The meaning of tolerance should by no means be obscure to a college student. In fact , the very keynote of a college education is a knowledge of the rationality of that term. And yet there are many of us who do not appreciate the finer application of the word. As we have been told every since we were Freshmen, a college training is merely instruction in the ability to think. Now reason should, without effort, disclose the glaring irrationality at the heart of intolerance. Unfortunately, the negative usage has become fixed in our minds as ref erring to religion and politics. Intolerance in government and ecclesiastical beliefs has been a sustained tone in the symphony of history, and we have come to associate it with these two fields alone. In this age of self-assertion, it is not unthinkable that all individual endeavor should tend toward intolerance, especially when intense competition and specialization are universally existent. But self-assertion is a decadent concept of the morally approved character and cannot find successful exercise in college circles.
There are those who feel free in denouncing THE MESSENGER, in toto ; and who call their diatribes criticism A blindness to the object of this magazine in its attempt to provide a workshop for those who are trying to improve their literary expression , alone can justify such wholesale disapprobation. If their criticism is founded on belief in themselves as more successful dealers in written words than present contributors, then we heartily invite material of higher literary value. But if these bitter critics can only mouthe denunciation for the satisfaction of display, then we must label such remarks as out of order, as undeserving and intolerant. The student who cannot judge his fellow's work without condemning it in the event it does not equal his own or his possible own, is not worthy of the confidence which accompanies him as a college man. Criticism is, of course, valuable, but when it becomes merely denunciation, we can deal with it only as a nmsance.
THE MESSENGER
We wonder why it should be necessary to legislate in a student body against noise. Possibly there is need for an amount of shouting and yelling on the part of a college student : a tradition seems to be extant that no man from college has done more than "rah ! rah!" for a few years in return from which he has received a piece of sheepskin tied with a blue ribbon. If we interpret the exuberance of youth as the desire to scream and yell, we must deprive those not attending college of a good deal of natural energy release. We are not surprised to find a child expressing its emotion by resorting to the easiest release: that of the voice. But it is a little hard in the light of the dignity expected of college men, to understand them, stamping upon floors, howling and yelling at the most unanticipated times, and resorting generally to a complete lack of control in this respect. Unconsciously, our governing body realizes these conditions and legislates against the promiscuous noise which tends to become a burden to those whose temperaments, reason, sense of fairness to others, or what not, make for more praiseworthy conduct. Thus rules are laid on those who tend to become intolerant and to disturb the privileges of others.
Intolerance, then, constitutes a larger meaning of selfishness. If the tendency, which a college education has toward teaching the individual introspection, is really working there should be little need for reminding these flagrant violators of the rights of others. If their own minds do not inform them of the intolerance of their behavior after having had college training for several years, it is doubtful whether they will ever appreciate its value except as a utility.
Furthermore, 1t 1s surpnsmg that the average youth does not understand the value of a training which is relative between the two forces of life: the individual and the rest of society. When Freshmen are warned not to cultivate prep school methods in college life, many upperclassmen disregard their own childish behavior and intolerance. If there is a type of conduct which identifies itself with a college student, and this is essentially intolerant, there is little to be said; but as far as one can judge from standards
of human relationship, a larger conception of unselfishness, which is merely tolerance, should be cultivated while in college. Finally, it would seem that the little, apparently insignificant, manifestations of intolerance are of no importance; and yet in our opinion they are responsible for much of the dissention and unpleasant happenings on the campus. We forego the opportunity of quoting the Golden Rule, but appeal to the rationality of the average student to exercise a little more continence in his expansive moods.
~oa~ilbtrJlaple
Lithe Tree, lovely Tree, In the loud noon you have laughed at me, Tossing the sunlight from your hair, Twirling your sl,irts with coquettish air, And bowing amusedly.
Still Tree, stately Tree, Why do you stand now so wistfully L ifting your ar1111,5 to the wide -eyed star A tip-to e there in the west? What are You waiting for, breathlessly?
LOUISE WILKINSON, '24
THE MESSENGER
CHESTER FIELD
Contemporary American fiction has received a great impetus from the amazing genius of the various writers of advertising copy relating to the myriads of sure ways to success. From a casual reading of magazine ads it will appear to any but the most cynical unbeliever that with the unlimited number of keys to success available even to lean pocketbooks, an unsuccessful man exists in this enlightened land only because he is a congenital idiot or a perverse scoundrel who refuses to accept the Utopian opportunities offered.
If you desire a physique like Apollo, a face and form of Venus, a complete knowledge which will enable you to be anything from a draftsman to a factory superintendent, you can mark an " X " by the subject which interests you and from Scranton, Pa., or Chicago will come by mail the desired secret.
A long time ago, before we invented high-speed production, the chamber of commerce and Lydia E. Pinkham, success was considered rather difficult. The rules were simple, but unlike the Yale lock, the keys were many which would open the gate . Briefly, you started young and believed everything the teacher said and got on the roll of honor all through high school. After this you went to college, or you went to work. If you went to college you continued steeping yourself in academic erudition so that you might be president or something. If you went to work, with or without a degree, success was yours with disarming simplicity. You always did c1, little more than you got paid for. You never watched the clock. You always looked after the interests of the firm and practiced frugality, honesty and a few other things and trusted in the Lord.
Simple enough, you say? Well, if you think our fathers had an easy time, you will readily see, from reading The American Magazine and other contributions to the literary life of this country, that unless you are staying up late at night devising some means of failure you are bound to succeed.
Fifteen minutes a day and a five-foot shelf ( of any cheap material like beaver board) and the culture of Mathew Arnold is yours. And all on our easy payment plan.
If you are struggling along in some industrial plant and the "noble little woman" who serves as inspiration to higher things, deserves a new frock and other little nick nacks, don't let yourself feel downcast. Mail the coupon now. Enroll with us and by using "the hours that count" between 7 and 9 o'clock each evening you will soon be able to rush into the kitchen, and with clenched fist, declare to the little woman: "Nell, I've been appointed to the job of superintendent at $100 a week. Now we can have that little bungalow." Think of your loved ones and do it now.
Perhaps you want to swim and dance and indulge in other sports which constitute a good time. No use to pay $5 a lesson. Mail the coupon. If your nose is crooked , or your face is sad compared with Wallace Reid, don't worry. There's massage cream, hair restorers and a device for setting crooked beaks.
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If you want to be a clever after-dinner speaker, or develop, personality enough to speak forcefully at the chamber of commerce or the Kiwanis Club, sign on the dotted line and learn correct English and a few other things.
Sometimes you feel drowsy in the mornings and haven't the vim and vigor of a twelve-year child. If so, physical culture will make you feel like a new man after taking six bottles of Peruna. Take "the daily dozen" and you will have as much pep as the prairie mustang and walk to work instead of waiting for the car.
Diel not Alexander the Great, Napoleon and Jack Dempsey try N uxatecl Iron and the theory of conscious evolution. Don't be a goof all your life. Grasp the key to success -any of them. Success opens as easily as a Y. M. C. A. locker.
Have you and your wife ever felt as dumb as two owls when listening to the Joneses talk about current events, and the deplor-
18
THE MESSENGER
able conditions in Russia and Czecho-Slovakia? Have you wondered why Yap was and what caused the Shantung question? Purchase our readable book of facts or subscribe to The Mentor and you can meet all comers in matters related to Tasmanian devils or Lenine and Trotsky.
Cultivate a taste for good literature. Don't read the Whizz Bang all your life. These attractive volumes of Shaw and Isben as less than 10 cents each. Is this too good to be true?
Has your face ever flushed at the thought of committing a breach of etiquette? Did you appear at the retail merchants' monthly luncheon in evening dress? What is wrong with this picture? The young man doesn't know whether to accept her invitation to come in the house at the late hour. Would you know, just at a glance, whether her husband was at home?
The examples given are only a few of the innumerable "gems of purest ray serene" to be found in the unfathomed depths of easily acquired knowledge. Have you forgotten something important like your wife's birthday? Would you recognize Mr. Addison Sims, of Seatle, Wash., if you met him on the dance floor at Virginia Beach. You remember he's the fellow who sat next to you at the lumberman's convention. For $5 David M. Roth will teach you to perform similar feats of memory.
Did you know that Queen Elizabeth liked masculine admiration? This and other startling facts are contained in this splendid little book.
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Personally, we eagerly await the arrival of this book, and give you our unqualified recommendation. We have been confidently assured by newspaper men that after twenty years they had made no money at their work. Twenty years ago they would have given
their last black pencil and theater pass, as well as the $15 due Saturday night, for the opportunity which awaits you if you mail the post card now.
We would not appear too light hearted. We would fortify ourselves against attack and say that much good could come from application to any of these fountains of knowledge. We would go so far as to give some few of them credit for almost altruistic motives - a desire to help man get up in the world.
But, as we originally said, such ads are a great contribution to current fiction, and we suggest that those who are gullible enough to believe over 10 per cent of the "keys to success" literature should stand over in the crowd with the lads who believe that if you dance you will go to hell. It will be a congenial gathering. If the gang is not large enough then to carry any election you can call up those who believe "the thinkers of the country are tobacco chewers."
THE MESSENGER
PoLLY SIMPSON, ex '23
Mary, Queen of Scots.
