MARION GARNETT RYLAND: AN APPRECIATION IN MEMORIAM
Harry L. Hill
MARQUISE
THE CARGO OF AUTUMN
To BEAUTY
THE MIRROR CLOUDS
BooK REvrnws
EDITORIAL
J. Donald DeVilb iss
Elizabeth Reynolds R. Cavais
Joseph E. Nettles
Ben Sowell
$2.00 THE COLLEGE YEAR 35 CENTS A COPY
THE MESSENGER is published every month from November to June inclusive by the students of the University of Richmond in Virginia. Contributions are welcomed from all members of the student body and from the alumni. Manuscripts not found available for publication will be returned. All business communications should be addressed to the Business Managers. Entered as second-class matter at the postoffice at the University of Richmond, Virginia. Copyright 1927, by Wellford Taylor.
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Of Her Unfailing Sympathy and Faithful Service WE DEDICATE THIS ISSUE OF THE MESSENGER TO MISS MARION GARNETT RYLAND
,Siograpbical~kttcb
MRS. S. C. MITCHELL
"My candle burns at both ends,· It will not last the night; But oh, my foes, and oh, my friendsIt gi'Ves a lo'Vely light!"
-EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY.
Marian Garnett Ryland, daughter of Charles Hill and Alice Garnett Ryland, was born on September 13, 1872, at "Lanefield," the fine old home of her mother's people, in King and Queen County, Virginia. Growing up in Richmond, she spent herself generously in a surprising wide range of interests, not only cultural, but social, musical, and philanthropic. Graduating at the Richmond Female Institute under the administration of Miss Salley B. Hamner, she taught there for several years, singling out English as a special interest. This led her later to Columbia University, where she majored in English and history, and was graduated in 1903. A student of Dr. Baker, her work met warm recognition from him. She was a member of the Delta Sigma Fraternity. Greatly interested in the Horace Mann School, she taught English there for some time. In 1909 Miss Ryland took up the distinctive task of her life, and for eighteen years poured into the work of Librarian of the University of Richmond all the treasures of her mind and spirit. On June 8, 1927, she died, "exceeding beloved and lamented " *
* From inscription on the tomb of Mn. James Blair, Jamestown, Va., 1713.
~ributt!i of tbt ~bmini!itration
F. w. BOATWRIGHT, President University of Richmond
Three things impressed me about Miss Marion Garnett Ryland. Her devotion to the cause of education as represented in the University of Richmond was without stint or measure. She believed in the power of education and she believed in the service this University renders. Always she sought to make the service vital and inspiring. Anyone who observed Miss Ryland in action in the Library would soon understand her love of students and her joy in their development. Not all were aware, however, of the pleasure she found in keeping up with careers of those who in college days had laid the foundations of future success. I have known her to come into my office radiant with the good news that Brown had had his short story accepted, or that Smith had just won a valuable fellowship on the basis of his scholarly monograph. She had guided these neophites in their first researches among books and she rejoiced that they were now making a name for themselves as discoverers in the wide domains of productive scholarship. Miss Ryland's knowledge of books, both of their contents and of their history, was remarkably wide and accurate. She had prepared carefully for her profession and she took just pride in her work. In her thinking it was her duty as well as her pleasure to keep informed about library technique as well as about the worth of the varied stream of books that issue from the presses of the world. What she accomplished with small appropriations testifies to her wide information and her wise decisions.
Rarely fortunate is the university that has a librarian devoted to the best interests of the school, delighting in the service of youth, and endowed with taste and wisdom in the selection of books. Such Miss Ryland was to our University, and this generation of professors and students may well be grateful for her life and service.
MA y L. KELLER Dean of Westhampton College
An appreciation of the service rendered by Miss Marion Ryland to the faculty and students of Westhampton College, and what her loss will mean to them cannot be set down in a few words. Her gracious presence, her genuine love of the books in the midst of which she spent her days, her desire to arouse this love in others,
her splendid self abnegation, her strong sense of duty, and her nobility of character will long remain, however, ndt only as a beautiful memory in the minds of all who knew and loved her, but as an incentive to higher living and richer service on the part of her friends.
w. L. PRINCE Dean of Richmond C allege
For seven years it was my happy privilege to be closely a ssociated with Miss Marion Garnett Ryland, the lamented Librarian of the University of Richmond.
Bringing to her work the inspiration of her distinguished father, whom she followed as Librarian, she gave of the same spirit that he put in his work for so many years. As the boys of the "old days" loved Dr. Ryland, so those of more recent years loved Miss Marion. As we went to him for fatherly counsel in perplexing hours, so did those of her day go to her, always sure of her interest and sympathy.
Miss Ryland was always cordially co-operative. Though her duties were trying, she was never too busy to stop her work and help professor or student in a search for a needed book or magazine article. In her associations with the students she was always sympathetic, patient, and helpful. Only those who benefited by her kindness can tell of the many ways in which it was expressed. Students struggling with class-room or personal problems always received from her the most sympathetic attention. Nothing gave her more pleasure than for a student to seek her advice.
Miss Ryland's interest in the University extended far beyond her own work. Every achievement that brought credit to the institution was a joy to her, every unfortunate experience a sorrow. The fortunes of athletic teams, debating teams, the publications, in fact all the achievements of professors and students were of vital interest to her.
