries de Lundi. XIII. 

THE four stout yet discreetly edited volumes of Taine's correspon- 
dence,, of which the singiilarly attaching last volume has only 
recently been published, form a long, a touching and informing, 
commentary on the words of veiled apology and generalised con- 
fession I have quoted from one of his earliest essays. In the fifty years 
since they were written, the young apostle of scientific methods has himself 
in a sort gone over to the ranks, and has inherited the great, though 
damaged, prestige, of the academic and classic philosophers he was busy 
at this time with undermining. His scientific heresies we have all encoun- 
tered as stubborn superstitions, as a clinging academic bondage in our- 
selves. He contributed to stamp his era, — -at the least to pin a label upon 
it ; the era has apparently passed. 

Conceivably now, however, in place of the battered doctorial bonnet 
and dingy professorial toga, there is ready for him a garland not tran- 
siently green. Sainte-Beuve, who liked even his "thinkers" with not over- 
much of effort on their brows, might have ranged him on the simple 
showing of the Letters, among a certain line of French classics — the small 
transfigured band of the informal moralists, not uncongenial to Taine's 
inmost preference and piety. La Bruyere is his high forefather; Montes- 
quieu, Vauvenargues, de Tocqueville, it is surely not unfair to name as at 
least his collateral relations. De Tocqueville in especial and obviously de- 
fines with precision "the moment and the milieu" that ended with Taine's 
troubled first appearance upon a stage of thought and performance the 
Coup d'Etat had swept dismally clean; by contrast it defines his own. 
Crushed in body and spirit, the delicate and vanquished patrician left the 


painful rummaging of national archives, the trial and strict summary 
justice upon Ancien Beginie and Revolution, to a haler, and a more 
indomitable, if scarcely a more cheerful, or a more sincere and conscientious, 
intelligence. The Coup d'Etat that for the moment seemed to finish what 
the Terror and the Empire had begun, drove the one critic into premature 
retirement; it clouded the other's beginnings. Its shadow, far more than 
that of thought itself, sicklied o'er the lives of both. It explains in itself 
the pallid cheeks and anxious brows. 

I mention particularly this natural affiliation because the more con- 
ventional formulas for French talent and character have no natural and 
complete application to the personal quality and manner Taine's Letters 
at any rate exhibit, howsoever it may seem convenient to docket still the 
main body of his hitherto published work. "Gallic salt' 4 is somewhat 
notably absent; so is "Celtic sensibility." No doubt there is present 
sufficient structure, order, and more than sufficient straight-line advance. 
These things it is easy to call, as Taine calls them, Latin; — at least after 
him, it is easy. Products of system and discipline, of honest parentage 
and sane early training, it is perhaps as intelligible to call them. They 
are seen as much in Scotland as in France. 

There may be some justice in addition in remarking how with Taine, 
as with his natural literary ancestors, the simple resources of Paris in 
books and men, museums and associates, went for a very great deal. La 
Bruyere implies Moliere and Saint-Simon, Bourdaloue and Madame de 
Sevigne, — in a word, half Versailles and le grand siecle, merely now to 
fairly understand him; Vauvenargues, Christian and Stoic, still agonised 
and schemed and borrowed merely to get to Paris. Taine, vowed already 
to austerity of mind and body, to consuming his own smoke even, in 
Puritanic and bourgeois recognition that this is a modern law of life and 
success, Taine, even, exiled to the provinces, to mud and gloom and to 
colleagues whose failure to have more than assez a" esprit was to all intents 
failure to have any, found tobacco, Hegel, and music no sure receipt for 
manly fortitude. But due allowance once decently taken for our poor and 
inconsistent human nature and youthful tendency to dramatise something, 
if only sterility and ennui, the normally impressionable reader is struck 
by a notable evenness of tone. The high and tonic ethics of the suffering 
schoolboy, and the despondent professor, remain those of the suffering 


celebrity; we have to do with the moral history of a sage under modern 

For if Mill was the "Saint of nationalism,"— Gladstone's phrase is 
more than verbally striking, — weak in the saintly vagaries, the hysterical 
crises and weaknesses, strong in sanctity's sense of election, and all within 
the pale of Logic, Taine was surely its Sage. While even a proclaimed 
disciple of Mill, the late Leslie Stephen, felt impelled, when writing of Mill, 
to pause and consider that "a philosopher owes more than is generally per- 
ceived to the moral quality that goes with masculine vigor" and due acquaint- 
ance with the masculine passions; and while Sainte-Beuve, quasi-maternal 
as is his forbearance towards de Tocqueville's almost feminine sensibility 
and fragility, still can never take him quite gravely as a personage, Taine 
should satisfy the plainest men. He was neither mystic nor martyr; 
neither "kid glove apostle," "porcelain all through," as Mrs. Grote said of 
de Tocqueville, nor doctrinaire. He had passions, and a very human bent of 
will. Both he was able to control; the passion for truth was ascendant, 
and the will was turned to pursuit of truth. As honest as Mill, and as 
stainless and blameless as de Tocqueville, his worldly affairs were naturally 
much less apt for the display of a delicate sense of virtue and patriotic 
obligation than those of either of the other philosophers. He had neither 
a country estate nor an East India Company berth. He had to work hard 
for his living, often in weariness and suffering, — to teach even after he 
was famous. Yet he married, discreetly and happily; he had children; 
and though not without much fatigue and the usual losses, he managed 
to fill out in fair prosperity a fair measure of his three score years and 
ten. His probity, independence, and good judgment — qualities "rational" 
in the everyday sense — but elevated the common lot in his own. 

It cannot be particularly profitable to push deeper or carry farther the 
well-worn question of Taine's perhaps rather bourgeois fibre. A majority 
of such Philistines would save France, as England could endure, her 
social order unshaken, a large body of such doctrinaires as Mill. 

And it is wholly too late or too early to fret oneself with defining 
Taine's rank among thinkers. The tide of methodology ran high; now it 
runs low. Meanwhile a large body of practical folk, for whom chiefly 
it is worth the while of thinkers to think, use as innocently, as blithely, 
as M. Jourdain his prose, Taine's broader and juster formulas. But these 


preoccupied and sensible and straight-seeking "men of action" are not the 
ones to whom it is growing daily more important to reiterate what at the 
time of their first brilliant literary exploitation Walter Bagehot was at 
pains to remind us, that "national characteristics," namely, as commonly 
understood and handled, "are the greatest commonplaces in the world." 
The time is certainly passed when they can be worn as literary feathers 
in the cap. Taine himself was only too conscious that a general idea, like 
a ready-made label, has for feeble or ill-furnished intelligences great and 
dangerous attractions, ^productive of mental paralysis or idle nervous 
coruscations. In a less wary moment of glory in his own athletic prowess 
he exclaims that "Germans make intolerable hypotheses; Frenchmen make 
none; and Englishmen do not even suspect that any could be made." 

But Frenchmen learned the pastime very promptly from him; and 
they have ever since found no better vehicle for eloquence and esprit than 
a battledore and shuttlecock demonstration in connection with these same 
battered general ideas. 

Meanwhile we in America, having heard by way of Arnold and Eng- 
land a goading, fascinating gospel of Grace by Ideas, that seemed to have 
much reference to Taine, and to France; and Taine having been put into 
sprightly English and upon open shelves even in High Schools, — we 
Americans have fallen to applying his hypotheses with abundant good- 
will and energy. They have long done us yeoman service as pegs to 
sustain our own adventurous disquisitions and dissertations, and inci- 
dentally in saving our brains for the serious business of inventing, and 
making money, or "appreciating" things overseas. 

All this cannot well be helped. We cannot all attain to ideas for 
ourselves, even with the best intentions. What we yet can quite readily 
accomplish, if only we care to take the time to read now and then in some 
patience a few s\ich records as this of intellectual achievement, is a simpler, 
a more grateful, spirit towards those ideas by whose grace indeed, and 
beyond our knowledge of them, we live. Such vital ideas above all as that 
mental labor is not wholly futile, and that perception of truth, in some 
measure, rewards its faithful pursuit. 

I shall run through the volumes of his Letters less on the outlook 
for the rare resonance and bravery of thought which still remind here and 
there of the splendid and strident Centurion of the English Literature, 


dazzling into passing subjugation a hitherto dreary province, than for 
traits of the citizen, and tokens of the sage, at work in his "laboratory 
of ideas." 

There is one really capital story of Renan, which Taine says "m'a 
paru sublime" (August, 1871). I quote this brief trait des mceurs un- 
translated. It is worth while at the start to be conscious that the critic's 
high and austere function was performed through the dubious splendours 
of the Second Empire, — as trying and disciplinary an hour for heroic 
intellectualising as any gallant spirit could require. 

Vous savez que Renan, en Juillet, 1870, est alle au cap Nord avec le prince 
Napolfion. II a trouve sur le navire Mile. L., jeune actrice que le prince 
honorait de ses bontes. Tous dinaient ensemble. Au bout de quelques jours 
Mile. L. prit le prince k part, lui dgclara que "sa conscience etait troublee, 
que c'Gtait mal a lui de la faire diner avec un renegat, un impie." 

In connection with Eenan, this is an acute yet a very sympathetic 
note-book analysis. The two famous critics had just been, for the first 
time, much thrown together. 

He is above all a man passionately possessed by his thought, — nervously 
obsessed. He kept walking up and down my room as if it were a cage, with 
the gestures, the incisive, eager, impetuous tone that belongs to surging, rushing 
invention. He is very different from Berthelot, who remains still and quiet 
like an ox, bearing toil with patience, chewing the cud of his idea and resting 
upon it. . . . Renan is not of "the world." He doesn't know how to talk 
with women ; he has to have specialists to talk with. He has no tact for seizing 
and using opportunities, for intrigue. He is above all a man charged with his 
idea, a priest full of his God. It is thus that he esteems himself, — and autant 
qu'il faut. 

Taine finds him, too, without philosophical principles, with "impres- 
sions"; — the next critical generation lies already in the bosom of the last. 
But still in the lecture room he rather gave, — too much, Taine thought, — 
"a priestly benediction" along with plain lessons in construing Hebrew 
that emptied the benches of curious and idle mondaines. 

Here is another note-book definition as suggestive for contemporary 
preciosity : 

All our criticism seems to me a thing belonging peculiarly to France. It 
Is not, as Gaston Paris alleges, simple rhetoric and agreeable fantasy. The 


basis of its tone and temper is found in the fine intelligence of Sainte-Beuve, 
Stendhal, MerimS, Balzac. . . . The author is a psychologist, in ardent 
pursuit of moral information. His centre is intimate acquaintance with the 
human intelligence and the human heart. Hence his style, — that is, a form 
delicate and accurately shaded, — is a simple necessity for him. If he writes 
well it is not merely for the sake of writing well ; it is precisely that he may 
render the shadings, and make his pictures genuine portraits. Psychological 
portraits, that is the phrase exactly to express our need and our talent. 

There is possibly present a slight, if well-warranted, professional 
arrogance. Here is a study, after as excellent documents, of that opposite 
spirit, the philologist. Indeed more than even Kenan or Sainte-Beuve or 
any other, he held his German friend, the Orientalist, Frank Woephe, 
worthy of respect. 

But according to Gaston Paris I am wrong iu regarding as self-abnegation 
and distinguished virtue the life and pursuits (la conduite) of the true philo- 
logist. . . . His is not simply the masculine virtue, the zeal of the stone- 
cutter dreaming of the future cathedral, but a passion, a veritable instinct and 
taste. . . . Gaston Paris says he is not interested in the individual, in the 
awkward and rasping voice of the barbarian laming a Latin articulation, nor 
in the costume and attitude of jongleur reciting a clwnson de geste at a feudal 
court. . . . The vowel itself is the point . . . and the laws revealed. 

In these extracts we have of course simply the celebrated "method," 
if not in all its splendid panoply, at least without its worst aspect of 
rigidity, so to speak, in its making, where its value is most positive. Some- 
what more in outline of its preparation may be in place. 

The first volume of the Correspondence is entitled Jeunesse — Youth. 
But one must not look for the ordinary elements of that period, for color, 
or motion. Yet youth for Taine was not without a sympathetic bloom. 
One ma}' quote the delicate verses of Victor de Laprade, less in reproach 
than as the natural picture of the boyhood of a gentle French sage, and of 
French education in ideally typical expression: 

II est beau d'etre un raisonneur, 
De tout lire et de tout entendre, 
De remporter les prix d'honneur ! 
C'est, je crois, un plus grand bonheur, 
D'etre un enfant, aimant et tendre. 


Taine, like both Sainte-Beuve and Renan, lost bis father in his early 
childhood; remporter les prix d'honneur was not without practical 
obligation. His patrimony amounted to 1200 francs a year. For the rest, 
he had an intelligent and wholly devoted mother, and capably sympathetic 
uncles and aunts. He was his sister's tutor until and even after he entered 
the Ecole norm-ale superieure, where his gentle and domesticated bearing 
won him the nickname of ''Mademoiselle." 

A great deal of speculation has been spent on the probable conse- 
quences, had Mill been sent to a public school and a university. Both 
Taine and de Tocqueville were so sent, and besides winning scholastic dis- 
tinctions, they made devoted, appreciative friends. Taine was wretched at 
first, and shortly exceedingly happly. "The first by a long way in all 
classes and in all examinations," according to the Professor of Philosophy, 
M. Vacherot, who left a memorandum analysis of him quite clairvoyant in 
its delicate prevision of just what the man would be famed for and 
attacked for being, Taine was none the less cherished by his brilliant 
fellow-students with warmth and fidelity. The infatuation of and for the 
dazzling Prevost-Paradol, the tender affection for the finer natured Edouard 
de Suckau, show pretty well Taine's natural human gamut; with these 
two friends, both of whom died early, the younger Taine seems most 
himself. The letters from and to Prevost-Paradol have become a legend 
not unlike that of Mill's precocity. 

It is unnecessary to recapitulate the many grievous academic disap- 
pointments Taine suffered from politics and excessive originality. But 
much of his later nervous suffering, if not due as he sometimes fancies 
precisely to hope deferred, has yet its quite natural explanations in mental 
work taken as opiate in the provinces, and in efforts to circumvent failure 
on tbe principle dear to Vauvenargues and other honest men, "that the 
best way to win success is still to deserve it." Thirst for more scientific 
knowledge — anatomy in view of psychology — and a dumbing laryngitis 
together led shortly to his complete retirement as a Professor, and his 
return to Paris again. 

Meantime the volume on the classic French philosophers, prize essays 
written for Academic notice, the Voyage aux Pyrenees — in quest of health 
and to pay its cost — and finally the "History of English Literature," were 
written in intervals between long wastes of cerebral exhaustion and pain, 


lasting in extreme severity for five or six years, and in mitigated form 
for his life. 

Like others even of the sages, he traces now and then the vicious 
circles of nervous depression. Knowledge only is valuable, and knowledge 
is productive of headache. When one's head aches, one cannot think 
clearly. Ergo, knowledge is unattainable, and the world is a painful 
enigma. However, there is always Marcus Aurelius, the Evangelist of the 
weary and wise. 

In the full flush of fame, on the practical completion of the English 
Literature, he writes these introspective notes : 

Perhaps I am mistaken, deceived, and am following a deceitful course. The 
Critics generally say about me : "Oversystematic, forced." They have said this, 
even when well-disposed. One ought to pay great attention to, and to place 
great reliance in, the general impression of the public. 

He resumes his fatigue from writing: 

Probably my manner of writing is contrary to Nature, since it does me 
such harm. . . . When I study myself it strikes me that my state of mind 
has changed, that I have destroyed in myself a talent, that of the orator and 
rhetorician. My ideas no longer take on logical connection as formerly ; I have 
flashes of insight, strong sensations, perceptions, words and images, — in a word, 
my state of mind is much more that of an artist than of a serious writer. I 
struggle against both tendencies. 

He describes the method of the English Literature, — 

Paint like an artist, and construct like a philosopher. The idea in itself is 
just and sound ; moreover, when one can fairly put it into practice it produces 
powerful effects. I owe my success to this, but it unhinges the mind, and it is 
not one's duty to destroy oneself. 

There is fortunately a natural issue-r-a natural and a logical also, 
from the horns of this cruel, but perhaps not uncommon, dilemma. Taine, 
like many another since Thucydides and no doubt some before him, took 
refuge in historical study. There intervened a moment of exhaustion, and 
of various flirtations with fiction, travel notes, and social sketches after 
the model of La Bruyere. These notes of Paris and London are not 
without real and lasting value, — but Taine's head ached, he liked domestic 
life, and the necessary high spirits are now and then considerably forced. 


The Taine of the last two volumes of the Letters has the note of authority 
and certainly the note of distinction that is wanting in "M. Graindorge." 
The assumption of the role was imperfect; the choice of the masque, inapt. 

In such passage as Taine's, moreover, from the "History of English 
Literature" to the Origines de la France contemporainej we mark clearly 
once again his "moment," — clearly, but not, I think, speciously. Taine 
was to learn the necessary lesson Germany had to teach, — "the German gift," 
as he calls it, "for boring oneself," — from the Franco-Prussian War, and 
from grief, anxiety, preoccupation with the moral destiny of France. A 
"modern" who finds in History his escape from a too painful present is 
not nowadays in danger of erring on the side of partiality, unscrupulous- 
ness, and optimistic visions. Sincerely sensitive to the honest criticism 
his English Literature had met with, fortified by psychological research 
for his favorite work, L' Intelligence, he turned to those same immense 
stores of political and moral data under whose burden de Tocqueville had 
fainted and which Thiers and Michelet only had borne with apparent 
gallantry, because German thoroughness and patience was virtually un- 
known as constraining historical example in their day. 

The same mood of crushing sadness, the same world-weariness at the 
disclosures of Eevolutionary documents that had hastened and predicted 
de Tocqueville's collapse, assailed Taine often and heavily, at times, in dis- 
charging his Herculean task. Their words are often strangely identical, 
above all their stern moralist's judgment of Napoleon, and the social havoc 
wrought by his Code. Taine as always finds a formula: "The greatest 
genius of modern times; an egoism equal to his genius." 

Taine, however, laboured on for a score of years. And during these 
years he finally emerges, patriot, philosopher, sage. Ambition became 
purged, and effort, with him, almost wholly disinterested, lofty, serene. 
The incidental expressions of the man become more attractive. His fame, 
to be sure, was established, and he lived in much domestic peace and 
content. His friends were the elite of France. He was honoured by the 
rest of the learned world. 

The picture of an Oxford dinner, with Swinburne present, Jowett and 
Arnold, and Taine making his "plus douce patte de velours" — his softest' 
velvet paw — to Miss Mary Arnold, whom he finds so wise yet so winsome, 
till he gets from her the modest confession that she also has written "a 


maiden article," is not without interest and charm both for itself and for 
the personal side of the philosopher. Much more significant is the whole 
correspondence concerning his election in November, 1878, after a pre- 
liminary failure the previous spring, to the French Academy. 

To oblige Eenan and variously to save his feelings, Taine consented 
to stand in the first place for the fauteuil of Thiers, Eenan standing at the 
same time for another, more congenial to him, while Eenan's personal 
friend, Henri Martin (who was, in the event, elected), appeared as a rival 
to Taine. In token of formal candidacy Taine wrote to his sponsor, 
Dumas fils, signifying his own perfect willingness to pronounce an eloge 
of Thiers, if elected to fill his seat. He writes : 

As to M. Thiers, like every Frenchman, I remember what he did in 
1870 to prevent the War, and in 1871 to put down the Commune. I feel a 
deep sentiment of respect for and gratitude towards him ; moreover, speaking 
as a critic and historian, I admire his flexibility of mind, his almost universal 
capacity, his gifts, practical and oratorical, his lucidity, activity, and courage ; 
and I believe that few men have loved France as much and as well as he. 

Taine was not yet immersed to the ears in the documents and data 
for the history of Consulate and Empire — the ground Thiers had covered 
in his time. Later,— not in connection with the convenances et bien- 
seances of an Academy election, — he becomes more austere towards Thiers. 
In 1883 he writes: 

I already knew something of the chauvinism and frivolous facility (I6geret6) 
of M. Thiers. . . , but I did not know to what degree he had carried this 
facility. He was a Southern (un meridional) with a great power of assimilation 
and of drawing conclusions. This explains how, otherwise so much occupied, he 
was able to achieve these twenty volumes." 

The formula, and a valid one, laid down, Taine proceeds to show 
Thiers at work by means of secretaries and memory, chiefly; the "scien- 
tific method" single-stick flies fast and falls hard on the old, easy, the 
pleasant, picturesque, the vague, and vulgar waj', of history-making. 

The judgment is almost as terrible and nearly as fine a bit of invective 
as Lord Acton's upon Macaulay for supreme talent and moral base- 
ness in the use of his materials. Anyhow the two judgments of Taine, 
"controlling" one another, give much the same evidence of splendid 


critical talent in pla) r , rejoicing more in its own sinew and reach than in 
final critical wholeness. 

Yet Lord Acton has also another brief word for Macaulay, larger, 
serener, juster after all at this distance, and allowing for the fact that 
German intervention has come wholly since Macaulay's day. "Macaulay," 
he wrote to Miss Gladstone, "and Mackintosh are simply Burke trimmed 
and stripped of all that touched the skies." Taine would have granted 
this readily, holding still that Burke's mere mundane wisdom was a good 
tiring to get itself repeated, and that England should be happy and grateful 
for so much of plain political wisdom vouchsafed to its present needs. 
Thus to M. de Vogue, in later life Taine's friend by ties of genuine affec- 
tion across their marked and many differences of faith, he writes with 
strong catholic conviction: 

You do well to love Macaulay ; his head and heart are both of the sanest 
and soundest; and as to art, style, he has not (he quite agrees here with Lord 
Acton) his equal in Europe. In England they find him less than once to their 
taste. So much the worse for the English public. 

The Speeches he especially considered, — precisely what Lord Acton 
even prized, — as more stamped with the seal of authority in the ancient 
sense than any European writing since Pascal. And indeed if the Provin- 
cial Letters be taken as predicting modern personal morality and private 
rectitude, the Speeches may conceivably be found prophetic for that 
national honour and international equity towards which so many just 
sustaining hopes now set. 

Indeed, for the last decade of his life all of Taine's influence is thrown 
— courteous!}', with open and fair curiosity, never crossly, but still with 
fervour and conviction — to stem the tide of mental and moral confusion, 
impressionism and naturalism, run riot, and half-truths of passing emotion, 
hysterically advanced as the whole. 

The most winning phase of this elderly, conservative, yet sympathetic 
temper comes out in his intimate letters to his fatherless nephew, M. Andre 
Chevrillon, a young universitaire and litterateur, suffering from ennui in 
the provinces as Taine himself at the same age had suffered ; and in 
advice to his own young daughter. Some of this is too just not to quote. 

One profits by persons (i. e., serious writers, notably historians) who are 


not "sympathetic" ; it is enough if they are accurate and instructive ; this par- 
ticular writer (Havet) is besides very able and excellent as such, and his point 
of view, admiration for antiquity, is among the most acceptable of the possible 
points of view. 

Another letter is among the notably charming in point both of style 
and of temper. I quote its beginning in French: 

Je suis bien contente que tu sois si heureuse; profite de ta verve et de ta 
jeunesse. De tels souvenirs te resteront; j'en ai quelques uns surtout rapportes 
de Fontainebleau, l'un des derniers est d'un amphitheatre a neuf heures de 
matin, au debut du printemps, des myriads de jeunes arbres, et des millions de 
jeunes pousses dans un voile mince de vapeur bleuatre, avec la sensation de la 
vie universelle. . . . 

And since you talk with me of your reading, I beg Andre (M. Chevrillon) 
not to recite Verlaine to you, and you yourself not to read the lyrical poems of 
Elizabeth Browning. All this sort of thing, and Rossetti and Swinburne in 
England, with the Goncourts and Daudet and Bourget and the decadents in 
France, is in itself unhealthy, unsound. . . . They all leave out the half of 
art and are like lame men who having atrophied one leg should be proud of 
hobbling on the other. There are always two parts to a work, the one imme- 
diately perceptible, consisting in lively, intimate, and vehement expression, giving 
the writer's personal and direct and instant mode and manner of feeling, the 
other intellectual, consisting of a general notion and a sense of relative propor- 
tion, in rigorous structure, in the logical co-ordination of all the elements and 
of all the effects produced, in view of a final and total effect. Daudet at the 
head of the list, values and understands only the first half ; they deny the 
second from inability to reach it . . . they will pass away like a fashion ; 
no artist has ever endured except by uniting the two capacities, and the second 
is even more essential than the first if one wishes to last and to be intelligible. 

The case of rational canons for Art could not be more temperately 
and persuasively put; nor the case of the reverence owing to the young, 
more discreetly and candidly at once. Both the veteran critic and the 
father speak in all sobriety. 

To M. Bourget himself there are letters as sound, as friendly, and 
even more earnest. Taine seems to have been shocked in his inmost 
sensibilities by M. Bourget's famous Le Disciple, and the practical conse- 
quences therein deduced from a psychology and deterministic creed that 
were bound to pass with the profane as standing indeed for Taine's own. 
He had hesitated to express his uneasy regret. "Pourquoi faire de la peine, 
et inutilement, a un homme qu'on estime, a un esprit qu'on aime?" 


For sum total impression the novel, however, strikes him as bound 
to seem to a fair-minded reader as an attack, a valid attack, either upon 
morality (with young and anarchic persons) or, with the conservative, 
upon science. The Master, Sixte, is not justly presented as a philosopher; 
he has neither positive attainments nor practical experience behind his 

En fait d'etudes sur le inonde moral il n'a pas fait une seule monographic 
historique, une seule de ces preparations anatomiques par lesquelles on etudie 
de premiere main, avec ses propres yeux, un homme, une affairs, un fragment de 
soeietS actuelle ou ancienne. . . . Sixte . . . n'a vu du monde r6el que 
la boutique de sou pere et les badauds du jardin des Plantes. . . . Les noms 
de bon et de mauvais, de vice et de vertu ne sont pas des termes de convention, 
des qualifications arbitraire ; ils expriment l'essence des actes et des indi- 
vidus. . . . 

The Puritans for three centuries, the Stoics for five hundred years, were 
the most penetrating observers, the most learned physicians, the severest hygien- 
ists, of the soul ; nay, more and better, they gave the fairest examples of 
austerity, virtue, and moral energy, and they were, the ones predestinatorians, 
the others pantheists, fatalists. To my mind, true science and complete philos- 
ophy concludes not with Sixte, but with Marcus Aurelius. 

Here is the definitive Taine. The same man, — the Puritan of all the 
ages and races, shall one venture to call him, — objects to the Goncourt 
version of the Magny dinners, — he would not have gone twice if the talk 
had been as recorded, — in reality it passed above the heads of the note- 
takers. Already dubbed of some "classique et Prudhomme " "old-fogy and 
Philistine," he is yet not in doubt for an instant with respect to Tour- 
genieff, "the man and the artist were both so rich and so complete in 
him." Objecting as he does to Le Disciple he rejoices in the pathos as in 
the psychologic truth of even Virgin Soil. And in the matter of classifi- 
cation (again to M. Bourget) of himself, "he would wish," not the label 
of pessimist, but to be classed along with, though still of course below, 
Stendhal and Sainte-Beuve, "who find the world, if not good, still pas- 
sable." His final eulogy for Sainte-Beuve is for "the perfect probity of 
his literary life," — the human wholeness of all his portraits. He esteems 
him his Master to the end. 

If life, as he repeats to bis closest friend of forty years, M. Emile 
Boutmy, "is not gay," and if modern increased sensibility to pain is a 


doubtful good and a doubtful token of "progress"; if indeed to be a sage 
is to be "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," fatigue still vaut mieux 
que delire.. Better with Mill to be "Socrates dissatisfied than a pig satis- 
fied." To the end the weary Titan responded to Kenan's exhortation: 
Redoublons de travail! 

These are the high days of Pragmatism, implicit where not yet pro- 
claimed. No doubt it will dredge up its data from the wastes, the deeps. 
Will this add to or overthrow "the dykes that our fathers built?" — 
equity, sobriety, philanthropy— the Puritan ideas that so readily pass into 
ideals. It is of course too soon to be sure. Meantime: 

Old things need not be therefore true ! 
O brother man, — nor yet the new; 
Ah! still awhile the old thought retain, 
And yet consider it again! 

The boon of Taine's Letters at the moment, their minute history of 
a Rationalist's career, is that it drives one to certain reconsiderations. 
Conceivably here and there they may give an almost persuaded Pragmatist 
pause, and ordered thinking yet a short reprieve. 

Maud Elizabeth Temple, 1904. 



I am Demeter that hath lost her child, 

The fair Persephone of numbered years, 
The yellow-tressed, the tender-eyed and mild. 

I weep, but there is none in pity hears, 

None offers comfort for my groans and fears, 
None guesses me a goddess, nor divine 

This bowed and unbound head, these stricken tears; 
None pays a sacrifice nor asks a sign, 
And no one tends the fires of my deserted shrine. 

The God of Hades saw Persephone, 

In Enna's fields among her maids at play. 
Violet-lidded and white-ankled, she 

Was fair to eyes of men as waking day, 

And Dis, inflamed with love that knew no stay, 
Bore her with speed to gloomy halls below, 

And weeping loud, her maidens fled away. 
Then I in anger quenched the eager glow 
Of spring, withered the earth, and sent the winter snow. 

No more will sunshine, strengthening and bright, 

Stir all the hidden life in wood and plain, 
No more will April change her robes of light 

To misty dimnes& of the sudden rain 

That flashes into radiance again. 
No more the hearts of men shall strangely yearn 

Tow'rd something prophesied when spring shall wane, 
Nor yellow stars, signs of the summer, burn, 
Until Persephone return, till she return. 


The silken wind that fanned the poplar leaves 
To silver whispers in the fragrant air 

Among the blighted branches wails and grieves. 
The little birds that once made merry there 
Have fled from homes so desolate and bare, 

Silence has followed that sweet-throated throng 
And she shall reign until Demeter's pray'r 

Have moved the gods to pity for her wrong 

And young Persephone return with light and song. 

To rouse the blossoms from their wintry beds 

No more will southern winds their clarion blow, 
Nor daffodils raise up their golden heads, 

The first to answer, through the melting snow. 

No more, when prisoned rivers seaward flow. 
Will youthful shepherds in the valley tune 

Their oaten pipes and, wand'ring to and fro, 
Tending their flocks through the long afternoon, 
Pipe to their dryad loves that spring will be here soon. 

Ah ! none will sing the merry songs of spring, 
Loosing the bonds of hearts too long oppressed, 

Nor air will throb to beat of fragile wing, 
Nor any rise to call Demeter blest 
That she hath suckled earth at her own breast, 

Given new life and promised rich increase, 
Nor shall her altar with reward be dressed, 

Until grim Dis be wrought on to release 

Her child Persephone and she return in peace. 

Oh ! give her back unto these empty arms 

That pillowed once her little golden head, 
That sheltered her from childhood's vague alarms, 

That she, play-wearied, made her nightly bed. 

cruel Fate, cut not the slender thread 
That binds the life of young Persephone, 

Number her not among the shadowy dead, 
But from the iron fetters set her free 
And from the fields of asphodel send her to me. 


my Persephone, come back to earth, 

To her who waits all desolate and drear, — 
Then shall I give the year another birth, 

When you, nay beloved child, are here, 

Kaising the buried days from their sad bier; 
And men shall marvel and at first be dumb, 

Then whisper swiftly : "Lo ! the spring is here/' 
jSTot knowing yet the miracle : that from 
Dis to Demeter glad Persephone is come. 

Louise Foley, 1908. 



AS the carriage drove along the white and moonlit road, Laurence 
Dwight eagerly seized his last opportunity to wonder and puzzle 
over his coming situation, one that involved on his part the oddest 
agreement, and on his employer's the strangest demand. These 
were the very words he had used a few days before, in his interview with 
the latter's lawyer. "A Mr. Humphrey Ladd," the old man had concisely 
stated, "formerly a client of mine, writes from his estate, Highlands, asking 
me to hunt up a tutor for his son. The child, he says, was severely 
injured a year ago, and has been ever since confined to his room. The 
salary is absurdly large." He mentioned a sum which fairly staggered 
Dwight, and taking up a letter went on : " 'The man must be able to 
suppress completely any outward signs of curiosity which events may 
stir in his mind.' " The old man looked sharply across at his companion. 
"In other words, to put it briefly, unless you realise the meaning and the 
value of discretion, you are certainly not the man for this place." 

Dwight, however, soon managed to convince the lawyer that he was, 
after all, the man, and, a few days sufficing for his preparations, he at 
last found himself approaching his destination. It was late in the fall, 
yet a night, notwithstanding, of warm and dying wind from the south that 
faintly swayed the leafless branches. As they left the village and the 
railroad far behind, from time to time he interrupted his reminiscences 
to glance at the woods on either side of the ascending road, or the distant 
light from some lonely house gleaming for a moment through the trees. 
But at last they turned from the steep high road, passed through open 
gates and finally stopped in front of a large square house, almost sur- 
rounded by pine trees. The moon had now gone under a cloud, and 
Dwight as he went up the steps could see little of the further character 
of the place. He had barely rung when a servant ushered him into the 
hall, which, to the young man fresh from the darkness outside, seemed to 
glow with candles and with firelight. From a half-opened door on one 
side of the room he became aware of the sound of two low voices, first a 


man's voice reading aloud, " 'All cannot be happy at once, for because 
the glory of one state depends upon the ruins of another, there is a 
revolution and vicissitude of their greatness, and men must obey the swing 
of the wheel, not moved by Intelligence, but by the hand of God, whereby 
all — ' " then a woman's voice interrupting, "How very wonderful that is ; 
but Humphrey, I think he has come." 

Dwight's first glimpse of the room was to remain with him for many 
years, as would the remembrance of certain paintings. Though the light 
was far more tempered than in the hall, it sufficed for him to make out 
the strange and beautiful tone of the walls, the many rows of books, and 
near the hearth, where the embers still shone, a fragile woman, leaning 
back in her chair, with her long, pale face, reddish hair, and hands loosely 
clasped in the silver gray folds of her gown. 

"Jessica," said Mr. Ladd, as the two men approached her chair, "this 
is Mr. Dwight. We are fortunate, are we not?" 

She looked up at this, and Dwight marvelled at the changing green 
of her eyes. "Yes," she replied in a sweet and monotonous voice, "we 
are very fortunate. I hope so much," she went on, "that you will not 
mind being so away from the world. We must seem to you quite removed. 
I'm sorry you may not see Ivan this evening, but he is surely asleep by 

At her mention of the child a look of pain passed momentarily over 
her husband's face, which sharply and vividly recalled to Dwight the 

"But how thoughtless of us," Mr. Ladd hastily threw in, "to keep 
you up, when you must be longing to rest after your tiresome journey." 

"We are putting you next to Ivan," said Mrs. Ladd, turning again 
to the young man. "Good-night." Her voice had now lost for him its 
former monotonous quality, these few last words revealing almost miracu- 
lously her rare and charming candour. 

Later in the evening, after he had become somewhat familiar with 
the arrangement of his two rooms, had somewhat appreciated their obvious 
yet not jarring air of selection and elimination, he began to look over 
the books in his study, to find one presently quite to his mind. But a 
sound from the next room, which he had already surmised was Ivan's, 
soon roused him. Some one had evidently entered very noiselessly from 


the hall. Laying down his book, he listened intently, and recognised the 
voice of Mrs. Ladd. "Ivan, Ivan," she was softly repeating, and then, 
"How soundly he sleeps to-night." Some one else, at the same moment, 
hurried past his door : it was Mr. Ladd calling "Jessica." She joined him 
at once in the passageway. 

"You promised me," Dwight heard him exclaim, "not to go to Ivan 
at night. You might so easily disturb him; and he must, he must sleep. 
Come to bed, it's very late." 

These were the last words that Dwight could distinguish as the two 
moved slowly away. An hour later a sound from the child's room again 
drew him from his book, this time evidently a shutter loosened by the 
rising wind. "They said the child must sleep," he reflected, as he opened 
the door connecting his study with Ivan's room, to see to the fastening. 
The moonlight streamed through the windows, falling in cool fantastic 
patches on the walls and floor, revealing the toys in one corner of the 
room neatly arranged on their shelves; the books on the low round table; 
the goldfish by the window, gleaming through a large glass bowl, and in 
another corner a small white bed. But the child, Ivan, for whom Dwight 
looked eagerly, was not there. The little bed, with soft coverings and 
pillow intensely white in the moonlight, stood smooth and empty. Dwight's 
first impulse was to arouse some one in the house; once outside, however, 
in the dimly lighted corridor, he stood for some time in silent indecision, 
as the strange agreement he had made with the lawyer flashed across his 
mind. "I promised," he murmured, retreating to his rooms, "to suppress 
completely any outward signs of curiosity." 

The next morning after breakfast, at which Mrs. Ladd did not 
appear, her husband accompanied Dwight back to his study, where, imme- 
diately entering Ivan's room, he crossed over to the little empty bed. The 
younger man, likewise, after a moment's hesitation, followed his example, 
and from the foot of the bed gazed enquiringly across at his employer, 
waiting for him to break the silence, a silence fraught with a strange and 
heavy significance, a solemnity fairly sacramental, a silence full of fine 
vibrations for the inner ear. And at last he spoke in even, dispassionate 

"I suppose," he began, "you are somewhat astonished not to find Ivan 
here, or possibly you have already discovered his absence." 


Dwight hurriedly explained about the shutter, and Mr. Ladd went on, 
still in the same dispassionate waj r , his face, however, betraying pain at 
dragging from their darkened hiding place his tragic memories to the 
light of day. "Ivan died three months ago. You were told of course of 
the accident — an injury to the spine. The doctors all agreed that in time 
he might recover, and to the very end we believed it, my wife and I; to 
the end we clung desperately to the hope they offered us." After a pause, 
in which he looked toward the windows, away from Ivan's bed, as if 
shrinking from the vision to be conjured there, he murmured, "Ivan 
died, yet the flame of our hope lives on, survives, the blue distorted flame 
which only springs from ashes." He was silent then, while his companion, 
not venturing a sound, a motion, gazed likewise through the windows, and 
saw, in the garden below, the tall and wasted figure of Mrs. Ladd, moving 
slowly through the withered bushes. In the cold glare of the morning 
light, her frail presence brought to him unswervingly the key to these 
last words, intimations of what he was soon to know, words which the wan 
silence had rejected, had flung back to him. He longed to cry out, "I 
know, I understand, you have told me everything." But the older man, 
resuming his former position, again took up the story. 

"Mrs. Ladd was constantly with the child : for weeks, do what I 
could, she rarely left this room. After Ivan's death, she herself became 
ill, dangerously, almost fatally. And now, for her, the child has never 
died." At this moment Dwight looked involuntarily at the figure in the 
garden. She was standing motionless, with her eyes raised toward the 
windows of Ivan's room. "For her he lies here now, as he lay through 
the month of her long, devoted vigil, living and eventually to recover. 
They ask me for a time at least to humour her in this obsession, though 
keeping her away when possible from Ivan's room. I have told her that 
she is not strong enough to stay with him as formerly, I have told her a 
hundred things, lied to her a hundred times. Possibly by this time you 
have made out your task. You, of course, are to join the conspiracy: you 
are to stay with Ivan. It is only thus that I can keep her mind at rest 
about the child." 

The irony of the situation seemed almost to escape him as he moved 
quickly around the bed and seized Dwight by the shoulder. "But you are 
jroing to refuse, I see it in your face." 


"No," said Dwight, overcome by a sudden rush of pity for the older 
man, "I won't refuse; I'll stay while you need me." 

As the time went on, however, he grew increasingly to regret these 
words, words that had placed him in a situation the grimness of which 
threatened every day to reach a monstrous height. The child's room 
came to swarm for him with ominous and lurking possibilities, as well as 
with morbid certainties that never faded. Often at night, awaking sud- 
denly, he would helplessly and slavishly allow his mind to brood upon the 
image of a little bed, always smooth and empty, in the midst of a room 
and possessions which bore crying witness to a living owner. Sometimes 
he dimly felt that he was aiding to establish a strange and unnatural 
relation, one that could only end in misery; that by his mere presence in 
the household, his part in the conspiracy, he was but strengthening the 
links of the tragic chain. In such a mood, he could not bring himself to 
cross the threshold of Ivan's room, but sat for hours in his study, lonely 
and despondent. Yet the entrance of Mr. Ladd, whether alone or with 
Ivan's mother, rarely failed to stir in him again an irresistible impulse 
to be faithfid to his promise. He met a challenge not to be questioned, 
nor avoided, in the worn face and weary, baffled eyes of his employer, mute 
signals of his constant effort to soothe and mitigate the visitation of 
his wife. 

Thus the long winter months passed slowly by, until in the garden 
below the last snow drifts had melted away and a faint green network 
covered all the bushes. On a certain morning, as Dwight lingered at his 
open window, contrasting the meagre traces of the winter with prompt 
and vivid suggestions of the spring, he heard footsteps on the path beneath, 
and presently the voice of Mrs. Ladd. "Our shrubs and bushes," she was 
saying, "will soon be blossoming, and Ivan is so fond of flowers." He 
watched her as she pointed out her fresh discoveries to Mr. Ladd, who 
followed close behind. This incident perhaps brought home to Dwight 
more keenly than ever the tragedy of his employer's lot; and during his 
hours of freedom, later in the day, he walked the roads, oblivious to his 
surroundings, moved by a blinding sense of revolt against the cruelty of 
such a fate. 

One evening in the early spring, as he remained reading far beyond 
his usual hour, Mr. Ladd entered without knocking and silently passed 


through to Ivan's room. There, in the bright moonlight, Dwight watched 
him bending over the little bed. At last he came back to the study, and 
said aloud, "Jessica told me that Ivan looked better this afternoon. I 
really think he does." 

The young man faltered, overcome with pity, and with a passionate 
sense of his utter helplessness in the face of this last vicissitude. Then 
he saw in the eyes of the older man a new peace, a new serenity, and 
instead of answering he murmured, " 'For the glory of one state depends 
upon the ruins of another.' My task is ended." 

Helen Dudley, 1908. 


" MvdaeaOai Tivd <^>a^.i KaX vcrrepov djU-^ecuv. " 

"Hereafter we shall be remembered still," 
Sang Sappho, as, in Lesbian groves apart, 
She taught her band of eager maids the art 
Of song: — of how to catch, with magic skill, 
The note of nightingale; or to distil 
The fragrance from the tender violet's heart ; 
And render all in liquid verse, with dart 
Of love-lit eyes. But "just as, on the hill, 
The shepherd's foot treads down the purple bloom 
Of hyacinth," so erring Time hath bruised 
Thy loveliness, Sappho, and diffused 
Thy precious syllables, though even now 
More sweet and rare than Springtime's faint perfume, 
Or ruddy apple on the topmost bough. 

Clara Lyford Smith, 1907. 
I'r-printed from Tipyn o' Huh. 



THEEE was a deep hush throughout the house of the deceased Jane 
Willis, as, two days after the funeral, the heirs filed into the 
drawing-room of their late mother. It was not the silence of 
passionately controlled sorrow; for these heirs had long since 
passed the emotional period of youth; and they realised that parents, no 
matter how dearly beloved, are apt to grow weary of life when it has been 
very long, and one ought not to begrudge them their rest. Nor was the 
silence one of repressed expectancy. They had all known from childhood 
the just impartiality of the woman who had reared them. It was as if 
the whole afflicted household were uniting in a final gasp of respectful 
solemnity before going on in the ordinary routine of its way. 

The witnesses and the attorney, who were already in the room, rose and 
stood with heads slightly bowed as the heirs entered. First came the 
eldest daughter Jane, accompanied by her husband. She looked the 
embodiment of respectable affliction, with her streaked black hair drawn 
smoothly down beneath her small, straw bonnet; her worn, narrow face; 
her mourning garments that fitted snugly across her huddled shoulders 
and rustled about her feet with a new and ominous importance. They 
were followed by Susan, portly and solemn, on the arm of a stalwart son; 
then Maria with the young face and the wealth of white hair. She occa- 
sionally removed her spectacles to wipe the tears from her lashes; for it 
was she, the unmarried daughter, who had always been at home, and had 
soothed her mother's last hours of pain. Last of all came Lottie, who 
lived in New York, and had an automobile and five servants; and behind 
her, her husband in a fur-lined coat. When they had seated themselves, 
Mr. Fiskins, the attorney, opened his packet and scanned the faces before 
him in some impatience. 

"Is not Mr. Willis coming?" he asked. 

"Ferdinand is late as usual, I suppose," Jane replied. Her voice 
possessed the rather unusual quality of being at the same time low and 


"Then perhaps we ought to wait until he arrives;" Mr. Fiskins 
snapped shut the cover of his watch, and again there was deep stillness. 
The heaviness of the fading flowers mixed with the faint odour of the 
black dyes in the mourning garments gave a peculiar oppressiveness to 
the atmosphere. Mr. Fiskins yawned, the men shuffled, and the women 
exchanged glances of growing irritation. Then the heavy green plush 
portieres were pushed aside and Ferdinand entered the room. 

He was evidently a little ashamed of his tardiness, for he stood a 
moment clutching the curtain and looking rather nervously at his sisters 
before finding a seat. He was tall and finely built, unless perhaps he erred 
a little on the side of corpulency. But he could hardly be called hand- 
some. His hair was too sparse for that, his glance too lifeless; and 
his moustaches, though tawny and luxuriant, drooped too dejectedly. His 
pale, flabby face and weak blue eyes showed, it is to be feared, some signs 
of dissipation; but it could not for a moment be thought that Ferdinand 
Willis could have pursued an intemperate course through viciousness or 
brutality. It was, without doubt, due to the weakness and irresoluteness 
of his temperament. 

But for all this, he held his shoulders with faultless rectitude; and 
the spruceness of his neat black coat, the jauntiness of the gray-checked 
trousers with their immaculate new crease down the front, gave a touch 
of incongruity to the mourning badge upon his arm. 

"If you will be seated, Mr. Willis," the attorney said suavely, "we 
can proceed to the business at once." 

Ferdinand, drooping his eyes beneath the reproving gaze of his sisters, 
obej'ed, and Mr. Fiskins, who had arranged his papers, began to read. It 
was as they expected. Maria was to have the homestead; the rest of the 
property was to be sold and divided share and share alike. As he paused, 
Maria sobbed aloud, and even Jane wiped her eyes. Mr. Fiskins did not, 
however, sit down. He crackled his papers nervously. "There is a — a — 
little more here, in fact a — er — a codicil." The heirs glanced at each 
other, startled. "Are you ready to bear the codicil?" Mr. Fiskins asked. 

They signified that they were. 

"'To my son Ferdinand, who has already obtained from me money 
equal to the sum his sisters will receive at my death, I do hereby bequeath 
the renting-house in which he lives. I do hereby instruct my lawyers to 


see that his debts up to the present date are absolved, but under no condi- 
tion to allow any money to pass into his hands.' " 

Twenty curious eyes were fastened upon the unfortunate object of 
this codicil. Ferdinand stared miserably at the floor. The hot blood 
surged about the roots of his thin hair and coloured his ears scarlet. He 
ran his fingers up and down the crease in his trousers, but he could find 
nothing to say. 

Mr. Fiskins drew a large silk handkerchief from his pocket and 
dabbled it over his brow. "Ladies," he said with a deep bow, "we shall 
now leave you, in case you may desire some private discussion, and to- 
morrow we shall return to hear whether you have decided to accept the 
terms. Gentlemen," — he glanced at the witnesses, — "shall we go?" They 
rose and departed, followed rather uncertainly by the other men, with the 
exception of Ferdinand Willis, who, it is true, made several motions 
toward departure when he saw that he was being deserted by his sex, 
but at length, deriving courage, as it were, from some unseen source, 
settled himself doggedly. 

There was a long pause. The sisters were waiting for Jane to speak. 
She had always been their spokesman, and they knew she would not fail 
them now. She rewarded their confidence by drawing her thin shoulders 
forward as far as physiological limitations woiild permit. This was, with 
her, a sign of action. Several tall, supple spines that reared themselves 
up from her bonnet trembled visibly, although she herself made no per- 
ceptible motion with her head. At last she began with generous self- 
control : "Well, Ferdinand, you see what you have brought on yourself." 

"Yes," he replied slowly. "It's f-fair enough." Ferdinand always 
spoke slowly. When he was a child the doctor had said his tongue was too 
thick. And he had never outgrown his difficulty in getting things out in 
moments of excitement. 

"I am glad to see you take that view of it," Jane went on. "Probably 
now, for the first time in your life, you will begin to work." 

"Y-yes I w-will, b-but I say g-girls, listen here." He had risen to his 
feet and stood looking at them out of his pale blue eyes, which, through 
weakness or self-pity or something of the kind, were blurred with tears. 
"I know I haven't d-done much to be p-proud of in my life, but I've had 
a s-scheme in my head for some time p-past. I meant to speak to m-mother 


about it ; but she was so s-sick- before she d-died. It's this. They offered 
me a j-job as m-manager of a new concern that's being started up. It's 
s^sure to p-pay if it once gets on its f-feet. It's to m-make p-patent clasps 
for shoe-strings." 

"Have yon accepted the position?" asked Jane suspiciously. She had 
heard the word "patent" before. 

"N-not y-yet. The j-job's mine if I can get $500 capital. There's a 
g-good salary, too." 

"How much?" 

"Fifty dollars a month and dividends." 

Jane laughed. "You were going to ask mother for the $500, were 

"I was g-going to ask her to 1-lend it to me. Of c-course when the 
thing began to p-pay, I'd give it back." 

"Poor lady," Jane murmured. "It is well she was spared that. She 
couldn't have refused you. She never refused you anything." 

"I-I th-thought p-p-perhaps," poor Ferdinand was growing painfully 
confused, "you g-girls might m-make it up b-between you." 

Jane gasped. Then she remembered her role of dignified interlocu- 
trice. "Eeally, Ferdinand, you are preposterous. You wormed more than 
your share from mother before she died, and now you expect us to lay our 
purses at your feet. I might as well warn you that we aren't quite so soft- 
hearted as dear mother, even if you have always been the only son and the 

"Oh, Jane," Maria protested weakly. 

"Maria dear, you had better leave this to me. You always would 
allow anyone to wind yon around his little finger. It is plain to see where 
our duty lies. What mother has intrusted to us should be sacred. We 
have no right to give away what is thus placed in our hands by the holy 
dead. Am I not right, girls?" 

As there was no answer, Jane continued evenly : "It isn't as if Ferdi- 
nand hadn't had plenty of chances. Of course I pass over his leaving 
college and all that." Here her millinery spines began to vibrate violently 
as the result of an otherwise successfully concealed shudder, for she was 
thinking, although her words were so politely veiled, of her brother's 
sensational elopement from the university with his janitor's pretty daugh- 


ter Hester, who had thought to mount into a very high world indeed on 
the arm of her good-tempered prodigal lover. But Jane had shown her 
that the capturing of a husband is not a stepping-stone to everything. 
Indeed, the hussey had never entered her house. 

"There was the banking business," Jane went on, "that father started 
him out in after he came home. It cost poor father over $1,000 when the 
day for balancing accounts arrived. Then there was the position in Dr. 
Jenkins' office; but Dr. Jenkins wanted a young man of steadier habits; 
and there was the oil-well concern, for which he had to pay double liability, 
and the business for making 'Pure Flower' soap labels, which was to 
yield so enormously; and the whip-snapper firm, and bells for pony- 
bridles, etc., etc." Jane had hard work keeping her voice calm as she 
went over this list. Indeed, it had a distinct ring of asperity as she 
ended up. "And all this time father, and, after his death, mother, was 
giving him and his wife a house to live in and money for their food and 
clothes. So you see, it isn't as if he hadn't had his chance and his good, 
fair share of the property, too." 

Ferdinand had shown no signs of animation during this speech. At 
its close, however, he rose slowly to his feet, and extending his huge, fair 
hands, palm outward, before him, as if to show their emptiness, he faltered : 

"But g-girls, Het and I have to l-live. I've g-got to g-get m-m-money 
in some way. What c-can I d-do ?" 

"Do !" echoed Jane. "Do !" and she pointed her forefinger as if aim- 
ing it at his eye. "Ferdinand, you have still time left to retrieve yourself. 
Get out and work. Be a man." Jane became more and more moved by 
her own impressiveness. "Feel for the first time that you are eating the 
sweat of your honest brow." 

Poor Ferdinand looked as if he were much more likely to eat the 
tears from his honest eyes. They coursed unchecked down the creases of 
his cheeks until they were lost in the labyrinthine thickness of his 

"J-Jane," he sobbed, "who w-would have th-thought you c-could be so 
d-disloyal to our father's m-memory? He was a gentleman. Oh, what 
would he think, if he heard you command his only son to work by the toil 
of his hands?" 

This was unwonted eloquence for Ferdinand. It had always been so 


difficult for him to speak, and there had always been so many people to 
save him the trouble. His effort this time was not without its effect on 
his sisters. They watched him with something like awe as he withdrew, 
bowed in grief, from the room. 

The silence was broken at last by Lottie. It had always been said 
by the people about the town that Lottie was the last one of the Willis 
girls to make the match she did. She had never been pretty, nor even 
pretended to any style at all. Indeed, she hadn't been clever enough even 
to amuse the young men of her set who, goodness knows, demanded little 
enough intelligence in women. How, then, she could have captured the 
heart of the gilded, tailored Mr. Hedges, remained a mystery to them — 
unless, perhaps, for all his wealth, he was less clever than the ordinary — 
indeed, they had rarely heard him utter a syllable. At all events, Lottie's 
good fortune had not made her proud, even if it had done nothing to 
relieve her dullness. Her clothes were made of silk and broadcloth now, 
but they never knew how to meet properly in the middle, and her smart 
little ties were as apt to be under her ear as under her chin. She was as 
careless and good humoured as ever. 

On this occasion, as on all others with which she had to do, Lottie's 
brow was placid. 

"Girls," she began, "I think I'll just let Ferdinand have the money 
he wants myself. That certainly wouldn't be going against the will, and, 
after all, we can't let the poor fellow starve." 

Maria had stopped weeping to listen, and Susan's dull eye glowed 
with approval. Jane, however, shook her head with a motion that threw 
all her spines into a state of bristling excitement. 

"You are generous," she began. "But that isn't the question. Of 
course it would be very easy for us to make up the money among us, easier 
by far than refusing poor Ferdinand. I hope we all know it isn't a 
question of generosity. It is a question of principle. Mother, I know, 
felt bitterly at the last that she had not done right by Ferdinand, that she 
had never made him depend on himself. But she was too ill then to face 
the facts, and she kept on giving him money. It is her will that he should 
now have one last chance to retrieve himself, and we must respect her 

"But Jane," Maria began feebly, "we all know that Ferdinand can't 


be different from what he is. He can't begin now. You forget that he is 
not a boy; he must be forty years old by now." 

"And we can't let him and Hester die," Lottie put in. 

Jane stiffened. "Oh, they won't die; you'll see. Let the woman take 
in washing. If her husband is such a fine gentleman, she hasn't the same 
excuse for not wishing to work. If we should give Ferdinand the money, 
he would swamp it in some rigmarole patents, and be asking for more 
before we could turn round. I tell you, girls, we must consider the p-in- 
ciple of the thing. It all depends on our leaving Ferdinand absolutely to 
himself. Will you do it ?" 

There was silence. "Promise," Jane insisted, and they promised. 

With that the conference ended. The Willis estate was settled up 
with exemplary amicableness and, after a few days, Lottie returned to New 
York. Maria remained quietly in the old house, taking pride in pre- 
serving it exactly as it had been in the days of the past. The sisters never 
spoke of Ferdinand. They had communicated to him a gently worded 
but unmistakable refusal of his request; and he, to his credit, had appar- 
ently recognised the futility of any personal visits. That he had not died, 
however, as Lottie so dismally predicted, was obvious. Jane had seen him 
several times sitting tipped back in a chair in front of a building called 
"The St. James Hotel." This was not a place one would pick out to 
spend the winter in, if one had suddenly decided to let out one's house for 
the season. Indeed, it was in a part of the town that most ladies seldom 
found it necessary to visit except when they were on a quest for new 
servants, or in search of a certain dingy butcher-shop which was reputed 
always to keep sweetbreads in stock. When, on such occasions as these, 
Jane had passed her brother in front of the St. James Hotel, he had 
always politely lifted his hat; but she, in all the virtue of offended family 
pride, had turned her wrathful eyes away. She had noticed, however, that 
he had not lost his plump outline, and that his trousers were as freshly 
creased as ever. Jane could remember having once been rather touched 
and pleased that Ferdinand, for all his shiftlessness, would keep up 
appearances. Now, however, she could feel nothing but irritation. The 
fact that she knew he manipulated his own flatiron did not help matters. 
It was insufferable to think that the ungrateful fellow could find nothing 
better to do than crease his trousers and black his boots. 


And so the clays went on in the native town of the Willises. With 
the death of Mrs. Willis, naturally, the integrating force of the family 
had been withdrawn, and, as time passed, the various members came to 
see less and less of one another. There was, of course, the feeling of 
blood which could, in a family so closely united, never be quite obliterated ; 
and, in the cases of Jane and Susan, this feeling found expression in 
hurried visits to Maria, who lamented very much, in her gentle way, that 
brothers and sisters could not always remain affectionate children. But 
she recognised the absurdity of her wish; she knew that when men and 
women are grown and enter the great world, they must put away childish 
things; and, while she resented the state of affairs that so sundered the 
ones she loved, she questioned nothing and resented nothing. 

The sisters were destined, however, to be jolted out of the smoothness 
of their track, and the jar came from none other than the prodigal and 
indolent Ferdinand himself. Jane was walking down the street one day 
on her way to visit Maria. She was passing through a very fashionable 
part of the town, when her attention was caught by a smart yellow trap 
that stood drawn up before an ornate stone house. The horse was pawing 
prettily and jingling the metal of his harness. As Jane paused to look at 
the turn-out, she became aware, with a shock, that the splendid individual 
on the seat was Ferdinand. He held the bright tan reins in one gauntleted 
hand, and the whip, jauntily drooping, in the other. His checked trousers, 
with their many reminiscences of the ironing-board, and his shiny black 
coat had been discarded for a neat blue suit of the latest cut. The ends 
of his moustaches, formerly so dejected, now stood out in waxed spruee- 
ness; his whole figure radiated fashion. Jane grasped the iron fence- 
railing for support. "Ferdinand !" she cried. 

Her brother had removed his hat, and was evidently ready enough to 
speak; but at that moment a lady, as elegantly dressed as Ferdinand 
himself, swept out of the house and into the trap, said something in a 
low tone, and away they sped, leaving Jane still clutching at the paling. 
In a moment, however, she hitched her narrow taffeta jacket with a jerk 
of her shoulders and started off rapidly down the street. She did not 
turn in at Maria's gate, as had originally been her intention. Instead, 
she kept on until she came to the old white cottage that had housed 
Ferdinand Bince his precipitous departure from paternal shelter. It was 


a solid little brick thing, built in the style of the pioneer farmhouse, and 
it had a childish, rather than an antiquated, appearance, lodged in, as it 
was, between factories and shops that had grown up about it. 

Jane's quick knock was answered by Hester. It had been long since 
these two women had really seen one another — their paths lay so far 
apart. Hester had substituted for her youthful rosiness that featureless 
coarseness and pallor which comes so early to women of her class. Poor 
Jane, who had never had any beauty to lose, was not slow to observe the 
change. She noticed, too, that the room, in its bare tidiness, showed no 
signs of Ferdinand's sudden prosperity. She waited just long enough to 
recover her breath. Then she began: 

"Hester, you must tell me what this is all about !" 

Hester, though as much surprised, doubtless, at the arrival of her 
guest as Jane could have been at the unwonted appearance of her brother, 
was yet, in her way, as much master of a certain crude stolidity as Jane 
was master of her practised self-control, and she managed to reply with 
unmalicious dignity: 

"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Nutting." 

"It isn't possible that you don't know. Come, tell me what has 
happened to Ferdinand." 

Hester started. "Has he been hurt or — " 

"No, no, he's all right. I just now saw him. But surely you can 
explain — the trap ! And what was he doing in those clothes ? He couldn't 
have stolen them, but who, for mercy's sake, could have given them 
to him?" 

"Do you mean," asked Hester calmly, "why was he driving about in 
Mrs. Largiss's trap?" 

"Yes, exactly." 

"I supposed you knew that. It's your fault." 

"Quickly tell me. Don't keep me waiting!" 

"Why, he's driving now for Mrs. Largiss." 

"Do you mean that he's her — her coachman ?" 

Hester nodded. "And it's your fault, too," she repeated. 

"You're telling wicked lies to get money out of me. I know what 
kind of people you are." Jane was rapidly losing her composure. "Why 
is it my fault?" 


"Why, you told him to work — to do anything— and it would make a 
man of him. He does look more like a man now, doesn't he?" 

"Why, in goodness name, didn't you let me know before?" 

"I supposed you knew and were pleased." 

"Pleased to have a Willis, my own brother, a — a — " But Jane could 
not finish. She jerked herself out through the doorway, without even 
vouchsafing a good-bye for politeness' sake. She made straight for Maria's 
house and demanded that Susan be sent for at once. When that lady 
appeared, stout and breathless, Jane, in a few voluble sentences, explained 
the situation. "And now, girls," she ended, "we must save the family 
honour. We've given Ferdinand his chance, as dear mother wished, and 
in return he has dragged our name in the dust. Our duty is plainly now 
to remove the power of harm from his worthless hands. There is but one 
course open to us." 

Susan and Maria strained forward to hear their brother's sentence. 

"We must deprive him of his liberties." Jane pronounced it omi- 
nously, and gloomy pictures of shackles and prison bars rose before the 
listening sisters' eyes. They were dumb with apprehension. "He must 
give up those — clothes he is wearing," Jane continued, "and he must move 
out of the house he lives in." 

"Oh, Jane," Maria murmured. 

"He and — and Hester must come here and live with you, where they 
can be watched. They can't be trusted alone." 

"Here in this house with me!" Maria's voice shook with excitement. 
"Oh, Jane dear, thank you, thank you. I shall be so happy." And she 
made a motion to kiss her sister. But Jane brushed her aside, and con- 
tinued as if there had been no interruption. 

"Of course most of the burden will rest upon you, Maria; but Susan 
and I will do what we can to help. It seems to me the only way to deprive 
Ferdinand of his liberty." 

And so Ferdinand Willis came to be established, with his wife and 
his belongings, in the home of his boyhood. He fared sumptuously at 
Maria's bountiful board. The little white house that had so long sheltered 
him now brought him in a revenue, very small, it is true, but sufficient to 
enable him to transfer his allegiance from the St. James Hotel to the 
Manhattan Club, where he now spends many of his idle hours. On Wed- 


nesday evenings, however, he always escorts Maria and Hester to prayer- 
meeting, and on Sundays the family pew is never without his imposing 
form. In the afternoon he drives with the ladies in Maria's carriage, and 
sometimes, of an evening, he reads to them from Maria's newspaper while 
they sew. But he never considers speculation as an employment, and 
makes no allusion whatever to the business world. This is what it is to 
be deprived of one's liberties. There is one thing more to be said, how- 
ever, for Ferdinand Willis. Whenever he meets Mrs. Largiss on the 
street he takes off his hat with his courtly sweep; and she, on her part, 
flings at him her most gracious smile and nod. 

Martha Plaisted, 1908. 


Dryad, from thy willow tree 
Come thou out and dance with me, 
Where the yellow crocus gleams 
And the sunlight slantly beams 
On fresh buds and new-sprung grass, 
Through twigs of fragrant sassafras. 
From the sweet brook's marshy edge 
Wild forget-me-nots and sedge 
I will bring to make a rare 
Circlet for thy clinging hair. 
Lo ! what gifts I bring to thee : 
Coral from the far-off sea, 
Robin's eggs, and strings of pearls, 
Golden clasps to bind thy curls. 
Come, then, leave thy hollow tree, 
Lovely nymph, and dance with me. 

Mary N earing, 1909. 




TJSKIN somewhere allows himself to grow astonished at the con- 
summate idiocy of a man who had rather talk commonplaces with 
a great writer than read his books. He works himself into 
a passion of indignation and mortification at the vulgar unreason- 
ableness of it, and yet even Buskin must have known that it is only human 
to prefer a man to a book. Companionship, gestures, inflections, and 
above all personality, are more agreeable things than printed pages, which 
appeal only to the inhuman part of us — the intellect. A book as a book 
is never human, because it is immortal, and our communion with the 
immortals is almost necessarily stilted. To insure eternity to our thoughts 
we must invert the process of Pygmalion and his statue and, divesting 
them of motion, sacrifice life to deathlessness. 

So the business of the reader becomes to revivify as he may these 
mummified things. Through his eyes he may never hear the voice of their 
author, but at least he is at liberty to invest what he reads in some measure 
with human attributes. Companionship, in man or book, is the desirable 
thing, and this we may find out by reading in surroundings congenial to 
our author. Like our other friends, he should have a background. Before 
he will open his heart freely he must be at home and at his ease. Nothing 
affects a book more than incongruity of our surroundings. The poems of 
Sidney Lanier were spoiled for me by being read in a hotel library and 
Cranford by being read in a doctor's waiting-room. No one, not even a 
Methodist revivalist, would care to read the Bible while he was walking 
down the street, and indeed of all books it is the one we are most ashamed 
of being caught with. Who could bear to be found alone, in conspicuous 
seclusion, with a glaring-backed modern novel? Not that we are ashamed 
of the novel, but we are not quite comfortable. It is like wearing a new 
hat to church during Lent. 

Again and again I have heard it repeated that we should do all our 
reading out-of-doors. For my part, I think almost everything goes better 
in the house — except poetry. Wordsworth and Shelley — unlike as they 


are — both gain immensely on the seashore, because the sea is so mighty 
and so serious and washes away all that is trite and absurd. But Keats 
and poets like him require green trees and quiet landscape and should, if 
possible, be read up a tree where the leaf shadows fall on the white page 
of the book. Except for Izaac Walton, who is taken with the fishing- 
tackle, and Buskin, who is irritating indoors and edifying without, I can 
think of no prose author not as well, or better, read in the house. Even 
some poets belong by the hearth ; the Brownings, and Boe, and Swinburne — 
who seems less elemental in the presence of the elements — are better 
appreciated by fire-warmth and candle-light. 

When we have secured appropriate surroundings we must make up our 
minds how to dispose of ourselves. The position of the body, irrelevant 
as it seems, has a subtle influence on our enjoyment of the book. The 
Morte d 'Arthur can be properly enjoyed only when one is lying prone in 
front of a fire ; and when I grow too old to lie in front of a fire I shall read 
it no longer, just as I shall give up the Fmrie Queene when I grow too 
stiff to climb trees. But it is fortunate that most books can be read with 
outward grace and propriety; if it is uncomfortable to read the Morte 
d' Arthur sitting upright in a chair, it is impossible to read Matthew 
Arnold sprawling on the floor. I have known those who put a room in 
fair order before sitting down to read Bater and never think of crossing 
so much as their ankles. 

All this deliberate arrangement may sound artificial and to some 
readers may seem irksome. But to read a book is to perform a ceremony 
where outward signs are almost as important as inward communion. It 
is only when we have found for a book all that it requires that it will 
return to us all that it has to give. 

Grace Branham, 1910. 



Midway the steep and sun-flecked street, 
Undisturbed by passing feet, 
Incurious what they loiter at, 
Couches on cool stones a cat. 
Wheeling, circling swallows oft 
Cross the pale blue rift aloft; 
Faintly heard, their airy calls 
Glancing down the grey, straight walls 
Hardly check the sleeper's purr, 
White, superb philosopher. 

Furry brother, pain and pleasure 
Mete your gods in unjust measure; 
Pitiful your sum of good, — 
Warmth, the chase, and sleep, and food. 
In pain you bear a human part, 
Body's anguish, stricken heart, 
Hunger, terror, love and grief, 
Never our dream of swift relief, 
Nor the conscious proud assurance 
Of unalterable endurance. 

Brother, yet you brood there still, 
Motionless, inscrutable. 

Georgiana Goddard King, 1896. 



The golden bowl is broken, love, 
And spilled the sacred wine, 

Ere we had time to quench our thirst 
And know relief divine; 
Broken ere we had time to prove 
How sweet the taste of youth, 

Or bend our lips to quaff the first 
Clear draught from wells of truth. 

love, stick yew leaves in thy hair 
And come with me away, 

To wander on from tide to tide, 
In weather ever gray. 
No rest shall we know anywhere 
For many a long to-morrow, 

Nor slake our thirst except beside 
The bitter springs of sorrow. 

Louise Foley, 1908. 



PEESCOTT WAKE entered the room with his usual glad greeting 
and kissed his mother tenderly. 
"How are you, dear, this morning? Am I very late?" 
"Not very/' she replied gently. "How have things gone?" 

"Well, I have the position." 

"Ah!" It was a low, expressionless exclamation. "And are you 

"There was nothing else for it," he rejoined. Then — "I must go and 
get ready for dinner. If you are reading let me move your chair nearer 
the light. No, don't stir." He gently pushed the big chair back towards 
the window, arranged the shade and gave his mother a farewell kiss. 

"Preseott, why will you not talk of this to me?" she pleaded as he 
turned to go. 

"Mother, what is the use? It only pains you and besides it is so 
inevitable. I can't marry without money and the career of a musician is 
too precarious — " 

"But a great one — " she began. 

"Dies all the more surely in want," he interrupted smiling. "There's 
no use counting the cost to myself. I can't ask Faith to wait for me 

"The price is, then, to you so great?" 

