Time comes to say good-bye to all the things we've done. It must have been so for always, but it takes a very long time for us to realize that the ends of things are truths as well as the beginnings. For the outgoing Westhampton staff of THE MESSENGER this is an end, and now we find that we are singularly sorry to say good-bye. Optima dies prima fugit- that's Latin, of course, and in case you can't translate it, Vergil said-and quite a few years ago -"the best time is the first to go." Our year with THE MESSENGERhas been a best time for us, so let's not truly say good-bye, but only hope (which is generous of us, you must admit) that next year and all the other years will be best times for those who come to take our places. M. N ., '23.
Spring has come again -sweet, balmy spring, and with it the last issue of THE MESSENGERfor this session. This issue is the Last and the First. It is the first issue edited by the new staff; it is the last issue for this year and the last issue in which will appear the contributions of several men and women who have found joy in making THE MESSENGERwhat it is today. Therefore, we take this opportunity of expressing our deep feeling of loss when their departure seems so near at hand. The Editor, from whose hands we have taken the responsibility, deserves especial mention. No greater tribute could be paid him than to say he has been wise in his choice of material that has made up the contents of THE MESSENGERduring the last six months. To the men and women from whom this materail has come we extend parting congratulations, not because it is courtesy to do so, but because of their progressive and constructive contribution to the Spirit of our University. We have really learned to know these men by their creative works of literature. It is a striking fact
that often times the most striking realities of life find expression through some form of material thing or ceremony. We cannot see the creative force that produces the fragrance of the rose and its tinted petals ; we cannot see the power that functions back of the visible color of the rainbow ; in the heart of the poet lies hidden his masterpiece, unknown until it flowers into speech or on the written page ; likewise the genius of the artist can only reveal itself through tireless, painstaking effort by brush and canvas. So it is that we can only know men and women by their untiring efforts resulting in the creative works of their hands. The poets of the future reveal themselves to us by means of their imperfect lines in the present; the writers of prose show us their future worth, to a marked degree, through the results of their efforts now. But, after all, as someone has said, "The attainment of the Ideal is in the Making." So our statement still holds good when we assert that the Class of '23 has had a great part in shaping the University Spirit , which is still in the making, by their activities on the campus, and their work for THE MESSENGERstands out preeminent in the details of this contribution. -J.
H. M.
~outbfultlbtlosopbp
WARREN A. MEN EILL, '24
I
I do not waste my life in vain regret Of one short day, whose sun has long since set 'Mid veils of purple haze; Nor do I mourn the lark that's left , the thorn Where he once warb,led in the dewy morn Of summer's rosy days.
I do not sigh because the flowers fade, Nor weep when wintry sweep down the glade Where I was won't to stroll; Though I regret that summer days are gone, I find a winter's wild, but bracing dawn Has power to console.
I had a love, but 'twas a transient flower And faded with th~ roses in the bower Where it first had its birth; But why should I let this fill me with gloom, When well I know that other flowers will bloom, When spring returns to earth?
II
A rose-bush grew within a garden fair, And ,l•fted, 'mid the fragrant scented air A first bud to the sun; But as P•nk petals opened to the breeze, Its strength was sapped b'y cankerous disease, E'er life had well begun.
A gard'ner then, with careful pruning knife, Removed the blighted blossom, and the life Of all the bush was saved; And where the first frail flower drooped and died New buds sprang up, until on every side The lovely roses waved.
The first wild fruit of youth's unpruned plant (That single whorl of petals, which I grant Was love, though poor and small)This, I found worm-eaten at the heart, But shall I now tear the whole bush apart And have no flowers at all?
€mtralblmabtldj on &pringatattr
Pii:GG'l(' BUTTE~FIELD, '23
When I think of "emerald wavelets on spring waters/: my heart forgets to be grown-up and dignified and flies joyously back to the first real fairy pool I ever knew. I found it in the Spring. ,vhen the woods were all dressed in their best pink honeysuckle, ~nd dog-wood, and yellow jasmine. I was all alone, and the next time I went and tried to show it to my chum I could not find my way back. She laughed and would not believe me. But I knew then that it was an enchanted pool, which I could only visit by myself, for fairies will never disclose any of their secrets to unbelievers, and Gladys was beginning to be skeptical.
After that I went often to the pool, always slipping up very quietly, hoping that I might surprise a fairy at her bath, for surely no fairy could resist such a temptation. A spring scarcely larger than mother's biggest Japanese salad bowl bubbled up from between the roots of an old birch tree, made young again in her new Spring finery. The banks were soft with rich green moss and purple and white wood violets, which nearly tumbled over the edge trying to see if their petals were straight and if they had put on too much pollen. The water seemed to reflect all of the green of the trees and grass and moss. Often I have seen it quiver with delight when a fairy flew by on the back of a blueblack dragon fly, and paused just long enough to trail her tiny white arm in the water cJ;Qc;l , thei;:i<;tW<J.Yso qukkl~ , th;;tt I was never quite sure wheth~ 1 ~w 1 la~r or nott.
If only I could have been. there at night, wh~Q.the little firefly stars came down from heaven to dance with the fairies, and sailed in their tiny leaf bo~~s onth~, emerald waters of the spring ! Once I found a toadstoot banquet _ tal?,le in t~e JJlOSs. , Another time I discovered a W(?IJd~rtutqpalescent ~:airy w,i,ng., I~h,,mg it up on a blade of grass very caFef'.t!Hy~o that the fairy 'f.Ould be sure to find it when she came back that ni'ght. She must have lost it when
she took it off to go in bathing, because, you know, it would never do to let fairy wings get wet.
Now and then the fairies would coax a baby breeze to ruffle up their pool into sparkling wavelets, and then I am sUt"ethat they danced about and laughed almost loud enough for mortals to hear them.
So, when I think of emerald wavelets on spring waters, my heart flies back to my fairy pool and my mind has a very hard time making it come back and remember that it must pretend to the world that it is really as dignified and grown-up as it should be.
Whtie a lark winged her way
Through the mist o' morn in song, A robin with a broken wing Fluttered across the lawn.
Across the green, near the blushing rose
The robin's cry of pain anew-
Lo ! the ltght of breaking day beheldThe rose was weeping dew.
@ne;fflorn
HARRY RIDDLE
Clotbt~Ulo·-akt a llifftrtntt
A COMEDY IN TWO ACTS
WARRENG. KEITH, '23
The scene of this little comedy is laid in Richmond, one of the leading cities of the State of Virginia. Richmond, it must be explained, is one of the most aristocratic cities of the South. The action takes place in the home of the Rastiagnacs, a family well noted for their culture and refinement ( and if you have never heard about this family with its proud nam'e - I found it myself in Balzac's The Ass' Skin - you cannot call yourself well cultured), and especially are they noted for the consistent manner in which they protect the faith once delivered to the Fathers. Rastiagnac -a name prominent in the religious and political history of Richmond and the State of Virginia! The palatial home of the Rastiagnac family is situated on the Grand A venue, called in former years "The Boulevard."
CHARACTERS
A truck driver.
Silas Harte, a negro assistant on the furniture truck. Harley Young, an ex-soldier, assistant to Silas Harte. Mrs. Rastiagnac.
Mary Rastiagnac, daughter to Mrs. Rastiagnac. Others introduced, but with no special importance.
( The curtain goes up on a scene from the salon of the Rastiagnac home. It is September, 1919. .Dtscovered: Silas Harte and Harley Young. Harte is dressed in ordinarily workman's clothes. Young has on his old army clothes.)
TRUCK DRIVER (outside) : Hey, Si, that divan, or lounge or whatever you may call it comes out here.
SILAS: The devil you say! My honey, shake a foot; we got to be careful with that.
MRS. R. (holding a lorgnette in her right hand and a nnall feather duste,J:in 11,e,r, . le,f,t.) : My!, My! Do n,ot , bring any dust in with those chairs. ( To Young, the ex-soldier) : Move those chairs over here. (He 'moves them over to the place directed) . I believe that you may move. them back to the other side. (In nw1.1~ ing them back two collide.) Gracious me! You will scratch them: up. Why don't Sydnor & Hundley employ efficient hel~?
SIL,\S: Help us git this here divan in and 'en we'll scoot out o' here.
(They bring in the divan.)
ltIR,s.R.: Careful - careful there. My, Oh me, me! My father died . on that divan. He was shot at Petersburg and came ho1!1eto die. I can scarcely remember that day. Oh, do be careful.
SILAS (whispering) : The damn thing is broke on your side right now. (Louder) : Set her down right there; set her down: And the lady can set it where she pleases.
(The leg next to Young drops off to the floor with a crash.)
Y ouNG : Poor work they did at the repair shop.
MRs. R. : Poor '"'.ork, you stupid ass, you silly cucl,:oo; it was due to your bungling it through the door that this happen~d. W.ell, what are you going to do now? Stand t here and hold tight to the ruined thing? To 4ell wit~ both of yo~:_ g~t out of my_sig~~:
(As Mrs. Rastiagnac grows more furious, Silas exits, saying, Yes, yes, tr)a'am. Young being a new . rou1tabou,t an. the . fur:.niture truck .· has not learne& this trick. qf, the . trade and so . sta1ids. not . knowing . what . ta do.).
YOUNG: I am so sorry.
MRS. R.: Sorry! So\r)/ 1?11? :. Y,o~ g<?P9: . f.?~ ~9~ . ~~-1:!-g1:9 .. account boob, what do you mean by breaking upmy furniture (
MARY R. ( appearing on the stairway) : M<>t~r,what is it? ~:')\,.',, : ".,;; j l:J]!.""(1.t,"1 _ij.<',_ ~1)
M'Rs. R.; Oh, iny God, Mary, do not 'come downhere.This is no place for you. They have broken the Cuthb 'ert divan. Do not 'come down here wher ·e this common soldier is - a:iid your hair down ! Mary, do get back! Oh, how awful!
TRUCKDRIVER(at door): S-s-t-Hey. (Motions for Young to come along.)
YOUNG: I am so sorry.
MRs. R.: Too late now to express your sorrow. My divan is ruined. And you, the bungler, caused it all. I sent it to the shop to have it re-stained, and now as you bring it back you fall on it and break it all up. I shall call up Mr. Sydnor right away. Leave my furniture alone. And go, the whole bunch; damn you !
(Extt Young. Outside Silas is heard remonstrating with Young for remaining in the room. The motor is heard and finally its sound is lost in the distance. Mrs. R. surveys the broken divan.)