David Riccio, her Private Secretary.
Lord Darnley, her Husband.
Baron Ruthven.
Morton, Lindsay, Douglas, three Lords.
Jane Kennedy, Maid.
Francis, Former Husband of Mary. Serving-men.
Soldiers.
ACT I
SETTING
The supper room at Holyrood. A fire glows on the hearth. At the right several old tapestries and portraits are on the wall. At the back, to the left, is a small window and next to it the door leading clown the secret stair to Darnley's apartments. A door to the left leads to the Queen's bed-chamber. In the center, a suppe r table is set. The scene is lighted by the firelight and the glow of candle light on the table, and from the scenes on the wall.
COSTUMES
Mary is dressed in a gorgeous reel robe. David in black.
Darnley and conspirators in disheveled evening garb.
SCENE I
(Maid is arranging supper table. She spreads the cloth and gets china from cupboard. Arranges the plates and cups with care; rearranges and steps back several tim es with her head atilt to view the result. Attendant brings tray of food which she also arranges with care.)
JANE: I hope Master Davy cheers her majesty! These are sad times for us all, but most for her, poor lady-she used to seem
MESSENGER 21 so happy, too! (She gets cake from cupboard and regards it admiringly.) In truth this is a noble cake -if I be the maker -if it but find my lady's favor!
(There is a knock at the door. She goes and lets David in.)
JANE: All is ready, Master Davy, and her majesty will JOm you shortly.
D AVID: Ver y well, Jane. How seems her majesty?
JANE: She is sometimes like unto a small child, Master Davy, whom nothing pleases , and but yesterday she th r ew -with great force , too, -a book at me. You must not think that I mindednot I who love her so -but it shows she's not herself. Pray cheer her as you best know how.
DAVID: I will do my be st; I will do my best. Thou art a good girl, Jane. We'll never leave her -God willing!
JANE: No, never , Master Davy. (Sh e h es i tat es putting ne edless touch es to tabl e.) Dost like cake, sir?
DAVID ( turning and seeing cake) : Why ble ss my soul ! What a splendid -indeed, what a beautiful cake! And thou hast made it with thy own hands, I'll wager.
JANE: Yea. Dost think 'twill please her maj esty?
DAVID (s eriously) : I have no doubt that it will delight her! I'll tell her how 'tis your own work, and that will make it dou bly good -to our dear Sovereign love and loyalt y are a s swee t as cake itself.
JANE ( beawiing) : Oh, thank you, Sir; you a re most kind. My next cake shall be for you !
( David walks to the fireplace and looks into th e dancing flames. Th e Que en enters qui etly and walks to th e cen te r of stag e, Da v id sudd enly turning and s ee ing h er.)
DAVID: Ah, my Queen, you are very beautiful tonight.
(Sh e makes a disparaging gesture.)
THE MESSENGER
MARY: Come, the supper grows cold while I dally over my toilet and you gaze, day-dreaming, into my fire. What saw you there, "Master Davy?" ( She seats herself gaily.)
DAVID: I saw you, My Queen, as always -gay as you are now, sad as I have sometimes seen you, stern or carefree -but always you.
MARY: Ah , David, would that there were others with my welfare so at heart as you !
DAVID: How good it is, my Queen, to see you glad as you are tonight. We shall not talk once of sad things, shall we?
MARY: No, not once! (Leaning on the table and looking at him beseechingly.) Tell me again of Italy in the Spring. It is like France, I know. Sometimes I get so homesick for France that I think I cannot bear it. Oh, I am a prisoner to the affairs of my cold, unfeeling country, David. But forgive me this selfcommiseration. I did not mean to grieve you. Tonight I was going to be all glad.
DAVID: Ah, my Queen, my heart bleeds for you. This is a cold and cheerless land for one so fair and young at heart as you, but come -shall it not bring you to great things? Shall you be not only the fairest , but also the greatest Queen of these times? Thy maiden sister now, they say that she is not one-tenth, nay, not one-hundredth so fair as you, and she is not of the faith. Could we but bring her people to recognize you as their sovereign and lead them to the true faith.
MARY: The time for that is past David. Oh, let us not talk of heavy affairs of state tonight. Let us be carefree and happy, if we can -just for tonight. Sing to me -ballads of old Francesuch as you alone know. Let us shut out the roar of this wintry wind and sail away to sunny France. My thoughts seem unusually drawn back tonight. Last night I dreamed that I stood beside the bower in the garden at Versailles where Francis and I used to sit together, and I watched Francis walking toward me through the flowers, but just as he almost reached me a cold moor
wind began to blow and he changed in some strange manner to Darnley, and the wind withered the flowers as it swept over them. I reached for the friendly shelter of the little bower and it had turned to a cold wall of stone. I could say this to none but you, David, but these endless bickerings with Darnley are killing me. (She rises and walks to the fireplace and leans her head against it. Riccio watches pityingly.) Oh, my poor dead Francis. Oh, I want him, David, I want him so! (She wrings her hands in agony.) He might have lived to be a great King, and he was the truest, the best, lover that a woman ever had. Sometimes I awaken at night thinking that he has just lain his slender white hands on my hair as he used to do. He was too frail and fair a flower to live in the harsh winds of the world, but if I only might have kept him. How happy we could have been! Do you believe that people are gone when they are dead, David? If I could only find him again somewhere to comfort me in my sorrows!
DAVID: None would willingly desert one so fair as thee, my Queen.
MARY: Answer me not in words and vain compliments. I asked thee for thy truthful opinion!
DAVID: My Queen, mine are a superstitious people and they do not think as these people here. They do not believe that the dead are gone after death, but that they come back to their dear ones in distress. Well do I remember my old mother saying that my dead father did appear to her on St. Catherine's Day and comfort her for the loss at sea of Gabrielle, my brother. Mayhap these are but the baseless beliefs of a sentimental people - do not take my sayings so to heart.
MARY ( with a shining face) : Oh, if I could but see him again for a moment to give me the courage to go on.
DAVID: Wouldst have me sing. (Lower tone and seriously.) Think not these dark thoughts, my Queen. Listen, I will sing to thee of the Spring in the South.
MARY: They are not "dark thoughts." They are shining thoughts - but sing-I would have thee sing. Shut out that
THE MESSENGER
wind -it sounds like the legions of my enemies beating to get in to me. Hark ! Is there someone on the stair?
(Enter Darnley. He crosses and kisses Mary on the cheek. She draws away. He has evidently been drinking.)
MARY: Ah, my lord, hast supped? If not, sit clown and let me ring for a servant to serve thee.
DARNLEY: I thought that thou wouldst have finished thy supper by this time? Hast accomplished much business of state with David?
( The tapestry lifts over secret door, and Ruthven enters. He has been ill, and is ghastly pale. Mary looks fro1111,one to the other )
MARY ( addressing Ruthven) : My Lord, I was coming to visit thee in thy chamber, having been told that thou were very ill , and now thou enterest our presence in thy armour. What does this mean?
(Ruthven unceremoniously seats hi111,5elf.)
RUTHVEN: I have indeed been very ill, but I find myself well enough to come here for thy good.
MARY: And what good canst thou do me?
RUTHVEN : There is no harm intended to thy grace, nor to anyone, but yonder paltroon, David; it is he with whom I have to speak.
MARY: What hath he done?
RUTHVEN: Ask Lord Darnely, your husband, madam.
DARNLEY ( as she turns to him , he turns away, shift3 1 - eye d) : I know naught of the matter.
MARY: You have heard my husband, and will please withdraw. Your presence in this state is displeasing to us. Roderick, assist the Baron down the stairs. ( Enter attendant, but Ruthven brandishes weapon and will not leave. David awaits fearfully th e outcome. The room , fills with armed 111,en.)
MARY: What is the meaning of this? Do ye seek my life?
RUTHVEN: No, madam, but we will have out yonder villian Davy.
(Ruthven lunges with his sword at David, but the Queen puts aside the thrust with her hand and springs in front of David )
MARY: Base coward, to strike an unarmed man.
RUTHVEN: Seize him, men; it is for the Queen's good.
MARY: If my secretary has been guilty of any misdemeanor, I promise to exhibit him before the lords of the Parliament , that he may be dealt with according to the usital forms of justice.
DAvrn : Madam, I am a dead man.
MARY: Fear not, Lord Darnley will never suffer thee to be slain in my presence; neither can he forget thy faithful services. ( Darnley is speechless and fearful.)
RUTHVEN (to Darnley): Sir, take the Queen, thy wife and Sovereign to thee! (Darnley catches and holds her.)
MARY: Take thy hands off me, thou vile and base coward. (Turning to men.) Thou mayst kill this unarmed man, but thou shalt first kill me.
RUTHVEN: We will have out that gallant!
(Mary places herself in front of Riccio.)
DARNLEY: Let him go, madam; they will not harm him
DouGLAS: No, we will not harm this brave and dashing young gallant who hideth behind the skirt of his love - ha, ha -ah , he is handsome; look, ye gentlemen, at his noble stature .
MORTON: No, we would not dare to harm this tall and strong lover of the Queen. She, she protests this noble Sir David
DAVID: Do not risk thy life for me, my Quen; retire from this scene. It is fated that I die. Forget not our conversation of this evening!
