THE MESSENGER
Subscription Price $1.50 Per Annum Entered at the Post Office at University of Richmond, Va., as second-class matter.
Richmond College Department
A. B. CLARKE, '23_____________________________________Editor-in-Chief
W. G. KEITH, '23 ------------------------------------Assistant Editor 0. L. HITE, '22 _____________________________________Business Manager
G. S. MITCHELL, '23 _____________________Assistant Business Manager
M. W. McCALL, '24 __________________________________Exchange Editor
Mu Sigma Rho
R. E. GARST B. U. DAVENPORT
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Philologian W. G. KEITH C. W. NEWTON C. G. CARTER
Westhampton College
THELMA HILL_ ______________________________________ Editor-in-Chief
PEGGY BUTERFIELD _______________________________ Assistant Editor
PEGGY BUTERFIELD _____________________________Exchange Editor
ELMIRA RUFFIN __________________________________Business Manager
MARY PEPLE ___________________________Assistant Business Manager
THE MESSENGER (founded 1878; named for the Southern Literary Messenger) is published on the 15th of each month from October to May, inclusive, by the PHILOLOGIAN and MU SIGMA RHO Literary Societies, in conjuntion with the students of Westhampton College. Its aim is to foster literary composition in the college, and contributions are solicited from all students, whether society members or not. A JOINT WRITER'S MEDAL, valued at twenty-five dollars, will be given by the two societies to the writer of the best article appearing in THE MESSENGER during the year. All contributions should be handed to the department editors or the Editor-in-Chief by the 1st of the month preceding. Business communications and subscriptions should be directed to the Business Manager and Assistant Business Manager, respectively.
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~o ~be 31ctu~
B. u. DAVENPORT, '22.
0 ! Ancient, sacred tribe of Israel, So old when weakened Rome was humbled by Barbaric Vandal hordes; when Trojc!,n walls Stood blackened, gauntly desolate; old when The costly, splendid feasts of Babylon Were rudely broken by Persian soldiery; 0 ! Venerable race who heard the blast That crumbled Jerico's wall; who saw the arms Of Pharoah swallowed in the Red Sea's maw;Where is thy glory now?
Hunted down
By men and nations; hanged and left as food For circling Spanish buzzards; broke upon The roasting wheels of France; exiled by Czars To freeze in bleak Siberia; disdained And spurned in every land, 0 ! ye have known The pariah's utter loneliness; have borne The insolence of the passing periods . In silence till the heaped-up load is more Than flesh can stand-but ye are only Jews ! And yet, the bitter centuries have not Broken thy stubborn will, have but increased Thy flaming pride of race. Thy synagogues Are raised in every city of the world; And thou art known to every race of man. 0 ! People, sobered by the years on years Of persecution and intolerance It is strange, strange that from the melancholy Mourn£ ul tragedy of thy race there should Arise the paragon of genius. Thy somber haunting mel9dies enchant
The world; thy literature, majestic, simple, Is written down in every language, there To tell us of the humble Nazarene.
Mighty commonwealth without a country, Bound by ties that have withstood the assaults Of men throughout the creeping centuries; Nomadic clan, scattered like the seed Of thistle by the swirling winds of chance, Borne on fickle currents to the shores Of distant continents; plodding, shining, Toiling patiently wherever thou art, Saving with inherent industry, Staunchly loyal to thy foster home Yet dreaming so pathetically of A land to call thine own-thou hast taught us how A scattered race can still be grandly great.
;Bab,Slamt3Jt~11,.marcu~
GLADYS SHA w, '22.
Pap Upchurch's grey mule, Jenny, stood tethered to a .tall sycamore in front of the hill-top store. From time to time she switched her tail languidly and pawed the ground meditatively. Jenny was deep in reverie. She felt the beauty of the October morning. Below her the river flowed, a stream of liquid sunshine that showered a cascade of glittering gems over granite boulders. The world about her was ablaze with color. The flaming reds of the sweet-gums, and the deep saffron yellow of the maples, mingled with the dark rich green of the longleaf pines. Her nostrils tingled with the sweet, clean, pungent pine-smell. The splash and roar of the river, the morning songs of the birds, and the exuberant chirp of the crickets filled her ears. Jenny looked off through the golden haze to the purple mountains in the distance, whence flower the golden river and dreamed her dreams.
Jenny was a hill-country mule, born and bred in the foot-hills of North Carolina. She knew her country and its people. As she gazed she pondered the meaning of the trouble last night. Why had the dogs howled so dismally? What was the meaning of the shots? Who was it that went ridnig by the stable swearing so loudly and angrily?
Clop-clop, clop-clop! A horse was galloping over the rocks. Jenny's drooping ears jerked erect. She sniffed the air. A rider crashed through the woods and reined up at the store.
"Hi, thar, Pap!" he called in a stentorian voice. Pap Upchurch shambled out of the store and answered him.
"W oal, Billy Brady, you-uns looks as black as the devil hisself this morning."
Billy Brady, a black-haired, black-bearded giant, shook himself like a great dog and rumbled out: "I jes' passed that damn' goat's house, an' that fool hedge o' red war worsn' a red flag to a bull. I'll get that blame moccasin fer last night er my name ain't Bill Brady!"
"W oal, now Bill, don't do nothing hasty-like. I thought now that thar hedge o' sky arlit sage was right smart pretty. What I cyarn' understan' is why that fool young-ien, Marcus, should take such stock in it."
"Shut up, Pap, an' gimme a can o' beans. He's a plumb-coward an' good fer-nothin'."
"Mebbe he hain't so bad, Bill. He's young yit. Mebbe he'll git shet o' his cowardly ways." Pap, a patriarch with flowing white hair and long beard, stained saffron from gallons of tobacco juice, suspended judgment.
Bill took his beans and rode away. Pap sat down on a stump and fixed his eyes on a root a few feet away. He chewed his tobacco ruminatively and spat carefully at the root. Jenny stood by her sycamore. The meditative look came back to her eyes. She was thinknig of Marcus Kidd. Jenny was an old inhabitant. She had known Marcus since he was a baby and had known his father before him. Jenny knew, as did everybody else, that old man Kidd, the "goat," despised Marcus. She liked him. He talked to her, patted her neck, and fed her apples.
Pap turned his head and looked at Jenny. "He shore air quair, Jen. Jes' yesterday I seen him an' his yaller dawg, Sassafras, down by the river bank. Marcus, he lay flat on the groun' with his hands under his head an' stared up at the sky. The dawg lay by him, with his head
laid forward on his fore-paws. I declar, I b'lieve that dawg is the only thing that cares two straws about the boy. They say Marcus found him in a ditch with one leg broke, his hide all scratched an' tore up, an' his hyar matted with sheep burrs. He shore ain't purty, none to look at, with his red eyes an' yaller hyar, but I reckon it would plumb kill Marcus ef'n anything was to happen to him. It's quair how everybody hates 'em both, the old man an' Marcus. An' they hate each other."
Pap chewed silently for some minutes. Then he slowly unfolded himself from his seat on the stump, stretched himself, and yawned.
"Marcus hadn't use' to be such a .bad young-un. His pap beat him ef'n he crooked his little finger. Then when he cried, he cussed him and called him a dirty little coward." "Woa1, I reckon thar'll be some fun when that hulkin' Bill Brady runs into Marcus." The old man broke a black-gum twig, made a tooth-brush, and working the twig with his tongue, from one corner of his mouth to the other, he shambled, slowly, back to his job behind the counter.
The hours passed. People came and went away. Some carried small packages, some large. Each ·one heard that Bill Brady was looking for Marcus Kidd, and when he should find him-
As the shadows lengthened into afternoon, a crowd began to gather at the store on the hill. Pap was kept busy handing out parcels and answering questions. Out in front, lolling on the steps and leaning against the trees, the crowd of bare-footed, bare-headed men with roughbearded faces, was boisterous. Conversation turned mostly about a goat and a snake. Someone wondered
when the snake would "get his." Grady Brewer was of the opinion that "mebbe the snake would show its fangs."
"You all mean it'll show its white liver." A boister'ous laugh burst from the crowd, a laugh that died as suddenly as it was born. Coming up the mill-road was a youth. A small, fawny dog trotted at his heels. The boy was tall and broad-shouldered. His hair waved back from his forehead, crisp and brown; his features were almost refined, but his eyes were the eyes of a wild hare.
"Hyar comes the moccasin," sang out a voice .
"Y ou-uns hain't beat up nobody lately is you?" querried a taunting young Hercules.
"Right pea.rt lookin' dowg you-all got thar, Moccasin. Plumb purty, too, that Sassafras."
A hunted look crept into Marcus' timid eyes. His face paled as he passed by them into the store. Sassafras growled and bored his yellow teeth omniously.
"I declar, I b'lieve the critter knows he is a coward!"
"Shore, hain't his pap told him so every hour since he was a young-un? Wonder what he's buyin'. Some fool seeds, I reckon. Him an' that red hedge o' ris'n !"
"Hyar comes the goat . Lookin' for his snake, mebbe."
A gray-bearded, granite-faced man strode up. As he put one foot on the steps, Marcus came out of the door, meeting him face to face.
