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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2addaa5 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #68518 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68518) diff --git a/old/68518-0.txt b/old/68518-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 2117e07..0000000 --- a/old/68518-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1740 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. -LXXXVIII, No. 9, June 1923), by Students of Yale - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. LXXXVIII, No. 9, June 1923) - -Author: Students of Yale - -Release Date: July 13, 2022 [eBook #68518] - -Language: English - -Produced by: hekula03 and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images - made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE -(VOL. LXXXVIII, NO. 9, JUNE 1923) *** - - - - - - - Vol. LXXXVIII No. 9 - - The - Yale Literary Magazine - - Conducted by the - Students of Yale University. - - [Illustration] - - “Dum mens grata manet, nomen laudesque YALENSES - Cantabunt SOBOLES, unanimique PATRES.” - - June, 1923. - - New Haven: Published by the Editors. - Printed at the Van Dyck Press, 121-123 Olive St., New Haven. - - Price: Thirty-five Cents. - - _Entered as second-class matter at the New Haven Post Office._ - - * * * * * - -ESTABLISHED 1818 - -[Illustration: _Brooks Brothers_, CLOTHING, Gentlemen’s Furnishing Goods.] - -MADISON AVENUE COR. FORTY-FOURTH STREET NEW YORK - -_Telephone Murray Hill 8800_ - -Flannels for Town and Country - - Summer Furnishings - Straw and Panama Hats - Russia, Calf and Buckskin Shoes - Travelling Kits - -_Send for “Comparisons”_ - -BOSTON TREMONT COR. BOYLSTON - -NEWPORT 220 BELLEVUE AVENUE - - * * * * * - -THE YALE CO-OP. - -A purchasing agent for the students and Faculty, and distributor of -Standard Merchandise on a Co-operative basis. - -Thirty-eight years of service to over 30,000 members. - -Larger stocks carried, and mail order business increasing every year. - - - - -THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE - - - - -Contents - -JUNE, 1923 - - - Leader DAVID GILLIS CARTER 283 - - Valediction HERBERT W. HARTMAN, JR. 285 - - The Wind on the Sea W. T. BISSELL 286 - - Association MORRIS TYLER 291 - - Three Fables WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR. 292 - - Sonnet FRANK D. ASHBURN 300 - - Song Before Dawn WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR. 301 - - To —— ARTHUR MILLIKEN 302 - - Stanza D. G. CARTER 303 - - Sonnet FRANK D. ASHBURN 304 - - Lady of Kind Hands J. CROSBY BROWN, JR. 305 - - _Book Reviews_ 307 - - _Editor’s Table_ 310 - - - - - The Yale Literary Magazine - - VOL. LXXXVIII JUNE, 1923 NO. 9 - -_EDITORS_ - - WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR. - LAIRD SHIELDS GOLDSBOROUGH - DAVID GILLIS CARTER - MORRIS TYLER - NORMAN REGINALD JAFFRAY - -_BUSINESS MANAGERS_ - - GEORGE W. P. HEFFELFINGER - WALTER CRAFTS - - - - -_Leader_ - - -Probably one in every ten men brought up in a cultured environment has -written, at some youthful period or other, sentimental verse. Such -product is in any prep.-school paper; a few brilliant or hard working -youngsters win prizes each year for the best “poems” of their classes. -But too many of these prodigies, because they are one in ten, are -convinced that they are endowed with the powers of a poet. They cannot -realize that riming is to be outgrown at adolescence, just as other games -are. Since some grown men continue to write poetry, and no one continues -to rollerskate, they put off rollerskating as a childish thing, but they -keep puttering away over platitudes “To ——” and to Spring. They have not -yet come fully into their manhood. - -Personally, I should prefer them to become professional rollerskaters, -for then they could do no harm. Instead, they join the group of “younger -_litterati_” of college, and play the artist as an extra-curriculum means -to distinction, bringing down an undeserved indictment upon whatever men -there happen to be with music in their hearts, and with something to say. -The university which most desires to honor its true artists finds itself -rewarding a kindergarten Greenwich Village for sentimentality that will -be forgotten before the quickness of time has killed it. “_Litterati_” -thus has become to others a name of derision, and “he heels the Lizzie -Club” is a taunt. Especially, a magazine founded for the sincere -promotion of literary expression is in danger before these men with the -trick of verse and a desire for prominence. - -It has become, therefore, the duty of the LIT. to defend itself, and -to stand guard for the rest of the College, against this tendency to -dilettantism, even while it welcomes to its pages the writer who is -eager to learn and practice expression. Such a task is difficult, I -acknowledge, because it involves a judgment between boys by boys, but -it is not impossible. We have had enough poets at Yale in the past few -years to be able to distinguish them generally from the poetasters, and -if a fake slips by now and then, time betrays him and the laurels he has -won. Many attain a kind of prominence that is strangely akin to that of a -rollerskater who has taken a spill. - -Yet it might be well for those interested in Yale literature to look -suspiciously at the number of undergraduates who are LIT. heelers only -when it is profitable, who drop out—never to write again—when the -competition is crowded, or who begin to write when it is seen that -there is to be a vacancy on the Board. They are unquestionably with us, -accomplishing nothing more than to disgust and alienate those who really -desire to write. Unquestionably, such an element is exceedingly bad -for Yale, if Yale intends to be any kind of a force in literature. If -the LIT. Board and kindred honors are to mean more than a badge placed -somewhere on a college boy’s anatomy, we must show the pretender that he -is out of place. - -Of course, this must not lead to the discouragement of anyone with the -slightest itching of the pen. It is the man who writes badly, yet for -the sheer and indescribable love of writing, who should resent most -the prostitution of our literary organizations, for to the “passionate -few” creating is serious, joyous business. The “passionate few” must -direct public sentiment against those who would play it as a game in -the childish politics of the University. We must not permit a false -intelligentsia to become associated with Yale. We cannot allow clever -youngsters, fired with the aspiration of a charm for their watch-chains, -to hack out verses in the feverish night before a makeup. However few, -and however dry, the pages of the LIT. may be, we want them to contain -the result of sincere emotion; we want the author to have given the best -of his ability toward making his contribution acceptable by any editor. -This is the only way a _literary_ magazine can be written. - - DAVID GILLIS CARTER. - - - - -_Valediction_ - - - Here where our hearts respond to lovers’ cries - With ready swiftness, where our laughters leap - From our lips, shall we not resolutely keep - This boyhood, looking on stars with boyish eyes? - Rapture, we know, grows old and subtly dies - Within us,—this much we know, and wisely creep - Away from age lest we disturb his sleep - Where Youth intolerably weeping lies. - - Is this our portion? Shall we not go far - Beyond this presence, bearing our flags unfurled - Exultantly beyond some alien hill - Of dreams?—rise up, and up, and up, until - This place we knew must seem a sorry world - And the old earth a too familiar star? - - HERBERT W. HARTMAN, JR. - - - - -_The Wind On the Sea_ - - -A fresh wind from the ocean made the waves sparkle when Daniel took -his cruise. He was on a solitary tour of New York Harbor in a hired -motorboat, his tribute to the general pleasantness of a spring day out of -doors, balmy, yet with sufficient air. A motorboat was not, he reflected, -as attractive to a lover of the sea as a sailboat, but it enabled him to -poke around the arms of the port more satisfactorily. Today he set off -down the harbor with the breeze in his face. - -At first he passed close to the docks of the enormous ships, some of -which were so long their shapely stems reached far out into the stream. -Nothing was so exciting as seeing their masts and the tops of their -huge funnels over the top of a dock. It reminded him of a glimpse he -had had of the tall, delicate spars of sailing vessels over the roofs -of a seacoast town. The realization of being on the immediate threshold -of the romantic sea is irresistible in its rich suggestions, linking -the most prosaic person for a moment with strange places, hitherto only -imagined, and possibilities of adventure, startling even at a distance -from the point of view of ordinary life. Daniel thought about this and -other theories of his concerning the sea as his boat sauntered past -the imposing liners which so engrossed his attention. Their sharp, -carefully flaring bows and the suggestion of velocity in their slanting -rigging attracted him. One was just docking as he went by. It was huge, -and seemed a city with a host of tugs like parasites slowly pushing -it around. He could never get over the size of them. It seemed like -magic,—this, building a community that floated so snugly on the water, -the four red funnels above adding the emblem of something powerful in -its compactness. Yet in spite of their size, the steamers seemed at a -distance slim and graceful, essentially ships and obviously made to deal -with the exacting ocean. Daniel saw liners with more penetrating eyes -than the ordinary casual observer, he was sure. - -It was not long before he was off down the harbor away from the docks. -Here the waves danced to the breeze among the little boats which carried -on the teeming local traffic of the port, rushing back and forth like -water-bugs on a pond. The vessels that were anchored strained at the -ends of taut hawsers with the wind and tide both coming up the bay. Over -near the farther shore against the sun, a great ship was moving down, -a massive black shadow sliding imperiously out to sea. He steered the -launch near the anchored vessels, under their high sterns. Reading their -names was a fascinating diversion for an imaginative person like himself, -he thought. Here was the “George B. White” of Jersey City, near it the -“Orphan” of Bombay; here a sloppy tramp from Beirut, there an empty -freighter of Cape Town; Japanese and Chinese and Javanese vessels were -there whose names he could not read, and a little ship from the Piraeus, -laden with smells from Athens—dirt from her gutters and hovels, and dust -from the Acropolis. - -Well, well, what a highway the sea was, after all. It was fascinating, -the harbor, fascinating! These great ships always sailing out on -voyages that somehow still seemed perilous, and others, looking—to the -imagination, at least—weatherbeaten, coming in from foreign lands. - -He turned and headed out past the narrows to the slow dips of the ground -swell, powerful, but almost at peace for the moment, which his little -boat climbed and descended like smooth, gentle hills. The sun still -sparkled, and here the water slapped more vigorously against the sides -of the boat, throwing flecks of spray out and whirling back some of -them to sting his face. He was getting gradually drunk, he concluded. -Certainly the spaciousness of everything around him was going to his -head. But it was, he later decided, really the smell of the air that did -it. No sweet gasoline-sick atmosphere of streets out here, nor the faint -odor of millions of his fellow-men to which he was accustomed in the -buildings he frequented. The breeze was fresh and tasted strong of salt. -It had a palpable vigor of its own. Not artificially intoxicating like a -stimulant, but with a gusty sting. It whipped his mind and brought it up -eager and sharp, like a trembling racehorse. - -That air—that makes men on steamers feel so ridiculously fit without -exercise, enabling them to eat and eat—tea, jam, pastry, steaks, cheeses, -and then sit and read all day in one steamer chair and be ravenous again! -If only he could sail on a ship, he thought. To feel so strong and finely -balanced—not, as usual, subject to his little moods of depression which -so often went hand in hand with indigestion, he had discovered—to feel -so well tuned! He had a vision of himself as he would stand on a ship—as -he had, on the only trip he had ever taken—in the very peak of the bow, -looking over and watching the tall prow sweep down on and devour the -unsuspecting patches of the sea. He remembered how the breeze was steady -in his face and how he used almost to taste it! His hair was worried -by the wind and he relished its swift buffets on his face as he stood -against it, drinking it in as a hot man drinks a running stream. What -nameless joy he felt, he now remembered; and how he used so to overflow -with something buoyant inside him that he would ecstatically smile. Well -tuned! And singing, like an old lyre at the touch! - -Well, if he could get to feeling like that he would give anything, he -said to himself in his conventional way—and suddenly he grew disgusted. -Give anything! Lord, he wouldn’t give up a month of his most valuable -time. Love the sea! He had been repeating to himself all during his -little outing that he loved the sea. He was one of those few who really -loved the sea. He felt that he understood it better than a good many -people. As though he knew anything about it, who had never gone to sea -and never would. His experience of it standing on the street-like decks -of a liner and watching it; thinking about it, he flattered himself, with -rather a light touch, as it were, but still from a poetic point of view. - -The light touch! Everything nowadays was written and spoken and even -thought of with a light touch. A light touch in connection with the sea! -The old sailing vessels—swift clippers around the horn; that was the -ocean! No drawing-room stuff about that. When the brutal masters carried -all the press of sail they could in those tremendous storms, till the -topmasts went and the gear came flying down like a thunderbolt and had -to be chopped away to save the ship. Trim ships where you worked beneath -the lash, and insubordination was best viewed from the yardarm. Ships -used to go down and never be heard from—often in those days. But the men -that lived were really children of the sea who knew its great aspects; -and they knew their ships, every inch of them, from their thin spars that -“shone like silver”, as the chantey says, to the bright copper on their -keels. - -The great longing, the parching thirst of a hothouse intellect for -hardship swept over him like a wave of the sea itself. Hardship assumed -an intrinsic value for him at once, as it had one winter in the South -when he missed savagely the bleak Januaries of his Northern home; as it -had when he read of the Homeric heroes who so relished battle, and the -brawn children of Thor, and Sir Lancelot with his great shoulders in -iron, oppressed and conquering. It seemed as though hardships were the -only road to reality, somehow. Hardships of the sea,—the grim knowledge -of experience; that would have given him something solid in his mind! -But none of that on the ocean now. Where there had been towers of canvas -(as he visualized it) now there were freighters. Clippers and freight -ships! The sea rather intriguing whimsical people like himself—when -once she held men until it was her will to fling them away! Whimsy! -What was this compared to a strong man’s desire? What was this careful -self-consciousness of his feelings to his grand impulses?—the humorous -affairs of life to the grim ones?