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WILLIAMS anthology" 6cO COPIES 


a Collection of tl^e t^mt and 
proiSe of Williams College 

1798— 1910 








The present work owes its existence to a conviction on 
the part of its editors that much material published by past 
Williams undergraduates in past and present literary periodi- 
cals of the college, deserves a resurrection from the threat- 
ening oblivion of musty library shelves. That this convic- 
tion has been justified by the quality of the verse and prose 
herein published, the editors believe; and they therefore 
submit this volume to the pubhc without undue fear as to 
its reception, adding only the caution that its readers re- 
member always the tender age of the writers of these pages. 

The purpose of the editors was to collect material which 
might be adjudged to possess real literary merit; but in 
some cases in which the historical interest attaching to the 
production, either by reason of its subject or by reason of 
the fame attained in later years by its author, is obvious, 
this rule has been waived. Among such exceptions may be 
cited that of the Resolutions addressed to President Adams 
by the students, and copied herein from the pages of the 
Vidette. The matter has been arranged in the order of class 
seniority, with two exceptions. It has seemed fitting to the 
editors to begin the work with that immortal song, *'The 
Mountains"; the second exception is that of the series of 
biographical sketches entitled "Nine Williams Alumni," 
which for obvious reasons were published as a whole. 

The editors burrowed through all files of the college pub- 
lications which the college library contains, files which are 
reasonably complete. In such a mass of material, some 
ninety volumes, it will be astounding indeed if some credit- 
able work has not been passed inadvertently over. If such 
a mistake has occurred it is at least pardonable. The editors 


fear only the presence of some unworthy matter in this 
volume, a sin of commission and hence vastly more heinous. 

In going over the works of their academic ancestors the 
editors have been struck by several very interesting facts. 
The literary quality of the poetry, as all will recognize, has 
made a steady advance, until the last six years of the Lit. 
have seen the magazine second to none, for verse at least, 
in the intercollegiate press. Button, Westermann, Gibson, 
HoUey, all of the same collegiate generation — they are 
names which are widely known and which have brought 
the college renown of a nature which, ordinarily, she is apt 
to obtain rather by athletic than by intellectual means. It 
is striking, too, to notice how the college poetry has changed 
during the seventy years of its existence, as the present com- 
pilers have known it. There are specimens of the "poetry" 
of the early days included herein, which find a place, as is 
intimated elsewhere, not so much for their intrinsic merit 
as for the interest attaching to them in other directions; 
and as for the prose of the Quarterly and the Vidette, it 
was, indeed, like the essays of the college press to-day, care- 
fully written and with a degree of that indescribable some- 
thing called " style " ; but so philosophical, heavy, and devoid 
of any human interest that we cannot imagine the average 
student going through the magazine at a sitting as (despite 
all reports to the contrary) is done with the college papers 

An interesting light on the alteration in undergraduate 
problems that has gradually come about is furnished by 
a reading of Mr. Mabie's essay included herein. At the 
time of its production Mr. Mabie saw the need of a greater 
degree of organization among the students, in order that 
the college might thereby become more of a community. 
How directly opposed the present-day cry is! Student or- 
ganization has to-day so spread and so wound itself about 


the very life of the college, that it threatens to hide the in- 
tellectual aims for which the college exists. The editors ven- 
ture to express the opinion that, had Mr. Mabie written 
when they are writing, his essay would perhaps have had 
a different tone. 

The college has indeed much to be proud of in its liter- 
ture and journalism — for it has been enriched with names 
like Bryant, Prime, Franklin Carter, Mabie, Stoddard, 
Scudder, Alden, Gladden, G. L. Raymond, L. W. Spring, 
G. Stanley Hall, H. L. Nelson, G. E. MacLean, Cuthbert 
Hall, Isaac Henderson, Bliss Perry, F. J. Mather, Rollo 
Ogden: many of them are represented here; and we are glad 
for the college that their fame had its beginnings, even if 
often modest, in our student publications. 

For the purpose of embodying the literary history of the 
college as completely as possible in one volume, the com- 
pilers have added an appendix containing the names of the 
editors of the Literary Monthly for the twenty-six years 
of its existence. For the same purpose, they quote below a 
chronological sketch of the various publications, which ap- 
peared in the Gulielmensian of the class of 1908. The present 
editors cannot vouch for all the facts there set forth. 

*' So far as is known, the earliest periodical published by 
Williams undergraduates was The Adelphi, a. bi-weekly, 
of which the first issue appeared August 18, 1831, and the 
last Jime 21, 1832. After twelve years The Williams 
Monthly Miscellany was started in July, 1844, and con- 
tinued until September, 1845. After another lapse of several 
years. The Williams Quarterly Magazine was founded in 
July, 1853, and continued publication until June, 1872. 
Meantime, April 13, 1867, The Williams Vidette had been 
started, and in 1872, the older Quarterly was merged into 
it. The Vidette was published fortnightly until June, 1874, 
when it, together with The Williams Review, a tri-weekly, 


started in June, 1870, was united to form the fortnightly 
Williams AthencBuntf the first issue of which appeared 
October 10, 1874. In May, 1881, another fortnightly, The 
Argo, was started, which, with The Athenceum, appeared in 
alternate weeks until April, 1885, when the two gave place 
simultaneously to The Williams Literary Monthly and The 
Fortnight. Two years later, April, 1887, The Fortnight was 
reorganized into The Williams Weekly. In 1904 The Wil- 
liams Weekly became The Williams Record. 

*' Volume I of the Gulielmefisian appeared in the early 
spring of 1857." 

To these must be added two more, whose existences have 
begun since the above was published. A humorous monthly, 
The Purple Cow, first saw the light in the fall of 1907 and 
has since prospered. Two volumes have appeared of 
Cofee Club Papers, containing productions read before 
the meetings of that body. The first volume bears the date 
of 1909 and the second of 19 10. Every class on its graduation 
publishes its Class Book and these sometimes attain a degree 
of literary merit; hence any review of the literary interests 
of the college would be incomplete without at least mention 
of them. 

And now the editors have done their task. It has been 
pleasant work; may the results prove as pleasant to those 
before whose literary palates they are spread. It remains 
only to thank the alumni for their loyal financial support 
through the subscription blanks sent out in June, and the 
library staff of the college for the generosity with which 
more than the ordinary facilities of the library have been 

The Editors. 

Williamstowny Massachusetts, November i, igio. 



{For index by authors ^ see end of the volume) 


The Mountains Verse i 

Washington Gladden '59 

Address of Williams College Stltdents to the 
President of the United States Prose 2 

Members of the Class of 1798 

The Swallow Verse 4 

William Cullen Bryant 181 3 

Martial, Book X: Translation Verse 6 

William Cullen Bryant 18 13 

Exegi Monumentum: Translation from Horace Verse 7 
Erastus C. Benedict '21 

The Sculptor to ms Statue Verse 8 

John J. Ingalls '55 

Opportunity Verse 1 1 

John J. Ingalls '55. 

Autumn Verse 1 2 

James A. Garfield '56 

In the Forest Verse 14 


Corsica Verse [16 


Looking Backward Prose 17 

Washington Gladden '59 


To THE Mountains of Williamstown on the In- 
troduction OF THE New Railroad 

The Yellow Jasmine 

Franklin Carter '62 

After Dinner Speeches 

Franklin Carter '62 

The Student Community 

Hamilton Wright Mabie '67 

Self-Made Men: I. — Bill Pratt 
Alfred Clark Chapin '69 



College Friendships 

Charles Cuthbert Hall '72 

Lorraine — 1870 

In Answer 

The Mystic 



Ballade of the Haunted Stream 
Edward G. Benedict '82 

Indian Summer 

Herbert S. Underwood '83 



In Holland Brown 

Sanborn Gove Tennev '86 


Sanborn Gove Tenney '86 

Verse 21 

Verse 23 

Prose 25 

Prose 30 

Prose 35 

Verse 45 

Verse 48 

Verse 50 

Verse 53 

Verse 54 

Verse 57 

Verse 59 

Verse 60 

Verse 61 

Verse 62 



The 'Cello 



Samuel Abbott '87 ^ 

Millet's "Angelus" 



Elbridge L. Adams '87 

A SuMMF.R Afternoon '. 



Henry D. Wild '88 




George L. Richardson 


On Bryant's **Thanatopsis" 



George L. Richardson 


Summer Song 



Talcott M. Banks '90 

The Backward Look 



Talcott M. Banks '90 




Arthur Oliver '93 

Old Trinity 



Frederick D. Goodwin 


Two Triolets of Autl^mn 



Karl E. Weston '96 




Arthur Ketchum '98 

The Gypsy Strain 



Arthur Ketchum '98 

The Song of the Cavaliers 



James B. Corcoran ex- 





Charles P. Parkhurst ' 


Cervera at Annapolis 



Henry R. Conger '99 


The Answer Verse 82 

D wight W. Marvin '01 

One of the Plodders Story 83 

Harry James Smith '02 

The Enditing of Letters Prose 96 

Stuart P. Sherman '03 

Greylock Verse 102 

Max Eastman '05 

To Sidney Lanier • Verse 103 

Max Eastman '05 

The Lifting of the Clouds ' Story 104 

Shepard Ashman Morgan '06 

The Frost King Verse 112 

Charles Henry Brady '06 

Until He Cometh Dramatic Verse 113 

George Burwell Button '07 

The Mask of Adelita Story 123 

Gerald Mygatt '08 

The Awakening Verse 136 

Willard Ansley Gibson '08 

The Brook Released Verse 137 

Willard Ansley Gibson '08 

The Gardener Verse 139 

Willard Ansley Gibson '08 

Nocturne Verse 140 

Willard Ansley Gibson '08 

The Hidden Face Verse 142 

Bernard Westermann '08 

Modern Thought and Medieval Dogma Verse 143 

Bernard Westermann '08 


The Goblin King 

Bernard Westermann '08 

Out of the Harbor 

Stanton Budington Leeds ex-'o8 


Stanton Budington Leeds ex-'o8 

On the ''Chant d 'Amour" of Burne -Jones 
Roger Sherman Loomis '09 

The Many Roads 

Horace Holley ex-' 10 


Horace Holley ex-' 10 

Preferment and the Fool 

Horace Holley ex-' 10 

The Immigrants ■ - 

' Horace Holley ex-' 10 


Horace Holley ex-' 10 

Ashes of Dreams 

Philo Clarke Calhoun '10 

The Good Grey Poet 

Ed\\in Partridge Lehman '10 

A Minor Poet to Himself 

Edwin Partridge Lehman '10 

Hearts and Tarts: An Old Tale Retold 
Durr Friedley ex-' 10 

To Keats 

Julian Park '10 

Mortal Verse 

William Hutcheson Windom '11 

In the Donjon Keep 

Gilbert W. Gabriel '12 



































I. John Bascom 197 

John Adams Lowe '06 

II. Henry Mills Alden 198 

Leverett W. Spring '62 

III. WAsraNGTON Gladden 201 

Stephen T. Livingston '87 

IV. Franklin Carter 202 

Henry D. Wild '88 

V. Hamilton Wright Mabie 204 

William M. Grosvenor '85 

VI. Henry Loomis Nelson 205 

Julian Park '10 

VII. Harry Pratt Judson 207 

George E. MacLean '71 

VIII. Charles Cuthbert Hall 208 

Solomon Bulkley Griffin '72^ 

IX. Bliss Perry • 210 

Carroll Lewis Maxcy '87 


Over the Hills 213 

G. B. D. '07 

A New Life in Reading 215 

J. O. S. E. '12 


A List of the Editors of the Literary Monthly ^ 
Volumes I to XXV. 





O, PROUDLY rise the monarchs of our mountain land, 

With their kingly forest robes, to the sky. 
Where Alma Mater dwelleth with her chosen band. 

Where the peaceful river floweth gently by. 

The mountains! the mountains! we greet them with a song! 
Whose echoes, rebounding their woodland heights along, 
Shall mingle with anthems that winds and fountains sing, 
Till hill and valley gaily, gaily ring. 

The snows of winter crown them with a crystal crown, 
And the silver clouds of summer round them cHng; 

The autumn's scarlet mantle flows in richness down; 
And they revel in the garniture of spring. Chorus. 

O, mightily they battle with the storm-king's pow'r; 

And, conquerors, shall triumph here for aye; 
Yet quietly their shadows fall at evening hour. 

While the gentle breezes round them softly play. Chorus, 

Beneath their peaceful shadows may old Williams stand, 
Till suns and mountains never more shall be, 

The glory and the honor of our mountain land, 

And the dwelling of the gallant and the free. Chorus. 
Quarterly, 1859. 





From the Hampshire Gazette, Northampton, Mass., July 25, 1798 

Sir, — Though members of an infant Institution and of 
little comparative weight in the scale of the Union, we feel 
for the interest of our country. It becomes every patriotic 
youth in whose breast there yet remains a single principle 
of honour, to come forward calmly, boldly, and rationally 
to defend his country. When we behold. Sir, a great and 
powerful nation exerting all its energy to undermine the 
vast fabrics of Religion and Government, when we behold 
them inculcating the disbelief of a Deity, of future rewards 
and punishments; when we behold them discarding every 
moral principle and dissolving every tie which connects 
men together in Society, which sweetens life and renders 
it worthy enjoying; when we behold them brutalizing man 
that they may govern him, — as friends to Humanity, as 
sharers in the happiness of our fellow-men, as Citizens of the 
world, our feelings are deeply affected. We commiserate 
the fate of our European Brethren; we weep over the awful 
calamities of anarchy and atheism. 

But when we behold this Nation, not contented with its vast 
European dominions, but endeavouring to extend its Colos- 
sean empire across the Atlantic, every passion is roused; our 
souls are fired with indignation. We see that their object 
is universal domination; we see that nothing less than the 
whole world, nothing less than the universal degradation 


of man, will satisfy these merciless destroyers. But be as- 
sured, Sir, we will oppose them with all our youthful energy 
and risk our lives in defence of our country. 

Untaught in the school of adulation, or the courts of 
sycophants, we speak forth the pure sentiments of Inde- 
pendence. We give you our warmest approbation. We be- 
hold with true patriotic pride the dignified conduct of our 
Chief Magistrate at this alarming crisis. We are highly 
pleased with the moderation, candor, and firmness which 
have uniformly characterized your administration. Though 
measures decisive and energetic will ever meet with cen- 
sure from the unprincipled, the disaffected, and the factious, 
yet virtue must eternally triumph. It is this alone that can 
stand the test of calumny; and you have this consolation, 
that the disapprobation of the wicked is solid praise. 

At this eventful period our eyes are fixed upon you, Sir, 
as our political Father, and under Providence we rely on 
your wisdom and patriotism, with the co-operation of our 
national Council, to perpetuate our prosperity; and we 
solemnly engage, that, while our Government is thus purely 
and virtuously administered, we will give it our whole 

These, Sir, are the unanimous sentiments of the Mem- 
bers of Williams College, who, though convinced of the 
evils of War, yet despise peace when put into competition 
with National Freedom and Sovereignty. 

Signed by a Committee in behalf of one hundred and 

thirty Students of Williams College — 

David L. Perry. 

Samuel Cowls. 

Solomon Strong. 

Silas Hubbell. 

Williams College, June 19, 1798. 


From the Italian of T. Grossi by 

Swallow from beyond the sea ! . 

That, with every dawning day, 
Sitting on the balcony 

Utterest that plaintive lay! 
What is it that thou tellest me, 

Swallow from beyond the sea? 

Haply thou, for him who went 
From thee and forgot his mate. 

Dost lament to my lament, 
Widowed, lonely, desolate. 

Ever then, lament with me. 
Swallow from beyond the sea ! 

Happier yet art thou than I, — 
Thee thy trusty wings may bear, 

Over lake and cliff to fly. 
Filling with thy cries the air, 

CaUing him continually. 
Swallow from beyond the sea ! 

Could I too ! — but I must pine. 
In this dungeon close and low. 

Where the sun can never shine. 
Where the breeze can never blow, 

Whence my voice scarce reaches thee, 
Swallow from beyond the sea ! 



Now September days are near, 
Thou to distant lands will fly, 

In another hemisphere ; 

Other streams shall hear thy cry. 

Other hills shall answer thee, 
Swallow from beyond the sea ! 

Then shall I when dayhght glows. 
Waking to the sense of pain, 

'Midst the wintry frosts and snows. 
Think I hear thy notes again — 

Notes that seem to grieve for me, 
Swallow from beyond the sea ! 

Planted here upon the ground. 
Thou shalt find a cross in spring; 

There, as evening gathers 'round. 
Swallow, come and rest thy wing. 

Chant a strain of peace to me. 
Swallow from beyond the sea ! 
Vidette, 1871. 



Oh fortunate AntoniusI o'er whose head 
Calm days have flown and closed the sixtieth year, 
Back on this flight he looks and feels no dread 
To think that Lethe's waters flow so near. 
There is no day of all the train that gives 
A pang; no moment that he would forget. 
A good man's span is doubled; twice he lives 
Who, viewing his past life, enjoys it yet. 
Quarterly 1 1865. 


" Horace," » Ode 30, Book III. 
E. C. BENEDICT '21 2 

I've a monument reared more enduring than brass, 

Which is higher than pyramids built by the kings, 
Through the rains and the tempests, unharmed, it shall pass, 

And the wear the corrosion of centuries brings. 
For, not all shall I die, but my greater part still 

Shall survive from the grave, and my fame shall increase 
Long as virgin and priest on the Capitol Hill 

Shall ascend to their altars in silence and peace. 
Where once Daunus of deserts and rustics was king, 

Where swift Aufidus roars, in my praise shall be told 
That, though himible in birth, I was foremost to bring 

Into Italy's songs the Greek music of old. 
Then, Melpomene, take to thyself all the pride 

Of the glory thy merits so justly declare. 
And now freely of Delphian laurel provide 

A fresh coronal wreath to encircle thy hair. 

AthencBum, 1875. 

* The Melpomene of Horace was, I suppose, the Greek muse of sing- 
ing, not the muse of tragedy, nor a general muse. 
2 Died 1880. 



"Thou silent, pallid dream, in marble stone! 

No rare, sweet phantasie which my divine 
And all unearthly-mingled soul has thrown 

Around a glowing form, art thou, where shine, 

As garlands wove about a kindled shrine, 
The beauties of a godlike art and more 

Etherial thought fashioned to high design, 
But a remembrance of that unknown shore 
Where youth and love eterne on spirit pinions soar. 

" O'er the hushed vales and gulfy hills of Greece 
Night brooded on her darkly jewelled wing. 

Binding in drowsy chains of dewy peace 
Sweet birds, white flocks and every living thing. 
And lapsing streams which to the forest sing. 

Beneath that pillared fane which guards the place 
Where spirits twain sleep in the charmed ring, 

I slept after the banquet, and the rays 

Of a past heaven flashed on my soul's astonished gaze. 

" The emerald isles that sail a silver sea, 

Caverned by plumy groves of sunny palm, 
Broke on my startled vision suddenly; 
When as but quickly parted, sweet and calm. 
That long forgot yet ever haunting psalm 
Floated from lips that flew to greet me home. 
A meteor flamed: I woke in rude alarm; 
* Died 1900. 


Above me orbed the temple's sullen dome; 

Around me swam the early morning's starless gloom. 

" Of that fair dream thou art the memory, 

My genius, in its wildest fancy, bound 
And petrified to immortality ! 

A holy presence seems to hover round 

The deep, perpetual loveliness, as crowned 
With angel radiance, and plumed for flight, 

Thy pinioned sandals spurn the flowerless ground, 
Striving to gain that far Olympian height 
Towards which in rapturous awe upturns thy longing 

" Why are thy parted lips so dumb and cold? 

Else with my eager arms about thee thrown 
And folded in thy soft embrace, had rolled 

The Lethean tide of love, in which, unknow^n 

And all unheeded in their state, had flown 
The future and the past, merged in that sea 

The present, whose far deeps are felt alone 
By the pale diver, reaching breathlessly 
Through pearled and coral caves concealed from mortal 

'* Oh, shape divine! Such madd'ning grace must have 

A soul, a consciousness of love and life 
Though tombed in pallor, with no epitaph 

But silence! What mighty spell with power rife 

Can wake thee into Being's passion strife? 
Yet if there be such, let it rest unsought; 

For every boon thou couldst from breath derive 
I would not wrest from thee that higher lot. 
The need of deathlessness, thou pale, embodied thought! 


" Great poet souls and people yet unborn 

Shall lay their speechless homage at thy feet, 
And still thy life be in its rosy dawn, 

Whose eve eternity alone shall greet. 

While I, to whom thy changeless smile were sweet 
As heaven, long mingled with earth's vilest mould. 

Shall be forgot ! What wealth of fame can mete 
The loss of love? None, none! Thy fate is cold. 
But oh, what starry treasures might it not unfold!" 

He ceased. A lambent halo seemed to play 
About her head, as lightnings round the moon; 

Her marble tresses streamed in golden spray — 
A tremor throbbed along her limbs of stone. 
And sky-hued veins with life's warm pulses shone. 

One thought of wordless love beamed from her eyes. 
Then, gently floating from her shining throne 

'Mid blushing smiles half drowned in tearful sighs, 

She faded slowly heavenward through the sunset skies. 

Quarterly, 1853. 



Master of human destinies am I; 

Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait. 

Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate 

Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by 

Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late, 

I knock unbidden once on every gate. 

If sleeping, wake; if feasting, rise before 

I turn away; it is the hour of fate. 

And they who follow me reach every state 

Mortals desire, and conquer every foe 

Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, 

Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, 

Seek me in vain and uselessly implore; 

I answer not, and I return no more. 

The date of first appearance of this sonnet is not known to the 
editors. It is extracted here from Professor A. L. Perry's WiUiams" 
town and Williams College, (1899), and of it Dr. Perry remarks: 
"Ingalls also wrote a notable sonnet on * Opportunity/ which will no 
doubt survive, for it has a fine form and considerable literary merit, 
though godless in every line." 




Old Autumn thou art here ! upon the Earth 

And in the heavens, the signs of death are hung; 

For o 'er the Earth's brown breast stalks pale decay, 

And 'mong the lowering clouds the wild winds wail, 

And, sighing sadly, chant the solemn dirge 

O'er summer's fairest flowers, all faded now. 

The Winter god, descending from the skies, 

Has reached the mountain tops, and decked their brows 

With glittering frosty crowns, and breathed his breath 

Among the trumpet pines, that herald forth 

His coming. 

Before the driving blast 
The mountain oak bows down his hoary head, 
And flings his withered locks to the rough gales 
That fiercely roar among the branches bare, 
Uplifted to the dark unpitying heavens. 
The skies have put their mourning garments on 
And hung their funeral drapery on the clouds. 
Dead Nature soon will wear her shroud of snow 
And lie entombed in Winter's icy grave. 

Thus passes life. As hoary age comes on 
The joys of youth — bright beauties of the spring. 
Grow dim and faded, and the long dark night 
Of Death's chill Winter comes. But as the spring 

» Died 1881. 


Rebuilds the ruined wrecks of Winter's waste, 
And cheers the gloomy earth with joyous light, 
So o'er the tomb, the Star of Hope shall rise. 
And usher in an ever during day. 
Qttarterly, 1854. 



We lie beneath the forest shade 
Whose sunny tremors dapple us; 

She is a proud-eyed Grecian maid 
And I am Sardanapalus ; 

A king uncrowned whose sole allegiance 

Resides in dusky forest regions. 

How cool and liquid seems the sky; 

How blue and still the distance is! 
White fleets of cloud at anchor lie 

And mute are all existences, 
Save here and there a bird that launches 
A shaft of song among the branches. 

Within this alien realm of shade 

We keep a sylvan Passover; 
We happy twain, a wayward maid, 

A careless, gay philosopher; 
But unto me she seems a Venus 
And Paphian grasses nod between us. 

Her drooping eyelids half conceal 
A vague, uncertain mystery; 

Her tender glances half reveal 
A sad, impassioned history; 

A tale of hopes and fears unspoken 

Of thoughts that die and leave no token. 

ANON. 15 

''Oh braid a wreath of budding sprays 

And crown me queen," the maiden says; 
*' Queen of the shadowy woodland ways, 
And wandering winds, whose cadences 
Are unto thee that tale repeating 
Which I must perish while secreting!" 

I wove a wreath of leaves and buds 

And flowers with golden chalices, 
And crowned her queen of summer woods 

And dreamy forest palaces; 
Queen of that realm whose tender story 
Makes life a splendor, death a glory. 
Quarterly, 1856. 



A LONELY island in the South, it shows 

Its frosted brow, and waves its shaggy woods, 
And sullenly above the billow broods. 

Here he that shook the frighted world arose. 

'T was here he gained the strength the wing to plume, 
To swoop upon the Arno's classic plains, 
And drink the noblest blood of Europe's veins — 

His eye but glanced and nations felt their doom! 

Alas! * * how art thou fall'n, oh Lucifer, 

Son of the morning!" thou who wast the scourge 
And glory of the earth — whose nod could urge 

Proud armies deathward at the trump of war! 
And did'st thou die on lone Helena's isle? 
And art thou nought but dust and ashes vile ? 
Quarterly J 1857. 




From one who belonged in a remote antiquity to the 
fraternity of college editors, a contribution to this centen- 
nial number ^ has been solicited. Perhaps I can do no bet- 
ter than to recall a few impressions of my own life in college. 
Every year, at the banquet, I observe that I am pushed a 
little nearer to the border where the almond tree flourishes, 
and I shall soon have a right to be reminiscent and garru- 
lous. At the next centennial I shall not be called on; this 
is my last chance. 

I came to college in the fall of 1856. My class had been 
in college for a year, so that the vicissitudes of a freshman 
are no part of my memory. I shall never forget that 
evening when I first entered Williamstown, riding on the 
top of the North Adams stage. The September rains had 
been abundant, and the meadows and slopes were at their 
greenest; the atmosphere wae as nearly transparent as we 
are apt to see it; the sun was just sinking behind the Ta- 
conics, and the shadows were creeping up the eastern slopes 
of Williams and Prospect; as we paused on the little hill 
beyond Blackinton the outline of the Saddle was defined 
against a sky as rich and deep as ever looked down at sun- 
set on Naples or Palermo. I thought then that I had 
never seen a lovelier valley, and I have had no occasion to 
revise that judgment. To a boy who had seen few moun- 
tains that hour was a revelation. On the side of the pic- 
turesque, the old way of transportation was better than the 
new. The boy who is dumped with his trunks at the station 
» October, 1893. 


near the factory, on the flat gets no such abundant entrance 
into Williamstown as was vouchsafed to the boy who rode 
in triumphantly on the top of Jim Bridges' stage. 

The wide old street was as hospitable then as now; if the 
elms were something less paternal in their benediction 
their stature was fair and their shade was ample; but the 
aspect of the street — how greatly changed since then! 
There were two or three fine old colonial houses, which are 
standing now and are not likely to be improved upon; but 
most of the dwellings were of the orthodox New England 
village pattern, built, I suppose, to square with the theology 
of the Shorter Catechism, or perhaps with the measure- 
ments of the New Jerusalem, the length and breadth and 
height of which are equal. The front yards were all en- 
closed with fences, none of which were useful and few of 
which were ornamental. The broad-shouldered old white 
Congregational meeting-house stood at the top of the street 
in Field Park; it was the goal of restless Sophomores for 
several hours every Sunday, and it was also the goal of all 
ambitious contestants for college honors. Griffin Hall was 
then chapel, museum, laboratories, and recitation-rooms; 
East, South, and West Colleges, with Kellogg Hall, on the 
West lawn, — "factories of the muses," in Lowell's expres- 
sive phrase, — stood forth in their naked practicality much 
as they stand to-day. Lawrence Hall library, in its earlier, 
wingless character of colossal ink-pot, Jackson Hall ^ and 
the little magnetic observatory, still standing, completed 
the catalogue of the college buildings. 

The faculty of that day can be recalled without difiiculty: 
President Hopkins, whose clear and venerable name no 
eulogy of mine shall here disfigure ; his stern-faced but great- 
hearted brother Albert; Emmons the geologist; Griffin, Tat- 
lock, Lincoln, and Chadbourne, who succeeded Hopkins 
1 Demolished in 1908. 


in the 'presidency; Bascom, the only survdvor to-day, and 
Perry, the best-known of them all. I have taken no pains 
to refresh my memory of the faculty of 1856, but I am con- 
fident that here are no omissions. It will be somewhat less 
easy for undergraduates to-day, writing so many eventful 
years after their entrance, to recall the names of their 
teachers. One only of our memorable nine is now in ser- 
vice, and long may he serve the community! All these were 
ranked as professors; there had been tutors and instructors 
before our days, but none in our time. 

The Gul of those days was a four-page sheet con- 
taining in briefest form the membership and ofl&cial lists 
of the various fraternities and associations; it sold for ten 
cents a copy. The only other college publication was the 
Quarterly, a solid magazine of about one hundred pages. 
None of the fraternities then existing, I think, possessed a 
chapter-house; their rooms were in more or less obscure 
quarters, over stores or in private houses. There was quite 
as much rivalry between them then as now, and poorer 
spirit. There was also an Anti-Secret Confederation, of 
which General Garfield in his time was the leader; it mixed 
freely in college pohtics and was no less clannish than the 
other fraternities. The absence of chapter-houses and the 
less fully developed social life of the fraternities left room 
for a stronger class feeling and perhaps a more sympathetic 
college spirit than exists to-day. The smallness of the classes 
and the absence of the electives, too, aided the cultivation 
of class feeUng; the classes ranged from forty-five to sixty, 
and the whole class was held solidly together during the 
whole course, all reciting in the same room three times a day 
from the beginning of freshman year to the end of senior. 

College singing was hearty and spirited, but our reper- 
toire was limited. I recall many evenings of blameless hi- 
larity on the benches under the trees in front of East Col- 


lege. For more ambitious musical performance we had our 
*' Mendelssohn Society," whose concerts were not probably 
so classical as we then esteemed them, but whose rehearsals 
gave us not a Uttle pleasure. Athletics had hardly a name 
to live. Now and then a football was mysteriously dropped 
into the West College yard, and kicked about in a very 
promiscuous fashion; the freshmen and sophomores gener- 
ally had a match of what was by courtesy called base-ball. 
The only intercollegiate contest of which I had any recol- 
lection, and as it seems the first ever to take place, was a 
ball game at Pittsfield between Williams and Amherst. 
Amherst was the challenging party, and the college by vote 
selected its team with much care and went forth to the con- 
test with strong hopes. The game was not lacking in excite- 
ment. It was none of your new-fangled, umpire-ridden 
matches: the modern type of base-ball had not, of course, 
been invented. Foul balls were unknown, the sphere could 
be knocked toward any quarter of the earth or sky; runners 
between bases could be pelted with it by any of the out- 
fielders. I think that the score stood something like 60 to 
40, and it was not in favor of Williams. It was a melan- 
choly company that trailed homeward after this contest 
past the Lanesboro pond; but since then I understand that 
times have changed. 

[Dr. Gladden has embodied his college reminiscences 
more fully in his recent volume Recollections, wherein 
is told also the story of "The Mountains." (Houghton 
Mifflin Company, 1909.)] 
Literary Monthly, 1893. 




Ye guardian mountains of the western world, 

Enthroned like monarchs of primeval days ! 

Ye that hold lofty converse with the stars, 

And bind your shaggy brows with clustering clouds 

As if with wreaths of laurel ! ye that count 

Your years by thousands, and your bosoms robe 

With all the pageantry of Autumn's gold, 

And lull your sleep of ages with the wild 

And murmurous drone of woodland waterfalls, 

And multitudinous song, of windy groves ! . 

What spell hath bound ye now? what lethargy 

O'ercomes your ancient power? that undisturbed 

Ye slumber on, as if ye heeded not 

The piercing shriek from yonder fuming car, 

Which saith that even here presumptuous man 

Has dared intrude upon the green domain, 

Which ye inherited when Time was born. 

Awake! arise! are ye forever dumb? 

Let Greylock, most majestic of your band, 

Stand up and shout aloud to Audubon, 

Until from peak to peak the sound rolls round. 

Until yon mountain that o'erlooks the west 



Takes up the cry, of vengeance upon him 
Whose strange devices break your long repose. 

In vain ! ye are indeed forever dumb, 
Obedient to the will of Destiny, 
Who sits enthroned among the stars of heaven, 
And unto man's inquiring vision points 
Toward the westering sun forevermore. 
Such is the law that rules the universe; — 
Planets and systems, e'en the sun himself. 
Around one common point progressive move. 
And thus a. few millenniums more shall man 
Proclaim the march of mind, and when ye pass 
Into oblivion with your weight of years. 
When galaxies and suns are quenched in gloom, 
Th' unshackled soul of man, itself a star 
Lit by the smile of God, shall wing through space, 
The destined heir to immortality. 
Quarterly, 1859. 



Ye golden bells, that toss your heaven-boiD fragrance 

On air around, 
And know to make the most harmonious music 

Without a sound! 

Ye fragile flowers, whose delicate, dear tendrils 

Upward do climb, 
Reveal to us the sweet, mysterious secret 

Of love sublime ! . 

Entwining with your gentle cunning fingers 

The ragged tree, 
Ye leave behind ye crowns and chaplets wondrous, 

Of jewelry! 

Not pearls nor diamonds of a radiance peerless, 

Not amethyst. 
When softly swaying on the human bosom, ; 

Or flexile wrist. 

Can add to life and beauty lustrous splendor, 

With grace divine, 
As when ye wreathe on gnarled oak and holly 

Your trailing vine ! 

Oh, love of God ! in gracious ways unnumbered, 

With gentlest touch. 
Thou teachest men and pitifully showest 

Of patience much! 



We pray, dear Father, teach thine erring children 

This lesson meet — 
To climb through fragile, earth bom, human tendrils 

To life complete. 
Qttarterly, 1871. 



