"AN EVENING WITH MY GRANDFATHER'S BooKs," Margaret Bull
"A CHILD'S THOUGHT," Theresa' Carter
"A QUESTION NEVER ASKED," Theresa Carter "REASON," Theresa Carter
THE MESSENGER
LOUISE DINWIDDIE Editor-in-Chief
LOUISE McLAUGHLIN Associate Editor
LOUISE LEATHERLAND SUE COOK McCLURE Assistant Editors
MARION CLARK Business Manager
E D T 0 R A L s
The Gentle Art of Writing
Impression .... Expression? DEPRESSION l
AND it became weaker and weaker, until it was really nothing at all; its age economized until it was starved out of its worthy existence-that gentle art, creative writing.
But somewhere a being was disturbed. Out of the stir of old forgotten things, the sense of words rushing; words, words, words of ages past and minds bereft. Like a whirlwind of dead leaves at summer's end, with never a meaning in one ... and the world sighed for the thoughts that might never be.
The being heard the sigh and was aroused: "Fool!" he cried; "I think!"
The world laughed wearily, a dry withered laugh that crackled with sarcasm : "What?"
Then someth1ng stopped; it was the words. They settled down and all was still; a thought had been created. Incredible I Amazing I But, a thought.
It was very strange, after all these years. The being's fingers itched to write because this first great thought had informed him there was nothing to think but thoughts , and nothing to write but words. He had wasted so much time!
Then the being had a quiet calm of realization in which he had a conception of what he had experienced, and he began to recreate these experiences imaginatively. He was embarrassed at his stupidity, that his thoughts were musty with the damp of years. So he began to think differently
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until he acquired Originality, and the words rushed round and round again, as new leaves in the spring, but remaining quite firm and secure, en masse. In this small human way he gave himself, and he read himself and was pleased that he, too, could be a creator. He wrote boldly "This is mine," over and over again.
The old world read and smiled in its round-sliding way, and mused unto itself: "The compass of human nature is limited; the variations of human thought are, after all, quite small. Though styles change with views of men and life's conditions, the gentle art of writing is the same. It is · simply perfection of expression of human experience in pleasing words," the old word sighed again.
Soon other beings heard and were disturbed. Then they, too, thought and they also wrote; creative writing was begun all over again.
M.L.D.
Rich Experience
OuT of experience-the stuff of life itself-comes all Art. Not only Art, but happiness in its final sense, is the crown of wide and rich experience. The joy of anticipation is ephemeral, quickly vanishing in reality. One's wealth lies in the recollection of past moments full and complete. Existence cannot be measured in terms of the present; objectivity is lacking. To the past, therefore, one turns for realization.
Experience should cut deep into one's being, making grooves out of which wells that rare flame of delight. The usual life is half a real one. It is lived dully, without meaning and without reward. The full life is one opened to the wealth of experience by interest, awareness, and courage. Before all emotions, thoughts, and experiences, one must disarm on's self gallantly for a rich individuality realized.
L.L.
[4]
· Where Time Is Not
BY BETTY PAGE
I know a land
Where Time, capricious elf, Is not:
A land where haunting music
Weaves her wondrous web
Of ecstasy, Enfolding me with rhythmic strains, And binding me inextricably
In a multicoloured, shining mesh
Spun of the stuff of human hearts, T (me-({ter.nalized ..
Sing on, o violins,
And with this heart's sweet-trembling strings
Vibrate forever/
Throb on, o cello
Of the husky throat, And stir again, o drums,
The pulses of this mortal fieshl
What matter if you sing '
Of life or death? ....
Mine is a world of living song, Where Death is dead, Where grief and lined care live not:
This my land where Time ticks not, And love and song hold sway.
A Modern Fable
(After the manner of Don Marquis, or George A de, or whoever it is.)
BY ELIZABETH CANNON
THERE once was a Young Man. He wasn't a very extraordjnary Young Man, just the common, e".'eryday, garden variety to be found in Claremore, Oklahoma; Riverside, Pennsylvania; or almost any other well-regulated small town. As a matter of fact this Young Man came from Cumberland, Maryland, but that has nothing to do with the story. As I have said, he wasn't at aU different from the rest of the hoi polloi, except ( and this is important) that he had an Idea. The Idea was that he wanted to be a poet; and not only a poet, but a real Poet, the kind whose life is devoted to Art.
He deserted his comfortable home on Beech Street and moved to Greenwich Village, where, he had heard, the Real Poets hung out. He lived in a garret on rye bread and cheese, although he had enough money to eat white bread, and butter, and maybe ice cream, too, but he had heard that all poets lived on an exclusive diet of rye bread and cheese; so he adopted it, probably in the hope that it would give him inspiration. He even let his hair grow, and 'wore one suit of clothes until it grew frayed around the cuffs and out at the elbows, and in such a deplorable condition generally that no self-respecting junkman would have been seen with it in his cart.
