Although popularity as a literary standard is easily a fallacy, it is no more absurd than the opposite extreme of calling any piece of writing "literary" which is dull and appears beyond the comprehension even of those laymen possessed of what passes for a college education.
Much good orange pekoe has been sipped over the various definitions of literature, but it will be only by a stroke of unexpected good fortune that THE MESSENGERwill receive any manuscript which will go thundering down the passage of time to posterity and comply with any of the approved ideas of true literature.
To say that college students have not the maturity of the masters is to affirm the obvious. With this axiom established it does not seem necessary to marvel that youth does not appreciate certain models of mature literature. For a college publication, the product and property of youth, it seems that one paragraph of writing supported by at least a backbone of originality is worth more than any of the usual attempts at scholarly discourses which probably appear to the few assiduous souls who read them to be but the inharmonious assembling of echoes from the masters.
Plainly it is of no value to print that which will in all probability not be read, even though one of the motives of THE MESSENGERis as an organ of self expression for the student body. Although this magazine will remain an organ of self expression for those suffering the literary urge, it will not be the policy of the editors to print that which appears dull reading, unless a paucity of contributions make such publication a necessity.
THE MESSENGER
This is not to be taken as complete disregard for what are called the ideals of scholarship. It is only the assertion that consideration will be given to what seems to be a fact: that yout h recognizes no crime in being young and youth shuns obviou s "scholarship" as a plague and eschews writing which smacks o f too apparent erudition like a pestilence .
In a maze of phrases hard to definitely define, it is almost impossible to state a definite policy. In case it appears that popularit y is the sole gauge for material to be published in THE MESSENGER, it might be well to tr y a few tender remarks about Pollyanna an d Little Rollo and a few movie endings where they all live happil y on curds and whey , or love. Just try it!
THE MESSENGER
What am U A tiny drop in a surging mass, A slender blade in a field of grass, A grain of sand in a pane of glassIs this Myself?
No,notl.
I may be only a part of the whole, But I love to think that I am a soul Striving forever to play the role Which is Myse,lf.
HARRIET SHARON
THE MESSENGER ~appri
A Cmnedy of Erudition
A. B. CLARKE
For forty years Waldemar Sylvanus Maillard had soiled hi s finger tips with the dust on the books in the library at the great University of M---. He was as much a part of that venerable seat of learning as the tiles which covered it~ floors; and yet the tiles could be made to look new, while Professor Maillar d yearly became yellower and more shrivelled like the ancient manuscripts he thumbed. In his youth, which people, as a rule, ha d ceased to recall as having been one of his experiences , he wa s tall and blond, with a death-like pallor on his concave feature s, an ashen cast which in age well became the heavy lines about hi s mouth and eyes. Now, at the age of sixty-seven, he was roun d shouldered, stooping, near-sighted and slow. But while he enjoye d all of the conventional faults of his profession, Maillard had fe w redeeming qualities. His timidity was often mistaken for affability, although when alone he was said to be an ogre of impatienc e and ill-humor. He had the miserable habit of putting things int o his mouth, and it was no surprising sight to hi s comrades at th e University of M---to see their fellow scholar artlessly chewing bits of twigs, paper, and especially string. Perhaps in his mind there lay a subtle string complex which formed him unc onsciously to carry every loose piece of that article, which he cam e upon, to his mouth, where it was chewed with a strange an d vigorous avidity. Only visitors smiled at his cowering, shrinkin g form, and commented afterwards on the apparent disinclination he manifested to brush his clothes or to refrain from overloading his pockets so that they sagged deplorably. However, it was remar kable that a man of such towering height could so completely impre ss an observer with the thought of dimunition. Yet so it was.
Doctor Waldemar Sylvanus Maillard was a master philologi st : his knowledge was stupendous and incomprehensible, save to h is peers. As a fact known to the oldest members of the faculty, he
had once taught in the undergraduate school. But for reason so well known to students if not to faculties, he was a failure, a fact of which he himself was not conscious. Again, in the graduate school his limitless knowledge had poured itself forth abundantly and again he had failed. True, he was kind, he was patient, he was earnest, -but the breadth and depth of his studies had so far removed him from trials of his students, that they repeatedly lost themselves in his erudition, and jealous colleagues were not late in finding out the trouble. It was known that the chair of philology which he occupied had particularly satisfying remuneration connected with it. But as the philology department secretly agreed, they could not afford to have Maillard leave them entirely. The trustees were consulted, and he became Archivist of Ancient Manuscripts at the absurd age of thirty-four years.
As we have indicated, Professor Maillard was a master philologist. He read fluently twenty-seven ancient languages and dialects, and could remember accurately innumerable solid pages of the Greek and Latin classics. It was said- and there was no reason to doubt the assertion, although the actual fact had never been demonstrated, -that he could have written a complete Sanscrit grammar without having to consult a single volume or other authority on the subject. Professors of Greek used to narrate with great fervor to their indifferent classes the story that Maillard had once written, in the Greek, half the Iliad from memory, and when, while engaged in translating the Rig-Veda, his lexicons were lost, he had never been interrupted, but completed the translation without resorting to anything save his memory. The uncanny knowledge which he displayed of the ancient Persian inscriptions was in no way inferior to that which was his in the early Saxon dialects, for the man was an encyclopaedia of philology. In fact, he knew almost every language except English. With that manner so characteristic of the specialist, Waldemar Sylvanus Maillard had a contempt for literature in any artistic sense : the medium to him was all important. And it was not so much the wisdom of Aristotle which found his admiration, but the lucidity of that sage's vocabulary and the opportunity to give the philologist to compare obscure Greek forms with those of the Sanscrit; thus
showing conclusively that there could have been no Aristotle had there not been Sanscrit verbs. His knowledge of the sources of English made it impossible for him to write it: so inadequate was its vigor as compared with the conglomerate twenty-seven dialects which he read. Therefore his treatises became weird compounds of Greek, Latin, Gothic, Sanscrit, Berber, even modern French and German -with an occasional sprinkling of English which seemed to have about the same value as the string on which pearls, in his mind, lay closely side by side. And, in spite of their ignorance, the faculty of the University of M---pointed with rare and deeply felt pride to the erudition of Waldemar Sylvanus Maillard; and then avoided him except when he could be of specific service to them.
In fine, Professor Maillard was a tradition of the University of M---, and he wore his honors humbly.
Now the University of M---was as fortunate in its archives as in its archivist. With the aid of Professor Maillard, the supply of old manuscripts was constantly increasing, and, when a millionaire collector of ancient writings generously bequeathed his some sixteen hundred rolls of papyri to the library, there was no small amount of rejoicing among those who are wont to feel elated upon such an occasion. The gift was broadcasted as a surprise, but the faculty knew that Maillard had solicited it, and consequently they very discreetly remained silent. When the manuscripts were delivered, the archivist was in a frenzy of excitement and delight. He managed to display but little of his inner elation, and merely retained a strange and unnatural flush on his usually sallow complexion. However, the quantity of string which he must have chewed may have been a more definite index to his nervousness.
For many days he contented himself with turning over the precious rolls of papyrus and sheets of vellum, and with talking absently to the women assistant who respectfully listened and later parodied his remarks with absurd variations. And yet, so great was his joy, that only the majesty of the great names, whose works he handled, seemed to occupy his capacious mind. He repeated the names with a gesture of pride and yet profound awe:
"Bion, Sophocles, Onomacritus, Flaccus, Eusebius of Caesarea, Agesilaus, Ovid, Anaxamenes, Simonides of Keos !"