In her passing, her associates in the faculty have lost an earnest and devoted co-laborer, the students a sympathetic and self-sacrificing friend.
_marion~arnrtt ~planb
LYDIA HATFIELD
In The Richmond Collegian
Hardly had the curtain of the 1927 Commencement rung down when death claimed one of the ablest and most sincere workers the University of Richmond has been privileged to have within its cloisters-Miss Marion Garnett Ryland. Sick throughout the entire spring term, during which period she was absent from her duties as Head Librarian, Miss Ryland finally succumbed at a time when it was least expected and therefore most surprising to all her friends, officials of the administration, members of the faculty and students.
For us to attempt to place on pale white paper, in cold, black ink, our appreciation of a woman like Miss Ryland seems futile. The realization of our loss, and the sorrow that it causes must remain deep in our hearts, a "little, living flame," a small but sincere testimony of our devotion to a friend who has gone.
"The Maker of all good workmen" took from us, in Miss Ryland, one of His masterpieces. We could not know, until she was ours no longer, the value of her patience, never failing, and her interest, never flagging. We could not know the value of her always-new ideas until their originator was silent. Her zeal, her attention to the needs and wants of each student who came to her, was a thing at which we now marvel, and stand awed.
That she was a lover of books, and consequently a lover of the beautiful we always understood. It is only now that we understand, also, how she taught us, by her example, the joys that await us in the realm of literature, and awakened in us the sleeping god of beauty.
May her soul, always full of the higher ideals in life, rest in peace amidst the celestial beauties, protected by deep memories of her earthly friends.
JOHN ARCHER CARTER Assistant Editor of The News Leader
I shall ask you in this beginning please to permit me to relate, firstly, a piece of fiction, and secondly, a fragment of fact.
A young man who was persuaded that there was futility in all living was walking down a mean street. He had weighed all possible pleasure against inevitable pain and had despaired. Then in the window of a tawdry home he saw a blind child singing.
THE MESSENGER
This was buoyantly symbolical of the only possible answer to the cold speculations of the best of us. The young man immediately was raised from melancholy to exaltation. And in his subsequent achievements, great achievements if you please, that blind child stood singing in the window.
That, so far as I know, was fiction . This is fact: A professor came from another section of the country to accept a position here at the University of Richmond several years ago. When he had reached the campus an associate said to him: "I believe you will like it here. I believe you will like us. You will not find us always pleasantly companionable, perhaps. But I'll tell you one thing: Over yonder in the Library is a woman who is always companionable, always cheerful, always helpful."
Now I related the fiction to illustrate the idea that the very obscurest life makes its contribution to all earthly living. And I related the fact about the new professor to indicate the truth that Miss Marion Ryland for years was in frequent contact with ambitious young men and young women alternately disconsolate and brave; and that she was "always companionable, always cheerful, always helpful."
What a stimulating influence, then, she must have had upon the lives of the scientists, the preachers, the teachers and the poets of the coming days!
Mr. James Branch Cabell once stressed the point that every man's deep-seated wish is to escape oblivion. But, indeed, is it not impossible for him to escape immortality? I refer now, of course, to earthly immortality; to the everlasting life that merges with other personalities and becomes a compelling part of many, many people. My own father, for example, has been gone several years, yet do I see him when I go home in the gestures of my kinsmen and hear him in picturesque phrases from a neighbor's lips.
This is the first time I have been in the Library since Miss Ryland retired forever from her desk. I keep looking for her to appear with a book or magazine that might interest me. This attention my friends and I frequently received when I was a student here, too, many years ago. And I should be speaking falsely if I should say to you that I do not resent her passing from this place where somehow she belongs. But that I conceive to be largely selfishness, and in it I take no honest pride.
For I recognize that earthly immortality of which I spoke. And I recognize another immortality, as do you all; one that assures a bright
hereafter to that thinking thing we designate as "self." So, my friends, it seems to me that our mood today should not be one of mourning, but of a stirring happiness. For with her all is gloriously splendid, and with us still is she.
And when the "happy autumn fields" on which we gaze today shall yield again their wealth of bloom and blowing pollen she will be with us, and later with our children, and so on and on.
GRACE w ARREN LANDRUM
Dean of Women, C allege of William and Mary
When the news came to me that I should have today the privilege of speaking in appreciation of Marion Ryland's life, I could think of only one famous inscription, which needs here but the slightest alteration: "If you seek her monument, look about you." As truly as if she had been the architect of this building, she felt in it a creator's joy. She delighted in its beauty, the rich oak of the barrel vaulting, the glory of the five-panelled windows, the leaded panes, the swaying boughs seen through them. She loved the human occupants, the young men and the women, with rare impartiality. She loved the invisible throng of poets, historians, scientists, who throng the walls. Of all dwellings on earth, dear to her as were the Lanefield and the Traveler's Rest of her childhood, the old house on Grace Street, the homes of her kindred, this place was best. It was the home of her spirit.
I have tried to find a theme to express her accomplishment in our midst. One thinks first of self-immolation. If, as Hugh Black once said in a sermon in Richmond, the red thread of self-sacrifice runs through every life of high worth, the texture of Marion Ryland's life was all gloriously crimson. And yet I believe she would have protested, with her fine old impatience, that her life was not sacrificial, but superbly satisfying. I cannot define its achievements better than by calling it a utilization and harmonization of all her resources.