RUTHVEN (to all) : Ah, you see!
THE MESSENGER
(Douglas aims at Riccio over Queen's shoulder and he falls. The Queen giving one glance sways back against the wall.)
MARY: Ah, poor Davy! My good and faithful servant, may the Lord have mercy on thy soul.
CURTAIN
ACT II
(Mary stands in front of the fireplace, where the fire has gone out.)
MARY: Nothing but ashes, cold ashes - I shall soon be like that. (She shudders and, turning, holds out her hands to the candles' warmth on the table. Walks to the window.) These wind-swept hills and sorrowful glens of thrifty sowing and iron reaping - what power has beauty to touch and melt their snows. ( Turning and facing room.) How like the spot where David died for me. Were he only here to make me believe and hope the impossible again - but it was all wild dreams I suppose. Francis is gone - he does not know or care - they are all gone - my friends. (She puts her hands on wall in sudden bitter rebellion.) Oh these gray walls are built of sorrow! (Enter maid in great haste.)
JANE : It can't be true, but if it is God grant that I may be brave for her. I was stopped and the ladder taken, your majesty. I did the best that I could. It is not true, is it, what I have heard? Say that it is not true (hand outstretched to Queen.) (Taking hope.) He was wrong; it was a false report. They could not.
MARY: If you mean the sentence-it is true, Jane, and it is all right about the ladder. There will be no need now for that. It was but a vain hope at best. The caged bird has ceased to beat its wings, Jane, and waits
JANE: No, no, they cannot, they shall not! I will tell them again that the charges are not true. I will go out and rouse the people. It shall not, must not be! (She starts toward the door.)
MARY: Nay, stay child, it is too late for mortal help. Come, I have something for you. (Taking carved ring from her finger.) I brought this ring from Fance with me when I came, and I want thee to keep it to remember me by -and Jane, thou art young and thy life is before thee, do not waste it on the things that are not real -pleasure is well enough in its place, but do not crave too much -and do not marry without true love because the punishment is sure and it is certain, and do not forget to pray always to thy saint for guidance. And Jane ( she takes gold-lace-edg ed handkerchief from her bodice) take this kerchief and tomorrow (she stops and her lips tighten) tomorrow when I go -up on the scaffold -thou wilt -tie it over my eyes. Thou wilt promise me this?
JANE (draws back with horror watching th e Qu een' s calm face) : Yes, my lady, I will. ( She takes handkerch ief.) Oh, my Queen, it is not true; what they have said. ( Sh e falls on her knees.) I would that I could die for you -though I do fear greatly to die!
(She kisses the hem of the Queen's robe.) Thou art my Saint, I could worship no other more !
(Exit Jane weeping, the Queen looking sadly after her.)
MARY: I am no better than Jane at heart. I, too, fear to die. (She picks up a hand-mirror and feels of her throat.) To think that tomorrow they will cut it with cold steel. I wonder if I shall know and suffer. I am afraid of pain. Oh, it comes back upon me, the pain that I have let others bear for me! David-what was it he said? (Half turning.) "The dead are not gone; they come to comfort their loved ones." Francis, come to me -they press so close about me, and I fear to die. Oh the black hung room, the hard, staring, unfriendly eyes, the glinting steel, the deathly silence. Oh, I know, I have seen men die, and now I die -like the least of my subjects and by the hand of my kinswoman. May God forgive Elizabeth. (Turning.) The window!-I will cheat them. (She opens it, and looks out; then starts back.) Oh, I
THE MESSENGER
cannot; it is so high, and the stone so hard below - and I dare not! ( Turning and running to the other door.) Jane, go, go and get help, somewhere, anywhere; do not let them kill me - JaneJane - (stopping.) I cannot let the child sacrifice herself for me !
JANE ( at the door) : Thou hast called me?
MARY: Wouldst tend the fire?
(Jane stirs fire and goes out, sadly.)
MARY ( in trembling voice) : This is foolish, weak of me. I, a King's daughter, whimper and whine at the thought of death. I am not true to the blood that I bear. ( Standing- in the 111,iddle of the floor with arms outstretched.) I am not afraid to die; it is a glorious adventure! ( Suddenly bowing her head in her arms.) It is not true, not true - I am afraid to die - the cold steel and after that the cold grave! (In sudden anger, stamping her foot.) Where are my professed friends to let me die like this! Ah, shame to me with the blood of Babington so lately spilt! Suppose the axe should slip and but half perform its task - I have seen them so - on the block-I have seen them so. (Falling on her knees by table.) In te Domine speravi- Oh, I am afraidafraid. ( Silence and her sobbing breath.)
(A light slowly shines in the door from the next room. A figure in white with his hand on his sword hilt enters and advan ces almost to the table and stands lool,ing at the Queen. Her head s!owly rises as if impelled. Starting up and back.)
FRANCIS: You have called me, Marie?
MARY (stepping eagerly forward): Francis! It is really you - but no! The light is so dim; it has tricked me. What would you of me, stranger? (In hushed voice) : Francis, it is you! (Stretching out hand): Oh ,you have come to help me. David was right. ( Stepping closer) : Take me with you - they prepare to kill me!
FRANCIS: You shall come to me, Marie, but not tonight, my beautiful one!
MARY: Francis, I have wanted you so.
FRANCIS: At last you shall come to me - at last you shall be mine forever - we two alone, unafraid, before all eternity. Life, death, sorrow, behind us, we two divided, at last one. One is our great love - an interval of pain and suffering - and what is that to pay for that which shall be ours. Our love that came out of eternity, goes back into it, tried and proved in the fire of earthly sorrow - pure as molten gold-part of all nature - part of all beauty - endless - dealthless - triumphant.
MARY ( hushed voice) : Is it like that? Can such things be? (More rapidly.) You know that I have never forgotten younever for a moment - you have only been beyond my reach - out of my life - gone forever - only your memory and no hope in my heart of ever seeing you again. (Aside.) This is some trick of my senses! I am overwrought with so rrow, there is nothing there but your image in my heart, your remembered voice; Francis, can you not tell me again that it is not so, that you are there, that what you have said is true?
FRANCIS: Only this can I tell you, Marie. I, deathlessly your lover stand before you in the form of your memory, tellin g you eternal truths to make your way easier. Soon you will be free to come to me. Would that I could bear your pain for you, but that may not be. Go your way bravely, sweetheart. I await your coming!
MARY: Because of you I shall go bravely, Francis. (The light fad es .) ( On h er knees) : Goodbye, sweetheart!
MARY: He has gone, and yet the room is full of him and fear has no longer place.
(Enter Jane with candle.)
JANE ( who has been crying) : Who torments thee now, my Queen? I heard thy voice murmur. Come you to bed ; the hour is very late.
THE MESSENGER
MARY ( rising to feet and facing the audience) : Love has conquered Death I am no longer afraid to die. Kings, Queens, nations -all fall before their conqueror. Only a brief momentary agony that serves as a stepping stone to eternal happiness and thee -sweetheart.
JANE (aside): Her mind, poor lady-it is a small wonder. (Louder): Come, your majesty; you must have rest. (She leads the Queen out, talking as she goes.)
JANE: I have prepared thy bed, and arranged thy things as thou hast bid me earlier in the evening
CU RTAIN
~beRe1,urrection~rant w. A. MCNEILL, '24
This thing I s end , so shriv eled up and dried , Was once a plant , but now for 111,any y ears It has lain thus , and ev en now appears As if for lack of moisture it had died: Yet in thos e w ith er ed leaves niay yet reside That spark of lif e so puzzling to our seers, For, if imwiersed in nature's gentle tears, It lives again , death ' s semblance thrown aside.
My love for you is withered, but not dead; Regret ' s reviving tears might yet restore The breath of lif e, and it would lift its head, To blossom blithely as it did before.
Both plant and love I give into your care ; You must decide - is death or Zife their share ?
UtbtUtotueroftbtj$loon
ROBERT BARRET, '26
Pope Clement, weary of the vacant hours, Sick of the shifting mockery of the moon That drew the pontiff out among damp flowers In draughty courtyards, swore that he would soon, In one black bastion of his eastern towers, The restless beauty of the witch inhume.
With pealing bell and book, and candle lighted, The pope awaited moon-rise after the day, Within his garden where his scribe indited A papal bull denying her to stray, Till papal power and God were disunited, Light footed wanton on the milk-way.
With gaze on the tower, the clerk and the pontiff listened To great bells calling the hour for the moon to rise, When every casement and oriel radiant glistened And out of each the moon looked into their eyes;
They stared at the hundred moons in the tower new christened, Amazed, and again at the rising moon in the skies.
Within the silken folds of southern evening, Pope Clement's tower even yet is seen, With pallid faces at each casement, grieving Their fragile, perfumed souls with dolorous mi en, While winsomely the moon trips, interveawing Her spells among magnolia turrets green.