He marveled at the rarer ones :
"The Anialthea of Cimon Learchus, Mopsus of Colophon by Chrysippus, the works of Apollonius Rhodius, of Colotes, and of Polystratus !" And he fondled the brown manuscripts with no inconsiderable tenderness.
It was not long, however, before the zest of the examination wore away. The rolls and sheets inclosed between glass covers were carefully filed and indexed after the archivist himself had read them through many times. But there remained five papyriwhich were undecipherable, a fact to be deplored. The very k nowledge that they were in such a condition became in Professor Maillard's mind a just cause for believing them to be exceedingly valuable: perhaps containing lost secrets of the past, -doors to th e extinct arts of the ancients. And we cannot in all fairness a ffirm him in error. For Dr. Maillard knew from Jason H. Wallersmith, the former owner of the MSS. that these five papyri, which were in so sad a state of preservation, that they had to be put between glass to prevent further demolishment, -were among t hose three hundred and nineteen brought from Herculaneum in 1696; and of which number, eighty-one were completely effa ced of writing. Dr. Maillard, you must know, was aware of these fa cts from history, and accepted the pedigree of these five papyri as given. Furthermore, judging from the richness of the material in the other Herculaneum papyri, these which he had were, of course , to be considered equally valuable. And so the archivist a mused himself with speculating on what these tattered manuscripts might have contained. He even kept them in his room, a small cenobitic cell in an off corner of the library, and contemplated them with whatever mood temporarily occupied his mind. Sometimes he frowned upon them, shook his fist in their blank faces a nd sneered at their reluctance to relinquish their secrets. Again, he smiled at them indulgently as if to coax them into concession, or vainly ignored their presence, which we can be safe in assuming they did not in the least resent.
At other times he watched them slyly as if trying by a subtle
dissimulation of feature to betray their innocent aspect into some kind of disclosure. Or when artifice seemed futile, he grasped the glass plates tightly and peered eagerly against the stained , brown fibre and sighed resignedly when he realized the ineffectuality of all his attempts to read the hidden letters. The papyri ,their presence, -their silence, -their indifference -worried and teased him, then amused him, finally consoled him. On the whole, they became companions to the archivist and served the purpose in his life, at least at times, which in the lives of most of the other professors was executed with equal infrequency by wives. To recall that Professor Maillard had never married is to commit a serious supererogation.
But the papyri, of which this tale is concerned, remained on the philologist's desk untouched for many week s , until one autumn night when Maillard was entertaining his nephew, a graduate student in chemistry at the University of M---. At the repeated direction of his parents, the young man had dutifully come to pay his respects to his "cranky" uncle in the latter's room at the library . To the student this room was, to all appearances, a neat, well-kept pile of books and papers, with a small flat-top desk in the center . In the security of such a refuge it was Maillard's wont to be very expansive in his conversation, and Grayson, the student, listened with that pitiful superiority which science always has for the classics. -For who will deny that coal tar is a library of research which all the Greek dramatists combined cannot equal? -But the periodical interview had already lasted too long for the student; he awaited an opportunity to escape.
"Herbert," said the archivist in a slow soft voice. "Did you ever see these papyri?" No, he had not. "Well, they may contain valuable chemical secrets -formulae for dyes, ancient fluids, mixture of cements, and what not. But I cannot decipher them. The elements to which they have been so long exposed have destroyed all writing on them."
"Yes," answered the youth indifferently, "and they may be nothing but philosophical harangues like those Dr. Withington used to hand out."
"But," interrupted Maillard, feeling that loyalty which is common to all professors concerning their colleagues, "these would be perhaps more profound, more instructive." He shook his head sadly. "I wish I could read them. You see these are from the library at Herculaneum, which contained very rare manuscripts dating from the most ancient times. For instance, it is related that Aristotle had in his private library a number of these very manuscripts. When he died he left his collection of books to Theophrastus, who in turn bequeathed them to Neleus. Now Strabo, who gives us this account, asserts perhaps incorrectly, that N eleus sold some of the original library to Appellicon of Teos. The rest, which remained concealed in a cave near Athens , were bought, so I have discovered, by Apollonius Rhodius, librarian of the Alexandrian Library about B. C. 190- and a few years later were taken to Herculaneum after copies had been made. So you see we may be looking at the very papyri which Aristotle handled."
"Slim chance," assorted Grayson with the certitude of his youth and profession. "Let me see one of them." He took the plate gla ss and peered at the broken brown pieces of fibre beneath it. "I understand," he mused aloud, "that the ancients used for ink -finely divided charcoal suspended in a solution of glue, did t hey not?"
"Yes, or of gum -in fact, anything which would harden and hold the charcoal against the papyrus. But as you see in this in stance, water has dissolved the glue and removed the black ma r kings."
"I see," said the youth. He thought for a moment -as he ha d been exhorted to do in his undergraduate days. "Why don't you put a weak solution of chlorine water on them. That would blea ch the brown papyrus and in my opinion there is enough gum or glue present to retard the action of the chlorine, so that you could have time to read and record what is written."
Maillard involuntarily reached for his precious papyri.
"That would never do, Herbert, I should destroy them beyond r epair like that. Oh no, that will never do. Moreover, what if such an experiment failed ?"
THE MESSENGER
"Of course, I did not guarantee the success of such a method, but the papyri certainly cannot be more worthless than they are now, can they ?"
The uncle shook his head violently.
"You young men haven't the slightest idea how valuable," he began, but Grayson laughingly reached for his hat.
"Good night, uncle, have your own way about it, of course. I'll see you soon! Good night." He was gone before the disgruntled relative could reply.
Professor Waldemar Sylvanus Maillard spent a troubled hour contemplating his papyri and went to bed in an ill humor.
* * * * * *
If Doctor Maillard had not taken his nephew's advice this account would be incomplete. But he did procure the chlorine water, bleached the papyri, and to the furious pounding of his heart in breathless expectancy, copied the Greek as fast as the chemical whitened the fibre around the former marks of ink. For sixteen hours he worked, pausing only once, and then to dismiss a library assistant who vainly insisted on disturbing him. At last all the papyri were copied and more than half had dried a sickly brown. It alone remained to replace them in the glass holders. With emotions similar to those popularly understood to be in the mind of the murderer as he stands over his victim, Dr. Maillard tremblingly dried the remaining manuscripts and pressed them between the plate glass, feeling all the time that he had repudiated all the traditions of his scholarship.
The papyri were permanently ruined. The writing could never be recovered. What had been inscribed on them was now in the keeping of one man -and the burden was so great that Maillard staggered beneath it. But most of all he felt the guilt of his act . True, the papyri were in all appearance as blank as before, and, except for a certain paleness which could be removed by exposure to the sun, were unchanged. But Maillard knew that they had disgorged their secrets -and were suffering death in return . When he considered placing them in the library, a penetrating fear overcame him. The librarian would believe they were valuableand no one save the archivist could have .declared otherwise. The
responsibility of the act grew in importance : he had robbed an ancient manuscript of its secrets and had cowardly destroyed the original. Maillard found himself inextricably involved. What should he do with the Greek he had copied? He had not dared to translate while copying but contented himself with merely inscribing the letters. However, certain words had forced themselves into his consciousness: Apollonius Nicator, Osymandyas. The first two were unknown, the second he remembered, and it inflamed his curiosity to a fever heat, while the travail of the guilt of destruction almost overwhelmed him. There was something akin to terror in his emotion, and the awfulness of the crime against all the traditions of his profession festered like a loathsome sore in his sensitive brain.
