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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..472e34e --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69966 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69966) diff --git a/old/69966-0.txt b/old/69966-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ff0008f..0000000 --- a/old/69966-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2235 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. -LXXXIX, No. 1, 1923), by Various - -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. LXXXIX, No. 1, 1923) - -Author: Various - -Release Date: February 6, 2023 [eBook #69966] - -Language: English - -Produced by: hekula03, Carla Foust 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. LXXXIX, NO. 1, 1923) *** - - - - - - +----------------------------------------------------------------+ - | Vol. LXXXIX No. 1 | - | | - | The | - | | - | Yale Literary Magazine | - | | - | Conducted by the | - | | - | Students of Yale University. | - | | - | [Illustration] | - | | - | “Dum mens grata manet, nomen laudesque YALENSES | - | Cantabunt SOBOLES, unanimique PATRES.” | - | | - | ----::---- | - | | - | October, 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._ | - +----------------------------------------------------------------+ - - - - - +-----------------------+ - | WEBER’S STUDIO | - | | - | Photographers to Yale | - | Since 1910 | - +-----------------------+ - - - - - +--------------------------------------------+ - | | - | DON’T ABUSE YOUR EYES | - | | - | Men who are working on themes and | - | theses will find the new YALE THEME | - | TABLET very beneficial. | - | | - | | - | It is Scientifically Prepared to | - | Prevent Glare and Relieve Eye Strain | - | | - | for sale at | - | | - | THE CO-OP. | - +--------------------------------------------+ - - - - - +------------------------------------------------------------+ - | ESTABLISHED 1818 | - | | - | _Brooks Brothers_, | - | | - | CLOTHING, | - | | - | Gentlemen’s Furnishing Goods, | - | | - | MADISON AVENUE COR. FORTY-FOURTH STREET | - | NEW YORK | - | | - | _Telephone Murray Hill 8800_ | - | | - | Clothing Ready made or to Measure for Autumn | - | | - | Evening Clothes, Cutaways, Sack Suits | - | Sporting Clothes and Medium-weight Overcoats | - | English and Domestic Hats & Furnishings | - | Boots and Shoes for Dress, Street and Outdoor Sport | - | Trunks, Bags & Leather Goods | - | | - | _Send for “Comparisons”_ | - | | - | The next visit of our Representative to | - | the HOTEL TAFT | - | will be on November 6 and 7 | - | | - | BOSTON NEWPORT | - | TREMONT COR. BOYLSTON 220 BELLEVUE AVENUE | - +------------------------------------------------------------+ - - - - - +------------------------------------------------------------+ - | Tailored Models Tailored Models | - | Ready-to-Wear Ready-to-Wear | - | Suits Top-Coats | - | | - | Introductory Offer | - | | - | To introduce our individual line of imported English | - | Woolens and Scotch Tweeds we are making a special | - | offering. We also have a few special tailored models | - | for immediate use. | - | | - | | - | WILKES LTD. | - | English Tailors | - | York Street--Opposite Harkness | - | | - | 4-Piece Suits Top-Coats | - | $47.50 $42.50 | - +------------------------------------------------------------+ - - - - - - - - +-------------------------------------------------------------------+ - | THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE | - | | - | | - | | - | | - | Contents | - | | - | OCTOBER, 1923 | - | | - | | - | Leader _Morris Tyler_ 1 | - | | - | Corydon _Lucius Beebe_ 5 | - | | - | “The Swift and Sharp-tongued Flame of Death” | - | _Eugene A. Davidson_ 7 | - | | - | Three Poems _Walter Edwards Houghton, Jr._ 8 | - | | - | To One Bereaved _D. G. Carter_ 11 | - | | - | Lady of the Sea _R. P. Crenshaw, Jr._ 12 | - | | - | Coelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt | - | _Morris Tyler_ 13 | - | | - | Quatrains _C. G. Poore_ 14 | - | | - | Lines _John R. Chamberlain_ 15 | - | | - | The Great Pan Jandrum _W. T. Bissell_ 16 | - | | - | Maurice Hewlett _Richard L. Purdy_ 22 | - | | - | The Egolatress _C. G. Poore_ 25 | - | | - | Book Reviews 37 | - | | - | Editor’s Table 44 | - | | - +-------------------------------------------------------------------+ - - - - - The Yale Literary Magazine - - VOL. LXXXIX OCTOBER, 1923 NO. 1 - - - _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_ - - -It would be difficult for even the most blindly ardent supporter of -Yale to deny that the traditional four-year course for the degree of -Bachelor of Arts no longer remains intact. There are probably fewer who -realize that an ever increasing number are receiving that degree after -completing a course that has had little or no relation to the field of -learning to which, by its very title, it is closely related. - -Disintegration of the long established College curriculum has been -going on ever since the war. It began with the introduction of the old -“Select Course” of the Scientific School into the Academic curriculum -under the imposing title of Bachelor of Philosophy. This innovation -was followed shortly by the institution of the Common Freshman Year. -Furthermore, if a student now intends to become a lawyer, he may devote -an entire year (and that his Senior year) to the study of law--and yet -graduate as a Bachelor of Arts. Likewise, if an undergraduate desires -to devote his life to the practice of medicine, he may start as early -as Sophomore year, spending most of his time in the laboratories on -Prospect Hill scrutinizing the hidden mechanism of feline organs--and -still graduate as a Bachelor of Arts. In other words, assuming -that the Freshman year is not very different from what it was in -ante-bellum days, which is not the case, one-third of every class in -Yale College is now graduated as B.A. men without more than a three -years’ “exposure” to the subjects which, in the eyes of the world, are -customarily associated with that educational label. - -The reason for this state of affairs may be fairly stated in a single -word--vocationalism. This utilitarian mania for taking the short-cut -to one’s life-work has been in recent years the ideal of a large -portion of American college men, and has left its mark on almost every -educational institution in this country, by forcing them to change -their curricula to meet the demand. Harvard long ago yielded to the -pressure of vocational demands in the matter of time, permitting -graduation in three years. It was not long after that Columbia took -still more drastic action by allowing admission to her graduate -schools at the end of Junior Year. In so doing these institutions were -unconsciously practicing the methods of the Correspondence Schools and -the twenty-lessons-in-your-home concerns whose business it is to supply -the needs of those who seek the short road to the payroll. The liberal -colleges endeavoring to provide such short-cuts by making inroads on -their liberal curricula are untrue to their genius and merely challenge -impossible competition. - -It may be argued that this desire for specialization at the earliest -possible moment was the natural result of the ever increasing -complexity of modern life and the bewildering ramifications of -present-day knowledge which forced the bulk of undergraduates to accept -isolation in a single subject. This may be quite true, yet there -remains the question of whether or not it is the place of the college, -and in particular Yale College, to offer that opportunity even in part. - -The recognized place for specialization is the graduate school. The -graduate student works presumably in a special atmosphere created by -the common labors of a common group for a common end; the end being -a particular degree desired because it has come to signify that the -bearer of such a symbol has mastered the details of a recognized -branch of learning. A graduate school is the most suitable medium -for accomplishing the task in hand. It is the only reason we have -post-graduate schools at all. - -The existing situation in the college is exactly the reverse. Those who -are working for the B.A. degree and nothing else are carrying on side -by side with what are in reality pre-medical students and first-year -lawyers. Out of this have sprung two separate points of view on the -same campus. On the one hand there is a group which pursues its studies -with the realization that upon the complete mastery of every detail -depends in a large measure the success or failure of its life-work. On -the other, there remain those who are still searching in their work -for that particular field which to them will seem to be the one to -which they wish to devote their future time and energy. The result is a -repetition of the old story of the house divided against itself. It is -just this condition, we believe, that has led to such restless, groping -questionings as, “What is Yale for?” The definition of a university as -being one body of which there are many members admirably illustrates -the point. For the college to-day is in the anomalous position of -attempting to perform the duties of two members where it formerly -functioned as one. Such a state of affairs is not conducive to the -health of any organization whatever. - -The solution in the minds of many seems to lie in the abolishment -of the old college course, following the law of the survival of the -fittest. This issue of our present afflictions we believe would be a -regretable blunder. There should always be a place for the study of the -so-called liberal arts; for the contemplation of “all the best that has -been thought and said and done in the world”. Without such a background -many a man cannot do his best work. What place is better fitted to -continue this undertaking than Yale, established in this spirit, as -attested by the words of the founder, “I give these books for the -founding of a college”? Professor Mather in a recent address summed up -the ideal of the college in these glowing terms: - -“The college does its work alongside a dozen other equally worthy -educational institutions, mostly vocational. It does not compete with -them; it directly supplements them and incidentally aids them. It has -its own aims, which are not immediately practical, vocational, or -material. - -“I should like to see inscribed over our college portals the following -inscription: - -“‘Generous Youth! Enter at your peril. We may so quicken your -imagination as to bring you loss as the world counts it. There may be -a great inventor in you now, there may only be a poet in you when you -leave us; the captain of industry in you may give place to some obscure -pursuit of philosophy; you are literary, we shall leave you forever -incapable of best sellers; you are philanthropic, we may develop the -detached critic in you; you are politically shrewd and practical, we -may bring out the Utopian visionary in you. For our values are not -those of the world of work, with which we can only incidentally help -you to make terms--our values are those of the world of thought. We -shall make you contemporary of all ages, and since you must after all -live in this age, such an extension of your interest and imagination -may make you an exile in your own day and place. We offer you no -material reward of any sort for your effort here, we may even diminish -the rewards you would enjoy if you kept away from us. We offer you -nothing but what we ourselves most treasure--the companionship of the -great dreamers and thinkers. Enter if you dare. Should you enter, this -college will be indeed to you Alma Mater. All that we have shall be -yours.’” - -In short, the duty of the college is to give its members their -intellectual bearings. What the prospective lawyer really needs to -broaden his horizon and prevent him from succumbing to the bondage of -his shop, is letters, science, mathematics; what the future doctor -needs is letters, art, history, and the unbiological sciences. This -ought to be the function of the college. To continue along any other -line is to destroy forever the Yale that has held such an enviable -place in American life for over two centuries--to extinguish the light -that has been a source of guidance and inspiration to its large and -distinguished band of alumni. - - MORRIS TYLER. - - - - -_Corydon_ - - - The pleasant hills in solemn silence sleeping - Under a sunset of perpetual fire, - Past summer’s weeping, - Shall know no more the vibrant melody - Of thy sad songs, O lovely shepherd boy! - The winds are free - And chill November - Sweeps thy reed music and thy lyric joy - Away with all the things I would remember. - - The wood-smoke on the silent autumn air, - The disconsolate petals on the grass - Symbol despair, - And all the fragrance of divine Apollo - Is fled from this incalculable loss - Where none may follow. - Is there no rest - In the stark shadow of a naked cross - In silhouette against the scarlet west? - - Shall I forsake philosopher and sage - Rebellious drawn - From solemn cloister and scholastic page - And get me gone. - O shepherd of the slender fingers? - Guide me above the mountain passes - Through the lush grasses - Where thy music lingers, - Out of nocturnal anguish into dawn. - - For I shall sing to thee of Mytelene - And ancient things - And paint with poppied words a twilight scene - Where Lesbos flings - Her stretch of Sapphic isle - Over the sea. Ah, liquid interlude! - We would intrude - But for a little while - Upon the rapture of ambrosial springs. - - This then is all of the enchanted vision - Far from the dusty passion of the streets? - The world’s derision, - The inarticulate call - Of ageless things in the awakened woods, - Unhappy autumn moods - And the wan summons of a grieving fate, - Hastening through the twilight pall - And beauties vanished, inarticulate? - - Let no dim spectres haunt my darkened brain - Like aspens whispering at eventide - Of ancient pain - So oft repeated. - I shall flee far from the abysmal night, - Not in impetuous flight, - But, lingering by Lethe’s tideless void - Shall slumber undefeated - In sunset woods, forever unannoyed. - - LUCIUS BEEBE. - - - - -“_The Swift and Sharp-tongued Flame of Death_” - - - The swift and sharp-tongued flame of death - Has touched our hearts. We love no more; - No more for us to drink the breath - Of life in one long kiss and store - Its fragrance ’till we kiss again. - All that is gone, and gone our dreams. - Remember if you will. The stain - Of rich red wine for me, it seems, - Is better far than memories. - And lest the ghostly perfume smell - Too sweet, and life be drowned in seas - Like this--I drink and say farewell. - - EUGENE A. DAVIDSON. - - - - -_Three Poems_ - - -BENEDICTION - - “_I know not how he chose you from the crowd, came to your door, and - grasp your hand to ask his way._” - --_Rabindranath Tagore._ - - You may not question why he chose you - From so many more-- - Why his tiny hands have fumbled - At your door. - To a land of fifty cross-roads - He has come to-day, - Placed his eager hands in yours, - And asked his way. - - He will follow where you lead him-- - Bright and stormy skies; - And at evening still beside you - Close his eyes. - Keep his trust, O You the Chosen-- - Far shall be his way. - Clasp him to your heart and bless him - With all you may. - - -RECALL. - - “_Come back, my darling; the world is asleep; and no one would - know, if you came for a moment while stars are gazing at - stars._” - --_Rabindranath Tagore._ - - Dark was the hour you slipped away, - Veiled in the shadowed light. - Touched with a sleep the others lay - Then as they do to-night. - Come, my darling, oh, come to mother, - Come for an hour and go; - For the stars which gaze upon one another-- - Only the stars shall know. - - Fair was the spring you left behind, - Born of a teeming womb; - And now once more has a gentle wind - Breathed, and the gardens bloom. - Come, my darling, oh, come for an hour-- - Quick e’er the night is done; - And if you should ask for a single flower, - How could they miss just one? - - Those who played in the sun with you-- - Sure, they are playing still; - For Life is a spendthrift hand to woo, - Led by a reckless will. - Come, my darling, for treasured and deep - Take of my love but this; - And if once more to my arms you creep, - Who would begrudge one kiss? - - -JUST TO-DAY - - “_But just for to-day, tell me, Mother, where the desert ... in the - fairy tale is._” - --_Rabindranath Tagore._ - - -I. - - The shepherds slip into the fields - Where Father’s gone himself. - The books I should be studying - Are still upon the shelf. - O Mother, let me close my sleepy eyes, - And tell me where the fairy desert lies. - - -II. - - What makes you silent? Must you work - Like Father every hour? - Your hands are busy as two bees - Which suck a honey flower. - But, Mother, while the sunlight fills the skies, - Tell me where the Tagra Desert lies. - - -III. - - At curfew Father will return, - And I shall lose you then. - I promise some day I shall learn - As much as other men. - So, Mother, just before the daylight flies - Tell me where the Tagra Desert lies. - - WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR. - - - - -_To One Bereaved_ - - - You welcomed me with such a joyous mask - Across the silence of your hurt wide eyes, - That I too forced banalities and lies - And dared no comfort, though I came to ask - The many little questions, long rehearsed, - Which meant relief, and friendship. What we said - So lightly, never touched upon the dead, - Yet we both knew that when we laughed we cursed - The bitter God who could make laughter too, - Beside this sorrow. Strange, we did not stare - Mute sympathy: I only smiling sought - To show I knew how bitterly was bought - Your cheerful beauty. But I turned my chair, - Once, when you laughed----, and looked away from you. - - D. G. CARTER. - - - - -_Lady of the Sea_ - - - Night, and vessels softly lifting - From the surges of the sea, - Arms to breezes ever shifting - As they whisper low to me. - - Silhouetted masts are weaving - Circles wavering to lean - Nearer waves in slumber heaving - Far below a cold moon’s sheen.... - - Clothed in glory, still and splendid, - Starlight shimmers in her hair, - And my lady’s form is blended - With the shadows, waiting there. - - As in silence we are taken - In the evening’s soft embrace, - Would I never could awaken - From the wonder in her face. - - R. P. CRENSHAW, JR. - - - - - _Coelum non animum mutant - Qui trans mare currunt._ - --_Horace._ - - - Sail forth across the jade-green sea and view the glades our fathers - trod, - Their rolling lawns of deathless sod, their hoary castles dear to - me. - - Catch the pale vision of the past, the sound of stealthy slippered - feet; - Rest on the moss-grown garden seat and find a lover’s shadow cast. - - Creep into Catherine cubicle and sense her icy presence there; - Her figure bent and drawn with care as Alchemist o’er crucible. - - Look down the waving lane of trees that lines the speckled road’s - approach - Where glides the flashing golden coach with gay plumes trembling in - the breeze. - - Gaze up at Longeais from the moat and feel the ages slip away - Until its grey walls seem at bay before the host in armored coat. - - Go to each ancient place above and bless it with your noiseless - tread; - Your presence there should stir the dead with tremulous warm - thoughts of love. - - Leave here for me your image fair, graven in crystal carved by time, - Untarnished as a star sublime, unchanging as the love I bear. - - God speed you under other skies, drink deep of Europe’s scented - charm, - But keep the gesture of your arm, the wistful wonder in your eyes. - - MORRIS TYLER. - - - - -_Quatrains_ - - -I. MORALITY - - Behold these proper lovers, when they meet: - Each longs for love’s caresses, but that heat - Must be suppressed; it is the moral code. - God made their passion.... Made he this deceit? - - -2. THE DYING THESPIAN - - The theatre was my life, the very breath - Of my existence, so what followeth - Shall be in keeping. Tell the player-world - I take my final rôle--the lead, in “Death”. - - -3. A MAIDEN LADY - - In younger days, her virtue was a veil - She planned to drop, when true love should assail. - No lovers came. Perforce, her life was chaste. - In age, she boasts her virtue’s iron mail! - - -4. FUTILITY - - So many, ere they leave this little sphere - Say thus and so observe my death; make cheer - Or weep, in just this way. - Well, as for me, - Mourn me or not: I shall not pause to hear! - - C. G. POORE. - - - - -_Lines_ - - - The cold pale patina of sky, - The brown upon the woodland leaf - With all frail lovely things that die - Blend in the autumn’s grief. - - For in each withered autumn flower - Is wonder where the dead may go, - And we slight children of an hour - May live and never know. - - JOHN R. CHAMBERLAIN. - - - - -_The Great Pan Jandrum_ - - -A beautiful tolerance of the various actions of all other people is -perhaps the most comprehensive statement of the virtue we admired in -him so zealously. An ingenuously boastful boy of twelve would find -in him a ready admirer of his most cherished deeds, and he appeared -to really appreciate the condescension of the youth of eighteen who -saw fit to confide in him, and to take their opinionated selves with -decent ceremony where others among their elders would have been merely -annoyed or else distressingly amused. People you had always regarded -as obviously undesirable, you found him praising--not in the manner of -one who champions the weaker side on principle, but because he actually -found strange things to like about them. But he was not one of the -quiet, gentle, charitable type whose humanity seems the result almost -of a want of character, and as such a questionable asset: he relished -things with the eager tastes of a performer rather than an onlooker, -being blessed also with a watchful and sometimes bursting sense of -humor which was as his religion, making him deal with events in the -guise of a priestly buffoon and people with a surgery as incisive as it -was good-natured. - -He was a connoisseur of people--a connoisseur of the happier type who -does not simply make a few things his own and damn the unfortunate -rest, but who finds that all food for the soul is good food, after all. -Thus he used to pick up all sorts of people and become tremendously -fond of them overnight. Any genuine person--whether a self-centered -young man or a despicable old one, or his gardener’s wife--was of the -greatest importance in his eyes. A trace of sentiment or pomposity in -one of the subjects of his observations was to him an intellectual -emetic as regards that person, but practically all other forms of -human failing delighted him quite as much, if not more than the most -inspiring strength. You felt that he, for one, had attained to a -perfect freedom from himself, so that he could sit back, unlike the -rest of us, and be entertained by the diverse abnormalities of his -companions: that he found his own passions wholly in the understanding -perusal of those of other people. - -An Irish servant once said of him: “Sure, now, he does like to see -the young people have a good time!” and it expressed brilliantly his -attitude. For to his mind, apparently all people were young people -whom he was watching at their diversions. In fact, if it had not been -for his hilarious sharing of our pleasures, he would have been to us -rather like a god: for he seemed older than we, as though he had known -of old the great lives upon Olympus and were down here to gratify some -fatherly instinct of sympathy for us. And when he sometimes left us, -one sensed the withdrawal of considerably more than a presence. We were -accustomed to him as one of the most active figures on the scene, but -still, when he went away, it was as if a harmonious background had also -been removed. In appearance he was fat. His head was large and his face -grave, in repose, like that of a serious child. - -There were stories, I was once shocked on finding out, about the Great -Pan Jandrum’s youth--stories of a vagueness that implied things about -him quite incongruous to the people who knew him now. Did he then -have a common youth, with all its attendant distortions?