According to common opinion Americans are the nation 
most addicted to speechmaking. Laboulaye makes a good 
point by representing the son of a leading character in 
** Paris in America" discovered by his father before a large 
audience, in the full tide of political speech, and maintain- 
ing afterwards to the old gentleman that it is the common 
practice among all the boys to make a speech on every pos- 
sible occasion, that they may thus fit themselves for public 

In New York, which tends rapidly to become the center 
of activity for most of the important influences of our coun- 
try, there are every year many dinners, anniversaries, and 
assemblies, at which oratory of an ephemeral nature finds 
expression and attention. All the nationalities, all the re- 
ligious and Hterary societies, all the clubs, all the distin- 
guished foreigners, and all the leading and following col- 
leges, must have a dinner, and every dinner must have at 
least a dozen speeches. Most of these speeches are more elo- 
quent to the opinion of their authors than to the minds of 
their hearers. 

It certainly is one of the best moral illustrations of the 
first law of motion that in spite of all the heroism necessary 
to endure such a volume of speech, the patient public seems 
(if we may judge from the increase in volume) every year 
more and more willing to sit at the tables and listen to this 
flow of sound. Perhaps this patience is only apparent, for 
competition for an opportunity to speak is said to be lively. 
Possibly every one of the thousands who listen is secretly 



comparing the eloquence of the speaker with his own skilful 
ability, and not quite calmly biding the time when he shall 
enrapture, where the present speaker wearies and annoys. 

Yet not every speech made on those occasions is dull. 
Now and then the happy mingling of fun and sense really 
lifts the company out of the tiresome monotony. Were it 
not for these addresses beautiful and rare, we can believe 
that dinner speeches would be abandoned, or exchanged for 
a single oration from one competent to delight. 

For the distinguishing mark of the dinner speech should 
be that it amuse not in the rough, coarse way of the dema- 
gogue, but in the subtle, fine way of the man of culture. 

The dinner speeches with which the readers of this paper 
are perhaps most familiar, those made when the alumni of 
a noble college gather around the table of their alma mater, 
ought to be characterized by the broad sympathy, the quick 
insight, the flexible grace and the genial humor of the 
thoroughly educated man. Although to make fine dinner 
speeches can never be an aim worthy of an earnest man, 
yet to have the power and culture from which such a speech 
usually comes, is the highest aim in a literary regard that any 
man can have. It is a short-sighted and one-sighted earnest- 
ness that despises the wit and banter of society, and affects 
the isolation and grandeur of pure thought. The mountain 
summit is too far removed from the walks of men to make 
it possible for the recluse to wield all the influence that his 
powers may entitle him to exert. The metaphysician less 
than the poet, the country minister less than the success- 
ful lawyer, is the autocrat of the dinner-table. 

Because Williams and Yale have produced great and 
useful men, it does not follow that their commencement 
dinners are always marked by the finest flow of wit and wis- 
dom, nor that pioneers in civilization who bring great honor 
to their alma mater should always and everywhere speak 


for her. Dinner-speaking is a fine art, not one for which 
men need absolutely European travel and study, but one 
which is never mastered except by those who love and per- 
haps know how to reach all the beautiful thoughts of every 
age and cUme. It is the cultured gentleman of social experi- 
ence, who may or may not be a man of great abiUty, but 
who knows how to weave the poetic and humorous and 
commonplace into beautiful or grotesque forms, that de- 
lights and surprises a dinner company. Social experience 
and good abilities will not alone make the successful speaker. 
Underneath and back of all must be the gentleman. A law- 
yer, though of splendid position, can ill afford to say at the 
festal table of his alma mater, ''Harvard takes great poets 
and historians to fill her vacant professorships; my college 
takes boys, who have proved their qualifications by getting 
their windows broken." Those who go deeper than the sur- 
face will perhaps surmise that Harvard has had better ma- 
terial to work upon than some colleges; not perhaps material 
of finer abihties, but material that has been more under the 
influence of sweetness and light. Possibly her graduates are 
as superior at making dinner speeches as are her trustees 
in choosing professors. 

A gentleman must make the happy dinner-speech, for 
only he can perceive the proprieties of the situation. He 
will neither improve the occasion to give the corporation 
advice as to the management of the college, nor try to point 
out to a company of Unitarians the superior advantages 
of the orthodox faith, nor exhibit to invited guests the rags 
of his alma mater's poverty. He may, perhaps, avoid the 
commonplace by so doing, but he will certainly transgress 
the rules of propriety. The commonplace at a dinner, re- 
peated every year under so nearly similar conditions, cannot 
be avoided, but can be transformed by the art of the master. 

What could be more difficult than the duty of presiding 


at the dinner of the New England Society and rehearsing 
the threadbare story of the landing of the Pilgrims and 
dilating upon it in such a way as to entertain New Eng- 
enders, who ever since their childhood have heard the de- 
clamations of Webster, Everett, Winthrop, and the rest, 
about that heroic band? Yet by a mixture of shrewd wit and 
eloquence Mr. Choate, a Harvard graduate, went over 
again, last year, at the sixty-fourth anniversary of the so- 
ciety, the main facts of the history, and dwelt upon the re- 
lations of New Englanders to New York, making a speech 
that, printed, fills ten octavo pages but which the audience 
found charming from beginning to end. 

This, like every other fine art, has something cosmopoli- 
tan in it. It eschews the local and narrow, refuses to belong 
to any sect or party, and appeals by the widest culture to men 
of culture. The dinner speeches of our own Bryant are thus 
liberal and catholic. So were those of Mr. Everett in the 
main, though one discovered the superb actor now and then 
arranging his robe or making use of his splendid presence 
and reputation to draw attention to himself. Of course, 
when such a man comes as a guest into a company somewhat 
foreign in thought and Ufe to his own belongings, he can 
neglect the rules that good breeding imposes on those who 
compose the homogeneous circles and become narrow. But 
he must be narrow by praising not his own methods but the 
unexpected excellence of Ufe found among his hosts — thus, 
while apparently dwarfing himself, he throws the dignity 
of his own reputation and history over that which he eulo- 
gizes and really exhibits the truest catholicity of spirit. 
To do this and perfectly conceal the satisfaction that one 
has, because he can do it, was perhaps difficult for Everett. 
Most men who heard him pardoned the failure. It was easier 
for Dickens. His life was in some sense less splendid but 
more real. 


The amusement and good feeling which it is always the 
aim of the dinner speaker to create, were largely the aim 
of Dickens' life. The humor, the knowledge of human na- 
ture, that he always had at command, were employed in 
his writings and daily thoughts to enliven and cheer men. 
No wonder then that his speeches are models of breadth 
and sweetness and appositeness, and that good judges re- 
garded him when living as in this department of expres- 
sion unrivalled. 

He who is so guided by the love of letters engrafted on 
the love of man as to give constant and ample expression 
to these motives, will be neither a reformer without grace 
nor a scholar without manliness. Give to such a man a 
flow of animal spirits and a dash of wit, and he should be 
not unapt to entertain even when poised on the dangerous 
wing of an after-dinner speech. 

Review, 1870. 



A VERY interesting and significant feature of university 
life in the early days was the great part played by stu- 
dents in the scholastic community. They were not only 
included in the group described by the word "faculty," 
but they were charged with administrative and executive 
functions. The movement toward self-government, which 
has already borne fruit in many of our colleges, is in no sense 
a modern influence ; it is a return to a condition widely pre- 
valent in the early history of university organization. Not 
only did the students share, through various deliberative 
bodies, in the determination of the gravest questions of 
academic policy, but, in many cases, the executive head of 
the university was not only chosen by them but was often 
one of their number. The rector of the Italian universities 
was in most instances a student, often under twenty-five 
years of age. The rector of the University of Paris, who was 
charged with the gravest administrative functions, took 
precedence of the archbishop, and sat at times in the royal 
councils with princes and nobles, was originally elected by 
the student communities, and was often a very young man; 
and yet Paris was essentially a university of professors. 
Bologna, which was a university of students, was governed 
directly by the general assembly of undergraduates . Whether 
governed by students or by masters, — alumni as we should 
say, — these historic institutions were essentially demo- 
cratic, and the student seems on the whole to have been the 
most important figure; not only because at the beginning 
he formed the constituency for the popular teacher, but 
because later when these throngs of students formally or- 



ganized. he had the largest share of privileges and for a long 
time the controlling voice in the management of affairs. 

''Universities," said Professor Croisat at the centenary 
of the University of Montpellier in 1889, ''do not come 
into the world with a clatter. What we know least about 
in all our history is the precise moment when it (Mont- 
pellier) began." It is impossible, in many instances, to fix 
the date of organization of many of the foremost of the 
older institutions; they were not made, they grew. There 
was a deep necessity for their existence in the intellectual 
and spiritual condition of the times, and they sprang into 
being here and there, in Italy, France, Spain, and Eng- 
land, in response to that need. They were notable, at the 
beginning, not for academic calm, but for turbulence and 
vitality ; for they were not universities of science, they were 
universities of persons. The differences of scholastic rank 
were not very sharply defined. In early days, whenever 
the university body was formally addressed by Pope or 
Emperor, the students were named in the same sentence as 
the masters. 

It is unnecessary to recall here the changes in condition 
which have separated the student class sharply from the 
teaching body and divorced it almost entirely from govern- 
mental functions. What is significant for the purpose of 
this article is an apparent disposition in many quarters to 
recede from the extreme position of entire exclusion of the 
student body and a tendency to move in the other direction. 
That tendency may become very marked and lead to a very 
radical change of policy in the government of colleges, a 
change so radical as to be revolutionary in its effect. It 
is certain that the government of colleges, like that of states, 
must from time to time undergo marked modifications if 
it is to remain vitally representative of, and harmonious 
with, the growing and changing life of the college. In healthy 


institutional life there is free play and interaction of all the 
forces that go to make up the organic life, and a certain 
flexibility is involved in all growth. The student community, 
is, after all, in most institutions the prime object of inter- 
est. A few foundations exist for the pursuit of knowledge 
for its own sake, instruction being incidental ; in most insti- 
tutions, however, instruction is the foremost and absorbing 
function, and the student's welfare is, therefore, the con- 
trolling factor. In western colleges, where the edge of hun- 
ger for knowledge has not yet been dulled by opportunity, 
it is not an unknown thing for a committee of students to 
wait on a president or chancellor and announce the failure 
of some professor to prepare himself for recitations by fresh 
study of his subject. It would be well if students in eastern 
colleges would sometimes put on a similar boldness; they 
would help heads of colleges out of very trying difficulties 
with well-meaning but incompetent or indolent professors. 
Undergraduate popularity is often illusive and unstable, 
but undergraduate perception of incompetency is often 
very keen and discriminating. 

But whether admitted to, or excluded from the government 
of the college, the student community plays a part not al- 
ways recognized in its educational influence and work, and 
many men receive more influential impressions from the 
atmosphere in which they live and the men with whom they 
associate during their college career than from their in- 
structors. Nothing is so pervasive as an atmospheric in- 
fluence, and, in its way, nothing is so important. It is sig- 
nificant that foreign students rarely speak of Oxford without 
commenting on its atmosphere; something in the air of the 
old town which, although intangible in its operation, is a pos- 
itive factor in the educational result. Specific courses of in- 
struction are less numerous than in many other places, and 
such instruction as is offered is often defective in methods 


and spirit; but the life of the place is adjusted to intellectual 
work; the library' facilities are great, the traditions which 
seem to be part of the very structure of the colleges are 
liberaUzing and make for generous culture. In such an air 
it is easy to study by one's own impetus and to develop in 
ourselves the passion for perfection. Culture is so different 
from training or favoring the acquirement of knowledge 
that it is so often totally lacking in men who have carried 
both processes to great length; it is indeed rarely conveyed, 
though it may be greatly aided, by definite instruction. It 
cannot be said of the great mass of college graduates that 
they are men of culture. Culture comes, in a sense, by indi- 
rection, a man absorbs it and furnishes the conditions for 
its growth, but he cannot receive it directly from his teach- 
ers. There are, in every college, teachers, who stimulate 
culture in students not so much by reason of their scholar- 
ship as by reason of their attitude toward what they know. 
For culture is always a personal quality; a ripeness which 
comes from the generous enrichment of a man's nature by 
contact with the best things. In certain atmospheres men 
ripen, as in certain others they remain hard and imaf- 

The atmospheric quaUty of a college is determined largely 
by the character and traditions of undergraduate life. If 
that Ufe has generous ideals, sound impulses, and traditions 
which appeal to the imagination, the atmosphere will do 
as much for many men as the formal instruction they re- 
ceive. It will inspire self-respect, firm ambitions, and gen- 
eral dignity and nobleness of nature. Men will be drawn to- 
gether by the sympathy of aspiration, rather than by mere 
congeniality of habit, and their daily association will have 
an educational influence of the most lasting kind. It is this 
association which often leaves its mark on men who have 
failed to make right use of the opportunities for specific in- 


struction which surround them. A college education is 
complete, so far as any provisional education is complete, 
only when the student receives the strong impress of both 
teachers and associates; when instruction is competent and 
vital, and undergraduate life is wholesome, generous, and 

It is a significant fact that when a group of men develop 
creative gifts in later life it will generally be found that their 
undergraduate life together .discovered strong sympathetic 
aspirations which bound them together and gave their 
intercourse a very stimulating quality. The action and re- 
action upon each other of a group of young men of generous 
aims are peculiarly delicate and influential, affecting the 
very sources of individual strength and impulse. 

Such influences are intermittent and irregular; it would 
be a great gain if they could become continuous and, in a 
flexible sense, organic. Student life has been, at times, 
highly organized and penetrated by intellectual impulses. 
Colleges differ greatly in this respect, but in American in- 
stitutions the student life of to-day does not anywhere near 
realize its rich possibilities. Its interest in athletics is so 
great that in this single field it may be said to be fairly well 
organized and fairly effective in securing the end for which 
it works; but in no other field is a similar activity discover- 
able, unless it be in that of journalism. One of the most 
interesting features of the intellectual and moral revival 
now going on in France is the notable change that has come 
over student life, a change shown in a revival of song, of 
old student customs, of solidarity of feeHng, and of a gen- 
erous enthusiasm for the common traditions and views. 
May not American students learn something from this 
contemporary illustration of the possibilities of organized 
student life ? 

Literary Monthly, 1893. 


I. — B. PRATT 

There are themes which no man can cope with. There 
are times when those ordinarily confident shrink back at 
the thought of grappling with the mighty issues that lie 
before them. There are minds of a structure so singularly 
complex and unique, that one leaves the study of them im- 
pressed only with a deep, abiding sense of his inability to 
fathom them. We have in our midst one such, the penetra- 
tion of whose manifestations and phenomena is well calcu- 
lated to baffle the most zealous investigator. Reared among 
the rugged hill-sides and verdant vales of Williamstown, 
his character and oratory bear the evident impress of his 
nurturing. If to Elihu Burritt belongs the title of "The 
Learned Blacksmith," not less to William Pratt is due that 
of "The Eloquent Wood-sawyer." Though he cannot, like 
Elihu, claim a knowledge of eight languages, he can at 
least use the one of which he is master, in a manner at once 
astounding and gratifying. No son of Williams needs to be 
told who he is; yet for the benefit of those unacquainted with 
his genius and oratorical ability, we will endeavor briefly 
to sketch his early career before enlarging upon the grander 
triumphs of his later years. 

The subject of the present article was born not far from 
the year 1810. Whether or no any comet or other unusual 
heavenly phenomenon heralded his entrance upon the scenes 
of earth, is not recorded. If, however, the astronomical ap- 
pearances which are said to accompany the birth of the 
mighty ones of the sons of earth are gauged with any degree 



of fairness, there should have been at least six large comets 
and any number of meteors distinctly visible. His early life 
glided by gently as the placid Hoosick, by which he frolicked. 
Several desperate attempts were made by various misguided 
individuals to educate him. From all these, however, he 
escaped unscathed, with the wings of his genius unfettered. 
At what precise period he began to exhibit symptoms of 
that highly original and forcible eloquence which he now 
possesses, we are unable to state. We presume that his first 
efforts were co-existent with the commencement of his career 
as a wood-sawyer. Certainly, at present, he is rarely filled 
with the divine afilatus except when plying his saw. He 
is unlike Shakespeare, as he often repeats. One utterance 
— "Ottah" — the coinage of his own brain, seems to be 
the attempt of his daring and unschooled genius to strike 
out not only into new lines of thought, but even to find a 
mystic mode of expression. This term is evidently a portion 
of a language wholly differing from our own. It is at once 
a noun, adjective, and verb, and, in the full flood of his elo- 
quence, it changes from the one to the other with astound- 
ing rapidity. 

The extreme versatility of his genius renders it peculiarly 
difficult to give any adequate idea of his oratory. He is 
equally bold in the expression of his sentiments on any sub- 
ject. Perhaps for convenience in consideration we may 
roughly divide his oratory into wood-pile and conversa- 
tional eloquence. 

Specimens of his genuine wood-pile eloquence, though 
by no means uncommon, are yet not easily accessible to the 
biographical compiler. Very few of his sayings have ever 
found their way into print, and when thus presented they 
are of necessity shorn of much of their strength, and de- 
prived of the impressiveness which they derive from the 
orator's gesticulation and delivery. We will, however, en- 


deavor to present our readers with a few, selected at random, 
from discourses on various occasions and subjects. 

It is morning. A group of students, just before going 
into recitation, cluster around Bill in the hope of getting a 
speech from him. He remains deaf to their entreaties till the 
bell sounds, when with uplifted hand and glaring eye he thus 
addresses them, in a voice audible for about half a mile. 

''Go in and take your secretary, persecuting yourself 
with the dandelions and robes of righteousness. All the life, 
all the music, and the blood and electricity rolling over 
the mountains with the elements of pietude spread all 
over the fundament. Ottah! ! R-R-R-Rose Ottah! Rack- 

As might be surmised from a perusal of this effort, his 
peroration is rarely in keeping with the main portion of his 
oration. In fact, the close of all his speeches may be said 
to be very similar, being invariably " Ottah," or some varia- 
tion of it. 

Occasionally the exuberance of his genius leads him into 
the error of crowding together metaphors to the detriment 
of perspicuity. When, for example, he says: 

"The waters of heaven descending on the breast-bones 
of the women; and the youthful Moses, sitting on the back- 
bone of eternity, sucking the pap of time," we feel that there 
is a redundancy in the expression. 

Some specimens of his remarkable verbal and figurative 
power in conversation are forcible in the extreme. It is 
said, with what truth we know not, that on one occasion 
the venerable head of this institution ventured to ''tackle" 
him in a religious argument. Bill, after listening with a defer- 
ence which was evidently a tribute of respect to the Doc- 
tor's position rather than an acknowledgment of the 
cogency of his reasoning, settled the question by an inter- 
rogatory: "Dr. Hopkins, do you suppose I'm goin' to 


believe that when I die I'll go up and sit on one of those 
clouds with my legs hangin' over?" 

We infer from the above that his religious belief is some- 
what vague. 

Soon after the marriage of Charles, Bill's son, the heir 
apparent of the Pratt estates, Bill was asked how Charles' 
wife was getting along, whereupon he was pleased to remark 
that he believed she w^as "under conviction." Since then 
the conviction has become a certainty, and Bill is a grand- 
father. Commenting on the appearance of his grandchild, 
he has been heard to say: "She's a pretty child. I say she 
looks like Charles. Charles says she looks like me." 

There are few scenes that abide longer in the student's 
recollection than those in which Bill is the central figure. 
It not infrequently happens that, when a number of lovers 
of fun are gathered around him as he vigorously brandishes 
axe or saw, one of them, willing, for the sake of drawing him 
out, to make a martyr of himself for the public good, ad- 
dresses him. On such occasions a conversation, something 
as follows, occurs: 

Student — "Bill, what do you think of the constitution- 
ality of the configuration, esthetically considered?" 

No reply is elicited from Bill, but a scornful "Ottah," as 
he puts on a new stick and continues his work. 

Student, (not discouraged) — "Really, Bill, I should like 
your opinion on that point." 

Bill, (having finished his stick) — "You ain't no kind of 
a man. Youhain'tgotnoelements,no justice of earth. When 
I see these young men and the monument cf liberty im- 
ported from Long Island for the benefit of the rising genera- 
tion, Ottah! Rolling Ottah! ! Rang Dang! Du Dah! ! !" 

Of course a rebuke so scathing and sudden as this, never 
fails to annihilate its object. Being assured by the raptu- 
rous applause which ever succeeds his efforts, that he has 


made a good hit, Bill suddenly becomes as impenetrable as 
Gibraltar, and saws vigorously. 

If, at a time like this, "the Professor,'* alias "Niobe," 
having snatched a few moments from his professional per- 
ambulations in search of '^Cojffee,^^ steps forward, signalizing 
his debut with the interrogatory: "Do ye think I'm a com- 
mon laborin' man?" naught is wanting to complete the stu- 
dent's bhss. 

"The Professor" is by no means as varied in his accom- 
plishments as Bill, his only quotable utterances being the 
one already given and another, supposed to be severely sar- 
castic: "How lang has he been so ?" He, however, has, in 
the recesses of his brain, a dim idea that Bill is weak, viewed 
from an intellectual standpoint, while Bill has an equally 
indistinct belief that "the Professor" has very little furni- 
ture in his upper story. How far either of them is wrong 
our space does not permit us to say. Both have a supreme 
contempt for students, regarding them as effeminate cum- 
berers of the ground. In the presence of Bill, "the Pro- 
fessor" does not appear to advantage. Being entirely un- 
able to compete with him in a war of words, he is usually 
forced to betake himself to dancing; which, compared with 
oratory, is frivolous. 

Occasionally the adversities of life seem to press upon 
Bill with peculiar force, rendering him extremely dejected. 
At such times, though his flow of language does not forsake 
him, he is without that cheerful aspect and spontaneous 
expression ordinarily so characteristic. Xo longer does he 
cause the campus to ring with his hearty vociferation, but 
he grumbles very like an ordinary mortal : 

"I tell yer now I don't believe no man ever got rich 
sawin' wood. I tell yer it 's hard work to saw wood all day 
and car' it up two pa'r stairs on yer back. I've sawed wood 
mor 'n thirty years. You ask Mist'r Tatlock, if yer don't 


believe it. Mist'r Tatlock's nice man. There ain't no 
temptations about him. I sawed last night till twel' o'clock, 
an' it's hard work. Say, that feller up in that room gin 
eight dollars for that cord o' wood, an' it ain't good for 
nothin'. It's all full o' the Ottahs in the lucination of the 

In the fall, Bill, for a season, abandons wood-sawing for 
the lighter and more refined occupation of stove-blacking. 
While engaged in this profession he never fails to assert 
his profound and lasting conviction that, like sawing, it does 
not offer a broad and easy road to opulence. His execution 
of whatever work is given him in this line is at once artistic 
and masterly, showing that excellence in oratory is not in- 
compatible with an aptitude for the fine arts. His outfit is 
eminently complete and choice. In order that he may fail 
in no portion of his work, he usually carries with him a stock 
consisting of : 

1. About 35 brooms, carried in a large sack. These are 
useful in putting on the finishing touches, and ensuring an 
unapproachable lustre. 

2. Brushes of various kinds, comprising shoe-brushes, hat- 
brushes, clothes-brushes, hair-brushes, tooth-brushes, nail- 
brushes, shaving-brushes, and sometimes, a stove-brush. 
These are useful in many respects, the shoe-brushes and hair- 
brushes being instrumental in doing the heavy and plain 
work, while the shaving-brushes and tooth-brushes are ex- 
tremely handy in doing justice to the filagree work and or- 
namental portion. 

3. A platform, or dais, on which to place the stove. 

4. A stick, curiously carved, to beat out of pipes. 

5. Cloths, of various sizes and patterns, to wipe the 
poker and the legs of the stove. 

6. Oil-cloths, for emergencies. 

7. One large bottle or jug with a stick in it, and two 


smaller ones, all filled with mysterious decoctions whose 
composition and properties are known to Bill alone. 

8. A sponge. 

9. Small boxes containing a dingy powder. 

10. A wheel-barrow, on which Bill vainly attempts to 
carry the rest of his goods. 

We have been thus minute in describing his equipment, 
knowing him to be at the head of his profession, and hoping 
that any youth aspiring to celebrity in it, who may chance 
upon these pages, will profit therefrom. We regret to be 
obHged to state that there are some so utterly out of sym- 
pathy with the cause of art, as to assert that the greater 
portion of Bill's utensils are useless; and that by much put- 
tering he loses time without improving his work. These 
persons we are inclined to class among those zealous but 
unthinking lovers of simplicity, whose misdirected reforma- 
tory efforts in other departments of life are so well known. 
As might be expected, Bill treats these sacrilegious innova- 
tors with the contempt they so justly merit. Were an ofl&cious 
stranger to try to convince an artist that one color would 
answer all his purposes as well as a greater number, would 
the suggestion of the untutored interloper cause the artist 
to waver in the sternness of his faith? And shall the subject 
of this sketch revolutionize his mode of stove-blacking at 
the promptings of an untaught spectator ? 

It would be by no means surprising if such nicety of exe- 
cution as that to which we have alluded tended to draw his 
attention from rhetorical themes. Yet, spite of this ap- 
parently necessary result, some of his grandest and most 
startling flights of oratory have had their inspiration from 
incidents connected with stove-nigrification. Bill has, as it 
were, soared on the legs of the stove, like Perseus on Mer- 
cury's sandals, to unexplored realms of space and thought. 
At such moments the stove-pipe becomes to him a magic 


telescope, through which he peers far into the unfathomable 

There are times when, through the influence of passion, 
he for a little time lays aside his oratorical embellishments. 
We remember one such occasion. He had just finished saw- 
ing a pile of wood, when a student, who was looking from a 
window, told him there was one stick which he had not 
sawed, and taunted him with intending to purloin it. In- 
stantly his countenance became livid with rage, his lips 
separated, showing a fine dental formation, and he exclaimed 
in pure Anglo-Saxon: — 

"You're a liar. You lie." 

The student, perceiving from Bill's descent to the ver- 
nacular of common men that his ire was roused, abjectly 
and unqualifiedly apologized. 

"Well," said the orator, threateningly, "you'd better 
take that back. I 've sawed wood more 'n thirty year, an' 
no man ever 'cused me o' stealin'. " Then gradually be- 
coming good-natured, he added, "Crucifixin' yourself in 
the observatories of life in the gray dawn over your jewelry. 
No sir, I never stole nothin'. You do. You'd steal if you 
wan't afraid to. Ottah!" 

We regret to be obliged to chronicle one incident that 
would seem to indicate something of malevolence. The im- 
partial historian, however, must not shrink from the full 
performance of his duty. 

Another of the notables of this region, of sable lineage, 
called, on account of a peculiar propensity to split two-inch 
planks with his head, "Abe Bunter," not long since hon- 
ored the students of this institution with a series of calls for 
the purpose of soliciting money to purchase for himself a 
bovine, to replace one providentially taken from him. His 
success may be inferred from a remark let fall by Bill, accom- 
panied by a demoniac chuckle: 


"Say, old Abe Bunter's round with an inscription, an* 
he hain't got a cent." 

Like all great men, Bill has his eccentricities. Fresh meat, 
and, indeed, meat of any kind except pork, he abominates. 
Beefsteak, especially, is an object of indescribable aversion. 
Untold wealth would not suffice to induce him to partake 
of it. This repugnance is due partly to a fear of being choked 
with bones, and partly to a scorn of its tenderness. The 
physical weaknesses of students he attributes entirely to 
their consuming so much of it. Viewed from his standpoint, 
perhaps students are effeminate, for he possesses the strength 
of brass, and an amount of endurance astonishing to con- 

His ordinary working-hours are from six in the morning 
till six at night; but, when business presses, he rises, like 
the virtuous woman, while it is yet night, and brings down 
on his devoted head the anathemas of various students by 
commencing his day's sawing under their windows at the 
moderately early hour of one a. m. He is a living proof of 
the utter and irreclaimable falsity of the idiotic doggerel : 

"Early to bed, and early to rise, 
Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." 

Last summer, however, during the heated term, he was 
obliged to come down to the limit of ordinary mortals, as 
he feared that the influence of the sun's rays would bring 
about a degeneration of the Ottah and Verdigres in the 
brain, and result in an explosion of the blood-veins. By 
careful sanitary precautions he was enabled to avoid this 
fearful malady and preserve his physical well-being. 

He can, and will, for the comparatively sHght sum of 
twenty-five cents, hold his breath for five minutes. He, him- 
self, asserts that he can do it for seven minutes, but that the 
doctor advised him against doing so, as it might produce a 
fusion of the Ottahs. 


His costume is at once serviceable and unique. It usually 
consists of from two to five shirts, and three pairs of pan- 
taloons. He never was known to wear the same hat or pair 
of boots all day. Occasionally he dons a vest, and, at rare 
times, a coat. In stature he is below the medium height; 
nevertheless, his appearance is eminently imposing and 
prepossessing. His countenance is rather oblong, and wears 
an expression that is a singular mixture of profound gravity 
and fearful earnestness. His eyes resemble those of some 
species of fish, and are set under curiously wrinkled brows 
that nearly conceal them. . . . Such is Bill Pratt, honest, 
cheerful, and industrious, the maligner of no man. His 
sturdy figure long holds a place in the memory of every stu- 
dent; his photograph decorates every student's album. 
Without him our college would be incomplete. Esteemed 
by all for his unfailing integrity and industry, laughed at 
by all for his oddities, he remains ever the same. We trust 
that the day is far distant when he will be among us no more, 
and when the college walls shall cease to echo his chaotic 
and ungovernable eloquence. 

Quarterly, 1869. 



Fair Phrygian Attis, loved of Cybele, 

Fired with the service of her awful shrine, 

Had wandered far before his restless soul 

Along the gleaming sand-line of the beach. 

At last he came to a deep shaded nook, 

Where giant trees thick wreathed with twisting vines 

Clomb the steep hills on every side but one, 

And rimmed the sky with a green fringe of leaves. 

But toward the south wide open to the shore 
It seemed a lap, wherein the sun and sea 
Together lay warm in each other's smiles. 
Down the steep sides a little babbHng brook 
Leapt with low laughter, fleeing from itself, 
Then, wid'ning out into a lucid pool, 
Crept slowly seaward through low banks of fern. 
Here, stretching his bare Hmbs upon the sward, 
He watched the water falling down the rocks. 

His jetty hair, curled loosely on his head, 
Fell down upon his shoulders glistening white, 
The rounded symmetry of breast and limb, 
And the rich color of his sensuous lips 
Almost belied the down upon his cheek. 
No uncouth garments hid his perfect form, 
Nor marred its grace, but, naked like the gods, 
The ruddy sunlight bathed him in its glow. 


So, as the day sank down the golden west, 
And the long index shadows toward the east 
Seemed telling of the morn that was to rise, 
A band of nymphs came past him where he lay 
Half -hidden in the grass, and to the pool 
Rushed with sweet rivalry and little screams 
To feel the water cold around their limbs. 
They saw him not, nor dreamed that mortal eyes 
In that lone glen were looking on their play. 

Soon they passed on, save one who near the bank 
Had lain to rest till sleep stole eyes and ears. 
Then Attis rose and would have sought the shrine 
But when he saw the sleeper he stood still. 
He was too young to know the power of love 
When mighty Cybele from his far home — 
His home, which lay beyond the heaving sea, 
And which to think of even yet would bring 
The bitter tears into his dark-lashed eyes, — 
Had brought him as a priest into her fane. 
And bound him by an oath of dreaded wrath 
To be hers only, hers forevermore. 

But years had passed since then, he was a man, 
And man's strong passion drove into his cheek 
The ruby symbol of its first felt power. 
As leaning o'er he gazed upon the nymph. 
She moved a little under the hot glance 
That burned from Attis' eyes upon her face, 
And seemed about to wake. Quick he drew back, 
Walking away a few steps towards the beach, 
Then turned to take one last look ere he went; 
She had not woke, her head lay on her arms. 
And her face looking toward him seemed to smile. 

ANON. 47 

He could not go, he dared not longer stay, 

But stood and wished, and feared, and let his wish 

Conquer his fear; returning step by step 

Again he bent above her. Then, at last, 

The wrath of scorner Cybele forgot, 

He thought of nothing but his newfelt love. 

Sudden she raised the lids, and her full eyes 
Looked straight upon him. Attis laid his hand 
Upon her arm to stay the flight he feared, 
Saying, "Fear not, 't is only Attis, I, 
And 't is my love that holds me here by thee.'^ 

She smiled back on him and her hand in his 

Thrilled with a touch that maddened through his veins; 

He bent down over her and all his soul 

Slid through his lips in one long burning kiss 

Which lovers only know. 

Lo, Cybele, 
Her chariot, lion-drawn, grinding the sands, 
Stood awfully before them. Not a word 
Came from her lips, but her great angry eyes 
Dark with the wrath and vengeance of the gods 
Gloomed forth a hate no mortal could endure; 
Pale Attis looked in them but once, and then 
In frenzied madness fled along the shore, 
Qtuirterly, 1871. 



My other self, my bosom friend, 
Thy faithful arm in mine en winding, 
Let us fare forth amid the trees, 
Each in the other comfort finding. 
For though our boyhood be so near, 
Yet have we tasted grief and fear. 

I feel upon my heart the weight 
Of things unknown, the dread of living, 
And thou, dear friend, canst strengthen me 
By thy heart's wondrous gift of giving; 

So, when life's strangeness frighteneth me, 

In perfect trust I turn to thee. 

Thou dost not scorn my foolish fear, 
Nor e'er upbraid my dreamy thinking; 
Thou dost not brand me with contempt 
Because of all my frequent shrinking. 
Thou art a tower of strength to me, 
So let me walk awhile with thee. 

Not all our hours are hours of dread : 
We know the hours of splendid hoping; 
When life 's ongoing ways shine clear, 
And vision takes the place of groping; 
In those Great Hours I seek for thee 
r To walk amid the trees with me. 

» Died 1908. 


How hath God made our lives as one, 
Knitting our fortunes up together 
In comradeship that welcometh 
The clearing or the lowering weather — 

The joy or pain — heart answering heart! 

Are we not friends till Death us part? 

Then mount with me the rugged hill 
And let our thoughts go seaward soaring, 
Until in fancy's ear there sound 
The chime of surf, the tempest's roaring; 

And, by the sun-glint on the sea. 

We trace the years that are to be. 

My other self, why bound by death 
The compass of our friendship's reaching? 
Why doubt the promptings of our hearts, 
Or falsify our spirits' teaching? 