"Mother, how can you ask?" he reproached as he went out of the room. 

She watched his slim young figure move away with a strangely sad 
expression, and when he had gone she covered her face suddenly with her 
hands. How he had evaded her last question! The thought of it hurt 
her like a blow. It was but one of many such wounds which she had 
received lately, ever since the plan of giving up his music and going into 
business had been projected, but each one seemed to her more painful 
than the last. Again and again she had created for him the opportunity 
of meeting the situation fairly face to face and each time he had slipped 
through it like this. With his sweetness, his tenderness, it was so easy 


for him to find a means of escape. For a moment she even regretted his 
virtues, feeling that, were he stern and hard, he might have, too, the 
courage of self-confession, which, as it was, he lacked. Even as a child, 
she realised as she looked back, he had been given to inventing and 
believing excuses for himself, and as time went on the habit had, in 
spite of all her care, only increased. It appeared to her as a sort of 
conscious self-deception, a deliberate setting aside of the real issues, which 
had ultimately of course led to the duping of others less familiar with his 
character than she. Now — it came to her with an odd clutch at the heart 
— the crucial situation was at hand, and that he must be forced to meet 
it honestly with open eyes had been for days the all-important purpose in 
her mind. If he once evaded an issue as vital as this there would, she felt, 
be no hope of his recovery in the future. The responsibility he was now 
laying so completely on the shoulders of the woman he was going to 
marry belonged, she was aware, entirely on his own. For real as was his 
love for Faith Landor, the question of his marriage and consequent need 
of money offered a very acceptable pretext for the change he had long 
been desiring. She felt sure that, in the bottom of his heart, he was 
really desirous of giving up his music. For some time past she had 
known that he revolted at the drudgery it entailed. She was, indeed, forced 
to acknowledge that nothing short of the consciousness of genius could 
render bearable the countless hours of nerve-racking effort he was obliged 
to devote to the most trivial element of technique. This consciousness, 
which he had had so wonderfully in the beginning, and which his master 
still continued to encourage, seemed of late to have dwindled. Was it, 
she queried, simply that he was unwilling to work, or had he really lost 
faith in his own power? Probably a combination of the two, she decided. 
But, under any circumstances, he must be forced to face the truth of 
the matter, to acknowledge that he was giving up his profession, not as a 
noble sacrifice to a noble love, but for the simple reason that he was tired 
of it. 

Her thoughts passed for a while to the other person involved in the 
act, Faith Landor, the girl she had known long and loved dearly. To no 
one else would she so gladly entrust her son's happiness, and yet her 
consideration of the marriage was often clouded with a doubt of its 
fairness to this simple, straight-eyed girl. As is the way with strong 


women, Faith had, as far as possible, sunk the claims of her own indi- 
viduality in her love. Her belief in Prescott could not, no matter what 
he might do, be lightly shaken, and yet — here a new thought came sud- 
denly to Emily Ware — would the girl, in the underestimating of her rights, 
feel justified in accepting the apparently enormous sacrifice her lover was 
making? The answer came clearly in the negative, and, with her knowl- 
edge of Faith's character, Emily realised in momentary horror that sooner 
or later she would make the effort to give him up. Then her horror, 
caused by her intuition both of the suffering that would ensue and the 
vanity of the sacrifice, changed suddenly into a strange hope, and she 
found in its coming the solution of her problem. 

As she had foreseen, Faith Landor came to her with the burden of 
renunciation heavy upon her. For a moment Emily, in her love for the 
girl, was tempted to show her the absence of the high motives she had 
accredited to her lover's decision. Then she realised that her duty to her 
Mm was paramount, and that it would, after all, be hindered rather than 
helped by such a course. For, when Faith once realised the futility of her 
sacrifice, she might, in spite of many lost illusions, cling all the more 
strongly to those that still remained. But to Emily the hope of her 
son's salvation lay in the girl's renunciation of him. Since this must be, 
it were better for Faith that she should at least have unbroken idols and 
the belief in the effectuality of her deed to look back upon. Wherefore 
Emily gently seconded the girl's suggested offer of release to Prescott,, 
presenting it to her in the light of something not necessarily ultimate, but 
as a further opportunity owed to her son on the ground of his youth, 
and before the girl left she had practically received from her a promise 
of its being granted. 

Shortly afterwards Faith Landor sailed for Germany, leaving Prescott 
ed at the sudden change in his outlook. The reasons Faith had given 
him for the breaking of their engagement had been vague and unsatis- 
factory, and he appealed to his mother to clear away his confusion. But 
she, in deference to Faith's unspoken wishes, also remained silent as to 
the real motive. Then, after what she considered a sufficient time for at 
least the beginning of his recovery from the blow had elapsed, she alluded, 
with some trepidation, to the violin that had remained practically un- 
touched since the <nrPs departure. Now at last he must meet the real 


issue. The immediate need of money no longer provided an excuse for 
the neglect of his music. Either he must return to it or, as she prayed, 
acknowledge frankly his unwillingness or inability, and go on in business 
without the attitude of the martyr. But he did neither. He postponed 
the decision until he should feel better able to cope with it. Still the 
girl was serving as a screen for his weakness, and, as time went on, 
Emily began to realise with a dawning despair that she would always do 
so. Prescott was working regularly and well — though a bit automatically 
perhaps — in business. He was miserably unhappy, she saw, and to the 
pain of her disappointment was thus added the keen sorrow engendered 
by the sight of his suffering. One day, however, she brought him again 
and for the last time to bay. With no allowances for his unhappiness, she 
spoke strongly, directly to the point. 

"Prescott, I cannot understand how, since you care so much for your 
music, you can abstain from serious work on it, now that there are abso- 
lutely no obstacles in your way." 

"Mother," he replied sadly, "you can't understand. It is because I 
cared for it so much that I dread it. It means Faith for me, and happi- 
ness. The idea of it now with her gone, who was its life and soul, is 

Then in her strenuous need, in her last effort to save him from 
himself, Emily trespassed on forbidden ground. 

"Eaith, I think, went away because of your music. She felt that she 
hindered your devotion to it. She wanted you to have the chance to 
develop your talent unimpeded. Oh, Prescott, do you not think you owe 
it to her at least to make the attempt ?" 

Prescott stood a moment silent, gazing at the ground. At last he 

"She chose the wrong way, mother," he said. "Don't you see that it 
is more than ever impossible for me to return to it, now that I recognise 
in it the cause of my misery? She has succeeded in almost killing my 
love for it. Oh, that is tragic, cruel!" 

Emily Ware gazed at her son a moment astonished. Then she turned 
away, acknowledging the bitterness of defeat. In this last ingenious 
parry she recognised a master hand, against which it would be useless to 
struggle more. His salvation was impossible. All that was left to her — 


and she clutched at it eagerly in the chaos of her abandoned hopes — -was 
the assuagement of his sorrow. 

Prompted by this idea and the unhappy tone of Faith's letters, she 
suggested the girl's return. But when she heard that this had been 
accomplished, fresh doubts as to its advisability assailed her. Had she a 
right to let Faith, still in possession of her illusions, renew the relation- 
ship? A glance at the misery of the girl's face decided her. She could 
not, probably, be more unhappy than she had been, and, after all, a tender, 
sweeter, and in the usual sense of the term, better son than Prescott did 
not exist. She left them together, conscious that in some way they would 
break down the barriers between them. Life was, in truth, but a series 
of compromises, she said to herself, and a perfect Arcadia was not possible 
in a human world. The bitterness of her own portion had, indeed, been 
deferred, but it had come in the end with all the greater strength. It 
would perhaps be better, she decided, that they should learn their lessons 
more quickly. 

Theresa Helium, 1908. 



From Rostand's La Princesse Lointaine 
(" C'est chose bien commune"). 

Many there are that care 
For maidens dark or fair, 
Many for chestnut hair 

Do sigh; 
A maiden grave or gay 
One may have any day, — 
My love dwells far away, 

On high. 

A little thing, I wis, 

Is faith as strong as this, 

If sometimes one may kiss 

Her train, 
If now and then one may 
Touch hands; — my lady gay 
Dwells in a far away 



This is a noble thing 


Unloved, unknown, to bring 
Passion unvarying 

And high; 
With love that never may 
Even in death decay, 
A princess far away 

Love I. 

Love that I call divine 
Dwells in a fancy fine.. 
Dream love will still be mine 

Alway ; 
Dull care may never mar 
Life where sweet fancies are; — 
I love a princess far 


Margaret Franklin, 1908. 



Written not with ink and pen, 
Not in haunts of learned men, 
Not in hope that you might be 
Bonds of immortality, — 
Never in the world, I know, 
Were your verses fashioned so. 
Men of simple griefs and pleasures 
Freely wrought your ringing measures; 
Millers to the water's clamour, 
Blacksmiths to the beat of hammer, 
Soldiers to the din of battle, 
Mothers to their children's prattle, 
Maids to whirr of spinning-wheel, 
Set your time in woe or weal. 

Now, wherever you are heard, 
Hearts are gladdened, spirits stirred; 
None so wise and none so dull 
But your notes his grief may lull, 
Or may set his pulses prancing, 
Every least delight enhancing. 

Merry wanderers you have been, 
Never prisoned up between 
Narrow covers of a book 
Where the vulgar may not look. 
And so readily you spring 
To the lips of men that sing, 
And so simply you express 
Each man's grief and happiness, 
That indeed it seems that you 
Every day are born anew. 
Songs that tell their maker's name 
Have not half so sweet a fame. 

Margaret Franklin, 1908. 



(A Midsummer Day-Dream.) 

THE Landstrasse lay, miles on miles of it, — a swept and garnished 
monotony of neatness. Hoofs and wheels would have been a 
pollution as profane as muddy boots in a mosque, could hoofs 
and wheels have intruded their slightest impress upon anything 
so solidly unimpressionable as that white endlessness. I had come no 
great distance upon it, but already I knew it quite by heart; I knew just 
how the two straight rows of well-pruned young lindens along the roadside 
would keep doggedly on and on in infinite succession; I knew at what 
intervals the prim little white stones checked off the kilometres from tidy 
village through tidy village and on to immaculate prosperous town. I 
knew, too, past a doubt, that there would be no waste of time en route, no 
pleasant loitering in and out along shady river-banks, no winding about 
on wooded hillsides, no sudden turns, no surprises, no mystery. For what 
has the Macadam Path of Prosperity to do with the detours and all the 
devious ways of nature? The Landstrasse was a triumph of well-to-do 
ofder and good government in all the length of its gleaming straight- 
ahead march — a handsome, tiresome short-cut to bricks and stones and 
factory chimneys and gaudy top-heavy Art-Kouveau — to thriving, admir- 
able, ugly Xew Germany. 

To approach in this wise the medieval castle which was my destina- 
tion seemed out of the question. Such a sharp jolt through the centuries 
as the junction of this garish modern high-road and those ancient moats 
and battlements must occasion, would tax the most elastic sensibilities. 
Aghast at the mere thought of it, I dismissed my rubicund "Kutscher" 
rather summarily, and stood with a sigh of relief watching his patent- 
leather hat twinkle off into the distance, as the carriage bowled its smooth 
straight way out of the picture. Then I turned aside into the open country. 
I found a peasant's path across the fields and was soon drifting 
shoulder-deep in a tide of yellow oats that flowed on and on interminably, 


waving and whispering to the breeze. But here at last the hand of thrifty 
man had not done everything, for the grain had grown and ripened above 
a tangle of corn flowers and yellow daisies with here and there a bold 
gypsy flash of poppies — such a wantoning of spendthrift Nature in sheer 
riot of color ! I could have shouted for delight. 

But a skylark did that for me, rising from the golden billows just 
beyond — and I stood transfixed while the ethereal fountain gushed forth 
its rapture in showers and jets of sparkling song. The very air about 
me seemed crisped and cooled by the delicious crystal splashing back to 
earth of that ecstatic outpour. Caught by the transport of it, I almost 
flew, I scarce knew whither, in blind response to the soaring Joy far out 
of sight above me. 

And when at length I stumbled breathless and half -intoxicated into the 
castle wood, I had left far behind the Germany of model highways and 
appalling cheap manufactures; of over-solid Art and eatables and civic 
virtues; and had made my transition into that dear Germany of romance 
that children know and love best, the Germany of Christmas trees and 
dwarfs and fairy princes, where every castle is enchanted, and an elf 
peers forth from behind the bole of every fir tree, and where little birds 
can speak, as the skylark had to me with his message of a bliss ineffable. 

One might find one's way into Marchenland through this wood. It 
was quick with a hint of hiden life — an elfin life, sudden and whimsical 
and full of quaint surprises. Oak trees everywhere with gnarled gray 
roots, fit lurking-places for the tiny forest folk who doubtless were hiding 
there to watch me pass. And the way the sunlight came in — such a 
different matter from sunlight in certain beechwoods I know best, where 
through the long afternoons it drips slowly down into the green gloom 
below and lies in warm lazy pools among the moss and leaves. Here it 
was all quick motion — the sharp tooth-edges of the oak foliage fractured 
it into keen little splinters of light, and the glitter from every glossy leaf- 
point seemed to pierce the shade with tiny swift arrows of flame. 

Decidedly a fairy forest this, with all manner of gay fantastic things 
going on, no doubt, quite near at hand. I felt surprised when a squirrel 
that ran across my path and a bird that flew chirping from bough to 
bough overhead, never paused to address me in nursery-doggerel — as, by 
authority of the Gebriider Grimm, they really should have done. But 


that disappointment was more than atoned for when I emerged from the 
wood for a last pull up a steep little hill to the Schloss on its crest. 

I had not dared hope for such an untouched bit of that fabulous 
Germany of the pictures and the story books. Indeed the absurd contour 
of the hill itself, as it rose sheer and sharp out of the level, just as a 
Primitif would have stuck it into the background of an altar-piece; 
and the improbable angle at which the castle had perched itself with ivy- 
grown machicolated walls scrambling up the hillslope, and a big bastion 
tower with four tiny sentry-box towerlets set about the upper platform 
like salt and pepper pots in a cruet, and a tall pointed candle-snuffer 
roof to top off with — surely it was all just something Albrecht Dtirer had 
once cut into a wooden block some hundreds of j'ears ago ! Involuntarily 
I glanced back over my shoulder to see if the Knight of the resolute face 
and the Devil, and Death on the skinny horse were not indeed passing by 
along the edge of the wood — and I half hesitated about going on — I had 
never tried walking bodily into a wood-cut before. 

The foreground was a tangible fact, however — so I plunged into it 
and my first illusion was soon merged in the delightful reality of the 
Schloss itself. You crossed the bridge over the grassy, daisied moat and 
went under the great entrance arch. Inside, at the foot of the big tower, 
was a low plastered and cross-beamed porter's lodge, with steep-pitched 
tile roof, and a tiny triangular bay-window with leaded panes peering 
inquisitively out to guard the gate. The gable above the entrance turned 
a solemn round clock-face down upon the scene, while from its peak an 
ancient weather-cock creaked and twisted jerkily in the breeze. Beyond, 
through a wicket gate ajar in the machicolated wall, a path led into a 
little garden, a tangle of neglected grass, rank with weeds, and clambering, 
flowering rose-vines, which made the air delicious in the deserted place. 
In the centre rose on a column from a battered fountain basin the mailed 
figure of a knight, a plumed, slim-waisted St. George, with sword upraised 
to strike the fanged and winged and forked-tailed dragon coiled about his 
feet. A water-spouting dragon, evidently, once upon a time— though now 
dragon and knight alike were rusty and moss-grown from long disuse. 

"Once upon a time" — it was the phrase that fitted best each detail 
of the place, the miniature gable-end of the porter's lodge, its precipitous 
roof almost reaching to the ground, and a low door, out of which the 


crooked, red-eyed old witch might easily have pounced upon "Hansel and 
Gretel" — "once upon a time." It fitted the moss-grown fountain and the 
vine-covered battlements, and above all it fitted the long stiff row of 
family tombstones (transferred possibly from some demolished chapel) 
set in the garden wall near the tower, and bearing each one its marble 
figure of a knight in uncomfortable-looking armour, with a great chain 
about his neck, hand on sword, helmet visor raised above grave eyes — an 
eternal vigilance in stone; while last in the line, an absurd little figure, 
came the effigy of a prim German "Wickelkind," its baby body bound 
mummy-tight, tapering toward the toes, and a great top-heavy frilled cap, 
from under which the fat half-obliterated features stared solemnly. 

I was scratching away with a twig at the mouldering inscription on 
one of the stones when suddenly the lodge-door opened and a little old 
woman in a white cap came hobbling forth, carrying an earthen-ware 
crock full of meal. She was bent half double and mumbled to herself as 
she set down her burden on the doorstep, seated herself beside it and, 
drawing forth a white woolen stocking from under her apron, fell to 
knitting. A tortoise-shell cat that had lain asleep in the sun came to rub 
itself against her knees, purring loudly. To make sure that she was not 
a hallucination, I accosted her and asked if I might rest here awhile in 
the garden after my long walk. She peered at me from under her cap, 
nodded, and pointed me to a half-ruined arbor, high in an angle of the 
garden wall, half hidden among the trees, and approached by a flight of 
moss-grown steps. I felt myself dismissed, but ventured one more ques- 
tion, "Had the dragon really ever spouted water?" She quavered, "Yes, 
Gnadige Frau — -once upon a time." The very words ! I suppressed an 
impulse to ask her whether Eed Eiding Hood was not a little late this 
afternoon. She would probably not have heard me, for she was mumbling 
over her knitting again and seemed quite to have forgotten my existence. 
Indeed, why should she step out of her Marchen-book to gossip with every 
impertinent intruder who chose to trespass in Wonderland? 

I climbed to the eyrie by the wall, stooping low at the foot of the 
steps in deference to a big spider that had built itself between two trees 
across my path a splendid mansion which swayed and glittered in the 
sunlight. I hoped it appreciated my tribute to good architecture, though 
it sat stolidly on, enthroned in the midst of its palace, and gave no sign. 


From my arbor bench I could discover the cause of a tremendous din 
going on just then on the drawbridge below — the ungainly squawking of 
a flock of geese, who, toes turned in and heads high, were waddling in 
under the gateway. A goose girl, who had driven them up from their 
pasture down by the brook, followed close behind, hazel switch in hand, a 
cotton kerchief over her flaxen braids and the tap of her wooden shoes 
echoing on the bridge. They passed, a garrulous procession, across the 
flags of the court and in through the wicket gate to the garden. There 
they broke their martial file, and fell to nibbling among the rank weeds 
and grasses. The goose girl herself, a loiterer like the rest, paused beside 
the fountain, pulling apart idly the petals of a daisy, and scattering them 
like snowflakes at her feet. "Eosemarie I" shrilled the own woman sharply, 
roused from her half-doze by the doorway, "What are you about, child? 
Hurry and drive the geese into their pen. Here is the meal for their 
supper !" Listlessly the girl fetched the earthen bowl and marched her 
noisy charges to an enclosure back of the lodge — all save one, at least, 
who had stra} r ed apart and was half hidden among the rosebushes. It 
was very quiet in the garden now — save for the occasional subdued "quock'' 
of the lone goose, and the rusty creak of the weather-cock as it turned in 
the breeze. The old woman nodded over he knitting, the tortoise-shell 
cat was washing its face in the sun. A small brown bird chirped among 
the branches of the chestnut tree near by. 

Then I noticed a peculiar fact — the dragon was spouting water — 
spouting it squarely upon the breastplate of the knight; it must have 
been doing so all the while, for the fountain basin was full quite up to 
the brim. As I was contemplating this phenomenon, Eosemarie turned 
from her business among the geese and crossing to the fountain halted 
and gazed pensively up at the knight and his watery antagonist. Then 
she turned in among the rosebushes and hurriedly filled her apron with 
pink and white blossoms. With surprise I saw her return to the fountain 
and begin with passionate eagerness to pelt the knight with a volley of 
fragrant missiles. One rose lodged on his helmet, one in the curve of his 
uplifted arm, two in the dragon's coils — but the rest fell and floated idly 
on the surface of the pool below. At length her ammunition was ex- 
hausted, and still the warrior of stone brandished his sword aloft, and 
still his scaly foe bathed him in copious crystal streams. Then the girl 


dropped on her knees beside the basin and fell to weeping. I could see 
great tear-drops splashing in the water. Presently, with much flopping of 
fins and tail, a big catfish, all mouth and whiskers, rose half out of the 
water, and after some preliminary gurgles its wet, snuffly tones shaped 
themselves into words : 

"Swish, swish ! 

Can't you see we're fresh-water fish? 
And because you chance to feel despairing 
Must we all turn into cod and herring? 
If you must shed brine to express emotion, 
Do shed it in the Atlantic Ocean — 
For we are fresh-water fish, 
Swish, swish!" 

It poised on its tail, quite quivering with indignation. "Oh, dear 
Mr. Fish," apologised Eosemarie, "do forgive me ! I never thought how 
you'd feel about salt water — and I'm in such trouble, I couldn't help 
crying. Perhaps," she added, "if you are the Nix of this fountain, you 
would do something for me?" The catfish twirled his whiskers with both 
fins and snorted pompously: 

"Swish, swish, 
I'll permit you to state your wish!" 

Eosemarie began very humbly: 

"You see I'm not really a goose-girl at all. I am the daughter of the 
King of Par Away. But I was always dreadfully proud and particular, 
and when foreign princes came to marry me I used to turn up my nose 
and send them packing — they were all such ordinary creatures ! But one 
of them — he was the best — I almost forgot and said 'yes' to him — only 
he did look so absurd on his knees— so I laughed instead and said he 
must first cross the Wonder Wood and the Mystery Moors and the Spurious 
Sea and kill the dragon and get the mirror from the Perilous Princess 
in the tower. He got on very well, I've heard, and finished off all sorts of 
ghosts and monsters and was just making way with the dragon, when the 
Perilous Princess (spiteful thing!) looked out of the tower and turned 
him and the dragon both to stone. His fairy godmother was furious; 


she came riding up on her broomstick the very next day, and with a 
wave of her wand fastened these nasty clothes on me tight" (this with a 
-tug at her cotton dress and kerchief and a stamp of a wooden shoe), "and 
vowed they shouldn't come off until I could make the stone prince on 
the fountain kiss me three times to show he had forgiven me. So here 
1 am ! Of course I had to leave home, for what's the good of having a 
golden frock and a starry crown when no one can see them under your 
rags — and who'll believe you're a princess when you look like this? 
Nobody but geese, of course! And so nobody but geese will have any- 
thing to do with me now. Oh, I'm so miserable ! Please, good Mr. Fish, 
bring the prince on the fountain back to life, and help me out of this 
mess." Eosemarie wept piteously, though she took care now to cry into 
the corner of her apron and to wring the tears out neatly on the grass. 
The fish began in his snuffly sing-song : 

"Splash, splash, 
What you ask is rather rash. 
But If you'll bring fresh eggs of gold 
All into golden eruuiblets doled, 
Seven gold eggs, one egg each hour, 
Just on the stroke of the clock by the tower. 
The fairy fish will grant your wish, 
Swish, swish !" 

Eosemarie fell to sobbing louder than ever. "Golden eggs, indeed !" 
she wailed. "You. might as well have said 'no' outright! Where am I 
to find golden eggs, I'd like to know?" 

Just then the white goose waddled forth from the rosebushes. 
"Quock," it began, 

"Quock, quock. 
Promise by six o'clock 
To do whatever the white goose begs 
And you shall have your golden eggs, 
Quock, quock !" 

"You!" cried Eosemarie. "Why I thought you were just a common 
goose like all the rest." 


The goose held its head high and looked important: 

"Quock, quock, 
Prepare for a dreadful shock— 
I, too, was a princess proud and rich, 
And I have to thank the spider-witch 
For this ugly white-goose-frock — 
Quock, quock !" 

"Dear, dear," said Kosemarie, "how unfortunate! But how about the 
golden eggs, please, and what must I promise to do?" 

"Quock, quock ! 

From her web where the plane-trees rock 
The spider-witch you must bring to me 
And I'll finish her off in a bite for tea ; — 
Teatime is six o'clock, 
Quock, quock !" 

Rosemarie glanced up at the clock. "Let me see," she mused; "six 
o'clock, — that's an hour off — and lots of things can happen in an hour — 
besides it mightn't be so difficult to catch that ugly spider, and I must 
have the eggs." Then, turning to the goose, "Yes, I promise," she said, 
"and, please, would you mind hurrying a little?" 

I looked to see how the spider-witch was taking it, but she never 
stirred — though I caught the gleam of a hard, bright eye from the centre 
of the web. 

Meanwhile the white goose had bustled off behind the rosebushes. 
Just then the clock began to strike five and the whole garden woke into a 
momentary bustle. The weathercock flapped its wings with a tinny clatter 
and crowed lustily; the brown bird in the branches above cried "Swee-et, 
twirtle twirtle !" over and over in excited haste, like a mechanical top 
wound up too tightly; the lazy cat grew suddenly alert and, fixing its 
yellow eyes on the girl, moved toward her, crouching stealthily; the spider- 
witch made a few hysterical darts back and forth across the web; the cat- 
fish splashed impatiently about the fountain and opened a significant 
hungry mouth at Rosemarie. But high above all rose a tremendous 
commotion from among the rosebushes. Such a deafening squawking and 


flapping of wings! And at length the white goose emerged with a most 
tremendous strut of pride. Eosemarie hastened to its hiding place and 
presently returned radiant, carrying in her apron seven shining golden 
eggs. Six of these she laid tenderly aside in a heap by the fountain. The 
seventh she crumbled with trembling haste into tiny fragments and scat- 
tered them into the water. As fast as they fell the fish snapped them up 
greedily, and his ugly black surface began to glow with glittering scales, 
until, at length, no goldfish was ever half so brilliant. And while he 
swam proudly to and fro in all his new magnificence, the water, too, as it 
touched him, was transformed into liquid gold. First the water in the 
pool and, gradually, the streams that poured forth from the dragon's 
mouth began to glow, golden at first, then ruddier and ruddier, till they 
lit up the face of the knight with the rosy hue of life, and their splashing 
sound turned to the hissing and crackling of flames. The dragon's scales 
glistened gorgeously and he fell to lashing his great forked tail. Just then 
the mailed arm with the brandished sword fell, and the knight struck 
home. With a deafening roar the wounded dragon leaped from the 
pedestal, the knight in close pursuit, and the combat continued hot and 
fast all about the garden. To and fro from end to end they raged, the 
dragon belching smoke and fire and bellowing horribly. But at length 
the knight drove his sword square into the monster's mouth and down the 
fiery throat, and, with the plume of his helmet singed and smoking, he 
stood triumphant, one foot planted on the inert form stretched at his feet 
in a pool of blood. 

It was but an instant of triumph, for, alas, the hand that struck the 
fatal blow had pierced unawares the web of the spider-witcli and torn it 
quite in two. Forth from her lair she darted, out along a branch of the 
plane-tree, swung herself down to the knight's shoulder, and stung him 
between the joints of his armour till he fell a lifeless heap at the dragon's 
side. At this, up rushed Eosemarie and flung herself on her knees by the 
prostrate warrior. In vain she chafed his brow and hands and bathed him 
with her tears — she could not bring him back to life. 

She was so pre-occupied that she did not at first notice the tortoise- 
shell cat, who, its tail high and its spine arched to a Gothic peak, was 
rubbing itself with a slow stateliness among the folds of her petticoats, and 


purring in a gradual crescendo that at length took form in something 
more intelligible: 

"Pur-r — pur-r ! 
To a little advice defer ! 
The principal hitch is the spider-witch, 
You'd better make up to her ! 
If a brand-new web of gold you spin 
And deferentially ask her in, 

She'll repent of Her spite and revive your knight 
I'll wager my whiskers and tail and fur, 
Purr, pur-r !" 

Eosemarie only gave the cat an impatient little push away with her 
wooden shoe. "Oh, do stop plaguing me !" she moaned. "Every one asks 
the most impossible things of me to-day! Who ever heard of spinning 
gold spiderwebs? And if you weren't just a stupid porter's cat, you'd 
know perfectly well that princesses can't spin. Why, I've never done any- 
thing but skip a golden rope and toss a golden ball and — and run after 
geese — in all my life!" Then, after a moment's pause, — "And even if I 
knew how," she added, "where are the wheel and distaff and the golden 
flax to come from?" 

The cat, unruffled by Eosemarie's rude manner, purred louder than 
ever and replied with insinuating politeness : 

"Mew-w, mew-w! 
I'll attend to all that for you, 
If you'll requite my appetite 
With a trifling tid-bit or two. 
To wit : the comb of the cock 
From the gable over the clock, 
And the tongue of the twirtling bird ; 
You've only to give your word 
In the form of an I. O. TJ. 
Mew-w, mew-w !" 

Eosemarie wavered for an instant. "But it's not really any more 
out of the way than golden eggs and enchanted spiders," she hesitated. 
Then, with a desperate glance at the unconscious knight, "Oh, I'll do 
anything, anything you like," she cried, and stood eagerly watching while 
the cat, with his right forepaw extended and one sharp little claw held at 
the correct Spencerian cop3 r -book angle, engraved neat characters in the 


bark of a birch tree. When he had finished he offered his paw politely to 
Eosemarie, who, grasping it, added her signature below with a determined 
flourish. Then, majestically, the cat moved toward the door of the lodge, 
drew his claws thrice across the panels and uttered a low, imperative 
"Meow." The door flew open and out stepped a tiny woman clad in a 
scarlet cloak, with a peaked hat over her cap, and bearing in her arms an 
ivory spinning wheel, studded all over with bright gilt nails. She hobbled 
to the fountain and, seating herself on the basin edge, watched with the 
greatest unconcern the cat, who was clawing small tufts of mottled brown 
fur from his breast and dipping them daintily in the golden water of the 
fountain. As he drew them forth again, little gilded bits of wool, he 
tossed them into the old woman's lap, where they lay glowing among th& 
scarlet folds of her petticoat. When at length he paused, he held out his 
two forepaws to her, and she fell to carding deftly the golden tufts on 
the ten sharp claws and winding them thereafter about the end of his tail, 
which he held rigidly erect in an improvised distaff. Then, with a sudden 
whirl and flash of the wheel, the old woman began to spin. 

As the bright thread drew out long and fine under her skilful fingers, 
the spindle glittered in the sun, and its whirring fell into a sort of rhythm 
to which the cat stepped slowly round and round in a stately measure, 
unwinding the golden floss from its stiff tail-distaff. And to this whirring 
accompaniment and the slow-paced rhythm of the dance and the tread of 
her foot as she turned the wheel, the old woman's voice rose singing, high 
and shrill : 

"At the edge of the world where the sky droops low 
We ply our wheels, the spinners of light, 
The rainbow end for a distaff bright, 
And cloud-flax, gold with the noon-day glow. 
But woe to the mortal who enters in, 
For blinding-bright is the thread we spin ! 

"All the worn-out sunlight cast away 
On the heavenly ash-and-rubbish-heap, 
Off to the edge of the world we sweep, 

And patch and polish it up by day, 
And fashion it over for use at night, 
As silvery moonshine cool and white. 


"We gather the rays of starlight, too, 
And the cast-off beams of the waning moon, 
We stir them well with a comet-spoon, 
And melt them down to a creamy brew, 
And spread them there in the sky at night — 
The Milky Way and the Northern Light. 

"At the edge of the world with a magic loom 
We weave the garment of light and shade 
That over the bosom of earth is laid, 
With woof of glitter and warp of gloom. 
And we toil forever by day and night, 
Spinning and weaving and fashioning light." 

The song ended. The whirring of the spindle died away; the tortoise- 
shell cat came to a dignified standstill as the last end of the golden thread 
wound itself about the flying spindle. Then, as the little old woman, her 
wheel under her arm, withdrew with a curtsy through the cottage door, 
the cat approached Eosemarie and began winding the shining filaments 
from the spindle into a sort of skein about her idle fingers. In a moment 
they were deep in a game of cat's-cradle — the gleaming strands caught 
back and forth between them and meshed into an intricate lace-work. 
And at length Eosemarie, exultant, crossed to the two plane-trees, where 
the spider-witch hung sulking on one long, slender thread above her 
ruined mansion. There, in the full blaze of the low sun, the girl stretched 
the golden web and clapped her hands in childlike exultation as the big 
brown creature swung lower and lower and dropped at last full into the 
center of her new dwelling-place. 

"Oh, good Madam Spider-Witch," she implored, "couldn't you please 
have pity now on the poor prince? I'm sure he never really meant you 
any harm." 

The spider-witch appeared entirely mollified. She lowered herself 
forthwith to the ground, and, hastening to the side of her lifeless victim, 
she drew the poison from his wounded shoulder, until with returning 
consciousness the warrior sprang to his feet and laid his hand upon his 
empty scabbard. For a moment he paused irresolutely, half bewildered. 
"Let me see," he murmured, "where was I? Oh yes — the dragon! The 
princess comes next, then, and the silver mirror." He recited it as a 


child does a lesson it has by heart, and raised his eyes to the uppermost 
window of the tower. But the lattice was tightly closed, and whatever 
-might be lurking there behind it gave no sign. 

The prince cast about him for weapons of attack. A glitter from the 
grass by the fountain met his roving eye, and with eager haste he gathered 
the six golden eggs into his helmet and moved toward the foot of the 
tower. Eosemarie looked alarmed, and laying a timid hand on his mailed 
arm strove to stay him. "Oh, if you please," she stammered bashfully, 
"may I ask a great favor of you?" But his gaze never wavered from the 
tower window as he answered with perfunctory politeness, "Delighted, I 
am sure, at any other time — but, a previous engagement — perhaps a little 
later — " and striding past her he began his assault with a volley of hard, 
bright missiles. The tiny windowpanes were shivered to fragments, and 
as the last of the golden eggs crashed through, the lattice swung slowly 
open and a pair of strange soft eyes looked out full into his own. 

The Princess! 

With swift hand she loosened the gleaming coils of her hair which, 
unwinding, rippled downward and touched his shoulder as if with a 
caress ; and smiling upon him most ravishingly, she beckoned him to climb. 

Poor Rosemarie stood transfixed, watching him as he went hand over 
hand, sailor-fashion, up the golden rope and sprang at last through the 
window into the tower room. She saw him drop on his knees, and the 
princess, as she bent above him, hid him quite away beneath the shining 
curtain of her hair. Then the girl awoke from her daze and fell to 
wringing her hands. "Oh, oh," she moaned, "what shall I do ! The 
princess will bewitch him — she'll turn him back to stone! And how am 
I ever to stop her?" She rocked to and fro in a perfect ecstasy of distress, 
her eyes fixed always on the lovely bending golden head framed in the 
open window. But the little brown bird, who had been chirping excitedly 
all the while and fluttering back and forth from tree to tree, now alighted 
on a branch just above her head and cried : 

"Twirtle, twirtle swee-et, 
Look down at your feet!" 

"Ropomarie obeyed mechanically, and started back in disgust, for she 
had been standing with one foot in the pool of the dragon's blood. She 


was wiping her wooden shoe fastidiously in the grass when the bird 
went on: 

"Swee-et, twirtle twirtle ; 
Dip up the blood with a leaf of myrtle 
And sprinkle the corner of every tomb, 
If you'd avert the prince's doom." 

The myrtle grew thickly at the foot of the garden wall, and the girl, 
hastily snatching one of the glossy leaves, scooped up what she could with 
it from the dark pool, and, running to the long row of tombstones, scat- 
tered its contents on the first of the line. It was the tablet on which the 
"Wickelkind" reposed. As she filled her little myrtle cup a second time 
and returned to sprinkle the next stone in order, the "Wickelkind" sat bold 
upright and began to pipe in a tiny shrill quaver: 

"My mother she was a princess fair, 
(Tresses of gold in the sunlight shone) 
High in the tower window there 
She combed the strands of her long, bright hair, 
(Oh, cold, cold the cradle of stone!) 

"She combed her hair the livelong day, 
(Tresses of gold in the sunlight shone) 
And every knight who passed that way 
Turned aside to the tower grey, 
(Oh, cold, cold the cradle of stone!) 

"She lowered the coil of her long bright hair, 
(Tresses of gold in the sunlight shone) 
She meshed the knight in a golden snare 
And drew him up to her casement there, 
(Oh, cold, cold the cradle of stone!) 

"Her twining arms to fetters grew 
(Tresses of gold in the sunlight shone) 
And with her kisses' poison-brew 
Forth through his lips the soul she drew, 
(Oh, cold, cold the cradle of stone!) 

"She turned her silver mirror bright, 
(Tresses of gold in the sunlight shone) 
Full on the face of the soulless knight 
And laughed as he stiffened to marble white, 
(Oh, cold, cold the cradle of stone!) 


"On a strand of her shining hair she hung 
(Tresses of gold in the sunlight shone) 
Two-score souls in a necklace strung ; 
Close to her fair swan-throat they clung. 
(Oh, cold, cold the cradle of stone!) 

"Two-score gems in the necklace glow; 
(Tresses of gold in the sunnght shone) 
Two-score tombs in the garden low ; 
Two-score knights in a marble row. 
(Oh, cold, cold the cradle of stone!) 

"My mother she was a princess bright, 
(Tresses of gold in the sunlight shone) 
With strangling arms so long and white 
She drew me close at the dead of night. 
(Oh, cold, cold the cradle of stone!) 

"She hushed my cries in the darkness there 
(Tresses of gold in the sunlight shone) 
With the smothering coils of her long, bright hair 
And laid me to rest in a cradle bare. 
(Oh, cold, cold the cradle of stone!) 

"Four stone sides to the cradle high, 
(Tresses of gold in the sunlight shone) 
One stone cushion whereon I lie, 
And the winter wind for a lullaby. 
(Oh, cold, cold the cradle of stone!)" 

Meanwhile Kosernarie had kept on down the line, diligently refilling 
and emptying her myrtle leaf upon each tombstone; and as she did so, 
the knights arose, one by one, from their resting-places, and with a great 
clanking of armour, betook them to the foot of the tower, where they 
climbed one upon the other's shoulders until they reached, a human ladder, 
almost to the lattice-window of the princess. Almost — not quite. 

But as the "Wickel kind's" song came to an end, its quaint little body 
dropped from its tablet and rolled stiffly along to the feet of the lowermost 
knight. He took it in his arms and lifted it to the knight above him, 
who passed it along in his turn, until at length it stood upright at the 
very top, its frilled cap just touching the window-sill. While Rosemarie 


was gazing in astonishment at this strange pyramid towering there erect 
and motionless, the weathercock suddenly flapped its wings and crowed : 

"Kick-er-i-ki, kick-er-i-ki ! 
Climb the ladder, Rosemarie !" 

Eosemarie turned grateful eyes toward her counsellor. "Oh, I under- 
stand," she cried, "thank you, thank you, dear weathercock!" And, 
grasping the mailed shoulder of the first knight, she began to climb. Each 
warrior in turn stretched her a helping hand for the long ascent, and in a 
few moments she had drawn herself up to the casement-ledge, and stood 
by the side of the princess and her prostrate victim. 

Alas, alas, was she not all too late? 

As the enchantress raised her deadly-sweet face from his, the knight's 
head fell backward with closed eyes upon her arm. He seemed asleep and 
in his dream he smiled. The princess's white hand fumbled at her girdle 
for the silver mirror and with a gesture rhythmic as an incantation she 
drew the shining disk close to his face. Once more the weathercock crowed 
shrilly : 

"Ki-ker-1-ki-i ! kl-ker-i-ki-i ! 
Turn the mirror, Rosemarie!" 

An ashen rigidity was already overspreading the smiling features of 
the knight, as the girl grasped the end of the mirror-handle and with a 
swift twist reversed it in the princess's own hand till it caught squarely 
the reflection of her startled eyes. She never stirred, but, still clasping 
the mirror, froze to a marble whiteness where she stood — a lovely petre- 
faction of terror and surprise. And from her hand there fell just then 
something that glowed and flickered like an imprisoned flame— a great 
opal-like gem which caught under the edge of the knight's breastplate and 
nestled there; the last of the magic soul-jewels, destined never to hang 
beside its sparkling fellows at the throat of the princess. The knight's 
head slipped from her stiffened arm to the floor at her feet, and as the 
jewel fell upon his breast, color and consciousness came flickering back 
into his face. He opened his eyes and Eosemarie, leaning over, helped 
him to rise. He seemed to recollect himself at once, and turning toward 
the stone princess he stretched out his hand for the mirror — the object of 


his long quest, which twice had been so nearly his undoing. But the 
marble fingers had closed about it like a vise; try as he would, he could 
not draw it away. There was but one thing to do — he must cut ofE the 
marble hand. He reached again for his sword, and again encountered 
only the empty scabbard. Then he glanced out into the garden below. 
There was the sword, buried to the hilt in the dragon's throat, and without 
it he could do nothing. In an instant he was out through the casement 
and descending from shoulder to shoulder down the ladder of knights. 
As Eosemarie stood watching him, the brown bird flew to the window- 
ledge beside her and began to sing excitedly : 

"Twirtle, twirtle, swee-et! 
Rosemarie, be fleet! 
The dragon's blood is nearly dry 
And back to their tombs the knights must hie ; 
Time to retreat! 
Swee-e-et ! 

The idea of being left stranded at the top of the tower alone with 
the marble princess seemed to appal Eosemarie, and without delay she 
scrambled through the window and down the ladder. She had barely 
reached the ground when there arose a stir and a rattle of armour 
among the hitherto motionless knights. The drops of dragon's blood on 
the stone tablets had been slowly drying away, until now only faint brown- 
ish stains remained. The charm was at an end. One by one the knights 
descended. The uppermost carried the "Wickelkind" in his arms and laid 
it tenderly back upon its little stone. Then, returning to his own, he 
mounted and, stretching himself out stiffly, folded his hands upon his 
breast. The others followed his example, and as the clock struck six the 
confusion had quite subsided, and the long row of effigies stared stonily 
forth from the garden wall just as they had done half an hour before. 

At the first stroke of the hour, Eosemarie in alarm rushed over to 
the knight, who was tugging at the sword wedged fast in the dragon's 
mouth. There was no time to waste now, and she forgot her shyness in 
the urgency of her need. "Oh, please, please," she implored, "won't you 
stop a minute? I know you are a true knight and love chivalry and 
succouring people in distress. I'm in distress and nothing can save me but 
three — kisses — from you — if you would be so kind — right away!" She 


faltered a little at the last, but she got it out, and stood looking up at 
him with the prettiest pleading face. The prince was all gallant attention 
in an instant. He abandoned his struggles with the sword, and taking 
her hand, bent down toward her upturned face. 

The clock had finished striking. 

One kiss. 

The flowered kerchief slipped half-way down off the girl's head, 
uncovering a delicious ripple of golden hair about her temples, surmounted 
by a real Eoyal-Highness coronet which sparkled like the star on a Christ- 
mas-tree. The prince paused a moment in astonishment, and vague 
memories seemed to perplex him as he looked at her; then he stooped 

Two kisses. 

This time the cotton dress glided clown from one shoulder, disclosing 
the whitest possible throat and a glimpse of a cloth-of-gold frock, such as 
princesses doubtless wear every day. 

But just then the cat leaped to Eosemarie's shoulder, its back high 
and its tortoise-shell tail waving angrily, and began spitting with rage at 
the prince. As he leaned forward for the third and last kiss, five steely 
claws darted forth and gashed him in the face till the blood flowed. 
Involuntarily he started back, and Bosemarie screamed. But the cat, its 
paw still uplifted and the menacing claws unsheathed, began with snarling 
impatience : 

"Miaow, Miaow ! 
I want my supper now I 
The comb of the weathercock 
From the gable over the clock ; 
The tongue of the twirtling bird — 
If you dare to break your word, 
I'll scratch the golden web in two 
And the spider-witch will settle you ! 
Mew-w, mew-w !" 

"Oh, dear," pleaded Bosemarie, "wouldn't anything else do just as 
well ? I'm under such obligations to the bird and the weathercock. They've 
just been very kind to me, you see; I can't be so ungrateful! Besides, 
however much I tried, I know they'd never let me put salt on their tails, 


and how else am I — ?" She was interrupted by a tremendous splashing 
and spluttering from the golden catfish in the fo\mtain: 

"Swish, swish ! 
Have you forgot the fish? 
Look sharp ! for knights of flesh and bone 
Are easily conjured back to stone. 
My golden crumbs are overdue, 
You shan't fool me with an I. O. TJ. 
The fish's terms are cash ! 
Splash, splash !" 

Eosemarie wrung her hands. Oh, why had she let the prince throw 
away all her precious golden eggs! There they were, shivered to frag- 
ments up in the tower room, far out of reach. She turned in desperation 
to the goose. Perhaps it would have pity on her — for the fish was evidently 
not to be trifled with, and there was no time to lose. "Kind Madam 
Goose," she begged, "couldn't you spare me a few more golden eggs?" 
The goose only retorted with reproachful significance: 

"Quock, quock ! 
Tea time is six o'clock !" 

And waddled resolutely over toward the golden spider-web. 

"Oh, I remember," moaned Eosemarie, "I did say I'd try to catch the 
spider- witch for you. But I am so horribly afraid of her — she's very 
dangerous to have anything to do with. And I'm sure she wouldn't agree 
with you at all ! Couldn't I find you a few nice worms instead, or a beetle 
or two?" 

For reply the goose simply hissed with scorn and continued her 
stately progress toward the spider-web. But the cat was ahead of her. 
It had sprung from Eosemarie's shoulder and, bristling witli rage, bounded 
across to unchain Nemesis, in the person of the spider-witch. There was 
a flash of claws and a swift golden glitter and the web lay a tangled ruin 
on the ground. The cat itself was safe in an instant at the top of the 
garden wall, and the spider-witch, forced to seek satisfaction elsewhere, 
darted over to where the knight was again at work endeavoring to wrench 
his sword from the dragon's mouth. 


It was against the lifeless dragon that the spider this time directed 
her attack, and to such effect that, as her venomous little fangs penetrated 
the scaly hide, a swift convulsion shook its huge inertness, the locked jaws 
parted, releasing the sword so suddenly that the knight stumbled back- 
ward, still clutching it firmly in his hand, and plunged headlong into the 
fountain. The shock of his fall dislodged the jewel from his breastplate. 
It shot through the air like a meteor and then lay glowing among the 
grass and flowers. The fish, meanwhile, poised quivering on its tail half 
out of the water, seemed somehow to have brought about and to be await- 
ing this very denouement. Deprived of its diet of golden crumbs, its 
sliining scales and all the water of the fountain had gradually dulled and 
faded, until, as the splashing died away after the knight's fall, it was 
with a very tarnished remnant of its late magnificence that the fish swam 
to the prostrate warrior's side. 

As he attempted to rise, the fish with a deft flirt of its tail splashed 
water into his eyes, blinding him and causing liim to flounder helplessly. 
And just here the dragon, now thoroughly revived, advanced bellowing 
and spouting fire in pursuit of its old adversary. As it plunged into the 
fountain-basin after the knight, the fish redoubled the activities of its 
nimble fins and tail and enveloped both antagonists in a shower of tossed- 
up spray. The effect on the dragon was instant. With hissings and 
splutterings the flames that issued from his jaws were extinguished and 
in their stead liquid streams of a pale argent dore began to pour forth and 
deluge the knight as he once more brandished his sword and advanced to 
the attack. Three times around the fountain-basin they fought their way, 
the fish always beside them and always aggravating matters by its well 
directed splashings, which blinded the knight so that he hewed about him 
wildly and continually missed his aim. The dragon pressed him closer and 
closer, until in self-defence he sprang up to the empty pedestal out of 
reach of his adversary. 

Out of reach for an instant only, for the dragon, gathering its great 
coils for a spring, paused, and then, with a mighty roar, leaped to his side. 
Just then the last pale golden glimmer faded from the water in the foun- 
tain, and from the torrents that poured out of the dragon's mouth; the 
dragon itself stiffened through all its coiled length to the old stony 
rigidity, and the knight's raised arm with its brandished sword poised, 
petrified, never to fall again. 


It was a very ugly black catfish indeed that stood for an instant 
balanced on the tip of its tail quite out of the water, regarding in triumph 
this climax of its exertions, before, with a last vindictive splash, it plunged 
beneath the surface of the fountain. 

Poor Kosernarie was standing meanwhile near the basin-edge, the very 
incarnation of despair, from her starry crown to her wooden shoes — her 
arms outstretched in helpless appeal toward the motionless figure on the 
pedestal. Then a swift leap of light caught her eye, and, stooping, she 
lifted the magic jewel which tbrobbed and flamed between her ringers like 
a living thing. For an instant her gaze wandered back to where the 
knight stood — a frozen indifference with averted face. Then, passionately, 
she caught the quivering jewel to her breast, hid it among the cotton rags 
and the cloth of gold, and as the clock struck seven, turned and fled 
through the wicket gate out of the garden. As the gate closed behind her 
I noticed that the streams issuing from the dragon's mouth were gradually 
decreasing in volume to a fine thread-like jet, and at last, with a slow 
drip, drip, and a hidden gurgle of receding waters, the fountain was still. 

The sun had got so low behind the garden wall that the basin lay in 
shadow. That was the reason, I told myself, why I could not clearly see 
the water, which, a little while before, had glittered like molten gold. It 
no longer reflected the light — that explained it, of course. But involun- 
tarily I rubbed my eyes to make sure — the basin did look most oddly black 
and empty ! I noticed, too, that the garden seemed all at once very silent 
and deserted. I peered through the lengthening shadows, but there was 
no sign of even the white goose or the brown bird. Only the cat remained, 
meowing and scratching for admittance at the door of the porter's lodge. 
The silhouette of the weathercock, motionless against the sky, seemed a mute 
repudiation of the notion that it should ever have so far unbent as to flap 
those stiff little wings. Was it possible that I had dreamed it all? 

When I rose from my bench in the arbor, a sudden flash from the 
tower window arrested my eye. The silver mirror ! Then it had not been 
a dream after all! But as I descended the mossy steps, cautiously, full 
of awe for the spider-witch (whose whereabouts I could not discover in 
the gathered gloom among the trees), I caught a second flash from the 
tower window. No, not the silver mirror, only the reflection of the evening 
light on a tiny leaded pane of glass. 


So it was growing late, and I must be off into the hum-drum world 
again, abandoning, with their destinies still at such loose ends, poor pretty 
Eosemarie and the unfortunate knight, the wicked princess, the enchanted 

Out upon it ! What had dragons and enchantresses and talking birds 
and beasts to do with Life? Off there beyond these ruined walls and 
towers the real business of existence awaited me — band concerts and 
Wiener Schnitzels on the Kurhaus Terrace; Sprudel baths and strong 
waters, and all the serious, strenuous routine of a German watering place. 
Here I had been squandering my intensest sympathies through a long- 
afternoon on the fantastic affairs and distresses of these mere creatures of 
Bomance — I, for whom the real ills of life were all so neatly tabulated on 
my "Kurkarte" in terms of too desultory heart-beats ! 

I rubbed my eyes once more, and so, stifling a sigh of regret, I 
passed across the drawbridge from the twilight fairyland of dreams, and 
through the dusk}' gloom of the castle-wood out into the now gaily electric- 
lighted world of Eeality. 

Caroline Reeves Foullce, 1896. 




" Besides, as it is fit for grown and able writers to stand of themselves, so 
it is fit for the beginner and learner to study others and the best; .... not 
to imitate servilely .... but to draw forth out of the best and choicest 
flowers with the bee, and turn all into honey, work it into one relish and savour; 
make our imitation sweet." — Ben Jonson: Discoveries. 


George Sand. — Leave the piano, my 
friend ; come over here by the fire, and 
talk to me. You know I am the best 
of listeners ; so good, in fact, that I 
cannot talk to you while you are play- 
ing. Besides, I must tell you what 
de Musset once said to me. You 
know he thinks you have found the 
perfect expression — in the lower art — 
for all he is striving to make clear in 
poetry. Well, dear boy, he said you 
were the musician of the future. I 
didn't agree with him, — I never do, — 
but do you yourself reassure me that 
the boy I took under my wing is not 
going to turn out the world's master 

Chopin. — Do not laugh at me, 
Aurore; to-night I cannot bear it. As 
for talking to you, I can only do that 
when I am playing to you. What 
have I to tell you that you have not 
heard a thousand times already? You 
know all ; my ideas and aspirations I 
have repeated until you sighed with 
weariness. But when I play them they 
are not trite; even the blues sound 

George Hand. — That is just what I 

told de Musset. Your etudes and pre- 
ludes, your nocturnes and waltzes, are 
your moods — deified. But do not play 
now ; what my dull mind craves is not 
a heavenly monologue of mood, but 
articulate opinions. On what grounds 
do you and de Musset base your belief 
that you are the supreme genius? 

Chopin. — It was not I ; I never 
claimed anything. All I desire, all I 
can hope for, is to find, in part, ex- 
pression for the edged rapture and 
most sweet melancholy that come from 
love, — from your love. 

George Sand. — That is what you do 
"express" in your music, — only so 
much better there. But do not think 
your music is I, or even that it is love ; 
it is you, Frederic Chopin. Yours is 
the most individual music man ever 
wrote. Universal joy, or even human- 
ity's joy, has no place in it. It is 
composed of your emotions only, and 
is drenched with your personality. 
Beware the pitfall of the individual- 
ists; take care that in gaining your 
own soul, you lose not the whole world. 
You need not tell me again, Frederic, 
that the soul is our highest posses- 
sion ; that in freeing that wo have 
wrought out our noblest capability. 
The universal soul is infinitely more 



than that nervous, half-wild thing in 
your breast, and the universal soul is 
what the master musician will ex- 
press, — nay, has expressed : Bach in 
part, Beethoven fully. 

Chopin. — These are not my masters. 
Their glory I neither envy nor seek. 
Say that I have interpreted the tem- 
perament of your sex, — your exquisite 
inconsistency, your fine unintelligence. 
Nay, my friend, not thine ; thou hast 
the mind of my sex, as I have the 
soul of thine. ... Do you remem- 
ber a night last autumn when you and 
Jules were almost lost in that terrible 
storm? How you came home and 
found me weeping and playing? 
Aurore, I thought you were dead. 

George Sand. — Remember? My God, 
what music ! What you must have 
suffered ! 

Chopin. — Dear friend, that storm to 
me was a raging ocean, and the wind, 
the shrieks of the drowning. And I 
was locked away from you in eternity, 
and the rain fell drop by drop upon 
my brain. Would another of my sex 
have felt it so? Blind interpretation 
of blind anguish. . . . Some one 
told me since that, in that prelude, I 
seemed to be "imitating nature." 

George Sand. — Ah, fool, fool ! 

Chopin. — No, I do not mind now. 
But this is my defence: I am not imi- 
tating nature, but I do interpret, not 
create. All expression, all sound, pass 
through my soul into music and be- 
come, as you know, flagrantly per- 
sonal. I cannot know the bland uni- 
versal, but I can realise the passionate 
individual, and if I cannot sympathise 
with the world-soul, I can interpret 
my own. My genius, as you intimate, 

is deformed and sad and sensitive. 
May I play for you now, Aurore? 

Grace Branham, 1910. 


Half-covered by the water, his naked 
shoulders wet and gleaming in the sun, 
his strong, slim body thrown back 
against the waves, stood Williauma, 
the native surf-rider. Dark face, 
alight with eagerness, eyes afire, heavy 
lips parted over white teeth, head 
darting from time to time quickly back 
over his shoulder, — so he waited, his 
surf-board held tightly in his hands. 

Suddenly, the boy's body straight- 
ened and grew rigid, his breath came 
harder and faster. With a crash and 
a flaring of foam, a great wave bad 
broken over the low-lying reef behind 
him. He flung his dripping board 
high before the oncoming torrent and 
slipped his slim length over its sur- 
face. Then, with a single movement, 
so light that it scarcely bent the board 
beneath him, he slid to his feet and 
stood upon the crest of the wave, 
balancing his weight with outspread 
dripping arms. So, like a winged 
creature, the wind blowing back the 
thick hair from his face and beating 
the water-drops from his brown body, 
he swept on with the wave toward the 

There, where the beach line showed 
white against the blue water, the boy 
let his surf-board slide forward from 
under him. Lifting his hands like a 
flash above his head, he dove care- 
lessly off into the water. 

Ethelinda Schaefer, 1908. 



As some stars are so faint that they 
are invisible except when we look at 
them indirectly, so some aspects of 
nature are too elusive for us to realise 
their beauties except when we watch 
them with our eyes half-turned away. 
Just so early morning, with its witch- 
ery greater than that of evening twi- 
light, its mystery deeper than that o£ 
night, baffles our efforts at under- 
standing, remaining aloof, as it were, 
and only by slow imperceptible stages 
opening itself to our gaze. Its first 
light is like a dim ghost of darkness, 
eluding our touch. Its breezes seem 
not of earth, but are rather breaths 
from some unseen land of night. It 
gives forth faint odours, soft dews, and 
half-heard sounds, and, at the moment 
when it first gains colour and motion 
and life, is like some dreamer awaking 
gently from sleep. 

Helen B. Parklmrst, 1011. 


In the centre of the city called Life, 
is a statue of Truth, on a pedestal 
that the ceaseless struggle of multi- 
tudes has broken and disfigured. Hid- 
den in a crevice of the lofty monu- 
ment, fazing over the wide city, dwells 
Irony, the ever-smiling. High above 
her hiding-place stands the great 
statue, large limbs making a clear line 
against the clouded sky, and face of 
solemn ecstasy lifted toward heaven. 
Below her feet, on the unsure stones 
of the city streets, press and agonise 

all mankind. The races of the world 
are here ; worn and wistful, they surge 
toward the monument of Truth, strik- 
ing and trampling one another in their 
efforts to reach the lifeless marble. 
It is a surging sea that Irony looks 
down upon — a sea of tossing arms, 
eager fingers, and faces of woe and 
yearning. The sound of if is like the 
vast murmur of the ocean itself : 
"Truth ! Truth !" it moans, in a long 
cadence broken only by an occasional 
wind-sharp cry. 

Through the sound of humanity's 
complaining, one who knows how to 
listen can distinguish the laughter of 
Irony — light laughter, vibrant with 
bitter mirth. She herself sits medita- 
tive on the cold stones of her crevice, 
visible to none but the few who press 
too near the statue. The outline of her 
limbs is blurred by the misty folds of 
her cloud-grey robe; her pale hair is 
a mere haze against the shadow of her 
background ; but her face stands out 
clear and definite, and once seen, ia 
never forgotten. The brow of Irony 
is broad and noble, and her eyes are 
dark with sorrow. The rest of her 
face, however, like one of the old 
masks of comedy, is grotesque in its 
mirth — chin pointed, mouth aslant 
with merriment, cheeks creased in 
lines of scorn. Around her, the air 
pulsates with wailings ; below her, set 
faces are uplifted in vain seeking; but 
Irony never stirs. Scornful and sad, 
she sits laughing through the cen- 
turies, as she has laughed since the 
beginning of the world. 

Helen Townsend Scott, 1909. 




The arrangement had been that 
Sarah, In order to exploit her fitness 
for the position which Mr. Wylie 
Waringhorn had at his disposal, should 
present herself to that gentleman at 
ten o'clock on Monday morning. It 
was now twenty minutes of eleven, 
and as Mr. Waringhorn had not yet 
learned how many times poor Sarah 
was always obliged to flutter back and 
forth before deciding where to hide her 
key and whether to carry an umbrella, 
he had quite given her up. When she 
finally did arrive, it appeared that she 
had made an unhappy selection of 
alternatives, so far as the umbrella 
was concerned. She stood dripping 
apologetically in the doorway, murmur- 
ing explanations of her tardiness, and 
protesting feebly against dragging her 
wet skirts across the immaculate white 
and blue squares of the entry. 

It seemed that the great-aunt of the 
gentleman with whom Sarah lived had 
very inconsiderately seen fit to give 
way to some sort of mental weakness 
to which she was subject, at the iden- 
tical moment when poor Sarah had 
made herself so far sure of her own 
plans as to be stepping out of the 
front gate. 

"Seems as if she was afraid of every- 
body else when she gets them spells," 
Sarah explained to Mr. Waringhorn in 
a confidential tone, as she seated her- 
self gingerly on the edge of a horse- 
hair sofa, after taking at least one 
step in the direction of every other 
chair in the room. 

"And she isn't afraid of you, isn't 
she?" asked Mr. Waringhorn, his sharp 
eyes snapping suddenly at the thought. 

"Oh, no," said the girl, "she kind o' 
hangs ou to me. I don't see why it is. 
I reckon she's used to me, don't you 
think so?" 

"I dare say," conceded Mr. Waring- 
horn. "But she must be a great charge, 
isn't she?" 

"Oh, I don't know," the girl wavered ; 
"Lizzie she says I'm a fool to stay, but 
I don't know. Sometimes I thought I 
would leave, and then the old lady she 
cried, and Mister he felt something aw- 
ful. I did tell Mr. Stratton once that 
I wished I had my wages." Her face 
brightened. "I put it to him straight," 
she said, giggling with choked delight 
over her reminiscence. Apparently the 
contemplation of herself in the un- 
usual role of the inexorable unjust 
steward tickled her fancy, for she re- 
peated half a dozen times through her 
chuckles, "And I just put it to him 

"So then he paid you, did he?" asked 
Mr. Waringhorn. 

"No," she said, controlling her 
chuckles and falling into a little of her 
former perplexity ; "no, he didn't pay ; 
but he was worried, and felt something 
dreadful. Lizzie she said I'd ought to 
have left, but I don't know. Some- 
body's got to button the old lady's 
shoes, you see, and anyway, I don't 
know -" 

"Can't they get her into a home?" 
asked the man of affairs. 

"Yes, that's what Mr. Stratton says ; 
but the old lady she cried, and then 
they decided to raise my wages in- 

"So then they paid you?" 

"Why no, not yet ; but I don't know. 
Of course it will be more when I get 



it, you see, and besides you ain't so 
apt to spend it when you ain't got it, 
do you think?" 

"There's something iu that," agreed 
Mr. Wylie Waringhorn, rubbing the 
backs of his hands together and star- 
ing at a crack in the floor. 

"Besides," she hesitated, smiling 
with wet eyes — her eyes were always 
wet when she smiled — "besides, we 
might get older ourselves sometime, 
don't you think?" She looked mod- 
estly pleased with her philosophy, as 
if the idea were quite new, and liable 
consequently to be opposed. Yet she 

demanded no answer. For a few mo- 
ments the man at the desk watched 
her as she made and unmade a rabbit 
out of her handkerchief. Then he got 
up and crossed the room to the door 
of an inner office. 

"Parker," he said, closing the door 
behind him, "she's best as she is. Her 
heart's much too big, but if it were 
small, she'd go straight to the dogs. 
Besides," he added half to himself as 
he turned away, "somebody's got to 
button the old lady's shoes, that's 

Ruth George, 1910. 




President — Rose Jeffries Peebles. 
Vice-President — Florence Donnell White. 
Secretary — Helen Hawley Nichols. 
Treasurer — Anna Ward Aven. 
Executive Committee — Rose Jeffries Peebles. 

Florence Donnell White. 
Lillian P. Moser. 
Louise B. Morgan. 
Edith F. Rice. 
During the year of 1907-08 five formal meetings of the Graduate Club have 
been held. The speakers and their subjects have been as follows : President 
M. Carey Thomas, "Present Tendencies in the University Education of Women ;" 
Prof. Paul Haupt, of Johns Hopkins University, "The Song of Solomon in its 
relation to Goethe and Herder ;" Prof. Paul Clemen, of the University of Bonn, 
German Exchange Professor at Harvard University, "Bocklin ;" Dr. Carleton 
F. Brown of Bryn Mawr, "Paganismus Redivivus ;" and Prof. Laura J. Wylie, 
of Vassal- College, "The Place of the Peasant in Wordsworth's Social Theories." 
The Graduate Fellowship dinner was held on the evening of . March twen- 
tieth. Former Bryn Mawr European Fellows were guests of the Club and gave 
interesting accounts of their experiences in foreign universities. 

On April the twenty-fourth a reception w T as given to the faculty of the 
college. Throughout the year tea has been served in the club-room on the first 
four afternoons of the week. The athletic director of the club has organised 
hockey and basket-ball teams and a gymnasium class. 

F. D. W. 

* * 


President — Louise Foley, 1908. 
Vice-President — Cynthia Wesson, 1909. 
Secretary — Barbara Spofford, 1909. 
The Philosophical Club has thus far had one formal meeting ; on February 
sixth Miss Ethel D. Puffer, of Radcliffe College, spoke on "The ^Esthetic 
Experience" to a most appreciative audience, who were especially glad to have 
the opportunity of meeting Miss Puffer afterwards. It is hoped that Professor 
Munsterberg, of Harvard, will address the club on April twenty-fourth. 

B. 8., 1909. 



President — Louise Milligan, 1908. 
Vice-President — Cornelia Meigs, 1908. 
Treasurer — Mart Putnam, 1909 (resigned). 

Alta Stevens, 1909. 
Secretary — Hilda Smith, 1910. 

The regular work of the Christian Union consists in holding religious meet- 
ings on alternate Wednesdays, in conducting Bible study classes and one mission 
study class, and in organising philanthropic work among the college maids, the 
laboratory boys, and the factory girls in Kensington. Special work has been 
done at different times, as helping in registration of new students in the fall, 
making up a box of clothing and toys for a mission school just before Christmas, 
and collecting money for relief work in February. 

In June, 1907, the Christian Union held an eight-day conference at Bryn 
Mawr in connection with the Friends' Summer School of Religious History. 
In all about sixty Bryn Mawr people registered at the conference, but a number 
of these were present only a small part of the time. Though in extent the 
conference was disappointing, those who attended felt that it had a great value 
both in educating and in inspiring, and that such conferences would always be 
beneficial to the Christian Union in broadening and at the same time intensify- 
ing the religious ideals of the members. 

It was to try to produce somewhat similar results that a week-end confer- 
ence was held at the college, February fourteenth to sixteenth, 1908. Dr. 
Beever, of the Union Theological Seminary, gave four classes on the second 
Isaiah ; Miss Carolina Wood, of Mt. Kisco, spoke of practical work ; Dr. Coe, 
of Northwestern University, on "The Possibility of a Non-Mystical Religious 
Experience;" Dr. McGiffert on "The Trend of Modern Thought," and Professor 
Rufus Jones on "The Call to Service." Attendance at the meetings indicated 
that a large part of the college was interested. 

L. M., 1908 


President — Anna, 1908. 
Vice-President — Doeothy Merle-Smith, 1908. 
Secretary — Carlie Minor, l!Ki!>. 
Treasurer — Elsie Deems, 1910. 

The League now has a total active and associate membership of 102 and 
an auxiliary membership of 51. It lias continued Its regular activities during 


this year with an increased attendance at meetings and an increased enrollment 
in classes. 

Five Bible classes have been held, all led by undergraduates, except one on 
the Teachings of Jesus, which has been conducted by Rev. C. A. R. Janvier, of 
Philadelphia. The total enrollment in these classes for the first semester was 
107, and the average attendance 71. 

The League has continued to support Mr. Tonomura's mission among the 
poor of Tokyo by a contribution of at least $25 a month ; it has carried on 
classes in college in the study of comparative religion, and of home and foreign 
missions ; it has also conducted a weekly Bible class for working women and 
sent helpers to other meetings at the Lighthouse Settlement in Kensington, 
Philadelphia. These have been the principal missionary activities of the League 
during the year. 

The Sunday afternoon meetings at 5.15 have been continued ; and from 
May third to fifth last spring a Missionary Conference was held under the 
leadership of alumnae student volunteers. 

A delegation of twenty-five, organized by the League, represented Bryn 
Mawr at the Student Conference held in June at Silver Bay, Lake George. 

The activities of the organization are now carried on by seven different 
committees directed by a board of eight members. 

A. W., 1908. 


Chairman — Maegaeet Fbanklin, 1908. 

Maetha Plaisted, 1908. 

Maejoeie Young, 1908. 

Cablle Minob, 1909. 

Maby Neabing, 1909. 

Kathaeine Liddell, 1910. 

Charlotte Simonds, 1910. 

Sunday Evening Meeting has been continued this year according to the 
plan followed during the second semester of last year. The leader, usually an 
undergraduate, but sometimes an alumna, has chosen her topic and submitted 
it to the committee. The subjects have almost always had a direct bearing 
upon college life, and after the reading of the paper there has often been 
informal discussion. 

M. F., 1908. 



President — Barbara Spofford, 1909. 
Vice-President — Louise Hyman, 190S. 
Secretary — Shirley Putnam, 1909. 
The object of the Law Club this year has been to promote an interest in 
general informal debating, in meetings of the club at which one of the officers 
presides and organises the discussion. The Law Club has debated in this 
way with the Equal Suffrage League, and expects to have several more meetings 
of a similar kind. It is customary for the presiding officer at the close of the 
debate to ask for a reorganisation of the meeting, and the result has been in 
the direction of settling the contestants' opinions rather than radically changing 
their views. 

Two formal debates will have been held during the year ; the interclass 

debate on the Income Tax, which was won by the Seniors against the Juniors, 

and a formal debate between two Law Club teams, the subject of which is: 

"Resolved, That Chinese labour should be excluded from the United States." 

The speakers this year have been Dean Ashley, who opened the club, and 

Mr. Franklin S. Edmunds, who spoke admirably on Civil Service Reform. 

B. 8., 1909. 
# * * 


President — Louise Foley, 1908, 

Theresa Helburn, 1908. 

Martha Plaisted, 1908. 

Margaret Franklin, 1908. 

Marjorie Young, 1908. 