—dilettantism to the austere compulsion -of a passion? - -While Daniel was working himself up in this manner, he was steering -straight out to sea, and, in doing so, overhauling a tramp steamer -that was starting on a voyage. He was coming abreast of what he later -called his fate. Upon impulse, he dared the wash of the boat when he -came opposite and ran in close along her side, slowing down so as to -keep pace for a while. She was old and scarred, with a dip in her middle -like an overworked horse’s back which seemed to give her a jaunty air. -Paint had not been wasted on her ramshackle sides, nor any white on her -cabin above, nor red on her rusty funnel. Filthy clothes, drying in the -sun, hung from clotheslines; a thick rope dragged over the side near the -stern and it splashed irregularly in the water. She was dilapidated. But -some of her crew were singing for some reason or other as they finished -stowing cargo, and the sight of the little boat facing outward and the -sight of the great, blank, capricious sea ahead waiting for her was -distinctly thrilling, particularly as a fog was coming up, making even -the horizon mysterious in its invisibility. - -What would it be like, Daniel wondered all of a sudden, if he were to -hail this boat and jump aboard? Often he had considered doing some quite -possible thing like this, such as getting off a Western train as it -stopped at a little, unknown town and—simply staying there, or chucking -his work some morning and going on the stage. But there he was again with -those light fancies of his. People like himself seemed to have their -individualities in glass cases, to be looked at like shell-flowers. What -was he, anyway, that he actually could not do what he wanted to? Why -should he be so bound, and he was bound, he knew, as if with iron bars. -Tied down. Slaves, slaves, slaves. People thought of doing this and -that—they still had impulses at least, thank God—and were powerless to do -them. There seemed no manhood left. People didn’t seem to be in control -of themselves any more. Freedom!—he wondered at the word. Oh, for a touch -of it—just a taste—just a whiff! Creatures in the grasp of something huge -and stolid! Damn those infernal practical considerations! What was the -world, a gigantic taskroom—an ogre-like mill to be turned? By heaven, he -must have a will! God knew he _must_ stand there free! He even looked -around wildly to assure himself that he was there alone and free. - -Then he stood up. There was the rope hanging over the side. He sprang for -it, clutched it, and swung there. - -There was no shield between him and a rasping sense of mortification as -he dragged himself spluttering and coughing into his motorboat once more -forty seconds later. He had so neatly proved what he had railed at in -this unusual seizure of the disease of spring, and so humorously. Had -staid old common sense ever had to deal so brazenly with an impulse as to -make a man jump into the sea? Damp physically, and with a real bitterness -in his heart at such a plain statement of affairs, the world seemed very -dark. Depression swooped down upon his mind like the swift black shadow -of a vulture, and as he made his way home for three hours it seemed to -be actually feeding on his nerves. It was that dark, stone-wall type -of depression which is unarguable and seems final—as though trusted -old hope had a limit which was suddenly glimpsed around a bend in the -road. It left no room for hypothesis; things were seen clearly to be -foundationless that had been rocks to the imagination. - -He resolved at any rate to bury this experience in his heart as a -tragic sort of trophy which should represent in its bitter essence all -the disgust with life that assails people during a lifetime. He had -nearly played a trick upon mortality, he reflected. A fine gesture had -been made, and he had snatched lustily for the unvouchsafed. It was an -affecting experience and one to be reverenced. But of course what really -happened was that he made a very good story out of it and one which -afforded intense amusement to his friends, though he was prone to shed a -mental tear as he told it now and then. - - W. T. BISSELL. - - - - -_Association_ - - - He sat across from me, one hand on chin, - The other, carrion-clawed, twitched side to side, - And I could see how brittle was his skin - Like crust of bread too long in oven dried. - We had been talking as two strangers will - At times. But just then something I had said - Had seemed to shake him like a fever-chill - The way he shook, the way his face went red. - - As I sat wondering why he let me see - This grief or shame which smote him to the core, - He slowly fluttered, took the wine from me, - Poured twice and drank; then filled his glass once more, - Smiled wistfully, and, raising up his head, - Told me that it was nothing I had said. - - MORRIS TYLER. - - - - -_Three Fables_ - - -I. - -I heard not long since the tale of a weary knight and his crippled -horse. It had come about, after days of long travel in search of a lost -princess, that the poor steed had worn away his shoes. Indeed, every -step now left a clot of blood in the dust of the highway. The knight, -realizing the suffering of his companion, dismounted and walked by his -side, vainly seeking for a smith. Finally, one night when both knew his -strength must be spent before the dawn, there gleamed a light in the -distance. With words of encouragement the knight urged the horse on to -a last effort. And his prayers were realized, for the light proved to -be that of a forge blazing against the darkness. In the doorway sat the -smith, drinking ale. When he saw the knight and his horse, he burst out -laughing. - -“Well, this is a prize,” he cried. - -The knight smiled. “You’re a great prize to us,” he answered, “for this -poor animal has plodded on through many days in great pain. Forge him the -best shoes you know how to.” - -At this the smith laughed all the louder. “I’d have you know, Sir -Knight,” he replied, “that I am Martin Barrow, the greatest smith who -ever blew a forge in all England!” - -“So much the better,” answered the other, for he had heard of Martin -Barrow. And, looking more carefully around, he saw that this was no -ordinary forge. Such huge bellows must for certain hold a whirlwind; the -anvil showed not a dent; and four hammers lay against the wall too heavy, -he thought, to be wielded by any man. “I beg you to proceed with your -business, Martin Barrow,” he went on, “for my horse needs help at once.” - -“Not I,” laughed the smith scornfully. “I have forged the greatest swords -that ever flashed in the sun. Mine are the horses’ shoes which have -fought through many a battle. Now is my rest. I do no more!” - -“But this forge,” cried the knight, “this anvil, these hammers—” - -“For the pleasure of the many travellers who come to look on the forge of -Martin Barrow!” So saying, the smith gulped down the last of his ale and -turned away. - -The knight flushed with anger, but he made no answer. Silently he took -the bridle of his horse and the two pushed out again into the night. -Neither had thought he could go further, but strength of the spirit is -a strange thing. Such courage is never without its reward, and they had -not gone far when there shone a faint glimmer by the roadside. The light -seemed too small at first to be that of a forge, but as they came nearer -the slow striking of a hammer echoed through the dark. Reaching the -doorway, the knight saw an old man pounding away at his anvil. - -“Good sir,” he said, as the smith paused in his work, “we have come far, -and my horse is in great pain. Will you please shoe him with the best -shoes you can forge?” - -“That I will, Sir Knight,” he replied, and quickly set about his work. -As he did so, the knight looked about him: he noticed the small little -fire, the chipped anvil, and one poor hammer. And the smith was a bent -old man—one who should long since have been awaiting in rest the near -approach of death. He thought of Martin Barrow—his shining forge, and his -glass of ale. - -Soon the horse was shod, and the knight offered the smith some silver -coins, all but one of which he refused. - -“Great thanks to you,” said the knight. “I have yet to meet as fine and -generous a smith. May I ask what name men call you by?” - -“I have no Christian name,” he answered, “but men call me the _bad -smith_.” And, looking down, the knight saw that the shoes were roughly -forged and poorly set in place. - -“Well, _bad smith_,” he replied, “you’ve done us both a great service—and -that, after all, is doing any task well.” And turning from the doorway, -the knight and his horse pushed out into the darkness again to continue -their quest. And although I never heard whether or not they found the -lost princess, I know they had found in the person of the _bad smith_ -something ten times more valuable. - - -II. - -By the rocky shore of a vast sea there once lived an old philosopher. As -long as men could remember, there he had dwelt in a stone castle built -far above upon a high cliff. Huge rocks for many miles out prevented all -approach to the shore by water. Once in a while a boat might be seen on -the distant horizon, but never had one ventured nearer. Back from the -coast stretched a dense forest inhabited not only by wildest monsters, -but also by demons and strange spells—though I am at a loss to imagine -how any man could have returned from such an Erebus to report his tale. -However that may be, the only access to the castle lay by a narrow, -dangerous path up the very side of the steep cliff. - -One might suppose that the old philosopher, so fortified against the -world, had as many hours to sit alone and think as his heart could -desire. But it was not so. The little path up the cliff had been worn -away by the feet of thousands of pilgrims—and that at the risk of their -lives. Even the death of four men in one year failed to diminish the ever -increasing number. The sand for miles along the shore had been pounded -into a hard, even road. The sun never rose that it did not light the path -to some figures plodding up the cliff. It never slipped to the west but -it touched the faces of those returning to their far-off cities—a fearful -tale upon their lips and wonder in their eyes. For the old philosopher -was accredited the wisest man in the world—nay, even the wisest man who -had ever walked upon the earth. There was no secret of the universe which -he had not fathomed. You might ask him what question you would, and -its darkest mystery would be at once revealed. What lay beyond the sea -which stretched from the foot of the cliff endlessly away no man but he -might say. For like his castle and the far horizon, Life and Death were -playthings to his genius. Exactly what he told his pilgrims I know not. -But it shall never be forgotten how king and peasant alike went away -marveling at the miracle they had witnessed, though their hearts, if they -knew it not, were no closer to the secret they sought. - -There was only one other human who dwelt in the great castle with the -philosopher. This was Endelhan, an old servant who had lived with his -master ever since the time—if there were such a time—when a whole day -passed without a knock at the stone gate. It was Endelhan who patiently -waited upon the other, caring for his slightest comforts. It was Endelhan -who met each pilgrim at the gate and led him quietly into his master’s -presence. There he would sit upon a stool close by, silently listening, -gravely staring upon scholar and fool. Little did he understand the -wisdom that he heard; the philosopher’s words to him were meaningless. -That he was a very great man Endelhan realized, but his mute affection -was born mainly of their long years in close contact together. Sometimes -a whole day would pass with no more than a few words between them. To the -philosopher Endelhan was a good servant—of low intelligence, to be sure, -but careful and satisfactory. To Endelhan his master was a feeble old man -whose care and comfort it was his duty to serve. - -One dark night they say a boat came in on the tide and slipped away again -before the dawn. The next day the pilgrims found the gate barred and -their calls unanswered. Slowly the word passed from land to land that -the old philosopher had uttered his last prophecy. And the dangerous -little path which so many had perilously climbed was gradually overgrown, -until to-day the castle stands upon the cliff inaccessible to all chance -travellers. - -One thing more may be added. When you, too, have slipped out with the -tide and sailed that sea, you will stand on some far shore before the -Master and that “goodly companie”. Surprising to say, you will find that -the old philosopher is not there. Asking patiently, you will meet one or -two who remember such a one—“wise in his own conceits”. That was long -ago; he has passed on. But lo! At the feet of the Master with silent lips -and eyes upon all who come sits Endelhan—faithful servant. - - -III. - -Prince Toldath stood before the King: - -“Most gracious Majesty, I have come a long way from my golden kingdom on -the Northern Shore. Through storms terrible even in imagination, over -mountain-passes ventured never yet by bravest men, across the length -of a desert which holds the bones of many of your gallant people have -I travelled. Yet the prize I seek is worth a whole life spent in such -journeys. My slaves lay before you a treasure which the gods themselves -might dream of: those silks have come from far Cathay; Earth gave up her -fairest secrets in revealing those priceless gems. Yet such a treasure is -small indeed compared to that I now would ask of you. Most mighty King, -my father is an old man, and it will not be long before his wide and rich -domains are mine. As you very likely have been told, I am accredited one -of the best swordsmen in our part of the world. And my distant travels -have brought me a good measure of knowledge and wisdom. O great King, the -prize I seek—my deepest and everlasting desire—is the hand of your only -daughter!” - -A hush was upon the court. All stared at this handsome prince who had -come so far in quest of their fair princess. Here, indeed, was a suitor -worthy at last. Brave and daring, he would succeed where so many before -him had failed. Hilnardees for once should taste defeat. Slowly the King -made answer—in the words he had addressed to numberless suitors in the -past. - -“Prince Toldath, we thank you for these lavish gifts which you have -bestowed upon us. And we acknowledge the honor you pay us in asking for -the hand of our only daughter. That your request may be granted depends -upon one thing alone, and that simple enough. Listen with care: You shall -travel eastward seven days, crossing the desert and plunging into a dense -forest. At night you shall rest—except for the seventh night, when you -shall push on after the fall of the sun. About the twelfth hour you will -come to a narrow, rapid stream. The name of this river is Hilnardees, -which means in our language ‘many-visioned’. On the west bank you will -find a small boat. Push out into the darkness, and without effort you -will be swept downstream with the current. It will not be far before you -come to a place where the river branches into three parts. In the dark -you will not know; the current will choose which one you shall follow. -And each of these three streams in turn branches into three more. Each -of those does the same, and so on indefinitely. Somewhere Hilnardees -empties into the Sea—no man knows where nor in how many places. Before -that, however, your boat will come to rest on the bank of one of the many -branches. There you shall see a vision of your own life—a living symbol -of what you yourself are. For Hilnardees is a blessed river, and the hand -of the gods is upon it. Many who have pushed out in the current have -never returned again to their homes, although rumors of their existence -in other parts of the world have later been reported. Such