She harmonized her profession and her marked intellectual interests. She could have majored in a dozen subjects in the college curriculum; she was an excellent linguist; she wrote with real charm; she was a mathematician and a scientist. She could have held a professorship in any one of the three colleges of the University of Richmond. She chose deliberately to be the medium between book and reader, and, in following her father's profession as Librarian,
to become the teacher of every student who crossed the threshold of this reading room. She entered into his or her task with the intellectual relish that marked her own student days.
In another way she harmonized her character and her profession. Her integrity of thought, her justice, wisdom, fine breeding, permeated every alcove of Ryland Hall. Without fear, favor, or affection, but with the finest courtesy she administered her task. Her brother, her close personal friend, the newest instructor on the faculty, the shyest boy fumbling in his notebook for a forgotten reference, met the same eager, competent, impartial response. With singular graciousness, she adjusted readers to books, readers to each other, and to herself. Outside the doors were lists of books unreturned, fines unpaid. Within were no warnings, no silence signs. Rebuking fearlessly any student inconsiderate of others, she made good manners the natural behavior of the Library.
Her keen sympathy and liberal tastes harmonized her profession with her interests in her community. She linked the Library with the city. For instance, within this hall you could find a Richmond woman working on a paper for a club. What did it matter if the Head Librarian missed the five-fifteen car if only she could find another reference to offer to some outside reader? She dispatched books individually to Richmond residents, no matter what the inconvenience cost her. She made little lads from St. Christopher's feel at home with her, as they worked on debates as important to her as to them. On high days of the college year, when especial guests from the city or the state might be expected, she denied herself the holiday she might easily have claimed that guests might find a welcome here. Again, she responded to every request from the city for participation in its affairs. She supported practically every organization designed to aid the literary, musical, or generally cultural life of Richmond. She subscribed gratefully to philanthropic causes, and out of a salary by no means large, she gave with the unconscious ease of the highborn. Her greatest gift was always herself. A beautiful illustration is her organization in her church of the Business and Professional Women's League, which today lives vigorously largely as a result of her devoted efforts.
Of course she could not save herself. How often have those of us who loved her thought ( and no one more insistently than her beloved co-worker, Miss Throckmorton) that had she been willing to spare herself, this memorial service might have been indefinitely postponed. I have sought to comfort myself with remembering the
words of an associate with whom on last Commencement Day I crossed the green stretches of this incomparably beautiful campus: "How glorious to have spent one's !if e utterly, just as one wished!" And were Marion Ryland in bodily presence with us today, I believe her voice would ring out a triumphant "Yes!"
THOMAS P. AYER
Librarian Richmond Public Library
No testimony of mine can add to the tribute to Miss Ryland given by your presence. My acquaintance with her was brief, but it seems as if I had known her a long time and intimately. I have regarded her as an ideal college librarian. With a keen appreciation of the choice companionship to be found in books she realized the still greater importance of vitalizing that companionship by giving it in the finest way to every student who entered the Library. To enrich the human !if e and character of the student by association with good books she regarded quite properly as having greater value than mere formal conveyance of arrayed and concealed information. Miss Ryland made this room a home as well as a fountain of knowledge, for she fully realized how bewildered the average undergraduate may be when first entering a college library. Consequently, every one who has shared in the use of this library loves the memory of Marion Garnett Ryland.
The librarians of Richmond will remember her with deep affection and hold a lasting regard for her valued contribution to the advancement of her profession.
JOHN CALVIN METCALF Dean of the Graduate School, University of Virginia
Miss Marion Ryland was officially connected with the Library of this institution for eighteen years. For thirteen years she was Librarian. I suppose she was familiar with the College Library from childhood. In a sense she had grown up in it. She had, therefore, an intimate feeling for the place as if it were a part of her home, a slightly outlying eminent domain in which she had certain hereditary rights. This early association and familiarity with the old treasurehouse of books grew into a love for it which no merely professional training can ever give. Her interest was not academic, but essentially personal. In a sense it was her Library. When the fire threatened
it in the burning of part of the old college back in 1910, she felt that these books were household possessions which must not perish. Later on the trans£ er of them to this building was as much a labor of love as an official duty. It is a fine thing for any college to have an official with a sentiment like that. Such an attachment is an invaluable asset. As the college grows bigger and the relationship among officials inevitably tends to become more impersonal and formal, we do well to remember those devoted souls of an earlier and simpler day. No perfected mechanism of professional efficiency can quite make up for real heart-interest.
