~canbal
JUDSON EVANS, '25
Eloise was only sixteen when she went to college and her Freshman English Class was taught by a bachelor professor who read poems with a certain wistful cynicism, like he might have had some hidden sorrow in his life. She was a sweet blonde little girl then, and had just come from her New Orleans home and liked to hear the poor pedagogue tracing idyllic pictures of the love of nymphs and heroes.
She believed that some day her Prince Charming would dash into the mystic scenes of her reveries and carry her off on a white palfrey to lead a poetic existence which was to consist chiefly in living happily ever afterwards.
Eloise had read Myrtle Reed and went at the thought of the inner sanctuary of woman's heart, for which only one man is made, being desecrated by some uncouth male incapable of interest in the higher ideals of life. She shuddered at the thought of her finer sensibilities being crushed like the fragile violet under foot. Pretty, wet violets and the clear, sweet breath of spring-she wept for them and waited for the one and only.
Joe was a nice boy. It was a pity he drank and did things like that. But in the small city where he grew up the local belles believed in reforming nice boys who were dissipated. He was used to going out and painting the town "red," only to follow up with a tearful promise to reform -temporarily inspired by sweet kisses from the lips of one of the town's eligible young ladies. He had a way with women.
He did not know that woman's love for a man is usually just a sort of pity for his helplessness. Like many of his fellows, he suffered the delusion that he fascinated the fair frails.
Many spare moments at the University he spent in his room gazing off into space singing on tragic themes such as : "The faces I see -don't appeal to me-for it's your face I long for each day. And the hours seem long-and the world goes wrong -it's lonely with you away."
THE MESSENGER
At about the same time Eloise was watching the clear, cold moon from her window in the college dormitory. Its rays glistened on the sleety crust over the first snowfall she had ever witnessed. It was pretty, she knew, but down home it was warm and nice. Her heart also hearked back to better days and a warmer moon and she, too, sang softly to the poor man up there in the cold moon : "If you could care for me -like I could care for you -Oh what a place this world would be -a paradise for two. With no one there to see -how we could bill and coo-oo -if you could only care for me."
"Oh, Eloise -are you dressed, darling?" Thrills! It was her room-mate, and she wanted Eloise to have a date with a man ! Joe was introduced to Eloise. They sat together on cushions in an octagonal-shaped bay window in a corner of the parlor.
"Oh, I'm so tired of this place. I wish I was back home. I get so lonely I don't know what to do. And I haven't had a date with a man for three months." (Business of getting better acquainted.) "You know you shouldn't."
Week-end trips soon became a part of Joe's normal schedule. By this time they were terribly in love! She wrote his name all over her Tennyson in class and submitted verse to the college magazine. She spent Christmas holidays with a friend in his home town. Sweet romance !
II
Romance is a tender thing and, like Jacob Marley, it was unmistakably dead when Joe dropped out of school and went to work, while Eloise continued her pursuit of higher education. Of course, Joe was to go out and do something big in the world and then claim his bride. She would wait. He was the first argosy she ever sent out.
George Gordon was just the kind of boy needed to play the part of "the other man." He was a youth credited with breaking severaly maidenly hearts. Like his illustrious namesake he wore low-cut collars and looked "romantic," but unlike the fifth Lord Byron he believed in the inherent goodness of the individual woman. He had once been nicknamed "Darling." One dark day
he met Eloise and she told him of the perfect lover who wooed and won and went away. George sympathized, for he, too, had suffered, he said. They caught each other on the rebound and fell in love. It is hard to say how. It is always impossible to say why. Through her Sophomore and Junior years at college George was the long-sought soul-mate and prince of her dreams. They subscribed to the love and fresh air theory. They planned a bungalow. It was to have a breakfast room -and she was to wear gingham -pink gingham. They were to be married in June. Every day they wrote loving missives to each other. She just couldn't wait, she said, for the great day. Visions of contentment and love.
As the more romantic writers say, "there came a clay." The long-lost Joe, who had even stopped writing years ago, arrived in town quite unexpectedly and announced that he had come clown to marry her. What could be more masterful? What more romantic? And besides, although he was a sweet boy and she always would love him in a different way, George just couldn't buy glove silks and things like that, now could he? She had failed German and disappointed everybody, too, and couldn't go back to school and she just couldn't sit at home all the time. And Joe, he was such an adorable cave man -her leonine, dashing hero. He had a good job, too.
"Kiss me, plea-uz, Joe, preciousness -Oh, an awful lot."
III
They were married and went to live in a small apartment in Joe's native town. He was a sterling young business man. Yes, he would do well in the world -make a fortune, maybe. All the ladies of the town said so. He had been rather wild, don't you think, but with the steadying influence of a sweet young girl . . . Joe liked salt herring for breakfast and, what is more, he liked it by 8 o'clock. And only three weeks after the ceremony. Had he forgotten rose-tinted romance? Of course, not. He was a 100 per cent American and worked hard to support hi s wife. He hadn't been in the world twenty-six years for nothing. To be sure he loved her.
THE MESSENGER
Why does she want to be so babyish? "You're a married woman now." To be sure he loved her. Did he not toil diligently and without complaint for her worldly comfort? He even bought for her one of those adorable porcelain gas ranges. \Vh y :she acts like she isn't happy-just like a silly little girl. "But _youknow how women are." She was his wife and to be taken for granted. He must work for the daily bread.
Maybe, in keeping with the intutitive pe r versity of woman, she dare dream of better things. What has become of her imagined fairlyand of love? She couldn't help thinking when she saw Joe sitting there with his horrible pipe and newspaper, slumped clown in the chair that way, oblivious to her existence. Yawning He needed a shave. He was seedy looking, anyway. She could not blot out the contrasting picture of "Darling" Gordon as he had been that night standing on the moonlit lake bank. He was tall and only twenty. He would have made love to her, she knew, even when her hair wasn't fixed. He would have let her play being a little girl again, too. And he was interested in reading and less sordid things. He had taught her to dance. She had treated him pretty badly. Wonder if he was much cut up over her marriage? She bet he wasn't - that girls still spoiled him. Joe seemed to have changed during those two years she had not seen him. George didn't smoke a pipe. She remembered the last time he kissed her. She had sworn to forever adore.
Couldn't there be just a little romance in her life? wonder if Joe would let her visit the school to see her class graduate?
IV
"Joe, darling, just think. It will be the first time we have ever been separated even for a night. And it'll be terrible away from you, up there with all those old girls."
"Good-by, honey, have a good time."
News of the return of Eloise, sans husband, soon reached George. He had by this time become partially reconciled to the duplicity of women in the reflection that the romance might just as easily have died had she married him. On the whole he was genuinely glad that he had no wife to support. You could make
love to other men's wives, anyway, if you liked married women. He would like to see the fair Eloise, though. He wondered how she looked. Women so frequently started dressing carelessly and losing their figures after marriage. It was disheartening and they applied rouge merely from faint hope or force of habit without the former art. Maybe she would be motherly about it all and tell him about the sweet girl he would some time meet and marrysomebody who would deserve his love. Would she have the nerve to try that?
He first saw her standing in a crowd. She was startlingly like she had been six months before when she had clung to him, entreating between kisses, that he take her away-"and we can live on love alone - in a kingdom of our own. You'll be the K-i-n-g then, I'll be the Q-u-e -e-n , in a kingdom." He felt annoyed at such tunes running through his mind.
"Hel-lo, darling," she smiled mischievously. "Are you glad to see me?"