has been the -fate of most who have sought the hand of my daughter. Those who have come -back have told of strange and fitful sights. Go, Prince Toldath, if your -desire is as great as it was, and return to me, paddling slowly upstream -and crossing the forest and desert as before. May your vision prove -worthy of my daughter’s hand.” - -Prince Toldath smilingly bowed to the King. Here surely was no difficult -task, and the whole was likely enough a foolish legend. If there were any -truth in it, he need not doubt of a successful pilgrimage. If not, he -might invent all manner of splendid “visions” on his way back. Thus, on -the following morning he confidently set forth. - -All happened as the King had foretold. At midnight of the seventh day -he came upon Hilnardees, river of many visions. By the bank he found a -small boat in which he pushed out into the dark. Whether he was exhausted -from his travel or the river cast some strange spell upon him I know -not—nor did he. Many hours passed in dreams of his princess before he -was finally awakened by the sudden jolt of the boat as it struck the -sandy beach below the bank of the river. It was broad daylight and the -sun was high in the heavens. Before him rose a flight of marble steps. -Slowly realizing that he must have come to the end of his journey, he -pulled his boat upon the shore and mounted the steps. It was a glorious -sight that lay before him. Never in all his far travels had he seen -such shining beauty. Babylon in all its splendor could not have been -like this. Rushing through the open gates—completely forgetful of the -purport of his journey, the Prince found himself within a marble city. -With awed wonderment he walked through one street after another. At -every turn the beauty of architecture and sculpture surpassed the dreams -of the wildest poet. Towers and turrets on all sides sparkled in the -sunlight. His unheeded steps led him shortly to a wide square at the -center, where a fountain murmured as it played into a round pool. Then -it was that suddenly the Prince realized that the fountain was the only -sound he heard. The streets were empty. In his transfixed wonder he had -not noticed the deep silence which was upon the city. Not even the cry -of a bird was in the air. With ominous forebodings he entered one of the -largest buildings—surely the palace of the king. The great door swung -slowly open. Within was a grandeur and beauty akin to the exterior. No -court in the world was the equal of this. Through room after room he -marveled at the lavishness of paintings, and furniture, and ornament. -Strangest of all, it seemed as though the palace had been built but -yesterday. Time had left no touch upon it. So with the entire city. All -was polished and shining—an ordered perfection. - -Then fear seized upon the Prince. Wildly he dashed from the palace and -shrieked aloud in the square. Only the taunting echo of his voice laughed -back on all sides. Then the deep silence again. Turning, through one -building after another he desperately, madly searched—only to find the -same splendor, the same perfection. Finally, wearied, he sat by the edge -of the fountain—the lone bit of life in the whole city. Gazing into the -bright pool, he quickly laughed. Why, this was just a vision—a vision of -himself! Of course! Now he understood! This beauty—this shining glory was -his—_his!_ Could any prince ask more? With a wild thrill of exultation, -he ran through the gates down to the river, and leapt into his boat. - -Ten days later Prince Toldath stood once more before the King. Dressed -in his finest raiment, he smiled with easy confidence upon the assembled -court. Indeed, the great hall was crowded to the full, for rumor had -spread that Prince Toldath had seen a vision glorious enough to receive -the hand of any princess. - -“Prince Toldath,” said the King, “you have come back to our palace, -having carried out in detail what directions we gave you?” - -“I have, your Majesty.” - -“Prince Toldath, when the current swept your boat upon the bank of one of -the many branches of Hilnardees, what vision lay before you?” - -“Most mighty King,” cried the Prince, “I saw there a city of marble -flashing in the sun—a city more beautiful than any other in all the -world. As you know, I have travelled through many lands. Never before -have I walked in such awe and wonderment. To describe the glory of the -sparkling sunlight on the towers and turrets one would need a divine -language. Yet more surprising, Time had not come into those streets, for -all was as if it had been built yesterday—perfect to the last detail.” - -“And what manner of people did you meet with?” asked the King. - -“There were no people, your Majesty. A deep silence lay over all. But -if this be a vision of me—as I may scarcely believe, so rich was its -glory—then my princess and I shall bring life and breath into the square, -and the palace, and the temple. Great King, I await your decision.” - -As deep a silence was upon the court as ever that of the marble city. The -King—who was, as you have perceived, a very wise man—looked down at the -Prince. For many seconds he did not speak. Then he said very quietly: - -“Have you never heard, Prince Toldath, that the life of a city is its -soul?” - - * * * * * - -Some say the Prince married a rich countess in his own kingdom on the -Northern Shore and reigned happily many years. While others believe a -strange tale, saying that he drowned himself in the waters of Hilnardees, -river of many visions. - - WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR. - - - - -_Sonnet_ - - - Come, Death, be imminent while I carouse - To thee; press close against thy meagre lips - This brimming cup, in which my whole soul dips - Its daily ecstasy. Old loves, fierce vows, - All I lift up to thee. I will forget, - To see thy merriment, two merry eyes - And a voice’s laughter. I will grow so wise - That there will be no leisure for regret. - - Sweet Death, so swiftly was thy captive taken - He never knew—and now the Spring is here. - How he would smile to see the young leaves shaken - Whisperingly. He held the Summer dear.... - - Thou cursed Death, he was my very heart! - Set down the cup, I cannot play the part. - - FRANK D. ASHBURN. - - - - -_Song Before Dawn_ - - - I. - - What troubles you, my little one? - The dawn is far away. - Why should you struggle to be free - When mother folds you tenderly - Until the day? - O sleep for now, my little one— - The dawn is far away. - - II. - - You cannot rest, my precious one? - The dawn is yet to be. - A dream or two and day shall bring - The fleeting sunlight beckoning - From sea to sea. - O trust in mother, precious one— - The dawn is yet to be. - - III. - - How peaceful now you dream, my own— - The dawn is still afar. - O would that I might shelter you - Through all the day to guard anew - At even star! - O hush! Be brave, my frail heart— - The dawn is still afar! - - WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR. - - - - -To —— - - - Moist stars that glimmer on a midnight pool, - Those are your eyes. They seem to baffle Fate - In sheer serenity, as thought they wait - For things we dream not of, as though the spool - Of destiny turned slowly to a rule - Well known by them, as though mere love and hate - Were far below their grand all-seeing state - Of unimpassioned wisdom, clear and cool. - - Yet in full tragic curves those lips betray - Unsatiated sadness: dost foresee, - Perchance, an aged couple by the fire, - Love dead, and beauty turned to common clay? - Nay, we have song! Age brings no fears to me: - Time cannot stem the magic of the lyre! - - ARTHUR MILLIKEN. - - - - -_Stanza_ - - - To-morrow all the halo will be sped; - I will love you to-morrow truly. - To-night you are too beautiful to love: - Oh, raise your head - And let the moonlight we were speaking of - Light up your tresses where they fall unruly - Along your throat, and on your shoulder—so! - God! where the breathing-shadows come and go, - Just for to-night you have been visited - By more of eternity than you can know. - - D. G. CARTER. - - - - -_Sonnet_ - - - Many a man has found his lady fair, - Comparing her to flowers that blow in May. - Unskilled, unworthy as I am, I dare - Not set to paper words my heart would say. - I shall not liken thee to moon nor starlight, - Nor set thy vivid radiance by the sun, - Nor conjure thee by dusk or dawning farlight, - Nor name thy myriad virtues one by one. - Such singing never lay within my power; - I cannot call thee dear names others call. - Only in memory from hour to hour - I weave the loveliness thou lettest fall - Unheeded, gathering up the twisted strands - Of a tired heart, made silken in thy hands. - - FRANK D. ASHBURN. - - - - -_Lady of Kind Hands_ - - - Long ago to you I gave - All there was of me to give. - - Lady of Kind Hands, I gave - All the things I used to love - To attain my love for you; - And I ask that you will save, - So they may be found in you, - Surf the soft winds whisper of - Sleepily across the sea, - Star that slips athwart the blue, - And all Beauty lost to me. - - Long ago to you I gave - All there was of me to give. - - J. CROSBY BROWN, JR. - - - - -_Book Reviews_ - - -_Victoria._ By KNUT HAMSUN. (Knopf.) - -With the translation of _Victoria_ into English, Knut Hamsun demands -again our serious consideration. He is universally recognized as the -author of _Growth of the Soil_, _Pan_, and _Hunger_. In 1920 he received -the Nobel Prize for literature; a great distinction for any writer. That -fact alone should fascinate us into searching out his latest translated -novel. - -_Victoria_ is a tragical romance dealing frankly with the hopeless mutual -love of an aristocrat and one of lower caste. The plot is obviously -commonplace; but Knut Hamsun has done with it what few other men could -do: excited and maintained interest. To emphasize these qualities there -must be some twist in his technique, some trick in his style. Perhaps -this is it:— - -He chooses an incident, relatively unimportant for the progress of the -plot, and describes it distinctly in short, rapidly moving sentences. -Action always commands inquiry into the who and the why. Then he presents -the necessary description of the character, his situation, and any other -details that he deems necessary. And in this last feature Knut Hamsun is -a master craftsman. Interest is maintained greatly by the refinement, -and consequently the confinement, of description. He is a poet by divine -right, some one has said. True. And he is moreover a modern poet, abiding -by the same principles that Ezra Pound and his followers recognize: -namely, to present instead of to describe; to give direct treatment to -the “thing”, whether subject or objective; and to compose in musical -phrases. - -_Victoria_ is a poetical novel with a strange love for its theme. -Formerly Knut Hamsun has been expansive, taking life as a whole for his -study; but now he is dealing with love alone, and is therefore able to -cast off much of the commonplace in details. He asks, “Ah, what is love?” -and gives many conjectures on it. “Love was a music hot as hell which -stirs even old men’s hearts to dance. It was like the daisy that opens -wide to the coming night, and it was like the anemone that closes at a -breath and dies at a touch. It might ruin a man, raise him up again and -brand him anew; it might love me to-day, you to-morrow and him to-morrow -night, so inconstant was it. - -“But again it might hold like an unbreakable seal and burn with an -unquenchable flame even to the hour of death, for so eternal was it. - -“Does it not lead the friar to slink into closed gardens and glue his -eyes to the windows of the sleepers at night? And does it not possess the -nun with folly and darken the understanding of the princess? It casts the -king’s head to the ground so that his hair sweeps all the dust of the -highway, and he whispers unseemly words to himself the while and puts out -his tongue. - -“No, no, it was again something very different and it was like nothing -else in the whole world. It came to earth one spring night when a youth -saw two eyes, two eyes. He gazed and saw. He kissed a mouth, and then it -was as though two lights met in his heart, a sun flashing towards a star. -He fell into an embrace, and then he heard and saw no more in all the -world.” - -Is there more beautiful treatment in all prose? - -The tragical element enters into the form of fate. The Miller’s boy is -not to have that love fulfilled, the daughter of the castle shall have -it snatched away from her by death; the world is an unhappy place full -of all beauties. Knut Hamsun the fatalist! Miss Larsen points out in her -exhaustive study of the man that there is no reason why the novel should -have been a tragedy except that, like Hardy, Hamsun believed during -the period of his life when the book was written that no joy was to be -attained. When he saw happiness coming towards any character he would -say, “Ah, this must not be! It is not the order of things.” And that -would end it. Yet there is strong foundation for an opinion that the -tragedy enhances the pathetic charm of the book. - -It is Knut Hamsun’s finest romance. Is there any more to say? - - A. H. C. - - -_Blackguard._ By MAXWELL BODENHEIM. (Covici-McGee.) - -Perhaps the most startling quality of _Blackguard_ is its graphic -lucidity of language. Consider this description of a man sobbing: “It was -as though a martyr were licking up the blood on his wounds and spitting -it out in long gurgles of lunatic delight.” The whole story is told with -such compelling clarity of phrase, and Bodenheim has shifted his genius -for acid wording from poetry to prose without the slightest apparent -misgiving as to outcome. Result: a luminous biography of an introspective -young author that in some ways approaches the manner of James Joyce. - -The book concerns the poetic and amorous development of Carl Felman, an -aspiring scribbler who stoops casually to thieving rather than enter its -father’s business of whiskey-selling. His fight against the world, and -particularly against his mother, who had a body “on which plumpness and -angles met in a transfigured prizefight of lines”, is rendered doubly -difficult by his own discriminating soul. He is not willing to give and -take, but is concerned with the taking only. In the end he achieves some -tranquility of mind—in a manner strange enough to warrant reading about -it. - -Bodenheim will not cheer you up; rather will he wake you up. And for -rhymesters who aspire to better verse or don’t know when to quit—here is -an eye-opener that should not be passed by too lightly. - - J. R. C. - - -_Black Oxen._ By GERTRUDE ATHERTON. (Boni & Liveright.) - -The notion of rejuvenation is not a new one, and the theme of -sophisticated womanhood reverting to romantic young love is not -unprecedented. In _Black Oxen_ Mrs. Atherton has successfully disguised -the problem of the first with the accoutrements of the second. - -The hero, Lee Clavering, is a scintillating “colyumist” whose literary -worth is not restricted by journalism and whose ideals are not cramped by -the Young Intellectual atmosphere of the Algonquin Group. - -Mary Zattiany, the much-discussed heroine, is an American woman who -married a foreign nobleman, dazzled the European courts and salons with -her beauty and wit, and, after a process of re-upholstering, returned to -New York, where she falls in love with the young journalist. - -The motivation of the book is centered in the translated personality of -the heroine, and Mrs. Atherton’s treatment of feminine psychology is -exceedingly dextrous. But a large part of the story’s merit consists -in the cross-section of metropolitan activity at the margin where -contemporary artists enjoy social registration. - -_Black Oxen_ is primarily a woman’s novel. Its theme will always be -close to the heart of