"Dad blame it all, Marcus, what be you all <loin' hyar. You're the laziest durn' fool in these hyar hills. You and that blame cur of your'n are the worst there is!"
"You-uns jes' listen. The goat's bleatin' at the snake." Grady Brewer thought himself a great humorist.
"Dad blame it all, Marcus! Hain't you gain' to knock him down? Dad blame you, you coward!" The old man's fist was raised menacingly. Marcus backed;
a low silibant sound came from his blue lips. His angry father lunged towards him. As he raised his arm to strike, an exultant cry thrilled the crowd to a tense silence. "I've got you now, you and yer cur. I'm goin' ter make you-all pay fer last night's work. No dowg can kill Bill Brady's pet rabbits and live!"
Infuriated , he seized a heavy stick that lay on the ground and dashed up the steps. Marcus's face grew livid. The dog crouched low, and snarled at the man with the stick.
Stung to madness, he struck at the dog. Marcus made a forward movement. Bill Brady's knotted fist crashed into his white face, knocking him backwards over the railing. He fell head first onto the ground, and lay there stunned. With a low growl, the dog leaped after his master. Whining piteously, he licked his white face and nuzzled his cold nose into the boy's hand. Awed into silence, the crowd stood rooted to the spot. A few seconds passed thus. Then Marcus opened his eyes. Bill Brady, stepping slowly and deliberately down the steps, approached his prostrate victim. Swift as lightning, the boy leaped to his feet and sprang back cowering. His tormentor laughed. "That's right. Run, you coward!"
Hoarse from conflicting emotions, the boy's father was intoning. "Dad blame it all, Marcus! Dad blame it all, Marcus, you coward!"
Brady raised his heavy stick. He swung it in a wide circle over his head. It fell with a sickening thud. A heart-breaking yelp followed the thud. Marcus writhed in an agony of distress and terror. He started forward, to sink back and wring his hands. The stick was swung again. The boy's face grew stony; his eyes glazed. . He stood there as if carved from stone. Again and again
TiIE MESSENGER
the club swung back-and feel. The tawny body quivered and lay still.
Bill Brady leaned on his stick, surveyed his handiwork and laughed.
"Thar, now. I reckon that will learn you-all not to fool with Bill Brady, you coward!"
He turned to the crowd. The spell was broken. The tension relaxed and the men breathed once more. Some one spoke, but his words died cin his tongue. Marcus stood motionless and apparently lifeless while the old man shrilled at him, "Dad blame it all, Marcus! Dad blame it all, Marcus, you blame coward!"
* * * * * * *
As the sun was setting behind the purple mountains, Pap and Jenny went slowly homeward. At a turn in the road, Jenny halted. Before her the river flowed, a river of molten gold, winding away into the golden sunset. A dark figure stood, a silhonette against the glowing west. It stretched out its arms. A small, tawny body flashed out over the river, caught for a moment the golden light and sank, golden into the stream.
The gold light paled. A faint rose tinged the distant summits of the purple mountains. Dark and motionless, the figure gazed into the dusky distance, then sank heartbroken to the earth. A little wind sprang up and moaned through the pine-tops.
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R. E. GARST) '22.
For one hour, or two, or three, your soul is in the grasp of what I contain within me. I can make you laugh; I can make you cry. I can horrify you with the terrible; I can gladden you with the beautiful; I can amuse you with the laughable; I can sadden you with the tragic. I can move you to compassion, or hatred, or love, for the characters which are drawn within me. I can wring your soul dry of the last drop of its human sympathy and kindness. I can appeal to your mind and to your heart with equal felicity, nor yet, is my mission accomplished. I can carry you with me through the whole gamut of human emotions until your mind is stunned by the portent for the thing which I express and your heart is burdened with the sorrows and infelicities of a wicked world. Yet look at me again and my face is smiling. You find, through me, that Nature is yet beautiful, and that human nature is good and true and steadfast still.
I am the short-story, yet in the name of art, my name has been taken in vain by many. I am the soul of art and to use me, men must have the souls of artists. To submit myself to the wills of men, I require much. They must know how to use me to bring the best in me forward for the sight of other men. Misuse me, and I become else, a ghost, a shadow, a distortion of what I really am. I cannot resist but I repay misuse by seeming that which I am not. I cannot be counterfeited and that which passes under my name without being myself, cannot endure, but meets the fate of all things which sail under false colors.
My life has been short and yet my history has been in the making for ages. I began with the first words
that man ever uttered in the form of a tale and shall endure until the last story has been told. Men have struggled toward me for centuries and achieved me only within the knowledge of the present generation. The ancients had me in mind when they chipped on stone the records of their valorous deeds; I was the goal when the Egyptians wrote on papyrus in strange characters the record of some epic hero. I was in the mind's eye of the bard when he sang his wild tales to the royal court in ancient Britain. My struggle to come into being has been long, indeed. Flashes of my soul appeared at times in many lands and in many tongues, yet they had me not in my entirety.
I am without nationality yet I was born an American. I am at the service of any who understands me and my needs, but I was first at the service of the artist who heard my plea for discovery. He was my master, he understood my very soul, and in me and through me he expressed some of the greatest of his art. He understood my needs and fulfilled them, yet he did not understand my capacity, the depths of life to which I could descend, the heights to which I could rise, nor the breadth of life which I could encompass within myself. He called upon me to express the terrible, the weird, the fantastic, the gruesome, and I expressed them. But that side of life was only an infinitely small part of that which I am capable. He expressed in me, and through my soul, what was in his soul and what he saw through his eyes and transformed in the thought processes of his mind. Perhaps he did not realize my infinite variety; for no one man could. It remained, therefore, for other men to seek me and realize my possibilities and to express in me their view of this infinite, varied thing that men call life. But to my first master I owe allegiance and I am rewarding him by standing as an eternal monument to his genius.
I have had few masters for few can comprehend and use me. I have served one whom I hold as my greatest master, for he, of all others, used me with infinite sympathy and a very great understanding. He was born with an understanding of me and me, alone; he used to convey to men that which he held within his soul and which clamored for utterance. Because of his trials and sufferings he had compassion on other unfortunate people and through me he expressed it. Yet nothing could submerge his indomitable, joyous spirit, and that humor radiates from my pages. Who has not read me when I took the form of "The Gifts of the Magi." It is humorous; you laugh. Yet in the midst of laughing, a catch comes to your throat and a tear drops upon my page. It is a sincere tribute to me and to my master. The pathos there expressed is heart-gripping and you feel the power of my master and the knowledge which he has attained by suffering of human kind.
The angles from which I look upon life are myriad; I am the windows of every home in the world. Through me men see life in the raw, they see life dressed up, they see the battlefield and the home, the rich and the poor, the powerful and the weak, the good, the wicked, those who have reached their goal and those who are still striving to reach it. And they see death, too, as well as life, for I depict everything, and that is very sad. But I must work the will of my master and fulfill the destiny for which I was brought into being.
I said that I could express everything. In my entirely I can do that but not in one story. And that leads me to speak of my needs. I can say very little concerning this for an artist must be born with an understanding of me. He cannot cultivate it, to bring out the best that is in me and for him I cannot be at my best. The
man who wishes to use me as the medium to convey his meaning to the world must choose that which he desires to convey and use m,e for that purpose and that only. He cannot crowd too much into me for in that direction lies failure. One impression is all that I can give at once and any deviation from that one effect means that I have been misused and the writer cannot truthfully call me a short-story. My length does not matter so much, although that, too, is of importance, but the singleness of impression is the element without which I cannot exist.
And, finally, I desire to make a plea for myself: I have been grossly abused by men whose souls are too shriveled, or whose desire for things other than true art is too great, to do me justice and to reap the reward which I hold out to men who can use me rightfully. I can express all, yet I am in your hands. I will work your will whether for good or evil if you can grasp the import of my destiny. Therefore, use me with sympathy and understanding. If you are a true artist, treat me with consideration, put your soul into me and I will project it into unborn generations, even into eternity and beyond.
-arttlla
JANE WATERS, '23.
To little sister and me, Marcella was just the best friend ever. No one else thought about Marcella at all except when the yard was hot and people wanted a shady place to sit, or when the lawn was aflame with scarlet autumn leaves. But we could tell her all our secrets, for she never told. And many a night she crooned us to sleep with her lullaby.
I was the one who named her, though Sis insisted upon sharing the glory. Marcella was such a splendid name, we thought. It just suited, for the owner of the name was so tall and straight and slender, so graceful and beautiful. Her voice was so liquid and silvery_,and during all the years of our friendship she was never cross nor impatient. Her last name was Maple, and she stood right outside our bed-room window, just as close to us as she could get, for she wanted to know everything we did.
In the springtime Marcella was like a bride in her lovely new green dress. She always awoke early out of her winter nap and great was our joy thereof. As April hurried into May and May into June, Marcella grew lovelier and lovelier. She seemed to be putting on more and still more petticoats, shaking them out and billowing them about in the sunshine. They were <larger green than her bridal gown, and in their soft folds little birds built their homes, singing for joy at finding such a place to live in.