--it seemed -impossible. Evidently it had not been a romantic theatrical youth -either, in spite of its present shaded character. One lady simply -said he had been “nasty” and let it go at that. He seems to have been -a commonplace person then--aggressively commonplace, with all the -nauseating poses of his age strong in him, like diseases. Alcohol had -played a part, it seems; and he was not one of those who were made -genial or attractive by its use. One could have the heresy to make -a decent guess, after all this, as to one origin of his widespread -tolerance. - -But the placidity of his middle years had been of an amplitude to -swallow and almost entirely submerge these indefinite and hushed -enormities. So if any dignity in him had given it a chance, the -community, which was not large, would have looked upon him as a -benevolent influence. At a feast, without his contagious humor, he -would still have been a sort of golden aura to the occasion; to meet -him was to come away eased of the life-long burden of yourself, having -heard him laugh; and he had a gift for rendering people unable to look -seriously in the face of a calamity. You were always trying, in spite -of yourself, to worship him, he was so grand, and so you would have, -except that he was too dynamic for a pedestal. - -It almost made him, as a person, not ring true. His rôle was too exact. -Occasionally one would find one’s-self looking intently at his serious, -childish face--and wondering if there were not something behind it -besides a fund of geniality. He was too much of a cheerful background; -too understanding of the weaknesses of his neighbors; and in his humor -far too thorough not to be sometimes suspected to unreality. But it -was a passing doubt at best, and quite conceivably the product of our -imaginations as we looked backward from a later date. At any rate, he -was enjoyed and respected as a very rare personage indeed: a friend of -everyone alike, though no one in particular. You might have described -him to a perfect stranger as “a very amusing person”, but if he was -mentioned you really did not feel that way yourself. You did not think -of him as a person at all, in fact, but as the thing he was, or stood -for, as though he were the representative of something. - -But it seems that fate had written that the Pan Jandrum--the wise and -genial Pan Jandrum--the Great Pan Jandrum himself, was riding, all this -time, for a fall. - -Fortunately, I was away when it happened, as I should not like to have -seen it. For it is certain I should have shared the curiously intense -feeling of revulsion--or rather simply depression that settled upon -the community afterward. Several things contributed to the effect of -the event, chief of which was, of course, its publicity. Had he not -chosen the particular evening he did to cast aside every vestige of -self-control, no one might have known. But Mrs. Joe-Billy happened, on -that winter night, to be giving a dinner at her big house up on the -hill to which the Great Pan Jandrum had been invited, and from which he -stayed, for a time, conspicuously and unaccountably absent. - -Whether he was accidentally started by some inadvertent friend, or -whether he deliberately wished to enjoy himself, I do not know. Perhaps -he was just tired of his heroic rôle: that is, of our ridiculous yet -touching attitude toward him. - -Those who saw him during the earlier part of the evening, at the club, -never could be made to see the tragic side of the whole affair. Upon -them he apparently made an ineffaceable impression and from what we -others heard, it must have been a performance in the genuine grand -manner. It was, in a way, the glorious apex of his unreal career -among us. People who did not see him there were always very pitiless -about the way he acted, pity not being reserved, I suppose, for the -unpardonable failure of something as great as the Pan Jandrum. But I -have seen no one who did see him there who could tell of any part of -it without putting it on a lofty epic scale--even the saturnine barber -whose pride in his control of the imagination was like a perpetual -flower in his buttonhole. The quantity he had to drink was grown, by -the time it reached my ears, to an heroic figure. The picture was of -him seated in his shirt sleeves alone at a small table, immersed in -bottles. The smoke-filled grill room was thronged with young men and -dignitaries tip-toe on tables and chairs and chairs on tables in order -to hear him and see his stupendous gestures. Nobody could ever remember -anything, he said, but it was so impressive as to need but a day for -it to acquire a legendary character. I know for a fact that one of the -twelve old women of the village who lived a whole block away sent to -find the cause of the noise, and that old Mr. Galhoolie roared with -the best until it was too much for him and he was sick--in the English -sense--all down his patriarchal white beard. I have found myself -wishing I had been there, as I wish I had been at Camelot or at one of -the receptions given the Greek of many devices on his wanderings. - -But I do not wish I had been up on the hill that night, though that -was the dramatic part of the show. It came after he was known to have -escaped from the club alone, after a lengthy disappearance. Up there, -they had naturally supposed that he failed to fill his place on account -of some trivial domestic tragedy, or the advent of friends; or that -something had at last got into his solid old liver which during so many -years of good living had been besieged in vain. But when they heard -he was coming up there in all his magnificence they were horrified. A -morbid curiosity chained them there, but they awaited him in silent, -breathless apprehension, imagining him drawing slowly toward them like -an evil fate over the snowy intervening mile of road. Their reticence -was curious, and explained only by the unbelievableness of the Great -Pan Jandrum’s being uncontrolled--hilarious, crude, outlandish--they -didn’t know what. And they appreciated the occasion at once. It was no -ordinary man about to be foolish, disheartening as that would be under -the circumstances, but they realized that it would touch each one of us -inasmuch as we had put a certain rare type of faith in what he was. - -If only it had been hilarity, or crudity, or wildness that greeted -them! Their wait had been long enough and tense, with them talking -in low voices--asking each other hesitating little questions about -what they thought might happen. Suddenly some one started back with a -gasp, and they all turned to find his serious child’s face outside the -window, intently peering at them. - -There is no need to describe his actions subsequent to his entering -the house. He was not outlandish. He was merely quiet in voice and -manner with an appalling drunkard’s dignity, and he was fully dressed. -The cheer had all gone out of him. He talked for an hour without -pause, first to one, then to another, entirely about himself and with -horrible seriousness. Sententiousness and pomposity from the Great Pan -Jandrum! His tone was threatening; almost challenging all the while, -and there was that in his face which prevented any thought of stopping -him. Intimate, personal, half-finished thoughts issued from him like -loathsome abortions. He took the beautiful Mrs. Galhoolie’s hand in -his and told her he reverenced and respected her so much that he could -not ever love her as the others did. Everyone was left knowing in -excessively sentimental terms just what he thought of them. Everything -he uttered was an indecent exposure; every sentence tore away another -portion of the disguise--as it looked--that he had been so long -building. He was operating on himself in their presence, exposing the -nauseating entrails of his mind--so comfortable from the outside--and -forcing upon them the knowledge that he was as sordid and commonplace -as they in their very worst moments. When they brought him home and -left him they could hear him sobbing--great, deep-voiced, mountainous -sobs that shook his bed. - -But for me, the story of the evening gave the key to the man and made -him interesting. You may admire a point of view and you may even bask -in it, but you cannot make it your friend. It sounded precisely as -though a pent-up flood of gnawing sentiment and egoism had been let -loose in him. He must have had incurably Byronic tendencies which had -at some time or other offended his critical sense, and you saw him now -as a man despairingly and acutely aware of his vulgar heritage of ego -who had with his almost passionate interest in the fortunes of other -people built up the most powerful defense against himself that he could -think of. And there always was, too, I reflected, something of the -fanatic about his rôle of humorist. - -I should have been disturbed on our first meeting soon after the -performance, had it not come as a surprise. I was in Paris, and as I -was leaving my hotel one night for some kind of a festivity he popped -out of the darkness and shook me by the hand. We parted hastily, I -having time for little greeting. “Have a good time, now!” he said as -I left, and that old characteristic phrase of his rang in my ears as -I walked off down the street. He had said it with his usual cheerful, -interested smile and I looked in vain for a found-out expression I had -expected to notice in his face. I wondered if he realized what his -one false step had meant to our imaginations. For, as I afterwards -observed, it was not a question of his brazening it out: he evidently -had consigned it to the limbo of to-be-expected mistakes with a shrug -of the shoulders and took it for granted that we had done the same. -But, however this may be, I saw that he had already begun to build -another structure of worship in my esteem at any rate. Already my -newly discovered man was disappearing, engulfed as in a very splendid -costume which he had removed for a minute. And when next I saw him at -home I had again the ancient feeling of being bathed in a warm electric -light--that unaccountably had sparks, as well. - - W. T. BISSELL. - - - - -_Maurice Hewlett_ - - -In 1893 Mr. Edmund Gosse, with a fine perception of literary -tendencies, wrote: “It is my conviction that the limits of realism -have been reached; that no great writer who has not already adopted -the experimental system will do so; and that we ought now to be on the -lookout to welcome (and, of course, to persecute) a school of novelists -with a totally new aim, part of whose formula must unquestionably be -a concession to the human instinct for mystery and beauty.” The next -year, with “Ebb Tide”, “The Prisoner of Zenda”, and “Under the Red -Robe”, the signs were unmistakable, and what the critics have pleased -to call the Romantic Revival had begun. It was on the crest of this -wave of romanticism that Maurice Hewlett first appeared, and when that -wave had spent itself fifteen years later his best work was done. He -was at once a child of this movement, exhibiting in varied form its -most familiar phases, and a strange free spirit, deriving from no -literary movement, a romanticist by nature, not the exigencies of his -art. And so, if we feel the influence of the period in “The Forest -Lovers”, “The New Canterbury Tales”, “The Fool Errant”, and the rest, -it is in “The Queen’s Quair” and in “Richard Yea-and-Nay” that we -come upon the very essence of Hewlett’s art, an art which was quite -distinctively his own. These two novels he wrote to please himself. -They have been called his finest work. - -As Lionel Johnson said of Scott, so he might have said of Maurice -Hewlett: “In him the antiquarian spirit awoke a passion, instead of a -science.” Hewlett was mystically touched by the beauty of the Middle -Ages and by the beauty of the Renaissance. He was a mediaevalist, a -quattrocentist par excellence, but above all this, or perhaps, better, -as a physical embodiment of all this, he loved Italy with a passionate, -sensitive love. It was this love for Italy which so subtly affected -his character and gave to his novels their color and their warmth, -although strange enough very little of his life was spent in Italy and -little of his best work deals with its history or its people. It was -of England that he wrote in “The Queen’s Quair”, of England and the -Crusades in “Richard Yea-and-Nay”. So, if we grant to his affection for -Italy and her art the warmth and color of his novels, we must look for -their life, their vitality, to this same England and his understanding -love of her past, his oneness in spirit with even the simplest of those -characters which moved across the broad canvas of her history. - -It is not for me to say that either the color and warmth of Italy’s -art or the life and vitality of England’s past were exclusively the -foundation stones of Hewlett’s art. His novels are, all of them, -rich with intermingled threads like tapestry--not the heavy brocaded -tapestry of the poet Spenser, but a tapestry brilliant, yet often -misty and confused, that was quite his own. His backgrounds he built -of hundreds of figures, quickly and sharply etched in a manner -remarkably reminiscent of Sir Thomas Malory and Froissart. Against -this background which he had created with so lavish a care he laid his -greater figures--and I think of Richard and John Lackland and the old -King, Henry the Second, from “Richard Yea-and-Nay”--figures which he -had limned with broad, bold strokes and touched with a quiet wit. The -effect is not only that of tapestry but of old stained glass. We marvel -how the simple, splendid figures stand out and are yet a part of a -delicately wrought background. - -But in the movement of these greater figures before so complex a -background lay the weakness of Hewlett’s art. He knew the pageantry and -color of the lives he wrote about, but it was not given him to read -deeply beneath the gaily painted surface they presented. The movement -of his characters through the unfolding scenes of his romances is not -puppetry. Hewlett’s touch was too fresh, too original for that. It is -only that we see in part, whereas if he had had the power the whole -would be revealed to us. In his greatest novel, and in that novel -almost alone, the veil is lifted for a few moments. In those moments I -think he knew Richard. - -Perhaps, though, more than all else, the factor that can undermine the -permanence of Hewlett’s work is his style. His writing is twisted, -tortured, and--in the reading--perplexing. His prose is almost never -rhythmical; it is often awkward and harsh. The books he wrote to please -himself, his best work, he filled with archaic turns of speech until -their very pages seem to bear the marks of age. They are, as some one -has said, “the inventions of a connoisseur in the queer and remote, a -sort of transformation of Henry James’s involutions into terms of olden -days”. - -To cavil at this is difficult, as it is difficult to cavil at the -design and composition of the romances themselves, they are so -characteristic of their author. He turned his hand to modern England -in the novels of the English countryside, “Rest Harrow”, “Halfway -House”, and the others. He came back to the manner of his earlier -period in “Brazenhead the Great” and worked for a time in the field of -Norse legend. But he will be remembered longest by those two strange, -tangled, brilliant romances, “Richard Yea-and-Nay” and “The Queen’s -Quair”, the best expression his art ever found. Maurice Hewlett was a -colorist, a romancer, a passionate lover of ancient ways. We should -give thanks for the mystery of the Bowing Rood in the church of the -nuns at Fontevrault; for the beauty of Richard, his face covered with -his shield, standing at dawn upon the hills before Jerusalem. - - RICHARD L. PURDY. - - - - -_The Egolatress_ - - -Infinitely more lovely in the winter darkness than in the revealing -light of day, Summit Avenue stretched beneath the moon. The clashing -architectures of the huge houses were mercifully blurred into harmony -by the night, and the long piles of snow drew the picture into a loose, -graceful unity. Beneath the glowing strands of the boulevard lights -flowed a double current of automobiles, in smooth streams that wound -out to the suburbs and downtown to the bays of commerce and amusement. - -Before the doors of the Territorial Club the streams turned in a -sweeping curve, and occasionally cars left the current to turn in, -pause a moment before the pseudo-Gothic entrance, and then join the -parked flank in the driveway. - -A long blue roadster, once sleek and new, now battered, and dusty still -from months of confinement, slid to a stop, like a stick caught on the -bank of a stream. The young driver busied himself with the intricate -process of locking his car. It was dear to him. His companion climbed -out, shivering. - -“Great Scott! You have cold nights up there,” he said. “At home there’s -no snow on the ground at all.” - -The owner of the car laughed. “You’ll get used to it, in two weeks. -Throw that rug over the radiator, will you?” He finished locking -the car, got out, and, as an extra precaution, lifted the hood and -disconnected the spark-plugs. - -“Can’t be too careful of the old boiler,” he said apologetically. “If -it was stolen I wouldn’t get another one out of dad for a century.” - -In the lobby he nodded to the young negro who came to take their coats, -with the familiarity of a member, and turned to his companion, who was -glancing curiously at the chattering groups of men and girls in evening -dress who were in the lobby. - -“From the crowd, Tommy, I gather we’ve looked in on some one’s party. -Wait, and I’ll see who’s giving it.” - -In a tall, loosely hung way, Tommy was rather handsome; distinguished, -certainly. He had deep grey eyes, and a way of taking all things with -a slow, questioning smile, that either charmed or exasperated. He was -very dark; a Southerner; twenty-two perhaps. - -The other, short, and sandy-haired, and blue-eyed, carrying himself -with that preoccupied air of conscious importance which is so often -the aspect of short people, was in excellent contrast. By their -oppositeness they set one another off; rather to Tommy’s advantage. - -“Grant’s party, for Millicent,” his host said, returning. “Mrs. Grant’s -an old social-enemy and friend of mother’s; we’re invited to stay.” - -He led the way down a short hall to the right, past parted velvet -curtains, toward the source of the music. Before the formidable Mrs. -Grant, a matron of the over-stuffed type, he performed the amenities. - -“Mrs. Grant, this is Tommy Squire, my roommate at school. Tommy’s from -Richmond.” - -Mrs. Grant was very happy to meet a friend of Carl Twist’s. Tommy -accepted the three longest fingers of the drooping hand which she -extended to him with the manner of an operatic duchess, and managed -to convey his gratitude for the honor. As a further concession Mrs. -Grant propounded the unique theory that winters in the North were -apt to be _much_ colder than those in Virginia--“Don’t _you_ find it -so, Mr. Squire?” When the two had unanimously ratified her sagacious -observation, the audience was over. - -The club’s lounge and dining-room had been thrown into one; the -tables, later to be drawn out for supper, were massed in a corner, and -elaborate decorations festooned the walls. Under the rose and grey of -the low-beamed ceiling the whirl and color and indiscriminate noise of -unleashed exuberance of the first of the holiday dances throbbed and -spun to the music. There were men and girls from the universities, from -prep. schools and finishing schools, and a seasoning of those who had -graduated or dropped out. Most of them had returned within the week, -and each time that the music stopped there were numerous impromptu, -frenzied reunions, as friends parted for an age of three and a half -months simulated paroxysms of joy at seeing one another, with shrieks -and calls and kisses and much waggling hand-shaking--as the sex or the -innate histrionics of the participants impelled them. - -In the interval of music Tommy was introduced to the privates of the -stag-line, remembering mismated fragments of names, and receiving the -bone-crushing grip which is every youth’s obsession, until his own -shoulders sagged, and his throat became dry with repeating “How do you -do.” - -“I’d better introduce you to some girls, now,” Carl decided mercifully. - -A couple brushed past, engrossed in the intricacies of a new dance. The -girl caught Tommy’s interest. - -“Who’s that?” he asked. - -Carl laughed softly. “So soon?” he said. “That’s Millicent Grant, for -whom the party’s being given. She goes to Dobbs; as a relaxation, I -guess. Her real business is the Male; making men fall for her, dangle a -while, and then dropping them. Thinks she’s wasted on the small field -this town offers. Look out for her. She’s shallow as the deuce, but -hard to get away from.” - -“No danger,” said Tommy. “I didn’t appear so interested as to get all -this biography, I hope!” - -“You’ll hear it soon enough. She enjoys being the talk of the town; -local Barbara Neave, as it were. Come and meet her.” - -Followed by Tommy, Carl threaded his way through the dancers, stepped -with nonchalant expertness on the toes of a stag about to precede him, -and cut in. - -“Hello, Millicent! Come and be introduced to Tommy Squire, coming Big -Man at school, who does me the honor of being my roommate for the -exclusive right of wearing my ties.” - -Tommy smiled formally