All this because it was part of the Poet tradition; but still the Muse eluded him. He wrote poetry, it is true, but when he sent it to the Editors, they always returned it with polite little notes, saying that while it was doubtless good enough in its sentimental, sugar-coated way, they were afraid that the Public wouldn't like it, and after all, that was the Important Thing.
'
So he decided not to write any more "Verses to the Spring" or "Flight of the Bluebird," or pretty little things
like that, but to write about Reality. So he sent numbers of poems on Death and Despair and similar subjects to the Editors; but a big Depression was going on at the time, and so the Editors returned these poems, too, still accompanied by po!ite notes, in which they said tha_tit: Ti!lles o! Depression hke these the people needed Optimism rn their poetry, and that while they thought that his poetry had Possibilities, still they were afraid they couldn't use it just now.
So things went for several years. All the time the poet's hair was growing longer and longer, and his suit more ragged. His soul was probably becoming a little frayed around the edges, too, from all this wait1ng.
One day he sat down at his garret table and dashed off a poem that seemed to amuse him a great deal, and sent it to the Editors. ·
In a week or two he received a polite little note, but not the kind of polite little note to which he was accustomed, saying that his poem had been accepted by the Magazine, and would he please stop in 'at their offices sometime soon to discuss Prices and Terms and the possibility of a Permanent Connection with the Magazine? This made the poet very happy, indeed. He wasn't puffed up about his success; he knew that he hadn't arrived yet, but at least this was a Start up the Ladder.
The attitude of the Public was a great surprise to him. He had expected a mild interest in his poetry. He had even hoped that a few of the readers of the Magazine might like it; but he hadn't expected this avalanche of praise from all sorts of people: shopkeepers, politicians, clerks, housewives, tired business men, even critics, joined in the refrain, and all because of the one poem. He didn't write any more verse after that. Perhaps the muse had deserted him again, or perhaps he was bewildered by the nice things people were saying about his Poem ( for all the signs seemed to indicate that it was a Poem and not just a poem).
"Subtlety of expression," "beautiful restraint," "subdued tones," "word harmony" were some of the phrases the criticis used in describing his "June Flavor." The expon-
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ents of the Modern School of poetry were quick to seize upon it as the epitome of their style of writing. He was invited to speak before Clubs, to attend Banquets; in a word, to mingle with all the Big Fellows of the artistic world. -
He felt rather embarrassed at these gatherings, particularly the teas, because everyone paid a great deal of attention to him. It was funny how that poem appealed to every type of person. The Mathematical Giant would corner him and congratulate him on his feeling for the Cosmic Rhythm of Things. A Fair Young Thing would go into ecstasies over the poem's "muted beauty" and "limpid lyric tones." An Earnest Seeker after Truth would speak in a hushed voice of the ~'earthiness" and "shining realism" in it. The worst feature of the teas, however, was not the crowd itself, but the little talks on the Finer Things of Life they insisted on his making. Or if they didn't they were sure to call for a recital of "June Flavor" before the party was over; and he would run his finger inside his collar and smooth back his hair nervously, then clear his throat with a "hr-r-rm," and recite the Poem for them. (I quote it here as it was first printed in the Magazine.) :
early days of june magic delicate fragrance meadows agriculture
DAIRIES american butter and the flat insipid taste of winter gone.
Everyone would applaud and exclaim over the poignancy of it and its delicate appeal. It seemed as if there never had been another poem like it in America, or so they said at the teas.
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The Poet lived very comfortably in his later years. He had all sorts of offers from various manufacturers just for a word or two of advice to the users of their products, and his signed picture became a familiar sight to advertisement readers. Not only that, but Hollywood decided that she needed someone with his breadth of vision, and so he was summoned to the land of sunshine and celluloid.
Just before he died and went to the Land of Eternal Sunshine, he said a curious thing to the select band of notables gathered around his bedside. He told them that he had composed "June Flavor" from a butter advertisement in one of the magazines, by the simple expedient of copying two words of the "ad," then skipping two or three. He had done it for a joke, he said, but had decided to say nothing about how his poem had originated when he - saw how seriously everyone was taking it.
Of course, the Public understood that he must have been delirious when he made the statement and didn't know what he was saying, for how could such a poem as "June Flavor," that had influenced the lives of thousands of people, that had opened the minds of so many to the Finer Things of Life, have been composed from a butter advertisement?
Therefore the Poet was still greatly honored after his death, for his wonderful Poem. (There was some talk of building a statue to his Memory in Cumberland, but I believe the Committee for the erection of the statue are still debating on where it shall stand), and people speak sadly of him today as a Poet of great Promise, unfortunately cut off in his prime. * * * * *
The moral of this story is : You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, and as a matter of fact, they seem to enjoy it.