Miss Ryland brought to her high task an inheritance of culture, a mind trained in a great university, a love of reading, and an enthusiasm for library administration. She was unusually well qualified for the vocation to which she physically and mentally gave her life with the full measure of her devotion. I have been connected with college and university libraries for over thirty years, I have spent much time in them and I have met many librarians; but I have known few who equaled and none who surpassed Marion Ryland in sheer love of their noble calling. Many times I have thought that with her this devotion seemed a consuming passion, almost romantic or religious in its fervor. She was indeed a missionary of culture. Into this Gothic temple came each year about this time many youths quite innocent of the mysterious knowledge in store for them here. Either compulsion or curiosity perhaps had guided their footsteps hither, and they felt a little hesitant and ill at ease among so many books. They were cordially greeted by the librarian herself and made to feel at home. It was her book party and she held a daily reception. She was a charming hostess and offered solid or dainty dishes-epics or lyrics-with the same compelling grace of sweet reasonableness. And it generally resulted that these parallel-reading freshmen read more widely than was prescribed. Miss Ryland suggested books to them and sooner or later these reluctant collegians would, many of them, become devotees in this sanctuary, habitually at home among the sages and poets.
An understanding sympathy for students and their needs was one of her salient traits. She was interested in them and in their perplexities. Bewildered youth found in her a helpful friend. She was a kindly elder sister to many a boy who needed sane counsel more than book learning. Not seldom did Miss Ryland take upon her own tired shoulders, so to speak, the burdens of students whose confidence she had invited by her sympathetic interest. Thus she
humanized her labors as Librarian and was far more to readers here than a distributor of books and a dispenser of miscellaneous information. Her own sense of humor kept her from taking irritating persons and situations too seriously. She had inward laughter for the patronizing senior, for instance, whose progress in sophistication sometimes manifested itself in supercilious manners toward the Librarian and especially toward older books and fashions. When she would give an account of such an interview, her restrained mirth would become very audible and infectious. It was the emancipated youth who amused her, not the crude youth whose very limitations are sometimes potential virtues.
Sympathy, or ability to put one's self in another's place, exacts a penalty from all sensitive natures. Vicarious suffering, or even vicarious rejoicing, is something of a devitalizing process. Miss Ryland gave out her sympathy at the expense of her vitality. She combined great mental alertness with great nervous energy, but the body was year by year worn down by the activity of a mind that was driven along at too high a speed by that divine charioteer called conscience. Sympathetic and conscientious to an unusual degree, she gave herself without stint to her threefold work of administrator, interpreter , and stimulator. It is a rare combination in one person. A large library, ministering daily to more than a thousand readers, presents problems of administration alone sufficient to engage the time and energy of one man or woman. But when the librarian undertakes to interpret the needs of readers and fit book s to them after personal con£ er enc es, the strain must be as great as the act itself is admirable and desirable. The librarian in so doing becomes a teacher as well. If, in addition , a librarian should stimulate, or inspire , youth with fine ideals of life, whether drawn from books or observation or experience, her office then becomes luminous with spiritual significance. In these two ways did Miss Ryland magnify her office.
She loved books and wanted to get them widely read. There was a time, happily long ago, when a librarian was just a keeper of books. If they were to be read, let it be done in the library. The thrill that Miss Ryland experienced in adding books to these shelves was equaled only by the thrill she felt when they were taken out for reading. I well recall with what joyous satisfaction she used to inform me how many books were out of the particular alcove in which I am personally interested, and for the constant care of which I hold her in abiding remembrance. The full bookshelf was not so pleasing
MESSENGER
to her as the partly empty one. The philosopher,, ·william James, once exhorted college men and women to give their culture spreading power. That was Miss Ryland's idea about this Library. She was no mere guardian of knowledge. Books were to be kept moving until their backs were worn off or broken-and college boys are not notably tender-then rebound and started on their rounds again. She felt that running a library is a glorious adventure. You have people come in, tired out with themselves and with the burden of this baffling something men call life . Give them another world to live in.
Hand them a novel, a history, a volume of poems or plays, a biography, a book of discovery, or science, or philosophy, or religion, and off they go to the realms of gold and many goodly kingdoms. And so she strove to satisfy the inalienable right of every youth for adventure. It was evidently great fun She had keen interest in the reading of "the little freshman," as she called him or her who, "with wandering steps and slow," had passed from the Eden of home into the tangled wilderness of academic shades. She was companionable and her enthusiasms were contagious.
One who would be companionable with college youth must know something of modern thought and literature. Miss Ryland's knowledge of contemporary thinking and writing was extensive. She eagerly read and vivaciously discussed the latest novel or play or poem or biography, and she had a tolerant and open mind on contemporary opinion and literary fashions. Her wide reading, her residence and educational experience in a cosmopolitan center, her quick sensibilities, and her genuine humanity made her more than a librarian for those who frequented this room. No one ever came in here and talked to her or silently observed her at work without promptly sensing her vital and absorbing interest in the activities of this little republic of ideas over which she presided with graciousness and complete understanding. When illness kept her away she was still here in spirit, and sometimes she was actually here when only her invincible will kept her going. So it was when I saw her last, physically frail, but cheerfully, even gaily, doing the day's work.
She lived a full and useful life and she died in the fullness of her usefulness. If one's life is to be measured by the intensity, intelligence, and devotion of one's efforts, then the life of Marion Ryland was complete. Into the years allotted her she put all her vibrant energy. Age did not come to wither her nor· its weariness to stale the zest and freshness of her service. Whatever the coming days may bring in the way of enlargement or of enrichment to this Uni-
versity, her thirteen years will have a shining place in its annals. The initial, pioneer impulse she gave on this spot will never lose its momentum.