Marcella, in the summer, was just the best sport in the world. She wanted to be playing with us or doing something for us all the time. In the morning she tapped
on the screen with her dewy green fingers, to tell us that mother was baking big, fluffy pancakes downstairs and that if we didn't hurry, all the little fairy tears on the grass and flowers would be wiped away by the sunbeams. Then, after breakfast, when we went out to play dolls, Marcella would call us over to sit at her feet. She wanted to help sing the babies to sleep and to hear all about mother's new hat, or last night's bed-time story. She kept the burning afternoon sun away from our window, or sheltered it from storms. At night, when mother had put out the light and gone downstairs, Marcella would clap her hands, laughing joyously, for this was our secret-telling time. We let her do most of the talking, however. She told us of fairies, of Santa Caius, of the ocean waves tossing; in fact, she told us about all sorts of marvelous things. I think it must have been Marcella who told me about the South and sent me down to school. But she always knew the minute we were sleepy. Then she would begin her sweet, rustling lullaby, weaving spells that made us dream happy dreams. I think she must have sung all night long, for if ever I awoke in the small, hushed hours, she would still be singing.
All summer it was like this until October came to scorch Marcella's dress. I think I loved her best of all when she stood like a great flame against the house, burning day and night. But not for long. Soon she would grow tired of her ruddy skirts and fling them down, like a shower of glowing sparks, for us to play and jump and deck ourselves in. Reluctantly, she would say good-night and sink into her long, well-earned sleep. Our hearts ached for her sometimes when her dear, bare arms shivered against the sunset, or when she sighed in her sleep and sometimes moaned, as though the cruel, cold wind was hurting her. We longed to repay some
of the kindnesses she had done us, but there was nothing we could do. How exquisite she was when the snow came to powder her sleeping form all over with its feathery whiteness! And how she gleamed and glistened when sparkling ice cry stalled her fair body! We hoped she was not cold.
Once we had promised Marcella that we would never leave her. But we had to break that promise, for father's business took him to another town. When we told Marcella about it, she said no word, not even a reproach. But for a week she neither laughed nor sang. She just stood there very still, striving to understand. It rained the night before we left and Marcella wept all night, dropping her tears upon the sill. But in the morning the sun was shining and Marcella was smiling bravely through her sparkling tears. "Come back! Come back!" she whispered as we kissed our hands to her, and from far down the road we could see her waving to us. There was no Marcella at the new home. There never could be another. We wondered if Marcella ever found any other little chums to love us as she had loved us.
As castles fall and dreamland fa des, Before our wakening eyes; And fondest hopes are brought so low They nevermore shall rise.
When heart's desire and life's intent, We strive not to attain; Ambition's urge has lost its force; All effort seems in vain.
And when the thing for which we sought, Proves just beyond our grasp; And as we' re sinking in the flood, There's not a straw to clasp.
Oh, for some pow'r to buoy us up, And comfort unsuccess ; Some friendly arm to hold us close, And rest our weariness.
@lb ~tt~bam
SIDNEY BEER, '23.
The jury had been in con£erence for some minutes. A young boy, a mountaineer, had been charged with murder. Behind a table sat old Gresham, the father of the boy. His eyes remained constantly upon the face of his son. In the chestnut-haired boy was personified the memory of a beautiful woman, his wife, now long since dead.
Old Gresham knew as well as the boy himself that his son was guilty, but that altered the situation very little. Upon the boy before him he had bestowed the love that was a heritage of his short marriage. One dead man, more or less, was little beside the memory of his wife.
His eyes wandered about the court room until they rested on Marshall, the district attorney. The old man's eyes hardened. He realize in his own vague knowledge of the trial, that this man had been the accuser of his son. He told himself that if they hung the boy his blood would be avenged upon this man. Marshall was himself a middle-aged man. He probably knew what a son meant to an old man. Gresham reflected that during the trial Marshall had spoken spitefully as if he were heart and soul behind every cruel word that came from his lips. If anything happened . . . he must pay.
The jury re-entered and Old Gresham half rose from his seat, his watery grey eyes peering anxiously upon the head juror. When the sentence was pronounced he collapsed in his chair.
Four weeks later Old Gresham left for the city, an old revolver under his left armpit. It was the day after
his son had been hanged. In the wandering memory of Old Gresham, one face remained distinct: the penetrating face of Marshall, the district attorney. He remembered the chestnut-haired boy, his son, cowering under the cutting accusations of his oppressor.
He had sworn, that in that hour he sat waiting for the jury's return, that if his son died Marshall should pay. When he thought of the white stone that stood over his wife's grave and the fresh mound of earth beside it, his anger against the man mounted to a frenzy. During the long hot hours of the journey to the city, Old Gresham sat immovably, staring through the window and refusing to speak to his fell ow passenger.
When the train rolled hollowly into the station, Old Gresham stalked slowly through the crowded waitingroom and into the street. He paused on the edge of the sidewalk and felt the hard object under his left shoulder. He fumbled through a telephone director for the address of Marshall's home. Then he began his long walk to the wealthy residential section of the big city.
As he neared his destination his decision gained strength. With every step upon the hard pavement he felt the hatred growing in him for the man who brought death to his son. His desire for revenge grew until his breath came in short choking gasps.
He watched the numbers of the houses that he passed and calculated the distance between himself and his destination. At last he came within two blocks of Marshall's home and now he felt as if a great heavy load were throbbing beneath his chest. He assured himself of the revolver beneath his shoulder. It was an old revolver and a heavy one. He grimly told himself that there would be no question of Marshall's fate once his finger touched the trigger.
As he approached the last block his steps quickened slightly. There remained but one more street to cross. As he was nearing the other side, intent upon his quest, a small child escaped from her nurse and ran into the street after him. The small child clung to his tattered overcoat. She laughed up at him from the height of his knees.
Old Gresham stooped and loosened the small hands from his coat and gave the child a gentle push in the opposite direction. As she walked slowly away, laughing back at him and waving her hand, a large car suddenly turned the corner. Old Gresham stumbled toward the child. The sun blinded him. As he fell, he pushed the child away with all his might. An instant latter a terrific load fell on his back.
When Old Gresham regained his senses, he found stooping over him, a doctor. The doctor looked at him and smiled encouragingly. But Old Gresham, who felt strangely weak, wished to know but one thing. He whispered faintly to the doctor his question.
For a moment the physician hesitated. Then he took the dying man's hand in his own. He slowly shook his head. Old Gresham sighed.
As if from a great distance he heard the doctor speak:
"You have done a noble deed. You have given your life for another. The child is unhurt."
Old Gresham's eyes dimmed. His sight was leaving him. The end was near. He saw dimly another figure beside the doctor. Then the doctor spoke again:
"This gentleman is Mr. Marshall. He wants to thank you for the life of his little girl."
MIRIAM NORMENT, '23.
There is no use trying to get away from a cast-off enthusiasm; like the trusty old family skeleton, it will pursue you to the end. Indeed it seems probable that the two are descended from a common ancestor, so great a propensity do both have for bobbing up at the very moment when the tea table is set for company and you have on your very best "come-to-see-me" manners.
"Oh, yes," they say, "surely you know me! Why, I'm that old scandal about Uncle Otis and the divorced lady," .or "Come now, don't pretend not to recognize meafter all, those Fleischman's yeast cakes you ate last spring, too."
Precedent insists that the family skeleton is more to be hushed up and kept secret, but I shall always maintain that as a topic of conversation a worn out hobby is more to be avoided. It is even conceivable that a certain satisfaction, nay, even pride, may be extracted from the fact that Uncle Otis was a bit of a devil in his youth, but only embarrassment can result from having it raised abroad that for a whole month you bravely swallowed three yeast cakes a day-provided, of course, that you did not succeed in "keeping that school girl complexion" in consequence. If you did achieve beauty your case does not apply, for to be sure you will not lose your enthusiasm for Mr. Fleischman. However, I think the chances are that after giving up the effort you will take your place in the ranks of disappointed enthusiasts, along with Alice in Wonderland and people who eat cold oatmeal for breakfast. Obviously, no one could retain whatever fondness he might formerly have cherished for oatmeal were he
forced to eat it cold; and Alice's situation when she found herself at last a queen, after she had ceased to aspire to such a high office, was truly pathetic. That's the worst of these cast-off enthusiasms, they're always either embarrassing or disappointing or both, but by the law of averages ( or perhaps it is that of compensation), they are generally equally relieving to the family of the erstwhile enthusiast.
All of us remember when brother answered the advertisement setting forth the abilities of that gentleman who, of course, remembers Mr. Addison Sims, of Seattle. For weeks we suffered from listening to recitations of th~ alphabet backwards, or, as the course grew more advanced, to hearing definitions of words as set forth in Webster's New Standard Dictionary. Fancy being awakened in the middle of the night by a voice solemnly proclaiming from the next room the fact that "orteriotomy is that part of the study of anatomy which treats of the dissection of the arteries!" Fortunately, before he quite finished memorizing the A's, the football season opened, and the whole family held a festival to celebrate the day when brother began to learn comparative scores by heart rather than definitions.