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Madame Butterfly
BY SuE CooK McCLURE
Cho-cho-san, Little flower, Butterfly: In Japan winter passes, Springtime comes again, Bringing blossoms in her hands, Pink of cherry, white of plum, Cream and misty green Of water-lily-lavish gifts, But not for you, Cho-cho-san.
In Japan the spring is come again: Robins nest in the plum, Singing, and their song In sharp ecstasy, Thrusting to the sun, Unseen by the dust That is you, Cho-cho-san.
In Japan, the spring again Lovers meet Where the frail flower moon Is a white camellia In the dark jet hair of night, Where a lover's face Is a lotus lily floating On the still dim pool of darkThe lovely dark, forever lost To you, Cho-cho-san.
In Japan, the springBut you are gone, Butterfly. Was it a price
Small to pay for love, To die?
The Critic
Bv LouisE McLAUGHLIN
I WENT into an art gallery, into the long cool hall of the philosophic Chinese, to rest. I saw a little man there, rocking oilily back and forth on his heels and on his toes, bending his knees and stroking his long thin nose with consummate self-satisfaction. He stood thus before the first of a series of newly-acquired paintings on silk, representing the highest achievement of one of the richest cultural civilizations the world has ever known. Faintly, as if far off, I heard the soft purring of machinery, well-oiled. Words slid over his tongue with precision and assuranceclick, click. And out of the orderly files of his brain jumped a card, which dropped neatly down on a table in front of him, to prompt his tongue. On the card was written in orderly fashion, this:
CLASS II
Three phrases sufficient:
1. Great strength
2. Purity of line
3. Accuracy of detail.
His tongue lingered over the word purity. He pronounced it softly, suggestively, with the finesse of long · practice, growing more affable and expansive as he held it longer. Finally, with reluctance, his voice having trailed away to nothing, he quitted picture number one, class number two, and passed on to picture number two. This, from the second card dropped neatly on the table in front, belonged to class number five, designated by the short, but expressive phrase, "loveliness of contour." I moved uneasily in my place of rest. My head began to spin a little from the steady bu,zz that emanated from him as he progressed, on oiled, precisive joints, from one painting to the ' next. He stopped with that slick gesture of his hands and that blinding brightness of his countenance which is a foreboding of something even less endurable than what has
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Igone before; and when he stopped thus in front of a beautiful painting of an old man's head which I love, I screamed aloud and fled.
I went into a literature class to sooth my tortured nerves. I sat silent with my eyes closed, listening with delight to the huge orchestral reverberation of tones in that last passage of Hauptmann's Heretic of Soana. It was rich and suggestive, redolent of life in its fullest sensuous realization. The lovely daughter of incest stood poised upon a hill, vibrant with consciousness of power. The book closed with a clicking sound.
"Ah, my friends! That is literature. Note the-ahgreat strength, the great sweep-ah-complimented-ah -by-ah-surprising accuracy of detail."
Click-click-Class two. Buzz-z-z.
My eyes flew open at the sound of machinery, and there he stood before me, bland and beaming, rubbing his hands together in oily satisfaction, leaning back on his heels, and forward again on his toes, bending his knees at every forward move ... rhythmic, orderly ... click-click-clickclick-click
I fled into the concert house, but I could not rest there. I sat, tense, on the edge of my seat, straining to keep under control the flood of emotion that gathered to my throat. They were playing one of Beethoven's Symphonies. Suddenly into the midst of my excitement came an oily clicking. I looked beside me. It was he. His eyes had a faraway look, and I knew that they were on the lines of a newspaper column. To these lines, as he listened, he transferred words from orderly little cards in the neat files of his brain.
I fled again, this time into the open, to the sea. As I reached the edge of a cliff) I stopped and looked back. He was following me. And as he approached, he assumed gigantic proportions, until he stood directly in front of me, a huge towering mechanism which with a sudden loud · grating sound burst asunder and showered down upon me a
million little pieces of steel and iron and rubber. I cowered low until the shower was over. Then I opened my eyes to survey the ruins. Numerous wheels of all kinds and sizes lay about me, interspersed with wires and rubber banding and shattered bits of steel from the framework of the robot. I picked up each piece carefully, one by one, philosophising thus:
"A critic is the world's most useless mechanism."
Then with great satisfaction I flung the remains below on to a sandy beach. The waves seethed and snorted and spat viciously upon them; then with greedy arms reached out and drew them into the ocean's bottomless coffers, to belch them forth again on to some other sand and some other beach.
Seeing this, I uttered a wild cry and threw myself on the earth, digging up the ground furiously until I had made a soft cool mound to lay my head upon. The dank pungent odor sank into my consciousness along with the startling streakedness of a red and green sunset, so that I trembled and cried out. For I, too, am of the sun and the soil.
All night I lay there, singing a dirge to the white bones of classifiers bleaching in the wilderness. But when dawning came, I jumped up and called,
"Arise, my young friends I Arise I For the day of classification is past, and the morning of creation is come again I"
Far away I heard the sound of laughter, abandoned and free. And I saw through dawn's fast scattering haze Isadora Duncan's American women come skipping upon the mountains.