Edith Chambers, 1908. 

Shirley Putnam, 1909. 

pueasaunce baker, 1909. 
The English Club during the year 1907-08 has held its usual fortnightly 
meetings. The club this year contained eight members. Miss Donnelly was 
present at the first informal meeting and assisted the club in drawing up a 
new constitution. The basis of membership now rests entirely upon the grades 
in composition work. At the informal meetings papers written especially for 
the club have been read. At the first formal meeting, in October, Mr. William 
Morton Fullerton spoke on "The Lesson of Henry James ;" at the second one, 
in December, Mr. Roger Fry, Curator of Paintings in the Metropolitan Museum 
of Art in New York, spoke on "Expression and Representation in Art." A 
third formal meeting will be held in May, when Mr. Paul Elinor More, of 
the Nation, will lecture on "Sir Thomas Browne." 

L. F., 1908. 



President — Ina May Richtee, 1908. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Adelaide Teague Case, 1908. 

Secretary — Frances Lord, 1910. 

Now entering its third year, the Science Club seems as well an established 
factor in college life as the older academic associations. It has proved its 
right to rank beside them by the really living interest of its members and 
by the privilege it has given to the college of hearing lectures by men of note 
in the scientific world. The desire of the club is "quality, not quantity," in 
its lectures as well as in its membership ; this year two speakers only' have 
been invited : Dr. David Horn, former Professor of Chemistry at Bryn Mawr, 
who gave an account of his own research work in chemical affinity ; and Mr. 
Willis L. Moore, Chief of the United States Weather Bureau, who gave a 
reminiscent lecture on "Storms," illustrated by lantern slides. 

The work of the Science Club is quite in line with the present-day move- 
ment of awakening a universal interest in things scientific, and of stimulating 
specialized research in the various scientific branches. 

D. M., 1908. 

* * * 


President — Marjorie Young, 1908. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Els a Denison, 1910. 

Secretary— Anna Platt, 1909. 

Indoor Manager — Lydia Sharpless, 1908. 

Outdoor Manager — Cynthia Wesson, 1909. 

In the past year increasing interest has been shown in the various athletic 
sports. During the hockey season, it was not unusual for each class to send 
out three teams a day, and the other athletic events have been equally well 

In hockey the championship was won by the Class of 1908, after many 
tie games which continued the contest until after Thanksgiving. The Varsity 
played with five outside teams, winning all the matches except that against 
the Merion Cricket Club, which resulted in a tie. 

The scheme of interclass singles and doubles in the tennis tournament 
proved so satisfactory last year that it was repeated in the fall. Anne 
Whitney, 1909, won the championship in the singles through the default of 
Gertrude Hill, 1907, who held the cup for last year. The doubles are to be 
played off this spring. 

The number of authorised swimmers has been largely increased by the 
college requirement that every Freshman shall learn to swim. There were 


many entries in the annual contest, which was won by 1909. The record in 
the swim under water was broken by Biddle, 1909, and a new record in the 
plunge was established by Wood, 1911. Match games in water polo are to 
be played off before the Easter holidays, under new rules, which permit 
ducking and provide wider goals. 

In the track meet two college records were broken : the hop, step and jump, 
by Wesson, 1909 ; and the rope-climb, by Piatt, 1909. Two new events, the 
fence vault, tied by Piatt and Wesson, and the ring high, done without the 
running board, and won by Piatt, 1909, were instituted. The meet was won 
by 1909, and the cup for the greatest number of individual points was awarded 
to Piatt, 1909. 

On the last day of gymnasium there was a contest in light and heavy 
gymnastics between the two younger classes, judged by four outside gymnasium 
directors. The honours fell to the Sophomores. In the course of the after- 
noon there was an exhibition of sesthetic dancing by those who had practised 
two days a week during the winter, and also a fencing tournament, in which 
the Fencers' Club took part. Biddle, 1909, won the foil presented for this 
latter event by Miss Applebee. 

As soon as weather permitted the basket-ball season commenced. Two 
courts have been marked out on the lower field, and it is hoped that so many 
will come out for the game that the upper field will be needed as well. 

The all-absorbing interest of the Athletic Association at present is the 
new gymnasium. The Athletic Board and Miss Applebee have undertaken to 
raise the $30,000 required for the improvements which seem absolutely neces- 
sary if the gymnastic work is to be carried on at its present scale. The pro- 
posed changes provide convenient dressing rooms for gymnastic drills, physical 
appointments, and plays ; a larger stage ; and a broader floor space, at both 
the swimming pool and the gymnasium levels. The number of exits is to be 
increased and better ventilation arranged for. The committee has been greatly 
encouraged by the ready response to its appeals on the part of alumnre and 
undergraduates, but there is a large sum still to be collected before June. Tt 
is to be hoped that the efforts to supply this crying need of the college will 
not be fruitless. 

M. Y., 1908. 


President — Louise Congijon, 1908. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Lacy Van Waqenen, 1909. 

Secretary — Emily Stoher, 1910. 

The Consumers' League, numbering about two hundred and five members, 
has maintalnfd this year its regular work of distributing white lists and 


calendars for Christinas shopping, and of giving financial aid for investigation 
and legislation. 

It sent two delegates to the New York Congestion Exhibit, and for this 
sanie purpose twenty-five others went to New York, which shows that the 
members of the Consumers' League are awake to their responsibilities in the 
economic and social problems of the present day. 

L. 0., 1908. 

SfE l£ SJS 


Elector — Katharine G. Bcob, 1909. 

Georqina Biddle, 1909. 
Secretary — Katherine Rotan, 1910. 
Treasurer — Edith Adair, 1909. 

An increase in the membership of the College Settlement Chapter this year 
has greatly encouraged those who are interested in the chapter. The member- 
ship dues have not all been collected, so that it is not yet known what the 
subscription from the college will be, but we think it will amount to about $150. 

Early in the year Miss Gertrude Day, Assistant Headworker of the New 
York College Settlement, spoke to the members and guests of the chapter on 
social settlements and their relation to social work. 

The Bryn Mawr Chapter and the main College Settlement Association are 
offering a joint fellowship of $500 for the year 1908-09. The purpose of the 
fellowship is to encourage the investigation of social conditions, and to give 
an opportunity for special training in philanthropic work. Any graduate of 
the college is eligible to the fellowship. 

Students have gone, as usual, to the Philadelphia settlements to help take 
care of the children on Saturday mornings. Later in the spring, the chapter 
is planning to invite a large party of the settlement children to spend the day 
at Bryn Mawr. 

O. B., 1909. 


President — Margaret C. Lewis, 1908. 
Vice-President and, Treasurer — Katharine Ecob, 1909. 
Secretary — Mart W. Worthington, 1910. 
Executive Board — Theresa Helbtjrn, 1908. 
Katherine Rotan, 1910. 
The Bryn Mawr College Chapter of the Woman's Equal Suffrage League, 
which was organized last spring during Mrs. Parks' visit to the college, has 
prospered during the past year. Its list of members now includes about one- 


fourth of the students and several of the faculty, and increases daily. There 
have been two general meetings, to which the college and outside guests have 
been invited, besides the private meetings of the league. The first of these 
was addressed by Mrs. Cobden-Sanderson, who spoke on "Why I Went to 
Prison." and who awakened much interest in the English suffragette movement, 
even if her arguments did not convince her American audience. The second 
meeting, on March sixteenth, was addressed by Miss Jane Addams, of Hull 
House, whose subject was "Social Legislation and the Need of the Ballot for 
Women." She considered the question from the purely practical side, and 
her words, with the force of her personality and wide experience behind them, 
not only aroused great enthusiasm, but seem to have carried conviction with 
them to many who were present. 

M. G. L., 1908. 


President — Maegabet Copeland, 1908. 
Secretory — Mart Herr, 1909. 
Treasurer — Shirley Putnam, 1909. 

The Trophy Club has been working this year to carry out the plan of 
putting in each room small brass plates printed with the name, class and date 
of each occupant of the room. A good many rooms have almost complete lists 
of their occupants, and plates have been ordered which will be put up this spring. 

M. B. 0., 1908. 
* * * 


President — Caroline F. Lexow, 190S. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Bertha Ehlers, 1909. 

Secretary — Elsie H. Bryant, 1909. 

Informal meetings of the club are held ou alternate Saturday evenings. 
The one formal meeting of the year will take place on April tenth, when 
Dr. Jessen will speak on Nietzsrlir. 


Presidefii — .Mar-iorh: N. Wallace, 1908. 

Vice- President and Treasurer — Lydia Siiarpless. 1908. 

Secretary — Helen Brown, 1909. 

The Oriental Club has bad two formal meetings this year: the first in 
December, when Mrs. Nltobe, of Japan, spoke on "The Status of Women in 


Japan;" the second in February, when Dr. John Peters, of St. Michael's Church, 
New York, gave a lecture with stereopticon slides on "Some Personal Discov- 
eries and Experiences in Palestine." 

M. M. W., 1908. 
* * * 


President — Grace Branham, 1910. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Anita Boggs, 1910. 

Secretary— Frances Porter, 1911. 

Thirteen members of the club have entered the spring tournament to 
compete for the cup, now held by Grace Branham, 1910. 

A. T. 0., 1908. 


Conductor — Martha C. Barry. 

Leader — Dorothy Merle-Smith, 1908. 

Business Manager — Evelyn Holt, 1909. 

Assistant Business Manager — Rosalind Romeyn, 1910. 

The Glee Club this year has numbered forty-eight members. The work 
has been much the same as in previous years, except that more time than 
usual was given to the preparation for the Christmas service. Three carols 
were sung with violin and 'cello accompaniments, the Glee Club afterwards 
going over to Cartref, where, after a short serenade, they were received most 
cordially by President Thomas and Miss Garrett. The annual concert is to be 
held on the second of May, the proceeds going to the new gymnasium fund. 

D. M. S., 1908. 

* # * 


Leader — Grace La Pierre Wooldridge, 1909. 
Business Manager — Gertrude Congdon, 1909. 
Assistant Business Manager — Florence Wyman, 1911. 

This year the Mandolin Club has consisted of seventeen members, and, 
besides the usual number of violins, mandolins, guitars and banjos, the club 
has been fortunate in having the addition of a 'cello. Departing from its 
usual custom of not playing in public before the annual concert, the Mandolin 
Club has played for dancing several times in the gymnasium on Saturday 

G. La P. W., 1909. 



President — Martha Plaisted, 1908. 
Vice-President and Treasurer — Helen Crane, 1909. 
Secretary — Mary Nearing, 1909. 
Assistant Treasurer — Elsie Deems, 1910. 


President — Jacqueline Pascal Morris, 1908. 
Vice-President — Louise Milligan, 1908. 
Graduate Member — Margaret Morris. 
Secretary — Celeste Webb, 1909. 
Treasurer — Leone Robinson, 1909. 
Executive Board — Jacqueline Morris, 1908. 

Louise Milligan, 1908. 

Frances Browne, 1909. 

Mat Putnam, 1909 (resigned). 

Catherine Goodale, 1909. 

Margaret Morris. 


Bryn Maicr European Fellow — Mayone Lewis. 
President's European Fellow — Cornelia Catlin Coulter. 

A.B., Washington University, St. Louis ; Scholar in Latin at Bryn 
Mawr College. 
Mary E. Garrett European Fellow — Helen Hawley Nichols. 

A.B., Marietta College. Graduate Student and Graduate Scholar In 
Semitic Languages at Bryn Mawr College, 1906-7— 1907-08. 
Anna Ottendorfer Memorial Fellowship in Teutonic Philology — Awarded for 
the year 1908-09 to Anna Sophie Wenstoff. 
A. B., Woman's College of Baltimore. 
Research Fellowship in Chemistry. Founded in 1907 — Awarded to Mary Cloyd 

Swarthmore, Pa. A.B., Woman's College of Baltimore, 1897, and 
A. M., 1899; Assistant in Chemistry, Vassal- College, 1898-1900, 
and Instructor in Chemistry, 1900-07. 





Up, up, beyond the clouds, on wings of might ! 

What hope have I to pray or beg release? 
Below me, in the fresh thin April light, 
All green and blossomed, lie the fields of Greece. 
The maidens there 
Now bleach with care 
The linen fair, 
And on the hill, 
My little snowy flock may graze at will. 

I would not bear 
Jove's golden cups, if only I might tend them still 

Louise Foley, 1908. 
Reprinted from Tipyn o' Boo. 

The Pleiads dance upon the floor 
Of ardent azure, silvered o'er 

With moonbeams' misty light ; 
To hidden music's crystal beat, 
Twinkle and glance their shining feet 

Throughout the silent night. 

Below, the lightly tossing sea 
Reflects the paces full and free 

Of gold and pearled shoon, 
Flashing many a glint and gleam 
Upon the dusky purple stream, 

Beneath the quiet moon. 

All night they dance, but with the 

The sparkling Pleiades are gone, 

Departed far away ; 
Beyond the sky and sea they roam, 
Far, far across the trackless foam, 
And through the gates of day. 

Louise Foley, 1908. 

(From the French of Joachin du 

The wise Ulysses was a happy man, 
And he that bore the Fleece through 

famous seas, 
When Argo caught the freshening 
homeward breeze : 
Discreet, renowned, they filled a 
lengthened span. 

They lived amongst their kin, within 
the piles 
Their fathers built — Ah ! me, and I 

could spare 
Rome's hard, high palace marble, 
boldly fair, 
To see our dim red roofs and chimney 

When shall I please my sight with 
country skies, 
My plain worn house and garden- 
close between? 



Provinces pall ; there have my fathers 
And watched the thin smoke of the 
village rise. 

The Gallic Loire, Lire, my little hill, 
Than Tiber more, than Latin Pala- 
Match with my mood, — native to me 
and mine ! 
Soothing, not harsh, were Anion's 
breezes still ! 
Maud Elizabeth Temple, 1904. 


Where are those tender dreams we 
When we were Freshmen young and 
Of academic honors won, 

Of learned foreheads crowned with 

Our young ambitions — where are 
To woo the learned muse severe 
Was then our dream. It went the 
All such dreams go, in Freshman year. 

Frail bubbles gleaming in the sun 

Bear our young hopes of yesterday ; 
We never dream of lessons done, 

We only long for strenuous play. 

But time must pass and youth decay, 
Despite ourselves we grow austere, 

Our joy-dreams cannot last for aye, 
They're left behind with Sophomore 

Forgotten is our childish fun, 
To graver things our fancies stray, 

We know bow all tilings should be run, 
No human foibles we betray. 

A strong ambition we display 
To regulate this earthly sphere. 

Were we successful? Who can say? 
We thought we were in Junior year. 


And when our burdens down we lay, 
Our faces turn away from here, 

Which dream then shall we bear away 
To guide us after Senior year? 

Cornelia Meigs, 1907. 


Who called me by the rushy bank 

Where old Peneus flows? 

Whose was that voice that sweeter 

Than ever words my mother sang 
At evening's purple close? 
Daphne ! Daphne ! 

What god or man is this whose eyes 
Light up thy soul with fire? 
Ah, Daphne! as a sweet dove flies 
Haste thee, nor pause in dumb sur- 
Thralled by his soft-stringed lyre. 
Daphne ! Daphne ! 

Where is the fair white nymph that 

Where old Peneus flows? 
Rooted in earth her lovely feet, 
Bound with rough bark her eyelids 

sweet ; 
If this be thou — who knows?' 
Daphne! Daphne! 

Reprinted from Tipyn o' Hob. 



What though thy lustrous leaves be 

To crown Apollo's brow, 
The bright maids miss thee at their 

And many a youth for many a day 
Shall keep an empty vow. 
Daphne! Daphne! 

Mary Nearing, 1909. 


Mah honey, doan Ah lub yo' true? 
Aw honey, mah heart 'longs ter you 
Jes' lak de clouds 'long ter de blue, 
Mah honey ! 

Mah honey, doan de good Book teach 

Ter lub each yudder, heah de Preach- 

Honey, if yo ain' sweet as peaches, 
Mah honey ! 

Mah honey, yo're a gyarden flower, 
Jes' growin' sweeter ev'y hour. 
Look out! doan let dat sweet git sour, 
Mah honey! 

Mah honey, sweetes' li'l gyurl, 

Yo're jes' as shy 's a bright-eyed 

Yo' cheeks show dere red flag unfurl, 
Mah honey ! 

Aw honey, lis'en to yo' man ; 
Jes' whisper in mah year 'f you can — 
Yo' say yo' lub me? Thang God, Nan, 
Mah honey ! 

Mayone Leicis, 1908. 


When Miss Priscilla Lanier, of the 
Class of 1900, invited Miss Rosalind 
Rives, of the Class of 1904, to come to 
tea, Rosalind Rives knew that Miss 
Lanier and Miss Lanier's friends had 
decided to give her what might be 
called a trial. Even to be tried by 
Miss Lanier's coterie was a compli- 
ment. Rosalind Rives had not been in 
college four months without learning 
that. When she thanked Miss Lanier, 
she showed prettily, but without self- 
abasement, that she appreciated the 
compliment — a point which Miss 
Lanier registered promptly in her 
favour. Her face burned with pleas- 
ure as she buried it in her muff and 
ran across the campus, wondering if 
any one had seen her talking to Miss 
Lanier, and whether the trial was to 
be given her because she had just 
broken the college record under water, 
or because she was looking unusually 
well in her new fur coat. 

"What ever was Priscilla Lanier 
saying to you, Rosalind?" screamed 
Rosalind's room-mate, running to meet 
her at the head of the stairs. 

"Oh, nothing," replied Miss Rosalind 
nonchalantly ; "just to go to tea." 

"Oh," said Hortensia, "is that all ! I 
thought maybe she wanted you to go 
over and spend the week." 

Suddenly Rosalind relented. "O 
Hortie," she cried, "aren't you glad! 
She's perfectly charming. I think I 
shall go rather late so I can wear my 
new pink muslin. I'm a perfect pic- 
ture in it, wouldn't you?" 

"You do very well in it," agreed 
Hortensia, "but I shouldn't take much 
thought about my clothes. You'll 



carry a book, of course, and if you 
could stop smiling so foolishly, it's 
none too early to begin to practise 
looking bored." 

"Oh, it's easy enough to look bored 
when you're around, Hortie, but you're 
perfectly silly if you think they're such 
sticks as all that. Priscilla Lanier has 
the most exquisitely manicured nails 
I ever saw." 

"I don't see what that has to do 
with it." 

"Yes you do. You think just be- 
cause a girl writes poetry and reads 
the newspapers she has to be a 

"She's running a great risk — or else 
the poetry's bad." 

"Oh, pshaw, Hortense ! I doubt if 
you'd know a poem if you saw one." 

"Well, you do me a great wrong, 
Rosalind. You ought to hear me say 
Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country 

"Well, never mind ; I've heard that 
poem myself. But, Hortensia, why do 
you suppose she asked me?" 

"The very question that has been 
baffling me, Rosalind ; but they do say 
she is terribly eccentric. Perhaps she 
heard you say something clever." 

"Yes, I thought of that, hut I 
couldn't seem to recall anything, can 

"No, I can't, but you might have, 
you know, when I wasn't around." 

"Oh, you're always around, though 
maybe you wouldn't know it was 
clever. She looked at my fur coat all 
the time she asked me." 

"Well, you didn't think It was a 
scheme to get your coat, did you?" 

Rosalind laughed. "You never can 

tell," she said, "what lengths these 
original people may go to. Anyway, I 
think it pays to look as pretty as pos- 
sible when you go to see them." 

Certainly, if it paid to look pretty, 
Rosalind should have been very hand- 
somely remunerated that evening when 
she called good-bye to Hortensia and 
ran through the hall at the hour which 
seemed to her to justify the pink mus- 
lin. She rejoiced that she had not 
yielded to Hortensia's advocacy of an 
unpretentious-looking shirtwaist when 
Miss Lanier, breathing pale lavender 
from head to foot, gave her a hand 
that was cool and smooth like a flower. 
Certainly, Priscilla Lanier was no 
"frump." Rosalind found something 
akin to space on a couch with a group 
of Miss Lanier's friends. There were 
no other Freshmen in the room, and 
the sense that she was a representative, 
instead of filling her with dismay, gave 
her the inflated complacence character- 
istic of convention delegates. She said 
she would take two lumps, lemon, and 
rather weak. Having contributed so 
much to the general conversation, she 
sat quietly taking note of the un- 
studied art of the room. Priscilla 
Lanier, even if she was such a shark, 
had tastes, Rosalind thought, very like 
her own. She wished Hortensia could 
see how much at home she was. It 
was perfectly ridiculous anyway — the 
fuss the other girls made. For her 
part — 

A group of upper classmen began to 
make their farewells. Their leaving 
made a place for Rosalind in the con- 
versation. Some one mentioned the 
lecture on Italian Art that had been 
delivered an hour earlier, and Rosa- 



lind said that she bad been tbere. 
Miss Lanier turned to ber. 

"Did you like it?" sbe demanded in 
a tone wbicb suggested tbat tbere were 
both a right answer and a wrong to 
this question. 

Among her friends at home, Rosa- 
lind's opinions upon art subjects had 
always been delivered with consider- 
able unction. 

"Why yes," she said, "that is — it 
was very interesting — I mean — I en- 
joyed the slides.' 

"Did you? I was bored to death," 
remarked Miss Lanier with the sub- 
mission of one who is compelled, by 
ber pupil's stupidity, to tell the right 

"Slides make me nervous," said Miss 
Lanier's particular friend, "especially 
when all those poor people keep coming 
in, standing on their beads, and then 
get shouted at by the lecturer for 
coming in at all when it isn't their 

Rosalind hated slides, too, now she 
thought of it. "Yes, that's true," she 
admitted. "Of course, I'd far rather 
go to the art galleries and see the pic- 
tures for myself. I love art galleries." 

"Do you?" said Miss Lanier with the 
tone of one who had lived and suffered, 
"don't they make you dreadfully tired? 
They do me." 

"Yes, aren't they barbarous !" agreed 
another of Miss Lanier's friends. "I 
get so cross every time I go to an 
exhibition that I promise myself I 
shall never go again. Don't you re- 
member, Mr. Howells says that women 
in art galleries always look as if they 
wanted lunch. I always feel as if I 
looked that way, though I never do 
want it." 

On second thought, Rosalind hated 
art galleries, too. 

"Why yes," she conceded again, 
rather glad to be telling the truth, even 
though Miss Lanier had worn the 
freshness off the idea, "I remember 
last year at Naples my brother and I 
felt just that way, and we got so we 
wouldn't go a step, but just stayed on 
the hotel verandah and read Don 
Quixote aloud to each other. Mother 
and Aunt Lydia were so distressed 
with us, especially Aunt Lydia." 

"Oh, don't you love Naples!" some 
one broke in. "I was there two win- 
ters ago and I'm perfectly mad 
about it." 

"Yes," said Rosalind, "I liked it well 
enough, but we were there in summer 
and it happened to be an unusually 
warm season. It was very trying. I 
was never so glad for fall as I was 
that year." 

"Is fall your favourite season?" 
asked Miss Lanier. 

"Oh, no !" said Rosalind, backing 
hastily from any further expression of 
preferences. Of course she was very 
fond of fall, she added. Indeed she 
hardly knew which season she did 
like best. Summer was lovely, she 
thought, and then spring — she thought 
there was no season nicer than spring. 
Even though you were fond of winter, 
she thought you always were glad to 
have spring come. Yes, on the whole, 
she believed spring was her favourite. 

Miss Lanier preferred fall. Almost 
every one in the room preferred fall. 
Fall, some one said, was symbolical of 
life as it really is — spring, of life as 
you think it is going to be. Rosalind 
began to feel uncomfortably young. 
She picked up a book from the table 



beside her, to make room for her empty 

"I love these dear little flexible 
leathers, don't you?" she said. 

"No, I don't," said Priscilla Lanier. 
"That one doesn't belong to ine." 

Rosalind began to think that if she 
was ever going to be on the same side 
with Miss Lanier she would have to 
let Miss Lanier speak first. Her eyes 
travelled over the well-filled shelves 
and suddenly took in their dignity. 
"Of course," she conceded hastily, "they 
do seem rather new and slippy com- 
pared with those nice old shaggy ones 
in calf." Miss Lanier was propitiated 
In a measure, for the "old shaggy ones 
in calf" were the apple of her eye. 
Unwilling to let "good enough" alone, 
Rosalind added that a good book, in 
her opinion, was just like a good 
friend — which not very revolutionary 
opinion Miss Lanier graciously allowed 
to go unchallenged. 

The time suddenly seemed ripe for 
leaving, and Rosalind rose quickly, re- 
marking that Miss Lanier had a lovely 
view of the campus from her western 
windows. Rosalind loved the campus, 
she said — "all but Taylor tower, of 
course." She was scarcely surprised 
to learn that Miss Lanier liked the 
tower. It seemed that there was such 
a tower in a certain little village of 
which Miss Lanier was very fond. 
Bosalind said that, after all, the 
greater part of our preferences and 
affections were the sum, she thought, 
of many pleasant associations. The 
Hf-nteiife was dillc'il from one of her 

daily themes, and she thought it rather 
good, though her tongue staggered a 
little under its unaccustomed burden 
of rhetoric. 

Miss Lanier's hand still felt satiny, 
like a flower, as Rosalind took it again 
to say good-bye, and Miss Lanier's eyes, 
which were golden just like her hair, 
became sweet and sympathetic once 
more, now that she turned them upon 
Rosalind and told her that she wanted 
her to come again. After all, golden 
eyes and flower-satin hands are the 
most convincing of arguments. 

"Hortensia," called Rosalind late that 
night, as she stood before the mirror in 
her bed-room trying the effect of her 
hair in a Psyche knot like Miss Lan- 
ier's, "Hortensia, which season do you 
like the best?" 

(Very sleepily.) "Which season?" 

"Yes, of the year." 

"Why — oh— I don't know. What's 
the difference? I like them all." 

"Oh, but Hortensia, you surely don't 
likje them all exactly even." 

"Oh, well — spring, I suppose," said 
Hortensia, "though of course summer's 
nice, and wint— — " 

"Well, I like fall the best," said 
Rosalind. "Fall is symbolical, I think, 
of life as it really is — spring, of life 
as you think It is going to be." 

But as Rosalind's eyes were not gol- 
den, and as she did not stop to shake 
hands, her room-mate was probably 

Ruth George, 1910. 











Graduate Editor. 






Business Manager. 


Assistant Business Manager. 





Frontispiece : The Western Slope* Mary E. Kerr 

Editorial 7 

On An Old Trading Ship Louise Foley, 1908 12 

M. Anatole France and the Legend of Joan of Arc, 

Maude Elizabeth Temple, 1904 15 

To A Screen-Maker Marianne Moore, 1909 28 

In a Garden Caroline Reeves Foullee, 1896 29 

Fortune's Fool Grace Bagnall Branham, 1910 30 

Serenade Mary Nearing, 1909 43 

Pleasaunce Baker, 1909 

Epitaphs Georgiana Goddard King, 1896 44 

In the Morning of Mysticism Ruth George, 1910 46 

To the Yacht "Whim" Mabel Parker Huddleston, 1889 52 

The Cathedral Builder Shirley Putnam, 1909 53 

Count Leo Tolstoy Anne Garrett Walton, 1908 54 

Ultra Visa Helen Parkhurst, 1911 65 

Mignonette. A Fable Edith Franklin Wyatt, 1896 66 

The Descent Marion Crane, 1911 70 

The Dreamer Katharine Liddell, 1910 71 

Book Pieview. The Way of Perfect Love 88 

College Themes 93 

Collegiana 99 

"Leviore Plectro" 100 

•The photograph of the new gymnasium, made hy Miss Emily Crawford, 
\h inserted to take place of Miss Herr'8 drawing which was lost in the mail. 

— — 











The Lantern 

No. 17 BRYN MAWR Spring, 1909 


OUR century has done so much to establish the universal aptitude 
of a woman's mind that women are easily suspicious of attempts 
to limit their aspirations to any goal on the near side of 
omniscience. If the bewilderment which we perhaps feel 
oftener than we confess comes as the result of some such unfledged 
ambition, we might, without compromising our standard, light our way 
out by conforming our definition of omniscience to a suggestion of 
Sidney Smith's. It is no more necessary, he says, for a man to remember 
the different books which have made him wise than the different dinners 
and suppers which have made him healthy. So altered, our goal becomes 
no longer "all consciousness," the attaining of which state of mind makes 
hypocrites or invalids of us all — but rather the comfortable, though none 
the less active, condition of being "all-nourished" — if we may have the 
word for a moment. 

Thus it is with no mind to limit the field of our speculation or to 
question or qualify the conservative principle, generalisation before special- 
isation that we come to make our plea for individuality in education, or in 
the educated. To set boundaries to the province of common knowledge is 
the work of men and women of experience, and Experience is the tiniest 
sprout in the undergraduate garden. Moreover, our undergraduate theories 
on this subject, as on all others, are apt to be very like those of the people 
who have taught us. The fact that we are in college at all is proof suffi- 
cient that we mean to indulge, to some degree, all trades in order to be 
master, to the fullest degree, of one; that for our four college years we 



propose to look all trades in the face a brief moment as they pass, hoping 
in the press to recognise, at last, the one predestined to us. 

But just as in social life we are frequently tempted to exploit our 
most worshipful connections, so in our educational life we meet the tempta- 
tion to represent this bowing acquaintance with all trades as the most 
intimate of relations. 

It is an excellent thing to know something about everything. Many 
people do. It would be a more excellent tiling to know everything about 
everything. Many people convey the impression of doing that also. At 
the risk, however, of mortifying self-exposure we make bold to urge that 
the temptation to convey that impression is exactly the most pernicious 
influence in undergraduate life, or in any life where it exists; pernicious, 
if we regard culture as a condition or quality of mind rather than a total 
sum of tricks and exploits calculated to dazzle spectators; pernicious, in 
other words, because the practice of relating every bit of knowledge we take 
up to a sort of general figure of ourselves, instead of appropriating it to 
our inner consciousness and enjoyment, is in itself the defeat of the aims 
of education. 

That "play to the gallery" does exist in all education we are doubtless 
agreed, as witness our word pedant, not yet marked archaic, and by the way 
never applied, in spite of its acquired meaning, to uneducated people. 
Wherever learning is esteemed, the show of learning is sure to be coveted 
for personal adornment by those who love self-display. Unquestionably 
pedantry exists. Unquestionably pedantry is hostile to culture. But that 
learning for ambition's sake, however laudable the ambition, is in the same 
manner hostile to culture is less obvious; that our apparently praiseworthy 
desire to step out into the world as well equipped Bryn Mawr graduates, 
with our education in form either to attract or to sell — that this spirit is 
hostile to culture is a point easily overlooked. Exactly this form of pedantry 
we have always with us. In fact there is reason in favour of the conclusion 
that, quite unconsciously, an altogether formidable number of us run 
through our courses, learning to like our work for what it will make us 
appear rather than for what it is, and scarcely even suspecting that the two 
motives are finally as widely divergent as the roads that Formalist and 
Christian took over the Hill Difficulty. For example, we may live, let us 
suppose, very happily with ourselves for twenty years and more knowing 


our Bibles, as one might say, only by sight. Is the confusion accompanying 
a public revelation of our inability to locate the Book of Hosea due to a 
sudden sense of happy hours missed through our lack of intimacy with that 
Prophet, or does it bear some relation to the fact that we had rather our 
friends supposed we knew our Bibles better? 

Needless to say, we aim, just now, in no wise to discourage familiarity 
with the Bible, but only to urge that if we do not care enough about the 
Bible to learn our way about in it for its or our own sake, then there is 
absolutely no reason in the world why we should familiarise ourselves with 
it for appearance' sake, and that just so far as we allow ourselves to learn 
for appearance' sake we make within us the distinction between education 
and culture. 

It is quite true, to be sure, that a vast deal of our study and reading 
is to be pursued as a means to higher appreciation; that taste must be 
cultivated through the medium of the concrete; and that a highly trust- 
worthy method of creating within ourselves the conviction that an ode, or 
a statue, or a sonata is beautiful is the rather humiliating blind acceptation 
of the estimate of its best critic. The value, however, of taking one's 
instruction as a little child depends upon whether one finally does enter 
the Kingdom. Merely to repeat with our instructor "the picture is good" 
is obviously of no worth unless the repetition succeeds in creating a sense 
of its goodness. And the creation of this sense is exactly what cannot be 
accomplished if the eye be not on the object, but on ourselves; if our aim, 
in other words, be anything less than single-hearted love for what we are 
working upon, stripped of all ambition. College is our seed-time, and if 
we insist upon anticipating the harvest by plucking up our roots every few 
moments to congratulate their progress, our flowers, if we acquire any, will 
obviously not have sprung from our own roots — will in fact be borrowed. 

This then is our quarrel with ambition: that it necessitates artificial 
flowers ; that through Its opposition to culture it becomes opposed to indi- 
viduality, since as we have taken it, culture is based upon individuality, 
or, in other words, upon continuous habit of personal reaction. The hue 
and cry apainst over-generalisation echoes back after all to each man's 
way of appropriating what is his. The only person capable of judging 
whether our curriculum is overcrowded is the person who demands of him- 
pelf reaction — individualises, let us say, as he goes along — the person who 


6ees his own and appropriates it. Our failure to do so is responsible for 
those humiliating occasions when we have been betrayed by guilefully 
worded rhetoric quizzes into choleric denunciation of a paragraph by Sir 
Thomas Browne and profusion of compliment for a faulty collegiate theme. 

The difficulty is that because we do not easily find time to individualise 
everything, we individualise nothing. As a result those who arrange our 
eurricida, while observing that we have appropriated nothing, cannot well 
determine whether the fault is with the ponderousness of the course, or the 
complete absence of individualising power in us. Even we ourselves cannot 
know where the fault lies until we make the test; but as many of us as 
believe ourselves capable of personal reaction would do well to demonstrate 
our originality. 

Such a demonstration would involve for the present a rather painful 
sacrifice of the blossom season to the root season; would involve the admis- 
sion that our bowing acquaintance with all trades is, as yet, very partial 
indeed; would involve, in short, complete intellectual honesty. So long as 
we have a desire to appear well-informed we are under the burden of 
hurrying ourselves to shallow conclusions. For which reason the educated 
classes furnish vastly fewer convincing characters than the simple, unpre- 
tentious, uneducated. Not only are painters' valets and keepers of Eoman 
galleries none the better of their opportunities but they are, alas! in the 
very path to make themselves insufferable shams. Only when our minds 
are free from false motives or weak motives can we apply them whole- 
souled to their best attainment. Such a revolution for the purification 
of motives might make the college graduate appear a much less erudite 
person than she appears at present. But after all there is erudition 
enough in the world, and the real cry now is for people who are impelled 
by genuine intellectual interests. 

We would not be misconstrued as defenders of that fanatic intellectual 
honesty which, because it has as yet produced no blossoms, is afraid to 
admit the possibility that blossoms may be grown. Such a pitiful extreme 
of agnosticism is the refuge of many who have become disgusted with 
artificiality. These make public confession on every street corner of their 
inability to distinguish a chromo from an etching, or the Symphony 
Pathetique from "Marching through Georgia." They look discreet and 
downcast and say, "1 am afraid I am not educated up to poetry," meaning 


to imply, "Pardon the little idiosyncrasies of the unerringly logical mind." 
They take their cue from some person of standing who has been thus 
candid, and they forget that when Charles Lamb said he did not like 
music, the statement had a value entirely relative to the interest we may 
attach to Charles Lamb, and is in no sense of any merit as a criticism of 
music, the place of that art having been established since Jubal first 
"stumbled upon the gamut." 

Such confessions may be of every day occurrence in the millenium of 
unfeigned intellectuality towards which we look; they will not, however, 
be assertive confessions, but on the contrary humbly made, and withal only 
when enquired of; and everyone shall consider himself in a state of growth, 
bound to enlarge in due season to an apprehension of all that is worthy of 
being apprehended; and no one will ask if we have read the latest book, 
for all books will be of the same age; and there will be no fads, neither 
current topic clubs, and the people who want to read Scott complete, once 
every year, will do so, and those who feel that such practice savours of the 
economy of saying one's prayers for the week on Monday night will read 
him only once — or perchance not at all! — but ah, that will be after we 
have grown very, very reckless indeed, for of course everyone must read 
Scott and in fact everyone must read everything, and everyone must have 
moreover a decided preference concerning everything, and a glib reason for 
that preference, if it be but, . 

"At Kilve there was no weather-cock." 


On An Old Trading Ship. 

Deserted is this ancient trading ship, 

A silent harbour of old dreams and griefs; 
Rugged and bitter is its withered lip 

With spray dashed up from buried coral reefs ; 
Stripped of its sails, like sea-birds, huge and white, 

When dewy fans of sunrise caught the breeze, 
Filling with wid'ning floods of earliest light 

The halcyon-haunted waves of fabled seas. 

At such rare hours, upon the dipping prow, 

Where sea and sky in one soft circle swim, 
The grave adventurer, with hand at brow, 

Might see in tossing mist a vision dim 
Of Triton standing in his watery car 

And Amphitrite girt with gleaming pearl, 
Till full-flushed day pursuing them afar, 

They sink at last in em'rald waves that whirl. 

The swift bright keel that now is motionless 

Flung up before a ceaseless foamy arch, 
Whereon with ever vanishing impress 

The sunlight marked the airy slanting march 
Of opal sandals bound to unseen feet, 

And Iris whispered in the sailor's ear 
Wild promises and prophecies more sweet 

Of unknown golden shores awaiting near. 



Those shores attained, what boundless treasure then 

Was stored within this empty rotted hold: 
Sandal and aloe from the Indian glen 

And from the sacred rivers, sifted gold; 
From far Cathay the woven silk and lawn 

And red relief of poppies past all price, 
The rare dark-blooded rubies from Ceylon, 

And from the Islands, cargo of rich spice; 

The sharp cool camphor dripping in the dusk 

Of Eastern gardens ; and from the rugged verge 
Of high Thibet the cloying yellow musk ; 

Pearls from the Persian Gulf's warm swaying surge; 
And from the sunken islands far remote 

The lucent amber, washed upon the shore 
And gathered up with ugly weeds that float 

By hands that clasp the dust forevermofe. 

From jungles of Dekkan smooth, fragrant wood, 

Prom Araby the aromatic herbs, 
Attar of rose and myrrh, all odours good; 

Prom tropic groves where sunlight ne'er disturbs 
The secret drugs with blessed power to heal : 

All these with other store of rugs and dyes, 
Caucasian laurel and tempered Damask steel, 

Are stored away by eager hands that prize. 

But you, old ship, rocking through many days 

Upon the ocean's heaved or melting breast, 
Felt winds steal down the blue mysterious ways, 

Blown far from out the bright familiar West, 
And while they strained your listless, flapping sails 

You yearned to taste the salt of distant foam, 
To wage a happy war with waves and gales, 

And long adventure o'er, make port at home. 


Perchance one night that straying western wind 

Laid on the sailor's cheek its fresh cool hand 
And in a rush new longing put behind 

The old desire to reach an unknown land ; 
Searching the starry map of ev'ning skies, 

In trembling hope that he this hour might sight 
A path unto the Earthly Paradise, 

He saw instead a band of braided light 

That to the West in one great shining line 

Led silently. Forgetfulnes that steals 
With softest tread and weariness divine 

Sank in remembrance and those old appeals, 
The hunger strong and keen, the sharp wild cry 

That from the ends of earth draw back again 
To their own land and folk before they die 

The weary, wand'ring passionate hearts of men. 

For him, alone within a world of blue, 

The Eastern fables had a charm the less 
Than those dim tales that as a boy he knew 

Of vanished Ys and sunken Lyonesse; 
And fairer was a shallow, still lagoon 

Than seas that wash the Earthly Paradise. 
Ah! that rare spot shall he discover soon, 

Lost and regained, in loving azure eyes. 

And you, good ship, in safety did you bear 

The advent'rous crew across the perilous surge, 
And in the raging storm did have a care 

No wind should shriek a mournful funeral dirge. 
Now at the last, upon the placid bay 

You drift at anchor, idling with the breeze, 
Dreaming, perchance, through endless night and day, 

Of voyages long in wide eternal seas. 

Louise Foley, 1908. 


M. Anatole France and the Legend of Joan of Arc. 

WE are variously indebted to Stevenson, but for few gifts to cur- 
rent speech more indebted than for his phrase, "mere litera- 
ture." For example, it clears the ground promptly for M. 
France's new "Life of Joan of Arc." We are saved depreca- 
tion, apology, and the cheerless task of trying, by dint of many words 
and strenuous methodising, to explain why and how we have been beguiled. 
Is it politics, critical polemics, a scientific history, an elaborate psycho- 
logical portrait ? Well ! what are certain histories and tales of Voltaire ? 

It is proclaimed that M. France has been busy with the work for a 
score of years. This is the impressive term Taine gave, one may chance 
to remember, to the Origines de la France contemporaine. It is more 
than, directly at least, Eenan gave to the Vie de Jesus, or Sabatier to 
his "Life of St. Francis," the two books to which comparison is obvious 
in point of method and form. More justly, in what concerns the spirit 
of the book, it will be natural to bear in mind the Port-Royal of Sainte- 
Beuve; for M. Anatole France, like Sainte-Beuve, is very lay in his tem- 
per, undermining, underpinning, no ecclesiastical system, or only inci- 
dentally in a wider charge which embraces willingly the • whole of 
society. He is not a priest in revolt, much less a professional protestant 
moralist. He has not even the rounded dogmatic utterance men learn to 
use in professional chairs. A certain grand mandarin bearing, an unwill- 
ingness, all the more because he writes in the papers, "to preach to 
the first passer-by," has grown upon him with years and honours. He is 
very tranquil, a little smiling, discreet; he will be blamed, as he says, 
"for his audacity until he is blamed for his timidity." The critics, even 
in the historical Sanhedrins, will not take him, this veteran critic, in the 
least by surprise and unprepared. He has reckoned up the dangers of his 
humanistic course — and persisted. The two sturdy volumes are mere 

But, some genial maker of phrases is sure to explain with facile com- 
placency, the Vic do Jeanne d'Arr is quite simply the long deferred work of 


M. Sylvestre Bonnard, Membre de l'lnstitut. One may as well acquiesce 
politely; no doubt this angelic Dr. Dryasdust had his share in collecting 
the materials; and, for like the bonus Homerus his years are advancing, 
we have thus a due explanation for nodding here and there in the notes. 
Certainly there are, moreover, a variety of citations too much in the 
vein of the famous Chronological Table of the Lovers of Helen of Troy 
for anyone to rest with assurance in the hope that the solvent finesse, the 
merciless, supersensitive, critical acumen of M. Bergeret presided over all 
the chapters and pages alike. M. Bergeret, the subtile Voltairien, however, 
may well have dictated the Preface, in which, without other eloquence than 
that of a pious silence, atonement for Voltaire's Pucelle is constantly the 

I have already named — as who writing of French letters can long 
refrain from naming? — Sainte-Beuve. As a matter of fact his essay, writ- 
ten in 1850, when QuicheraPs edition of the double Proces of Jeanne — that 
of condemnation and rehabilitation — was first published and exhaustively 
examined, would seem to be M. France's real thesis and programme. This 
little portrait of Jeanne deserves actually the larger measure of any praise 
or blame that may be unconsciously meted out to-day to M. Anatole 
France in so far as substance is concerned. He would probably be the 
first to glory in his docile discipleship, and its detection. We are used 
to conjuring with the name of Sainte-Beuve. The "argument from author- 
ity" is not to be, then, evaded in whatever one says of M. France in 
connection with Jeanne. I rely on it without false shame. 

It is really the broadest buckler one has to oppose to the arrows of 
Mr. Andrew Lang to which at first English readers, more or less con- 
sciously seduced by M. France and the singular spell of an utterance in 
which Xenophon is fused, as it were, with Joinville, must have felt 
very generally sensitive. Our clinging faith in Mr. Lang, with whom 
we had rather be wrong than right with the whole remaining tribe of 
living English critics, cried out when we read his animadversions, to agree 
against our light acquiescence in M. France's version of Jeanne, and our 
bland excitation in observing, "That man agrees with me." But Mr. 
Lang against Sainte-Beuve! Better a living dog than a dead lion, almost 
anywhere in matters of historical fact, pure and simple, but not in dealing 
with a mediaeval saint, a woman, a French heroine — the Maid of France ! 
There, as Mr. Lang might say, we would back Sainte-Beuve any day. 


It is, of course, distinctly improbable that Mr. Lang, sworn enemy of 
psychological portraits and second-hand history, greatly values Sainte- 
Beuve. The psychological portrait, as Taine observed, "the supreme need 
and talent" of Frenchmen, was not Homer's way, nor Scott's. But this 
is not all. There is M. France's .quizzical rationalism which obvi- 
ously irritates the authority-of-seripture mood with which Mr. Lang has 
read of the Maid. Our prejudices are apt to survive our convictions : it 
is not strange to find the Frenchman faithful to authority, tradition, where 
the Scot relies on verse and chapter and finds there the unanswerable, 
believe-or-be-damned criterion. Mr. Lang's former magnanimity of appre- 
ciation for M. France, his ardent proclamation that "ripping genius" is just 
the difference between his own and M. France's organisation, when people 
plague him with foolish questions why he has not an equal prestige, and 
that he could — barring the difference — just as well have written the Life 
of Jeanne himself, as indeed he has lately proved, sharpens now, no doubt, 
the edge of his strictures. There is, however, a different, final and 
wholly Scottish acrimony in the quarrel which I hope I may be pardoned for 
pointing out. It is not because M. France is an Academician, idol and 
master of the young, a political oracle, and because Mr. Lang is not, that 
he waxes indignant. All this his innate generosity could forgive, for a 
Scof s sympathy for a clever or even a successful Frenchman is rooted 
in the romance of centuries, in the great days gone for both alike — before 
English unintelligence had triumphed over both Gael and Gaul. Well! 
the root of offending is this: M. France has written, and recently, of the 
very modern wife of a very modern professor, whose sins and whose 
stockings were scarlet. Scottish morality yielded to Gallic seduction, and 
Mr. Lang permitted himself to be diverted by her history. Is the man, her 
creator, historian, to whittle free on the Maid of Orleans? No wonder 
he makes mistakes! Are they not indeed the Devil's own reprisals? It 
belongs to the Scot's good conscience to single them out; it is the Scot's 
way of doing penance for himself and the sinner, especially the sinner. If 
Mr. Lang finds it in his heart to be severe with the author of Le crime de 
Sylveslre Bonncwd and La messe des morts, it is much more in sorrow, 
righteous sorrow, than anger. And then, ah ! then 

"There are no maidens anywhere, 

There have not heen, there shall not be, 
Ho brave and gentle, frank and fair 

Afl she. 


"The honour of a loyal boy, 

The prowess of a paladin, 
And maiden-mirth, the soul of joy, 
Abode her happy heart within. 
From doubt, from fear, from shame, from sin, 
As God's own angels was she free; 
Old worlds shall end and new begin 
To be 

"Ere any come like her who fought 

For France, for freedom, for the king, 
Who counsel of redemption brought 

Whence even the warrior angel's wing, 

Might weary sore in voyaging ; 
Who heard the Voices cry, 'Be free!' 

Such flower no later human spring 
Shall see!" 

That is what in Parnassian English verse Mr. Lang has long thought 
about Jeanne. To encounter the same thing said in contemporary French 
prose is disconcerting, as it is to turn from Plato's Apology to Xenophon's, 
from the Phaedo to the Memorabilia. No doubt Mr. Lang feels sincerely 
that not only does M. Prance not know what to think about Jeanne, but 
also that on the whole, in thinking complexly, he does not think well 

And after all, to return as it is high time to Sainte-Beuve and what 
M. Anatole France actually says on the lines that Sainte-Beuve laid down, 
there are, even in the Proces, according to the older psychologist, some- 
thing like two Jeannes to be perceived. The one is the figure of romantic 
poetry — delicate, ethereal, suffering, whom of late M. Dubois, the sculptor, 
has set on 'Tier great devil of a horse, with a sword too big for her in her 
slight girl's hand"; the other, portrayed by Fremiet, is the hardy peasant, 
having her laugh, her fine, woman's revenge in the midst of the most bitter 
persecution, a noble child of the people, strong in body and soul. M. de 
Vogue has pronounced for the one as is fitting; M. Jules Lemaitre for the 
other. M. France has unluckily made a clear choice between them ; 
romantics and realists could both have wished he might either have chosen 
or at least have marked his purpose of reconciliation in the Preface. For 
he has and exposes his own antimonies in her character in order to reconcile 
them ; and it would have been a gain in clearness to have had no haunting 

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a zs-zlzzs zzc-azzzz. zzzl zzrsarzzf. 3-ssz-ias zzzzzzszzz. :i z-zzzzzse zzerf; if 

'■"' -. — iz " ""- zzzz ~~ - : ~^- zz 2 - ;.; - ; - r- - '--.-. — ~.~ — ■- :: -.-■. :- "--—,-— 7 — 

11 zzlz: 1 ::r ; -- . — zl; — zzi zr-esz z^:;^z:i:z. I :'-'. r .-: :".: ~:l-i^:; ~z~z 
:i; — z~ :: llz Lizzz IT. Jr-azz:* s-eezzs a: zzzzzs "zzzzzf-lfl " 
Zf iff zz: ::zfzz::z . lz£f l.uc^cllff If Irr=l;rs. Iz-f zzficizzz :; his :^zz 


1 _zf: zzzz . --. 1: zzzzaz ziilizy :: zz— zz. — is Xzzztzzzz fl:~ s zs 

Sxzazss H-Zr rizrz- ::zz:.z:zz7 :: zz; : :zsf zzzz zzz: zzzz - f zze's izzzczes: 
":-iZ£ z~ z'—i _zf t z-zzzzzzzzz :: ./rz:; zczziszz izzzz ■ fz~zf zzzffz: :•: 
V. France. Espedalhr after rereading the same things simply said in 

!":: :if — zzlf :zz::zzl ~::z:zz 1 zzlzszs :: II. Jzzzzz. zzzz Izzzzzz-. 

- • — -'-. fzzzfrf-i iz:zz zzzzzz-z zz lzzzzzz:zf :: fizz: zzi szzfll. iz: zziezzT 
:: zfirzzz. zzallzzzzzzz -1:1 iz _ :>z-o z: -■f: _ f:fz:z :: If: zizz zzzzzral 

- : _ f:f :: —ill zzi zzzzfllzzfz::. is 1 :::: _ z-i zzzi ieTslzzez zz zz-: zezzzs zz;zz 

- zz-: v :~t 11 7:zz:z zzzzz— f zlif — ::lzzzz z—zzzz-sis. _ lz:z Saizzze- 

izrlzzsl - Izlzzzzl" : szzzzf :: zz zzzzz a sizzlf -z:: fazzzz: :lzz 
Sainte-Beore. These Parisian savants have a way of avoiding the f - 

:z~ :'-::•::" : "if fz~-f:zzzzz:zl '" - .-zlf- — ; " 1 l:zz-z; Az : 
il. France Jriwwplfj fnHj as he exploits this notion, has a hundred resc - 
dons of expr e ssi on, nuances, parallels, philosophical deductions, implicit 
_- :'■[■- rZ'zzf-. '. z 1. - ::zz-lzz r -11 lz~f 1:^ :~z zzzzzzlzi - 
to render faithfnlh-. "Sous mmbvs &iemiisle$ sont tarns pitii" — he some- 
-'_--■ \ -.---' - :: : 1 \. — ' zzzrz z "i ; fz: zz: zf i: - 
eerf, happily, is not so scientific as all that. He has even implied a hope 
:lz: •':-•-• z .: :-- zz 1 iz:--: ' llrz -' "1 : '"-: . ■,■■'■;■-■ ■ - : ■'::.-. 

1 word, then, 31. France's ovn, original methodising, motivatir e 


Jeanne is something like this. From start to finish, being a great-hearted 
girl, she was exploited, "put into operation," by clever, undeceived, self- 
seeking, or patriotic persons. She was not an intellectual or a military 
prodigy; and she was very far indeed from an hysterical imbecile. She 
had the usual feminine capacities in a rare combination : she had sympathy, 
docility, imagination, courage, plain physical endurance, good-humour, and 

First of all this combination of qualities exposed her to a great deal of 
clerical tutelage. How early this began and what form precisely it took 
it is quite impossible to say. Perhaps one of her uncles was cure a few 
miles from Domremy. Her mother, Isabelle, no doubt received her sur- 
name, Eomee, from an early pilgrimage to Eome. Certainly she went to 
church a great deal, to very frequent mass and confession. Hence her 
apprehension of, her easy use of clerical words and ideas she never under- 
stood or comprehended in an instructed, logical manner, and many of which 
she gradually forgot. 

Illustrative of this class of clerical notions is that of the cammende, 
lieutenancy or stewardship, under Heaven, "for the Lord Jesus," in which 
at first she bade the gentil Dauphin to hold his kingdom, an idea involving 
the consecration at Eheims as the first, eminently mystical symbol. To 
fancy that a girl of eighteen, of her own intellectual initiative, arrived at 
this philosophical, ultramontane conception would be, no doubt, to leave 
common sense as far behind as the eclectic philosphers. By the time of her 
Trial, at any rate, the commende was a vague term to her. Mystical 
images and religious sentiments gradually gave way in her ordinary moods 
and thoughts to chivalrous and military ardours; the priest's tutelage 
yielded to the soldier's example, and perhaps to the influence of the 
ignorant fanatics, her companions in the last campaign. Ideas became 
less with her and actions more. And in proportion her authority in certain 
high quarters declined. 

It appears that her native pity and delicacy of sentiment suffered 
a certain obscuring between the siege of Orleans and the assault upon 
Paris; between her first shrinking from the notion that even the English 
might suffer through her, and her later fiery desire to lead a fierce 
crusade against the Hussites. The breath of the world had touched 
her, the rigour of the living age. 

I take it this tragic process is the frame of M. France's two volumes : 


the "little saint," as the military martyr; the tension between the ideal 
and the real in her character, hence in her life, is the unity in complexity 
of his portrait. The fatal receptivity — fatal for good and evil — in feminine 
character, receptivity first to its own imaginings but scarcely less to the 
will of men about it, perhaps I should saj r , to the minds and physical 
habits of the men to whom it is necessarily subjected, is thus symbolised 
for M. France by Jeanne. The indirect moral is clear. 

It seems certain to him that from an early time in her adventures 
a facile power of idealisation on her part enabled priests, soldiers, courtiers, 
and statesmen to influence her quite to their ends. Charles was always 
the gentil Dauphin for her — poor creature though he certainly was. 
D'Alengon was her best friend, her "beau Due;" his vacillating egotism 
she never for an instant perceived. Nor apparently suspected for an 
instant the cunning scribes who infused political significance into her 
artless, ringing, touching appeals she must needs dictate because she could 
not write for herself. Certainly she was kept in ignorance of the pious 
forgeries by which prophecies of Merlin, to win her credit, were tortured, 
garbled, or wholly invented, to point and apply to her. At the same time 
Jeanne had common sense, at least, where the great, her feudal lords, were 
not involved. Learned fraud, where she perceived it, she had no patience for; 
it called forth her frank irony always; she revered the priest but hated the 
pedant gaily, almost jauntily. One cannot but quote again her famous 
answer to the Limousin lawyer who on her trial asked what was the 
language of the Voices, in his own ungainly patois. "A better than 
yours," said Jeanne. 

She had herself the gift of eloquence, la douce parole. And in the 
natural admiration of the well-speaking woman for the well-speaking 
man, may have rested her special docility to the brave Dunois, co-hero 
with her of Orleans. 

It is above all in dealing with the Siege that M. France's rational- 
istic thesis stands him in convincing stead. He shows us first the Ar- 
magnacs and Godons — the swaggering, swearing English soldiery — 
in a similar state of listless inaction within and before the City, dejected, 
weary, yet vaguely uneasy, and worked on before their coming by two 
agencies — the news of a Saint from Heaven coming to deliver the French 
and smite the English, and by the fame of Dunois as an orator, politician, 
and captain. Both were announced in the walled town of Orleans and 


in the English camp before they came. The ground of operation was 
cleverly prepared in advance from the Court of Charles. Jeanne came, 
under many glaring misapprehensions to accomplish she did not know 
what — to preach and persuade the English to go in peace without blood- 
shed, "in pity" for them and for France. But here the wonderful Bas- 
tard comes into the story and dominates the scene, beginning with Jeanne. 
She becomes, as she was unquestionably, a docile child in his able hands. 
The picture drawn in delicate perspective of the Bastard is for 
all that perhaps the most striking in the whole two volumes, introduced 
piecemeal as M. Bergeret is introduced in L'orme du mail — the correspond- 
ing contemporary scene de province, but meant and sure to fix the reader's 
curiosity. It is perfectly sure on reflection to be challenged — this bril- 
liant etched portrait — in the name of what we are fond of calling the 
"historical sense." To be challenged, but not necessarily rejected. For 
among a certain sort of historical students, not quite ignorant of their 
classics and, in general, the humanities, the consciousness has apparently 
been growing that this same "historical sense" is a two-edged implement, 
capable of cutting both ways. It is useful to detect and preserve the un- 
likeness, no doubt, between men of old time and ourselves. But in the 
right hands, swift, subtle, and sure, it is now and then quite invaluable 
for discriminating likenesses also — the eternity of moods and types, of 
configurations of soul. Among the countrymen of Jeanne and Dunois 
we have come to see, for example, wherein at no distant date from them- 
selves Christine de Pisan, the anonymous author of "Aucassin and Nico- 
lette," if not moderns precisely, are yet wrapped in no gloomy mediaeval 
rigidity from our spontaneous comprehension and regard. The brave 
Dunois, who spoke and acted so well, may he not, too, have had his 
proper intelligence, and understood Jeanne from the first somewhat as 
we think we understand her now? True there is this objection which 
M. France himself raises in all candour. We have the Bastard's depo- 
sition at the Trial of Eevision (twenty years after Jeanne's death) only 
in the clumsy inflexible Latin of the clerk, in which the pure precision and 
fine intelligence his contemporaries so much admired in Dunois is nec- 
essarily blurred. Just what he thought of Jeanne we must therefore 
deduce rather from his actions in her connexion than textually. A 
sweet and pious excuse for patriotic exertion on his own account? a val- 
uable living device to set before his credulous, but inert forces? a 


real breath of Heaven's free inspiration in a sordid and exhausting con- 
flict? As such he certainly used, exploited Jeanne; and he kept her in 
hand. Tearfully at first, regretfully, she stayed where he bade her; 
appeared when he bade her. She admired him, later, heartily. 

Certainly we understand the role of Dunois in the story; he stands, 
like M. Bergeret, for the aristocracy of intelligence and moral energy, 
and we are not uncontent. Without this there can be no salvation; we 
grant it readily. 

For all that, M. France is writing the life, not of Dunois, but of a 
simple girl, a humble virgin, who believed in the Mother of Heaven, the 
Virgin Queen. M. France is a Latin of the Latins, a philosopher, a literary 
heir of Montaigne, Moliere, Voltaire. But also a pupil of Benan, and, 
earlier, he too knew the Faith, as understood of Catholics, a thing believed 
rather on the evidence of things familiarly seen in earthly symbol than 
as indeed the substance of things hoped for. And somehow the Catholic 
cultus of the saint, the Virgin — Celtic, Germanic, as some would plaus- 
ibly insist — anyhow the Northern, and Western and non-Pagan instinct, 
breaks through the classic rationalism. He really loves his petite sainte; 
the very complex charm of his discretion and rational method resides 
after all in his own reticent affection for the Maid. He has drawn his 
sweet young girls before. One remembers the adorable Jeanne Alexandre, 
and Pauline, the little daughter of M. Bergeret, who does not know how 
happy she is. 

And that is how he shows us Jeanne at Orleans — capricious, ignorant, 
wilful, but also gentle and clever, proud in her innocent success. 

But beyond Dunois and the Maid he has no credit to spare, no 
plaudits for either burgess or soldier. Provincial townsmen and military 
he finds equally cowardly, greedy, selfish, supine. War in the fifteenth 
century more than ever was a sordid trade, prudently, lazily and un- 
generously carried on; defence of a walled and wealthy city a very un- 
heroic and humdrum affair. Loot, living from hand to mouth by plunder, 
was its only aim. It is possible the peculiar gloom and ennui of mediae- 
val "sources" even, or chiefly, to the ardent humanist, certainly to anyone 
bred up on Greek and Latin, may have begun to wear on M. France's 
nerves, and have dictated some of his strictures and disgust. The charg- 
ing plumes of Gallic chivalry were not, surely, swept flatter at Agincourt 
than in his pages. And he, the least bellicose of Frenchmen, takes per- 


haps a little more credit than necessary for resisting one notable temp- 
tation of the historian. "There is," he says, "scarcely a modern account 
of these ancient sieges in which the author, whether churchman or pro- 
fessor, is not to be seen casting himself pen by ear under the English 
arrows, side by side with the Maid. I believe that even at the risk of 
not showing all the beauty of one's soul it is better not to appear in 
the things one relates." M. France has the usual human wish — perhaps 
as strong in him as in another — to show "all the beauty of his soul". He 
prefers to show it, however, in his horror of war; and to wave aloft as 
much as discretion will allow of — or even more — the banner of the Evo- 
lutionary Socialists. He might be charged with being a deliberate denigreur 
of the Hundred Years' War, of Armagnacs and Godons alike. This 
disposition adds immensely to the chiaroscura of his pages ; it sets Jeanne — 
and Dunois — in exquisite relief, especially in the earlier volume. It 
is very good art ; is it as good history ? 

In the second volume, however, as it seems to me, M. France really 
rises with his subject; he becomes certainly more persuasive, more moving, 
may I venture to say, more objective, faithful, and real. He takes the 
evidence of the trial at Eouen and reads it by the light of a trial not 
explicable as mediaeval — by the experience of a great wrong and error 
righted, in which he bore an honourable and a successful share— I mean 
the trial of Dreyfus at Eennes. And this being now, not polemics or 
politics, but history, he uses his experience cautiously, fairly; it has a 
sobering rather than an exciting effect on his narrative except in a happy 
heightening and stiffening of the style. He indulges in fewer asides, 
betrays fewer arriere-pensees. 

I do not mean to say that the "Middle Age is gorgeous upon earth 
again" precisely, even in this second volume. But the author of L'orme 
du mail and L'anneau d'amethyste was certain to write with a very finely 
pointed pen his portraits of bishops and doctors of the University of 
Paris. Maitre Thomas de Courcelles, in especial, calls forth his finest 
eloquence and irony. And at the same time he is exceedingly careful 
to make it clear that there were men of intelligence, of rectitude, and 
natural feeling among Jeanne's judges, men who saw in her only sim- 
plicity and goodness; that, as Dr. Dumas says, what we call disease, 
mental or moral, the Fifteenth Century called possession, diablerie, sorc- 
ery; and that heresy was its grand terror, what national characteristics 


have been to the Nineteenth Century — the universal fixed idea, the grand 
critical and political commonplace. With us, as we are only just begin- 
ning to appreciate clearly, this general hysteria, which began with the 
fever of romanticism, was a direct result of the Eighteenth Century's, 
and more particularly of Napoleon's, wars. The Fifteenth Century had 
passed through the Crusades, the great Schism, and the Babylonish 
captivity in its immediate predecessors. The Hundred Years' War added a 
fearful excitement, a grinding daily misery, to the already overwrought 
condition. Jeanne herself was a product of these abnormal conditions. 
The same patriotic hysteria that animated her against the English nat- 
urally animated them against her. The victorious French by 1440 would 
have been as hard on an English saint; Jeanne herself wished to lead 
a crusade against the Hussites. 

M. France accordingly keeps his bitterest raillery for the stupid 
men of sciences, the solemn asses, or the flinty and grasping pedants 
who, incredulous even to .atheism in some cases, proceeded calmly, regu- 
larly, against Jeanne. 

These legalists, not the common English temporary victors in a 
stubborn struggle, were to blame ; her blood is upon their heads. 

In a sort however, materially not ethically speaking, Jeanne of 
course destroyed herself. The inability with her, as with all genuine 
social enthusiasts, to return to a private station and be content in safe 
obscurity — antecedent really to the whole of her mission, was, in view 
of the world's eternal way, her undoing. She sighed pathetically, child 
of imagination as she was, for the country, her people, for innocence and 
peace. But she made no effort to find it, and she also predicted for 
herself, knowing her secret and devouring ardour, an early and heroic 
end. Thus she survived her hour; she became a victim to the partly nor- 
mal conditions she herself helped to restore; she perished because her 
hysteria survived that of the people around her. It was Pascal, himself 
of the type, but fallen on a happier time, who called our attention to 
the common experience of the rarer spirits, the ames d'elite, namely that 
most of their misfortunes spring from an incapacity a se tenir tranquil 
dans une chambre. Luckily, perhaps, for the world they cannot be still. 
The highest, disinterested energy is like ordinary self-seeking, an instinct, 
a passion, "a reason that the reason knows nothing of." 


The sexual rhapsodisings of Michelet, however, over Jeanne's final 
lapse, her resumption of the masculine dress for which specifically, as 
contrary to Scripture and good morals, she stood condemned by the eccle- 
siastical arm of the law, are not at all in M. France's vein. He rejects 
in the first place, entirely, the evidence of the two monks at the Trial of 
Revision after her death that Jeanne reverted to the costume as a matter 
of self-defence from English brutality. His explanation of Jeanne's 
fatal lapse in the matter of dress belongs to a larger psychology. As he 
sees her, she reverted to her armour as to the habit of her brief term of 
power and success. Whatever her original notion in assuming it, — sheer 
mania, or a subtle, simple sense of its convenience and adaptation to her 
mission, as George Sand, probably her closest parallel in recent years, 
as Rosa Bonheur in our own day, took refuge in trousers, — it must nat- 
urally have become a symbol to her. She resumed it because the Voices 
bade her — "the voices which spoke, of necessity, only the language of her 
own mind and hope." The costume had its part in her drama ; she waited 
for a final act — a grand deliverance — that must not find her unprepared, 
out of character. Nothing could be more feminine, more French, more 
human, indeed. Have we not each one of us clung to the outward seem- 
ing of some hope, more or less forlorn, waiting for the interposition of cir- 
cumstance, endeavouring to work in ourselves the fulfilment of our own 
prophecies ? 

The tragedy of the noble army of martyrs has always been here. The 
saints alone are the consistent in an inconsistent, adaptable, vacillating 
world. The world uses consecration for a season, till its ends are served. 
Then it spurns and forgets, passes on, and the saint, standing steadfast, 
flings himself from a tower like Jeanne at Compiegne, or dashes himself 
against convention, is bruised, or is burnt alive. Jeanne suffered because 
she was a saint; she was abandoned because men are men. For the same 
reasons there were fraudulent Jeannes, who were feted, and married, and 
who were not buried; there was a Proces of Rehabilitation, and now there 
are statues of her in Orleans and Paris, and M. France has written this 
big and beautiful book, as a sort of monument to his own humanistic 
career — precisely to show all the beauty of his soxil and sow some seeds 
of beauty in ours. 

It is not a desolating book to read; it does not minister to the luxury 


of tears, however little couleur de rose blended with the ink of ita writ- 
- ing. It falls opportunely enough amongst us : 

"When house and lauds have all been spent, 
Then learning is most excellent." 

And also because our somewhat feverish interest in strange novelties, 
"psychotherapy" and such-like tamperings with the complex nature of 
thing's in their totality, may well profit by this sober study of what "really 
happened" a little less than five hundred years ago. Nothing could more 
effectually remind us of the pit whence we are digged, nor more effect- 
ually humble our spirits in the face of the inscrutable borderland of 
sanity and illusion, where reside, but beyond mechanical analysis and 
stern isolation, at once holiness and genius, of which the world has never 
yet been worthy, and had the wit to deal with — in posterity's judgment — 
aright. Try to get understanding — the beginning of even practical wis- 
dom in these delicate but supremely important matters; cultivate com- 
passion, magnanimity, or, if only for your own fair fame in the future, 
let the saints alone. In simple humanity, do not exploit them; for you 
have probably not yet learned to stand by them; and, whatever your orgies 
of mysticism at the moment, you have very likely something still to learn 
from old experience and ancient example — for instance what it is to be 
pure in heart. 

This, of course, is a counsel of perfection — the more reason for heeding 
it somewhat, if perhaps not too solemnly nor specifically. Especially 
since M. France remembers still in the midst of a great deal of false doc- 
trine on the subject, that letters were given — even historical letters — to 
be a truce of cares among the children of men. 

Maude Elizabeth Temple, 1904. 


To A Screen-Maker. 

Not of silver nor of coral 
But of weather-beaten laurel 
Carve it out. 


Carve out here and there a face 
And a dragon circling space 
Coiled about. . 


Kepresent a branching tree 
Uniform like tapestry 
And no sky. 


And devise a rustic bower 
And a pointed passion flower 
Hanging high. 

Marianne Moore, 1909. 
Reprinted from Tipyn o' Bob. 


In a Garden. 

'Twas here she walked a little hour ago. 
Here is the path my lady's feet have pressed, 
This same soft air, scent-laden from the West 
Hath kissed her cheek and set it all aglow; 
This fountain o'er whose margin she bent low 
Caught her sweet image trembling to his breast : 
glorious garden ! Stir not ! Breathe not ! Eest 
A changeless memory, and immortal grow ! 
But, lo ! the sward that 'neath her steps did lie 
Has kept no print of feet ; the fickle breeze 
Has fled to lavish kisses on the trees ! 
The inconstant pool yearns up to woo the sky 
For cloud-caresses! Ah! strange, soulless place, 
That of my lady's passing keeps no trace ! 