On the next day the blank papyri were duly placed on exhibition in the reading room of the library and Maillard approached them with a feeling of shame and mortification. There dull surfaces fairly shrieked at him: Robber! Traitor! Wretch! And the master philologist cowered ignominiously before his self-accusation and abasement, while the well-penned Greek letters lay locked in his desk.
Between curiosity and his powerful self-indictment, Professor Maillard received no rest. Hourly he was racked with first one and the other of his emotions. Nothing would calm him. He burned insatiably to know the contents of the copies-and yet he trembled to approach so closely the scene of his malfaction. Finally, despairing completely, he took the only outlet - his curiosity.
With painstaking care and accuracy, the translation of the stolen Greek began. It was by no means slow work. To say so would be a depreciation of his scholarship. At last it was finished, and Maillard was not disappointed with the results of his labors. It resulted that the five papyri were the work of an unknown author, Apollonius Nicator, contemporary of Anacharses, and a historian who should have ranked with the greatest had his writings been discovered intact. The contents of the papyri had to do with the famous Library of Osymanclyas to which, the learned will remember, Diodorus Siculus makes reference and which is
identified with the Egyptian M emnonium by Aulus Gellius. But as Maillard found, Apollonius Nicator, great historian that he must have been, proved the inpendent existence of the Library of Osymandyas by quoting from records made by those who had .visited · the renowned institution, and thus substantiated Diodorus Siculus and discounted Aulus Gellius. Think of it! A long argued point of history settled with beautiful finality.
To those of us who are forced to devote our e~ergies to more utilitarian tasks, such a discovery in ancient records is beyond any adequate appreciation. Even Waldemar Sylva.nus Maillard was staggered by the weight of the evidence which he had unearthed. It was one of those rare moments in his life and he wrung every drop of joy from it. Moreover, Waldemar Sylvanus Maillard, archivist in the University of M---, was in the act of becoming one of the world's greatest philologists and archivists: he trembled with apprehension in anticipating the sight of his name in learned journals and in yet unwritten treatises. The thought was gigantic, overpowering, crushing. Ah! The Library of Osymandyas, the mythical institution of culture and learning with its thousands of volumes was at last a reality -not a paradox and an alleged error of history, but a fact -a fact. Professor Maillard could scarcely endurse the emotional reaction. In his drained and inhibited life, the joys of creation had been stilledbut now -his spirit was soaring, -his mind seemed bursting,his heart racing mechanism, -his fingers magic instruments, with which the ancient lore was made concrete, -his body a throbbing, vibrating organism, which brought these forces together. He mentally resolved to astonish the world with the force and purity of his discovery. Before him the facts were on paper and the thing was done. All that remained was the consternation of the philological and perhaps -historical world-when the findings were made public.
Professor Maillard rested.
After a calm thoughtful contemplation in the aftermath of the intense strain, Dr. Maillard encountered a flaw in his work. At first he put it aside carelessly, but the thought returned with exasperating persistency and finally the archivist gave up his
complacent exhilaration to examine this discrepancy. With the exception of this one particular, his recent triumph was unquestionable. The real issue was - what was to be his authority? With painful consciousness the archivist realized his predicament. The papyri were worthless; the real source of his researches were irretrievably destroyed. He could not point to the tattered papyri as his evidence without disclosing his method and displaying his crime. In spite of his reputation for profound learning, his thorough and untiring researches, and even the sincerity and childish simplicity of his nature - no reputable journal would receive his treatise, no colleague believe him without adequate proof, and in this instance, not even with the papyri themselves. And thus the hopelessness of publication came to him. No one would believe what he had written. His work was open to question in its entirety by the most ignorant sufferer in undergraduate Greek, and he had nothing to prove the authenticity of his assertions. The thought tore at his very vitals. The poor man even wept. And through his blurred vision the neatly penned record of the ancient library appeared spurious allegations having no value whatever. For the papyri were as blank as they had been some thousands of years before, when they grew as a solitary, unassuming plant beside languid, ancient waters.
And then began a kind of disintegration. The archivist brooded constantly over the great secret he was concealing. The Library of Osymandyas - ah! - the Library of Osymandyas was a reality-it had existed, it was not the M e1nnonium, but the very first of all recorded libraries. This commanding thought pounded upon his brain with a ceaseless frequen cy, and he tried in vain to cast the indecision from his will. The burden of this knowledge which had no outlet began to ferment in the philologist's mind. At all hours of day and night he read and reread his translation with the avidity of a narcotic addict. The terrific impulsion and the stifling feeling of knowledge, were partly dissipated by the constant reading of the translation. The matter was fast becoming an obsession. At last a new fear tore him. What if the translation were discovered, and his secret learned ? In a frenzy o f guilt and terror, Maillard destroyed the English translation.
THE MESSENGER
The Greek alone remained. But it was not long before the same fear returned, and Maillard became obsessed with the thought that this record too might involve him in the humiliation of discovery. The idea of detection thus was upon him, and night and day he was restless and nervous, so that he stealthily made his way to his desk to see that the Greek manuscript had not been stolen. At last, with a feeling of triumph and yet shame in his necessity, the last written vestige of the Osymanclyasian Library curled in black, crisp ashes - and the master philologist guarded the secret in the inacessible recesses of his brain.
The other members of the library staff were fast becoming acquainted with the change in Dr. Maillard - he seemed irresolute, and strangely listless. He avoided all possible conversation, and spent whole clays locked in his room. The women were curious; they found their inquiries unanswered, and so they procured answers satisfactory to their respective temperaments and their thoughts were not always fair to the rectitude of the master philologist. When occasion demanded his presence, Maillard was morose, sullen, and unnecessarily absent-minded. The preside nt of the university was amused, ang ere d, astounded - each in turn by a report received from the Archivist of Ancient Manuscripts m the Library of Osymandyas - so the statement was signed.
And brooding constantly over his perfidiousness, Maillard wa moved strangely to confess his crime. The enormity of his guilt had reached extravagant proportions. He realized that the last record of the ancient library was clamoring for expression, and it was a struggle unlike anything Maillard had ever experienced to keep from rushing to the librarian, and ridding his mind of the dreadful secret within it.
"Now I find it manifest among t hos e whose journeyings took them from distant lands to those of Osymandyas, that there existed in that place buildings devoted to the assembling of manuscripts and works of art where studied many men from many nations. There the Ethiop's dusky figure mingled with the bearded Assyrian and the fair-haired Greeks spent the day in idle discussion and contention. Numberless were the papyri ."
He felt he must tell someone. Repeatedly he had fought down that inclination, but the desire returned with tearing insistence, and the nervous depletion resulting from so complete an inhibition was a serious infestation of his will. The strain finally sunk him into unconsciousness.
A day of rest ensued, but with the ultimate recurrence of the inexorable impulse to disclose his secret - Dr. Maillard, who fluently read twenty-seven ancient fanguages and dialects, fought a death struggle with the last record of Apollonius Nicator, concerning the ancient Library of Osymandyas, and shot himself through the head.