But the end was not yet! It never is, you know. No enthusiasm is ever quite through with you until it has risen up and slapped you in the face, although, like the mule in the little French story, it may wait twenty years. Fully six months had gone by since brother had cherished his ambition to rival Mr. Sims's famous friend, and in spite of that ability to remember, which he had so assiduously cultivated, he had entirely forgotten that the bronze medal he had won at the track meet lay in the same corner of the bureau drawer as that awarded by the memory expert for proficiency in learning the capitals of all
the countries in Europe. It really wouldn't have been so bad if Madeline had not been taking dinner with us. Madeline is brother's girl, and of course, this was the very opportunity old cast-off enthusiasm had been waiting for. I have no doubt that it was he who put the wrong medal in Jack's hand when the latter was sent upstairs for the track meet trophy. At any rate, it is sufficient to say that the resulting scene was painful to the last degree. I pass swiftly over it, pausing only long enough to draw a two-fold moral. The first part is simple and easy to grasp, "Keep your bureau drawers in order." The second is more difficult, in that it consists of both an admonition and a conclusion. Kipling, I find, has ably expressed it: "Be warned by his lot-which I know you will not."
The truth is, you cannot be warned by another's example; enthusiasms are as natural as measles and chicken-pox, and it is as necessary to cast them aside as it is for a snake to shed his skin-you simply outgrow the digging to China age. I am proud to say that my development along this line has been entirely all that it should have been; I have passed through all the proper stages, wanting a pink parasol, learning to skate, suffering with a burning desire to put my hair up and writing poetry. Just at present, I am sadly in need of an enthusiasm, since my ardor for each of my former ones has been damped in succession. I am in a terrible predicament without an aim in life, so I am looking around for another hobby to take the place of the one last laid aside. Social service and reading show are both so attractive that I find it hard to choose, but I think I will' decide on the latter, because it's less trouble and also more collegiate, don't you think? Besides, you can always save the other-there's bound to be a next time.
Jobn ~abrid ,Sorkman
BEE STOCKTON, '23.
If all attributes, all acquisitions, all aspirations which men cultivate and nourish ostensibly to better their relationship with society were suddenly stripped from the possessor to give place to one single quality, that solitary quality would be selfishness. There can be no faltering, no contradiction. All intelligent people must concede that every man's life is the monument of his own efforts; his deeds are the workmanship of his attainments. With the physical and mental heritage at his disposal, he immediately drifts into unknown currents as his propensities impel him. Whether he is led to the art gallery, to the science laboratory, to the cathedral, to the opera, to the drama, to the University, to the library, to the Parliament or to the alley, to the cellar, to the sordid life, to idleness, to ignorance-man in every instance is dominated by one quality that usurps all others. He hopes to take what endowments he has and enhance them according to his judgment that they may be utilized at a later period. As the aquisition of knowledge and the cultivation of intellect gradually exalt him above the great masses, his rise, his struggle, hinge upon the one wordselfishness. Yet when this necessary instinct has been satiated to gratification, man then is able to heed the cries of the needy, to rectify the wrongs of the reckless, and to inspire the efforts of the struggling. However, to attain any objective, self must dominate until triumph is near. To waste a life can result from selfish excess just as to glorify a life can result from selfish motives. Thus the whole fabric of society, while in the embryo, the beginning-the point where bearings are made-endeavors
to adapt a self propitiously to assurance of the consummation of some desire. When the acts of John Gabriel Borkman are turned one after the other, the clash of this indigenous force among five leading characters reveals with clarity an instance where each person through this selfish desire to enjoy personally the fruition of a life dream battles for the outcome.
No single essay can attempt to analyze this complication. The play would be included in the treatment to assure the real worth of such an analysis. However, the pre-eminent situations and facts of the drama can easily serve to suggest the critic's idea. In the play there are three women of determinate wills-Mrs. Borkman, Miss Ella Rentheim and Mrs. Fannie Wilton. There are two men who possess this striking perversity-John Gabri el Borkman and Erhart Borkman. The first act introduces Mrs. Borkman and Miss Ella. When the appear a nce of Miss Ella in a home from which she had so consistently absented herself for so many years was grudgingly acknowledged by Mrs. Borkman, the thoughts of these women naturally reverted to the unhappy incident of the court room and reopened the closed chapter. l\frs. Borkman tremulously identifies hersilf in saying:
"I can't understand how such a thing-how anything so horrible can come upon a single family! and then-that it should be our family! So old a family as ours."
"Those others don't trouble me very much . But for us-! For me! And then for Erhart the dishonour that fell upon us two innocent ones."
Miss Ella, "suffering the pangs of despi.sed love," had taken the child in her possession for the fifteen years that the mother desired to keep him from the propinquity of the unwholesome influence . . This dying aunt, the pos-
sessor of the entire property of the Borkman's, lavished this beneficence for the possession of this boy. She hoarsely pleaded with her sister that "I want his affection -his soul-his whole heart." The strained conversation between these two sisters in this first act announces to the reader that.there will be a grapple for the final possession of this boy.
The entrance of this well dressed boy needs no description other than what the author gives: "His mustache is beginning to grow." This touch by way of introduction and the subsequent conversation are sufficient to reveal the bumptious arrogance of youth. (That he is a selfish person to conflict with the two ladies needs only the Hinkel Party as a suggestion to bring to light that quality.) He would not accede to the wishes of a weary arunt who reared him and inculcated into him the love of the beautiful, the desire for the radiance of happiness. After long absence, a mere party of babbling women and foolish young men was more enticing than the real sinc ere longing of an old aunt for his presence the first evening at home. How gracious he was when he bru shed aside the requests of these women, so dear to him by considerately saying:
"You wouldn't have me sit here and keep Aunt up half the night ; you know she's an invalid."
How selfishly youth pitch~s himself into a snare because of a self-willed notion. In the next breath the irony of the above quotation is almost metallic in ring:
The slow and measured footsteps of John Gabriel Borkman, who dreamed of treasures undiscovered and wealth untold are interrupted by the entrance of Miss Ella. She speaks of herself in the second act as "Your" Ella. She told him how he destroyed her love; "Killed the love in me ," she said as the one "mortal sin" was discussed. The final security of his approval in giving Er-
hart her name was a triumph of short duration for at the moment Mrs. Borkman entered the gallery. The controversy of these women over the home of the boy is carried down into the drawing room, where it is thrashed over again. Mr. John Gabriel Borkman came down stairs for the first time in eight years. His dreams had become an obsession. In his conversation with the women, he does not recede one inch. Mrs. Borkman sent the maid through the snow and ice to bring home Erhart. Miss Ella affirms her position. She said at this juncture that her life was short. She wanted Erhart. When the youth entered, the hands of two women stretched out to him ,
Fresh from the vivacity and gaiety of the party, his exuberant spirit is a great contrast to the cold, restraint of the elderly people. Eagerly all await his answer. "I cannot, Aunt, however much I may wish to," and "I will always love you, mother; but I cannot go on living for you alone. This is no life for me," were the answers given to the pleas. In reply to the father's invitation, he passionately cried, "I will not work! I will live, live, live!" He announced that he would live for happiness, happiness-a gratification of a temporary, an ephemeral whim for Mrs. Wilton , the woman who for her own selfish motives surreptitiously inveigled this unstable youth-instead of counseling him, had further fired his fancy. She would lead him away from those who loved him-he would gratify his desires though the firmament fell. She would take Frida because "men are so unstable . When Erhart is done with me-and I with him-then it will be well for us both that he, poor fellow, should have some one to fall back on."
The ringing of sleigh bells gave the prostrate mother, the disappointed aunt a melancholy farewell. The limping form of old Vilhelm brings the last news of the joyful departure. It is John Gabriel Borkman who informed
him that it was Frida who had run over him. The irony of this allusion in the play is very striking. Old Vilhelm Foldal had told John Gabriel in the second act that of his five children, "Frida, the only one that understood me," and while en route to the Wilton home to give her a final dasp before her departure for the continent, he is knocked down by the sled in which she is an occupant. How like life this is! Parents so frequently make a supreme sacrifice for their children, and in the triumphant moment the children whirl past them, knock them aside, and pass on. The advancing generation cannot be anchored.
The final act, with the powerful exertion of John Gabriel Barkman out in the cold night, and the pursuit of Miss Ella reveal two lives torn apart in early life being swept together towards the end. The death, the appearance of Borkman's wife, her firm indifference, and the spirit of Miss Ella bring to a close this great conflict of wills. Borkman's mind became beset with his fancies -he recklessly disobeyed all advice and met death; Miss Ella and Mrs. Barkman held hands over the dead man, whom both had loved. When the final scene is reviewed:
"We twin sisters-over him we have both loved.
We two shadows-over the dead man" the inevitable conclusion is reached-reconciliation, endurance, acceptance.
The whole drama reveals the attempt of one will, one mind, one aspiration to conquer. The outcome is the loss to two women and the victory to the boy. Satire, realism, irony adorn the pages and scintillate the conversations. The play is a slice of life. There are portions applicable to any life: Selfish gratification seems to me to be a very excellent phase of the play to analyse. The outcome is left to the individual. An impartial treatment cannot hope in so brief a discussion to argue for or against this dominant impression.