She will live in memory and in influence. The memorial which has been established is at once a beautiful tribute of maternal affection and a fitting symbol of Miss Ryland's fine spirit of practical service. It is a monument that accurately interprets her labors within these walls and which, at the same time, perfectly accords with her love of books and her wish for their daily use. It will perpetuate for coming generations of students and teachers her own ministry of helpfulness. As the ceaseless tide of young life ebbs and flows about these grounds in the coming and going of the years, books that bear the stamp of this memorial, whether in this or some newer rooms, will keep her in remembrance for those who never saw her face. But with those thousands whom she personally encouraged and joyfully aided by her intelligent direction during her years as Librarian, there could be no forgetfulness. Certainly they will never enter this room or even recall it without an impulse of grateful recollection. There will be mental pictures of the bright and friendly woman, generous of her strength and time and knowledge, who introduced them to books and made the library a pleasant center for work or an enchanted spot for dreams. And so her presence will linger in this room, and the influence of her life here will persist in other lives and other times because she wrought with consecration and beauty of spirit.
;iffilation~arnttt l\planb: ~n ~prtciation
G. W. L.
As a new session opens at the University of Richmond the absence of Marion Ryland saddens the campus. Though we had missed her bodily presence the last three months before commencement, we had eagerly hoped for her return.
Having known Marion in her girlhood, I often saw beside her in the Library another form, no more slender or buoyant, but with the soft dark hair of yesterday melting into a radiance of golden brown curls tied back with a bow, with eyes flashing a darker blue of mirth, indignation, or sympathy. The fastidiousness of her dress, always becoming, recalled the delicate flowered organdies of long ago which enfolded her as a rose vase transparently imprisons floating petals. The laughter was unchanged. It had the melody of that of her exquisite sister Julia, whom it kept alive for me. Marion's earlier associates believed she was born for the richest emotional experiences, for her choice of another vocation than marriage we had not expected. We were not surprised that her emotional intensity as well as intellectuality permeated even the routine of her work. We knew her too delightfully humorous for sentimentality, and too philosophic.
A deep sense of her spiritual needs underlay her concept of life. The combined religious ardor and liberality, a just pride in her denomination, a rare understanding of its distinctive claims, a fine scorn of intolerance. Many forms of earlier religious activity she crowned with remarkable success in organizing and guiding admirably the Business and Professional Women's League at the Second Baptist Church. There as elsewhere profound faith in God expressed itself simply in a wealth of human feeling which scores of women remember with gratitude.
In every relationship Marion's life was beautiful. She was never more thoroughly at ease than when sharing herself with a dozen nieces and nephews. In many an illness she was nurse, in all circumstances a companion, whom they called by a name of their own. She talked to them and about them charmingly, but never exploited them for her own sake or the public's, and she avoided an unduly proprietary air, though she was the "chief of the aunts," to whom her nurslings might have said, "And what were childhood, wanting you?" Every other family bond was sacred to her. For the noble father, whose work she continued, the adoring mother, the brothers
and the sisters she showed a devotion which, had her individuality been less robust, would have submerged her life entirely. In her last darkened months it was the only solace of her family that they were especially able to care for her under their own roof-tree.
Marion's largest contacts were, of course, in a library, in which for nearly twenty years her rich personality was released. She revelled in the beauty of the vaulted ceiling of Ryland Hall, the glorious windows she showed daily to some chance guest, the shadow of a gable on the roof. She was unwilling to fleck the oak panels with glaring labels, and pref erred a hundred daily personal introductions to books in remote alcoves rather than printed guides. Because she loved both the reader and the book she caught the first hint of a freshman's perplexity. Without condescension she beguiled the helpless into delectable bypaths leading to some dreaded high road. Her own taste, often expressed in accord with the judgment of competent critics , but in fearless anticipation, led her into a wise selection of general reading. She was helpful to every type of student, as keen to assist the most able as the least trained. \i\Then a faculty member brought a request for new material she kindled to the discussion with an explorer's zeal and by magic stretched a limited appropriation over many fields. With an eye on catalogues of remainders, on special and second-hand sales, or in joyous personal adventures into most unpromising shops, she bargained shrewdly for books, she who never learned to save money, time, or strength for herself. When she had achieved the impossible she displayed her acquisition with a zest equal to Charles Lamb's. Her springing step led the way behind her desk to a row of books awaiting the library stamp; she touched them with a creator's joy, and paused for your answering enthusiasm. But she had no false pride in numbers to be displayed in her annual report. She vigorously weeded out decayed and superfluous materials to give room for vital growth.
Her love embraced every activity of the college ( and the colleges) with which she and her family were pre-eminently associated. No official cherished more than she the welfare of both the men and the women, felt more impartially their needs, gave such warm sympathy to their efforts in dramatics, athletics, debates, music, to their social organization as well as to their scholarship, graduate research, and attainments after graduation. And perhaps no one sought so tirelessly to link town and gown and felt more insistently the charm of her Richmond background. She had singular unity of aim, an all dominating purpose. Her personal bereavements, gnawing anxiety
for dear ones, physical pain borne with a costly fortitude, the sleeplessness of a long chain of nights-all this she resolutely subordinated the moment she set foot on the campus, until overwhelming exhaustion and incipient blindness forced her elsewhere to seek relief for what she thought, until the end, would be only a brief period. In the three months' dimness of her sick room her zeal for "the college" burned brightly. Only forty-eight hours before the last stunning blow she sent a class day message of congratulations to seniors who had recently passed through imperilling illnesses. When body and brain were numbed, her spirit lingered till after commencement that its passing might not darken the high day of the university year.