But I, — who went scarce heeded at her side 
While she, on all those garden sweets intent 
(The thrill of bird-notes or a flower's scent) 
Could give me of her bounty naught beside 
Largesse of careless kindness, absent-eyed, — 
Lo ! I am but a name to which she lent 
Her voice's music; eyes her swift eyes bent 
Their smile on ; hands her touch has sanctified ! 
And she of my poor earthliness hath wrought 
A wondrous shrine, hallowed and set apart, 
Wherein, like golden goddesses of yore, 
High-throned within this temple of my heart, 
Willi prayers and incense of adoring thought 
She reigns, and shall be worshipped evermore. 

Caroline Reeves FoulJce, 1896. 


Fortune's Fool. 

THE South had produced Selden Cary, but she never wholly under- 
stood or approved of her handiwork — at least not until much later. 
His temperament was neither peculiar nor erratic — he was one 
of the gentlest of boys and men — but he had not a vestige of that 
flippant irresponsibility, of that lightness and fire which in Northern eyes 
make most Southern young men so engaging and so contemptible. Little 
typical as he seemed, no other country — we may call Virginia a country — 
and no other time than the period immediately after the Civil War could 
have achieved his personal complexity of thwarted tendencies, a nature 
born for power — though not for acquisition, — for leisure, for society — but 
without a slave, without an acre, with hardly a friend, and obliged to toil 
for his daily bread. 

Just after the war, Selden's grandfather had moved what was left of 
his family to Philadelphia. He was one of that pitifully numerous army of 
Southerners, deprived through loyalty to an irretrievably lost cause, of 
fortune, friends, and mode of life, who made a peaceful invasion of 
Northern territory in hopes of making their university education and their 
undoubted gentility — lucrative. But Philadelphia could find no place for 
all those gentlemen who wanted to teaph school, and Judge Cary being 
very old was persuaded by his two sisters that there was plenty to live on 
if he would only save them the expense of "little Selden's" education. 

With the little ready money that Freeport had brought after the 
mortgage was paid off, a small house in an unfashionable district was pur- 
chased and it was there that little Selden was brought up — socially by his 
grandfather's sisters and educationally by his grandfather himself. In his 
childhood he knew only these three people, since there were no visitors. 
Judge Cary was too old to make new friends and Miss Lettice and Miss 
Kate failed to return the visits of their Philadelphia acquaintance. Each 
lady who came — in a carriage which rumbled on the cobblestones of the 
narrow street — for all her gentleness and determination to see no difference, 
brought contrasts too stinging for those ladies to bear. So the Marias 

fortune's fool. 31 

and Fannies themselves ceased to come and finally even to send; for the 
two ladies "to spend the morning." The child had no natural friends of 
school or dancing-school and showed no inclination to make them in the 
neighbourhood. Most of his time he spent in the house reading and talking 
sagely to his family. He was a small, pale, little boy with a wide, low 
forehead and noticeable eyes which seemed rather to contain wisdom than 
seek it. Perhaps he had got the look from continual living in the past with 
his older relations, for he was better acquainted with Gloucester County 
"before the war" and with ancient Athens than with his resident city of 

Every morning before he went to the library for Greek with his grand- 
father, he would sit in the dining-room watching intently his two great- 
aunts as they tenderly washed their beautiful china and talked reminis- 
cently of "old days" which were stored in their memories like dried and 
scented rose-leaves in a pot-pourri jar. When he heard his grandfather lay 
down the morning paper he slipped obediently into the library with a sort of 
nervous languor which even then characterised his movements, for his incom- 
prehensible arithmetic and but half-comprehended Greek. After dinner, 
while the ladies sewed, the boy and his grandfather played chess — the Judge 
thought that was Selden's principal use as the only other gentleman in the 
house. In the long periods between moves, Selden read Scott under the 

Of dates he had no idea — no more had his grandfather — and Selden 
got it lodged in his mind that Euripides and General Lee were contempor- 
aries who dwelt in different, but equally delectable places preferred respec- 
tively by his grandfather and his two aunts. In a sense he was brought 
up backwards, toward old Virginia in the dining-room and ancient Greece 
in the library, until he was thrust into becoming his own contemporary by 
being sent to his grandfather's university. 

At the university he was neither athletic nor very brilliant and so 
was left much to himself. He had a certain popularity which he was quite 
unaware of. People spoke well of his intelligence and sweet-temper and 
regretted that they did not know him. Only a few ever did — not that he 
rebuffed advances or was hard to "draw out" — but his cordiality made no 
distinctions and left most of them baffled, though not in the least compre- 
hending by what. 

When he was graduated from the law school there was hardly a ripple 


in university life to show that he had been there, but it had had its effect 
on him. With the assistance of a communistically-minded Economics pro- 
fessor he had come to realise the great difference between the world he had 
been brought up in — his ancestor's world — and the world in which he was 
living. The only member of his family to whom he might have talked 
freely of these things, his grandfather, had died while Selden was still an 
undergraduate. When he came back to Philadelphia he set up his office in 
the old library where he had played chess and learned Greek. The differ- 
ence he was aware of once or twice he ventured to explain to his two 
aunts, but they had so immediately taken alarm at his ideas that, partly from 
affection, but rather from a fear of handling carelessly frail things, he 
kept his "ideas" out of the range of their conversations and continued to 
go to church and to avoid Socialism in their society. 

Soon after he came back, his great-aunts' anxiety about his solitariness 
began to make itself effective. In their eyes there was as little question 
of his aristocracy as there was of Agamemnon's, but Philadelphia society 
could not be expected to recognise this. Except for a cousin of his — a girl 
named Gary Selden whose father had never really thrown in his fortunes 
with the Confederacy and who consequently had never slipped out of 
society like so many other Southerners — Selden knew none of the people 
who called themselves exclusive. He did not even care to know them, so 
occupied was he, not with his law practice, which was still embryonic, but 
in putting his "ideas" into practice and thus giving them the expression 
they demanded. It was through his cousin that the two ladies hoped to 
"bring him out." During the last three of the seven years he had been 
away they had become very intimate with her, probably because they missed 
him greatly, though the girl herself was very charming. In spite of this 
intimacy he had been back almost six months before the two cousins met. 
This was nobody's fault. At first she had been away for the summer and 
then she put off coming because there was a strange young man in the 
house— who was a cousin, of course, but still a stranger. 

In the meantime, in those few short months since his graduation, 
which looking back seemed as long as the whole seven years of prepara- 
tion, Selden had come to know a good many people, though this was not 
exactly what his great-aunts had wanted for him. It was not difficult to 
become almost intimate with these fellow-labourers of his. Their work not 
only prevented barriers between them, but constituted an actual bond. 

fortune's fool. 33 

In the hot summer months he met nurses and doctors, clergymen, "friendly 
visitors," Jew and Gentile, all with frank co-operation ministering to the 
sick, hot, suffering poor. Any new worker they welcomed, without demon- 
stration indeed, but with an unspoken feeling of relief that another hand 
had come to help them lift. He admired these people and envied them their 
earnestness but of them all he had only come to like — apart from the work 
done — a certain Miss Harrison, for whose capable saintliness he felt a rather 
disquieting reverence. Their work, at first without design of theirs, bad 
thrown them much together. On children's playgrounds and excursions and 
such superintended festivities as the poor have during the summer months 
they had had those small experiences and adventures and talks which even 
in a short time make people intimate. When he came home evenings 
Selden would relate all these happenings to amuse his aunts. Her name 
was so constantly, naturally, on his tongue — what she said to the children 
when, etc., what Mrs. Murphy had said to her, etc., etc., that they ques- 
tioned him about her with a strained eagerness which they tried to conceal. 
These questions were answered more satisfactorily by their seeing her herself, 
when one morning she came to consult Selden about some legal business. 

As he opened the door between the library and dining-room, the two 
ladies, who were expecting the girl, rose to their feet. Miss Lettice came 
forward a little, holding up her sewing in her apron. She was shaking 
hands before they were introduced. "Aunt Lettice, Aunt Kate, — " : Selden 
said, affectionately touching the back of Miss Lettice's waist. "This is Miss 
Harrison, — a great friend of mine." 

"Selden has spoken often of you," said Miss Lettice with great 

Miss Harrison eyed them both, delightedly, they were such charming 
old gentlewomen! "And a great deal to me of you." This was not a 
fortunate speech, but Selden, from his anxiety that they should like each 
other, spoke quickly before it had had time to take effect. They all sat 
down and Miss Kate, partly to make conversation and partly from genuine 
genealogical interest asked, "Are you related to the Brandon Harrisons?" 

"Who are the Brandon-Harrisons?" asked Anna Harrison in return; 
then seeing the surprise on Miss Kate's face, went crimson. 

"Then you can't be a Virginian," said Miss Lettice soothingly. 

"No, we are Pennsylvania people." 

"Oh yes," Miss Lettice said as though that was much better. 


"My father's name is Archibald Harrison." 

Both ladies recognised the name of a ward politician, but Miss Let- 
tice said simply, "Of course," as if she had been stupid not to have 
known at once the daughter of such an eminent gentleman. Then she 
asked her about her work. It was a subject on which Miss Harrison obliged 
herself always to be enthusiastic so she talked warmly, even interestingly, 
but did not for a moment forget herself in what she was saying. The others 
felt this self-consciousness, felt that she wanted to appear "at ease," and were 
themselves consequently slightly abrupt. Selden wanted his aunts to like 
her. They tried honestly but felt she was making it difficult. There was 
a feeling of relief all round which everyone tried not to feel when she got 
up to go. She looked at her watch, said she had an engagement, shook 
hands again cordially with the Misses Cary and took her departure. 

Selden closed the street-door, came back to the dining-room, and sat 
down by Miss Kate. 

"I liked your friend so much," fibbed Miss Lettice. 

"Young ladies did not say they had 'engagements' in my day," almost 
sniffed Miss Kate. 

Great things were expected from Cary Selden's visit. Since that 
afternoon of Miss Harrison's not wholly successful call, her name was 
even more frequently on Selden's lips and her ideas visibly influenced his. 
With the worldliness of which the saintliest of women are capable, his 
aunts wanted him to see more of his own people. They felt it was their 
fault that hitherto he had not seen more of them. Selden saw that they 
were scheming and was half-annoyed, half-amused by it. When his cousin 
and he were children they had lived, as Virginia relations do, on next-door 
plantations, but Selden did not in the least remember her. She belonged 
to a class which both he and Miss Harrison knew had no right to its exist- 
ence, and it nettled him to know she was his cousin. 

He was standing in the library window looking down the street for her 
coming and reporting to Miss Kate, who was rearranging the silver on the 
table in the next room, when a carriage stopped at the door. He watched 
her get out, say something to the coachman, walk up the steps and ring the 
bell. Somehow the whole block was changed in his eyes. It looked smaller, 
meaner, commoner for her presence. A woman across the street opened 
a window and stared at the girl, and two children stopped playing to look 

fortune's fool. 35 

at her. She seemed not to notice, but Selden almost wept with shamed 
pride. As soon as she was in the house with the two ladies, he forgot her 
elegance. With his almost abnormal sense for personality he was aware 
of hers as soon as it had some freedom in its own element. While she was 
greeting his great-aunts in her happy charming way, Selden noticed almost 
with chagrin, their air of confraternity, of at-homeness, as though now at 
last they were on a common ground of views and prejudices and need 
not be afraid of treading on peoples' toes. One has to be so careful with 
outsiders, "like Miss Harrison," thought Selden. 

Miss Kate, who remembered the proprieties sooner, held out a small 
old hand to him. He went over and stood by her. "This is Selden, Cary," 
she said simply, watching to see how they would take each other. 

Miss Selden smiled at Miss Lettice's great-nephew. With her there 
were only two classes of people, the people she liked and the others. In a 
moment she decided where to place him. 

"It does seem funny to introduce cousins." 

"'Specially when they have the same name." He smiled back as 
though he had said something witty. 

At supper she talked mostly with the old ladies, turning her charming 
head to this and that end of the table and Selden noticed how free they 
were with the old expressions and proverbs, how accentuated was their 
accent, how the girl, for all her animation, was never flurried, how smooth 
and cool her voice was. 

Miss Lettice kept including Selden in the conversation. "Do you 
remember, Kate, how we found these children on a raft in the middle of 
the creek?" With Miss Lettice's and Miss Kate's aid they compared 
their childhood adventures, saying, "Oh, do you remember?" and "I know" 
until it seemed to Selden that his whole life was connected somehow with 
this girl's. 

"Do you remember the drawer in grandma's work table where we always 
used to find four chocolates?" 

"I have that work-table now" said Cary. That took them back to 
more reminiscences of Freeport and Cary said she would someday like to 
buy the place back. 

"Our people have lived there so long, Mr. — cousin — Selden" — she 
flu-l-<"l slightly and looked at. Miss Kate to see whether she approved, 
"that I'm sure the property belongs to us whether we ever pay a penny 


for it. What does your Socialism say to that?" she asked making fun of 

It was the first reference she had made to his "Socialism", and it jarred 
him out of a dawning hope that she knew nothing about it. Against his 
will and reason her "our people" had filled him with pleasure. An emotion 
of loyalty to those long-dead ancestors filled his brain. To them he owed 
his personality, to those young sailors and soldiers and burgesses, to those 
old scholarly gentlemen and saintly women, and he was grateful to thiB 
girl for having made him feel it so. Then her "your Socialism" showed 
up his exile, his exclusion and he made an effort to explain it away. 

"Socialism !" Miss Kate held up her hands in horror at the word. It 
was reminiscent of the economic revolution in England, which to her 
seemed almost as terrible as the French. "My dear, such a word !" 

"Don't let's talk about such things," said Selden, and Cary was at a 
loss whether to attribute this to amiability or weakness. A puzzled expres- 
sion shadowed her face. It was one of those half-expressions which were 
peculiar to her, expressed rather in light and shadow than in definite lines. 

"You ought to know all the family stories," this time she spoke directly 
to him, "aren't you proud of some of those adorable people ?" 

He racked his brains to remember a name. "It is sad to think of all 
those people with their distinct and haunting individualities leaving nothing 
but a name in a family Bible." That she divined his evasion, he perceived 
in her almost smiling eyes. 

"Miss Kate," she said, "Miss Lettice, tell me do you know anything 
personal about a young gentleman born 1802, died 1829, shot by the 
Seminole Indians? When I was a child I found his name in the family 
Bible and ever since I am always remembering him." 

"He was my mother's younger brother, my dear child; there are some 
letters — " But Cary with a swift perception which infinitely pleased her 
cousin, said "Then you knew him" and watched Miss Lettice's face for any 
sign of grief. 

"He was a relation of your mother's too," said Miss Kate, "through 
the Daniels," and the conversation went off in that intricate discussion 
dear to every Virginian heart, of who is related to who, and how. 

After the girl had gone, the two ladies sat with their embroidery in 
their laps, following up old streams of talk. Selden sat near with a book, 
his head whirling with ideas, in imagination talking intimately to his 

foetuite's fool. 37 

cousin of why he was a socialist, or to Miss Harrison of why he could never 
be a socialist. He interrupted himself to say, 

"You say Cary^ like grandma?" He glanced at a faded, rather 
poorly done portrait behind Miss Kate's chair. "Not exactly," but neither 
lady could place the dissimilarity. 

"A sort of modern difference," said Selden, who was more analytical, 
"You see girls have now themselves to accentuate their exclusiveness. With 
grandma as with you all it was too much a matter of course to be of any 

Miss Kate immediately understood but was annoyed at Selden for 
expressing that thought. 

"There are modern differences in you too, Selden. Your grandfather 
would not have seen that distinction." 

"You mean he would not have said it." Saying which, Selden relapsed 
into his own thoughts. 

He wondered what Cary Selden would think of Anna Harrison and 
with all her gentleness he knew she would think nothing of her, would 
not regard her personality, would not see her goodness and worth. 

He felt ashamed for Miss Harrison, then grew angry because he felt 
he was ashamed. He took her part, hotly defended her to Cary, then saw 
how Cary would look at him, saw how puzzled she would be that he seemed 
to care so much for that good-hearted young woman. "I love her, Gary 
Selden, he heard himself saying, I know I am not a tenth as good. Class 
distinction is nothing before distinction of heart and brain," and he knew 
she was wondering how a gentleman could get so excited and talk so loud. 

In disgust at her imaginary scorn he turned his thoughts to Miss 
Harrison, listened to her telling him of his "duty," tried to respond and 
renounce his lately aroused traditions, but felt himself listless and un- 

It was due to his cousin that Selden began to see something of that 
other life to which, since it was the best the times afforded, his aunts felt 
that he belonged. At his cousin's house and the other houses he was 
invited to, he met some people with his own, or similar, traditions, but 
6ome with a blatant imitation of them and a high and visible sense of their 
own aristocracy. But neither among the first nor the second did he 
find any recognition of the new ideas he had gathered at the university. 
In superficial talk, flippant when there wore women around and heavy- 


handed when there were not, he heard some second-hand versions of them 
and, since he had taken them rather seriously, he made no defense. Not 
even to Miss Selden did he speak out his views. Gradually they lost their 
intensity and their significance for him and in their stead the old ideas 
absorbed in his childhood crowded themselves forward in his consciousness. 
The new ideas were principles, though neglected ones, and he still stood by 
them though not with the same ardour and satisfaction. The people he knew 
who never lagged in their loyalty, his fellow-workers, became notably dis- 
agreeable to him; their unpolished seriousness, their virtuous and idealistic 
commonplaces irritated him into frivolity and mental revolt. Even Miss 
Harrison showed not quite so fine. Her humourous and sincere friendliness 
to "those people," all her natural goodness and frankness, he knew were 
possible only to a girl of a class not his own. He could not help compar- 
ing, though he hated himself for it, her sturdy worth to his cousin's 
fine worthlessness, her frankness to Miss Selden's reserve, her frank min- 
gling with people to Miss Selden's inevitable exclusiveness ; and to himself 
he made the terrible distinction of gentle blood. 

That his enthusiasm was cooling must have been suspected by his 
fellow-workers, at least Miss Harrison felt it at once. As was not unnatural 
with her, she came one day to his office to consult him on some lawyer's busi- 
ness about a special "poor family" of hers. When the interview was over 
she lingered a moment. With the courage of her mission lighting her eyes, 
she stood by the door, an undistinguished figure, one arm full of books, 
and a hand on the knob. 

"Mr. Cary," she said without trepidation, "do you mind if I say some- 
thing to you that has nothing to do with this present business, or indeed 
with any business except your own?" Selden divined what was coming, 
made another mental comparison, and asked her to sit down. 

"This was your grandfather's library?" she asked looking round the 
room at the Greek books and the portraits ; Mr. Cary said it was, almost with 

At this she smiled at him as though he were very young and then 
went on gravely. "That's too roundabout for you, let's take a short cut. 
Are you still a socialist ?" . 

"If you mean do I still think there is too much poverty in the world 
and that economic measures should be taken to relieve it—" 

"I mean nothing of the sort. Mr. Pierpont Morgan believes that. I 

fortune's fool. 39 

mean do you — I know it sounds trite but you used to fire these common- 
places — do you still believe — no not lelieve, do you still feel your common, 
unclassified humanity?" 

Selden jerked a paper-knife out of its scabbard. "No I don't, I'm 
sorry, but I don't". 

"Wait a minute," as the girl rose again. "If you will let me go up 
with you, I'll try to explain." 

"The champions of the poor have a way of deserting," she took up the 
conversation when they had gone a little way. "The temptations are too 
strong." Selden Cary, a gentleman with a keen sense of his honourable 
obligations, winced. 

"You put it harshly, Miss Harrison. Because my views and opinions 
change is no reason for saying I am a traitor." Something made him look 
at the strong, gentle face beside him. "Miss Harrison, don't you believe 
that a man's inheritance may be too strong for him? That if he does, by 
a supreme act of will, overcome it for once, some day it will rise up 
to make him miserable? Don't you think we ought to follow our inclina- 
tions, not the fancied but the real ones — the bent of our temperament? 
I could never be happy with only "these people," and without content, with- 
out loving his work, what can a man accomplish?" He paused eloquently. 
From her answer he knew she could not understand. 

"We must, oh, you know we have to, lead our inclinations, yes the 
real ones. And if they won't follow, shoot them down." 

"Which way do yours lead?" he asked, interested in her. 

"This way; but I wish they hadn't. It would be such fun to fight 

Her vigour was too much for him. "Will you help me fight mine?" 
He raised his eyes to her face and, as he did so, saw his cousin coming toward 
them. She bowed directly at him and passed on — a slim, lovely figure, 
leaving behind her a trace of the odour of her violets and an undefinable 
atmosphere of gentility. He was immediately sorry for his question and 
hoped Miss Harrison had forgotten it. But as she mounted her front 
steps she said, looking hard and grave. "No Cary Selden, you must fight 
them for yourself." 

He watched her go through the door her mother had' opened for her, 
bowed to Mrs. Harrison and set off, leaving the girl very resolved and very 


Perhaps it was with some idea of explaining his friend that he went to 
his cousin's house. The Selden house in Philadelphia, was broad fronted 
and respectable, furnished in the hideous fashion of the "70's. But besides 
the comfortable ugly "suit", there were some old pieces, his grandmother's 
work table, some faded portraits in chipped gold frames, and there was a 
fire in the grate. Selden was thankful that the William Morris ideas of 
"good taste" had not penetrated here. He knew that, when Cary came in, 
all these things would be right and fit. It was a quality she had in common 
with his own great-aunts of making her home appear as a proper setting 
for herself. 

When she came in and sat down before the fire and began to talk 
simply of whatever presented itself, Selden had that feeling of untroubled 
peace which he experienced only with women of his own prejudices and 
past. The feeling was the deeper from his having just come from Miss 
Harrison who talked with difficulty and only upon large subjects. Cary 
asked him whether he thought the shawl she was knitting would be more 
becoming to Miss Lettice or Miss Kate. 

"You'd better give it to Aunt Kate," he said; "she thinks she's 
slighted." Selden prayed inwardly that Cary would be moved to talk 
about Anna, but she seemed to have forgotten that she had just passed 
them on the street. He himself made an effort. 

"Do you know a Miss Harrison in town ?" 

"One of the Brandon Harrisons?" Selden smiled. 

"No, I think her father's name is Archibald." 

"I am afraid I never heard of her," Cary said without emphasis. 

She was sitting in one of the deeply upholstered arm-chairs languidly 
at rest. The long folds of her dress on the floor, her feet crossed on a low 
foot-stool, the line of her arm along the side of her chair, the wool and large 
needles in her lap, all presented the impression of a portrait in its quiescent 
distinction. She was lovely, personal, yet at the same time with the remote 
loveliness and impersonality of a painting. He talked and took her 
in as he talked, watching her face for its faint signs of interest or amuse- 
ment. He took peculiar pleasure in noting its passing, vivid but incom- 
plete expression. He thought it rather like a flower which budded but 
never bloomed. 

When he was with her, in her presence like this, he felt himself 
removed as he thought of her. They were, he fancied, like princess and 

foetdne's fool. 41 

prince in a wide magic circle. Outside there was a world, of course, but 
he could not think of it as a dirty, noisy, serious world for his part of 
which he was responsible. He knew it was there, however, and sometimes 
had tried to tell her of its dust and noise and seriousness, but it was a 
tale she would not understand. 

When he remembered why he had specially come, he made another 

"Miss Harrison is a friend of mine." 

"Oh," she said, "a socialist?" Then suddenly, "Don't you get eiek to 
death of these poor people? How can you bear to spend so much time in 
loathesome places ! Nothing but drunkenness, vulgarity, little crying babies, 
and women wrangling amid dirt and noise! I have been through streets 
like that, and for days I could not get it out of my mind." 

He thought it was hopeless to try to win sympathy for Miss Harrison 
through her work. Not that he was sure he wanted to win sympathy for 
Miss Harrison. Indeed any conversation about her with his cousin was not 
wholly agreeable to him, but he was very anxious for Cary to understand the 
situation. Being inspired- to put it hypothetically, he asked her whether 
she had yet read Evan Harrington. She had not and he told her some of 
the story. Did she think it was possible for a girl to care for the son 
of a tailor, even if he had been brought up rather like a gentleman? 

The answer he was sure of was not forthcoming, not immediately 

"Was the girl really nice?" 

"0, yes, very—" 

"What sort of a person does Meredith make his tailor's son?" He told 

"How silly," she said before he got through, "to make him really a 
gentleman. A tailor's son could not be." 

"How about women," he asked, "are they so dependent on their 
ancestors ?" 

"Ever so much more so. You must see that." She evidently did 
not like the turn he had given their conversation. 

"Then you think that a — gentleman could not bring himself to care 
in that war for a girl who was not like his own people?" 

"Oh, well," she half-smiled at his tone of intentness, "you know they do. 
Did not one of our honoured ancestors, after his wife's death, marry her 
French maid?" 


"That was because lie didn't appreciate his wife — ." 

"Maybe she was too proper." Cary interposed justifying her ances- 
tor's actions. 

She became serious. "Your situation is not wholly hypothetical ?" 

"No, do you understand ?" He saw she did. 

" I have for ages. Aunt Lettice told me some things and you the 

"Do you want me to tell you what I think ?" 

"More than that, I want you to decide." 


"I am so weary trying to work it out. It's weak, I suppose, but, Cary, 
you are more likely than I to come to a right solution." 

"This is serious, then? I can't say what I was going to. You won't 
like my decision." 

"No matter," he said. "Kismet." 

He closed his eyes and relaxed physically, preparatory to a mental 
relaxation he was sure was coming. 

Cary felt she had a man's fate in her hands and was proportionally 

"I think Miss Harrison is right." 


"I mean I think that's a better way of living." 

"But Cary." 

"You promised, Selden." 

It took some time for him to re-adjust his ideas. Both were a long time 
silent. Finally he got up smiling rather sardonically at a retrospective 
view of himself. 

She looked at him inquiringly — "well?" 

"Oh, I thought it was settled." 

"You will go to Anna now?" 

"Yes, but later. Thank you Cary." 

Grace Bagnall Branham, 1910. 



The full moon is turning the grass into silver, 
The owlets are gurgling low in the trees; 

Softer than dove-notes murmurs the river, 
Softer than love-sighs whispers the breeze. 

Shall I awake thee, tenderly dreaming? 

Never in dreams was night so fair; 
Never, as now, came the moonshine, streaming, 

Melting through mellow and mist-laden air. 

Never in sleep did the spell of the hours 
Blend every sound in a calm more complete; 

Never in dreams came the fragrance of flowers, 
Roses and jessamine, mingled so sweet. 

Wake then, my love, for the dew-drops adorning 

Their petals, must must fall at the quiver of dawn, 
And soon, on the windy wings of the morning, 
The magic of night will be vanished and gone. 

M. Nearing, P. Baker, 1909. 
Reprinted from Tipyn o' Bob. 



Steadfast-hearted always, and seldom-speaking, 

Alethea sleeps here quiet, nor dreams — 
Here, where to the sun this dark pine, creaking 

Lifts high its sombre top, in the skyey streams 
Tugs and sways — not heeding nor seeking 

Under brown needles, the noon-tide scents and gleams. 


Silver birchen-stems, and fret 
Of quivering poplars light, 
And fragile maiden-hair, 
These the leafy grove beset 
For Annis' sake, the white, 
Tremulous, shy, and fair. 
Stranger, passing, feel the stir 
In the grass, and sigh for her. 


The night falls always still, 

Sun-steeped the day dreams on, 

Muffled the windy hill, 

Blanched as a pearl the dawn. 

Motionless, earth in earth, 
Drowse we dead, till above 

Burgeons the cloister-garth; 
Then Lover calls to Love ! 



Dust this dusty stone doth cover 
Was, long years ago, a lover. 

Pray, passers who 

Are lovers, for hirn too. 


I loved the stars, truth, and one faithful heart. 

And these I sought and that I found; at last, 
When I had done of toil my human part, 

Quietly to oblivion I passed. 


I asked for life, not joy, 

Feeling, not happiness. 
I bore of love's employ 

The intolerable stress, 
And all the wealth of pain 

That no delight can buy: 
I view my life again, 

Again thank God, and die. 


I slept in palaces 
Sickening with loneliness ; 
I laid my head upon a stone, 
Angels visitant came down; 
I crept beneath the sod, 
Now, 6ee, I walk with God. 

Georgiana Goddard King, 1S96. 


In the Morning of Mysticism. 

I WAS ever a slave to the concrete. Once my fancy could be set in 
motion by fact it wavered along smoothly enough, but, as long ago as 
I can remember, my worldly little heart knew no response to spiritual 
aspiration without the jolt of a visible counterpart. Thus it was, for 
example, that I was lured at an early age into a most abnormal protraction 
of my devotions when once my carnal eye had been appealed to by a small 
scarlet and gold volume of Meditations. So, too, a gold thimble plunged 
me into dressmaking and all manner of house-wifely accomplishments at 
the age of six. I wept for skates, not for joy in the sport — for my infancy 
was one long-protracted ear-ache — but because my cousin Lydia pleased my 
fancy in her sealskin cap and her windy hair out on the Mill Pond. In 
the same way, the mere prettiness of a very moderately gifted village music- 
teacher did infinitely more to instil in my soul a love for music than did 
all the depths of insight and power of the gorgon-eyed genius who succeeded 
her in my education. 

I have come, indeed, to think that young children are totally lacking 
in the power to relate their experiences one with another; the relations of 
cause and effect are quite unknown, or, rather, totally misconceived by 
them. They fancy, when they have put on grandfather's spectacles, that 
the illusion is complete, since in their simple judgment the spectacles are 
a cause, and grandfather the inevitable result. 

Now that is very interesting about children because it brings out how, 
having once established in their minds such a relationship as the above, 
children supply in fancy all details and actually are bothered by no possible 
discrepancies; so that education really begins away back there where we 
first begin to put two and two together on the way to seeing things as they 
are. Probably it was the observation in children of this very openness to 
illusion which gave rise to our proverb "fine feathers do not make fine 
birds." Though, of course, when we were very, very small babies the adage 
would have appealed to us rather in some such form as, "All bearded faces 
are not fathers." While in our mature years it might better be "Air-ships 


cannot fly to heaven" — or something on that fashion, but far more epigram- 
matic and clever. 

However that may be, I feel convinced to this day that my childish 
passion to look like the picture of little Anna Alexander was due to a less 
blameable impulse than mere worldly vanity. If I had not made the 
egregious blunder of assigning to the wrong source that charm and good- 
ness which I so readily felt as I gazed at her lovely likeness, I should never 
have set all the desire of my soul upon possessing seven long loose ringlets. 
To gaze in the mirror for minutes at a time merely in the effort to conjure 
up some relief for the pitiless exposure of my round shaved head, and this 
for mere external beauty's sake — ah, surely I was not so wicked a creature 
as that! I only thought that long, wavy hair would make me the lovely 
and amiable little girl that she very evidently was and that I quite vaguely 
meant to be, just as I thought that fluttering white fingers down the keys 
would make me like Miss Halliday, or a pair of skates over my shoulder 
make me like my cousin Lydia. 

And so I learned to love the photograph in grandmother's family 
album, of the child, little Anna Alexander ; an unusual photograph, it was, 
dim now and yellow, for Anna Alexander had died — I know not when — 
before she ever lived so far as my fancy of her was concerned. There she 
had stood on the page with her father and mother for years and years, 
her slipper tipped to a stair, her slim fingers touching the balustrade — an 
old-world child, with her oval locket, and her fillet, and her long loose 

"Mr. Alexander, Mrs. Alexander, Anna Alexander, she's dead." 

The rhythm of it floats back to me after twenty years as if it were an 
hour ago that I rocked in the high chintz chair and made myself agree- 
able to Auntie's guests by retailing the gossip of the family album. 

"My Uncle Fin, my Aunt Mary, they live in Wyoming" — pause for 
effect, though I scarcely expected my audience to be more credulous than 
if my Uncle Fin and my Aunt Mary had lived in the moon, or at the 
North Pole, or any other out of the way place. 

"This is Miss Letitia Berry. She had her hair done at a hair dresser's. 
This is my Cousin Eebekah, and her birthday is on the twenty-third of 
September and mine is on the twenty-eighth of September" — another camel 
for the incredulous. "And this is my Uncle Sidney. He died in Central 


America and he brought me some blue beads, but Bobby pounded them 
up" (Sweet Bobby!). 

There were many more. I forget them now. On the whole that was a 
wonderful book, and I could not help noticing how it never failed to 
please; but for my own part, though I tried to make it all entertaining, 
there was no denying that, as I saw more of the world, the bloom began to 
wear off some of the attendants comments which had at first appeared most 
startling. For example, when my Aunt Mary and my Uncle Fin came 
East for a summer without paint or nose rings, and even communicating 
in very creditable English, I could not but feel that I had been imposed 
upon. But with all my shattered illusions, I still continued to turn with 
the same thrill of joy and pain to the yellow picture of the little girl who 
had gone to the country from which no one returns to correct our crude 
ideas — little "Anna-Alexander-she's-dead." In my mind it was hyphenated. 

I cannot be sure whether the mysteries of photography created, in 
part, the influence of Anna Alexander, or Anna Alexander created my 
sense of respect and awe for photography. It is certain, however, that 
having one's picture taken was, to my mind, a performance not out of 
class with the administration of baptism, or similar rites, which there 
was ample evidence that I had gone through with in my babyhood, and 
which no amount of coaxing could prevail upon my parents to have 
repeated, now that I had attained an age to appreciate them. Day 
after day coming from school we children used to stop to watch the 
revolving cylinder of photographs at the foot of the stairs that led to 
the "picture gallery" and to choose turn about for all the pictures we 
thought worth having, almost plunging our fingers through the glass case 
as our favourites rolled into view. Then one fresh spring day, when as 
usual we had tarried long over the choosing and finally were loitering 
homeward, we saw ahead of us my sister Christiana waiting at the gate. 
Probably some one was dead, or perhaps there were some new puppies, or 
Aunt Anna had come, or — I began to run. Christiana opened the gate 
and took my hand. I must hurry, she said, to get washed and dressed, for 
we were to have our picture taken, all the children of our family, because 
mother wished to send it to my Aunt Julia Trevor. Oh, what a day and 
what a sky ! 


"I'm going to have my picture taken," I screamed, hanging out the 
upstairs window, to the old gentleman who lived next door. 

"Eh, are you ?" he quavered back, rather encouragingly. 

"Yes I am," I repeated, "and so's Bobby, and so's William, and so's 
Sidney, and so's Brother, and so's Boy, and so's Christiana — all at once, 
all at one time on the same picture, and it's a surprise for my Auntie 
Julia !" He was a little hard of hearing, the old gentleman, but he seemed 
to have no trouble with me in spite of my distance. Christiana, however, 
drew me in hastily, to wash the other arm, from which she had been 
called away. 

"0, Sarah," she expostulated, "you mustn't shout like that. Mr. 
Andrews will think you're crazy." 

"Why, no he won't, Christiana," I argued, "he was awful glad." It 
was very hard to keep from scolding when Christiana washed the inner 
side of my hands — a performance which always set me a-quiver in defense 
of my ticklish palms. Christiana was called again. I could not resist the 
open window. Mr. Andrews was still over there. 

"If s going to cost a dollar," I shouted. 

"Oh, my, my !" ejaculated the old man. 

"Yes," I pursued, "and we're going to pay for it, too, and Auntie 
Julia doesn't have to pay a cent. We're just going to give it away." 

I could not catch all Mr. Andrews' replies, but I took it he was not 
insensible to our munificence. I heard Christiana coming, however, and 
drew in quickly, bumping my head on the window frame and stifling a 
wail. With no time for my usual side interests, I danced into the clothes 
she held for me. When I was ready I ran to the window once more. 

"It doesn't hurt to have it taken," I called. 

"Eh, don't it?" came Mr. Andrews' thin voice from his window. 

"No," I answered reassuringly, "not if you hold still; I'm going to 
hold still ; like this I'm going to be," and I touched my finger-tips lightly 
to the sill, and set my gaze on the distant horizon, after the manner of little 
Anna-Alexander-she's-dead. I thought I saw him laugh a little, but I 
didn't mind. However, as he had given up shouting replies, I returned to 
Christiana. She stood before her mirror brushing her beautiful yellow hair. 

"I wish Mr. Andrews could be in the picture, Christiana," I said. 
"He's never had his picture." 


"0, Sarah," Christiana laughed, "what would Aunt Julie want of Mr. 
Andrews' picture. She never saw him." 

"Well, I'm sure he's a very good man, and he has a silk hat like Anna 
Alexander's papa. Then suddenly, "Do let it hang, Christiana," I begged. 
It was one of my grievances that I could never persuade her to wear her 
pretty hair about her shoulders. "Please," I urged, "you used to let it 
hang — just for your picture." 

"0, Sarah dear, I am sixteen. No one ever wears her hair so when 
she is sixteen." 

"Well, the angels do in my book," I argued, "and I am sure angels 
are hundreds of years old." 

"Oh, angels are out of style," said Christiana. 

"Well, I think they are very much prettier than if they wore hairpins." 

"Don't you think mine looks pretty now?" urged Christiana, looking 
at it through her hand mirror. I thought it a great trick to be able to 
find one's self in a hand mirror. 

"No, no, it's spoiled," I almost wept. "Before, it was all puffy like 
the cloud we saw with sunset on it, and now its all tied up in a ball. Which 
do you think is prettier, Christiana, — Gabriel or Anna Alexander ?" 

"I never saw Gabriel." 

"But you saw his picture in my Angel book." 

"Which do }'ou?" asked Christiana. 

"I think Anna Alexander's curls are prettier than Gabriel's curls. 
Gabriel's curls look more like shavings, but Anna Alexander's are all wavy 
like water. That's the kind I want, Christiana," and I went to her mirror 
once more to contemplate the image which I could so easily see there now 
of my own face framed in Anna Alexander's hair. 

"I like short hair," said Christiana rather kindly, pulling mine, "it 
looks so cool and comfortable." Then she wrapped my cloak about me and 
we were off. 

From the moment I entered the gallery my spirits began to be on the 
decline. It did not smell like the dentist's office, and yet the atmosphere 
was freighted with the same uneasiness. For one thing, it was a disap- 
pointment not to find a whole room-full of gorgeous chairs and pedestals 
and columns like those that figured in the photographs on the revolving 
cylinder downstairs. Indeed, there was only one such chair in a very bare 


room which a flood of sun made dusty and warm. The palms, too, were 
onl}" painted on great gray screens. Pictures, it seemed, were not all that 
they purported to be. There was a long time of waiting. Then our turn 
came. The boys, who had been very sulky at home, were more cheerful 
now, and allowed themselves to be placed and handled with much giggling 
and good humour. There was a stool in front for me. I took it a little 
sadly, thinking of the staircase, and immediately became congealed into 
an impassive figure, unwilling to look so much as sidewise lest the instru- 
ment before me should suddenly go off and catch me unprepared. After 
a long time the photographer began to retreat behind his camera, darting 
forth to give us occasional touches and shoves, and back again. With 
teeth set I awaited the final stroke. 

"Now, just the way you are. Steady — that's right — right at me, one, 
two. That was all right," suddenly reappearing. "Now one more." 

So ih is was having a picture taken ! And now it was over. Oh, surely 
it was not too late! The photographer was promising to send something 
on Monday. I clutched Christiana's hands, "Oh, one alone, Christiana," 
I begged, almost in tears. 

"Oh, you can't, Baby dear. You see it costs more money, and this is 
all mother meant we should do." 

Anna — Anna A-Alex — " I began, and ended by burying my face in 
my hands. 

It was then that father came for us. In a moment I was drying my 
eyes (such is the magic of fathers), and the photographer was wheeling 
the big fancy chair into position, and arranging the shades on his sky- 

"She has a way she wants it taken," said Christiana, perhaps seeing 
anxiety return to my face. I could see no stairway but the dark passage 
to the street. Oh, yes, they could fix that, the photographer said, and was 
that all? Was that all? That was mere nothing in comparison with the 
real thing, but I hesitated. The boys might laugh. 

"How is it you want it, Sarah ?" repeated Christiana. 

Then I put my mouth very close to her ear. 

"With long hair," I whispered. 

Ah well, we have to learn the truth sometime or other. After all, 
then, there was no connection between curls, and gentle goodness, and 


beauty, and photographs; somehow or other I had mixed the tools of two 
worlds. Perhaps it was mere babyish disappointment, but I can't help 
feeling rather sorry, at this distance, for the disillusioned child who, with- 
out knowing why, wept that afternoon in shame and bitterness of soul. I 
had lost the little girl of the picture, not because she had become less real, 
but because the ties that had made her attainable were suddenly torn away, 
and as yet I discerned no new ones. And so I see her now, and shall always 
see her, with her oval locket, and her fillet and the loose ringlets on her 
shoulder. Always I shall see her, her slipper tipped to a stair, and her 
slim fingers touching the balustrade — but I shall never be like her, never, 
for I have short hair. Dear Anna-Alexander-she's-dead ! 

Ruth George, 1910. 

To the Yacht "Whim." 

O white broad-pinioned bird, with brooding breast, 
That cherished us so many a day and night; 
From haven to haven urging lonely flight, 
Then dropping with some harboured flock to rest ! 

lovely form of undismayed desire! 
vagabond, whom no dull thrift delays ! 
Flying as wishes fly, on magic ways; 
Knowing no limit save the sunset's fire. 

Our hearts take wing as thou dost, and explore 
Thy full demesne of freedom. We will find 
New continents of joy, nor call to mind 
The low, familiar hamlets of the shore. 

Mabel Parker Huddleston,, '89. 


The Cathedral Builder. 

I am the builder of churches, 

Though I hew but a single stone, 
No order compels me, no master rule tells me 

The hour when my work must be done. 

It is I who build the cathedral, 

Although I must labour alone 
With strokes of the hammer, that ring without clamour 

To fashion one block of stone. 

At noon when the market is ringing 

With the barter of women and men, 
I am rounding and chipping, while daylight is slipping 

Till highways are desert again. 

At night when the moon through the cloud rifts 

Weaves cobwebs on pinnacled spire, 
And sly shadow chases through far remote spaces, 

My blows echo high in the choir. 

It matters not what I am carving, 

Let the image be what it may : 
A gargoyle half reeling, a narrow saint kneeling 

Will outlive the forms of clay. 

Perhaps it will mount to the tower, 

Perhaps in the crypt it will lie, 
It may crown the altar or lean without shelter 

Against the full wind of the sky. 

And where they may place it I care not, 

My goal is no visible goal, 
But slowly perfecting a task, and reflecting 

Each impulse that comes from my soul. 

My work is a work of the ages, 

My time is eternity; 
In years still unnumbered, when long I have slumbered, 

The others will labour for roe. 

Shirley Putnam, 1S09. 


Count Leo Tolstoy. 

DTJELNG- the last few years modern Eussia and the forces that are 
entering into the present movement for political and religious 
freedom have been the subject of much, and often highly sensa- 
tional, discussion. To sift this material, to understand as clearly 
as possible the real significance of the Eussian social organism, becomes, 
in this day when we lay so much stress on environment, the first necessity 
to any just appreciation of recent Eussian literature. Similar as are the 
aims and drift of civilisation throughout the world, the conditions under 
which progress is achieved are peculiar to each individual nation. It is 
these conditions that we must study if we would judge fairly a man as 
sincerely devoted to the ennobling of the human spirit as Count Leo Tolstoy. 
The evolution of this great genius has been mainly determined by his 
surroundings: and these surroundings are some three or four hundred 
years behind the rest of Europe in development. As regards government 
and racial character, Eussia is still young and crude. From a very low 
level of barbarism she went through centuries of growth before she reached 
even the mere possibility of civilised existence. Only in 1861 did she 
emerge legally from feudal conditions by the abolishment of serfdom. At 
present the chief obstacles in her path of progress are the fettering tradi- 
tions of a universal empire supported by a universal church. From these 
she is now trying to free herself, to correct the worst evils in the wake 
of these two great systems, and to escape from a policy of spies and censors, 
of ignorance and suppression. Under existing conditions there is no freedom 
of intercourse in Eussia; and as a result it is a significant characteristic 
of great Eussian thinkers that their ideas have been evolved without 
any modification by rational interchange with other men. Our late ambas- 
sador, Mr. Andrew D. White, has in his Autobiography a paragraph that 
seems to me to express the present situation of the country with singular 
vividness. "During two centuries," he says, "Eussia has been coming 
slowly out of perhaps the most cruel phases of mediaeval life. Her history 
is, in its details, discouraging; her daily life disheartening. Even the 


aspects of nature are to the last degree depressing : no mountains ; . . . 
a soil during a large part of the year frozen or parched; a people whose 
upper classes are mainly given up to pleasure and whose lower classes are 
sunk in f etichism ; all their poetry and music in the minor key ; old oppres- 
sions of every sort still lingering; no help in sight; and. to use their own 
cry, 'God so high and the Czar so distant.' When, then, a great man arises 
in Eussia, if he gives himself wholly to some well-defined purpose, . . . 
rigidly excluding sight or thought of the ocean of sorrow about him, he may 
do great things. . . . But when a strong genius in Eussia throws him- 
eelf into philanthropic speculations of an abstract sort, with no chance 
of discussing his theories until they are full-grown and have taken fast 
hold upon him ... he may rush to the extremes of nihilism or 
rear a fabric heaven-high in which truths, errors, and paradoxes are piled 
up together until we have a new Tower of Babel." 

Of such a Tower of Babel, of such interwoven truth and error, of such 
a giant struggling against the adverse currents in the vast ocean of Eussian 
sorrow, we become spectators in the life and work of Count Lyof or Leo 
Tolstoy. He was born of a noble family at their country place, Yasnaia 
Polyana, in August, 1828. As a young man he studied in the University. 
Then he went to the Caucasus, where he entered the army and began his 
career as a writer. After the great siege of Sebastopol, he returned to 
Moscow and re-entered private life becoming rapidly distinguished as 
one of the greatest Eussian novelists. Until he was nearly fifty years old, 
he lived the life of his kind, the corrupt and fashionable life of the Eussian 
upper class. This period is described in My Confession: — "I put men 
to death in war, I fought duels to slay others, I lost at cards, wasted my 
substance wrung from the sweat of the peasants, punished the latter cruelly, 
rioted with loose women, and deceived men. Lying, robbery, adultery of 
all kinds, drunkenness, violence, murder — there was not one crime I did 
not commit, and yet I was considered by my equals a comparatively moral 

In 1861 the emancipation of the serfs aroused his interest in agrarian 
conditions and he became convinced that it was his duty to live on the 
estate in winter as well as in summer. From this point begins the change 
which gradually turned the current of his thought. He gave up novels 
and for a number of years wrote nothing but educational reviews and school 


books. In 1862 he married, and became absorbed in his family. Then there 
came periods, "stoppages of life" as he calls them, when the questions 
Why? and What after? forced themselves on him. The great problem 
of life's meaning confronted him and he could find no answer. It is the 
same problem that comes to every thinker. "Here we are, you and I, and the 
millions of men and animals about us; here we stand with our senses, 
our keen intellects, our infinite desires, our nerves quivering to the touch 
of joy or pain, beacons of brief fire, it would seem between two eternities; 
what are we to make of the wonder while it is still ours?" Once Tolstoy 
had been absorbed in the study of life; now he was interested only in 
discovering what life is. Nothing seemed to bring him any comfort in 
this search until he began to know and love the peasantry. Among all 
the shams of philosophy, art, and religion, these people alone seemed 
sincere. Through them Count Tolstoy came out of nihilism to believe 
in a God; through them he came to see that work and simplicity are the 
necessary conditions of happiness; and in helping them be developed that 
constructive theory of life, which is really so destructive — that curious 
jumble of truth and paradox. 

Gradually association with the rich and educated became repulsive 
to him. He began to live as much as possible among the peasants, adopted 
the peasant dress, gave up all his property and made sympathy with peasant 
cares and sorrows the ground work of his life. His days were now divided 
between hard physical labour and writings on religious and social ques- 
tions. In 1895 his fearless criticism of the Eussian church brought about 
his excommunication by the synod; and he would long since have been 
banished but for the intercession of influential relatives at court. 

Prince, nihilist, novelist — the curtain falls; the curtain rises — peasant, 
Christian, reformer. It is like scene-shifting at a theatre — the char- 
acters are the same, and the second scene, though in brilliant contrast to 
the first, continues the thread of the drama. And this dramatic thread 
in Count Tolstoy's life — this central unity that relates and explains the 
contrast between the scenes, is his passionate sympathy with life through 
all its human loves and fears, a sympathy developing later into an intense 
desire to be of service in the struggle of the human soul toward freedom 
and enlightenment. 

In his earlier work, in the period when most of his novels were 


written, Count Tolstoy's artistic inspiration is this passionate interest 
in life. He does not care for nature except as a setting for humanity. 
That great description of Levin's day among the mowers, which no one 
who has ever enjoyed can forget, leaves us with a sense, not of the 
beauties of nature, but of the animation of physical exercise. Men and 
women with their infinite possibilities of evil and good — these are Count 
Tolstoy's subjects. As an artist his greatness springs from truth seen 
with an eye of unparalleled aeuteness, and told so simply that it carries 
with it inevitable conviction. Every page is a bit of life; and the whole 
is a vast realistic mirror, over which flits a play of shifting lights, — now 
comic, now tragic, now pathetic, now beautiful, and now terrible. Nothing 
that affects our daily existence escapes his clairvoyant understanding. 

He takes into account all the tiny movements, all the physical side 
of life that makes us continually conscious of this material world. Stiva — 
in Count Tolstoy's most representative novel, Anna Karenina — feels a 
degree of satisfaction, even under the trying quarrel with his wife, in the 
consciousness of a starched shirt and a perfumed handkerchief; while the 
chief thing that augments Anna's dislike of Karenin is the fact that 
his knuckles crack, and even when she has succeeded in persuading her- 
self that he is "an upright, excellent and remarkable man," she cannot 
help adding, "But why do his ears stick out so and why does he cut his 
hair too short?" 

With these outward peculiarities Count Tolstoy takes equally into 
account those hazy feelings of which we are all momentarily conscious, but 
which are gone so immediately that they escape the grasp of all but this 
surpassing realist. Our egotistic fancies, our vain dreams, our freaks of 
jealousy, our harmless vanity, our faint impulses for good and bad are 
reflected with a large life-like humour in his pages. 

With what a touch, delicate yet firm, he handles a great living pano- 
rama. In Anna Karenina we are brought into complete sympathetic un- 
derstanding with a large number of people, their fitful emotions and the 
resulting situations. We follow the sensitive, awkward Levin in his love 
for the tactful and charming Kitty; we sympathise with good, overworked 
Dolly in her troubles with the brilliant and susceptible Stiva; we suffer 
deeply with both Karenin and Vronsky ; and throughout we are carried away 
by the freshness and strength of the woman with whose tragic life the 


lives of all these others are inextricably entangled. In his portrayal of 
Anna, Count Tolstoy rises from the uneventful affairs of daily life to a 
fearless revelation of the deepest emotions of the human heart. 

Anna is ill in Petersburg. A telegram comes to Karenin at Moscow, 
"I am dying. I beg you to come: I shall die easier if I have your for- 
giveness." At first he hesitates. Then, in accordance with his character, 
he goes because it is his duty — goes with a stifled hope that her words may 
be true, and that the solution of the problem into which the life force 
has whirled him may be solved without his own action. All the quietness 
and controlled emotion of extreme illness meet his entrance. The doctor 
is there: the once brilliant Vronsky, Anna's lover, is weeping with his 
head in his hands. Anna is tossing about in a half delirious state calling 
for her husband. An involuntary tenderness, which the sufferings of others 
always caused in him, makes him turn away his head as he passes Vronsky. 
Anna's voice, lively, gay, and articulating clearly, is heard from the 
sleeping room. Karenin enters; but Anna is feverish and excited and does 
not recognise him. Suddenly she is silent; she looks frightened; she 
raises her arms above her head as if to ward off a blow; she has seen her 

" 'No, no,' she says quickly, 'I am not afraid of him ; I am afraid of 
dying. Aleksei, come here. I have only a few minutes to live: the fever 
will be upon me again, and I shall know nothing more. Now I am 
conscious : I understand everything and I see everything.' " 

Aleksei Karenin's face expresses acute suffering; he wants to speak, 
but his lower lip trembles so that he cannot utter a word. He takes 
Anna's hand and holds it between his own. 

" 'Yes,' " she begins again, " 'this is what I want to say. Do not be 
astonished. I am always the same, but there is another being within me 
whom I fear; it is she who loved him and hated you. . . . Now I 
am myself, entirely, really myself, and not another. I am dying, I know 
that I am dying. . . . One thing only is indispensable to me; forgive 
me, forgive me wholly ! . . . No, you cannot forgive me ; I know very 
well that it is impossible. Go away, go away ! You are too perfect !' " 

Karenin's emotion becomes so great that he can no longer control 
himself. Suddenly he feels this emotion change to a moral reconcilia- 
tion which seems like a new and unknown happiness. Kneeling beside 
the bed, he lays his forehead on her arm, and sobs like a child. 


" 'Why doesn't he come/ " says Anna suddenly, looking towards the 
door. At her call Vronsky enters, his face hidden in his hands. Anna bids 
-Karenin uncover Vronsky's face and forgive her lover as he has forgiven 
her. A moment more, and she is tossing in delirium. " 'Bozhe mo'i ! 
Bozhe mo'i ! when will this be over ? Give me some morphine, doctor ; some 
morphine.' " 

Like Shakespeare's Othello we cry out in fear — "Oh, the pity of it, 
Iago ! Oh, the pity of it !" There is so nrueh of human nature in this man 
who comes to the great action of his life, because he cannot bear to see 
another man in tears ! 

A high truth and seriousness arising in an intense sympathy with 
life seen from the moral side as something to which the artist is respon- 
sible — these are the qualities that mark Count Tolstoy as indubitably 
great. He is a clear, indestructible mirror of truth, reflecting all the 
lights and shadows of our daily life through the medium of that lofty 
quality of imagination which stops not with the outward semblance but 
lays bare the life principle of things. 

In this passionate sympathy, in this brilliant understanding of the 
forces that play upon humanity, Count Tolstoy, during the first scene 
of his life's drama, was completely absorbed. When, however, he began 
to feel the necessity of unravelling the master knot of human fate, when 
existence became meaningless and terrible to him, art as the mirror of 
existence became equally meaningless and terrible. He could no longer 
teach when he was bitterly conscious that he did not know what to teach. 
Then as he gradually came, through his study of the peasantry, to a new 
and vital consciousness of life, his old interest in the jo} r s and sorrows 
of men developed into a sincere and yearning desire to help mankind in 
its "progress toward the True and the Good." "I believe," he says, "that 
my reason, the light I bear with me, was given me only that it might 
shine before men, not in words only, but in good deeds, that men might 
thereby glorify God. I believe that my life and consciousness of truth 
is a talent confided to me for a good purpose, and that this talent is 
a fire which is a fire only when it burns." In accordance with this belief, 
Count Tolstoy has devoted the second scene in the drama of his life to 
spreading his great doctrine of work and self-sacrifice — the expression of his 
philanthropic efforts towards those who are struggling through poverty and 


want after a better development. It is his misfortune that Eussia — poor 
despondent, ignorant Eussia — should have been the country of his nativity. 
Had he been born in any other nation of Europe, he would undoubtedly have 
been a mighty and beneficent power on the side of progress; as it is, his 
thought must pass as the struggling cry of a giant battling against the heavy 
cross ciirrents in the ocean of Eussian misery. With his yearning to help, 
and his almost preternatural superiority to illusion, he is peculiarly sensi- 
tive to the falsities, the hypocrisies, the mistaken points of modern society. 
These, in his powerful, compelling way, he forces the reader to recognise 
and remember ; and here he is of the greatest value. We cannot follow him, 
however, when, with a heart wrung by the sorrows of Eussia, he tells 
us that the disadvantages of government outweigh the advantages, and that 
the whole foundation of our life is pure paganism. On the contrary, his 
constructive philosophy is such a combination of clear insight into the dis- 
eases of civilisation and impossible paradoxical theories, that he must 
stand to us more as a great man who made an equally great mistake, 
and who, as a result, can teach us only by the way, remaining, in the 
ultimate, a monumental instance of another "brave but mistaken Soldier 
in the Liberation war of Humanity." 

His later novels and essays deal with almost every topic of interest 
in art, literature, science, the church, government, and society ; and in each 
subject this strange interweaving of valuable and worthless is a character- 
istic of theories which, despite their contradictions, contain the most 
profound and far-reaching conclusions. 

On art, as expressed in books, pictures, and music, Count Tolstoy 
says much that reveals a strong, comprehensive, critical faculty. In the 
first place he obliges us to see that the true nature, of art is still an open 
question; and to be at least aware of the lives that are necessarily swal- 
lowed up in the erection of any gTeat building or the production of any 
great drama. His quiet sarcasms on art which is good but incompre- 
hensible, like food which is nourishing but indigestible, are excellent. For 
the various follies and obscenities of the last quarter of the nineteenth 
centurj', "the 'great poets' wallowing in the mud of Paris, the 'great 
musicians' making night hideous in German concert-halls, the 'great 
painters' mixing their colours with as much filth as the police will allow" 
he has a sound contempt that braces and strengthens his reader. His 


thrusts at "impressionism" and "sensationalism," at art which is insincere, 
and lacking in the true quality of imagination, are decidedly keen and 
effective. He condemns, and justly I think, the aesthetic point of view 
toward life which has made the modern artist so much of an Ishmael 
in society. To him the true art has a "sense not only of power but of 
obligation — puts itself at the service of great ideas and appeals to men as 
men." So far we can accept and admire. 

But what shall we say when he calls Shakespeare a "scribbler," and 
declares that nothing was ever written in verse that could not have been 
as well done in prose? What shall we say to this astonishing estimate of 
the influence of Greek art ? 

. . . "The strange theory — Goodness, Beauty, Truth, a trinity — 
by which it appears that the very best that can be done by the art of 
nations after nineteen hundred years of Christian teaching is to choose as 
the ideal of their life the ideal that was held by a small, semi-savage, 
slave-holding people who lived two thousand years ago, who imitated the 
human nude body extremely well and erected buildings pleasant to look 
at." It is here that we come upon his unfortunate limitations. In tiwing 
to adopt a standard of art that will be useful to the peasants of a country 
where the working day is often sixteen hours long and where every orna- 
ment of existence is lost in the desperate struggle for life itself, 
Count Tolstoy is driven to a conception purely ethical and utilitarian. 
He divorces art from pleasure and defines it as a means of communicating 
feeling; he bases it on religion, and makes it the chief factor in human 
progress. Art for art's sake is a perfectly meaningless phrase to him. 
Thus he fails to see that art which treats a slight subject in perfect form 
may be good art, even if it is not great art. Arnold is willing to spare two 
fifths of life to aesthetics. Tolstoy declares that ethics and aesthetics are 
one, and that that one is ethics. 

What, then, we ask, does this paradoxical thinker have to say about 
religion? In My Confession, My Religion and The Gospel in Brief, we 
are met by the same confusion of truth and half truth as was revealed 
in his theories of art. Count Tolstoy condemns and makes his reader 
condemn the superficial Christianity of those who use the name of Christ 
as a cloak to cover the lusts of the flesh. His clear insight and his whole- 
some scorn for the things we believe but do not practise are in a high 


degree invigorating. With this unfailingly dominant moral piirpose he 
points out the false emphasis of the Christian Churches on the dogmatic 
rather than the practical side of religion. 

"This conception of life," he says, "has had a deplorable influence 
on all human activity. Ethics — moral instruction — has disappeared from 
our pseudo-Christian society. Men do not concern themselves with how we 
ought to live and make use of our reason. Thanks to this false doctrine 
which has penetrated to the very blood and marrow of our generation, 
there has arisen the surprising phenomenon that man has, as it were, spit 
out the apple of the knowledge of good and evil . . . and forgotten 
that the whole history of man is only a solution of the contradictions 
between the animal instincts and the reason." 

The theory that Christ's teaching is visionary and impracticable, that 
life on this earth with all its struggles and splendours is not the true life, 
arouses in him an equal opposition. Like James of old he asserts constantly 
that faith without works is dead. 

In Count Tolsto}''s eyes the doctrines of self-sacrifice and of non- 
resistance to evil are the foundations of the true moral law. Nor are we to 
imagine that the life of each is his own property. "Men owe an unpaid 
debt to those that lived before, live now, and shall live, as well as to God." 
The personal life is not the true life; it is the cowardly and selfish life. 
Moreover, it is not the easy life. Count Tolstoy bids us "Mingle with a 
great crowd where are the sick, and the cripple, the criminal and the 
prostitute; think of the great number of suicides every year; think of 
the most unhappy moments of our own lives, and see if nine-tenths of 
human suffering is not a useless martyrdom to the doctrine of the world." 
"One life after another," he sa} r s, " is cast under the chariot of this God. 
The juggernaut advances, crushing out their lives, and new and ever new 
victims with groans and sobs and curses wallow underneath it." 

This interpretation of religion is not new in theory, but seldom has 
it been carried out with so much sincerity and with a conviction, so ir- 
resistible as in the pages of Count Tolstoy. We are borne out of ourselves 
as we read, swept along in the wake of a vast comprehensive reason ex- 
pressing in clear and profound style the most earnest truths. 

When, however, Count Tolstoy proposes, on the basis of "Eesist not 
evil," to sweep away the whole of our present social organism, as dependent 


on the law of "a tooth for a tooth," we are compelled to pause and 
wonder. "We have arranged our entire social fabric," he tells us, "on the 
very principles that Christ repudiated," and we must therefore abolish 
the great machinery of government and establish the Kingdom of Heaven — 
the kingdom of peace. Our armies must be dissolved, because "Thou 
shalt not kill;" our courts must be closed, because "with what judgment 
ye judge, ye shall be judged." In this return to nature what is there 
but a Biblical Eousseau? we are tempted to exclaim. And yet how bril- 
liant and conclusive are the judgments of social evil which lead to this 
strange philosophy of life. No one who has read Resurrection can 
forget the terrible injustices of the prison system, nor doubt the falsity 
of life that inevitably prevails in any great official organisation. In What 
is to be Done, Count Tolstoy forces us to see that every moment of peace 
we enjoy is bought at the misery of tens of thousands of others held down 
by violence. He will not let us continue to barricade ourselves in luxury, 
till we no longer see the sufferings of the poor. "I feel," he says, "that 
I am partaker in a crime continually being committed while I have two 
coats and there exists a man without any." He will not have us forget 
that the terrible wheels of our social economy go on crushing and maiming 
in their pitiless revolutions as they carry along the load of a careless and 
parasitic society. Perhaps the greatest lesson Coitnt Tolstoy has for us 
is this doctrine of the healing value of work and the binding duty we owe 
to enter, one and all, into the great struggle for existence. In this day 
when the upper classes have made money and leisure their ambition, and 
the lower classes are aping their betters to the best of their ability; in this 
day when, as Charles Dudley Warner said, the labourer is on the verge of 
sending his card, can there be, I question, a more excellent doctrine than 
this call of Count Tolstoy to work? Yet, when he advises us to renounce 
all connection with money and to live on the soil in patriarchal simplicit}', 
we object to his impracticalness. The great defect in this great man is that 
he has conceived of civilisation which admits of so many evils as in itself 
an evil. He has failed to follow in the trend of healthful evolution ; he has 
failed to read the true lesson of historical development. Instead of the true 
progress, which is one of "toil co-operant to an end," he would substitute 
a progress that ignores the toil so far accomplished, and endeavours to 
start afresh. Instead of helping the development of the world, he would, 
in his mistaken zeal, abandon it. 


There is, indeed, something strange and paradoxical in this man, who, 
"repudiating marriage, is himself happily married and the father of sixteen 
children" ; in this artist who has written perhaps the greatest fiction of our 
time and yet denies Dante and Aeschylus a place in literature; in this 
reformer who would sweep away civilisation and yet circulate his writings 
throughout the earth; in this Christian who would close the courts because 
they pronounce sentence and yet himself sits in judgment on the civilised 
world. Truly, the long slow work of developing a better future for Eussia, 
despite the burning passion of his sympathy, will rest with others than 
Count Tolstoy; but we must all bow to the magnificent sincerity and 
courage of this man who never abates one jot of what he conceives to be 
the truth and yet who wonders each morning when he awakes that he is not 
on his way to Siberia. 

Anne Garrett Walton, 1908. 


Ultra Visa. 

Of silent things upon the earth 
Are these — the chamber sanctified, 
Where a lost Presence doth abide 

Alive in memory; 
Or a great multitude of men, 
Startled from jest to dumbness, when 

They view heroic deeds ; 
Or a large place of worship, where 
The lapse from anthems into prayer 

Makes quiet utterly; 
But charged with silence of drawn breath 
Is that remote room still as death 

Where the soul sits alone. 

Of the dark things upon the earth 
Are these — the houses of Despair, 
And tombs of Hope, and grave-yards where 

Cold Hate has buried Love ; 
And that dim limit of the land 
The barren stretch of unlit sand 

Beside a winter sea. 
But darker than all these the room, 
Where in impenetrable gloom 

The soul sits all alone. 

Of lonely things upon the earth 

Are these — the never-ceasing bell 

That sobs and moans its mournful knell 

Upon a buoy's crest; 
And the lamp shining through the night, 
Set to guide footsteps back aright, 

Which never shall return; 
And the sad wind that flutters by, 
Like a ghost wand'ring aimlessly 

Sporting among dead leaves; 
But lonelier than these things, the room 
Where, like a mourner at a tomb, 

The soul sits all alone. Helen Parlchurst, 1911, 



A Fable. 

IN the city garden of a Soldier's Home there once bloomed a clump 
of mignonette. 
A high wall surrounded the block on which the large building 
stood : around the wall were garden-beds and vines : and within these 
a green square with crossing gravel walks and white iron benches where the 
old soldiers sat talking together of past campaigns and dangers while they 
waited cheerfully to face the greatest danger that can ever come to anyone. 

Although the mignonette bloomed with more bounty and fragrance 
than any other flower in the place, she was among the least regarded : and 
in her youth this sometimes affected her spirits, as she was not without 
common vanity. 

In one of the moods of depression she sometimes experienced on this 
account she was once cheered and braced for life by the remark of an old 
soldier of Irish extraction who had observed in a flow of noble sentiment 
after a glass of toddy, that those who gave most, got most out of life. For 
if nearly all her companions were more admired and attended than herself, 
none were more admiring and devoted. 

She admired the sound of the bugles of routine, the crack of the 
target-shooting, the gay, floating flags, the great square of shade the 
building cast on the smooth sward on summer afternoons, and the stories 
of hardship, fire and devotion. In the very breath of the place, she had 
been sown and grown: and from the crest of each spike of her green, flow- 
ering branches to the point of each tendril of her white, firm roots, she 
lived for the Soldier's Home. 

So that it was with enthusiasm that she could give to it the last 
fragrance of her existence, when, too late in the summer for another sprig 
to grow, a nurse, in a starchy blue and white uniform and broad-hemmed 
apron, came out one afternoon into the garden and cut every stem of the 
mignonette to set off the other flowers of a bouquet for the hospital. 


The bouquet was carried into a little white-washed room, where an 
old soldier lay dead on a stretcher with a woodcut of Grant hanging over 
it, and the flag standing at his head. 

The nurse put the flowers into water in a large Wedgewood vase and 
left them to their new companions. These were a pair of cameo lovers 
living on the side of the blue urn, the dead soldier, his daughter, and the 
man who had said that those who gave most, got most out of life. 

"Tell us about the soldier for whom we are here." The rose of the 
bouquet spoke without a sound to the figures on the vase. 

The lover, who was standing with his classic profile and his beautiful 
straight nape turned slightly away from the room as he looked down at 
the bridle of his winged horse, replied quietly: "His uncouth companions 
called him Old George. His uncouth name is Sergeant George Kearney. 
Nothing about him is on good lines. Long ago he was a common soldier 
in a rough war where he never spared himself. Then, it seems, he worked 
for his large, uncouth family, in an ugly barbaric place called Nebraska, 
where again he never spared himself. See to what a pass this course has 
brought him. You would suppose him, from the deep lines in his face and 
from his hardened, heavy frame, to be an old, old man, far older than I. 
Yet he is only about eighty. While my wife, CMoe, and I are rather over 
a hundred." 

The cameo lover was not lying about his age. In the fabulous zone 
where the potter had east his lot, there were no extremes of weather. 
Forever his little flock could wander unsheltered over the side of the urn. 
Forever ripe fruit hung upon his tree: and a light, sweet wind, without a 
breath tossed Chloe's filletted bair and blew her girdled gown, in chaste 
grace about her slender ankles. 

Six sheep, an exquisite, spraying pomegranate tree, the winged horse, 
and a cornucopia of grapes were all Chloe and Daphnis had in the world : 
but it was enough : and they were content. Both were beautiful : both were 
intelligent : and both did quietly and with perfect ease the tasks allotted to 
them by their designer. Chloe's duty was to hold the wreathing cornucopia 
of grapes; Daphnis' duty was to place his hand on the bridle of the winged 
borse drinking from a pillared trough at his side ; and the life-work of both 
was to be as decorative as possible. 

"You are indeed wonderfully well preserved," breathed the niignon- 


ette, as she regarded them. But in every fibre of her nature she was thrilled 
with pride that the last fragrance of her existence would be for a man so 
unafraid in spending his strength as the dead soldier. 