~prtng
~bougbt~
LOUISE WILKINSON ) '24 .
Oh, would that I might dip a pen of gold Into the radiant, roseate sky of dawn, And, with fair words that in their depths enfold, The tinkle of sweet laughter, balm of tears, Spar of dew-drops caught in gauzy folds, And flitting grace of happy butterflies, Might write of Life and all the joy it holds!
For who would bind the freshness of the spring With musty , halting thoughts, thoughts old as man ; Or of its fragile, new-born blossoms sing In words dulled by the tongues of centuries? Oh , earth created new each dew-drenched morn, Oh, glad green things upspringing to the blue, Teach me your language! Then to hearts forlorn Songs shall I sing of love and hope and joy, Sing, even as you, the praise of Life reborn!
~be Westbamjfounbrp
GEORGE S. MITCHELL, '23.
Two or three miles from our campus, on a narrow strip of land between the C. & 0. canal and the James River, are to be found the ruins of the once famous Westham Foundry. The place is dismal now. The ground about the tumbled blocks of granite is overgrown with brush; silence broods among the stones, and no man lives where once toiled the iron-mongers of W estham . The little that is known of the history of the Foundry is enough to make investigation alluring. Somewhere in the middle of the seventeen hundreds, and near the present ruins, a village must have sprung up, supported probably by traffic along the canal. Certain it is that in 1752 the House of Burgesses passed a bill "to establish a town at Westham." Possibly the village developed an interest in iron-works, for in the early years of the trouble with Britain a company of men, realizing the need of their country for guns and cannon, undertook to establish there the armory which later came to be known as the Westham Foundry. The project called for a plant having "four double stacks, eight air furnaces, boring mill, etc.", but probably not all of this was completed before the Foundry was turned over to the State Government in 1776. The place must, however, have been large. An extensive system of docks for loading and unloading barges, a bridge across the canal, warehouses, an arsenal, brick furnaces, and the village, peopled with artzians, tradesmen, and slaves; all these made up the W estham community.
Of the operation of the Foundry, the processes and raw materials used, not a great deal is known. Some
method utilizing a blast of air to assist the charcoal fires must have been employed for smelting the iron. Oyster shells brought up from the Chesapeake Bay furnished lime. Lead from mines in Montgomery country was carried in wagons through the peaks of Otter to "Lynch's Ferry" and from there floated on barges down the James and through the canal to W estham. Copper and iron ore must likewise have been brought on barges. "Sower Cyder," or vinegar, used in boring the cannon, and charcoal seem to have been the only raw materials obtainable near the plant.
The munitions turned out were bullets, muskets, cannon balls, and cannon, the latter ranging in size up to six pounders, and possibly even larger. Three or four of these pieces a week seems to have been the average output. Many of the cannon were sent down to Norfolk to be placed immediately on frigates, while others were carried across the bridge to an arsenal, half a mile from the Foundry, where war materials in general were stored until needed by the patriot armies. A small brick building, the magazine of this arsenal, is still standing.
The force of laborers required at the Foundry was large . Skilled artizans and tradesmen were of course employed, and there was also a goodly number of slaves. The better workmen received high wages, and were apparentaly contented, but the negroes, unwilling to endure the hardships , not infrequently ran away. A great quantity of rum was sent out from Richmond every month or two, presumably to aid the workmen in washing down the coarse food. The statement found in one iron-master's report that "women are wanted to cook and wash for the tradesmen" reveals something of the life of the Foundry workers.
A modern investigator has written of the armory: "One of the best cannon foundries in the country was
in operation before the end of the war, at Westham, a few miles above Richmond." This but summarizes the efficiency of the Foundry. In its days of greatest activity it was a busy plant, with roaring furnaces and grimy slaves, with a village of cabins close by, with warehouses filled with bars of metal and shot and guns, and with the eyes of Virginia turned toward it for weapons to supply the patriot armies.
All this activity was doomed to early destruction. Benedict Arnold, during his raid in Virginia, in January, 1781, sent an expedition, under Lt. Col. Simcoe, of the Queen's Rangers, to destroy the plant. An extract from his "Journal" will tell the story: .
"On Lt. Col. Simcoe's return, he met with orders from Gen. Arnold to march to the foundery at Westham, six miles from Richmond, and to destroy it; the flank companies of the 80th, under Major Gordon, were sent as a reinforcement. With these and his corps he proceeded to the foundery ; the trunnions of many pieces of iron cannon were struck off, a quantity of small arms and a great variety of military stores were destroyed. Upon consultation with the artillery officer, it was thought better to destroy the magazine than to blow it up, this fatiguing business was effected by carrying the powder down the clifts, and pouring it into the water; the warehouses and mills were then set on fire, and many exprosions happened in different parts of the buildings, which might have been hazardous had it been relied on, that all the powder was regularly deposited in one magazine; and the foundry, which was a very complete one, was totally destroyed. It was night before the troops returned to Richmond .....
The place was rebuilt during the administration of Governor Jefferson, and it is known to have been in
operation in 1801. After that date it is believed that the armory was abandoned, and though tradition has it that the plant was again repaired during the Civil War, confirmation of this statement has not as yet been found. To-day there remains but little to mark the place once called W estham. One long step has been taken, however, toward perpetuating the memory of the Foundry. On the ivy-covered walls of the old magazine is a bronze tablet bearing this inscription :
THE MAGAZINE OF WESTHAM STATE ARMORY CAPTURED AND PARTLY DESTROYED BY BRITISH FORCES 1 JANUARY 5TH 1 1781 -o-
PLACED BY THE ASSOCIATION FOR THE PRESERVATION OF VIRGINIA ANTIQUITIES 1911
At the Foundry itself are to be seen only the masonwork of the docks, a few twisted iron pipes, piles of fallen granite blocks that once were thick, strong walls, and the remains of oBe of the circular blast-furnaces, now but a tottering slab of bricks. So little is left that a tramp passing along the C. & 0. tracks a hundred or so feet away, would see nothing but nodding trees and grassgrown mounds.
For the gleaning of these few facts I am indebted to Miss Elsie Clark, of Richmond, and Mr. Morgan P. Robinson, of the Virginia State Library. Three account books of the "Public Foundry" are preserved at the State Library, and from these much material of interest can be taken.
jfirt=flicsanb jfairp jfolks
PEGGY BUTTERFIELD, '23.
Ever since the days when the little-boy-across-thestreet and I used to chase fire-flies on the lawn in the fragrant spring twilights, I have loved them. I loved them because they marked the beginning of the time when one could play out of doors after supper, and smell the dew and listen to the crickets. We would watch for them to fall down from the sky, but we couldn't often find them when they reached the earth, so we persued those which were already there and when we caught one and the Little-boy-across-the-street tried to investigate its system of illumination, I wept, for it must have hurt very badly, and I know that the fairies would be angry with the boy. Once he put an unusually bright fairy into a bottle to light his room with, but I was sure that it would not be happy if it could not fly in the cool evening with the others, so when the boy wasn't looking, I helped the fairy to escape.
The question which puzzled us most was whether the stars were fire-flies in heaven or the fire-flies were stars on earth. I hated to catch them, they were so much prettier flying about, but I loved to run among them with the fresh breeze blowing my curls back from my face, and the faster I ran the brighter they twinkled. If I went very fast indeed, I could not tell which were stars and which were fire-flies.
Then, one day, I told the Little-boy-across-the-street good-bye, and went far away to a land where there were no fire-flies. Summer evenings seemed strange and lonely without them, and I pitied the children who had never known them. After a long time, when I came back to
the land of fire-flies, I was supposed to be grown up. so I could not race with them on the lawn any more-when anyone was looking. It is hard to be supposed to be grown up when on the inside you aren't at all! But even being grown up could not keep me from sitting on the front steps and watching the fire-flies play with each other. When stupid people came to talk to me, and I got bored with what they were saying, I could always watch the fairy lights. Once I asked a man where the fireflies went in the winter and he laughed at me and said: "What an irrelevant question!" and went on talking about a half-back and a quarter-back, and a whole-back. I was never fond of arithmetic and I always hated fractions, so I just said, "Um-hume," and decided for myself that they all go up to heaven to play with the little stars in the milky way.
One day I met a wonderful man who knew a great deal about fire-flies, and he didn't laugh at me when I asked about them, but told me lots of things I had never known before. He said that in Cuba the fire-flies are larger and brighter than ours and the ladies wear them in their hair. The glow-worm is not a worm at all. but just a little stay-at-home lady fire-fly. I was so glad, because they are quite too nice to be called worms. The most remarkable thing about them is their food. I know they would not eat ordinary food in an ordinary way. They do not eat at all, but live on nectar, which they make themselves from snails. They drink from the snail shell, which is, after all, only a modified form of the ancient wine horn. The fire-fly man told me that.