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To Sara Teasdale
BY CORA BUTTERFIELD DECKER
Now you are dead and over you
The sea' s salt tears have swept, And through her n ightly soughing I have heard your voice and wept.
For every sea breeze whispers Your echoing words, and I Know while the sea is living, For me, you cannot die.
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The Last of the Lings
BY FLORENCE LOWE
DIRT, everywhere dirt. The whole river seemed a squalid plain of filth. Boat after boat was being rushed down by whirling waters, aided by the wild and frantic rowing of men, women, and even children. The shrieks and curses of men filled the already crowded air as boats knocked against boats, clouds crashed against clouds, and life struggled against death. /
The little boat of Ling was making its perilous way in the dangerous current. Grandfather Ling, Ling, and Littl! Ling were all at the oar. Grandfather, as stooped as a bow, was breathing heavily and his withered frame trembled under the strain. Ling, in the prime of life, worked at the heavy oar with long, even strokes. His skin already dark by nature was even. more so from the long h,ours of work in the hot sun. Froil) deep in his throat came some of those infinite curses and grunts in which his race was so skilled. Little Ling chimed in with his immature voice, his tiny arms trying their best to reach as far as the long ones of his father.
As the day wore on and the floods drew nearer, Little Ling disappeared into the small room, raised over night on the little fishing sampan, as temporary shelter for the young moth~r. Soon, he reappeared, his hands filled with bowls containing the day's meal, a meagre quantity of rice, dark and coarse. His mother, coming out behind him, took the oar and with the feeble help of her son pushed the boat forward. Grandfather and Ling sat apart gulping down the dry rice, and then resumed the continual rowing.
The day wearily passed and the sky darkened. Mai Ling sat, huddled in the bow and looked up into the troubled clouds. Up there, oh so, faint, was the pale crescent of the new moon, which had at one time meant a new life to her.
Only seven years ago she had danced under the spell of that moon. It had been the fourth new moon of that year, [ 15 J
Iand the weeks before had been full of preparation. She had slaved endlessly and tirelessly over the beautiful garment she had worn that night. Exquisite patterns had been embroidered with unaccustomed care. She had not toiled alone, for on that night other young girls were to dance with her onJhe smooth banks of the river: Seated high on her throne, the goddess of the moon had watched their graceful bodies that swayed to and fro lightly as reeds in a gentle breeze. She too had noticed the but lately finished dresses and so decided on their fate.
Mai had been faithful in her worship to the goddess, placing before her image some token of respect every evening. The goddess was well pleased and had been kind to her. She had chosen for her the handsome, strong youth of the Ling tribe, a proud husband. Could it have been only seven years since she had been that slip of a girl who had received her gift with such happiness?
Gazing down at her hands, she saw only the signs of continual drudgery that were rapidly effacing their transparent smoothness. At the sight of her child she felt again the mortal pain that had accompanied this, her only son; and felt in her spirit the years he had stolen from her. No longer was she the beautiful daughter of the moon, nor was her body sheathed in the pretty clothes she had so dearly loved. In their stead hung rags that flapped loosely around her feet. Feet, which were no longer encased in dainty, embroidered, silk shoes. The bindings now were months old and she had begun to feel the decay of her whole form seep up from the decay of those two tiny feet.
Her mother had been cruel and harsh in those days and weeks of suffering. She had seemed to take great delight in seeing the pain of her own youth pictured in the face of her child. If Mai should ever be cursed with a girl she would make her realize the terrible agony. She would like to see her own daughter dancing for the goddess ·of the Moon in some far off night. But Ling thought girls very useless and yet at one time he had loved her. Perhaps it had all been a pretense just so he might have sons to carry down the ages the name of his ancestors. It was so important that he
16]
have a son because he was the only son of his father whose worthless wife had offered him nine daughters. The new moon was slowly being hidden behind the black clouds as the hardships of life had erased from her all joy of living.
At the further end of the sampan stood Ling, now alone at his work. Grandfather had long before gone within to engage the night with his opium pipe. Ling, too, had noticed the thin moon but his thoughts turned to the approach of rains, followed by destruction and poverty.
He remembered the days when he had been young and rich, the happy hours he had spent on these same waters with his friends. They had been very proud of their long swift, narrow boat, so different from this slow, dirty barge that he was now dejectedly urging down the river. That supple boat had won for him the place of Prince in the Dragon Boat Festival. He had carried his head high then but now it was heavy and sagged on his shoulders. The time for choosing a wife had come all too quickly. He had longed for a fine son, but with the granting of his desire had come poverty and disgrace.
As.the years had passed, so passed his favor with the gods. They had been beaten and driven from their wealthy home by heartless revolutionists. Compelled to live in a little mud hut, Ling could no longer use his splendid physique for pleasure. He was tied to his rickshaw, forever pulling those more fortunate than he.