The truth was that all the flowers, although on entering the room they 
had been delighted with the beauty, distinction and fine form of the cameo 
lovers, now experienced a slight chill of disaffection. You may have 
noticed yourself that, with all reason but fact to the contrary, the purely 
decorative are seldom long and warmly popular. 

"May I ask?" said a rather tart lemon verbena, "whether your horse 
has been drinking steadily from the trough where he is now for a hundred 
years ?" 

"He has," answered Chloe. "And I understand how to a chance ob- 
server he may seem to be going too far for his own peace and symmetry. 
All I can say is, he has never lost either." 

"We explain it," said Daphnis, who seemed to like explanations, "by 
the truth that those who devote themselves to appearing well, usually under 
any circumstances appear better than those who do not make this their 
specialty. Now we never could have done so much in our line, if we had 
been diverted by that rough war, or that up-setting feeling in it about 

"That passion for freedom is the most beautiful one in the world," 
said the rose quietly. 

"Not to me," replied Daphnis. "Passion, I think I may say, is a thing 
I understand well. It is a feeling you have in the spring for someone 
arranged in every way on thoroughly good lines, and that you should express 
in verses with a slightly wistful refrain. While you have it you lie about 
on the banks of streams as much as possible and play on pipes." 

"It is not always quite like that," said the rose. 

The afternoon was now waning fast, and the Irish gentleman who had 
been sitting talking with the daughter about his friend, arose to go. "A 
brrave soldier," he said, "Sergeant Georruge Kearney, — wan who wurruked 
harrd for his family and fot well for furreedom. We do not need to mourn 
for him." 

"No," said the daughter; and she looked at the old soldier's face with 
a peace proud and tranquil. 

"A strange kind of joy she shows," said Daphnis silently. "To express 


exaltation like that you throw out your arms with a fine sweep, or at least 
strike a lyre. But this middle-aged woman in what they call a shirt- 
waist, sitting here with tears on her face like that, has nothing decorative 
or beautiful in her emotion." 

"I do not feel as you do about it," said the rose. "Anything is deco- 
rative if it is placed beautifully; and joy is of a thousand kinds, and 
expressed in a thousand ways." 

As she turned to go from the house for the night the daughter opened 
a window. The cool air of the falling evening blew in; outside sounded 
the boom of the sunset gun; and the odours of all the flowers rose in a 
still song she could not hear : 

"The clover's grassy breath, 

To him who listeneth 

Upon the pastured lea, 

Is like the monotone 

Of some far sheep-bell, blown 

From tranquil Arcady. 

"The airs of that last rose 
That late and crimson blows 
And frosted, dies, 
Smell, as in green and dew, 
The first, first rose that blew 
In waking Paradise. 

"What fragrance, ages hence, 
Shall tell the listening sense 
Of men who guess — 
Men whose far lives shall range 
On paths remote and strange — 
Our happiness?" 

The day had been warm; and in the breeze and the aroma of its song 
the bouquet was fast withering and falling. 

The daughter took out the mignonette, which was the freshest of the 
flowers, put it into the button-hole of her father's uniform and kissed him 
good-night before he was taken away to the prairie graveyard where he 
was buried. 

All this was sometime ago. But Daphnis and Chloe still live in loveli- 


ness and grace on their blue urn. More than a hundred years have not 
lifted the head of Bucephalus, intemperate as he must seem, from his long 
draught, nor blown from the lovers one of the beauties of their youth. The 
mignonette and the old soldier have known a finer fate. Long ago they 
were dust of the prairie; and they have faced the greatest danger that can 
ever come to any one. 

Edith Franklin Wyatt, 1896. 

The Descent. 

I stand on the wind-swept summit, where the sun 

Shines strong and unresisted. 

About me are the dark and silent hills, 

And, far below, the country-side, 

The smoke and spires of towns ; the golden-green 

Of summer meadows. 

Out on the dim horizon lies the sea, 

Its restless waves, its questing sails obscured 

In silver distance. 

And here, above the shadows of changing clouds, 

I am serene, as one who meditates, 

And does not heed the little cares of men. 

Yet do I take 

The downward path, between the folding hills, 

Into the southern valley. 

The quiet farms, in vistas reappearing, 

Change into kindly-featured homes, and greet me, 

Like friends returned. Cattle from upland pastures 

Crowd down before their heavy-footed driver. 

Shadows grow long. Out of the stillness rings 

A child's laugh. 

Wistfully and with gladness I return 

To the dear limits of familiar things, 

As one who loves. 

Marion D. Crane, 1911. 


The Dreamer. 

ONE golden August day — over four hundred years have gone by since 
then — the long-awaited tidings reached Breckenridge Castle that 
Henry of Lancaster had landed at Milford Haven, and com- 
manded his adherents to muster their forces and march toward 
Shrewsbury to meet him. All the summer had dawdled itself away in 
expectation of just such a summons. Throughout England it had been a 
season of turbulent emotion, though scarcely of strenuous activity, for men 
took advantage of the lull in the long tempestuous war to kindle the fires 
again on their own neglected hearths, and to let their tired horses rest 
quietly in the stalls. Even at Breckenridge, for many generations 
home of ardent Lancastrians, the inhabitants of the castle had had ample 
leisure for their own affairs. These were absorbing enough to at least 
three of the actors in the little drama which had just taken place, and the 
summer skies had seemed so very deep and blue, and the shadows that 
crept in the afternoons from the nearby forest over the stretch of level 
meadow-land to the moat, so very peaceful, that no one but the Earl him- 
self had been able to look forward with sustained vivacity to the coming 
climax in the life of the nation. 

But now the sombre old castle — relic of Norman days, with its square 
squat towers and crenellated walls — rang from battlements to keep with 
the sudden bustle of preparation. Pages bearing trappings and pieces of 
armour scurried up and down the winding stone stairs, or dodged between 
the horses' legs in the court; shock-headed grooms rubbed clown fine 
chargers; the armourer's forge blazed away like a furnace, and a constant 
stream of people — the Breckenridge tenants, knights and gentry from the 
surrounding country-side, grizzled old warriors who bore the scars of 
former service, and lank youths more used to the wielding of scythes than 
spears — made their way over the lowered drawbridge. In one corner of the 
ample courtyard, moreover, something like a drill for the rawest of the 
country lads was going forward. The sun, sinking lower in the sky, flung 


the shadow of the western tower over the busy scene, and the man who 
had been conducting the drill — a tali man, noticeable for the Italian cut 
of his cloak and doublet — turned sharply and signalled to a companion. 

"Lead these fine fellows to the guard room, Woodbury," he com- 
manded, "and take care that they have plenty of straw and blankets for 
the night. Heaven knows when they may couch so sumptuously again. 
Announce, also, to the new-comers that the men of rank are to dine in the 
castle hall." 

"But, Master Gregory," the older man protested, "the lads are sorely 
in need of practice, and there is yet a long stretch of daylight — " 

"Which they had best spend in rest. Go now and see that you hasten." 
A peremptory flash of the eye and sharpness of the voice sent Woodbury 
packing upon his errand, grumbling beneath his breath, nevertheless, that, 
in spite of his priest's learning and his queer foreign ways, the young 
master was a true-born Eavenscroft and as deaf to good soldierly advice 
as the Earl himself. 

Gregory Austin, meanwhile, was making his way over the uneven 
cobblestones of the court and down a narrow corridor to the room used as 
the castle library. The heavy door was swung half open and the yellow 
western light fell through the high slits of windows, gilding the shelves 
with their precious burden — a few dust^covered leather tomes and some 
half dozen unbound manuscripts. The tapestry with its familiar pictures 
from Vergil was dark, save for an occasional vivid flash where the sun- 
light seemed to have collected itself on lulus' purple mantle, or the 
cushions of Dido's couch. At the carved oak table a girl in a green 
riding dress was bending over a massive volume; but she flung back her 
head quickly as Austin's step resounded in the corridor, and rose to meet 
him, her straight young form outlined against the bright window, and the 
intensity of her expression apparent even in its shadow. 

"To-morrow at break of day," said the man quietly, answering the 
question implied in every line of her face and figure. "It has been quick 
work; how say you, Vivian?" 

"Marvellous and ten times marvellous! I watched you for awhile 
from the tower and felt as if I were seeing you for the first time. How the 
men run to obey your commands, and all falls into order before you ! Oh, 
that I, too, were a man and might ride and fight with you!" She flung 
out her hands, their fingers clenched — an odd, impetuous gesture habitual 


with her — then let them fall at her sides again. She was a tall girl and 
for all her slimness there was something angular, almost unfeminine, in 
the poise of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, the line of her jaw. Austin, 
leaning against the wall, faced her squarely. 

"With the pitiful coward who has forfeited the natural dignity of 
manhood, and the right to call himself an Englishman?" 

"Ali, Gregory," and the note of pain in her voice smote him with 
remorse, "is it not ungenerous so to fling my words back at me ?" 

"Pardon," he begged, "I am a beast as well as a coward, and have 
lost not only my English honour, but my Italian courtesy. If you did not 
believe in me, Vivian — you and Eleanor and my brave old uncle — I would 
not budge an inch from Breckenridge to-morrow, for Heaven knows I do 
not believe in myself, nor very deeply in the cause for which I fight." 

"For shame," the girl blazed forth. "You do not believe in a cause 
which seeks to dethrone a usurping murderer king who is sucking away 
the life of the country drop by drop ? You do not believe — " 

"Pardon again. I do believe with heart and soul in the cause of 
justice and good government. It is hard, however, to have faith that 
Eichmond, whose title to the throne is less, will in the end be a more 
tolerable ruler than Richard. He is young now, to be sure, and his fame, 
so far, is spotless; but Henry VI was young and Edward of York when 
first they wore the crown, and England has suffered from the weakness 
of the one and the violence of the other as methinks no other land has 
ever suffered before. It may be that we drive out one monster only to 
open the door for a worse." 

"Will you never recover from your blindness?" cried Vivian with 
energy, "Fight not for the King, but to rid the country of its present plague, 
and trust the future to God; Fight for the right to live as free and un- 
molested in your own land as you have lived in Italy — the ancient right for 
which Britons have fought — nay, and conquered, too — since they refused 
tribute money to the Roman Caesar." 

"Have you seen a vision, Vivian?" and the man leaned forward, his 
handsome, irregular features reflecting something of the glow from hers. 
"You are right as only the angels are right, I think. Could you lead Duke 
Henry's army and speak thus to the people, there would be no need of 
swords and cannon, for all England would gather beneath your standard. 


But I go to fight in your stead, and we shall win such a health-bringing 
victory as was never won before." 

Austin's enthusiasm, always as easily kindled as light tinder, seemed 
this time to have caught some deeper fire and to transform him with 
joyous energy. For at most times his expression was not one of either joy 
or power. A certain settled sadness and hardness lay behind all the 
superficial cynicism and superficial passion which swept him by turns, the 
forehead was deeply lined for a man apparently so young, and the gray 
eyes beneath their level brows were the coldest eyes in the world. Just 
now, however, alert and radiant, he seemed more like a young crusader 
than a disillusioned Englishman of the late fifteenth century. 

"What say you to this, mon amie?" he continued smiling. 

"Only that I should like always to see you thus. So I knew you 
would look when the soul of you woke up." 

He took her hands in his and held them close. "It is you who have 
waked me, if indeed I am fully awake. It is you who made me realise my 
worthlessness. If it were not for you I should be dawdling in Florence 
or Padua, instead of leading brave Englishmen to fight for freedom. You 
saw in half an hour what I had not seen in over thirty years — the utter 
futility of my existence." 

"Yes, but more than that I saw; I mean the wondrous possibilities of 
your existence. You will do great things, Gregory." 

Outside the window the sun's disk had sunk below the horizon, leaving 
a trail of glory behind it. The forest rose dark against the emblazoned 
sky and its shadows crept over the meadow-land to the castle. A door 
banged in a distant corridor and stealing across through the quiet air came 
the creak of the drawbridge as the porter hauled it up for the night. But 
the two in the library heeded nothing. They were alone at some centre of 
peace and power. The colour and sounds of the world seemed very far 
away. Then suddenly the girl was gone, leaving Gregory to the darkened 
room and his whirling thoughts. 

They were clangorous thoughts, many coloured, kaleidoscopic. He 
sank upon the bench where Vivian had lately sat, and let his arms rest 
half affectionately on the surface of the table, and the leaves of the book 
that lay open upon it, feeling that somehow the wood and parchment and 
stones of this familiar old room had power to move him as nothing else 


that he had ever seen or touched. For all his youth lay here. It had little 
to do with that brief year of turbulence and horror after he had gone 
away to fight by the side of his uncle, the Earl, at Barnet and Tewkes- 
bury; still less with his subsequent desultory life beyond the sea. It was 
here in this stronghold of dreams. It was here that, oblivious to the 
storms that were sweeping England, he had first read Seneca and Ovid, 
leaning over Father Anthony's shoulder and surprising the kindly priest 
by the facility with which he learned; it was here that he had used to 
bring his little yellow-haired cousin Eleanor, who kept him company as he 
read, and begged for the legends of iEneas, the hero of the tapestries, over 
and over again ; it was here that the Earl, in his brief respites from fighting 
the Yorkists, would find him and fire his youthfur ardour by tales of King 
Henry's saintliness and sufferings, of Queen Margaret's splendid valour, 
of the brave deeds of the Lancastrian generals — Oxford, Neville, Fortescue, 
and Somerset — and the utter perfidy of all who wore white roses on their 
shields. Beneath his rough exterior, hardened by a long career in the 
crudest and most bloody war that England has ever fought, the Earl of 
Breckenridge cherished a romantic devotion to the Lancastrian cause. 
To him its brutalities were always justifiable, its battles holy, its leaders 
saints and heroes. So the boy Gregory grew up to love the Bed Rose too, 
but to love it as the embodiment of his chivalrous boyish ideals, not, in 
his uncle's way, as the cause to which he had devoted his life. 

It happened, therefore, that when young Austin rode away in his 
shining armour that morning so many years before, after promising 
Eleanor with passion and solemnity to marry her on the very day of his 
return, he rode into a world far stranger and more incomprehensible to 
him than it would have been to King Arthur or Sir Galahad. The strug- 
gle seemed to him utterly horrible, utterly hopeless, with no right, no light 
on either side, and all his universe had crumbled with the revelation. His 
sensitive spirit, forced too soon to encounter the hard facts of a particu- 
larly ugly phase of life, was wounded to the core; and when Prince Edward, 
beautiful and ardent and young as himself, met his terrible fate, the boy 
could stand it no longer, but flung himself off to the continent in a frenzy 
of despair and grief. 

And on the continent he had found another world — Paris and its 
university, Italy and the brilliant Court of Lorenzo de Medici, Leonardo 


the master painter, Giovanni Pico of fascinating beauty and splendid 
intellect, and Ficino who translated Plato. In the brightness of this new 
life England seemed very barbaric and remote. Austin threw himself 
into the glittering stream of existence, and found it at first eminently 
agreeable. His comeliness and his real abilities as a scholar gained imme- 
diate favour for him with Lorenzo, while his singularly winning personal- 
ity, with its quick enthusiasms, its spontaneity and vividness, made him 
welcome everywhere. He became a courtier, scholar, painter, poet, but 
underneath it all none knew better than he that his life was mere brilliant 
trifling. The old boyish faith in himself and the world was gone. 
Humanity moved for him beneath a shadow, and all great effort, all great 
emotion, seemed irrelevant. He made no deep friendships, followed no 
line of work long enough to achieve anything of value, never vitally 
believed the philosophies he professed. He would drop his paint brush in 
the middle of a half-finished sketch and never go back to it again; he 
would leave the gravest discourse on ancient learning to make love to a 
pretty lady-in-waiting, and tiring soon of this would leave love-making 
to betake himself perhaps to some other country, there to rove from town 
to town, weary and discontented. 

It was in such a fit of restlessness, and influenced by some casual 
occurrences, which in another mood would have passed unnoticed, that he 
had come back to England — back to the old Norman castle with its courts 
and towers and the vaulted library so full of boyhod memories for him, 
and now so full of associations of another sort. For it was here in the 
library, on the very day of his return some three months before, that he 
had come upon the girl of the green riding dress for the first time. 
Austin's heart beat faster as he thought of the strangeness of that meeting. 
His head full of memories of the past, he had entered the room without 
realising that the slender, dark-haired figure at the table was not some 
vision of his own boyhood. At the sound of his footsteps she had flung 
back her head in her impetuous way, and Gregory had found himself 
confronting an unknown girl — a grave-faced girl, not beautiful save for 
her eyes with their luminous depths, and the straightforward questioning 
gaze, which oddly disconcerted him. Then they had talked, — constrainedly 
at first, but soon with ease enough, for Austin's poise and the girl's frank- 
ness quickly beat down the barriers, — and he had learned something of 


her past history and the reason for her presence here in his uncle's house- 

She was a distant connection of the Breckenridge family; the rela- 
tionship was slight, to be sure, but by some fortunate chance she bore 
the beloved family name of Vivian Eavenscroft. In the Earl's opinion 
this fact alone, in spite of her lowly birth, entitled her to shelter beneath 
his roof. Her father, moreover, though a simple esquire, was a brave man 
who had fought well for Lancaster, and who had been beheaded with 
Somerset after the battle of Tewkesbury. Since then the orphan daughter 
had lived at Breckenridge Castle in the capacity of an attendant to the 
Lady Eleanor, yet treated with kindness by all, and here, after her restless, 
independent fashion she had learned to ride like a forester, to read Latin 
like a priest, and to discuss the affairs of the nation like a statesman. 
Austin drew her on to talk, half amazed that he should care what she was 
like, yet touched and drawn in a measure he could not understand by her 
earnestness and enthusiasm. Earnestness and enthusiasm — something of 
his own lost youth seemed to shine in her eyes, and he found himself telling 
her things he had never spoken of before — things of his boyhood, with its 
ardours and its agonies, and of the alternating heats and listlessness of his 
later life. Vivian listened eagerly, resting both elbows on the heavy oak 
table, and looking up at her companion from beneath dark lashes. Her 
eyes were gray with baffling shadows and strange elusive purple lights. The 
man thought he had never seen anything so beautiful as their colour. 

"Why did you come back?" she asked suddenly. 

Austin returned to the discussion with a start. "I promised my 
cousin, the Lady Eleanor," he said smiling, "that some day I would return 
and marry her. Perchance I decided that it was time to keep my promise." 

The girl's hands dropped, clenched, to the table and her brows drew 
together. "Tell me the truth;" her earnestness was a command. 

"I might ask you, wisest lady, what the truth is after all. It is a 
question that the philosophers have never settled. There is more truth in 
what I tell you than you give credence to. The chance meeting with an 
English friar on the streets of Florence, the rumour, which somehow came 
to my ears, of my uncle's unfortunate wound, and the sight of a painting 
by my friend Leonardo — a blue-robed saint with shining hair, which 
somehow reminded me of the child who was the bright angel of my boy- 


hood — these things, slight as they seem, sufficed to draw me across the 
seas again." 

"And now that you are here ?" She was relentless in her questioning. 
The man shrugged his shoulders. "Why not here as well as Italy? I am 
a wanderer on the earth. There is nothing to hold me anywhere." 

"Nothing to hold you here!" challenged Vivian passionately. "Noth- 
ing in Lord Hugh's helplessness, in the Lady Eleanor's helplessness, and 
in England's need of all her sons to free her from the curse of this reign? 
A man cannot cut himself loose from all humanity as you have tried to do. 
The claims of kindred and of country will call out to him from the ends of 
the world, and he is no better than a traitor and a renegade if he fail to 
answer them." 

Astounded at this unexpected attack, and helpless before its justice, 
Austin could defend himself but weakly. The idea of obligation had never 
occurred to him before, and once admitted it put all his arguments to 

"The fact that a man and his ancestors before him were born on 
English soil," he said at last, "should certainly not bind him to meddle in 
all the dirty broils that the heads of the nation may choose to stir up. 
That forsooth would be serving his country but poorly, and speeding her 
to her own destruction. If a man cannot fight with clear conscience for 
a cause that he knows to be right, every blow that he strikes is a wicked 

"Ah, Gregory Austin," and she flung out her hands in her intensity, 
"what a pitiful coward you are!" 

There is something primeval and instinctive in a man, that flinches 
at the word coward. White with anger, Austin faced his accuser. "What 
do you mean?" he cried. 

"Simply that you are afraid to face reality, afraid to look the world 
squarely in the face, and pay your just debts to it. You have spent your 
whole life running away from life, and now you take refuge behind some 
flimsy theory of truth or justice or whatnot — something that I, for one, 
cannot understand. I have not read so many books as you, or seen so 
many countries, but I have ever kept my eyes open, and I am a brave man's 
daughter, and a brave man's cousin — men who have fought honestly for the 
best cause they have known, not run away, because their duty was not 


always pleasant to perform, to read philosophies and dream of the im- 

The terrible young voice seemed to sink word by word into his soul. 
Slowly Gregory turned and went away without speaking. He felt as dazed 
as if he had been roughly awakened from sleep, or had been bruised and 
shaken by some sudden fall. He thought of the girl he had just left, and 
beside the impression of vital, vivid life that she created his own existence 
seemed very shadowy and unreal indeed. His visionary boyhood and Ms 
restless manhood,— Breckenridge, Tewkesbury, Florence, Eome, — it all 
passed before his mind like the insubstantial pageantry of a dream. Now 
for the first time he was awake — or, at all events, partially so— awake to 
the consciousness that he had been a fool and a coward from the beginning. 

The weeks that followed were weeks of changed life for the castle. 
Lord Breckenridge, confined to his couch with his wound — a sore trial for 
the active old man — seemed to receive new health and happiness in the 
presence of his nephew. Gregory, indeed, entered with amazing zest into 
all the Earl's hopes and plans, ascertained patiently and minutely the 
position and resources of the Lancastrian party', and filled the old warrior 
with ecstacy by his fine perception and masterly suggestions. They had 
entered into communication with the other Lancastrian partisans in the 
South of England, and kept in touch with Bichmond's plans and prepara- 
tions, reports of which, ever and anon, came flying across the channel 
from France. The Earl waxed more and more jubilant as Austin dis- 
played promise of a genius for command. 

"The seventh Henry, like the sixth," he rejoiced, "shall find Brecken- 
ridge a supporter who is not to be despised. Our banner will still wave 
in the front ranks, my lad, though I myself can no longer fight 
beneath it." 

Other words would sometimes creep into these sober discussions — 
words of Eleanor and of the future, for the old man's wound seemed to 
grow no better and vague apprehensions for his daughter had haunted his 
mind like a nightmare. But now that Gregory had come back, his outlook 
was more serene, and Gregory accepted the situation without demur. All 
his life he had vaguely felt that he might marry his cousin some day; the 
memory of her childish charm had awakened in him a sincerer emotion 
than the most radiant beauty and wit of the women he had known in 


Italy; and now the eminent propriety of such a union, the inevitableness 
of it, was to Gregory only part of the new allegiance he had assumed. 

It seemed good to him after those long years of expatriation to find 
himself once more a member of a household and a community; no longer 
a lonely wanderer, but a man with definite human relationships to sustain. 
Now and then a wave of his old skepticism, a desire to laugh at himself 
for taking it all so seriously, would sweep over him, but for the most part 
he was too much absorbed in his new life to philosophise about it. And 
the best part of this life was the girl that he had met in the library. That 
strangely-begun friendship grew deeper day by day. Many were their rides 
together through the long green aisles of the forest, their walks on the 
battlements of the castle, their afternoons poring over the books in the 
library, a love for which had first brought them together. It was a meagre 
enough collection to be sure — those few Latin masterpieces which had 
formed Gregory's boyhood reading, some chronicles and priestly legends, 
and a lonely volume of the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas which Father 
Anthony had acquired on a recent visit to France. In spite of her ex- 
pressed contempt for philosophy, the girl's vivid curiosity had driven her 
on a complete perusal of the last named work, and she was eager to hear 
the other side of the famous quarrel. From Scholasticism they had drifted 
on to Plato. Austin had absorbed a good deal of the Platonic enthusiasm 
with which the atmosphere of Italy veritably glowed and tingled, and 
Vivian found herself constantly delighted by the beauty of his teaching. 
The poetry and the wondrous paintings of Italy she loved even more to 
hear about, and Gregory had ridden the hundred miles to London and 
back again to procure her a copy of Master Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, 
which was henceforth their engrossing interest to the neglect of St. Thomas 

The Lady Eleanor, who was a generous-hearted girl, never troubled 
this friendship by jealous interference. She was too accustomed to look 
down on Vivian as a mere attendant to admit the thought of rivalry 
between them, especially since Vivian had not even the grace and the 
comeliness of a court page. Her Cousin Gregory made love to her, more- 
over, and, was the most satisfactory and entertaining of companions when 
it pleased her to demand his society. He never made love to Vivian; 
Eleanor would have laughed with scorn at the very idea, and her certainty 


was not misplaced, for it would have seemed to Gregory himself the height 
of incongruity. Love-making to him was essentially trifling, and his rela- 
tionship with Vivian was serious and sincere — almost too deep and vital for 
any expression of feeling whatever, lite the relationship between two 
friends of the same sex, who have no need of protestation to depend on 
each other's sympathy and affection. The rest of the household accepted 
the friendship without undue remark. Master Gregory was a scholar, and 
Vivian the only person besides Father Anthony who could properly con- 
verse with him. 

Meanwhile the summer wore on, and to-day at last, but little after 
sunrise, a messenger had spurred at break-neck pace over the forest road 
with the news of Bichmond's landing on English soil. It had been a busy 
day. Austin felt both physically and mentaily weary as he let his head 
drop forward into his hands, and wondered if he really had the power to 
sustain a creditable role in the coming war, and if it were really worth the 
struggle he would have to make against his own recurring listlessness. 
But at these thoughts a girl's accusing face swam before his mental vision; 
with a muttered "God bless you, Vivian," he rose brusquely to his feet, and 
made his way down the echoing corridor, resolved to snatch a little rest 
before the rising sun should call him once more to action. 

The last morning dawned, and its gray stillness was broken by the 
tramp and clatter of horses in the court. Lord Breckenridge, supported 
by half a dozen pages and esquires, had had himself hauled to the door of 
the castle hall from which he shouted his farewells and parting instruc- 
tions to his kinsman. All was in readiness to start when Eleanor ran out to 
cling to Gregory's hands and pour out loving, tearful, incoherent words. In 
some strange way it seemed to the man as if he had experienced all this 
before. The memory of another gray morning rushed into his mind— the 
crowded courtyard, the mailed soldiers, a youth on a white horse, a weeping 
child. With an impulse of tenderness deeper than he had ever felt for her 
before, Gregory bent from his saddle to kiss the girl on her forehead, and 
found himself repeating the same words that he had used that other 
morning back there in the past. "Remember my promise, Eleanor. The 
very day I return." 

Lord Hugh in the doorway choked with emotion. "God bless you, my 
son, and send you safely back to us. I promise you that Eleanor shall be 
waiting when you come." 


Then gently freeing himself from the girl's clasp, Gregory turned for 
a last farewell to his loyallest of comrades. But Vivian was nowhere to 
be seen. Only a moment before she had been at Lord Hugh's side, but 
now the Earl, and his bodyguard of pages stood alone, and Austin, strangely 
vexed, searched the faces in the court, and the windows of the castle in 
vain. The line was moving now; over the lowered drawbridge which 
resounded with the horse's hoofs it passed; the early sunlight flashed on 
shirts of mail and crimson surcoats, and the heavy silken banner flaunted 
in the wind. 


Let us suppose, gentle reader, that a twelvemonth or so has passed 
since Gregory Austin rode away from Breckenridge Castle, — a twelvemonth 
crowded with stirring events even for that stirring time. A great battle 
has taken place, in which an English king fell fighting gallantly to the 
last, and an English king won his crown — a king destined by an opportune 
marriage to "unite divided York and Lancaster," and to 

"Enrich the time to come with smooth-faced peace, 
With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days." 

But our concern is with a certain battered old Norman castle that stood 
near the coast of Dorsetshire, several hundred miles away from the envy of 
York, where King Henry and his retinue were being entertained with 
feasts and pageants on their progress through the northern counties. There 
was little appearance of festivity about that gloomy pile, lifting its towers 
against a murky sky, but within doors a certain thrill of expectancy and 
excitement pervaded the air, almost as if some royal visitor were awaited 
here also. Bursts of hilarity in the castle kitchen as preparations more 
elaborate than usual went forward there; Father Anthony's serene ab- 
stracted smile, which had never vanished for a moment during the day; 
the presence of several score of the Breckenridge tenantry beneath the 
shelter of the vaulted entrance arch, and an air of surly consequence on 
the part of Griggs, the porter, as he peered through the bars of the port- 
cullis — all this prophesied some event of more than ordinary importance. 

Within the great bare castle hall a fire had been kindled to dispel the 
chill and -dampness which somehow seemed to drip from these mouldering 


walls even in the fairest weather, and at one of the narrow windows a girl 
was standing, her arms crossed before her on the high stone sill. She 
alone of the household seemed not to share in the general expectancy, for 
she stood listlessly watching the rain as it gathered in little puddles on the 
uneven pavement, or trickled down from the cold gray walls of the tower 
on the opposite side of the court. Curled up in the big carved chair near 
the hearth was another young person, and she was frankly, deliciously 
excited. She was a dainty creature in a blue robe, its heavy brocaded folds 
encircling her slight figure like the petals of a flower. For the tenth time at 
least in the course of the hour she turned to the girl at the window to 
demand eagerly: "What prospect, Vivian?" The light, crisp tones seemed 
of kinship with the crackling flames. 

"Bain and a bleak sky and a rising wind. No hope of respite." 

The girl by the hearth heaved a quick sigh. 

"The roads will be very rough and the rivers swollen. Think you he 
will be long delayed?" 

"Nay surely. He will have crossed the last ford ere the rain began 
to fall ; by now he will have struck into the Breckenridge road — " 

"And soon, oh very soon," finished Eleanor jubilantly, "we will hear 
his voice — Gregory's voice — shouting to Griggs and Woodbury and the 
people who have come up from the village to welcome him. Ah, there 
should be an army with banners and trumpets to welcome him. 'Tis little 
that we can do to honour my Lord of Montgomery, King Henry's favourite 
general, and peer of the English realm. I shall not know how to address 
him," she went on in her gay tones. "He must be a vastly different person 
from the Gregory Austin we used to know — the obscure, expatriated Eng- 
lishman. Vivian !" the light voice became querulous. "Wilt never answer 
me ? I am weary of conversing with the andirons." 

Slowly the girl at the window turned and joined her companion by 
the hearth. 

"The only shadow on my happiness to-day," continued Eleanor, be- 
coming grave, "is that my father is not here with me to welcome my 
lord. You remember his words when he said farewell to Gregory?" 

"Ay — I remember." Vivian's voice broke slightly. It was the first 
sign of emotion she had betrayed. 

"My poor father! He could not live even to see the triumph of the 


cause he had fought for. And now he cannot know that his daughter is 
on the eve of becoming a great lady at King Henry's Court. Would he 
not have been as joyous and as proud as I? Vivian, my heart beats 
so that I can scarcely breathe !" and she caught her cousin's hands impetu- 
ously to press her hot cheeks against them. 

But Vivian tore herself away from the astonished girl, and stumbled 
blindly back to her post by the window. Her hands clenched themselves 
very tightly on the stone ledge where the little twisted tendrils of a dead 
branch of ivy clung, and her eyes were very hard, as she looked out, un- 
seeing, over the dreary prospect of rain and deserted court,striving to face 
her own dreary future as resolutely. If she could but summon strength 
enough to go through the trying day ahead of her, all the rest, she felt, 
might be endurable. The meeting with Austin would be bitterly hard, 
and Vivian, curling the dead ivy tendrils around her fingers, prayed for 
the power to bear it with composure. For a moment the longing to see 
him again, — a longing which had grown deeper with every day of the 
year just past — drowned all other thoughts; then came the remembrance 
and the quick pain and the vast loneliness. 

"Hark!" With a sudden cry Eleanor had sprung to her feet, eyes 
and cheeks ablaze. Across the rainswept court came the noise of a joyful 
hubbub, and a second later the creak of the lowered drawbridge. 

Some minutes afterward Gregory Austin, having divested him- 
self of cloak and riding boots, strode into the great hall where the Lady 
Eleanor was waiting for him beside the hearth. There was a flame of 
eagerness on his mobile face which quickly became clouded when he saw 
that his cousin was alone. "Vivian?" he questioned sharply, "where is 

"Nay, I know not," was the careless answer. "She is about the house, 
I daresay. But come, my lord — how like you that title, Gregory ? — sit here 
beside me and tell me of all that has come to pass since last we sat here 
together. Our people have brought back marvellous tales of your valour 
in battle, and your friendship with King Henry, and your brilliant argu- 
ments in the parliament — good fortune for your friends at home, for your 
letters have been of an admirable conciseness." 

"There is scant time for a scribe's work in camp and court," explained 
Austin gently, "and blue-robed saints care not for the chronicles of a man'g 


earthly doings. They care only for his spiritual part, his soul's adoration. 
Here are some sonnets that I wrote for you, my lady. Are not these 
better than work-a-day missives in prose?" He flung the little roll of 
parchment into her lap, and sank down on the bench at her side, to respond 
in kindly, but absent, tones to her eager volley of questions. 

Where was Vivian, and why was she not here to greet him on his 
return ? On all the long rough ride just past, the thought of her had been 
uppermost in his mind, the desire to see her the keen spur that drove him 
on from York to Breckenridge with scarcely a dozen hours of rest by the 
way. Could the good-natured King Henry have surmised his new peer's 
real emotions as he went posting into Dorsetshire, he would have opened 
his mouth in astonishment. For knowing how matters stood between 
Montgomery and his cousin, and anxious to make provision for the orphan 
daughter of a staunch Lancastrian, he had commanded the Earl to marry 
the fair Eleanor out of hand, and fetch her back with him to join the royal 
progress at Worcester, and he little guessed that Montgomery's radiant 
alacrity as he accepted this command was anything more than joy at the 
prospect of a long-awaited union with his lady. But my lord's one thought 
as the towers of York faded behind him had been, "To-morrow I shall be 
with Vivian." The horses' hoofs had beat it out like music as he rode. 
He wanted to look into her clear eyes, and tell her earnestly, gratefully 
how much of his success was really hers, how much of his power, so long 
dormant, had waked only at her touch; he wanted to pour out to her the 
history of the eventful twelvemonth and see her grave face, as she listened, 
light up with the familiar vivid intensity that he loved; most of all he 
wanted to know how it had fared with her — the little comrade with whom 
he had formed the great thrilling friendship which even now, as he looked 
back over the past, seemed the most real event in a life of turbid visions. 

Strange thoughts for a man on his way to be married to another 
woman! Yet let us remember that the marriage to Eleanor had been so 
long an accepted, inevitable fact of his life that he had ceased to question it, 
almost to think about it. Let us remember also that facts had a mysterious 
way of eluding Gregory Austin. Only during the year just past had he ever 
attempted to cope with them, or to take account of them in his scheme of 
existence. And when a man wakes from sleep for the first time it is hard 
for him to know how much of the world that he sees about him is solid rock 


and earth and wood, which must be dealt with accordingly, how much 
merely the "baseless fabric" of his dreams. 

So Austin sat and talked with the Lady Eleanor, who was to be his 
wife, scarcely realising that she was in the universe at all. The great 
room seemed empty without Vivian, and his long journey futile. Half 
anxious, half disconcerted, wholly annoyed at her absence, his thoughts 
wandered far away from the girl at his side till she recalled him with a 
start by suddenly falling silent; slipping her hand into his, she drew him 
gently to his feet. 

The heavy door swung on its hinges, and two figures entered, — the 
black-robed priest to step into the ruddy circle of firelight and greet the 
younger man in kindly, mellow tones, and the girl to remain quietly in 
the shadow behind. But Gregory had seen her, and not heeding Father 
Anthony's words, he sprang to her side with outstretched hands. 

"Vivian !" he cried, and all the joy of life was in his voice. 

But she shrank back into the corner by the chimney with a half- 
suppressed cry, and the man, startled, wondering, angry at his rebuff, 
halted as if he had been struck. 

The Lady Eleanor meanwhile had been talking in low tones with 
Father Anthony. 

"Is all in readiness?" the priest asked at length, and as Gregory, still 
dazed as if by a blow, once again joined Eleanor near the hearth, the 
Father opened his big book of Latin prayers and began searching for the 
seldom-used place. 

But Gregory kept his eyes fixed on the girl in the shadow, clumsily 
trying to fathom the secret of her strange behaviour, hungrily searching the 
cold, expressionless young face for some sign of former friendliness. And 
as he gazed, as if by a flare of lightning, the truth was suddenly revealed 
to him and he knew at last — knew that the woman before him was more 
to him than anything else in the world, the one human being who could 
completely satisfy his soul. The year and a half just past rose before him, 
and it was all Vivian — the days he had spent with her, the long nights 
when he had dreamed of her till daybreak, the months in striving to fulfill 
her wishes, to work out her young ideals, the endless thoughts of her, and 
the last mad ride of over two hundred miles, spurred on by the sole desire 
to be near her for a few short hours. It was Vivian that he loved — not 


Eleanor — and he felt all the depths of his nature shaken hy the sudden 
revelation. The last shadows dissolved themselves from his mind, and 
Gregory knew that he was completely awake now, — awake once and for- 
ever, — face to face with reality at last. 

As if compelled by the intensity of his gaze, Vivian slowly lifted her 
eyes to his, and in their blue depths, afire as he had never seen them before, 
he read the answer to his former questioning, the answer to all he cared to 
know. One moment was theirs — one moment from all eternity — then the 
enormity of the payment that fate was exacting of him smote Austin with 
fresh agony. But already the measured cadences of melodious Latin had 
begun to fall from the lips of the priest. 

Katharine Liddell, 1910. 


Book Review. 


September of the year just past saw the publication of The Way of Perfect 
Love, by Georgiana Goddard King, — an event not only of the greatest interest for 
our college world, but also of very real interest for the world of literature. Miss 
King is a member of the Class of 1896. She was Editor of The Lantern and 
George W. Childs Prize Essayist in her Senior year, and since 1906 she has been 
connected with the College as a Reader in English. Naturally the College takes 
keen pleasure in the success of her book, which has been favourably reviewed in 
the Outlook, the North American Review, Harpers' Weekly, and other magazines 
of standing, and feels that this success redounds in no small degree "to the glory 
of Bryn Mawr." 

The Way of Perfect Love is a poetic allegory, and, as the author says in 
the interpretation, "the Way is Life, which each soul, so it seeks not ignobly, 
shall ultimately, in its own kind, find the way of perfection." In form it is half 
dramatic, half lyrical, and its Sixteenth Century Italian setting glows with 
vivid light and colour, and breathes forth the fragrance of flowers and sunshine, 
and the infinite suggestiveness of that romantic period. Old cities shine "dark- 
walled, slim-towered against the sun" ; there are fountains flinging their shafts 
of crystal water "upward in brilliant waverings" ; there are "wrought-stone 
terraces," and "marble-paven and arras'd rooms," and olive trees and "vermeil 
pomegranates" and ladies with melodious names, — all the pageantry, indeed, of 
our dream Italy, dear to our hearts since we first read Borneo and Juliet. 

The spirit which animates the poem, however, is a far cry from the spirit 
of the Capulets and Montagues. Its dominant note is very modern. 

"Man can serve not till he is free, 
And hard won is soul's liberty." 

This is the doctrine of half Ibsen's plays, and the insistence on the power 
and sovereignty of the will, and the necessity of a sincere, fearless attitude toward 
life is eminently characteristic of our present-day philosophy. 

The three principal characters in The Way of Perfect Love, the Duchess, 
the Wayfarer, and the Shepherd, symbolise, each in a different way, the progress 
of the human soul toward complete and perfect self-expression. Lionella, in her 


secluded pleasure-palace, with its courts and gardens and cypress-alleys, is 
tormented by a longing for the life that has not yet come to her : — 

"Ah, might I toil and grieve and know, 
Facing the noon sun and the snow, 
And search out God's imaginings, 
And live the life of humble things, 
Ah, might I follow the wind's will !" 

In her subsequent wanderings, her various attempts to satisfy this craving 
of the soul, she learns the significance of endurance, courage and independence, 
and finally the power and significance of her own individuality, which is cribbed 
and cabined by any life not properly her own. The dream-world of the Wanderer 
seems hollow to her, and the homely world of the Shepherd, earth-bound and 

"In enchantment deep 
Long laid, my spirit shakes off her sleep, 
And plumes her mighty wings, and light 
Poises herself for sunward flight." 

At last, having proved the virtue of loneliness and the "discipline of the 
heart self-known," she comes into the vision of Beauty Absolute, the vision of 
her soul, and returns to the life that is hers by nature to find her peace, as the 
Interpretation tells us, "in being equally and rightfully mated, in a world of 
duties and responsibilities, of friendships and mutual loyalties." 

The way in which the Shepherd works out his salvation is quite different. 
He is perfectly content with his lot, — his sheep and silky goats and green pastures 
and the vine-trellised hut beneath the chestnut trees, and most of all with the 
woman who has come to be the very breath of his being. Not until the woman 
goes away, after having tried to point him onward to a higher love, does he feel 
the insufficiency of things that "go by, and change, and are no more," and begin 
to seek some solid foundation for his universe. This he finds ultimately in the 
love of God. 

"One walks dry-shod 
On the shifting waves to take us : He is God. 
And all the crash and thunder of the sea 
Turns to the silence of his constancy, 
When we find, lying close upon her breast, 
That the wheel's centre, absolute, is at rest." 

But neither In the ecstasy of religion nor in the mazes of complex and 



brilliant worldly life is Peregrino, the Wanderer, destined to find his happiness. 
Type of the poet, the dreamer, the idealist, 

"His soul was free before time's birth, 
And dimly that lost freedom yet 
Seeks, for it cannot quite forget." 

His road is the dusty highroad, he has tasted "the brimming cup of life" 
and shared in the existence of "all the wide various world," yet his restless 
spirit drives him ever on and on in search of the abstract and the eternal and his 
own lost freedom. Human love comes into his life, but it cannot hold the Wan- 
derer long; human loss and sorrow become his lot, and for a time nature has no 
voice for him, but in the end he rises above it all. 

"Free, strong, and bearing, not in vain, 
A not intolerable pain, 
Out of the scent and smoke and smother 
Alone I go to the great mother. 

So shall forever-young desire 
Quickened and warmed by his own fire, 
Following the still-advancing goal, 
Guard silence in the enfranchised soul." 

The whole is a rather remarkable piece of philosophical reasoning. It is 
distinctly intellectual rather than vital or emotional, and for poetry of this type 
is very delicately, very exquisitely done. The allegory is carefully and subtly 
worked out, and the characters are something more than mere vehicles for the 
expression of the author's philosophy. Peregrino especially is a romantic figure 
who holds our interest and sympathy throughout. 

But after all it is not the intellectual appeal of The Way of Perfect Love 
which finds in us the readiest response. Just as we like the Daffodils better than 
the Excursion, and Shelley's Skylark better than Queen Mob, even than Pro- 
metheus, so it is the lyrics and the vivid descriptions and the occasional magic 
phrases in The Way of Perfect Love that linger with us longest, flash into our 
memories at unexpected moments, and send us back to turn the leaves again 
with ever-growing pleasure. Its elements of beauty and of imagination, in a 
word, are of a very high order, and it is this aesthetic and artistic appeal of the 
poem that we feel, when all is said, to be the significant appeal. 

I have already mentioned the brilliant setting, and this charm and bright- 
ness is present to our minds from beginning to end. The visual, pictorial quality 
of the poem is, perhaps, its most striking characteristic. Almost every line calls 


up an image, and the words veritably "change and shiver like stormy sunshine 
on a river." The coming night is indicated in phrases like "the wide hushed 
park lies glimmering," any casual, passing remark in the course of the dialogue — 

"The sun is low, 
Between the orchard trees a-row 
The warm gold washes," — 

may serve to call up the most exquisite picture ; while in words such as these, 

"Innumerous, tossing vast and blue, 
A tumbled sea of hills," 

a whole panorama is flung out like a banner before us. 

Some of the longer passages, also, are remarkable for their clear, sustained 
imagery. Peregrino's speech telling of his search for Lionella — 

"Up through the mountains toward the sky 
I climbed, where dark-leaved ilexes 
Straggle and dwindle and lastly cease" — 

and the page or so of description which follows — not only visualises the scene 
for us, but suggests in a very forcible way the speaker's emotions at the time : — 

"I woke — blue twilight's filmy eyes 
Were empty, and the darkening skies, 
Paper pricked over with a pin 
By a foolish hand." 

And in the lyrics, perhaps even more than in detached lines and passages, 
the author's poetic gift delights and satisfies us. In their delicacy, their imagi- 
native reach, their haunting music, the lyrics have an originality and an indi- 
viduality all their own. But they can speak better for themselves. 

"Past the quivering poplars that tell of water near, 
The long road is sleeping, the white road is clear. 
V«t scent and touch can summon, afar from brook and tree, 
The deep boom of surges, the grey waste of sea. 

"Sweet to dream and linger, in windless orchard close, 
i mi bright brows of ladies to garland the rose, 
But all the time are glowing, beyond this little world, 
The slii! light of planets and the star-swarms whirled." 


And "hear more praise of wandering." 

"A man called Dante, I have heard, 
Once ranged the country-side, 
He knew to dawn's mysterious word 
What drowsy birds replied; 

"He knew the deep sea's voice, its gleams 
And tremulous lights afar. 
When he lay down at night, in dreams 
He tramped from star to star." 

Unquestionably The Way of Perfect Love is one of the most noteworthy of 
our recent publications. On the side of pure expression it shows a great deal 
of poetic facility and a great deal more of poetic promise, while the intellectual 
nature of the subject matter which, brilliant and interesting though it be, might 
not meet with sympathy from all readers of poetry, is more than balanced by a 
rich and sensuous beauty of colouring, pictorial vividness, romantic atmosphere, 
and occasional flashes of lucid, heightened magic utterance. At such moments 
all which might be objected to as over-complex or over-coloured dissolves to a 
limpid clarity, and the author writes lines like "the remembered light of flowers," 
and "tramped from star to star," and sends our thoughts racing into the future, 
when we are confident that she will produce verse, whole volumes of verse, 
indeed, of a uniform height and excellence with these happy phrases. 

Katharine Liddell, 1910. 



College Themes. 

"Besides, as it is fit for grown and able writers to stand of themselves, so 
it is fit for the beginner and learner to study others and the best ; . . . . not 
to imitate servilely .... but to draw forth out of the best and choicest 
flowers with the bee, and turn all into honey, work it into one relish and savour ; 
make our imitation sweet." — Ben Jonson : Discoveries. 


No one who cares for highly wrought 
psychological tragedy can without loss 
neglect the plays of John Ford. Alone 
among the dramatists of his time, 
he looks forward to the period when 
analysis of motives shall predominate 
in the writer's art over external ac- 
tion and event. His concern is not 
with the effect of things seen from the 
outside, but with the inward drama of 
the individual life. Though he writes 
in the dialect of the Elizabethans, his 
affinities are with the modern analyti- 
cal novelist. 

The Broken Heart is, indeed, a 
psychological novel done into some- 
what perfunctory dramatic form. Even 
for a novel, it is uneventful ; its main 
Interest lies in the slow and searching 
elaboration of character. In true mod- 
ern style, it begins in the middle of a 
story. The incidents which determine its 
course are relegated to antecedent ob- 
scurity, and their consequences for the 
lives involved are traced, step by step, 
to a tragic consummation. So gradual 
and so simple is this development that 
four acts pass before its results reach 
expression. Abrupt, however, as the 

final catastrophe seems, it is but the 
logical outcome of the initial wrong. 

This beautiful poem is chiefly re- 
markable as a gallery of portraits, each 
drawn with the same delicate art. The 
study of Penthea especially shows 
Ford's insight. Her death completes 
a process of soul-wasting, induced, not 
by unsatisfied love, nor by her hus- 
band's coarse and cruel jealousy, but 
by the sense of degradation inherent in 
her forced marriage. Constrained to 
break faith with the man she loves and 
is loved by, she feels herself forever 
dishonoured and forever divorced. In 
one of her pathetic speeches of self- 
disclosure she thus summarises her own 

"There is no peace left for a ravished 

Widowed by lawless marriage." 

Temerity is required to dissent 
from Swinburne in preferring The 
Broken Heart to its great predecessor. 
It is the gainer by a less repulsive 
subject ; and in harmony, finish, poise, 
and distinction it seems to me to hold 
the advantage over the rival master- 
piece. In that powerful play the figure 



of Giovanni is depicted with Ford's 
finest skill. As Swinburne has ob- 
served, he is no ruffian, but a dreamy, 
scholarly recluse, a precocious student 
whose application to his books gives 
rise to fears for his health. His mor- 
bid passion thus appears at once more 
terrible and more natural, as the malady 
of a sedentary life and an overtaxed 
brain. Against it he struggles long and 
hard; but once conquered he hardens, 
ages, till in his desperation he outdoes 
the very assassins, and dies the death 
of a wild beast at bay. 

Love's Sacrifice moves the admirer 
of Ford to bitterness. That what might 
have made a third in the number of his 
great tragedies should have been wasted 
in that piece of false workmanship is 
reason enough. From the general wreck 
a few scenes and pictures have escaped 
sufficiently to show the chance thrown 
away. Fernando, in his weak, shallow 
sentiment the plaything of circum- 
stance, is admirably conceived; but 
Bianca, the incomparable Bianca, is to 
me Ford's most interesting creation. 
More than his other women, she has 
a vivid human charm ; yet, "this heart- 
wounding beauty" is Calantha's equal 
in self-command, to Ford the most 
fascinating of all qualities. Secure in 
her perfect demeanour, she has no 
enemy to fear but herself; she is like 
a fortress than can only be taken by 
treachery from within. So long as any 
exterior pressure is brought to bear 
on her, she is proof ; when that pres- 
sure is at an end, when she knows 
that she has silenced what had been 
"music to her ear," — then, in the 
silence and solitude of the night, she 

gives way. Only after her collapse 
can we dimly guess what she has gone 
through, and measure her sufferings 
by her strength. Hers is no vulgar 
ruin, but the breaking of a great spirit, 
sensitive to all the sanctities. And how 
grand she is, even in her fall ! Her 
mighty surrender overawes the miser- 
able causer of it. In her first words, as 
she holds the candle above his pillow, 
she gives the clue to the situation, never 
destined fully to work itself out, but 
none the less real : 

"What ! are those eyes, 

Which lately were so overdrowned in 

So easy to take rest? O happy man \ 

How sweetly sleep hath sealed up sor- 
rows here!" 

It is plain that her eyes have long 
been as sleepless as tearless. Hers 
is, in essence, the tragedy of love too 
great to be repaid where it is given. 

Ford's moral sense has been ques- 
tioned, I think, unfairly. He is the 
most self-contained of artists, and the 
most dispassionate. His sympathy is 
equalled only by his detachment. He 
is gentle, but his gentleness is cold. 
He takes no sides, he passes no judg- 
ments ; he mildly commends or commis- 
erates, but, first of all, he compre- 
hends. Patiently, deftly, he probes the 
souls of men and women, exposes them 
to his impassive scrutiny. Among his 
contemporaries, inspired children as 
they sometimes seem, he stands like a 
grown man. Of all his fellowship he 
is the most modern, and the most 

Charlotte Claflin, 1911. 



Dear Alice: 

I must add my word to Phoebe's and 
Eleanor's but I am afraid if you are not 
already almost persuaded I might as 
well say nothing. A cottage in northern 
Italy, near the sea and near the mount- 
ains, for a whole summer! Alice, you 
are not one of those people who mistrust 
a thing because it's ideal? It is perfect 
but it is also practical, that is if you 
have a taste for romantic adventure 
and are not a fatalist. My fate would 
have to be very seductive if it expects 
to get itself submitted to. Either it 
includes Italy, in which case I am 
humble, or it does not, in which case I 
am a free-wiliest. 

The "practical" objections, which El- 
eanor has been raking up, even she 
can't make much of. If, in two win- 
ters, four healthy A.B.'s can't acquire 
the wherewithal for one summer in 
Italy, of course, we don't deserve to 
go. We shall have to travel second- 
class, which worries me a little, since 
it leaves no chance of sharing a state- 
room with — who is your "special" au- 
thoress? — or of playing shuffleboard 
with William Dean Howells. 

And now to the delicate part of my 
mission, which I may neither plainly 
state, nor altogether leave out Would 
you consider the plan seriously if 
Phoebe and Eleanor only were going? 
In a way — though I have greatly re- 
gretted it — I am glad you did not know 
me better at college. Then you might 
have hesitated permanently. Our ad- 
ventures, after all, leaving out boat 
accidents and learning Italian, will be 
mainly psychological. In the case of 
the two others you will only be explor- 

ing more deeply into regions you have 
already visited and found pleasant ; in 
the third case you must go avoyaging 
to unknown lands which for savagery 
and natural anarchy are like the isles 
of the sea — only there are no pearls 
or native music; — adventure, not for 
sake of profit or pleasure, but purely 
for the sake of adventure. 

In the early mornings we will sail, 
in the mornings we will work, after- 
noons we will crochet and talk, eve- 
nings — but this is futile — they will be 
Italian evenings. 

Grace Branliam, 1910. 


It began long ago (as I have been 
told), when at the age of three years 
I refused, finally, to comfort and suc- 
cour a beautiful, yellow-haired doll, 
with clothes that came on and off, 
choosing rather to clutch with renewed 
fervour a bisque lion of broken nose 
and savage eye. In spite of grown-up 
astonishment and persuasion against 
this divergence from type, my inhuman 
preference grew into one of two firmly 
rooted prejudices : I never would play 
with dolls and, for the other, I did 
not enjoy the company of my kind, 
excepting my immediate family. It 
was not that I was without motherly 
instinct. But I think my motley men- 
agerie seemed to my mind, because of 
my ignorance of animal life in the 
original, more like reality, whereas I 
knew some very definite points of dis- 
similarity between dolls and girls. And 
it was not so much that I was a lover 
of solitude for its own soke, as that 



I hated to be kissed and handled. We 
were not a demonstrative family. I 
kissed my mother and grandmother 
goodnight as a matter of course and of 
duty, just as I ate my supper of cool 
bread-and-milk and apple sauce, and 
had my bath. But I had been early 
taught the canons of politeness: It 
was necessary to submit to the caresses 
of strangers, who had a persistent and 
undifferentiated regard for small girls 
with yellow hair. And so, seeing no 
point in courting discomforts, I resisted 
maternal efforts to bring me out in 
society, and ran away from visitors to 
my passive menagerie in the garden. 

It was a very nice garden, shut away 
from the demonstrative world by a 
picket fence. A walk of red brick led 
up from the gate. On tiptoes I could 
go the whole length of it without step- 
ping on a crack. And on the garden 
side of the walk were pink hollyhocks — ■ 
so tall that one had to pull them down 
by the tips of their rough leaves to 
look at the dark spots which nestled 
like bees in their dry, shiny cups. 
There were currant bushes over against 
the nest house, which belonged to an 
old lady who lived there. She sat 
all day long by a downstairs window, 
waving a palm-leaf fan. I could see 
it flicker between the shutters when 
the blinds were closed. I liked the old 
lady because she never looked as if 
she wanted to kiss me. One day I 
asked her to come out into the garden. 
"It is very cool out here," I called. But 
she only looked at me from her window 
without smile or answer, — a strange, 
nice, old lady ! 

One day, — a very pleasant garden 
day, with a breeze blowing in the apple 

trees, and the sun making the petunia- 
beds very warm and dry — I had just 
started down the walk with Fred, care- 
fully avoiding the cracks. Fred was 
a brown horse with real hair, and 
leather harness. He had lost both 
back hoofs, and one front leg above 
the knee. But he was a very valu- 
able animal. There was something 
eminently reassuring about his steady 
eye and capacious chest. He usually 
took care of the others. "We will go 
walking," I said, "and the others — " 
Just here mother called : "Mary, I want 
you to go with me to make some 

"Now, mother — " I began. But 
mother had learned to be calmly im- 
movable even at the sight of a rising 
flood of tears, and she proceeded to 
hale me into my big, airy nursery ; 
to bathe my protesting face ; to clothe 
my unresponsive form in "best clothes" 
—with a steady rise and fall of sooth- 
ing words. 

I can still remember my physical 
sensation of choked imprisonment as 
we waited in the first parlour for our 
hostesses. The curtains were pulled 
so that I could not see the sunny 
street. I slipped unhappily on the 
smooth hair-cloth sofa, my feet sticking 
straight out in front of me. When 
the "ladies" appeared, it was as I 
knew it would be. They called me 
"dear" ; they fondled my curls and 
asked me the usual questions, — whether 
I would give them a curl, — if Santa 
Claus brought me a dolly for Christ- 
mas, and so on and on, without ap- 
parent end. I explained politely that 
I never played with dolls, that Santa 
Claus had brought me a white lamb 



with blue eyes, and a rubber cow that 
squeaked. They smiled and looked at 
each other, and the largest lady said, 
"Come and see me, Mary." I went 
slowly, with an appealing backward 
glance at mother, who nodded firmly. 
The largest lady took me in her lap. 
She held me with her hands clasped 
tight around my waist and talked to 
mother over my head. I was breath- 
less and hot ; I thought with regard 
and with sympathy of the silent old 
lady in the "next house," who fanned 
herself all day. When at last I was 
released, I had a minute's relief, stand- 
ing alone in cool space. Then the 
largest lady descended upon me again. 
She took my head between her warm 
hands and said, "Now, dear, kiss me 
goodbye." And at supper-time, I 
looked up from my bread and milk to 
my mother, as she opened a western 
window to let in the sundown breeze. 
"Don't you ever call me 'dear' again, 
will you, mother? Everybody but the 
old lady next door calls me 'dear.' " 
And now, looking back, I wonder at the 
depth of her understanding. 

Marion D. Crane, 1911. 


The Juniata, flowing along through 
narrow mountain valleys, past town 
and country, sometimes dashes over 
Its rocky bed, roaring like an angry 
little demon ; sometimes, as peaceful 
as a holy nun, lingers in deep pools, 
and in its calm, unruffled waters, 
reflects the image of the sky above. 
There is one spol In the green hills 
where the little river seems to have 
fallen fast asleep, ami once In a while 

a ripple, like the smile of a person 
dreaming, ruffles the quiet waters. 
On the right bank a row of poplars 
with hands held high in indignation, 
try to protect its sleep ; for back of 
them a busy railroad roars and thun- 
ders, day and night, shaking the earth 
in passing, and showering its soot and 
black coal-dust over the countryside. 

A little village that once lived there, 
long since gathered up its dainty skirts 
and fled across the river. It must have 
scrambled rather hastily up the steep 
hillside, for several houses, settled in 
precarious positions on the slope, seem 
to mark the course of a hurried flight. 
As if overcome by its exertions, it 
seems to have fallen in a heap at the 
top, and then, carefully spreading out 
its rumpled skirts, to have ended its 
difficulties by going to sleep ; for there 
it is sleeping to this day. Beneath the 
warm, white blanket of winter, and the 
soft, green coverlet of spring, it peace- 
fully sleeps on. The blazing sun of 
summer tempers its rays as it passes, 
and a kindly mountain behind shuts off 
the cold north winds. A winding path 
leads up to the town, but it is seldom 
used except by stray dogs and sleepy- 
looking boys, who come down to the 
river once in a while to fish. 

There is nothing in the village, how- 
ever, to entice a busy river to fall asleep 
along its banks ; nothing to cause a 
smile to ruffle its glassy surface. But 
above the village, on the edge of a 
beautiful ravine, is a large, old dwell- 
ing-house, within whose gray and mossy 
walls dwell radiant dream-maidens. 
When the sky is clear and the sun 
shines bright, they pour forth from the 
open doors, as happy aud as careless 



as a summer zephyr; tJiey flit about 
among the trees, wander on the hillside 
or in the deep ravine, and laughing and 
chattering come down and play with the 
river itself. They gaze into the mirrors 
of its deep pools, watch the foam danc- 
ing over the shallows, and with ecstatic 
cries, feel the chill of its crystal waters 
on bare, white feet and ankles. Mingling 
their young voices with the murmur of 
the running water, they sing of hap- 
piness and of love. When the sun 
sets, the maidens go back to the house 
on the hilltop, but by moonlight and 
starlight, the sound of their voices, 
laughing and singing, floats down to the 
listening river. You, who will listen 
by its banks, if you be a poet or a little 
child, can hear in the sound of the 
running water, the song of the beauti- 
ful dream-maidens who dwell by the 
sleeping village. 

Virginia Custer Canan, 1911. 

When, as sometimes happens, my 
spirits carry me quite away in a sudden 
burst of glee, my usual way of ex- 
pressing the ebullition is by playing 

Schubert's "Aria, Scherzo e Intermezzo," 
from his Sonata. If ever a musical 
composition had a colour, and that 
the colour of joy, the Scherzo passage 
possesses it. It is yellow, or golden 
brown, with an impish flicker in it. The 
theme tumbles from note to note, 
jocularly, with the purest orange tone, 
pierced by darting shrieks, like mis- 
chievous laughter, of pale primrose 
gold. All children, they say, like yel- 
low ; — I know at least that such great 
prodigality of yellow makes me a child. 
I hear brownies in the music, laugh- 
ing at me; I hear them rolling up, 
up, great orange cheeses, for mis- 
chief, that they loose at the brow of 
the hill, to bound down into the bass, 
falling beneath the wild treble of their 
shivering laughter. I laugh, too, to 
hear them galloping down again, setting 
the stones to rolling, — and then really 
hold my breath in the rest of a measure 
before they climb again. The Scherzo 
always wins me to gaiety, even when 
I approach it cautiously, with a stern 
self-control ; I cannot resist the welling, 
extravagant brilliancy of it ; it is a 
golden burlesque of colour and sound. 
Edith MearJcle, 1912. 




President — Rose Jeffbies Peebles. 

Vice-President — Maby Cloyd Bubnley. 

Secretary — Louise Baggott Moegan. 

Treasurer — Elizabeth Mabie Van Wageneb. 
At the usual five formal meetings this year the Club and its honorary members 
had the pleasure of hearing President M. Carey Thomas on "Professional Women 
and Marriage ;" Commissioner of Education Elmer Ellsworth Brown on "The 
World Standard in Education;" Professor Kirby Flower Smith, of Johns Hop- 
kins University, on "The Legend of Sappho and Phaon;" Professor Charlotte 
Angus Scott on "The Use of Mathematics by Non-Mathematicians;" and Pro- 
fessor James W. Bright, of Johns Hopkins, on "The JEsthetic Factors in the 
Problem of English Spelling." 

The usual receptions were given by the faculty in the fall and by the Presi- 
dent In the spring. The Seniors entertained the graduate students at a fancy 
dress ball in the gymnasium. At one of the regular teas given four times a 
week by members of the Club in the club-room in Denbigh, Miss Marion Reilly 
and Miss Kirkbride explained the purpose of the endowment fund and gave an 
enthusiastic account of its work. 

L. B. M. 


President — Babbaba Spoffobd, 1909. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Maby Wobthington, 1910. 

Secretary — Cathebine Delano, 1911. 
The Philosophical Club opened this year with a tea in October, at which the 
members of the departments of Philosophy and Psychology were invited to meet 
the members of the Club. On November twenty-first Professor Hugo Miinsterberg, 
of Cambridge, addressed a large meeting of the Club on "The Practical Applica- 
tion of Psychology." On March twelfth Professor Frederick J. E. Woodbridge, 
of Columbia, addressed the Club on "Consciousness and Evolution," in a paper 
so admirably written and constructed that an effort is being made to persuade 
Professor Woodbridge to print It. It is expected that Professor James R. Angell, 
of Chicago, will address the Club on April twentieth on "The Influence of Darwin 
on Modern Psychology." 

B. S., 1909. 



President — Leone Robinson, 1909. 
Vice-President — May Putnam, 1909. 
Treasurer — Hilda Smith, 1910. 
Secretary— Mary Williams, 1911. 

The regular religious work of the Christian Union consists in holding 
religious meetings on alternate Wednesdays, and in conducting Bible and Mission 
Classes on Tuesday nights. In both of these departments there has been a 
definite increase of interest and seriousness on the part of the association. 

In addition to this, there is the more general philanthropic work, which 
consists in organising classes among the college maids, the laboratory boys, and 
the factory girls in Kensington. Moreover, money and clothes are collected for 
relief work in various parts of the United States. 

The two missions supported by the association, Miss Tsuda's school in Japan 
and the Medical School for Christian Women in North India, have both received 
their annual dues for this year. 

The Membership Committee has done its usual work of assisting the College 
Office in the fall in the registration of new students. 

The new departure has been the establishment of a Daily Vacation Bible 
School in Philadelphia. This school aims to care for the children who have to 
play on the hot unsanitary streets in the summer months. 

This whole year our association has felt the influence of last year's con- 
ference. Of such great benefit was it that we hope to have another conference 
like it next year. The inspiration gained through such a conference so deepens 
and strengthens the religious life of the association that it is almost indispensable 
to it. 

L. B., 1909. 


President — Maeie E. Belleville, 1909. 
Y ice-President — Helen B. Oeane, 1909. 
Treasurer — Elsie Deems, 1910. 
Secretary — Maeion Ceane, 1911. 

The various activities of the League have been carried on during the year 
1908-9, in much the same manner as in former years, with an extension of 
the work, especially along philanthropic lines. 

The League has now a membership in college of 107, and an auxiliary mem- 
bership of 70. An average attendance of 74 at the regular Sabbath afternoon 
meetings shows a decided increase over previous years. 


Under the supervision of the Bible and Missionary Committees, four Bible 
and four Mission study classes have been held weekly throughout the year. The 
high average attendance shows that the interest in these classes has been sus- 

The League has continued to provide the music for the Women's Thursday 
afternoon Bible Class at Kensington, which now numbers 50, and a large num- 
ber have helped on special occasions at Kensington. At Christmas time, each 
mother received a gift either for herself or for her children. 

The Finance Committee has sent $35 each month toward the support of 
Mr. Tonomura, a native worker in Tokio. His letters show how much can be 
done in an Eastern country with the small amount of money we are able to 

A Week End Conference is being planned for March 26, 27 and 28 of this 
second semester, at which various phases of Christian service open to students 
leaving college are to be presented. It is hoped that this Conference may very 
materially broaden our views of the field of Christian work, and may better 
prepare us to enter at once upon some of the lines of service for which 
college has prepared us. 

M. E. B., 1909. 
* » * 

Committee — Baebaba Spoffoed, 1909, Chairman. 

Mart Neaeinq, 1909. 

Charlotte Simonds, 1910. 

Maky Worthington, 1910. 

Helen Paekhubst, 1911. 

Maegaeet Pbussing, 1911. 

Ktjth Tanner, 1911. 
An attempt has been made by the committee this year to make Sunday 
Evening Meeting occupy the relative place in the college which it used to hold. 
The leaders were urged to select subjects with two sides, and to present them 
in such a way that the point at issue should be distinct. It was hoped in this 
way to lead the discussion into less rambling and personal channels; but un- 
fortunately the result did not justify the expectations. An innovation this year 
was the introduction of set pieces of music by the students, which was favourably 
received. But the committee felt, in spite of their efforts, that Sunday Evening 
Meeting had so degenerated, owing to the changed conditions since its institu- 
tion, and was so little suited to our present needs, that its continuance was 
practically a farce. At a meeting of the Undergraduate Association, therefore, 
It was proposed to abolish Sunday Evening Meeting in its present form, and to 
substitute hymn-singing at the same hour, to be directed by various students 
from one week to another. A motion to this effect was made and carried. 

B. 8., 1909. 



President — Dorothy Neaeing, 1910. 
Vice-President — Jeanne Keee, 1910. 
Secretary — Molly Kilnee, 1911. 

The Law Club has continued in its attempts to interest its members in 
current events and to help them to keep up, in an intelligent fashion, with the 
questions of the day. As the election was the great event of the year in the 
political world, the Law Club took an active part in arranging the torch-light 
procession and the stump speeches on the evening of November the second. 
There have been several informal discussions, one, in which the Law Club 
joined forces with the Equal Suffrage League to decide the mooted question 
of Woman's Suffrage, and one, upon Vivisection. There is to be a more formal 
debate upon the Negro question, about the middle of April, in which the Juniors, 
Sophomores and Freshmen are to take part. 

On January 9, Mr. Owen Roberts, of Philadelphia, spoke before the Club 
upon the question "What Shall We do with Our Criminals?" Dean Ashley is 
to speak at another meeting on March 18, and an informal meeting is to be held 
on the second of April, at which Mr. Henry Drinker, of Philadelphia, will dis- 
cuss the Commodities Clause of the Interstate Commerce Act. 

D. N., 1910. 


President — Shtrt.ey Putnam, 1909. 

Pleasaunce Baker, 1909. 
Maegaeet Dilltn, 1909. 
Ruth George, 1910. 
Katharine Liddell, 1910. 
Helen Scott, 1909. 
Agnes Goldman, 1909. 
Geace Branham, 1910. 
Ray Costelloe. 

The English Club has met every fortnight during the winter, when papers 
■written by the members of the club have been read and discussed. At a formal 
meeting on March twenty-seventh, Mr. Richard Watson Gilder of the Century 
spoke on "Poetry as a Means of Grace." We are hoping to have Dr. Paul Shorey 
in May. 

S. P., 1909. 



President — Mabgabet Bontecotj, 1909. 
Vice-President — May Putnam, 1909. 
Secretary— Masy W. Wobthington, 1910. 