ACT II
TIME: JANUARY,1923
Early in the Evening in the Rastiagnac H ofne. (A noise outside i'n the next room. Bu#er's voice.)
MARYR. : Oh, mother, Helene said that she was going to bring Mr. Young over tonight to play bridge. He is a perfectly grand bridge player. And then he dances wonderfully.
MRs. R.: Who is this Mr. Young?
MARYR.: Mr. young is a student out at the university; he graduates this year. He and Helene have a wonderful ·case. I do not think that they are engaged yet, but I am sure that there is an understanding. So you know that if Helene Frost put her approval on him, he ISthe proper thing.
MRS. R.: Indeed, the Frosts have a reputation to keep unspotted. You never see them flying around with just common people. They always go with the best. I am anxious to meet him.
MARY: Oh, I hear them now. (She rushes to meet them.)
22 THE MESSENGER
(Enter Harley Young and Helene Frost. Young is now dr.cssed as the collegians of his school usually dress. He puts up a bold front, but those around do not see through it. He is pleasing and agreeable in his manners. Conversation; is free and easy. Finally they pass into the drawing room, where some tables are arranged for cards.)
MRs. R. : Come, and sit down here with me and tell me some of the jokes that are going around at college. It must be wonderful to be in such an ideal place at this time of your young life.
(They sit on the divan-the same as mentioned ·in Act I. She drops her spectacle case. Young stoops to recover the missing case. He perceives that it has fallen under the divan. He reaches under same, and in so doing leans against the leg of the piece of furniture. With a crash it falls to the floor.)
YOUNG: Oh, look what I have done to this thing. Oh, Mrs. Rastiagnac, how sorry I am.
MRS. R.: Oh, do not let that bother you. That divan is over a hundred years old. The leg was broken off some years ago when a fireman carried it from the house; a fire had broken out in the basement. It is perfectly all right. Do not worry.
MARY (on stairway): Mother, what is it?
MRS. R.: Oh, nothing. · The old divan broke again. It was all my fault; I should have told Mr. Young. Hurry down and do listen to this funny story about the wedding feast. Do go ahead with your story, Mr. Young-.
YOUNG ( to himself) : Ha, clothes make a difference in one's attitude.
(They start dealing the cards. Young draws three aces and three kings.
(Swift Curtain)
Jtluffin~,Wig~anbMarmalabt
MIRIAM NORMENT, '23
Once upon a time and very long ago, in the days when fairy stories were quite true, there lived in a far-away country a little princess named Esmeralda. She was the only child, and consequently a great heiress, but her royal daddy was bringing her up strictly and by the book, so she was forbidden to do a great many things. At times it is really rather tiresome to be a princess. though you may not believe that, my dears.
There was one room at the top of the palace into which Esmeralda might not go, a most fascinating place where the king alone went when he wished to be by himself to think of great and wonderful deeds. At least that is what everybody thought, but the truth is -well, we must not tell that because it is the story. One day the princess was having a tea party in the garden for all the children in the land. They had toasted muffins and marmalade, because it was the custom, and the government paid for it. Everybody was having a lovely time until one naughty boy spilled some marmalade on the princess' dress, and then she flew into such a temper that she quite spoiled the party and ran away crying. That was a terrible, most unroyal thing to do ; a princess should never have a temper ( that's one of the disadvantages of being one), but poor Esmeralda hadn't many frocks -the government paid for them, too, you see-so perhaps we may excuse her. She ran and ran, away from everybody, till at last she was at the very top of the highest ivory and gold tower of the palace, right next door to the blue sky. This was where the secret room was, and Emeralda was just wishing she could go inside where nobody could see her if she kicked and screamed in a most unseemly fashion, when she noticed that the door was ajar. Now, wasn't that lucky? But when she got inside she found she wasn't alone at all -no, there lay the king, fast asleep and snoring loudly. You see he didn't use the room to think in at all! But what is even worse, he had taken of his wig and his head was as round and shiny as a billiard
ball. Oh, he did look so funny! Esmeralda laughed and giggled so that she recovered from her temper and decided to go back and eat more muffins and jam, but before she went she threw the royal wig out of the window - just for a joke -and so far as I know it has never been found to this day.
When the king woke up he was properly furious and lost his temper, too -it was a family failing-but since nobody could see him he did not mind. So he stayed in his room, but when dinnertime came and he had to go down stairs in a hairless condition, he felt that the situation had become unbearable and sent the herald out to proclaim the banishment of the person who had made away with his wig. The whole kingdom was in an uproar, I assure you, particularly when they found out who the culprit was. Poor little Esmeralda had to set sail in her blue and white boat for a distant country, because her daddy couldn't take back his decree. Kings never can - as I may have said before, belonging to a reigning family is a hard job.
The boat sailed and sailed, and Esmeralda cried and cried until at last she went to sleep. Next morning she was in a different country, far away from the gold and ivory palace, and she was very, very homesick. She saw a silver fish and spoke to him. "Silver Fish, Silver Fish, tell me where I can find my home," but the silver fish didn't know or else he wouldn't answer ; he only flirted his tail and swam away. Next Esmeralda saw a golden lion. "Oh, Golden Lion," she begged, "do tell me where I can find i:ny home," but the golden lion only waved his tawny tail like a fan and pawned and moved away. I guess he was bored; don't you? It was a long time before any more animals came to the place where the princess sat, but at last a lovely white bird walked by, carrying a basket in his beak, quite as if it were the circus. Esmeralda had about given up hope of meeting any polite animals in this country, but she asked her question once again, and much to her delight the white bird answered her. "Why, yes," he said, "just get in this basket and I'll take you where you want to go.'' The princess was overjoyed, but just as she started to step in the basket she remembered something. "Oh,'' she said, and ''Oh"
:again. "What is the matter?" asked the bird, for Esmeralda had started crying again. "My father said I must go away and be banished. I had forgotten that." "Yes, that is so," said the bird; 4 'let me think." In a few moments he had finished thinking. "I 'have it," he cried. "The king didn't tell you not to come back, did he?" "No," answered Emeralda joyfully, and flung her arms about the bird's neck. She would have kissed him, but he begged her not to - "No, no ; not yet !" So she climbed in the basket which the bird picked up, and away they flew across the Sea of Dreams till they came to Esmeralda's own dear land. When she stepped out on the shore the first thing she did was to kiss the dear bird, and what do you suppose happened? The white bird became a handsome prince-oh, yes, I assure you, that's quite true! Esmeralda and the prince journeyed together to her father's ·city, where the populace was more than glad to see them. You see, the government had suspended the muffins and marmalade during the princess' absence.
Of course, you know that Esmeralda married the prince and that they lived happily ever after. What's more, they had hot chocolate with whipped cream served every day at tea, with the muffins, as long as they were king and queen, so that all the nation lived happily, too.
And the moral of this story is that little girls must not lose their tempers or throw away their papa's wigs. You see, as you are not all princesses, my dears, you might not find a handsome husband.
lEbtl)ebtgreeof 1Man
(Continued from March Messenger)
BEE STOCKTON, '23
Look to the evolution of Religion. Let the Church examine itself; disentangle itself from dogma, creed and cult. Look upon itself in its infancy, free from the sacredotal beatitudes of form, emancipated from gowns, vespers, baptism, celibacy, holy sacraments, temples and cathedrals! Let the Church set aside its militant dogmatism of infallibility and trace its own evolutionary history! The fond predilection of anti-evolutionists for controversial disquisitions against science on the assumption that Reason is antagonistic to Religion has a rather misleading effect upon the unenlightened minds. Science is only antagonistic to Religion as Reason is antagonistic to Emotion. The appeal of Science is to Reason, of Religion to Emotion. Religion unfortunately is interwoven with ecclesiastical speculation. This speculation has lessened the intrinsic potency of Religion in an age too advanced to bow to such imposed dicta. Religion cannot be denied, elementally speaking, to be cohevel with man. Primitive man's conflict with environment led him to appeal to the sun, stars, moon, winds, ocean, mountains -in fact, all of Nature for protection. He felt his helplessness, therefore, gropingly made obeisance to that which gave life and that which destroyed. Modern students of the features symptomatic of "totemism" and the sacred ceremonies of aboriginal tribes throughout the world today see a realistic expression of primitive mind in religious attitude. Dr. Wilson Elwang has very happily phrased Religion as "that reverential attitude which man assumes toward the Power which, he believes, manifests itself in him and in the universe." But we are confronted with a dualism today. We are watching a conflict between Religion and its vehicle of propagation, the Church. There are many ministers of the gospel who attempt to impart religious inculcation through an absurd notion of appealing to superstlt10us ignorance. Such ministry is deluded by a phantom of the ima,2"ination. Look not
to the laboratory to find the forces that are scrutinizing the Church, but look at the theological schools and learned institutions where the hypercritical scholars are reinterpreting a mystical embodiment of the vague and perplexing edicts into a clear and plausibly rational Book.
The first opposition against modern thought arises from an implicit belief that the Bible is an incontrovertibly and incontradictorily perfect Book, imbued with superinduced direction and absolute guidance from God of the universe. The modern Biblical student has no difficulty in agreeing with the scientist on Evolution. The very origin of life in the Moses account embraces two distinct interpretations. They but express man's feeble attempt to account for his existence. Look, Gentlemen, to other religions for such accounts. The ancient Egyptians believed that the sun wounded itself, and that from its , stream of blood beings were created. The Persian legend in the Zend-Avesta, their holy book, accounted for creation through Ormazd, the faithful king of light: in conflict with Ahriman, the evil king of darkness. In the Brahman Religion or Hindu Religion we find a most strange account in the Laws of Manu. Brahma, meaning force, produced waters, dispelled gloom, planted a seed from which there came a golden egg. In this egg Brahma gave birth to himself. In splitting the egg open he created the world. He then created smaller men and other animals. Then we have the ancient myths that the earth rested upon a tortoise and the tortoise on an elephant. The disc formation of the earth with water beneath also had its influence on Biblical writers. These concepts are but few of many primitive contrivances to explain the great mystery of life on earth. The Hebrews have left us two accounts which have a general acceptance throughout the world of Christian people, many, who unfortunately, are in ignorance of their mere metaphorical value. Each religious worship has had its own interpretations of this phenomenon.