The foreign people had come and disturbed his sound ancient beliefs. They told of strange events caused by one great power who could never be seen nor had he any likeness in clay on earth. When Ling had had the smallpox one of the foreign devils had taken him away from his family and fed him some queer medicine to cure him. He was terrified and cried out for his witch doctor but the foreigners were firm. His face was disfigured by the sickness, and his body was covered with the scars of the doctor's curses, but he had life.
The angry wind whipped Ling's queue around into his face and startled him f,rom his dreams. He snatched the oar, forgotten for a moment, and resumed with redoubled [ 17]
efforts his rowing. Secretly, he wished that he could cut off his hair as the strangers did, and so muse in peace.
Mai Ling woke with a jolt, stiff and cold from the damp air, and dragged the sleeping boy within. The narrow , room was reeking with smoke, and the odors of the stove and human bodies intermingled .and spread. Rats scurried across the floor in fruitless search for some little morsel of food. The cock-roaches scurried up and down the walls in a steady stream of discontent. The Little Ling began to cry in piteous whimpers scarcely audible in the wailing of the wind. Mai Ling filled her own mouth with stale bread, , chewed it up and stuffed full the hungry mouth of the child. Satisfied and exhausted he fell asleep again and the boat lurched on.
The dawn of a new day came, bringing on hope to the Lings. Through the mist Ling could distinguish the shadowy forms hurrying along the shores. Those people, even less fortunate than he, were bent beneath the weight of their burdens. One after another the shadows stumbled and fell, too weak to defy the will of the gods any loµger. Their starved bodies lay disregarded on the river edge.
Mai Ling joined her husband in the stern, the fear of the fates stamped deeply on her face. The horror of their oncoming doom pressed them closer and yet closer together. Grandfather Ling poled with fingers numbed through the reeking fumes of the opium. In his mind there slowly raced but one single aim, to urge the sampan to a greater speed. As he sweated and swore, the mighty power behind increased and grandfather's whole frame trembled in dread of that relentless monster. His frightened eyes resting for a minute on his grandson sitting quite content in the thatchway, grew fierce with determination.
His renewed efforts were flung as last retorts to the gods that had failed him, and his son, and his son's son. The little boat swerved under the swing of the oar, but was helpless as a wisp of straw in the approaching waters. With a mighty roar the full flood of the muddy river was upon them, over them. The gods were unrelenting. The last of the proud Lings had perished beneath the seething waves.
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Barter
(PETRARCHAN SONNET)
BY MARGARET BULL
I found the shelf on which the gods display Golden images for barter/ read
The legend on the wall above my head, "Take what you're strong enough to bear away, Strength is the measure and the price you pay."
The tall, disdain:ful gods stood by and fed Tfi,e wonder in my mind by its array.
Precarious now upon the step I stood, Teeth set, and breath indrawn, balancing A dear-brought, shining burden in my hand, Heavier than I had guessed a golden thing
Could be. The cool eyes of the gods I feel Watching, calculating at my heel. ,
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Tell Me, God
(SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET)
BY MARGARET BULL
How will you judge us, God, by the will
Or by the act? by the foot that slipped
Where rocky grew the path that climbed the hill,
Or by the vision, sharp and bright, that whipped
The lagging body on? What will you call
A broken arc, convex or concave?
Which did you hear: the bitter, acid fall
Of words that ate black holes deep in the brave, White fabric of a friendly heart; or the cry
Of pity at another's hurt? How weigh
The madness born beneath a moon-swept sky
Against a whispered prayer I learned to pray I
One clear, immaculate dawn? Can you divide
Green from the sea, or water from the tide?
An Evening With My Great Grandfather's Books
BY MARGARET BULL
UNTIL a few years ago the old walnut book case that held my great grandfather's books was considered of little importance in our household. My mother always said it contained her grandfather's books of sermons, Greek Bibles, etc. Perhaps she thought that was all, for she had cherished them not from any particular interest in the books themselves but as a family treasure. Thus it was that the books remained in the closet under the stairs along with the preserves and pickles and magazines being saved for the Salvation Army. It was with evident surprise that my mother noticed my browsing among the dusty old volumes. But when she was convinced of my affection for them she resignedly gave over her charge to me. Now I am the proud owner of the scanty remainder of my great grandfather's library. I am glad it was books that interested my grandfather. There are s9 many other hobbies he could have had. But since my own interests center about books it was very gratifying to discover that one of my ancestors was of like trend.