THE MESSENGER
~be119eatbjflotuer
JANE WATERS, '23
Outside, the wind blew fiercely, the night was bitterly cold. In side, the shabby little room was very still. The father sat by t h e bedside, reading a paper. A lamp on a little table beside him burned with a dim, flickering light, filling the bare room with dingy sh a dow s . From time to time the man glanced up from his paper to the tiny , sleeping occupant of the bed. The sleeper was a little g irl of perhaps six years of age, with a white, pinched face and long , white-gold hair which lay on the pillow about her head in a tan g led halo. As the man looked at her, he caught his breath. How t r ansp a rent her skin was, like a bit of rare procelain ! How ea sily broken! And yet he who watched her knew that life would be worse than death without her. Two years ago her mother had left th em. Since then this frail child had been his life; he had only her. He rose and pulled the blankets closer about her. His gentle touch was as light and deft as a mother's.
There was not much warmth in the room . From the stove in the corner there came only a faint glow of fire. But coal was not to be bought in large quantities. There were the doctor's bills to pay, for the tiny girl in the bed had never been strong and had never walked. She must have care first. In the daytime, while her father worked in the mill, there must be a woman to stay with her. She must have the proper food, though he go hungry at times. And occasionally she must have a new toy or, during the summer, a flower from the market-place.
Ah ! she loved them best, the flowers. Her baby heart seemed always to be craving them. She had asked for them again today, the woman had told him, and had cried and fretted when told that flowers did not grow in winter time. This had troubled him, as every ungratified wish of hers troubled him. It also recalled memories of his dead wife, who had been passionately fond of flowers herself.
Even, as the father thought of these things, the golden head on the pillow stirred and a little voice whimpered, "Daddy, bring me flowers. Flowers, Daddy!"
"Hush, Laura. Go to sleep; Daddy's here."
A petulent whine came from the bed, then silence. Before the mental vision of the man there flashed a vivid, fragrant picture, a picture of the summer flower stand in the market place. The cold howl of the wind outside banished the picture, leaving him sad. There came another, of a frosty night just a year ago when he had waited outside a theater until the warm, laughing, jostling audience had poured itself out into the night. There had been a woman wrapped in costly furs, with red roses on her belt. And he had stepped forward with uncovered head, asking : "Pardon me, Madam, but -my little girl is sick and is crying for flowers. They are so high I cannot buy her any. Might you spare just one of yours -for her?"
He remembered the woman's eyes as she had looked at him ,. startled at first, then filling with swift pity. She had plucked all the lovely roses from her belt, holding them out to him with an , impulse, "Take them all to her."
He had stood dazed for a moment, the gorgeous red blooms ; filling his arms. Then he had run nearly the whole way home ,. and oh, how glad Laura had been. Her eyes had shone like sunbeams and the roses had reflected some of their own vivid beauty in her warm cheeks.
Once a man had given li.im a carnation from his buttonhole, but Laura had not cared for the spicy flower. Once, in the vestibule of a church, a bridesmaid had given him two pink roses from her bouquet.
A fretting cry interrupted his musings. "Daddy, I want some flowers."
An icy fear gripped at the father's heartstrings. What could he do! His little girl must not waste her bit of strength in useless crying . He bent above her and smoothed the tumbled hair.
"Hush, dear. Tomorrow Father will try to find you flowers. Go to sleep now."
"No, Daddy; I want some now!"
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The white face quivered; the child commenced to cry in a spoiled, unhappy way. The poor father tried in vain to soothe and comfort her. He made rash promises, wove bright plans, but she would not listen. She only repeated over and over between her growing sobs: "I want some now, Daddy!"
The man flung down his paper and bent over her again. 'Laura," he pleaded, "will you be good and go to sleep if Daddy goes out to find a flower for you? I shall have to leave you alone. Will you go to sleep?
Laura opened her brimming eyes and said between two sobs : "Yes, Daddy, I'll go to sleep."
The man brought a dampened cloth to wipe away her tears. He pushed back her hair, turned her pillow and straightened the covers about her. Stooping, he kissed her. Already her lids had drooped shut, her sobs had changed to shuddering breaths. He put on his coat and hat, turned the lamp lower, and going out, locked the door behind him.
He hurried along the narrow, uneven street which led past his tiny house, through the rest of the mill district to one of the broad, main throughfares. There was no definite plan in his mind, only a firm resolve to get his baby her flowers. As he turned into the broad, light street, a city clock struck twelve. Despair seized him. All the shops would be closed, the theater-goers would be in their homes. He paused before a lighted florist's window with its display of perfect blooms. But the door was fast closed; the interior of the shop dark. An echo rang in his ears, "I want some now, Daddy!"
He started forward. He quickened his steps, heedless of direction. Suddenly he found himself on a broad , beautiful avenue, lined on both sides with fine residences. His frantic eyes searched the long row in desparation. One of them -his hands gripped each other, he felt moisture on his brow.
"Daddy, I want some now!" And then her sobs.
He shot one swift glance about him. The wind twitched the bare trees, the serene, pitiless stars gazed down at him calmly. The broad avenue was dark and bleak with the absence of any living thing. The man fled up a pair of steep, white steps to the
porch above. He stole to the window. Inside there was candle light. * * * * * *
The father reached his home again. He found the child just as he had left her, sleeping with one thin little hand beneath her pale cheek. As he took off his coat she stirred, and her words came to him petulant and pleading :
"Daddy, I want a flower."
"Yes, Laura. Here it is."
The man sat down upon the edge of the bed. Leaning over her, he took her hand, closing the baby fingers about the stem of a beautiful, half-open rose, snowy white. At the touch of the firm stem and the fragrance of the bloom, Laura opened her dark eyes and smiled.
"Oh, Daddy," she whispered, "such a pretty rose." Then, the flower resting against her nose and lips, she fell asleep. The father, watching her, closed his eyes and shuddered. But she was happy. That was the one thing in the world that mattered.
Several days went by. Tenderly Laura cared for the beautiful rose, watching it die with wist£ ul eyes. And she, like the rose, seemed to droop. Then one day the father came home, to be met at the door by the woman who stayed all day.
"Oh, sir," she exclaimed, as he came up the two little steps, "Laura is kinder sick, sir. I think you'd oughter get a doctor."
The doctor came. He found Laura tossing restlessly about the bed, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with fever. In her delirium she had called for her rose and now it was clutched in her little hot hand.
Just four short days, for Laura's feeble strength had no endurance. Scarlet fever, the doctor said. He could give no hope to the poor, stricken father. And when at last Laura lay very still, the flush gone from her cheek, the bright eyes closed, her fingers still clasped the dry, faded rose. Withered, dead, it lay in her hand like a soiled thing. * * * * * *
Two women sat talking across a tea table.
"I heard such a strange story the other day," said one, as she
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sipped her tea. "It was about little Ruth Thomas, who died last week, you know. They kept her in the house just one night, and two aunts sat up with the body. A little past midnight they both left the room for a few minutes, and when they returned a· window beside the child was partly open, the candles were blown out, and a rose, which had been laid in Ruth's hand, was gone. The mystery is absolutely unexplained."
"How horrible! I'm glad I don't believe in ghosts and spirits. What was it that little Ruth had?" asked the second. ·
"Scarlet fever; poor child. It was such a terrible shock to her poor family."
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FLO FLOURNOY, '24
Penhyrn was dazed and caught his breath in little gasps, unable to comprehend. His thoughts left his body -floating away over toward the green mountains and back again, and then there was the dull ache -a feeling of emptiness, longing and unbelievable sorrow. He was momentarily startled at the feeling. No! It could not be! A cruel joke perhaps? He grasped at the hope as a starving man might spend his last strength for food in a mirage. Reality again: and then the dull aching emptiness.
He thought of Don. Don was his friend. He had been sympathetic. He had said: "I've never felt that way, but I think I understand. Your dreams are gone."
Yes, they were gone forever. What could he do? Something stirred his soul. He had been robbed. Stripped! Nothing remained. He had seen his ideals renounced. The rose colored tapestry of dreams had been torn down and had floated to the earth. He recalled the picture : Chloris standing there shrugging her shoulders as the soft tinted veil fell to the ground. She dug her heel into it and laughed - a cold metallic laugh.
The scene vanished. He was in his room again lying in bed, trying to think. And still the ceaseless aching, restlessness. He tried to sleep. Devils -little red devils danced before his eyes. They disappeared and in the place was Chloris. There were flowers in her hair, and she was singing as she had often sung to him of Love, the rose. It was a sweet voice and trembled at the end of the verse:
"Its incense flies -and clings to you-oo, Love is a rose, its petals close In the heart of a rose -in the heart of a rose."
She vanished.
He smiled momentarily at dreams of Spring with Chloris. He remembered pretty little sayings. She spoke of dreams and love.
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Love? Oh! Oh! Something within him seemed to snap and then there was the old realization that she did not love. She was gone forever.
And the ideals? What of the ideals? His head ached as he fought off the visions of her face. Ideals ! The little devils were there again ! Sitting on the counterpane in a ring grinning! They speak. "Did you say love? Ha! Ha! Ha!" they croak in derision, "you thought of God -a just God -and happiness. You tried to do right? Why? God given love and happiness? There is no God ! Ha ! Did she speak of love ? Ha ! Ha! Ha !"
Soon it must be light and he could wander out toward the mountains and think. He had climbed again up to the top of the rocks above the river. The place was called Lovers' Leap. He grimaced at the thought and recalled how Don had laughed at his talk of throwing himself into the river. Don had said: "You will feel that way and you will laugh about it next week. Tomorrow is another day." Don had said "Ha!" like the little devils. The constant, aching, stifling sensation returned. Penhyrn sat down under a tree near the top of the hill and looked toward the mountains.