~lpsia
GEORGE R. FREEDLEY
My soul is a bati!?ed veil.
My body is flaming white, scented with fierce aromas of love, of hate, of passion swirling endlessly. Luscious grapes, wine, rich and purple as Caesar's cloak fle es through my veins.
I a111 , Eternity and i am my soul.
I am a vast whirlwind, i am exceedingly varicolored, i am a batiked veil.
The soul and the body are one when the body is beautiful.
Which is which?
I know not and i am confused; my wind wanders far distant to fields of batiked veils.
My body is as white as the stark figure of sainted I oakaanan.
Where may i be i know not, nor do i care, for my body matters naught; i seek my soul, and my soul is a batiked veil.
"3J..1fearmbv.1Sisses,~entlt JMaibtn"
LESLIE L. JONES
Rudyard Kipling has been vindicated. His notorious poem, "The Female of the Species Is More Deadly Than the Male," has now received the endorsement of science , and the ancient theory that women have less emotional control than men blows up with a loud noi se. A little machine, curiously constructed of silk, and steel, and gutta percha, has taken this cherished tenet of popular belief and consigned it to oblivion along with the dodo bird and "\i\/illiam Jennings Bryan.
This absurd notion concerning woman's emotional make-up has prevailed through unnumbered ages. Its origin is easily traced. The same forces which prompted man to develop the false doctrine of female inferiority gave rise to this nonsense. In short, fear · and vanity . The clinging vine arrangement soothed his ego, while fear that his physically weaker mate , if given the opportunity to meet him upon common ground, would very quickly uncover his own abysmal hollowness, caused the so-called lord and ma ster of the hearthstone to chain the g entle creature to a frying # pan, weave strange legends about her personal courage in the pres ence of a mouse, and to murmur pityingly, "Frailit y, thy nam e 1s Woman."
We are not concerned just here with woman's capacity for business, or politics, or the professions. These branches of human endeavor being already crowded with men of very slender talent s, third, fourth, and fifth-raters, it is certainly no feat for a woman of moderate intelligence to successfully compete therein. What we are concerned with, however, is that vague, undefinable something , which, perhaps, is best expressed ( though roughly and inadequately) by that old-fashioned phrase, "common sense." Now "common sense" implies steadiness of mind, sagacity, a firm grip on essentials, a cool, calculating sort of temperament. And these traits we have steadily refused to acknowledge in women. Fickle, we called her, flighty, volatile, effervescent, giddy, and hysterical.
lJJ, , v M~ s s Ei, 8 /)
31 "'--.it~~,..,.'-<"'·tff.'t, forgetting, in the self-sufficiency ;r~T c}1rc~)b.. e La ~y Macbeth, Boadicea, Molly Pitcher , and- Lucr ~~ rg V, ~~('fl ~\JU..>, . Thus we tagged her. Then gal1'tf::Q,w9unc v, rFj J 'tt~ J-... wheeze, "A woman's place is in the home . .,-~~~ s was on,1V/-y..' whistling in the dark. Down in our hearts, deep down in our -4hearts, we well knew - and now science proves it - that woman was not emotional, that woman was, and is, the sanest, most practical, hard-headed mammal now roving the surface of this old gray footstool. This, in a measure, was the substance of Mr. Kipling's poem. And strang½ly enough ( for at the time it was overlooked), this so-called blasphemy of gentle woman proved its own case. When the verses first appeared - in The Ladies' Home Journal, by the way - a fearful tumult immediately ensued. Sharp, stinging words were hurled about with reckless abandon, chiefly at the head of Mr. Kipling. From every pulpit shrieked bitter denunciations of the unhappy Englishman, and one indignant rhymer delivered a frantic, feverish counter-blast, the refrain of which ran, "For the Female of the Species is the Mother of the Male." As if anyone had ever doubted this very obvious, biological · phenomenon.
For many weeks the conflict raged furiously. Everybody was so busy taking a crack at Rudyard Kipling that the most conclusive proof of this gentleman's sound reasoning was completely passed over. The poem stated that women were more rational, more practical, a good deal more deadly than men. The resultant controversy proved this very nicely. When the scandalous notions o f Mr. Kipling burst upon a startled world (male-world, that is), who was it that plucked up the cudgels and dashed forth to do battle? Who was it that scurried hotly about to burn the heretic? Who was it that cried hoarsely, "Lynch him! Lynch him!" It was Man - Man, the restless foe of hard facts.
And the ladies, you ask, where were they? Ah, the ladies, God bless their placid little souls, were in a "woman's place," sitting calmly at home, convulsed with mirth at the "restrained," "unemotional" antics of their perspiring mates. And why should they not be entertained? This tremendous, disturbing fact which took Rudyard Kipling forty years ( and some men forty centuries) to
uncover, was in no manner news to them. It had entered their consciousness along with the milk from their mother's breasts. Now we come to the recent scientific experiments which prove indisputably man's greater susceptibility to excitement. Doctor Shack, of Strasbourg University, conceived the idea of determining the exact emotional status of both sexes by observing their respective blood pressures when exposed to similar conditions. He chose for his purpose what may be called "The Osculation Test." An apparatus for registering the blood pressure was applied to the arm of a man; another to the arm of a woman. Readings were made while the subjects were in a quiescant state of mindand lips. Then, again, at the critical moment of the test. To a world which had long labored under the delusion of woman's greater excitability, the results were little short of astounding. Whereas the lady's blood pressure, normally around 100 MM., barely fluttered, the man's arterial tension increased thirty points. These are averaged figures. Under the most trying, ardent caress the woman's blood pressure never got beyond 119 MM. The man, however, if his companion was particularly fetching, registered the dangerous, dizzy altitude of 165 MM. Not one couple was used in these tests, but many. Comment is superfluous. Another man-made bubble has been pricked by the merciless probe of science. And surely, in the teeth of such data, no sane person will again deny that "The Female of the Species is More Deadly Than the Male." Especially as regards the vaso-motor system of mere man.
3fn 11\dtn!)tof l\omanct
ELIZABETH COSBY
My friends and relatives have been living a hard life recently just because I was interested in romance-nay, Romance, for to my mind the word should always be spelled with a capital R. The best definition I could secure was this: "Romance is sentiment, spiced with a bit of adventure."
Romance! I see the desert, an oasis of palms, camels sleeping in the calm moonlight , slaves gathered around a campfire liste ning to old, old tale s ; a desert maiden attentive to her lover's av owals that are fiery with all the passion of a thousand desert suns. Spice! Does not the very word conjure up Araby of the pe rfumed breezes and tantalizing thoughts?
Not only in distant land s may romance be found. What does it mean to you? We have our individual idea of romance. To on e man, it may mean a long idle day upon the river bank, where he can fish and meditate; to another, a worn beloved book; to a nother, the first glimpse of blue sky after rain , or an inspiring po em. Romance must be inspiring. "It is romance in one life," says B riggs, "that kindles another to brave deeds and devoted ser vice. " What is life without "brave deeds and devoted service?" M ere selfishness, I think. Then a life that has not romance in it is selfish to the extreme.