There has always been something about the musty odor of books that has appealed to me. Perhaps that is why I have always preferred buying them at a second hand store. There is something more human about a book with scrawled comments, that has been lived with and has acquired the personality that comes from age and experience. New books have a shiney surface that must be rubbed off by constant turning of their leaves, making notations, by being thought over and lived with. There is a second hand book ~hop in Richmond which (fortunately for me) is situated Just around the corner from the family dentist. I was per~aps ten years old when I made this discovery. From that time I began saving my money so that after my annual ordeal at the dentist's I comforted myself with a trip around !he corner. There I roamed about looking at all the books in the room, while the owner sat with his feet comfortably propped on the rim of his round bodied stove.
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When I visited the shop several days ago I found, to my surprise, a complete set of Mavor's Tourist of which I had the delapidated sixth volume. Having long been curious as to the value of the book I inquired the price. "I'm letting those go for fifteen cents apiece," said the shop keeper; "they aren't worth any more because they are not interesting to anybody except as a comparison with the present day guide book of England and the British Isles."
Indeed I I indignantly thought. My one volume of Mavor's Tourist I have found as interesting as any book on travel or for that matter as fascinating as many novels. This "mere guide book" is filled with delightful little personal details. In describing the section about Fleet Street Market and Prison which were founded at the time of Richard I., the author makes this remark:
''In walking along the street, says Mr. Pennant, in my youth, on the next side to this prison I have often been tempted by the question, 'Sir, will you be pleased to walk in and be married?' Along this most lawless space was hung up the frequent sign of a male and female hand conjoined with, 'Marriag~s performed within,' written beneath. A dirty fellow invited you in. The parson was seen walking about his shop, a squalid profligate figure clad in a tattered pfaid night gown, with a fiery face, and ready to couple you for a dram of gin, or a roll of tobacco. Our great chancellor, Lord Hardwick put these demons to flight and saved thousands from th,e misery and disgrace which would be entailed by these extemporary thoughtless unions."
This passage did not impress me as being in the mood of a modern guide book nor did the passages which follow. Speaking of the district about Apothecaries' Hall in London he says: "Within this district was the king's printing house in which Bibles, common prayers, proclamations and everything respecting the public was heretofore printed. Here in the time of Charles I was made that dreadful omission, in the Seventh Commandment of, 'Thou shalt commit adultery;' for which archbishop Laud very properly laid a heavy fine on the King's printer, to whom and the two universities the printing of the sacred book is committed
by patent." In Ludgate Street lies the famous old inn "Bell Savage." "The Bell Savage" in this street, continues an inn to this day; but this sign is not. Stow says that it received its name from one Isabella Savage who had given the house to the company of Cutlers. The painter gave it a very diverting origin, deriving it from a Bell and a Wild man; so painted a bell, with a savage man standing by it. "The Spectator" alone gives the real derivation; which is from La Belle Sauvage, a beautiful woman, described in an old French romance as being found in a wilderness in a savage state."
Another book of my great grandfather's collection for which I have a great deal of affection is' a volume of Pope containing the "Essay on Man" and likewise a full length , portrait of the author. Beneath this portrait is a statement to the effect that it is the only full length picture ever drawn of Mr. Pope because he was extremely sensitive in regard to his somewhat deformed stature. Were Pope able to see the distorted features of the picture in the front of my book he would indeed object. For some youthful and aspiring artist of my family has remodeled his nose to resemble very strongly the snout of a pig and his legs to appear in a position which would be possible only after three days in a saddle. Nevertheless I like my Pope and only regret that the volume containing the "Rape of the Lock" is missing. The two volumes I have of Pope's works along with several odd copies of his translation of the Iliad are all that remain from what was probably a complete collection.
Going thru the shelves and picking out books at random I discover that I have made a great jump from the didactic verse of Pope for I have found a little book entitled Advice to Christian Parents. On the subject of education of children the author states that the instruction of each of his children began when he was five years old. One day was allowed for the learning of the alphabet and in the second day of instruction he spelled out the first verse of Genesis. And so he progressed until he had read the Bible. But the idea of education outside one's own home was particularly unbearable to the author, for he exhorts all weak parents
[ 23] /
thus: "Methodist parents who would send your girls headlong to Hell, send them to a fashionable boarding school."
"The morals of thousands have been ruined at our common schools but more in proportion to their numbers at boarding schools and colleges. To pass the time required to gain a classical education within the walls of a college (generally the resort of wealthy dissipation) uncontami~ nated would be almost a miracle."
"Carefully and promptly exclude everthing of a light or unprofitable character from your children's presence.Next to the religion of the Bible, knowledge of history both civil and ecclesiastical will be most important."
Nor was the education of the author's children neglected in regard to manners. For he says that they were never permitted to call each other by their proper names without the addition of brother or sister.
I was not at all surprised to find among the small collection a copy of John Herseys' Signs of the Times in which he insists upon self-examination. In this respect he agrees with John Mason who wrote in Self Knowledge that a desire for knowledge was natural to all minds and of all kinds of knowledge that of self was particularly important. In the Signs -of the Times, published in 1831, is an active argument and declaration against slavery. "Surely in no heathen land on earth are there blacker signs of iniquity to be seen; and yet our political creed is-'Liberty, Equality, Justice, Honor-There is no King-no Tyrant here-no oppression is found in all our peaceful happy borders'."