"The glow-worm for a moment, investigates his prey, then he draws his hunter's weapon-which consists of two mandibles bent back into a hook very sharp and thin as a hair. The microscope shows a slender groove
running through the length and that is all. He taps the snail with this instrument so gently as to suggest kisses rather than bites. He kisses the snail slowly and without · hurrying, and takes a brief rest after each time, as though he wished to ascertain the effect produced. He never does it more than six times, for this is enough to impart inertia and the loss of all feeling to the snail. But the snail is not dead, although it will remain in a limp, unconscious state for days. After awhile it will revive and recover movement and sensability, and goes on his way as though nothing unusual had occurred. The only name that can be approximately suitable to this form of existance which abolishes the power of movement and the sense of pain is anaesthesia.
If the glow-worm possessed no other talent than that of chloroforming his prey by means of kisses, he would be unknown to the mankind, but he also knows how to light himself like a beacon; he shines, which is an excellent way of achieving fame.
From start to finish the glow-worm's life is one great orgy of light. The eggs are luminous, the grubs likewise. The full grown females are magnificent lighthouses, and the adult males retain the glimmer which the grubs already possessed. We can understand the object of the feminine beacon, but what is the use of all the rest of the pyrotechnic display? And is it controlled by the will of the fire-fly? What makes the light which so resembles phosphorus but puzzles the wisest of physicians? To my great regret, I cannot tell. It is and will be for many days to come, '"he secret of animal physics which is deeper than the physics of the books."
"If you really want to know," I hastened to tell this kind fire-fly man, "maybe I can tell you. The object of their light is to flash wireless signals to the fairies, of
course; it is controlled by their will. They have a code and if we could only understand it, we could find out the most wonderful fairy secrets. If one is very good to them and believes in them, they will sometimes carry messages for you, or whisper the happiest secrets to you. Have you never had a wonderful idea pop into your head just out of nowhere? Well, that is a secret that the fairies have whispered to you. Their light is not phosphorus, it is star dust that they have gathered in the milky way before they came to earth. Don't you see how simple it is?"
But then I saw that he did not believe, and I was, oh! so sorry for him. It hurts the fairies' hearts so not to have people believe. I wondered if ever there was a man who could believe. I had almost given up when one twilight, the little-boy-across the street came to me. I almost feared to ask him if he still kept the faith, but when I told him all about the fire-flies and snails, he laughed and explained to me that the fire-flies bewitched the snails and then, by fairy magic, trans£ ormed them into wine. And he told me that all fairies came from fireflies. Then my heart was glad, because there was still one man who believed in fire-flies and fairy folks.
11,ectorritrlio?
J. A. SOYARS) '25.
Certain names shine out in an age, but they are seldom the names that were greeted most enthusiastically by contemporary judgment. The man who dares to think too far in advance of his period pays dearly for it, and comparatively seldom lives to reap his reward. Hector Berlioz was one of the most original composers that ever lived, a revolutionist who represents a whole epoch, and more, in his art, and whose music grows greater }Vith every year that passes. An understanding of the music of to-day is impossible without him. What do not the young Russians, many of the modern Frenchmen, indeed all great composers of to-day, owe to this great pioneer of modern music?
Berlioz was one of the most remarkable and heroic figures of the romantic period following the Napoleonic wars in France, when Paris was a hotbed of genius, when many of the glorious artists of the day died, burned out, as it were, by the intensity of their own flame. Tall, of a spare but powerful frame, red-haired, eagle-eyed, defiant of circumstances, contemptuous of the commonplace, Hector Berlioz was born for conflict. Being as fearless in the expression of his opinions as he was individual in his ideas, he made enemies by the score and created a new epoch in French music.
Berlioz's father, a physician of Cote-Saint-Andre, a town that nestles in the hills a few miles outside of Paris, wished his son to study medicine also. Hector, born December 11, 1803, grew up with little or no knowledge of musical composition, although he learned to sing anything at sight and to play the guitar.
He wandered through the hills of Cote-SaintAndre, succeeded poorly in his routine of studies, and devoured certains poems and books of travel which appealed to his adventurous spirit. His father complained that his son "knew every island in the South Sea, but could not tell how many departments there were in France." In place of lessons in harmony, Hector read Virgil, and burst into tears at the sublime pathos of a passage of the "Aeneid." Instead of writing counterpoint, he fell instantly and miserably in love, at the age of twelve years, with Estelle Fournier, an exquisitely beautiful girl of eighteen, whose eyes and pink slippers were ever in his dreams, and who, through all his tempestuous career, his mad love-affairs, his triumphs and disasters, remained the serene and glorious star of his soul. Even Beatrice was doubtless far more commonplace than Dante imagined her. Estelle, as she showed later, had less sensibility and quixotic greatheartedness than her adorer. But she ennobled him. Glorifying her, he glorified himself and wrote great music. Singularly enough, it was Estelle who inspired that astounding symphony, the "Symphonie Fantastique," which Berlioz wrote to gain the attention and favor of another woman!
Berlioz, sincerely desirous of obeying his father's wishes, went to Paris in 1882, when he was eighteen years old, and undertook a medical course. After a certain experience in the dissecting-rooms, he jumped through the window and wrote his father that he intended to become a musician. He devoured the musical scores of the free library of the Conservatoire, contrived to get himself a harmony-teacher, and put some early and puerile compositions before the public. He had boundless energy and a will that was indomitable. He tried three times to gain the Prix de Rome. A fourth effort,
"Sardanapale," composed while the guns of the July Revolution were reverberating through the streets of Paris, won him the coveted honor. Characteristically, he did not like Rome very much when he got there-at least, he did not like the rather academic atmosphere of the Institute. But who could resist Italy! Above all, how could so romantic and impressionable a youth as Berlioz withstand her charms?
Italy was the cause of one of the gayest and most brilliant of all orchestral overtures, the "Carnaval Romain." This is a music picture of Rome in carnival time. Only Berlioz could have written of this scene with such mad vigor, , such electrical esprit. Like all other great composers, his contemporaries frequently accused him of having no melody . But listen to the song of the slow introduction, played by the English horn just after the first shout of joyous abandon with which the overture opens . Is not that dreamy song the very voice of the sunniest and most beautiful of all lands? After it has been sung , first by the English horn , and then by stringed instruments, the orchestra rushes into the Salterello, a mad dance. At the end, through the wild tumult of the orchestra, there sounds again the beautiful melody of the introduction. In this piece all is life and gaiety. A hundred strokes of genius have flashed by before the last cord sounds. Such was Berlioz, glorious artist, in his y outh!
Berlioz saw Miss Smithson, an Irish actress, in Shakespearian drama. It was his first acquaintance with Shakespeare, whose fascination, combined with that of Miss Smithson, was too much for him. After the most fantastic courtship, and following the performance of the "Symphonie Fantastique" in her honor ( it was said that Berlioz sat in the orchestra playing the kettle-drums,
and that every time he caught the eye of Miss Smithson he gave a furious roll on the instruments), Berlioz married the actress and they were thoroughly unhappy. Accusations, denials, reconciliations-at last the wife, an invalid, and the poor composer was forced to make money by any and all means to care for her. A son, Louis, born of this union , lived to be the affection and despair of his father's old age. Occasionally a miracle occurred which kept the family from starving, as when the violinist Paganini, hearing Berlioz's "Childe Harold" symphony, appeared after the performance, dumb with cold, making frantic signs of approval and the next day sent Berlioz a check for twenty thousand francs. The gift was not due to the generosity of Paganini, a notorious miser, but was from another man, who wished to remain unknown.
In 1885 the composer left his wife in tears and in bitterness to undertake an orchestral tour in Hungary , which would give him funds to keep the invalid from privation. It was at this time, under the most distracting conditions, that he composed his "Faust," a dramatic cantata for chorus, orchestra, and solo voices. In trains, in steamboats, on the backs of bills in restaurants, in a shop lighted by a single candle, on a night in Budapest, in a hundred other like situations, he wrote this music.
At Budapest it was proposed that Berlioz write a march on a Hungarian tune. He chose one from an old album of national airs. He was apprehensive, and so were his friends, about the performance, because this was an air very dear to the Hungarians, and if the composer's treatment of it did not suit them the audience would be quite capable of making trouble. The day of the performance came on and Berlioz had all he could do to conceal his nervousness as he ascended the conductor's stand. The march commenced with utter silence in the audience.
The Hungarians were probably surprised, for their custom was to begin a march with a bang and a blare, whereas Berlioz's softly and gradually swelled to a cataclysm of fury. There was no sign of approval until that dramatic passage in which the orchestra, suddenly hushed, begins a long "crescendo," while under the tremulo of the violins the beating of the brass drums is heard like the booming of distant cannon. The audience went mad, "A strange, restless movement was perceptible among them," says Berlioz in his memoirs, and when the orchestra let loose its fury, "they could contain themselves no longer. Their overcharged souls burst with a tremendous explosion of feeling that raised my hair with terror." This is indeed one of the most stirring of marches, with its irresistible rhythms, its constantly accumulating excitement, its thrill and fury of battle.