Beside her devotion most of us feel our efforts self-centered, even petty. With the pain at her going, the cry that she went all too soon lives gratitude for her noble service, triumphant in self-immolation.
In Memoriam
Her eyes were keen; She loved to see the soul of youth. Her glance was piercing; She loved to reach the heart of youth. Her touch was gentle; She loved to sympathize with youth. Her hands were always open; She loved to share the cares of youth. Her words were strong and kind; She loved to speak in gentle tones to youth. She lives in tinted flush of memory.
-Harry L. Hill.
,fflarquist
J. DONALD DEVILBISS
7~ OW lovely the gardens are in spring-gay with the same flowers the lords of Chateaurien picked for the ladies of the tourt of Louis neuf. Last autumn we were here together while the guns boomed near and far : One night of your love which was worthy of eternities.
--Now the guns boom no more. Mary Mother-the quiet! How my foosteps resound on the marble flags of your hall. How often must I stop as though to hear the heavy fall of your boots behind me-your strong arms encircling me, crushing my breasts, molding my soft body to yours, your quick breath stirring my hair like warm snowflakes.
--The guns boom no more; now they have consumed you, their hunger is satiated. And the great stillness stifles me, the dead weight of this house rests upon me, my sobs echo back and forth to mock me like wheeling vultures.
--Yet I am a bit near to happiness when I kneel before your portrait. _ How like is the face to these others hanging in long, unbroken line to the left of it. And through the grace of God there will be yet another to the right of it. They must have chosen beautiful women, these lords, your ancestors-for the faces are alike, yet each more perfectly sculptured than the one preceding; and you most perfect of all, my darling-and my mirror tells me that you, too, chose well.
--There they all are, each calmly looking down from his generation. And all dead on the field of battle. I remember you told me that.
--But I think you must have been the bravest of them all-all your fathers who died bravely enough, but in keeping with their estate; old Fran<;ois in his spotless uniform of white and gold, and ancient Charles in his silver mail, and all the others with their braid and velvet and caparisoned horses. And you to die like a peasant, face down in the mud, amidst the rotting corpses of filthy Germans and the coiling wire of the entanglements. God-how you must have suffered; they sent me your uniform, a tatter of bullet holes and blood-your blood, and I would have given my soul to save one drop of it.
--Nineteen bullet holes-my lover-and they said you still led your men until that bayonet thrust. That was the long tear from
shoulder to waist; my heart grows numb to think of it. The man who held that bayonet will surely know all of the agonies of hell forever.
--Only one night together. You forgave me because I cried? Cried at the very poignancy of life-and cried again when dawn stretched his rosy fingers over the grey hills and a far-away bugle boasted death's victory.
--My life long I shall be awaking in the dead hours to feel your lips burning at my throat, your hands' light caress upon my body, now gentle, now firm as I yield to you. You will kiss away my tears and tell me I am still beautiful when I cry. And a bugle shall always herald the approach of dawn. A bugle which will some day take away our son in his generation, and every son of Chateaurien as long as ever this world may spin. Long after we are together again in heaven, heart of my heart. We will look down and see them marching off to die, that France may live. And I shall be very proud of my part in the brave line-but I think no one of them will ever come to die so bravely as you have died.
THE CARGO of AUTUMN
I wonder now if I shall always see Your eyes in every sun-drenched autumn sky? If autumn haze will always bring to me Our love as poignantly as years slip by?
Will every yellowed leaf that leaves its tree Recall the golden glory of your hair? Will autumn always bring back pain to me, And never heal my love, or ease my care?
-ELIZABETH REYNOLDS.
To Beauty
You will be gone when black night thickens and the darker clouds of a golden sky have left me. . . .
With the setting of the sun, and the coming of the night and misty darkness, closing your heart. . . • You will not even wait the rising of the moon slowly o'er yon tower . • . pale yellow moon, a crescent shaped harbinger that you are gone.
And with the calling of the lily-bell Between nightfall and dusk So easily you go.
I would not bid you stay . one that I once have loved still may love . . who were the only one to hold the very heart of me.
Too great is certain prideI can let you go . • . go ere the crescent moon rise!, for that can take your place in this crescent ridge in my heart.
And now without you, there will be the soft winds' murmur through the pines tonight, swaying the pinetops on the hill. • .
And then soft moonlight . . . ah . . . from that crescent moon, can filter through till it warms my heart and heals the very wound that you have made.
And there will be the autumn leaves so gay before they die. Their dress, somber, ah yes, but it may be more beautiful, perhaps, than yours.
Tomorrow night, when the moon will have gone the misty rain will take your place, and there will be glowing street lights, seeming sad in rain, and gay windows . . . their dazzling lamps softened through wet window panes . • Through a dreary mist of rain.
The night will be dark . . . ah But I might ne'er have known its beauty had you stayed on. too dark,
-R. Cavais.
m:ue;fflirror
JOSEPH E. NETTLES
'':lJtOU are pretty."