Let us briefly be reminded of the great Religions: Aryan, Ancient Hindu, Ancient Persian, Buddhism, Chinese, Hebrew, Egyptian, Roman, Christian. From the Aryans we learn of wor-
ship of many gods through sacrifice, ·prayer, altars, spirit. From the Ancient Hindus we examine Brahmanism and see reverence to the Vedas as a god-inspired book. Gods of earth, sun, moon, stars ~nd all nature were worshiped. They believed in life after death, and had no temples, idols, shrines and priesthood as today. Indra was the great god of the Vedas scripture. Then to ancient Zoroaster, of the Persians, in his teachings recorded in the Zend-Avesta weagain learn of a man who said he received from God a commission to purify religion. He calfed himself "prophet" and "spiritual authority." In the Zend-Avesta, the sacred book, there is one underlying theme: be pure in word, thought, deed, fear God, Ormazd, the spiritual mighty one; live chaste, temperate, and die in the hope of a world to come. Hebrew contact with Persian life imparted the idea of immortality to the Hebrew Religion, which lacked it. The Hebrews also took over the idea of the devil froin the Persians, but in so doing they greatly exaggerated Satan. From Buddhism, originating from the Buddha who lived 628 B. C., we observe eight facts making up the four great truths : Right views, right thoughts, right speech, right actions, right living, right exertion, right recollection and right meditation. As a philosophy this concept ignores God; as a religion of today it has set up many gods, thus departing from the earlier beliefs. China has three national religions of ancient history : Buddhism, Taoism and Confucianism. Lao-Tsze, the founder of Taoism, was said to have been a contemporary of Confuctis. He was a searcher after Light, and he imparted fanciful dreams. The religion became mixed with magic senseless beliefs of other sorts until it lost its hold upon the people. Then the third, Confucianism, founded by Confucus, who lived 500 B. C., exhorts and instills learning, morals, devotion of soul, reverence, domestic piety, but gave no concern with God. As Mohammedanism is too familiar to dwell upon, I will only mention in passing that the Koran was considered a sacred book, divine in its origin, and perfect in its implication. Not alone are the works of Vedas, the Zend-A vesta, the Koran, Taoism, Mohammedanism and Confucianism admirable subjects for comparative religious study, but let us inspect the Hebrew testament.
The Hebrew scriptures represent a compilation of history, poem, ·I?ro;~rb, prophe~y, epistle, c~stom, experience, and folkways , of people during hundreds of years. It perpetuated the Hebrew peoples. From the desert of Canan to the Amorites in about 93? B. C:.,they tenaciou ,sly projected this one belief in the ~ingdom of God. This religion maintained ethiccll values through a relentless prophecy of eternal damnation. The alternative was exaltation to the City of God. ~his one idea was hammered out by priest ~nd sage. The great laws of the Ten Commandments arose. Immortality was an acquisition from the Persian religion, as was the eternal torment of Satan. The study of the ancestry of our Bible is a fascinating story. I have only time to mention in passing some of the allusions to this pedigree. In about 432 B. C. Mana~seh was expelled from the priesthood of Jerusalem. He probably established Jehovah worship at Samaria with the Pentateuch as the scriptures. Then the various findings of testament translations and copied testaments for centuries gradually assembled into the great laboratory of modern higher critics of the Bible. The versions of the scriptures are interesting sources. The coptic Versian, the Ethiopic Version, the Gothic Version, the Georgi~ Version, , the Slavonic Version, the Armenian Version, the Arc1:bicVersion, along with the Greek, Ayriac, Hebrew and Samaritan Versions of the Old Testament have pu,shed forward fragmentary porti ons that were lost o.r mis interpreted in the va_rious single versions. The Uncia! Ma.nuscripts, the Cursive Man uscripts, Codex Sinaiticus found by Tischendo~f in 1844, the Vc1:tican Codex, the Codex Aleµnddms, and others tell of the va_rious discrepancies a,nd g~ps i,n our ol<;lversions of the Bible. The incongruitiys which fortperly were _I_>ara.doxes . tpat ba,ffl~~ · t,he sch<;>l ,ar ~-~e gradu~lly hcing e;'!l:pla}IJ,e~ . sinc_e the study of th~ ~ibl e h:3, s becomf t he lclb<;H;of scien:ti6c preci;sion. 1:he~e. "'.holly ipi.possible stories ( fr.oi:nlit.eraI accel?tance as a fa,ct) regardi~g . cn;ation, t):ie sin, of woman, ~~-e ~~ ,t_~ -i~acl~, pl~~ th,e I?laP.,Y,\h r.~t .s of ~.~th, des~1,1.cti9n a.¢ Pt:;1:d~:tion ~.r..e . no1w, appreciclte~ oi;i!y . ~°"(1\leir, . m.~ta.phoriccllapplj~:~io,n to, t ~i;:.e:5;£~i~nce - viy~§~bt_u.de~<?Jt,~es~ ea;lY:J:)eoples. Th~y~~?MW 11Y:t~~. fol}f.wax-1ct~d;lji,t~~ 9\ t,ljip:~ <;>tP.~Pl~ i1;1 , \~~if gi.:o.i;>> .~
after ethical morality. From scientific proof of the physical and psychologic inaccuracies of the Old Testament and from sequential generalizations from empirical inductions, both derivation of the exact comprehension of the cosmic order and from the vast research of the higher Biblical critics, no intellectual man can be fixed into a delusion regarding the so-called "Infallibility of the Bible." Even in our own enlightened city, theologians proclaim antipathetical aversion to such incontestible accuracies. They say that these are divine contrivances to "test the faith." How absurd ! How can a sane person conceive of God, who is the incarnation of Goodness, to be so mischievous as to precipitate his children into an abyss of damnation because Divine Grace facetiously cajoles man through the devil? The old idea of the Bible being sanctum sanctorum incomprehensible and omnipotent has been disapproved too often to find credence in a rational mind . Its value lies in its conservation of the lofty principles of conduct and morality which have exalted man to his eminence of civilization. These formerly stressed Faith through ignorance; submissive humility through the promise of Eternal Salvation. The new concept is Faith through Knowledge; Courage through Self-Realization. Puritanism and Calvinism have had their hour upon the stage.
Then Christ came. "I came to fulfill, not to destroy," said the One and only unsullied Humanitarian! For three years Christ preached throughout the land of Judea that "the kingdom of Heaven was come." His teachings inculcated a new, a tremendous, an overwhelming meaning. Faith in Christ engendered a Religion of gigantic potentialities . Christ became the incarnation of God personalized into consummate purity. He imparted the spiritual essence of a new Religion: Love ! The purely intellectual philsopohy of the Greek ideals of Reason lacked concepts of charity and love; the Epicurean had no concept of Good except through the enjoyment of refined pleasures that were lasting and free from pain; the Stoic practiced , fortitude and rigid restraint of the emotions ; Aristotle presented the Golden Mean and emphasized inquiry of goodness and the means to attain that end; Aristotelian ethics breathed the Plato and prevalent Greek philosophy of
Measure, Order, Proportion, through the Cardinal Virtues of Temperance, Courage, Justice, and Wisdom. These highly rational philosophies of moral living gave little consolation to the slave and the untutored man who needed charity and love. So dynamic was the message of Jesus that His sayings were gathered together years after His death and incorporated into the New Testament. These Gospels are the written reports of the facts known or gathered by their authors concerning the Ii£e of Jesus. Christ himself left no manuscript or written word. His only known inscription is the narrative referring to Him stooping in the street of Jerusalem and writing in the sand. Our knowledge of Him is through the comments of His disciples. None of these original manuscripts are existent. We possess only copies, many of which, gathered from various portions of Europe and Asia, readily show differences of opinion and varying concepts of Christ according to the narrator's impression directly or indirectly. The actual beginning of the perpetuation of these impressions and experiences through the Church originates the First Oecumenical Council at Nicaea in 325 when Constantine and three hundred and eighteen bishops banned Arianism. The Christian Church history tells of acceptance and rejection of manuscripts to conform with whims of the early founders. Here we see the beginning of the Catholic Church. Many very acrimonious disputations arose regarding "Whether Christ, the Son of God," was or was not God. It was finally accepted that Christ was not a mere man, but manifested high spiritual relation with God and was consubstantial with the Father. The Christian Church then wove its pedigree.
Rather than follow the lofty message of Christ with simple religious fervor and ethical aspiration, men have been too prone to make theology the dynamic impetus preferably to the spirit of the message. From edicts of Constantine to Theodocius I, we see a growing presumptousness emanating from the Roman Catholic Church in arrogating unto itself the absurd fallacy that it alone is the divine instrument to push forward through Apostolic Descent the lofty teachings of the Great Master. From the execution of Priscillian for heresy in 385 to the rigorous antagonism against
eugei,~~s for s,ocietal prote;!ctionin 192~,. we can trace a bloody history to . preserve t his Catholic Hierarchy. You are too . w.ell informed of this history to be again reminded. However, there arosea pompous interpretation and exclusive dictatorship from Thes ~ doi~us _ I in 380 that has had a decisive effect upon Christianity e':er since. In this edict, we learn not only the pre-eminency of the Catholic Christians, but also heretical warnings against nonconformists. These heretics "must expect the heavy penalties. which our authority, guided by Heavenly Wisdom, shall think proper to inflict!" Our authority , directed by Heavenly Wisdom, saw ·fit to inflict fines, confiscation, banishment, death! In the face of "Thou Shalt Not Kill," the Scriptures were reinterpreted t o suit the caprice of a divinely inspired pleasure. Maximus began the death sentences. We shudder to recall Torquemander in Spain: witnessing the eight thousand human torches. The power of Rome for centuries was merciless against its foes. Who were its foes? Those who declined to assume a religious formalism were the guilty culprits! Under Charles V, look to the fifty or more thousand writhing mortals yielding to the atrocious bloodthirst of merciless Church madness! The Heavens resounded with the cries of martyrs. Free thought was suppressed ; scientific progression threatened into smouldering somnalence; emerging independence was crushed.