womankind, and Mrs. Atherton has added a more than -feminine touch by leaving the problem unsolved. When, at the end of the -book, Mary obeys the call of European duty and closes the taxi door in -the face of transcendent love, the reader continues to wonder whether or -not rejuvenescence is a good thing. - -The author has employed an idealized “colyumist” as a foil. Clavering’s -sudden success as a playwright is dubious. And the ending is too -obviously an escape from the lived-happily-ever-after solution. But one -loses sight of these technical anomalies in the impetus of the romance, -the deftness of satire, and the intricacies of the heroine’s strange -predicament. - -Mrs. Atherton, in her first treatment of Eastern “civilization”, has -had the good grace to sublimate sentimentality without destroying its -perennial charm. - - H. W. H. - - - - -_Editor’s Table_ - - -“It’s about time you did some work around here,” said Cherrywold, as -Ariel arrived only one hour and fifteen minutes late. - -“Oh, no, not nearly!” remonstrated that irresponsible virtuoso. - -“You can write the Editor’s Table,” growled Mr. and Mrs. Stevens -patronizingly, who had come back from New York with a first edition of -Coleridge and couldn’t forget it. - -At this point Rabnon, the Brushwood Boy, was detected trying to set fire -to the LIT. office with his cigarette stub. As the office was still damp -from the presence of the preceding Board, no conflagration ensued. In the -confusion, however, three poems by Freshmen were accidentally accepted. - -Little Laird Fauntleroy wrote the Table of Contents laboriously, being -jumped on every minute or so for misspellings which he was expected to -commit, but which he carefully disguised by writing illegibly. Thus the -time wore on. - -“What would you do with a man who perpetrated this?” expostulated -Cherrywold, holding up a poem with the inscription: “I’m very much afraid -that this is worth publishing—Mercury.” - -“It _shows_ he has no soul!” exulted Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. “No one with a -soul could have a face like his, anyway.” - -“No personalities in Art,” cautioned Rabnon the politic. - -In walked Roland at this juncture, smoking a poor cigar and holding in -his nervous hands a large sheet of paper with a one-word correction of -his latest poem. - -“Here’s the man who wrote a sonnet in six-foot lines!” Han cried. A -chorus of groans and hisses greeted the heeler. - -“Any defense?” asked Cherrywold, while Han prepared to hit Roland over -the head with his stick. - -“He’s just been elected Chairman of the _News_,” said Mr. and Mrs. -Stevens in explanation. - -“What’s the _News_?” inquired Han, hand to ear. - -A wild scramble followed. Roland, vilified by the names “Traitor!”—“Snake -in the Grass!”—“Turncoat!” ran for his life. - -“He got away,” Cherrywold panted, his fair face flushed with exertion. - -“That’s all right,” said Han; “I couldn’t have spelled his name, anyway.” - - ARIEL. - - - - -_Yale Lit. 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In every feature of construction and every phase of -performance the Nash Six leads the field. - -THE NASH MOTORS COMPANY - -KENOSHA, WISCONSIN - -FOURS _and_ SIXES - -_Prices range from $915 to $2190, f. o. b. factory_ - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE -(VOL. LXXXVIII, NO. 9, JUNE 1923) *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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- font-size: 250%; - line-height: 0.85em; -} - -table { - margin: 1em auto 1em auto; - max-width: 40em; - border-collapse: collapse; -} - -table.mh { - width: 100%; - max-width: 100%; -} - -table.mh td { - width: 33%; -} - -td { - padding-left: 0.25em; - padding-right: 0.25em; - vertical-align: top; -} - -.tdc { - text-align: center; -} - -.tdr { - text-align: right; -} - -.tdpg { - vertical-align: bottom; - text-align: right; -} - -.adbox { - margin: 1em auto; - border: double black; - max-width: 30em; - padding: 0.5em; -} - -.author { - text-align: right; - margin-right: 1em; - font-size: 85%; -} - -.center { - text-align: center; - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.cover-inner { - margin: auto; - border: thin solid black; - padding: 0.25em; -} - -.cover { - margin: auto; - border: 4px solid black; - max-width: 30em; - padding: 0.5em; -} - -.cover .spacer { - margin-left: 22em; -} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; - max-width: 100%; -} - -.larger { - font-size: 150%; -} - -.masthead { - width: 40em; - margin: auto; - border-top: 3px solid black; - border-bottom: 1px solid black; -} - -.masthead-inner { - margin-top: 0.25em; - margin-bottom: 0.25em; - width: 100%; - border-top: 1px solid black; - border-bottom: 3px solid black; -} - -.mid { - font-size: 125%; -} - -.mt2 { - margin-top: 2em; -} - -.noindent { - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.pagenum { - position: absolute; - right: 4%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; -} - -.poetry-container { - text-align: center; - margin: auto; - max-width: 30em; -} - -.poetry { - display: inline-block; - text-align: left; -} - -.poetry .stanza { - margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em; -} - -.poetry .verse { - padding-left: 3em; -} - -.poetry .indent0 { - text-indent: -3em; -} - -.poetry .indent2 { - text-indent: -2em; -} - -.poetry .indent4 { - text-indent: -1em; -} - -.poetry .indent6 { - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.poetry .dropcap { - font-size: 250%; - line-height: 0.85em; - vertical-align: middle; -} - -.right { - text-align: right; -} - -.smaller { - font-size: 80%; -} - -.smcap { - font-variant: small-caps; - font-style: normal; -} - -.spacer { - margin-left: 3em; -} - -.x-ebookmaker img { - max-width: 100%; - width: auto; - height: auto; -} - -.x-ebookmaker .poetry { - display: block; - margin-left: 1.5em; -} - -.x-ebookmaker p.dropcap:first-letter { - float: none; - margin: 0; - font-size: 100%; -} - - </style> - </head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. LXXXVIII, No. 9, June 1923), by Students of Yale</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. LXXXVIII, No. 9, June 1923)</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Students of Yale</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 13, 2022 [eBook #68518]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: hekula03 and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE (VOL. LXXXVIII, NO. 9, JUNE 1923) ***</div> - -<div class="cover"> - -<div class="cover-inner"> - -<p class="center smaller">Vol. LXXXVIII <span class="spacer">No. 9</span></p> - -<p class="center mt2 larger"><span class="smaller">The</span><br /> -Yale Literary Magazine</p> - -<p class="center mid"><span class="smaller">Conducted by the</span><br /> -Students of Yale University.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/cover-img.jpg" width="400" height="375" alt="" /> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Dum mens grata manet, nomen laudesque <span class="smcap">Yalenses</span></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Cantabunt <span class="smcap">Soboles</span>, unanimique <span class="smcap">Patres</span>.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;"> -<img src="images/cover-line.jpg" width="200" height="15" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="center">June, 1923.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;"> -<img src="images/cover-line.jpg" width="200" height="15" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="center">New Haven: Published by the Editors.<br /> -<span class="smaller">Printed at the Van Dyck Press, 121-123 Olive St., New Haven.</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;"> -<img src="images/cover-line.jpg" width="200" height="15" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="center">Price: Thirty-five Cents.</p> - -<p class="center smaller"><i>Entered as second-class matter at the New Haven Post Office.</i></p> - -</div> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center"><b>ESTABLISHED 1818</b></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/ad-brooks.jpg" width="500" height="200" alt="Brooks Brothers, -CLOTHING, Gentlemen’s Furnishing Goods." /> -</div> - -<p class="center"><b>MADISON AVENUE COR. FORTY-FOURTH STREET -NEW YORK</b></p> - -<p class="center"><i>Telephone Murray Hill 8800</i></p> - -<p class="center mid">Flannels for Town and Country</p> - -<ul class="center"> -<li>Summer Furnishings</li> -<li>Straw and Panama Hats</li> -<li>Russia, Calf and Buckskin Shoes</li> -<li>Travelling Kits</li> -</ul> - -<p class="center"><i>Send for “Comparisons”</i></p> - -<p class="center"><b><span class="mid">BOSTON</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Tremont cor. Boylston</span></b></p> - -<p class="center"><b><span class="mid">NEWPORT</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">220 Bellevue Avenue</span></b></p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>THE YALE CO-OP.</b></p> - -<p>A purchasing agent for the students and -Faculty, and distributor of Standard Merchandise -on a Co-operative basis.</p> - -<p>Thirty-eight years of service to over 30,000 -members.</p> - -<p>Larger stocks carried, and mail order business -increasing every year.</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h1>THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE</h1> - -<h2 class="nobreak">Contents</h2> - -<p class="center">JUNE, 1923</p> - -</div> - -<table summary="Contents"> - <tr> - <td>Leader</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">David Gillis Carter</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Leader">283</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Valediction</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Herbert W. Hartman, Jr.</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Valediction">285</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>The Wind on the Sea</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">W. T. Bissell</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#The_Wind_On_the_Sea">286</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Association</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Morris Tyler</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Association">291</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Three Fables</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Walter Edwards Houghton, Jr.</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Three_Fables">292</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Sonnet</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Frank D. Ashburn</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Sonnet1">300</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Song Before Dawn</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Walter Edwards Houghton, Jr.</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Song_Before_Dawn">301</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>To ——</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Arthur Milliken</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#To">302</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Stanza</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">D. G. Carter</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Stanza">303</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Sonnet</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Frank D. Ashburn</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Sonnet2">304</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Lady of Kind Hands</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">J. Crosby Brown, Jr.</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Lady_of_Kind_Hands">305</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><i>Book Reviews</i></td> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Book_Reviews">307</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><i>Editor’s Table</i></td> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Editors_Table">310</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_283"></a>[283]</span></p> - -<h2>The Yale Literary Magazine</h2> - -<div class="masthead"> - -<div class="masthead-inner"> - -<table summary=" " class="mh"> - <tr> - <td><span class="smcap">Vol. LXXXVIII</span></td> - <td class="tdc">JUNE, 1923</td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">No. 9</span></td> - </tr> -</table> - -</div> - -<div class="masthead-inner"> - -<p class="center"><i>EDITORS</i></p> - -<table summary=" "> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="3">WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td colspan="2">LAIRD SHIELDS GOLDSBOROUGH</td> - <td class="tdr">DAVID GILLIS CARTER</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>MORRIS TYLER</td> - <td colspan="2" class="tdr">NORMAN REGINALD JAFFRAY</td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p class="center"><i>BUSINESS MANAGERS</i></p> - -<table summary=" "> - <tr> - <td>GEORGE W. P. HEFFELFINGER</td> - <td> </td> - <td>WALTER CRAFTS</td> - </tr> -</table> - -</div> - -</div> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Leader"><i>Leader</i></h2> - -</div> - -<p class="dropcap">Probably one in every ten men brought up in a cultured -environment has written, at some youthful period or other, -sentimental verse. Such product is in any prep.-school paper; -a few brilliant or hard working youngsters win prizes each year -for the best “poems” of their classes. But too many of these -prodigies, because they are one in ten, are convinced that they are -endowed with the powers of a poet. They cannot realize that -riming is to be outgrown at adolescence, just as other games are. -Since some grown men continue to write poetry, and no one -continues to rollerskate, they put off rollerskating as a childish -thing, but they keep puttering away over platitudes “To ——” -and to Spring. They have not yet come fully into their manhood.</p> - -<p>Personally, I should prefer them to become professional rollerskaters, -for then they could do no harm. Instead, they join the -group of “younger <i>litterati</i>” of college, and play the artist as an -extra-curriculum means to distinction, bringing down an undeserved -indictment upon whatever men there happen to be with -music in their hearts, and with something to say. The university<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_284"></a>[284]</span> -which most desires to honor its true artists finds itself rewarding -a kindergarten Greenwich Village for sentimentality that will be -forgotten before the quickness of time has killed it. “<i>Litterati</i>” -thus has become to others a name of derision, and “he heels the -Lizzie Club” is a taunt. Especially, a magazine founded for the -sincere promotion of literary expression is in danger before these -men with the trick of verse and a desire for prominence.</p> - -<p>It has become, therefore, the duty of the <span class="smcap">Lit.</span> to defend itself, -and to stand guard for the rest of the College, against this tendency -to dilettantism, even while it welcomes to its pages the -writer who is eager to learn and practice expression. Such a task -is difficult, I acknowledge, because it involves a judgment between -boys by boys, but it is not impossible. We have had enough poets -at Yale in the past few years to be able to distinguish them generally -from the poetasters, and if a fake slips by now and then, -time betrays him and the laurels he has won. Many attain a kind -of prominence that is strangely akin to that of a rollerskater who -has taken a spill.</p> - -<p>Yet it might be well for those interested in Yale literature to -look suspiciously at the number of undergraduates who are <span class="smcap">Lit.