"Why, yes, I am, Eloise, dar-ling."
"Are you really? I was so afraid--"
"No, not really. I'm just trying to deceive you, you know, 'cause you have an innocent face--"
"Shut up and come walk with me."
They stroll along talking, quickly overcoming the temporary embarrassment of the seemingly unnatural condition. Both had felt an inclination to give a much more amorous greeting, but there was convention.
"What makes you look so pale, George?"
"You mean 'why so pale and wan, fond lover' - and, dear heart, if I do have to say so myself-'and me so modest' - I am not pale and look very well, thank you."
"Don't be mean, darling, or I'll go home and won't talk to you any more. You see I'm a married woman now and I really should not be walking around here where everybody can see, anyway."
THE MESSENGER
"Why reproach me because you're married? Perhaps if I had been let in on the secret I might have voted against it. And, besides, why stay here 'where everybody can see?' "
"Oh, you're just like you always were."
"But, my clear, you surely cannot tell from that distance? No?"
As Cabell has hinted, there is something more than the usual fatal allure about a married woman. For one thing, the mere matter of a husband adds an element of romance and a conversational topic. Again, there is not the danger of being taken up on wild promises, if the maid is a wavering wife in quest of romance. It's sort of devilish, too, for a young woman of twenty summers to carry on surreptitiously -but, of course, quite innocentlywith a former flame. They are often broken hearted, the poor boys, and they need consoling. And then there are those tender rose petals - memories of young love floating back like the sweet odor of quelques fleurs clinging to the coat lapel -the afterglow of a passing coquette.
Eloise promised to meet Joe as of yore in their old time trysting place, at the end of a long dark street in a suburb near the school. Since their last meeting a house had been built among the trees, but it was as yet unoccupied , so he waited at the appointed hour on the porch.
Somebody was coming down the street. Eloise had kept her promise -there she was walking toward him. She looked almost beautiful as she walked across the moonlit space to where he sat on the step.
"I hope nobody guesses where I went . I'm supposed to be returning this cape I borrowed. But I did so want to talk to you."
"I'm glad, for I have wondered about you a great deal. I suppose you are happy and all that. Matrimony, I am told, is a very enjoyable condition. They speak about 'connubial bliss," anyway there's lots of bliss of some kind, isn't there - sweetheart?"
"Please call me that again. Oh, I if you only knew!"
"Why, don't you like being married? How terrible. And I thought you would be so happy, and it was in that thought , sweetheart, that I consoled myself for the loss of 'Etarre' - that age-
less, lovable and loving woman of whom all poets had been granted fitful broken glimpses--"
"Oh, darling, you shouldn't be so sweet to me. You ought to hate me! I was a terrible girl -worthless and everything. You should not care like that."
"Never fear. I don't care 'like that.' I concede your irrefutable point that you are a worthless prevaricator -that you never loved me or the esteemed boob, your husband. And as for being sweet, maybe I'm just heaping coals of fire on your head."
"Please don't be so mean, honey chile; it all happened so suddenly -all in three days. And sometimes I can't hardly stand it -and, Oh, I want to cry, and I've thought about you and dreamed about you. No, you musn't -we can't be that way any more. Yes, I want to, but I have others to consider now!"
"Noble speech, fair one, and were I but the sweet Georgie you once knew I would be uplifted at such an ennobling sentiment. I would say to myself, here is a noble girl who thinks of duty, not selfish pleasure. But it so happens that the poor little Sir Gallahad is head -killed by your heartless cruelty, m'love, and in his place stands Launcelot. Come, come Guinevere, we are not fundamentally changed. Don't you remember the moon and the canoe? It was like tonight, sweetheart. Can't you see the shimmering shadows? Please, darling? Hear the crickets chirping and the frogs down there in the creek?"
"Oh, I can't. I can't. Oh, I do love you now, more than Joe or anybody. Please kiss me -lots. I've missed you so."
"You do love me, don't you, George?"
"I do not. And if I did I probably wouldn't admit it after the way you did. No thoroughbred would be so crude as you were about it. I don't mind your getting married. It might have been an economic necessity, but this rot about love. What do you know about it? Your personality, it is nothing. Now you look like you used to, with your thin black taffeta dress, silk stockings and very little else, and that's the way you intend to look, to tempt back a romance. Ha!
THE MESSENGER
"It is only the vision of you that brings back the dreamsnot you yourself. All that is passed. And that which has been is no more real than that which has never been, save in the dreams of both. Maybe the Eloise I loved may rise Phoenix -like from the ashes and come back to me in a dream, but you are not the Eloise I loved. They are not your lips which press hotly against mine, nor the tears with which your eyelashes paint my cheek. The fleeting vision of a nymph brings the romance which is the pursuit of an unattainable ideal."
"Bye, bye, George, my sweetheart, you must kiss me goodnight. I'll never be your real, flesh-and-blood little girl again, but it has been wonderful to see you again. Soon you will not want to see me again. I will be old, darling -old and fat. But I will come to you in dreams and tell you that I love you. You have made me happy, and for a short time you have let me be a little girl again -your little girl-and now I'm going away. But I'll come back again, in your dreams, and be your own little dream girl always."
The flesh is but a parody on the dream and we struggle on in the futile pursuit of a mirage, or we surrender to necessity and try to grow up to be men who have put away childish things. And yet there are always dreams -some dreams which would cause our good ladies to talk. They aren't conventional, you know. And lack of convention plus a married lady calls for "scandal," that's all.
THE MESSENGER
G. KEITH, '23
Dimly reflected In the shining blue Stands the beech tree With its golden glow Standing, peaceful, quiet; With its gorgeous hue Restless, dallying On the waves below.
So our golden dream Is gloriously serene In our youth. The real filled with care Ne' er can be so fair In later days. Dreams golden! Hopeful love! Refulgent in the light above Mark our youth! Reflect dreams once golden In the time that's olden, On the dancing, restless waves.
WARREN
THE MESSENGER
~bt ~acrifict
JANE WATERS, '23
The old man sat in his deep, soft chair before the fire, waiting for his son. The firelight gleamed on his silver hair and brought out the age in his face. His fine, white hands clutched the arms of his chair, his unseeing eyes were fixed straight before him. His lips were moving, repeating over and over the words, "O God, give me strength."
A clock on the mantel above his head struck one, and he started nervously. At the same instant a car stopped in front of the house; in another moment he heard the butler open the door and some one entered. With an effort the old man rose to greet his boy.
A tall, handsome figure in evening clothes strode through the door and across the big room to his father. "Hello, dad," he cried, clapping the old man on the shoulder.
"Hello, Hunter. You're early tonight." The father dropped into his big chair again, while Hunter drew another up to the fire and seated himself.
"Yes, the party broke up early," he replied, lighting a cigarette carelessly. Despite the nervous anxiety of the old gentleman, a look of tender pride shone in his eyes as he regarded his son. Hunter lounged in his chair, one long leg crossed over the other. His eyes were dark, his tanned face was fine and strong, his crisp, black hair crimpled back from his forehead. The brown hand which held the cigarette was slender and shapely, the hand of a talented musician. And yet the boy looked a sun-burned athlete.
"Why the darkness, Dad?" he asked irrelevantly, glancing about the big, luxurious library now filled with dancing shadows. The white hands gripped the chair arms again, but the father's voice was steady as he answered, "Oh, nothing. I enjoy the firelight, and an old man's eyes get tired of light sometimes."
"Dad," Hunter burst out suddenly, "I'm going to get three hundred for a concert next week in Boston. And--" he hesitated and a smile played about his lips."