There were flowers and new green grass A few blossoms were on the dogwood trees. He and Chloris had walked along through those same trees and looked down to the river. Again the vision of the rose colored tapestry -torn to the ground. Chloris is shrugging her shoulders and laughing ! Again she sings a new verse:
"Love is a rose, Its petals witherI ts incense dies And fades away.
Love is a rose -it blooms and blows
All in a day - All in a day."
He shivered as the last note died and a little devil appeared, jumped up and down and chortled "Ha! Ha! Ha!" Penhyrn's soul was sinking. He could no longer bear it!
There was the cooling water below. He could jump. That much was clear. The dizzy descent, the shock; a few gulps, momentary pain and the world and disillusionment would be gone. He was at the brink of the rocks. He dived! Down, down, his body went, hurtled through space. He caught his breath. There seemed no impact, but the water closed in. Down, down, a little slower and his ear drums ached. The pain extended to his forehead. Water ran into his lungs. He could feel the darting pains extending.
Again something inside him seemed to snap and his mind cleared. There was another scene. A body being fished out of the river. Another vision - Chloris reading a newspaper shrughing her shoulders! Ugh! That grin upon her face! She was not worth it He resolved to fight. He mustered his strength and struggled, starting upward. His muscles were numb and his forehead ached Was it not too late? It would be so easy to give up. Easy. He must fight. His head struck something. He could not rise. To the left there seemed a passage way. The water seemed clearer. One last effort from his aching muscles a gentle push from out of nowhere and he swam toward light. There was a momentary glimpse of sunshine - the spray of water was felt in his face and the glistening outlines of a crystal fountain appeared. It was fading-fading. All was dark. * * * * * *
Lying semi-conscious Penhyrn's body seemed to be floatingsuspended in a quiet languorous atmosphere. His thoughts became slightly clearer. He remembered the water and sunshine flashing on the fountain. He opened his eyes slowly and sensed a lulling breeze blowing from out a tiny bower of tall trees. A more complete comprehension came upon him. He wondered. The crystal fountain? He was no longer floating. Perhaps he had been asleep. But how did he get in the leafy grotto? He stirred and was startled by the sound of a woman's voice. A soft, low, tremulous voice, the music of which caused the feeling of languor to return.
"Fair youth, you were sad, but you have slept and awakened and now you shall be happy and gay."
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Penhyrn opened wide his eyes and stared. It was a girl-a nymph, he fancied. Delicate shades of pink flowers appeared in a loose fitting, one-piece gown draped artistically over her body. Several wild flowers were caught carelessly in the fair tresses which fell in profusion around her neck, touching Penhryn's cheek as he caught his breath at the sight of her.
"Where am I and where is the crystal fountain, fair goddess?"
"You are in N ymphia, the tiny secret kingdom where all true lovers go. I am not a goddess at all, but just a girl. My name is Rialama and I'm nearly eighteen. You tried to drown yourself because in your world love is often untrue , but one of Neptune's daughters caught you and guided you to our fountain."
"Sweet Rialama, I am glad I jumped off the cliff, for now I have seen you and there is none in all my material world who is so fair. Chloris spoke of love and laughed all the while, caring nothing, and I was a fool and believed in love -that love leads to matrimony, when it doesn't at all. Anyway, you're here and you're beautiful."
"But, Flower of Chivalry, love does exist. It has ever existed, though it does not come to all. In our little kingdom there is always love and there are no unhappy marriages."
"Well, I hope that's true, but in our country what little love there is is usually futile. Under the most ideal circumstances it leads to marriage , but usually it has nothing to do with marriage. In theory you marry the one you love, but there are so many conventions that you cannot possibly marry for love alone. Even i f you try to, your parents will object and it's a silly mess all around. You must have money, and - oh, a lot of thingsbefore they ever get back to the subject of love; When an engagement is announced all the older married ladies inquire where the young man works, and who his father is and compute a few figures. After that they want to know whether he is dissipated, or whether the other young man hasn't better 'prospects.' They're a jolly lot, anyway, for after that they remark that she has been engaged before and they say 'Uh-huh,' which might mean anything. And then if everybody is opposed to the young man, they will say , 'Oh well, he'll be kind to her and make a good
MESSENGER - 41 husband.' And, sweet Rialama, that's a dreadful thing to say about a man - to sum him up with only one virtue, 'a good husband.' It means, fair nymph, that he will write checks and that he is too dull to ask questions."
"You speak strangely and I cannot quite understand. What are 'conventions' and what is your name back in your world?"
"I am called Penhryn, though the Lord knows why. And as to conventions, why they are silly, imaginary rules which every:body makes for everybody else to live by, on the theory that everybody else is inherently weak and pathetically silly."
"My mother says that when she and Daddy were in your world they felt that way, too - that they couldn't marry, because Daddy went to school so long that he couldn't make much money. But once they jumped off a boat in a great big river and they were brought to different parts of this kingdom, where they met again. I am their love-daughter and have never seen your world."
"Who are these old women, all bent over walking along by that little stream? They look like decrepit old hags."
"Oh, they're the ones _who were untrue to love and the gods punished them by taking away their youth and beauty. They are doomed to be this way, always ugly and repulsive, for it is love that preserves youth and beauty."
"They appear to have nothing to do, Rialama. Do not people work here?"
"What do you mean, sweet Penhryn? What is 'work' ?"
"I suppose it is usually anything which you have to do which 1s disagreeable."
"Well, in our kingdom here we are all taught from the time we are six in a great school. Every now and then we are tested by experts in psychology to determine what we are best fitted for and what we like to do best. In this way everyone is prepared to do and does something he likes, I dance and sing for the others at their work. Some of them make things, others do whatever there is left, for our kingdom is so tiny and food is so easy to get that we only do what you call 'work' four hours a day. The rest of the time we have festivals and dances, and put on shows at the Woodland Theater where we have movies 'n' everything."
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"I can't imagine all that. Won't you take me to see this theater and let me play around with you?"
Soft sweet music seemed to come from out a thickly wooded spot, for, as it was dusk, Penhryn and his fair guide could not see very well through the trees. The strange theater's sides consisted of trees planted closely together in an oblong shape with the spaces between filled with undergrowth, thick vines forming a shield from the rays of the moon. The orchestra was completely hidden by masses of ferns, palms and large flowers similar to magnolia blossoms. The audience were already assembling and were taking their seats -rustic benches, artistically arranged and covered with soft mats. The lights were of the same crystal as the fountain and a soft glow of moonbeams pervaded the place as the orchestra faded off into the last bar of a subtle melody and the lights were dimmed.
The picture was a fairy story taken in natural colors, and the audience was completely quiet. Nobody read the sub titles out loud or chewed gum.
Going through the lobby Penhryn noticed many statues in white marble, and with Rialama's explanation discovered that they were statues of famous lovers -Antony, Keats, Robert Burns, Paris, Helen, Juliet and numerous others.
Anon they returned to the tiny grotto which served as Rialama's playhouse. The walls were decorated with various kinds of colored sea shells and artistic designs of pearls and a little spring bubbled out into an oval carved in a block of crystal quartz. Penhryn was delighted with the place and grew enthusiastic in praise of its beauty as second only to Riamala herself. Contrasting the scene with his own materialistic world he was moved to ask:
"What is it that keeps the people here from marrying some uncongenial man? Or do they have uncongenial men? I couldn't even see what they looked like in that movie theater, but then I don't care if I never see anybody but you."
"You might not feel that way about me if you saw all the others here. They'd like to see you, too; but about marrying, why we don't call it that. We just try to pick a congenial companion and then go before the body of elders and undergo more psychological
tests to see if we are likely to prove compatible with each other, or rather that's what our parents say. After that we are thrown together, and play and dance for six months as a sort of trial to see if we really and truly care and are not being carried away by the heat of the moment, like my Mother says people are on earth. And then our chemists (you know we have a few of every kind of people) have a secret perfume made from several flowers that they sprinkle upon the boy and girl so and that is certain to make them love each other truly."
"That's a bit like Oberon arranged the thing."
"Who's Oberon?"
"He is the king of the fairies. All the little elves of fairyland do his bidding."
"I think that's wonderful. Your world must be right nice after all."
"No; it's a pretty sad sort of place. Besides, nobody believes in these fairies any more after they grow up. That's the trouble with our world anyway; you have to grow up."
"Do you want to go back and leave Rialama? Do you want to go back to your movies and tell the little girls all about things we have in Nymphia ?"
"Never, sweet Rialama; they don't deserve to know. Women teach you to dream true when you are young and then steal these selfsame dreams away when you are a little older. I don't ever want to leave you and the crystal fountain."
"Come, sit by me here and tell me about your world. You're not like most of the people are when they first come here. They're awfully cynical and don't say pretty things to us. They laugh and say, 'Rave on, fair one. That's what she told me! You are not like that, are you, Penhryn ?"