Must not the friends beneath the sod 
Still walk amid the trees of God? 
Literary Monthly, 1909. 



Sweetly the June-time twilights wane 
Over the hills of fair Lorraine, 

Sweetly the mellow moonbeams fall 

O 'er rose-wreathed cottage and ivied wall. 

But never dawned a brighter eve, 
Than the holy night of St. Genevieve. 

And never moonlight fairer fell. 
Over the banks of the blue Moselle. 

Richly the silver splendor shines, 
Spangles with sheen the clustered vines. 

And rests, in benediction fair. 

On midnight tresses and golden hair. 

Golden hair and midnight tress, 
Mingle in tender lovingness, 

While the evening breezes breathe upon 
Marie and Jean, — and their hearts are one ! 

" The spell of silence lifts at last, 
Marie, the saint's sweet day is past! 

ANON. 51 

*' Her vesper chimes have died away, 
Where shall we be on Christmas day?" 

With answering throb heart thrilled to heart, 
Hand met hand with sudden start. 

For in each soul shone the blessed thought, 
The vision fair of a little cot, 

Nestled beneath the hlac spray, 
Waiting the blissful bridal day! 

Low bowed in tearful silence there, 
Their hearts rose up in solemn prayer. 

And still the mellow lustre fell 
Over the banks of the blue Moselle. 

And still the moonlight shone upon 

Marie and Jean, — and their hearts were one ! 


Six red moons have rolled away. 

And the sun is shining on Christmas day. 

Over the hills of fair Lorraine — 
Heaps of ashes and rows of slain. 

Where merrily rang the light guitar. 
The angry trump of the red hussar 

Flings on the midnight's shrinking breath. 
The direful notes of the Dance of Death! 


Underneath the clustered vines, 
The sentry's glittering saber shines. 

Over the banks of the blue Moselle, 
Rain of rocket and storm of shell! 

Where to-day is the forehead fair, 
Crowned with masses of midnight hair? 

A summer's twilight saw him fall, 
Dead on Verdun's leaguered wall. 

Where, alas! is the little cot? 

Ask the blackened walls of Gravelotte! 

Under the lilac broods alone 

A maid whose heart is turned to stone. 

Who sits, with folded fingers, dumb, 

And meekly prays that her time may come ! 

Yet see! the Death-god's baleful star! 
And War's black eagle screams afar! 

And lo ! the Christmas shadows wane 
Over the hills of sad Lorraine. 
Quarterly, 1872. 



And thou didst idly dream, 

Or, careless of thy action, think, 
To cast a veil o'er all the past 

And weld anew the broken link? 
Vain thought to weave anew the bond 

That thou didst ruthless sever; 
Know friendship often turns to love, 

But love to friendship never. 

And love ne'er dies but when some hand 

Too careless of their mimic strife. 
Slow cleaves its tendrils from their hold, 

And hurls them down bereft of life. 
And love once fled can ne'er return, 

Nor in its stead can friendship stand. 
Nor twine again the tendrils frail, 

Nor e'er unites the broken band. 

AtherKBuniy 1875. 




An early memory of my earliest youth. 

There came into the village I called home 
A traveller, worn and faint. His garments held 
The aUen dust of many a weary march; 
None but a child would e'er have thought the man 
A thing to look at twice, much less adore. 
But unto me, child that I was, the look 
In his large pleading eyes seemed so divine, 
The massive brow so free from thought of earth, 
The curves of his sad mouth so tremulous 
With more than woman's love and tenderness, 
And in each word and act such gentleness, 
That the quaint thought possessed and held my mind, 
That by some strange hap an angel soul, 
As penance for some small offense in heaven 
Had been compelled to traverse in this wise 
Our darkened world. And not alone his look 
Which made his rusty vesture fine, nor yet 
Alone the birds which fluttered round him as 
He were a friend, led to the same behef — 
But he with other men had naught in common. 
They called him fool and idiot, jibed at him 
And at his rags, and mocked his lofty air 
So far above his low condition. 
And yet unto their jeers he never word 
RepHed, nor ever seemed to know that they 
About him crawled; but fixing his great eyes 
Upon the sunset slopes, while mirrored in 
His face was seen the battle in his heart 


Of hopes and fears, he rather breathed than spoke 
Such words as these, except that his had soul: 

"At length, O weary heart, it seemeth me 
The rest is near. The air seems full of promise; 
My eyes are fixed on what they cannot see ; 
My ears are filled with whispers not quite heard. 
All things seem waiting as to hear good news. 
The western breeze hath messages for me; 
The western hills lean down and beckon me. 
It must be, sure, because, it must be so. 
That just beyond those hills, O heart, there doth 
Await us both the rest we long have sought." 
They told him that the world was round, and so 
It could not be that all this journeying 
Should e'er do more than bring him back to us, 
If he through weary years should persevere. 

*'I know," he quick repHed, '^the world is round 
To railroads and canals, and yet I do 
Believe," and, voicing o'er his hopeful creed, 
And striding on, he soon was lost to view. 

We heard of him as passing through the towns 

To wTst of us ; but soon he was forgot 

By all except myself and one poor maid 

Whom much love led astray. And soon she paid 

The debt of Nature, not as doth befit 

Such payment dread, but, maddened by cold looks, 

She, sporting with dank grasses in a pool, 

Gave back to God the life His creatures scorned, 

And breathed in death moist prayers to heaven. 

Since then hath any mention of the man 
Reached me. Nor have I ought on which to rely 


Except a dim remembrance. Yet in me 
A fixed belief hath taken root, and grows 
With growing years, — that, far beyond those hills 
I ' the west, upon high plains, among his peers, 
The fool hath long been deemed philosopher. 
Athenceum, 1876. 



Like some fair girl who hastes to meet her swain, 

Yet hesitates each step with maiden fear, 
So the still stream glides downward to the main, 
Pausing at times in fern-set pools, — and here, 
Where bend the willow branches to the clear 
Deep pool beneath, and where the forest hoar 
Seems whispering old tales of magic lore, 

They say by night the fairies dance in glee. 
And on the moss beside the curving shore 
The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry. 

From beds in purple buds where they have lain 

Until the mystic midnight time drew near. 
To chimes of hare-bells and the far-off strain 
Of forest melodies, the elves appear 
In all the gorgeousness of goblin gear. 

With brilHant dress the golden-beetle wore, 
With scarlet plumes the humming-bird once bore, 
They come in troops from every flower and tree, 
And 'round the fairy throne in concourse pour, — 
The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry. 

Yet mortal eyes see not the goblin train 

Whose bells sound faintly on the passer's ear, — 
Who dares attempt a secret sight to gain 
Feels the sharp prick of many an elfin spear, 
And hears, too late, the low, malicious jeer, 
As long thorn-javelins his body gore, 


Until, defeated, breathless, bruised, and sore, 
He turns him from the haunted ground to flee, 

And murmurs low, as grace he doth implore, 
''The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry!'' 


Sweet mortal maid, that fairy world of yore 
Has vanished, with the midnights that are o'er; 
Yet come and sit beside the stream with me, 
That I, beholding thee, may say, "Once more 
The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry." 
ArgOj 1882. 



When the forest flames in crimson and gold, 

While the sinking sun seems a molten mass, 
And a beautiful blaze is all the wold, 

The sumach flashes, a banner unrolled. 

And yellow-clad boughs glow like burnished brass, 
When the forest flames in crimson and gold. 

What secrets the listening leaves are told, 
As strollers along worn wood-paths pass, 
And a beautiful blaze is all the wold ! 

In the gay, glad light grow wooers bold, 

For there's brightness e'en in the dark morass. 
When the forest flames in crimson and gold. 

And when she is gently coaxed and cajoled. 

The hues find mirrors in cheeks of the lass, 
And a beautiful blaze is all the wold. 

But still is there one who remains e'er cold 
In the glow of the Indian summer; alas! 

When the forest flames in crimson and gold, 
And a beautiful blaze is all the wold. 
AthencBum, 1883. 




O'er the deep sighing sea, 
Mirrored as dreams of thee. 

Stars watches keep. 
Wavelets laugh soft and free. 
Calling my love to me; 

The world 's asleep. 

Far from the day^s dull care. 
Into the moonlight fair, 

Our boat shall speed; 
Songs floating on the air, 
Haste we with music rare, 

Where Love would lead. 

Life 's but a transient dream; 
All things that are or seem, 

Breathe but a day. 
Come, eyes that on me beam, 
Leave what ye sorrow deem. 

While yet ye may. 
Fortnight, 1886. 




In holland brown she stands to greet 
Me as I come adown the street, 
The sunlight falling on her hair 
Leaves warm caresses gently there — 
A picture with true grace replete ! 

The roses twining round her feet 
Breathe gentle fragrance rare and sweet, 
She sings a merry rustic air — 
In holland brown. 

O years that fly so swift and fleet! 
O storms that 'gainst her window beat! 
Keep her from harm and tears and care! 
That future years may find her where 
In days of June we used to meet, 
In holland brown. 
Fortnight, 1886. 




Many years have left their shadows on the pathless flow of 

Many bards have with soft music sung their lays of ancient 

Since the day when rosy Hylas plunged into Scamander's 

Since the am'rous Naiads bore him where no human arm 

could save. 

On the waves swift Argo rested; scarce a ripple stirred the 

While across the Dardan meadows sighed the breezes soft 

and free; 
Then the sun, in golden splendor, sank into a sea of flame, 
Darkness o'er the blue hills rested; yet no fair young Hylas 


For the water nymphs had loved him, when they saw his 

beauty rare. 
And with yielding lips caressing, they entwined him with 

their hair. 
Till they bound him, still entreating, with this soft and silken 

Till they drew him 'neath the waters, whence he ne'er should 

come again. 

Then the moon, a crescent jewel, edged the clouds with 
silver light. 

While they sped like shallops sailing, swift-winged messen- 
gers of Night. 



And the stream, dark-hued and somber, sighed in surges on 

the shore. 
Gently sighed among its rushes, '^Hylas! Hylas!" o'er and 


Yet no voice replied in answer, tho' the sighing louder grew, 
Tho' with sorrow bowed the flowers and their tears were 

drops of dew; 
No sweet echo breaks the silence, tho' the heart may hope 

and yearn. 
O'er the stream a realm of quiet, on the shore the empty 

Fortnight, 1886. 



The mellow light steals o'er its silent strings, 
That catch the sound of some far sylvan strain; 
Such fantasie as thrills the poet's brain, 

Or Morpheus, floating 'neath the pale stars, brings. 

And Hst ! Divinely, on its own sad wings, 
It sings a wondrous pitiful refrain, 
Methinks some soul with aching grief is lain — 

That moans and dies with broken murmurings. 

The voice is hushed, the lights are low and spent; 
The dancers bid farewell, with tired feet. 

Too few, I ween, this thing of wood has meant 
A tenth part what its harmony, so sweet, 
Has told to me. 'Mid joy, the sorrows greet 

The wanderer, their hearts by weeping rent. 
Fortnight, 1887. 




Dim, distant, tinkling chimes, 
That summoned men in olden times 

To pray the Virgin grace impart; 
Ye solemn voices of a day gone by, 
Whose mystic strains of melody 

Alike touched peer and peasant's heart: 
Your music falters in the fleeting years, 
Yet still comes faintly to our ears, 

Saved by a master's cunning art. 
Literary Monthly, 1885. 




In the country, with a soft, calm, hazy afternoon to keep 
you company! To feel that Nature and yourself have moods 
in common, for you are lazy and Nature is lazy, too, and 
blinks sleepily at you from filmy, dreamy eyes that open 
and shut with your own in a sort of drowsy rhythm. What 
more delightful than to yield yourself entirely to the pre- 
sent mood and wander off somewhere, aimless except to 
see and feel? The trim soberness of the dusty road with its 
gray windings and vistas of sand-ruts becomes less matter- 
of-fact at length, and so you leave it to itself, and seek a path 
that leads to the heart of Nature and far from ways of men. 
Down grassy slopes and over little hillocks that pique your 
curiosity by shutting out the view of what is coming next; 
now skirting the edge of a furrowed potato-patch, and now 
sauntering down cool lanes of corn, listening to the breezy- 
lisping of the long, green leaves that flap you softly in the 
face; now across a moist spot where a spring bubbles forth, 
apparently only to nourish a family of cowslips, and so on 
and on until you break the stillness of a shady wood as 
your feet keep alternate time among the heaps of leaves 
whose rustling is varied by the occasional noise of crackling 
twigs. The damp air, freshened by contact with trickling 
drops and oozy bogs, and perfumed with spicy cedar, soothes 
and cools. Yonder lies prostrate some mighty giant of the 
forest, victim of a ruthless storm, grim with decay and rais- 
ing a vertical base of black sod and tangled roots torn from 
the earth where a gaping wound shows its former place. 
Here a rock, moist with swamp-sweat, Hchen-covered and 
set in moss. There a clump of thick-grown cedars, deep 



shelter for the timid rabbit. All is noiseless, breathless. 
Not even the squirrel chatters, for it is not long past noon. 
But farther on comes a dull, low murmuring, scarcely to 
be heard at first, so nicely does it fit this gentle monotone 
of silence, yet soon filling the trembling air with overtones 
that rise and fall and swell again in varying chords. It is 
the river. A few steps more and you are there, and beside 
the stream in a fragrant bed of ferns, with one hand ca- 
ressing the delicate tresses of the maidenhair, and the 
other dipped among the ripples, you give yourself up, 
half dozing, to thoughts of the long ago and the far away 
that seem to float up from the past along the dim wind- 
ings of the stream. The sun makes dancing spots of dark 
and light between the fluttering leaves, and throws a 
changing shadow upon yon deep pool, where a grand old 
beech, festooned wdth clematis, leans its gray trunk far over 
as if to bless the stream whose waters, bubbling swiftly 
over the pebbles a little higher up, calm themselves here 
to rest in peace. The wood-thrush sends its plaintive, soli- 
tary note of silver-globuled melody from the inmost forest. 
No other sound, save when a wagon now and then rolls 
its quick rumble across a bridge, and then is gone like 
some self-conscious intruder. But luxury like this is the 
very thief of time. Before you are aware the waves of heat 
have ceased to form a throbbing air-hive for humming in- 
sects, and the cool of early twilight has come on, attended 
by lengthening shadows. And so home again along the 
dewy fields, while an orchestra of crickets chirps a happy 
end beneath the summer stars to the day that is done. 
It is in ways like this that poets renew their souls, the old 
their youth, and weary hearts, in sweet release from care, 
gain strength for life. 
Literary Monthly , 1887. 



There are strange complications in it all, 
This life of ours — had I fourfold the wit 

That as his share to any man doth fall, 
I fear me that I could not fathom it. 

This sorrow bringing laughter, and joy tears, 
Conflicting things we cannot understand; 

This constant longing for great length of years, 
That brings but weary limb and feeble hand; 

Eyes that are dim, and saddened, lowly life; 

These hot-waged wars, squalid with cries of pain, 
This joy in contest and this thirst for strife. 

In which both suffer, and there is no gain; 

Strong love that ere long turns to stronger hate, 

Sin leading into good, good into sin — 
In very truth do lambs with tigers mate. 
The world is wide, and strange things are therein. 
Fortnight, 1887. 




A GREAT thought came to a great singer's heart, 
Out of the grandeur of the changeless hills — 
A thought whose greatness e'en in our day fills 
Men's minds with nobler feeling. All his art 
He lavished on the poem that he wrought, 
That it might be, through all the years of time. 
An inspiration, to all men, sublime. 
And nor for fault of his hand come to naught. 
So it hath been. The singer lieth dead; 
His words live on. And still the mountains stand, 
And all men say who know them, in that land — 
And through all ages, it will still be said — 
Not gold that perisheth, from deep-hid veins, 
They give us, but the thought that aye remains. 
Literary Monthly, 1887. 




Come, friend scholar, cease your bending 

Over books with eager gaze ; 
Time it were such work had ending, — 

Well enough for rainy days. 
Out with me where sunlight pours, 
Life to-day is out of doors ! 

Busy? Pshaw! what good can reach you 
Frowning o'er that dog-eared page? 

Yonder rushing brook can teach you 
More than half your Classic Age. 

Banish Greeks and Siren shores, 

Let your thoughts run out of doors! 

Rest we here where none can spy us, 

Deep in rippling fields of grass; 
Scented winds blow softly by us, 

Lazy clouds above us pass; 
Higher yet my fancy soars — 
All my soul is out of doors ! 
Literary Monthly, 1888. ♦ 

1 Copyright, 1907, by T. M. Banks. With permission. 




Once on a bright October day, 

I took the road whose winding track 

Leads up among the hills aw^ay 
Across Taconic's shaggy back, 

Leaving the valley broad and fair 

For barren heights in upper air. 

At last I stood upon the crest; 

The ruddy sun was sinking low, 
And all the country to the west 

Lay flooded with a golden glow — 
A fairyland of misty light, 
Unsullied by the touch of night. 

I turned, and lo, a sudden change 
Had swept across the valley's face. 

The shadow of Taconic's range 
Had fallen on the lovely place ; 

And darkness followed thick and fast 

Behind the shadow as it passed. 

Since then the changeful years have flown 

Till now once more I seem to stand 
Upon the mountain top alone. 

And look abroad upon the land. 
But all before is gray and dim. 
Half- hidden in the cloud-wrack grim; 
While in the Berkshire valley stays 
The light that dawned in happier days. 
Literary Monthly, 1893. 

^ Copyright, 1907, by T. M. Banks. With permission. 



If all the stars were gems, love, 

And all those gems were mine, 
I 'd give them in exchange, love, 

For that dear heart of thine. 
But, since the stars so bright, love, 

Are neither gems nor mine, 
What can I do, but sigh and rue 

My luckless lot, and pine. 
And gaze on high, where night winds sigh, 

Across thy lattice vine? 

If all the little birds, love. 

That twitter 'mid the dew, 
Could sing in words and tell, love, 

The love I bear to you. 
They would not end their song, love, 

The night's long vigil through; 
But all the wings that morning brings 

Would soar amid the blue. 
And float along on waves of song, 

With carols sweet and new. 
Literary Monthly, 1893. 




Placed 'midst the city 's busiest life, 
Not a stone's throw from the deadly strife 

Of the metropolitan mart, 
Old Trinity stands ; her spire, like a hand, 
Points ever upward; her chimes demand 

From the hardened world a heart. 

Clustered around her, buried, lie 
Many whose names can never die, 

Founders of their country's weal: 
Patriot churchmen, statesmen, soldiers. 
There they sleep who were its moulders; 

Sculptured stones their deeds reveal. 

Trinity's self was new-born with the nation; 
Springing from ashes of desolation. 

She helped to forge posterity. 
Now she looks from her chosen station. 
At pageant, starvation, begg'ry, ovation, 

Results of her sons' prosperity. 

Within, away from the din and crowd 

And the mendicants' cries and the laughter loud, 

Of Pleasure in hand with Youth, 
Is the silent yet eloquent reign of Peace 
And the utterance of words which shall not cease 

While the earth has a place for Truth. 


When peal on peal the organ's voice 
Calls the assembled to rejoice 

For blessings unsurpassed, 
Or when its milder tones tell Grief, 
Then e'en Death's triumph is but brief. 

Old Trinity's charm but half is grasped. 

Far sweeter it is in the twilights glim, 
When the symbolled altar is growing dim, 

And the wayward shadows dart, 
To watch the golden light stream in 
Each lofty window, as though all sin 

At its entrance must depart. 

Saints' and martyrs' pictured graces, 
Illumined by these heavenly traces, 

Shine in blue and saffron and red; 
But in the sun's last traces, above their faces, 
Beam the eyes which no might from the soul effaces, 

And the Christ's mock-crowned head. 
Literary Monthly, 1894. 



'Neath fading leaves and dreary skies, 
A late-born rose burst into bloom 
And gazed about with sad surprise, 
'Neath fading leaves and dreary skies; 
Let fall from Summer's bier, it lies 
In Autumn's pathway 'mid the gloom 
Of fading leaves and dreary skies, 
A late-born rose, burst into bloom. 

Beside the ever restless sea 
Fair Autumn stands. With beckoning hand 
She hails the passing days, w^hich flee 
Across the ever restless sea, — 
Their sealed ears hearing not the plea 
Which sea-winds waft from that fair land 
Beside the ever restless sea. 
Where Autumn stands with beckoning hand. 
Literary Monthly, 1894. 




Adrift in taintless seas she dreaming lies, 
The island city, time-worn now, and gray. 
Her dark wharves ruinous, where once there lay 
Tall ships, at rest from far-sea industries. 
The busy hand of trade no longer plies 
Within her streets. In quiet court and way 
The grass has crept — and sun and shadows play 
Beneath her elms, in changing traceries; 
The years have claimed her theirs, and the still peace 
Of wind and sun and mist, blown thick and white, 
Has folded her. The voices of the seas 
Through many a soft, bright day and brooding night 
Have wrought her silence, wide as they, and deep, 
And dreaming of the past, she waits — asleep. 
Literary Monthly^ 1897. 




It comes with the autumn's silence, 
When great Hills dream apart, 
And far blue leagues of distance 
Call to the Gypsy-heart. 

When all the length of sunny roads, 
A lure to restless feet, 
Are largesses of goldenrod 
And beck of bitter-sweet. 

Then the wand'rer in us wakens 
And out from citied girth, 
To go a- vagabonding down 
The wide ways of the Earth. 
Literary Monthly, 1898. 




When our sabers rattle merrily against our lances' butt, 

And our bugles ring out clearly in the coolness of the dawn, 
You can see the guidons waving as the ranks begin to shut, 
And the morning sun beams forth on the sabers that are 
Then the bits begin to jangle and our horses paw the air, 
When we vault into the saddle and we grasp the bridle- 
Of danger we are fearless and for death we do not care. 
For we fight for good Don Carlos and the grim grandees 
of Spain. 

So to horse and away. 

At the break of day, 
With never a thought of fears; 

For Spain and the right 

We '11 die or we '11 fight. 
Sing ho, for the cavaliers! 

As we gallop through the villages or through the sylvan 
Merry maid and buxom matron smile and wave as we 
ride by; 
There are broken hearts behind us as well as broken blades. 
For the cavaliers are gallants till the war-notes rend the 
But when summer breezes waver and grow cold with news 
of war, 



We gird our good swords closer and we arm us for the 
Maid and wine cup fade behind us, lance and helmet to the 
And we wheel into our battle line for Carlos and the right. 

So to horse and away, 

At the break of day. 
With never a thought of fears; 

We'll die or we'll fight, 

For Spain and the right; 
Sing ho, for the cavaliers ! 

When at last the brazen bugles ripple out the ringing charge, 
We rise up in our stirrups and we wave our swords on 
The dust clouds rise beneath us, and the demons seem at 
large — 
The cavaliers are charging in to conquer or to die. 
Grim death may claim his victims from out our whirling 
Our plumes may be down-trodden in the grimy, bloody 
The cavaliers will meet their fate without a word of thanks, 
But they've died for good Don Carlos, for old Spain, and 
for their God. 

So to horse and away. 
At the break of day. 
With never a thought of fears; 
We'll die or we'll fight 
For Spain and the right; 
Sing ho, for the cavaliers! 
Literary Monthly, 1897. 



At dawn he toils the steep to gain the flower, 
The lure that beckons from the height afar; 

Noon wanes to eve, the bloom has fled, but lo ! 
High in the purple night there gleams a star. 
Literary Monthly, 1897. 




They crowded round to see him, great and small, 

The conquered admiral of a conquered fleet, 
Shorn of his glories, thrown from his high seat, 
Great by the very greatness of his fall. 
Hope, honor, fortune, lost beyond recall, 
Greyhaired and bitter-hearted; doomed to meet 
His country's censure, sharper than defeat; 
His foeman's pity — that was worst of all. 

He heard them faintly, as one hears, amuse, 
Amid his vision voices far away 
That call him from sad dreams to sadder day; 
For he was where he would be could he choose, 
At peace beneath the waters of the bay. 
Where all his ships lay silent with their crews. 
Literary Monthly, 1898. 




I WONDERED why the western hills were always smiling so, 
Until one evening when the heavens were like a fiery sea; 
For, as the Sun crept down the sky amid the sunset-glow, 
He paused upon the western hills, and kissed them tenderly. 
Literary Monthly, 1900. 




Through the gathering gloom of a summer evening a young 
man walked wearily up the dusty road toward the Waring 
farmhouse. In each hand he carried a brimming pail and 
as he stepped along the milk in them flopped softly against 
their tin sides. Out from the white streak of sky behind his 
figure stood strongly reheved in silhouette, large, stooping, 
dispirited. The whole attitude was one of extreme fatigue, 
though for the silence and automatic movement of him 
you might almost think him a piece of ambulatory mechan- 
ism. Once or twice, to be sure, he turned his head, perhaps 
to look off over the cultivated fields and to calculate the 
labor still to be put on them, or possibly to draw a sort of 
unconscious, tired satisfaction from these encouraging re- 
sults of so many weary hours. At any rate his pace never 
altered. Overhead the large maple trees reached their 
glooming branches in a mysterious, impenetrable canopy 
that rustled softly in the dusky silence. For the night was 
still, despite the squeaking of katydids and the distant 
peep of frogs. Along the sides of the road as it stretched on 
ahead Hke a brownish ribbon and vanished under the far- 
ther trees, ran stone walls, low and massive, and sharply 
hemming in the dusty highw^ay from the cool, green fields 

David Waring was not consciously aware of anything 
in the world, but his whole body was alive to the anticipa- 
tion of the near end of his day's work. A few minutes more 
and he should have set the milk into the coolers, thrown off 
his overalls, and washed himself in cold spring water — 



and then he could drop into a chair on the quiet porch and 
take his ease. 

Quite unexpectedly just ahead of him a young woman 
stepped out from the shadow of a tree and sprang lightly 
into the road. "Hello, David!" she said, waiting for him 
to come up to her. "You look as tired as a plough-horse. 
What's the matter?" 

"Well, I am, Janet. It does n't hardly seem as if I could 
push one foot ahead of another. Here I've been working 
all day long, and only just done at eight or nine o'clock." 

"Poor boy," answered the girl. "Come and sit down a 
few minutes while I talk to you. I did n't go round to the 
house because I knew your father and mother would be 
off at meeting." 

David needed no urging. He placed the pails of milk by 
the roadside and together the two sat down by the stone 

"I'd let you put your arm around me if you didn't smell 
so cowy," said Janet with a little laugh. 

"That's not my fault," he answered. "Somebody's got 
to milk the poor old beasts, and I don't know who would if 
I did n't. That does n't make me like it, though. Oh Janet, 
when I feel as tired as I do to-night I get terribly sickened 
with all this humdrum life on the farm! It's just work, 
work, from morning till night and when you get done you 're 
too tired to read or talk or do anything but just go to sleep 
like a big ox. If it were n't for father's and mother's sakes 
I believe I'd quit the old place in a minute. If I could only 
go off somewhere — anywhere, only to be out of sight of 
the farm!" 

"Well, I like that, Mr. Waring," said the girl, with a look 
half indignant, half smiling. "Is that the only thing that 
keeps you here? I guess perhaps it's time for me to go 
home now." 


"Oh, Janet, don't take it that way! You know what I 
mean. I 'm just sick and tired of the whole business, and 
I wish to goodness I could throw it over. By the w^ay, I 
suppose you know my brother 's coming home from Yale 
to-morrow. It's almost two years since I've seen him ex- 
cept for a week or two. I guess he'll have changed some; 
his letters sound so, anyway." 

" That 's just what I came down to ask you about. I heard 
it yesterday and I 'd be awfully glad if you two would come 
up to supper day after to-morrow — that 's Sunday. I 'm 
so anxious to see him because I know he '11 have lots to tell 
us about college and the city and things like that. Oh, 
David, I get tired too of always staying here in the country 
and teaching school forever, w^hen there are so many things 
to learn and so much to see oS there in the world. That's 
what Loren can tell us about. It'll be next best to getting 
off somewhere one's self." 

During the course of the conversation the streak of white 
in the west had turned to gray and the night was rapidly 
closing down. The girl jumped to the ground; "Good-night," 
she said, as she started away, "I'll see you both Sunday, 
— sure, now!" 

David picked up his milk-pails and completed the w^ork 
of the day. A little later he had seated himself on the porch. 
He felt discontented and unhappy though he could not 
have told exactly why. But one thing was evident — he 
was not anticipating Loren's home-coming with much plea- 
sure. He felt, in fact, a certain reluctance, or rather timidity, 
about meeting this younger brother of his who knew so 
much and talked so much, and seemed to enjoy himself 
so thoroughly. He anticipated keenly the difference that 
two years must have brought between them, and dreaded 
the time when they should be put side by side once more and 
compared. For Da\'id, too — the older of the boys by 


a year — had expected to go to college and till the time 
came had never doubted the expediency of it. But, as is so 
often the case, that merry-making force in human affairs 
that we call Circumstance — or is it Providence? — had 
it fixed up otherwise. Mr. Waring had suddenly hghted 
upon chronic poor health as a daily companion on the walk 
of life, and his time was so much engrossed therewith that 
David seemed called upon — nay, impelled — to become the 
main-stay of the farm; Loren was still too young; financial 
affairs were far from encouraging; Mrs. Waring looked con- 
stantly to her older son for advice and assistance; in short, 
the golden gate of the future seemed to be drawing to, 
without any voluntary effort of his own. Yet he had often 
recalled since then the night — that breathless night in 
August four years ago — when he and his dearest ambition 
had had their last battle, and he had forced it to cover. 
"Loren shall have the best chance I can give him," he had 
said to himself, with his teeth gritted, ''and God help me to 
stick it out here on the farm!" Thus it was, that, as usual, 
Dame Circumstance had won out by a good margin. 

And now Loren had been two years at Yale and was 
coming home for the summer. Loren had learned a vast 
deal at college; among other scraps of intelligence he had 
discovered that his family were a little outlandish, and 
that Melton was altogether too slow a place for a rational 
being like himself to exist in except, at the best, for a few 
summer weeks. His latest letter, received only yesterday, 
was a characteristic one, and David had unintentionally 
resented its tone of breezy self-assurance : ''. . . I suppose 
I shall show up at fair Melton," it had read, ''about 2:35 on 
Saturday, unless, that is, I happen to get a few days' in- 
vite to New York. Of course David will be down to meet 
me and bring my trunk up." The words were innocent 
enough, but they had insinuated their way into his mind 


and rankled there like an evil thing. "Yes, of course I will 
be do^Yn," he said to himself somewhat bitterly; ''of course 
I wdll, that 's to be expected. And bring up his trunk for him ; 
yes, that's just what I like — the chance to fetch Loren's 
trunk, and I like his way of taking it all for granted, too." 

The mental transition to the matter of Janet's in\dtation 
was a natural one. He began to wish that she had n't been 
in such a hurry about giving it. What could she want of 
Loren? He was n't anything to her. Why did she have to 
be all the time hankering after new friends? " New friends I " 
With a slight internal start David realized that only three 
years ago Loren had never been away from home. "New 
friends!" Why, Janet had known them both ever since the 
old days of skip-rope and hide and seek ! What more natural 
than that she should want to see her old play-fellow again? 
Why should he complain? Hadn't she said once, "I love 
you, David," and was n't that enough to make him trust 

A little way down the road he heard the step of some 
one approaching and in a moment the shape of a man grew 
visible through the darkness. He turned, opened the gate, 
and stepped to the porch. In his hand he carried a suit-case. 
This he set down heaxdly and approached the door. Da\dd 
sprang to his feet. "Why Loren, is that you? We were n't 
expecting you to-night." 

"Well, how are you, old boy?" cried the new-comer. 
"It's bully good to see you again. No, I did n't expect to 
get up to-night, but there was n't much doing at college 
and I did n't get my in\ite, so I thought I might as well 
come on home. Where are the folks?" 

"Out at meeting just now, but they'll be back in a little 
while. Sit down, you must be tired." 

Loren took a chair and sunk into it with a sigh of com- 
fort. " You 're right I am. I tell you it 's hard work to walk 


a mile and a half with a suit-case. And all the time you were 
just sitting comfortably out here on the veranda listening 
to the katydids." He drew out his pipe and lit it. "Well, 
how are all the folks? Same as usual?" 

*'I guess so. Father 's failing a little, and mother worries 
a good deal, but keeps pretty well." 

*' That 's good. They must be mighty glad to have one of 
us at home to look after things. Lord, but I 've often imag- 
ined you outdoors driving around in the open air and en- 
joying life when I've been plugging up for some beastly 
exam. But, apropos of the health bulletin, etc., is Janet 
Manning here still, or has she gone off to college?" 

*'No, she's teaching school at the Corners. I saw her a 
minute to-night, and she invited us up to supper there on 

''Good! That's something like. Shall be much charmed 
to see the little schoolma'am again. She's a sHck little girl 
— at least she used to be. In my opinion she's wasting her 
time up here in the woods. Why, that girl's got ability, 
and I call it a shame for her to bury herself in the country 
just for her mother's account. But say, is n't that a wagon 
coming ?" 

The two went down to the gate and stood there waiting 
for the buggy to draw up. When Mr. and Mrs. Waring 
were out, David took the horse to the barn and unhar- 
nessed in the dark. Then he reentered the house, and with- 
out saying anything more than "Good-night," went up to 
his room. 


It was late in the afternoon of an August day. From the 
high gable windows of the barn the yellow sunlight shot 
through the dusty air in a long, straight shaft and rested 


on the lower part of the haymow, gilding every dry wisp 
with a temporary and fatuous splendor. Elsewhere in the 
barn it was already half dark. On one side the hay rose up 
in a tremendous heap almost to the roof, where it vanished 
dimly in the dusky shadows. Opposite were the cow-stables, 
five of them in a row, each occupant munching her cud con- 
tentedly and now and then giving vent to a soft, self-satis- 
fied low. From one of the stalls could be heard the rhyth- 
mical squirt of milk against the milking-pail, for David was 
engaged upon his evening work. On a rickety chair near the 
hay-loft sat Janet, holding a timid little barn cat in her lap 
and stroking it nervously. She was speaking in a voice that 
betrayed considerable agitation. 

