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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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