"No, I thought I would be, but I adore it here and want to be with you all the time. You are wonderful looking and I like the way you dress. The sandals 'n' everything. Why at home the girls usually wear little silly looking shoes, and even when they dress up for dances and are pretty, why their shoes are too tight and squeeze their feet out of shape. Truly, there is nothing so unlovely as an ordinary woman's foot. They have pretty faces
THE MESSENGER
sometimes, almost as pretty as yours, but they try to improve on nature and coat them with daubs of red paint so that all appear to have bal masques on. They wear pretty silk stockings, too, but they don't take enough exercise, and their ankles get thick and ugly. They don't wear nice clingy things like you do, either, so they can be healthy and beautiful, except occasionally. And when they do, nearly everybody gives them credit for ulterior motives."
"I don't understand, Penhryn. Why do they dress that way?"
"They say it's because men like them that way, but it's really to make other women jealous. They hang horrible looking things on their bodies to serve as so many price tags. They think they're beautiful when they're only expensive. A pretty girl might appear in a simple dress, but if it was inexpensive the others would make her feel miserable and she would go home and cry, or read Cinderella or something."
"Tell me some more about them."
"No; let's talk about you."
"You look tired, Penhryn; I'll let you rest here by the fountain for a while and I'll hold your head in my lap so you'll be comfortable and then I'll to you a lullaby of Nymphia -a story of a fairy prince who finds his princess."
Soft and low the voice of Rialama he was sinking-sinking. Why did she sprinkle the water from the fountain on his face? The steady drop, drop and the warmth as they rolled down his cheek. Rialama's voice was softer still, fading, fading away. The drops of water?
Penhryn felt dizzy and cold. Rialama's voice had died. In her place was Don.
"Wake up, you poor dumbell. It's raining; and here you sleep under a tree. Pretty soon you'll roll off the cliff. You need a guardian."
"Rialama, Oh Rialama. Answer me. Where, Oh, where is Nymphia?"
THEMESSENGER
LOUISE FRY, '26
When the golden sun is sinking Behind clouds of flaming red, And the breezes softly whisper To the treetops overhead, And the crystal waters ripple O'er the pebbles at my feet, I gaze out in the distance; Visions of the future meet. I see the road of conquest Stretching onward to the sea; And the way that all must travel Lies open there to me. The challenge I've accepted, And the journey I'll pursue, 'Till my sun sets in the heavens, And my life begins anew.
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w. N. BEEHLER, '23
No woman ever wrote who holds the same fascination for me as does the woman -George Eliot. It is no wonder that the unconventional aspects of her life proved no barrier to those capable of appreciation, both before and after her death, for in the words of her husband: 'To know her was to love her." Her writings have always caused me to look upward; they have deepened my moral convictions, and served to rouse a finer sense of appreciation of all that is holy, beautiful and vigorous. Turning from her writings to a study of the woman, I find the effect similar to that experienced by one who having dreamed of an ideal, suddenly comes face to face with it. All the springs of pure joy and goodness which her writings located in my own heart have suddenly gushed forth in a veritable torrent, as I stand face to face with the womanhood and the soul of George Eliot.
From a deeply religious, though secularly narrow-minded girl, who delighted in caring for the poor, the unfortunate, and the destitute, she developed into a woman whose sympathies, love, devotion and character became as deep, as her mental and spiritual horizon became broad. A knowledge of the fact that she was appreciated and honored by such men as Emerson and Dickens would sufficiently serve to honor her as one who not "only thinks, but feels."
The philosophy and religion of George Eliot are simple, yet deep, actuating and convincing. Her own life portrays the goodness of her heart, and her faithfulness to ideals ; and they were cast to the breeze no matter what storm of social convention or tradition was threatening. It was this spirit of helpfulness and love, in addition to her need of some one upon whom she could look for support, that made holy her relations with Mr. Lewes. Critics have searched her writings for explanations and vindications of her marital relations, but only as a whole do they offer
any explanation. Her writings bear out her words in the translation of Feuer back:
"a marriage, the bond of which is merely an external restriction, not the voluntary, contented self-restriction of love; in short, a marriage which is not spontaneously concluded, spontaneously willed, self-sufficing, is not a true marriage, and therefore not a truly moral marriage." and one must conclude that her religion and philosophy were not creeds -they were living, pulsating forces of goodness, for she believed with all her soul in the ultimate goodness of the human heart. "It was often in her mind and on her lips," Mr. Cross says of her, "that the only worthy end of all learning , of all science, of all life, is that human beings should love one another better."
George Eliot was born in November, 1819, and spent the first twenty years of her life in commonplace surroundings. Her father was the agent of a country manor, and was evidently an unusual character, being the prototype of Adam Bede. Upon the marriage of her elder sister, the management of the household fell upon her shoulders. She proved equal to the task, however, and managd to engage in much philanthropic work in the community. The greatest event in her life was the introduction given Mr. Lewes to her by Emerson, for "Attracted by the extraordinary intellectual vivacity and quickness of sympathy, which, together with brilliant scientific and literary gifts, distinguished Lewes, she founded a union with him." Shortly after her marriage, under his inspiration in her life, she began the publications of her works, and continued them until his death, after which she wrote nothing. In her grief at his death, she found the greatest solace and comfort in Mr. Cross, and two years later married him, only to die herself eight months later.
Many novelists have entered upon more or less brilliant careers from an apprenticeship beginning with fairy tales told around the hearth place to eager and attentive brothers and sisters, but George Eliot turned to her profession with the mind, heart and experience
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of a mature woman, rather than the experiences of a term of apprenticeship. Conceiving "the title, 'The Sad Fortunes of the Rev : Amos,' almost before she had shaped the subject of the story in her mind," she speedily wove it into a series called "Tales From Clerical Life." "Notwithstanding the just and discerning applause with which the first appearance of George Eliot as a writer of fiction was greeted, it would not be difficult to show that, in 'Scenes From Clerical Life,' her style and manner as a novelist were still in the making -the taste of the phraseology is not always perfect and the artifices of style are not always original. The humor, at times, is inadequate, and at other times forced. Yet, even the brilliancy of the writing -and no other epithet would suit it -allows itself to be overlooked, as the sympathetic power of the writer, and the catholic breath of her principles of moral judgment impress themselves upon the reader."
Whether or not the first product of George Eliot's art upon her entrance to the field of fiction gave her eminence, the world then and now pays homage to her as an artist, as the result of the publication of Adam Bede. In her own words we read of the unique conception of the plot:
"The germ of Adam Bede was an anecdote told me by my Methodist Aunt Samuel (the wife of my father's younger brother) -an anecdote from her own experience, it occurred to her to tell me how she had visited a condemned criminal -a very ignorant girl, who had murdered her child and refused to confess; how she had stayed with her praying through the night, and how the poor creature at last broke out into tears, and con£essed her crime. My Aunt afterwards went with her in the cart to the place of execution; and she described to me the great respect with which this ministry of hers was regarded by the official people about the gaol. The story told by my Aunt with great feeling, affected me deeply, and I never lost the impression of that afternoon and our talk together ; but I believe I never mentioned it, through all the intervening years, till something prompted me to tell it to George in December, 1856, when he remarked that the scene in the prison would make a fine element in a story, and I
afterwards began to thinking of blending this and some other recollections of my Aunt in one story, with some points in my father's early life and character."
"The character of Dinah grew out of the recollections of her Aunt," the character of Adam Bede, and one or two incidents connected with him, were suggested by her father's early life; and from the germ of the story she carefully worked out the part of the hero, and his relations with Arthor Dommithorne, and their mutual relations to Hetty.
"Adam Bede was published at the beginning of February, 1859. The sensation caused by its appearance has seldom been equaled in literary history. It was felt that a new power had arisen in English letters. Deeply as men's hearts were stirred by the story of Hetty, perhaps the strongest impression was excited by the racy language of Mrs. Poyser "
It is interesting and significant at this point to marvel that "a masterpiece of literature should have been produced at the first attempt by a woman nearly forty years of age." One must acknowledge that these powers had lain dormant in the writer alt those years, and the question arises, what called them forth? Cross. and Browning in their biographies of the author agree in attributing it to her "union with Lewes - a marriage productive of the greatest happiness to both," and their opinions find weighty authority in the author's dedication of the novel to her husoand:
"To my dear husband, George Henry Lewes, I give the MSS of a work which would never have been written but for the happiness which his love conferred on my life."
Many critics, while willing to attribute the stimulus to write to her husband, are doubtful in their opinions, that this influence upon the work was advantageous. It is well known that he suggested the conflict between Adam and Author, and the marriage of Adam to Diana, but both incidents seem foreign to the character and nature of a man like Adam.
Very soon after the writing of Adam Bede, another novel was begun, "The Mill on the Floss." It, too, has its source in £rag-
50 THE MESSENGER
ments of the writer's past, and joins with the former novel in depicting provincial life. The portrayal of human nature is superb; and I, for one, shall always carry in my heart the pictures of Maggie and her brother.
During this period of her life George Eliot experienced many sorrows, and unhappy events. It is little wonder that she exclaimed upon the completion of her next novel, "Romola," that "I began 'Romola' a young women-I finished it an old woman." "Romola" is rated as the best historical novel in the English language by one critic, others place it among the best six, and most all critics deem it a wonderful and magnificent piece of work. If preparation counted for aught it justly deserves all praise. Not only did the writer visit Florence and study it in person, but she also read hundreds of books upon the subject of art and learning in Florence, whereby her knowledge of Italian life and manners might be increased. The characterization of "Romola," who appears exceedingly noble upon discovering the infidelity of her husband, of Savonarola and his love, patriotism, virtue, as well as weaknesses and faults - and the moral degeneration of Tito is superb. The novel abounds with real scholarship, learning, philosophy and psychology.