"Well?"
"I proposed to Doris tonight and she accepted me." man leaned forward, his dark eyes suddenly blazing. late me, Dad !"
The young "Congratu-
"Doris -accepted you!" The voice of the old man was quavering and shrill and his tense fingers dug into the arms of his chair. His face in the glow of the flames was ghastly. Hunter sprang up.
"Father! Are you ill?" he cried, leaning over the trembling figure, but his father motioned him away. "No, no; I'm all right. But, boy, I didn't know you loved her. Oh God, what have I let you do !"
"Why, Dad, Dad, what is it? What do you mean?" cried the son, his own dark face paling.
"Sit down!" commanded the old man in a stern, dull voice. "Oh, if only I had known you loved her ! I could have told you sooner, and spared you both. Heaven help you!" The silver head bowed in grief. Hunter leaned forward again and took the old, trembling hands in his.
"Father," he implored, "tell me quickly."
The old man raised his head and looked into the dark eyes of his son. A little choke caught in his throat and he tried twice to speak before he succeeded.
"Hunter, I -I can't. Our life here together -just you and I -we have been -happy. You will hate me!"
"No, Father, no! But tell me, tell me!"
"Well," the pitiful figure in the big chair made a violent effort to pull himself together. "I will try. And try to hear me through -without - hating me."
Hunter had straightened up and stood, leaning one elbow on the mantel, looking down upon his white-faced father. Outside the wind moaned through the big oaks in the yards.
"About fifty-five years ago," the faltering voice began, "your grandfather, William Hunter, bought a plantation down in Georgia, and he and his bride went down there to live. His bride was rather a grasping woman and it was generally thought that she had married William for his money. About a year after they had settled in their new home there was born to one of the ser-
THE MESSENGER
vants on the place a little girl. The child, however, did not grow up among the servants. It was taken into the master's house and brought up as any other child might have been. Five years passed by and the war came on. William Hunter sold his servants and his plantation and he and his wife came North to Boston , bringing with them the little girl. And to their Boston friends the child was their daughter."
The old man stopped. He did not look at his son; he did not see the look of awful fear that was dawning in the wide, dark eyes. He moistened his lips before resuming.
"She grew to maidenhood as their daughter. They sent her to school and gave her a splendid education. She was very brilliant and very beautiful. Her skin was a rich olive, her lips were full, her hair and eyes were black and her hair crinkled back from her face. She was very clever and popular, and had every wish gratified, for money meant nothing to Hunter. And then--" the feeble voice sank so low that it was scarcely audible, "I met her, fell in love with her -and married her."
The young man had clutched a frail little vase in his slender, brown fingers. As his father spoke these last words the vase snapped in two and fell to the hearth, shivered in a hundred pieces. There was no sound, save the dull ticking of the clock and the moan of the wind.
"I didn't know, boy, until after -after m y son was born. The thought-even now-of what my son might have been leaves me cold as death. And when I knew, I hated her. Poor child! She wasn't to blame, and I was cruel. She died of a broken heart when you were only two."
The low voice ceased. Five terrible, death-still minutes went by. The silence grew horrible, shrieking with unspoken thoughts. A log fell on the hearth and the father started violently. The son raised his head from the mantel where he had bowed it, and looked at his father.
"Dael," he said in a cold, lifeless voice, "I'm going to bed." He bent and laid his hand on the other's shoulder; for a moment he looked straight into the other's eyes. "I don't blame you, Dad," he said. "I don't hate you."
Then he stood erect and crossed the room. As he passed the piano he stopped and touched the keys noiselessly, cares singly.
"Won't you play, Hunter?" asked the old man in a pleading tone.
"Not tonight , father. Goodnight." He left the room and climbed the stairs slowly.
He entered his room, closing the door carefully behind him. Crossing to his table, he flung himself into a chair and, leani ng his arms upon the table, buried his head in them. For a long time he sat thus, motionless. He raised his head at last and looked straight into the bright, sweet eyes of Doris , who gaze d hack at him from her frame. Artistic lights shone on her hair, her bare neck and shoulders gleamed snow-white. The face of the man was haggard. He glanced clown at his brown hand lying upon the table and shuclclerecl.
He thought of Doris as he had seen her that morning, with the wind and sunshine in her hair. They had ridden out in the country together and had left the car to ramble in the woods beside a splashing silver stream. She had seemed a part of it, a spirit of the woods. And tonight-tonight in the garden, while the others were dancing, he had asked her to marry him. He saw again the whiteness of her arms as they had stolen up about his neck. He felt again the soft warmth of her as he clasped her in his arms, his arms in whose veins there flowed tainted blood! His throat contracted, and he passed his hand across his eyes. Slowly he pulled open the table drawer. There on top lay a half-finished sonata which he was composing. He looked at it, then at the beautiful face in the frame which stood on the table. How white her forehead was, her throat, her shoulders, pure a s snow. Roughly the brown fingers pushed aside the unfini s hed music, fumbled in the depths of the drawer and drew forth a tiny, shining pistol. Nor did the fingers tremble as they tested and loaded the little weapon. The eyes of the man looked into the pictured ones before him.
"Because I love you, Doris," he muttered, as he raised his hand.
Downstairs , the old man by the fire heard a faint report, like the banging of a shutter in the wind.
Aleph
The Boss
The Office Manager
THE MESSENGER
jirotberanb~ister
EVELYN BOATWRIGHT, '25
Into the childless home of the Langdons had come a spark of light which was fast developing into a flame made up of the love and sweetness of one individual. This much-admired, and I fear, somewhat spoiled bit of feminity was Munya Langdon. Frank Langdon knew but little of this child who had grown to womanhood in his home -he had only been able to gather fragments of her history at the time he had driven with her away from the orphanage. Now, as he sat in front of his fire, musing, he remembered that the superintendent himself had seemed to know only the bare facts concerning her entrance to the institution. This little girl of three and her brother, but little older, had been taken in after the death of both parents; they had been good children and very devoted during the time passed at the orphanage. He also remembered the touching scene of the parting between these two, the girl clinging to her brother, sobbing, begging not to be taken from him. But Langdon had remained firm in his opinion that one child would quite fill his home and his spare time, so probably the child, somewhat quieted, had taken a tiny ring from her finger, and given it to her brother, and he, likewise crying now, had presented her with his greatest treasure, a dime with a hole in it. Only then, and after one last embrace, had they been able to separate them.
Langdon's thoughts were wandering thus, when into the room tip-toed his daughter, and perched on the arm of his chair.
"Is Daddy very tired?" she cooed. "Oh, so many lines in your forehead! You've been working so hard, haven't you?"
"Yes, girlie," he replied, circling his arm about her waist and looking lovingly into her eyes. "But your Daddy's worries don't seem to weigh very heavily upon your shoulders. And that's quite right," he added.
Munya jumped down from the arm of his chair and coming around to the front climbed into his lap, where she could put both arms around his neck.
THE MESSENGER
"Yes, they do worry me, too, Daddy," she said solemnly. "Please tell me what's worrying you now."
But with this reminder of his work and its neglect during the past half hour , he rose to his feet with a tired sigh, gently yet firmly putting Munya away. It seemed that he could not be stern with his daughter however preoccupied, for his voice when he spoke was as gentle as at first.
"The same old case, dear - that Boswell plant is sueing me for damages in the smash-up near Torrent. At last they-oh, the man must make good!" This last was said to himself, and Munya went slowly out of the room, leaving her father to his musmgs.