</span> -heelers only when it is profitable, who drop out—never to write -again—when the competition is crowded, or who begin to write -when it is seen that there is to be a vacancy on the Board. They -are unquestionably with us, accomplishing nothing more than to -disgust and alienate those who really desire to write. Unquestionably, -such an element is exceedingly bad for Yale, if Yale -intends to be any kind of a force in literature. If the <span class="smcap">Lit.</span> Board -and kindred honors are to mean more than a badge placed somewhere -on a college boy’s anatomy, we must show the pretender -that he is out of place.</p> - -<p>Of course, this must not lead to the discouragement of anyone -with the slightest itching of the pen. It is the man who writes -badly, yet for the sheer and indescribable love of writing, who -should resent most the prostitution of our literary organizations, -for to the “passionate few” creating is serious, joyous business. -The “passionate few” must direct public sentiment against those -who would play it as a game in the childish politics of the University.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_285"></a>[285]</span> -We must not permit a false intelligentsia to become -associated with Yale. We cannot allow clever youngsters, fired -with the aspiration of a charm for their watch-chains, to hack out -verses in the feverish night before a makeup. However few, and -however dry, the pages of the <span class="smcap">Lit.</span> may be, we want them to contain -the result of sincere emotion; we want the author to have -given the best of his ability toward making his contribution acceptable -by any editor. This is the only way a <i>literary</i> magazine can -be written.</p> - -<p class="author">DAVID GILLIS CARTER.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Valediction"><i>Valediction</i></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="dropcap">H</span>ere where our hearts respond to lovers’ cries</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With ready swiftness, where our laughters leap</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From our lips, shall we not resolutely keep</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This boyhood, looking on stars with boyish eyes?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rapture, we know, grows old and subtly dies</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Within us,—this much we know, and wisely creep</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Away from age lest we disturb his sleep</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Where Youth intolerably weeping lies.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Is this our portion? Shall we not go far</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Beyond this presence, bearing our flags unfurled</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Exultantly beyond some alien hill</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Of dreams?—rise up, and up, and up, until</div> - <div class="verse indent4">This place we knew must seem a sorry world</div> - <div class="verse indent6">And the old earth a too familiar star?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="author">HERBERT W. HARTMAN, JR.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_286"></a>[286]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Wind_On_the_Sea"><i>The Wind On the Sea</i></h2> - -</div> - -<p class="dropcap">A fresh wind from the ocean made the waves sparkle when -Daniel took his cruise. He was on a solitary tour of New -York Harbor in a hired motorboat, his tribute to the general -pleasantness of a spring day out of doors, balmy, yet with sufficient -air. A motorboat was not, he reflected, as attractive to a -lover of the sea as a sailboat, but it enabled him to poke around -the arms of the port more satisfactorily. Today he set off down -the harbor with the breeze in his face.</p> - -<p>At first he passed close to the docks of the enormous ships, -some of which were so long their shapely stems reached far out -into the stream. Nothing was so exciting as seeing their masts -and the tops of their huge funnels over the top of a dock. It -reminded him of a glimpse he had had of the tall, delicate spars -of sailing vessels over the roofs of a seacoast town. The realization -of being on the immediate threshold of the romantic sea is -irresistible in its rich suggestions, linking the most prosaic person -for a moment with strange places, hitherto only imagined, and -possibilities of adventure, startling even at a distance from the -point of view of ordinary life. Daniel thought about this and -other theories of his concerning the sea as his boat sauntered past -the imposing liners which so engrossed his attention. Their sharp, -carefully flaring bows and the suggestion of velocity in their -slanting rigging attracted him. One was just docking as he went -by. It was huge, and seemed a city with a host of tugs like parasites -slowly pushing it around. He could never get over the size -of them. It seemed like magic,—this, building a community that -floated so snugly on the water, the four red funnels above adding -the emblem of something powerful in its compactness. Yet in -spite of their size, the steamers seemed at a distance slim and -graceful, essentially ships and obviously made to deal with the -exacting ocean. Daniel saw liners with more penetrating eyes -than the ordinary casual observer, he was sure.</p> - -<p>It was not long before he was off down the harbor away from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_287"></a>[287]</span> -the docks. Here the waves danced to the breeze among the little -boats which carried on the teeming local traffic of the port, rushing -back and forth like water-bugs on a pond. The vessels that were -anchored strained at the ends of taut hawsers with the wind and -tide both coming up the bay. Over near the farther shore against -the sun, a great ship was moving down, a massive black shadow -sliding imperiously out to sea. He steered the launch near the -anchored vessels, under their high sterns. Reading their names -was a fascinating diversion for an imaginative person like himself, -he thought. Here was the “George B. White” of Jersey City, -near it the “Orphan” of Bombay; here a sloppy tramp from -Beirut, there an empty freighter of Cape Town; Japanese and -Chinese and Javanese vessels were there whose names he could -not read, and a little ship from the Piraeus, laden with smells -from Athens—dirt from her gutters and hovels, and dust from the -Acropolis.</p> - -<p>Well, well, what a highway the sea was, after all. It was fascinating, -the harbor, fascinating! These great ships always sailing -out on voyages that somehow still seemed perilous, and others, -looking—to the imagination, at least—weatherbeaten, coming in -from foreign lands.</p> - -<p>He turned and headed out past the narrows to the slow dips of -the ground swell, powerful, but almost at peace for the moment, -which his little boat climbed and descended like smooth, gentle -hills. The sun still sparkled, and here the water slapped more -vigorously against the sides of the boat, throwing flecks of spray -out and whirling back some of them to sting his face. He was -getting gradually drunk, he concluded. Certainly the spaciousness -of everything around him was going to his head. But it was, he -later decided, really the smell of the air that did it. No sweet -gasoline-sick atmosphere of streets out here, nor the faint odor of -millions of his fellow-men to which he was accustomed in the -buildings he frequented. The breeze was fresh and tasted strong -of salt. It had a palpable vigor of its own. Not artificially -intoxicating like a stimulant, but with a gusty sting. It whipped -his mind and brought it up eager and sharp, like a trembling -racehorse.</p> - -<p>That air—that makes men on steamers feel so ridiculously fit<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_288"></a>[288]</span> -without exercise, enabling them to eat and eat—tea, jam, pastry, -steaks, cheeses, and then sit and read all day in one steamer chair -and be ravenous again! If only he could sail on a ship, he -thought. To feel so strong and finely balanced—not, as usual, -subject to his little moods of depression which so often went -hand in hand with indigestion, he had discovered—to feel so well -tuned! He had a vision of himself as he would stand on a ship—as -he had, on the only trip he had ever taken—in the very peak -of the bow, looking over and watching the tall prow sweep down -on and devour the unsuspecting patches of the sea. He remembered -how the breeze was steady in his face and how he used -almost to taste it! His hair was worried by the wind and he -relished its swift buffets on his face as he stood against it, drinking -it in as a hot man drinks a running stream. What nameless joy -he felt, he now remembered; and how he used so to overflow with -something buoyant inside him that he would ecstatically smile. -Well tuned! And singing, like an old lyre at the touch!</p> - -<p>Well, if he could get to feeling like that he would give anything, -he said to himself in his conventional way—and suddenly he grew -disgusted. Give anything! Lord, he wouldn’t give up a month -of his most valuable time. Love the sea! He had been repeating -to himself all during his little outing that he loved the sea. He -was one of those few who really loved the sea. He felt that he -understood it better than a good many people. As though he -knew anything about it, who had never gone to sea and never -would. His experience of it standing on the street-like decks of -a liner and watching it; thinking about it, he flattered himself, -with rather a light touch, as it were, but still from a poetic point -of view.</p> - -<p>The light touch! Everything nowadays was written and spoken -and even thought of with a light touch. A light touch in connection -with the sea! The old sailing vessels—swift clippers -around the horn; that was the ocean! No drawing-room stuff -about that. When the brutal masters carried all the press of sail -they could in those tremendous storms, till the topmasts went and -the gear came flying down like a thunderbolt and had to be chopped -away to save the ship. Trim ships where you worked beneath the -lash, and insubordination was best viewed from the yardarm. Ships<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_289"></a>[289]</span> -used to go down and never be heard from—often in those days. -But the men that lived were really children of the sea who knew -its great aspects; and they knew their ships, every inch of them, -from their thin spars that “shone like silver”, as the chantey says, -to the bright copper on their keels.</p> - -<p>The great longing, the parching thirst of a hothouse intellect -for hardship swept over him like a wave of the sea itself. Hardship -assumed an intrinsic value for him at once, as it had one -winter in the South when he missed savagely the bleak Januaries -of his Northern home; as it had when he read of the Homeric -heroes who so relished battle, and the brawn children of Thor, -and Sir Lancelot with his great shoulders in iron, oppressed and -conquering. It seemed as though hardships were the only road -to reality, somehow. Hardships of the sea,—the grim knowledge -of experience; that would have given him something solid in his -mind! But none of that on the ocean now. Where there had -been towers of canvas (as he visualized it) now there were -freighters. Clippers and freight ships! The sea rather intriguing -whimsical people like himself—when once she held men until it -was her will to fling them away! Whimsy! What was this -compared to a strong man’s desire? What was this careful self-consciousness -of his feelings to his grand impulses?—the humorous -affairs of life to the grim ones?—dilettantism to the austere -compulsion of a passion?</p> - -<p>While Daniel was working himself up in this manner, he was -steering straight out to sea, and, in doing so, overhauling a tramp -steamer that was starting on a voyage. He was coming abreast -of what he later called his fate. Upon impulse, he dared the wash -of the boat when he came opposite and ran in close along her side, -slowing down so as to keep pace for a while. She was old and -scarred, with a dip in her middle like an overworked horse’s back -which seemed to give her a jaunty air. Paint had not been wasted -on her ramshackle sides, nor any white on her cabin above, nor red -on her rusty funnel. Filthy clothes, drying in the sun, hung -from clotheslines; a thick rope dragged over the side near the -stern and it splashed irregularly in the water. She was dilapidated. -But some of her crew were singing for some reason or other as -they finished stowing cargo, and the sight of the little boat facing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_290"></a>[290]</span> -outward and the sight of the great, blank, capricious sea ahead -waiting for her was distinctly thrilling, particularly as a fog was -coming up, making even the horizon mysterious in its invisibility.</p> - -<p>What would it be like, Daniel wondered all of a sudden, if he -were to hail this boat and jump aboard? Often he had considered -doing some quite possible thing like this, such as getting off a -Western train as it stopped at a little, unknown town and—simply -staying there, or chucking his work some morning and going on -the stage. But there he was again with those light fancies of his. -People like himself seemed to have their individualities in glass -cases, to be looked at like shell-flowers. What was he, anyway, -that he actually could not do what he wanted to? Why should he -be so bound, and he was bound, he knew, as if with iron bars. -Tied down. Slaves, slaves, slaves. People thought of doing this -and that—they still had impulses at least, thank God—and were -powerless to do them. There seemed no manhood left. People -didn’t seem to be in control of themselves any more. Freedom!—he -wondered at the word. Oh, for a touch of it—just a taste—just -a whiff! Creatures in the grasp of something huge and -stolid! Damn those infernal practical considerations! What was -the world, a gigantic taskroom—an ogre-like mill to be turned? -By heaven, he must have a will! God knew he <i>must</i> stand there -free! He even looked around wildly to assure himself that he was -there alone and free.</p> - -<p>Then he stood up. There was the rope hanging over the side. -He sprang for it, clutched it, and swung there.</p> - -<p>There was no shield between him and a rasping sense of mortification -as he dragged himself spluttering and coughing into his -motorboat once more forty seconds later. He had so neatly proved -what he had railed at in this unusual seizure of the disease of -spring, and so humorously. Had staid old common sense ever -had to deal so brazenly with an impulse as to make a man jump -into the sea? Damp physically, and with a real bitterness in his -heart at such a plain statement of affairs, the world seemed very -dark. Depression swooped down upon his mind like the swift -black shadow of a vulture, and as he made his way home for -three hours it seemed to be actually feeding on his nerves. It -was that dark, stone-wall type of depression which is unarguable<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_291"></a>[291]</span> -and seems final—as though trusted old hope had a limit which -was suddenly glimpsed around a bend in the road. It left no room -for hypothesis; things were seen clearly to be foundationless that -had been rocks to the imagination.</p> - -<p>He resolved at any rate to bury this experience in his heart as -a tragic sort of trophy which should represent in its bitter essence -all the disgust with life that assails people during a lifetime. He -had nearly played a trick upon mortality, he reflected. A fine -gesture had been made, and he had snatched lustily for the unvouchsafed. -It was an affecting experience and one to be reverenced. -But of course what really happened was that he made a -very good story out of it and one which afforded intense amusement -to his friends, though he was prone to shed a mental tear -as he told it now and then.