at his friend’s brilliance, made an inward -notation that he liked her eyes when she smiled, and acknowledged the -presentation. - -When Carl had removed himself, they danced. - -Then followed the conventional small-talk of two members of the -warring sexes when both are engaged in “making an impression”. They -both followed youth’s greatest diversion, staying in school the while -dodging its exactions and embracing its pleasures, and acquiring not -education, but the equally essential atmosphere. It developed that -he was a junior, she in the final year of finishing school; that he -played football, but had failed to win a letter (though he confessed -with pardonable pride having played eight minutes in a Big Game when -the first-string tackle had been carried off the field); that she -_adored_ football; that she likewise _adored_ a number of things; dogs -(but not the messy kind); fraternity pins, and Eastern men (this was -a pardonable error; she made flattering concessions to the Southern -variety, when Tommy found the opportunity to tell her where he came -from); that she _adored_--a great many more things. - -In short, they simply chattered, as a man and a girl have always -done, on first meeting. Later stages of acquaintanceship bring long -silences, either from undisguised boredom or an adolescent spiritual -understanding. Now, silence was a gaping hole in the garment of -etiquette, to be patched with endless talk. - -They were soon cut in on. - -Carl returned from the arduous task of dancing with his own sister -(a task only to her brother; she, too, held court), and found Tommy -marooned in the stag line. He introduced him to other girls, in whom -Tommy found varying charm. Carl’s sister, a mature child of seventeen, -wanted to know, “_Honestly_ now,” whether Carl drank at school. - -Tommy lied like a good roommate. He reflected philosophically on the -oddness of sisters who went out constantly with men who drank, and yet -expected total abstinence from their brothers. It was a reversal of -the older custom of brothers who demanded impeccable behavior of their -sisters; and yet-- - -Millicent passed. He cut-in. When they had danced half a dozen steps he -lost her to another stag. - -She was annoyed, and the pressure of her hand as they parted was a -little more than casual artifice. Millicent had early finished her -appraisal of the men at the party. She knew that she was destined to -meet most of them night after night for the next two weeks, and she -planned eventualities. She planned to have half a dozen affairs; the -holiday-loves, more evanescent even than summer-loves, that dwindled, -after the two weeks, from special-delivery letters into abrupt -silence. There would be one or two proposals, perhaps, in the last -days--there had been three, at the end of the summer at Minnetonka. -She catalogued the men, slowly: Eddie Pearson, nice enough--too nice, -insipid; Orme Waldon, whom no amount of snubbing would rebuff; Stewart -Holmes, whose egotism was such that he believed all girls secretly -longed for his attentions; and so on. These were the last three of the -summer’s garnerings. She wanted some one _new_. Tommy Squire. He seemed -worth thinking about. Rather wise--he’d need angling to draw in. Idly -she planned manoeuvres. - -Tommy cut-in again. She used the old effective artifice of asking him -to keep her tiny handkerchief and vanity-case in his pocket. When she -caught his eye, he was to understand that they were needed. Tommy -smiled to himself. He understood. - -But Millicent did not need to use her vanity-case very often. Tommy -kept on cutting-in. However, his manner was not gratifying. He was -pleasant, impersonal, quizzical. He told her that she was rather the -most attractive girl there--and added, thoughtfully, that there were -lots more beautiful girls, in Richmond. - -“You’re absolutely _rude_, Mr. Squire!” Millicent wanted to be placated. - -He drew her out, and with skillful questions, sped with occasional -compliments, he exposed her vanity. When she realized that, she -retaliated--they understood one another, distantly still, and far -beneath the surface of conversation. - -As he continued to cut in--alternating, rather from politeness, with -Carl’s sister Joan--the stags, in a tacit agreement, let him have her -more and more to himself. Joan did not like that. It was ahead of her -plans. - -At supper Millicent saw to it that they were paired together. Looking -distastefully at the noisy tables, where already the customary -table-jokes were under way--spoons being laid in rows so that a tap -on one sent another into a glass of water, and misappropriation of -the salt and pepper (Bardy Cless and Evelyn Preston leading on the -humorists), she feared that she might lose him there to Joan Twist. - -“Let’s go outside and have our supper in a car,” she suggested. -“There’s no room here.” - -Tommy, politely overlooking the numerous empty places, was entirely -willing. He got cake and sandwiches, and two plates with cups of coffee -and chicken patties, and together they sped across the street to a -parked limousine that stood almost in the shadow of the cathedral. - -He told her, in the course of the next few minutes, that she was -_quite_ as lovely as any girl in Richmond. The darkness, and -Millicent’s bare shoulder close against him, were effective. - -And he was pleasantly surprised when he found that she had no desire to -be kissed. - -“Why, I’ve only known you for two hours,” she said, dropping lightly -out of the car. “And besides, mother will be mad _again_ when she finds -that I’m not having supper at my own party. Last year Dick Cole and I -drove down to the chicken shack, and mother almost passed away when we -came back, eating drumsticks!” - -They both forgot the débris of their supper, but later, after the party -was over, a very angry matron discovered it when she sat in a plate of -chicken, on entering her car to go home. - -Long past midnight Millicent sat before her dressing table, thinking. -She took off the silver band around her hair, and with a brush began -to restore the fluffiness which the mode demands. A wisp which grew an -infinitesimal fraction of an inch longer, in front, than the rest she -critically snipped off with finger-nail scissors. She let her hands -rest on the table, and regarded her reflection. She was supremely -satisfied with what she saw; she always was. Her self-admiration -transcended egotism. It was impersonal. She was complacently certain -that she was the most beautiful girl in the city. The assurance of a -very few girls--and a very great number of men--was superfluous. Wilde -has said that love of oneself is a life-long romance: Millicent’s -was a passion! In the perfection of her features, a subtle coldness -of manner, a faint expression as of calculating, which her character -had betrayed into her eyes, was the nearest thing to a fault which -she could see. Such an expression must inevitably creep into the -expression of a girl who is the object of so much masculine attention -that she may--and perforce must--choose, and weigh, and reject, so -slighting the least attractive candidates. It was these who were most -aware of the expression--they remembered it vividly, in soothing their -disappointments. - -Millicent picked up a lip-stick, and toyed with it. She glanced up -at the top of her mirror. There she kept a curious record. Drawn on -the level of the glass with the lip-stick, were three small hearts. -A photograph almost hid them. They were initialed--E.P., O.W., S.H. -She picked up her handkerchief, and rubbed out the last one. She was -tired of Stewart--he would be dropped; in the cool, summary manner -which was the essence of Millicent. Eddie, and Orme Waldon would -remain. Eddie was always beneficial--he played up so well when she -wanted compliments. Orme had a car which she could command, with him or -without him; and that was very useful. - -When she had erased the last heart she drew a new one, larger and -apart; the photograph would completely hide it. She initialed it T.S., -and then she sat regarding it--he had been so pointedly disinterested! -Ah, but he would learn servility; others had, before him. - - * * * * * - -After a few days, the members of the general “crowd” had come to see -that through accident or design Tommy and Millicent were usually -together, when both were at any given place at the same time. There -were comments; some caustic, some foolish, some wise: Carl, for -instance, was irritatingly derisive. “I told you she’d take you in!” -he told Tommy; and when Tommy serenely denied any unusual interest, he -agreed, with the reservation--“That’s all right, for _now_, you sweet -idiot, but you don’t appreciate what Millicent can do, in ten days. -Just wait!” - -On Sunday afternoons a heterogeneous crowd was wont to drift over -to the Grants’, to piece together the gossip of the week. At -supper-time they regularly went through the ritual of expressing -formal astonishment at the lateness of the hour, and then reluctantly -accepting the expected invitation to stay and partake of a -buffet-supper. - -When Carl and Tommy arrived they found the usual assembly. For half the -afternoon Millicent ignored Tommy, simulating a deep interest in Eddie -Pearson’s stuttered and imperfect rendition of all the jokes in the -past week’s Orpheum bill. Eddie was one of those people who insist upon -showing you how excellently they can imitate the comedian.... - -Tommy, on the couch, was amiably quarreling with Barbara Peart over -the literary merits of modern literature. Barbara held serious and -decided views; Tommy didn’t care a damn either way; the subject bored -him so that it was an effort to be polite. Millicent finally extricated -herself from Eddie’s imperfectly remembered humor with scant courtesy, -and sat down beside Tommy. There was satisfaction in taking him away -from Barbara, anyway. Thereafter she directed the conversation--to -herself, inevitably. - -Tommy and Carl stayed on after the rest of the crowd had left. -Millicent arranged that. Carl at first refused to accept her hints -that he too might leave; but after they had sat in silence for ten -minutes, Millicent sulking, Tommy looking into the fire and thinking -about the hunting near Richmond, and Carl professing fascination in -the automobile pages of the Sunday paper, he relented, and rose to -go. Tommy, with elaborately concealed relief, rose to accompany him. -Then Millicent took command of the situation, and said, with superb -carelessness: - -“Well, drive back here and take Tommy home about eleven, because I -really must go to bed early to-night if I’m to go on that snow-shoe -trip to-morrow.” - -So Tommy stayed. The conversation was not animated. Millicent made poor -progress. Presently, when the conversation reached Millicent in its -usual course, she asked him whether he liked bobbed-hair. He did, on -certain girls. She obviously expected to be told that she was one; if -not the chief one. He told her so. - -The next step would be for him to stretch his arm along the back of the -couch, above her shoulders, and comment upon its fluffiness. Tommy took -his cue admirably. He stirred her hair with his fingers, and he did not -withdraw his arm. Millicent had drawn imperceptibly closer. The fire -in the grate had burned down to a drowsy glow, leaving the room in the -semi-darkness of late winter twilight. Now her head swayed toward him. -The moment was propitious. Tommy knew it. He had been cast as leading -man in just such a scene before. He knew that the next move was his.... - -And rather unexpectedly he made it. Very deliberately he got up, walked -over to the table, took up a cigarette and lit it. Neither of them -spoke. The silence was unnatural. A tension filled the air. There was -nothing to say. - -The sound of a horn on the driveway saved the situation. - -“That must be Carl,” Tommy said quickly. “Sounds as if he might be in a -hurry. Don’t get up; I’ll just grab my things in the hall. Good-night, -Millicent--awfully good time.” - -He went out, a little breathlessly, before she could speak or get up. - -Millicent was furious; furious at Tommy, who had snubbed her with -such ironic insolence; furious at herself, who had engineered her -own humiliation. The climax of her planning had come to ignominious -failure. Consuming anger filled her. For a moment she wondered whether -his manner would betray anything of the breach to the rest of the -crowd, on the snowshoe trip, the next day. Paul Lyle, in making up the -party, had paired them as a matter of course. Millicent knew what the -crowd was saying: and she would not be made ridiculous in their eyes, -now. Before Tommy went back to school he must propose, and the crowd -must know that he had. - -She repeated that, mentally. The words were like italics on a page. - - * * * * * - -There was no perceptible difference in their attitude the next morning. -The snowshoe trip to Paul Lyle’s cabin on the St. Croix River had been -abandoned, because a vagary of the thermometer had brought balmy winds -and a thaw, overnight. - -Tommy was relieved. The trip had been planned in his honor, and he had -had to feign a deep interest in Northern sports; actually he had had a -distinct premonition that he was due to make a general ass of himself -on snowshoes. - -It was decided that they should drive up to the cabin for dinner, -instead. They found the cabin mired in slush, and with a leaking roof, -but a crackling fire in the stone hearth, and the uncertain melodies -from a small phonograph which some one unearthed, put them all in high -spirits. When they had tired of dancing over the uneven floors they -constituted themselves into an exploring party, and wandered down to -the river and out on the soft ice. - -Presently, Providence took a hand. - -Millicent, who had run ahead of the rest, shrieked suddenly, balanced -wildly for an instant, and fell into an air-hole in the ice. - -It took but a very few moments to lift her out, and take her up to the -cabin, but in that period she had been seriously chilled from exposure -in the icy water. The men had done all that they could. Mary Skinner, -small and frail, took command. Millicent was put to bed, before the -hearth, bordering on the line of unconsciousness. A doctor was on the -way. They could only wait. - -Tommy was dazed. Millicent had suddenly became a great deal to him. The -play of excited emotion, suddenly released, will do that. He sat on the -steps, unmindful of his own damp clothes. Millicent’s light sweater was -in his hands. Why, he wondered inconsistently, out of all this crowd of -girls did it have to be Millicent who should be endangered? - -“Tommy’s taking it pretty hard, I guess,” some one said. “He thinks an -awful lot of Millicent.” - -And for the first time, he did. - - * * * * * - -When the doctor had come, and given Millicent a hypodermic, they -wrapped her carefully in rugs, and drove slowly back to town. - -She would have to stay in bed for a week or so, that was all, the -doctor said. - -Tommy’s first floral offering came the next morning, and in the course -of the following days he sent almost everything in the florist’s -stock, from corsage bouquets to funeral lilies. He came himself, and -stayed interminably, until Mr. Grant, ordinarily a mild-mannered and -ponderously humored man, observed with unwonted choler that “If that -young man comes any earlier, I shall have to give him my place at the -breakfast table!” His wife, who looked upon Tommy with that eye of -wisdom which mothers with marriageable daughters possess, was more -kindly disposed. Tommy, in the parlance of her sphere, was an excellent -“catch”. He might see Millicent as often as he liked. - -Millicent prolonged her stay in bed. She was aware that she made rather -a charming invalid, and throned in her bed she received a gratifying -court. - -The wise commenters became positive. - -“Millicent’s really in love, this time,” they said, “and their -engagement will be announced before Tommy goes back to school.” - -Tommy, the drawling and indifferent, had given way to Tommy, the -intense and devoted. Millicent was aware of her victory. - -The hearts with E.P. and O.W. had gone. Tommy’s, hidden by the -photograph, reigned alone. Perhaps, she thought idly, after they were -married she would have it cut into the glass. It was a pretty fancy. -She toyed with the idea, toyed with it as she did with everything in -her life; a languid, fickle amusement. - -The day before Tommy and Carl were to go back to school Millicent got -up. She was paler, and more ethereally beautiful, she decided, with -characteristic candor. The sweet peas which he had sent that morning -looked rather well on her. - -She wondered, as she pinned them on, whether he would propose to-day or -wait until the last. - -He was nervous; a little haggard, too, she noticed, when he came, and -she knew that he would propose to-day. Her triumph was at hand, but -suddenly she knew that she wanted more time to think. She must make him -wait until to-morrow. - -They were on the couch again. He kissed her, and in the moment that -their lips touched it came to her that Tommy was realty infatuated--but -in another moment the old doubt had returned, and when he said: - -“Millicent, dear, I’ve only known you--” she stopped him, with a -breathless flutter, and said, “To-morrow, Tommy, to-morrow afternoon; I -_can’t_ tell you to-day!”... And she ran out of the room. - -Millicent did not appear at supper. She was locked in her room, her -head buried in her arms on the dressing-table, thinking; half crying. -It was the only crisis which had ever come into her life. Always before -she had left this to the man; her own way had continued serenely -untroubled. Once, in a fit of fancy, she reached up as if to erase the -heart, but she did not complete the gesture. - -The next morning dragged slowly by. - -After lunch Millicent went to her desk, and in a fit of caprice wrote -a letter. She read it, and started to tear it up. Then she changed her -mind, and left it, sealed, on her desk. It was a quarter past two. -Tommy ought to arrive very soon. - -She walked over to the pier-glass in the hall. Dispassionately she -admired her beauty. She thought that she had never seen anyone so -lovely. Others might be merely beautiful, hers was distinctive. Beauty -was a power in itself; and when coupled with intellect--the power it -might wield was infinite. Great beauties had made history--many of them -had had humbler beginnings, by far, than she. She felt in that moment -that she too might have been destined to rule.... French novels had -taught her these things--and had failed to instil a sense of personal -absurdity. - -Egotism was her greatest fault; she looked upon it as her highest -virtue. - -Her thought came back to Tommy. No man had ever been so much in love -with her as he was. And he represented so many desirable things. He was -appealingly good looking. He was wealthy in his own right, Carl had -told her. Life with him would be tranquil and luxurious.... It might -grow dull. - - * * * * * - -She heard him on the walk. She stood there, frozen, as he came up the -steps. He rang the bell, and in that instant decision came. The maid -was coming through to open the door. Millicent snatched the sealed -letter from her desk, and handed it to her. - -“Give this to Mr. Squire,” she said, and while the maid gazed stupidly -at her, she laughed, half hysterically, and ran up the stairs. - -In her room she heard Tommy come in, heard the murmur of the maid’s -voice, and then, after a pause longer than she had ever endured, she -heard the door close upon him. She waited until she could not hear his -footsteps longer--then she walked over to the mirror, and rubbed out -the heart. - - C. G. POORE. - - - - -_Book Reviews_ - - -_Jean Huguenot._ By STEPHEN VINCENT BENÉT. (Henry Holt.) - -Flowers in writing are like flowers on a grave: they commemorate death. -And Benét’s first novel was a little too prone to floral decoration. In -his third book, _Jean Huguenot_, his work as a stylist is noticeably -improved. He still remains all poet in his prose, and, as ever, reads -the better for it. Yet he has reached a saner manner of writing that -does not overwhelm and cloy as did parts of _The Beginning of Wisdom_. - -Despite mechanical improvement _Jean Huguenot_ marks a lull in the -author’s literary progress. You are moved along for two hundred or so -pages by glowing language and well-drawn situations. And just when -the book has become really enjoyable--well, all pleasure in it begins -to subside. You are dropped, like a deflated balloon, into a flat and -tasteless completion. Why, oh, why, you say, couldn’t he have given us -something else--anything else? The spectacle of Jean Huguenot Ashley -turned _cocotte_ is neither appealing nor revolting; it is just plain -drab. Perhaps Benét is true to nature in his picture, but--read it and -see if it doesn’t affect you in the same fashion. The story is worth -while for three-quarters of its course--and then, being so near the -end, one might as well finish it, anyway. - - J. R. C. - - -_The Florentine Dagger._ By BEN HECHT. (Boni & Liveright.) - -Ben Hecht is mountebank of words par excellence: their swirling shapes, -their sounds, their shifting colors, as he juggles them so adroitly -before our bewildered eyes. The subject-matter of his books serves only -as a pattern, an excuse for weaving a tapestry of fascinating and often -amazing phrases. Whether it is a psychological study in the manner of -Dreiser, like Gargoyles, or an all-night detective story, like the -present book, is an altogether incidental matter. It is the words that -count. That may perhaps explain why Mr. Hecht should suddenly decide to -perform before such a bourgeois audience, descending, so to speak, from -the Palace to the four-a-day. He evidently realized that the world was -quite bored by anything he had to say, but perfectly entranced by the -way in which he said it. - -_The Florentine Dagger_ was written with Prof. Hart’s Psychology of -Insanity on one hand and the Memoirs of the de Medici Family on the -other. Taken as a dramatic presentation of certain psychological -phenomena it is brilliant enough to make itself endeared by every -psychology professor in the country. Everyone in the book, from the -last member of the fastidious de Medicis to the old actress, is -troubled by complexes and obsessions of all sorts, so that a miserable -and uncertain rôle is assigned to each. All the time-dishonored devices -of the mystery story are faithfully observed, although its technique on -the whole is genuinely successful. - -Mr. Hecht has in this book, as in all his others, displayed his -incredible faculty for choosing a new literary technique as casually as -most writers choose their stationery. - - W. T. - - -_The Blind Bow Boy._ By CARL VAN VECHTEN. (Alfred Knopf.) - -Carl Van Vechten is an elegant dilettante. His books