Around the world in 1522 a Magellan sailed. The world at last was . proved to be without four corners. It was not square. Already five years before, Martin Luther left monastic cloister for Wittenburg, \\'.here he pi:oclaimed the . Reformation with his n~J:?t,!t)'.-fi:veth~ses. The _~efo1:m~~i°-nca,me. The reaction _~~ept th~ p ei:ip~lum , like. an c!.yalam;he. 'f.ho~sands of creeds ai;ose in voici~~ t he 1:ew ~reedom. :i;:>emocracyin rel_igio.us worship became so PC?tent \hat P¥ad~xica_l iU9(?".a,#ons of grotesque . cai-i~t~ re aP?~~ :· le~q¼; ., G~ntltrmen, w..it~,iP,i<;>Ur ver.y, midst: the :f?~ptis~ <;::hµrc;h~-npble i11~tit_1:1ti9n 1 , ~~c9_ipeslupic ~ouslJ , e~li~1;ia,n ~Y: - xot~ng U:(?Ont.~_eprop~i~tx of: s11,,vi9g. S(?~-1,s ! Cl?,~i~t _ n_ev~r 1f~01'-,w~(ea~Jp_iJi}:y,OJ; reco1t~e'tra.;~P,fka, lj}e.! , ~i:-5 . ~~s~g(? _\\'.¥.) "C all" Such. ~. Cb. . . · . R~~9,m~ .,,.• :·. ,.;; 11-}RjQ..., t;1~s tp __ ; ;1~tiap.},ty, <}.};4 , w,.~~
cultisms of theological dogma. In this age they lessen the import rather than strengthen the power of the Church. It is but another Theodicus edict to individualize man with Christianity according to man's sophisticated reasoning. Look to the other denominations and you smile at similarly spectacular ineptitudes. All are but children of revolt against a former bondage. Whether it be against the infallibility of a pope and the inviolability of enunciations issued ex cathedra in a vatican, or whether it be philogistic execrations emitted from petulant bibliolaters of Protestant pulpits in our polyglot cosmopolitanism against the Evolutionary Theory, we are forced to abandon acquisence to such superficially poised virulence and turn elsewhere for a more palpable inspiration to find the meaning and value of life. Religion is a matter of temperamental adaptation according to subsequent intellectual discipline. That accounts for Baptists, Catholics, Methodists, Presbyterians, Episcopalians, Holy Rollers, Holy Jumpers , Christian Scientfsts, Unitarians, Christiadelphians, Seventh Day Adventists, Christians, Russelites, Mohammedans, United Brethren, and the innumerable hundreds that join this list! We examine the history of Religion from its primitive yearning after polytheism to its present montheism and see the same ever-present reverential attitude toward that Power which manifests itself in the Self and in the Universe. The differences are in interpretative and speculative relativity of creed to spirit. There are many who decline to believe that the Old Testament was the particular contribution of the Hebrews to the Pedigree of Man as Hamlet and other literary jems were the particular contribution of Shakespeare to the Pedigree of Man.
Shakespeare, Milton, Dante, da Vinci, Titian are but other men inspired in other talents. Much pother arises from the recent statements by Dr. Grant in New York City. Why is the Church fuming and bubbling under these calm assertions? Were he the sensationalist of ephemeral duration to oe consumed by his own violence, I ask you why has he sent a tremor through the entire Protestant system in America and created more comment than any ministeF of the Gospel except Billy Sunday in half a century?He senses the feebleness of an old concept of religion to fit bar-
moniously with new discoveries of a new age. He expounds opinions that deny the deity, divinity, miraculous power and virgin birth of Christ. We know that Lao-Tsze, the founder of the ancient Chinese Religion of Taoism, was said to have been conceived after a supernatural mystery, as other historic men of influence are likewise given the same origin. The New Testament attempts to fulfill the Old. Since many of the versions of the New Testament, like the Old, are lost, and since the references to Christ are but transcripts by other men, Dr. Grant does not become blasphemous in propounding the hypothesis that such incomprehensible portions of the Scriptures are exaggerations and allegories. The scientists agree that parthenogensis is a fact. However, the virgin birth, looked upon with rational eyes, certainly appears to be a biological fallacy. This is but one of many baffling aspects of the Scriptures. We find Christ as one time the Prince of Peace and at another the advocate of destruction : "Think not that I am come to send peace on earth, I am not come to send peace but a sword." Again we are baffled at : "Love your enemies; bless them that curse you; do good to them that hate you; and pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you." Such philosophy is ideal, but how could you and I have met the challenge of the German invasion in 1914 and 1917 with such a criterion? "If any man will take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also" invites injudicious altruism to the defrauder. In my opinion these are metaphorical expressions to illuminate the entire message of .the Saviour ; they represent memory and recall of the saints in transcribing His utterances; they are subject to inaccuracies and psychologic perversions ; their constant recopying for centuries may also be responsible for some ambiguities. However, Gentlemen, let us view the situation in a rational manner. Metaphorical expressions cannot be the basis for any hypothesis. Their object is to explain, illustrate, enforce, not to present established first principles. They elucidate that which is not specifically obvious by analogy or by adducing examples from them that they may be understood the more clearly. The old order, and judging frqm the extraordina_rjly baffling titles to sermons published in the
Saturday papers of this enlightened city, too much of the present order of spiritual teaching is imbued with Adamantine defense because Scriptures are upheld by Scriptures through Scriptures; since Scriptures are Scriptures! We, who consider the Bible the crowning achievement of men in search ll:fter moral values through communion with God, brush aside controversial disquisitions in our knowledge of the Book as a man-made Book. All rationally minded men must concede that our only source of knowledge of the character of God flows from our own immanental moral consciousness. Old ideas of absolute irremediable annihilation, the ultimate finality to eternal damnation - or else matter and mind have no existence to living man - can no longer frighten and scare men into righteousness.
The quibbling over the rejection of much of the Bible as purely allegory, myth, folkway, history of a specified period, must recede · . Studies in compa'rative religions strengthen the moral fibre of men. Independence of moral striving is given impetus. Self-appraisal is possible; self-realization is the goal to seek in a morally ideal . aspiration. When we glance over the dazzling pedigree of man from cosmic beginning to the planetary formation, from the geologic evolution to the traces of protoplasmic life; and from the protoplasmic life to ascent, phyla by phyla, to man, and examine the wonderful emergence of such a brilliant specimen from a . single egg, we are brought more closely into the colossal vastness .of this life, and into the presence of greatness, we humbly revere the Great Cause. The heritages of learning have strengthened our societal evolution; the freedom of inquiry ·p~esages untold revelations for posterity. From groping savages we have ascended civilization's ladder slowly. Our Bible has been the conservation of ethical prindples to establish the high morality that enjoys governmental, educational, community, national and internatforial felicity. Through the Religion of Jesus Christ, we recognize a superiority to the messages of the laws of Manu, the great ZendAvesta, the Greek ideal Reasoning, the Koran and the other great Religions. We are concerned with the ethical spirit, not miraculous exaggerations about the Christ. In our evolution, the social
scie,nces have delayed their rightful advance. Our Churches must assume this great responsibility. Religion must embrace matters of social import in the place of theological badinage. Religion is scientific and does harmonize with the great physical sciences if viewed impartially. What we must give the future pedigree of man wilLbe emancipation from War, Disease, Poverty, Usurpation. Industrial Complexities, Sectionalism and Political Favoritism, Injustice and Inequable Burdens. We must make the conscience of society as sensitive as the conscience of the most moral individual. . Then, but not until then, could we sing : "I belong to the Great Church which holds the world within its starlit aisles; that claims the great and good of every race and clime; that finds with joy the grain of gold in every creed, and floods with light and love the gems of good in every soul." Religion no longer remains egocentric; its present and future is ethnocentic ! Gentlemen, until the Church arrives with such a message as this, it has failed utterly to fulfill its mission. Its acceptance of the wonderful discoveries of science in administering to the emotionally crying needs of civilization will toll the dawn of a new era, the transition of feeble struggles from dark superstition into clear understanding. This socializing function of the Church accompanies the synchronical sequence of progressive evolution in every category of human endeavor. Let us wield our pressure! Let us signal the advance and join the only solution to social exigencies in a rational age t 1fos :
"Ring in valiant man and free, The larger heart, kindtier hand ; Ring , out the darkness of the land,, Ring in the Christ that is to be."
Ml.l Si.gtna Rho Hall, University: of Richmond, Monday eveni8g, f~bruary l2, 1923. Mr. 'rctrrant presiding.
a }{}tartcftut!ition
C. N. SNEAD, '23
Well, Bob old sport, you see this book! It took me twenty years to write That paltry thing. lust take a look Inside and figure out the plight The author's soul must be in. Well , It's done e'en though it cost my soul: My fortune's made. And as I tell The truth to you, I feel my goal Is more than reached in twenty years. Yet I'm not satisfied. In youth I dreamed of things; no paltry fears Camped 'round my heart. And then, forsooth, I had a teacher-wondrous man! He's dead now - gone - he never will Behold the finished work of plans He helped to make; no, not until The judgment day. But I am glad He's gone. 'Twould break his heart to read That thing you see. Yet 'tis not bad! A perfect piece of art-a deed Done by a man of genius, so The critics say. They may be right In jitdging it for all I know. I think they are 'myself, if might
And ma:in count aught in work and love Of work. And my whole heart is there, And what is in my heart. Above All that, I pondered what was fair To my old teacher, who could not Let one day pass without advice On how to write, and what my lot
Would be some day - repeating twice
His earnest admonition that I heed the words of wisdom given By those who, keeping faith, had eat At wisdom's feet. The road to heaven Awaited me. And what he said Was this: "Young man, work hard, and fight, And love your work; be not afraid. Just look into your heart, and write."
That's what I did, and here's the thing I wrote from looking in my heart. And oh! that life could have the sting As I have pictured. Yet, the part Is played as I have seen it played In life. Mind you, I'm honest, BobI could not change it now, though flayed By disappointment- 'twould rob My soul of the vestige of truth To think of such a thing. I wrote Life as I saw it lived, and proof Of such is mine own life. Or quote You any man-I'll verify My statement. Pretty strong, you say'! W e,ll, it is strong; I don't decry Your argument. It is the way, Remember, that it seems to me. You may not have a heart like mine, And others may not-that I see Is clearly possible, and time May prove me to be wrong. I hope To heaven it may! Still, be this said: "He looked into his heart and wrote, And sought for truth; was not afraid."
Only one thing, Bob, troubles me; One thing in youth I did not see. You know, 'tis this: could I, ·in part, Have changed what came into 11-iy heart?
~oubentr
A. B. CLARKE, '23
I sit in this miserable garret, watching the rain wash down the window panes, and pondering on the wretchedness of my existence. It is cold, very cold, or else the fire in this stove has burnt itself out; and my hand shakes as I write. To me, it seems as if Spring should not be so long in coming. Instead of this frigid drizzle of rain, the air should be balmy and fine ; instead of this dreariness and depression, there should be great inspiration and fiery passion in my tired mind.