</p> - -<p class="author">W. T. BISSELL.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Association"><i>Association</i></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="dropcap">H</span>e sat across from me, one hand on chin,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The other, carrion-clawed, twitched side to side,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I could see how brittle was his skin</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Like crust of bread too long in oven dried.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We had been talking as two strangers will</div> - <div class="verse indent0">At times. But just then something I had said</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Had seemed to shake him like a fever-chill</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The way he shook, the way his face went red.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">As I sat wondering why he let me see</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This grief or shame which smote him to the core,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He slowly fluttered, took the wine from me,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Poured twice and drank; then filled his glass once more,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Smiled wistfully, and, raising up his head,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Told me that it was nothing I had said.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="author">MORRIS TYLER.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_292"></a>[292]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Three_Fables"><i>Three Fables</i></h2> - -</div> - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">I heard not long since the tale of a weary knight and his -crippled horse. It had come about, after days of long travel -in search of a lost princess, that the poor steed had worn away his -shoes. Indeed, every step now left a clot of blood in the dust of -the highway. The knight, realizing the suffering of his companion, -dismounted and walked by his side, vainly seeking for a -smith. Finally, one night when both knew his strength must be -spent before the dawn, there gleamed a light in the distance. With -words of encouragement the knight urged the horse on to a last -effort. And his prayers were realized, for the light proved to be -that of a forge blazing against the darkness. In the doorway sat -the smith, drinking ale. When he saw the knight and his horse, -he burst out laughing.</p> - -<p>“Well, this is a prize,” he cried.</p> - -<p>The knight smiled. “You’re a great prize to us,” he answered, -“for this poor animal has plodded on through many days in great -pain. Forge him the best shoes you know how to.”</p> - -<p>At this the smith laughed all the louder. “I’d have you know, -Sir Knight,” he replied, “that I am Martin Barrow, the greatest -smith who ever blew a forge in all England!”</p> - -<p>“So much the better,” answered the other, for he had heard of -Martin Barrow. And, looking more carefully around, he saw -that this was no ordinary forge. Such huge bellows must for -certain hold a whirlwind; the anvil showed not a dent; and four -hammers lay against the wall too heavy, he thought, to be wielded -by any man. “I beg you to proceed with your business, Martin -Barrow,” he went on, “for my horse needs help at once.”</p> - -<p>“Not I,” laughed the smith scornfully. “I have forged the -greatest swords that ever flashed in the sun. Mine are the -horses’ shoes which have fought through many a battle. Now -is my rest. I do no more!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_293"></a>[293]</span></p> - -<p>“But this forge,” cried the knight, “this anvil, these hammers—”</p> - -<p>“For the pleasure of the many travellers who come to look on -the forge of Martin Barrow!” So saying, the smith gulped down -the last of his ale and turned away.</p> - -<p>The knight flushed with anger, but he made no answer. Silently -he took the bridle of his horse and the two pushed out again into -the night. Neither had thought he could go further, but strength -of the spirit is a strange thing. Such courage is never without -its reward, and they had not gone far when there shone a faint -glimmer by the roadside. The light seemed too small at first to -be that of a forge, but as they came nearer the slow striking of a -hammer echoed through the dark. Reaching the doorway, the -knight saw an old man pounding away at his anvil.</p> - -<p>“Good sir,” he said, as the smith paused in his work, “we have -come far, and my horse is in great pain. Will you please shoe -him with the best shoes you can forge?”</p> - -<p>“That I will, Sir Knight,” he replied, and quickly set about his -work. As he did so, the knight looked about him: he noticed -the small little fire, the chipped anvil, and one poor hammer. And -the smith was a bent old man—one who should long since have -been awaiting in rest the near approach of death. He thought of -Martin Barrow—his shining forge, and his glass of ale.</p> - -<p>Soon the horse was shod, and the knight offered the smith some -silver coins, all but one of which he refused.</p> - -<p>“Great thanks to you,” said the knight. “I have yet to meet as -fine and generous a smith. May I ask what name men call -you by?”</p> - -<p>“I have no Christian name,” he answered, “but men call me -the <i>bad smith</i>.” And, looking down, the knight saw that the shoes -were roughly forged and poorly set in place.</p> - -<p>“Well, <i>bad smith</i>,” he replied, “you’ve done us both a great -service—and that, after all, is doing any task well.” And turning -from the doorway, the knight and his horse pushed out into the -darkness again to continue their quest. And although I never -heard whether or not they found the lost princess, I know they -had found in the person of the <i>bad smith</i> something ten times -more valuable.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_294"></a>[294]</span></p> - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>By the rocky shore of a vast sea there once lived an old philosopher. -As long as men could remember, there he had dwelt -in a stone castle built far above upon a high cliff. Huge rocks -for many miles out prevented all approach to the shore by water. -Once in a while a boat might be seen on the distant horizon, but -never had one ventured nearer. Back from the coast stretched -a dense forest inhabited not only by wildest monsters, but also by -demons and strange spells—though I am at a loss to imagine how -any man could have returned from such an Erebus to report his -tale. However that may be, the only access to the castle lay by -a narrow, dangerous path up the very side of the steep cliff.</p> - -<p>One might suppose that the old philosopher, so fortified against -the world, had as many hours to sit alone and think as his heart -could desire. But it was not so. The little path up the cliff had -been worn away by the feet of thousands of pilgrims—and that -at the risk of their lives. Even the death of four men in one year -failed to diminish the ever increasing number. The sand for miles -along the shore had been pounded into a hard, even road. The -sun never rose that it did not light the path to some figures -plodding up the cliff. It never slipped to the west but it touched -the faces of those returning to their far-off cities—a fearful tale -upon their lips and wonder in their eyes. For the old philosopher -was accredited the wisest man in the world—nay, even the wisest -man who had ever walked upon the earth. There was no secret -of the universe which he had not fathomed. You might ask him -what question you would, and its darkest mystery would be at -once revealed. What lay beyond the sea which stretched from -the foot of the cliff endlessly away no man but he might say. For -like his castle and the far horizon, Life and Death were playthings -to his genius. Exactly what he told his pilgrims I know not. But -it shall never be forgotten how king and peasant alike went away -marveling at the miracle they had witnessed, though their hearts, -if they knew it not, were no closer to the secret they sought.</p> - -<p>There was only one other human who dwelt in the great castle -with the philosopher. This was Endelhan, an old servant who had -lived with his master ever since the time—if there were such a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_295"></a>[295]</span> -time—when a whole day passed without a knock at the stone gate. -It was Endelhan who patiently waited upon the other, caring -for his slightest comforts. It was Endelhan who met each pilgrim -at the gate and led him quietly into his master’s presence. -There he would sit upon a stool close by, silently listening, gravely -staring upon scholar and fool. Little did he understand the -wisdom that he heard; the philosopher’s words to him were meaningless. -That he was a very great man Endelhan realized, but -his mute affection was born mainly of their long years in close -contact together. Sometimes a whole day would pass with no -more than a few words between them. To the philosopher Endelhan -was a good servant—of low intelligence, to be sure, but -careful and satisfactory. To Endelhan his master was a feeble -old man whose care and comfort it was his duty to serve.</p> - -<p>One dark night they say a boat came in on the tide and slipped -away again before the dawn. The next day the pilgrims found -the gate barred and their calls unanswered. Slowly the word -passed from land to land that the old philosopher had uttered his -last prophecy. And the dangerous little path which so many had -perilously climbed was gradually overgrown, until to-day the castle -stands upon the cliff inaccessible to all chance travellers.</p> - -<p>One thing more may be added. When you, too, have slipped -out with the tide and sailed that sea, you will stand on some far -shore before the Master and that “goodly companie”. Surprising -to say, you will find that the old philosopher is not there. Asking -patiently, you will meet one or two who remember such a one—“wise -in his own conceits”. That was long ago; he has passed -on. But lo! At the feet of the Master with silent lips and eyes -upon all who come sits Endelhan—faithful servant.</p> - -<h3>III.</h3> - -<p>Prince Toldath stood before the King:</p> - -<p>“Most gracious Majesty, I have come a long way from my -golden kingdom on the Northern Shore. Through storms terrible -even in imagination, over mountain-passes ventured never yet by -bravest men, across the length of a desert which holds the bones -of many of your gallant people have I travelled. Yet the prize I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_296"></a>[296]</span> -seek is worth a whole life spent in such journeys. My slaves lay -before you a treasure which the gods themselves might dream of: -those silks have come from far Cathay; Earth gave up her fairest -secrets in revealing those priceless gems. Yet such a treasure -is small indeed compared to that I now would ask of you. Most -mighty King, my father is an old man, and it will not be long -before his wide and rich domains are mine. As you very likely -have been told, I am accredited one of the best swordsmen in our -part of the world. And my distant travels have brought me a -good measure of knowledge and wisdom. O great King, the prize -I seek—my deepest and everlasting desire—is the hand of your -only daughter!”</p> - -<p>A hush was upon the court. All stared at this handsome prince -who had come so far in quest of their fair princess. Here, indeed, -was a suitor worthy at last. Brave and daring, he would succeed -where so many before him had failed. Hilnardees for once should -taste defeat. Slowly the King made answer—in the words he had -addressed to numberless suitors in the past.</p> - -<p>“Prince Toldath, we thank you for these lavish gifts which you -have bestowed upon us. And we acknowledge the honor you pay -us in asking for the hand of our only daughter. That your -request may be granted depends upon one thing alone, and that -simple enough. Listen with care: You shall travel eastward -seven days, crossing the desert and plunging into a dense forest. -At night you shall rest—except for the seventh night, when you -shall push on after the fall of the sun. About the twelfth hour -you will come to a narrow, rapid stream. The name of this river -is Hilnardees, which means in our language ‘many-visioned’. On -the west bank you will find a small boat. Push out into the darkness, -and without effort you will be swept downstream with the -current. It will not be far before you come to a place where the -river branches into three parts. In the dark you will not know; -the current will choose which one you shall follow. And each of -these three streams in turn branches into three more. Each of -those does the same, and so on indefinitely. Somewhere Hilnardees -empties into the Sea—no man knows where nor in how -many places. Before that, however, your boat will come to rest -on the bank of one of the many branches. There you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_297"></a>[297]</span> -shall see a vision of your own life—a living symbol of what -you yourself are. For Hilnardees is a blessed river, and -the hand of the gods is upon it. Many who have pushed out in -the current have never returned again to their homes, although -rumors of their existence in other parts of the world have later -been reported. Such has been the fate of most who have sought -the hand of my daughter. Those who have come back have told -of strange and fitful sights. Go, Prince Toldath, if your desire -is as great as it was, and return to me, paddling slowly upstream -and crossing the forest and desert as before. May your vision -prove worthy of my daughter’s hand.”</p> - -<p>Prince Toldath smilingly bowed to the King. Here surely was -no difficult task, and the whole was likely enough a foolish legend. -If there were any truth in it, he need not doubt of a successful -pilgrimage. If not, he might invent all manner of splendid -“visions” on his way back. Thus, on the following morning he -confidently set forth.</p> - -<p>All happened as the King had foretold. At midnight of the -seventh day he came upon Hilnardees, river of many visions. -By the bank he found a small boat in which he pushed out into the -dark. Whether he was exhausted from his travel or the river -cast some strange spell upon him I know not—nor did he. Many -hours passed in dreams of his princess before he was finally -awakened by the sudden jolt of the boat as it struck the sandy -beach below the bank of the river. It was broad daylight and the -sun was high in the heavens. Before him rose a flight of marble -steps. Slowly realizing that he must have come to the end of his -journey, he pulled his boat upon the shore and mounted the steps. -It was a glorious sight that lay before him. Never in all his far -travels had he seen such shining beauty. Babylon in all its splendor -could not have been like this. Rushing through the open -gates—completely forgetful of the purport of his journey, the -Prince found himself within a marble city. With awed wonderment -he walked through one street after another. At every turn -the beauty of architecture and sculpture surpassed the dreams of -the wildest poet. Towers and turrets on all sides sparkled in the -sunlight. His unheeded steps led him shortly to a wide square -at the center, where a fountain murmured as it played into a round<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_298"></a>[298]</span> -pool. Then it was that suddenly the Prince realized that the -fountain was the only sound he heard. The streets were empty. -In his transfixed wonder he had not noticed the deep silence which -was upon the city. Not even the cry of a bird was in the air. -With ominous forebodings he entered one of the largest buildings—surely -the palace of the king. The great door swung slowly -open. Within was a grandeur and beauty akin to the exterior. -No court in the world was the equal of this. Through room after -room he marveled at the lavishness of paintings, and furniture, -and ornament. Strangest of all, it seemed as though the palace -had been built but yesterday. Time had left no touch upon it. -So with the entire city. All was polished and shining—an ordered -perfection.