Did you ever think of romance in the light of efficiency? A sp ice of it will better any vocation. An artist, a writer , an actor must have the deep feeling romance unfailingly kindles to be able t o do his work in the true spirit. A teacher must find the romance of the natural unfolding of young life. An astronomer must have th is intangible spirit in the adventure of finding new stars and constellations. A doctor, a preacher, -think a moment. Could a nything be more romantic than these professions lived aright? A mill with its cheerful whirr of wheels always inspires me to song and laughter. Have not poets talked of the merry clink of t he blacksmith's anvil, while musicians tried to imitate it? The
sailor through glorious days of wind and rain, nights of velvet blackness and of starshine, never certain of the port he will make, whether home or a strange port or even that Last Port of all, must find adventure -and thus romance -in every wave, 10 every sea gull, in every strange ship upon the horizon.
In romance we must include our poetry and our dreams. Poetry is romance, and romance poetry. The two are well-nigh inseparable. In all poetry there is that intangible call of the unknown, that spirit of adventure that we call romance. Every one of us has felt that indefinable appeal of romance, that blissful stir of emotions. Perhaps it came from the sight of a rosy cloud, a pine forest glittering in holiday attire of snow and ice, a fascinating path through the woods, a lovely voice heard amidst the city throng, or a long look at the misty blue mountains on a summer evening. That is poetry, poetry of the finer sort that cannot be expressed, but is felt in every atom of our beings . Dreams ! Look with me upon a winter evening at a cozy firelight scene. There, with a congenial companion, in the gracious warmth of sympathy and of the crimson flames, one's very heart can be poured out. Hopes and fears, memories and dreams will be related, while the careless wounds the world has given will gently be healed. "In dreams," to quote a friend of mine, "there must be some kind of an ideal; where there is an ideal, there must be a striving to reach it; and in striving there must be a spirit of adventure." Isn't that a logical way to say that dreams and romance, ideals and adventure are all one?
Anothei: friend of mine -a biologist! -said, "Romance is a foolish inconsistency of young minds, a baseless, unscientific, illogical, senseless thing." What a horrible world we'd live in if this were true!
But let me caution you, do not, I pray you, do not confuse romance with that kind of sentimental folly that so of ten passes for it. Romance, to be wholesome, must have humor in it. There is no g~eater preserver from silly sentimentalism than humor. To quote Briggs again, "Turn the hose of humor upon the fire of sentimentalism and out it goes at small expense."
Hold fast to your dreams, your poetry, your adventures,even if you can be adventurous only in dreams, -and your ideals. In brief, keep the spirit of romance ever strong within you and from it will come those glimpses of peace, reverence, courage, strength, and love that will crystallyize into an abiding vision of life and joy.
\lro ~OU
M. HARLAN
Would I could put the blame, a part Of dreams gone black and aching heart Upon another one; but you Must bear the credit; all is due To unwise councils of your mind. Would I had trusted one less blind I To you I owe all I have won, And every misdeed I have done, For every lesson I have learned, And every praise that I have earned. The fault for every failing play, The blame for every misspent day, For everything I've brought to passOh, Image in the looking glass I
mbeJbllack~mitb of Jbltbart
FARNHAM LAIDLAW
There is more than one road to that little stone village o f Bidart, so impertinently carved out of the cliffs where the low western Pyrenees fall into the sea. Behind it, at it s very back door, crouch the chilled snowy peaks which blow down their icy breath upon the village long before the sun has dropped behin d that staring mass of open sea to the west
I have said that there was more than one road to Bidart, yet the way I wish to mention and which I usually took, was not a road at all, but merely that stretch of beaten sand along the shor e leading at low tide from the Quai des Basques at Biarritz southward into Spain. For a good hour and a half those unsurmountable cliff hulks leaned down menacingly from my left, while a t my right that gasping discontented sea seemed trying to rea ch the stepped walls at Bidart before me.
With my first visit there , grew an intense interest in th is Basque village which, jutting out from its cragged foundation , had weathered and dared the elements for centuries. And so it happened that many evenings found me sitting in the corner of the only buvette in Bidart, drinking in the tales of the fisherfolk. It was a low-ceiled candle-lit room presided over by a weasone d old woman and her daughter. How the old woman could appear so old and her daughter so young puzzled me. It was the gay dres s, the sparkle of the eye, and the smile of the girl which brough t the young men of Bidart to its one cheerful spot, while the old woman was kept busy filling glasses and making change.
How handsome they were, those Basque lads, slouching abou t the table , the candle before them emphasizing the blackness of their eyes, the flush of their wind-blown cheeks, and their clea n shaven faces. Each one had his flat beret of dark blue pulle d down carelessly on the side of his head. And invariably seate d amongst them was the daughter, her jet hair gleaming beneath her cap of purple silk.
The evenings were always about the same; a tale of the last fishing trip, a few songs of the sea, drinking the health of this belle of Bidart, and calling for more wine. But as the long hours passed, the crowd became more quiet, and bright eyes grew dim. It was then that the old woman, perhaps to keep the wine flowing, would break in upon the conversation. She had lived her whole life in Bidart, and her memory had stored up such tales of adventure, love and jealousy as would set the glasses clinking for a good hour more.
One afternoon I had skirted the sanded shore beneath the crags, climbed the long steps at the old port, walked through the town, and beyond to the lighthouse. I seated myself beneath an overhanging rock, where, sheltered from the wind, I gazed out at the sea and down at the time-chisled crags below, gradually disappearing beneath the rising tide. So engrossed was I in the view that I had not noticed black threatening clouds hurrying in from the sea to spoil my revery, until they were nearly upon me. Then, knowing a storm was imminent, I hastily climbed from my rock and ran into the village. Just as the storm broke, I reached the buvette whose roof I hoped would shelter me that night.
Quite alone in my corner I ate my dinner almost forgetting the storm outside. Then I sat and watched the black panes flash with the white light heralding the reverberations of thunder from cove and cliff. One by one through the rain came the young men for their evening gathering, hailing each other as they threw off their dripping cloaks. When I at last turned about I found the great table that centered the room lined as usual by handsome Basque faces.
All evening they sat and drank, sang and teased the daughter of the old patronne who served in silence. But late in the evening, as the storm let loose a deafening crash of thunder which rattled the window shutters, she stopped at the end of the table and spoke for the first time.
"We used to say on nights like this that Jacques Grenier, the young blacksmith of the hill, must be back working at his forge, and blowing the very fire of the devil with his huge bellows."
Here was to be the story of the evening. The young men
cried in chorus, "Who was this Jacques Grenier? Tell us about him."
"It is a long story and sad-very, very sad," she began, drawing a stool from the next table and seating herself in the full glare of the candle. The men leaned forward and listened.
"When I was a young girl, our little village of Bidart was one of the famous fishing ports along the coast. There were more of us here then than now, for they had not completed their port of the fisheries at Biarritz. All of us worked at the boats when the men returned, cared for the nets, and walked to La Negresse and even to Bayonne laden with fish for the Bordeaux and Paris markets. Now there were two girls from Ascain, up the little Nivelle River, who came here to work at the fish trade-Louis e and J eanne,-such beautiful girls. At our dances all the young men sought them as partners, and it was difficult to say which wa s the more popular.
"Now up by the old church, just beyond the graveyard, in the abandoned cave of which you have heard so many weird tales , young Jacques Grenier, the smith, worked at his forge and anvil. Fair days and foul found him, handsome and strong, bare armed and bare headed, toiling near the huge opening in the cave. In the games on the pelota court he was always the winner. The evenings of our festivals he was clad in his finest velvet jacquet and red girdle, envied by all the men and sought after by all the young ladies. Yet, though he was the center of all our gayety, he seemed to have no favorite among the girls.