Berlioz did not originally think of this march as a part of "Faust." It was an independent effort, a piece inspired by an occasion. But he found the march so good that he transported his "Faust" to be a plain in Hungary, in order that a Hungarian regiment be supposed to march by in the distance, playing the "Rakoczy March!" A German critic found fault with this hig-hhanded proceeding, to which Berlioz replied that he would have transported "Faust" to any other part of the world if it would have given him the opportunity to introduce so good a march. So would the critic-if he could have written it.
By the time "Faust" was completed, Berlioz's fame had been well established. In addition to other methods of making a living, he had become a music critic and had . contributed some of the most witty and penetrating musical criticisms ever written to the columns of the Journal des Debats and other papers. He mercilessly flayed the
money-changers in the temple of art. He knew whereof he spoke, and his wit fell like a mace. Thus his remark at a concert, when he rose from his seat, and, making a gesture as of one who bids at auction, cried, "Twenty francs, forty francs, one hundred francs, for an idea!"
Fascinating beyond description are his "memoirs" now translated and published, with many of his letters, in Everyman's library. But his most important literary creation, musically speaking, is the great Treatise of Instrumentation) which is not merely a treatise, but a poem about the orchestra, at once so imaginative, so prophetic, so scientific in its outlining of modern orchestral principles, that it remains to-day the backbone of orchestral theory.
Berlioz's first wife died in 1854. A second marriage with a Mme. Marie Recio, with whom he was no happier, and who was far less worthy of him than Henriette, took place some months later. She lived but a short time. Berlioz was working at his last opera, "The Trojans." He was in ill health, a daily sufferer, and embittered by continual misfortune. Then he again met Estelle. Most pathetic of all the incidents of all his late days, it often seems, was the letter he wrote her after the meeting. Never, 0 hero and madam, were you nobler, more credulous, more divinely a child, than in that letter, which might have been the impassioned avowal-indeed, it was the impassioned avowal-of the boy of twelve instead of the disillusioned man of sixty-one. Berlioz, alone, hearthungry, implored Estelle to let him visit her often and try to gain that love which was his first and his last passion. She sent him a kind and sensible reply, which must have wounded him more, in its relentless logic and lack of response, than sharp repulse. "The Trojans," produced in 1863, failed, and soon after came the news of the death
of his son, Louis, a sea-captain, in a foreign port. Ber1ioz struggled on, the ghost of himself. But he laid about him lustily, as in the old days. He had a brave smile. if his heart was dead. Only occasionally did a cry of anguish escape him, as when he wrote a friend, "I am past hope, past visions, past high thoughts-I am alone; my scorn for the dishonesty and imbecility of men, my hatred of their insane malignity, are at their height; and every day I say unto death, 'When thou wilt! Why does he tarry!' "
A banquet was held at Grenoble, in 1869, at which Berlioz was the honored guest. Like a tall pine riven by the tempest, he came erect, but shaking into the hall. A terrific storm broke outside, the wind playing havoc with the window-curtains and the candles on the tables, many of which were extinguished. The thunder roared and the lightning flashed, as though Nature had determined to greet the old hero with her grandest music. It was the last that all, save his most intimate friends, were to see of Hector Berlioz. He died a few days later, on the 8th of March. On his coffin were flowers from a few who still loved him; some wreaths from Russia, where he was adored; from the townspeople of Grenoble, from the youths of Hungary, who had not forgotten the battle music of the "Rakoczy March."
"Li£ e: War" is an inscription on an Egyptian tombstone. This inscription might well have served as the epitaph of Hector Berlioz.
GEORGE CLIFTON PATTERSON
"No person can suffer too much; no person can fall too soon-if he suffer, or if he fall," in the protection of the ideals and the standard of his college. The gentleman whose name appears at the head of this article has always carried "Old Red and Blue" very near his heart. Since he has been one of those who has striven for the "best" for our school , we consider him along with those whose names have already appeared at the head of similar articles in .this publication.
Mr. Patterson has been a student in the University of Richmond for four years, having come here from John Marshall High School of this city. His home is also in the city of Richmond. Mr. Patterson is a member of the Tri Phi Fraternity, as well as Tau Kappa Alpha. He was a member of the Philologian Literary Societ'y. He is now a member of the Dramatic Club, Varsity Club , John Marshall Club and Y. M. C. A.
In ni~eteen hundred and nineteen, Mr. Patterson won the coveted "R" in baseball and last year he was again on the Varsity team. This year he has one of the most responsible positions on the campus, that of Editorin-Chief o f the Annual. In this capacity he is showing his executive as well as his literary and artistic ability, all of which we commend.
No student at the University of Richmond considers himself great. This is merely a great workshop where men are made, and tomorrow will feel the influence of these men. We shall expect Mr. Patterson to always hold the banner of The University of Richmond ( along with the rest of her graduates), in the first ranks of the corps of great educational institutions of this country.
The University of Richmond publishes the following list of Retail Merchants of Richmond, Va., for the information of students and faculty, and as a token of appreciation of the active and invaluable assistance given the University in the Million Dollar Campaign by the Retail Merchants Association:
A. A. Adkins & Co., Furniture, 1204 Hull St.
J. T. Allen & Co., Jewelers, 1323 E. Main St.
B. P. Ashton, Grocer, 616 E. Marshall St. Bell Book & Stationery Co., 914 E. Main St.
S. P. Bass, Men's Furnishings, 1624 Hull St.
0. H. Berry & Co .. Clothiers, 1019 E. Main St.
R. L. Booker, Drugs, 2001 W. Main St.
H. Carl Boschen, Shoes, 23 W. Broad St.
J. P. Bradshaw, Clothier, 600 E. Broad St.
E. L. Brandis, Drugs, 2601 Park Ave.
D. Buchanan & Son, Jewelers, 225 E. Broad St. Burk & Co., Clothiers, 800 E. Main St.
R. E. Burks & Co., Furniture, 212 W. Broad St.
Bergman's Women's Ready to Wear, 3 E. Broad St. Braus, Women's Ready to Wear, 309 E. Broad St. Catlett Electric Co., Jefferson & Grace Sts.
W. S. Cavedo, Drugs. Floyd Ave. & Robinson St. Chaddick Motor Supply Co., Inc., 713 W. Broad St.
J. H. Chappell & Bro., Plumbers. 309 E. Main St.
R. E. Chelf Drug Co., Drugs, 1201 W. Broad St. Childrey Drug Co., Drugs, 101 E. Broad St.
A. P. Chisholm, Grocer, 2800 Hull St.
R. L. Christian & Co., Grocers. 512 E. Broad St.
A. B. Clarke and Son, Hardware, 510 E. Broad St. The Cohen Co., Department Store. 11 E. Broad St. Harry V. Cole. Confectioner, 204 N. 4th St.
The Corley Co., Pianos, Victrolas, etc., 213 E. Broad St.
A. N. Cosby, Grocer, 1400 3rd Ave., H. P.
S . .H. Cottrell and Son, Coal, 1103 W. Marshall St.
W. D. Cren~haw, Tobacco and Cigars. 1100 E. Main St. M. Crighton, Millinery. 113 E. Broad St. Crump and West Coal Co., 1811 E. Cary St. Dabney Bros. & Co., Clothiers, 6 E. Broad St.
F. W. Dabney & Co., Shoes, 433 E. Broad St.
A. J. Daffron, Furniture, 1438 Hull St. Danforth Millinery Co., 216 N. 2nd St.
Dann Millinery Co., 5 E. Broad St.
Dennis Auto Supply Co .. 301 W. Broad St.
C. H. Dorset Hardware Co .. 2600 Hull St. Dreyfus & Co., Women's Ready to Wear. 201 E. Broad St. A. Eichel & Co., Butchers. 330 N. 6th St.
W. E. Ellis, Grocer, 724 W. Broad St.
Stephen A. Ellison & Co., Coal, 602 E. Main St.
Epps and Breitstein, Clothiers, 812 E. Main St.
J. E. Eubank, Grocer, 2623 E. Broad St.
Fannye Millinery Co .. 204 N. 1st St.
Adam Feitig, Grocer. 119 E. Main St.
Lee Fergusson Piano Co., 119 E. Broad St. Fourqurean, Temple & Co .. Dry Goods, 101 W. Broad St.
The Freed Co., Women's Ready to Wear, 215 E. Broad St.
Galeski Optical Co., 737 E. Main St.
Gans-Rady Co., Clothiers, 816 E. Main St.
W. R. Gibbs, Meat Market, 1821 Hull St.
W. A. Gills, Grocer, 2401 W. Main St.
Gills and Atkins, Haberdashers, 917 E. Main St.
The Gift Shop. 320 E. Grace St.
R. E. L. Glasgow, Hardware, 1518 W. Cary St.
Globe Clothing Co., 613 E. Broad St.
Goode's Shoe Store, 1447 E. Main St.
Grant Drug Co., 626 E. Broad St.
W. T. Grant Co., 25c. Dept. Store. 321 E. Broad St
Wm. A. Green, Tailor, 519 E. Main St.
Meyer Greentree, Clothier, 701 E. Broad St.
C. Fred Grimmell, Plumber, 212 E. Broad St.
Frank B. Grubbs, "Paragon Pharmacy," 801 W. Cary St.