The fact that only those who are taking or have taken a Major Course in 
the sciences of Biology, Physics, Chemistry and Geology, or the Minor Course 
in Psychology, are eligible to membership in the Science Club will always tend 
to make its numbers limited. In view of this fact, therefore, it has been very 
encouraging this year to see an increase in membership over last year as indi- 
cating a growing interest in scientific matters. It has always been the aim of 
the Science Club to promote not only a technical but also a popular interest 
in modern scientific problems. With this end in view there have been arranged 
meetings — two a year — to which the college is invited. During the first semester 
Dr. Barnes spoke to the Club and its guests on "Some Solar Problems," giving 
in this connection an account of some of his own experimental work. The speaker 
for the second semester will be Professor R. W. Wood of Johns Hopkins Uni- 
versity, who will give a talk on "Air-ships." 

U. B., 1909. 
* * * 


President — Cynthia Wesson, 1909. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Helen Emebson, 1911. 

Secretary— Janet Howell, 1910. 

Indoor Manager — Anna Platt, 1909. 

Outdoor Manager — Elsa Denison, 1910. 

The interest in hockey and athletics in general has been keen this year, as 
usual. Most afternoons In the autumn three teams from each class were to be 
seen practicing, while match games were played by the second as well as the 
first teams. The hockey championship was won by the Class of 1910. The 
Varsity played seven matches, of which five were victories for Bryn Mawr, one 
a tie, and one a defeat. Two new opponents appeared against the Varsity this 
year. An All-Philadelphia team, made up of the best players from all the league 
teams, brought a stronger line against Bryn Mawr than has ever come before. 
The other new team was one organised among the alumnre by the Athletic Com- 
mittee of the Alumnse Association. This committee tried also to arrange a game 
in water polo, and in general is arousing interest in athletics among the alumnoe ; 
so that in future we hope we may be able to compete with them more than is 
possible at present. 

In tennis the class championship Is hold by ]909. Elizabeth Faries, 1912, 
la the college challenger who in the spring will play Anne Whitney, 1909, last 
year's bolder of the cup. The doubles will also be played off in the spring. 


Owing to the delay in the completion of the new gymnasium, the gymnastic 
contest between 1911 and 1912, the swimming meets and water polo games have 
not yet been held. The track championship was won by the Class of 1909, and 
the individual cup by Helen Emerson, 1911. Three college records were broken : 
The rope climb by A. Piatt, 1909; the running vault by A. Piatt, 1909, and H. 
Emerson, 1911 ; and the hop, step and jump by C. Wesson, 1909. 

Really the greatest interest of the Athletic Association this year has been 
the building and opening of the new gymnasium. The undergraduate subscrip- 
tion of $21,000 was completed this autumn, while an additional subscription of 
$800 for the leaded glass windows was pledged by 1912. On October sixteenth 
took place the laying of the corner-stone. President Thomas, on account of a 
cold, was unable to preside. Miss Applebee took her place, introducing the 
speakers and speaking herself on athletic and gymnastic work. There were 
also speeches by Mr. Alba B. Johnson on behalf of the friends of the College 
who completed the Fund, and by two members of the Athletic Association Com- 
mittee. The corner-stone was sealed by Miss Toxmg and laid by Miss Wesson, 
the presidents of the Athletic Association for 1907-08 and 1908-09. The highest 
point of pleasure in connection with the new gymnasium was reached on 
February twenty-second, when it was formally opened. A mammoth gymnastic 
class, in which most of the undergraduates took part, was held by Miss Apple- 
bee. President Thomas and Miss Garrett were present, and also several mem- 
bers of the Class of 1889, the first class to drill in the old gymnasium. Since 
the opening the gymnasium has been in constant use, and every day we realise 
more fully how great a need has been filled by the new gymnasium. 

C. W., 1909... 


President — Ruth Cabot, 1910. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Miriam Hedges, 1910. 

iSecretary — Esther Cornell, 1911. 

The resignation of Miss Helen Crane from the office of president at the 
beginning of this college year was a great loss to the League. 

In spite of a decrease in membership to about 150 this has been a fairly 
successful year for the League. It has again made a statistical map which the 
Philadelphia Consumers' League exhibited in its booth at the Tuberculosis Ex- 
hibition. The map, illustrating the amount of sweated work in part of the Italian 
district of Philadelphia was made from statistics gathered by the Philadelphia 

There has been one formal meeting. Mr. Benjamin Marsh, Secretary of the 
Committee on Congestion of Population in New York City, spoke on "City- 


planning," illustrating the lecture by stereopticon views. The League, as always, 
feels that its most important object is the awakening of interest in its subject 
among the students, and that so far as this is accomplished it is successful. 

R. 0., 1910. 


Elector — Florence Wood, 1911. 
Secretary — Irma Bixleb, 1910. 
Treasurer — Georgina Biddle, 1909. 

Although the membership of the College Settlement Chapter is slightly 
smaller this year than the year before, there still remains a considerable increase 
over all previous years. The membership dues have not all been collected, so 
that it is not yet known what the exact figures will be, but we think they will 
amount to about $135. 

Miss Davies, the head worker at the Philadelphia Settlements, has promised 
to speak to the members and guests of the chapter on "Settlement Work." We 
hope that this will arouse an interest in the subject among the students who 
until now have not belonged to the Chapter. 

The Bryn Mawr Chapter and the main College Settlement Association are 
offering a joint fellowship of .$500 for the year 1908-09. The purpose of the 
fellowship is to encourage the investigation of social conditions, and to give an 
opportunity for special training in philanthropic work. Any graduate of the 
college is eligible to the fellowship. 

Students have gone, as usual, to the Philadelphia Settlements to help take 
care of the children on Saturday mornings. Gymnastic classes once a week for 
the smaller girls have been started for the first time this year, and have proved 
most successful. Later in the spring, the Chapter is planning to invite a large 
party of settlement children to spend the day at Bryn Mawr, as they did last year. 

G. B., 1909. 


President — Mart Whitall Worth incton, 1910. 
Vice-President and Treasurer — Katharine Gilbert Ecob, 1909. 
Secretary — Margaret Prussing, 1911. 
Executive Board — Kuth George, 1910. 
Amy Walker, 1911. 

On Saturday, October seventeenth, at a meeting of college women held during 
the Buffalo Convention of the National American Woman Suffrage Association, 


the College Equal Suffrage League was organised for the first time. The Bryn 
Mawr Chapter sent a delegate to the Convention, who reported on the work 
done by the Suffrage Society at Bryn Mawr. The first formal meeting of the 
Chapter was held in the Chapel on November the seventh, when Mrs. Philip 
Snowden of England spoke on "The English Working Woman and Her Need of 
the Ballot" The second formal meeting was on February the thirteenth, when 
the Reverend Anna Howard Shaw, President of the National American Woman 
Suffrage Association, spoke on the "Modern Democratic Ideal." The Suffrage 
Chapter took part in the Political Parade in November, and asked each speaker, 
at the end of her speech, if her party approved of giving women the franchise. 
There has been one debate on the subject of Woman's Suffrage, under the 
auspices of the Law Club and the Equal Suffrage Chapter, in which the voting 
on the motion "That women shall be given the franchise on the same terms as it 
is or may be granted to men" was as follows : 

Ayes 68 

Noes 49 

The affirmative was very much assisted by Miss Elinor Rendel and Misa Ray 
Costelloe, two Newnham graduates. 

The chapter now numbers one hundred and forty. 

M. W. W., 1910. 


President — Mart E. Hebb, 1909. 
Secretary — Stjsanne Allinson, 1910. 
Treasurer — Estheb Walkeb, 1910. 

The first brass plates, with name, class and dates of each occupant, have 
been put up in about fifty rooms; and the lists for Rockefeller Hall have been 
completed. The Trophy Club has gone as far as it can, and it now rests with 
the alnmnse to help in filling out the records of the early years. 

M. E. H., 1909. 


President— Celeste Webb, 1909. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Hannah Dodd, 1911. 

Secretary — Helen Bbown, 1909. 

The Oriental Club had one formal meeting this year. Prof. James L. Barton 
spoke on "The Awakening in China." 

O. W., 1909- 



President — Grace Branham, 1910. 
Vice-President — Anita Boggs, 1910. 
Secretary — Frances Portee, 1911. 

Interest in chess has revived this year to a large extent. Owing to the 
increased membership of the Club the tournament will probably be more suc- 
cessful than last year. At a formal meeting, held on the fourth of March, Mr. 
C. Edmund Wright addressed the Club and its guests on "Beginners' Mistakes 
in Chess." 

O. B., 1910. 

* * * 


Conductor — Mr. Selden Miller. 

Leader — Mart C. Rand, 1909. 

Business Manager — Elizabeth Tenney, 1910. 

Assistant Business Manager — Phyllis Rice, 1911. 

An unusually large number of students have joined the Glee Club this year, 
thus increasing the membership from 48 to 70. This change is due not so much 
to a lowered standard of admission as to the gratifying fact that the Freshman 
Class contains many good voices, and that upper classmen who have heretofore 
limited themselves to individual training have taken up chorus work as well. The 
Club has been especially fortunate this year in having Mr. Selden Miller of 
Philadelphia as its conductor. It is largely through his efforts that the singing 
at the Christmas service was so exceptionally successful. In the order of the 
service a slight departure from tradition was made, since the club, besides 
serenading the Deanery, sang in the drawing room, where they were most 
graciously entertained by President Thomas and Miss Garrett. The final concert 
will take place on May first in the gymnasium. 

M. O. R., 1909. 

* * * 

Director — Mr. Paul Eno. 
Leader — Gertrude Congdon, 1909. 
Business Manager — Margery Hoffman, 1911. 
Assistant Business Manager — Carlotta Welles, 1912. 

The Mandolin Club Is fairly small this year, but is bettor balanced than 
usual owing to the number of banjos and guitars. The dues have been somewhat 
reduced, for we hope that the Increased seating capacity of the new gymnasium 
will enlarge the receipts from the concert. 

O. 0., 1909. 


President — Mart Neartng, 1909. 
Vice-President and Treasurer — Elsie Deems, 1910. 
Secretary — Frances Hearne, 1910. 
Assistant Treasurer — Marion Crane, 1911. 

* * * 

SELF-GOVEKjSTMENT association. 

President — Frances Browne, 1909. 
Vice-President — Alta C. Stevens, 1909. 
Graduate Member — Mary H. Swindler. 
Secretary — Frances Stewart, 1910 (resigned). 

Zip Falk, 1910. 
Treasurer — Margaret Shearer, 1910. 
Executive Board — Frances Browne, 1909. 

Mart H. Swindler. 

Alta Stevens, 1909. 

Hilda W. Smith, 1910. 

Elsie Deems, 1910. 

* * * 

Bryn Maior European Fellow — Margaret Bontecou. 

Group, History and Political Science. 
President's European Fellow— Gr&ce Potter Reynolds. 
Subjects : Organic and Inorganic Chemistry. 

A.B., Smith College, 1904. A.M., Columbia University, 1905. Resident 
Fellow in Chemistry, Bryn Mawr College, 1908-09. 
Mary E. Garrett European Fellow — Mary Hamilton Swindler. 
Subjects : Greek, Archaeology and Latin. 

A.B., University of Indiana, 1905, and A.M., 1906. Graduate Scholar In 
Greek, Bryn Mawr College, 1906-07, and Resident Fellow in Greek, 
Anna Ottendorfer Memorial Research Fellowship in Teutonic Philology — Esther 

A. B., University of Michigan, 1906. Holder of the President's European 
Fellowship, 1907-08. Resident Fellow in German, Bryn Mawr Col- 
lege, 1908-09. 
Two special European Fellowships for the year 1909-10 have been awarded to 
Margaret Sidner Dillin, 1909. 

Group, Latin and German. 
Helen Estabrooke Sandison. 

Group, Latin and English. A.B., 1906, and A.M., 1907. Graduate Scholar, 
Bryn Mawr College, 1906-07. 



"Leviore Plectro." 


He dances in a garden old, 
Where suns are dim and fountains cold, 
The blithe-lipped fool, in motley drest, 
With merry or unseemly jest, 
Mad caper and fantastic tread, 
He mingles with the stately dead 
Where many a wiser were less bold. 
With bell and tinsel and changing fold, 
Gaily glimmers his green and red. 
The bauble borne above his head 
Of faces holds a carven pair, 
Wrought from the wood with cunning 

One only of them may he see : 
It is the mask of comedie. 
Gazing on it, the fool doth smile, 
Nor wots he any of the while 
(That we should lose a jest so rare!) 
The tragic mask is weeping there — 
And in bright ruin at his feet, 
An o'er blown rose, decaying sweet, 
Is shattered in the silent air. 

Louise Foley, 1908. 


I sleep in the light of the fair moon 
I dream of glories old, 
When Titans strove with thundering 
And killed the age of gold. 
Over my slumber, stars without num- 
Watch with unwinking eyes ; 
Strains of sweet scent, in melody spent, 

Waft music to the skies. 
With kisses of love from Diana above 

My enthralled slumbers cease, 
And ardours of bliss fill my heart by 
that kiss 
In the silver light of peace. 
On sun-parched rock I tend my flock 

And musing tune my song, 
For soft still Eve my lays I breathe 

For starlight's queen I long ; 
And I yearn to hear that low voice 
Her silver thrilling call, 
To take me far, where lost hopes are, 
Her blest eternal thrall. 

Barbara Spofford, 1909. 




Visible, invisible, 

A fluctuating charm, 

An amber-coloured amethyst 

Inhabits it ; your arm 

Approaches, and 

It opens and 

It closes ; 

You have meant 

To catch it, 

And it shrivels ; 

You abandon 

Your intent — 

It opens, and it 

Closes and you 

Reach for it — 

The blue 

Surrounding it 

Grows cloudy, and 
It floats away 
From you. 
Marianne Craig Moore, 1909. 

He often expressed 
A curious wish, 
To be interchangeably 
Man and fish ; 
To nibble the bait 
Off the hook, 
Said he, 

And then slip away 
Like a ghost 
In the sea. 

Marianne Craig Moore, 1909. 
Reprinted from Tipyn o' Bob. 


The love of youth for age, sweetheart, 
Is a trim gray bush in a garden close, 
The sunset light on its silvered leaves, 
A chill sweet breeze in the tall hedge-rows, 
And a white night-moth on fluttering wing, 
A-hover over the spicy thing ; 
This lavender love is not for me. 
'Tls not the love I bear to thee. 


The love of a man for a maid, sweetheart, 

Is a red bud deep in a sacred wood, 

Where the Love god's statue shines through the dusk, 

And fragrance falls from the flow'r like blood. 

The petals sway at a fountain's brink, 

Where the dim stars shine and the moonbeams wink ; 

But this rose-red love is not for me, 

'Tis not the love I bear to thee. 



The love of a friend for a friend, sweetheart, 

Is a daisy touched with young dawn's blush, 

In meadows pearled with webs and dew. 

In the crystal morning's solemn hush. 

Like a mantle dropped by a tender hand 

The sunlight falls on the radiant land. 

This gracious love, sweetheart, give me, 

For this is what I give to thee. Carlie Minor, 1909. 


On winter nights They light the fire, 
And when in golden sheets it flares, 
Then on our bearskin rug I lie, 
While They sit round on lofty chairs. 

And then I read the Fairy Book 
Of mermaids in the crystal lake. 
They talk of unimportant things, — 
("How many yards then would it take?") 

The prince puts on the magic cloak, 
And takes the tiny silver key, 
A queer, cracked voice behind him says, — 
("I didn't order that green tea.") 

He hurries through the gloomy halls, 
But in the woods the princess waits ; 
A voice within the castles cries, — 
("There's great increase in water rates.") 

The wizard leaves the witch's cave, 
But, turning, casts a three-fold spell, 
Then whispers to his ivory wand, — 
("I only hope it washes well.") 

The brave third sou's lost in the wood, 
He hears a faint, far distant "moo!" 
Which really means — ("She grows so fast, 
We must let down a tuck or two.") 

Elves, ghmis. goblins, gnomes, and dwarfs, 

And Iota of other folks I've read, 

I see live in the dying Are: 

("It's time tbat child was sent to bed.") 

Hilda W. Smith, 1910. 




(A Parody.) 

Scene. — A crowded part of Twenty-third Street, New York. (Carlyle, walk- 
ing alone, is suddenly accosted by Whitman.) 

Whitman. — Stranger, our vests are of the same pattern, so I desire to speak 
to you — why should I not speak to you? Perhaps we made mud pies together 
a million years ago. 

Carlyle. — Brother, thou art welcome. Mankind flows by like an inter- 
minable river, where-from-ward I do not know, nor where-to-ward the same, 
and the pineal gland of him we shall never know, that is the awful inarticulated 
secret. Walk with me and tell me what dost thou think of him? 

Whitman. — Oh, this human race, especially the people of this Western Hemi- 
sphere, especially the people of North America, especially the American na- 
tion, and this unexampled people of this city, these babies and barbers, these 
women and grocers, these young men and ash men and circus riders, they are 
the paragon of the nations, the gods of the religions of the solar system. 

Carlyle. — But, my friend, consider the unfathomable depth of unusefulness 
of the race, how it is all one twentieth-century-devil-compounded Lie, which is 
the opposite of the Worth-while, yea, the very horriblest Lie of all, where is 
its truth? 

Whitman. — How can you call any man unsound? He is the essence of that 
holy thing, the race of monkeys. Truly, though I myself am sacred, I am proud 
to be related to that cur yelping under the whip, or the starved cat whining 
in the sun. Everything is holy : the mud of gutters, the grease of soup, the stench 
of the city, the soot and starvation. The black smoke that stifles is divine, and 
the glare of sun on pavements that kills children, and the joyful dust, but 
especially the two-legged inhabitants of these states. 

Carlyle. — Nay, Philosopher, to them the unutterablest thing is lacking. 
Heavenliest Work, that infinitude of blessedness, walks the earth in the garment 
of neglect. She is scorned of organ-grinders and musical-directors and cast into 
the nether darkness of a cellar. The Washingtons and Carrie Nations and 
Suffrage Unions and Democrats might accomplish something, mute, and in reflec- 
tive silence; but they forget their mission of building Realities on a great 
Perhaps, and do all that is unveracious and unbrave and unearnest ; that is, 
ply the tasks of a survival-of-the-fittest Mammon. 

Whitman. — But consider the actual works of man, and of woman more 
glorious than he. He makes the bridges, the lamp-posts, the boxes, the railroads, 
the brooms and the pins, but she knows how to sweep, and braid her hair, and 
brew tea. Look about you, and see the curious works of man, — the saloons 
and Flatiron buildings and shoe strings and fried oysters. 


Carlyle. — Nay, you tell of a very Hell on Twenty-third Street : How altogether 
vana et inanis, vain and unprofitable, are all these things. Verily, beauteous rare 
work is known only to the Adams of society, and they are no more. All the rest 
is the phantasmagoria of an eternal-endless nightmare, a Horror of an Inactivity 
such as the Devil loves, and he is a fallen angel.. 

Whitman, — No, fellow traveler on the journey of life, you are deaf to the 
joyful music of the race. Hear the glad concert, proof of heavenly souls, of 
street cleaners, trolley-cars, fire-engines, strawberry-men, ferry-boats, and 

Carlyle. — Nay, brother, we must part ; thou hast no understanding of the 
mighty infinite-deep greatness of silence. This tumult of sounds which is born 
in Hades, and nurtured by civilisation, must meet its death in a Third-avenue- 
elevated accident, or the evolution of a new planet. 

Whitman. — Friend, it is lucky to meet a man who disagrees, as it is lucky 
to be born, and have straight hair, and wear a straw hat. I am glad I met 

Carlyle. — We stopped briefly to discuss solemn unnameable things, two sparks 
of lighted protoplasm in a flaming universe of matter swimming in ether. The 
essence of each other we cannot know. 

Whitman. — No, if you tell me your name, I still do not know how your 
hair grows, or what your teeth are made of, or why your skin is not green. 
Do not tell me your name. I shall never know you. 

Carlyle. — Alas! alas! We can only look into each other's eyes and worship 
the arterial system coursing within us. We shall never meet again. Farewell ! 

Helen Parkhurst, 1911. 

gff^y^v^t ^Mjjffig^TOffgassi^^ 











Graduate Editor. 






[ZBTTE TABER, 1910. 

Business Manager. 


Assistant Business Manager. 





Frontispiece : The Library Walk. 

Editorial 7 

A Contemporary Poem to Joan of Arc. .Maud Elizabeth Temple, 1904 11 

Border-line Hostilities Grace Bagnall Branhaui, 1910 16 

Mortalia Helen Parkhurst, 1911 23 

G. B. S. and G. K. C Charlotte Isabel ClaUm, 1911 24 

My Lantern Marianne Moore, 1909 28 

The End of the Day Marion Crane, 1911 29 

A Starless Xight Shirley Putnam, 1909 34 

The Swineherd of Stow Ethel Bennett Hitchens, 1905 35 

The Fairy Tale Mabel Parker Huddleston, 1889 37 

A Thief of Reputations Ruth George, 1910 38 

Sea Fantasy Louise Foley, 1908 43 

The Poems of Ethna Carbery Ruth Collins, 1910 44 

The Spring of the Year Georgians Goddard King, 1896 48 

Silken Dalliance Katharine Forbes Liddell, 1910 49 

Estrangement Helen Parkhurst, 1911 56 

Of Heavenly Hymns Marion Crane, 1911 57 

Song Caroline Reeves Foulhe, 1896 60 

A Contrast Lee Fanshawe Clapp, 1899 61 

To the South Wind Helen Dudley, 1908 67 

Paciencia Mag Egan, 1911 68 

On the Way to Sherwood Hilda Worthington Smith, 1910 72 

Botticelli: -An Interpretation Helen. Townsend Scott, 1910 74 

Mortality Mabel Parker Huddleston, 1889 82 

The Amateur JSsthete Grace Bagnall Branham, 1910 83 

College '1 i . i .i - 86 

Collegiana 93 

"Leviore Plectro" 102 

The Lantern 

No. 18 BRYN MAWR Spring, 1910 


Til E academic ideal, however dimly apprehended by mankind at large, 
has nevertheless been a definite force in the life of the human 
race from the days when Plato expounded philosophy to the youth 
of Athens in the groves of the academy down to the present time, 
when not only scholars but merchants, farmers, and petty clerks send their 
children to college as the best method of providing for their future effi- 
ciency. The modern world, indeed, may be said to have gone mad on the 
subject of education. The college-bred man, both in business and in social 
relationships, is accorded a precedence over his fellows, which, if we were to 
examine carefully into the quality of his culture, would in many cases 
prove unwarranted ; and except in a few old-fashioned localities, prejudice 
against the college woman is rapidly passing away. This disposition to 
look with favour on the academic nursling, this constantly increasing influx 
• if the youth of the country into our colleges and universities, this exaltation 
(it education into a popular divinity, as it were, would appear, on the face 
"I things, to be the finest possible tribute to the spirit of learning. 

Hut deification brings its dangers. We know, for example, that king- 
ship no sooner claimed divine prerogative than it became precarious. Pop- 
ularity, as Burke lolls as, 1ms always been distrusted by men who have 
serious business to accomplish: and since the spiked wheel fell into desue- 
tude, the saintly halo has faded into the shadows of the past. It behooves 
us, therefore, to look closely lest our much-vaunted academic ideal become 
a mere name — a combination of high-sounding words with no more power 
to illuminate and beautify the IWes of men and women than the name of 


King Richard had power to beat back the army of Bolingbroke. It behooves 
us to watch carefully lest, in the popularisation of learning, some tawdry 
Idol of the Market Place usurp the shrine of Pallas Athene. 

And it is none too soon, when college presidents and college professors 
become dissatisfied and anxious, for college students to turn their attention 
to a matter which so vitally concerns themselves. It has seemed to some 
of the most eminent educators of the day that the colleges have ceased to 
be highly-charged centres of intellectual activity. "We are not critics," 
says the president of one of our great itni versifies, voicing his deep dis- 
content with the life and work of the undergraduate body, "we are not 
critics, but anxious and thoughtful friends. We are neither cynics nor 
pessimists, but honest lovers of a good thing of whose slightest deteriora- 
tion we are jealous. We would fain keep one of the finest instrumentalities 
of our national life from falling short of its best." 

Such serious and kindly words demand consideration, and when we 
face the question squarely and sincerely, putting aside so far as possible 
the natural prejudice for a manner of living so pleasant as our own, we are 
forced to acknowledge that we have indeed fallen short of our ideal. Not 
that as a college we have ever compromised our standard of scholarship, 
or that as individuals we have ever consistently shirked our tasks. If inves- 
tigations — such as have recently been made — into the use we make of our 
time mean anything; if our official records and our academic grades mean 
anything, then we may fairly say that we work a great deal, and with 
results that are fairly commensurate with the demands made of us. But 
if — and who can deny it? — our conversation, our amusements, our avoca- 
tions, all the casual and spontaneous expressions of our real interests and 
preferences are even more significant, then one might be tempted to infer 
that we work with little enthusiasm for learning, little appreciation of its 
power to touch the passing years with light, little relish for the sweet savour 
of Pierian waters. One might even be justified in fearing that the love of 
learning, for its own sake, the vivid interest in ideas which leads one to 
delight in strenuous thought, to come to passionate convictions, and to 
make great decisions, has ceased to permeate the life of the college; that its 
intellectual life, indeed, stops short with the lecture rooms and laboratories, 
while the main stream of our enthusiasm flows into other channels — into 
our clubs, our committees, our friendships, our athletics and dramatics. 
Have we not brought behind our college walls much of the "sick hurry 


and divided aims" - which they were erected to exclude, and have we not 
deliberately allowed the gayest and most spectacular members of our com- 
munity — persons not necessarily representative of its finest or most genuine 
aspect — to set the standard for the life of the whole college? Year after 
year the incoming freshmen take their cue from the classes above them, 
and so the type perpetuates itself. For gayety and cleverness and self- 
satisfaction are powerfvd magnets, and it is only natural for the timid, for 
the lazy, and for such as have no strong convictions of their own to follow 
contentedly in this pleasant line of least resistance. 

Does it not seem, indeed, as if the grave-eyed goddess of learning had 
deserted her shrine? Other things have taken her place, so that we are 
no longer even aware of her absence. It is possible to come to college and 
to go away again after four years without once detecting the trick that- has 
been played upon lis. 

There are those who tell us that the ideal of scholarshi]^ has changed 
since the Middle Ages, that the article we now have is up-to-date, suited 
to modern needs, and vastly better. But some things are too fine ever to go 
out of fashion, or perhaps too fine, too genuine, too deeply sane, ever to 
come into fashion. All fashions, Mr. Chesterton tells us, are mild insanities, 
and it is the popularisation of learning which has brought it into danger. 
The tilings we have are desirable things, excellent things in their way, but 
they are not the things for which generations of earnest, ambitious women 
before us have worked and hoped and fought. 

If, on the other hand, without reverting to the methods of the Middle 
Ages we could infuse into our academic lives some of the enthusiasm, the 
devotion, the consecration of the mediaeval scholar, who shall say that we 
would not gain in return the best that a college has to give — the subtle 
quickening of the faculties, the enrichment of life, the flowering of the 
mind into beauty which we call culture? 

["nder no other circumstances will exactly the same thing be offered 
to u.-. Never again shall we have the same youth and leisure and oppor- 
tunity and impressionability of intellect. We are forming now the habits 
of mind which in all probability will last throughout our lives, and if we 
accustom ourselves to think only along lines entirely separate from the 
business of everyday existence, how can we hope to go forth from our col- 
legiate walls a- veritable lantern-bearers, able to shed light along devious 
ways, and to touch sordid places with the sweetness of burning incense. 


The practice of four years cannot be laid aside like a garment, and we 
cannot hope that at some vague future time through some mysterious 
alchemy, our stolid uninspired labour will be transmuted into shining gold. 
It is true that Bryn Mawr has produced cultured women — veritable 
illuminati — but we have no assurance that their undergraduate days were 
like our own. Learning is past dispute a means of grace, but it must be 
partaken of in a spirit of grace. He who would save his soul must not only 
watch and fast and pray; he must love the ritual of his salvation. 

In the present case, moreover, we have not merely our own souls to 
save ; our deej)est concern is for the soul of our college. A few careless years 
could do little to impair the heritage of inspiration which Oxford offers 
her children, but Bryn Mawr is young yet — a young embodiment of a 
gracious, venerable tradition — and her glory lies not in the past but in 
the future. Her grey towers and level lawns and wrought symbolical 
lanterns connect her life to-day with the mellow past of scholarship beyond 
the seas; but her honour is in our keeping. It is ours to decide whether 
she shall fall short of her high destiny as "one of the finest instrumen- 
talities of our national life.'" or whether, through our devotion to the ideal 
she represents, she shall adequately fulfill it. Our motto is Veritatem 
dilexi, — watchword of philosophers and poets since the world began, — but 
the gowns we wear have fallen on unworthy shoulders if we make no effort 
to uphold the truth we have chosen. 


A Contemporary Poem to Joan of Arc. 

(Stanzas translated from the Old French ode of 61 ballade strophes by 

Christine de Pisan.) 

"And eke to me it is a great penance, 

Sith ryme in English hath such scarcity, 
To follow word by word the curiosite 
Of Sransoun, flower of hem that make in France." 

Chaucer: Coin plaint of Venus. 


I, Christine, that still have wept 

Eleven years long in cloisters grey, 
While that my dumb, still watch I kept, 

Till Charles (is it strange, this thing, or nay?) 
The King's son, durst I plainly say, 

Should flee from Paris, treason's hive. 
Forth is he fared, its course to stay : 

My heart leaps up, now first alive. 

My heart leaps up and I rejoice, 

And laughter moves me nowadays; 
More than my wont T lift my voice, 

Caged by the cloister's lowly ways. 
Hut now my plaints will change to praise: 

A brighter day dawns swift and sure, 
Albeit the heavy memory stays 

Of that 1 taught me to endure. 


Of fourteen hundred twenty-nine, 

The good new time begins to be; 
The vernal sun will straightway shine 

That unobscured we might not see. 
Many there are that like to me 

Grew old and mourned in anxious pain: 
From every grief it sets me free : 

The thing I wished is mine again. 

And as by vernal sunshine sheen, 

Thus is my verse new minted quite 
To fresh delight from ancient teen. 

For lo ! even here, thank God, the bright 
And fair young year that Springtime hight, 

So much desired, I now behold 
From Winter's seerness touch with light 

And living green the slumbering mold. 


For now the long despised son 

Of France's King, by right divine, 
That ills has suffered many an one, 

And wasting cares and foes malign, 
Lifts up anew his form supine, 

And comes a King, in kingly crown, 
Lofty in puissance, great and fine, 

With golden spurs he lights him down. 


My mind is set, if so I may, 

To show God's grace that wrought in all; 
His hand, preventing me, I pray 

His arm to stay me, lest I fall. 


In order due may I recall 

This feat, most meet for memory 
Of whoso writes in volumes tall 

Of chronicle and history. 


Twice marvellous— this feat of ours ! 

Hear ye, ye folk in every land, 
And mark if God's almighty powers 

Do not unrighteous foes withstand. 
Justice and truth are in his hand: 

Thus may the outraged look for aid, 
Though Fortune flout that late was bland : 

We, too, have been of old dismayed. 


No heavy heart should now despair 

Outworn by Fortune's ceaseless round, 
Despiteful usage though they bear, 

Or in their ear if slanders sound. 
Fortune to none is faithful found; 

Fortune to most some ill has wrought: 
Where Hope lives on God heals the wound, 

As unto sin is judgment brought. 


What honour here for France's crown, 

What proof divine of royal line! 
That God who of his grace looked down 

Should send our need a living sign. 
Greater, I deem, this faith of thine 

Than royal rank is used to see, 
Albeit I read in books of mine, 

Faith alwav led the fleurs de lys. 



And thou that art the seventh born 

Of that high name of Charles, the lord 
Of Frenchmen liege, — though long forlorn 

Thy mighty war, thy gallant sword, 
Till God, with stedfast faith implored, 

Beneath thy Banner set the Maid, — 
Now great thy fame who dost afford 

Such war as may not he gainsaid. 


And thou, lowly Maiden blest, 

Never forgotten shouldst thou be, 
Thou on whose head God's favours rest, 

Even so thy prowess might set free 
France, lying bound from sea to sea. 

Though thou wert praised without surcease, 
How might we hope to guerdon thee? 

Where War brought low, thou bringest peace. 


Thou, Joan, born in happy hour, 

Blessed be He whose child thou art; 
God's handmaid, fashioned by his power, 

His spirit breathing in thy heart. 
Who only could that grace impart 

That all thy prayers His answer win : 
Not as men pay in earthly mart; 

God pays the heart that knows not sin. 


In records of the elder days 

Wrought any higher deeds than thine? 
Moses, elect in works and ways, 
God raised in Egypt for a sign. 


He marshalled Israel's faltering line, 

Tireless, upborne by Heaven's aid : 
Thou, in our bondage, strength divine 

No less hast found, chosen Maid. 


And I bethink me what thou art, 

Young and a girl, no warrior strong. 
To whom God gives the valiant heart 

That saves the weak, that rights the wrong. 
And even as babes to breast belong, 

So France to thee that drinks increase 
Like mother's milk to cradle song, 

— Past Nature's gift, — the milk of peace. 

What honour here to womankind ! 

God, where he loves, though poor and weak 
The vessel, still a way could find 

This craven folk to save and seek. 
Where men could naught, a maiden meek 

He chose, and through the wasted land, 
In war's alarrus and slaughter's reek, 

He stayed to traitor's doom her hand. 


I, ('hristine, finish now my lay; 

The year is fourteen twenty-nine, 
July has reached its latest day. 

I know that towards these words of mine 
Ill-pleased will many minds incline; 

For one whose course is all but run, 
Whose heavy eyes to rest decline, 

Waj ill support the rising sun. 

Maud Elizabeth Temple, 1904. 


Border-Line Hostilities. 

IN the bed facing the western window my mother lay dying. The 
great square chamber was filled with late summer afternoon sun- 
shine, and the old unhappiness such sunshine brought me lay more 
wearily on my mood than the thought of approaching death. The 
angel was long in coming and I was weary waiting. I had nothing to say to 
that poor dying woman, no precious messages to gather from dying lips. 
After all, there was blunt irony in it — my being left alone with her, the 
broken-hearted son, and the tender, blessing mother. That is what was in 
their minds when they had so decently withdrawn and left us — thus. I 
searched my heart for the greenness of natural affection, but the plant was 
withered to the roots. Was it my fault? Was it hers? In behalf of the 
dying I accused the unnatural son. He only said that she was a rigorous 
woman and a strange mother for such as he. The single bond of their phys- 
ical relation was not strong enough to hold together tempers so opposite, 
spirits mutually so repellent. To put it plainly, she belonged to that human 
type which of all others he most vehemently disliked. I looked at the 
straight and narrow figure beneath the smooth covers and took the orderli- 
ness of it all for a symbol of her life. She might have relaxed a little toward 
her own child. But then had my own love been sufficient ? No, it was not 
her fault, but then neither was it mine. 

All the long afternoon I sat there watching the shadow of the Lombardy 
poplar lengthen across the floor — from the window-sill to the chair, from 
the chair to the bedside table. When it reached the head of the bed, I 
fancied, the measure of her life would be completed. I sought to keep 
my thoughts from wandering off into regions that contrasted too 
much with what this should have been; but I caught myself smiling 
at a vision of Katrina, at the thought of going back to her. The rest 
of our lives — I was checked by the thought of the rest of my mother's 
life: she would spend it dying. It should not be this way with me! 
I would do it suddenly, I would crash into eternity with the sense of heroic 
utterance on my lips. But was there nothing I could say of repentance or 
love for her to bear with her into the next world? I need not make 


of this a solemn farce. I need not now at her ultimate moment startle her 
with a lie, though it spoke of love. 

The hand of the long-silent figure stirred a little upon the counterpane. 
I went over to the bed-side. She was calm, more calm than is possible with 
life, quite detached, without strength, indeed, but effortless. I knelt 
down to catch her murmured words. My position, the circumstances, must 
have led me to expect more solemn phrases, for I was shocked at the 
lightness of her tone, though the words came slow enough. "Tell me 
about this other, this girl. You love her?" 

"Ah, mother," 1 murmured intensely, "better than all the world, 
better than you think me capable of loving." 

I stopped, thinking I might distress her. But there was no pain in 
her face. Presently it was crossed by the flitting shadow of speculation. 

"So much better — than me?" 

"Don't torture me, mother !" There was silence again, — so long a 
silence that I moved to leave the bedside. 

By some faint indication of a gesture she bade me stay. 

"Is there anything I can do?" My futilities did not reach her. At 
times she seemed about to speak but refrained, finding it not worth the 
effort. Again I moved to rise. She understood the motion. 

"I will not — keep you — waiting much longer, Feodor. It is hard, don't 
you think, to die like this," she went on in a clear whisper, sustained by 
her last strength — "without whatever it is that makes going easier — my 
only son. Think, that's what you are, Feodor." 

Even then I could not weep. "Yes, yes, mother. Don't." 

"You have the hardest heart. To break my heart, and, then, for you 
notiiing but happiness. That would not be fair to me — ungrateful!" 

"0," I cried, "it was not my fault." 

"Whose then?" 

Those were the last words I thought my mother would speak. Would 
to God they had been ! 

The shadow nf the poplar touched the head-board, then became indis- 
tinguishable among the other shadows. In the dim dusk I knelt still — 
waiting. The first chill night- wind blew through the open window lifting 
her hair. As 1 drew up the coverlid across her knees she roused again. 

"Still," she continued in that slow portentous voice, "you will never 

marry her." 


"Why do you say that?'' I called out to her to overtake that withdraw- 
ing spirit. 

The eyes of the dying were turned upon me. In their depth I read all 

"I know." 

"What in heaven or earth could keep her from me?" 

I waited long for the answer. She breathed it and her spirit out 

That night I learned to know the tyranny of the dark. I fell, as it 
were, headlong into the abyss of sleep, and there was seized upon in dreams 
by the powers of malignity. I was gazed upon by innumerable eyes, dying 
eyes, eyes filled with knowledge or gleaming with hate. I dreamed that my 
mother came and stood motionless, watching me suffer, her eyes bright with 
reproach. Bending my strength I wrenched away and dragged myself 
awake. "0 blessed awakening," thought I, "blessed escape," and turned 
again to sleep. But neither that night nor any night since have I dreamed 
free of her. In strange places I saw her, and in familiar, but ever her eyes 
were turned upon me, menacing, entreating. I have faced her, saying, "Wan 
configuration of the imagination, by whose authority do you rise to torture 
me ? 1 will not mock you with mother's love, but have you no natural pity ? 
Leave me, I beseech you, for these few poor hours I might have rested in. 
Rest and oblivion, oh, for a little space return them to me ! Is it not enough 
that the da} r s are yours? That in every company and place your pale face 
obliterates all colour, jout silence quells every human voice? Insidious 
ghost, is not this enough? Enough without in the quiet retreats of sleep 
your lifting upon me those orbs of watchful cruelty and maternal hate?" 
Or turning to God I would ask, "Why didst thou send me down into the 
abyss, there to languish in a blank obscurity of pain? Kind God of the 
living, do thou restrain the dead !" 

In the morning, every morning, she waited by my bedside ; she sat 
down to meals with me ; went with me upon the round of business and 
visited with me among my friends. 

Yet, for all that, for days I remained rational. Happiness and peace 
and thought fled before the eternal presence of my mother, but I still knew 
her for an illusion and still, at nights, my dread was not worse than the 


dread of night-mare. It was not until after this that the barrier between 
waking and sleeping grew less solid, the barrier erected by a kind power 
for man's safety, "the name of which is reason. In my memory, dulled as it 
is by time and pain, still hovers the hour in which that barrier was broken, 
and day passed into night, and sleep into waking, and sanity into madness. 

In the bitterness of night I had waked from under a heavy dream. 
I would have risen to look at the stars, but, inexplicably, I was held 
fast as though locked in sleep. A prisoner in narrow walls, I lay impo- 
tent to move or cry, all motion repressed, each impulse strapped. But the 
walls were glass, and I could see. My chamber was present before my eyes, 
the blots of furniture, the door and the window square. And the air was 
suffused with Presence, invisible, horrible, brooding. 

As I lay in that transparent sleep, sick with terror, the window 
draperies divided and the Presence passed from behind them, incarnate in 
the dim form of my mother. The eyes were large with meaning, and I 
could not avoid their gaze. It came nearer, stooped and laid a hand upon 
my forehead. Then all form vanished into structureless spirit. Hover- 
ing, oppressive, brooding it weighed upon me till the little light that was 
mine went out into the great dark. 

How 1 recovered I do not know, for I have not even the final recollec- 
tion of the period passed beyond the border-line, in those regions whence 
so few return. There is a blank stretching in time over many months 
but a blank not to be measured in time. It is like a great chasm, long 
and black, riven between the cliffs of consciousness. Into that chasm I fell 
and tlience I emerged, but of the central darkness I know nothing. Certain 
it is that a thin ray of light at last did penetrate and that thin ray was 
the thought of Katrina. It broke through the thick-piled clouds and lighted 
forth the troubled reason. If there had been no other sign to me of what 
had befallen, this would have been enough — that Katrina had been long 
ab-ent from my mind. Certainly, terrible as that period had been, her 
absence had been the worst of it. Katrina forgotten! When for the last 
five years, my last thought at night had been hers, my earliest in the morn- 
ing. Sense, reason, memory must all have died when Katrina was banished, 
Katrina who had dwelt with me in dreams and inhabited my memory as 
the god his own temple. 

What wonder, then, that I cherished her return or lay long, ignorant 


of what had happened, basking in my newly returned happiness. I had 
forgotten my mother. But, irrationally, I feared to open my eyes. I had 
no definite dread, no shaped expectation. My reason had its solid seat again, 
but yet for all of a blessed hour I lay there with my eyes unopened. "0 
what a fool am I," I sighed, and slowly lifted my lids. Then I knew the 
cause of my reluctance. For before me on the foot of my bed sat my mother 
— waiting for me to wake up. I was no longer mad; this vision was no 
creature of the over-excited imagination. She sat there as in life I had 
often seen her — in ordinary morning clothes, her grey hair neatly done, a 
handkerchief in her lap. To be quite real she should have said, "Good 
morning, Feodor, it's almost eight." Instead she said nothing. The 
clock on the table behind her read ten minutes to the hour. 

1 fell back upon the pillow, covering my face with my hands. If I 
could keep from looking long enough I hoped she might disappear. "It's 
so unjust," I murmured. "I never liked her." 

After a sufficient interval I peeped between my fingers. She was no 
longer on the foot of the bed. She had strayed over to the window and 
stood — waiting. 

"Well, mother," I asked with unaccountable frivolity, "have you come 
to stay?" That was a most unnecessary question. 

I delayed until that afternoon, hoping to rid myself of that persistent 
spirit. But even in the morning I knew that hope was futile. About four 
I drove over to her house, my mother at my side, but Katrina in my heart. 
For on her I rested my hopes of salvation from the powers of darkness, and 
in her love, while yet afar off, I saw peace. 

The servant let me into the drawing-room, where Katrina and her 
mother sat sewing. They jumped up as I opened the door, looking at me 
with faces vividly expressive of surprised terror. The look in Katrina's 
eyes was what I felt mine to be that morning when I waked to find 
my mother. She ran over to me and threw herself in my arms while I 
kept repeating "It's all right now, I am quite well. Indeed I am, Mrs. 
Dalton. What a brute I was not to warn you." Gradually a substitute 
for a normal atmosphere was provided, and I, still holding Katrina's hand, 
and in her mother's presence, begged her not to put off the wedding but 
to come with me then. 

"There is no time to lose. And, Katrina, if you knew what it has 
been to be without you so long, so utterly " 


Behind the two ladies and a little out of our group, my mother had 
taken her place. Thank God, they had not noticed her. I prayed she would 
keep behind theni. But almost anything would be better than facing her 
myself. I kept my eyes on Katrina's face, hoping, willing, beseeching 
acquiescence. The impulse rose and sank back. 

"Let's not be rash, Feodor." 

Ghosts do not laugh aloud. But a low peal of grim mirth vibrated in 
my brain. It was the look of those eyes, made audible. Solemnly I got 
up and stood before Katrina. "Do you fully realize what you are saying, 

Here Sirs. Dalton gathered up resolution enough to flutter, "Remember 
you are not as well as you might be. Pray let's be sensible." 

"I'm well now, I tell you. Don't I seem rational enough? Is my 
manner wild?" 

"To tell the truth, Feodor" — but her humour failed her. "Katrina 
can't be carried off like a brigand's wife." 

"No, mother," Katrina soothed her, "that isn't what Feodor means. 
He cares for my happiness as much as you can." 

"He seems principally to be thinking of his own, however!" 

The damnable triviality of this repartee in the presence of that 
Presence worked on my nerves like acid. 

"Are you both on her side? Are you all leagued against me to de- 
stroy me?" 

"Whose, side? Feodor, Feodor!" 

"Look," I cried, "turn and look. Katrina, come to me and' we'll fight 
them together !" 

They turned and gazed where I pointed. Then slowly they brought 
their eyes back to me — they had seen nothing. 

"What is it? Oh, Feodor, don't! Don't talk so wildly. Don't gaze 
that way into vacancy. There is nothing there." 

"You don't see her? She is quite plain. You know my mother, how 
she used to sit and smile." 

"Feodor," said Katrina in a coaxing tone you might use to a restless 
child, "<ome, let's talk of something else. I have lots of things to tell you." 

"I t<-ll you, 1 swear to you, I am not crazy. I have been, I know, but 
that'.- all over now. All over, thank God I" 

"If you are in your senses then," broke out Mrs. Dalton, stung by the 
sense of her daughter's danger, "how have you the besotted selfishness to 
ask my daughter to rnarry a man who has been, who is, insane?" 


"0 mother !" wailed Katrina, "how can you ?" 

The Figure rose and placed its hands on the back of Katrina's chair, 
so I faced them both. "Lift your face from your hands, dear love, and 
listen to me. I solemnly affirm I am in health and sanity. But this morn- 
ing I am escaped from worse than death, and what saved me was the 
thought of you. Does that explain how much I love you ? Come, Katrina." 
She made no motion. 

"My mother," I went on, "is determined you shall not marry me. She 
is determined to ruin my happiness. Are you in league with her? Or are 
you only her victim, too? Free yourself from her influence. Have you 
forgotten our love?" 

"Why does your mother do this?" 

"1 do not know. I hate her." 

The girl shivered. "Oh, oh," she moaned. 

"Go," pleaded Mrs. Dalton, "please go." 

"Why don't you answer me, Katrina ? Is it because you think me 
mad ?" 

"Your mother," she sobbed, "you keep talking as though she were alive, 
as though you saw her." 

"I do see her. I always see her. But because she haunts and tortures 
me will you also torture me? Is it my fault? Have you no justice?" 

"Ah, but Feodor, if you were — sane — you would not urge me." 

"Then you don't believe me?" 

No answer. 

"Go, please go," besought Mrs. Dalton. 

4 T am going, Mrs. Dalton ; wait. It's all over, is it, Katrina ?" 

"Yes," she breathed, "there's no other way." 

"Well," said I, "mother, you have won out." I raised my eyes to 
watch her triumph, but behind Katrina's chair the air was clear. Mrs. 
Dalton was the only other person in the room. 

Grace BagnaU Branham, 1910. 



One thought that length of days 
The thirst for life allays; 
While he would vigil keep 
He fell asleep. 

One thought to know again 
The life of sense, and then 
He entered soundlessly 
The spirit sea. 

One thought eternal fame 
To win, but human blame 
And praise to oblivion gave 
His nameless grave. 

One lived rejoicingly. 
Nor ever dreamed that he 
Had known through mortal strife 
Immortal life. 

Helen Parkhurit. 1911. 
Reprinted from Tipyn o'Bcb. 


G. B. S. and G. K. C. 

"George Bernard Shaw, by Gilbert K. Chesterton." 

THE new book in the familiar scarlet binding which entered the world 
under this title found waiting for it two classes of readers, the 
Shavians and the Chestertonians. Both have foreseen in it for a 
long time the confluence of two desires : that a book might be writ- 
ten about the most challenging and arresting of present writers, and that it 
might be written by the most penetrating and just of present critics. Shaw 
has long been on Chesterton's mind ; and indeed all his work bears some- 
what the character of an "Anti-Shaw." We knew, however, that the 
book would be more than an Anti-Shaw; for Chesterton is, what Shaw 
is not, an admirable critic. He has the great gift of recognising in a 
man his really characteristic qualities, — obvious, perhaps, but by their 
very saliency elusive. As critic he has known how to relegate personal 
predilections to their place; he has entered with sympathy into creeds 
and personalities divergent from his own and from one another; he has 
appreciated with rare equity such complementary spirits as Tennyson 
and Browning. By those who count themselves his followers it should 
not be forgotten that it is by scrupulous fairness that he has earned 
the right to preach dogmatism. Because he is charitable he can afford 
to praise conviction; because he is reasonable he can afford to proclaim 
the limitations of reason. 

Shaw has reviewed his own biography, and too modestly hinted that 
it owes its attraction more to the writer than to the subject. He is 
right, however, in his commendation of the portrait; it does exhibit "all 
the handsomest and friendliest qualities of the painter." Bonhomie, 
generous enthusiasm, searching sympathetic insight, keen felicities of phrase 
are among those qualities ; and they were never more conspicuous. The 
biographer's chief qualification for his task, however, is candidly stated 
by himself in the preface to the first edition. "I am the only person 
who understands him." He has the knowledge of Shaw that only an 
adversary can attain, through long practice in meeting him on his own 

G. B. S. AND G. K. C. 25 

ground. It is the same knowledge that the huntsman has of the fox; 
and it carries with it the same curious sense of good-fellowship. 

The Shavian, then, will here find said most of the things he wishes 
to say, with many others of which he will gladly recognise at once the 
unexpectedness and the validity.; and the Chestertonian will feel the 
accustomed pleasure at the elastic exactitude with which they are ex- 
pressed. Again and again the ascetic note is struck, in phrases like "Irish 
purity," "awful elegance," "fierce fastidiousness"; and the heroic note as 
well. "This clean appetite for order and equity ... is the real and 
ancient emotion of the salus populi . . . ; nor will I for one . . . neglect 
to salute a passion so implacable and so pure." The "dazzling silver of 
Shavian wit" is accorded its full due; the charm of Lady Cicely, the 
grandeur of Caesar are acclaimed; and meet honour is rendered to the 
noblest of Shaw's plays, Mrs. Warren's Profession. "The play is a pure 
tragedy about a permanent and quite plain human problem; the prob- 
lem is as plain and permanent, the tragedy is as proud and pure, as in 
GZdipus or Macbeth." The book is full of little triumphs of interpreta- 
tion, like the explanation of Shaw's love of music "as the imaginative 
safety-valve of the rationalistic Irishman"; like the analysis of Puritanism; 
or like this discerning estimate of the influence on Shaw of his early 
anarchistic environment : "When people blame Bernard Shaw for his 
pitiless and prosaic coldness, his cutting refusal to reverence or admire, 
I think they should remember this riff-raff of lawless sentimentalism 
against which his common sense had to strive. ... If Bernard Shaw 
became a little too fond of throwing cold water on prophecies or ideals, 
remember that he must have passed much of his youth among cosmo- 
politan idealists who wanted a little cold water in every sense of the 
word." And side by side with larger appreciations are set glimpses of 
more intimate intelligence, having the vividness of personal detail — the 
Brixton villa, the bicycle, the brown Jaeger suit; the "frank gestures, 
kind eyes, and exquisite Irish voice." Touches like these carry the pleasant 
sense of familiarity across the Atlantic. 

'When all is said, however, the main interest of the book lies outside 
the book; it lies in the immediate confrontation of two strong and sig- 
nificant personalities, which stand like massive pillars at the gate of our 
twentieth century. G. B. S. and G. K. C. — one pairs them instinctively, 
and connects with each triad of initials a whole train of mental experiences. 


They are opposites in almost everything, and, like most opposites, cognates; 
for no opposition could be so perfect but for a profound symmetry. One 
may recognise this, and even realise that their agreement is a finer and 
more enduring thing than their differences, and yet find it necessary, in 
the hour and for the hour, to take sides, to measure one against the other, 
and choose between the two. It is as one whose choice is made that I 
try to indicate some of the grounds on which it rests. 

"This is the greatest thing in Shaw," says his biographer, "a serious 
optimism — even a tragic optimism . . . Xothing that he ever wrote 
is so noble as his simple reference to the sturdy man who stepped up to 
the Keeper of the Book of Life and said, 'Put down my name, Sir.' " In 
other words, what is greatest in Shaw is precisely what he shares with 
Chesterton — an affirmative philosophy. But on this ground he has more 
than met his match. It is G. K. C. who has done most to shatter actual 
Shavian systematising ; this, indeed, is his greatest service to the Shavian, 
that he has riddled with fiery dialectic the dreary philosophy of The 
Quintessence of Ibsenism — torn rents in that grey vacancy, and let through 
the sunlight. If, however grateful for the disenchantment, they continue 
Shavians, the reason must lie in something wherein Shaw differs from 
or surpasses Chesterton, not in that wherein he resembles and is surpassed 
by him. 

Chesterton has dealt with Bernard Shaw as an Irishman, a Puritan, 
and a Progressive. He has not dealt with him under a separate heading 
as a Realist, although his Bealism is one of the most intensely individual 
things about him. Bealism is with him a doctrine, elaborated at length 
in The Quintessence of Ibsenism; it is also a technique, consisting in a 
sort of negation of atmosphere; but it is first of all a habit of the mind, a 
craving deeper than conscious conviction. It imparts a peculiar character 
to his style, which is, so to speak, no style, but in appearance a purely, 
transparent and colourless medium for the transmission of thought, alto- 
gether careless of rhetorical device. It gives to his novels their peculiar 
aridity and harshness, making them, so to speak, skinned novels. It 
allies itself with the Puritan impatience of forms, — idols, vain images, — 
and with the aristocratic scorn and severity of temper, — for the passion 
for truth always makes lonely the heart. Still deeper, it stirs the roots of 
that "righteous indignation" which Chesterton truly calls "in many ways 
his highest quality'"; and this because it interlocks with that other and 

G. B. S. AND G. K. C. 27 

greater passion, — moral passion, the thirst after righteousness, — the effect 
of which Shaw himself describes in Man and Superman. A better example 
of both can hardly be had than in one of the last of his Dramatic Opinions. 
"When I protest against our marriage laws, and Mr. Buchanan seizes the 
occasion to observe that 'the idea of marriage, spiritually speaking, is abso- 
lutely beautiful and ennobling,' I feel very much as if a Chinese mandarin 
had met my- humantarian objections to starving criminals to death, or 
cutting them into a thousand pieces, by blandly remarking that 'the idea 
of evil-doing leading to suffering is, spiritually speaking, absolutely beauti- 
ful and ennobling'' . . . These abominations may not belong to 'the 
idea of marriage, spiritually speaking-'; but they belong to the fact of 
marriage, practically speaking; and it is with this fact that I, as a Eealist, 
am concerned." 

There you have Shaw's "great refusal" — the refusal to let the fancy, 
the formula, the sentiment, or what not, come between him and the fact. 
This realist renunciation Chesterton has noted, and even praised in its 
humanitarian aspect as applied to economics. "When the orthodox econo- 
mist begins with his correct and primary formula, 'Suppose there is a Man 
on an Island,' Shaw is apt to interrupt hiin sharply, saying, 'There 
is a Man in the Street.' " But he has hardly appreciated its artistic force. 
The perpetual remembrance of the inadequacy of theory, plus the moral 
ardour, sends through all Shaw's work a vibrating sense of fact, which is 
its most living quality. The facts may be ill chosen, or imperfectly ap- 
prehended: but they are there: they may, nay they must correct the 
theory at every point; and their arbitration is final. From Chesterton's 
higher flight this anxiety to keep near the ground is absent. The gain 
for him is in poise, breadth, and unity; the loss is in close and vivid per- 
ception. On the contrasted qualities everyone will set his own valuation; 
but to those who, pierced with the premonition of coming social change, 
have ever, in Gilbert Murray's phrase, "glowed with the religion of 
realism." it will not be hard to understand why some should still turn 
back from the volumes in scarlet to the volumes in green. 

If I were to try to put the difference between the two into a word, 
I should say that nine times out of ten Shaw is wrong and Chesterton 
right. The tenth time the cases are reversed ; and the tenth time is more 
important than all the others. Chesterton sides by rule with the majority, 
and witli the vast majority of the dead against the living; Shaw holds 


with Ibsen that "the majority are always in the wrong." But the 
very Christianity for which Chesterton pleads was once the novel spe- 
cialty of a few. The strength of the Shavian aristocratic position is that 
some truths are today in that tentative and dubious stage ; and the strength 
of the Shavian realistic position is that realism can discover them in the 
face of all likelihood and all analogy, all sentiment and all convention. 
The charm of Shaw's work lies not in any definite thesis, but in the tem- 
peramental freshness of vision that runs through a multitude of varied im- 
pressions, and brings with it the vague sense of a high eagerness, a pressing 
forward to some hidden goal. The endeavour to organise into a coherent 
system these casual inspirations and detached gleams of nobleness may 
fail; but the enthusiasm they wake remains — enthusiasm kindled not by 
a philosophy but by a person. 

Charlotte Isabel Claflin, 1911 

My Lantern. 

The banners unfurled by the warden 


Up high in the air and sink down; the 


Is black as a plume on a casque; my 


Like a patch of high light on a flask, makes 


A gibbering goblin that bars the way — 

So noisy, familiar, and safe by day. 

Marianne Moore, 1909. 


The End of the Day. 

MES. O'BRIEN paused after a vigorous shake of the next nig on the 
pile. She was speaking across to her next-door neighbour, who 
was in the midst of hanging out her Monday's wash. 

"Yes, they get worse and worse every day. Minister Allen, 
he tells me not to leave 'em alone together much of any." 

The next-door neighbour raised her hands. "You don't mean he's 
afraid " 

""Yes, indeed, he is." Mrs. O'Brien shook another rug and paused 
again. "And, of course, I have my own work besides their bit of house- 
work. I sometimes think I'm a fool to keep them. But there ! What's to 
be done ! I can't put them out — two old ladies. Not another woman in 
town would have them." 

"They don't do anything to each other, do they?" The neighbour 
looked up apprehensively at the upper front windows of the old square 
house in the next yard. 

"Well, they don't yet." Mrs. O'Brien spoke significantly. "But they 
want to. It's as much as your life's worth to go into their rooms. Miss 
Norton gets you to one side right away, an' tells you how Mis' Peck won't 
let her talk to callers, an' just as soon as Mis' Peck hears, she comes 
hobblin' out and pulls you away to hear her story. And then when you 
have both of 'em together, you can't look at both at once, and one of 'em 
is mad whenever you look at the other. And both of 'em pullin' at you." 

The neighbour shook her head. "None of us dare to go to see them 
any more. It's too terrible — sisters hating each other like that." 

"And no reason for it at all," said Mrs. O'Brien, gathering up her 
rugs. "It's just that they're too old to change their ways. Poor Mis' 
Peck ought to be livin' with her son. Pity he doesn't see it that way." 

Mrs. O'Brien toiled up the narrow back stairs with the rugs, and 
knocked on the door at the landing. Miss Norton came to open it. She 
was the older of the two sisters — well past eighty — but she was much less 
infirm than Mrs. Peck, who was deaf and rheumatic and went about with 


a cane. Now, Mrs. Peck was sitting by the window of the room beyond, 
and did not hear. Miss Norton followed Mrs. O'Brien into the bedroom, 
where the two sisters slept, each on her own bed. 

"It's warm for Christmas time, isn't it?" She talked as Mrs. O'Brien 
spread the rugs. "My sister feels the cold, and .we can't have any windows 
open. You see I have to keep my gifts in here," she went on. "My sister 
has the table in the sitting room." 

Mrs. O'Brien glanced at the orderly array of small gifts and cards on 
the bureau top. "Yes, you showed 'em to me, Miss Norton," she said, sooth- 
ingly. "I think you done very well." 

Miss Norton's face softened for a minute. She was a tiny, erect little 
person, with grey hair neatly crimped around her pointed face. Her brown 
eyes were a little dim, but her mouth was still firm. She smiled now, in 
her queer one-sided fashion, and looked up proudly at Mrs. O'Brien. 
"Friends of our youth never forget us, Mrs. O'Brien," she said. She had 
a quaint, stately phraseology, as if she had learned to converse in some 
polite seminary of another age. 

Mrs. O'Brien looked again at the gifts. "Ain't those pretty handker- 
chiefs !" she said admiringly. 

Miss Norton looked out into the front room, where her sister sat knit- 
ting by the window, and then back again, hurriedly. Her expression had 
changed, and her old eyes were both hard and furtive as she spoke. "They 
arc from my nephew, 3'ou know- — Mrs. Peck's son. We chose the ones we 
liked best from two dozen. She thought she ought to have all the prettiest 
ones. She grows more and more childish every day. But I wouldn't allow 
it." There was a choke of anger in her voice, and her sister looked up at 
the sound. 

Mrs. O'Brien turned quickly toward the other room and raised her 
voice. "Good morning, Mis' Peck. We were just spreadin' down the rugs 
Ain't this queer weather for Christmas?" 

Mrs. Peck was a large-featured old woman, slow of movement, with 
the harsh, painstaking enunciation of the very deaf. "Christmas, did you 
say, Mrs. O'Brien? This is a hard Christmas for me. Martha, will you 
bring me my shawl ?" 

The older woman was by virtue of her agility necessarily the errand- 
doer for the two. She went now, with a significant look of protest and long 
suffering at Mrs. O'Brien. "Miss Norton doesn't like to wait on me," Mrs. 


Peck went on more quickly than usual. '"And Heaven knows I don't want 
_her to. But I can't get around as I once did. She doesn't want me here 
at all, Mrs. O'Brien. I have to fight for everything. I— — " 

Miss Norton, with her light step, was in the room again. She laid 
the shawl in her sister's lap. Her face was flushed a little. Mrs. O'Brien 
turned to go, speaking under her breath. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" Then 
aloud, "well, a happy Xew Year to you both. To-morrow's New Year's 
Day, you know. I'll be coming back to bring your dinner pretty soon." 

When she had gone Miss Norton went back into the bedroom without a 
word. She put away her white cap and laid herself down on her bed. 
There were hard lines about her mouth, and she watched the door leading 
into the sitting room. The morning light was bright, and she shut her eyes 
at last, but her small hands were still tightly clenched. There was a slight 
movement in the other room. Mrs. Peck appeared at the door, leaning on 
her cane, and looking with her sharp blue eyes at her sister's face. For a 
few minutes she stood there, watching, but Miss Norton did not open her 
eyes. Then Mrs. Peck stole silently into the room, up to the bureau, and 
with her back toward the bed, began to pull over the handkerchiefs which 
were folded together in a box there. Miss Norton opened her eyes slowly 
and very wide, with the effort of the near-sighted to see at a distance, and 
lay perfectly motionless — a passion of anger in her face. Mrs. Peck's back 
hid her movements. At last she turned, looked again at the closed eyes of 
her sister, and went out again into the sitting room. 

For a long time Miss Norton lay without moving, except for once 
opening her eyes to see that her sister was no longer there. Once she 
sobbed, the dry terrible sob of old age, and afterward, a long while after- 
ward, 3he whispered to herself, "I hate her — I hate her." When the village 
clock struck the noon hour she rose. She had missed her usual morning 
luncheon, and she walked a bit unsteadily, supporting herself by the foot of 
the bed, the chairs, and at last reached the bureau. She peered at the array 
of gifts, and then took out the handkerchiefs, one by one, talking to her- 
self the while. "It would have been just like her to have taken one away," 
she whispered. "She might have put one hack, not such a pretty one." 
As she touched her gifts with tender fingers she came upon something that 
had not been there before — a fresh spiced cake, of the sort that her sister's 
daughter was in the habit of sending down for the two old ladies. Mrs. 
Peck always guarded them jealously. It was only the day before that she 


had complained when Miss Norton had eaten one for lunch. "Why, she 

must have left that for me " Miss Norton spoke aloud, and then 

glanced out apprehensively at the back of her sister's chair. She went back 
to her bed, and sat down on the edge of it, holding the cake and staring at 
it abstractedly. A tear rolled down her cheek. At last she ate it, eagerly 
enough, for she had been long without food, gathered the crumbs together, 
and threw them away carefully. Then she went again to the bureau, 
chose out one of the handkerchiefs from the box, and went into the next 
room. Her sister was still sitting by the window knitting. Miss Norton 
stepped quickly to her side, touched her on the shoulder, and spoke quite 
softly and yet very distinctly, close to her ear. "Sarah, I have decided 
that Harvey would want you to have this. It is much the prettiest. A son 
gives his best to his mother." 

Mrs. Peck did not touch the handkerchief. It lay in her lap, while 
she stared with her bright blue eyes after the figure of her sister. Miss 
Norton was spreading the cloth for dinner. 

On the next afternoon Mr. Allen, the Congregational minister, made 
a round of New Year's calls, beginning with Miss Norton and Mrs. Peck. 
He had been heard to say that he would rather face a mob than call on 
them. He had confided to his wife that he was afraid of them and ashamed 
of himself, and that they were the darkest blot on his whole ministerial 
career. If only they had enough income to live separately ! 

Miss Norton opened the door to him, greeted him with her engaging, 
crooked little smile. 

"A happy New Year to you" — he bent over her hand. "And how is 
Mrs. Peck?" He was so brave. 

"This warm weather is a comfort to her rheumatism." Miss Norton 
did not, as was her custom, keep him at the door with a long whispered 
complaint, but led him over to her sister's chair. "Sarah," she called, 
"here is Mr. Allen." 

"Have you come to see my Christmas gifts?" asked Mrs. Peck, and 
then added, "but please sit down before you have 6een them — and Martha's." 

The conversation was a notable one. Mr. Allen retold it all to Deacon 
Howland's wife later in the afternoon — how they had as usual clamoured 
for his attention, how Miss Norton had flared up at Mrs. Peck's implication 
that her sister didn't keep up with the doings of the day. "But there was 
a difference," he insisted. "Mrs. Peck would have it that Martha should 


show me her Christmas things first, and she suggested that I should have 
a glass of milk and some crackers. Now 3'ou know there has never been 
any time for eating there before. You were too busy keeping them away 
from each other's throats. Something has happened." 

About this there could be no question. Mrs. O'Brien was sure of it 
when she came up a day or two later and found them, in spite of Mrs. 
Peck's deafness, discussing old times, when Miss Norton was superintendent 
of a hospital in Philadelphia, and Mrs. Peck's children were at school. 
They appealed to Mrs. O'Brien together, which in itself was matter for 
much subsequent gossip and real rejoicing on that good woman's part. 

"Don't you think we might have a cat, Mrs. O'Brien?" Miss Norton 
was spokesman. "Sarah has always been so fond of cats. We were remem- 
bering how Mr. Peck brought lis each a beautiful Angora thirty years ago 
this Christmas." 

Mrs. Peck added her word. "I tell Martha that I could take care of 
it. It wouldn't mean extra work for either of you." 

"Bless your hearts." Mrs. O'Brien had her apron to her eyes for a 
moment. "Why, the butcher has a fine half-grown kitten, a tortoise-shell — 
just what you want. I'll see him to-day." 

Late that afternoon the two old women were sitting close together 
in the pleasant low-studded room. The square-paned windows looked to- 
ward the west and the sun was sinking in scarlet and gold behind Deacon 
Howland's orchard across the way. It may be that the hour had its magic 
for the sisters. Mrs. Peck was the first to break the pleasant silence that 
had fallen between them. 

"Martha," she said, "I have a great deal to be forgiven for. I am a 
disagreeable old woman. You must try to bear with me. You have been 
trying for these last days, I know." 

Miss Norton touched her sister's arm with shy, caressing fingers. 
"Why, Sarah, I am the one to ask forgiveness. It was thee who started it 
all. Thee didn't think a silly cake could make such a difference." She 
had used quite naturally the way of speech that she and her sister had 
learned from their mother, who had been a Friend. 

"What does thee mean, Martha ? I — I think I did not hear." 

"Why, on the day before New Year's, when I was lying down," Miss 

Norton went on quickly with her explanation, at sight of her sister's puzzled 

face, "and I had thought thee had come to disturb my gifts — and then — 

thee knew I had no lunch — and left the little cake." 


Mrs. Peck did not answer for a moment. When she spoke she used 
again in her turn the Quaker pronoun, but there was a catch in her voice. 
"I — I must tell thee, Martha. It would not be right. It was a mistake. 
I — 1 had the cake in my hand. I didn't mean to leave it. I wanted to see 
again which handkerchiefs thee had picked. Oh, Martha, forgive me !" 

Miss Norton had been gazing intently out into the gathering dusk. 
Now she turned to her sister — her little old face very soft and beautiful. 

"Sarah," she said, "this is a new year. It is no matter. Nothing 
matters, except that thee and I are not too old to change." 

Marion Crane. 1911. 

A Starless Night. 

Stars veil their light, around the cradled moon 

The pine trees dip, 
But yet the daylight cannot come too soon 

And darkness slip, 
While weary-eyed I search the sunken sea 
Of hours, for the moment which to me 

Shall bring his ship. 

Shirley Putnam, 1909. 


The Swineherd of Stow. 