" Well, I 'm just going to leave it with you to decide, for 
I 'm not ready to do it myself. But it does seem to me that 
it's the chance of a lifetime. It's just a question of whether 
I shall always stay on here teaching district school, or see 
a little of the world and have a chance to go on studying." 

She stopped, and a moment of strained silence ensued, 
broken only by the sound of the milking. David pressed 
his head against the flank of the cow and choked back 
something in his throat. Then he managed to speak. 

''Of course, Janet," he said, with an attempt at com- 
posure. "I can see how it must attract you — this oppor- 
tunity of going off to college, and I don't mean to put any- 
thing in your way. Such questions a person has to decide 
for one's self, and I don't see how I can give you any help." 

"Yes, there you are again. You just won't say yes or 
no; but I am sure all the time that you don't really want 
me to go. You'd like to keep me here at home, just an ig- 
norant, stupid country girl. Why don't you want me to 
make something of myself, Daxdd ? I know I 've got abil- 
ity, and you know it as well as I do, but it is n't of any use 
to me here. Would n't you feel proud of me if I went off 
and did something worth while ?" 


David could not answer at once. He sat with his eyes 
shut, his knees pressed rigidly against the pail, and against 
his head he felt the warm, throbbing pulse of the animal in 
front of him. Upon his mind a picture was forcing itself 
with cruel insistence. It was the Janet of a year hence, 
well-dressed, sedate, intellectual, with all her new college 
interests to talk of; and side by side with this he saw him- 
self — what would he be? Just the same as ever, only a 
little more awkward and out of date, and when he talked it 
would be of — yes, his cows, and the new pig, and the 
price of potatoes! It was Loren who would be suited to her 
then; it w^as they who would sit under the trees together and 
the farmer could go about his chores. The impossibility 
of her continuing to love him struck him with a new pang 
of conviction, and he felt helpless before it. 

"Why don't you say something, David ?" asked the girl, 
rapping her foot on the floor and unconsciously pulling the 
kitten's fur. "You're not angry with me, are you ?" 

David saw that he must speak, and he determined to 
dissimulate no longer. "No, Janet, but can't you see how 
it must look to me ? How can you expect me to be happy 
over it ? Do you suppose, dear, that you could feel toward 
me, after a year at college, just as you do now ? Don't you 
see how it would separate us and you'd have all your new 
friends and studies to take up your time and I'd just be 
plodding along here in the woods like a clod of turf ? How 
could you ever keep on loving me ? Don't you see, Janet, 
how it sort o' breaks my heart to say yes ? " 

The jets of milk shot into the pail with an angry rapidity. 
The bar of sunHght lay almost horizontally now across the 
upper emptiness of the barn, transforming the thick-hung 
cobwebs into golden draperies and accentuating the twi- 
light gloom below. Janet threw the kitten out of her 
lap and, jumping from the chair, walked nervously to 


the window and looked out absently upon the meadow 

"Well, I supposed it would come to that," she said, with 
some indignation in her voice. "It's nice to feel that you 
can't trust me out of your sight. Don't you think that if 
you really loved me as you say you 'd be as glad as I was 
that I could get a better education ? But of course, if you 're 
afraid to trust me, why, I suppose I can give it up." 

The strain of decision had been a hard one for Janet, and 
she was now on the verge of giving way under it. Her 
shoulders shook, and she put her face in her hands. Da\'id 
heard her sobbing softly. 

"Janet," he said, "if you think that this is going to be 
a valuable thing for you, I 'm not going to say a word against 
it. You know that every wish I 've got is for your good, 
and that's God's truth. If you think it's best to go, I'm 
going to try to think so too, and I'll do everything I can to 
make you happy." 

Janet had left the window and came toward him, a joy- 
ful smile breaking through her tears. " You are a dear, good 
boy, and I love you," she said, and allowed him to kiss her. 
He held her long in his big arms and his own eyes filled with 
burning tears. 

He could not banish the thought that this might be the 
last time. 


The gray desolation of a March afternoon brooded out 
over the wide meadows, out over the dim woods beyond, 
and still on to the half-visible hills in the distance, where 
it merged itself imperceptibly into a low, lead-colored sky. 
Though the rain was not falling, everything dripped with 
the damp. In front of the Waring farmhouse the road, wal- 


lowing with fat mud, stretched off in a dirty streak under 
the glistening limbs of the maples. The door of the house 
opened and David came out. His mother followed him 

''David, I hope it isn't bad news," she asked, laying 
her hand lightly on his shoulder. '' Can't you tell me about 

''Not now, mother. It's nothing very unexpected; I'll 
tell you later, but I 'd rather wait a little while." He pushed 
open the gate and stepped out into the road, his heavy 
boots sinking in to half their height. 

The mother watched him with strained attention as he 
set off towards the barn. There was a sort of savage aim- 
lessness in his gait. His shoulders were bent forward, his 
hands thrust deep into his pockets, and he looked neither 
to the one side nor the other of the road. At the barnyard 
gate he seemed to hesitate a second, then turned in, and the 
small, gray-haired woman on the step sighed and went back 
into the house. 

David strode dehberately through the yard and out of 
the gate on the other side — the one that opened on the 
sloping meadow behind the barn. Not a living thing was in 
sight. A chill, white fog had slowly settled over the land, 
obliterating outline and color, toning everything down to 
a monotonous sameness of appearance — a flat, unrelieved 
vacancy. David walked on mechanically, unmindful of 
any destination or definite purpose; a dumb bitterness wrung 
his heart, and, in comparison with that, all that was exter- 
nal and objective seemed unaccountable. Involuntarily 
he thrust his hand into his coat and drew out a letter. He 
had read it twice already. 

"My dear David, — I hardly know how I am to tell 
you what I know I must tell you — and if not now, certainly 


before many more weeks pass. Let me admit then first of 
all that you were right in your anticipation of what college 
life would do for me. It has changed my ways of looking at 
things more than I can tell you, and things that once seemed 
very beautiful to me are so no longer. This was inevitable 
and we need not regret it, for I know that the aggregate 
enjoyment of life has been increased, at least potentially. 
You may know that your brother Loren spent part of his 
Christmas vacation here, and he has just been here again 
for a flying visit. Need I tell you the result, David ? I think 
you foresaw it long ago, and I cannot of course feel sad that 
things have come about in this way, though I realize that 
for a time, at least, it may be hard for you to understand it. 
But there are many interests we have in common, he and I; 
I know that you will see sometime that we were made for 
each other and that you will be happy with us in our great 

*'I doubt whether this news will much surprise you, for 
I know, from the tenor of your latest letters, you have 
noticed a change and have been suspicious of the truth. . . ." 

Ah, yes, he had noticed it and had had suspicions; but 
to have it come to this, and so suddenly — it was more than 
he could bear. His throat ached and his hands were wet 
with perspiration. He looked up into the sky and saw no- 
thing there to help him — nothing but a roofless expanse of 
drizzling gray fog. Not a bird chirped in the distance. The 
brook down below him ran on silently without an audible 
ripple. Everything was silent and motionless. If only a cow 
would low or a hen would cackle back in the barnyard, life 
would be a bit more tolerable. It was as if all the world 
had become soulless and dead. 

How he had loved her! . . . No other thought could find 
entrance in his mind . . . and now, it was all over. She be- 


longed to some one else and had left him without a thought, 
almost, of the pain it was going to bring him. "Hard to 
understand!" She was wrong: he had understood it from 
the first, and far better than she. Had he not told her so 
that afternoon when they sat together in the barn ? But 
understanding it made it no more easy to bear. He won- 
dered whether he could bear it. He seemed so cruelly alone 
with his sorrow. The silence seemed shouting at him. 

Suddenly, without knowing why, he looked back to the 
barn. A little figure, wrapped in a plaid shawl, was coming 
towards him : it was his mother. A sharp thrill of tenderness 
ran through him. ''Poor Httle mother," he said softly, 
"you are longing to help me," and, somewhat ashamed of 
the way in which he had left her recently, he turned and 
walked back to meet her. 

" Come with me to the barn," she said, and together they 
returned, silently, each timid of the other. Entering the 
building they sat down on the hay, side by side. "Read 
that, mother," he said, and handed her the letter. She 
glanced it through, and then, taking his hand in hers, fal- 
tered gently, " My poor boy! I can guess what it must mean 
to you." 

He put his head down in her lap and sobbed like a child, 
while she stroked his hair and face and spoke shy words of 

"David," she said, "it was for your father and me that 
you gave up college. Perhaps you think we don't appreci- 
ate it, because we never say much. I know what it has cost 
you and how nobly you have stuck to your duty, and you 
know that in God's sight whatever may come of it you 
have done the kindest thing." 

"Oh, but mother, that doesn't make it any easier to 
lose Janet. She was so much to me, and we were going to 
be so happy together." 


''Hush, little boy, you must n't take it so hard. Perhaps 
some day you'll see that it was for the best." 

The afternoon light was fading and the rain was begin- 
ning to fall softly outside. In the dimming light the two 
continued sitting there together, hardly speaking a word, 
for what comfort could words bring ? And slowly a vague 
peacefulness began to fall upon his heart under the gentle 
touch of his mother, and rising, he kissed her silently and 
went out to his work. 

Literary Monthly, 1902. 



"Now for enditing of Letters: alas, what need wee much adoe about 
a Httle matter?" 

In a letter to Miss Sara Hennel, George Eliot writes that 
" there are but two kinds of regular correspondence possible 
— one of simple affection, which gives a picture of all the 
details, painful and pleasurable, that a loving heart pines 
after . . . , and one purely moral and intellectual, carried 
on for the sake of ghostly edification in which each party 
has to put salt on the tails of all sorts of ideas on all sorts 
of subjects." These two classes embrace, perhaps, the 
great bulk of letters, but George Eliot says there is a third 
class to which her correspondence with Miss Hennel be- 
longs — one of impulse. Strictly speaking, all of the letters 
which really belong as such to literature come under this 
last head. The result of a perfect fusion of the two other 
styles, they exhibit a sparkle, a pungency, and lightness of 
touch, which take the curse from mere gossip, supple the 
joints of intellectual disquisition, and mark unmistakably 
the epistolary artist. The letter- writer, no less than the poet, 
is born, not made, and his art, though for the most part un- 
conscious, is no less an art. The expression of every senti- 
ment, the choice of every word, however random it may 
seem, is determined for the born enditer of epistles by a sense 
of fitness so exquisite that its niceties of distinction escape 
analysis and only its more general principles can be enun- 

The most vital of these principles is pretty generally 
observed. Thackeray perceives it when at the close of a 
delightful letter to Mrs. Brookfield he exclaims, "Why, 



this is almost as good as talk ! " He was right: it was written 
talk. If read aloud with pauses for the correspondent's 
reply, the perfect letter would make perfect conversation. 
It should call up the voice, gesture, and bearing of the 
writer. Though it may be more studied than oral speech, 
it must appear no less impromptu. This, indeed, is its es- 
sential charm, that it contains the mind's first fruits with 
the bloom on, that it exhale carelessly the mixed fragrance 
of the spirit like a handful of wild flowers not sorted for the 
parlor table but, as gathered among the fields, haphazard, 
with here a violet, there a spice of mint, a strawberry blos- 
som from the hillside, and a sprig of bittersweet. This is 
the opportunity for the clergyman to show that he is not 
all theologian, but part naturalist; the farmer that he is not 
all ploughman, but part philosopher. This is the place for 
little buds of sentiment, short flights of poetry, wise ser- 
mons all in three lines, odd conceits, small jests rubbing 
noses with deacon-browed morahties; in short, for every fine 
extravagance in which the mind at play delights. Sickness 
and sorrow, too, and death, if spoken of reverently and 
bravely, must not be denied a place. So we shall have a 
letter now all grave, now all gay, but generally, if it be a 
good letter, part grave, part gay, just as the mingled threads 
are clipped from the webs of life. 

That such a letter cannot be written with white gloves 
goes without saying. The first requisite is freedom from 
stiffness. The realm of good letters is a republic in which 
no man need lift his hat to another. It is hail-fellow well 
met, or not met at all. So when the humble address their 
superiors, or when children write to austere grandfathers, 
they suffer from an awkwardness of mental attitude which 
is the paralysis of all spontaneity. Before the indispensable 
ease can exist, certain relations of equality must be estab- 
lished. But there are some whose fountains of speech, in 


letters as in conversation, lie forever above the line of per- 
petual snow. They never thaw out. Bound by a sort of 
viscosity of spirits, that peculiar stamp of the Anglo- 
Saxon temperament, they are incapable of getting their 
thoughts and emotions under way; with the best will in 
the world, genuine warmth of feeling, minds stocked with 
information on all subjects, they are never fluent. The man 
with no ear must not hope to be a musician, nor the man 
with no fluency a letter-writer. Yet this is not all. You will 
find some at perfect ease in conversation who, touching pen 
to paper, exhibit the affected primness commonly ascribed 
to the maiden aunt. They have not learned that this is a 
place where words must speak for themselves without com- 
ment of inflection, gesture of the hand, or interpreting 
smile. Here to be unaffected one must take thought. As 
on the stage a natural hue must be obtained by unnatural 
means, so in the writing of letters one must a trifle overdo 
in order to do but ordinarily. A word which rings on the 
lips with frank cordiality will stare coldly from the written 
page and must be heightened to avoid offense. This is a 
license requiring the exercise of moderation and the utmost 
tact. Not all expressions suitable for conversation need re- 
inforcement in black and white. In speaking one frequently 
raps out a phrase whose literalness one's eyes warn the lis- 
tener to question. These must be toned down or glossed. 
An example of the toned down variety, which illustrates 
as well men's fondness for assaihng their friends with oppro- 
brious epithet, is offered by Darwin when he writes, "I 
cannot conclude without telling you that of all blackguards 
you are the greatest and best." If Darwin had been talking 
face to face with Fox, he would doubtless have called him a 
blooming blackguard outright. 

A writer in a journal of psychology points out the strong 
psychic link existing between a certain short expletive of 


condemnation and a refractory collar-button. These words 
seem to come at times charged with the very marrow of the 
mind, and, if the letters of a man who occasionally indulges 
in them be wholly purged of them, the letters lose one of 
their most distinctive characteristics. The point to be made 
is, that the personal word is all-important, that till the fact 
is related to the writer, it is dead. If we want news, we can 
consult the dailies; but in letters facts are little, ideas about 
facts everything. That is to say, all events, especially the 
more trifling, should be shown through the colored glass of 
the writer's personality. What concerns you is not what 
happened, but what relations the happening bears to you 
and your correspondent. 

When once the personal vein is struck, nothing is so easy 
as to find a theme for a letter. The materials are only too 
plentiful if the eyes and heart are open to receive them. 
Stevenson wrote that he scarcely pulled a weed in his gar- 
den without pondering some fit phrase to report the fact 
to his friend Colvin, and we may be sure that the weed was 
not allowed to wither, but when it was transplanted, flour- 
ished again and reached its destination in a veritable Pot of 
Basil. No great events are necessary; the plainest incident, 
the morning's shopping, is as good as a Pan-American ex- 
position for ideas to crystallize about, since exactly in pro- 
portion as an event is embedded in opinion, comment, and 
feeling, must its value as an epistolary item be rated. While 
the born letter-writer is driving a nail or polishing a shoe, a 
thought apropos of his occupation or of stars, perhaps, drops 
complete and perfect like ripe fruit in an orchard. It matters 
little; seen through the eyes of a friend, all homely things 
are invested with an extrinsic interest and a new glory not 
their own. 

... By the very nature of the composition a mean man 
cannot possibly write a good letter. When we cast about 


for a perfect exemplar of the epistolary style, we must of 
necessity look among the high-souled men — Cowper, 
Lamb, FitzGerald, Hearn — for where else shall we find 
one to stand the test of self-revelation? Happily, one of 
the blithest, manliest, completest spirits of our times was a 
matchless writer of letters — Stevenson. Aching for abso- 
lute honesty of style and making clearness almost synono- 
mous with good morals, he has given us in the Vailima col- 
lection and in the two larger volumes of his correspondence 
an almost unexampled self -revelation. The man Stevenson 
is in them, ''his essence and his sting." The grip of his 
hand and the look of his eye lose none of their force in the 
transparent medium through which they are constrained 
to pass. Knowing that a man who constantly gives his 
best finds his best constantly growing better, he never 
hoarded his ideas for publication, but poured his intellect- 
ual riches into a note to a friend as freely as if each line 
were coining him gold. It results that the lover of Steven- 
son would almost prefer to give up all the romances rather 
than the letters. For they feel that in this correspondence, 
besides finding the qualities which distinguish the other 
works, they have met face to face and known personally 
the romancer, the essayist, the poet, and above all the man 
who, ridden by an incubus of disease, spoke always of the 
joy of living, the man who knew hours of bitterness but 
none of flinching, the man who grappled with his destiny 
undaunted, and, when death hunted him down in a South 
Sea island, fell gallantly and gazing unabashed into "the 
bright eyes of danger." 

Stevenson approached close to the beau ideal of episto- 
lary art. When we and our friends have achieved it, dis- 
tance will be annihilated and there will be no such thing 
as separation. We shall draw from our little box a small 
white packet, and, though Nostradamus may offer us every 


secret of magician or alchemist in exchange for it, we shall 
refuse ofifhand. How shall he lure us with a shadow, a 
ghostly visitant, savoring of the pit and summoned only 
by the most marrow-freezing incantations? Here in our 
hand is a mysterious, more potent charm, bringing us 
the warm, human personality of the man. We are not spirit- 
ualists, yet here sealed in the white packet is an incorporal 
presence. Given but a mastery of the twenty-six signs and 
their combinations, and lo, the heart of our friend served 
up in Boston bond! Then, as for enditing of letters, we shall 
rise up and call them blessed who have made ''much ado 
about a little matter." 
Literary Monthly, 1901. 



This whole, far-reaching host of ancient hills 
That all thy kingdom's rugged boundary fills, 
Yields thee unrivalled thy supremacy. 
'T is not by chance that they thus kneel to thee; 
Those scars, that but increase thy grandeur, tell 
Of battles thou hast fought — and hast fought well, 
For, conquered at thy feet, two giants lie 
Who once did dare their sovereign to defy. 
When earth with sea, and earth with earth, and sea 
With sea, all mingled, fought for mastery, 
Then didst thou meet thy foes, and by thy might 
Didst win, and since hath kept, thy regal right. 
Literary Monthly^ 1901. 




Thy name is not the highest in thy art, 

Though music sweet thou singest in thy songs 
That unto thee alone of all belongs, 

Uplifting Love in every burdened heart ; 

Thou hast not left us perfect poetry; 
But thou hast left by far a greater thing, 
A poem such as man did never sing — 

Thine otsti brave life, a lifelong \'ictory. 
Literary Monthly, 1902. 




All day long a reeking mist had been rolling across the 
valley, at times all but obscuring the Peak where it rose 
between its pair of flanking hills. Sifting clouds had surged 
and seethed in the Cleft, as those who dwelt in its vicinity 
called the interval between the two hills and the loftier 
and more distant Peak, and rose now and then barely 
enough to reveal the greater mountain, but never yet had 
quite cleared the summit. The mist had slimed the whole 
world with a coating of wet, and when the wind chanced to 
set the bare limbs of the trees to swaying, the drops would 
spatter on the ground and scarcely be absorbed, so water- 
logged was the earth. 

Mrs. Trent rolled up her knitting in a napkin, picked a 
few stray bits of yarn from her black dress, and stepped to 
the window. She looked out across the valley toward the 
Cleft to see if perchance the clouds would open enough to 
permit her a view of the Peak. Not once, but many times 
that day had she arisen from her work to search for a 
glimpse of the mountain, but every time she had failed. 

**No, it's hidden, still hidden," she murmured half aloud. 
" It is hard to be shut up here with my thoughts, — with 
such thoughts. I wish the clouds would lift and let me see 
the Peak. Then I am sure that things would not seem so 
dark. If I could only get one glimpse, I would feel almost, 
yes, almost as though Doctor McMurray had been here and 
had told me he was sorry." 

She stood looking out the window for a time, but the 
clouds only gathered more heavily in the Cleft and the 
Peak remained shrouded in the mist. At last she turned 



wearily back toward her chair, and was about to resume her 
knitting when her ear caught the sound of wheels pausing 
before the house. She hastened across the room toward the 
door and threw it open with a gesture of fear, as though she 
had been anticipating the coming of unwelcome visitors 
and now had reason to suppose that they had arrived. 
The tremor of suspense, however, quickly passed, for she 
saw outside no less a person than Doctor McMurray 

"Doctor," she called, "put your horse in the barn and 
come in. It does my heart good to see you." 

Presently the door opened and the old minister's face 
appeared, that face which had looked in at every house in 
the valley whenever trouble brooded there, and always had 
brought with it good cheer and hope for now close upon 

"A wet day, Mrs. Trent, a wet day. But seems to me 
there are signs of clearing. It is always much pleasanter to 
look for fair weather than for foul, don't you think so?" 

Mrs. Trent nodded. 

"Doctor McMurray," she said, "I was almost afraid to 
go to the door when I heard you drive up; I thought the 
lawyers might be coming already." 

"The lawyers?" he echoed. "What, can they be trou- 
bling you again?" 

"Yes, I got a letter from the district attorney's office 
yesterday saying that he would send a couple of men out 

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Trent, for I know it will be 
hard for you to go over the thing again. I had hoped that 
when your husband's trial was over they would let you 
alone. Now that poor Jacob has paid the biggest price a 
man can pay, it seems that common decency ought to keep 
them from worrying you about the matter any more." 


"Well," she said, clasping her hands and looking ab- 
sently out the window, "I presume they want to make quite 
sure. Mrs. Withey's case is coming up again the first of the 
week, you know, and there must be no mistake." 

"But I can't see how there can be any mistake," ex- 
claimed the doctor. "At Jacob's trial everything was so 
clear, his guilt was so fixed, that there seemed no chance for 
a mistake. Mrs. Trent, it looked to me, prejudiced in favor 
of your husband as I was, that there could be no doubt that 
Jacob gave old Mr. Withey the arsenic and that Mrs. 
Withey w^as his equally guilty accomplice. I think this sec- 
ond trial must only be a repetition of the first, and that Mrs. 
Withey must be found the murderess of Andrew Withey, 
just as Jacob Trent was proven murderer." 

Mrs. Trent leaned forward in her chair. Her hands were 
clenched and every muscle in her frail body was drawn 
tense. The look in her eyes startled the good doctor, and, 
thinking that he had recalled too harshly the ughness of her 
husband's crime, hastened to make amends. 

"Mrs. Trent," he said, "I am sorry that I spoke so. It 
was cruel of me." 

"No, no," the woman answered thickly, "I am used to 
that, it does n't shock me to hear so much about Jacob now. 
But tell me, doctor, tell me, are you sure she will not get off? 
Will they treat her as they did Jacob?" 

"What, Mrs. Trent, you surely would n't wish trouble to 
any fellow creature if it could be avoided, would you?" 

"Doctor McMurray," replied Mrs. Trent in a very low 
voice which seemed to come from her inmost soul, "Doctor 
McMurray, that woman robbed me of my husband, of 
Jacob, and then led him to a murderer's grave. That is so. 
Do you know, now that so many weeks have gone by since 
they took Jacob away, sometimes I feel that he is true to 
me somewhere, and that she, that woman, was the one who 


led him on to do wrong. You ask me if I would see any fellow 
creature suffer. I answer no; but I say too that that woman 
has no claim to be fellow creature to any human being. 
She robbed me of my husband." 

For a time the two sat in silence. The rain continued to 
drip, drip from the eaves, and the Cleft was still clogged 
with mist. Then the old doctor broke the silence. 

"I am afraid we do wrong, Mrs. Trent, in brooding over 
these troubles of ours. Heaven knows you have provocation. 
There seems to be no doubt but that your husband gave 
arsenic to old Mr. Withey, and it seems the more grievous 
when we think that the natural ailments of the old man 
must soon have hurried him across the Great River in any 
case. It is also true that he did it for the love of a woman 
whose youth and beauty he conceived to have won him 
heart and soul. But, Mrs. Trent, it is also a fact that we are 
here to live above these things, hard as they may seem, and 
to forgive those who do us ill." 

Mrs. Trent rose from her chair and stepped toward the 
window which looked out toward the Peak. Her hands, 
which she had folded behind her back, worked convulsively. 

*'The Peak," she said at last. " The Peak is covered with 
clouds; I cannot see. Forgive — forgive her? All is cloudy, 
I cannot see." 

Doctor McMurray, being no common man, said not a 
word. He softly rose and took his stand beside Mrs. Trent 
at the window. For some time the two stood looking out 
over the valley, watching the heavy, leaden clouds as they 
banked themselves up against the opposite hillside. The 
rain continued to trickle from the eaves, the only sound 
audible above the breathing of the man and woman. At 
last Doctor McMurray broke the silence. 

"It seems to me the clouds are n't lying quite so low on 
the hills as they were. I would n't be surprised if it was going 
to clear up." 


Mrs. Trent looked at the old man for a moment, and saw 
his meaning. 

"Perhaps," she said doubtfully, "perhaps." 

Doctor McMurray moved away from the window and 
began to draw on his overcoat. 

"Why, you're not going, doctor?" exclaimed Mrs. Trent 
with a note of distress in her voice, as her eye took in his 

" Yes, I 'm sorry, Mrs. Trent, but I must look in at old Mr. 
Gebhart's on the way down. The poor man has stomach 
trouble, I believe — they say it 's just the same thing that 
Mr. Withey had — and I think he'll be looking for me." 

"Doctor, you 're so kind," Mrs. Trent interjected. 
"You're always keeping an eye out for the unfortunate. 
But look here. I 've got some medicine out here in the pantry, 
some Epsom salts, which they used to come and get for old 
Mr. Withey. They used to tell me it did him a lot of good. 
I wish you could wait till I get a little for Mr. Gebhart." 

Mrs. Trent hastened from the room, and Doctor McMur- 
ray heard her moving pans and bottles on the shelves as 
though she were in search of the medicine. Suddenly the 
sound ceased; he waited a minute or two, pacing uneasily 
up and down the room, with the thought of the sick old man 
heavy upon his mind. At last he called: 

"Mrs. Trent, can't I help you? Don't trouble if you can't 
find it easily." 

No answer reached his ears for a moment. Then Mrs. 
Trent emerged from the pantry walking unsteadily, as 
though she carried a terrific weight. Doctor McMurray 
was at her side in an instant, and led her to a chair. 

"Tell me," he urged, "what is it ? What is the trouble ?" 

Mrs. Trent covered her face with her hands, and her 
slender figure bent silently before the strength of her emo- 


"Look," she moaned at last ; ''go and look for yourself. 
There are two of them, two." 

Doctor McMurray obeyed. He went into the pantry, and 
there on a shelf stood two wide-mouthed bottles, very much 
aUke save that one had never been opened. He looked at 
them in silent wonderment, not knowing for the instant 
what message they conveyed. He picked them up and read 
the labels; then he had an inkling of what they meant, for 
one was marked "Arsenic," the other "Epsom Salts." He 
went back to Mrs. Trent. 

"You think there has been a mistake?" he said softly. 

Mrs. Trent raised her head from her hands. Her voice 
was strained and unnatural as she answered: 

"I know there has been a mistake, and I know that I 
made it." 

"Tell me why." 

"It is very simple. They sent up from Mr. Withey^s 
that last night for some Epsom salts in a great hurry. I 
knew there must be some great need, so I rushed to the pan- 
try. Jacob was n't at home. I reached to the top shelf and 
pulled down a bottle, one of those bottles. In my hurry I 
did n't look at the label, but poured the little white crystals 
out in a paper, and they took them away. Then I put the 
bottle back in its place and went on with my work. In the 
morning I heard Mr. Withey was dead." 

"But the arsenic — the arsenic," interposed the doctor. 
"How did it get there?" 

"Heaven knows; you remember Jacob used to get it once 
in a while to keep his horses in condition. I presume he got a 
fresh bottle of it about the same time I got some more Epsom 
salts, and they were both put up there on the top shelf to- 
gether. It is all too plain. I got the bottles mixed and 
opened the wrong one." 

"And so Jacob was innocent?" 


** Yes, and I could have saved him if I had known in time. 
Oh, Jacob, Jacob," she moaned, compressing a world of 
remorse into the words. "And it was my mistake — my 

"Then Mrs. Withey is innocent, too," said Doctor 
McMurray. '' Don't you make it out so? " 

Mrs. Trent looked up sharply. It seemed as though she 
had for the moment forgotten her lesser trouble in the new 
consciousness of the greater. The mention of the other 
woman's name brought back all the profound sense of wrong 
which she knew she had suffered at her hands. 

*'Mrs. Withey — innocent!" she gasped. 

" Yes, she is innocent, and you have the power of saving 
her life." 

"Doctor McMurray, that woman robbed me of my hus- 
band — both of his love and of his memory." Mrs. Trent 
was in deadly earnest. 

"But — she is innocent, and you can save her from a 
wretch's death," the old man repeated. 

" Save her — her, who stands in my mind for all that I 
ought to hate?" 

"Mrs. Trent," Doctor McMurray said in a low voice, 
"you ought to hate no-one, not even if he uses you as 
Mrs. Withey has used you. If we keep on hating the 
clouds will never lift." 

Mrs. Trent rose heavily from her chair and labored from 
her window that she might look out across the valley toward 
the Peak. Her voice was hoarse as she answered: 

"Oh, I'm afraid the clouds will never lift. The hatred of 
that woman is like a fog which closes in upon my soul, and 
shuts off every beam of sunshine. I can't see through it, and 
the heaviness of it chokes me. The clouds will never hft." 

The old minister came up beside her, and stood looking 
for a time out toward the Peak. The mist which all day had 


hung so low around the foot of the hills had risen appreci- 
ably, and now the Cleft itself was beginning to clear, re- 
veaHng the dark base of the Peak itself. A single ray of sun- 
shine shot out of the west and struck straight into the Cleft. 
''Look, look, Mrs. Trent," exclaimed Doctor McMurray. 
"The Peak is beginning to show. Don't you think the 
weather will clear? Ah, it must clear, it must before they 
come, before the lawyers come. Tell me, do you not think 
it will?" 

Mrs. Trent's face was very pale. Her eyes gleamed very 
large and feverishly bright from beneath her lashes, as they 
searched the opposite side of the valley. For some moments 
she kept silent, and for the second time that afternoon there 
w^as no sound in the room save the labored breathing of the 
man and woman. At last there became audible the slowly 
increasing creak of a carriage, and the splashing of a horse's 
hoofs through the sea of mud in the roadway. Doctor 
McMurray heard, and he knew that Mrs. Trent heard also. 

"Mrs. Trent," he said softly, "Mrs. Trent, are the clouds 
lifting? Can you see the Peak?" 

Still the woman kept silent. The sounds of the wheels 
grew momentarily louder, the voices of men talking broke 
in upon them, and then the carriage stopped before the door. 

"Mrs. Trent," pleaded the doctor for the last time, "tell 
me, can you see the Peak?" 

He heard the men climb out of the carriage and come up 
to the door, then a loud knock. 

Mrs. Trent at last broke her silence. 

"Doctor McMurray," she said, speaking quite softly, 
"Doctor McMurray, do you see? The Peak is clear. All the 
clouds have lifted!" 
Literary Monthly, 1905. 



When the weary sun, his day's course run, 

Sinks into the western sea, 

And the mountains loom in the growing gloom 

With far-off mystery, 

When the shadows creep o'er plain and steep 

With stealthy tread and still, 

And the fettered stream to its icy dream 

Is left by the sleeping mill. 

From the frozen north I then lead forth 

My swiftly flying bands, 

In close array on the track of day, 

As she flees to other lands. 

From the wintry zone where the forests groan 
'Neath burdens of dazzhng white, 
And the tempest's roar as it strikes the shore 
Turns daylight into night. 
My armies throng and we march along 
In the light of the peeping stars. 
Which smile with glee at our chivalry 
And the shock of our mimic wars. 
For when earth and deep in a shroud of sleep 
Lie peaceful and still below. 
Supreme I reign in my airy domain, 
The monarch of ice and snow. 
Literary Monthly, 1905. 





Ahasuerus, the Wandering Jew. 

Anselm, a holy monk. 

A hand of travellers, — merchants, peasants, soldiers, who 

stop at the monastery over night. 
Monks of the monastery. 

The time is the twelfth century, a Christmas eve. 

The place is the great hall of the monastery of St. Cuthbert. 
The room is a large one, with cold stone walls and a 
heavy-beamed ceiling, lighted by flaring torches. The 
rear wall is broken by a massive oaken door leading to 
the courtyard of the monastery, and two rudely glazed 
windows. On the right an open doorway leads to the 
chapel and to one side of the doorway is a shrine to the 
Virgin and Child, before which some candles burn with 
wavering flames. On the opposite side of the room is a 
huge fireplace with a blazing log fire. The wind is roar- 
ing outside, and even blows through the rude hall in great, 
gusty draughts, while a fine powder of snow sifts in 
through crevices of windows and door. 

SCENE I. [The travellers, with some of the monks of the 
monastery, are seated before the fire. The Jew, bent, gaunt 
and gray-bearded, stands to one side, unrecognized, 
muttering to himself indistinctly. He has evidently just 
entered, for the melted snow still gleams from his cloth- 
ing. The company disregard him, conversing among them- 



A Soldier. Now, by Our Lady, 't is a raw cold night — 

I mind me when on such a night I lay 

Unsheltered in the trenches facing Mons 

In Flanders. 
A Merchant. Hem! Sir Longbeard tells a tale. 

List, all! 
The Soldier. By Holy mass — 
The Merchant. Ho! Hear the oaths! 

They 're thick as — 
The Soldier. Hark ye! Hush thy meddling tongue! 

A Peasant. A quarrel! Mark them! 
A Monk. Shame! On such a night 

When angels fill the air, and voices sweet. 

Mysterious, sing their golden songs of peace — 

On this glad night to quarrel? 
The Soldier. Why, to-night — 

The Monk. On such a night was Christ, our Saviour, 

While all the earth was wrapped in sacred peace. 

This is the holy eve, and on the morrow, 

With solemn chant we shall observe the birth 

Of that sweet Christ-child whom we worship all. 
The Soldier. Then I '11 not quarrel — my hand upon it. 