Chas. Haase and Sons, Furriers, 119 W. Broad St.
Henry R. Haase, Furrier. 207 E. Broad St.
G. L. Hall Optical Co., 211 E. Broad St.
The Hammond Co., Florists, 101 E Grace St.
C. B. Harper Hardware Co., 510 E. Marshall St.
Harrison's Drug Store, 3901 Williamsburg Ave.
S. H. Hawes & Co., Inc., Coal, Building Supplies, 1801 E. Cary St. Hay and West, Grocers. 305 N. 6th St.
Hellstern Bros., Cigars and Tobacco, 633 E. Broad St. Hofheimer Bros. Co., Shoes, 300 E. Broad St. Hopkins Furniture Co., 25 W. Broad St. Holloday Co .. Auto Accessories, 629 E. Main St. Howell Bros., Hardware, 602 E. Broad St. Hub Clothing Co., 717 E. Broad St. Hunter & Co, Stationers. 105 E. Broad St.
H. C. Hurdle, Drugs, 1101 W. Cary St. Hutzler and Co., Dept. Store. 1201 Hull St. Huyler's Confectioner, 221 E. Broad St. Jacobs and Levy, Clothiers. 705 E. Broad St. Jahnke Bros., Jewelers, 912 E. Main St.
J. A. James. Jewelers, 633 E. Main St.
W. H. Jenks, Electrical Contractor, 621 E. Main St.
A. E. Johann, Drugs, 827 W. Main St. Jonas Millinery Co., 115 E. Broad St. Jones Bros. & Co., Furniture, 1418 E. Main St. Chas. G. Jurgen's Son, Furniture, 27 W. Broad St. Kann's, Inc., Women's Ready to Wear, 109 E. Broad St. Kaufmann & Co., Millinery and Women's Ready to Wear, 401 E. Broad St.
C. D. Kenny Co., Tea , and Coffee. 606 E. Broad St. G. R. Kinney Co., Shoes, 604 E. Broad St. Kirk-Parrish Co., Clothier, 605 E. Broad St. John F. Kohler & Sons, Inc., Jewelers, 209 E. Broad St.
S. S. Kresge Co., Sc, 10c and 25c Stores, 429 E. Broad St. Lane-Bowles Co., Auto Supplies. 521 W. Broad St.
C. P. Lathrop St' Co., Coal, Building Supplies, 2018 W. Leigh St.
T. W. Leonard, Drugs, 724 N. 2nd St. Levenson Cigar Co .. 908 E. Main St.
L. P. Levy and Co., Periodicals, 603 E. Broad St. Burnett Lewis, Dry Goods, 117 E. Broad St. Jacob Lewit and Son, Dry Goods. 1533 E. Main St. Long Coal Co., Inc., 1506 W. Broad St.
R. Lovenstein & Sons, Clothiers, 520 E. Broad St.
C. Lumsden and Son, Jewelers, 731 E. Main St. Main Street Market, 2101 W. Main St.
D. W. Mallory & Co., Coal, Marshall & Bowe Sts. Mann and Brown, Florists, 5 W. Broad St.
C. Manning Plumbing Co .. 1443 E. Main St. Samuel Meyer, Dry Goods, 1321 Hull St. W . Withers Miller, Drugs, 832 E. Main St. Miller and Rhoads, Department Store, 6th and Broad Sts.
T. A. Miller and Co., Drugs. 519 E. Broad St. Milwards, of New York, Women's Ready to Wear, 119 E. Broad St. D. & E. Mitteldorfer, Dry Goods, 217 E. Broad St. J. E. Morgan, Drugs, 334 S. Pine St.
J B. Mosby & Co ., Dry Goods, 201 W. Broad St. Walter D. Moses & Co .. Pianos, Victrolas. etc., 103 E. Broad St. Frank Mosmiller, Florist, 115 E. Main St. Nelson and Ladd, Inc., Coal, 1903 E. Cary St.
The Nowlan Co., Jewelers, 921 E. Main St. Old Dutch Market, 7th and Franklin Sts.
E. I. Parrish, Furniture. 415 W. Broad St. Pettit & Co., Furniture. 7 W. Broad St.
J. E. Phillips and Son, Plumbers, 16 N. 7th St.
H. A. Pleasants, Hardware, 1607 W. Broad St. Ratcliffe & Tanner, Florists, 207 N. 6th St.
Mrs. M. B. Reinach, Milliner, 217 N. 1st St. Richmond Art Co ., 101 E. Grace St. Richmond Dairy Co., 314 N. Jefferson St. Richmond Gas and Electric Appliance Co, 412 E. Grace St. Richmond Grocery Co., 524 N. 6th St.
M. Rosenbloom and Son, Furniture , 1430 E. Main St. Rothert and Co., Furniture, 326 E. Broad St. Rountree Corp., Furniture, 111 W. Broad St. Royal Laundry, 311 N. 7th St. Ryan, Smith & Co., Furniture. 123 W. Broad St. Schaaf Bros., Jewelers, 426 E. Broad St. Scheer and Son, Jewelers, 1411 E. Main St. Mike Scher, Tobacco and Cigars, 901 E. Broad St. Herman Schmidt, Grocer, 504 E. Broad St.
Maison Schwartz, Furrier, 3½ E. Broad St. Schwarzschild Bros ., Jewelers, 121 E. Broad St. W. E. Seaton and Son, Coal, 1129 W. Marshall St. Shepherd's, Inc., Confectionery, 107 E. Broad St. A. Simon and Son, Tailors, 718 E. Main St.
W. A. Sorg & Co., Shoes. 324 E. Broad St. Southern Furniture Co., 2 E. Broad St.
Southern Stamp and Stationery Co., 1206 E. Main St. Specialty S.hoe Co., 219 E. Broad St.
Albert Stein, Shoes, 424 E. Broad St. Chas. M. Stieff, Pianos, 117 W. Broad St.
62
THE MESSENGER
I. L. Sutherland & Son, Grain, 424 N 6th St.
Swope's French Dry Cleaning Co., 219 N. 1st St.
Seymour Sycle, Shoes. 11 W. Broad St.
Simon Sycle, Clothier, 14 W. Broad St .
Sydnor and Hundley, Furniture, 7th & Grace Sts.
Tarrant Drug Co., 1 W. Broad St
E. B. Taylor Co , Dept. Store, 15 W. Broad St.
Thalhimer Bros., Dry Goods, 5th & Broad Sts.
Tragle Drug Co., 817 E. Broad St.
Jessie L. Trent. Grocer, 207 N. Sycamore St.
Tyler and Ryan, Coal, 1001 W. Cary St .
Ullman Bros., Grocers, 1215 Hull St.
Chas. W. Vaughan , Hrdware, 16 E. Broad St.
Vaughan and Chewning, Coal, 1320 W. Marshall St.
Virginia Auto Supply Co., 601 W. Broad St.
Virginia Railway and Power Co., 7th & Franklin Sts.
H. F. Waldrop, Grocer. 316 Brook Ave .
Walk-Over Boot SJhop, 313 E. Broad St.
H. H. Wallis, Drugs, 500 E. Marshall St.
Washington and Early; Drugs, 1200 Hull St.
Watkins and Yarbrough, Jewelers , 204 E. Broad St.
The Weisberger Co ., Department Store, 312 E. Broad St.
Whitlock's Millinery, 315 E. Broad St.
L. D. Wingfield. Coal, 835 N. 17th St.
Woodall and Quarles, Clothier, 7 E. Broad St.
Horace S . Wright Co., Clothier, 21 E. Broad St.
L. T. Wright Drug Co., 620 N. Lombardy St.
Young Men's Shop, Clothiers , 713 E . Broad St.
The E. B. Taylor Co.
1011 E. Main St., 1010-1012 E. Cary St.
13-15-17 W. Broad Street.
China, Earthenware, Glassware and House Furnishings.
We are prepared to furnish Schools, Hotels and Hospitals with complete Dining Room and Kitchen Equipment.
Write us for quotations.
ROCHESTERTHEOLOGICALSEMINARY
ROCHESTER, N. Y.
FACULTY of ten members. Thorough and comprehensive cttrriculum with Biblical courses in the Old and New Testaments, courses in the English Bible, Biblical and Systematic Theology, Church History, Christian Ethics and Sociology, Homiletics and Pastoral Theology, Religious Education, the History and Philosophy of Religion, Church Co-operations, Elocution and Oratory . Wide choice of electives .
EQUIPMENT. Dormitory building with parlor, music room and bowling alleys Library of 50,000 volumes, with most modern cataloguing Attractive chapel and class rooms.
DEGREE of B . D . granted at graduation and degree of M. Th . for special graduate work Special lectures through the year by men of interest and power.
ROCHESTER a beautiful and prosperous city of 300,000. Many varieties of religious and philanthropic work Strong churches, with able and virile preachers. Unusual opportunities for observation and participation in church and charitable work.
All courses in the University of Rochester available to Seminary students.
Correspondence welcomed . Illustrated catalogue for the asking. Address
CLARENCE A.
BARBOUR, President,
or J. W. A. STEWART, Dean