are the essence of -trivial and charming existence. He is fond of cats, George Moore, Rolls -Royce motor cars, and cravats by Charvet. He is apathetic to Corot and -Monet, to Ibsenism, midwestern mediocrity, and synthetic gin. - -_The Blind Bow Boy_ is of inferior quality to _Peter Whiffle_, just as -_Peter Whiffle_ is undoubtedly inferior to _Memoirs of My Dead Life_, -but it is good reading and by far the most intelligent intellectual -mixed grill of which the reviewer has partaken this season. - -The fact that Van Vechten is in the good graces of the greatest of all -American whim-whammers, Henry Mencken, is in itself a warrant for the -six editions into which the book has already run. It may also prevent -it from running into another six. - -_The Blind Bow Boy_ is the story of a summer opera season in New York, -an international alliance in the person of Zimbule O’Grady, and the -delightful exploits of the Duke of Middlebottom, who lived by the -Julian Calendar and in this case “contrived to evade all unsatisfactory -engagements, especially if they were complicated in any way by -daylight-saving time, an American refinement of which he was utterly -ignorant”. There are also some trivial protagonists who strut through -the book in a manner slightly suggestive of exaggerated and overdressed -Weiner sausages. - -The author has an unfortunate habit of becoming enamoured of one -character for a chapter or two, and then without warning shifting his -affections to another, a failing which gives the reader a somewhat -biographically errant point of view. - -It is also unfortunate that Van Vechten cannot follow a more clearly -defined theme, for he has no sense of plot, shading, or climax. His -stories are a series of photographically vivid scenes, innocent of -all structural liaison, and hanging together only by virtue of the -bookbinding which keeps them from fluttering away to the various -literary hemispheres. - -It is, however, very satisfactory reading, for in his multiplex -catalogues of names and places the author gives the reader a vivid -sense of personal familiarity which is quite flattering. No doubt -this effect is obtained by mentioning so many aspects of contemporary -civilization that everyone must needs have come in contact with at -least some few of them. - - L. M. B. - - -_A Son at the Front._ By EDITH WHARTON. (Charles Scribner’s Sons.) - -As the most and vagueness surrounding the late war are slowly cleared -away by passing time and subsiding emotions, and the conflict settles -into a semblance of perspective, the more recent books that deal -with it show an increasing grasp of its essentials, and a higher -understanding of its trials and lessons. Where once were only trees, -we can see a forest now, whose outlines are becoming more distinct as -the shock of the cataclysm becomes a memory. It is past, now, and -irrevocable, open to description or interpretation. - -Speaking sincerely from the depth of her own experience, Edith Wharton -here gives us a faithful picture; not of the mechanics of the war, but -of general and specific reactions to it. Paris is the setting almost -throughout the narrative, that of an American painter whose son, born -in France, is drawn by the logic of his instincts and sympathies into -the struggle. The scenes and events of the war, its growing tragedy and -sternness, and their gradual effect on John Campton, are recorded with -an insight and understanding that fascinate, while their subject-matter -grips. The author shows a keen grasp of small details, as well as -of large issues and their significance. Her style is delightful--a -silver rapier that here waves benignly, and there strikes humorously -or satirically, with great precision. Several delicate threads of -narrative underlie and emphasize the main theme--Campton’s art, Paris -visibly changing, and the younger Campton’s love affair. The story -never falters as it traces out that “huge mysterious design which -was slowly curving a new heaven over a new earth”. The author, in -that design, points us to a philosophy of the war, a personal moral, -comprehending its soul. - -Our growing literary heritage from the World War contains few -contributions more authentic or more inspiring than “A Son at the -Front”. - - R. P. C., JR. - - -_The Dove’s Nest._ By KATHERINE MANSFIELD. (Boni & Liveright.) - -Here are stories that are literature: they move us by the presence -of the genuine elements of literature, and not by the elements of -painting, music, or any other art. Their language is neither colorful -nor melodious, but it is significantly expressive, related inextricably -to the subject matter. They help make the short story as distinct a -literary form as a landscape by Cezanne or a sonata by Beethoven. -Katherine Mansfield, scarcely a year after her death, has come to be -regarded as one of the most finished artists that ever worked with the -short story as their medium. - -The present collection includes several unfinished fragments which are -invaluable to anyone interested in her art or in the short story as a -whole. They are cross-sections of her method which enable us to see -the processes that produce the half-dozen little masterpieces at the -beginning of the book. - -“The Doll’s House” is at once the best and the most typical of all -the stories she has written. It shows us in an unforgetable manner -her complete mastery of the difficult trick of epitomizing the whole -of life in a minute and almost ridiculously petty episode. All the -aspirations of the many, all the heartless prejudice of the few, are -concentrated in a toy lamp in one of the little rooms of a doll’s -house. It might easily be sentimental, and very likely ridiculous, if -it were not for the implacable aloofness of her art. Again, in “A Cup -of Tea” we have a bitter, though inoffensive, exhibition of the quality -of mercy by somewhat the same whimsical concentration on little things. -A lady of high degree is accosted on Bond Street by another lady of -lesser degree who requests the price of a cup of tea. The first lady, -thinking it would be a charming adventure, takes the pathetic creature -into her own home for her cup of tea. She is impressed by her own -magnanimity, even considers doing something more worthwhile for the -stranger, when the great lady’s husband appears. Because the latter -ventured the remark that the visitor is really quite pretty, because -the great lady suddenly detects the shadow of age on her face as she -passes the mirror, the visitor is forthwith despatched with a few -shillings, and the great lady asks her husband that evening, “Do you -think I’m pretty?” - -All the stories of Katherine Mansfield are more or less like that, -displaying the difficult accomplishment of a worker in miniature, and, -like the art of the miniature, possessing a rare and almost forgotten -spirit. - - W. T. - - -_The Lyric._ By JOHN DRINKWATER. (Martin Secker.) - -None of the “sound and fury” of modern literary theories (signifying -nothing?), and little that is arresting is to be found in this essay on -the lyric; its argument has a stately conservatism with enough that is -fresh and new to make the whole of interest. - -Drinkwater pins much faith on Coleridge’s definition of poetry: -“poetry--the best words in the best order”. After declaring this to -be the one and only true definition, later in the text he admits that -there can be no proper definition of poetry, since so much depends -on the individuality of the poet. So perhaps we can forgive him the -contradiction on the score that he relieves us of the necessity of -having our ideals of poetry destroyed forever. - -The author advances an interesting theory of poetic “energies”, the -forces that cause the creation of verse. He classifies these into -several types that cast a new light on the whys and wherefores of -poetry. The lyric itself is well defined. Perhaps the most interesting -passage is his clever answer to the accusations against form made by -the sponsors of free-verse. Their own lack of form, however, he treats -not with diatribe, but interested tolerance. - - A. M. - - -_Within These Walls._ By RUPERT HUGHES. (Harper & Bros.) - -It is the natural tendency of every generation to consider much -less vivid and wicked those that have come before. We still hear of -the “old-fashioned” mothers in sentimental appreciation or pity--as -contrasted with the obstreperous rising generation. - -In this light, it is interesting to read Mr. Hughes’ novel, which has -as an obtrusive background the very vital and naughty New York of -1825-1875. With a slight hesitation for touches that obviously cater to -our surprise, we would class the bulk of this background as authentic. -It is the main theme of the book. A restless melodramatic movement of -indifferently drawn characters across this setting gives the author -his excuse for it. The action is too stereotyped in its thrill to be -in itself worth while, and it is given the reader as substitute for an -ability to define the characters into lasting silhouettes. Mr. Hughes’s -_forte_ is a running-fire, rat-tat-tat description of stirring events -(as the great fire of 1837) which never fails to work one up, and is -thus highly effective. - -However, the author does hew to the line of his purpose, and gives us -an interesting (however faithful) picture of the growing New York, -and its groping fight for an adequate water supply. Daniel Webster -enters in two places--once as toper, once as orator--with doubtful -appropriateness. - -One does not for the most part feel in sympathy with the book. - - R. P. C., JR. - - -_The Powder of Sympathy._ By CHRISTOPHER MORLEY. - -_The Powder of Sympathy_ is a collection of whimsical, verbal morsels, -colyumistic in length, but not for the most part in character. -Discourse upon the shortcomings of the Long Island Railroad, or upon -the vicissitudes of mongrel dogs in pedigreed kennels no doubt is -admirable colyum copy; but Mr. Morley has included in his latest book -an equal quantity of semi-serious discussion about books and about -authors. We can think of no one who can impart to the reader his -own genuine enthusiasm for good books so well as Sir Kenelm Digby’s -publicity agent. (Incidentally, we consider Mr. Morley’s observations -on Sir Digby’s character, habits, and work as the most titillating -particle of sympathetic powder to be found in the whole book.) - -It is a book for every mood. If you feel the need of a laugh, pick up -this salmon-colored work and choose at random from the forty odd titles -that speak for themselves. If you are beginning to wonder whether you -will ever again find prose that will thrill you with its bold and -powerful use of the strong red roots of our English vocabulary, read -“Santayana in the Subway”. If you still have a morbid interest in the -higher side of the culinary art known as distillation, you will find -enlightening Sir Kenelm’s directions for making “ale drink quick and -stronger”. In any case once you open this book you will forget where -the blues begin. - - M. T. - - - - -_Editor’s Table_ - - -One by one the Editors appeared, grim with the prospect of renewed -and unremittent editing. It was hours before Cherrywold, the verbal -Valentine, could sufficiently cast off the burden of his perpetually -broken heart to enter the conversation, but the others gradually warmed -to the task of post-vacation badinage. - -“How were the girls at Grosse Pointe Village?” inquired Han -solicitously of the pagan Rabnon. - -“How was _the_ girl, you mean!” chirped Aerial. “Why, along in August -he telegraphed me, ‘A girl has been seen in Grosse Pointe Village. What -shall I do?’” - -“What did he dew?” inquired the scandal-seeking Mrs. Stephens. - -“Don’t know,” said Aerial. “I telegraphed back, ‘Compromise’, and let -it go at that!” - -“How shiffless!” cried Mrs. Stephens. And at the same moment the deep -base roar of Mr. Stephens was heard calling for water, for she had -fainted from the shock of Aerial’s remark, being a perfect lady. - -“Why pick on me?” countered Rabnon, when the excitement had subsided. -“The girls of Grosse Pointe Village are all right. One of them -entertained me this summer with an account of how an empty taxi-cab -once rolled up to Dobbs Ferry, and Cherrywold got out. You can’t beat -that for a masterly bit of description!” - -Thus roused from thoughts of “all for love and love for all”, the -slandered Cherrywold girded himself against the powers of cynicism. - -“You are a pack of blasphemous cowards all!” he cried. “It has been -alleged that Mr. and Mrs. Stephens are the only people in the world who -still believe in fairies, and that Jonah was swallowed by the whale, -but I believe--” - -“‘What troubles you, my little one? The dawn is far away,’” soothed -Han. But, refusing to be calmed by a snatch of one of his own -lullabies, Cherrywold was only prevented from assaulting his Oriental -acquaintance by main force. - -“You! You c-can’t SPELL!” he thundered. And the office crashed in ruins. - - * * * * * - -“That’s what they all say--when they can’t think of anything else. And -so say I--when I can’t think of anything else,” remarked - - HAN. - - * * * * * - - - - Transcriber’s note - - Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE -(VOL. LXXXIX, NO. 1, 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™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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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. LXXXIX, No. 1, 1923)</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Various</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 6, 2023 [eBook #69966]</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, Carla Foust 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. LXXXIX, NO. 1, 1923) ***</div> - -<div class="bbox"> - -<p class="ph4"> -Vol. LXXXIX        No. 1</p> - -<p class="ph4">The</p> - -<h1>Yale Literary Magazine</h1> - -<p class="ph3">Conducted by the</p> - -<p class="ph2">Students of Yale University.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp89" id="i_title_1" style="max-width: 25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/i_title_1.png" alt=""> -</div> - -<p class="ph4">“Dum mens grata manet, nomen laudesque <span class="smcap">Yalenses</span><br> -Cantabunt <span class="smcap">Soboles</span>, unanimique <span class="smcap">Patres</span>.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="i_dec" style="max-width: 16.3125em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/i_dec.png" alt=""> -</div> - -<p class="ph3">October, 1923.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="i_dec_2" style="max-width: 16.3125em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/i_dec.png" alt=""> -</div> - -<p class="ph2">New Haven: Published by the Editors.</p> - -<p class="ph4">Printed at the Van Dyck Press. 121-123 Olive St., New Haven.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="i_dec_3" style="max-width: 16.3125em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/i_dec.png" alt=""> -</div> - -<p class="ph3">Price: Thirty-five Cents.</p> - -<p class="ph4"><i>Entered as second-class matter at the New Haven Post Office.</i> -</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="bbox1"> -<p class="ph2">WEBER’S STUDIO</p> - -<p class="ph3"> -Photographers to Yale<br> -Since 1910<br> -</p> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="ph2">DON’T ABUSE YOUR EYES</p> - -<p class="ph3">Men who are working on themes and<br> -theses will find the new <span class="smcap">Yale Theme<br> -Tablet</span> very beneficial.</p> - -<p class="ph2">It is Scientifically Prepared to Prevent Glare -and Relieve Eye Strain</p> - -<p class="ph4">for sale at</p> - -<p class="ph2">THE CO-OP.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="ph4">ESTABLISHED 1818</p> - - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="i_ad1" style="max-width: 18.75em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/i_ad1.png" alt=""> -</div> - - -<p class="ph2">Gentlemen’s Furnishing Goods,</p> - -<p class="ph3"> -MADISON AVENUE COR. FORTY-FOURTH STREET<br> -NEW YORK<br> -</p> - -<p class="ph4"><i>Telephone Murray Hill 8800</i></p> - - -<p class="ph3">Clothing Ready made or to Measure for Autumn</p> - -<p class="ph4"> -Evening Clothes, Cutaways, Sack Suits<br> -Sporting Clothes and Medium-weight Overcoats<br> -English and Domestic Hats & Furnishings<br> -Boots and Shoes for Dress, Street and Outdoor Sport<br> -Trunks, Bags & Leather Goods<br> -</p> - -<p class="ph4"><i>Send for “Comparisons”</i></p> - -<p class="ph4"> -The next visit of our Representative to<br> -the HOTEL TAFT<br> -will be on November 6 and 7<br> -</p> - -<div class="height"> -<p class="float-left"><span class="float-left"><b>BOSTON</b></span><br> -<span class="float-left"><b>Tremont cor. Boylston</b></span></p> - -<p class="float-right"><span class="float-left"><b>NEWPORT</b></span><br> -<span class="float-left"><b>220 Bellevue Avenue</b></span></p> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="bbox"> - -<div class="height"> -<p class="float-left"><span class="float-left"><b>Tailored Models</b></span><br> -<span class="float-left"><b>Ready-to-Wear</b></span><br> -<span class="float-left"><b>Suits</b></span></p> - -<p class="float-right"><span class="float-left"><b>Tailored Models</b></span><br> -<span class="float-left"><b>Ready-to-Wear</b></span><br> -<span class="float-left"><b>Top-Coats</b></span></p> -</div> - - -<p class="ph2">Introductory Offer</p> - -<p class="ph3">To introduce our individual line of imported English<br> -Woolens and Scotch Tweeds we are making a special<br> -offering. We also have a few special tailored models<br> -for immediate use.</p> - - -<p class="ph2"> -WILKES LTD.</p> - -<p class="ph3">English Tailors</p> -<p class="ph4">York Street—Opposite Harkness - -<div class="height"> -<p class="float-left"><span class="float-left"><b>4-Piece Suits</b></span><br> -<span class="float-left"><b>$47.50</b></span></p> - -<p class="float-right"><span class="float-left"><b>Top-Coats</b></span><br> -<span class="float-left"><b>$42.50</b></span></p> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="bbox2"> -<p class="ph2">THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Contents">Contents</h2> -</div> - -<p class="ph3">OCTOBER, 1923</p> - - -<table class="autotable"> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Leader</td> -<td class="tdl"><i>Morris Tyler</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Corydon</td> -<td class="tdl"><i>Lucius Beebe</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">“The Swift and Sharp-tongued Flame of Death”</td> -<td class="tdl"><i>Eugene A. Davidson</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Three Poems</td> -<td class="tdl"><i>Walter Edwards Houghton, Jr.</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_8">8</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">To One Bereaved</td> -<td class="tdl"><i>D. G. Carter</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Lady of the Sea</td> -<td class="tdl"><i>R. P. Crenshaw, Jr.</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_12">12</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Coelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt</td> -<td class="tdl"><i>Morris Tyler</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Quatrains</td> -<td class="tdl"><i>C. G. Poore</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_14">14</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Lines</td> -<td class="tdl"><i>John R. Chamberlain</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">The Great Pan Jandrum</td> -<td class="tdl"><i>W. T. Bissell</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_16">16</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Maurice Hewlett</td> -<td class="tdl"><i>Richard L. Purdy</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">The Egolatress</td> -<td class="tdl"><i>C. G. Poore</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Book Reviews</td> -<td class="tdl"> </td> -<td class="tdl"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Editor’s Table</td> -<td class="tdl"> </td> -<td class="tdl"><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td> -</tr> -</table> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> -<p class="ph2"> -The Yale Literary Magazine</p> - -<div class="bt"> -<p class="ph3"><span class="smcap">Vol. LXXXIX</span>   -OCTOBER, 1923   -<span class="smcap">No. 1</span></p> -</div> - -<div class="bt"> -<p class="ph3"><i>EDITORS</i></p> -</div> -<p class="ph3"> -WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR.<br> -LAIRD SHIELDS GOLDSBOROUGH<br> -DAVID GILLIS CARTER<br> -MORRIS TYLER<br> -NORMAN REGINALD JAFFRAY<br> -</p> - - -<p class="ph3"><i>BUSINESS MANAGERS</i></p> - -<p class="ph3"> -GEORGE W. P. HEFFELFINGER<br> -WALTER CRAFTS<br> -</p> - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> -<div class="bt"> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Leader"><i>Leader</i></h2> -</div> -</div> - -<p>It would be difficult for even the most blindly ardent supporter -of Yale to deny that the traditional four-year course for the -degree of Bachelor of Arts no longer remains intact. There are -probably fewer who realize that an ever increasing number are -receiving that degree after completing a course that has had little -or no relation to the field of learning to which, by its very title, -it is closely related.</p> - -<p>Disintegration of the long established College curriculum has -been going on ever since the war. It began with the introduction -of the old “Select Course” of the Scientific School into the -Academic curriculum under the imposing title of Bachelor of -Philosophy. This innovation was followed shortly by the institution -of the Common Freshman Year. Furthermore, if a student -now intends to become a lawyer, he may devote an entire year -(and that his Senior year) to the study of law—and yet graduate -as a Bachelor of Arts. Likewise, if an undergraduate desires to -devote his life to the practice of medicine, he may start as early -as Sophomore year, spending most of his time in the laboratories -on Prospect Hill scrutinizing the hidden mechanism of feline<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span> -organs—and still graduate as a Bachelor of Arts. In other words, -assuming that the Freshman year is not very different from what -it was in ante-bellum days, which is not the case, one-third of -every class in Yale College is now graduated as B.A. men without -more than a three years’ “exposure” to the subjects which, in -the eyes of the world, are customarily associated with that educational -label.