THEY are restoring the west front of Lincoln, patching the reverend 
facade with fresh cubes of yellow stone, and filling the worn niches 
with new images of the Saxon kings. The towers are strengthened 
with mighty bars of iron passing from wall to wall, the panes of the 
great window are releaded and every statue and gargoyle, blessing, beckon- 
ing, grinning, is newly affixed to its supporting buttress or turret. Only the 
Swineherd of Stow they have taken down, lowering him ignominiously 
from his pinnacle with ropes and derrick, and leaving him propped care- 
lessly against the wall, like a thing discarded, among the monastic relics of 
the south cloister. There is something unseemly, almost indecorous in the 
exposure of this archaic shapeless object to the scrutiny of the casual 
passers-by. Eight centuries of heat and frost, of wind and rain and sun 
have thus defeatured him, and have made the garment that clad him imdis- 
tinguishable from his body, and corroded his limbs to mere stumps. 

A tourist, tapping him smartly with a cane, chips a bit and crumbles 
it between his fingers, talking loftily meanwhile of the poor stone used by 
ancient builders. The Swineherd is impassive, though the rim of his de- 
faced horn — the precious sign of his identity — shows another nick. Or it 
may be that a dozen school girls, following in clinging pairs in the wake 
of their mistress, giggle hysterically at the uncouth monument. An artist, 
with elaborate paraphernalia of pencils and easel and drawing board, 
sketches him, or perhaps two archaeologists discuss to his face the question 
of Ids existence. \e\er dues lie vouchsafe a sign; always he remains the 
grotesque half-carverj block of mere stone. 

Yet when night has excluded school girls and tourists, artists and 
scholars, when not even the footstep of a verger disturbs the cloister seclu- 
sion; when, too, the east wind, wandering in beneath the arches, touches 
grey aspeci of the Swineherd with black lines of dampness — then it is 
that he rouses to thought and remembrance. 

He recalls the rush of air about that high point where formerly he 
stood, the cawing of the circling rooks over his head, the arrowy flight of 


swallows that nested from year to year in the orifice of his horn. He sees 
the sloping town beneath his feet with the tiled roofs rising, in irregular 
tiers, like crowding pilgrims, to the close gate. Beyond where the thread- 
like Witham runs, flat hedged fields extend, and here and there in the 
fertile expanse a church with its huddle of cottages rises through a grove 
of trees. The hamlet on the right is Stow, where the Swineherd's obscure 
progenitor once kept the herds of his feudal lord, and in the pit where his 
swine wallowed found that treasure which, piously, he chose to use toward 
the glory of God and the building of the new minster rather than in the 
purchase of freedom. Thus, though later his bones mouldered unmarked 
beneath the wall of Stow churchyard, his image high on a pinnacle of the 
west front commemorated his godly act, and to men's eyes, after a certain 
fashion, perpetuated his earthly existence. To the stone Swineherd on the 
turret, Stow, sequestered among its verdant fields, stood for the place not 
merely of his ancestors, but of his own nativity. 

Not always did the shire seem from the hill summit like a tilled and 
watered garden. The Swineherd remembers when the land was half-covered 
with forest, marked in places by the deeper green of fens, when wolves and 
bandits were more frequent upon the Eoman roads than travelers, and the 
isolated villages entrenched themselves behind earthen walls. 

Later, in the cathedral age of miracle, the roads were populous with 
pilgrims that thronged up Steep Hill and through Exchequer Gate with 
hymns and chanting. Even from his airy height he caught the smell of 
incense and saw the burning tapers they carried gleam faintly in the sun- 

Long ago these things passed away from Lincoln, together with the 
traffickers in beads, the hawkers of images and holy water, and the venders 
of dispensations. And with their passing came the pillage of the minster, 
not once, but many times. All her treasure, brass, silver, gold, jewels, was 
taken, little by little, from her till she was wholly despoiled. Then came 
the iconoclasts who broke down the shrines of the saint, and shattered 
the painted windows, and hurled the images from their niches to be broken 
on the stones below. Only the Swineherd they did not molest, perhaps 
because he, unlike the others, was neither a king nor a saint, perhaps only 
because he was more difficult to reach. When they, too, were gone and he 
was still untouched, it may be that looking down on the fallen statues in the 
yard beneath, he was filled with pride at his own security, that instead of 


mourning at the desolation of the cathedral his ancestors had helped to 
raise, he rejoiced inwardly that he at least was inviolate. Why else should 
those who later came to rebuild and restore, who mended and replaced the 
broken images or, if that were not possible made new like them — why else 
should they utterly discard him? Eight hundred years did he stand firm 
on his pinnacle. What less than deadly sin could cast him down so low? 
These are the thoughts of the Swineherd of Stow on windy nights in 
the south cloister. But it is only in darkness that he remembers. Dawn, 
lighting the green garth and casting a pale reflection on his face, will show 
it vacant and featureless as before. 

Ethel Bennett Hitchens, 1905. 

The Fairy Tale. 

{"Help to spin the fairy-tale, will you?"— The Servant in the House.) 

With delicate fibres plucked from stems in bud; 
With riven heart-strings knotted in a skein; 
With spinnings of men's toil ; with threads of rain ; 
With strands of light from afternoons that wane ; — 
Come let us help to weave the Fairy-tale. 

Sweeter than all the feasts man's hand hath laid; 
Fairer than silken robes of lucent fold ; 
Richer than palace towers, or buried gold; 
Truer than all that chroniclers have told ; — 

More closely dear — Ah, weave the Fairy-tale. 

Out of the piercing of uncounted hearts; 
Out of the straining of uncounted eyes; 
Out of the breaking of a thousand ties ; 
Even from the errors of our old 6urmise; — 
At last — at last— begins the Fairy-tale. 

Mabel Parker Huddleslon, 1889. 


A Thief of Reputations. 

IF Cousin Emily had got the lilac handkerchief and I the light blue, things 
would perhaps have turned out differently. I was thoroughly used to 
blue. My handkerchief box was blue. So were my bed-room slippers, 
and my pincushion and needle-book. In short, as plainly appears from 
the furnishings just mentioned, blue was the prevailing tone in the small 
hall bed-room that could hold very little more than the above articles, a low, 
white bed and myself — I being white too by night, and almost any service- 
able colour by day. So that, had I chanced upon the blue handkerchief 
when Emily held it and the lilac one behind her back for me to choose, 
I should simply have accepted it, a trifle disappointed perhaps, but quite 
naturally, as one more link in the cable which was fast binding me to the 
mild, undisturbable psychology, characteristic of people whose favourite 
colour is blue or pink. "My mother — told me — to take — this one," I 
counted rapidly, while Peggotty jumped about and barked madly at the 
fluttering bits behind Emily's back. "Down, Peg ! I'll take — Peggotty ! — 
this one," pointing to the one "my mother" had told me to take. 

. "There I" said Emily, producing the lilac square, while Peg panted 
eagerly in my face and flung herself excitedly upon my ankles as if to 
pi'otest that she could have told me all along it was in that hand. 

I held it, half-fascinated. It was a colour quite out of my experience, 
but for the tall bushes on either side the kitchen porch. Mother had 
brought it all the way from Los Angeles, and, in its delicate light, it held 
for me the romance of another world. I pressed my face into its thin folds, 
and ran to the kitchen to show it to Molly. She was not there. But in 
the open door the spring sun fell upon a heavy cluster of the lilac bushes. 
For the first time in my five lilac seasons they occurred to me worthy the 
cutting. Carrying a chair to the door-sill I climbed upon it and broke a 
heavy spray. Its colour, even more than the breath of spring upon it, sank 
into my very soul. 

"Look at me, Becky !" some one called as I jumped from the chair ; it 
was my sister, Christiana. 


"0 Christiana !" I stopped, my hands clasped in rapture. 

"Mother brought it," laughed Christiana. "How do I look, Becky?" 
and she danced across the porch as if she were as little a girl as I, instead 
of being'almost seventeen. 

"0 Christiana!" I repeated. 

"It's to wear to Cousin Lydia's wedding," explained Christiana. 

I felt the new dress gently between my fingers. It was soft and cool— 
and it was lavender ! 

"And it's to have this sewed about the throat," Christiana went on, 
holding up a soft bit of lavender lace. "The lace was Auntie Julia's, and 
she gave it to mother for me when she saw how it would match my dress." 

I was highly impressed. What with the wedding, and the new colour, 
the Auntie Julia lace, and the handkerchief, my head fairly whirled with 
the thrill of experience enlarged. 

"And you can carry my handkerchief, Christiana," I said, jumping 
up and down in my enthusiasm. 

"O Becky, dear!" exclaimed Christiana gratefully, "and it's such a 
sweet little handkerchief!" 

I loved Christiana's approval, so I took her hand and skipped along 
with her toward mother's room. Peg came too, and insisted upon constru- 
ing our happy run as a challenge to her speed, until I was obliged to drag 
her from the ribbons of Christiana's slippers, and finally to gather her front 
legs up in my arms (she was too big for me to carry entirely) and walk 
her into mother's room on her unwilling hind feet. 

"Take it off, Christiana," mother said, "until I ruffle in Aunt Julie's 
lace, and then we'll try it once more. I only hope there's enough of it," 

After Christiana had slipped out of the dress, and had gone, I sat in my 
chair beside mother, watching her needle, and at intervals scolding Peg, 
whose spirits were excessive. The spring sunlight, falling in across the 
lavender and flashing back from mother's scissors, cast me into a pleasant 
flow of satisfaction, and, when some one called mother to the garden, I 
sat still in my little chair, my hands on its arms, with Peg, who had sub- 
sided, at my feet — both of us warm and happy. Thereupon the serpent 
entered — as he does on the bright day. The lavender lace, half ruffled, lay 
on mother's basket; the scissors, casting a bright yellow circle of light on the 
ceiling, la} on the t.ilil<\ 


There was no wrestling with the tempter; that was to come later. 
With scarcely a tremor I laid hold of the scissors, sending the circle dancing 
over the ceiling, and haggled off one — two — three little fragments, each 
scarcely an inch long, from the unruffled end of the lilac edging. Then 
I dropped the scissors upon the floor and sat back in my chair, contemplat- 
ing the bits in my hand. I had no use to put them to. They were too 
short for any purpose, and, in such small pieces, even the glow of colour 
was lost. When mother came back into the room I was arranging them 
nonchalantly into a triangle on my knee. 

"I found these, mother ; can I have them ?" 

"Why, Eebekah!" and mother stood quite still. 

"I found them — over in the corner," I added rather lamely, introducing 
the local colour to make it convincing. Still mother said nothing at all, 
but walked to the window and stood looking out. For a little I sat silent, 
trying not to think of the turn of mother's shoulders. Then, hoping that 
perhaps the clouds had blown over — or wishing to assume that there had 
been none — I burst into a little tune : 

"Jesus loves me. this I know, 
For the Bible tells me so." 

Mother turned quickly from the window and came over to me. 

"Eebekah," she said quite sadly, "I can't believe you would tell mother 
what isn't true." 

"I found them, mother." 

"The scissors were on the table." 

"They're just little weenty scraps, anyway," and I looked at them with 
a contempt that did not have to be feigned. 

Mother lifted her sewing and sat down to work once more. A long 
silence followed, which I felt it incumbent upon me to break. Finally, 

"When little children tell a lie it hurts their throat," I offered. Im- 
mediately I felt, from mother's look, that personal testimony was ill-timed. 

"Mine doesn't hurt," I hastened to add; "it feels good," rubbing my 
hand over my throat with what enthusiasm I could. 

"Now I shall have to try to piece Christiana's lace," mother said, 
"but her lovely dress will never be so pretty." 

"Perhaps Christiana cut them." 
No response. 


"Perhaps they fell off." 
Still no answer. The suggestions were good, but mother was not lis- 

"Perhaps — perhaps Peggy bit them." 
Hearing her name Peg opened an eye ; then, seeing that I was looking 
at her, scurried up hastily, planted her paws on my knees, yawned, and dived 
her nose into my face by way of salute — a familiarity which I rather liked 
but which father and mother firmly discountenanced. 

"Well, then," mother said, "if Peggy did it, I think we shall have to 
punish her." 

Now Peggy's punishments were the tragedies of my life. Only two 
days before I had rejected the consolations of dinner and tea while Peg 
had whined out retribution on the end of her chain for having chased the 
new white chickens; and it had already become a live family problem to 
mete out to her, in the face of my too stormy intercessions, the discipline 
necessary to her period of character formation. 

"She'll never do it again, mother," I interposed quickly. 

"Ah, there's no telling, Rebekah. Suppose we put her in the dark 

"Oh, she's so afraid there, mother !" 

"Well, then, perhaps it will make her sorry." 

"1 think she looks sorry now, mother," I begged; and Peg gave out a 
short bark which may have been sorrow or only sauciness. 

But mother stood firm, though I cried so heartily that the new lilac 
handkerchief was a mere sop before I observed that it was not one of my 
ordinary ones. And I myself was obliged to lead Peggy into the shadowy 
stone cellar in which she cowered and shook so pitifully as soon as she was 
taken beyond the door; and when I had torn myself from her frantic em- 
braces and the warm touch of her tongue on my hands, I could only sit on 
the porch and listen to her frightened little yelps. In my agony of re- 
morse I buried my wet face against the hard boards of the porch floor; 
but only those who have told one straight deliberate lie, and only one, can 
know how impossible it is to go back upon it. And so at last I fell asleep. 

When T awoke I had been carried in to the big lounge in the sitting 
room. Evidently I had far outdone my usual afternoon nap, for the big 
clock was striking four. Mother came to me as I stirred, and stroked hack 


my hair very tenderly from my warm, moist face. As I became fully awake 
all my misery swept over me again — but it needs a flood to break down a 
pride of integrity that is five years old. 

"Did she have her dinner?" 

"Yes, dear." 

"Who gave it to her?" 

"I did." 
Then mother said : 

"Do you want to carry her some milk?" 

"Yes," climbing off the lounge. 

Mother brought the white porcelain bowl quite full, and put it in my 
hands. With no words I turned away, feeling my neck very stiff in the 
back, but with warm tears against my eyelids. 

"Shall 1 let her out?" 

" Not yet, Rebekah." 

The tears ran over, but I trudged on. A word, I knew, was all that 
mother wanted, but how could I speak it, when it meant complete denial of 
the only self I had ever known ? Carefully I weighed the bowl in both 
hands as I felt my way down the steps to the door, and contrived; to lift the 
latch, steadying myself for Peggy's passionate greeting. But she did not 
jump up to meet me. She made no sound at all. As I became accustomed 
to the shadow I saw her lying in the corner. 

"Peggy, dear!" I called, thinking she was asleep. 

On my knees beside her I raised her head, but her bright eyes did not 
flash open as they always used to. 

"Dear Peggy !" I pleaded half frightened, and tried to turn her 
cold little nose into the bowl of milk. 

As I sat down on the floor beside her I laid my hand by chance on the 
sharp edge of a broken dish. Vaguely I recognised it as a fragment of the 
blue bowl that Holly had warned me from when she prepared a mixture for 
the red ants. Still more vaguely I half recognised that Peggy must have 
knocked it from its shelf — sweet, sweet Peg, who always tasted everything-. 

I gathered her stiff little legs and unyielding body into my arms. One 
white tooth showed from her quietly closed mouth, and her long soft ears 
fell back gently. 

"Oh Peggy!" T sobbed, "it was me — it was me, all the time!" 

Ruth George, 1910. 


Sea Fantasy. 

Deep, deep, beneath the southern sea she lies 

Upon an amber couch in coral halls; 
Great fishes, metal-scaled, with sightless eyes, 

Glide by the falling, falling em'rald walls. 
Pale-tressed sea nymphs tend the girl; 
Sandals of gleaming pearl 

Upon her feet they bind, 
And opal fillets wind 
About her raven locks that curl, 

The while they sing: "Come, leave these misty caves, 

And sport with us upon the foam of tumbling waves." 

Silent she lies in her immortal sleep, 

Nor hears the sweet sea voices in her ears, 
Nor sees dim earthly forms that kneel and weep 

And by strange sands pour out their stricken tears. 
Glad commemorative dreams 
Are hers, wherein she seems, 

Ardent and young and sweet, 

To run on swift white feet 
Past inland fields and streams 

To keep a timeless vow beneath the tree 

Where one sad shepherd pipes his antique elegy. 

Louise Foley, 1908. 


The Poems of Ethna Carbery. 

"A light has been quenched in Eirinn; another hope has gone under 
the green sod." 

These lines stand in the introduction to a thin volume of poems, 
The Four Winds of Eirinn, published under the name of Ethna Carbery. 
To most readers outside of Ireland this little book came, a few years 
ago, as the first suggestion of the work of Anna Johnston MacManus, 
who, "in the flower of her youth and the blossoming of her genius, closed 
her eyes on the Ireland of her heart's love." Yet, incomplete as the 
collection of poems is, no other Celtic writer has compressed into so 
small a space more ardent love for the motherland, more passionate 
regret for her lost glory, a more joyous vision of her future. "From 
childhood till her closing hour, every fibre of her frame vibrated with 
love for Ireland. Before the tabernacle of poor Ireland's hopes she burned 
in her bosom a perpetual flame of faith." Through the intensity of her 
devotion she becomes the spirit of Ireland embodied. She speaks not 
with the voice of the few who see Ireland's salvation in intellectual revival, 
but with the voice of the whole people. She expresses not only the highly 
refined, mystical element of the Celtic nature, but the primitive sim- 
plicity of the Irish peasant. 

Nowhere in the poetry of the Celt does one find more exquisitely 
expressed the longing for beauty, the passionate pursuit of the ideal. 
In The Well of the World's End we run the whole gamut of human life, 
and we see each one seeking the cool well-water where "whoso drinks the 
nine drops shall win his heart's desire." The Quest shows the helpless- 
ness of the human soul in the grasp of this divine unrest. The seeker 
seems about to attain the beauty he desires, when it vanishes, vague as a 
dream, and he cries : 

"Are you, too, a dream. Heart-breaker? Shalt I meet you some day or some 

To know you for sorrow eternal, or the star of unending delight?" 


This elusive quality, strongly suggestive of Shelley, is found again in 
Niamh and in Angus the Lover. Niamh is the mysterious beauty which 
lures us on and ever eludes our grasp. We see afar off only "the drifted 
gold of wind-blown, flying hair." 

"Oh, who is she, and what is she? 
A beauty born eternally 
Of shimmering moonshine, sunset flame, 
And rose-red heart of dawn ; 
None knows the secret ways she came, — 
Whither she journeys on." 

Angus the Lover embodies an even more impassioned seeking for the 
elusive spirit of beauty, combined with exultation in the belief in the final 
consummation of desire : 

"Thus she ever escapes me — a wisp of cloud in the air, 
A streak of delicate moonshine, a glory from otherwhere; 
Yet out in the vibrant space I shall kiss the rose in her face, 
I shall bind her fast to my side with a strand of her flying hair." 

The poems are filled throughout with the fairy folk-lore of the Celt. 
The fairy world is all about, and no one knows when he may be drawn across 
the mystic boundary that divides the everyday world from the world of 
enchantment. As she goes to her milking "with a heart fair and free," 
the peasant girl meets the "Love Talker" in the guise of a mortal lover, 
and she is henceforth doomed. For "who meets the Love Talker must 
weave her shroud soon." The Sidhe are ever waiting to lure mortals 
within the fairy ring. A maiden is left to mourn her lover who woos 
a fairy love in Tir-n'an-Og, the land of eternal youth. Or again, a bereft 
lover steps upon a "ring of green beneath a twisted thorn," where he is 
able to hear the "clash of fairy swords and the fairies' battle shout," and 
to see the Gentle Folk warring for the sake of his fair girl. This en- 
chanted world is bright with sunshine and gay with fairy flowers. There — 

"The blackbird lilts, the robin chirps, the linnet wearies never, 
They pipe to dancing feet of Sidhe, and thus shall pipe forever." 

But he who enters there forgets country, home, the faces of those be 
loves. He lives on forever under "the spell that lays forgetful ness of 
earth on earth lv things." 


One of the most significant aspects of the poems is, as has been said, 
the presentation of the spirit of the Irish peasantry. The poet loves to 
picture the beauty of the youth of Ireland, "the shy-eyed colleens, and lads 
so straight and tall." She dwells upon the simple homely life spent among 
the wind-swept heather and gray glens of the North of Ireland, or on 
the golden gorse-covered plains of the South. We hear the soft lowing 
of cattle and see the swift flashing of the scythes through the corn. The 
Irish girl sits by the spinning wheel, or trips with her milking pail through 
the dewy grass. But into this peaceful life comes want and hunger, 
driving the youth of Ireland into exile. The lament of the Irish emigrant 
is not a protest against poverty and famine; it is longing for the "purple 
peaks of Kerry" and the "crags of wild Imaal." He is not satisfied with 
material things, "for there's a hunger of the heart that plenty never 
cures." You penetrate here to the inner secret of the Celtic spirit — the 
beatify and purity of inspiration in the soul of the humblest of the race. 
And to this is added the charm that lies in the simplicity of Irish speech : 

"Vein o' my heart, can you hear me crying, 
Over the salt dividing sea? 
Maybe you'll think it's the wind that's sighing — 
But it comes from the heart o' me, 
The heart o' me !" 

But the love for Ireland finds its fullest expression in the poems 
addressed directly to the motherland. The patriotic fervour of the poet 
is sometimes expressed in a despairing lament for Ireland's lost hopes. 
The wind is bidden to blow softly over the King of Ireland's cairn lest 
he awake from dreams of "victor chants re-echoed in Tara of the Kings," 
to find 

That all is changed in Ireland, 

And Tara lieth low." 

Sometimes with faith born of desire she sees the glorious Ireland of 
the future. The fairy sleep need not break to release the heroes of the 
past; the spirit of the present is ready to answer the call of the mother- 

"But Shiela in Gara, why rouse the stony dead, 
Since at your call a living host will circle you instead? 
Long is our hunger for your voice, the hour is drawing near — 
Oh Dark Rose of our Passion, call and our hearts shall hearf" 


In A Gaelic Song she gives her final prophecy. She sees the passing 
of Ireland's greatness: 

"One saw the Glory of Life go by, 
And one saw Death alone — " 

— but she sees also the soul of Eire awaking again: 

'•She hath stirred at last In her sleeping — 

She is folding her dreams away ; 
The hour of her destiny neareth — 
And it may be to-day — to-day !" 

Ethna Carbery speaks with the voice of the Irish people, expressing 
their dreams for the Ireland of the future. The motherland may well 
mourn the loss of a daughter "as courageous of heart, as passionately faith- 
ful as she.*' To those of another race, she is a poet of unusual beauty, 
one upon whom has been bestowed the rare gift of song. And listening 
to her sad music, we too may lament that "the Toice of the singer is 
silenced," that, like the King of Ireland's son, she has passed over the 
"Hill of the World's End." 

Ruth Collins, 1910. 


The Spring of the Year. 

(Freesias in February.) 

The pale sweet sun to-day 
An instant dreamed of May: 
These ivory flowers behold, 
Splashed with late August's gold; 
Strong scent and colour strong 
To the spring o' the year belong. 

Blood, like the sap, runs warm; 
Daytime and night, dreams swarm; 
All creatures seek their kind; 
Voices ring in my mind ; 
Dead griefs, desires vain, 
Turn in their graves again. 

Highway and hedgerow wait, 
Dark streams are loud in spate, 
Cuckoo will soon be back; 
Ah, but if comrades lack? 
Love holds his seat i' the breast, 
He urges, I cannot rest, 
So it's good-bye, city lore, 
We're on the tramp once more ! 

Georgiana Goddard King, 1896. 


Silken Dalliance. 

Miss Molly Clayton and her niece Amelia, newly arrived from "the 
North," were sitting at breakfast together over the pink-flowered china 
and polished mahogany. It was a leisurely meal, partly because Miss 
Moll}' was temperamentally averse to hurry, and had never in all her 
life felt the necessity for it, and partly because "Aunt Petronia's" journeys 
down the back steps and the sunny grass-grown walk to the kitchen con- 
sumed considerable time. 

The morning, moreover, was warm, and promised a warmer day. As 
the old darkey passed slowly back and forth with the plates of fresh waffles 
she hummed, half under breath, a melancholy rhythmic little chant, its 
tone somehow reminiscent of the cotton fields and the white heat beating 
down upon them. Through the open dining-room door one caught 
glimpses of sky as soft and hot as azure velvet ; the sunlight slanting 
through leafy grape-vine screens lay across the porch floor in pools of 
molten metal; and Amelia, like one of the roses in the neglected flower 
garden, drooped a heavy head. She had read her letters twice over and 
flung them aside in her impatience for her aunt to have done. But Miss 
Molly poured the rest of the cream over her strawberries, and tasted them 
with the deliberation and relish of one for whom life holds nothing more 
vital — as ? indeed, it can hold few things more pleasant— than a pleasant 
morning meal. 

"Your Uncle Clarence used to say," she remarked to her niece with 
a smile which wrinkled her delicate little face into fine creases, "that 
breakfast, coming, as it does, before the cares and distractions of the day, 
should be kept as an intimate rite by those who share it. I hope Rob San- 
ford is not going to spoil this for you and me, Amelia." 

The girl flushed and laughed, wondering meanwhile what cares or dis- 
tractions Aunt Molly had ever known, and swept the two fat letters into 
her lap. 

"I'm sorry, Aunty, I didn't realise I was breaking a family tradition. 
Bob is banished." 

"Poor Rob!" murmured Miss Molly sentimentally. (Not that she ap- 


proved of the obscure young man in question. Perish the thought! The 
best of Sanfords was no match for a Clayton, and a Sanford who had sunk 
so low as to work in a big northern "electricity shop" — Miss Molly knew 
no other name for it — was completely beyond the pale. But the hopeless 
lore affairs are ever the most interesting. Did not she of all people know 

"Don't pity him, Aunt Molly. He is a shameless intruder. He knows 
I came home chiefly to get away from him." 

"Poor Amelia !" murmured Miss Molly again, with the air of one 
who understood. "It's even harder on you, I know, to inflict involuntarily 
so much suffering. There is nothing so terrible as a great influence over 
the life of another human being. But it's a penalty you have to pay for 
being a woman — and a^ Clayton." Miss Molly smiled the complaisant 
smile of the philosopher who has explained the universe, and taking the 
basin of warm water from Petronia, she began to wash the breakfast cups — ■ 
her grandmother's cups which she never allowed the servants to touch. But 
insensibly Amelia let her gaze wander over the line of familiar faces which 
looked down upon her from their dark glazed backgrounds and heavy frames. 
There were women with dreaming eyes and the mouths of children ; 
bland smiling little girls and boys; Uncle Clarence in his gray Confederate 
uniform but with a sensitive, oval countenance more suggestive of the 
poet than the warrior; and Amelia's grandfather, smooth-faced and fresh- 
coloured, too, in spite of his white hairs and scholar's gown. Then her 
eyes returned to Miss Molly, and noted anew the bloom of her cheeks but 
just beginning to fade, the sheen of her heavy hair but just beginning to 
turn gray. 

"And did they all have unfortunate love affairs, too ?" the girl wondered. 
"Perhaps so; perhaps that is the secret of their freshness — romance without 
pain, romance which never blunts its fine edge against reality. They never 
lived in dingy New York boarding houses, or tried to paint pictures when 
they couldn't, or broke their hearts because they didn't know what they 
most wanted to do." 

"You are looking pale, Amelia dear," said Miss Molly with concern. 
"I hope the change of climate won't be too much for you. Perhaps you 
had better not come with me to the Fraser's this morning." 

"I'll go with you late this afternoon," suggested the girl, "after it gets 
a little cooler. There's no hurry about returning those books, is there?" 


'Oh, do ! but the surrey is ready now, and — and besides- 

"What, Aunt Molly?" The little lady blushed sweetly as she set 
down the last tea cup and dried the delicate hands which seemed never 
to have touched less dainty things than fragile painted china. "It's Satur- 
day, you know," she continued, and the Fraser's place is on the Sugar 
Creek Road, and " 

"And Mr. Jordon drives out to his plantation to stay over Sunday," 
finished Amelia ; "and might stop at Fraser's for lunch. Oh, go now by all 
means. Perhaps I'll come along with you, after all. You need looking 

"You're a great tease, honey," fluttered Miss Molly with just the 
proper degree of pleased embarrassment — "almost as bad as your Uncle 
Clarence. But I reckon I'm old enough to take care of myself, and you 
must rest to-day. You've plenty of time to see the Frasers, and Mr. Jordon 
too. Petronia shall unpack your trunk for you, and you may have her 
clear the closet in Elizabeth's room if you need more space for your dresses." 

•'Elizabeth's room," reflected Amelia, when her aunt had gone. "I 
had forgotten they still called it so. And my Cousin Elizabeth died when 
I was in sunbonnets and pinafores. 'Time travels in divers paces with 
divers persons.' It has certainly stood still here. The same things for 
breakfast that there were when I first emerged from the nursery ; same 
china on the table; same furniture in exactly the same places against the 
wall. I almost believe those are the same humming birds over the scarlet 
sage out there beneath the window. And Aunt Molly says the same 
things and does the same things and thinks the same things that she has 
said and done and thought for thirty years. I wonder why she never 
married him, anyhow. I don't believe that she herself could answer that. 
Petronia," she called, hearing the old darkey's step in the pantry, "when I 
was a little girl they used to tell me that T was like Aunt Molly." 

Petronia paused in the doorway, arms akimbo, and studied her young 
mistress with critical attention. "Ef you didn't fix yo' hair in dat new- 
fangled way. Miss Emmy, and ef yo' face wah'n't quite so pale and peaked 
you'd be de livin' pictor of Miss Molly dis very minute." 

"But 1 won't be like her," muttered Amelia, "even if I can't paint 
pictures, I won't be like her. I'm going to do something before I die. 
Uood heavens '." ami sin- clenched her hands — thin, polished, Clayton hands — 
"I'll write U> Hob this very day." 


But she did not write that day nor yet the next, and as the old 
langourous leisurely manner of living, in which one golden day melted im- 
perceptibly into another, took possession of her spirit once again, the 
question of Rob became gradually less vital and immediate. When she did 
write it was in the usual indecisive tone — half affection, half sheer coquetry, 
wholly calculated to tantalise and exasperate the dead-in-earnest young man 
who wanted her to set up housekeeping with him in a small New Jersey 
town. At first she hated herself for the letter — but after all what else 
could she do? There were many reasons why she should not marry Eob 
Sanford. All other objections removed, there would still remain her 
unconquerable distaste for the life such a marriage would entail. In the 
dingy New York boarding house the idea had been at times alluring, but 
now . Still she had left things drift far, and it was hard delib- 
erately to forego such whole-souled devotion as Rob's. Story-book girls 
sometimes did things like that; Amelia wondered if a real girl had ever 
turned away a faithful lover. It might happen that she would want to 
marry him some day; she was far from sure that she would not. She 
was fond of Eob, — it had become a habit to be fond of him, — and no one 
else could ever love her as he did; sometimes his affection had seemed 
to be her only excuse for existing. And now Aunt Molly's mixture of 
sympathy and disapproval lent a flavour of romance to an affair that had 
of late grown painfully prosaic. 

Yes, she would postpone her decision until she saw him again. After 
all, what harm could there be in enjoying his letters for a few sunshiny 
weeks longer, — the days would have lost their finest flavour had it not been 
for the joy of awaiting the postman on the shady oleander-scented ve- 
randa, — and what harm to compose pretty, cryptic answers, and to enliven 
the long summer mornings, when she and Miss Molly sat and sewed together 
in the open hallway, by dropping mysterious hints to her inquisitive aunt? 

They were pleasant days — delirious, inconsequent, care-free days, full 
of the light and laughter of the South. Amelia was surprised to rediscover 
her own temperamental affinity with the young people of the neighbour- 
hood. How truly young and gay they were after the pseudo youth and 
gayety of the studio-world! She had forgotten, too, the luxury of doing 
nothing — of reading in the big striped hammock until she fell asleep; of 
lingering over the luncheon table until Aunt Petronia ordered her out of 
the room; of driving for hours in the late afternoons down country roads 


shaded by "high, green hedges of osage-orange. Moonlight gatherings on 
the lawn, suppers at the Country Club with Mr. Jordon and Aunt Molly, 
kind people who were glad to talk to her because she was "Archie Clayton's 
girl," good-natured darkies to wait upon her from morning until night — 
life seemed all at once very crude and bare without these pleasant amenities. 

But most of all Amelia loved the old house about which still clung 
the mellow sweetness of the past, and the big grass-grown, oak-shaded yard 
where the spirit of the Southern mid-summer seemed to linger. She loved 
the crumbling gate posts overgrown with honey-suckle; the driveway wind- 
ing through vistas of shimmering green to the house ; the fragrant wilderness 
of pinks and larkspurs and roses which had once been the flower-garden; 
and the spring-house, long since fallen into ruin, with its riot of clambering 
morning-glories. These things became for her symbols, as it were, of the 
sweet-scented, slow-moving existence which had had its being here; of 
Aunt Molly's existence, if one wished, whom she had so recently despised 
for having missed the wine of life. Well, she had missed the dregs, too; 
there was something in that. 

Amelia thought of these things sometimes as she lingered alone in the 
library among her grandfather's books, and fingered their rich old bindings 
— Eussia and Morocco and calf and gilded vellum — or turned the yellowed 
leaves of some ancient folio, "fragrant as those sciental apples which grew 
amid the happy orchard." And she thought of them now and then in 
a dreamy, hazy way, after Parker had closed the library blinds to protect 
the carpet from the afternoon sunlight, and the mid-afternoon silence had 
crept over the house, and the leaf shadows on the lowered shade had be- 
come motionless as the pattern on a screen, and she had slipped upstairs to 
her own room and her big four-poster bed. For the most part, however, 
Amelia did not think much of anything ; she looked neither forward nor 
backward — simply "floated with the golden hour." And so the summer 
days slipped past until August and the full glory of the August moon were 
at hand. 

The big yard lay shimmering beneath a flood of liquid silver. Amelia, 
left alone on the veranda steps — for Mr. Jordon was calling on Aunt Molly 
to-night — tilted her head against the column behind her and felt unspeak- 
ably solitary. Delicate lace patterns quivered across the curving driveway; 
the moon-blanched lawn, splashed with 'ebony shadow, stretched away, so it 
seemed, almost to the rim of the world, and the wind from the flower gardsn, 


heavy with the fragrance of roses, lifted the girl's hair caressingly from her 
forehead. There was only one thing necessary to make it all perfect; 
Amelia wanted her lover. In her present mood Charlie Fraser did not 
appeal to her, — she had told him not to come when he had telephoned , — 
now, nevertheless, with her face buried in her hands to shut out the intoxi- 
cating beaut} r of the night, she half wished he would not take her at her 

"Charlie?" she called suddenly, hearing a step on the driveway. 

A man stepped out of the shadows into the moonlit space before the 
steps. His upturned face was young and grim. 

"No, it's not Charlie — whoever the scoundrel may be. It's me, 

The girl's voice broke beneath its burden of joy. "Rob !" she cried, 
"dear, dear Eob, you heard my thoughts, I think." 

Then he sat close beside her, and held her hands in his and made love 
to her as she had wanted him to. And they were both very happy. 

"I suppose you know what I've come for, Emmy?" he said at length, 
with some hesitation. 

"To see me," the girl answered happily. 

"More than that. To take you back with me. Don't look so scared, 
Emm} 7 ; I'm not crazy, but I will be if things go on much longer as they 
are. It's killing me. this uncertainty. I never know whether you are 
going to treat me as a beggar or a prince, or when you are going to fling 
me over for some other fellow. It isn't fair, Emmy. God knows, it isn't 

"Don't use such language, Rob. You said that you could get only two 
days' leave of absence. Surely you don't expect me to go back with you 

"Yes, I do. You've got to go." 

"My dear Rob, there's no doubt about your being crazy. What would 
Aunt Molly say?" 

"I don't want to marry Aunt Molly; I want to marry you, and I'm 
going to do it now or never. I gave up my music for you, Emmy, and went 
into this cursed shop to make a living for you. Don't look like that! You 
know I don't begrudge the fiddle if I can have you. But I'm not going to 
lose you both, that's flat!" 

"Yon are too absurd! Why do you talk about losing me? You know 
there are reasons " 


"Xo good ones'' — the boy was thoroughly aroused — "you've put me 
off on one paltry pretext after another till I am fairly sick." 

"But I'm not ready," wailed Amelia. "I've no time to think, I've 
no suitable clothes — oh, Rob," and she choked with tears, "why will you 
torture me so ':" 

The boy winced. "I torture you, Amelia?" 

"By demanding things that I'm not ready to give, by swooping down 
on me as if I were a — a Sabine woman, by trying to make me disgrace my 
family, and break Aunt Molly's heart and — and " 

"Good heavens, Emmy, don't cry like that ! I didn't mean to be so 
violent. I don't want to make you unhappy. Heaven knows I don't, 
Emmy •" 

"If you cared for me," she sobbed against his shoulder, "you would 
listen to reason : you would wait till I thought best." 

"If I cared ! Do you care, Emmy ? If I were only sure of that it 
wouldn't be so hard to wait for you." 

She smiled at him through a mist of tears and for some strange 
reason he seemed to find it a satisfactory answer. "Now are you going to 
be good and not spoil the rest of your visit by making vulgar scenes?" 

"Yes," he promised like an obedient child, and once again they were 
very happy. The wind from the flower-garden touched their faces, and 
the perfumed silver night was close about them. 

"The world is all gloom and glow," said Amelia with half-shut eyes. 
"I wish you had your violin, Rob." 

Then around the curve of the driveway came two figures, startling the 
young people from their preoccupation. They looked up and Amelia 
laughed sympathetically, but at the boy's heart settled a weight heavy and 
cold as stone. The fates might at least have spared him this! He saw 
Amelia and himself grown old. 

"What a night and what a sky!" breathed Miss Molly sweetly as they 

Katharine Forbes Liddell, 1910. 



Of what avail that thou and I 
Draw close, oh, close, and smile and say, 

"Though others pass unheeded by 

We know each other's hearts to-day"? 
Thy thoughts from mine are distant far 
As angels' are. 

For both, one magic on the air, 

One ecstasy of wind and sun, — 
One thrill of fragrance jasmines bear, 

Yet what new understanding won? 

From them I muse on pleasure sped ; 
Thou on thy dead. 

A slow bell with its solemn sound 

Tolls back things vanished, known before. 

To thee it brings enjoyment found 
Upon some unimagined shore; 
To me, a sad gray day I know 
Of long ago. 

And when in quiet mood we dream 

Of evening that in sombreness 
Shall quench all fever in its stream, 
One waits new vigils, passionless, 
And one oblivion, buried deep 
In timeless sleep. 

Helen Parkhurst, 1911. 


Of Heavenly Hymns. 

"In dulci Jubilo, 

Nun singhet und seid froh!" 

In the days of our youth, when reason is our mistress, and the "first 
fine careless rapture" of her exercise is yet upon us, we are exceedingly apt 
in the making of generalisations. We of the younger generation live in a 
world of primary qualities — of mass, solidity and figure. Countries, even 
whole continents, are moulded for us into broad outlines of simplicity. We 
can deliver ourselves at length and yet with clearness upon the Sprachge- 
fiihl of any people beneath the sun. Cities and towns range themselves 
in order under our categories; men and women fall precisely into our 
classifications. We can distinguish at sight a Puritan from a Koyalist, a 
Celt from an Anglo-Saxon. 

Our very prejudices are founded upon these rationalistic devices. We 
are accustomed to say with Carlyle — and who does not feel the fire of youth 
ablaze in the Sartor Rosartus — that the man who cannot laugh "is not 
only fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils, but his whole life is already a 
treason and a stratagem." We look with cold suspicion upon the man or 
woman who cannot give us a good grip of the hand, and we set our faces 
like flints against the unfortunate fellow mortal who has cultivated a 

But let it not be thought that in thus generalising upon the ways of 
the young I am setting myself to criticise the stern mandate of reason. I 
can still say with the Psalmist, "I am wiser than the aged," for I can add 
one more to the general tests for an honest man. Whoso takes no joy in 
a rousing song, whoso mouths and mumbles and gazes, when he might 
be adding his share to a volume of sound, stands forever on the wrong side 
of my deepest regard. 

1 won hi not be understood as pleading for the "concord of sweet 
sounds" which is — as the poet maintains— bound to melt any loyal heart. 
I am inclined, indeed, to take issue with the poet upon this point, and to 
contend that many a faithful fellow might remain insensible to the charms 
of a music demanding an attentive ear. But give him opportunity to join 


in with a lusty roar, and even though he be "organically incapable of a 
tune," I will engage that his dull heart will stir within him. In short, 
my praise is for singing, not as a hearer, but as a singer. 

Nothing arouses my wonder, my admiration, to a greater degree than 
the sound of many voices lifted in singing. Would not creation have been 
complete without this last most gracious gift to man? Why this fantastic 
power to change our throats at will into music boxes, into sweet piping 
instruments of song? That there should be variety in degree of sweetness 
does but add to the marvel of it. 

It is indeed this variation in pleasantness of tone that first leads us 
to seek beyond the ]:>leasure of the delicate ear for the high function of the 
singing voice — a function that cannot be doubted in this well wrought 
world of means to ends. Moreover, who is he even among the most ardent 
lovers of music whose throat does not swell with desire of singing at sound 
of a single voice? Assuredly, whatever may be its purpose — and that may 
yet appear, though but dimly seen and understood— the song comes into 
its own when it is sung in unison. 

At this particular point I fall willingly into reminiscence, remember- 
ing when, at a tender age, I first felt the spiritual significance of united 
song. I was taken by an adventurous old aunt to a Salvation Army meet- 
ing. I can still see the bare, dingy hall, full of dingy people, and, from 
the platform, the glint of scarlet and gold uniforms. But chiefly I remem- 
ber how we sang — my aunt and the dingy people and myself — sang with 
all our hearts I know not what from a tattered card to the tune of After the 
Ball. When we had finished, I dropped all my worldly wealth, ten cents, 
into the proffered tambourine, without an instant's hesitation. I have 
never regretted it. 

I have often wondered whether that band of children, which went 
forth for the saving of the Holy Sepulchre, never to return, marched to 
the sound of their own voices raised in song. Before and since that time 
the chorus has been a device for reviving faint hearts, for speeding pil- 
grim feet upon their way. So Xenophon's soldiers raised the psean as they 
rushed into battle; so the children of Israel chanted "The Song of Degrees" 
as they journeyed to Jerusalem; so mediaevial monks and holy men went 
singing up to Eome: 

"How mighty was that fervour which could win 
Its way to infant souls !" 


And yet the miracle of self-forgetfulness could have been wrought in 
those young crusaders by no surer means than a solemn Latin hymn — its 
long measures suited to the weary miles — and in the halting times, the 
gayer songs of childhood, to keep off the loneliness and hunger. 

Even after we have left behind us the pleasant, spirited customs of our 
youth, we have always, for a common ground of contemplation as to the 
significance of singing, the matter of hymns. Now the air may be full 
of nameless scents, of sweet, fleeting sounds, the buds may swell, the sky 
be adorned with silver and pale vernal colour, and yet I have not known 
the spring until I have joined mine with many a voice: 

" 'Tis the Spring of souls to-day, 

Christ has burst his prison. 
And from three days' sleep in death 

As a sun hath risen. 
All the winter of our sins. 

Long and dark, is flying 
From His light, to whom we give 

Laud and praise undying.'' 

Every throat full-opened, every voice loud and clear as in it lies, and 
then I know, not only that the sun is my brother, but more especially 
that there is a common desire, a common hope for us all in the Spring of 
the yeai-. 

There may be, after all, less of derision and more of truth in the old 
fancy that the heavenly citizens are singers of hymns: 

"One and unending is that triumph song 
Which to the angels and us shall belong." 

"What blithe self-forgetfulness is here, and, at the same time, what 
gracious companionship in praising! For He is a good God, 
"Who givefh songs in the night." 

Marion Crane, 19ll. 



When you smile, a million dewdrops 

Dance and tremble in the grass, 
And the flowers lift their faces 

Up toward you as you pass ; 
All the earth glows fair and golden 

For a magic little while, 
And my heart's aflood with sunlight 

When you smile. 

When you sigh, the wind goes sobbing 

Through the branches overhead, 
And the clouds hang grey and leaden, 

Heavy as with tears unshed ; 
All the sweet birds hush their singing 

To a low and broken cry, 
And my heart is dull with aching 

When you sigh. 

When you call, the blessed echoes 

Thrill your voice across the world, 
And the mounting skylark bears it 

In a song to heaven hurled; 
All the breezes ring in cadence 

To your sweet tones' mellow fall, 
And my soul leaps forth in answer 

When you call. 

Caroline Reeves Foulke, 1896. 


A Contrast. 

The civilities of a cordial welcome over, Mrs. English sat down, 
leaned comfortably forward, and let her plump hands hang in mature 
complacency from the ends of her chair arms, while she smiled up at her 
yisitor. He was a dark, slim and tall young man — too tall for the chair in 
which at her invitation he now sat down — possessing that fine and sensitive 
good looks that adds so much grace to youth. But his charm — for he had 
much charm — lay in less tangible characteristics; in the lines of his face, 
thoughtful and reserved, even suggesting taciturnity; and in his eyes, 
keen and observant, yet kind ; — an evident contemplativeness, supplemented 
by interested eyes, that seemed to express a generous understanding of 
others, and a sweet forgetfulness of self. Beyond this, most women saw at 
once — as now did Mrs. English — and pitied with that kinship to love, the 
touch of sadness across his brow, and in the somewhat too tense line of the 

To this man, until this moment a stranger, Mrs. English spoke in the 
manner her nature and position in her small community had bred in her, 
with pleasing volubility and kindly familiarity, as to a friend. 

"So you are Emily's fiance," she said, "and will soon be her hus- 
band ! Edith, my daughter, will not be married till spring." She was 
thoughtful for an instant, then said, "Emily always did do the real things 
first, and, yet, Edith was such an active, healthy child, one expected her 
to lead. Well, Edith never cared about things beyond the moment, and 
Emily always planned — that was the secret. Edith was such a tomboy, 
too, and she, such a quiet, sweet child. She is young to be married — two 
years younger than Edith, and we think Edith young. Oh! I know 
twenty-two is not too young, but to us Editli still seems a child. Not that 
she is: she knows very well what she wants, and asks help from no one. 
But there! I want to hear about Emily. Tt has been ten years since I 
saw her. She was a beautiful child." 

"She is still beautiful," said her lover, for in its spirit Mrs. English's 
remark was a question. 


''Of course, I might have known," Mrs. English acknowledged. "Hers 
was a beauty that lasts. Xow, Edith was never what one might call beau- 
tiful, yet she has always held her own among good-looking girls, and — 
yes, 1 think I may say especially in looks. I am not giving my own 
opinion — I would be partial — I say what I find others think. You see, ehe 
is so full of life ! Even when she is quiet her face speaks." 

The conversation began to awake the young man's mind to a sense 
of romance, and his quick glance took in : on the top of the grand piano a 
sheet of music thrown aside in evident haste, — to make room, perhaps, for 
a new thought — ; the book now open on the rack; and beyond the piano, 
among the cushions on the seat of the bay window, a soft heap of white 
beside a work-basket whose confused contents spoke of a hurried hand 
rifling among them for thimble, or scissors, or thread, as the case might 
be. He thought of Emily's neat possessions; of the white, slow fingers 
that always found every thing in its place, and so restored it. Often, 
lately, he had sat beside her as she sewed, and he caught again, as he 
thought of her, the fond look in her blue eyes, as, her hand scarcely pausing 
in its graceful, even, measured plying of the thread, she glanced up occa- 
sionally to smile at some remark of his; for, though he w r as ordinarily a 
silent man, with Emily who herself lived always in placid silence, he 
became humorous and talkative, while there stole over his too thoughtful 
mind an ever desired feeling of rest. 

"Ten years," Mrs. English was saying, "I do not know why we have 
never visited. In the old days we were always great friends, Cousin Agnes 
and I, and the girls, too, as children go. I always intended to visit her, 
and she me, but I hear from her only occasionally now, and she almost 
never mentions Emily; and Edith and Emily stopped corresponding years 
ago. Indeed, Edith has no time for letter writing; she is going from 
morning till night. I have not been able to impress upon her yet that if 
she is going to be ready even by May she must be getting things together. 
I can't do it all. She should be thankful that getting ready to be married 
is less of a task than it used to be. There are fewer dresses, fewer under- 
clothes, fewer everything, except linen; no housekeeper can have too much 
of that." Here Mrs. English hesitated and looked at her guest. As his 
eyes expressed his continued interest she went on : "There's a great deal 
less bother, too, at home about the making of clothes. It's as well, for 
Edith simply wouldn't be bothered. Indeed, had we at all the same taste, 


when I go in town for the linens, I feel sure she would let me get the 
whole trousseau ; but we differ even in the matter of embroideries, and as 
for dress materials she never accepts what I choose. But you men are not 
interested in this part of getting married. You are troubled only by having 
measurements taken. If you go to a good tailor the less trouble you take 
about selecting your goods the better. Then you are so uniform; a certain 
thing for a certain time : if you use a little sound sense you can't make a 
mistake. But we women ! We are always on the brink of committing 
some error in taste, and the best of us fall. It isn't our fault. It's an 
awful problem, this choosing of clothes; yet, by Edith, when she chooses 
to put her mind to it, it seems to be easily solved." 

Mrs. English had a rapid manner of talking, and punctuated her 
remarks with little laughs. Xow, when again she paused and looked at her 
guest, it was evident from his courteous attention — he was really enter- 
tained — that he had still no desire to speak. 

"And Emily."' she questioned, "as daintily and well dressed as ever, I 
suppose ?" 

The young man smiled a little as he looked at the face of the woman 
before him. He saw, in fancy, the trim and beautiful little figure of 
Emily, draped in the soft colours of her correctly fitted and graceful cos- 
tumes. "To me," he replied, "she always looks bewitching." 

"Emily was so fond and thoughtful, too, so gentle and so kind," Mrs. 
English deliberated; "just the sort of girl one knows will grow to make 
a lovable and desirable wife — while Edith ! — we all wondered at Edith. I 
myself never dreamed she would marry Mr. Blake. I did not dream she 
would marry anyone yet — but him I never considered. Some day, when 
she grew older, I thought she might grow to like one of the boys she had 
always known. I hoped it would be Tom Grey. I always quite loved Tom. 
But Mr. Blake! Well, I did not know Mr. Blake. She met him while she 
was visiting in Florida, and has known him herself only a year. This sounds 
as if she has chosen quickly, but, really, she did not. She knew him six 
months there, and he has been North already four times to see her. He 
liked her from the first, and always told her so. I tell her at least she has 
the satisfaction of knowing she was sought, and in no way did the seeking, 
but she says she does not know what she would have done if she, too, had 
liked him. It's his persistency that has won her, and his newness. These 
other boys she has known always, too well, perhaps, for sentiment. She is 


continually with them. Just now it is golf and tennis all day long, or end- 
less walks, and even occasional days of hunting." 

Mrs. English checked herself and laughed, this time a little con- 
strainedly. She wondered if she might not seem too communicative to 
this silent man. 

He had noticed the emotion come into her voice, and had felt a little 
embarrassed by her confidences, but her last words had restored his abstract 
interest, and now, when she looked at him, he was looking past her, out 
through the sheer curtains of the open windows into the bright sunshine. 
He wondered if Edith was out there. 

It was early fall, and as he listened he thought he heard, coming 
through the cool, still air the sound of a laugh and a clear call. Tennis, 
he conjectured, or, as an afterthought, boating, for, as he had passed the 
hedge before entering the grounds, he had seen, at the foot of the lawn 
behind the house, water glimmering through the trees. 

"Emily is going to live near her family after she is married?" Mrs. 
English asked. 

"Not very far from them," he answered. "Her father has given us a 
small house about three blocks from his, and on a smaller street. We are 
not rich enough to live really near them. Mr. Anderson, as perhaps you 
know, is one of the wealthy men of Chicago, and lives on one of the hand- 
somest streets of the city." 

"I suppose so," Mrs. English's cordial face grew wistful; she sighed 
slightly. "Emily is a very fortunate girl," she said. "She has everything. 
She was born with beauty and a lovable nature, and ever since she has had 
her blessings continually increased, until now she has wealth, every desire 
gratified, all sorts of accomplishments, a wonderful trousseau, I do not 
doubt, and I think not the least of her good fortune, Mr. Lebar, is to have 
won you." 

The young man's glance at her was painfully startled. He but bowed 
his acknowledgement. Then, on the instant, his eyes, as he looked at her 
again, grew almost fond and very sympathetic. Indeed, her compliment 
was so genuine as to convey to him a sense of feeling on her part much 
deeper than her words themselves expressed. He felt that this romantic 
mother was comparing him, and to his advantage, with her own future son- 
in-law. He pictured Mr. Blake a somewhat short, prosaically good-looking 
"business man," perhaps ten years older than Edith, a good alliance, but 


a very plain lover. He had a guilty feeling, as he looked at Mrs. English, 
that, could she know his courtship, she would find him, too, a "plain lover," 
and lie felt almost disloyal to Emily, when, after too long a pause, he 
could find nothing less commonplace to say than that the good fortune was 

"Of course," Mrs. English responded. Then she closed her lips, looked 
down and was silent. "It is a little hard on me," she said, with a quick 
vehemence, when she spoke again, "Oh, I approve thoroughly of Mr. Blake. 
He is in every way a fine man — I suppose a most desirable man. But Edith 
will have to go so far away ! She says she does not mind, but I know she 
will be homesick, if only for the cold weather. She can never have any 
really cold weather there. No skating ! no sleighing, or snow-shoeing, that 
she so much loves ! Poor child ! But I need not pity her. Edith seems 
able to enjoy herself under any conditions; and in time, too, Mr. Blake's 
business may permit him to live farther north. Dear me!" she added, 
abruptly, "I really meant to talk entirely about Emily, and I have scarcely 
mentioned her." 

"I have been much interested," said her visitor, and quite truthfully. 

"You must forgive me," Mrs. English apologised, "I talk too much 
about Edith. I do not mean to, but, you see, it is of her I think — she is 

The young man said nothing; he saw now too plainly the pain and 
dissatisfaction the mother thought she was not acknowledging. 

A moment later he rose to go. "So soon!" said Mrs. English, casting 
off her depression, "and I have offered you no refreshment. I hoped you 
would stay all night with us. This is out of your way to make so short a 

"I must make the four o'clock train from here," he answered. "I 
leave Philadelphia at five thirty !" 

"I am sorry." Mrs. English rose as she spoke, and looked toward the 
windows. "I should so much have liked you to meet Edith. She cannot 
be far away. Had I known I would have sent for her." Then she held out 
her hand. "Thank Emily," she said, "for sending you to see us. I shall 
always feel glad to have met you ; and give our love to them all. Oh !" she 
burst forth, "I do wish Edith would come !" 

As if in answer to her wish, he heard the brisk, loud click of an outer 
door opened and shut; and immediately a clear, full and sweet, yet per- 


emptory girl's voice called "'Mother !" and again "Mother !" And then, to 
another person, and in a low tone, "Oh, Rachel, do you know where I put 
the racket I brought in yesterday ? It's Mr. Grey's. He wants it." 

Mrs. English laughed eagerly. "It is Edith," she said, then she called, 
"Edith, come here, dear." 

And the next instant Edith was walking quickly toward them. 

He had thought that Mrs. English's conversation, the little tell-tale 
suggestions about the room, and, more than these, the clear voice coming 
from the hall, appealing as strongly as they all had to his imagination, had 
prepared him for the vision of the girl herself, but he was not prepared. 
Clad in short-skirted, simple white, her movement full of grace and vigour, 
and free and light as the breezy out-of-doors from where she came, she 
effaced the figment of his romancing by the convincing force of her reality. 

Even through the gloom of the far end of the room where she entered 
her eyes sparkled and her teeth shone; a cordial, kindly gladness seemed 
to emanate from her. And when she reached him and he saw ber face, an 
oval of clear white, healthful skin, beneath dark hair, and in it the gen- 
erous, large, sweet mouth, the full nostrils, dilating with eager breath, and 
the eyes, keen with intelligence, kind with good fellowship, and suggesting 
to him a deep capacity of feeling, he did not hesitate to call her beautiful. 
Indeed, the need to call her so came from too deep within him to be 
denied; he thought her completely lovely. 

As for her, after the first glance, she looked at him unsmiling and 
with a gaze whose intensity was scarcely casual. Her mother's voice re- 
called her. 

"Edith," she said, "this is Mr. Lebar, your cousin Emily's fiance." 

She bowed but made no proffer of her hand, nor did she look at him, 
or speak. 

He acknowledged the bow only with his eyes. 

"I am so glad you happened to come in," Mrs. English ventured, feel- 
ing, and desirous of breaking what seemed to her an uncomfortable pause. 
"I wanted you to see Mr. Lebar, and he takes this train." 

"Yes," said he, now in his turn recovering himself, "I must go, and, 
unfortunately, at once. I am very glad to have met you, Mrs. English — 
and your daughter." He shook hands with the mother and bowed slightly 
to the daughter. As he did so their eyes met. Immediately he turned and 
walked slowly from the room and from the house. 


As soon as Mrs. English heard the door close on their visitor she 
walked to the front window, and, hidden by the curtain, watched him, as, 
with bent head, he walked down the steps, along the drive, and past the 
hedge ; then she turned to her daughter. 

"Edith," she said, severely, '"I could wish sometimes you would control 
better the outward expression of your fancies. I think you cannot quite 
know how rude you are at times. And, as usual," she added, "we differ. 
I think I never met so lovely a man." 

Edith did not answer. She stood where she had been standing, motion- 
less, abstract. Presently she roused herself, and, still silent, left the room. 

Mrs. English, watching her, sighed, then she turned, walked to the 
bay window and looked out across the lawn. A tear swelled in her eye, 
and dropped glistening on her plump cheek. She was thinking, as she 
had thought so often lately, of the many things she wished were different. 

Lee Fanshawe Clapp, 1899. 

To the South Wind. 

To-night the wanton south wind blew 

Through miles of northern pine; 
I longed to hear it subtly woo 

Slim reeds and trailing vine. 

I heard it touch the hills afar, 

Then vainly seek to rise 
Where a virgin moon and vestal star 

Weave music in the skies. 

Helen Dudley, 1908. 



Stevens turned from the purser's window and walked out upon the 
deck. He peered over the rail at the wharf beneath, fascinated by the 
great steamer's height, then fell to watching the scene before him, struck 
anew by a mingled impression of lassitude and energy. There lay Santos, 
low, narrow, breathless, unspeakably hot, crowded in between the mountains 
and the sluggish river. Before and behind him the concrete piers of the 
famous Santos Docks Company stretched in endless succession, and along- 
side these, in some places two deep, ships of every size and country were 
lying, awaiting their turn to be filled with the common treasure all had 
come to seek — Brazilian coffee. Here along the water's edge, in contrast 
with the lifeless town, all was bustle and action; foolish little French en- 
gines puffed back and forth, pulling the loaded and emptied cars, and up 
the gangways toiled a procession of sweating negroes, each balancing a huge 
brown sack of coffee on his head. It seemed a pitiless place for such exer- 
tion ; to Stevens, looking down at them, it was incredible that a human being 
could continue it. He was himself overwhelmed by a feeling of lassitude — 
the reaction after a few hours of intense activity. Only the day before had 
he decided that he must return to England on this steamer ; he had packed 
his possessions, settled his affairs, even written letters of farewell, and had 
taken the early morning train from Sao Paulo down to the coast, hoping 
to secure his passage on the ship itself. How nervous he had been on the 
train ! The brilliant winter season at Buenos Ayres was at its close ; the 
Eoyal Mail steamer was said to be crowded ; would there be room for him ? 
He had resolved to go second-class — steerage even. He would not be left 
behind. He had rushed from the train to the ship to seek the purser. As 
luck would have it,, a reservation held for Eio had just been cancelled, that 
dapper officer had informed him ; certainly they could take him along. Now 
nothing remained to be done but to seek his baggage at the station and 
have it brought aboard; in two hours they would be under way. But his 
trembling eagerness of an hour ago had passed; he could not now muster 
enthusiasm sufficient to take him back to the station through the blistering 
heat. He was revolted at the idea of further effort; he did not care enough. 


How different, he reflected, had been his frame of mind upon his 
arrival in Brazil six years ago, when he had stood contemplating this same 
scene. How feverish his impatience during the interminable process of 
quarantine inspection and installation of gold-braided custom house offi- 
cials — a delay which had caused him to miss the afternoon train to Sao 
Paulo, where his work was to be. With withering scorn he had denounced 
a railroad that could be one of the richest in the world and yet run only 
two trains a day, and his wrath had made him speechless when he had 
learned that because the next day was a fiesta (an occasion for weekly holi- 
days that he learned later to appreciate) he could not make the two hour's 
journey from Santos until the following afternoon. Once aboard the train, 
he had fretted at the many halts during the marvelous journey up the 
mountain-side; and his contempt had known no bounds when twice the 
train was delayed while the passengers had sought coffee in the station 
eating houses. He had come to Brazil to seek a wider outlet for his ener- 
gies, and surely there was little he could not accomplish among so leisurely 
a people. 

Stevens had left England because he could find no chance there for 
advancement. He had worked faithfully in a commercial house for six 
years without a single promotion, and without the prospect of one. The sole 
support of his mother and younger brother, he had not dared to strike out 
for himself without certainty of success. His clerk's salary, though slender, 
had been at least secure. A quiet comfort they had been able to maintain : 
travel, entertainment, luxury of any sort had been things not to be thought 
of. He had loved a girl whom he could not possibly ask to marry him; 
how, indeed, could he look forward to marriage at all? 

Sickened by this, he had sought and obtained employment in the 
Brazilian branch of a trading company, and had left his home. The part- 
ing with his family, the wrenching himself free from associations that were 
all the more deeply rooted because of the narrowness of his life, had been 
difficult. Above all it had been cruel to take leave of the girl he Iced 
without his daring to utter a single request or exact even the slightest 
promise. But fired with the enthusiasm of his purpose he had sailed away 
to the new world where he hoped to find riches lying open to his hand. 

At first, newly installed in Sao Paulo, a clear, fresh, mountain city, 
the constant sensation of conquest and acquirement had given him the 


assurance that lie was striding toward his goal. Life was painted in rosy 
colours. The English-speaking colony, always glad to welcome a new coiner, 
and delighted, though not insistent that he should be a gentleman, had 
greeted him warmly. He had seen that the very fact of expatriation created 
a strong sense of fellowship among these countrymen of his, and he had 
seen, also, that they were singularly disposed to be happy. Since we are 
being deprived of so much, their attitude seemed to be, let us at least enjoy 
to the full extent what is still granted to us. Homeless young men like 
himself there were in great number: in a few months he had found himself 
sharing a chacara with two of them. The people who had homes, too, had 
shown themselves eager to receive him, to amuse and divert him. 

In his work he had at first found a great source of diversion, and he 
had been fascinated by the mastery of the Portuguese tongue — no light 
task. From the Brazilians he had received treatment in which courtesy 
and keenness were combined in their perfection; he had felt on his mettle 
with them, and had worked to such advantage that after a year a slight 
promotion had been awarded him. But when the novelty had worn off he 
had settled down contentedly into an easy existence, taking work and play 
alike — tolerant, somewhat amused. 

The lack of haste, so deplored at first, he had come to regard as a 
direct and necessary outcome of climatic and racial conditions; he had 
grown to delight in it himself. His hours in the office had been brief; 
his holidays many. He had developed a keen interest in outdoor sports, 
and there was always an approaching tennis or cricket match to stimulate 
his interest. At home he had never had the leisure in which to discover,, 
much less to develop, this liking. Gradually, subconsciously, he had grown 
to regard "home" (as England was invariably called) as a place where he 
had no time for anything but drudgery, no time to be at peace. 

This change of attitude had of course been very slow, but there had 
been time for it in the six years that had slipped away without Stevens's 
having once faced the situation. It was remarkably easy for the years to 
slip away unnoticed in that far land, where there was no decided change 
of season, no sharp break in the year's round of work and recreation. 
Stevens had never realised that by degrees his interest in home affairs and 
people had vanished, that his detailed accounts of daily incidents had been 
replaced by perfunctory letters written only the day before the mail steamer 
sailed, and not always then. He had never faced the significance of the fact 


that the home periodicals lay unopened until current report had rendered 
them valueless, or that in his mother's letters he skipped accounts of after- 
noons at bridge and descriptions of Arthur's school companions. As for the 
girl, he had long ceased to write to her at all. What could he write? Sug- 
gest that she bury herself in this remote region, carefree though the process 
might be? This he could not do, and surely she had had her fill of word 
pictures of the South American at work and at play. 

Suddenly the awakening came. He had looked upon himself one 
night and had seen there a voluntary exile, a man without duties, but with- 
out rights and privileges as well. Everything vital lay beyond his grasp ; 
his sensibility to pain and pleasure was being dulled; life was slipping by 
while he stood aside and ofttimes did not even watch it pass. He had lost 
sight of the object of his coming — the speedy acquisition of money as a 
foundation of a development, of a broadening for him and his family. He 
had not been able to discover here any more than at home, a means of 
enriching himself financially, except hj the investment of capital of which 
he had none; his idea of America had been mistaken and he had not troubled 
to admit his mistake. Instead of broadening his field, he had narrowed it; 
he was selfish, futile, buried in slothful ease. He could go home at once to 
redeem himself. He would at least live his life unshrinkingly, even though 
drudgery were to be his portion. 

Feverishly, then as 1 have told, Stevens had rushed down to Santos to 
sail by the next day's boat. The thought of a dela} r of two weeks was 
intolerable to him; he was already years too late. 

Xow, the effort made, he stood at the rail of the great white Royal 
Mail steamer, unstable of purpose. Childish fears possessed his mind; he 
pictured himself arriving at Southampton lonely, unwelcomed, a stranger 
among his own people. He saw himself bereft of ease in his suit of Brazil- 
ian cut, with his tricks of speech six years old. For all that he knew 
Marian might be married or dead : his mother no longer mentioned her, 
and should he find her, what more had he to say than when he left her six 
long years ago? It was only now that he realised their length. 

He must pull himself together; he was merely overtired. The con- 
fusion and the heat had unstrung him ; the gilded saloon, crowded with 
overdressed Argcntinans, and their pasty children, all in the bustle of 
approaching departure, had sickened him. lie lunged lor the cool of the 
chacara verandah \\ i 1 1 ■ it- view of valley and shadowy mountains: he longed 


for white suited Jose at his elbow, eager, attentive, sympathetic. Afraid of 
himself he ran down the gang-plank and came face to face at the bottom 
with a fellow Englishman, a friend of his in Sao Paulo. 

"Hello, Steve, what are you doing down here? Waving goodbye to 
Miss Mason?" 

"I'm sailing for England," Stevens replied. 

"You are, are you? You've been pretty quiet about it. I am bound 
for home myself, thank heaven! But have you heard our luck? There's 
a case of fever in the hold, just cropped out,— some beastly dago brought it 
from the South with him. The boat's quarantined, and there's no sailing 
for us to-day, my boy. We shall be lucky to leave before to-morrow night, 
they are so bound up in red tape down here." 

Stevens stood silent, as if meditating. 

"What are you going to do?" his friend ran on. "Let's go up to the 
city on the noon train and sleep in peace. No decent hotel in this town, 
and no sleeping aboard a ship tied up to a dock for me, thank you ! A 
dance at the club to-night, too, by Jove. What do you say?" 

Stevens still stood silent, his gaze intent on the line of toiling negroes; 
he seemed to have thought only for them. Then he turned to his friend. 

"You are right," he said. "Let us go back." 

He walked away, knowing that he would not return on the morrow. 

May Egan, 1911. 

On the Way to Sherwood. 

"Where are you going, Alan-a-dale, 
Through the fields by the gay snap-dragon trail, 
With your minstrel's harp on its bright cord hung 
And a scarlet cape on your shoulder slung?" 

"I'm off to the green of Sherwood's glade, 
Too long, too long, in the town I've stayed, 
And to-night in the heart of the silent wood 
I sup and sing with Eobin Hood." 


"What of the song, oh Alan-a-dale? 
What of the time and what of the tale ?" 
He sat him down 'neath a white thorn tree, 
Smote thrice his harp, and thus sang he : 

"I'll sing of a beach where the waves pound free, 
Of silver foam on a sapphire sea, 
Of a shore where the gentlest breezes blow, 
Of a fairy barque that saileth slow, 
Bearing a knight, both bold and true, 
Over the shimmering water blue. 

"I'll tell of the valiant knight of old, 
With shining armour and spurs of gold; 
Of a princess, high in a lonely tower 
On the castled isle, in a blossomy bower ; 
Of the nightingales in the wild rose grove 
That sing- her their musical message of love ; 
Of the knight who cometh, and not too late, 
To wind his horn at the crystal gate, 
To enter the rose-enchanted world 
And plant on the tower his white banner unfurled, 
To break the spell, and the princess free. 
And take her away to his home by the sea." 

"Alan-a-dale, Alan-a-dale, 
Sweet is your harping and pleasant your tale." 
He took up his harp, and his scarlet hood, 
And went on his way into green Sherwood. 

Hilda Worthington Smith, 1910. 


Botticelli : An Interpretation. 