Harriet paused in her writing. Before her on the wall above her desk, in the oval mirror she saw reflected her mother's face-a face which told of suffering and privation, and yet a face that was sweet and beautiful.
"Dear, your mother will not be with you always-will not be with you long. You are all that I had to live for, and now Death removes me from you. On the journey of life which you must travel alone, without a mother's care, without a mother's love, remember always when temptations confront you that your mother loved you, that in death she loves you. Because you are pretty, you will be tempted. Daily, you must decide between right and wrong, between virtue and sin. I am growing tired now. Read to me, dear."
She took from the desk a volume of Tennyson's poems. Her fingers trembled as she turned the pages. "This," she whispered.
Tears were in Harriet's eyes as she began in a tremulous voice, "Sunset and evening star . . ." As she read, her mother's breath came slowly, and more slowly; her face was transfigured with a light, angelic and divine . Sobbing, Harriet read the last line, and softly closed the book. Her mother repeated in a low, clear voice that seemed to fill the room with a heavenly melody, "My Pilot . . . face to face when I have crossed . "
Harriet ascended with tired footsteps the long flight of stairs leading to her apartment. Upon reaching the entrance, she paused hesitantly, almost apprehensively before the door. There would be no one to welcome her as she returned tired after the long day at the office.
She entered and, removing her hat, sank wearily in the chair beside her desk. Outside the wind blew spitefully. The cold December sky, tinged with a sickly yellow glow, was fast turning to grey as the night approached. The guttural barking of horns floated up from the street.
Harriet sobbed bitterly. Thoughts of that last evening crowded about her. She raised her eyes to the oval mirror on the wall above her desk. Harriet saw-not her own image on the glass-but deep
and within the mirror, shaded by a misty translucence, the face of her mother, smiling wistfully !
The vision of her mother haunted Harriet by day, and at night, when her eyelids closed and sleep began to steal softly upon her, her mother's smile found repose on the lips of the sleeping girl.
* * * * * * *
John B. Nickols! In the world of finance there was not a name so great. To Harriet, his secretary, he was courteous and considerate. A friendship sprang up between them that on Harriet's part amounted almost to hero-worship.
In the mornings, before beginning the day's work, Harriet was accustomed to typewrite a short word drill in order that her fingers might be properly limbered. Instead of the conventional, "Now is the time for all good men . . ," she would often find her fingers reaching for the letters that formed the words, "John Nickols." Finally, the surname was dropped, and then there came a day when sheet after sheet of office stationery was filled with the monosyllable, "J k " ac .
Evenings, which otherwise would have been lonely and crowded with memories, were, thanks to Jack, interesting and enjoyable. Dances, dinners, and cabarets followed in rapid succession. It seemed, as Jack often assured her, that his greatest interest in life was to make her happy and to help her forget.
And Harriet was forgetting! She became infatuated with her youthful employer. He was her God-to be worshipped and adored, to be respected and trusted utterly. She smoked because he wished it. It was he who taught her that the liquid poured from a pocket-flask was balm to the heart that wants to forget.
Harriet was wild, but never naughty! Of that she was quite sure. Often, however, as she returned tired from an unusually hilarious party, she wondered if she were the same girl who had sobbed as she read "Crossing the Bar." At such times she would stand before the oval mirror on the wall above her desk. Always, deep within the mirror, she would see the face of her mother, smiling wistfully. * * * * * * *
The milkman on his morning route saw a Packard stop in front of the Braxton Apartments. He smiled sardonically as he saw John B. Nickols step from the automobile, laughing boisterously. The
girl with him had evidently been drinking to excess. She leaned heavily on his shoulder as they walked up the steps leading to her apartment. They finally reached the landing and, after several uproariously amusing minutes spent in locating the keyhole, the door was opened and they entered.
"Only politicians need worry about conventions," Harriet said as she closed the door. Her head was in a whirl; she couldn't thinknor did she wish to. She was supremely happy.
Someone was speaking to her. What was he saying? "Moneygay parties-beautiful clothes."
Vainly she tried to clear her brain. Thought was impossible. Instinctively she turned toward the oval mirror on the wall above her desk. Harriet saw her flushed face, her glassy eyes, and the stupid smile playing around the corners of her lips.
She laughed hysterically. .
-Ben Sowell.
Clouds clouds are the dark recesses of the future wrapped in the white robe of the present vanishing into the past.
Dark of the Moon. By Sarah Teasdale. The Macmillan Company, 1926.
Those who have read Love Songs and Flame and Shadow, earlier books by Miss Teasdale, will find more poems of the same type in Dark of the Moon. There is nothing either sensational or dreary in Miss Teasdale's poetry. It is simple, possesses a rough metrical line, and ordinarily tends toward the sentimental. Dark of the Moon, though of the same calibre as the earlier poems, might be said to have a little more appeal in its cheery wistfulness. It is a short book, quickly read, and for most people, I should imagine, quickly forgotten.
-H. G. K.
The White Rooster and Other Poems. By George O'Neill. Boni and Liveright. 1927.
Mr. O'Neill is a newcomer in the fields of American poetry. With the publication in 1926 of The Cobbler in Willow Street he established himself along with the other contemporary poets of the lyricist group in American poetry. With the publicaion of this, his second book, he will forge ahead of some of those who have been in the group for a number of years.