It was after supper that he discovered the meaning of his last sentence. Mrs. Langdon told her that he had procured for his defense in the trial next month Mr. Alan Thornton, a rising young lawyer from Cleveland, already famous in his own State, a man thoroughly familiar with all the tricks and intricacies, twists and turns that a law suit instituted by a crooked man might present.
"Don't worry your father any more than necessary, Munya; he's very busy," was her closing admonition.
J\1Iunya, rather because she had other things to do and think about than because she was such a dutiful daughter, saw very little of her fathe r for the next few weeks.
One day at lunch he said to her. "You must put on your best dress and be very entertaining tonight. I'm bringing home to dinner the young lawyer who is going to outwit Boswell and his gang."
When at the close of a long and tiresome interview the lawyer was invited to dine at the home of his employer, he readily accepted. Langdon was very optimistic about the case since talking with Alan Thornton, and was surprised to find himself becoming really fond of the boy - for as such one thought of him after noticing his strong young body, waving brown hair, blue eyes with just a tiny glint of steel lurking in their depths, and his ready smile, so frank and spontaneous. Upon inquiry as to his family and learning that he was an adopted child, Langdon told him
of his only girl at home, who loved him and whom he loved as truly as if she had been his own.
When they reached the house Thornton was immediately introduced to Munya, and after being with her five minutes he was so thoroughly convinced that what her father had said of her was true that he seemed to despair of leaving her even for a moment. At dinner they were placed across from each other. They talked of everything -things that interest most young people -and at times were totally oblivious of Munya's parents, who were content to be an admiring audience. After the meal Alan Thornton was left in Munya's charge, and the time flew very quickly.
Mr. Langdon soon realized that with this attraction in his home it would be useless to bring Thornton there on business, and so they discussed business in office hours, but more and more frequently as time went on did the moon peep between the drawn curtains of the Langdon home to find a scene so bright and merry and an atmosphere so charming that his smile deepened, and he went on his way with a pleasant memory. These evenings were happy ones for the boy and girl, finding together the road of understanding that would lead them straight to the Land of Hearts' Desire.
"How is your case coming?" M unya sometimes asked, either because she felt a pulsing interest in his work, or else was afraid to lose control of the conversation and leave his thoughts and words to wander. He always told her that developments were . favorable, that, although the case was an extremely puzzling one he was determined to stamp it with success. He attributed to her the zeal with which he had worked these weeks so unceasingly, because with the remembrance before him of her words. of times when he had chanced upon her inner self, and had glimpsed a wee bit of the ambition and ideals that were hers, he could do no less than his best-and Alan Thornton's best was very good indeed.
So when the case was won and Thornton had received the hearty congratulations of those who were interested in his defense his first thought was of Munya, and his first impulse to rush to
THE MESSENGER
her and hear from her the praise and congratulations he knew were awaiting him, and to read in her eyes her admiration and trust, and the promise of her friendship - perhaps more. In obedience to his impulse, then, he was soon speeding toward her home. In the dark corner of the cab, contemplating his successSuccess! the magic of the word -well, he had success -yes, in business, but - <lid he, oh, dared he? -well, why not? He was asking himself this question as he alighted from the taxi and mounted the steps. Why not? There seemed no good reason, his efforts had been crowned with success in one respect, so maybe--!
The door opened and upon the threshold with one hand caught at her throat stood Munya, vibrating with intensity-intensity which re-echoed in him as he came toward her, his eyes fastened on her face.
"You've won!" she cried.
"Yes, I've won - one case. And if you'll come inside I'll try to explain a second, and a much more important one, Munya."
He could hardly trust himself to speak, or look at her as they went into the hall, and when, looking into the mirrow he saw reflected the happy light in her eyes, he turned and with one movement gathered her into his arms .
Some time later when Mr. Langdon returned he found two yery happy people, anxious to tell him of their plans. He showed no little surprise, which was properly masked for the occasion, but he heartily agreed, even to an early wedding, for which each seemed anxious. Mrs . Langdon, too, was pleased . She loved Alan herself, she said, and was eager to start making arrangements.
Alan thought he was the happiest man alive that night, and on his way to his hotel, wired his father the news, giving the date already set for his marriage in the near future.
The next afternoon, with Munya, he was looking over some pictures they had taken, and when he put his hand into his pocket for another, something rattled to the floor. He reached to pick it up, started to place it again in his pocket, and then held it out on his palm to her.
"That little ring," he said, "was given me by my sister the last time I ever saw her."
Munya paled suddenly, and hardly daring, yet impelled by some inner force reached for it. She gazed at it fixedly an instant, as if to make sure, then sprang suddenly to her feet and was half-way up the stairs before Alan comprehended her action. Although he thought her behavior strange, he could only follow her to the foot of the steps and wait for her. In a moment she re-appeared ancl came multely, unsteadily down to him. He noticed her pallor, her drawn expression with staring, unseeing eyes, but she gave him no time to question. She held out to him a shaking hand upon which lay a ten-cent piece with a hole in it! He stared, wide-eye d , then his gaze moved slowly to her face, as if to exact confirmation from her eyes. But the face was turned away-she wavered, seemed unable to stand. He reached out to steady her. She fainted. Catching her instinctively Alan called a servant in whose charge he left her, then wheeling around he ran wildly down the steps -from the house -anywherefrom that house! Unable to think, to reason, he strode forward, not noticing in what direction he went, but arrested himself, and turning , ran toward his hotel to prepare for an imm ediate return home.
At the door of the hotel a firm hand was placed upon his shoulder and he looked biankly around to meet the inquiring gaze o f his father. He was unable to spe ak, and seeing that his son was on the verge of a nervous collap se, the older Thornton guided h im up to his room.
\i\Then his father had finally extracted the a wful story, he seemed not nearly so disturbed as Alan thought he should be. But w ith an infuriating smile he went to his suitcase and hunted among so me papers for a moment, then chose one which he brought and read to Alan.
It was a statement as to the parentage of the boy whom he had taken from the orphanage, recently procured from and signed by the head of that institunon. There were few but vitally interesting facts contained in the dos:ument to the effect that Alan was the son of a man, who, when his boy was five, had married
THE MESSENGER
a woman with a daughter of three. The children were brought to the orphanage as brother and sister.
Alan, arrested in the middle of his frantic pacing across the room, looked unbelieving at his foster-parent, then with the firm, frank gaze still upon him, he uttered what was a groan of relief rather than a cry of joy, grabbed the older man's hand, and rushed down the stairs, out into the street, and bare-headed, hailed a taxi driver to whom he shouted the Langdons' address.
1n:bt~ricr
WARREN A. McNEILL, '24
"I would write," said the youth, "and gain undying fanie By the works I produce with my pen, And for ages to come I woulm blazon my name To be talked of and known to all men."
But the Goddess of Art detained the rash youth, And revealed what the ages have shownWhat is written to last , must be written in blood, And there's no blood will do but your own.
"Then I'll paint," said the youth, who in fear had drawn back, "With my brush, I will seek for renown; Since all nature's before me, there's nothing I'll lack In my search for the fair laurel crown!"
But again the dread Goddess stretched forth her white hand , And revealed what all painters have knownAll th e pictures which last must be tinted with blood, And there's no blood will do but your own.
Now abashed, yet undaunted, the youth made reply, "I will carve out my fortune froni stone , And with lines full of grace, I will charm every eye Until all to my greatness must own. "
Once again he was held by the Goddess' fair hand, While the rule of all art was made knownThe white marble was etched with the dropping of blood, And there's no blood will do but your own.