</p> - -<p>The reason for this state of affairs may be fairly stated in a -single word—vocationalism. This utilitarian mania for taking -the short-cut to one’s life-work has been in recent years the ideal -of a large portion of American college men, and has left its mark -on almost every educational institution in this country, by forcing -them to change their curricula to meet the demand. Harvard long -ago yielded to the pressure of vocational demands in the matter of -time, permitting graduation in three years. It was not long after -that Columbia took still more drastic action by allowing admission -to her graduate schools at the end of Junior Year. In so doing -these institutions were unconsciously practicing the methods of -the Correspondence Schools and the twenty-lessons-in-your-home -concerns whose business it is to supply the needs of those who -seek the short road to the payroll. The liberal colleges endeavoring -to provide such short-cuts by making inroads on their liberal -curricula are untrue to their genius and merely challenge impossible -competition.</p> - -<p>It may be argued that this desire for specialization at the earliest -possible moment was the natural result of the ever increasing -complexity of modern life and the bewildering ramifications of -present-day knowledge which forced the bulk of undergraduates -to accept isolation in a single subject. This may be quite true, -yet there remains the question of whether or not it is the place of -the college, and in particular Yale College, to offer that opportunity -even in part.</p> - -<p>The recognized place for specialization is the graduate school. -The graduate student works presumably in a special atmosphere -created by the common labors of a common group for a common -end; the end being a particular degree desired because it has come -to signify that the bearer of such a symbol has mastered the -details of a recognized branch of learning. A graduate school is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span> -the most suitable medium for accomplishing the task in hand. It -is the only reason we have post-graduate schools at all.</p> - -<p>The existing situation in the college is exactly the reverse. -Those who are working for the B.A. degree and nothing else are -carrying on side by side with what are in reality pre-medical -students and first-year lawyers. Out of this have sprung two -separate points of view on the same campus. On the one hand -there is a group which pursues its studies with the realization -that upon the complete mastery of every detail depends in a large -measure the success or failure of its life-work. On the other, -there remain those who are still searching in their work for that -particular field which to them will seem to be the one to which -they wish to devote their future time and energy. The result is -a repetition of the old story of the house divided against itself. -It is just this condition, we believe, that has led to such restless, -groping questionings as, “What is Yale for?” The definition of -a university as being one body of which there are many members -admirably illustrates the point. For the college to-day is in the -anomalous position of attempting to perform the duties of two -members where it formerly functioned as one. Such a state of -affairs is not conducive to the health of any organization whatever.</p> - -<p>The solution in the minds of many seems to lie in the abolishment -of the old college course, following the law of the survival -of the fittest. This issue of our present afflictions we believe -would be a regretable blunder. There should always be a place -for the study of the so-called liberal arts; for the contemplation -of “all the best that has been thought and said and done in the -world”. Without such a background many a man cannot do his -best work. What place is better fitted to continue this undertaking -than Yale, established in this spirit, as attested by the words -of the founder, “I give these books for the founding of a college”? -Professor Mather in a recent address summed up the ideal of the -college in these glowing terms:</p> - -<p>“The college does its work alongside a dozen other equally -worthy educational institutions, mostly vocational. It does not -compete with them; it directly supplements them and incidentally -aids them. It has its own aims, which are not immediately practical, -vocational, or material.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span></p> - -<p>“I should like to see inscribed over our college portals the -following inscription:</p> - -<p>“‘Generous Youth! Enter at your peril. We may so quicken -your imagination as to bring you loss as the world counts it. -There may be a great inventor in you now, there may only be a -poet in you when you leave us; the captain of industry in you -may give place to some obscure pursuit of philosophy; you are -literary, we shall leave you forever incapable of best sellers; you -are philanthropic, we may develop the detached critic in you; -you are politically shrewd and practical, we may bring out the -Utopian visionary in you. For our values are not those of the -world of work, with which we can only incidentally help you to -make terms—our values are those of the world of thought. We -shall make you contemporary of all ages, and since you must -after all live in this age, such an extension of your interest and -imagination may make you an exile in your own day and place. -We offer you no material reward of any sort for your effort here, -we may even diminish the rewards you would enjoy if you kept -away from us. We offer you nothing but what we ourselves most -treasure—the companionship of the great dreamers and thinkers. -Enter if you dare. Should you enter, this college will be indeed -to you Alma Mater. All that we have shall be yours.’”</p> - -<p>In short, the duty of the college is to give its members their -intellectual bearings. What the prospective lawyer really needs -to broaden his horizon and prevent him from succumbing to the -bondage of his shop, is letters, science, mathematics; what the -future doctor needs is letters, art, history, and the unbiological -sciences. This ought to be the function of the college. To continue -along any other line is to destroy forever the Yale that has -held such an enviable place in American life for over two centuries—to -extinguish the light that has been a source of guidance -and inspiration to its large and distinguished band of alumni.</p> - -<p class="author"> -MORRIS TYLER.<br> -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Corydon"><i>Corydon</i></h2> -</div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The pleasant hills in solemn silence sleeping</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Under a sunset of perpetual fire,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Past summer’s weeping,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shall know no more the vibrant melody</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of thy sad songs, O lovely shepherd boy!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The winds are free</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And chill November</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sweeps thy reed music and thy lyric joy</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Away with all the things I would remember.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The wood-smoke on the silent autumn air,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The disconsolate petals on the grass</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Symbol despair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And all the fragrance of divine Apollo</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is fled from this incalculable loss</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Where none may follow.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is there no rest</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In the stark shadow of a naked cross</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In silhouette against the scarlet west?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Shall I forsake philosopher and sage</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rebellious drawn</div> - <div class="verse indent0">From solemn cloister and scholastic page</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And get me gone.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O shepherd of the slender fingers?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Guide me above the mountain passes</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through the lush grasses</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Where thy music lingers,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Out of nocturnal anguish into dawn.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">For I shall sing to thee of Mytelene</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And ancient things</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And paint with poppied words a twilight scene</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Where Lesbos flings</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her stretch of Sapphic isle</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Over the sea. Ah, liquid interlude!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We would intrude</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But for a little while</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Upon the rapture of ambrosial springs.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">This then is all of the enchanted vision</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Far from the dusty passion of the streets?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The world’s derision,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The inarticulate call</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of ageless things in the awakened woods,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Unhappy autumn moods</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And the wan summons of a grieving fate,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Hastening through the twilight pall</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And beauties vanished, inarticulate?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Let no dim spectres haunt my darkened brain</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Like aspens whispering at eventide</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of ancient pain</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So oft repeated.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I shall flee far from the abysmal night,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Not in impetuous flight,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But, lingering by Lethe’s tideless void</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shall slumber undefeated</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In sunset woods, forever unannoyed.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="author"> -LUCIUS BEEBE.<br> -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Swift_and_Sharp-tongued_Flame_of_Death">“<i>The Swift and Sharp-tongued Flame of Death</i>”</h2> -</div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The swift and sharp-tongued flame of death</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Has touched our hearts. We love no more;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">No more for us to drink the breath</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of life in one long kiss and store</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Its fragrance ’till we kiss again.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All that is gone, and gone our dreams.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Remember if you will. The stain</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of rich red wine for me, it seems,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is better far than memories.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And lest the ghostly perfume smell</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Too sweet, and life be drowned in seas</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Like this—I drink and say farewell.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="author"> -EUGENE A. DAVIDSON.<br> -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Three_Poems"><i>Three Poems</i></h2> -</div> - - -<h3><span class="smcap">Benediction</span></h3> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="center">“<i>I know not how he chose you from the -crowd, came to your door, and grasp your hand -to ask his way.</i>”—<i>Rabindranath Tagore.</i></p> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">You may not question why he chose you</div> - <div class="verse indent0">From so many more—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Why his tiny hands have fumbled</div> - <div class="verse indent0">At your door.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To a land of fifty cross-roads</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He has come to-day,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Placed his eager hands in yours,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And asked his way.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">He will follow where you lead him—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Bright and stormy skies;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And at evening still beside you</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Close his eyes.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Keep his trust, O You the Chosen—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Far shall be his way.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Clasp him to your heart and bless him</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With all you may.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span></p> - -<h3><span class="smcap">Recall.</span></h3> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="center">“<i>Come back, my darling; the world is asleep; -and no one would know, if you came for a -moment while stars are gazing at stars.</i>”—<i>Rabindranath Tagore.</i></p> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Dark was the hour you slipped away,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Veiled in the shadowed light.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Touched with a sleep the others lay</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then as they do to-night.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Come, my darling, oh, come to mother,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Come for an hour and go;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For the stars which gaze upon one another—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Only the stars shall know.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Fair was the spring you left behind,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Born of a teeming womb;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And now once more has a gentle wind</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Breathed, and the gardens bloom.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Come, my darling, oh, come for an hour—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Quick e’er the night is done;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And if you should ask for a single flower,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">How could they miss just one?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Those who played in the sun with you—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sure, they are playing still;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For Life is a spendthrift hand to woo,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Led by a reckless will.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Come, my darling, for treasured and deep</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Take of my love but this;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And if once more to my arms you creep,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Who would begrudge one kiss?</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span></p> - -<h3><span class="smcap">Just To-day</span></h3> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="center">“<i>But just for to-day, tell me, Mother, where -the desert ... in the fairy tale is.</i>”—<i>Rabindranath Tagore.</i></p> -</div> - - -<h4>I.</h4> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The shepherds slip into the fields</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Where Father’s gone himself.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The books I should be studying</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Are still upon the shelf.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O Mother, let me close my sleepy eyes,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And tell me where the fairy desert lies.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - - -<h4>II.</h4> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">What makes you silent? Must you work</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Like Father every hour?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Your hands are busy as two bees</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Which suck a honey flower.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But, Mother, while the sunlight fills the skies,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Tell me where the Tagra Desert lies.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - - -<h4>III.</h4> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">At curfew Father will return,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I shall lose you then.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I promise some day I shall learn</div> - <div class="verse indent0">As much as other men.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So, Mother, just before the daylight flies</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Tell me where the Tagra Desert lies.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="author"> -WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR.<br> -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="To_One_Bereaved"><i>To One Bereaved</i></h2> -</div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">You welcomed me with such a joyous mask</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Across the silence of your hurt wide eyes,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That I too forced banalities and lies</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And dared no comfort, though I came to ask</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The many little questions, long rehearsed,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Which meant relief, and friendship. What we said</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So lightly, never touched upon the dead,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet we both knew that when we laughed we cursed</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The bitter God who could make laughter too,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Beside this sorrow. Strange, we did not stare</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Mute sympathy: I only smiling sought</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To show I knew how bitterly was bought</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Your cheerful beauty. But I turned my chair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Once, when you laughed——, and looked away from you.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="author"> -D. G. CARTER.<br> -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Lady_of_the_Sea"><i>Lady of the Sea</i></h2> -</div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Night, and vessels softly lifting</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From the surges of the sea,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Arms to breezes ever shifting</div> - <div class="verse indent2">As they whisper low to me.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Silhouetted masts are weaving</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Circles wavering to lean</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nearer waves in slumber heaving</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Far below a cold moon’s sheen....</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Clothed in glory, still and splendid,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Starlight shimmers in her hair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And my lady’s form is blended</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With the shadows, waiting there.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">As in silence we are taken</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In the evening’s soft embrace,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Would I never could awaken</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From the wonder in her face.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="author"> -R. P. CRENSHAW, JR.<br> -</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span></p> - - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Coelum_non_animum"> -<i>Coelum non animum mutant<br> -Qui trans mare currunt.</i><br> -<br> -—<i>Horace.</i><br> -</h2> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Sail forth across the jade-green sea and view the glades our fathers trod,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Their rolling lawns of deathless sod, their hoary castles dear to me.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Catch the pale vision of the past, the sound of stealthy slippered feet;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rest on the moss-grown garden seat and find a lover’s shadow cast.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Creep into Catherine cubicle and sense her icy presence there;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her figure bent and drawn with care as Alchemist o’er crucible.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Look down the waving lane of trees that lines the speckled road’s approach</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Where glides the flashing golden coach with gay plumes trembling in the breeze.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Gaze up at Longeais from the moat and feel the ages slip away</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Until its grey walls seem at bay before the host in armored coat.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Go to each ancient place above and bless it with your noiseless tread;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Your presence there should stir the dead with tremulous warm thoughts of love.