The Merchant. Nor I. And here's my hand, good sol- 
dier. There. 

[The company is silent for a moment, while the wind moans 
in the great chimney] 

The Merchant [crossing himself]. Hark to the wind. Me- 
seemeth that it wails 

Like some lost soul. 
The Soldier. Some say it is the soul 

Of that accursed Jew who crossed our Lord 

When he was on his way to Calvary, 


And was condemned to wander ever more 

Until the Christ a second time should come. 

[The faces grow solemn, in the fire-light, and the voices are 

The Monk. The Jew! Oft have men seen him bent and 

When darkness fills the earth, still wandering. 

Still living out his curse. 
The Peasant. List ! Hear ye not? 

The Soldier. Again that mournful wailing of the wind. 
The Peasant. How came he by the curse? 
The Monk. Know, when our Lord, 

Full weary, bore his cross to Calvary, 

He paused a moment, resting, but this Jew, 

Ahasuerus — cursed be the name — 

Reviled the Saviour, and commanded him 

To move away. Whereon our blessed Lord: 
"Because thou grudgest me a moment's rest 

Unresting shalt thou wander o'er the earth 

Until I come." 
The Soldier. Ah, would I had been there — 

The cursed Jew ! An arrow through his heart 

Had stopped his babbling ! 
The Peasant. And had I been there, 

He would have felt the weight of my great fist 

Ere he had spoken twice. 

[The Jew mutters indistinctly to himself in his corner] 
The Merchant [in a low voice]. Dost hear the man? 

Old gray-beard murmurs. 
The Soldier. How ! Is he a Jew? 

The Merchant. See how he cowers when we look at him. 
The Monk. He is no Jew. On this thrice-blessed night 

No Jew would dare seek shelter in Christ's house. 
The Peasant. Yet they are daring — and men tell 
strange tales 


Of bloody rites which they perform apart. 
The Soldier. May God's high curse rest on their scat- 
tered race! 

[The Jew flashes a quick glance upon them, and then looks 
down again. An unusually strong gust of wind sweeps through 
the hall, and strange moanings are heard in the chimney] 
The Peasant. Lost souls! Oh, Mother of Christ! 
The Merchant. They wail in pain. 

The Monk [making the sign of the cross], 'Tis but the 
wind — or on this night mayhap 

We hear the noise of vast angeUc hosts 

That sob to see our Saviour come to earth, 

A simple Babe, to suffer and to die — 

So brother Anselm tells. 
The Soldier. And what knows he 

Of angels' doings? 
The Monk [/em^ed. Still! Thou impious man! 

Hast thou not heard the fame of Anselm's name? 

A very saint on earth, his eyes behold 

Things hidden from mankind; his face doth glow 

All radiant from his visions. 
The Soldier. Wretch that I am! 

Ah, woe is me to speak thus of God's saint. 

[The deep-toned monastery hell rings] 
The Monk. Come, follow me. Below us in the crypt 

The pious brethren this night have set forth 

The sacred mystery of Jesus' birth; 

Shalt see the very manger where he lay. 

Make haste and come. 

[The company arise and pass out, all save the Jew. The 
monk, last, stares at the gaunt figure a moment, opens his lips 
to speak, then shakes his head and departs] 

SCENE 11. [Ahasuerus, alone. He looks around him, 


as if to see if any remain in the room, tJien slowly moves 
toward the fireplace and holds his trembling hands he] ore 
the fire] 

Ahasuerus. Ah, God of Jacob! Hear the Christians talk. 

"Dog Jew!" "Accursed Jew!" I hate you all! 
Your Christ sits on his kingly throne this night — 
But I am steadfast. How the very wind 
Doth buffet me and chill my aged bones! 
Ringed all about with enemies, I stand 
Unharmed — for by Jehovah's dreadful curse 
I Hve — nor can I die — until He come. 
How chill the wind sweeps through my withered frame 
While curses and re\alings dog my steps — 
My w^eary, ceaseless steps. Ah, God! To die! 
Have I not expiated yet my sin? — 
To bear Hfe's hea\y burden o'er the earth, 
To wander from Armenia's distant hills, 
Through desert places now, and now through vales 
That flow with plenty; now through sordid towns, 
Until at last I reach the western seas ; 
Then, ever homeless, to repeat my steps? 
Death were a blessing, yea, a gentle sleep — 
To feel delicious numbness seize my Kmbs, 
Mine eyes grow heavy, and the weary flight 
Of immemorial time forever stayed 
In sleep, in dreamless sleep — would I might die! 
I am so weary, weary of it all. 
[He sinks down upon a bench, and is silent for a moment, in 

deep thought; a smile flits over his face, as at a pleasing 

memory, then the worn, hunted look returns] 
Faint shadows flicker 'round me, and at times 
Vague dreams of joy experienced long ago 
Beguile me for a moment, then I wake; 
Dim musings of that time when, yet a child, 


I prattled in the shade of Judah's hills 
And trod her leafy valleys aimlessly — 
But that was long, long centuries ago. 
Sometimes I dream, that when God bade -my soul 
To leave its blest abode and come to earth 
In this vile guise, all- terrified it prayed 
This trial and affliction to be spared; 
But all in vain. 

And now the curse of God 
Is on that soul. The darkness hideth not, 
Oh, Lord, from thee; night shineth as the day. 
What weariness unspeakable is mine! 
[He throws himself down on the bench in utter dejection. 
Suddenly he lifts his head — footsteps approach] 

SCENE HI. [Enter Anselm. At first, not aware of an- 
other's presence, he kneels before the Virgin's shrine^ 
and mutters a short prayer in Latin. Then he arises 
and advances slowly, absorbed in meditation] 
Anselm. This is the eve — the sacred eve of Christ, 

The wind is wild, and stormy is the night, 

And yet methinks despite the elements 

A holy peace pervades the solemn world — 

As when amid the hush of earthly strife 

The blessed Child was born. 

[The Jew groans to himself, and the monk starts, then looks 
with half- seeing eyes] 

A stranger! Peace be unto you, my son, 

And may God's holy calm be yours amid 

The strife and turmoil of the outer world. 

[Ahasuerus sits motionless. A bell sounds] 

The vespers ring. Come, join with me in prayer; 

Together let us reverence the God, 

The great all-Father, who sent unto us 


A little Child to lead us back to Him. 

[The Jew acts as if he does not hear, hut the monk is already 
at prayer and does not notice. Ahasuerus gazes steadfastly 
into the fire, while all is silent but the crackling of the flames 
aTtd the moaning of the wind. Then the monk arises.] 

Pray, let me sit beside you; all alone 

My brethren left you ? Let me play the host. 

[He sits down beside Ahla.suerus ; the Jew stares at him.] 

You seem amazed, fair sir. 
Ahasuerus [slowly] . I am a Jew. 

[The monk starts, then sits down again, while the Jew regards 
him attentively] 
Anselm. a Jew ? 

Ahasuerus [bitterly]. "Dog Jew," they call me. 
Anselm. God forbid! 

Yet once I would have scorned thee Hke the rest. 

But, long years past, before I sought these walls, 

Adventurous I rode into the East 

And underneath the walls of Joppa fell 

A victim to the fever. Many days 

I lingered in its grasp, and when I woke 

To strength, I found a Jew had tended me. 

E'en then I scorned him, but with gentle words 

He heaped great coals of fire on my head. 

And then I dreamed a dream — upon a cross — 

Two other crosses near — outlined against 

A dark and dreadful sky, I saw a man; 

And lo, it was a Jew — Christ was a Jew. 

With tears I sought mine host, and told the tale, 

And he was swift to pardon — he, a Jew. 

[Ahasuerus will not trust himself to reply, but gazes stead- 
fastly into the fire. From the adjacent chapel the low notes of an 
organ fall upon their ears.] 
Anselm. You speak not. Ah, I wonder not at it. 


On such a night is meditation good, 

And soothing to the soul. The wind is high 

But cannot harm; the torches flicker low, 

While softly like a benediction falls 

The distant melody upon our ears; 

And in the silent watches of the night 

God's holy Spirit broods o'er all the world 

And bringeth calm and peace to all mankind. 
Ahasuerus [wildly] . For me there is no peace — I am the 

Who, cursed of the Lord, must wander till 

He comes again. For me no peace, forever! 
Anselm [starts]. Thou art that Jew! 
Ahasuerus [despaimgly]. I am that Jew. Farewell. 

[Ahasuerus pulls his cloak around him and arises to leave. 
As he totters toward the door the monk looks after him irreso- 
lutely, then turns his eyes to the Virgin^ s shrine as if to seek 

Anselm [whispers to himself]. Those eyes — still gaze — 
in mercy. A-a-h, methinks — 

How sad they look ! 

[aloud]. Ahasuerus! Hold! 

[Anselm hastens after the Jew, and seeks to lead him hack. 
Ahasuerus resists] 

Ahasuerus. Not so! I am accursed. Let me go! 
Anselm. Forgive me, if I have offended thee, 

For I am weak — yet see; I pray you, stay. 

Without, the night is wild — and here is calm. 
Ahasuerus. The storm was e'er my lot. 
Anselm. But now the calm 

Invites to rest. 
Ahasuerus [slowly]. To — rest? 

[He stands undecided, then submits to he led hack to the fire. 
For a moment neither speaks, then Ahasuerus cries out] 


Ahasuerus. There is no rest 

For me, nor ever can be, for I 

Am curst of God. 
Anselm. O miserere! Pray! 

Pray and with you I'll pray. — O, thou sweet Christ, 

Look down in pity on this erring one ! 

We all like sheep have gone astray; O God, 

Thou shepherd of the flock, lead us to thee. 
Ahasuerus [whispers]. May God be merciful! 
Anselm. O, holy Babe, 

That on this night did'st come to earth to seek 

Thine own, look down upon our need and grant 

Thy mercy. Holy Mother, intercede. 
Ahasuerus [brokenly]. Cease, cease. It is enough. O, not 
for me 

Is God's high mercy, — I am ever curst. 
Anselm. God's mercy is not limited, O, no. 

His grace is all-sufficient, even for thee. 

All we are weak and sinful. He is strong. 

Oh, call upon His name, and He will come. 

[There is silence for a moment, save for the plaintive notes of 
the organ. StuMenly Ahasuerus rises, tears coursing down 
his cheeks.] 
Ahasuerus. At last, O God, at last, my hard heart breaks. 

I thank thee for these tears ; the burden lifts — 

Sing unto God, O brother, and rejoice! 

The darkness disappears, and lo, the light — 

Behold, the Light! 

[As he speaks, a miraculous radiance fills the room; Ahas- 
uerus slowly sinks down upon the floor, ever gazing heaven- 
ward in mute adoration, while the monk falls before the Virgin's 
shrine in prayer. There is a sound of many feet from without , 
and the company of the earlier evening enter noisily, but drop 
on their knees in awe as they behold the miracle. Ahasuerus 
murmurs in a low voice hardly to be understood] 


Ahasuerus. Lord, comest thou — to me ? 

[Then dimly, like a distant strain of music, a wondrous 
Voice is heard, and by some understood.] 
The Voice. I come, Ahasuerus ; lo, I come. Behold, I 
stand at the door, and knock; if any man hear my 
voice, and open the door, I will come in to him . . . 
Behold, I come quickly. 
[Ahasuerus /a//5 back, and a look of deep peace overspreads 
his countenance. The radiance fades away, and there remains 
only the flickering light of the torches, which are almost ex- 
tinguished in the great gusts of wind that sweep through the 
room. Far above, the joyous chimes are pealing a welcome to 
the new day.] 
Literary Monthly, 1905. 



To think that it all happened within a rifle shot of the great- 
est city in America, in the very outskirts of New York — 
this was strange. A romance of old Spain, tingling with the 
memory of times when men fought single-handed for the 
toss of a rose or the gleam from under the black lashes of a 
senorita, or bled and died for the sake of a yellow silken 
scarf! That such a thing should have happened as it did 
seems preposterous, and yet, on second thought, it occurred 
so naturally that at the time there was no idea of its being 
in the least out of place in this prosaic New World. It was 
like a dream of the past — and yet it was no dream. 

It was our Saturday half-hohday and Henderson and I 
were driving the stagnation of a week's confinement out of 
our lungs by a long walk into the coimtry. We were just 
starting back in the approaching dusk when a round stone 
that I happened to step on turned under my foot. I tried 
to grin, and hobbled along for a moment; then I sat down 
at the side of the road. 

" It 's my ankle. I don't believe I can make it, Fred.'* 

''Make a try at it, old man. It's only a short mile to 
the railroad station and there won't be any footing it from 
there. Perhaps walking will ease it up." 

I got up, but after a few steps sat down again. 

"I'm awfully sorry, Fritz, but I simply can't do it. The 
thing hurts like all time." 

He stood still and looked about him. The road followed 
the curve of a hill, at the foot of which flowed a tiny brook. 
Ahead, it passed through a Uttle colony of houses, perhaps 
twenty in all. The hamlet had an air about it that marked 



it from numerous others we had walked through that after- 
noon. The cottages appeared brighter and there were gar- 
dens among them that seemed unlike the others we had 
passed. No hotel or pubhc house of any kind was to be seen. 

*'I wonder what this place is," said Henderson. "It 
does n't look especially alluring." 

I looked up from the task of rubbing my ankle. 

"No," I commented, "it doesn't seem alluring, and I 
suppose ninety-nine hundredths of the people that pass 
through here look at it the same way. But to you, Fred, 
I'm pretty sure it would be rather attractive, and I know 
that it would be to me with this beastly foot." 

"What! Stay here all night ? I guess not." 

"If you only knew what it was," I ventured. 

"Probably another of Washington's headquarters, or the 
site of the Battle of ." 

" Wait a minute before you explode, and give me a chance. 
This is the Spanish colony." 


"The Spanish colony." 

"What Spanish colony ?" 

"Of all things, do you mean to tell me that you never 
heard of it?" 

"I do." 

"Well," I said, "it's wonderful how much New Yorkers 
don't know about themselves. This place was settled a 
long time ago by the few Spaniards there were in this part 
of the country, and they've stuck together ever since. I 
don't believe there are a hundred people in the city that 
know about the place. Maybe it's on account of the war, 
when these people had to keep pretty quiet, but whatever 
it is, they are here. I 've been through here before and I 've 
often wished that I could have stopped off. Now the Lord 
seems to have taken matters into His own hands." 


If there was anything Henderson enjoyed it was tales 
and relics of the old Romance lands, and I knew it. Then 
there was my ankle, which was throbbing painfully. 

"If your old foot really is as bad as you say," said Hen- 
derson, ''why, we can put up here over night. To-morrow 
is Sunday, you know, and we don't have to be back." 

He spoke condescendingly, but I knew that if I suggested 
that after all we might get back he would almost get down 
on his knees and plead with me. So I spared him the trouble. 
We started again toward the Httle hamlet. Henderson 
wanted to stop at the first house we came to, but I pulled 
him on. 

"Let's tackle that larger white one ahead there to the 
right," I suggested. "It looks to be the best of the lot — 
and besides, the last time I was through here I noticed a 
mighty pretty girl standing in the doorway — one of those 
black-eyed story-book senoritas you so dote on." 

"I'm surprised at a man of your age and dignity noticing 
senoritas,^' he laughed. Nevertheless he turned into the 
Httle garden and raised the iron knocker. 

The door was opened almost instantly by a short, rather 
stoutish man, well past the prime of Hfe. There was nothing 
in his dress to mark him from the average middle-class New 
Yorker, but his face was swarthy and the hair that was not 
grey was glistening black. We explained our desires. 

"I am afraid you can find no accommodations," he said, 
with but the slightest trace of an accent. 

Henderson said something to him in Spanish, and as he 
did so the man stared a moment, smiled, showing all his 
teeth, and then answered in the same tongue with a flood of 
words that I could barely understand. Then he took our 
hats and bowed the way into a little parlor. 

"Will the senor with the injured foot rechne upon the 
sofa ? I will bring in hot water to bathe it. We have a large 


room upstairs with a bed for two, where the senores may pass 
the night." He took out a large gold watch. "It is now 
quarter before six. Dinner will be served at half after the 
hour. Till then the senores may rest. I will bring the hot 
water to your chamber." 

Promptly at six-thirty Henderson and I descended the 
stairs. The rest and a bath had done us both good, and 
even my ankle, though badly swollen, had ceased to give 
much pain. From the house and from our host we had gath- 
ered much of interest. His family had come over some sev- 
enty-five years ago and had moved directly to the Uttle 
house, which the widower Senor Lucas de Marcelo and his 
daughter Adelita still possessed. Don Lucas himself was 
a jeweller, going in to the city every day. We found him 
waiting for us at the foot of the stairs. 

"In but a moment dinner will be prepared," he said. 
"If the senores will pardon me, I must go out to the kitchen. 
To-night is the big dance, the mascarade, for which AdeHta 
must dress." He raised his voice. "Adela! Hasten, little 

"I am coming," called a clear girHsh voice. 

Henderson and I waited in the Httle parlor. Back in 
the house we could hear our host moving about among the 
pots and pans. Then from the top of the stairs there sounded 
a soft voice: 

"PaJre — father!" 

Don Lucas dropped his work and stepped into the parlor. 

There was a swish, a cHck of high heels on the stairs, a 
flash of red, with a momentary gUmpse of white, and the 
girl stood before us. The father spoke: 

*^ Senores, my daughter." 

She bent low and then arose, smiling as her father had 
smiled, showing the white of her teeth. She was dressed all 
in red, from the roses in her black hair to her tiny, outrage- 


ously high-heeled Spanish slippers. The hair was parted in 
the middle and drawn back, giving an almost child-Uke ex- 
pression to the handsome face with its snapping black eyes 
and full red Hps. Under the dark wave behind each ear she 
had effectively pinned a cluster of rose-buds. Over her 
gleaming shoulders she had thrown a scarf of the thinnest 
red silk, and a similar scarf, fringed with black lace, was 
drawn about her hips and knotted at the left side. The 
heavily ruffled skirts fell within a few inches of the floor, 
but as she turned they swung higher, shomng her slippers 
and a bit of red silk-covered ankle. In her hand she 
dangled a tiny black mask. Her father looked at her 

"It is the dancing costume of the Old Coimtry," he ex- 
plained. *'It is in honor of the mascarade to-night.'* 

We passed into the little dining-room. Just before we 
sat down Henderson managed to whisper to me: 

" Whew! I guess you're right about the good-looking girl." 

All through the meal he watched her covertly, and the 
moment he took his eyes from her face I noticed that she 
would glance over at him. Then the second he turned her 
way her eyes would drop and a dull red would suffuse her 
face and neck. Whether Henderson noticed it or not I do 
not know, but I did. When the coffee was brought in by 
AdeHta our host opened a box of mellow cigars, and we 
passed out into the parlor. In the doorw^ay the girl stopped 
her father and excitedly whispered in his ear. 

"Please," she pleaded, "you know you are old and do 
not like to stay so late, and he is young and big and could 
take as good care of me as you. Please, padre ^ 

"Would it be right?" he queried. Then he thought a 
moment. "Perhaps — " 

''Bueno,'' she cried. "Good. Ask him, padre, please, 


The old man smiled. Then he came over to where Fred 
and I were standing. 

"Did you hear the girl," he asked, "the Httle scamp? 
She thinks I am too old to take her to the ball — and too 
uninteresting. She wishes to know if the senores would care 
to go with her in my place. It would perhaps be interesting 
to you." 

I guessed what she really wanted, so I spoke: 

"You go, Fritz. I'd like to, only my foot 's too bad." 

"I won't go without you," he said. 

Here I took him aside and told him what I had seen at 
the table. 

"Now," I said, "if you don't go you 're a fool. And per- 
sonally I'd rather stay here anyhow and talk to the don.^^ 

"All right. I'll do it." 

The girl was watching him, and as he spoke she smiled. 
Then she walked over to him, put both her hands in his, 
looked up into his face and laughed aloud, a cheery, rippling 

*'For to-night," she said, "you shall be my cavalier, 
mi cahalleroy Then I heard him whisper in Spanish: 

" I will. And you shall be my lady." 

After half an hour of bustling and sewing and nmimaging 
in trunks, there appeared on the stairs some six feet of Span- 
ish cavalier. I held him off at arm's length. 

"Well, old man, you look like a prince. You pretty near 
match the princess. But where did you get that rig ? " 

"Oh, the boots and the picture hat" — he nodded his 
head and the feather moved majestically — "they belong 
to old Marcelo. He used to wear 'em. They have had a 
masquerade ball here every year for the past fifty years, 
more or less — Don Lucas could n't quite remember. These 
boots" — they were patent leather with yellow tops — "fit 
as if they belonged to me. This cape is an old one of the 


girl's turned inside out" — it was light yellow satin — " and 
the red sash is hers too. I tell you, this is the best fun I've 
had in years. And is n't the girl a queen though!" 

"Well," I began — but here she came into the room. 

*'It is time," she said, "that we started, you and I." 
Her father descended the stairs. Adelita threw her arms 
about his neck and kissed him. 

" Good-night, Padre — till later. Buenas noches. Good- 
night, senorJ' This to me. 

*^ Buenas noches, Adela," murmured the old man. " Good- 
night, sejior. Take good care of the daughter." The father 
and I passed into the parlor. 

She took Henderson's hand and led him out of the door. 
They did not go out of the gate, but turned through the 
little garden, past the house, and followed a narrow path 
that ran down the hill. As the grass was high on either side' 
he followed where she led, holding fast to the hand she 
stretched out to him. Suddenly as the path dipped down 
the hill she commenced to run. Henderson held back. She 
looked over her shoulder, laughing. 

"Are you afraid to follow ?" she asked in Spanish. 

"No, Httle one, I am not," he answered in the same 
tongue, "but I am afraid that with those high heels you 
will wrench your ankle." 

"Oho," she laughed, "I was bom for this." But she 
stopped and walked slowly. 

The moon was just rising, big and red, as if it were autumn 
instead of late spring. The girl drew in a deep breath. 

"Look at that, Senor Federico mio, look at that." She 
still spoke in the Old World tongue. 

Now they had reached the little brook that tumbled down 
through the rolling valley. The girl spoke again. 

"Here the path is wider. You may walk beside me — if 
you like." She glanced up from under her black lashes. 


*'The hall is but a short half mile down the stream here to 
the left." They proceeded, walking slowly, the brook purl- 
ing and murmuring at their side. The girl drew in her 
breath again, deliberately and deep. 

"Smell the roses. It is the long arbor of Don Benito, 
through which we must pass. Ah, it is wonderful." 

The heavy musk of roses seemed literally to fill the bottom 
of the vale. With it was mingled the scent of the grass and 
of the field flowers. Over all hung the moon, yellow and 

"It is wonderful," mused Henderson. She came close to 

"Remember," she said, "to-night I am your lady, and 
you — you are my cavalier. Take care of the feather in 
your cavalier's hat, for here is the arbor." He bowed his 
head, and they passed beneath the sweet-scented array of 
blossoms and buds. Then, as they rounded a corner of 
the slope, there came to them from far down the valley the 
sound of music and the glint of lights through the uneasy 
leaves of the maples. 

"Hear it," the girl cried, "hear it! They may be dancing. 
Let us hurry. 'Sh! Now we are getting too near. We must 
mask. Here, senor^ help me with my mask and I will do 
the same for you. Thank you. Stoop lower, please. There, 
now it is right!" They proceeded. " I wonder what Carlos 
will say to this. He will be surprised when we unmask. 
Until then he will not know me — nor you either." She 
lowered her voice. "I told him that my costume was to be 
that of a shepherdess." 

They were close to the hall now. A turn brought them 
to a wider path which led directly to the building. Up the 
steps and into the throng of masks they passed, the girl 
now holding tight to the man's arm. The orchestra was 
playing a waltz and the pair swung into the whirl, dancing 


fast and gracefully. The music stopped; a man in the 
costume of a Spanish sailor came up and asked for the next. 
The girl looked down, then glanced quickly up and pointed 
silently to the tall cavalier at her side. The sailor bowed 
and passed on. Then the music started again. 

''I cannot speak, you see," the girl panted as they swept 
around a corner, "or they would know my voice. Of course 
— oh look, there is Carlos. He must be looking everywhere 
for me." 

A tall man, clad in the helmet and boots of a Spanish 
military ofl&cer, stood in the center of the floor, intently 
watching each couple as it passed. Adehta he followed 
closely with his eyes, as if perplexed. Then he shook his 

*'He does not know me," she laughed. 

But at the end of that dance he strode up to her and 

"May I have the honor ?" 

She said nothing, but incUned her head. Then they 
waltzed off. Henderson stood at the side watching the 
whirling crowd. The vivid reds and yellows and greens 
of the costumes blended harmoniously in a swirl of color 
that seemed a part of the music, the laughter, and the splen- 
dor of the night. Just then the couple passed, the man talk- 
ing intently, the girl with her head bowed, saying nothing. 
As the dance ended, Henderson was about to go up and 
accost an attractive looking shepherdess, when he felt a 
hand on his shoulder. He turned around, surprised. It 
was the tall officer whom Adelita had called Carlos. 

"Stranger," he said in English, "why have you made 
my Adela, Senorita de Marcelo, try to hide from me ? Do 
you think, although she has not spoken, that I could fail 
to know her ? Do you think I would not recognize her even 
if she came in a black cowl and robe ? Who are you that 


have dared speak to her as you have ? I have watched 
her — and you. Hear me, interloper, I will not have 
you dance with her or speak to her again. The rest of the 
house is yours — and welcome." He was answered in 

"With my compliments, mind your own business. When 
I need advice I shall come to you, and not before. Who are 
you — and pray, who am I ?" 

"I — I am Senor Carlos Gerardo," he answered in the 
native tongue. "How do I know you ? Bah! I know every 
man in the room. You heard what I said about AdeHta. 
Now remember." 

Henderson turned on his heel and walked directly over 
to where the girl stood, talking with the shepherdess. 
Adelita looked down as he came up and tapped the floor 
nervously with the toe of a red slipper. Her face was 

"May I have this dance ?" he asked. 


They swung off to the tune of a catchy American popular 
air. Few of the dances had been Spanish. He waited, and 
at last she broke the silence. 

"Carlos danced with me and tried to get me to speak, 
but I would not. Nevertheless he knows me, and is angry 
— very angry. But it will do him good. He — he said he 
was going to speak to you." 

"He did," put in Henderson dryly. "Is it the custom 
here to allow no other man to dance with one's friends ?" 

"No," she said, "it is not. But he — Carlos is very 

After the dance the officer came up to Henderson again. 

"You heard me," he muttered. "I cannot bear with 

Again Henderson turned on his heel and again he asked 


her for the next dance. She had it with the sailor, but 
promised him the one after. 

It was warm inside, so after their waltz Fred and the 
girl went out on a Uttle balcony which hung low over the 
brook. The moon was high in the heavens, and shone 
softly through the whispering leaves. From up the valley 
a gentle breeze brought the heavy scent of the roses. 

"It is so hot inside," the girl said, her voice so low that 
it seemed part of the night, "and out here it is so cool and 

— and wonderful." Again she came close. "For to-night 
you are my cavaher, and I am your lady. Oh, if to-night 
could but be every night. You are so big and kind and — 

"And you," he said, \\^th the romance of it mounting to 
his head, "you are more than different. If to-night only was 
every night. For to-night you are my lady." 

A shadow darkened the doorway behind them and a long 
arm shot out for Henderson's neck. Surprised, he turned 
blindly. It was Don Carlos. Quick as a flash Fred hit him 
full between the eyes, and with the other arm tried to loosen 
the hold on his throat. There was no sound; the girl stood 
breathless. Again he struck and the hand at his throat tore 
away. There was a flash of steel in the hand of the Spaniard 

— but the blow never fell. The girl stood between them, 
her arms spread apart, her eyes flashing. 

"Carlos," she said slowly, "if you ever strike a blow like 
that, be eternally cursed by me. You fool ! Know you not 
that I was playing with you ? How I hate you ! Go ! " She 
stamped her foot. "Go, I say." 

He turned with bent head, and without a word passed 
into the building. As he disappeared, the girl sank back, 
her face white, almost greyish, against the red of her dress. 

"Hold me, senor,^' she said weakly. "I am not well. 
Could — would you take me home — to my father ?" 


Without a word Henderson picked her up bodily and 
stepped off the little low balcony into the grass. Not until 
they reached the arbor did she speak. 

"Thank you. I think I can walk now." 

He set her down and she smoothed her rumpled skirts. 
Then they proceeded together slowly. Silently they fol- 
lowed the path which a few hours before they had so gaily 
trod, and silently they ascended the hill. 

The old man and I had not yet gone to bed when they 
entered the house. She came in laughing. 

"Is it not early, my angel ?" he asked. "It is but little 
past midnight." She smiled. 

"Yes, padrcy it is early — but I — I thought I would 

Late that night, as Henderson and I lay in bed — he 
telling me the story of the evening — we could hear the girl 
in the next room, sobbing, sobbing as if her heart would 
break. It made Henderson uneasy. 

"I'd like to do something," he said. "The scoundrel! 
He ought to be whipped." 

I grunted and tried to get to sleep, but it was useless. 
Fred was tossing restlessly, and the girl in the other room 
was still sobbing, sobbing. Suddenly there sounded a whistle, 
low but clear. The sobbing ceased. The whistle sounded 
again. We heard a quiet step and the noise of an opening 

"O Carlos tnio/^ she breathed in the mother tongue, 
"I knew you would come." 

"Adela wfa," he called softly, "my angel, I hoped you 
would be here and — and you are." 

"You have been so long," she sighed. 

"Henderson," I said, "if you have any decency, go to 


We rolled over and closed our eyes, while unknown 
to us the breeze wafted up the hea\7' night odor of the 
roses and the yellow moon slowly moved toward the western 

Literary Monthly, 1906. 



When March has tuned his willow pipes, 

The robins in the rain 
Take up the song with plaintive notes 

And sing the sweet refrain. 

Then April, sleepy child of Spring, 
Awakes, to music yields. 
Goes dancing 'cross the fields. 

The modest buds, once red and brown, 
Burst forth in plumes of green, 

And interlace the barren boughs 
With wreaths of vernal sheen. 

The old sun-dial beside the walk 
Takes heart for sunny day; 

But half-awake marks sleepy hours 
By light through spring-time haze. 

When March has tuned his willow pipes. 

The children passing by 
Kneel down and pluck the early flowers, 

And smile, they know not why. 
Literary Monthly ^ 1906. 




I'm coming, I'm coming, 

The miller has lifted 
The gates that have bound me; 

At last I am free, 
And where the grey sands 

O'er my courses have drifted 
My swift happy waters 

Shall hurrying be. 
Like hearts that unburdened 

From grief come to weeping, 
And smile 'mid their tears 

At old sorrows past; 
So my sunny waters, 

The w^hite rapids leaping. 
From dark fearsome valleys 

Come singing at last. 

I'm coming, I 'm coming, 

The children shall love me ; 
The beeches, the willows, 

The golden elm trees 
That close by the village 

Are drooping above me, 
Shall float on my billows 

Their last withered leaves. 
The grey flocks shall meet me, 

The meadow larks greet me. 
And oft the shy new moon, 

In veiled halo lace, 


Through bare tangled branches, 
In sad brooding shallows, 

Shall trail her cloud tresses. 
Shall bathe her pale face. 

I 'm coming, I 'm coming, 

O hearken, sad-hearted, 
My sweet singing voices 

Shall teach you by day; 
And in the night's darkness 

The stars gently mirrored, 
All borne on my current. 

Shall mark you the way. 
Dark mountains may tower, 

Dark valleys may lower. 
But follow, sad-hearted. 

Come smiHng, light-hearted, 

Come fare to the river; 
His Hand in the forest 

Has marked the true way. 
Literary Monthly^ 1907. 



She told me of her garden, all the flowers, 
Of hallowed lilies and the glories bright. 
Frail tinted cups filled with the morning's light; 
The primrose drooping for the evening hours. 
She spoke of hedges, hawthorns, and the powers 
Of weeds and frost in April, and the blight 
Of birds and children; prayed her blossoms might 
Not so allure them to her paths and bowers. 
And I turned silently upon my way. 
And sought His untrod forests and the hills. 
My free companions of no guile nor art — 
Their holy strength is more than rocks and clay; 
I sought the comfort loneliness instills: 
Dear Christ! She spoke her own vain, selfish heart. 
Literary Monthly, 19 10. 




Over the hills 
Softly the slumber light 
Seems to me creeping, 
Stealing with twilight, 
While the world sleeping 
Breathes in the lower light 
Prayers for its loved ones 
Over the hills. 

Stars watch, and the fire glows, 
Fading it goes, fainter it glows. 
Lips of vain speaking silently close — 
The breath comes, but the breath goes. 

Some mothers stifled He, 
Sobbing till life is gone; 
Some fathers bitter die 
In their remorse ere dawn; 

Stars watch, and the fire glows — 
Something comes, something goes. 

Far in the night 
Beckon the locust trees, 
Whispering, calHng, 
And from their drooping leaves 
White blossoms falling 
Float on a magic breeze, 
Far in a phantom world, 
Far in the night. 



Clocks chime and the night goes, 
Slowly it goes, brighter it grows, 
Tired hands folded rest in repose — 
The breath comes, but the breath goes. 

Some watchers on the hill 
Wide-eyed await the dawn; 
Some workers in the mill 
Wearying are toiling on; 

Clocks chime, and the night goes — 
Slowly it lighter grows. 
Literary Monthly, 1910. 



The moon hath a hidden face and fair, — 
Never we gaze on its features cahn; 

She gazeth afar on the star-lit air, 
On star-lighted regions whose breath is balm; 

But never, ah never, her glance doth show 

To the world of men in the deeps below. 

O love, do you know that there dwells in thee 
A hiddenest spirit that dreams alway, 

And never the world can her features see, 
Of the spirit that shunneth the earthly day ? 

Only I know that she lives, to rise 

Some day, some night, in your love-lit eyes. 
Literary Monthly, 1906. 




Are we but truants from a parent stern — 
Whose strait commands with fear we long obeyed, 
Till, gladdened by the sunHght, far we strayed, 

And lingered by the woodside and the byme, 

The bird's sweet passion at the sim's return, 
The flower's grieving at his sight delayed, 

With wistful, long-pent love, to watch and learn, 
Till evening come, and we turn home dismayed ? 