All the weak and indifferent vainly have tried To attain to the fair heights of fame, And the selfish and vain have attempted to win Without paying the stakes of the game; But the firm law of art, still unchangeable stands, And every true artist has known, That the price of real art must be paid in life-blood, And there?s no blood will do but your own.
w. N. BEEHLER, '23
"The term revolution is generally applied to a popular uprising that is characterized by violence of speech and action, and which aims to bring about changes beneficial to mankind." The world has witnessed many such experiences and the student of history too often find himself wading through seas of blood, bl ind ed in the smoke of battle, and crushed hy the vigor. force. and even savagery of the deeds perpetrated in revolutions. It is little wonder then that the average mind grows alar!11ed when the word revolution falls upon the ear, and the imagination pictures bloodshed, cruelty, death - the things that inevitably follow in the wake of the revolution; but as the power which uproots the sturdy oak is the same that fans the warm cheeks 'neath the summer sun, so is the term revolution applicable to movements which are neither swift, violent, or vigorous, but none the les s real, lasting and beneficial to mankind.
The past one hundred years have witnessed revolutions galore; but those which most effect us today are the least known, realized, or studied by the masses. Such a one was the Industri;ll Revolution. Probably no change has ever effected as large a number of people to the same degree as this one, nor presented more problems calling for sound, logical thinking. This revolution has changed the face of the world, and gathered millions of wo: -kmen, who formerly tilled the soil or owned a workshop under their own ro o f, into great industrial centers to feed huge machines. Out of thi s has grown the great industrial problems of today, when one man employs ten thousand men and knows none except his manager, and the relations between employer and employee are such that each values a day as another opportunity to rob the other of time or of wages. The radical and far-reaching changes wrought by this silent revolution can best be seen when one tries to realize America without its great industrial centers, its factories, railroads, steamboats, telegraph, telephones and electricity.
This revolution has effected the life of every person in America, their habits, health, occupation and their happiness.
No les s striking and quite as far reaching in its effects has been the Intellectual Revolution of the last century. The chains and bonds of superstition, tradition and custom have been broken and the thinker has been allowed to express his thoughts unmolested. It is well nigh impossible for men today to imagine a state of affairs, such that a man would be imprisoned for criticizing the State or the Church, persecuted because the discoveries of science seemed mysterious and out of accord with traditional notions about religion, and hanged because he insisted upon the separation of Church and State and the liberty of conscience. Yet, such a state of affairs existed at not so far distant a day, and the change has been brought by a silent revolution.
A study of or reflection upon revolutions - whether it be of the French revolution type, or of the silent intellectual type -has an appeal and effect upon the mind worthy of notice. The aspiring and daring youth often delights to picture himself midst the throes of revolutionary battle, a participator in intrigue, and a partner in bringing about some great change that is beneficial to mankind. The same youth or his more sober and studious brother also would rejoice to pa r ticipate in the great fight for freedom of thought, and in fancy finds himself upon the rostrum eloquently seeking to convinc e the world that certain p r inci p les were fundamental to the progress of humanity, ancl that thinking was the hope of the world.
Such youths need not aspire in vain, nor envy the glory that was others for the privilege of participation in a revolution, for it is only too true that as the Industrial Revolution and the Intellectual Revolution struggled for recognition, and finally came into its own, grown before recognized, there are revolutions in progress today calling for recognition, support, and able champions. On every hand in almost every field of modern thought new ideas and principles are seeking expression, clamoring for minds to solve vexatious problems, calling for voices to give utterance t o their interpretation, and for men to accomplish their adaptation. 1v1en need not look to yesterday to learn of achievements calling
44 THE MESSENGER
for valor, to find problems requiring sound logical thinking, nor tasks for which men mighty in body and mind are needed, for today as yesterday these things are looking for men. The problems of the world today are many and varied, and so are the revolutions now in progress. To mention a few of many, the industrial problem is now taxing the best minds of the world, and thinkers have come to see that_ another Industrial Revolution is fermenting and seeking realization, one presumably for the benefit of society as a whole. This revolution has engaged in hattle the best minds of the world, and the ultimate and attained will depend upon the ability, far-sightedness, and clear, logical thinking of the participants in the struggle. A revolution has been taking place in the matter of international affairs. Today a nation is no more free and independent of the rest of the world, than was it practical for Maryland to be free and independent of Virginia before 1787. This is a revolution in the strictest sense of the word, and as the idea of religious liberty found reality by eager, brave and thoughtful champions, so the new revolution in international relations calls for men of vision, purpose, learning, and of worth, to guide to a safe and sane reality the idea of some kind of international relationship, call it a League of Nations or what you wish. Such revolutions are about us by the score and if only men open their eyes, they will find a battle some place, where they are needed.
The seat and source of all revolutions is the human heart and mind. No battlefield has ever witnessed the struggles that take place in the human heart, for no matter how hotly contested a battle, it all is but a reflection o f the turmoil in the hearts and minds of the participants. Men have uttered words of eloquence that lifted men to the heavens, but the audience was far below the plane upon which the mind of the speaker soared; all of which is to say that no man can hope to participate in a revolution and witness its reality, without first experiencing it in his own heart and mind. The world is in greater need than ever before of men like Garibaldi, Washington, Rousseau and John Wesley. rvien who participated in revolutions, and achieved their reality, only after experiencing a revolution in their own heart
and facing even the whole world as the foe to be won, as well as conquered. When a man has caused an idea, a thought, a hope, to become a reality in his own mind, then can he hope to bring about a revolution and its achievement.
Thus if men today will first recognize the revolutions going on about them, see in their minds the accomplishment and reality of those that are worth while, and enter the lists as their advocate, !hey will find themselves embroiled in battles calling for as great deeds of valor and of thought as ever before in the history of the world.
~wo ,t3ocm~ jf rom~be ~pani~bof ,Sccqucr
MARJORIE MANNERS,' '23
XXIII
For a look, the world, For a stnile, the sky, For a kiss - ah, Love, I'm poor, A kiss I cannot buy!
XXX
We said goodbye - she would have wept, "For give!" I would have cried; Pride spoke, her eyes grew dry again, My plea for pardon died. And so we went on opposite paths, But oh, our love was deep, For now I ask, "Why was I still ?" She, " Why did not I weep ?"
,Jtlapltt
A. Y. Z., '24
The setting is the dining room in the Kemp home. The scene opens on Barrington Kenip, who is, at the moment, devoting himself zealously to a plate of sausage and onions.
Gilda, who, it develops, is Barrington' s wife, enters. There is a hint of displeasure in the way she takes in Barrington.
Gil.: It isn't lunch time, Barry. One should wait not less than four hours between meals.
Bar: Gilda, I'm sorry. It's all because of that blundering Regina. I have told her repeatedly to shut the south window when she puts pork and onions on the stove. This morning -she didn't. The result was that I, who was industriously at work. in my room, smelt pork and onions.
Gil.: You promised me, Barry, that you would stop smelling things in that room. I moved out for just that reason -so that you wouldn't be distracted by Regina's cooking.
Bar.: Dear, I wrestled with myself like a man. Really. But what am I to do in the face of onions? Pork sausages and onions. For twenty-five years I have resisted them more earnestly than Tannhauser resisted Venus. Tannhauser, I seem to recall , was granted divine assistance. Ten years ago it was corn beef and cabbage. When I married you I foreswore them both and I have fulfilled my oath like a gentleman. I have spurned corn beef and cabbage. Seven years ago I gave up garlic. You have not smelled garlic on me since. But, great heavens, Gilda, I am only human. When you ask me to give up work and omon s you ask my soul -the core of my aesthetic inspiration.