Yet, the window panes continue to stream with the oozing rain and the fire in this stove has quite burnt itself out.
I noticed today that the old lodger across the hall has recovered from his sickness. He has been down with influenza - at least that is what the landlady says. She was glad, so she informed me, to be rid of the old fellow's incessant scraping on the violin. But I don't agree with her. In fact, I have rather liked his playing. I do not know what he does all clay, but at night he is invariably heard playing the Drdla Souvenir and practicing it diligently. It gets monotonous after a time, but the habit of hearing the piece has been decidedly interrupted by his illness. I daresay the old fell ow won't be any improved by the spell. Not much of a man when he is well: thin, smallish, and almost emaciated. He wouldn't be able to stand much physical strain. I am glad he has recovered from the influenza - at least, that is what the landlady says.
He comes in here sometimes to see me when he's lonesome, I believe; but he always looks that way to me. He has a droop to his shoulders which he loses sometimes when he begins to talk But most of all, he tells the strangest stories. And he's just like other old people; talks all the time about his youth; thinks the world has lost pretty much all its interest and flavor. But most of all, the old fellow seems to have known a lot of people. I don't know what is his nationality, but his accent is Teutonic and he
talks a good deal about Vienna. Maybe he will tell me some time where he was born. I believe his name is Viezmann, but that does not make any difference to me.
One night about a month ago he was in here with his violinhe always carries it - and told me another of his queer tales. I don't credit the thing much, but I have been thinking about it lately, and somehow I have come to associate it with the Souvenir which my old friend plays. I don't know how accurately I could reproduce the story even if I were called upon to do so, but this is what I remember of it. Old Viezmann told the thing in a half dramatic, half meditative fashion, but I won't attempt to imitate him: I recall only the facts in the story.
Some years ago a young Austrian officer was spending his leave of absence at Lausanne on Lake Geneva. In his rambling through the country around the city he came upon a little village by the name of Brilly, four miles from Lausanne. One day, when the fine Spring weather had made walking especially delightful, this soldier was in Brilly and he met a Swiss girl rolling a small cart loaded with cheeses toward the railway station. A wheel of the vehicle had broken and the girl was trying to fix it so that she could get the cheeses to the station in time to meet the train. The handsome and gallant young Austrian officer offered to aid the girl, and together they succeeded in repairing the broken wheel and in reaching the train in time to send the cheeses to the great hotel in Lausanne.
It was a pleasant experience for the officer: the girl was pretty, her mouth was soft and drooping. It was a remarkable event in the monontonous life of the girl: the man was a soldier, his eyes were grey and deep. Both were quite agreeably affected by the occurrence - but especially the girl. The Austrian officer went back to Lausanne, his boredom relieved. The girl went back to her thatched cottage and meditated considerably on the young officer. She liked the smartness of his uniform and the steely glint of his grey eyes. She had always associated grey eyes and small delicate hands with an ideal which she cherished for a lover; and she had never found a lover with such eyes and hands. True,
this officer did not have small .delicate hands, but he had a strange steely glint in his grey eyes. She ignored the cruelty of his mouth, half hid by a short stiff moustache, and the set of his jaw -there was the steely glint in his eyes. In spite of the gutteral rasping way in which he spoke her beloved French; in spite of the military swagger which accompanied his movements;, and, in spite of the superiority and disdain in his loud laugh - there was the strange steely glint in his grey eyes. In fancy, the girl's imagination transformed a painfully conventional Austrian officer into a demi-god. She walked with him, as with her dreams, in the shadow of those towering snow-capped peaks in the western Juras; she forgot the realities of the village; the braying of the widow Boissard's donkey, the shouts of the children, the smell of leather in old Colin's shop, the sight of the dung heap in the side yard and the steam which rose from it on these Spring mornings; she lived for the moment in an idealistic realm. It was in the shadow of the mighty Jorat that she walked with a very strange, unfamiliar Austrian officer who had very intimate, steely grey eyes. She peopled the village with such scenes as her imagination made of stories and meagre reading about Geneva - even Paris. In the midst of fine streets and buildings, finer than those of Lausanne, which she visited once or twice a year, surrounded by vague shadowy figures of persons in magnificent dress, she made her way accompanied by an unknown man who wore a military uni form and had peculiar grey eyes. And then she would remember the young Austrian officer who had mended her cart and loaded the cheeses on the train. The musing was pleasant even if it did make her neglect the churning and merit her mother's scolding.
On the other hand, the Austrian officer found Lausanne increasing in its boredom. On each of the next few days he was again in Brilly, but he returned to Lausanne disappointed-a fact which doubtless he would not have admitted - because he had not seen the Swiss girl. He wanted a coincidence to bring them together, but he was disappointed.
On the fifth day he was again in Brilly, standing at the little railway station, when he saw the Swiss girl approaching with her
cart of cheeses. His heart beat rapidly -more so, he noted, than it did when the Vienese beauties placed slender white arms about his neck and lifted heavily rouged lips to be kissed. It piqued him .to see that the girl did not immediately recognize him, and ignored his repeated attempts to secure her attention. At last, swaggering, as was his custom, the young Austrian soldier gallantly offered to help unload the cheeses from the cart. The girl curtly told him to mind his own business. His feelings were hurt. He did not know why ; he had been repulsed by other women in even more serious circumstances. But he thought that the Swiss girls' mouth looked very soft and alluring.
The Austrian soldier did not know that the girl who rolled the cart of cheeses was not the one he had met five days before. This was the former girl's sister, identical twin -and boast of the village of Brilly in the remarkable similarity she displayed with her sister. Her name was Etienne and the other's was Denise. The young men of the village made small wagers as proof of their ability to distinguish the two sisters -and lost or won money in even ratio, since there were only two guesses. Etienne ·thought the soldier like other soldiers. She may not have been wrong. Moreover, she did not approve of flirting, and the manner of the young officer had been quite brazen. She was relieved, however, when he retired promptly at her refusal.
The Austrian officer went back to Lausanne resolved to return no more to Brilly. He did not understand his feeling of humiliation; and the picture of a soft mouth with full red lips stayed in his mind with a foolish persistence, he thought.
The girl, Etienne, went home considerably thoughtful. Somehow, she could not forget the strange steely glint in the soldier's grey eyes. If it had not been for that, she would have told the incident of the meeting to her sister and mother -but those peculiar eyes. Identical in body with Denise, Etienne was likewise identical in mind. Secretly, she cherished an ideal lover with grey eyes and small, soft, delicate hands. She remembered the foreign accent in the soldier's speech. It was ugly-but the picture of his eyes remained-the strange grey glint. It worried her, but she said nothing.
The next time the cheeses had to go to the station, both the girls insisted on taking the cart. Their mother was surprised. Each offered the excuse of wishing to buy something in the village. Etienne was allowed to go. Denise pouted over making the butter.
The officer was in the station again . He had stayed away one day and came back every other.
The Swiss girl encouraged the approach of the officer and permitted him to help her with the unloading of the contents of the cart. He asked her when ·she would come again. She said the next day, but at Pere Gruneau's shop. The soldier was there when she arrived. They walked to the edge of the village together. Then she made him leave her, and continued the rest of the way home saying she would try to bring the cheeses next time.
At the usual time, Denise took the cart to the station , and found the Austrian soldier waiting. He helped her unload the cart and then walked to the edge of the village, where she made him leave her and continued the rest of the way home alone. He asked when she would come again. She said the next day, but at Pere Gruneau's shop to buy a pretty gold pin. The soldier was there when she arrived. He wanted to pay for the pin, but old Gruneau stared so hard that Denise refused. They walked to that side of the village which was away from home, and the handsome young Austrian officer talked. The girl did not like his accent; but the glint of his grey eyes -
Denise returned home late in the evening, so late that her mother scolded, but the girl ignored the wrathful words and thought only of a pair of grey eyes, which seemed to chill her mind with their metallic depths.
Etienne went to the village on the next day. The Austrian soldier was waiting. He told her he loved her, and she acknowledged her affection for him. He kissed the soft, full lips and found his anticipation realized. When the girl was detained at home the following day, Denise went to the village secretly and met the Austrian officer. They walked to that side of the village which was away from home. Without warning, he embraced her, kissed her and spoke emphatically of his love. She responded with an
ardor which surprised him. They were silent for ·a long time. The girl gloried in the lure of tlre man's eyes; the soldier ·complacently contemplated the soft fU:11lips. The girl spoke o'f marriage; the soldier smiled and agreed.
Denise returned home openly reserved yet inwardly, innocently buoyant and, like Etienne, jealously guarded her secret. But each sister divined the existence of something in the other which was being concealed. Denise, in the intensity of her thinking, felt herself in the loftiest heights of bliss. She enjoyed the complete secrecy of her love, but would have felt doubtful of it except for the fire of her emotion, the very strength of which assured her of success. All day the memory of the grey eyes throbbed in her mind. By afternoon, she felt almost suffocated with the reality and necessity of her duties.
Etienne was equally unnerved. The routine of the day exasperated her, and her mother commented harshly on her restlessness in the afternoon. With maternal direction and judgment, she had forbidden the girls the privilege of going to the village - and both the sisters lived in wretched suspense until necessity decreed their making the usual journey to Br illy with the cheeses. At last, fearing the direct intervention of the mother, Denise spoke. Since their mother had become a common enemy who suspiciously pried into their peculiar moods, the sisters were drawn closer together in their plans. And Denise, tortured by the suspense, trustingly unburdened her mind to Etienne. The latter was astounded and confessed. The question of what to do came upon them. The cheeses had to be taken to the station tomorrow. Which one should go?
After much discussion it was decided that Denise must go. She did. The Austrian officer was at the station as usual. He and the girl walked to the edge of the village. Then Denise told him that she and her sister were in love with him; that the gir1 he was meeting was in reality two girls, sisters, identical twins. The soldier was surprised, but not noticeably moved. The full red lips of the drooping mouth before him were enough, he thought. He shrugged his shoulders carelessly and laughed his loud coarse
laugh. The cold steel of his eyes brightened and the gutteral' accents grated the girl's ears; but the metallic glint of his eyes- . brightened-and Denise felt a warmth in them. She asked what they should do. He said he did not know ; that the two sisters could settle it between themselves -he laughed -one was enough, he said. The girl tried to make him choose her. He laughed again, and said the two sisters could settle it, as they wished. And Denise saw the cruelty in his mouth, but_that' steely glint of his eyes fascinated her, charmed her, almost maddened her. She went home wretchedly undetermined.