"One morning as my mother was cleaning up the room here before her mid-day customers arrived, the two Ascain maids came up the path from the old port. They threw down their basket s before the door and stepped into the room. As I entered from the back court, they were seating themselves at the table where th e young stranger now sits, and were asking mother for the 'jaquet ' board. They sat silent in the dark corner, and as I was scouring the kettles by the hearth, I saw that they had set aside their game, but had kept their dice before them. Mother had left the room and all was quiet. I heard the dice roll on the table. There wa s another long silence. Then Louise arose, threw her scarf over
her shoulder, and without nodding to me, left the buvette. Jeanne remained seated, her back to me, with her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. So still was the room that I heard a sigh and a sob, and wondered at it. Mother called me into the cuisine for a moment, and when I returned Jeanne was gone.
"That evening a fearful gale, such as this tonight, blew off the coast. When the storm was at its height, and the lightning was tearing open great gaps in the mad sky, old Francois -he was quite young then -set out for the lighthouse down the shore. He saw someone standing by one of the small boats i11:the cove, but thought it was only one of the fishers making fast his skiff for fear of the tempest, and hurried on to relieve his mate in the tower.
"Coming back home the next morning, on the crags below the lighthouse, he found the wrecked remains of a boat -and Jeanne. Buffeted about in the water chilled by the gale, she had been, till the tide had given her up dead to the rough cutting rocks at the point. Old Francois hurried here for help. The ill-fated maidthey carried her along the Villa Sachino road to the little place where she had lived. A few of us followed. While they waited for the priest, someone found a note saying that she had lost her claim to the blacksmith's love, and could do nothing else but die. Then I was able to understand the meaning of the meeting here in the buvette the morning before.
"With this news we ran together to the cave by the church, and found Jacques working near the door. As he heard the story of Jeanne's fate, he grew pale, dropped his hammer, and gazed vacantly over our heads at the stretch of sea beyond. It was then that Louise, the winner at dice, rushed in upon him, threw herself into his arms, and cried, 'You are mine. The dice have given you to me.' Jacques, the smith, grasped the girl by the wrists and thrust her from him as he yelled hoarsely, 'Where is my Jeanne, my murdered Jeanne?' He rushed out into the street and along through the town to the little house by the road where lay the maid whom he had so long and secretly loved. He left behind him a crowd of stupified people and Louise, lying bruised and sobbing on the floor of the cave. That was nearly fifty years ago.''
THE MESSENGER
The old woman shoved back her stool and hobbled toward the fireplace.
"Yes, but what happened to the blacksmith?" eagerly demanded someone, fearing the story was to end there.
"And the beautiful Louise?" fretfully asked another.
The woman leaned against a table and finished briefly. "As soon as the maid was buried, this maid whom he had loved so silently, the blacksmith disappeared and has never been seen since, though when storms arise, and when great scars of white light streak the troubled heavens, we have always said that Jacques Gronier had returned to his cave. And Louise -have you never heard what became of her, the winner at dice for the heart of the blacksmith? She is still in the village - she is the old Louise who lives in the rocks along the road to the Villa Sachino, and who combs the beach at low tide for bits of wood for her fireand you smile and laugh as she stops and stares blankly at every young man who passes, as though she were searching for her lost blacksmith of Bidart."
The old woman had finished her story. The group was silent, gazing at the low remaining candle. The storm had ceased, and the moon was shining outside. It was then in the deep stillness that steps on the gravel were heard, the door creaked open, and old Francois from the lighthouse stood just outside on the step.
Stepping across the threshold he calleci' hastily, "A little help, you men here. I have just found the wreck of a boat - and old Louise, washed up on the rocks by the storm "
1Ltai.1t£)~alloptngtntbt ~tnb
WARREN G. KEITH
Adown the rocky bluff, Where yawns the grotto wide, The wind has wound the bug,le call That calls the leaves aside. Shrieking is th e wind, roaring the cave, Loud is the summons, showy the reply, That calls the leaves to convocation In the violet valleys of the sky.
The leaves agallop in the wind, The clarion call ta obey, Across the bro!?en fields are scurrying Are hurrying to the fray.
It will be a battle Between the troopers gay and grand And the navy of the heavens Fighting on the common land.
Louder blows the bugle call. Hurry up the troops! The enemy the rain is coming Sailing in sphery sloops!
High among the boughs, sharp nosed ivy, Tethered to the bark of an oak, Trembled when they heard that bugle Their prancing form,S invo!w. The great yellow hoofed poplars Were prancing in their corral, Where a light breeze under the trees Had driven them from the dell.
A troop of crimson maples
Have wandered far astray; Aside, besides the thoroughfare They duster in bright array. The golden sassafrass bolting Past the pines and cedars green Have posted past afront the blast Riding ahead with mottled mien.
How they gallop across the hills
How the air with color fills! Single troopers hieing Colored leaves vieing ! Tattered leaves in dismay Scuttling out of the way! Mottled horsemen falling Louder winds calling! Away! to the fray. Get into the fight, Front. Column right. Hence over the fence Into the open fields.
A whirlwind is farming
To take the troops on high. Forward,-Ho, is the command To the battle of the sky.
The din
Of the wind, And the spin Begins to gallop. The leaves come rushing Pushing along, Go trooping stooping by, Hurrying and glaring With colors flaring.
THE MESSENGER
The sky 'Will quake Tul it break.
The colors in a craze
The rain drops shall daze. On in the dance With bronzed lance
The troopers prance, With mueh flapping, strapping, snapping, Tearing, rearing, flying, describing Circlets on up into the cannon of the sky.
Down in the cave, where the bugle lay
The recreant wind shall blow The blast to end the fray. And summons the leaves below. Reca,ll was low and hollow Just like a muffled sigh That passed from the lips of the river As its coursing stream swept by.
When the fight was over Many troopers were counted dead, Dashed from their mighty chargers They slumber on mossy beds. It was the raindrops' victory, Surely they must always win, For the leaves are mettled troopers Just when the fight begins.
~ipping ~imt
J. HILLIS MILLER
Under the imaginary shadow of the famous "Green Mountains" of the fair State of Vermont rests the elaborate estate of the late George W. Timberlake, valued at two million five hundred thousand dollars. Well might we spend hours and hours in describing this magnificent homestead with its parks, harbors, gigantic trees whose boughs "are mossed with age and high top bald with dry antiquity," and Gothic architecture, intermingled with Corinthian touches of historic beauty. Besides this vast estate Mr. Timberlake had owned a summer cottage of no less beauty in the very depths of the Green Mountains in which he loved to roam. The whereabouts of this cottage was known to only Mr. Timberlake, Mrs. Timberlake and James winthrop, who had been the personal friend, servant, advisor, body guard, and valet of Mr. Timberlake, and a few hunters who perchance had crossed the swampy country where it was located.