Gil.: I never eat them, Barry.
Bar.: Gilda, you are wonderful. For ten years you ' ve tolerated me with the forbearance of a saint. Another woman would have put poison in my soup. And I've loved you for it, all of ten years. When we were married I expected -do you r emember when we were married, Gilda?
Gil. (softly): Yes, Barry. It was New Year, 1912. There were two feet of snow outside.
Bar. : I can remember it perfectly. Your family had roast cluck for dinner, with-Gilda, I beg your pardon. My mind persists in running on food. I was going to say that I didn't believe then that we'd be loving each other ten years later. Secretly . -only when you were out of my sight -I expected disillusionment. Yon see, then, I was tremendously, fathomlessly in love with you. It frightened me. But now-I admire you and I respect you, powerfully. And I love you a thousand times more , although that's hardly possible.
Gil. : And have you ever thought about what I felt, Barry?
Bar. : Yes. Entirely too of ten for my own peace of mind. I knew that-that really you harbored a little love for -for this poor beggar. That was what induced me to swear off corn beef and cabbage.
Gil. : Oh, Barry. You don't know half of it. I was wildyes, wild over you.
(A pause.)
Bar.: It makes me sad-your talking in the past tense , like that, Gilda. If I had been different, I think possibly I might have been worthy.
Gil.: Oh, you could, Barry. You could. It was unbea r able nearly. Just standing by and seeing the man I loved-eat. It was worse than seeing you killed. Oh, Barry, you will never know just how greatly I loved you.
Bar. : Gilda, you'll break me all into pieces with this.
Gil.: At last, I put away my self-respect and what was left of my love for you. I threatened to leave you.
Bar. : That horrible night. I thought you had gone. I became frantic. I swore off eating garlic on the spot.
Gil.: You needn't have done it, Barry. I loved you too much, then, to leave you. I couldn't have carried it out. I stayed at mother's that night and came back the next morning.
Bar. : I wish you had come back that night, Gilda. I wish that you had walked in the moment I swore off garlic. You'd have seen a creature, perfectly mad, perfectly insane, and unspeakably
THE MESSENGER
in love with you. I seem to remember that I cried like a Belgian orphan. Not because you had left me, but because crying seemed to distract my mind - I could forget when I cried.
Gil. (tenderly) : You cried, Barry?
Bar.: Yes. Can't you imagine me with two huge tears rolling off the corners of my chin?
Gil.: Sometimes I think that you are only a small boy's spirit come to rest in the body of a grown-up. It would be just like you to sit clown and cry if I left you. I believe that if I left you right now, you'd just burst into tears.
Bar. (concentrating) : I can't say-:- I should not like to contemplate such an event.
( A heavy pause.)
Gil.: Barry, I feel as if I'm going to kiss you - just once.
Bar.: Great Heavens, Gilda! Remember, I've been eating omons.
Gil.: It doesn't matter today, because I ate kidney with onions for breakfast.
Bar. : Gilda !
Gil.: Yes, Barry. Think of it. I ate onions for breakfast.
Bar. (going to the door and shouting): Regina! (To himself) That confounded cook is at the bottom of this.
Gil.: No, Barry--!
Bar. (to Regina, violently): Regina, I told you when I hired you that Mrs. Kemp is never to be served any of my dishes. Now, I find that instead of serving her a civilized breakfast you have served onions.
Regina : Mrs. Kemp asked for them, sir.
Gil. (calmly) : Regina, you may go. Barry, listen - and stop blowing out your cheeks like that. I, of my own free will, ordered Regina to serve kidney and onions. Do you understand?
Bar. (weakly): You couldn't have done that, Gilda. It isn't m you.
Gil.: But I did really.
Bar.: But why? WHY?
Gil.: Oh, I think it was just an experiment. You see I hadn't really ever tried to eat them.
Bar. (painfully): Gilda, confess that you've tried to lower yourself to my level. Please, for my sake - for nobody else's sake - don't! You can't train yourself to like onions. It's ingrained. I ought to know you fairly well, Gilda, after ten years. And I tell you that you cannot, and never will be able to eat omons.
(A pause while his excttement subdues.)
Bar.: Poor, brave Gilda. She did her damnedest to lift her weak mate out of the mud. But it can't be done. His wings are all mixed up in it so that it's a question which is the mud and which is the bird. I'm afraid we'll have to give him up for lost. You see, the beggar's got accustomed to his environment until he's a part of it (brokenly). I can say with the utmost truthfulness that if one were to deprive me of my pork and onions he would abstract an essential portion of my soul.
Gil.: So, then, it's no use, Barry?
Bc1.r. : I'm afraid not.
Gil. : Last night I made a decision. I don't think I can hold out against them any longer - the onions, I mean. Unknowingly, you have just been through an ordeal, Barry.
Bar.: I never was the sort of chap who passed tests of any kind.
Gil.: (holds out her hand) : Good-bye, Barry. (He cannot speak.)
Gil: This- hurts me, too. (She goes out.)
(For several moments he sits in thought.)
Bar.: Regina! (Regina enters.) Bring us, at once, a large plate of--
Reg.: Yessir !
(CURTAIN)
m'.be~u~ic of tbe~pbere~
ROBERT BARRET, '26
Not sweetly solemn, Milton-wise, they play, Those far flung stars, in senseless nothing cast, But in one, wild, full-throated, mutinous bay, Their wrath arises as a war horn's blast.
How madly do they sell their souls for light! How bravely do they fling their flames afield! That brother rebels, wrapped in rayless night, May rise in wrath again, with courage steeled.
To rise again'! 'Gainst predestined def eat, To burst great hearts and Lucifer-like pride, Against eternal, frozen void to beat, Impotently, their vast rage ere they died.
Bitt, ah, the mighty music that they make As, purple hot, they, savage, swing through space; Eac/1 one's the song of giant at the stake, While all in one vast vitriol interlace!
W. ELLYSON, JR.
I am news, who is sought in every corner of the world. N umbers of men spend their lives in search of me. I am being found every day, but still the search for me continues. I believe that more men are paid to look for me than for anything else on earth. Money and happiness are more sought after than I, but who is paid to search for money and happiness?
Various definitions have been given to me. Will Irwin in a series of articles on The American Newspaper written for Callier' s Weekly in 1911 says that I am "a departure from the established order." This tallies more or less with the definition of me given by H. H. Brundige, editor of Th e Los Angeles E x press in a sympo sium di scussion concerning me held in the same magazine about the same time. Mr . Brundige says that I am "facts concerning any happening, event , or idea that possesses human interest; that affects or has an influence on human life or happiness." These definitions both fit me because to posse ss human interest or affect life an event must be a departure from the ordinary or established order. I am facts from beginning to end. I am, as yo u see , facts about practically everything beneath the sun.
The romance surrounding me is rich with the lives of those that have searched for me. The ends of the earth have been visited in search of me. The highest peaks scaled and the deepest caverns e x plored in the unending quest. This is because each editor is trying to make his paper the best mirror of the world. The painter is to that degree the master of his work in accordance with the trueness of his depiction of the scene he is painting. In like manner the editor is the master of his work in accordance with the trueness of his depiction of the subject he is portraying.