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Leave here for me your image fair, graven in crystal carved by time,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Untarnished as a star sublime, unchanging as the love I bear.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">God speed you under other skies, drink deep of Europe’s scented charm,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But keep the gesture of your arm, the wistful wonder in your eyes.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -<p class="author"> -MORRIS TYLER.<br> -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Quatrains"><i>Quatrains</i></h2> -</div> - - -<h3>I. <span class="smcap">Morality</span></h3> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Behold these proper lovers, when they meet:</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Each longs for love’s caresses, but that heat</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Must be suppressed; it is the moral code.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">God made their passion.... Made he this deceit?</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - - -<h3>2. <span class="smcap">The Dying Thespian</span></h3> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The theatre was my life, the very breath</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Of my existence, so what followeth</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shall be in keeping. Tell the player-world</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I take my final rôle—the lead, in “Death”.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - - -<h3>3. <span class="smcap">A Maiden Lady</span></h3> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">In younger days, her virtue was a veil</div> - <div class="verse indent2">She planned to drop, when true love should assail.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">No lovers came. Perforce, her life was chaste.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In age, she boasts her virtue’s iron mail!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - - -<h3>4. <span class="smcap">Futility</span></h3> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">So many, ere they leave this little sphere</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Say thus and so observe my death; make cheer</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or weep, in just this way.</div> - <div class="verse indent26">Well, as for me,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Mourn me or not: I shall not pause to hear!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="author"> -C. G. POORE.<br> -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Lines"><i>Lines</i></h2> -</div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The cold pale patina of sky,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The brown upon the woodland leaf</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With all frail lovely things that die</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Blend in the autumn’s grief.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">For in each withered autumn flower</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Is wonder where the dead may go,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And we slight children of an hour</div> - <div class="verse indent2">May live and never know.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="author"> -JOHN R. CHAMBERLAIN.<br> -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Great_Pan_Jandrum"><i>The Great Pan Jandrum</i></h2> -</div> - - -<p>A beautiful tolerance of the various actions of all other -people is perhaps the most comprehensive statement of the -virtue we admired in him so zealously. An ingenuously boastful -boy of twelve would find in him a ready admirer of his most -cherished deeds, and he appeared to really appreciate the condescension -of the youth of eighteen who saw fit to confide in him, -and to take their opinionated selves with decent ceremony where -others among their elders would have been merely annoyed or -else distressingly amused. People you had always regarded as -obviously undesirable, you found him praising—not in the manner -of one who champions the weaker side on principle, but because -he actually found strange things to like about them. But he was -not one of the quiet, gentle, charitable type whose humanity seems -the result almost of a want of character, and as such a questionable -asset: he relished things with the eager tastes of a performer -rather than an onlooker, being blessed also with a watchful and -sometimes bursting sense of humor which was as his religion, -making him deal with events in the guise of a priestly buffoon -and people with a surgery as incisive as it was good-natured.</p> - -<p>He was a connoisseur of people—a connoisseur of the happier -type who does not simply make a few things his own and damn -the unfortunate rest, but who finds that all food for the soul is -good food, after all. Thus he used to pick up all sorts of people -and become tremendously fond of them overnight. Any genuine -person—whether a self-centered young man or a despicable old -one, or his gardener’s wife—was of the greatest importance in -his eyes. A trace of sentiment or pomposity in one of the subjects -of his observations was to him an intellectual emetic as -regards that person, but practically all other forms of human -failing delighted him quite as much, if not more than the most -inspiring strength. You felt that he, for one, had attained to a -perfect freedom from himself, so that he could sit back, unlike -the rest of us, and be entertained by the diverse abnormalities of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> -his companions: that he found his own passions wholly in the -understanding perusal of those of other people.</p> - -<p>An Irish servant once said of him: “Sure, now, he does like -to see the young people have a good time!” and it expressed -brilliantly his attitude. For to his mind, apparently all people were -young people whom he was watching at their diversions. In fact, -if it had not been for his hilarious sharing of our pleasures, he -would have been to us rather like a god: for he seemed older than -we, as though he had known of old the great lives upon Olympus -and were down here to gratify some fatherly instinct of sympathy -for us. And when he sometimes left us, one sensed the withdrawal -of considerably more than a presence. We were accustomed -to him as one of the most active figures on the scene, but -still, when he went away, it was as if a harmonious background -had also been removed. In appearance he was fat. His head was -large and his face grave, in repose, like that of a serious child.</p> - -<p>There were stories, I was once shocked on finding out, about -the Great Pan Jandrum’s youth—stories of a vagueness that -implied things about him quite incongruous to the people who -knew him now. Did he then have a common youth, with all its -attendant distortions?—it seemed impossible. Evidently it had -not been a romantic theatrical youth either, in spite of its present -shaded character. One lady simply said he had been “nasty” and -let it go at that. He seems to have been a commonplace person -then—aggressively commonplace, with all the nauseating poses -of his age strong in him, like diseases. Alcohol had played a part, -it seems; and he was not one of those who were made genial or -attractive by its use. One could have the heresy to make a decent -guess, after all this, as to one origin of his widespread tolerance.</p> - -<p>But the placidity of his middle years had been of an amplitude -to swallow and almost entirely submerge these indefinite and -hushed enormities. So if any dignity in him had given it a chance, -the community, which was not large, would have looked upon him -as a benevolent influence. At a feast, without his contagious -humor, he would still have been a sort of golden aura to the -occasion; to meet him was to come away eased of the life-long -burden of yourself, having heard him laugh; and he had a gift -for rendering people unable to look seriously in the face of a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> -calamity. You were always trying, in spite of yourself, to -worship him, he was so grand, and so you would have, except -that he was too dynamic for a pedestal.</p> - -<p>It almost made him, as a person, not ring true. His rôle was -too exact. Occasionally one would find one’s-self looking intently -at his serious, childish face—and wondering if there were not -something behind it besides a fund of geniality. He was too much -of a cheerful background; too understanding of the weaknesses -of his neighbors; and in his humor far too thorough not to be -sometimes suspected to unreality. But it was a passing doubt at -best, and quite conceivably the product of our imaginations as we -looked backward from a later date. At any rate, he was enjoyed -and respected as a very rare personage indeed: a friend of everyone -alike, though no one in particular. You might have described -him to a perfect stranger as “a very amusing person”, but if he -was mentioned you really did not feel that way yourself. You -did not think of him as a person at all, in fact, but as the thing -he was, or stood for, as though he were the representative of -something.</p> - -<p>But it seems that fate had written that the Pan Jandrum—the -wise and genial Pan Jandrum—the Great Pan Jandrum himself, -was riding, all this time, for a fall.</p> - -<p>Fortunately, I was away when it happened, as I should not -like to have seen it. For it is certain I should have shared the -curiously intense feeling of revulsion—or rather simply depression -that settled upon the community afterward. Several things contributed -to the effect of the event, chief of which was, of course, -its publicity. Had he not chosen the particular evening he did to -cast aside every vestige of self-control, no one might have known. -But Mrs. Joe-Billy happened, on that winter night, to be giving -a dinner at her big house up on the hill to which the Great Pan -Jandrum had been invited, and from which he stayed, for a time, -conspicuously and unaccountably absent.</p> - -<p>Whether he was accidentally started by some inadvertent friend, -or whether he deliberately wished to enjoy himself, I do not -know. Perhaps he was just tired of his heroic rôle: that is, of -our ridiculous yet touching attitude toward him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span></p> - -<p>Those who saw him during the earlier part of the evening, at -the club, never could be made to see the tragic side of the whole -affair. Upon them he apparently made an ineffaceable impression -and from what we others heard, it must have been a performance -in the genuine grand manner. It was, in a way, the glorious apex -of his unreal career among us. People who did not see him there -were always very pitiless about the way he acted, pity not being -reserved, I suppose, for the unpardonable failure of something -as great as the Pan Jandrum. But I have seen no one who did -see him there who could tell of any part of it without putting it -on a lofty epic scale—even the saturnine barber whose pride in -his control of the imagination was like a perpetual flower in his -buttonhole. The quantity he had to drink was grown, by the -time it reached my ears, to an heroic figure. The picture was of -him seated in his shirt sleeves alone at a small table, immersed in -bottles. The smoke-filled grill room was thronged with young -men and dignitaries tip-toe on tables and chairs and chairs on -tables in order to hear him and see his stupendous gestures. -Nobody could ever remember anything, he said, but it was so -impressive as to need but a day for it to acquire a legendary -character. I know for a fact that one of the twelve old women -of the village who lived a whole block away sent to find the cause -of the noise, and that old Mr. Galhoolie roared with the best -until it was too much for him and he was sick—in the English -sense—all down his patriarchal white beard. I have found myself -wishing I had been there, as I wish I had been at Camelot or at -one of the receptions given the Greek of many devices on his -wanderings.</p> - -<p>But I do not wish I had been up on the hill that night, though -that was the dramatic part of the show. It came after he was -known to have escaped from the club alone, after a lengthy disappearance. -Up there, they had naturally supposed that he failed -to fill his place on account of some trivial domestic tragedy, or -the advent of friends; or that something had at last got into his -solid old liver which during so many years of good living had been -besieged in vain. But when they heard he was coming up there -in all his magnificence they were horrified. A morbid curiosity -chained them there, but they awaited him in silent, breathless<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> -apprehension, imagining him drawing slowly toward them like -an evil fate over the snowy intervening mile of road. Their -reticence was curious, and explained only by the unbelievableness -of the Great Pan Jandrum’s being uncontrolled—hilarious, crude, -outlandish—they didn’t know what. And they appreciated the -occasion at once. It was no ordinary man about to be foolish, -disheartening as that would be under the circumstances, but they -realized that it would touch each one of us inasmuch as we had -put a certain rare type of faith in what he was.</p> - -<p>If only it had been hilarity, or crudity, or wildness that greeted -them! Their wait had been long enough and tense, with them -talking in low voices—asking each other hesitating little questions -about what they thought might happen. Suddenly some one -started back with a gasp, and they all turned to find his serious -child’s face outside the window, intently peering at them.</p> - -<p>There is no need to describe his actions subsequent to his entering -the house. He was not outlandish. He was merely quiet in -voice and manner with an appalling drunkard’s dignity, and he -was fully dressed. The cheer had all gone out of him. He -talked for an hour without pause, first to one, then to another, -entirely about himself and with horrible seriousness. Sententiousness -and pomposity from the Great Pan Jandrum! His -tone was threatening; almost challenging all the while, and there -was that in his face which prevented any thought of stopping him. -Intimate, personal, half-finished thoughts issued from him like -loathsome abortions. He took the beautiful Mrs. Galhoolie’s hand -in his and told her he reverenced and respected her so much that -he could not ever love her as the others did. Everyone was left -knowing in excessively sentimental terms just what he thought of -them. Everything he uttered was an indecent exposure; every -sentence tore away another portion of the disguise—as it looked—that -he had been so long building. He was operating on himself -in their presence, exposing the nauseating entrails of his -mind—so comfortable from the outside—and forcing upon them -the knowledge that he was as sordid and commonplace as they in -their very worst moments. When they brought him home and -left him they could hear him sobbing—great, deep-voiced, mountainous -sobs that shook his bed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span></p> - -<p>But for me, the story of the evening gave the key to the man -and made him interesting. You may admire a point of view and -you may even bask in it, but you cannot make it your friend. It -sounded precisely as though a pent-up flood of gnawing sentiment -and egoism had been let loose in him. He must have had incurably -Byronic tendencies which had at some time or other offended -his critical sense, and you saw him now as a man despairingly and -acutely aware of his vulgar heritage of ego who had with his -almost passionate interest in the fortunes of other people built -up the most powerful defense against himself that he could think -of. And there always was, too, I reflected, something of the -fanatic about his rôle of humorist.</p> - -<p>I should have been disturbed on our first meeting soon after -the performance, had it not come as a surprise. I was in Paris, -and as I was leaving my hotel one night for some kind of a -festivity he popped out of the darkness and shook me by the hand. -We parted hastily, I having time for little greeting. “Have a -good time, now!” he said as I left, and that old characteristic -phrase of his rang in my ears as I walked off down the street. He -had said it with his usual cheerful, interested smile and I looked -in vain for a found-out expression I had expected to notice in -his face. I wondered if he realized what his one false step had -meant to our imaginations. For, as I afterwards observed, it was -not a question of his brazening it out: he evidently had consigned -it to the limbo of to-be-expected mistakes with a shrug of the -shoulders and took it for granted that we had done the same. -But, however this may be, I saw that he had already begun to -build another structure of worship in my esteem at any rate. -Already my newly discovered man was disappearing, engulfed -as in a very splendid costume which he had removed for a minute. -And when next I saw him at home I had again the ancient feeling -of being bathed in a warm electric light—that unaccountably had -sparks, as well.</p> - -<p class="author"> -W. T. BISSELL.<br> -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Maurice_Hewlett"><i>Maurice Hewlett</i></h2> -</div> - - -<p>In 1893 Mr. Edmund Gosse, with a fine perception of literary -tendencies, wrote: “It is my conviction that the limits of -realism have been reached; that no great writer who has not -already adopted the experimental system will do so; and that we -ought now to be on the lookout to welcome (and, of course, to -persecute) a school of novelists with a totally new aim, part of -whose formula must unquestionably be a concession to the human -instinct for mystery and beauty.” The next year, with “Ebb -Tide”, “The Prisoner of Zenda”, and “Under the Red Robe”, -the signs were unmistakable, and what the critics have pleased to -call the Romantic Revival had begun. It was on the crest of this -wave of romanticism that Maurice Hewlett first appeared, and -when that wave had spent itself fifteen years later his best work -was done. He was at once a child of this movement, exhibiting -in varied form its most familiar phases, and a strange free spirit, -deriving from no literary movement, a romanticist by nature, not -the exigencies of his art. And so, if we feel the influence of the -period in “The Forest Lovers”, “The New Canterbury Tales”, -“The Fool Errant”, and the rest, it is in “The Queen’s Quair” -and in “Richard Yea-and-Nay” that we come upon the very -essence of Hewlett’s art, an art which was quite distinctively his -own. These two novels he wrote to please himself. They have -been called his finest work.</p> - -<p>As Lionel Johnson said of Scott, so he might have said of -Maurice Hewlett: “In him the antiquarian spirit awoke a passion, -instead of a science.” Hewlett was mystically touched by the -beauty of the Middle Ages and by the beauty of the Renaissance. -He was a mediaevalist, a quattrocentist par excellence, but above -all this, or perhaps, better, as a physical embodiment of all this, -he loved Italy with a passionate, sensitive love. It was this love -for Italy which so subtly affected his character and gave to his -novels their color and their warmth, although strange enough very -little of his life was spent in Italy and little of his best work deals<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> -with its history or its people. It was of England that he wrote -in “The Queen’s Quair”, of England and the Crusades in -“Richard Yea-and-Nay”. So, if we grant to his affection for -Italy and her art the warmth and color of his novels, we must -look for their life, their vitality, to this same England and his -understanding love of her past, his oneness in spirit with even -the simplest of those characters which moved across the broad -canvas of her history.</p> - -<p>It is not for me to say that either the color and warmth of -Italy’s art or the life and vitality of England’s past were exclusively -the foundation stones of Hewlett’s art. His novels are, -all of them, rich with intermingled threads like tapestry—not the -heavy brocaded tapestry of the poet Spenser, but a tapestry brilliant, -yet often misty and confused, that was quite his own. His -backgrounds he built of hundreds of figures, quickly and sharply -etched in a manner remarkably reminiscent of Sir Thomas Malory -and Froissart. Against this background which he had created -with so lavish a care he laid his greater figures—and I think of -Richard and John Lackland and the old King, Henry the Second, -from “Richard Yea-and-Nay”—figures which he had limned with -broad, bold strokes and touched with a quiet wit. The effect is -not only that of tapestry but of old stained glass. We marvel -how the simple, splendid figures stand out and are yet a part of -a delicately wrought background.</p> - -<p>But in the movement of these greater figures before so complex -a background lay the weakness of Hewlett’s art. He knew the -pageantry and color of the lives he wrote about, but it was not -given him to read deeply beneath the gaily painted surface they -presented. The movement of his characters through the unfolding -scenes of his romances is not puppetry. Hewlett’s touch -was too fresh, too original for that. It is only that we see in -part, whereas if he had had the power the whole would be revealed -to us. In his greatest novel, and in that novel almost alone, the -veil is lifted for a few moments. In those moments I think he -knew Richard.</p> - -<p>Perhaps, though, more than all else, the factor that can undermine -the permanence of Hewlett’s work is his style. His writing -is twisted, tortured, and—in the reading—perplexing. His prose<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> -is almost never rhythmical; it is often awkward and harsh. The -books he wrote to please himself, his best work, he filled with -archaic turns of speech until their very pages seem to bear the -marks of age. They are, as some one has said, “the inventions -of a connoisseur in the queer and remote, a sort of transformation -of Henry James’s involutions into terms of olden days”.