The publication of "Romola" placed George Eliot at the height of her literary excellence, and yet before its decline she made two notable additions to her works - "Middlemarch" and "Daniel Deronda." In the former it is commonly held that "whatever may be thought of this increasing amplitude of treatment in her latest novels, accomapnied as it was by a certain falling off in the freshness and variety of accumulated detail, her incomparable power of exhibiting the development of character is here found at its height." The latter book was not a climax of George Eliot's powers, but rather the beginning of the decline in her art, and many critics claim that it is fast sinking beneath the level of literature.
Between the publication of "The Mill on the Floss" and "Romola" appeared "Silas Marner" - the favorite novel of literary men and women. Oscar Browning speaks of it in his work on English novelists and says that "'Silas Marner' is perhaps the novel of George Eliot which has earned the highest praise from
literary craftsmen. It contains all her merits in high perfection, contracted by the narrow limits in which the work is enclosed." The work is so well known that I shall conclude with the general opinion that in quality, characterization and sheer beauty, it outranks all of the author's works.
At present the permanent place of George Eliot among novelists of the English language is an uncertain manner. She witnessed a wonderful reception of her works, but since her death the decline in her readers has been rapid, although most critics are of the opinion that the lapse is only temporary, and is striking because of the over popularity of her works upon their publication. The readers of George Eliot are mostly those who neither suffer from romantic illusions nor are tempted to scale the heights of romantic fiction, for she is "realist to the core." Her readers are fed upon the substance that nourishes the soul, and one can readily believe her words when she said:
"Writing is part of my religion, and I can writ e no word that is not prompted from within."
Beyond glittering generaltities it is impossible to give a critical opinion ·of George Eliot as a whole, for part of her fame is attributed to the fact that every one of her works is different from the others, and each must be criticized separately. However , it is safe to venture the remark that all of her works are of a delightful type of realism, abound in striking characterizations, sparkle with a humor that is fresh and invigorating, and possess a moral tone known to no other writer.
"George Eliot's novels speak to us of her comprehensive wisdom, nurtured by assidouously acquired learning of her penetrating and luminous wit, furnished with its material by a power of observation to which all the pathetic and all the humorous aspects of human character lay open, and of her profound religious conviction of the significance of life and its changes as helping to better the human soul brave and unselfish enough not to sink before them."
PEGGY BUTTERFIELD, '23
Once upon a time many, many y ears ago, when the very stars were young, and the world was so new that no one was ever bored, there dwelt in the land of the stars, somewhere along the milky way, a star that was so tiny that she scarcely looked like a pin prick, except on very clear nights. But this little star could see the beautiful new world so well that she thought that every one could see her, too. And her dearest desire was to shine so brightly that the whole world would be lighted by her brilliance, and every one would be happier because of the light she shed. So every night she leaned out of heaven as far as she dared and shone with all her might. One night she overheard two of the big stars talking and one said to the other :
"Look at the Littlest star over there. I do believe she thinks they all see her on earth."
"No! Really?" said the second big star. "She must realize that no one so far away could possibly know she existed. Now it is different with us; we are so large and bright that every one . sees us, and the whole world is happier because we are so beautiful."
"Of course," said the first big star, "but that silly little star thinks it might make some difference to the world if she should burn out."
Now when the Littlest star heard this she was so sad that she wept, and that is a very dangerous thing for a star to do. One is so apt to put one's self out. Before she had been weeping long enough to go out entirely the Littlest star saw something that made her forget her own tragedy. And what do you suppose it was? A Princess, down in the palace garden, was weeping, too, and you must know that when a Princess weeps there is something very dreadful the matter, for every one in all the land tries to make the Princess happy. The Littlest star was so surprised that she quite forgot to weep herself for wondering what
could make a Princess cry, and she leaned so far out of heaven to see that all of a sudden she lost her balance and began to fall and fall. At first she was very much afraid indeed, but after a little while she felt a queer tingling at her shoulders and she looked around and saw that she had the loveliest pair of transparent wings you could imagine. She soon found that she could fly with them very nicely, and that she was almost down to the palace garden where the Princess still sat weeping. When the Princess saw this shining creature flying toward her, she was so astonished that she, too, forgot to weep. The Littlest star lit on her arm and said in such a little voice that it sounded like the tinkling of a blue bell must sound : "What can be the matter, lovely Princess, to ma).<eyou weep so bitterly?"
"Oh, little shining fairy," sobb~d the Princess, remembering to weep again, "I weep because the Prince, whom I love with all my heart, has gone far away into the great north country to seek adventure and to win honor for his name, and I fear that some evil has befallen him because he has been gone a year and a day, and I have no word from him. If he comes not in a week the King, my father, will marry me to the King of the North Country, who is ugly and old, and I despise him."
"Never mind, Princess," said the Fairy star in a businesslike tone. "I will fly to the Prince and help him to return to you. Now give me a message for him and I will fly away to the North Country."
So the Princess thanked the little Fairy star and gave her a kiss wrapped in a rose petal and she flew away. When • the Fairy star reached the North Country she flew straight to the center of it, for you must know there is a great black forest in the center of the land and in the very heart of the forest on the largest tree of all, there hangs a most wonderful shield all encrusted with pearls and diamonds and emblazoned in gold, and the Prince who could win this shield would be honored above all the Princes in the world, for it was guarded by a dragon more terrible than any other dragon you have ever heard of. It was as long as a railroad train and breathed out fire and smoke,
THE MESSENGER
except when he was asleep, and he had horrid poisonous scales all over him and bulging green eyes.
When the Fairy star found the Prince he was sitting on a log at the edge of the forest, quite discouraged, for he had been fighting the dragon all day, but the Fairy star told him that she had come to help him and she delivered the Princess' message just where she had told her to. Then they started at once into the forest, and all the way the Fairy star lighted the Prince's path, and when they reached the dragon they found he was asleep, so the Fairy star flew up on a branch and the shield reflected her light so that the Prince could see to kill the dragon with his sword of true steel, which had a hilt of pure gold. And because the Prince was as true as the steel of his sword and the kiss the Princess had sent was pure as the gold in the hilt, he could kill the dragon, and take the shield down from the tree and carry it home to the Princess. And they lived happily forever afterwards, all because the Littlest Fairy star helped them.
The star flew all over the world doing shinnig deeds wherever she went and she was happy because she was at last helping the world. But after a while the snow came and she was afraid it might put out her little light, so she flew and flew up to the milky way again and told all the other little milky way stars what she had done. You may well imagine how ashamed the two big stars were when they heard. All winter long the little stars played along the milky way, but when spring came and the world was young and fresh with dewy budding things, one fragrant twilight the little stars leaned out of heaven as far as they could, until they were flying about on the earth. Now every spring they come and every fall before the snow they go back to the milky way, and mortals call them Fire Flies.
~bt agabonb
HARRY RIDDLE, '23
The haze is in the hills again, Wild ducks with their adieu have flown Through the thin, ethereal wide expanse, Leaving peace to brood alone. There's rhyme in crystal waters, that clear The rugged rocks, and tumble far below. Something in the air stirs the blood; And it's time for the Vagabond to go.
Blue peaks; topaz sky; forest above; A strand of road across the ledge laid bare; Shimmering along in the moon light and quietude, Calling for Gypsy Hearts that dare. The smell of leaves, incense of the wild, Rising in worship to the beauty of it all. It's the season, the air, that stirs the blood; And it's the Vagabond they call.
3Jbtalismanbtbtjfrattrnitp
J. H. MILLER, '24
"The measure of strength in any living thing is its highest faculty." This statement was made by Newell Dwight Hillis in his book on "A Man's Value to Society." In close accord with this statement lies the remark by Dr. Francis G. Peabody, "Human life does not come to its own until it comes to its ideals." The fraternity's ideal is its very soul -the outward expression of its loftiest ambition and most cherished hope.
The one fundamental characteristic of ancient fraternity men was their untiring endeavor to develop the whole nature of man; spiritual, as well as mental and physical. Even before the visible results of the Christian era, the central theme of Greek thinkers and philosopher was the "ideal." Someone has said, "The attainment of the ideal is in the making. It is never developed overnight. At times one is almost led to believe that the ideal is one of the dark secrets of the fraternity because it is so often locked up with the lodge after meeting." "Show me your ideal," said an Englishman, "and I will show you something of your life."
The ancient Greeks were banded together in a fraternity 4nder the leadership of a competent teacher, and under the influence of an ever-inspiring ideal. The members of this fraternity, so we are told, attributed all of their accomplishments and discoveries to the founder so that the organization which bore his name might gain in prestige. Even at this day and time, when we search for the originator of some philosophy or science, we very often find its origin to have been in some one of the Greek fraternities, but we cannot find the name of the individual who gave it birth. Whoever he was, he attributed the fruits of his endeavors to his fraternity. What a social group! What an exalted example of brother hood that reflects !