Or have we grown unto our fuller seeing, 
The manhood of our days, when evermore 

Our Father speaks and, punishment decreeing. 
Is high and silent from his sapphire door ? 

Forever past, the childhood of our being: 
He stoops to reason who but spake before. 
Literary Monthly, 1908. 





Beside the grim, the grey, cold sea 

I heard a goblin call to me; 
Beneath a rock, beside the water, 
He cried, " Go pray thy lady daughter 

To bring some wine to me. 

"For coldly rmis the salt, salt tide, 
And I am prisoned fast and long. 
And I was wont to feast and song. 
And roaming through the woodland wide. 

"For coldly runs the salt, salt tide. 
And I am wont to have my will, 
And he that brooks it fareth ill, 
When I may roam the woodland wide. 

"Of old, of old I roamed the wood, 
Of old I dwelt in lordly state. 
Before they came, the black-heart brood. 
To make me thus disconsolate. 

"For coldly rims the salt, salt tide, 
And stones are hard that prisons be; 
Yet here in daily hope I bide, 
That one will hear and come to me. 


" They came mth drums and dancing fire, 

And -^Teaths and chants and incense sweet; 
They stole away my heart's desire, 
That was all fair and lithe and fleet. 

" And coldly nms the salt, salt tide; 
Alone they bound and prisoned me, 
Nor may I taste of aught beside, 
Though well I know the sweets there be. 

** A thousand gnomes brought golden urns, 
With red, red wine and crystal filled; 
And all my couch was flowers and ferns, 
And whatsoever maid I willed. 

" But coldly runs the salt, salt tide. 

And men ride up the high, white road, 
And many a goodly maid beside — 
Nor ever glance to my abode. 

" The bee sucks sweetness all the day. 

And dwells in flowers from morn to night; 
But never, never need he stay. 
And never feels he gloom nor blight. 

" But coldly flows the salt, salt tide, 
And I am weary of my breath; 
Though all the world is fair beside. 
And yet I taste nor life nor death. 

" In feasts we sat at silken boards, 
Endraped with silver gossameres. 
And 'roimd me sat my bearded lords. 
And maidens served whose sires were peers. 


"And coldly runs the salt, salt tide; 
I loved too well and she was fair, 
And here in bondage dire I bide. 
Who never thought to know despair. 

"I hate the stone, I fear the water; 
I dread the grey, the moaning sea; 
I pray thee bid thy lady daughter 
To fetch some wine to me. 

"For coldly, coldly, runs the tide; 
And all the foam is salt and strong; 
And here, athirst and cramped, I bide, 
And I have waited, waited long." 
Literary Monthly, 1910. 



Across the breadth of many memoried years 
I catch a whiff of strong, salt air 
Light-hearted blowing of the gentle wind, 
And all the swaying of the sad and silent sea; 
On high a golden star, bright, peerless, free, 
In endless space confined, — 
And light as laughter 'gainst my cheek, star-lit with tears, 
A wavy lock of sweet brown hair. 

The star wove silver webs across the ways 
Carved by the wind, a half-breathed sigh. 
That spoke in ripples. '^O Heart's Delight," 
I cried, **The skiff comes for me now across the 

And, as I bent to kiss her, Love's fair daughter. 
She barely breathed, " Good-night," 
And some musician blended Chopin with her phrase: 
*' Good-bye, Love's youth. Youth's love, good-bye." 

Literary Monthly, 1907. 




The deep, dark clouds are yonder massed, 

And rain has drenched fields drear and dun, 
But o'er the farthest hills at last 
I see the sun! 
Literary Monthly, 1905. 




Mysterious damozel in white, 

White like the swans that ghde upon the pool below, 

Who art thou that with fingers Hght 

Playest upon those ivory keys such music low ? 

O winged youth in dreamful thought. 

With eyelids weighed with utter sweetness, who art thou, 

With garments by the breezes caught. 

Whose hands with drowsy motion ply the bellows now ? 

The youth and damsel answer not. 

But thou, O listening knight-at-arms, thou mayest tell 

Who are these minstrels mild, and what 

The strains that here outside this quiet city swell. 

The youth with languid moving wrist 

In puissance may with any of the gods compare; 

No marvel thou must stay and list. 

For 't is the Song of Love breathes on the evening air. 

Know by the calm her lips disclose, 

By the fine shades and faery lustre of her eyes, 

The damsel is the queen of those 

Whose names are written Beatrice in Paradise. 

While yon still towers in sunset lie. 

Her face oblivious of all else I '11 ponder long. 

My body thrills with ecstasy ! 

My heart beats with the rhythmic pulsing of the song! 

Literary Monthly, 1906. 




The north road, the south road, 
Highway, byway, 
There never was a road men trod 
That did not lead them home. 

The east road, the west road, 
Your way, my way. 
Men's tangled footprints end in God, 
Through Arcady or Rome. 
Literary Monthly, 1907. 




Her beauty lies upoD her face 
As sunlight masks the barren sea; 
A fitful, accidental grace 
Which time shall ruin utterly. 

Not like the Beauty all divine 
(The '' house of God," the poet saith), 
Which is the craftsman-soul's design, 
Its majesty supreme in death. 
Literary Monthly, 1908. 




The Fool was sitting by his half-built sod house. This was 
the season of building, for the sun shone; and moreover 
presently would come the bitter unending rain of winter, 
when it were better to be abiding safely at home. Neverthe- 
less the Fool sat happily idle, for he never could get enough 
of the sunshine, though he rose with the sun in the morning 
and wistfully watched it set at night. Now he was twirling 
a dandelion between thumb and finger, and gazing out across 
the valley to the running hills of the north country. It so 
happened that the Fool's house was on a cross-road, and 
presently, as he was a-sitting at his ease, along came the King 
of that land, with a great cavalcade of soldiers and retainers. 
And because on their brazen shields and helmets the sun 
was reflected more brightly than from yonder peak, the Fool 
turned to gaze at them as they wound past. In sooth, had 
it not been for that, he would never have given them a 
glance at all, not having much curiosity about the things 
other people love to gape at. 

Beside the King rode the King's Favorite, a very goodly 
man, one who was closest of all to the King's ear and heart. 
Plainly enough could the Fool see, even though he was only 
dreamily a-looking, a bright golden figure seated upon the 
saddle with the King's Favorite. This, as all men know, 
was Preferment, and a sudden wistful longing seized upon 
the Fool's heart, that he had never known the like of since 
the time he had cried for the moon. His jaw dropped, and 
his eyes grew misty. In a little while the troop was by, gone 
around the hill, but the Fool could not forget them, and 
many new desires tugged at his heart. 



**Why," he wondered, ''doth not Preferment live with 
me ? Am I not as fit a man as the King's Favorite ? " And 
he stretched out his long legs and looked at them. 

As long as the Fool was occupied with dreaming and lay- 
ing the sods on his house, or hunting for the dun deer of a 
moonlit night, he was company enough for himself, turning 
his fancies over and over in his mind, as the wind bundles 
the clouds about the sky; then when he had arranged his 
conceptions to his taste, he was free to admire them undis- 
turbed, until a new fancy happened along to displace them ; 
just as the wind leaves off driving the clouds at sunset, and 
in the west there is a sweet tableau for men to look at, till 
night blots out the scene. So the Fool was usually well con- 
tent to be alone. But when, as now, he was perplexed by 
any problem that disturbed his simple cheerfulness, he had 
to seek some other and wiser man for counsel, not being one 
of those men, more mind than heart, who unravel problems 
with as much accuracy and equanimity as a skilful weaver 
plies his loom. 

So that evening, with the moon sending his shadow out 
ahead of him, the Fool walked overfield to the cave of the 
Wise Man. Timidly approaching, he peered through the 
entrance and found the Wise Man sitting still and alone, 
gazing into the ashes of a flickering fire. 

"Please," said the Fool anxiously, "why does Preferment 
ride with the King's Favorite and never with me ?" 

The other did not stir for a long while, but after the Fool 
had shifted several times from one foot to the other, be- 
ginning to despair of an answer, the Wise Man spoke. 

"Because," he said slowly, still looking into the fire, 
"thou hast never desired him to." And, having spoken, he 
kept silent, and after a Uttle the Fool turned away. 

"I never desired him to ? " he muttered over and over to 
himself. " What does that mean ? " And he stood stock still 


and looked about for explanation ; but none was vouchsafed 
by the moon, or the bushes, or night itself, the customary 
adviser of the Fool's doubts and queries. 

"How is this ? " he said again. " Did the King's Favorite, 
then, desire him? And will Preferment come if he be 
wanted ? And how does one ask him ? " 

All this was inexplicable to the Fool and he took courage 
to return to the cave. 

''Tell me," he asked of the Wise Man, "did the King's 
Favorite want Preferment more than I ? And how does 
Preferment come if he is wanted ? " 

The Wise Man nodded gently to himself. "Aye," he 
muttered, " so it is, so it is." The Fool gazed in amazement 
at this, but because he thought all Wise Men are somewhat 
mad, he waited and did not run away, as his heels advised. 

"Listen," the Wise Man began again, "this man has so 
wanted Preferment all his life that he has given up every- 
thing that is dear to him. He has crushed underfoot every 
dream and vision save this alone, to be seen in the company 
of Preferment." The Wise Man turned and looked about 
at the Fool. " He has no sod house, — no days afield and by 
the brook. He never heard the night-song of the wind or 
the winter-rune of the pine. Nothing of all these things that 
you love has he had." 

The Fool's eyes were round with amazement. "No sod 
house ? " But the other was sunk into a reverie and gave no 
answer. The Fool stood first on one foot, then on the other, 
then with his old smile he turned and skipped away. As he 
returned through the night, walking, hopping, or running, 
as the need came to him, he crooned to himself a song he had 
once made up. 

"My lips are a-tremble with a grave little song. 
I care not if the wide world hear." 

Its words happened forth as I dreamed and trudged along. 
I care not if the wide world hear. 


' It has not worth nor weight, it is neither sweet nor strong. 
I care not if the wide world hear. 
For I sing it to myself when the great doubts throng 
And I care not if the wide world hear." 

That was all, but he hummed it with great content, beat- 
ing time with one hand; and as for the King's Favorite, for 
all that Preferment rideth on the pommel of his saddle, I 
doubt not he never sang such a song to himself, or took such 
pleasure in the singing. 

Literary Monthly, 1907. 



Upon mine ear a deep, unbroken roar 
Thunders and rolls, as when the moving sea, 
Too long asleep, pours on th' resisting shore 
Full half his cohorts, tramping audibly. 

Yet here 's no rushing of exasperate wind, 
Booming revolt amidst a factious tide; 
Nor hateful shock on toothed reef and blind. 
Of foaming waves that with a sob subside. 

No! but more fateful than the restless deep, 
Whose crested hosts rise high but fall again, 
I hear, in solemn and portentous sweep, 
The slow, deliberate marshalling of men. 

No monarch moves them, pawns to gain a goal; 
They felt a fever rising in the soul. 
Literary Monthly, 1909. 




All verse, all music; artistry 
Of cunning hand and feeling heart, 

All loveliness, whate'er it be, 
Is but the hint and broken part 

Of that vast beauty and delight 
Which man shall know when he is free; 

When in his soul the alien night 
Folds up like darkness from the sea. 

For e'en in song man still reveals 

His ancient fear, a mournful knell; 
Like one who dreams of home, but feels 
The bonds of an old prison cell. 
Literary Monthly, 1909. .^ 




Jane always called him the professor, a name which that 
individual accepted without comment, as he did everything 
else. In fact, since he had been possessed of titular rights, 
but two people had ignored them — his mother and Mary. 
His mother had been dead — oh, a very long time, and it was 
nineteen years and some months since Mary had followed 
her. When Mary had died people said that Jane was coming 
to live with the professor; Jane came, and now people said 
quite unthinkingly that the professor lived with his sister. 
Jane was high-minded, also strong-minded; her hair was 
very thin and very straight, a fact for which she was sternly 
and devoutly thankful. Jane was stern and devout in 
everything — even in cooking preserves. To the professor, 
Jane had been surrounded by a sort of halo of preserves, 
ever since he had recovered from his awe of her unapproach- 
able angularity as to allude to her before admiring play- 
mates as the "old maid." 

When the professor had married, Jane had strongly dis- 
approved — Mary's cheeks were much too pink, her hands 
much too soft, and her ways of life led her into the flowery 
meadows of the world and the flesh, if not the devil. The 
professor had been infatuated, and the year or so of married 
life seemed only to augment such infatuation, and inci- 
dentally Jane's ire. Well, the golden year was over, and the 
little butterfly had gone to its rest, fretfully, fearfully. And 
then Jane wrote; wrote that the professor needed somebody 
to superintend him, to see that he did not take cold, and to 
cook his preserves; so she was coming. The professor did not 



wish to be superintended, he wanted to take cold in comfort 
without being asked how he took it, and he abominated 
preserves; to all of which Jane was supremely indifferent. 
Jane came; the professor wore overshoes and ate preserves 
— meekly. 

So the professor lived with his sister. At first the direful 
system which ruled everything from the time of the cat's en- 
trance to the date when the furnace fire should be started, 
chafed on him. His declarations of independence were re- 
ceived pityingly, as the prattles of a tired child. Gradually 
he resigned himself, and the germs of discontent followed 
the wake of the other germs which Jane had promptly and 
forcefully annihilated. 

So the years went on ; in time the professor grew tired of 
ranting and mild objections gave way to sighs of resignation. 
There had been bones to pick in plenty. The professor had a 
sneaking fondness for dirt — not mud, but historic dust, so 
to speak; Jane decreed all foreign matter as damned eter- 
nally. The professor liked fiction; he had once in the first 
years of Jane's rule started a novel, which ha\-ing been inad- 
vertently left in the living-room, was consigned to the 
flames; Jane had intimated, moreover, that the authors of 
such monstrosities would probably end in the embrace of 
the same element. Whereupon the professor's wrath was 
great; but his house was built on the sand; so was his novel; 
and five years afterwards he knew it. 

Although Jane's fanatical cleanliness had been far- 
reaching, the professor's study was nearly immune. In the 
first place the door was usually locked and the key dis- 
creetly lost; and in the next place the professor had mildly 
but very obstinately insisted, through all the twenty years, 
that his desk, which is the sanctum sanctorum of the man 
with a past, remain untouched. Jane sniffed copiously over 
this stipulation, and, as she Hked to do a thing thoroughly 


or not at all, the study remained as a whole comfortably 
mussy. Sometimes, however, Jane had twinges of con- 
science, resulting in the disappearance of all old, unbound, 
and destructible matter which presented itself. So the 
professor painstakingly replaced equally old and disreput- 
able matter around the study when the whirlwind had 
passed, and waited till the dust settled. 

Of late the professor had been ill with a chronic rheuma- 
tism. He grumbled a good deal about the "positively senile" 
character of his affliction and finally agreed to take to his 
bed for a few days in the hope of luring nature to a hasty 
cure. The professor was rather helpless when he was ill; 
Jane was painfully and triumphantly energetic. One mem- 
orable day, when the invalid had fallen into a restless sleep, 
he was awakened by the vigorous ministrations of Jane, 
who was creaking around the room in an ostentatious effort 
to be quiet. The professor looked and wondered what she 
would do if he were to yell. Seeing he was awake, she 
stepped over briskly and began to arrange his bedclothes 
and pillows. Her hand touched his sore leg. He winced and 
groaned inwardly. 

"I am going to sit here and read to you," she announced 
with the stern cheerfulness which gave the recipient of her 
benefits a fitting sense of the self-sacrifice which prompted 
them. Jane usually read tracts, and the professor did not 
feel religious; in fact he was conscious of an emotion of most 
unchristian beUigerence. 

"Aren't you neglecting your house-work to attend to 
me ?" remarked the victim with clumsy and obvious intent. 

"My house is always in order, professor," answered the 
supremely ignorant one tartly. 

"How fortunate; my study, too, — I suppose that is in 
order? " The professor felt most out of place as an inquisitor 
but he was desperate. 


Jane looked at him, with as near a quizzical expression 
as her very unquizzical nature would permit. 

"You know I'd do it if you weren't so stubborn about 
using a wastebasket instead of that desk," she said. 

"Better clean it out, Jane — clean it all out — any- 
thing, anything, — " but she was gone. He took the tract 
which she had left on his table and carefully tore it in 
four pieces, and hid them under the mattress. Then he 
went to sleep. The professor was in distinctly a rebellious 

In the natural course of time, which, when one has num- 
erous queer pains in most unexpected places, is short, — the 
professor awoke and lay on his back watching a fly walking 
around the edge of a rosebud. Pretty soon the fly flew away 
— then the professor thought of something else — some- 
thing he had not thought of for some years. Strange how 
inactivity of the body affects one. The professor raised 
himself in bed with some effort and drew on his dressing 
gown and slippers. Then he hobbled across the room, out 
of the door, and down the hallway towards his study. 

At the turn of the narrow corridor the odor of long-hidden 
dust met him, — and he hobbled faster. His lips were set in 
a manner that was strange to him, and a fear was in his 
heart — a fear of the cleanliness which may be akin to god- 
liness, but to which a pressed flower is as the dust upon the 
walls. At the door he hesitated, bewildered. On his desk 
was heaped a pile of papers, in which letters, lecture notes, 
old pamphlets, were scattered in contemptuous disorder. 
Jane had just dropped an armful into the fire which blazed 
with that comfortless instability common to paper fires in 
the daytime. She had gathered another armful and was 
advancing toward the hearth, when she saw the apparition 
in the door-way and stopped. The professor was paler than 
usual, and his hands shook a little. 


*'Do you know what you're doing, Jane?" he asked, 
quietly enough. 

"Yes," she answered defiantly, "I do. You've had 'em 
hanging around long enough." 

"You know whose letters they are?" 

"Yes," she said. "Why, what— " 

The professor, forgetting his rheumatism, had advanced 
in two strides, and with one blow knocked the papers from 
her arms, so that they lay scattered on the floor. 

There are wrongs committed against the sacredness of 
sentiment which cannot be put in words. The professor 
checked the torrent which rose to his lips: Jane would never 
understand. The only thing which she did comprehend was 
a strength in her brother of which she had never dreamed — 
not the strength of the worm which turns, but of the man 
who had endured because he wished to, and whose endur- 
ance was at an end. 

"You never had a heart, did you, Jane ? " he said finally. 
"The past is not sacred to you, and the present — well, the 
present does not count for much when one has no dreams — 
or visions. ... I think, Jane, you had better go." 

"Where ? " she questioned vaguely. There was no asper- 
ity in her voice now, only puzzled helplessness. It was the 
inevitable surrender of the commonplace in the light of a 
greater understanding — in the realization of an unknown 
law to the significance of which some never attain. She had 
come inadvertently to a marriage feast for which she 
had no wedding garment; and she was naked and 

"Anywhere — anywhere; only go," said the professor. 
His thoughts were far away now. 

"I shall not come back, professor — perhaps it is better," 
she said. 

There was a new tone in her voice, and the professor 


turned sharply. Jane hesitated. Then he caught sight of a 
photograph lying among the letters on the floor. 

"That, too," he murmured. He stood and looked at it; 
Jane passed out of the room. 

Slowly and painfully the professor stooped down and gath- 
ered up his wife's letters and his wife's photograph. He sat 
down in the big plush chair by the fireside and thought for a 
long time. He was thinking of an old quotation from some 
Sanskrit poem — "Every yesterday a dream of happiness, 
every to-morrow a vision of hope — " That was all he could 
remember, but his mind said it over and over. Well, his 
yesterdays — the yesterdays of long ago — were dreams 
of happiness — he had no visions; to-morrow offered him 
nothing. After a while he took Mary's picture and looked 
at it. His dreams slowly settled to earth — and he began to 
adjust his perspective. It was a long, long time since he had 
even remembered — since the dream had been more than a 
vague light shining through the mist. Now he wondered, 
as he stared at the pictured eyes, so laughingly helpless, at 
the chin, so characterless, at the pretty mouth from which 
no word worth listening to had ever proceeded — wondered 
whether the light was other than a reflection from Youth's 
glamour. Then he took up the letters and read them one by 
one. He wondered why they seemed so shallow — why he 
had never noticed their irresponsible dancing from light to 
shade, from light affection to unreasonable and trifling 
fretfulness. The last letter he held in his hand for some 
time after he had read it. It was written from a summer 
resort. "You had better not come down," it read, "you 
would just spoil the delightful little time I am having with 
Mr. Sanders — so stay at home with your books like the 
dear old bore you are. Please send me . . ." He remem- 
bered how it had hurt. He remembered shortly afterwards 
how she had been taken ill, and how she had chafed and 


feared, and how the dark had taken her while she cried in 
terror. He remembered — so much. He wished that he 
had not tried to remember. 

It began to grow dark. The professor lifted the bundle of 
letters and the photograph, and placed them in the fire-place 
as carefully as if they had been burnt-offerings. Well, they 
were — to a dead Romance. The charred paper crumbled 
where he had laid the letters — a few black pieces floated 
drunkenly up the chimney. The fire had gone out long 
before. The professor fumbled in his pocket for a match. 
When he had found it he struck it on the brick hearth, but 
his hand trembled so that it burnt his fingers and he dropped 
it. He lit another, carefully, deliberately, and held it to the 
pile of papers. They caught, the edges blackened and 
curled; finally the whole mass blazed viciously. The photo- 
graph had fallen to one side and remained unburn t. He 
stooped over and placed it on top of the blazing papers; 
then it, too, burned. 

A light flared from the gas jet, and the professor looked 
up. Jane stood there in her black travelling dress. Her eyes 
were red with tears. 

"Good-bye, professor," she said. "I thought you 
wouldn't mind if . . ." She hesitated. The professor 
thought she looked rather pitiful and thin and tired. 

"No, Jane," he answered quietly. "You are not to go. 
I don't suppose you will understand, but my dreams have 
all gone — and the vision has come. And I need you, Jane." 

"Then you forgive me?" she said tremulously. "I did 
not know . . . " 

"There is nothing to forgive, Jane. I did not know, 

Jane broke down and the professor rose and put his arms 
around her, awkwardly, and kissed her. He had not kissed 
her in years. They sat down together before the hearth and 


gazed into the blackened ashes. He held her hand in his. 
Finally she spoke. She almost understood — 

'' Shall we have apple dumplings for supper, professor ? 
The kind you used to like ?" She was smiling now. 

*'No, Jane," he said gravely, "we'll have peach pre- 

Literary Monthly j 1909. 




All men must feel the beauty of a star 
That rides in the illimitable space 
Of heav'n; the beauty of an Helen's face; 
Or of a woodland water, glimpsed afar, 
Where haze-empurpled meadows, undefined 
And slumbrous, intervene; of quiet, cool, 
Sequester'd glades, where in the level pool 
The long green rushes dip before the wind. 

These all men feel. But three times blessed he 
Whose eye and ear, of finer fibre spun. 
Sense the elusive thread of beauty, where 
The common man hath deemed that none can be. 
The beauty of the commonplace is one 
In substance with the beauty of the rare. 
Literary Monthly, 19 lo. 





We lesser poets clothe in garb ornate, 
Id words of dizzy fire, in awkward phrase, 
In humble thunderings, that only daze, 
Though meant to rouse in flames of love or hate, 
The thoughts that those brave souls of stuff divine, 
Whose words breathe inspiration, have long since 
In jewelled lines set forth. Where we bear hints 
Of grape, they bear the ruddy full-pressed wine. 

And yet the fire that thrills us is no less. 
Nor coarser, than the fire that they, the great, 
Have felt. Our pens are feebler; but the play 
Of deep emotions, the fine stir and stress 
That mark the soul's rare movements, are, in state, 
Equal to those of lines that make men pray. 
Literary Monthly, 1909. 





There was shouting and hand-clapping from all the gay 
company, and a shower of gay words for me when I had done 
with my singing; and my lord, greatly pleased, and prophe- 
sying that some day when I should be riper in years I might 
win the crown of peacock's feathers from the hands of the 
Princess Eleanor herself, bade me come on the morrow dawn 
to sing an alba under the casement of the bridal chamber. 
The bride, too, this new wife that had taken my own lady's 
place by my lord's side, she, come but yesterday from her 
thick-witted Bohemia, and whom, never loving, I might 
always truly pity, spoke me fair and besought me to make 
verses thenceforth in praise of none save her. I answered as 
best I might, but I fear me my speech came but falteringly, 
what with my heart beating against my ribs like the armor- 
smith's hammer, and the thought uppermost in my mind of 
the dark business yet to come that night, before the shame 
and wrong of it all might be righted — a black business that 
none but I in all that company wotted of. 

So presently, when all the people made a noisy procession 
to see the bridegroom and the bride to their high chamber, I 
did not go among them, but stole apart in the shadow and tar- 
ried there until the serving-folk had ceased their scurrying 
about and the house had grown quiet in its besotted sleep. 
Then I crept back to a dark corner by the great hearth 
where the stone was warm to the touch and whence I might 
see if any passed along the hall. I was all alone there with 
the drained goblets, the withering garlands, and the gutted 



torches, not a soul abroad, and not a sound save the breath- 
ing of the dormant stag-hounds by the hearth, or the faint 
disputes of the rats over the pasty fragments on the table. 

Sitting thus, I would go hot of a flash and then cold just 
as sudden. Fear ? No, by Our Lady, but this was the first 
time I had ever had a finger in such a pie as this now baking, 
and the strangeness of it made me tremble. But fear, pah! 
Besides I was in the right, and does that not make the just 
hand steady and the pious eye true ? I took up my lute and 
touching the strings so gently that I m^yself could scarce 
hear, I sang, soft as summer wind at even, so softly that 
none, not even the great hounds heard. 
Sang I: 

The vision tender 

WTiich thy love giveth me, 
Still bids me render 

My vows in song to thee; 
Gracious and slender, 

Thine image I can see, 
Wherever I wend, or 

What eyes do look on me. 

Yea, in the frowning face 
Of uttermost disgrace 
Proud would I take my place 

Before thy feet. 

Lady whose aspect sweet 
Doth my poor soul efface 
Leaving but joy and grace 

In me to meet. 

Who shall deny me 

The memory of thine eyes? 
Evermore by me 

Thy lithe white form doth rise, 
If God were nigh me 

Still, in so sure a wise 
Quick might I hie me 

Into His paradise. 


Thus I sang to the memory of my true lady, for it was the 
last song our brave Renaud had made for her before he rode 
away to Terre Sainte. So when the song was finished I sat a 
long time still, taking counsel with my sad heart over the 
black past : how, four May-times ago, I had ridden bhthely 
forth as singing page in my lady's train, when she left her 
own fair land of Aragon to be wedded to this grim Count 
Fael of the North; how from that time forth I had dwelt here 
in his castle, vassal to him only because he was lord to my 
liege lady, but fearing alway his stern face, that froze the 
laugh on the lips and made joyousness die, stillborn; how 
my sole happiness had been to serve my lady and sing her 
such songs as I made, and my grief to see her fair face fade 
and her grey eyes grow less laughing day by day. Then one 
morning had come this brave Renaud, Chatelain of far-off 
Coucy, seeming to bring in his eyes, his voice, his lute, all the 
merry Spring times we had missed. So he came often and 
often, teaching me the great art of song he knew so well; 
and we were all very happy. But bye-and-bye he came only 
when my lord was out a-hawking or to tourney, and then 
very quietly, but always with his lute and with song to my 
lady. I guessed well which way the wind was blowing, but 
surely the pitiful Virgin granted my lady, and justly, this 
one little hour of happiness. So it went on and on for a long 
time and it seemed that my lord was always away to hunt 
or to battle, and that when he came back the songs of Re- 
naud of Coucy never ceased, but only changed their place, 
coming now by night under my lady's casement. 

Then there was spread abroad through the land this great 
fire in all hearts to go to Terre Sainte and to deUver the holy 
Jerusalem of Our Lord from the curse of the Saracen hand, 
and our poor Renaud must feel himself among the first to go. 
So one sad morning at early dawn he had come under my 
lady's window and sung her that farewell which so filled my 


heart, and I had heard from my post in my lady's ante- 
chamber. But oh, Mother of God! so had my lord, who, 
being at home and sleepless, had risen betimes and was 
walking in the cool of the morning on a Uttle pleasaunce 
next my lady's tower, and hearing the song, had looked 
unseen at the singer, had guessed the bitter truth, but had 
held his peace till a riper time. 

From then we went on much as before Renaud had come 
to us, except that I sang his songs to my lady with all the 
art he had taught me, while she sat pale and fair, her hands 
idle on the tambour frame and her eyes looking on some- 
thing far, far oQ. So for a long time there was no ill-hap, 
only my lady's eyes grew dreamier and dreamier and her 
thoughts dwelt less and less in this dark Castle of Fael, and 
she cared no longer to go a-maying in the pleasant meadows 
with her women. Then, one twilight, when my lord had been 
back from the hunt three days, and when there had been deep 
wassailing in the hall, and my lady had kept to her cham- 
ber the whole time — one t'^ilight I stumbled over a dead 
man at the foot of the little-used stair to my lady's tower 
and, dragging the body to the light, found it to be Jaufre 
that had been aforetime esquire to Renaud. But why he 
should be lying here scarce an hour dead, here in fair France 
in this Castle of Fael under my lady's tower, when he might 
have been serving his master in all the blithe fighting in 
Terre Sainte, — I could not guess. But I raised not hue nor 
cry for, certes, there was some black mystery here; only 
wept silently and prayed mercy on his soul that had been 
so brave and so merry a fellow. After a while, when my 
eyes were less red, I went and mingled among the folk in 
the hall, where there was talk of how my lord had passed 
through to his chamber an hour ago, very pale and with the 
wine-fumes all cleared away, it would seem, and had let call 
the cook, who came hack with something under his apron 


and looking as if he had seen a spirit, but dumb as a stone. 
Also, said they, my lord had commanded that he and my 
lady would sup alone in her great chamber, and that I only 
should serve them. 

So presently I went up and served my lord and my lady 
where they sat at a little table alight with many tapers, like 
the shrine in the great church at Soissons, with the goblets 
and the silver dishes making a brave show among them. 
There was a strange air over it all, like the breathless mo- 
ment in a tourney when the tucket has blown and the 
knights pause before giving spur. My lady, w^hen she spoke 
at all, spoke in a voice as of some one stifling, but my lord 
said never a word and ate and drank but little, his eyes 
alw^ays on my lady's face. Bye-and-bye up came two little 
meat pasties, borne by the fat cook himself, who charged me 
with a certain one for my lady and another for my lord. I 
thought nothing whatever on this, for often there was special 
pasty made for my lady without hare's meat, which she 
disliked. So I served the pasties, and I remember the faint 
sweetness of her garments, like wind from apple-blossoms, 
and how yellow was her hair and how clear her face in the 
light of the many tapers. That course, too, they ate in 
silence, but before I could take away the dishes, my lord 
broke the stillness. 

*'Lady," quoth he, "is the flavor of this pasty pleasing to 
thy palate?" 

"Ay, sir," spake my lady, "it hath a piquant savor I have 
not met before." 

"Lady," said he, "it is fashioned of passing good meat 
and rare, so rare that I doubt thou wilt ever enjoy its like 
again. For far countries have contributed to its making, 
with spices from Araby and Cathay, and corn from Egypt, 
and citron from Spain, and from the Terre Sainte there is, 
minced into very little pieces, the heart of that noble sieur 


Renaud, the worshipful Chatelain of Coucy. His esquire I 
haply intercepted with a dagger on his way to thy chamber 
with his dead lord's heart in a silver casket as a gift for thee." 

For a while my lady did not move, the gold chaUce closed 
in her delicate fingers half-way to her lips; then with one 
little breathless sob such as the hare gives when the fangs 
of the hound are about to close upon her, she, very slowly, 
set down the goblet, and, just as slowly, rose to her feet, her 
face the grey-white of the pearls at her throat. 

''Messire," said she, and her voice was clear and stead- 
fast, but very faint, like a bell tolUng afar off in the deep 
forest, "messire, thou hast done me great honor in this feast, 
and on none daintier, I wot well, sup the Blessed Saints 
in Paradise. But since such \4and has consecrated these my 
lips, it is only seemly in me to take vow never to let other 
pass them, the which I swear by the blood of Holy Jesu." 

Then, swift as thought, she fled from the great chamber 
into her closet, where she was wont to pray, swung the door 
to behind her, and slid the bolt. At that sound up sprang 
my lord and let cry a great shout, so that all the serving- 
folk rushed in with great hubbub and stood stricken and 
panting, while my lord called thrice at the door. But no 
answer came therefrom, and the great room was very, very 
still; until at last the people were commanded to beat down 
the door. Then all the folk crowded close together to peer 
within, spoiling the table of its waxen tapers to cast light 
into the darkness, and there, O Kind Mother of God, lay 
my lady all in a little huddled heap before the shrine, an 
empty vial in her hand, and the breath departing from her 
body. Then cam.e her women with low sobbing and laid 
her on her bridal bed and began to make ready the grave 

From that time I had lived on here in the castle of the 
black shadow, the better that I might do honor to my lady's 


memory and bring surer retribution on him that had been 
my lord, for, certes, I, vassal to my lady alone, no longer 
owed allegiance to her murderer. Now at last was come my 
chance on this night when he had brought him home a new 
wife to take the place of her that was but a little while in 
earth. Poor ladies, both! and if the thought that the blessed 
Jesu was merciful sometimes made me falter, the thought 
that Messire God was just, and that I might be the unwor- 
thy instrument of His justice, made my purpose burn within 
me like a new torch. Thus the long night drew near its end- 
ing, and the great logs in the fire had turned to coals when 
the appointed hour came. I stole in shadow from the hall, 
my heart pounding, but my purpose very steady, and passed 
silently through passages and corridors where here and there 
lay one in besotted sleep, until at last I came out in a little 
court by the postern. The warders were long since guzzled 
to a torpor in their quarters, so there was neither let nor 
hindrance when I slid the bolt and welcomed in Avenging 
Justice in the shape of him who stood without, my old lord 
of Aragon, uncle and protector to my lady. We met with 
silent greeting as his picked men of arms filed in after him 
till the little court was full; then some were despatched to 
possess the guard quarters and the drunken soldiery, others 
to stand watch over the serving-folk. 