James Winthrop was a man about twenty-six years of age, who had migrated from the extreme southern border of the country when he was only sixteen years old. For eight years he had enjoyed a "two-fold blessing," as he had expressed it one time in the presence of a friend. One was the fact that he had been allowed to enjoy the wonders of the beautiful estate of George W. Timberlake, traversing the beautiful parks with here and there pretty fountains which glistened silvery in the sunshine, surrounded as they are in summer with mossy grass that felt like velvet to the feet. The other, the bliss of affection, sometimes mistaken as love, having an accumulative participating pref erred stock in the feelings and emotions of Miss Sallie Duval, of but sixteen winters. He drew as interest three elates a week, one dinner on Sunday, and a promise outwardly that she would always love him, and an inward promise that she would always love him if he should come into possession of a part of the vast estate of George W. Timberlake.
Yes, a great deal depended on whether or not he should receive a handsome fortune from the will of his "much talked of friend." . He had received a very meager salary for the past eight years, the greater part of which he had already spent to win the affections of Sallie. It was practically impossible to ascertain whether or not he had ever been thought of in connection with the distribution of the wealth of his late friend. There was one thing he was assured of, however, and that was the fact that it was impossible for him to encourage any of the impulses of love that came into his life for Miss Duval, until he knew.
"Time is fate," said Bishop Hall, and since in the language of Shakespeare, "the time is the nurse and breeder of all that's good or all that's bad ," James Winthrop found himself at the death of Mr. Timberlake at the culmination of that period of his life that determined his fate. For him it was "Tipping Time ." He lay awake through the long hours of the night trying to think just what would have been the attitude of the diseased towards his servants and friends. His thoughts ran wildly in a dozen different channels.
"Of what nationality is Mr. Timberlake? Or if he is a product o f Southern Europe, what tipping standards can I expect him to live up to ?" Then James rejoiced in the fact that the people of Southern Europe belonged to the somewhat degenerated class of "tippers." "Suppose he has lived in Belgium; what can I expect?" Again he rejoiced because he remembered that the people of Belgium are very generous and kind and believe in tipping. "If he ever lived in Germany," though James, 'I can expect a medium slice of the old man's fortune, for the people of Germany are of the 'tipping kind.' Or if he is a Frenchman, by travel," dreamed the anxious boy, "there is a possibility that I shall be riding in blissful ease the rest of my life.'' As he thought of America his hopes fell, and "yet, he encouraged himself , the 'men of property' of America are learning the tipping game.'' The weary hours of the night wore away and James Winthrop found himself no nearer the solution of his perplexed and disturbed mind than he had been the evening before. He arose slowly from his bed and dressed himself, wondering just what his fate would be. He walked slowly
towards the window of his room and as he stood there peering into the sky, "whose ashen color matched the pallor of the grey day's faint first light," his eyes fell on an old Bible on a small table in the corner. As he lifted the cover of the book his heart trembled as he read :
"I'm an Anglo-Saxon born, I'm an Anglo-Saxon bred, And wnen I •die, I'm an Anglo-Saxon dead.
(Signed) "GEORGE W. TIMBERLAKE."
"My fate is sealed," said James musingly to himself, "the Anglo-Saxon of all people is the least given to tipping. At least I can expect about one thousand dollars. One thousand dollars plus Sallie equals happiness; ten thousand dollars minus Sallie equals misery. Twenty dollars plus the hope of getting the ten thousand and Sallie spells anticipated happiness. Yes, that's the arithmetic of it," he almost unconsciously muttered to himself, as he thought of the "two and two make four" of happy school days. Suddenly James started, still peering into the misty sky, as he thought of an idea! Eureka! went his mind; his knees began to wobble like a negro comedian in a forced comedy.
"My mind is made up," he ejaculated, as he rushed to the closet and unracked his best suit, the one Sallie said was becomingly sweet.
"This one must be pressed until the crease looks like the imaginary line on an invisible surface." 'Tonight is the time." "'Sallie must be mine." "I have the date with her, and I must make the most of it."
"I am a lover," and -
"I am rich," and "Sallie must be mine" "Tonight."
II
At a quarter past seven James looked like a Broadway clothes dealer on an exhibition day. The crease in his trousers matched the E string on a tenor violin. He wore a dark suit of the Strat-
ford brand ; a pair of black shoes that glistened like the galvanized tin on a barn roof; a hat pressed into a new shape after one hour of constant effort; a shirt and collar that never went out except on Sundays, and a neck tie that accompanied them on the weekly parade.
James was tall of statue, quick of action and carried his head, covered with thick black hair, like an Oriental on a work day. His eyes were black and when he looked at one there was a twinkle in them that made it hard to understand whether he was a preacher o f Calvanism or a follower of Broadway girls. His hands were wiry and red like a blushing maiden on the night of her first date. But James was insatiate !
At seven-thirty James rolled out of the garage in the finest car the widow of George W. Timberlake possessed. He had always d riven to see Sallie in a Ford Consequently when he drove up t o her house in such an elaborate machine she readily anticipated company of a higher social standing than James could boast of in the general statement of things.
James rang the door bell and it sounded to him like a siren.
"I'm rich and I'm a lover," he warned himself just before the do or swung open and Sallie stood before him. She was beautiful. That is about all James could think.
"Good evening, dear," James caressingly replied to her almost ba shful "How are you this evening?" And there they stood, James with his idea and Sallie with her charm. Yes, she seemed more beautiful than ever before to James . Her hair hung in waves over her shapely head. And her eyes glistened silvery as she glanced up into his.
They walked slowly into the large reception room and took their accustomed seats on the large ornamental couch the draperies of which matched and harmonized with the silken dress which a dorned Sallie. James was beaming with a fictitious subterfuge o f joy. Sallie was dreamily enjoying his blissfulness.
He spoke with the confident air of a defeated candidate on an e lection day.
"Darling, I have come to claim you for my own. I can offer
you happiness, wealth and a home and my love, which, if you knew its true worth , would out value them all."
He lyingly continued, "I have received ten thousand dollar s from the estate of Mr. Timberlake, together with the car I drove over here tonight. Mrs. Timberlake is going to buy a new car ."
"Oh James, James,· you are so wonderful."
"You are the one who is wonderful," he replied as he drew her close to him in a passionate embrace. Her little arms encircle d his neck and she planted a kiss on his smooth-shaven face.
"Oh! how wonderful !" she continued.
"Sallie," James repeated, "I am here to claim you for my own. "
"I am yours, dear," she said, as she lay her little head on hi s shoulder and huddled up close to him.
And then in a moment of silence James contemplated what h e had done. His idea had worked. She is mine. But what will happen tomorrow when I tell her that I have lied to her? Bu t • tonight she is mine, he thought .
"Let's drive over to Burlington, just for the ride ," he suggested . "If mother will give me permission," said Sallie as she too k her little arms from around his slender neck.
As they drove along the road they thought; James of th e terrible mess he had gotten himself into and how he could escap e the country the next day; Sallie was living in silent ecstacy.
James drove the car in front of a swell. cafe and stopped. As they got out and walked in the Restaurant James felt fearfull y out of place. He was inwardly exasperated more than ever whe n his eyes fell on the administrator of the Timberlake estate seat ed at one of the tables in the extreme end of the room. What if h e should see the car ?
But he must play the part. "I am rich and I'm a lover."
Sallie was fairly sparkling with joy and happiness as they sat at the table. But James spent at least a week between the time he gave the order to the waitress and the time she brought the ord er in. He was stunned by the frequent glances and smiles from th e administrator in the corner. His conversation grew less anim~te d. His temperature rose, and yet with a desperate effort he smile d and conversed with Sallie. What would happen next?