Denise and Etienne realized the difficulty, and together decided to leave choosing to mere chance. There was little discussion. The latter concurred in the suggestion of the former -and each expected deliverance as a result of the intensity of the feeling which she experienced.
One small capsule was filled with bichloride of mercury, another with pulverized sugar. The two capsules were then placed together under a cloth and each of the girls simultaneously drew and swallowed one of the capsules. They awaited the result. It seemed a long time. They began to doubt if they had prepared the real poison. Etienne tried to pray. Denise wept silently. Within half an hour, Etienne develepode a harsh burning sensation in her stomach and a little later died in convulsions, with caustic pains tearing into her abdomen. Denise sat stolidly through it all, a fierce, unnatural satisfaction manifesting itself in her blanched features. Always before her mind stared deep grey eyes, with a steely glint in their gaze. And Etienne lay dead on the floor of the sisters' room.
As one would suspect, Denise went to the village that afternoon. The soldier met her; she told him the decision. He kissed the full red lips of the drooping mouth and: turned the grey of his eyes upon the brown of those ~f the Swissgirl. They would be married. Love had found a way.
The Austrian officer never returned.
That's the story, as I remember it. And my old friend, the lodger across the hall, concluded the story with his usual gestures
of spreading his hands and then shaking his head dolefully. · Invariably, he weeps in telling these anecdotes. I suppose he is tender-hearted, because he is becoming senile. One would think that he had an intimate part in his tales. Maybe he has. This time he wiped his large watery, grey eyes several times, and then went to his room to practice, as usual Drdla's Souvenir.
There! I daresay the old man is much better. Listen. He is beginning at this very moment to play that same piece. It sounds as if he were not so unhappy after all.
But I -well -I sit here in this miserable garret, watching the rain wash down the window panes, and pondering on the wretchedness of my existence. It is cold, very cold, or else the fire in this stove has burnt itself out; and my hand shakes as I write. To me, it seems as if Spring should not be so long in coming. Instead of this frigid drizzle of rain, the air should be balmy and fine; instead of this dreariness and depression, there should be great inspiration and fiery passion in my tired mind. Yet the window panes continue to stream with the oozing rain and the fire in this stove has quite burnt itself out.
'ltnttrtaintp
BEE STOCKTON, '23
Silent Time, Invisible Phantom, comest Thou unseen in endless monotony, To leave irrevocable scars amongst Us victims to thy mystic alchemy! Like unseen touch of inscrutable fate, By Thee, grief is solaced; hate erased, While effulgent Hope, tho suffered late, Comes guardian to living Faith unabased. Time! why build beauty for decay, For age to mock in withering decline And dash happy biloom of youth away, Later make tllusive their love sublime'!
Why hold triumphant a tomb as goal With threats of greater pains to fallow The eerie fleeting of the unknown soul Into realms of that eternal morrow'! Why ever answerest Thou me the same: "Man, like me, mysteriously alone, Must to inexorable law lay blame, In effort to strugg,le, to fail, and atone!"
MARGARET HARLAN, '26
JERSEY CITY
Every evening they come up the long tunnel from the tubes to the Jersey trains, a scurrying mass of humanity, moving together, closely packed, their feet making hollow padding sounds, like rats to the Pied Piper's playing. They do not race as for a prize, but surge on as if moved by a strange compelling force. Up the runway they push, more and more quickly as the train whistle announces departure, up and out into the open street.
THE BEAT/ES
The Beatie family was at dinner. At the head of the table presided tittle Mr. Beatie, and shouted across to Mrs . Beatie. In fact, they all shouted, all seven, for · Mr. Beatie was quite deaf, and their loud talking to make him hear had become habitual. Each one kept up an incessant chatter, contented to talk whether the rest listened or not. Mary, the oldest, beginning to feel the responsibility of · the family, instructed two-year-old Bobby in successful spoon transportation. Across the table Joe brought small Betty to tears by pretending to- eat her cake, and was severely chastised by the whol'e family.
NATALE
Seeing him there - before his easel, alert, keen-eyed, it was easy to imagine Natale a young painter of the Old World, at work on the portrait of a duchess or copying an old master. He had come, when a boy, from Italy, endowed with her priceless enthusiasm and: love of the beautiful. Everything about Natale was enthusiastic; his body, hard and muscular as that of a trained athlete, glowed with intense youthful vigor; his dark eyes were alive with interest, . and his lips parted often, with a flash of strong teeth, into a
sympathetic smile. A hard struggle with poverty had left him undaunted, for he loved his work as one must who will walk from Ninth Street to Eighteenth Street to attend art school after a day at public school. His manner was confident, yet with the humble confidence of one who, realizing that he has much to learn, is sure that he will learn.
A VACANT LOT
It was only a vacant lot with the usual crop of tin cans that will not bloom and small boys who wear the carpet into a diamond pattern, marked in the corners by dirty bags and sticks. In a cupped hollow by the sidewalk an old gnarled peach tree , dwarfed by its exiled fight against poor soil and small boys , bloomed in dainty pink stars. The blossoms were scarce, but the dark twisted limbs accented the lace work of its soft colored points, held high to blend into the spring sunlight.
~baktt>ptart' t> Im omen
JUDSON EVANS, JR.
If ever our sturdy race produced a single personage deserving of the diamond crown awarded the individual of the genus homo possessing the greatest understanding of human nature, the man was William Shakespeare. Aside from any other greatness, unknown perhaps even to such assiduous persons as Sidney Lea, we acclaim him for the quintessence of wisdom. Briefly, but congently, we state it: he understood women!
We say this with due reverence and respect to Allah, with head bowed down, as one paying the supreme compliment .
A cosmopolitan view of humanity and a richer, broader experience than we have been able to verify in detail from meagre biographical material available is indicated by the exceedingly varied female characters drawn for us by Shakespeare. It is possible, and quite usual, to divide his female characters into two categories: first, those of his youth in whom are generally said to predominate "most unlovely qualities," and those women belonging to the more mature and philosophical period in the life of the poet.
From Helen Zimmern and others we hear that the "women in the comedies have most unamiable feminine characteristics, etc.," but diligent research, close observation and an occasional prayer have failed to define for us the term "Feminine characteristics." The only explanation we have found for the tendency toward presentation of unlovely characteristics is the rather trite statement: "He was young then." That, as any youth will recall, is given as a cause for almost anything, including senseless marriages. Sympathetic persons point out that the poet was suffering from having his mind warped by recollections of early love affairs, it being more than hinted that such affairs are usually disappointing. Shakespeare's unexpected marriage with Ann Hathaway is cited in the evidence to prove this contention.
Young writers are given to being idealists, it appears, and it is customary for an idealist to resent having his conception of lovely
woman torn down. Even the Germans, who are perhaps not so strong on reverence for women as the Anglo-Saxons, are guilty of this weakness. Even Goethe and Schillar handled their first heroines with the cruel hand of youth, for they had not surrendered to necessity and started judging perfection by worldly standards. That we think, in brief, accounts for the increased tolerance which comes with maturity, which, doubtless, shows that as bad as she is, she is much better than she might be. And after all to err 1s human, or words to that effect.
Regardless of possible causes and effects, however, 1t ts undeniable that the types of women presented are elevated somewhat in the poet's more mature work. But it strikes us (we being young and not in the least ashamed of it) that the unlovely traits must exist, or else the characters would not appear to live before our eyes and recall to mind similar types which, the big boys tell us, exist today in no less Christian country than the U. S. A.
Even Miss Zimmern admits that she has heard "fables" of women being fickle, but she adds : "But a fable does not become true by repetition, so we have laughed heartily at such stories." Of course, they are not fickle and Shakespeare should have been slapped on the wrist for saying so. They just change their minds, you know. The lady who wrote a book for the "higher classes of German society" laughed heartily and we laugh, too, but it's one of these cracked laughs which would evidently be misunderstood among those who do not believe fables. The lady registers refined indignation that boorish persons should even hint that Allah's noblest are fickle. Assuredly "he was young then," but she points with pride to his skill in this period as a delineator of the manifold feminine virtues. The hand which wrote of Juliet was genius, while the same hand writing of other ladies in comedies, was simply a warped soul ! The inconsistency is obvious, but then it is also~ feminine.
:Believing that the sun cas~s its rays upon the just and the unjust alike, and that Shakespeare looked upon the true anq the f ~lse with the same penetrating eye, we discuss Shakespeare's women with tq.e same credence given to _ the bad as to _the good.
52 THE MESSENGER
Since vice exists in such abundant quantities it is unfair to spend all our time in consideration of virtue. Perhaps if this percentage scheme were not overlooked, we might cut down the relative proportion.
In last analysis it is man's chivalry which defeats him. Even Rodolph Valentino admits that he is old fashioned and wants to preserve the mystery of women. Man does not know woman while he is pathetically simple to her. Even though he be endowed with a keen mind he does not know the truth, mainly because he does not want to know it.
William Shakespeare looked with the understanding eye of a poet in search of truth and he found truth. The fact that in later years he presented intellectual and spiritual women is only natural - as natural as it is for youth to deal with romantic and physical love. In maturity he was in the second period of the pursuit of an ideal with the realization that women and things were neither so bad nor so good, as he at first suspected. To us it is arrant nonsense to deny the applicability of his earlier characters to life and at the same time present the characteristics of Miranda, obviously an ideal creature of the imagination, as typically feminine. With this in view we will consider only a few typical women from the plays we have encountered, chasing these particular ones for the simple reason that we like them, for various reasons which may be evidenced in our treatment.
We will start by agreeing with a lady (Mrs. Jameson) that "Juliet is love itself." Love so pure and noble in Portia, so ethereally tender and free from care in Miranda, so sweetly trusting in Pecdita, so playful in Rosalind, so faithful in Imogen, so full of submission in Desdemona, is in Juliet all these at once. In brief, we think Juliet is the true Etarre the ageless which the young poet hoped to meet. She is presented as a very young girl, and the whole play is just an attempt to picture an imaginary case where the girl and boy really enacted the scenes which they believe when they discuss the beautiful illusions which exist in their minds.