The editor is trying to portray me. He wants those who read his paper to open it at the breakfast table or at luncheon and to see me there in my entirety. For you must remember that I interest people or influence their life and happiness; that's in
THE MESSENGER
my definition. The editor who has the truest depiction of me has the best paper and the most subscribers, which means the most advertisers and the most money.
I am found in all parts of the world, wherever man has gone and perhaps one of these days I shall be found on Mars or the moon, if man ever gets there. In order to make his picture of me complete the editor must try and find all of me. For this reason he must send his representatives to all of the places where I might be.
Even when he has found me all of the editor's task is not completed. The great artist not only has a picture of the trees, the river, the leaves on the trees, the grass on the ground, and the clouds in the sky ; but he has applied a shadow here and a twist there to a leaf so that all of the details of the picture may stand out and the whole scene show as it really is. Likewise the great editor, or he would be great, must have his representatives study me and pick me apart so that when I appear in the completed picture not only will I be there in entirety, but every shadow and twist of me will be there, so that I, too, may appear as I really am.
An editor writing in Collier's Weekly about ten years ago divided me into two classes, which he termed actual and real. He illustrated by telling of an epidemic of typhoid fever. The number of the sick and the measures taken to stop the epidemic, he described as the actual part of me . The causes of the epidemic, neglect of the health authorities and graft, he described as the real part of me. He had the true artist's soul and in this manner not only would paint the true picture, but would portray from the gruesome face of that epidemic the forces that had made its life. He would paint the soul of the monster.
Some editors have found that the public appreciates a master painting of me . This is not strange, for are not the paintings of Millet and Rembrandt bought for enormous sums? These editors tried upon discovering this startling bit of human nature, to paint more and more master works - to supply the popular demand. Did Rembrandt find a suitable subject in every man or Millet in every field? Neither did these editors, who so
kindly endeavored to supply the popular demand. Rembrandt, from his note books, shows that much study was necessary to find a subject for a masterpiece. The popular demand, or possibly the bank account of the editor, cried, however, for another masterpiece.
The public must be served. I was sacrificed. Upon the altar of yellow journalism they placed me. I was a harmless sheep, but a preying wolf was needed. So they dressed me up in wolf's clothing. Then they lit the altar fires and stood by, painting another masterpiece as the fires burned. Did the public sense the counterfeit? The public cannot think in a hurry. Besides, "hasn't Rembrandt painted masterpieces before?"
I am still news. The treatment accorded to me by the yellow press touches but a small part of my immense being, tho that part which it does touch of times appears in print in the largest headlines. Every editor, I might say, does not belong to the yellow press. Some of them paint masterpieces only when they discern a wolf. I have wolves in me, for you ought to know by this time that I am human. Like all human beings there is in me some good and some bad.
I am the whole gamut of your experiences. Your fires and accidents are part of me, and I am the cost and the wounded and dead.
If you commit a crime or are arrested for a misdemeanor, you a re creating me. If the accusation is not correct, that, too, is my essence. If you are guilty, it is the same. When I am painted the world knows about your bad deeds and your escapes from the penitentiary or from death, be it by strength that you have escaped or by money. If you take your disputes over property to court, I arise again. If you procure an injunction against a corporation of capitalists or the union of the common laborer, that is an additional creation of me. If you get a divorce , I am created by the yard. In whatsoever way you deal with the courts and laws of this or any nation, I am .your dealings. If your difficulties or your person are important enough the world knows me. If not, just your home folks know. When your legislative bodies make laws, I am their nature and the reason thereof. If an investigation is ordered, I am the
THE MESSENGER
same. When you gather together for meetings of any sort, be the cause of importance, I am your accomplishments and of times your failures.
The speech es of your thinke rs a n d your men of political power form a part of my existence. I a m the pri vate thoughts of those men and others in the public realm.
The editor presents me when you have exhibitions, entertainments and other special occasions. Otherwise they would not draw half the crowd.
The editors watch over me during the illness of your great characters and oftimes a hypothetical account of me is written long before the end.
Your politics and elections are some of my f ea tu res which the editor publishes in his newspaper and these are carried to you, who are anxious to know the name of your next master.
I am your labor troubles and strikes, though not always reported in full. That would not be wise, that is for some of the papers, who profess to use me to fill up their blank columns.
The character and condition of your weather makes quite a bit of me.
Your sports are my favorites, for there I am always used to my limit. If the star be high salaried or great, I am created for his service.
If you are of the Four Hundred, I am your divorces and marriages, your goings and comings and your balls and entertainments. I am the news, who is everywhere and is all facts.
If there is an invention, a scientific discovery, be it a freak or not, it is recorded upon me.
I am whatsoever you do in this world that somebody else wants to know about. I am sad, I am joyously gay. Nobody knows exactly what I shall be tomorrow. I go hand in hand with you, and I slight no man or beast be he but worthy.
I am the facts of the world, and am put into the newspapers to interest the world. I, my actual self, cannot be disputed, but I can be given shadows and twists which do not represent me.
As a rule that part of me that the most people want to know about, is put on the front page and the most important part of
me occupies the upper right hand corner. That is, the editors try to place the most important part of me there, but they do not always know the most important part. Some days I am the death of an infant, who was destined to be a Milton or a Shakespeare. Then I am placed, if at all, on an inside page in a lower corner, that is unless someone kills me. That same day a story of a divorce trial occupies the upper right hand corner of the front page. All of this is not strange or funny; it is just true to life. I am then in reality just a cross section of life. "Not accurate," you say! Oh, yes, I am accurate to the highest degree. It is only that my hunters are not omniscent. The reason for this is that they are human. Therefore, my friends and patrons, I, news, shall continue to be cursed and termed inaccurate until the end of time. When that day comes I shall be transferred to the Hades edition of Tlze New York Times, and spend the rest of my existence in a fiery bed of ease. The Times, you know, only prints all of me "that's fit to print."
JSoohl\tbitltls
ONE MAN IN HIS TIME: ELLEN GLASGOW
Highly artistic in setting and descriptive effects , brilliant and entertaining in dialogue and philosophy, and strong in characterization is Miss Glasgow's latest book, "One Man In His Time." True to the instincts of an artist she has created nothing new yet nothing old. The dear old theme of the Southern School, the rise of the poor white under the rebuffs of the aristocracy is translated to modern conditions, but with dubious results. The book smacks of an inherent lack of understanding, not the lower classes, but the present situation in Virginia. Miss Glasgow illustrates vividly her intense social sympathy for the oppressed, her true appreciation of the workingman, and her intellectual keenness to what its worth consideration in this new world, such as social insurance, government ownership of railways, and the theory of evolution. As the leader of the lowly she presents the character of Vetch, a variant of the Lincoln type with an energetic, well accentuated personality breaking off abruptly at times to a hazy but grand figure of Christ-like love and justice.
Ye s , one feels instinctiv ely that Miss Glasgow is laboring under a disadvantage. The social cleavage herein presented is too sharp, the ideas of the workingmen reflect too much of the North or of France's laborers, tho se of the aristocrat too much of the Colonel Carter type , and the latter has too much of a monopoly on manners -for this book to be written by ab solutely distinterested authorship. For if one treat any era of history, unless he sacrifice truth to dramatic art ( which Miss Glasgow does not do) there will always be found a combination of the opposing forces of that era mixed into all classes of society and in the minds of the thinkers. whether it be socialism vs. democracy, evolution vs. liber a lism, or Southern tradition vs. liberalism, among the higher intellect s the best of each doctrine is usually extracted, leaving the wor st of each to fight for survival. The mind is, in this respect , a miniature of society. Even when open warfare results,
harmonizing of the doctrines in the above way is still going on. Miss Glasgow stressed the warfare by painting up a society long innocuous in the vital affairs of the state, but whose frigid influence pervades the mass.