In reading these poems one feels that their author had no trouble at all in writing them. They travel along in such an easy manner that it seems he merely felt like singing to the whole world one day and sat down . and wrote out his thoughts. One cannot but catch his spirit and wish to sing and dance along with him.
Mr. O'Neill treats of many things in these poems-people, animals, the fields and brooks, a little singing boy who is so happy that he must run along the road and play the flute's sweet music to bring back to youth a hard, care-worn, grown-up world. There is pure freedom in the lyrics. If the metre becomes rough in some places the author does not mind; making it even might take away some of the airiness, the feather-down quality of the poetry, and the effect would be lost. The reader is perfectly satisfied that he has left it as it is.
The King's Henchman. Edna St. Vincent Millay. Harper and Brothers. 1926.
The King's Henchman, the first American opera, has received a wide popularity in the few months since it was given both in theatrical and literary form to the American public. Critics have termed it a masterpiece in its line; they have literally praised it to the heavens, and many have classed it not only as the first American opera, but as one to be compared to those of the Old World. In this writer's opinion they err here; in ten years they will have changed their words to ones of lesser praise. Literarily, the book is not a masterpiece, though in places the beauty of its poetry is unsurpassed. The plot has not enough power in it nor the theme enough "newness" in it to admit of our daubing it a "hors d'ceuvre." In 1937 some of the better read among the perusers of drama will be able to call to mind an American opera called The King's H enchman, but most people by that time will have been drawn to things of more lasting quality than an opera with a trite and simple plot, with beauty of lyric as its only attribute worthy of more than ordinary praise. The lyrics are beautiful , especially so in Act 2, but beautiful lyrics have been written before. Miss Millay will be better remembered for her charm as a lyrical poetess than as an important writer of drama.
The story: King Eadgar is betrothed to a fair lady of genteel birth who lives in the neighboring shire of Devon. The season is winter and the king is so tied up with the affairs of the kingdom that he must needs send his favorite henchman, Ethel wold, to fetch the damsel, Elfrida by name, to court. The lady herself does not know of the betrothal which is to be settled by her father, Ordgar. Ethelwold goes to Devon, meets Elfrida in the forest when he is lost, falls in love with her at once, and marries her, sending back word to the king that she was but an ugly country wench, unsuited for the position of Queen of England. The scene then shifts to the home of Ordgar in the following spring. Elfrida has by now settled down to the dreary reality of keeping house for her husband and for her father as well. Romance ( more the pity!) has quite faded from the scene. Maccas, Ethelwold's body servant, enters and announces the coming of the king. Ethelwold quickly tells Elfrida of the way he has deceived her into marrying him and asks her to go to her room, stain her face and otherwise disguise her beauty that the king may not suspect. She goes. The king comes in and greets Ethelwold with the accustomed brotherly affection, which Ethelwold finds hard to render mutual. The king then asked to see the wife
of Ethelwold. Ethelwold delays, but finally calls her out. She appears, not ugly and uncomely of form and feature, but radiantly beautiful in a robe of silk, and with her so£t, flaxen hair flowing over her shoulders. She stands before them, pale but angelic with her whiteness of face. Ethelwold cries out when he sees the treachery of his wife, explains to King Eadgar his own treachery, and then stabs himself. The king has already inwardly forgiven the traitorous action of his friend, but he turns with scorn to the woman who has thus betrayed her husband. He dries her false, effusive tears with words of stinging irony, and she hides her face in shame. The king's lords pick up the body of Ethelwold and carry it from the room as the people chant the funeral dirge for the fallen traitor hero.
-H.G. K.
~bt ;ffltsstnger
RICHMOND COLLEGE
M. S. SHOCKLEY, Editor-in-Chief
WELLFORD TAYLOR, Business Manager
ELMER POTTER, Assistant Editor H. G. KINCHELOE, Assistant Editor
LLOYD CASTER, Staff Artist
WESTHAMPTON COLLEGE
ELINOR PHYSIOC, Editor-in-C hie/
CATHERINE BRANCH, Ass't Editor MILDRED ANDERSON, Business Mgr.
~bitorial
It has been a priceless privilege of the Messenger Staff to have as a patron and friend Miss Marion Garnett Ryland. Our memory of this glowing personality, radiant with the clear white flame of sincere interest in human achievement, is peculiarly our own.
We can say no more than already has been told with far greater artistry than our pen commands, concerning the worth and beauty of her lovely spirit at all times. Still, we are able in a measure, to show our appreciation of her devotion to us and her belief in our ideals and undertakings. Not only did she encourage our attempts at literary creation, but gave kindly criticism in response to our requests for her opinion which we were eager to receive.
Although her duties as Librarian would have seemed too numerous to allow her to read our issues as they appeared, she would always comment on our more noteworthy successes and sympathize with us when our mediocre months came. She knew even the titles of our efforts, and remembered to mention them to the humble authors in quiet words of praise. We were conscious continually of her unflagging interest and faith in this magazine, and we are indeed thankful to have such a memory to help us today.
We offer, then, this MESSENGERin the loving memory of her who was and is our friend and patron still. We are glad to be able to gather together within these covers the unique tributes to our beloved Miss Ryland.