As Hazlitt points out, in considering Juliet and the play itself, we must rid our minds of the manners of today and transport our-
selves into those of another time when a kiss in the midst of a large entertainment was not only allowed but usual. As our flapper friend remarked we must imagine those dear dead days when "kisses really meant something" -betrothal, for instance. In the play the love drunken pair believed themselves to be on the threshold of Paradise, says Hazlitt, and in this they only believed what love drunken pairs have been believing since the first peep of dawn in Eden. They poised between reality and unreality and endured Love, which is, we suppose, the momentary fusion of reality and unreality -which is about the same as the word Romance. There is no question in our minds but that Romeo and Juliet are simply the spirits of youth; that is, they typify the feeling of young love which we fear is the only love, unless we consider the connubial variety which seems simply a clumsy effort to capture the lost glimpses of paradise .
Romeo and Juliet is then "Whatever is most intoxicating in the odour of a Southern spring, languishing in the song of the nightingale, or voluptuous in the first opening of a rose." All the wonderment of the first rose in the garden blooming or the first kiss that you gave your sweetheart. Shakespeare has not, we contend, founded the passion of Romeo and Juliet on the pleasures they have experienced in their extreme youth. He has simply presented from his imagination those pleasures which youth hopes for: and the result is beautiful and wonderful, like the first smile on the face of spring. It is more beautiful than the more mature love because, mathematically stated , anticipation is greater than realization.
As an intellectual woman, who is sweetly feminine withall, a person who would please and at the same time charm W. L. George or Valentino or the rest of us, Portia is presented. Mrs. Jameson declares: "Her being glows with a majestic charm; a ray of purest, divinest loveliness, Portia stands at the highest, most brilliant summit of life." \Ve discard some of this as euphemistic, feminine and meaningless to mere man. Portia is in part a "woman's woman." She seems the kind of girl who through charm preserves masculine admiration and through the rare combination
of sterling virtues not possessed by most of the others of her sex becomes in a certain sense their ideal. Had she been a masculine women as they frequently are, she would have been detested by men as a rival rather than as a beautiful and charming woman. Portia has been held up as a forerunner of the "new woman," but in her intellectual activities she was actuated by love and would consequently deny any connection with the moderns who have left off charm to such an extent that even the sheik writes in a magazine about it all.
In the same play is presented Jessica, a warm blooded girl who has been suppressed until the time comes when she is made love to in the moonlight. The world still produces J essicas who act the same way in the moonlight and are yet sweet and understanding and add to the liveableness of life.
In his presentation of the royal ladies , Anne and Elizabeth, the poet is charged with outrageous lies . Miss Zimmern says: "Even Shakespeare cannot shock our sense of nature and truth and we turn away in disgust from the scene where breathes such contempt , so low and unjustifiable an estimate of the female sex." In refutation we contend: first , that he spoke of individuals not the whole sex; secondly, should anyone doubt the truth of the picture, we call attention to the account of the social customs under Queen Anne, gathered from contemporary writings, and rest our case. Enough is put in that one volume to justify almost anything, including fickleness. The "customs" mentioned are enough to show that flappers and cake eaters of the present just "don't know the half of it, dearie."
vVe always liked Viola ever since we read Lamb's tale of "Twelfth Night" at the tender age of ten. Viola is sweetly sympathetic, subtle and coy and lots of other nice girlish things when she hears, in the disguise of a page, her lover's yearnings for Olivia. She is not too bold, and yet not too cold and seems to us to be true to life. Some day we hope to get away from trite phrases, but what we mean is that when we read of Viola we can picture sundry real damsels which, we take it, is a compliment to the poet's clarity in painting portraits.
Olivia, on the other hand, seems to have been apparently cold and haughty to the general run of man, but at the right time she was one of the "I-just-couldn't-help-it" girls. She was cold enough to the duke, but when she fell in love with the beautiful page she just couldn't wait even to be coy about it all. She just had to tell him - sort of throw herself on his mercy, and say she knew he could think her bold, etc. In our opinion this is a better way to get them than by living up to the false feminine axiom that all the thrill is in the chase. Only great men survive Olivia's tactics. Personally we would have liked to meet Helena, the tall and slender, and the little vixen, Hermia, in "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Hermia reminds us of sundry damsels fair to see who have black bobbed hair, with or without marcels. Had we been Demetrius or Lysander we would cheerfully have dispensed with argument and tossed up a coin for the two and taken either with a feeling that we couldn't go wrong.
In "Othello" we find Desdomona, sweet and submissive, and almost too perfect as a wife. She showed adorable traits in bending her husband to her whims and we think she would have been more fully appreciated by a lad like Cassio. That is, however, another story and it should suffice to point out that she had the necessary lack of understanding to bring on the culmination of the plot and to aid unwittingly the mental torture going on in Othello's mind.
In this play Bianca, a minor character, receives little attention. She was apparently a high-grade street walker, who loved Cassio. Yes, we call it love and repeat our firm conviction that she was as much capable of love as her more fortunate sisters; and moreover respectability and a higher price do not distinguish for our dimmed eyes the difference in women who sell themselves. To our immature judgment a house or woman is yours whether you pay rent or make an outright purchase. Bianca seems to have been a diverting sort of sister and no doubt accomplished relatively little harm in the world.
In Lear, Goneril and Regan "seems to scoff at natural laws and behests of duty," mourns one of the femme-critics who objects
to anything but the woman stainless and pure. Those who doubt that such women exist can glance over the list of murdered husbands, or read the deposition in a few divorce cases. We say a word here for wicked women: if, as Miss Zimmern contends there existed in Shakespeare's time no women who possessed the rela~ tively mild vice of fickleness, there would be none to form a contrast with their pure and undefiled sisters. It would naturally follow then that the good would escape notice, and none of them would enjoy the exquisite pleasure of pointing the finger of scorn at poor Frailty as she shivers in the street and curses the luck which denied her the capture of one man plus respectability and ease, while the highborn and educated ladies who specialize in altruism and ethics and prayer meetings manage to "fall in love" only with prosperous business men.
We venture the assertion that had Goneril or Regan not fallen in love with Edmund, except surreptitiously -had she been willing to content herself with a few clandestine dates - and had sense enough to look after her poor father, she would have stood well in the community.
Rosalind was a playful maid who could attract and play the game of love "as you like it."
Miranda, heroine of "The Tempest," considered by many to be the most finished product of the poet's genius, combines womanly dignity and a childlike devotion and simplicity which is wonderful to behold. Her naivete impulses, which could have come from the contact with nature alone, makes her appear to be the mature ideal of the poet. One critic said : "There is something vague, abstract, ethereal in her character ; she seems too pure ; too delicate to exist, etc." Certainly she is all that, but as to existence, she plainly existed in the poet's imagination and she exists in the minds of men. There is a wistful yearning inspired by Miranda which has never come to us save from the heroine of "Green Mansions,"' another ethereal child of nature. To be sure Miranda is not to be encountered on Broad Street, but occasionally there are those who look from out Miranda's eyes and then there is that momentary fusion of reality and unreality and we come out of the trance
married or something like that. Miranda does not exist? Just what is existence?
Ophelia in "Hamlet" seems a "soft, yielding creature, with no -power of resistance, a loving soul but without the passion which gives strength." By this description she is admirably fitted for the needs of the occasion : no other girl would have sufficed for the story as it works out. There are today such yielding creatures, . or at least those who seem so, which for our purpose is the same. Hence Ophelia seems a true character and a product of the same genius which produced for us the masterpiece of clarity - Cleopatra, serpent of the Nile.
And so when everything else fails Cleo is always with us , for
"Age cannot wither her nor custom stale Her infinite variety. Other women cloy The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies."
"The character of Cleopatra is a masterpiece," says Hazlitt. To us no other character in the plays is as vivid. We see her "whole character a triumph of the voluptuous, of the love of pleasure and the power of giving it." We are inclined to agree with Richard Harding Davis and sympathize with Antony. For it is something to see a man so moved by anything as to be willing to give up honor and lose a battle. And after all what is a battle? Certainly they are at best useless things and benefit nobody, whereas Cleopatra was quite feminine and a mass of capricious complexity deserving of the study of any man.
To be sure, on a surface analysis, Nile's serpent checks up as a royal wench who extended her charms to sundry prominent citizens of the time and thought nothing of it save as a means to sensual satisfaction. She is then but the prototype of the many who <:onsider man a legitimate plaything. Personally we subscribe to the theory that she loved Antony. We are hazy on the word love, but at best the word is remarkably elastic and covers a multitude of sins. She was in her love paradoxical. . She was loving,
yet deceiving, vain, generous, yet selfish, and she loved Antony in romantic, sensuous and sensual ways.
The English litt always chortles over the fact that Cleo is a product of the poet's period of tragic gloom and tries to draw a moral. We, however, have no intimidating ties which forbid our expressing the conscientious belief that, beside Cleo, Octavia is as dull as dishwater.
Octavia was another "woman's woman ." She is probably the source of the proverb saying that the best women are those of whom the least is said. Says Miss Zimmern: "Her truly womanly nature lies before us clear and pure like a speckless mirror." In deploring Antony's inconstancy the same ladys points out that Octavia was "sincerely fond" of him. In our dull and unlearned way we feel that the phrase "sincerely fond" is lamentably weak , as is the modern "I love you, yes, but in a different way." The difference in the two is the same as between the phrases "enthusiastic co -operation" and "dignified compliance."
Cleopatra, it is recorded, loved Caesar in her youth, and his greatness is attested to by the fact that he did not become her slave. Mark Antony could plead additional extenuating circumstances, however. He met her in her full blown beauty as an "experienced priestess of exuberant sensual enjoyment in which refined coquetery, wild passion and great sense of beauty are united to produce a lasting, ever-new impression. How experienced she is in the wiles of fascination, luxury, art and prodigality!" Those who feel that they are lads with cast-iron wills should meet a Cleopatra and feel the humility which comes from helplessness. Mark Antony was doubtless a man of penetration and fully appreciated the fact that he was doing a fool thing, but reason on such occasions proves inadequate. This may serve to explain why young boys are invariably made to appear utter asses, regardless of previous mental promise, if a girl gets her tender hands on him, fixes on him a maidenly stare, and weeps orthodox tears upon his coat lapel. In brief, then, a femme experienced in the psychology of man ( and age has not all to do with it), with a complete knowledge of the wiles of fascination, can conquer any man who
walks, providing he has not been previously hooked by the same line. An academic knowledge of pathological fact may be a help, but it is insufficient to save man from his doom. If he escapes , it is probably because the woman decreed it so, and yet all the while made him think he had something to do with the arrangement! It is hard to find among us one who does not admit, to himself at least, that he is something of a Don Juan, except for unavoidable circumstances. Is there a man who sincerely resents being kidded about kissing a pretty check room girl? There may be, but we haven't his name on file.