After I had pointed them out the way to the high chamber 
where Fael lodged that night, I stood watching as they went 
in silent file up the stone stair. Then I turned and passed 
out by the postern and down the hill to the encampment of 
my countrymen. I knew that behind me Justice was taking 
her relentless course and that I had been her minister. 

Literary Monthly, 1908. 




Where, where is Ganymede? Where are the fair 
That graced the tales of Ilium years agone? 
Where are the visions of earth's aureate dawn, 
When the wing'd bearer bore Jove's nectar rare, 
When Naiads laughed and wept and sunned their hair 
At sun-kissed pools, deep-recessed, where the fawn 
And satyr sought the sloping cool-cropped lawn, 
And gHmpsed the gods and lurking maidens there? 
WTiere now is Ganymede, and where is Pan? 
Where is fair Psyche, where Apollo brave? 
Are they all fled, affrighted at the span 
Of centuries? Or sunk beneath the wave 
Of solemn Lethe? No, rare poet; when 
I scan thy pages they all live again. 

Literary Monthly, 1907. 

^ Copyright, 1908, by Julian Park. 




The muse of poetry is a lady of many whims. Fancy, not 
reason, seems to determine her actions. She loads the un- 
tutored ploughman with the most lavish gifts, while the 
scholar sits neglected in his study. She places a golden 
crown on the brow of the slave and flings a tasselled cap at 
the master. And yet the fool's raiment is worn with as seri- 
ous and dignified mien as is the kingly crown. She is a mali- 
cious person, and while she keeps a straight face before you, 
it is a hundred to one that she winks behind your back. To 
be most trusted when she is most deceitful, that is her 

Very few of us have not at some time come under her 
spell. The most guiltless-looking has somewhere in the 
lower drawer of his desk or at the bottom of the tin box 
where he keeps his old papers, a manuscript, which he at 
times, half tenderly, half "contemptuously, lifts out, after 
making sure that no prying eye is near. He has caught the 
muse winking. Were he still illusioned, that poem would 
never have wasted its aesthetic fragrance within such close 
confines. It would have been most neatly printed in calen- 
dar form and sent to appreciative friends. 

But though the majority of us have become chary of the 
muse, there are some who have never seen through her trick- 
ery. To this unfortunate class belonged a certain Mrs. 
Simons — her real name is charitably withheld — who 
found that she could gratify a moody disposition, of which 
she was the unhappy possessor, by writing verses. No one 
appreciated them, but, far from dampening her enthusiasm, 
it afforded her a sort of bitter joy, that considerably in- 



creased her already large number of available themes. Her 
poems now proclaimed that she, Mrs. Simons, was singing 
to stocks and stones; no one would listen, and her tender 
nature would soon succumb to this unwarranted neglect. 
But triumph would come, when, as a cold corpse, she would 
lie in an open grave, \sdth all her formerly unsympathetic 
friends and relatives weeping and wringing their hands at 
the sad spectacle. Alas, their grief and contriteness of heart 
would be too late. The little word which might have saved 
her from this early death, now spoken, would fall on deaf 
ears. At last her verses would be read and their gloomy 
prophecy would fill the world, ever afterwards, with remorse. 
But Mrs. Simons did not wilt away and die like a flower de- 
prived of water and sunshine. She could not overcome her 
naturally sound constitution, and, in spite of her wishes to 
the contrary, she Hved to a ripe old age. 

Verse demands, as a rule, serious, if not exalted, themes. 
It is strange how ambitious they sometimes are. I knew a 
young man who had never been especially fond of poetry 
and had never attempted to wTite it, until, one day, he had 
an imperative desire to test his powers in tha.t line. And 
what was the modest subject that the tyro chose? A history 
of the earth from its birth "amidst the crash of worlds," 
through the countless centuries until, cold and dry, it affords 
no sustenance to life, and becomes a vast desert like the 
moon. The poem came to an abrupt end after ''monsters 
huge" had appeared upon the scene, and, to my knowledge, 
was never resumed. 

Among the many w^ho have advertised their bigotry or 
their ignorance by publishing original compositions, for 
w^hich it would be hard to find any suitable descriptive term, 
are two women, one of whom is well known. They are Julia 
A. Moore, self-styled ''The Sweet Singer of Michigan," 
whose works are included by Dr. Crothers in Tlte Hundred 


Worst Books, and a Mrs. L., a native of Rhode Island, but 
*'by adoption a westerner," as she explains in her introduc- 
tion. If it were a question of which had the less poetic 
merit it would be hard indeed to decide between them, but 
as to the sincerity of the one and the pomposity of the other, 
there can be no doubt. The Sweet Singer plays upon the 
strings of her own heart in a way that makes your eyes grow 
dim. She has moments of modesty, too, about her work that 
are very gratifying. But Mrs. L. is cold and egotistical; 
lifted so high above the ordinary plane of life, in her estima- 
tion, that no arrows of criticism can possibly reach her. The 
introduction to her book Mariamne, Queen of the Jews, and 
Other Poems, is concise and statistical. One can see that she 
has perfect self -confidence in her abilities. 

"The authoress is a native of Rhode Island, but by adop- 
tion a westerner. 

" Graduated from the Female College, Oxford, Ohio, when 
under the control of the Rev. John Walter Scott, D. D. 

"Married and lived thirteen wedded years in Covington, 
Kentucky. Then, urged by her only brother, Levi L., a 
lawyer residing at M., Illinois, she removed (1870) to that 
city. Here she engaged in arduous and unremitting study, 
laboring to deserve the esteem of the gifted and cultured 
people with whom she had cast her lot. With the same laud- 
able ambition that moves the man of business to be identi- 
fied as successful in his life career, the writer, whose only 
wealth is the acquisition of knowledge and the cultivation of 
an inherited gift, comes before the public in a pursuit that 
has ever proved the animating ally of education and good 
breeding and the strong cordon of social refinement." 

Her first poem, Mariamne, Queen of the Jews, has a foot- 
note which contains this interesting, if rather incompre- 
hensible, sentence: 

"The reader must take the production with its stamp of 


originality, which is the plainer synonym of afflatus or in- 

Undoubtedly she successfully diagnosed the case. 

Two passages from this remarkable poem, which is her 
most ambitious effort, will bear quoting: 

"The swooping winds across the spicery snare, 
The aromatic smells of redolent wood, 
Camphor, cinnamon, cassia, are incense there, 
And the tall aloe soaring into the flood 
Of pearlaceous moonlight stimulates the air 
Which scarcely soughs, so heavy with vesper scents; 
The calamus growing by the pond, did spare 
A spicey breath, with sweet sebaceous drents 
Of nard, and Jiled's balsamic tree, balm sweet, 
Were all which filled this estival retreat." 

The Other: 

"The problem of Existence here when tried, 
God remains God though matter returns to dust; 
The fool can read this truth; but, if denied, 
Does spirit return to be from what it came? 
Is there reunition of love with God as at first? 
The Brahmin trusts his soul even higher, its flame 
Refines in th' Nirvana that absorbs its load, 
Though this divine psychism seems lotus flowed, 
Seems spirit inane as that on flowers bestowed; 
Islamism prepictures the voluptuary's abode 
Of Love unending: It is 'Love, love, love,' 
Which souls have cried since eons began to move." 

Now it is an infinite relief to turn from this inflated but 
would-be stately style to the homely diction of the Sweet 
Singer, as found in the Sentimental Song Book. Her book of 
verse is small and insignificant, and has not the prosperous, 
self-satisfied appearance of Mrs. L.'s volume, with its gold 
letters shining from a green cloth background. At the top 
of its paper cover the price is modestly given: 25 cents. Then 
is printed: "The Sweet Singer of Michigan Salutes the 


Public," with a likeness of the author directly beneath. She 
is depicted as a strong, masculine woman with heavy, black 
eyebrows, large, black eyes, and a mass of coarse, black hair 
tumbling over her shoulders in a way that makes one think 
that she has washed and sunned it, and has forgotten to 
put it up again. She wears a sort of crown or band at the 
top of her head. There is nothing in the homely face, with 
the squat nose and thick lips, that would betray sentimental- 
ism, and yet those honest eyes were probably continually 
suffused with the tears for which her ultra-sensitive nature 
was responsible. Below her picture follows this simple intro- 
duction, without reference to any ''laudable ambition," 
"acquisition of knowledge," or "cultivation of inherited 

"Dear Friends: This little book is composed of truthful 
pieces. All those which speak of being killed, died or 
drowned, are truthful songs; others are 'more truth than 
poetry.' They are all composed by the author. 

"I was born in Plainfield, and lived there until I was ten 
years of age. Then my parents moved to Algoma,where they 
have Hved until the present day, and I live near them, one 
mile west of Edgerton. 

" Julia A. Moore." 

Among those pieces "which speak of being killed, died or 
drowned," — and it was on these melancholy topics that she 
was at her best — are four poems which deal with the sad 
history of the House family. They seemed to have had the 
most abominable luck. When they could n't get shot or in- 
duce the small-pox to hasten their departure from this 
world of care, they passed away for no reason at all. Some- 
how they just could not keep alive. Martin House is the 
first of whom she speaks. He enlisted with a friend in the 


federal army at Grand Rapids. The final stanza of " The 
Two Brave Soldiers " discloses their fate — 

" It was down in old Virginia 

Those noble soldiers fell, 
In the battle of Hanover town, 

As many a one can tell. 
They fought through many a battle 

And obeyed their captain's call, 
Till, alas, the bullets struck them 

That caused them to fall." 

Hattie House had no reasonable excuse for dying, but she 
managed to fool her mother: 

"Hattie had blue eyes and light flaxen hair, 
Her little heart was light and gay. 
And she said to her mother that morning fair, 
'Mother, can I go out and play?' 

"Her mother tied her little bonnet on. 
Not thinking it would be the last 
She would ever see her dear little one 
In this world, little Hattie House. 

" She left the house, this merry little girl. 
That bright and pleasant day — 
She went out to play with two little girls 
That were about her age. 

"She was not gone but a little while 

When they heard her playmates call — 
Her friends hastened there to save the child, 
But, alas, she was dead and gone. 

"Those little girls will not forget 
The day little Hattie died, 
For she was with them when she fell in a fit, 
While playing by their side." 

Lois House, however, did not have to resort to any subter- 


fuge. The divine Providence spared her the trouble. She 
had just married an exemplary young man, who "had 
courted her a long time in triumph and glee," and 

"They loved each other dearly and never deceived, 
But God he did part them, one which he laid low, 
The other He left with his heart full of woe ." 

The last verse almost has a touch of poetry in it: 

"They placed her fair form in the cofEn so cold, 
And placed there Joy's picture as they had been told; 
They bore her to her grave, all were in sad gloom. 
And gently laid her down to rest in her tomb." 

In " William House and Family " she disposes of them 

"They once did live at Edgerton, 
They once did live at Muskegon, 
From there they went to Chicago, 
Which proved their fatal overthrow." 

Pathos evidently appealed to JuHa A. Moore in a way that 
was not to be resisted. She was also very careful about facts. 
For instance, what could be more explicit than these lines 
from '' The Brave Page Boys " ? 

" John S. Page was the eldest son — 

Edward C. Fish was his brother-in-law; 
They both enlisted in the Mechanic, 

And served their time in the war. 
Fernand O. Page was the second son; 

He served in the Third Infantry; 
He was wounded and lost both his feet 

On duty at Yorktown siege." 

Enos Page was rather unfortunate: 

"In the Eighth Michigan Cavalry 
This boy he did enlist ; 


His life was almost despaired of, 

On account of his numerous fits, 
Caused by drinking water poisoned — 

The effect cannot outgrow; 
In Northern Alabama, I hear, 

Came this dreadful blow." 

In '' The Grand Rapids Cricket Club," one of the few 
poems that deal only with minor misfortunes, a certain 
player, Mr. FoUet, tried a good remedy for a novel accident. 

"And Mr. Follet is very brave, 
A lighter player than the rest. 
He got struck severe at the fair grounds, 
For which he took a rest." 

I could quote from the Sentimental Song Book until I had 
entirely exhausted the material, and each verse would create 
a surprise. And yet, in spite of the grammatical distortions, 
in spite of the sentimentahty, there is something pleasing 
in the absolute unalTectedness of the little book. That Mrs. 
Moore has been appreciated is borne out by the fact that 
when she travelled from town to town she used to be met at 
the station by a brass band or by a delegation of prominent 
citizens. Wherever she went she was humored, and her 
numerous friends vied with each other in showing her atten- 
tions. All this she took as a natural recognition of her genius, 
and happily was never undeceived. However innocent the 
Sentimental Song Book may be of any Uterary value, the 
writer's sincere attempt to express her ideas are as plain as 
the face which embellishes the cover of the book. She was 
an ignorant woman, and her utter disregard of grammatical 
and poetic principles can be easily forgiven. But what can 
be said in behalf of Mrs. L., a graduate of the Oxford Female 
College, Ohio, when, in a piece entitled ** Genesis," occurs 
this passage? 


"Once, the stars the Lord has scattered 

Bountifully on the sky, 
Some soul thought they there were spattered 
For an ornamental dye; 
The huge Opalescent Concave 
Wore the pohsh of a stone 
Which the fracturing fires engrave 
With a thunder-sphtting tone; 
And the things they claimed as sponsors 
•• For the young religious thought 

Were the things that were the monsters 
Recently from chaos brought. 
Then the tree inlaced in corsets 
Laced some maiden in its arms, 
'T was a lover's trick, to toss its 
Purgatories at her charms, 
And the liHes in the shallows. 
And the echoes 'mong the hills. 
And the torrents in their wallows, 
And the wind's great organ mills, 
And the waters of the fountain, 
And the mists upon the river 
Had the gods who made a mountain 
Of our cosmographic sliver." 

Evidently they did not give as thorough a course in the 
pronunciation of French at the Oxford Female College as 
they do here at Williams. At least this deplorable fact is 
indicated by the first stanza of ** La Fille du Regiment ": 

"Proudly marches on the nation 

Which its patriots will defend. 
But remains a loyal station 

With its daughters to commend, 
Cheerfully to send the heroes 

Who are called to field and tent. 
Cheers for those who hold the vetoes, 

Vive la Fille du Regiment." 

Shall we attribute it to a coincidence that Mrs. L.'s best 


poem strikes a very familiar chord? It is called the " River 
of Tears": 

"The world is swept by a sorrowful flood, 

The flood of a river of tears, 
Poured from the exhaustless human heart 

For thousands and thousands of years. 
It is sweeping thousands and thousands of lives 

On its currents, swift and strong, 
O the river of tears for thousands of years 

Has swept like a flood along." 

Perhaps its poetic merit may be explained by the first few 
lines of Bryant's '' Flood of Years ": 

"A mighty hand from an exhaustless urn 
Pours forth the never ending flood of years 
Among the nations. How the rushing waves 
Bear all before them!" 

— and so on. There is no need of continuing. 

But why disturb the bones of poor Mrs. L., who is but one 
of the many thousands of contributors to mortal verse? May 
they rest in peace. She had her dream, and never woke out 
of it. Undoubtedly she was all the happier as it was. And 
now let the Sweet Singer raise her harmonious voice once 
more, and close this paper with the last stanza of her poem, 
"The Author's Early Life," which I think is the most beauti- 
fully extraordinary — since I cannot say extraordinarily 
beautiful — of the entire collection. 

"My childhood days have passed and gone, 
And it fills my heart with pain 
To think that they will nevermore 

Return to me again. 
And now kind friends, what I have wrote, 

I hope you will pass o'er. 
And not criticise as some have done, 
Hitherto herebefore." 
LUerary Monthly , 19 10. • 



At first the darkness was impenetrable, black and choking. 
There was no sound, except for the occasional soft spatter 
of water that dripped to the stone floor from the mouldy- 
ceiling. Then through a narrow, barred window came the 
moonlight in a mottled shaft of phosphorescent green, and 
licked its way across the floor, to the edge of the bier. It 
shone on two kneehng, crouching figures, and full on the 
face of the corpse. 

The eunuch, a great, gaunt negro, lifted his head and 
showed his red, rolUng eyes and his skin, gleaming Hke 
bronze in the moonlight. " He was my friend," he whimpered, 
bending over the loathsome dead. *'He was my friend." 

*'Aye, aye," mused the jester, fingering the mildewed 
shroud, "and sooth, he was the finest mute that ever 
crooked a back in the Bohemian court. Famous he was, all 
hereabouts, to the marches of the northern sea." 

*'And so high was he in the king's favor and graces!" 
snivelled the eunuch. "They shall never find another such 
as he." 

"True, true; and yet hast heard another must be found? 
The king has thus ordered: another mute must now be got- 
ten to take his place — another just so strange." The jester 
bent over the face and shuddered. A few swift clouds sped 
across the moon, and caused the greenish shadows under the 
misshapen features to flicker and melt grotesquely. Then 
the light shone clear again and he saw the broken, twisted 
nose; and the eyes that stared obstinately from their split 
lids; and the gaping, grinning mouth that, years ago, the 
torturers had cut wide upon each seared and tattooed cheek; 



and the swollen, split lips that could not hide where once 
had been a tongue. He passed his hand along the shroud 
and lightly touched the ugly hump where the spine had been 
pressed and snapped, and the slanted shoulders and the 
twisted hips and legs. ''Thou wast so laughable to all the 
court," he cried. ''Thy bones were so comically broken. 
And now, another must be made for the court's delight, just 
so comical as thou. Aye, aye," and he sighed hea\dly, " Jesu 
have pity on the child's face of some young page or squire." 

The iron door behind them swung suddenly open, and a 
captain of the palace guard clanked into the donjon. The 
flare of a spluttering flambeau, which he held in his hand, 
caused them to blink and shrink away, beyond its yellow 
circle. But he thrust it close to their faces with a cross oath. 
"Silence," he growled, "cease thy shrill chatterings. What 
dost thou here, foul black? By what right hast thou left thy 
post before the ladies' hall — before the chamber of the 
king's favorite?" 

"He was my friend," the eunuch faltered. "I wished to 
pray for him that was my friend." 

"Pray? To thy heathen gods?" Upon his coat of mail 
the captain thumped a \'igorous sign of the cross. " Go, get 
thee back, lest aught should happen in thy absence. Thou 
knowest the penalty, both for thee and any gallant that dare 
pass the Lady Suelva's portal. Thou know'st the penalty," 
and he slapped his thigh with the flat of the halberd that 
hung from his girdle. 

"Hush!" Faint from across the courtyard came a voice 
singing, a high fresh tenor voice. The black sprang to his 
feet and stood rooted in trembling horror. "From what 
corner of the yard comes that serenading?" thundered the 
captain. The jester rose to the window; he looked first out 
into the courtyard, then back at the eunuch, who stood 
picking nerv^ously at his tunic; then out of the window again. 


"From below the Lady Suelva's chambers. See! Some one 
is climbing the winding steps of her balcony!" 

"And Lady Suelva? Has she come out on the balcony?'* 
"I cannot see; a til ting-post stands directly in the way." 
In the furthest corner of the donjon, a dim black square 
disclosed an ugly trap leading down to the torture-room. To 
the trap-door the captain bounded, and from above, they 
could hear the thump of his feet on the creaking ladder. He 
was up again in an instant, chuckling viciously. "I found 
them all asleep, the old torturer and his two sons. But ho! 
they are awake now — I kicked them hard awake. They 
have much to do to-night." He stopped for a moment at the 
big iron door. " Wait here till I return," he commanded, and 
ran stealthily into the courtyard. 

The eunuch fell to his knees again, and prayed jabber- 
ingly — this time for his own soul. The jester softly trod 
the length and breadth of the stone flaggings, and stopped 
to peer at the corpse and its face. "Jesu ha' mercy," he re- 
peated ofttimes; "Jesu ha' mercy!" 

The pulsating suspense broke with the reentrance of the 
captain. Over his shoulder was slung a dark, limp burden 
which he swung down and held out in the crook of his thick 
arms, as if it were a doll. 

"'Twas a tussle the young peacock gave me," he said 
thickly. "Look ye — I have lost my flambeau, but come to 
the window and take a squint at him." He held the figure 
up to the grating, to where the moon shone pale on its face 
and tumbled locks and over its gay-colored tunic, and lus- 
tered its silken hose. 

"By St. Godfrey, what a handsome lad! Who is he?" 

"Methinks he is a squire but lately come to court, so 

there'll be few to miss him, when the night's work is done." 

The jester sighed. "So young he is and fair. See that 

great purple welt across his forehead.'* 


*"Twas where I clubbed him senseless." 

"And must thou torture him to death? Must he so 
surely die?'* 

"Aye, so run my orders. He will die — and thou too, 
black. Hold thou my burden, fool, whilst I undo my hal- 

From the kneeling eunuch came a shriek and moan and 
incoherent jabbering. The captain cursed and stayed his 
uplifted arm. 

"It is too dark to strike," he growled. "Wait till the 
moon is from behind that cloud. Ugh! It is black here, 
pitchy black." A full, hea\'y minute elapsed, disturbed by 
the scuffle of the negro's feet as he ran and cowered in the 
furthest corner, and the soft creaking of the iron door, and 
a sudden suck and soughing of the night air. Then the moon 
slipped slyly from its frayed woolly covers, and relit the 
donjon keep. "Holy God and Father," and the halberd 
clanked noisily to the floor. In the half open doorway stood 
the king's favorite, the Lady Suelva. Against the frosted 
green background of the moonlit courtyard her shimmering 
robe, her white face and throat, and her long hair of flaming 
copper stood out gloriously. She did not move, but stayed 
peering through the unaccustomed gloom, as if to recognize 
the dark figures before her. The eunuch flung himself at her 
feet, and squirmed and grovelled. " Save me, lady save me! " 
But she thrust him from her with a sharp push of her foot. 

The captain turned to the jester. "Take down thy bur- 
den," he whispered. "Down to the torture room with him.'* 

But the lady heard and came forward. "No," she said 
imperiously, "lay him down upon the floor, and let me see 
what has been done with him." 

The captain grumbled and swore under his heavy mus- 
tache. "Take him away, fool. Do as I bid!" 

But the lady stepped between. "Stop! Let me see him." 


Her voice rose high and shaking; she was fast losing her 
stately calmness. 

The captain sneered. "See him! And why? Have you 
not seen enough of him this night?" 

"No, no! he was but singing to me!" 

"Yet I found you with him on the balcony." 

"I swear it," she repeated, "he was but singing to me." 

The captain heaved his shoulders with so great a shrug 
that the ringlets of his coat of mail jangled and chnked. 
"I have my orders," he said, "which come from the king 

"The king?" She snapped her fingers. "And who orders 
the king? He would obey my slightest wish." 

"No use, dame. Nor heaven nor hell could save this 
squire from his death. As for the eunuch, he will mayhap 
be spared, if thou so wish it. He is thy servant — and his 
life at thy command." The negro whined and moaned and 
crept to kiss her feet. 

But Suelva flung herself back. "What care I for his foul 
black hide? 'T is the young squire's hfe I crave." 

"Then both must die." 

"Mother Mary! But let me hold him in my arms." She 
tore the jester's burden from him, and staggering under 
its weight, turned to the middle of the room. Then she saw, 
for the first time, the bier and what it bore. She gasped, and 
let the squire's body sink in a huddled heap on the floor. 
"Who is it?" she asked, crossing herself. She looked closer. 
"Yes, I remember thee, fond old mute. Pha! but thou 
smellest of the grave. And why have they left thee lying 
here, this fortnight?" 

From the dark corner came a stifled cry and pit>ing gurgle. 
"My lady, oh, my lady!" 

"How now, black; let go my skirt." 

"Mistress, let me whisper close. He need not die, thy 


"Hast thou some scheme? Quick, tell it to me." 

"First speak the word to let me live." 

"Aye, we spare thy Ufe — but haste!" 

"He is but a young stripling; his bones are not yet set 
and hardened. Let him be made the king's mute." 

The jester heard the words. He flung himself upon the 
eunuch, and grasping his throat, throttled him until his 
black face ran with shiny sweat and his great white eyes 
hung nearly from their sockets. "I feared that thou wouldst 
dare to speak of that — squeaHng coward — I might have 
known it. " Again he whacked the woolly head against the 

The captain dragged them apart. "Why so wroth, fool?" 
he asked. " Sooth, 't is a wise plan, and one to save me a deal 
of trouble. For it was my special commission from the king 
to furnish a new mute. And since the lad must suffer, lady 
— come, by the Holy Tokens, I '11 make a bond with thee. 
I'll spare his life, an' ye say nought of it to the king. I'll 
keep intact his pulse and true heart's beat; and thou, in 
turn, give me his lower limbs to twist and his doll's face to 
alter — only to alter slightly," and he laughed lewdly. 

Lady Suelva moved to look at the dead mute; but the 
wily black had thrust himself before the face and hid its 
loathsomeness. "Do as he bids, mistress," he whispered. 
"Let thy lover live and love thee. Let him have life." 

"And what a Ufe!" cried the jester. "Oh, noble lady, be 
merciful and let him die." 

"Would not the king or some one recognize him?" she 

"No," answered the captain; "he is but lately come to 
court — and anyway, there's none would recognize him 

"Might he not some day blurt out the truth? '^ 

"Ho, you forget: mutes make safe lovers, for they have 
no tongues." 


She recoiled. ''True. And so, may he love me fearlessly 
in such a guise?" 

"Aye, and thou him — that we promise thee." 

She dropped to her knees, beside the unconscious squire. 
She took his head in her lap, and with her warm hands 
brushed back the locks from his bruised forehead. "He is 
so beautiful," she sighed, wavering. "It were a shame — " 

"He would never be beautiful again," said the jester. 

"Rather an ugly lover than a dead one," retorted the 

Lady Suelva fell to sobbing. " Canst thou not spare him 

"Nay! nay I" He stamped his foot impatiently. "And 
it were best to hurry." 

"Only wait till he awakes from the hard blow thou 
gavest him. He will decide for himself." 

" 'T will be by far less painful if done now." 

"Then take him." 

"Think well and long," said the jester. "'Tis a hfe of 
hell thou wouldst prolong him to. The jeers, the coarse and 
ribald laughter of the court, the scorn and teasing — aye — 
God! I know the life, for I too suffer as a courtier's play- 
thing — and yet, I have a straight body and a human face 
and a tongue to answer with. What canst thou offer him to 
compensate for all his loss and misery? " 

She looked up proudly. "My love. Is it not enough? " 

The fool bowed. "It must be, when kings crave for it. 
Yet beauty such as thine can only love the beautiful." 

"Then I shall pity him — with all my heart's strength; 
I'll comfort his poor Ufe with sweetest pity." 

"Lady, pity is the meanest gate of love." 

The captain growled and swung his halberd viciously. 
"Keep thy wit for the king's ear," he said. "The lady 
Suelva hath spoken her decision. We dally no longer." 


He bent down and lifted the squire's body over his back. 
Then he turned to the eunuch. "Take thou the old mute's 
corpse. I have kept his carcass these seven days, to serve 
as a pattern. So carry it down." 

The black's eyes dilated again, and he shrank back. ''I 
dare not touch it. He was my friend." 

"Bah. Then take thou my load," and in exchange the 
captain slung the corpse across his own shoulders. As he 
crossed the room, the loose head showed upside-down over 
his back, bobbing and flabbily wagging its grin-split face. 

The lady stared at it rigidly. She seized the jester's arm. 
"And is his face to be a counterpart of that one?" 

"Aye — every feature exactly." 

The captain threw open the trap-door and went down the 
ladder. The eunuch, staggering a little under the squire's 
weight, followed him and disappeared from view. Suelva 
ran forward a few steps as if to call them back; then she 
stopped short, hand at breast. 

" 'T is too late," said the jester bitterly, and shut down 
the trap-door. 

" God pity me," she sobbed. "I was too selfish of his life 
— and of his love." 

"And now, be sure, he will do naught but hate thee!" 

As if to spite her overwrought emotions, she turned 
on him sharply. "Thou art impertinent, fool." 

He smiled sadly. " Unpleasant truths must ever seem im- 
pertinent — but they are no less true. An' I be the court 
fool, pray, noble lady, what art thou? We be all king's play- 
things — my wit and thy beauty and the mute's deformities. 
For all of us sweet Hfe is slowly spoiled — for the mute and 
me by scorn and snickerings; for thee by the cold glitter of 
lavished finery and callous flattery. That squire, young 
and beautiful and bursting with ambition, was only a play- 
thing, too — thy toy, to dally with and break.'* 


"Nay, nay! I loved him dearly and so shall for all time." 

The jester laughed shortly. ''I had not meant for thee to 
glance upon this scene," he said, ''but if 't were best, then 
look, lady, look!" and he threw open the trap. A great red 
light flared up into the donjon, and waved and danced along 
the moon-green walls. The empty bier seemed licked in 
ruddy flames, and on the moist mould of the ceiling, each 
little drop of water sparkled like a ruby. 

''Look at him," repeated the jester. "Shrink not; they 
are only heating the irons." 

She crept to the edge of the trap, and peered down, fasci- 
nated. "Who are those huge hairy men, with wild beasts* 
faces?" she asked. 

"The torturers." 

"Oh! what have they done to his hair — to all his long, 
pretty locks? How strange he looks with his head shaven 
thus! And see! what is the torturer to do with that glowing 
iron in his hand? Ugh! " and she fell back, near swooning. 

There was a sudden sizzle of burnt flesh and stenching 

"Look," commanded the jester. "Look again." 

"I dare not — nay, I cannot," and she flung herself away 
from the trap, and lay at full length on the floor, with the 
moon and the furnace light reflecting a mad swirl of color 
over her upturned, staring face. For some moments she lay 
there, and above her stood the jester. Neither spoke nor 
moved; they could only listen and hsten to the noises below 
them: the soft purring of the furnace-fire; the scuffle of the 
workers' feet; the deadened clank of instruments; the faint 
groans of the insensible youth; the binding, searing, ripping 
of flesh ; the crack and crunch of bones. 

"Quick," cried the jester, "before they bandage him; 
quick! look again," and when she shrank further back, he 
pushed her forward to the very edge of the trap, until she 


could not help but see. "And couldst thou love him now?" 
he asked, and keenly searched her face. 

She said no word, but slightly swayed from side to side. 
She threw her hands before her eyes, and dug her fists deep 
into them, as if to blot the sight from her memory. She 
crouched, stunned and sickened. Her hands dropped back 
to her breast, and the jester saw the expression of her fea- 

There was no sign of love in her face; there was no tender- 
ness or pity. Only black horror and disgust; only a sullen, 
disappointed rage, and a scowling disgust. 

"They have made him as ugly as the king's gorillas," she 
sobbed. "Ugh! he is ugly!" 

The jester nodded his head mockingly. "Thou art right. 
They have made him too foul for thee ever to love, have 
they not?" 

"Love? God! I could not love a beast like that." 

"Nor couldst thou even pity him — is he not too foul 
even for pity?" 

"Nay, I'd never dare to pity such a thing. He is too hor- 
rible, too loathsome. I would swoon if he touched me." 

" What, lady, neither love nor pity? Yet this may merely 
be a passing sickness of the humours. To-morrow thou 
mayest love him better than before." 

"Love?" She was fast growing hysterical. "I could 
never bear the sight of such a mangled dwarf." Thrusting 
her hand inside her dress, she drew out a gleaming bodkin, 
and flung it at the fool's feet. "Kill him," she screamed, 
"kill him!" Then she rose unsteadily and staggered out the 
iron door. 

"Kill him!" the jester echoed. "Merciful Mary, I thank 
thee!" and, concealing the bodkin in his blouse, he de- 
scended the ladder, to help the captain and the torturers in 
their work. 


An hour later, the squire's corpse was thrown over the 
castle walls. "'Tis a shame," growled the captain; "he 
would have made so fine a mute. One of the torturers* 
knives must ha' slipped, whilst they were cutting out his 
tongue. For I noticed that the spinal cord was severed at 
the base of the mouth — and that is a sure death, you know." 

''So? I had not known that," said the jester softly, and 
he smiled to himself. 

The old dead mute was placed back on his bier and the 
trap-door shut down. "So now I must hunt for another 
page or squire," growled the captain, and he clanked wrath- 
fuUy out of the donjon. 

The jester stayed a little while, to pray for the mute's 
soul and for the squire's soul and for his own. Then he too 
rose and, swinging the iron door behind liim, left the corpse 
alone. The moonUght shone dimly and more dimly through 
the grating, and soon had disappeared. It left the donjon 
keep in total darkness, and in a stillness broken only by the 
dripping of water from the mouldy ceiling. 

Literary Monthly, 19 10. 



Already long past the threescore years and ten allotted 
man, Dr. Bascom exerted a vital influence on the college 
when we first met him. On the shadowy side of the valley, 
and even then silvery haired, he moved beneath these classic 
shades Uke a patriarch, "the grand old doctor." 

The facts of his life and of his achievements require vol- 
umes for the telling. They speak of his genius-like career at 
WilHams, of his keen philosophical insight, and of how, after 
being graduated in 1849, he tried the law and theolog)'' before 
accepting a tutorship in his alma mater. A score of years 
from 1855 to 1874, he served the college as professor of rhe- 
toric, although his desire was to give his attention to philo- 
sophy. The times were filled with conflict and struggle, and 
Dr. Bascom accepted the presidency of the University of 
Wisconsin, where he made a glorious record covering four- 
teen years. In 1887 he returned to WiUiamstown with un- 
impaired powers, and became lecturer in sociology and later 
professor of poHtical economy, a position which he filled till 
1903. They speak of his degrees of honor: Wisconsin, 
Amherst, and Williams conferred the LL.D., Iowa College 
the D.D. 

It is in the evening of his life that it has been our good for- 
tune to know him. As when, the day's work done and the 
worries of its earlier hours laid aside, we look forward to the 
rest that awaits us and live over in thought the events of the 

* A series which ran through Vol. XXV. of the Lit., 1909-1910. 



day that is gone, the conflicts lose their bitterness. Here is a 
man whose limitless energy built up a great university; 
whose straightforward counsel for many years shaped the 
policies of one of the poUtical parties of the Commonwealth; 
whose earnest teaching pointed out to many a man his civic 
duty; and whose personal life is an incentive to high intel- 
lectual moraUty. By a score of books covering the various 
fields of rhetoric, aesthetics, political economy, philosophy, 
and religion, he has moulded pubHc opinion in his generation. 
The same undaunted ambition keeps his eye bright now as 
then; the same keen brain grapples with vital problems; the 
same magnetic personaHty commands respect and love. 