'However I was rather startled when I found Fables Amusantes de · Perrin. But as I pondered over this strange occurrence I wondered if perhaps my ancester did not realize that fables with moral lessons might be more effective than some of the lengthy sermons of the day. For my own part I am sure I should derive much more moral benefit from a fable of one-half page length than from a sermon one hundred and forty-three pages long. And this I found to be quite common in his numerous books of sermons by well-known preachers of the day.
[ 24]
On the shelves of my great grandfather's book case there was but one novel-The Vicar of Wakefield. Naturally that was the first of his books I read. However it would probably have lain in the case several years longer had I not remembered how my much admired Jo in Little Women carried the Vicar around in her pocket and snatched every opportunity to read it. Perhaps my grandfather thought novels were not suitable reading matter for his children, especially his daughters. No doubt he had diligently perused the essay "On Novels" published in the Female Mentor of 1802. This book gives the general attitude of the day concerning light reading matter.
"Shoulq. we even allow that the generality of novels are written without the least indelicacy, yet as their only subject is love, why should we wish to lead the mind to that disposition which nature is sufficiently ready to supply without art!"
"A very sensible woman of my acquaintance once honestly confessed to me that of all the books she had ever read the novel of Si'r Charles Grandison had done her the most harm. On expressing my surprise that a publication which set virtue in so aimable a light, should have been productive of harm to a delicate mind, as I knew her's to be; she replied, that she had perused it before she came into l i fe and that when she was introduced into the world, she expected to have found in some lover a character similar to that of Richardson's hero that for some time she had been in a state of continual disappointment and mortification, which prevented her from accepting several offers that would otherwise have appeared highly advantageous and proper. These romantic notions did not leave her till it was too late :-'and I have now,' she added, 'the felicity of being an old maid'."
Going thru the last shelf of books I suddenly came upon one which attracted my attention by its small size. Picking it up I read the title, Mammon. The theme of this treatise was as one would expect: "Man cannot serve both God and :Mammon." This theme reminded me of the essay I had read short ,ly before this. It was written by Richard Du Bury, a [ 25 J
14th century English writer and churchman. For he says "Man cannot love both Books and Mammon." To illustrate his statement he quotes:
"No iron tainted hand is fit to handle books Nor he whose heart on gold so gladly looks The same men love not books and money both And books ,thy herd, oh Epicurus, loath; Misers and bookmen make poor company Nor dwell in peace beneath the same roof tree."
He talks on in his own words about the love of books . which is, he says, synonomous with the love of wisdom. "Books delight us when prosperity smiles upon us, they comfort us inseparably when strong fortune frowns on us. They lend validity to human compacts and no serious judgments are propounded without their help."~
With a sigh I closed the book case for there were many other books I should have liked to read. But I have this comfort-I have a place to which I can retire and browse over these old musty volumes when "strong fortune frowns" on me or when "prosperity smiles" on me.
--World's Greatest Essays, p. 126.
A Child's Thought
BY THERESA CARTER
The blue has come, And once again the sun, Why has it stayed away so long, My mother tells me it is wrong
To sulk and pout,. But then I doubt If there is anyone To tell the sun.
A Question Never Asked
BY THERESA CARTER
ll7 hat do you mean, to mock me as you do? I have not wished you ill, Or wandered through your gardens Late at night, And crushed the fl.owers you love.
That may be true of someone else; With me, I know not why, I am content to dream of them, Not to lament That ihey will Ne' er be mine. [ 27]
Reason
BY THERESA CARTER
It is enough for me
To know that skies q,re grey, That I should catch the raining When it comes, Because I learned this thing From you one day: That toys are best inside And put away, Better than to rush, And grab them up, The damage done.
Ad Infinitum
BY MARY PATTERSON EARLY
p ATRICIA SCOTT RANDOLPH stood before the window, her aristocratic little nose mashed flat against it. She was watching the Jones children, who lived across the street, jump rope on the sidewalk. They were having such a wonderful time, Patricia thought. She cast a glance towards her mother in the next room. Did she dare ask to go and play with them? It wouldn't do any good, she was sure, but anyway, maybe this time-
"Mother, may I, I mean if you don,'t mind, may I go out on the sidewalk and play for a while?"
"No, my dear, I am sorry, but you know perfectly well that you must be very careful with whom you associate. Never forget that you are a Randolph." * * * * *
It was Patricia's wedding day. The rain outside beat incessantly on the roof above her head. As she stood there in t4e big, old-fashioned bedroom, her mother pinning on the wedding dress, it seemed to Patricia that the dress itself was affected by the dampness. It was lifeless; she was lifeless; everything was lifeless. What difference did anything make now? Of course, her mother was sure that she would be happy. Ever since she had become engaged to Carter Rutherford, her mother had been saying, "Yes, we are all so pleased-the Rutherfords are such lovely people."