The administrator arose and walked slowly towards the table where the couple was seated. James blushed and perspired. His kni fe dropped to the floor with a bang. His clumsy hand turned his coffee cup over.
"Darling, what is the matter?" said Sallie in a low voice, as she observed his hectic actions. No reply came from James. The administrator spoke.
"May I congratulate you, Mr. Winthrop, upon your good fortune? To be the recipient of ten thousand dollars and a handsome automobile is no small gift."
The pale face of James brought Sallie to her feet. He had fai nted. No one knew the reason.
Later, as they walked out of the cafe with Sallie on one side and the administrator on the other, James looked back. He paused and then reaching in his pocket pulled out two dollars.
"Here is a tip," he said, as he flung it to the waitress.
•b!' !\tab jfiction
W. E., '24
The primary purpose of fiction is to give pleasure. That which has lived longest and been read by the greatest number of people was written with this fact in view. The author who, in his enthusiasm for a social reform program or a system of philosophy or the newest art movement, loses sight of the story he started out to tell, may be a benefactor of humanity, or he may not. The point is that, as a fiction writer, he can never be more than mediocre. By the same principle, he who reads fiction for edification rather than enjoyment is but a poor reader, for he is likely to be neither edified nor amused. I do not deny that there is benefit to be derived from the reading of novel and short story, but it is not to be had for the seeking. It must come as the result of enjoyment, whether of the sequence of events, the revelation of character, the subtlety, the wit, the fancy, or the turn of phrase.
What I have said may seem both obvious and useless. It would be as useless as it is obvious if readers were allowed to follow their own inclinations. As it is, they are met at every turn by guides who would tell them what to read, and how to read, and why. The officious mentors direct them to Thackeray for a satirical treatment of English society or a re-creation of eighteenth century England, to Don Quixote for "idealism," to Balzac for analysis of human character, to Ivanhoe for historical background, to Anna Karenina for a discussion of social conditions in Russia, to Henry James or Bourget for psychological studies. The outcome is that these books and authors are carefully avoided by some who would really enjoy them, and by others are approached in that dutiful frame of mind, which is warranted to defeat every purpose of the fiction writer's art.
If you go to Don Quixote in quest of "idealism" in the abstract, you are sure to be disappointed, or even disgusted. The knight of La Mancha was no self-conscious poseur. He didn't know that he was being set up as the personification of the
"dreamer in every man," else he would never have allowed Sancho to pour soup down his helmet. He had read books of chivalry because he loved them; he felt that adventure were in store for him, and he went forth to find them. You must enter into those adventures as whole-heartedly as he did, preserving all the while the ability to step into Sancho's shoes, if you are to get the full force of Don Quixote's idealism. As for Henry James, think how much of delicate charm would pass unappreciated by one who thought of Gabrielle de Bergerac as merely a study in psychology. Those who read Bourget for his psychology alone would do better to read Bergson. Unless the reader is a student of the historical. development of literature or a professional critic or a book reviewer, there is no reason whatever why he should read a novel from which he expects to derive no pleasure. Let him go elsewhere for his history and philosophy and sociology, and for a study o f human nature let him observe his neighbors.
When I say that the chief value of reading fiction is the pleasure it gives, I am by no means limiting the scope and variety of worthw hile fiction. Pleasure is a broad term which is used to cover emotional, intellectual and sensuous appeal. A novel may exercise all these appeals or only one . For some it may have no a ttraction; so far as they are concerned, it is valueless. The wider the appeal of a novel , the greater is its value, for the reader's interest establishes a point of contact through which the writer's ideas may enter.
Once this contact has been established, there are innumerable consequent benefits. Not least of these is a broadening of sympathy with mankind. You become intimately acquainted with men and women whom you would never meet in actuality and you find them not so very far removed from yourself in essentials. Whether you are swayed by Thomas Hardy's pessimism or Dickensian sentiment, you must feel the kinship of those who share the world with you. Much is said about the value of the vicarious experience obtained through the reading of fiction. People of extremely vivid imagination may enter so wholly into the experiences related as to make them their own. This requires really
creative reading, penetration of the thought that lies behind a nd motivates the word, a process of which not everyone is capabl e.
What exercises more influence than the experience of the characters is the writer ' s point of view. No matter how objecti ve may be his treatment of the material, he must present life a s seen through his own eyes, with something of his personal reactio n. When the reader has seen Dickens' sentiment counterbalanced by Thackeray's satire, Flaubert's scorn softened by Balzac ' s unde rstanding, Jane Austen's wholesome common sense, Stevenson 's courage, Barrie's whimsical tenderness, he has a basis for th e formation of his own conception of life. That conception mu st be based upon a more discriminating sense of values than could have existed had he trusted solely to what he could see from th e windows of his room.
There is a popular feeling that much reading of fiction dull s one's consciousness of reality. Fiction is like many other stimulants which , when taken in excess, produce dormancy. In m oderation, however , it tends rather to sharpen the sensibilities , to make one more alive to the significance of existence, to refine a nd clarify the vision. Stevenson says in his Apology for Idl ers: "Books are well enough in their place, but they are a mighty blo odless substitute for life." Life is necessary to fiction; fiction is n ot necessar y to life. Yet nothing can add so much to the richness and intensity of existence as fiction read for the pure joy of the readi ng.
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S. N. C.
Today I was a coward; all men are At some time of their lives. They may go far Along the upward hill to great success, Then in a moment's wealmess dire distress O' ertakes them, and it seems transfixed they stand Stricken to the heart - gripped with steel bands Of fear - so it is said.
And thus I stood
A coward who, with courage gone, a mood Of deep misgiving seared my sickened soul Until my being tremb.led, and I stole Unwatched away to meditate and dream, And ask, why should I fear for what I'd seen?
But I did fear - a thousand fancies wild Beseiged me, for I saw a little child. So innocent, and O ! so young in years! So helpless in its unavailing tears, So ignorant of life's pitfalls and cares, So utterly in need of Heaven's prayers!
~xcbange
We're now setting forth upon another thrill of our Senio r year. You, dear incredulous reader, cannot know with what a spirit of adventure we're going to the curious land of "Colleg e Magazine Imagination ." We've only reached New York, ' ti s true, but we have high hopes of many another strange wanderin g. We knew vaguely that there are fa shion s in everything, but never before realized that this take true of the contents of ou r college publications. Alas ! This must be true ! How else a ccount for the multiplicity of book reviews? We ' re about to be swamped.
The Wells College Chronicle for May is rather a well-balance d, if scant, magazine There is a slight scarcity of fiction, it is tru e, but perhaps it is well! "Hearth Rug, Near the Fender" parti cularly captivated our fancy. Perhaps that was because Alice capt ivated our fancy long ago - longer ago than we care to say. W e think, if our humble opinion may be expressed , that the Chroni cle could be made a little more literary rather than so airily sophi st icated, without any material injury. (" 'That's a pun', shout ed the king angrily, whereupon everybody laughed.")
"Refuge" redeemed the October Vassar Miscellany from ab solute mediocrity. We'd like to see something more from the su re pen of this young author. However, college publications do te nd to select a few contributions - or do a few contributions select our magazines? Nevertheless, it seems a pity to encourage such a small group in the development of the literary arts.
Perhaps October and May had a depressing influence upon us or perhaps the weather wasn't all that it should be. At any ra te, we'll try to be a bit more cheerful next month. E. C. C.