</p> - -<p>To cavil at this is difficult, as it is difficult to cavil at the design -and composition of the romances themselves, they are so characteristic -of their author. He turned his hand to modern England -in the novels of the English countryside, “Rest Harrow”, “Halfway -House”, and the others. He came back to the manner of his -earlier period in “Brazenhead the Great” and worked for a time -in the field of Norse legend. But he will be remembered longest -by those two strange, tangled, brilliant romances, “Richard Yea-and-Nay” -and “The Queen’s Quair”, the best expression his art -ever found. Maurice Hewlett was a colorist, a romancer, a passionate -lover of ancient ways. We should give thanks for the -mystery of the Bowing Rood in the church of the nuns at Fontevrault; -for the beauty of Richard, his face covered with his shield, -standing at dawn upon the hills before Jerusalem.</p> - -<p class="author"> -RICHARD L. PURDY.<br> -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Egolatress"><i>The Egolatress</i></h2> -</div> - - -<p>Infinitely more lovely in the winter darkness than in the -revealing light of day, Summit Avenue stretched beneath the -moon. The clashing architectures of the huge houses were mercifully -blurred into harmony by the night, and the long piles of -snow drew the picture into a loose, graceful unity. Beneath the -glowing strands of the boulevard lights flowed a double current -of automobiles, in smooth streams that wound out to the suburbs -and downtown to the bays of commerce and amusement.</p> - -<p>Before the doors of the Territorial Club the streams turned in -a sweeping curve, and occasionally cars left the current to turn -in, pause a moment before the pseudo-Gothic entrance, and then -join the parked flank in the driveway.</p> - -<p>A long blue roadster, once sleek and new, now battered, and -dusty still from months of confinement, slid to a stop, like a stick -caught on the bank of a stream. The young driver busied himself -with the intricate process of locking his car. It was dear to him. -His companion climbed out, shivering.</p> - -<p>“Great Scott! You have cold nights up there,” he said. “At -home there’s no snow on the ground at all.”</p> - -<p>The owner of the car laughed. “You’ll get used to it, in two -weeks. Throw that rug over the radiator, will you?” He finished -locking the car, got out, and, as an extra precaution, lifted the -hood and disconnected the spark-plugs.</p> - -<p>“Can’t be too careful of the old boiler,” he said apologetically. -“If it was stolen I wouldn’t get another one out of dad for a -century.”</p> - -<p>In the lobby he nodded to the young negro who came to -take their coats, with the familiarity of a member, and turned to -his companion, who was glancing curiously at the chattering -groups of men and girls in evening dress who were in the lobby.</p> - -<p>“From the crowd, Tommy, I gather we’ve looked in on some -one’s party. Wait, and I’ll see who’s giving it.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> - -<p>In a tall, loosely hung way, Tommy was rather handsome; distinguished, -certainly. He had deep grey eyes, and a way of taking -all things with a slow, questioning smile, that either charmed or -exasperated. He was very dark; a Southerner; twenty-two -perhaps.</p> - -<p>The other, short, and sandy-haired, and blue-eyed, carrying -himself with that preoccupied air of conscious importance which -is so often the aspect of short people, was in excellent contrast. -By their oppositeness they set one another off; rather to Tommy’s -advantage.</p> - -<p>“Grant’s party, for Millicent,” his host said, returning. “Mrs. -Grant’s an old social-enemy and friend of mother’s; we’re invited -to stay.”</p> - -<p>He led the way down a short hall to the right, past parted -velvet curtains, toward the source of the music. Before the -formidable Mrs. Grant, a matron of the over-stuffed type, he -performed the amenities.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Grant, this is Tommy Squire, my roommate at school. -Tommy’s from Richmond.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Grant was very happy to meet a friend of Carl Twist’s. -Tommy accepted the three longest fingers of the drooping hand -which she extended to him with the manner of an operatic -duchess, and managed to convey his gratitude for the honor. As -a further concession Mrs. Grant propounded the unique theory -that winters in the North were apt to be <i>much</i> colder than those -in Virginia—“Don’t <i>you</i> find it so, Mr. Squire?” When the two -had unanimously ratified her sagacious observation, the audience -was over.</p> - -<p>The club’s lounge and dining-room had been thrown into one; -the tables, later to be drawn out for supper, were massed in a -corner, and elaborate decorations festooned the walls. Under -the rose and grey of the low-beamed ceiling the whirl and color -and indiscriminate noise of unleashed exuberance of the first of -the holiday dances throbbed and spun to the music. There were -men and girls from the universities, from prep. schools and -finishing schools, and a seasoning of those who had graduated -or dropped out. Most of them had returned within the week, -and each time that the music stopped there were numerous impromptu,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> -frenzied reunions, as friends parted for an age of three -and a half months simulated paroxysms of joy at seeing one -another, with shrieks and calls and kisses and much waggling -hand-shaking—as the sex or the innate histrionics of the participants -impelled them.</p> - -<p>In the interval of music Tommy was introduced to the privates -of the stag-line, remembering mismated fragments of names, and -receiving the bone-crushing grip which is every youth’s obsession, -until his own shoulders sagged, and his throat became dry with -repeating “How do you do.”</p> - -<p>“I’d better introduce you to some girls, now,” Carl decided -mercifully.</p> - -<p>A couple brushed past, engrossed in the intricacies of a new -dance. The girl caught Tommy’s interest.</p> - -<p>“Who’s that?” he asked.</p> - -<p>Carl laughed softly. “So soon?” he said. “That’s Millicent -Grant, for whom the party’s being given. She goes to Dobbs; -as a relaxation, I guess. Her real business is the Male; making -men fall for her, dangle a while, and then dropping them. Thinks -she’s wasted on the small field this town offers. Look out for -her. She’s shallow as the deuce, but hard to get away from.”</p> - -<p>“No danger,” said Tommy. “I didn’t appear so interested as -to get all this biography, I hope!”</p> - -<p>“You’ll hear it soon enough. She enjoys being the talk of the -town; local Barbara Neave, as it were. Come and meet her.”</p> - -<p>Followed by Tommy, Carl threaded his way through the dancers, -stepped with nonchalant expertness on the toes of a stag about -to precede him, and cut in.</p> - -<p>“Hello, Millicent! Come and be introduced to Tommy Squire, -coming Big Man at school, who does me the honor of being my -roommate for the exclusive right of wearing my ties.”</p> - -<p>Tommy smiled formally at his friend’s brilliance, made an -inward notation that he liked her eyes when she smiled, and -acknowledged the presentation.</p> - -<p>When Carl had removed himself, they danced.</p> - -<p>Then followed the conventional small-talk of two members of -the warring sexes when both are engaged in “making an impression”. -They both followed youth’s greatest diversion, staying in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> -school the while dodging its exactions and embracing its pleasures, -and acquiring not education, but the equally essential atmosphere. -It developed that he was a junior, she in the final year of finishing -school; that he played football, but had failed to win a letter -(though he confessed with pardonable pride having played eight -minutes in a Big Game when the first-string tackle had been -carried off the field); that she <i>adored</i> football; that she likewise -<i>adored</i> a number of things; dogs (but not the messy kind); -fraternity pins, and Eastern men (this was a pardonable error; -she made flattering concessions to the Southern variety, when -Tommy found the opportunity to tell her where he came from); -that she <i>adored</i>—a great many more things.</p> - -<p>In short, they simply chattered, as a man and a girl have always -done, on first meeting. Later stages of acquaintanceship bring -long silences, either from undisguised boredom or an adolescent -spiritual understanding. Now, silence was a gaping hole in the -garment of etiquette, to be patched with endless talk.</p> - -<p>They were soon cut in on.</p> - -<p>Carl returned from the arduous task of dancing with his own -sister (a task only to her brother; she, too, held court), and -found Tommy marooned in the stag line. He introduced him -to other girls, in whom Tommy found varying charm. Carl’s -sister, a mature child of seventeen, wanted to know, “<i>Honestly</i> -now,” whether Carl drank at school.</p> - -<p>Tommy lied like a good roommate. He reflected philosophically -on the oddness of sisters who went out constantly with men who -drank, and yet expected total abstinence from their brothers. It -was a reversal of the older custom of brothers who demanded -impeccable behavior of their sisters; and yet—</p> - -<p>Millicent passed. He cut-in. When they had danced half a -dozen steps he lost her to another stag.</p> - -<p>She was annoyed, and the pressure of her hand as they parted -was a little more than casual artifice. Millicent had early finished -her appraisal of the men at the party. She knew that she was -destined to meet most of them night after night for the next two -weeks, and she planned eventualities. She planned to have half -a dozen affairs; the holiday-loves, more evanescent even than -summer-loves, that dwindled, after the two weeks, from special-delivery<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> -letters into abrupt silence. There would be one or two -proposals, perhaps, in the last days—there had been three, at -the end of the summer at Minnetonka. She catalogued the men, -slowly: Eddie Pearson, nice enough—too nice, insipid; Orme -Waldon, whom no amount of snubbing would rebuff; Stewart -Holmes, whose egotism was such that he believed all girls secretly -longed for his attentions; and so on. These were the last three of -the summer’s garnerings. She wanted some one <i>new</i>. Tommy -Squire. He seemed worth thinking about. Rather wise—he’d -need angling to draw in. Idly she planned manoeuvres.</p> - -<p>Tommy cut-in again. She used the old effective artifice of -asking him to keep her tiny handkerchief and vanity-case in his -pocket. When she caught his eye, he was to understand that -they were needed. Tommy smiled to himself. He understood.</p> - -<p>But Millicent did not need to use her vanity-case very often. -Tommy kept on cutting-in. However, his manner was not gratifying. -He was pleasant, impersonal, quizzical. He told her that -she was rather the most attractive girl there—and added, -thoughtfully, that there were lots more beautiful girls, in -Richmond.</p> - -<p>“You’re absolutely <i>rude</i>, Mr. Squire!” Millicent wanted to be -placated.</p> - -<p>He drew her out, and with skillful questions, sped with occasional -compliments, he exposed her vanity. When she realized -that, she retaliated—they understood one another, distantly still, -and far beneath the surface of conversation.</p> - -<p>As he continued to cut in—alternating, rather from politeness, -with Carl’s sister Joan—the stags, in a tacit agreement, let him -have her more and more to himself. Joan did not like that. It -was ahead of her plans.</p> - -<p>At supper Millicent saw to it that they were paired together. -Looking distastefully at the noisy tables, where already the customary -table-jokes were under way—spoons being laid in rows so -that a tap on one sent another into a glass of water, and misappropriation -of the salt and pepper (Bardy Cless and Evelyn Preston -leading on the humorists), she feared that she might lose him -there to Joan Twist.</p> - -<p>“Let’s go outside and have our supper in a car,” she suggested.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span> -“There’s no room here.”</p> - -<p>Tommy, politely overlooking the numerous empty places, was -entirely willing. He got cake and sandwiches, and two plates with -cups of coffee and chicken patties, and together they sped across -the street to a parked limousine that stood almost in the shadow -of the cathedral.</p> - -<p>He told her, in the course of the next few minutes, that she -was <i>quite</i> as lovely as any girl in Richmond. The darkness, and -Millicent’s bare shoulder close against him, were effective.</p> - -<p>And he was pleasantly surprised when he found that she had -no desire to be kissed.</p> - -<p>“Why, I’ve only known you for two hours,” she said, dropping -lightly out of the car. “And besides, mother will be mad <i>again</i> -when she finds that I’m not having supper at my own party. -Last year Dick Cole and I drove down to the chicken shack, and -mother almost passed away when we came back, eating drumsticks!”</p> - -<p>They both forgot the débris of their supper, but later, after -the party was over, a very angry matron discovered it when she -sat in a plate of chicken, on entering her car to go home.</p> - -<p>Long past midnight Millicent sat before her dressing table, -thinking. She took off the silver band around her hair, and with -a brush began to restore the fluffiness which the mode demands. -A wisp which grew an infinitesimal fraction of an inch longer, -in front, than the rest she critically snipped off with finger-nail -scissors. She let her hands rest on the table, and regarded her -reflection. She was supremely satisfied with what she saw; she -always was. Her self-admiration transcended egotism. It was -impersonal. She was complacently certain that she was the most -beautiful girl in the city. The assurance of a very few girls—and -a very great number of men—was superfluous. Wilde has -said that love of oneself is a life-long romance: Millicent’s was -a passion! In the perfection of her features, a subtle coldness -of manner, a faint expression as of calculating, which her character -had betrayed into her eyes, was the nearest thing to a fault -which she could see. Such an expression must inevitably creep -into the expression of a girl who is the object of so much masculine -attention that she may—and perforce must—choose, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> -weigh, and reject, so slighting the least attractive candidates. It -was these who were most aware of the expression—they remembered -it vividly, in soothing their disappointments.</p> - -<p>Millicent picked up a lip-stick, and toyed with it. She glanced -up at the top of her mirror. There she kept a curious record. -Drawn on the level of the glass with the lip-stick, were three -small hearts. A photograph almost hid them. They were initialed—E.P., -O.W., S.H. She picked up her handkerchief, and rubbed -out the last one. She was tired of Stewart—he would be dropped; -in the cool, summary manner which was the essence of Millicent. -Eddie, and Orme Waldon would remain. Eddie was always beneficial—he -played up so well when she wanted compliments. Orme -had a car which she could command, with him or without him; -and that was very useful.</p> - -<p>When she had erased the last heart she drew a new one, larger -and apart; the photograph would completely hide it. She initialed -it T.S., and then she sat regarding it—he had been so pointedly -disinterested! Ah, but he would learn servility; others had, before -him.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>After a few days, the members of the general “crowd” had -come to see that through accident or design Tommy and Millicent -were usually together, when both were at any given place at the -same time. There were comments; some caustic, some foolish, -some wise: Carl, for instance, was irritatingly derisive. “I told -you she’d take you in!” he told Tommy; and when Tommy -serenely denied any unusual interest, he agreed, with the -reservation—“That’s all right, for <i>now</i>, you sweet idiot, but you -don’t appreciate what Millicent can do, in ten days. Just wait!”</p> - -<p>On Sunday afternoons a heterogeneous crowd was wont to -drift over to the Grants’, to piece together the gossip of the -week. At supper-time they regularly went through the ritual -of expressing formal astonishment at the lateness of the hour, -and then reluctantly accepting the expected invitation to stay and -partake of a buffet-supper.</p> - -<p>When Carl and Tommy arrived they found the usual assembly. -For half the afternoon Millicent ignored Tommy, simulating a -deep interest in Eddie Pearson’s stuttered and imperfect rendition<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> -of all the jokes in the past week’s Orpheum bill. Eddie was one -of those people who insist upon showing you how excellently they -can imitate the comedian....</p> - -<p>Tommy, on the couch, was amiably quarreling with Barbara -Peart over the literary merits of modern literature. Barbara -held serious and decided views; Tommy didn’t care a damn either -way; the subject bored him so that it was an effort to be polite. -Millicent finally extricated herself from Eddie’s imperfectly remembered -humor with scant courtesy, and sat down beside -Tommy. There was satisfaction in taking him away from Barbara, -anyway. Thereafter she directed the conversation—to herself, -inevitably.</p> - -<p>Tommy and Carl stayed on after the rest of the crowd had -left. Millicent arranged that. Carl at first refused to accept her -hints that he too might leave; but after they had sat in silence -for ten minutes, Millicent sulking, Tommy looking into the fire -and thinking about the hunting near Richmond, and Carl professing -fascination in the automobile pages of the Sunday paper, -he relented, and rose to go. Tommy, with elaborately concealed -relief, rose to accompany him. Then Millicent took command of -the situation, and said, with superb carelessness:</p> - -<p>“Well, drive back here and take Tommy home about eleven, -because I really must go to bed early to-night if I’m to go on -that snow-shoe trip to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>So Tommy stayed. The conversation was not animated. Millicent -made poor progress. Presently, when the conversation -reached Millicent in its usual course, she asked him whether he -liked bobbed-hair. He did, on certain girls. She obviously expected -to be told that she was one; if not the chief one. He -told her so.</p> - -<p>The next step would be for him to stretch his arm along the -back of the couch, above her shoulders, and comment upon its -fluffiness. Tommy took his cue admirably. He stirred her hair -with his fingers, and he did not withdraw his arm. Millicent -had drawn imperceptibly closer. The fire in the grate had burned -down to a drowsy glow, leaving the room in the semi-darkness of -late winter twilight. Now her head swayed toward him. The -moment was propitious. Tommy knew it. He had been cast as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> -leading man in just such a scene before. He knew that the next -move was his....</p> - -<p>And rather unexpectedly he made it. Very deliberately he got -up, walked over to the table, took up a cigarette and lit it. Neither -of them spoke. The silence was unnatural. A tension filled the -air. There was nothing to say.</p> - -<p>The sound of a horn on the driveway saved the situation.</p> - -<p>“That must be Carl,” Tommy said quickly. “Sounds as if he -might be in a hurry. Don’t get up; I’ll just grab my things in -the hall. Good-night, Millicent—awfully good time.”</p> - -<p>He went out, a little breathlessly, before she could speak or -get up.</p> - -<p>Millicent was furious; furious at Tommy, who had snubbed -her with such ironic insolence; furious at herself, who had engineered -her own humiliation. The climax of her planning had -come to ignominious failure. Consuming anger filled her. For -a moment she wondered whether his manner would betray anything -of the breach to the rest of the crowd, on the snowshoe trip, -the next day. Paul Lyle, in making up the party, had paired -them as a matter of course. Millicent knew what the crowd was -saying: and she would not be made ridiculous in their eyes, now. -Before Tommy went back to school he must propose, and the -crowd must know that he had.</p> - -<p>She repeated that, mentally. The words were like italics on -a page.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>There was no perceptible difference in their attitude the next -morning. The snowshoe trip to Paul Lyle’s cabin on the St. -Croix River had been abandoned, because a vagary of the thermometer -had brought balmy winds and a thaw, overnight.</p> - -<p>Tommy was relieved. The trip had been planned in his honor, -and he had had to feign a deep interest in Northern sports; -actually he had had a distinct premonition that he was due to -make a general ass of himself on snowshoes.</p> - -<p>It was decided that they should drive up to the cabin for dinner, -instead. They found the cabin mired in slush, and with a leaking -roof, but a crackling fire in the stone hearth, and the uncertain -melodies from a small phonograph which some one unearthed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> -put them all in high spirits. When they had tired of dancing over -the uneven floors they constituted themselves into an exploring -party, and wandered down to the river and out on the soft ice.</p> - -<p>Presently, Providence took a hand.</p> - -<p>Millicent, who had run ahead of the rest, shrieked suddenly, -balanced wildly for an instant, and fell into an air-hole in the ice.</p> - -<p>It took but a very few moments to lift her out, and take her -up to the cabin, but in that period she had been seriously chilled -from exposure in the icy water. The men had done all that they -could. Mary Skinner, small and frail, took command. Millicent -was put to bed, before the hearth, bordering on the line of unconsciousness. -A doctor was on the way. They could only wait.</p> - -<p>Tommy was dazed. Millicent had suddenly became a great deal -to him. The play of excited emotion, suddenly released, will do -that. He sat on the steps, unmindful of his own damp clothes. -Millicent’s light sweater was in his hands. Why, he wondered -inconsistently, out of all this crowd of girls did it have to be -Millicent who should be endangered?</p> - -<p>“Tommy’s taking it pretty hard, I guess,” some one said. “He -thinks an awful lot of Millicent.”</p> - -<p>And for the first time, he did.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>When the doctor had come, and given Millicent a hypodermic, -they wrapped her carefully in rugs, and drove slowly back to -town.</p> - -<p>She would have to stay in bed for a week or so, that was all, -the doctor said.