'Tis singularly appropriate in an article of this type to give somewhat of a background of fraternities -in this country. In the United States the fraternities are ordinarily termed "Greek
Letter Societies." This is simply because most of them are named in Greek letters. They are organized on the lodge system, and each fraternity comprises a number of affiliated lodges. The lodges are called "chapters," in memory of the convocation of monks of medieval times.
The first Greek letter fraternity in this country was Phi Beta Kappa, founded at William and Mary College in 1776. It was a little social club of five students: John Heath, Richard Booker, Thomas Smith, Armistead Smith, and John Jones. I ts badge was a square silver medal displaying the Greek letters of its name and a few symbols. In 1777 it authorized Elisha Parmlee, one of its members, to establish chapters at Harvard and Yale. In 1781 the College of William and Mary was closed, its buildings being occupied by the British, French and American troops and the society ceased to exist. However, the branches were established and from them it spread to Dartmouth, Union College and Brown. In 1826 the society changed its character and became non-secret and purely honorary in character. From this nucleus other fratermtles sprang up. In 1825, at Union College, Kappa Alpha was organized. In 1827 Sigma Phi and Delta Phi were founded at the same place. Alpha Delta Phi and Sigma Phi were established at Hamilton College. And thus on down through the years the various Greek letter fraternities have been created.
It is no exaggeration to state that these apparently insignificant organizations of irresponsible students have modified the college life of America and have a lasting influence. The fraternities have a reputation to maintain, and this engenders an "Esprit de corps" which at times places loyalty to fraternity above loyalty to school, and thus a little aristocracy to distinguish the lines of separation and sometimes they are sharply marked. Sometimes this situation helps the college discipline and sometimes militates it.
It is strange to say that the three larger universities, Harvard, Princeton and Yale, the influence of the fraternities is insignificant. Their place have been taken by local clubs and societies, to a very great extent.
However, because of the fact that the fraternities are having such a vital place in the shaping and molding of the character of
the average college student, and since this dynamic force is steadily increasing, it is of the utmost importance that every precaution be taken to retain the fundamental fraternity characteristic - that of the "ideal." The Greeks of antiquity aimed to prepare men for citizenship Their brotherhoods were not ends in themselves, but means whereby the ends were realized. "Americans do not consider they have done all there is to be done when they have established lectures, classes, museums and universities," said a famous French senator who visited this country some time ago investigating the conditions here. In like manner the fraternity has in its power certain influences that will help produce "Generations of citizens and real men." In this connection there is little difference between the national and local fraternity. In the college the life is the same. The national fraternity has the greater brotherhood after the college days are over.
Tens of thousands go to their graves with their life work unfinished. Clay, Greeley or Blaine never reached the president's chair. Kane did not reach the North Pole. Napoleon failed to retain a reputation of being invincible , but all of these and innumerable others have benefited humanity in their example of indomitable will and perseverance. The invincible efforts of these men have brought about the accomplishment, in many respects, of the ideal of the group. And the voluntary tie which cement,s friendships, engenders confidence, tears down barriers between men will always effect this result.
"The tissues of the life to be, We weave with colors all our own; And in the field of Destiny, We reap as we have sown."
jfini~
ROBERT BARRET, '26
"Whither away, John Lackland," cried each villager as they saw the man swing by on the highway, with long, lean sword belted about his waist and his marching cloak over his shoulders. Answering such questions had been pleasant business in those days when John had held the names of tall cities and gallant quests on the tip of his tongue , but now gay rejoinders stuck in his throat, as he waved his hat in mock merriment and blew kisses to some who cried after him from lattices above the street.
When he strode at last into the open country he found his anger strangely hot against the well intending friends he had left behind. "Must a man know , forsooth, to what end his way is bent, more than the wind? Or, do they, my fat dreamless ones, know better which way their lives trend, than I who have dreamed all the dreams of men, as well as a few of the gods?"
Half mocking, half serious , his thoughts ran thus, as his stride covered miles of dusty road, and his glance turned now and again over his shoulder.
As dusk fell and the moon came up among the trees he thought of the fine nights when he had traveled to join the king's army or the second quest for the lost cities that have sequestered themselves from the world. He had never joined the army or found the cities, but delectable adventures had fallen to his lot in these earlier travels. Unencumbered by a goal, he was thinking how he would duplicate these pleasant interludes in double measure when the wind over his shoulder brought the sound of horses' hoofs.
In a little, four riders came up with him. Well armed and very grim they dismounted and ringed him in with steel. Scanning their faces in the broken light that fell through interlacing twigs, he recognized them with a grimace, saying : "And what is your will of me, most silent gentlemen all? Is it that I shall fight you by one's, or two's, or must I slay you all together ?"
THE MESSENGER
"John Lackland," said the first, dourly, "I offer you life if you return and marry my daughter, Merle, whom you have most foully deceived."
"John Fly-by-Night," said the second, "unless you keep your oath of marriage with my cousin, Everlyn De La River, you shall be a corpse within the hour." And in like heroic manner spoke the other two of other fair light damsels.
"Plainly, my masters, you would make a much married Turk or a corpse of me," spoke Lackland, throwing away his scabbard. "And, being a virtuous man, I choose the latter of the two evils."
Hereafter swords flickered a brief space in the moon shine, and four dark shadows looked down on a dead and dreamless face in a pool of moon light. John Lackland had ceased from troubling, and had reached the end of his ultimate adventure.
MIRIAM NORM ENT, '23
XXXVIII
Sighs are but air, and they go to the air; Tears are but water; they flow to the sea. But when love is forgot, do you know, girl, or care, Where it is hiding or where it can bet
LXIX
As lightning briefly pencils on the sky Its track, and fades, so do we live - and die: Ah, life is but a breath! And all the love and pride for which we fight Are shades of dreams that follow through the night: Ah, wakening is death!
XXI
"What is poetry?" you ask. I say, "Your eyes are blue"So songs are made. Why should you ask, When poetry is - you!
CAPTAIN DEMOND,
V. C. By
Maud
Diver. New York: Grosset and Dunlap, 1914. 451 pp.
While the mighty influx of contemporary literature, stuffed with unassimilated findings of the social sciences, shows no sign of abatement, it is well to cast about for those writers who consider themselves bearers of the English literary tradition or can be honored with this title. Such authors may add the new but well established ideas based on a more thorough interpretation of nature to a knowledge of the eternal truths and produce work effective of the highest mental stimulation. In this class we place Arnold Bennett, George Meredith, and, if it is pardonable to confuse two fields, Hendrik Ibsen. It is possible, in the realm of literature, to detach one's self absolutely from the philosophies of an era, and using only the earmarks of time, construct a real story of human nature. For this task the author must be widely as well as deeply experienced. He should have an Elizabethian love of all knowledge, lands and peoples; while his soul should have experienced the furthermost depths of the emotions and the intellect which is to him possible. In this class we place Rudyard Kipling, Margaret Deland and the author now under consideration. Maud Diver, an Englishwoman, is today receiving a tardy recognition in America of her merit. As illustrated in Captain Desmond, V. C., her work is marked by style, character portrayal, and a lo£tiness of ideal very seldom found in modern writers. Most analytic critics agree that whatever other elusive qualities style may possess, it must combine directness and exactness. Again, the best stylists avoid the broken phrasing of Lewis as well as the involved phrasing which this generation has escaped. Whatever its descriptive qualities, a language must run as naturally as the printed page will allow, conveying the meaning as readily and exactly as possible. It is difficult to point out the particular attributes of Maud Diver's style except to say that, though fond of descriptive words, she does not thrust them upon her objects -the story tells itself.
THE MESSENGER
The only serious objection one can have of the technique of this tale is not the unnaturalness of the characters, but the very partial way in which the author expresses them or rather has them express themselves. The two central characters are models of what every man and woman should wish to be - honorable, unselfish, boldleaders among any people. The opposing forces are likewise a man and woman; the former ignoble, the latter weak. Now these are very well characterized from the wealth of Maud Diver's wide experiences ; but the development of the two forces depend to such an extent on a rather picayunish contrasting that one is likely to revolt. Every incident is calculated to bring out the nobleness of one and the weakness of the other. Yet the characters are very human - being all fallible - and it takes remarkable effort on the part of the good forces to carry on while the bad forces owe their downfall to lack of self control.
This book is distinctive for its loftiness of ideal. It is not oldfashioned to consider this as inseparable from art: for it may be implied where some point out a lack, as in The Raven. Certainly one can safely criticize the author on this score, for the book has the spirit of Browning stamped all over it. However, I pref er not. It is an old plot with standards raised to the nth degree - so much so that one sympathetically inclined is caught in a firm grip that moves every moral fibre in the body. It is dramatic, but not sentimentally so. The following old truths thrown out will illustrate this character :
"Life holds no anodyne for the sorrows we bring on ourselves." (P. 185.)
"Loving people is the only sure way of understanding them in the long run." (P. 186.)
"It is when we most crave for bread that life has the ironical trick of presenting us with a stone." (P. 326.)
"The world's real conquerors are those who hold in quietness their land of the spirit." (P. 331.)
I recommend this book to those who want to get another viewpoint of India, although the story itself is not essentially Indian. -C. W. G.