No painter is more individual, perhaps, than Botticelli. His work 
shows a marked unlikeness to that of his predecessors and contemporaries, 
who treated similar subjects, but in a manner that is often constrained and 
sad. Botticelli depicts subjects made trite bj' unnumbered other artists, 
and his work shows unusual adherence to the matter in hand. It is in the 
very absence, in his pictures, however, of those side-issues, things by the 
way, which lend character to the work of the other painters, that one may 
find, in part, the clue to the individuality of his work. Sacred themes are 
not with him a mere excuse for the depiction of common life, or of sensuous 

Not that Botticelli's work is entirely without secular elements. His 
pictures of sacred subjects occasionally contain representations of common 
life that are full of vitality and truth — for instance, the young pages, in 
the costume of his own time, that form so natural and animated a group in 
the Uffizi '•'Adoration of the Magi." He had also the medieval fondness for 
decorative detail — witness the intricacy of the stone tracery, and the pre- 
cision of the foliage, in the "Madonna with the Two Johns." In his pic- 
tures the feeling of reverence is, however, the predominating motive, and 
other elements have been introduced for the sake of enhancing this — they 
are a heaping of flowers on the altar. It is the subject of the painting 
which, in each case, gives the final impression. Even those side figures, 
attendant saints, or personages drawn from contemporary life, so promi- 
nent in mediaeval works of art, are not mere unaffected spectators of the 
main issue, disconnected elements, but are consistent parts of a whole. 
Botticelli's treatment of the by-standers reveals very clearly their signifi- 
cance in early art. Their peculiar function was probably analogous to that 
of the choruses of Greek drama — to reflect, and at the same time to influ- 
ence, the emotions of the actual spectator. Observe how, in a certain "Ado- 
ration of the Magi," found in the Uffizi, the reverence and entlrasiasm per- 
vading a vast crowd of onlookers, imperceptibly modifies one's own frame of 
mind, producing in oneself emotions proper to the occasion. In many in- 


stances the by-standers are a valuable aid in enhancing the main idea of the 
picture, as, notably, in the "Madonna of the Magnificat," where the sweet 
pensiveness of the angels seems in some subtle way to prepare the mind for 
the tender and meditative expression of the Virgin herself. In their unity 
of effect, Botticelli's works are like the compositions of music, in which note 
combines with note to produce the final harmony. 

With their appealing sincerity of feeling, the paintings combine a 
certain ethereality and strangeness. Some one has said that Botticelli is 
the most poetical of all artists, and, indeed, the world he gives is not that 
of common forms, but a world refined, spiritualised. His presentation of 
the human form shows the effort toward a more abstract type of beauty; 
his landscapes seem to reflect some far-off brightness. It is not so much, 
however, the world of dreams and fantasy that he gives us, as our own 
world, seen in its deeper meaning, seen as an idea. The work of Botticelli 
is an effort to express, through the medium of form and colour, abstract 
ideas, and to this effort it owes its intangibility and elusiveness. This striv- 
ing to express the inexpressible is the essential quality of Botticelli's genius ; 
this it is which distinguishes him from the realists of all ages. The dis- 
tinguishing characteristic of his attitude toward the material world is an 
inattentiveness, a disregard of the object for its own sake; Botticelli does 
not work with his "eye on the object," but on the deep and eternal meaning 
lying beyond it. Material objects are for him merely the threshold to be 
crossed, the imperfect and transitory medium behind which lies the ever- 
lasting radiance. 

It is in his treatment of the Greek myths that Botticelli's tendency to 
depict a theme in its finer and deeper phases is most striking; for whereas 
a sacred subject, however conventionally treated, necessarily retains the 
outward expression at least of its high significance, the myths, pliable like 
a sculptor's clay, lend themselves to any handling, and owe their expres- 
sion to the artist's intention alone. An examination of the works of the 
best period of Greek art, of what may be called the classic period as opposed 
to the time of decadence that came so soon after it, brings inevitably the 
conviction that behind the myths is a spiritual meaning, however obscured 
it may have been in the hands of later artists. The tragedies of ^Eschylus 
and .Sophocles, portraying always some mighty conflict between invisible 
force?, the lofty impassivity of the statues of Athene, the divine calm of 
the Venus de Milo — all forcibly remind us that the myths are something 


more than fantastic tales, devised by a primitive people. The great majority 
of the artists both of the Middle Ages and of the Renaissance seem to turn, 
however, in their treatment of the myths, to the period following that of the 
highest culture in Greece, to reproduce the spirit of that later age which 
depicted the mystic and terrible Bacchus as a smiling reveler, and adorned 
its walls with clusters of infant Loves. In their new intoxication with the 
life of nature and of the senses, the painters of the Renaissance seem, for 
the most part, to have overlooked the deeper phase of pagan belief ; they have 
reproduced with admirable fidelity that joyous sensuousness which many 
regard as the true spirit of Greek life, and have wholly missed the under- 
lying significance. Botticelli alone has caught the feeling of that nobler 
classic period — the feeling rather than the form, for there is little sugges- 
tion in his work of the Greek absorption in physical perfection. Treated 
by Botticelli, the myths, familiarised and almost cheapened by their in- 
cessant occurrence both in art and in literature, acquire for us a new 
meaning which we instinctively feel is old — old as Olympus itself. One of 
the best instances of this new-old method of viewing the ancient stories 
is a painting in the Pitti gallery entitled "Pallas Subduing a Centaur." 
The goddess, clad not in her traditional armour but in airy robes, blown 
back by the rush of her pursuit, grasps by the hair the strange creature, 
half man, half beast, who cowers against a pillar; behind is the quiet sea. 
The picture has an impressive tranquility. There is no hint of agitation 
in the portrayal of the goddess. She stands lightly poised on slender feet, 
head bent in a gesture entirely gracious and kindly, eyes fixed on the 
shrinking centaur with half-wondering compassion, every line of her body 
instinct with ease — ease and a wonderful swiftness; she is like wind, made 
visible. He, on his part, gazes up at her, only half-resisting, in his mis- 
formed face a strange mingling of fear with wistfulness. It is the old 
story of the triumph of the higher over the lower, a triumph made easy 
by the presence of an element of the one within the other, of the spiritual 
and immortal within the mortal and material. 

Botticelli's treatment of the myths is so modified by his general tend- 
ency to seek for the deeper aspects of things that in certain instances one 
is impressed by his unlikeness rather than his affinity with the genuine 
Greek spirit. To define that spirit in precise terms is practically impos- 
sible, since in every age one finds exceptions to the general rule — minds of 
a type which anticipate some future time, or hark back to a remote past. 


Such evidence of itself as we possess, however, indicates a kind of duality in 
its idea of beauty. The Greeks seem always to have been conscious of two 
elements in beauty, the finer and subtler, which, for convenience's sake, we 
term inward, and the visible and tangible out-ward. For Botticelli these 
diverse elements are fused in one ; for him there is but the higher loveli- 
ness, and though obliged of necessity to make use of form as a means of 
expression, he is never lured into an exclusive preoccupation with it, as 
were the Greeks of the period of decadence. It is impossible in any work 
of Botticelli to treat form and spiritual content as separate entities, so inex- 
tricably are the two interwoven. One may admire the "Primavera" as 
form alone,— a rhythm of the lines, and a certain delicate precision in the 
general composition, — yet all the while is borne in upon one's thought the 
sense of sweetness and of reflectiveness, so inevitably are such qualities 
implied in every technical detail. Botticelli's works are like pieces of music 
in this respect also — iu a perfect fusion of form and content which gives 
them a rounded harmony, a satisfying completeness. In his case that is 
true which Matthew Arnold declares of St. Francis: his gaze, turning 
from the vision, brings to the material world some of its splendour, so that 
he seems to see all things illumined with reflected glory. Had the sense 
for that deeper beauty been taken from him, one feels that Botticelli would 
have cared little for what remained ; that the common aspects of things, 
which, to the Greek genius, were so instinct with worth and life, would 
have seemed to him dull and tedious. In all the paintings there is a sug- 
gestion of evanescence, the result, perhaps, of this preoccupation with the 
underlying idea rather than with its outward expression. A hint of flight 
is in them all : in a moment these radiant forms will fade like mist-wreaths, 
these vernal landscapes dissolve into the sunshine of which they seem com- 
posed. It is as if the paintings were efforts to transmute into visible shape 
the brightness of some high moment; and it is the unsatisfactoriness of all 
such effort which gives Botticelli's work its indefinable wistfulness, its air 
of seeking afar. 

The sacred personages whom Botticelli painted are characterised by 
aloofness from the day-by-day striving and ambitions of men. These pen- 
sive madonnas and rapt saints have nothing in common with the human 
and personal world ; they seem the creations of a mind given up to high in- 
tuitions, unaffected by common interests and desires. How little sugges- 
tion there is in the pictures of the Virgin and Child, of the human relation- 


ship so emphasised by other painters. A possible exception to this is a 
Madonna of the Louvre lately declared not Botticelli's own, but which ex- 
presses much of his spirit. Here the infant Jesus looks up at his mother 
with eyes half wistful, half compassionate, and his small hand is laid 
against her neck in a gesture of tender intimacy. Even here, however, the 
repose of the Virgin's face, and the revery on that of the small Saint John, 
who stands with his thin boyish arms clasped against his breast, lift the 
picture out of the realm of common affections into a sphere of mystic re- 
lationships, in which personal feeling has no part. The agitation of the 
conflict between the personal and the impersonal, the human and the divine, 
has no place in Botticelli's work, which seems to depict some loftier realm 
whose blissful folk move in the tranquility of full illumination, uncon- 
cerned with earthly joy or grief. Thus in a certain curious "Lamenta- 
tion for the Dead Christ," the apostles stand with closed eyes, smiling in 
spiritual ecstacy. Another striking example of this absence of natural 
emotion is the Saint. Sebastian of the Berlin museum. On a pillar, above 
a landscape of quaint formality, with the wide bright sky as background, 
stands the meditative figure, the head, encircled with a thin ray of sun- 
shine, bent as if in contemplation. There is no hint of strain or suffering 
in the easy pose of the body, and the face wears a look of tranquil revery. 
The painting has the quiet of a peaceful noon ; it is like a symbol of spirit- 
ual communion. It is to this freedom from personal motives that Botti- 
celli's works owe their high serenity. They are the expression of a nature 
that has "crossed over all the sorrows of the heart." 

There is a certain indefinable sameness in the faces of the various 
angels and madonnas. The consciousness of high realities moulds all these 
faces to one expression, and it is only the difference in the degree that gives 
them variety. Thus the youthful angels that cluster protecting around the 
"Madonna of the Magnificat" seem grosser reflections of the divine Child, 
while the Virgin herself mirrors, in softened form, his look of ecstasy. 
There is a strain of thoughtfulness apparent in all Botticelli's representa- 
tions of the Madonna. Encircled by pensive angels or grave saints, of 
whom she seems quite unconscious, the divine Mother sits lost in musing. 
There is, in her rapt look, something suggestive of the dawn, the rising 
splendour that is found in complete glory in the face of the infant Christ. 
Botticelli's portrayals of sacred themes are, in fact, mere symbols of spirit- 
ual illumination ; they picture not sense, but the soul, in its gradual ascent. 


And so also the portraits of the Popes Evarist, Sixtus, Stephen, Soter, so 
full of vigorous individuality, as regards mere outward feature, might in 
essence represent one nature ; a nature in which personality is lost in the 
contemplation of deep things. 

It is quite natural and fitting that Botticelli should have illustrated 
Dante, whose genius was of the same type as his own, though expressed 
through a different medium. First of all one is impressed by the exquisite 
taste of these quaint drawings, the fine perception which has recognised so 
well the limitations of an art essentially concrete. Botticelli has followed 
the pilgrimage of Dante through all the tremendous scenes of the Inferno 
and Purgatorio, but without effort to represent them in full. The draw- 
ings, which share with these portions of the Divine Comedy itself a gro- 
tesqueness which recalls the strange ornamentations of the mediaeval cathe- 
drals, are mere hints of the occurrences related by the poet, suggestions 
which enable one to supply the details for oneself. There is a touch of the 
Japanese manner in the restraint of the drawings, which trace in a few 
lines a multitude of figures, against a background devoid of effects in light 
and shade. These few lines are marvellously expressive, however : every 
variety of human anguish is shown in these faces, and the figures, strained 
into every conceivable posture, are like symbols of motion and effort. The 
blankness of the background is more significant than the subtlest chiar- 
oscuro — it reminds us that we are looking into the domain of thought. As 
Dante approaches the Paradiso, the drawings become more abstract, till 
the artist, in a final renunciation of the effort to portray things beyond 
human conception, traces only the figures of Dante and Beatrice, enclosed 
by the infinite circle, against a background empty as space. 

In these illustrations as in his pictures of the classic myths, Botticelli 
has seized and wrought into form inward idea, rather than outward ex- 
pression; and here, as in his paintings on sacred themes, human beings are 
seen as manifestations of the one soul toward which they aspire. One 
might indeed consider all Botticelli's representations of Christian story as 
standing for the last stage in the upward progress of the soul which is por- 
trayed in these drawings for the Divine Comedy — that stage where per- 
sonality has faded, and only a great wonder and wistfulness remains. At 
times tin' fines of Dante and Beatrice bear startling resemblance to those 
of the Madonna and Child. The wondering gaze of the Virgin recalls 
Dante's look of awe, while the expression of radiant understanding i8 


found alike in the countenances of Beatrice and of the divine Child. In 
the Madonna of the Magnificat, and again, in the Madonna of the Poldi- 
Pezzoli Museum, there is a suggestion of Beatrice's protecting manner in 
the gesture of the infant Christ; like Beatrice, he points the way to the 
higher realm. 

The "Birth of Venus," in the truest sense Botticelli's masterpiece, 
bears a significant relation to the illustrations of the Divine Comedy. 
Twice, and with striking similarity of thought, has Botticelli depicted the 
coming of beauty. In the drawing for Canto XXX of the Purgatorio, 
Beatrice is borne along in the midst of an ecstatic throng, her car drawn 
by a beast whose wings stretch immeasurable, out of sight, through the 
clouds. The flame of torches, held by angels, forms a canopy over her head, 
and the air is blurred by falling flowers. The multitude of surrounding 
figures, like so many symbols of adoration indefinitely multiplied, are im- 
pressive in their very repetition, and the whirlwind of motion in which they 
seem caught emphasizes the repose of Beatrice, who sits with averted head, 
in a kind of high indifference. The conception as a whole, however, is less 
lofty than that of the "Venus"; it has not the same irresistible force and 
truth. There is too little room in the picture, too much tumult and con- 
fusion. The "Venus," on the contrary, is characterised by an entire ab- 
sence of tumult. The form of the goddess, poised on a wind-blown shell, 
is brought into clear relief against wide spaces of sea and sky, those things 
which in all nature are most like the infinite. The picture offers variety in 
its unity through the finely-traced foliage of the trees, the elaborate robes 
of the attendant, the rich wings of the hovering zephyrs; and here, too, 
roses are drifting through the air. There is no such over-abundance of de- 
tail in the "Venus" as in the drawing for the Purgatorio, but a rare 
subordination of all minor matters. The extension into space of the beasts' 
wings in the drawing is paralleled by the limitless stretch of sea which flows 
in quaint wavelets upon a gentle and garden-like shore. The face of Venus 
recalls that of Beatrice in its untroubled calm, its purity, which the artist 
carries over into the inanimate world, symbolising it there in the light of 
gem-like transparency that rests upon this tranquil landscape. The spirit- 
ual countenance of the goddess, and a certain abstractness in the general 
composition of the picture, suggest that here again Botticelli is expressing 
some high idea, is viewing a conventional subject in the light of some 
inner significance. It presents the coming of beauty in a manner which 
connects it with the dawn of spiritual illumination. In the "Birth of 


Venus,"'" the goddess is blown to shore by the breath of personified winds, 
whose faces, blank as the serene sky behind them, suggest the unconscious 
might of nature. I like best to regard the gryphon, in the drawing for the 
"Purgatorio" as a symbol of this might of nature — nature which all un- 
thinking brings in the ideal, the vision, to the waiting soul of Dante. In 
its dignity and repose, however, the "Birth of Venus" recalls the illustra- 
tions for the "Paradiso," those drawings of Dante and Beatrice that seem 
traced on infinite space. In the drawings the ideal, received through the 
forces of nature, leads the aspiring soul onward to the realm of the abso- 
lute, where spiritual ideas, disembodied, are perceived only as light. 

The "Birth of Venus" reveals the essence of Botticelli's genius; in it 
seem concentrated the moods of thoughtfulness and high aspiration vari- 
ously expressed in his other works. It records his preoccupation with the 
ideal, his effort, attended, as such effort must always be, by insurmountable 
difficulties, to present the infinite in finite form. The conception of the 
ideal as introduced through visible agencies, though convenient for pur- 
poses of art, is, after all, however, purely fanciful. Light and darkness 
cannot mingle; where one is the other is not. Spirit and matter, the posi- 
tive and the negative, by their very nature, cannot be expressed in the same 
terms. "The fonn accordeth not with the intention of the art, because that 
the material is dull to answer." This verse from the Paradiso, expressive 
of the sad inadequacy of all human art in portraying the unseen abso- 
lute might be applied as a criticism to all Botticelli's work. Beauty which, 
in the words of Diotima, is "everlasting, not growing and decaying, or 
waxing and waning; not in the likeness of a face or hands, or any part of 
the bodily frame, or in any form of speech or knowledge, or existing in 
any other being, as, for example, in an animal, or in heaven, or in earth, 
or in any other place; but beauty absolute, separate, simple and everlast- 
ing" — to behold such, thought must look beyond finite forms into the realm 
of Mind itself. "The true order of going," says Diotima, "is to begin from 
the beauties of earth and mount upward for the sake of that other beauty, 
using these as steps only." With rare intuition Botticelli has perceived the 
high meaning underlying material form ; his pictures are pervaded by the 
aspiration toward loftier realms. Even in the work of this most spirit- 
ual of painters, however, one feels the vanity of all mortal effort to express 
the abstract — here, too, are the crude creations of human thought, mirror- 
ing, how faintly! the realities by which they must be supplanted. 

Helen Townsend Scott, 1 910. 



'Tis not the world, — this prison where we wait, — 
Whether its rough and undisguised stone 
Bid us put faith in naught save walls alone ; 
Or tapestries with visions delicate 
For boundaries they curtain half atone; 

What though the close-barred slits along the wall 
Look but on high gray battlements where attend 
Warders whose jests we may not comprehend, 
Nor to our questioning answer they at all, 
But soon or late from each man part his friend ; 

Yet, of our fellows here in times long past, 

Still, in the rock, we read the carven cry, 

And feel a liberty that doth not die; 

And hand to hand we yet may hold so fast 

That hearts reiterate, "Thou art real ; and I." 

And light and odours of the country-side 
Across the rigid ramparts hither stream; 
God's unseen fields that some a legend deem 
Girdle our narrow keep; the heart's warm tide 
Leaps to the sun. The prison is the dream. 

Mabel Parker Huddleston, 1889. 


The Amateur Aesthete. 

Sometimes in the soft autumn or spring weather, Felicia, wearying of 
the dryness of her not too imaginative intellect, acquired the habit of 
yielding herself up to healing outdoor influences; of closing her mind, so 
to speak, and opening the senses, refusing impressions not directly enter- 
ing- through eye or ear or nostril. The inner inexplicable moments of 
well-being which formed the substantive portions of her almost uniform 
contentment she found were not in Nature's power — so directly addressed 
— to give, but came unsought, bestowed at unwarranted hours. But then 
neither could those other contrasted moments, just as inexplicable, of frus- 
tration and gloom find admittance, and as she grew older and this mood 
became less infrequent, she resorted more and more for the sake of her 
happiness to the use of her mere senses. She thought less and felt less, 
leaving herself as blank and mirror-like as possible for the reflection of all 
the beautiful and vivid, or, it may be, beautiful and obscure objects of the 
natural world. 

On her walks in the countryside she dispensed with companions, more, 
it must be said in justice, for their sakes than her own. Roads, banks and 
wooded uplands, before disregarded in her eager attention to the subject 
under discussion, were now left behind her like a gallery of pictures, framed 
in memory. And this new life, for all its general low relief, passed not 
without its sudden and surprising elevations. An unexpected turn into a 
green, well-formed glade ; a glimpse of the white water levels seen for 
the first time through the trees delighted and comforted her. One she 
especially remembered : it was an autumnal vignette. Around the bend of a 
mad upon rising ground a red beech lifted itself against the sky, by the 
sheer intensity of its vermilion, essential colour, subjugating the land- 
scape. Yet it neither shone nor burned. Its leaves which had shed their 
fire lay opaque, painted upon the shimmering blue. Luminous and deep 
as was the ether, the beech for all its fragmentary outlines preserved its 
tint unblended, impressing itself upon the sight in unbroken contrast, a 
monotone in colour. . . . 

A- a concession to the studious life she was supposed to be leading, 


in the morning hours she took her books and papers with her to a solitary 
chestnut tree at the foot of a hill. Latin plays or metaphysical inquiries 
were spread around her as she lay there, impervious alike to duty and 
prudence. Instead, she let her eyes wander up the hill-slope to its curving 
sky-line where grew in orderly profusion those pale last summer daisies, 
white and green-and-white as seen from the underside. They had sprang 
up among the grasses and in the rhythm of the swaying green blades their 
white heads leaned down before the mild breezes which were hardly more 
than flaws in the warm atmosphere. Like fine mosaic work were they set 
there, flower after enamelled flower. But at the top, through excess of 
light, the gleaming petals shrank and grew dark; the bending stems Vi- 
brated like black threads against the deep panel of the skjr with its blue- 
faced clouds. Butterflies, too small and swift for distinguishable colour, 
fluttered in among them, balanced a bare instant in the weak-stemmed 
grasses or cast their wavering shadows on the shining daisy petals. 

By later fall her vigorous interests came crowding back. They filled 
out the time and her leisure was pleasantly spent witbin-doors or in the 
exercise of games. The great winds sweeping from heaven to earth, carry- 
ing the helpless crackling leaves in their folds; the aromatic odours and 
wreathing smoke of the burning heaps of dry leaves stimulated her only to 
more ardent practical occupations; she felt and thought more; she found 
her own mind companionable. Nature's old pageantry retreated in her 
perspective, until in cold weather it meant no- more than a comfortable 
contrast for the warmth within. Even beautiful winter days, from morning 
when the snow fell like sifted powder on the earth's worn face to afternoon 
when all sound and motion had sunk, snowed under, and the red sun set 
upon a silent wilderness of white, were merely pictures and remote from her 
reality. Bare days when the trees drooped and broke in their ice-casings 
and the sunlight made the commonest obstacle of incredible loveliness by 
prismatic play on its transparent shell, — Felicia wondered, an enthusiastic 
spectator of a detached show. 

Toward the end of the year when she in common with the rest began 
to view her accomplishment, the wide discrepancy between expectation and 
performance, summer plannings quite omitted or come limping off, she was 
tempted to withdraw her ambitions and quietly detach herself from this 
work which dragged one so insensibly after it. Her spirits flagged and her 
energy ebbed. Her inner and outer life ruptured into an uncomfortable 


dualism; within all was turmoil, confusion, and dissatisfaction; outwardly 
she was passing her life in an orderly and assigned round, when days and 
hours were rung in and out by bells, accurately noting the passage of time. 

No wonder, then, that with her impatience of all tokens and symbols 
she resented this artificial measurement of duty done, this persistent in- 
quiry into the day's work, and with the return of spring fled from lectures 
and irrational study appointed with reference to time merely, and from 
her heavy and fact-filled mind. Naturally she retreated to that known 
and imminent refuge in sensuous observation. 

On fresh hushed mornings she went alone for spring flowers. She 
took a conscious pleasure in this poet-like solitude and paused to gather the 
oval blood-root buds, the hepaticas, gray-hooded, with the doubled keenness 
of true action which is also pretense. In the background of her mind hung 
like a curtain the tapestried weaving of sounds invisibly patterned with 
bird notes and the swish of swaying branches and the broken flow of water 
tumbling over stones. 

Restless activity had betrayed her into melancholy; leisure and in- 
difference redeemed her; she had seldom known such pervasive happiness 
as came now and remained with her. It brought abundant joy to gaze up 
through fruit-tree branches at the blue sky; or at night when the moon 
was up to observe how it turned their pink to gray but curiously vivified 
the flower-formation. To read in the sunlight, more attentive to the light 
than to the pages, brooked frequent repetition. She would take her book — 
as beautiful a one as could be found — to the wide window-ledge and sit 
with the warm quiet outside and look up from the printed page at girls in 
groups or singly passing. But her glance returned more tenderly to the 
brass tracery jar holding the opening blood root, or to a small crystal one 
with the first few violets. 

Grace Baynall Branham, 1910. 



College Themes. 

"Besides, as it is fit for grown and able writers to stand of themselves, so 
it is fit for the beginner and learner to study others and the best ; . . . . not 
to imitate servilely .... but to draw forth out of the best and choicest 
flowers with the bee, and turn all into honey, work it into one relish and 
savour ; make our imitation sweet," — Ben Jonson : Discoveries. 


The path climbs up from the green 
salt marshes, up and up through the 
wind-blown grass to the place of graves 
on the hill top. Below lies a fisher- 
man's village, its white houses sleeping 
deep in fragrant old gardens, its nar- 
now streets leading steeply away from 
the dreaming harbor. There at the 
hill's very summit, apart from the close- 
set graves and in sight of the open sea, 
stands a single stone rising from sweet 
briar. This is its brief inscription : 
"Valentine Norton : lost at sea." Noth- 
ing more save two dates, with twenty 
years between, and yet in these inex- 
orable syllables sounds the terror of 
great waters; the endurance of those 
whose business is therein. How many 
of its sons have gone forth like thee, O 
Valentine, from yonder village, never to 
return? I see thee now, in thy shining 
youth, fair and lithe of limb, child of a 
sober island folk, worthy of the gal- 
lant cadence of thy name. With fare- 
wells gravely said, according to thy 
northern custom, with thy brave young 
spirit ready for the voyage, I can see 
thee set sail from thy haven to meet 
the rising sun. By what dire mis- 
chance, O fisherman, under what stress 
of storm or accident of calm, didst 
thou sacrifice thy life to the stern mis- 

tress of thy people? Surely in any 
case, at the moment of thy deliverance 
from the dangers of the sea, thou didst 
return to the fragrant, dreaming streets 
of thy native village. In one glimpse, 
as from this hilltop, it lay before thee, 
its spires shining against a sunset sky, 
its fleet lying fast at anchor, and its 
day's work done. And though thy 
grave is empty, and thou art lost in- 
deed to those who loved thee, it may 
be that thou dost sometimes in very 
truth return, thou and all thy brothers 
whose sails have not been brought to 
any haven. Surely at sunset of some day 
in the year's falling, at the hour when 
men's hearts turn homeward, thou and 
the rest, a shadowy company, come 
stealing upward to the place which is 
given for the dead. Figures of gracious 
youth, old men erect and brave, gather 
silently and turn their faces toward the 
village. Steadfastly, wistfully, they 
gaze each one at the unseeing windows 
of some familiar cottage, and then out 
into the harbor, where lights blossom 
at the mast-heads. So until the violet 
mists of autumn fade out from the 
east, they stand, aliens, in the sight of 
the place that gave them birth, and 
vanish, at last, into the gray enfolding 
shadows of the night. 

Marion Crane, 1911. 



- There are regions in the sky where 
no winds blow and clouds rest motion- 
less. The tranquility of those high re- 
gions surpasses language. — it resembles 
the intense repose that follows after 
storm. Foam-like flecks are entangled 
there in gauzy webs ; rent clouds lie 
scattered like sea-weed on a shore; an- 
other and more marvellous milky way 
arches across the sky. Against the 
blue are outlined traceries of exceed- 
ing delicacy — frost patterns and quaint 
arabesques, the semblance of pale flow- 
ers and stars, of crescents and white 

Not as others are these remote cloud 
shapes. They are more frail, more 
fftherial than any that come near to 
earth. The reticence that keeils them far 
away renders them fairer to our eyes. 
They are more lovely, because they 
belong just this side of the borderlands 
of sight. Purely material though they * 
be, they seem of the stuff of spirit. — 
the embodiment of our vague imagin- 
ings. When our visions would pass be- 
yond the sphere of things possessing 
form, these clouds give to them out- 
line and expression. Our fancies are 
full of just such gracious figures; the 
patterns into which our reveries fail 
are those we can trace there ; the coun- 
terparts of those very images float in 
the chambers of our dreams. It is 
pleasant to believe that some great 
winged being passed that way, and 
with lii^ plunitige brushed against the 
sky, for the fluted clouds lie all in fair 
confusion as if they had just been dis- 
turbed. Or perhaps we may fancy that 
the scattered shreds arc not clouds at 
all. but stray fallen feathers of some 
white bird of Paradise. 

Helen Parkhurst, 1911. 


They had been talking for over half 
an hour, in a pleasant, superficial way. 
Now some one else claimed his atten- 
tion and Jean leaned back in her chair, 
idly watching the people around her, 
as she tried to analyze the man's half- 
baffling charm. She had enjoyed talk- 
ing to him, and yet constantly she had 
felt a certain, almost unconscious an- 
noyance. He seemed to promise so 
much, and yet, as she thought of it 
now, they had never really got away 
from the commonplace topics of ordi- 
nary conversation. Jean, in a sudden 
flash of intuition, knew that some- 
times when she walked in the neat, 
conventional, yet charming little park, 
she had experienced the same pleasant, 
but unsatisfactory emotion. 

It was an odd fancy and had come 
to her suddenly, but it enabled her 
to understand him. In conversation 
with him, one could walk comfortably 
and happily down the broad asphalt 
of the commonplace. Occasionally 
the path took unexpected turns, but 
still the way lay open and inviting 
before one. It was only when one at- 
tempted to turn aside from this beaten 
track, and to overstep the low boundary 
dividing it from the pleasant lawn, that 
one noticed the signs, short and em- 
phatic, "Please keep off the grass." It 
was exasperating. Just beyond reach 
one could see rare flowers that one 
longed to come near to. Charming vis- 
tas, rather skilfully planned, it must 
be admitted, led to places one could 
never hope to reach. Distantly one 
could hear the sound of the tiny water- 
fall, full of the promise of shade and 
cool delight ; and yet, bound by the law 
Of his nature, one could never forsake 
the path, to wander in pleasant places. 



One was forced to close one's eyes to 
all that was emphatically denied to 
one, and continue to talk of small, 
pleasant, daily happenings, of plays and 
books and places. 

Jean reflected that they must have 
many tastes, many theories in common, 
if she only knew how to reach him. 
She was unwilling to trespass. He had 
a right, if he wished, to erect signs in 
order to protect the pleasant places. 
If people were allowed to wander there 
at will, the greenery would become 
dry and dusty. Careless people might 
break the flowers, or in some way si- 
lence the voice of the water-fall. Jean, 
realizing all this, decided she would 
not run the risk of having the signs 
pointed out to her. That would be too 
humiliating. Rather, she would walk 
where she was welcome, until she was 
such a familiar figure that she would 
be invited to en.ioy the more intimate 
pleasures of the place. 

She had been so absorbed in these 
thoughts that she had not noticed that 
he had turned to her once more. He 
repeated his question, and Jean, lean- 
ing forward to catch the faint fra- 
grance of the flowers she had seen far 
off. found herself, led by his pleasant, 
cool formality, once more at the en- 
trance gate. From there the voice of 
the water-fall was inaudible, and no 
patches of lovely colour could be seen. 
Impatiently she turned toward some 

one else. 

Murjorie Thompson. 1912. 

Of course Philadelphia has the ad- 
vantage over the barbarous West in the 
stock of her Christmas shops, but I 

never pine so sadly for the warm, gay, 
lazy, muddy, oleander-scented streets of 
Saint Marie as when I have surren- 
dered my identity to a throng of stolid, 
disinterested, successful shoppers. Saint 
Marie is such a happy town, so keenly, 
eagerly alive — which is strange enough 
too, since, like all Western towns, many 
of its people are extremely near dead ; 
perhaps they romanticise life all the 
more because "the bird is on the wing." 
At all events, they present a brave 
front ; half foreign, half American, alto- 
gether motley ; Mexicans. Chinese, In- 
dians, and so many, many kinds of 
English ; girls with unpardonable pom- 
padours, but pleasant eyes under them ; 
young boys who dash about on ungainly 
Indian ponies — not "to get there." but 
to make people look up ; smiling women 
on uncommonly easy terms with the 
grocers' clerks who run eagerly, paur- 
ingly out from the open-front shops to 
save their patroness from climbing out 
between the clayey wheels of the fam- 
ily barouche. "Lettuce? Yes, indeed, 
lovely this morning, a cent a head," 
and run back into the shops at top 
speed to select the coolest and crispest, 
run out again to show it, run in to wrap 
it, out once more to tuck it under the 
carriage seat, then stand on the curb 
and bow farewell as if the barouche 
held the brave crew of the "Santa 
Maria" heaving forth for parts un- 
known. Oh, be kind to the good name 
of the American shop-clerk until you 
have been to Saint Marie! 

And gaiety is never conspicuous on 
Saint Marie streets, though impene- 
trable reserve might be. Men in gray 
flannel shirts, or Khaki, and felt som- 
breros loaf in door-ways, but they are 
not loafers, not the sort of loafers that 



make women shrivel up and draw close 
their skirts and scuttle by with set 
faces. Far from it. And Western girls 
stroll by in white slippers and blue 
ribbons. — and felt sombreros ! I regret 
to say, — and single out the men they 
know and ask them if they are "going 
tonight." And the men always are. 
And I always wish I were. too. But I 
never am. for I live in the country, and 
now that the sun is touching the gilded 
side of the court-house dome I must go 
for the horse, and turn my back upon 

Ruth George, 1910. 


It is a pretty toy. this clavichord, 
with its glossy green case all daintily 
penciled in scrolls and script of gold. 
iis lowset keyboard, its keys scarce 
wide enough for a maiden's finger-tips. 
And to our crude hearing, used to the 
crash of large instruments, the first 
sound from the clavichord is. per- 
chance, but a playful tinkle, or at best 
but a shower of silvery sounds, like the 
fall of summer rain. As the tones take 
fcirni in our listening ears, the room ex- 
pands, the walls give undue space, and 
we draw into the narrow circle of the 
Bound. Tbere is real music, sweet and 
reedy, like the song of the hermit - 
thrush, and yet more fine, as if the 
narrow-throated humming bird bad 
found voice. Hut the quick-dropping 
notes are as strange t" us as the call 
of a bird must always be. — for its 
meaning is given to Ihe ears of birds 
and not to men. 

Only the melody is somewhat akin to 
our senses — a melody weaving a deli- 
cate pattern, fine and clear, like a 

sketch in silver-point. Can it be that 
these filmy intervals, these chords ris- 
ing like miniature towers of silver, took 
shape first in the mind of Sebastian 
Bach? The sound of his heavy Ger- 
man name might almost shatter this 
fairy structure. Rather is it a court 
music for some dainty midsummer 
kingdom, where wee softly stepping 
figures dauce the minuet. 

Marion Crane, 1911. 


It was a midsummer morning and 
my brother and I had taken refuge in 
the cool brown depths of the old barn. 

From where we lay now, hidden in 
the gloom of rustling hay, we could 
feel on our cheeks every breath of the 
fragrant wind that set the doors creak- 
ing lazily to and fro like a slow-moving 
fan ; we could see the travelling paths 
of sunlight that flickered crookedly 
down at us through its knotholes as it 
swung, and far above, a widening and 
narrowing band of blue sky. 

Directly overhead, the pigeon-loft 
gloomed with the mystery of dark 
recesses, where shadowy rafters tower- 
ed, festooned with whispering strings 
of herbs, and flecked bright with ears 
of corn. From time to time also there 
filtered down puffs of shimmering dust, 
scattered by the busy pigeons that 
cooed and strutted about up there in 
the twilight. 

Near us in the low crib of a milk- 
ing-stall lived a whole family of tail- 
less yellow kittens. Of course there 
was a mother-cat also, who purred 
sedately and opened sleepy topaz 
eyes now and then in the dark- 
ness of ihe far corner; but she did not 



matter. It was the kittens that en- 
livened this quiet place, dashing madly 
hither and thither in quest of a danc- 
ing sunbeam, a trailing straw, or their 
own ridiculous shadows. They would 
topple solemnly in single file over the 
edge of the rough manger and then 
clamber gaily up the long incline of 
Brother's brown "knickers" and pink- 
shirred back as he lay stretched out 
along the wall, as always, reading. 
Sometimes he put out a thin tanned 
hand and patted the ball of yellow 
Buff, then he would run it through his 
tousled hair, and his slow hazel eyes 
would fall to the page again. 

Behind him the arm of a fluttering 
green beech-tree in the sunlight waved 
up and down through a long-broken 
pane, and beyond, in the back corner- 
stall. Bob, our old work-horse, sighed 
contentedly in the gloom, munching his 
halter from time to time or whisking 
off the slow-droning flies with his pa- 
tient brown tail. 

The place was all very still and fra- 
grant and cool. The sunlight-splashed 
floor seemed to undulate gently with 
the swaying door. Occasionally a fat 
white duck craned an inquisitive neck 
over the threshold, and fled unsteadily 
at the sight of brown legs and pink 
sunbonnet. In the far corner the glint 
of a rusty scythe, hitherto unnoticed, 
looked like a solemnly winking eye. 
Against my cheek the rough timothy 
hay smelled very sweet ; and out of the 
corner of my eye I could see Brother's 
tousled head sunk low over his book. 
The big twilight rafters overhead were 
receding more and more, and the loft 
was floating off into infinite distance. 
In the far corner the old horse stamped 
and shifted his weight now and then, 

raising pale clouds of chaff from the 
yellow straw and filling all the place 
with soft thunder ; and away in the 
manger the yellow cat purred steadily 
over her sleeping kittens. 

Dorothy Wolff, 1912. 


(Being an exercise in periodic 
However cheaply bizarre we Ameri- 
cans may be — and they say we are 
about as bad as possible — however un- 
original and unereative, and however 
vulgar about confusing the sign for 
the thing signified, at least we have for 
our very own, as a concrete expression 
— and a very creditable one — to the 
idea known as "home comfort," that 
most American institution, the front 
porch — long may it live and thrive! 
For though it would be presumption, I 
know, to imply that rush mats and 
Japanese shades and electric porch 
globes have not penetrated to the very 
heart of Europe, yet I make no doubt, 
without having once left New York 
harbour, that an Italian piazza, or a 
Spanish veranda, or a French bal- 
cony is not, neither indeed can be, an 
American porch. For, unless Euro- 
peans are as ostentatious as we are — 
perish the thought ! — and unless they 
are as keen about living up to their 
next door neighbours (I blush for the 
impiety of the suggestion) as they pay 
us the compliment of describing us, and 
unless they are bent upon comfort even 
at the tremendous price of originality — 
unless they are all this, which, of 
course, Americans are — then, for them, 
avenue on avenue of awning-stripped, 



vine-draped, willow-furnished porches 
all just alike are, in the nature of 
things, impossible. The really Ameri- 
can quality about American front 
porches is that they are all alike. And 
say what you will, an extension reclin- 
ing chair is just as comfortable, and 
for Americans far more comfortable, 
for having a counterpart on every 
porch in the block. 

Ruth George, 1910. 

On the veranda of an old-fashioned 
house, one usually sees, glistening in 
the sunlight, a glass tank. When one 
looks through its transparent sides one 
beholds strange water wonders, castles 
and nooks of moss-covered rock, curious 
plants whose long streamers float with 
every current, and slow-moving, wide- 
eyed fish, with sparkling copper scales. 
Just this impression I have always had 
from looking through the doorway 
into a certain room — the impression of 
light, and glittering brightness, and re- 
flection. The room has many windows, 
so that the sun's rays can enter at 
every time of day. The windows are 
hung on each side with a long, narrow 
strip of thin, sea-green silk. As the 
breeze moves these streamer-like dra- 
peries, I fancy Ihey resemble seaweeds 
affected by the slight movement of 
water enclosed in an aquarium. This 
motion and the sunlight are reflected 
over and over again by an amazing 
collection of mirrors that hang between 
the windows, the gilt frames blending 
with the yellow of the walls so that 
one scarcely distinguishes the place of 
Joining, aii ii. is glass gives an In- 
describable effect of shining depth and 

pellucidity; yet the light is reflected in 
a singular manner, so that the atmos- 
phere of the room is translucent and 
hazy, as if a ripple had just disturbed 
the calm of water ; when I gaze into 
the room I almost expect to see the out- 
lines of the furniture waver. Yet, the 
tables and objects in the room when 
looked at intently, are quite solid 
and unmoving. Strangely enough, how- 
ever, their number seems to vary ac- 
cording as one perceives fewer or more 
of the reflections in the mirrors. One 
is bewildered as when one tries to 
count the objects in an aquarium, look- 
ing half through the side, half through 
the open top. 

The little stands and chairs about 
the room, of carved wood or of rough 
reeds, form curious nooks. Prom 
various crystal bowls, from brass vases 
the light flashes as the sun gleams for 
an instant on some bit of mica in the 
sand on the bottom of the tank, and 
then ceases to dazzle when one loses 
the proper angle. The owner of the 
room seems, moreover, truly to belong 
there. Her gliding movements as she 
slips along through the mazes of oddly 
shaped chairs and queer plants, her 
copper-red hair shining with an almost 
scaly gleam, her eyes that look curi- 
ously yet impenetrably out upon things 
— this, too, is suggestive and my fancy 
plays half-seriously with the doctrine 
of metempsychosis. 

Lorle Stecher, 1012. 


The sunset glow faded ; the evening 

star was lost among the gathering hosts 

of heaven. As the muffling darkness 

settled I watched them gather, numer- 



ous as the nations on the day of judg- 
ment. Before me stretched away the 
hidden waters of the ocean — the ocean 
which pounded, pounded, on the peb- 
bles with the dread monotony of doom ; 
collecting all Its powers it lifted itself 
to strike, only to ebb back into the 
night. For a little way out I could see 
it, see where the dim breakers gnashed 
their white teeth and struggled toward 

the land, tugging against the force 
which momentarily seemed about to 
let slip the noose. In terror I turned 
away from it, but I could not lose the 
sense of its presence. Far up the coast 
it stretched, farther than the last faint 
boom of those distant waves breaking 
miles away, farther than the straining 
imagination could follow it, to the cold 
waters of the northern ocean. 

Grace B agnail Branfiam, 1910. 




President — Margaret Elizabeth Brusstar, 
Vice-President — Emily C. Crawford. 
Secretary — Helen Maxwell Kino. 
Treasurer — Helen Cox Bauerman. 
The Graduate Club this year has had an unusually large number of mem- 
bers — 75, of whom 58 are resident at the college. During the year three formal 
meetings have been held, at which President Thomas addressed the Club on 
"The Ideal College" ; Dr. Penniman, of the University of Pennsylvania, on 
"Culture and Civic Responsibilities" ; and Dr. Herbert Weir Smyth-Eliot, Pro- 
fessor of Greek at Harvard University, on "Aspects of Romanticism in Greek 
Literature." The Club expects to hold two more formal meetings during the 
year, at which one outside speaker and one home professor will speak. 

The faculty of the college entertained the Graduate Club at a reception at 
the beginning of the year, and they have instituted a new custom of giving teas 
each month to the graduate students. These teas are very informal and have 
been greatly enjoyed. 

On January 8th the Graduate Club entertained the Senior Class at a 
cotillion given in the gymnasium, and on February 25th the Senior Class enter- 
tained the graduates at a delightful tea in Rockefeller Hall. 

The usual daily teas have been given in the club room throughout the 
year, and hockey and tennis teams and gymnasium classes have been organised 
for the graduates by the athletic director. 

B. M. K. 
» * * 

President — Mary Worthington, 1910. 
Vice-President and Treasurer — I.ois Lehman, 1911. 
Secretary — Mary Alden Morgan, 1912. 
The Philosophical Club began the year with an unusually large membership. 
On December 11th the Club gave a tea, at which the members of the departments 
of Philosophy and Psychology were invited to meet the members of the Club. 
That evening Dr. Stanton Colt, chairman of the West London Ethical Society, 
delivered a remarkably brilliant address on "Eugenics," which gave rise after- 
ward to an enthusiastic discussion. In April the Club will be addressed by Dr. 
Charles M. Bukewell, Professor of Philosophy In Yale University. 

L. P. L., 1911. 



President — Ruth Babcock, 1910. 
Vice-President — Hilda Smith, 1910. 
Treasurer — Ethel Richardson, 1911. 
Secretary — Mary Alden Morgan. 1912. 

Work this year has been carried on vigorously through the various com- 
mittees. Handbooks of information were sent during the summer to the incoming 
Freshmen, who were helped at their registration in Taylor by the Membership 
Committee. A reception to the new students was given early in October. Miss 
Thomas, Miss Applebee and Miss Babcock spoke. An unusually large number of 
Freshmen joined the Christian Union this year, making the total members 194. 

The Sunday evening services, which have taken the place of the Wednesday 
evening ones, have been well attended, and there have beeu many good speakers. 
The choir, enlarged this year, has led the singing, and varied it by different 

Boxes of clothing have been sent to Kensington, and an annual sum of 
money has been sent to Miss Tsuda's School, Japan, and to the Woman's Medical 
Mission in India. Money is also being collected for Dr. Grenfell's work in Lab- 

Work among the college maids and the laboratory boys has gone on as 
usual. Classes for the maids include a sewing class, Sunday school, and Glee 
Club. A Christmas tree and a party for the maids were given just before the 
holidays. The maids' libraries in each hall have been kept up as before. 

Bible and Mission Study classes have been held as usual during the year. 
Besides those led by students, there were two conducted by Mr. Morris and Dr. 

The Daily Vacation Bible School, in charge of Lillie James, was very suc- 
cessful last summer in Philadelphia ; 343 children, mostly Hebrews, were en- 
rolled, and work carried on in hammock-making, raffia-weaving, sewing, etc. 

A new feature this year has been the Settlement Class Committee, a joint 
committee of the League and the Christian Union, under the direction of Miss 
Applebee. Classes in cooking, gymnastics, dancing, etc., have been carried on 
regularly at the different settlements. 

The most important outcome of the year's work resulted from the growing 
need felt by the Boards of the League and the Christian Union for one religious 
organisation in the college. To avoid duplication of committee work, to secure 
the best work on the committees, and to represent the religious life of the col- 
lege as no longer divided in form, as it is not divided in spirit, the Christian 
Union agreed to dissolve the organisation, on condition that the League should 
also dissolve, the dissolution to take place on the adoption of a constitution for 
one new religious organisation of the college. This was accomplished on 
March 11th. 

H. W. £., 1910. 


President — Elsie Deems, 1910. 
Vice-President — Margaket Sheabeb, 1910. 
Treasurer — Kate Chambers, 1911. 
Secretary — Helen Barber, 1912. 

During this year the League has carried ou its regular activities, which have 
differed little from those of former years. 

In June a delegation of twelve members was sent to Silver Bay for the 
summer conference. The Intercollegiate Committee made all arrangements for 
this delegation as usual. 

The Religious Meetings Committee has arranged for the regular Sunday 
afternoon services. On account of the Sunday evening religious services held 
under the auspices of the Christian Union for the whole college, no outside 
speakers have been asked to lead these meetings. 

The Bible Study Committee prepared a course of summer vacation reading 
for the students. It also planned and held four Bible classes each semester. 

The Missionary Committee has planned and held four Mission Study Classes 
each semester. In union with the Missionary Committee of the Christian Union, 
the money was raised and all arrangements made for sending the Bryu Mawr 
delegation to the Student Volunteer Convention held in Rochester during the 
last week of December. Out of the delegation fund, beside the expenses of the 
delegates, a sum of money was paid out for the latest and best books on mis- 
sions. Bryn Mawr was truly privileged to be allowed a representation at that 
very wonderful and significant convention. 

The philanthropic work this year has been carried on through a joint com- 
mittee under the League and the Christian Union, with Miss Applebee as its 
chairman. Gymnasium classes and sewing classes have been led by members 
at the Philadelphia settlements. Work has been done also for the children at 
the Homoeopathic Hospital there. Summer sewing was done by very many, and 
distributed in the fall where it seemed most needed. .Forty-eight dolls were 
dressed for Christmas distribution, and a party was given for the women's class 
at Kensiuglou, at which presents were given to all the members. 

The Finance Committee has collected and distributed the League subserip- 
tlous to the work of Mr. Tonomura, city missionary in Tokio, Japan, and to 
Miss Jean Batty. Y. W. C. A. Secretary in South America, and other regular 
interests that it has supported. 

Two delegates were sent to a week-end conference at Wellesley on March 
12th to 14th. 

In all the work of the League during this past year the feeling among 
the members thai it is not the will of God that there should be disunity in the 
Christian life and effort in Bryn Mawr has been a growing one. In many ways 
the League and the Christian Union have been drawn together, and have come 
to the consciousness that they need not work as separate forces in college. After 


three months of prayerful thought and planning, the executive boards of the 
League and the Christian Union drew up a constitution for an organisation with 
a new basis, to be the one religious organisation in college, if acceptable to the 
members of the existing League and Christian Union. On Friday, March ]lth, 
the League dissolved its constitution and became one with the Christian Union 
in the Bryn Mawr Christian Association, on the basis suggested by the boards. 
The League has exerted a very significant influence over the religious life of the 
college, and all of those who have loved it and have worked in it in the past are 
looking forward trustfully toward the great results to come from this final step 
that it has taken. 

E. D., 1910. 

* * * 


President — Leila Houghteling, 1911. 

Vice-President — Kate Chambers, 1911. 

Treasurer— Catherine Arthurs, 1912. 

Secretary — Eleanor Bontecou, 1913. 
Once more and under a new guise Bryn Mawr College is permitted to take 
that highest of earthly prerogatives — the opportunity to begin again. On March 
11, 1910, the Christian Union and the Bryn Mawr League for the Service of 
Christ dissolved, and there was formed the Bryn Mawr Christian Association. 
The College, as it meets under this new name, is still blankly uncharacterised, 
like the face of a stranger in a strange place. We have made for ourselves 
a new instrument, and we are not yet familiar with its powers. But the blame 
is not upon those most concerned if the whole College does not know its pur- 
pose. It was fashioned, as the constitution has it, "to strengthen the religious 
life of the members of the College." For this end, so continually kept in mind, 
so rigorously adhered to, great sacrifices have been made. 

There has been an effort to lay aside all prejudices, both common and in- 
dividual. Not only have we relinquished our preconceived notions as to the 
opposite point of view, but we have even dared (and this is the perilous ad- 
venture) to question our own convictions as to method, to doubt whether, after 
all, we have worked with the greatest possible efficiency for the glory of God 
in this College. And now, not without trepidation, but with giving of thanks, 
we find in our hands the result of our conclusions. 

There is, indeed, a danger that in the sacrifice of what we have judged to be 
less essential to our purpose, we may lose the invaluable forces which these things 
have helped to engender. There is a firmness developed by persistence against 
pressure, an ardour born of unswerving loyalty, which make for strength of 
spirit. And there is nothing more enervating than an atmosphere of com- 
promise. We are not to feel, however, that as individuals we have yielded at 
all, or that any one of us has compromised her faith. Rather the sacrifices have 
been made by the corporate body, that each of its members may have space 
for her own development in behalf of all the others. For this must be the dom- 
inating principle of the new organisation, that the heaviest responsibility for 
maintaining its efficiency shall rest upon the individual. The spirit of the Chris- 
tian Association must be developed, not by conditions imposed upon it from 
without nor by the blind force of public opinion, but first in the silent heart of 
each one of us. No perfection of smoothly running machinery, no successful 
completion of corporate undertaking can accomplish our end, but only the 
presence of God. 

M. C, 1911. 


President — Ruth George, 1910. 

Grace Branham, 1910. 
Ruth Collins, 1910. 
Katharine Liddell, 1910. 
Helen Scott, 1910. 
Charlotte Claflin, 1911. 
Marion Crane, 1911. 
Mat Egan. 1911. 
Helen Parkhurst, 1911. 
During the year 1909-10 the members of the English Club have been writing, 
for their own benefit and interest, a translation of Michelet's Jeanne D'Arc. 
Parts of this translation, and other papers, have been read at the regular fort- 
nightly meetings of the Club. 

Miss Donnelly has been lending to the Club the newest books, which serve 
as an "English Club Library" for the use of the members. There has been more 
or less informal discussion of these books in the meetings. On April 30 there 
will be a formal meeting of the Club, at which Mr. A. L. Smith, Junior Dean of 
Balliol College, Oxford, will speak. 

M. C, 1911. 

* * * 


President — Elba Denison, 1910. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Elizabeth Faries. 3912. 

Secretary — Kate Chambers, 1911. 

In-door Manager — France Heabne, 1910. 

Outdoor Manager — Helen Emerson, 1911. 
There was even more interest than usual this year in hockey. The inter- 
class championship was won again by 1910. The Varsity, with Katherine Rotan 
as captain, won unfailing victory in a long series of games against the League 
teams, but met defeat at the hands of the All Philadelphia Team in the last game 
of the season. Last spring a varsity tennis team of three was chosen to play 
the Merion Cricket Club. Though the Varsity was beaten in the matches, a 
keener interest in tennis has been aroused by the possibility of winning a B. M. 
The class championship In tennis was won by 1913. Gordan Hamilton, 1913, 
challenged and defeated Anne Whitney, 1900, for the college cup. The opening 
of the beautiful new white-tiled pool marked an epoch in water sports. Many 
people have taken lessons in fancy diving. Water-polo games have not yet been 
played. The new swimming cup was won by 1910. The college records of 70- 
and 140- foot front were broken by Eleanor Elmer, 1913. College records were 
made in 70-foot back swim by Dorothy Ashton, 1910, and in 140-foot back by 
Clara Ware, 1910. The individual cup was won by Eleanor Elmer, 1913. In the 
track meet of this year, 1911 won first place, while the individual cup was held 
by Helen Emerson, 1911, who broke college records in broad Jump, and in hop, 
skip and jump. E. D., 1910. 


President — Janet Howell. 1910. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Mary Worthington, 1910. 
Secretary — Helen Tredway. 1911. 
The Science Club this year has consisted of seventeen undergraduates and 
two graduate members. Two formal meetings have been held. On the eighteenth 
of December Prof. Samuel Wesley Stratton, of the National Bureau of Stand- 
ards, gave a lecture on "National Standards of Measurements." illustrated by 
lantern slides ; and on the eighth of April Prof. Leo Loeb, of the School of 
Medicine, University of Pennsylvania, gave an address on the subject of Cancer. 

J. T. H., 1910. 

* * * 

President — Miriam Hedges, 1910. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Esther Cornell, 1911. 
Secretary — Dorothy' Wolff, 1912. 
Advisory Officer — Miss Marion Parris. 
The Consumers' League has had 125 members for the year 1909-1910, and has 
experienced an altogether successful year. Many letters have been written in 
support of various definite reforms, and the students have become more alive to 
their responsibility in their buying and in their dealings with labouring people. 

M. //., 1910. 

* • * 

Elector-— Florence Wood, 1911. 
Secretary — Frances Porter, 1911. 
Treasurer — Leonora Lucas. 1912. 
The membership of the College Settlement Chapter shows a slight increase 
this year over that of last year. The dues are not entirely collected yet, but 
we expect the membership to include about ninety students. 

Early in the year the Chapter gave a costume dance in the gymnasium, 
charging a small admission fee, to raise money for its current expenses. 

On the fifth of February, Miss Geraldine Gordon, organising secretary of 
the College Settlement Association, gave a very interesting talk on settlement 
work. Miss Goi don's address was particularly interesting because of her active 
and sympathetic i 'erest at that time in the shirtwaist makers' strike in Phila- 

Students have gone into the Philadelphia Settlements as usual this winter 
to help take care of the children on Saturday mornings. The gymnasium classes, 
however, have been discontinued, owing to the difficulty in having regular 
teachers. On the fourteenth of May we hope to have a large party of the Settle- 
ment children to spend the day at Bryn Mawr, as they did last spring. 

F. W., 1911. 




President — Mary Wobthington, 1910. 

Vice-President — Margaret Prussing, 1911. 

Secretary — Pauline Clarke, 1912. 

Advisory Board — Elsa Denison, 1910. 
Amy Walker, 1911. 
During the first semester the League held no formal meeting, but endeavoured 
to interest the incoming class as well as anti-suffragists by informal discussions 
in all the halls. These meetings took place during the second week in December. 
They were led by the President, Mary Worthington, who presented the practical 
and theoretical aspects of the reasons why women should vote. The effect of 
equal suffrage in western states, women and the law, and the purposes of the 
League were treated by other officers and members of the board. From the dis- 
cussion that took place and the interest aroused by means of these meetings the 
officers and board were convinced that only ignorance of conditions kept college 
women from joining in the movement for suffrage. 

In the second semester a formal meeting was held, at which Mrs. Hooker, 
of Baltimore. Bryn Mawr, 1901, spoke on "How Women Can Best Fulfill Their 
Duties." Mrs. Hooker has studied at Johns Hopkins University and is devoting 
her life to work among girls and women in Baltimore, and she believes that 
women cannot do their duties at home or help other women without the power of 
the ballot to enforce their demands for necessary relief measures. The speech 
was followed by questions and discussion. No meeting of the League has so 
stirred the college, and convinced its members of the duty women owe to the 

The League membership Is this year 140. 

li. P., 1911. 

* * * 


President — Susanne C. Allinson, 1910. 
Secretary — Leila Houghteling, 1911. 
Treasurer — Helen Henderson, 1911. 
We have been gradually completing and correcting the brass nameplates in 
Pembroke East and West, and we hope by Commencement to have names in most 
of the rooms of Merlon. The records for Merlon are incomplete and confusing 
at times, but considering the hoary antiquity of the hall it is too much to expect 
of the alunin;e to remember their rooms or room mates, so we fear the list 
will never be perfectly correct. We hope, however, that by the twenty-fifth anni- 
versary most of the Merlon alumme will find their names correctly inscribed in 
their old rooms. 

A card catalogue is being made of everything In the Trophy Club, and also 
of the things which are lacking. S. C. A., 1910. 


Conductor — Mb. Selden Miller. 
Leader — Elizabeth Tenney, 1910. 
Business Manager- — Esther Cornell. 1911. 
Assistant Business Manager — Mary Scbibner. 1912. 

The Glee Club, numbering this year about sixty-four members, gave its 
annual concert with the Mandolin Club on the nineteenth of March. This unusu- 
ally «arly date was selected on account of the May Day F6te. The time for re- 
hearsals being, as a result, somewhat limited, it was decided to give over tb« 
singing of Christmas carols to the choir. The concert on March nineteenth was 
considered a great success. Miss Tenney conducted with much spirit and Mies 
Denison's solos were very beautiful indeed. 

E. C, 1911. 


Director — Mr. Paul Eno. 

Leader— Agnes M. Irwin, 1910. 

Business Manager — Carlotta Welles. 1912. 

Assistant Business Manager — Lydia Stetson, 1913. 

The membership in the Mandolin Club this year has increased from sixteen 
to twenty-nine, and the interest has been very well sustained. On account of 
May Day the annual concert of the musical clubs was given in March instead 
of in May. As this decreased the number of meetings, it was impossible to do 
more than prepare for the concert. The concert program was well rendered, and 
Miss Hoffman's cello solo gave variety to the program. The large number of 
Freshmen and Sophomores in the club this year gives it an unusually good pros- 
pect for next year. 

A. M. I., 1910. 

President — Mabel Ashley, 1910. 

Vice-President and Treasurer — Margaret Trussing, 1911. 
Secretary — Catherine Delano, 1911. 
Assistant Treasurer — Fanny Crenshaw, 1912. 


President — Hilda Wobthington Smith, 3910. 
Vice-President — Elsie Deems. 1910. 
Graduate Member — Maegaret Bbusstab. 
Secretary — Mary Minor Watson Taylor, 1911. 
Treasurer — Virginia Custer Canan, 1911. 
Executive Board — Hilda W. Smith, 1910. 

Elsie Deems, 1910. 

Leila Houqhteling, 1911. 

Marion Crane, 1911. 

Majigabet Bbusstab. 

Bryn Uanr European Fellow— Helen Miiller Bley. 
President's Euroixan Fellow — Helen Maxwell King. 
Mary E. Garrett European Felloic — Eunice Morgan Schenk. 
Anna Ottendorfer Memorial Felloicship in Teutonic Philology — Jane Harrieoa. 



Leviore Plectro. 


Baby is drifting thro' Sunset-Land 

In a rainbow-craft of dreams ; 
Where the cloud-banks looming on 

either hand 
Slope to a glittering golden strand 

All washed by silvery streams; 
Where grim cloud-battlements tower 
and frown 
And fairy palaces rise. 
And a white cloud-squadron comes 
sailing down 
On the azure deep of the skies. 

Baby is floating thro' Shadow-Land 

Where things look dim and strange, 
Where soundless waves beat a shape- 
less strand, 
And vague, mysterious figures stand, 

Hover and shift and change ; 
Where drowsy fancies shape the gloom 

In shadowy goblin-guise, 
Who weave strange spells at a ghostly 

To curtain the heavy eyes. 


My coat is nearer than my cloak ; 

My coat is an integument of pride. 
Marianne Moore, 1909. 


We built them upon the shining sand, 
Looking over the infinite sea, 

And the light that was never on sea 
or land 
Glowed warm on our masonry. 

Towers and moat and a garden long 

And a wandering sea-wall there, 
We built to the lilt of a laughing 
In the dreamlit summer air. 

Baby is anchored off Slumber-Land 
Where the dim earth fades from 
Where the moonbeams sleep in their 

soft cloud-beds. 
And the little star-babies have cradled 
their heads 
On the broad mother-bosom of Night. 
— Little Dream-Ship, with your white 
sails furled. 
Rest in your haven deep ; 
A moonlit silence is flooding the world 
And the baby is fast asleep. 

Caroline Reeves Foulke, 1896. 

But the tide swept up, as tides will 
With steady resistless flood, 
And there's never a ripple on all the 
To tell where our castles stood. 

Fools were we, doubtless, to build them 
On the shifting, wave-beat strand, 
But they are happy fools who rear 
Their castles on the sand. 

Katharine Liddell, 1910. 



There is a sweetness in her voice 

Too good for all the world to share; 
To them it is a pleasant sound, 

To me beyond compare. 

Sometimes a single word she says 

More soft than wild-rose buds that part ; 
Sometimes it is a wordless sound 

That echoes in my heart. 

O sweet ! the wind that thrills the pines 

Has no such music to my ears : 
There is a sweetness in her voice 

Too sweet for all to hear. 

Content Shepard Nichols, 1899. 


Like the light of a candle Art is exact perception ; 

Blown suddenly out, If the outcome is deception 

I witness illusion. Then I think the fault must lie 

And subsequent doubt. Partly with the critic's eye, 

Like a drop in the bucket And no man who's done his part 

And liquid as flame, Need apologize for art. 
Is the proof of enjoyment Marianne Moore, 1909. 

Compared with the name. 

Marianne Moore, 1909. 




It was in the second winter of Uncle 
Dick's stay in the West Indies that 
he sent us the Rhodonia Campestris. 
When we opened the box and found 
nothing inside but a lot of earth, we 
were not surprised, for he had often 
sent us specimens before in his travels, 
remembering Mother's passion for 
plants, and our garden by this time was 
as cosmopolitan as a Swiss pension. 
Mother read us his enclosed letter, tell- 
ing about the Rhodonia Campestris,- — 
how it was rare except in the heart of 
tropical forests, and valued for its per- 
fume as well as appearance. We got 
out the big botany and hunted for it, 
but it was not to be found. However, 
the load of tropical earth was carefully 
removed to a large pot, and installed 
along with the rest of Mother's pro- 
teges at the window in the south room. 
We took turns watering, and waited 
impatiently for the newcomer to show 

When the tiny green shoot had once 
appeared it grew with great rapidity. 
By April it was almost a shrub ; the 
stalk was stiff and hard, and the leaves 
were like metal plates, dark and glossy. 
Mother did not dare to set it out till she 
was sure of summer weather; so we 
kept it in the house until the end of 
May. By that time it was full of buds, 
swelling till they all but burst their 
tight green covers. Of course it was 
the show-piece of the house in those 
days ; Mother exhibited it to every one 
who came in, and people used to call to 
see "the new plant your brother Rich- 
ard sent." 

The first Sunday in June was Flower 
Sunday. Mother always took com- 
mand of the decorating, and this year 

she counted on having Rhodonia Cam- 
pestris to second her. Sure enough, 
the first buds opened Friday ; on Sat- 
urday it was all out in purple pomp, the 
broad petals spreading bowl-fashion 
round deep golden centres. "I don't 
notice the perfume Dick speaks of," 
said Mother, sniffing, "but perhaps 
that will come when they have been 
out a while." She cut the stems 
of the handsomest blossoms with her 
sharpest plant knife; we all stood by 
and watched the process, which had 
somewhat the dignity of a rite. Then 
she went on ahead to church with her 
armful screened by damp tissue-paper, 
leaving us to get ready and follow 
after. When we arrived I own I caught 
my breath ; I had never seen the place 
look so lovely. There was trailing 
green stuff all over the walls, and along 
the back of every pew, and the wealth 
of June flowers setting all alight. But 
the crowning glory was Rhodonia, — ■ 
our own Rhodonia, — hanging her blos- 
soms like great jewels below the pul- 
pit, flaunting her color almost arro- 
gantly in the face of the congregation. 
You could feel the people as they went 
to their seats nudging one another to 
look at Mother's tropical plant ; and I 
for one felt as if the honour of the day 
were hers and Rhodonia's alone. 

The minister made some allusion in 
the beginning of his sermon to "the 
isles of the sea yielding their tribute 
to adorn God's house," and after that 
he went on so smoothly that I almost 
dropped asleep. It was when he inter- 
rupted himself by a sharp sneeze that 
I awoke, and realized that Rhodonia's 
blossoms were opening wider and burn- 
ing more intensely as the sun fell across 
them. I had lost myself again in gaz- 



iag at them when Dr. Darrow sneezed 
a second time, and a minute later 
somebody else. I remember speculat- 
ing as to the possible prevalence of hay 
fever, while the sneezes followed one 
another like pistol practice up at the 
fort. Then a sudden thought struck 
me, and I nearly jumped out of my 
seat. I stole a glance at Mother. She 
was holding her slim figure very erect, 
and a charming color was creeping into 
her cheeks and deepening there second 
by second. 

How we got through that service I 
don't know. It must have been some- 
thing like an evening party in the days 
of snuff-taking. The hymns were the 
worst. After it was over the routed 
congregation streamed out, their faces 
buried in their handkerchiefs, and 
Mother went up and stripped that pul- 
pit the first thing. Dr. Darrow was 
really very nice to her; but she got out 
as quickly as she could by the back 

So we carried Rhodonia's disgraced 
progeny home, and Rhodonia herself we 
transplanted to a solitary eminence in 
the back garden — a sort of St. Helena. 
She was in view from the road as well 
as from the house, so her regal beauty 
was not wasted; and Truesdell, the 
man, watered her with the hose. I 
was bound it was a practical joke on 
Uncle Dick's part ; but Mother held 
stoutly to faith in her brother, and 
would have it that he was ignorant of 
the plant's peculiarities. When he 
wrote us that he would be back before 
fall we agreed not to mention the sub- 
ject to him unless he inquired. How- 
ever, he had not been in the house an 
hour when he asked after his dear Ruo- 

"She's in the back garden," I said; 
"Wouldn't you like to come out and see 

We formed a little procession to es- 
cort him into Rhodonia's presence. 
When he saw her, still in bloom, he 
stopped dead ; then he burst into a peal 
of laughter that lasted quite a minute. 

"Did you," he asked, as soon as he 
could, "did you, may I ask, by any 
chance try to keep that plant in the 

"We did more than that," I said; 
"we adorned the church with it." 

"And this — er — exile is the conse- 

"It is." 

He laughed again ; I thought he 
would never stop. 

"Why, you poor people," he sobbed 
at last, "didn't you see the Rhodonia?" 

"That's the Rhodonia." 

"It's the common snuff-weed, — the 
plague of our lives, I can tell you, — 
at least in the interior ; they've nearly 
got it stamped out along the coast. I 
didn't suppose any of it got mixed In 
with the earth I sent you." 

Then we all remembered some puny 
sprouts that came up a little while 
after the Rhodonia ; but her magnifi- 
cent roots choked them out so quickly 
as almost to save us the trouble of 

"Never mind," said Uncle Dick, when 
we had partially quieted down, "I've 
brought some of the real Rhodonia 
along in case the first didn't do well. 
You wait and see." 

So we waited ; and when by-and-by 
the real Rhodonia came out, in delicate, 
waxy-white blossoms, we were almost 
too glad to remember the imposture 
practiced on us by that bold-faced ad- 


venturer of a plant. I was especially friend, as they gathered round her 

pleased for Mother's sake; for when when service was over, "Yes, that's 

Flower Sunday came round again, she the plant my brother Dick brought me 

twined the white flowers underneath from the West Indies." 
the pulpit, and repeated to friend after Charlotte Isabel Claflin, 1911. 

Said Mary, "I love without bound 
This ocean so blue and profound." 
Cried Tom, "Can it be 
I am seeing the sea? 
I thought I was hearing the Sound." 
Katharine Lid-dell, 1910. 


Spring, sweet spring, the years pleasant 
I've flunked everything, my woe is 
Exam cards are the thing, much money 
I bring. 
Flunk, flunk, work, work, cheer up 
and dry your eyes. 

Four gym drills a day or fearful fines 
to pay; 
Practice for a play to bring in the 
May ; 
Three quizzes Monday, finals not far 
Spring, sweet spring! 

Rosalind Mason, 1911. 
Reprinted from Tipyn O'Bob.