Oh, she hated Lovely people, ancestry, family trees, coats of arms, and first families of Virginia.
She remembered the day the first "young gentleman" had come to "call." His grandfather had been on General Lee's staff. Her mother had considered him a charming young man, but she had loathed him. Then there had been another, whose great-great-grandfather had been one of the early governors of Virginia. And now Carter Rutherford, whom she didn't particularly like and didn't particularly dislike. One of his ancestors had signed the Declaration of Independence. To Patricia he was just a handsome man whom her mother had beamed upon-who told
her he loved her without enthusiasm. Carter had always been too reserved to get very sentimental.
Oh, she knew she was going ~o be unhappy. Her mother, putting the last touches on ti?-edress, seemed to be saying something about "lovely people." Patricia did not hear her. She was wondering if John would come to the wedding.
Patricia thought of the first time she had seen John-a little twelve-year-old boy bringing the evening paper and asking her if she liked cherries. Patricia had said yes, and John had brought her a big basket of them. She remembered how her mother had asked, "Who is he, my dear?" and she had answered, "His name's John Taylor," only to be asked again, "I know, but who is he?"
She remembered how, as she grew older, she had met John on the street, the happy, happy times they had had -together, and, the secret dread that some day her mother would find out that she was in love with a boy who had no ancestral distinctions.
Her mother had found out. The thought of that day made Patricia shudder. She wanted to forget it; she must forget everything about John.
Patricia came to a realization of actuality. Her mother was saying, "My dear, there you are, all ready, and you do look so lovely-I know Carter couldn't want a more distinguished and aristocratic bride. Hurry now, my dear."
"Yes, Mother, I'm coming."
* * * * *
Patricia Randolph Rutherford stood before the window, her aristocratic little nose mashed flat against it. She was watching the Smith children, who lived across the way, play ball on the sidewalks. They were having such a wonderful time, Patricia thought. She cast a glance towards her mother in the next room. Did she dare ask to go out and play with them? It wouldn't do any good, she was sure, but anyway, maybe this time-
"Mother, may I, I mean if you don't mind, may I go out on the sidewalk and play for a little while?"
"No, my dear, I am sorry, but you know perfectly well that you must be very careful with whom you associate. Never forget that you are a Rutherford."
[ 29] .
Recognition
BY LOUISE DINWIDDIE
"Nobody cares/' stormed Anthony Dee, "If it's four o'clock, and there isn't tea, Nobody cares because it's me! Nurse forgot and left me here ... 'I'll be back soon, that's a dear' Nobody knows that I'm here at all, Everyone says, 'You're much too small, Drink lots of milk, you'll soon grow tall! Then they smile and pat my head, And say 'That's a lamb, run off to bed' .. . Won't they ever say to me, 'How do you do, Mr. Anthony De e ?'"
These Acres
BY FRANCES FROST
ASINGER, whose voice proclaims her spiritual kinship to another of the same name, has emerged to the enrichment of American poetry. With the publication of These Acres following recognition by various magazines, which from time to time have included in their issues several individual poems to be republished later, Frances Frost offers her simple volume of simple verses. In separate creations and in sequences she is revealed rather the heir of New England's Robert Frost.
In the title poem she presages her reality of an elemental world. ,The field, the plough, seed, mountains, and sea assume a second role with deeper meaning:
"To say with harvests what cannot be said ... " Later in Requiem, earth's quality of immortality is one with woman's:
"within me, like a child, this mountain lies ... "
With changing moods she sings with "Throat of Rock." A certain austerity marks her bravado:
"Press down the stone! I shall not die of it ... "
In the "Testament of Truth" she sings of loneliness:
"nor wept that identity Grew lonelier the more you ached for me."
With the irony that replaces consummation she dedicates "To Losers":
"The heart-that wild dark bird Of hate-thinking it heard What was not spoken Leaving the climbing emptiness of air And falling
To the voice that was not calling To the breast that was not there."
[ 31 J
IHer imagery has both felicity and finality of phrase; "Approach" is marked by a delicacy and deftness, rare even in the mature poet.
"Let her no less delicately come Let her come no less breathlessly than these." ·
In the too clever "Poet" she has missed this utterly: "And in each mortal, delicate even, He paused and for an hour only Sang of beauty, being lonely."
"Lost Road" has a simple sentimental touch:
"A road is a message many men wrote down In dust of love that listened for a sound Of footsteps coming home."
But soon she returns with a sure gesture, and her own fine phrase. For this is certain and is her best and real creation-rarified, subtle, and yet really simple.
LOUISE LEATHERLAND.
Cathedral
BY LOUISE DINWIDDIE
Fragment of towering masonry 1
Chiselled stone of heightened grace/ Great edifice of life and art 1 Gray fabric of enveloped space.