The problem, clearly and dramatically expressed in the first chapter through the medium of setting and characterization is the traditional abhorence of the Southerner for that which is outside of caste. The triumph of democracy is complete when Stephen Culpeper (the name is sufficient) wins the daughter of Gideon Vetch, the girl born in a circus tent.
The abiding power of this book is that ( in spite of the treatment being somewhat a priori) it presents and overcomes a spirit felt in a moderate form throughout this old Commonwealth, "Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?" One of the lovliest characters in modern fiction is the real heroine of the book. Corinna, bound by the blood chains of generations, yet with a philosophy capable of understanding all things and a stoicism capable of bearing all things. Her life is Miss Glasgow's message to Virginians.
C. Vv. G., '23.
P A INTED WINDOWS: THE GENTLEMANWITH A DUSTER
Since the great war a new form of literature has appeared before the reading public of the world. The new type has successfully combined the brief biography -memoirs of illustrious personages -with a light and somewhat humorous criticism of living personalities who have gained the attention of their fellow s . It presents them to themselves just as a mirror portrays in its flashing depths the perfections and imperfections of an individual's outer appearance. In truth, some of the works of this new literature bear such appellations as "Mirrors of Downing Street," "The Glass of Fashion" and finally "Painted Windows." The three above-mentioned volumes are the literary contributions of one anonymous author who styles himself the "Gentleman With a Duster." He claims merely to brush off the cobwebs and the accumulati ons of dust which have covered the characters of men
THE MESSENGER
of great power, hiding them from their colleague s .
On glancing over the contents of "Painted \ Vindow s," the reader, of England, perhaps prej udiced by Bryan, who cannot intere st himself in the theological world, begins to lose interest in th e book. The volume is merely a ser ies of articles ( no other te r m ca n express it) written in the m ost Euphonious English in a st y le far above the standard of th e average essay, u sing as themes the foremost churchmen of England who are rep re sentative of the different schoo ls of religious thought. Beside s disclosing best traits of these divines, th eir failings and di sapproved motives which prevent them from rising to a higher pedestal are enumerated. T he "Gentleman" with great sag acity, admirable ph ilo sophy , and in highl y polished language includes in this li st of church leaders the highest divines of the Anglican church, the fore most ministers among the Congregationalists, a distinguished yo uthful Catholic pries t, and the leader of the Salvation Army. It is intere st ing to note that one of tho se enumerated among the Anglicans is a woman, Maude Royden, who has contributed much toward improving the religious thought and moral conditions of the lower classes.
It remains for the reader to examine the marvelous portraits presented in this book. Surely they appear as if on Painted Windows.
D.S., '23.
THIS FREEDOM : A s. M. HUTCHINSON
This new novel by the author of the much talked of "If \iVinter Comes" is disappointing , to say the least. It is an attempt to show that woman's place is in the home and to demonstrate the tragic inability of a woman to maintain her status as business executive and mother at the same time. Mr. Hutchison is palpably not in sympathy with the feminist movement.
The first half of the book tells the story of Rosalie's childhood and days at school, and traces the beginning of her revolt against what seems to her an unjust discrimination in favor of her brothers and men in general. This part of the novel contains much that
is praiseworthy, rising to real power in some places, especially in the delineation of character, each member of Rosalie's family being well portrayed. There are also certain memorable scenes such as the suicide of Anna, the older sister.
Rosalie's phenomenal rise to success in business and her sudden romantic marriage lead to various complications in the latter part of the book. She is unwilling to relinquish her dearly bought freedom, but in the end she pays for it with more than she reckoned for, when she sees her three children go down in death and destruction. This situation seems artificial and overdrawn; it is hard to believe that certain ruin follows every family whose mother finds greater usefulness abroad than at home. Nevertheless the book is undoubtedly interesting, and is one which seems destined to cause wide discussion and difference of opinion.
BABBITT: SINCLAIR LEWIS
Here we have "Main Street" again, but in a more solid form than before, embodying the ideals of George F. Babbitt, his wife Myra and their trivial doings. Triviality in this case, though, does not make for insignificance - the town of Zenith might well be our town and Babbitt any member of the local Rotary Club or Boosters' Association. What is universal cannot be insignirrcant, and so Babbitt with his real estate business, his shop talk and vulgarity might almost be taken as a composite portrait of any number of American men who hide beneath a vulgar, stupid exterior a little of the dreams and ambitions we all have left over from our youth.
The action of the book is slow; it might really be considered as a series of sketches, but this method of writing is already well recognized as characteristic of Mr. Lewis by those who have read "Main Street." Babbitt is by no means a masculine Carol, still in somewhat the same way as in the earlier novel we are made to feel that part of ourselves has been caught between the bindings of a book and given an unfamiliar name.
L. M., '24.
The Furman Echo, with its change of size, offers a distinctive sippearance if not an advantage over the form dimensions. There is something satisfying and appealing in the construction of this magazine. The double column page, as usual, lends greater dignity and strength to the presented article. Mr. R. F. Morrison is to be highly complimented on his story, "The Blue-Eyed Chinaman," which is so consistently executed that its good writing would be commendable even if the plot were less enjoyable. The poetry is much better than is usually found in our exchanges. Mr. Wong's article is worthy of careful notice and the editors deserve commendation for adding something of that type to college magazines.
On the whole The Furman Echo is convincing, original and well prepared. We look for equally good copies later.
In the ·wake Forest Student, Gay G. Whitaker's "Juggernaut" is the outstanding contribution. In construction this story is simple and effective. We enjoyed reading it. Your editorials are good, but they perhaps contain a bit too much local interest, which you know is somewhat out of place in the literary magazine. Your departments are excellent and add to the general impression of The Student. The poetry is weak, as in most of our college publications.
The Meredith College Acorn begins the year courageously. The story entitled "How Venus Lost Her Arms," while ingenious in its plot and satisfactory in point of interest, lacks the literary charm which simple narration seldom attains. Miss Linebury's essay deserves the space it occupies and yet we wonder how many of the students at Meredith will read it carefully. It is our experience that research and lengthy critical work is not well received by the students subscribing to college publications. "Moon-shine"
is scarcely more than padding and it is suggested that while it may have served admirably to withstand the English Department, it does not approach the standard we trust The Acorn tries to maintain. Miss Hatcher's story, "The Shadow," is very interesting, but lacks conviction and color. "Mountains and Molehills," we fear, does not appeal to us in the least. Childish is the best we can say for it. Editors of The Acorn, expand your editorial articles; make them more noticeable in variety and originality. In other words, avoid trying to "boost" the magazine in the ineffective way all college magazines do - that is, by begging students to contribute.
~oltil ((oucbantet JLebant w.,'24
Quand je vois le soleil couchant en vapeurs, le me trouve enveloppe des doutes et des peurs, Parceque !'amour a aussi disparu; fl se cache dans larmes et peut-etre il est perdu.
Mais contre tous ces douleurs, mon amour fonde les toursM a jolie Petite, je vous aimerai toujours; Et quand la nuit sombre et incertain passe, L'aurore fera fuir tout ce qui m'harasse.
y OU all have a nice school We uns have a nice cafeteria. And we uns don't believe in a high tariff, but We uns want your acquaintance. So our Get