To return to Octavia, the well-nigh perfect wife, who failed to delight her husband: A perfect wife, says W. L. George, "Should be almost perfect, but not quite." This stainless mirror stuff is awful. A man does not in fact want a goddess. He wants a woman who can fit into his moods. And yet one who can be a goddess in loveliness and at the same time be human and similate helplessness and be feminine on occasion. He wants a great deal more, it appears, than he has any chance of getting, but the perfect wife must study her husband and not forget how to play sweetheart in her zeal to be too much of a stainless mirror.
Caesar's wife, then, should not always be above reproach. Such a woman would be unbearable. If she wants to keep the companion of her soul from tearing around through the streets of Rome in company with bits of fluffy femininity she must study the brute. She should be practically above reproach, and yet leave room for an occasional complaint, for complaining is one of man's few remaining privileges. Should she fail to fall short by some infinitesimal measure, he will take her for granted and that would , of course, be tragic.
Reflections on woman are, it appears, the usual custom for youth . And "Our elders, Manuel, declare that such self-conceit is a fault, and our elders, they say, are wiser than we." But perhaps it's not how long you stay here; it's what' you put over while here that counts in the Book of Gold and elsewhere. We, therefore, off er these random comments and conclusions without a blush and with no apology, save that we are, of course, still young and
still unashamed . And we have said there is nothing to keep us from saying what we believe is true. A casual glance will convince that this is not a deliberate attempt to curry favor with the fair. We will add, however, that we hope to investigate the subject further before long, and therefore reserve the right to amend or retract any and all statements . This seems necessary, as at least one bobbed-haired flapper has taken our theories almost seriously, and consequently we caught what is known among the erudite as a tough break in the game.
As a concluding statement about Shakespeare's women we say: They are women !
~pril Winb~ W.E.,'24
Rush across the fields to me , 0 wild winds of Apri;l! Let your heated waves beat soft against my throat, Wide I fling my arms to catch your ripples ,in my fingers ; Lift 111,elightly from the earth upon your tide-to float, Lapped in all the tenderness of young leaves quiveringFloat , laved in the freshness of new-ploughed earth , Till life seems but a dream too bright to have an ending And l01_1e a star too distant for human tears or mirth.
There is a beauty of fitness about the Victor Metcalf Memorial Library that is captivating. One can be struck by the perfectness of an idea, as well as of a monument or some splendid triumph of architecture. Dr. Metcalf's idea combines the two requisites of architecture: beauty and utility. That the Metcalf Memorial Library is a beautiful conception is apparent, yet this concept eternally waits accomplishment. The broad culture of future generations of books will ennoble future generations of students. The utility of the idea is daily attested; about this no more need be said.
One misses the full beauty and fitness of the idea, however, unless he examines its origin. I commend to all students as one of the most expressive tributes the booklet Dr. Metcalf has written entitled "A Tribute of Love." The reader will leave it always with fresh inspiration and a deep sympathy for a personality whose reigning thought was service. This spirit will seem to touch every book of the collection and the "browsing alcove" becomes for each almost an intimate personal library. Thus is the verse fulfilled, "Behold, I have set before thee an open door," for the books are chosen as Victor Metcalf himself would have wished. Dr. Metcalf at present gives himself this pleasure.
The memorial is unique in that it allows for expansion. The superstructure is being constantly enlarged, but the beauty of the idea remains perfect; for the idea is the door and the interior is the human soul. Beginning with a small portion of an alcove the library now numbers approximately 1,000 books. The accretion of books now in twos or threes, now in lots of fifteen or twentyfive or occasionally more, will .soon fill an alcove. In the far future the collection will occupy a room of a library building. Arrangement will be made by Dr. Metcalf for the regular purchase of books upon the basis of the endowment.
The most popular name for the library is the "Browsing Alcove." There are lively, interesting books by the best authors on a large variety of subjects, of which tbese six comprise the most
of the collection: Poetry, Drama, Essays, Biography, History and Fiction. In glancing over the titles one is overwhelmed with such a richness of literature that he hesitates to give a list, so the following may serve as samples. In the selection note the prevailing standards of form, inspiration and catholicity.
Along with the singers of proven greatness stand Amy Lowell's "Legends," Joyce Kilmer's "Poems," and Hill's "The World's Great Religious Poetry." The last is not only one of the most comforting and helpful of books, but a basic step toward the science of religion.
In his collegiate days Victor Metcalf was active in dramatic work and the library is consequently rich in plays. Ibsen is represented in the glory of a de Luxe edition and Shakespeare in the Riverside Literature edition. It is necessary to mention Jones and Pinero in whose plays Metcalf on occasion acted.
There is a very comprehensive selection of essays old and new, the latter typified perhaps by Hudson's "A Traveler in Little Things," Van Dyke's "Companionable books," and Morley's "Modern Essays" ( a collection).
Of readable histories, true landmarks of scholarship as well, we have Turner's "The Frontier in American History," West's "Early Progress" and "Modern Progress" and Becker's "The Declaration of Independence."
Victor Metcalf loved to read biography and consequently much attention has been given this department. There is Riis' "The Making of An American" (in my estimation incomparable as an American autobiography), Lockhart's "Walter Scott," and Weaver's "Herman Melville, Mariner and Mystic," a few of the best. Tastes are so varied in fiction that an attempt to select is useless. Suffice it to say that there is a range of types from Hemon's "Maria Chapdelaine" to a collection of Great Sea Stories. There are, however, many indiscriminate books which should be mentioned such as Henri Fabre's books on nature, Faure's ·"History of Art," a magnificent creation, and "East of the Sun and West of the Moon," a collection of old Norse fairy tales.
To the true student no more need be said of encomium or explanation; but the reader will be surprised to learn that I have kept the best book for the last. The whole purpose of the library is even so broad as service, "Behold, I have set before thee an open door." Thre are few services worth more than the gift of James Barri's rectorial address before St. Andrew's College on "Courage." Couched in the great dramatist's inimitable style with an added beauty of understanding that is almost intimate, it adapts the theme to a modern youth. This, if any of Barrie, will be immortal-it is not easy to say why. It is the thing one feels rather than understands, and perhaps the reason is the very intimacy which Barrie ever assumes. Although he has prophecy to recite it is not recited. He speaks with authority, but leaves the student alone; he acts as a friend rather than a teacher. So we leave the subject with this thought. Read "Courage" and you will receive much of Victor Metcalf's message -read "Courage" and be the open door to others.
-C. W. G., '23.
t}ott~ of tbt jfuturt, l'ol. 6
A COLLEGEANTHOLOGYFOR1921-22, EDITEDBY
HENRY T. ScHNITTKIND, PH. D.
For six years now the best poems in any of the college magazines of the country have been selected and published in an anthology called "The Pbets of the Future." In addition to the poems published a list of the titles and outlines of other poems of distinction is included. The college or university from which the work comes is always mentioned. Poems are published from seventyeight institutions representing every section of the country.
Dr. Schnittkind has selected poems of widely varied subjects and forms. There are verses on nature, in all the seasons, on death, on fairies, on fancies, bits of philosophy, and that eternal subject without which no youthful collection would be completelove. There are long poems and short poems, and conventional ballads, and verses in varying degrees of freedom. The sonnet is rather conspicuous by its scarcity.
The shorter poems seem to be better done and more popular than the longer ones. "The Poets of the Future" is an interesting reflection of some of the poets of the present. Edna St. Vincent Millay might have written Elizabeth Dinwiddie's "Caprice." "Why should I promise to love you forever? Why linger more when my songs are all sung? Time travels farther for love's sweet endeavor; Love is the dearer for dying so young ."
One does not have to look far to find shadows of Sara Teasdale and other favorites. But in addition to these already beloved styles one finds new things, delicious things that only youth could produce. "Tunes for a Willow Whistle" by Harriet Cooswell and "A Professor's Garden of Verses" by Clement Smith fairly bubble over with exuberance of youth.
The readers of THE MESSENGERwill be pleased to know that for the fi£th time this publication is represented in the Anthology, this year by Mr. Warren A. McNeill's "Ad Infinitum."
In Dr. Schnittkind's introduction he says that these college poets have not as yet come into contact with the compulsory good of competitive professionalism. Blessed is that period in our life when we can both think and play with the ardor of unprofessional idealism. When we enter the game, whether of philosophy or football, not for the sake of earning a piece of bread and butter, but for the sheer thrill of unrest, the zest of seeking for a perhaps unattainable goal, of failing and seeking again.
The Furman Echo - We wish to heartily congratulate R. F. Morrison on the achievement he has at last wrought in his fieldthe grostesque and terrible. His story, "The Vine! The Vine!" is the most typical of the Poeiari arabesque we have ever seen in any college magazine. To work out the complications of the idea amounts to genius and this is set forth in a rare literary style, which is not overdone-the thing that determines the success of this type of literature. We again commend W. R. Earle for "A Comparison of Some of the Shorter Poems of Brovming and Tennyson." His criticisms are better than his stories. We deplore the fact that this issue is unbalanced. The literary quality is high and everything is well done, but give us back some of those essays and short stories -there was only one in this issue. We are glad to see some notable contributors who are new.
The Wake Forest Student-This issue is a vast improvement, but it is simply because the faithful few had more time or perhaps worked harder. John R. Knott is to be congratulated for his poetry, as well as his short story. But the former really shows remarkable development. However, I would point out that like all the other contributions, it is of the moralistic and philosophic variety. That is the trend in this magazine and is to be lauded. Yet we would that the magazine assume a more literary tone; for if life be left to tell its tale, it always appeals to the moral qualities of man without the need of enforcing therefrom a lesson. As good examples toward which to strive we think "My Ma and Pa" by I. C. Pait and "De Senectute" by John Jordan Douglass have excellent literary qualities. Surely if you can at last get the whole school working, Mr. Editor, you can do wonders with that unflagging spirit inherent to the student body.
The Davidson College Magazine- We have little to say save encomium for this magazine. Its literary quality is above the usual .and it has a dignified charm very befitting a college of the old South.