</p> - -<p>Then fear seized upon the Prince. Wildly he dashed from the -palace and shrieked aloud in the square. Only the taunting echo -of his voice laughed back on all sides. Then the deep silence again. -Turning, through one building after another he desperately, madly -searched—only to find the same splendor, the same perfection. -Finally, wearied, he sat by the edge of the fountain—the lone bit -of life in the whole city. Gazing into the bright pool, he quickly -laughed. Why, this was just a vision—a vision of himself! Of -course! Now he understood! This beauty—this shining glory -was his—<i>his!</i> Could any prince ask more? With a wild thrill of -exultation, he ran through the gates down to the river, and leapt -into his boat.</p> - -<p>Ten days later Prince Toldath stood once more before the King. -Dressed in his finest raiment, he smiled with easy confidence upon -the assembled court. Indeed, the great hall was crowded to the -full, for rumor had spread that Prince Toldath had seen a vision -glorious enough to receive the hand of any princess.</p> - -<p>“Prince Toldath,” said the King, “you have come back to our -palace, having carried out in detail what directions we gave you?”</p> - -<p>“I have, your Majesty.”</p> - -<p>“Prince Toldath, when the current swept your boat upon the -bank of one of the many branches of Hilnardees, what vision lay -before you?”</p> - -<p>“Most mighty King,” cried the Prince, “I saw there a city of -marble flashing in the sun—a city more beautiful than any other<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_299"></a>[299]</span> -in all the world. As you know, I have travelled through many -lands. Never before have I walked in such awe and wonderment. -To describe the glory of the sparkling sunlight on the towers and -turrets one would need a divine language. Yet more surprising, -Time had not come into those streets, for all was as if it had been -built yesterday—perfect to the last detail.”</p> - -<p>“And what manner of people did you meet with?” asked the -King.</p> - -<p>“There were no people, your Majesty. A deep silence lay over -all. But if this be a vision of me—as I may scarcely believe, so -rich was its glory—then my princess and I shall bring life and -breath into the square, and the palace, and the temple. Great -King, I await your decision.”</p> - -<p>As deep a silence was upon the court as ever that of the marble -city. The King—who was, as you have perceived, a very wise -man—looked down at the Prince. For many seconds he did not -speak. Then he said very quietly:</p> - -<p>“Have you never heard, Prince Toldath, that the life of a city -is its soul?”</p> - -<p class="mt2">Some say the Prince married a rich countess in his own kingdom -on the Northern Shore and reigned happily many years. -While others believe a strange tale, saying that he drowned himself -in the waters of Hilnardees, river of many visions.</p> - -<p class="author">WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_300"></a>[300]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Sonnet1"><i>Sonnet</i></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="dropcap">C</span>ome, Death, be imminent while I carouse</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To thee; press close against thy meagre lips</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This brimming cup, in which my whole soul dips</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Its daily ecstasy. Old loves, fierce vows,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All I lift up to thee. I will forget,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To see thy merriment, two merry eyes</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And a voice’s laughter. I will grow so wise</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That there will be no leisure for regret.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Sweet Death, so swiftly was thy captive taken</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He never knew—and now the Spring is here.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">How he would smile to see the young leaves shaken</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Whisperingly. He held the Summer dear....</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Thou cursed Death, he was my very heart!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Set down the cup, I cannot play the part.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="author">FRANK D. ASHBURN.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_301"></a>[301]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Song_Before_Dawn"><i>Song Before Dawn</i></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="center">I.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="dropcap">W</span>hat troubles you, my little one?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The dawn is far away.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Why should you struggle to be free</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When mother folds you tenderly</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Until the day?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O sleep for now, my little one—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The dawn is far away.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="center">II.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">You cannot rest, my precious one?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The dawn is yet to be.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A dream or two and day shall bring</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The fleeting sunlight beckoning</div> - <div class="verse indent0">From sea to sea.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O trust in mother, precious one—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The dawn is yet to be.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="center">III.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">How peaceful now you dream, my own—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The dawn is still afar.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O would that I might shelter you</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through all the day to guard anew</div> - <div class="verse indent0">At even star!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O hush! Be brave, my frail heart—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The dawn is still afar!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="author">WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_302"></a>[302]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="To">To ——</h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="dropcap">M</span>oist stars that glimmer on a midnight pool,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Those are your eyes. They seem to baffle Fate</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In sheer serenity, as thought they wait</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For things we dream not of, as though the spool</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of destiny turned slowly to a rule</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Well known by them, as though mere love and hate</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Were far below their grand all-seeing state</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of unimpassioned wisdom, clear and cool.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet in full tragic curves those lips betray</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Unsatiated sadness: dost foresee,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Perchance, an aged couple by the fire,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Love dead, and beauty turned to common clay?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nay, we have song! Age brings no fears to me:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Time cannot stem the magic of the lyre!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="author">ARTHUR MILLIKEN.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_303"></a>[303]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Stanza"><i>Stanza</i></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="dropcap">T</span>o-morrow all the halo will be sped;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I will love you to-morrow truly.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To-night you are too beautiful to love:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Oh, raise your head</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And let the moonlight we were speaking of</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Light up your tresses where they fall unruly</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Along your throat, and on your shoulder—so!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">God! where the breathing-shadows come and go,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Just for to-night you have been visited</div> - <div class="verse indent0">By more of eternity than you can know.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="author">D. G. CARTER.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_304"></a>[304]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Sonnet2"><i>Sonnet</i></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="dropcap">M</span>any a man has found his lady fair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Comparing her to flowers that blow in May.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Unskilled, unworthy as I am, I dare</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Not set to paper words my heart would say.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I shall not liken thee to moon nor starlight,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor set thy vivid radiance by the sun,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor conjure thee by dusk or dawning farlight,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor name thy myriad virtues one by one.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Such singing never lay within my power;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I cannot call thee dear names others call.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Only in memory from hour to hour</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I weave the loveliness thou lettest fall</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Unheeded, gathering up the twisted strands</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of a tired heart, made silken in thy hands.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="author">FRANK D. ASHBURN.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_305"></a>[305]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Lady_of_Kind_Hands"><i>Lady of Kind Hands</i></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><span class="dropcap">L</span>ong ago to you I gave</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All there was of me to give.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Lady of Kind Hands, I gave</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All the things I used to love</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To attain my love for you;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I ask that you will save,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So they may be found in you,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Surf the soft winds whisper of</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sleepily across the sea,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Star that slips athwart the blue,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And all Beauty lost to me.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Long ago to you I gave</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All there was of me to give.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="author">J. CROSBY BROWN, JR.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_306"></a>[306]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Book_Reviews"><i>Book Reviews</i></h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="book"><i>Victoria.</i> By <span class="smcap">Knut Hamsun</span>. (Knopf.)</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">With the translation of <i>Victoria</i> into English, Knut Hamsun -demands again our serious consideration. He is universally -recognized as the author of <i>Growth of the Soil</i>, <i>Pan</i>, and <i>Hunger</i>. -In 1920 he received the Nobel Prize for literature; a great distinction -for any writer. That fact alone should fascinate us into -searching out his latest translated novel.</p> - -<p><i>Victoria</i> is a tragical romance dealing frankly with the hopeless -mutual love of an aristocrat and one of lower caste. The plot is -obviously commonplace; but Knut Hamsun has done with it what -few other men could do: excited and maintained interest. To -emphasize these qualities there must be some twist in his technique, -some trick in his style. Perhaps this is it:—</p> - -<p>He chooses an incident, relatively unimportant for the progress -of the plot, and describes it distinctly in short, rapidly moving -sentences. Action always commands inquiry into the who and the -why. Then he presents the necessary description of the character, -his situation, and any other details that he deems necessary. -And in this last feature Knut Hamsun is a master craftsman. -Interest is maintained greatly by the refinement, and consequently -the confinement, of description. He is a poet by divine right, -some one has said. True. And he is moreover a modern poet, -abiding by the same principles that Ezra Pound and his followers -recognize: namely, to present instead of to describe; to give direct -treatment to the “thing”, whether subject or objective; and to -compose in musical phrases.</p> - -<p><i>Victoria</i> is a poetical novel with a strange love for its theme. -Formerly Knut Hamsun has been expansive, taking life as a whole -for his study; but now he is dealing with love alone, and is therefore -able to cast off much of the commonplace in details. He -asks, “Ah, what is love?” and gives many conjectures on it. “Love -was a music hot as hell which stirs even old men’s hearts to dance.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_307"></a>[307]</span> -It was like the daisy that opens wide to the coming night, and it -was like the anemone that closes at a breath and dies at a touch. -It might ruin a man, raise him up again and brand him anew; it -might love me to-day, you to-morrow and him to-morrow night, -so inconstant was it.</p> - -<p>“But again it might hold like an unbreakable seal and burn with -an unquenchable flame even to the hour of death, for so eternal -was it.</p> - -<p>“Does it not lead the friar to slink into closed gardens and glue -his eyes to the windows of the sleepers at night? And does it not -possess the nun with folly and darken the understanding of the -princess? It casts the king’s head to the ground so that his hair -sweeps all the dust of the highway, and he whispers unseemly -words to himself the while and puts out his tongue.