</p> - -<p>Tommy’s first floral offering came the next morning, and in -the course of the following days he sent almost everything in -the florist’s stock, from corsage bouquets to funeral lilies. He -came himself, and stayed interminably, until Mr. Grant, ordinarily -a mild-mannered and ponderously humored man, observed -with unwonted choler that “If that young man comes any earlier, -I shall have to give him my place at the breakfast table!” His -wife, who looked upon Tommy with that eye of wisdom which -mothers with marriageable daughters possess, was more kindly -disposed. Tommy, in the parlance of her sphere, was an excellent -“catch”. He might see Millicent as often as he liked.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span></p> - -<p>Millicent prolonged her stay in bed. She was aware that she -made rather a charming invalid, and throned in her bed she -received a gratifying court.</p> - -<p>The wise commenters became positive.</p> - -<p>“Millicent’s really in love, this time,” they said, “and their -engagement will be announced before Tommy goes back to -school.”</p> - -<p>Tommy, the drawling and indifferent, had given way to Tommy, -the intense and devoted. Millicent was aware of her victory.</p> - -<p>The hearts with E.P. and O.W. had gone. Tommy’s, hidden -by the photograph, reigned alone. Perhaps, she thought idly, -after they were married she would have it cut into the glass. It -was a pretty fancy. She toyed with the idea, toyed with it as -she did with everything in her life; a languid, fickle amusement.</p> - -<p>The day before Tommy and Carl were to go back to school -Millicent got up. She was paler, and more ethereally beautiful, -she decided, with characteristic candor. The sweet peas which -he had sent that morning looked rather well on her.</p> - -<p>She wondered, as she pinned them on, whether he would propose -to-day or wait until the last.</p> - -<p>He was nervous; a little haggard, too, she noticed, when he -came, and she knew that he would propose to-day. Her triumph -was at hand, but suddenly she knew that she wanted more time -to think. She must make him wait until to-morrow.</p> - -<p>They were on the couch again. He kissed her, and in the -moment that their lips touched it came to her that Tommy was -realty infatuated—but in another moment the old doubt had -returned, and when he said:</p> - -<p>“Millicent, dear, I’ve only known you—” she stopped him, -with a breathless flutter, and said, “To-morrow, Tommy, to-morrow -afternoon; I <i>can’t</i> tell you to-day!”... And she ran out -of the room.</p> - -<p>Millicent did not appear at supper. She was locked in her -room, her head buried in her arms on the dressing-table, thinking; -half crying. It was the only crisis which had ever come into her -life. Always before she had left this to the man; her own way -had continued serenely untroubled. Once, in a fit of fancy, she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> -reached up as if to erase the heart, but she did not complete -the gesture.</p> - -<p>The next morning dragged slowly by.</p> - -<p>After lunch Millicent went to her desk, and in a fit of caprice -wrote a letter. She read it, and started to tear it up. Then she -changed her mind, and left it, sealed, on her desk. It was a -quarter past two. Tommy ought to arrive very soon.</p> - -<p>She walked over to the pier-glass in the hall. Dispassionately -she admired her beauty. She thought that she had never seen -anyone so lovely. Others might be merely beautiful, hers was -distinctive. Beauty was a power in itself; and when coupled -with intellect—the power it might wield was infinite. Great -beauties had made history—many of them had had humbler -beginnings, by far, than she. She felt in that moment that she -too might have been destined to rule.... French novels had taught -her these things—and had failed to instil a sense of personal -absurdity.</p> - -<p>Egotism was her greatest fault; she looked upon it as her -highest virtue.</p> - -<p>Her thought came back to Tommy. No man had ever been so -much in love with her as he was. And he represented so many -desirable things. He was appealingly good looking. He was -wealthy in his own right, Carl had told her. Life with him would -be tranquil and luxurious.... It might grow dull.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>She heard him on the walk. She stood there, frozen, as he -came up the steps. He rang the bell, and in that instant decision -came. The maid was coming through to open the door. Millicent -snatched the sealed letter from her desk, and handed it to -her.</p> - -<p>“Give this to Mr. Squire,” she said, and while the maid gazed -stupidly at her, she laughed, half hysterically, and ran up the -stairs.</p> - -<p>In her room she heard Tommy come in, heard the murmur of -the maid’s voice, and then, after a pause longer than she had ever -endured, she heard the door close upon him. She waited until -she could not hear his footsteps longer—then she walked over -to the mirror, and rubbed out the heart.</p> - -<p class="author"> -C. G. POORE.<br> -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Book_Reviews"><i>Book Reviews</i></h2> -</div> - - -<p><i>Jean Huguenot.</i> By <span class="smcap">Stephen Vincent Benét</span>. (Henry Holt.)</p> - -<p>Flowers in writing are like flowers on a grave: they commemorate -death. And Benét’s first novel was a little too -prone to floral decoration. In his third book, <i>Jean Huguenot</i>, -his work as a stylist is noticeably improved. He still remains all -poet in his prose, and, as ever, reads the better for it. Yet he -has reached a saner manner of writing that does not overwhelm -and cloy as did parts of <i>The Beginning of Wisdom</i>.</p> - -<p>Despite mechanical improvement <i>Jean Huguenot</i> marks a lull -in the author’s literary progress. You are moved along for two -hundred or so pages by glowing language and well-drawn situations. -And just when the book has become really enjoyable—well, -all pleasure in it begins to subside. You are dropped, like -a deflated balloon, into a flat and tasteless completion. Why, oh, -why, you say, couldn’t he have given us something else—anything -else? The spectacle of Jean Huguenot Ashley turned <i>cocotte</i> is -neither appealing nor revolting; it is just plain drab. Perhaps -Benét is true to nature in his picture, but—read it and see -if it doesn’t affect you in the same fashion. The story is worth -while for three-quarters of its course—and then, being so near -the end, one might as well finish it, anyway.</p> - -<p class="author"> -J. R. C.<br> -</p> - - -<p><i>The Florentine Dagger.</i> By <span class="smcap">Ben Hecht</span>. (Boni & Liveright.)</p> - -<p>Ben Hecht is mountebank of words par excellence: their -swirling shapes, their sounds, their shifting colors, as he -juggles them so adroitly before our bewildered eyes. The subject-matter -of his books serves only as a pattern, an excuse for weaving -a tapestry of fascinating and often amazing phrases. Whether -it is a psychological study in the manner of Dreiser, like Gargoyles, -or an all-night detective story, like the present book, is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span> -an altogether incidental matter. It is the words that count. That -may perhaps explain why Mr. Hecht should suddenly decide to -perform before such a bourgeois audience, descending, so to -speak, from the Palace to the four-a-day. He evidently realized -that the world was quite bored by anything he had to say, but -perfectly entranced by the way in which he said it.</p> - -<p><i>The Florentine Dagger</i> was written with Prof. Hart’s Psychology -of Insanity on one hand and the Memoirs of the de Medici -Family on the other. Taken as a dramatic presentation of certain -psychological phenomena it is brilliant enough to make itself -endeared by every psychology professor in the country. Everyone -in the book, from the last member of the fastidious de Medicis -to the old actress, is troubled by complexes and obsessions of all -sorts, so that a miserable and uncertain rôle is assigned to each. -All the time-dishonored devices of the mystery story are faithfully -observed, although its technique on the whole is genuinely -successful.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hecht has in this book, as in all his others, displayed his -incredible faculty for choosing a new literary technique as casually -as most writers choose their stationery.</p> - -<p class="author"> -W. T.<br> -</p> - - -<p><i>The Blind Bow Boy.</i> By <span class="smcap">Carl Van Vechten</span>. (Alfred Knopf.)</p> - -<p>Carl Van Vechten is an elegant dilettante. His books -are the essence of trivial and charming existence. He is -fond of cats, George Moore, Rolls Royce motor cars, and cravats -by Charvet. He is apathetic to Corot and Monet, to Ibsenism, -midwestern mediocrity, and synthetic gin.</p> - -<p><i>The Blind Bow Boy</i> is of inferior quality to <i>Peter Whiffle</i>, just -as <i>Peter Whiffle</i> is undoubtedly inferior to <i>Memoirs of My Dead -Life</i>, but it is good reading and by far the most intelligent intellectual -mixed grill of which the reviewer has partaken this season.</p> - -<p>The fact that Van Vechten is in the good graces of the greatest -of all American whim-whammers, Henry Mencken, is in itself -a warrant for the six editions into which the book has already run. -It may also prevent it from running into another six.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span></p> - -<p><i>The Blind Bow Boy</i> is the story of a summer opera season in -New York, an international alliance in the person of Zimbule -O’Grady, and the delightful exploits of the Duke of Middlebottom, -who lived by the Julian Calendar and in this case “contrived -to evade all unsatisfactory engagements, especially if they -were complicated in any way by daylight-saving time, an American -refinement of which he was utterly ignorant”. There are also -some trivial protagonists who strut through the book in a manner -slightly suggestive of exaggerated and overdressed Weiner -sausages.</p> - -<p>The author has an unfortunate habit of becoming enamoured -of one character for a chapter or two, and then without warning -shifting his affections to another, a failing which gives the reader -a somewhat biographically errant point of view.</p> - -<p>It is also unfortunate that Van Vechten cannot follow a more -clearly defined theme, for he has no sense of plot, shading, or -climax. His stories are a series of photographically vivid scenes, -innocent of all structural liaison, and hanging together only by -virtue of the bookbinding which keeps them from fluttering away -to the various literary hemispheres.</p> - -<p>It is, however, very satisfactory reading, for in his multiplex -catalogues of names and places the author gives the reader a vivid -sense of personal familiarity which is quite flattering. No doubt -this effect is obtained by mentioning so many aspects of contemporary -civilization that everyone must needs have come in -contact with at least some few of them.</p> - -<p class="author"> -L. M. B.<br> -</p> - - -<p><i>A Son at the Front.</i> By <span class="smcap">Edith Wharton</span>. (Charles Scribner’s -Sons.)</p> - -<p>As the most and vagueness surrounding the late war are slowly -cleared away by passing time and subsiding emotions, and -the conflict settles into a semblance of perspective, the more recent -books that deal with it show an increasing grasp of its essentials, -and a higher understanding of its trials and lessons. Where once -were only trees, we can see a forest now, whose outlines are -becoming more distinct as the shock of the cataclysm becomes a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> -memory. It is past, now, and irrevocable, open to description or -interpretation.</p> - -<p>Speaking sincerely from the depth of her own experience, -Edith Wharton here gives us a faithful picture; not of the -mechanics of the war, but of general and specific reactions to it. -Paris is the setting almost throughout the narrative, that of an -American painter whose son, born in France, is drawn by the -logic of his instincts and sympathies into the struggle. The scenes -and events of the war, its growing tragedy and sternness, and -their gradual effect on John Campton, are recorded with an insight -and understanding that fascinate, while their subject-matter grips. -The author shows a keen grasp of small details, as well as of -large issues and their significance. Her style is delightful—a -silver rapier that here waves benignly, and there strikes humorously -or satirically, with great precision. Several delicate threads -of narrative underlie and emphasize the main theme—Campton’s -art, Paris visibly changing, and the younger Campton’s love -affair. The story never falters as it traces out that “huge mysterious -design which was slowly curving a new heaven over a -new earth”. The author, in that design, points us to a philosophy -of the war, a personal moral, comprehending its soul.</p> - -<p>Our growing literary heritage from the World War contains -few contributions more authentic or more inspiring than “A Son -at the Front”.</p> - -<p class="author"> -R. P. C., JR.<br> -</p> - - -<p><i>The Dove’s Nest.</i> By <span class="smcap">Katherine Mansfield</span>. (Boni & -Liveright.)</p> - -<p>Here are stories that are literature: they move us by the -presence of the genuine elements of literature, and not by -the elements of painting, music, or any other art. Their language -is neither colorful nor melodious, but it is significantly expressive, -related inextricably to the subject matter. They help make the -short story as distinct a literary form as a landscape by Cezanne -or a sonata by Beethoven. Katherine Mansfield, scarcely a year -after her death, has come to be regarded as one of the most -finished artists that ever worked with the short story as their -medium.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span></p> - -<p>The present collection includes several unfinished fragments -which are invaluable to anyone interested in her art or in the -short story as a whole. They are cross-sections of her method -which enable us to see the processes that produce the half-dozen -little masterpieces at the beginning of the book.</p> - -<p>“The Doll’s House” is at once the best and the most typical -of all the stories she has written. It shows us in an unforgetable -manner her complete mastery of the difficult trick of epitomizing -the whole of life in a minute and almost ridiculously petty episode. -All the aspirations of the many, all the heartless prejudice of the -few, are concentrated in a toy lamp in one of the little rooms of -a doll’s house. It might easily be sentimental, and very likely -ridiculous, if it were not for the implacable aloofness of her art. -Again, in “A Cup of Tea” we have a bitter, though inoffensive, -exhibition of the quality of mercy by somewhat the same whimsical -concentration on little things. A lady of high degree is -accosted on Bond Street by another lady of lesser degree who -requests the price of a cup of tea. The first lady, thinking it -would be a charming adventure, takes the pathetic creature into -her own home for her cup of tea. She is impressed by her own -magnanimity, even considers doing something more worthwhile for -the stranger, when the great lady’s husband appears. Because the -latter ventured the remark that the visitor is really quite pretty, -because the great lady suddenly detects the shadow of age on her -face as she passes the mirror, the visitor is forthwith despatched -with a few shillings, and the great lady asks her husband that -evening, “Do you think I’m pretty?”</p> - -<p>All the stories of Katherine Mansfield are more or less like -that, displaying the difficult accomplishment of a worker in -miniature, and, like the art of the miniature, possessing a rare -and almost forgotten spirit.</p> - -<p class="author"> -W. T.<br> -</p> - - -<p><i>The Lyric.</i> By <span class="smcap">John Drinkwater</span>. (Martin Secker.)</p> - -<p>None of the “sound and fury” of modern literary theories -(signifying nothing?), and little that is arresting is to be -found in this essay on the lyric; its argument has a stately conservatism<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> -with enough that is fresh and new to make the whole -of interest.</p> - -<p>Drinkwater pins much faith on Coleridge’s definition of poetry: -“poetry—the best words in the best order”. After declaring this -to be the one and only true definition, later in the text he admits -that there can be no proper definition of poetry, since so much -depends on the individuality of the poet. So perhaps we can -forgive him the contradiction on the score that he relieves us of -the necessity of having our ideals of poetry destroyed forever.</p> - -<p>The author advances an interesting theory of poetic “energies”, -the forces that cause the creation of verse. He classifies these -into several types that cast a new light on the whys and wherefores -of poetry. The lyric itself is well defined. Perhaps the -most interesting passage is his clever answer to the accusations -against form made by the sponsors of free-verse. Their own -lack of form, however, he treats not with diatribe, but interested -tolerance.</p> - -<p class="author"> -A. M.<br> -</p> - - -<p><i>Within These Walls.</i> By <span class="smcap">Rupert Hughes</span>. (Harper & Bros.)</p> - -<p>It is the natural tendency of every generation to consider much -less vivid and wicked those that have come before. We still -hear of the “old-fashioned” mothers in sentimental appreciation -or pity—as contrasted with the obstreperous rising generation.</p> - -<p>In this light, it is interesting to read Mr. Hughes’ novel, which -has as an obtrusive background the very vital and naughty New -York of 1825-1875. With a slight hesitation for touches that -obviously cater to our surprise, we would class the bulk of this -background as authentic. It is the main theme of the book. A -restless melodramatic movement of indifferently drawn characters -across this setting gives the author his excuse for it. The action -is too stereotyped in its thrill to be in itself worth while, and it is -given the reader as substitute for an ability to define the characters -into lasting silhouettes. Mr. Hughes’s <i>forte</i> is a running-fire, -rat-tat-tat description of stirring events (as the great fire of -1837) which never fails to work one up, and is thus highly -effective.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span></p> - -<p>However, the author does hew to the line of his purpose, -and gives us an interesting (however faithful) picture of the -growing New York, and its groping fight for an adequate water -supply. Daniel Webster enters in two places—once as toper, -once as orator—with doubtful appropriateness.</p> - -<p>One does not for the most part feel in sympathy with the book.</p> - -<p class="author"> -R. P. C., JR.<br> -</p> - - -<p><i>The Powder of Sympathy.</i> By <span class="smcap">Christopher Morley</span>.</p> - -<p><i>The Powder of Sympathy</i> is a collection of whimsical, verbal -morsels, colyumistic in length, but not for the most part in -character. Discourse upon the shortcomings of the Long Island -Railroad, or upon the vicissitudes of mongrel dogs in pedigreed -kennels no doubt is admirable colyum copy; but Mr. Morley has -included in his latest book an equal quantity of semi-serious discussion -about books and about authors. We can think of no one -who can impart to the reader his own genuine enthusiasm for -good books so well as Sir Kenelm Digby’s publicity agent. (Incidentally, -we consider Mr. Morley’s observations on Sir Digby’s -character, habits, and work as the most titillating particle of -sympathetic powder to be found in the whole book.)</p> - -<p>It is a book for every mood. If you feel the need of a laugh, -pick up this salmon-colored work and choose at random from -the forty odd titles that speak for themselves. If you are beginning -to wonder whether you will ever again find prose that -will thrill you with its bold and powerful use of the strong red -roots of our English vocabulary, read “Santayana in the Subway”. -If you still have a morbid interest in the higher side of -the culinary art known as distillation, you will find enlightening -Sir Kenelm’s directions for making “ale drink quick and -stronger”. In any case once you open this book you will forget -where the blues begin.</p> - -<p class="author"> -M. T.<br> -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Editors_Table"><i>Editor’s Table</i></h2> -</div> - - -<p>One by one the Editors appeared, grim with the prospect of renewed -and unremittent editing. It was hours before Cherrywold, the verbal -Valentine, could sufficiently cast off the burden of his perpetually broken -heart to enter the conversation, but the others gradually warmed to the task -of post-vacation badinage.</p> - -<p>“How were the girls at Grosse Pointe Village?” inquired Han solicitously -of the pagan Rabnon.</p> - -<p>“How was <i>the</i> girl, you mean!” chirped Aerial. “Why, along in August -he telegraphed me, ‘A girl has been seen in Grosse Pointe Village. What -shall I do?’”</p> - -<p>“What did he dew?” inquired the scandal-seeking Mrs. Stephens.</p> - -<p>“Don’t know,” said Aerial. “I telegraphed back, ‘Compromise’, and let -it go at that!”</p> - -<p>“How shiffless!” cried Mrs. Stephens. And at the same moment the -deep base roar of Mr. Stephens was heard calling for water, for she had -fainted from the shock of Aerial’s remark, being a perfect lady.</p> - -<p>“Why pick on me?” countered Rabnon, when the excitement had subsided. -“The girls of Grosse Pointe Village are all right. One of them -entertained me this summer with an account of how an empty taxi-cab -once rolled up to Dobbs Ferry, and Cherrywold got out. You can’t beat -that for a masterly bit of description!”</p> - -<p>Thus roused from thoughts of “all for love and love for all”, the -slandered Cherrywold girded himself against the powers of cynicism.</p> - -<p>“You are a pack of blasphemous cowards all!” he cried. “It has been -alleged that Mr. and Mrs. Stephens are the only people in the world who -still believe in fairies, and that Jonah was swallowed by the whale, but I -believe—”</p> - -<p>“‘What troubles you, my little one? The dawn is far away,’” soothed -Han. But, refusing to be calmed by a snatch of one of his own lullabies, -Cherrywold was only prevented from assaulting his Oriental acquaintance -by main force.</p> - -<p>“You! You c-can’t SPELL!” he thundered. And the office crashed in -ruins.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>“That’s what they all say—when they can’t think of anything else. And -so say I—when I can’t think of anything else,” remarked</p> - -<p class="author"> -HAN.<br> -</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="transnote"> -<h2>Transcriber’s note</h2> - -<p>Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. -</p> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE (VOL. LXXXIX, NO. 1, 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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