Henry M. Alden has been the editor of Harper^ s 
Monthly since 1869, and is still in active service. He 
was transferred to this position from Harper^ s Weekly, of 
which he was the editor for the five years preceding. For 
this long and distinguished service he seems to have had 
little or no preliminary training. The first six years of his 
life — he was born in 1836 — were spent in Mount Tabor, a 
Vermont hamlet with the rude life of a remote country town 
three quarters of a century ago. From Mount Tabor he 
removed in 1842 to Hoosick Falls, New York. Here, after 
some service as an operative in a cotton mill and other tenta- 
tive vocations, he prepared for college, and, in the autumn of 
1853, entered Williams, where he supported himself by 
teaching during the long winter vacations and by such mis- 
cellaneous work as fell in his way. "I remember among 


other things," said the late President Henry Hopkins to the 
writer, "that he took care of my father's horse." 

In Mr. Alden's day the opportunities at Williams in the 
way of preparation for an editorial career were very slender. 
The only student publication was a quarterly magazine of 
less than a hundred pages, and by some oversight his class- 
mates failed to elect him as one of the five editors. At An- 
dover Theological Seminary, where he was a student from 
1857 to i860, the opportunities for 'prentice work as an 
editor were wholly wanting. Hence the preparation which 
the college and seminary afforded for his life-work was of a 
very general and indirect sort. Yet his success has been one 
of the notable landmarks in the history of modern periodi- 
cals. In the conduct of Harper's Monthly with its wide 
range of attractive material, he has done the world a service, 
high and fine. For the first thirty years of this service Mr. 
Alden seems to have devoted himself to the task of securing 
and organizing the material to be printed. In 1900 he added 
to the departments of the magazine an "Editor's Study," 
and begged "an audience speaking in his own name." Here 
he discusses from month to month such topics as the shift- 
ings of popular taste, the story with a purpose, the volunteer 
contributor, rejected manuscripts, the "dullards of the col- 
lege world for whom a Jowett or a Mark Hopkins is super- 
fluous," and the present outlook of Hterature. 

That such a career was possible for Mr. Alden — the 
career of an indefatigable editor, keenly alive to the various 
needs of the reading public, with an office in a great New 
York business establishment, bethumped without by the 
roar of elevated trains and confused within by the noise of 
incessant printing presses — no one who knew him in Wil- 
liamstown from 1853 to 1857 had the slightest conception. 
Then and there he was a dreamer, and showed relatively 
little interest in this present material, workaday world. Dr. 


Gladden says in his Recollections that he could never find 
out how he got down from cloudland to Franklin Square. 
But as a matter of fact, in whatever hostile regions he may 
have sojourned, he never quite lost his residence in the 
supersensual world. Somehow he succeeded in reaching 
Franklin Square and becoming an editor without ceasing to 
be a mystic. 

The hterary history of Mr. Alden the mystic, as distin- 
guished from the editor, seems to have begun with the ap- 
pearance of an essay on "The Philosophy of Art" in the 
Williams Quarterly for December, 1856. Then, three or 
four years later, came "The Eleusinia," two articles printed 
in the Atlantic Monthly. These papers led to the deliv- 
ery in 1864 of a course of lectures before the Lowell Institute 
on "The Structure of Paganism." Some thirty years after- 
ward two books appeared — God in His World in 1893 
and The Study of Death in 1895 — which may be re- 
garded as the culmination of the mental and spiritual char- 
acteristics revealed in the Williams Quarterly essay and 
in the Atlantic papers. Both of these books abound in 
rhythmic, melodious pages of prose poetry Hke the rhapsody 
on "The Coming of the Bridegroom" or on "The Lesson of 
the Sea." Mr. Alden's prose is perhaps more poetic than his 
verse. Of the latter, scanty in amount, the best is his "An- 
cient Lady of Sorrows," before whom pass 

" All shapes that come, or soon or late, 
Of this world's misery." 

In general, the books may be described as an interpretation 
of the great problems of life by the mystic intuitions as dis- 
tinguished from abstract intellectualism, which finds that 
many of these problems are hopelessly beyond its reach. If 
one cares for the philosophy of nature and history, of Chris- 
tianity and other religions, brilliantly expounded by an 


idealizing, poetic optimist and seer, we commend him to 
*'God in His World" and ''The Study of Death." 



Washington GljVdden, whose very name irradiates the 
nobility and wholesomeness of the man himself, has for 
years been a foremost interpreter of the perplexing problems 
of our time. His appeal is to honest intelHgence in whatever 
concerns human welfare. He has done much to humanize 
theology and stimulate popular interest in modern scholar- 
ship. Moreover, in the region of industrial, social, and ci\dc 
reform he stands out conspicuously as a bold champion of 
the Golden Rule in its appUcation to every-day activities; 
and though sometimes charged with being a dreamer, he 
shows that the sky (to use his own figure) is le<^s remote than 
is commonly supposed, and in fact adjoins the surface of the 
earth where human feet daily walk. 

Dr. Gladden, who is now a Uttle more than seventy, was 
born in Pennsylvania. He prepared for college in Owego, 
New York, and was graduated from Williams in 1859. After 
preaching in New York state for a few years, he came to 
Massachusetts, where he was settled first in North Adams, 
and then in Springfield. Since 1882 he has been minister of 
the First Congregational Church in Columbus, Ohio. As 
preacher, author, and lecturer he is famous throughout the 
English-speaking world, and all his recent books (the latest 
being his Recollections) are published simultaneously in 
England and the United States. The honorary degrees con- 
ferred on him are D.D. and LL.D. 

The instructive and practical elements in Dr. Gladden's 


writings, the wide influence he exerts in the cause of aggres- 
sive righteousness, and his interesting personality, do not, 
however, measure the full extent of his gifts. One has only 
to read his well-known hymns to realize anew that here is 
lyric quality of the first order. Then, too, the Williams 
alumnus, whether he sings hymns or not, has the warmest 
place in his heart for ''The Mountains," and when he comes 
back to the college with white hair will continue to thank 
Washington Gladden for that song. While serving as one of 
the trustees of Williams, Dr. Gladden was a familiar figure 
at commencement. His personal presence indicates the 
character of his thought, and the spirit which challenged him 
to high daring in the early days is still unflinching. During 
the present disintegration of old beliefs, this servant of the 
truth has always been eager to reconstruct the new with the 
clear and definite purpose of meeting the highest require- 
ments of life. 



It was largely owing to her location that Williams College 
gained the son who was to become her sixth president. Born 
at Waterbury, Connecticut, and thus well within the centri- 
petal sweep of Yale, Franklin Carter left New Haven at the 
close of his sophomore year for reasons of health, and later 
sought the more favorable climate of the Berkshire Hills. 
Thus, once a member of the class of 1859 at Yale, he was 
graduated from Williams in the class of 1862. There came a 
blending of these affiliations throughout his career. Wil- 
liams was the first to claim him, as professor of French and 
Latin till 1868 and then as Massachusetts Professor of 


Latin until 1872, when Yale drew him to a professorship of 
German, to relinquish him in 1881 when he succeeded Dr. 
Chadbourne as president of Williams. For twenty years, the 
third longest administration in the history of the college, he 
stood at the head of her interests. 

The liistory of education can show fewer periods more 
critical or more rapid in change than the last quarter of the 
nineteenth century in this country. Williams was in her 
own crisis when Dr. Carter came as president. How he met 
it, and how he guided the college in a steady movement 
toward larger things, a mere comparison of the catalogues 
marking the limits of his administration can tell the younger 
men of to-day, who enjoy the fruits without knowing the 
process. Such a comparison would show an increase of sixty 
per cent, in the number of students and over one hun- 
dred per cent, in the number of instructors. This period 
also saw an increase in real estate, buildings, and im- 
provements of $600,000, and, in addition to this, of $900,- 
000 in invested funds. 

But educational realities go deeper than outward pros- 
perity. A college reflects her president's personality in 
things of mind and of spirit. To business capacity Dr. Car- 
ter added distinguished scholarship and the genius of a 
teacher born. All this was made livingly effective by single- 
hearted loyalty to the best interests of the college as he saw 
them and by devotion to the highest moral and intellectual 
good of the students. He did not swerve from duty as he 
understood it to follow an easy popularity. The burdens 
that he bore and the labors that he accomplished, at per- 
sonal cost in more ways than one, rested in the last analysis 
on this substratum of self-denying service. 

His work has extended far beyond the college. His grace 
of expression in both speech and print, the keenness of his 
wit, his administrative power, and his command of educa- 


tional resources have been recognized and made available 
beyond the limits of his presidency and apart from the de- 
mands of Williams alone. Honored in many spheres, he has 
thus brought added honor to the college. The solidarity of 
his achievements for Williams is revealed more clearly as 
time proceeds. More and more the alumni are coming to 
appreciate this as both historical fact and academic heritage. 
This shall be his reward as he continues, and may it be for 
long, to Uve close to the college and to the town that he has 
served and loved. 



It would be easy enough for me to study critically Mr. 
Mabie's books, for he has written many and they are well 
known and widely read; I might give you a criticism of him 
as thinker and author. If criticism is, (as I believe Matthew 
Arnold once defined it) the discerning of the characteristic 
excellencies in things, I could easily show you the charm of 
Mr. Mabie's English, the wide range of his culture, the 
sweetness and light of his interpretations of nature and 
human life. But this is rather a brief tribute to the man 
himself whom we sons of Williams have known and ad- 
mired these many years, and this or any like tribute, how- 
ever inadequate, will serve to pay a little of the debt we owe 
him for all that he is and all that he has done. 

Born in 1846, he graduated from college in 1867 and from 
the Columbia Law School in 1869. As I graduated eighteen 
years later, I never knew him in those earlier days. But the 
law did not claim him; almost at once he turned to litera- 
ture, for that clearly was his God-given aptitude. For 


nearly thirty years he has been an editor of the Christian 
Union, which afterward became the Outlook. 

. . . The boy is father to the man. The gentleness, the 
refinement, the generous outlook on life, the genial friend- 
liness, have only grown into nobler forms through the stren- 
uous years. But he is an editor as well as a litterateur. He 
has had his share in the fight to preserve our national ideals. 
The years have put iron into his soul and strength into his 
judgments, and the sweetness has become only the pleasing 
incasement of the strong medicine w^hich our social and po- 
litical life so often needs. So his personal influence has 
grown in weight and effectiveness. Mr. Mabie is serving the 
state, the church, human society, in all the wide range of 
its interests, with singular efl&ciency and is quietly achieving 
many very useful things; and withal it is done with methods 
that are constructive and with the gentle arts of a gracious 
persuasiveness and a winning courtesy. 

May he have many years of rich and fruitful work, and a 
golden harvest of all the good deeds he has sown ! 



To some of the college body the name of Henry Loomis 
Nelson is nothing more than a name, but the three upper 
classes, especially that considerable portion of them who at 
one time or another came under his influence, will not soon 
allow the memory of his personaHty to pass. The facts of 
his life are simple enough and as well known; the fruits of 
that life would take many pages to set forth. His power as 
educator, journalist, and man of public affairs reached in- 


finitely further than most of us, who first saw in him the 
man of even, witty temperament, were used to realize. 

Professor Nelson was graduated with the class of 1867, 
later taking the M. A. degree; the college further honored 
him and itself by conferring the degree of L. H. D. in 1902. 
Together with Mabie and Stetson of his class, he organized 
a little circle for literary discussion; and that group, each 
afterward to attain eminence, showed more vital interest in 
art and letters than can be found to-day. After taking his 
law degree at Columbia he went to Washington as news- 
paper correspondent and there began a great series of poHti- 
cal and economic writings. Called to the editorial chair of 
Harper^ s Weekly in 1895, he resigned it after four years be- 
cause, he said, he felt that he would be false to his own con- 
victions if he wrote those of the publisher, false to the 
publisher if he used the magazine to voice his own. His writ- 
ings include also a novel as well as treatises on political sci- 
ence. In 1902 he came back to his alma mater as head of 
the department of Government. He died on February 29, 

In his devotion to the ideals of Williams as he saw them, 
Dr. Nelson was, many have said, more distinguished by 
manly but quiet zeal than any other graduate of his prom- 
inence in pubHc life. He stood for scholarship, fine scholar- 
ship of course, but even above that he put honor, a gentle- 
man's code of honor. He was unconditional in his contempt 
for hedging, for trickery, for meanness. Constantly he 
showed himself an idealist, as in his advocacy of an absolute 
honor system. But in all there was the play of a shrewd wit, 
the touch of sureness, lacking snobbery, of the man who 
knows where he stands, and a love of entertaining others. 
For only six years we knew him as a teacher, but the time 
was long enough for many of his ideals and ideas to take 
root, and the fruit of them will long be apparent. 



Harry Judson entered Williams from Stillwater, New 
York, and it was said that he made the best entrance ex- 
aminations ever passed up to that time. Immediately upon 
his graduation, the third in his class, in 1870, he taught pub- 
lic school in Troy, and was initiated as a reformer in munici- 
pal politics when Troy was infamous for corruption. 

The second pubHc era of his hfe, 1885 to 1892, witnessed 
his introduction to the West as professor of history in the 
University of Minnesota. This was the time of the refound- 
ing of that institution under the beginning of President 
Northrop 's administration, to whom Professor Judson be- 
came a right hand. His career is an illustrious example of 
one rising slowly and patiently through every grade of the 
public school system, to its crown in the highest grades in the 
state university. It must have been of inestimable worth 
to him to become famiHar with the genius of a state univer- 
sity, so peculiarly a people's institution and so character- 
istic of the middle West. 

Unconsciously he was preparing for crowm'ng his career in 
the new University of Chicago. It is not strange that, in 
1889, three years before he became a member of the univer- 
sity's first faculty, President Harper's attention was attracted 
to him, and he brought the early drafts of his plan for a her- 
culean university to Professor Judson for criticism. When 
the inner history of that university is written, in my opinion, 
the world will be surprised to learn of the contribution of 
Professor Judson, who was Dr. Harper's Secretary of the 
Interior from the beginning. What IMr. Rockefeller was as 
a silent partner in money matters, Dr. Judson was in mat- 
ters of the mind. 



As dean of the Faculty of Arts, Literature, and Science 
from 1892 till his accession to the presidency, he was in ad- 
mirable training for that office. His facility in using his 
knowledge, his versatihty of powers, fired by an innate 
energy, regulated by steadiness of purpose, and aimed at 
the highest ideals, make his name synonymous with effi- 
ciency incarnate. His modesty equals his ability. Harper 
stands as an heroic figure, a Napoleon with visions of edu- 
cational conquest, selected by the far-seeing Rockefeller to 
build a university in the center of the nation and to give 
the West intellectual self-respect. With the same keenness of 
vision Mr. Rockefeller and the trustees selected as Dr. 
Harper's successor a human figure, one in almost every way 
a contrast to Dr. Harper; an Elisha succeeding an Elijah 
and fitted to balance and round out the creative stage in a 
university to be not only the biggest but the best in the 
West. Williams as the mother of many educators must 
place the name of Judson beside that of Mark Hopkins. 



Dr. Hall was born in 1852, and died within a short time of 
two of his best and best-known college friends, H. L. Nelson 
and Isaac Henderson, on March 15, 1908. On being gradu- 
ated from Williams in 1872 and from the Union Seminary, 
his first pastorates were spent in Newburgh, N. Y., and in 
Brooklyn, whence he was called to the presidency of Union 
Seminary in 1897. The most brilliant of his achievements 
was perhaps embodied in his two trips to India as the Bar- 
rows lecturer of the University of Chicago; — he had a 
wonderful aptitude in applying the principles of Christianity 


to an alien civilization. A class-mate, the editor of the 
Springfield 'Republican is the author of the tribute to his 
memory which follows. 

It is around the thought of Cuthbert Hall the college boy, 
rather than the distinguished president of a great seminary 
and all the rest, with the world so much his parish, that any 
word of loving memory shapes itself. He was refined and 
w^inning. If ever the sunhght of a gracious nature touched 
any youth, it rested on him; the unworthy and the trivial 
passed him by. His adjustment of values even then was 
mature and firm. His literary taste and product were 
superior. He was a natural gentleman, and that meant a 
Christian by all the call of his nature. Love of the fine, the 
high, the genuine, and the generous, was instinctive. His 
breadth of charity and welcome for knowledge in youth 
became the distinction of his manhood. 

Quahties were conspicuous in his life that boimd world- 
lings to him in a bond of fellowship that grappled the best 
that was in them. Goodness of his sort is commanding — 
the practical power of a pure life is a pulpit asset that reen- 
forces the spoken word beyond aU human calculation. 
Under his leadership Union Seminary could not have been 
other than liberal and sympathetic toward devout scholar- 
ship that might seem to threaten the ancient foundations of 

When a class-mate late in life found repose in the Roman 
church, Dr. Hall could see and say that such anchorage was 
best for his friend. All paths that led to trust in God and 
the strengthening of the essentials of character were allow- 
able in the brotherhood of the service of humanity. 

The world of scholarship has its arrogancies — some- 
times it is critical over-much, intolerant toward the lesser 
requirements of busy men outside. This man never lost 


touch with men as they passed. His own assurance of be- 
lief was a flame which Hghted many torches. H was a sane 
and a glad evangel that he gave to his students, and brought 
in almost constant and always ardent addresses to the youth 
of many colleges. 

Intellectual integrity was joined in him with the finest 
spiritual apprehension and expression, so that he was quali- 
fied to carry a message to the cultivated of India, where he 
got his mortal hurt. In the knightly loyalty with which he 
labored his zeal was a highly tempered blade. He respected 
all faiths, but an abiding assurance of the supremacy of the 
service of Christ gave him unwavering serenity and poise. 
It is easy to think of Charles Cuthbert Hall entering the 
Supreme Presence reverently, unafraid, rejoicing, as natu- 
rally as a child would come home. 



The subject of this brief sketch may indeed be termed a 
WiUiams man both by heredity and by environment. He 
passed his boyhood and early youth under the very shadow 
of our hills; and his father, Professor A. L. Perry, was for 
years the most widely known as well as the most generally 
loved of its faculty. 

Bliss Perry was born in i860; after graduation, in 188 1, he 
became instructor in English and elocution at his alma mater 
and in 1886 was advanced to the full professorship. In 1893 
he accepted a call to the same chair at Princeton. Six years 
later he was appointed to the editorship of the Atlantic 
Monthly, thus becoming one of a famous line of editors 
including Lowell, Howells, and Aldrich. He remained at the 


head of the Atlantic for just ten years, resigning in 
August 1909 to devote himself wholly to the duties of the 
chair of English Uterature at Harvard, which he had accepted 
two years before and which had already been hlled by Long- 
fellow and Lowell. The year 1909-19 10 he spent abroad as 
Hyde lecturer at the Sorbonne. 

Professor Perry's publications extend over the fields of 
fiction, criticism, and the occasional essay. His Study of 
Prose Fiction, a clear exposition of narrative writing, is one 
of the best-kno\vn college textbooks on the subject. His 
Walt Whitman is without doubt his most careful and 
elaborate critical work and is a recognized authority. The 
Amateur Spirit, a series of familiar essays, shows Pro- 
fessor Perry at his best and should be read especially by 
those who delight to study the personahty of an author as 
revealed in his work. 

But whatever fame Professor Perry may have attained in 
the fields of literature, to Williams men he is the teacher. In 
The Amateur Spirit he has written: "Your born teacher 
is as rare as a poet. . . . Once in a while a college gets hold 
of one. It does not always know that it has him, and pro- 
ceeds to ruin him by over-driving, the moment he shows 
power; or to let another college lure him away for a few hun~ 
dred dollars more a year. But while he lasts — and some- 
times, fortunately, he lasts till the end of a long life — he 
transforms the lecture-hall as by enchantment. Lucky is the 
alumnus w^ho can call the roll of his old instructors, and 
among the martinets and the pedants and the piously inane 
can here and there come suddenly upon a man; a man who 
taught him to think, or helped him to feel, and thrilled him 
with a new horizon." 

Those of us who have been under Professor Perry's in- 
struction in the class-room must smile to note how — all 
unconsciously — he has here portrayed what we know him 


to be. Scholarly in his tastes, clear in his thinking, simple 
and direct in the expression of his thought, and always hu- 
man in his personality, he "taught us to think, he helped us 
to feel, and he thrilled us with a new horizon." To us he 
seemed the ideal teacher, and as teacher and as man withal 
he has won the loyalty of Harvard, Princeton, and Williams 
men alike. 



" Mister," my companion in the smoking-car addressed me 
rather timidly, "hev you ever bin to Ebenezer?" 

I looked at him a moment: kindly eyes, tanned face, griz- 
zled beard; clothing of that indescribable, faded greenish 
brown which had lost all resemblance to its original color. 

*' Yes," I answered, "I've been there a number of times." 

A moment's pause; then, "Quite a sizeable place, so folks 

I assented, wondering what was to come. 

"An' to think I 've never seen it — never bin to Ebenezer 
in all my life, an' I live right back here a piece, not ten miles 
over the hills from Ebenezer. But if this here train stays on 
the track till we git there," he added with some pride, "I'm 
goin' to see it. 

"I'm goin' to see Ebenezer, jest to think of it! Well sir, 
it makes me all het up. Many's the time when I come in 
fr'm chores, I'd set by the fire an' read the Ebenezer 
Weekly Review and Advertiser; an' there I'd see, 'Ebenezer 
items: Squire Hodge's store painted; the Ebenezer Dry 
Goods Emporium moved into new and more commodorious 
quarters,' et cetery. Then I'd say to Mandy, 'Mandy, 
some day we'll go to Ebenezer.' But we never went. Well, I 
s'pose it's all fer the best." He sighed and shook his head. 

"But I'm goin' to see it all now." He brightened up 
again. "Yes, sir, poor Mandy 's fixed so she can't leave the 
house now, kind of laid up with rheumatiz. A spell back, 
though, when our daughter got married, an' time kind o' 
hung heavy on our hands, Mandy says, ' Why don't you go 



alone, pa? Now 's a good chance. So I fixed things up spick 
an' span, an' Nancy — that's our girl — come over this 
mornin' to stay with her ma, an' I — well, it'll be grand! 
D'you s'pose I c'n see it all in one day?" 

"Oh, yes." 

" Well," he sighed contentedly, " that 's good. Say, you Ve 
bin awful good to me, tellin' me all about Ebenezer. I'm 
glad I met some one who 's had experience in such a big 
town." Silence for a minute. Then he leaned over confi- 

"D' y' know, it sort o' seems 's though the sunshine was 
a leetle bit brighter to-day than usual, all on 'count of my 
goin' to Ebenezer. Only I wish Mandy c'd be along." 

"Ebenezer! " yelled the brakeman. "Ebenezer!" 

Literary Monthly, 1906. 


J. 0. S.E. 

When we were at home the gas always went out at a certain 
time, and if we were tempted to finish just one more chap- 
ter of Coral Island or Out on the Pampas, we needs must 
steal a candle from the pantry stock and furtively read 
by its flickering light. Our own sense of danger, together 
with the imaginative effect wrought upon our excitive minds 
by the dancing candlelight and the awesome shadows of the 
still house, gave a strange relish to our childhood reading. 

At boarding-school we found (among its other strange 
things) the electric light. At nine-thirty the bell in the chapel 
sounded taps, and all the lights in the school were extin- 
guished simultaneously. Then the master would make his 
rounds and find the whole school evidently asleep in their 
beds. But presently doors would open and books would be 
read by the light in the hall. Still we had that same adven- 
turous feeling in our readings, still that sweet taste of stolen 

When we were graduated from the boarding-school, put 
away the proverbial childish things, and came to college, we 
were given a freedom such as we had never had before. No 
interfering master, no provoking lack of light to annoy us. 
We could burn our lamps all night, and receive no paternal 
rebuke or master's chastisement. And now, though there is 
none of that sweetness of stolen fruits, none of that creeping 
insecurity of former readings, there is an undisturbing, quiet 
secureness that makes our books more living to us. Now, 
when all the dormitory is asleep; when the lighted window- 
panes have ceased to cast their gleams upon the snow; when 
the streets are deserted, the pool-rooms closed, and the last 
good-fellow has gone to bed, and only oneself is awake, then 



we have the full enjoyment of our quiet study lamp-light. 
We may yawn once or twice, a creak on the stair may 
startle us, — but we do not go to bed. We reach out our 
hand for some favorite volume, Stevenson's Garden of 
VerseSy Underwoods, or Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights: 
and read far on into the night towards cock-crow. 
We mingle our reading with dreams, and read on and on, 
finding a new feeling in our book: we find the author's deeper 
meaning. Our reading is undisturbed by the ghost-creep of 
childhood and the adventuresome daring of boarding- 
school. Formerly we had the mere tale or story; now we feel 
in a small degree the soul-expression of the writer — an in- 
definable, will-o'-the-wisp sort of thing; a something not 
always caught, but that strange intangible something which 
lends the spark of immortality to the master creations. 
Literary Monthly, 1909. 





Adams, Elbridge L., '87, la\\yer. 

Allen, Rev. Herbert M., '88. 

Brixton, A. Dudley, '00, lawyer. 

Brown, Orton S., '92, manufacturer. 

Conger, Henry R., '99, lawyer. 

DuTTON, George B., '07, instructor in English, Williams College. 

GooDWiLLiE, Arthur L., '01, banker. 

HoLLEY, Horace, ex-' 10. 

Looms, John Putna^i, 'ir. 

LooMis, Roger Sherman, '09, Oxford University. 

Mygatt, Gerald, '08, journalist. 

Park, Julmn, '10, Columbia University. 

Richards, George M., '04. 

Sherman, Stuart Pratt, '03, instructor in English, Univ. of HI. 

Simmons, Theodore H., '96, journalist. 

Smith, Harry James, '02, author. 

Truman, Percival H., '98, lawyer. 


Abbott, Samuel, '87, pubHsher. 

Adriance, Vanderpoel, M. D., '90 (treasurer). 

Alden, Rev. Frederick A., '96. 

Banks, Talcott M., '90. 

Bartlett, L. Hayward, '12. 

Bates, Madison C, '04, teacher. 

Baxter, John T., '87. 

Bedford, Henry E., Jr., '08, lawyer. 



BiDWELL, Orlando C, '86, lawyer. 

BiGELOW, Charles H., Jr., '87, lawyer. 

Bishop, Rev. Edwin C, '92. 

Blackmer, Percy W., '86, manufacturer. 

Brewer, D. Chauncey, '86, lawyer. 

Brotherston, Rev. Bruce W., '03. 

Brusie, Charles H., '87, teacher. 

Butler, Dudley, '00. 

Byard, John K., '08 (manager), lawyer. 

Callan, Lester L., '03 (manager), lawyer. 

Campbell, John C, '92, president Piedmont College. 

Chapman, Wm. L., '10 (manager). 

Clark, Willlam Mansfield, '07. 

Clarke, Arthur F., '89 (treasurer), lawyer. 

Cleveland, Charles D., '92, la\vyer. 

Colby, Bainbridge, '90, lawyer. 

Coons, Albert S., '10. 

Craighead, James R., '95, teacher. 

Cravens, James H., '87, lawyer. 

Dater, Philip H., '96, civil engineer. 

Dike, George P., '97, lawyer. 

Downer, Louis D., '95, lawyer. 

Dunbar, Philip R., '00, lawyer. 

Eastman, Max, '05, instructor in philosophy, Coluilibia Univ. 

Edson, Hantord W., '90, teacher. 

Edwards, William H., '91, teacher. 

Erskine, Harold P., '02, architect. 

Erskine, Ralph C, '04, instructor Hoosac SchooL 

FiTSCHEN, Rev. John F., Jr., '89. 

Forbes, Reginald D., 'ii. 

Gabriel, Gilbert, '12. 

Gibson, Willard A., '08. 

Goodwin, Frederick D., '95, lavryeT. 

Goodyear, William, '87, journalisti 

Graves, Frank W., '88. 

Haight, Leonard T., '96 (manager). 

Hartt, Rollin L., '92, journalist. 

Haynes, Rowland, '02, University of Chicago. 

Hepburn, Charles F. '00, lumber. 

Herrick, Israel A., '90, lawyer. 

Hitchcock, Alfred M., '90, teacher. 


HoGAN, Barnaby M., '06 (manager). 

Holmes, Edwin, M. D., '91. 

Hopkins, Henry, '03. 

Howe, Kenneth J., '09 (manager). 

HoYT, WiLLARD E., '92, treasurer Williams College. 

Huntington, John P., '94 (treasurer), lawyer. 

HuYCK, Edmund N., '88, manufacturer. 

Jay, John C, Jr., '01. 

Jewett, Rev. Freeborn G., '88. 

Kennedy, Howard, '89, lawyer. 

Knickerbocker, Edmund C, '88 (treasurer). 

Leeds, Stanton B., ex-'o8, journalist. 

Lehman, Edwin P., '10, Harvard Medical School. 

Lehman, Herbert H., '99. 

Leigh, George L., '02. 

Leonard, Edgar C., '86 (treasurer), manufacturer. 

Little, George T., '02, teacher. 

Livingston, Rev. Stephen T., '87. 

LocKWOOD, William A., '96, law>^er. 

Lowe, John Adams, '06, assistant librarian Williams College. 

McDonald, James R., '89, publisher. 

McLean, Charles F., '93, lawyer. 

Marvin, Dwight W., '01, lawyer. 

Mather, Frank J., '89, professor of art, Princeton. 

Matthews, Rev. William H., '98. 

Menkel, Anthony M., '01 (manager), lawyer. 

Moore, Rev. Oscar F., '91. 

Morgan, Henri A., '04 (manager), teacher. 

Morgan, Shepard A., '06, journaUst. 

Morrill, Otis C, '07 (manager), Columbia University. 

Murray, William H., '05 (manager). 

Nash, James R., '89, banker. 

Newton, Silvanus B., M. D., '91. 

NiMS, Harry D., '98, lawyer. 

Nott, Charles C, '90, lawyer. 

Oakman, John, '99, architect. 

Oliver, Arthur, '93, journalist. 

Parkhurst, Charles P., '98. 

Patterson, Stuart F., '95, lawyer. 

Perry, Charles H., '86. 

Pettit, William S., '05. 


Pratt, James B., '98,' professor of philosophy, Williams College. 

Rice, Richard A., Jr., '99, professor of English, Univ. of Ind. 

Richardson, Rev. George L., '88. 

RiGGS, Royal E. T., '02, lawyer. 

Ross, Joseph M., '01, journalist. 

Russell, Clarence J., '96, teacher. 

schauffler, robert mce., m. d., '93. 

Sewall, Rev. Charles G., '93. 

Smith, Rev. Edwin Ray, '87. 

Smith, Roy Boardman, '05, farmer. 

Spalding, Harry 0., M. D., '94. 

Spring, Romney, '94, lawyer. 

Stanley, William H., '02. 

Starr, Louis Morris, '93, jeweler. 

Starrett, Robert 0., '11 (manager). 

Sweet, Rev. Elnathan, '95. 

Thomas, John J., M. D., '86. 

Toll, Henry W., '09, Harvard Law School. 

TouRTELLOT, Henry B., '05, merchant. 

Tryon, James 0., 'oo, lawyer. 

Westermann, Bernard, 'o8, Standard Oil Co., Japan. 

Weston, EIarl E., '96, professor of French, Williams College. 

Wheeler, Willard W., '03. 

Whittlesey, Charles W., '05. 

Wild, Henry D., '88, professor of Latin, W^illiams College. 

Wilson, William R. A., M. D., '92. 

WiTHERELL, WiLLIAM R., '07, joumalist. 

WooLSEY, William W., 'ii. 
Wright, Edwin C, '89 (treasurer). 


Abbott, S., '87, 


I Leeds, S. B., ex- '08. 

147, 148 

Adams, E. L., '87, 


1 Lehman, E. P., '10, 

166, 167 

Anonymous, 14, 16, 

21, 45, 50 



Livingston, S. T., '87, 


Banks,T. M., '90, 

70, 71 

Loomis, R. S., '09, 


Benedict, E. C, '21, 


Lowe, J. A., '06, , 


Benedict, E. G., '82, 


Brady, C. H., '06, 


Mabie, H. W., '67, 


Bryant, W. C, 1813, 


MacLean, G. E., '71, 


Maxcy, C. L., '87, 


Calhoun, P. C, '10, 


Marvin, D. W., 'or. 


Carter, Franklin, '62, 


Morgan, S. A., '06, 


Chapin, A. C, '69, 


Mygatt, Gerald, '08, 


Conger, H. R., '99, 


Corcoran, J. B., ex-'oi, 


Oliver, Arthur, '93, 


Button, G. B., '07, 

113, 213 

Park, Julian, '10, 

175, 205 

Parkhurst, C. P., '98, 


Eastman, Max, '05, 

102, 103 

Edwards, J. 0. S. E., '12, 


Richardson, G. L., '88, 


Friedley, Durr, ex-'io. 


"S " 


Sherman, S. P., '03, 


Gabriel, Gilbert, '12, 


Smith, H. J., '02, 


Garfield, J. A., '56, 


Spring, L. W., '62, 


Gibson, W. A., '08, 136, 137 

, 139, 140 

" Students of Williams College," 2 

Gladden, W., '59, 


Goodwin, F. D., '95 


Tenney, S. G., '86, 

61, 6a 

Griffin, S. B., '71, 


" Troubadour," 


Grosvenor, W. M., '85, 


Underwood, H. S., '83, 


Hall, C. C. '72. 


Holley, Horace, ex-'io, 150, 

151, 152, 


142, 143, 144 


156, 157 

Weston, K. E., '96, 


Wild, H. D., '88, 

66, 202 

IngaUs, J. J., '55, 


Windom, W. H., 'ii. 


Ketchum, Arthur, '98, 


"X.Y.," see Tenney, S. 



U • S • A