</p> - -<p>“No, no, it was again something very different and it was like -nothing else in the whole world. It came to earth one spring -night when a youth saw two eyes, two eyes. He gazed and saw. -He kissed a mouth, and then it was as though two lights met in -his heart, a sun flashing towards a star. He fell into an embrace, -and then he heard and saw no more in all the world.”</p> - -<p>Is there more beautiful treatment in all prose?</p> - -<p>The tragical element enters into the form of fate. The Miller’s -boy is not to have that love fulfilled, the daughter of the castle -shall have it snatched away from her by death; the world is an -unhappy place full of all beauties. Knut Hamsun the fatalist! -Miss Larsen points out in her exhaustive study of the man that -there is no reason why the novel should have been a tragedy -except that, like Hardy, Hamsun believed during the period of his -life when the book was written that no joy was to be attained. -When he saw happiness coming towards any character he would -say, “Ah, this must not be! It is not the order of things.” And -that would end it. Yet there is strong foundation for an opinion -that the tragedy enhances the pathetic charm of the book.</p> - -<p>It is Knut Hamsun’s finest romance. Is there any more to say?</p> - -<p class="author">A. H. C.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_308"></a>[308]</span></p> - -<h3 class="book"><i>Blackguard.</i> By <span class="smcap">Maxwell Bodenheim</span>. (Covici-McGee.)</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">Perhaps the most startling quality of <i>Blackguard</i> is its -graphic lucidity of language. Consider this description of a -man sobbing: “It was as though a martyr were licking up the -blood on his wounds and spitting it out in long gurgles of lunatic -delight.” The whole story is told with such compelling clarity of -phrase, and Bodenheim has shifted his genius for acid wording -from poetry to prose without the slightest apparent misgiving as -to outcome. Result: a luminous biography of an introspective -young author that in some ways approaches the manner of James -Joyce.</p> - -<p>The book concerns the poetic and amorous development of Carl -Felman, an aspiring scribbler who stoops casually to thieving -rather than enter its father’s business of whiskey-selling. His -fight against the world, and particularly against his mother, who -had a body “on which plumpness and angles met in a transfigured -prizefight of lines”, is rendered doubly difficult by his own discriminating -soul. He is not willing to give and take, but is concerned -with the taking only. In the end he achieves some tranquility -of mind—in a manner strange enough to warrant reading -about it.</p> - -<p>Bodenheim will not cheer you up; rather will he wake you up. -And for rhymesters who aspire to better verse or don’t know -when to quit—here is an eye-opener that should not be passed -by too lightly.</p> - -<p class="author">J. R. C.</p> - -<h3 class="book"><i>Black Oxen.</i> By <span class="smcap">Gertrude Atherton</span>. (Boni & Liveright.)</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">The notion of rejuvenation is not a new one, and the theme -of sophisticated womanhood reverting to romantic young -love is not unprecedented. In <i>Black Oxen</i> Mrs. Atherton has -successfully disguised the problem of the first with the accoutrements -of the second.</p> - -<p>The hero, Lee Clavering, is a scintillating “colyumist” whose -literary worth is not restricted by journalism and whose ideals -are not cramped by the Young Intellectual atmosphere of the -Algonquin Group.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_309"></a>[309]</span></p> - -<p>Mary Zattiany, the much-discussed heroine, is an American -woman who married a foreign nobleman, dazzled the European -courts and salons with her beauty and wit, and, after a process of -re-upholstering, returned to New York, where she falls in love -with the young journalist.</p> - -<p>The motivation of the book is centered in the translated personality -of the heroine, and Mrs. Atherton’s treatment of feminine -psychology is exceedingly dextrous. But a large part of the -story’s merit consists in the cross-section of metropolitan activity -at the margin where contemporary artists enjoy social registration.</p> - -<p><i>Black Oxen</i> is primarily a woman’s novel. Its theme will -always be close to the heart of womankind, and Mrs. Atherton -has added a more than feminine touch by leaving the problem -unsolved. When, at the end of the book, Mary obeys the call of -European duty and closes the taxi door in the face of transcendent -love, the reader continues to wonder whether or not rejuvenescence -is a good thing.</p> - -<p>The author has employed an idealized “colyumist” as a foil. -Clavering’s sudden success as a playwright is dubious. And the -ending is too obviously an escape from the lived-happily-ever-after -solution. But one loses sight of these technical anomalies in the -impetus of the romance, the deftness of satire, and the intricacies -of the heroine’s strange predicament.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Atherton, in her first treatment of Eastern “civilization”, -has had the good grace to sublimate sentimentality without destroying -its perennial charm.</p> - -<p class="author">H. W. H.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_310"></a>[310]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Editors_Table"><i>Editor’s Table</i></h2> - -</div> - -<p>“It’s about time you did some work around here,” said Cherrywold, as -Ariel arrived only one hour and fifteen minutes late.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, not nearly!” remonstrated that irresponsible virtuoso.</p> - -<p>“You can write the Editor’s Table,” growled Mr. and Mrs. Stevens -patronizingly, who had come back from New York with a first edition of -Coleridge and couldn’t forget it.</p> - -<p>At this point Rabnon, the Brushwood Boy, was detected trying to set fire -to the <span class="smcap">Lit.</span> office with his cigarette stub. As the office was still damp from -the presence of the preceding Board, no conflagration ensued. In the confusion, -however, three poems by Freshmen were accidentally accepted.</p> - -<p>Little Laird Fauntleroy wrote the Table of Contents laboriously, being -jumped on every minute or so for misspellings which he was expected to -commit, but which he carefully disguised by writing illegibly. Thus the time -wore on.</p> - -<p>“What would you do with a man who perpetrated this?” expostulated -Cherrywold, holding up a poem with the inscription: “I’m very much afraid -that this is worth publishing—Mercury.”</p> - -<p>“It <i>shows</i> he has no soul!” exulted Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. “No one with -a soul could have a face like his, anyway.”</p> - -<p>“No personalities in Art,” cautioned Rabnon the politic.</p> - -<p>In walked Roland at this juncture, smoking a poor cigar and holding in -his nervous hands a large sheet of paper with a one-word correction of his -latest poem.</p> - -<p>“Here’s the man who wrote a sonnet in six-foot lines!” Han cried. A -chorus of groans and hisses greeted the heeler.</p> - -<p>“Any defense?” asked Cherrywold, while Han prepared to hit Roland over -the head with his stick.</p> - -<p>“He’s just been elected Chairman of the <i>News</i>,” said Mr. and Mrs. -Stevens in explanation.</p> - -<p>“What’s the <i>News</i>?” inquired Han, hand to ear.</p> - -<p>A wild scramble followed. Roland, vilified by the names “Traitor!”—“Snake -in the Grass!”—“Turncoat!” ran for his life.</p> - -<p>“He got away,” Cherrywold panted, his fair face flushed with exertion.</p> - -<p>“That’s all right,” said Han; “I couldn’t have spelled his name, anyway.”</p> - -<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Ariel.</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak"><i>Yale Lit. Advertiser.</i></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>Compliments<br /> -of<br /> -The Chase National Bank</b></p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>HARRY RAPOPORT</b></p> - -<p class="center mid"><b>University Tailor</b></p> - -<p class="center smaller">Established 1884</p> - -<p class="center">Every Wednesday at Park Avenue Hotel,<br /> -Park Ave. and 33rd St., New York</p> - -<p class="center">1073 CHAPEL STREET <span class="spacer">NEW HAVEN, CONN.</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/ad-dort.jpg" width="500" height="400" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="center larger">DORT SIX</p> - -<p class="center mid"><i>Quality Goes Clear Through</i></p> - -<p class="center mid">$990 to $1495</p> - -<p class="center">Dort Motor Car Co.<br /> -<i>Flint, Michigan</i></p> - -<p class="center">$1495</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger">The Knox-Ray -Company</p> - -<p class="center">Jewelers, Silversmiths, -Stationers</p> - -<ul class="center"> -<li>Novelties of Merit</li> -<li>Handsome and Useful</li> -<li>Cigarette Cases</li> -<li>Vanity Cases</li> -<li>Photo Cases</li> -<li>Powder Boxes</li> -<li>Match Safes</li> -<li>Belt Buckles</li> -<li>Pocket Knives</li> -</ul> - -<p class="center">970 CHAPEL STREET</p> - -<p class="center smaller">(Formerly with the Ford Co.)</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>Steamship -Booking -Office</b></p> - -<p class="noindent">Steamship lines in all parts -of the world are combined -in maintaining a booking -agent at New Haven for -the convenience of Yale -men.</p> - -<p class="center"><b><span class="larger">H. C. Magnus</span><br /> -<span class="smaller">at</span><br /> -WHITLOCK’S</b></p> - -<p class="noindent"><b>accepts booking as their direct -agent at no extra cost to -the traveler. Book Early</b></p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>RIGHT THERE!</b></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 275px;"> -<img src="images/ad-jenkins.jpg" width="275" height="300" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="dropcap">He’s there with the -candy. We’re -there with the -clothes! Quality. For -all types of men. All -ages. All tastes. Suits -and coats for “hard -to please” customers. -At “easy to please” -prices!</p> - -<p class="center">KNOX COMFIT -STRAWS</p> - -<p class="center larger"><b>SHOP OF JENKINS</b></p> - -<p class="center">940 Chapel Street <span class="spacer">New Haven, Conn.</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>The Nonpareil Laundry Co.</b></p> - -<p class="center"><b>The Oldest Established -Laundry to Yale</b></p> - -<p class="noindent">We darn your socks, sew -your buttons on, and make -all repairs without extra -charge.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>PACH BROS.</b></p> - -<p class="center mid"><i>College -Photographers</i></p> - -<p class="center">1024 CHAPEL STREET<br /> -NEW HAVEN, CONN.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center"><span class="mid">CHAS. MEURISSE & CO.</span><br /> -4638 Cottage Grove Ave., Chicago, Ill.</p> - -<p class="center">POLO MALLETS, POLO BALLS, POLO SADDLES and -POLO EQUIPMENT of every kind</p> - -<p class="center">Catalog with book of rules on request</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center mid">CHASE AND COMPANY</p> - -<p class="center mid"><i>Clothing</i></p> - -<p class="center">GENTLEMEN’S FURNISHING GOODS</p> - -<p class="center">1018-1020 Chapel St., New Haven, Conn.</p> - -<p class="noindent smaller">Complete Outfittings for Every Occasion. For Day or Evening -Wear. For Travel, Motor or Outdoor Sport. Shirts, Neckwear, -Hosiery, Hats and Caps. Rugs, Bags, Leather Goods, Etc.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center"><b>Tailors to College Men of Good Discrimination</b></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/ad-gus-alexander.jpg" width="500" height="125" alt="Gus Alexander -. DRESS . TAILOR . SPORTING" /> -</div> - -<p class="center">1123 CHAPEL STREET <span class="spacer">NEW HAVEN, CONN.</span></p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center smaller">Established 1852</p> - -<p class="center mid">I. KLEINER & SON</p> - -<p class="center">TAILORS</p> - -<p class="center">1098 Chapel Street<br /> -NEW HAVEN, <span class="spacer">CONN.</span></p> - -<p class="center">Up Stairs</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="noindent larger"><b>WITH THIS</b></p> - -<p class="noindent">last issue of the Lit. for this school -year, we desire to express our -appreciation of trade received by us -from readers of this magazine and -the Yale student body in general.</p> - -<p class="right">—ROGER SHERMAN STUDIO.</p> - -<p class="center">ALWAYS A BETTER PORTRAIT</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><span class="smcap">Hugh M. Beirne</span></p> - -<p class="center">227 Elm Street</p> - -<p class="center mid"><i>Men’s Furnishings</i></p> - -<p class="center">“Next to the Gym.”</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="noindent">Foreign Sweaters, Golf -Hose, Wool Half Hose, all -of exclusive and a great -many original designs.</p> - -<p class="center">Our motto: “You must -be pleased.”</p> - -<p class="center mid">John F. Fitzgerald</p> - -<p class="center">Hotel Taft Bldg.</p> - -<p class="center">NEW HAVEN, CONN.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><span class="smcap">Motor Mart -Garage</span></p> - -<p class="center">OLIVE AND WOOSTER STS.</p> - -<p class="center">Oils and Gasoline</p> - -<p class="center">Turn-auto Repair Service</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger">The Yale -Literary Magazine</p> - -<p class="center">has trade at 10% discount -with local -stores</p> - -<p class="center smaller">Address Business Manager<br /> -Yale Station</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center">“<i>Costs less per -mile of service</i>”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<img src="images/ad-vesta.jpg" width="300" height="350" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The new Vesta in -handsome hard rubber -case, showing -how plates are separated -by isolators.</p> - -<p class="center larger"><span class="smcap larger">Vesta</span><br /> -STORAGE BATTERY</p> - -<p class="center">VESTA BATTERY CORPORATION<br /> -CHICAGO</p> - -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center larger"><b>The Brick Row Book Shop, Inc.</b></p> - -<p class="center mid"><i>Book and Print Dealers</i></p> - -<p class="center">Library Sets—Rare Books</p> - -<p class="center">Association Books—Fine Bindings</p> - -<p class="center">Autograph Letters—First Editions</p> - -<p class="center larger"><b>The Brick Row Book Shop, Inc.</b></p> - -<p class="center smaller"><b>New York, 19 East 47th St.</b> <span class="spacer"><b>New Haven, 104 High St.</b></span></p> - -<p class="center smaller"><b>Princeton, 68½ Nassau Street</b></p> -</div> - -<div class="adbox"> - -<p class="center">THE NASH SIX TOURING CAR</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/ad-nash.jpg" width="500" height="225" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="center smaller"><i>Five Disc Wheels and Nash Self-Mounting Carrier, $25 additional</i></p> - -<p class="center larger"><b>NASH</b></p> - -<p class="noindent">Compare the Nash Six Touring, unit for -unit, with any other car of similar price -and you will be immediately impressed -with its outstanding superiority. In every -feature of construction and every phase of -performance the Nash Six leads the field.</p> - -<p class="center">THE NASH MOTORS COMPANY<br /> -KENOSHA, WISCONSIN</p> - -<p class="center smaller">FOURS <i>and</i> SIXES</p> - -<p><i><b>Prices range from $915 to $2190, f.o.b. factory</b></i></p> - -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE (VOL. LXXXVIII, NO. 9, JUNE 1923) ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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